AN AMAZING ELOPEMENT
The sun was shining brilliantly and the sky was cloudless as Richard
turned his automobile into the grounds of the Villa Mimosa, soon after
nine o'clock on the following morning. The yellow-blossomed trees,
slightly stirred by the west wind, formed a golden arch across the
winding avenue. The air was sweet, almost faint with perfume. On the
terrace, holding a pair of field-glasses in her hand and gazing intently
out to sea, was Fedora. At the sound of the motor-horn she turned
quickly. She looked at the visitor in surprise. A shade of pink was in
her face. Lane brought the car to a standstill, jumped out and climbed
the steps of the terrace.
"What has brought you here?" she asked, in surprise.
"I have just come to pay you a little visit," he remarked easily. "I was
only afraid you mightn't be up so early."
She bit her lip.
"You have no right to come here at all," she said severely, "and to
present yourself at this hour is unheard of."
"I came early entirely out of consideration for your father," he assured
her.
She frowned.
"My father?" she repeated. "Please explain at once what you mean. My
father is on that yacht and I cannot imagine why he does not return."
"I can tell you," he answered, standing by her side and looking out
seawards. "They are waiting for my orders before they let him off."
She turned her head and looked at him incredulously.
"Explain yourself, please," she insisted.
"With pleasure," he assented. "You see, I just had to make sure of being
allowed to have a few minutes' conversation with you, free from any
interruption. Somehow or other," he added thoughtfully, "I don't believe
your father likes me."
"I do not think," she replied coldly, "that my father has any feelings
about you at all, except that he thinks you are abominably
presumptuous."
"Because I want to marry you?"
She stamped with her foot upon the ground.
"Please do not say such absurd things! Explain to me at once what you
mean by saying that my father is being kept there by your orders."
"I'll try," Lane answered. "He boarded that yacht last night in mistake.
He thought that it was a hired one, but it isn't. It's mine. I found him
there last night, entertaining a little party of his friends in the
saloon. They seemed quite comfortable, so I begged them to remain on as
my guests for a short time."
"To remain?" she murmured, bewildered. "For how long?"
"Until you've just read this through and thought it over."
He passed her a document which he had drawn from his pocket. She took it
from him wonderingly. When she had read a few lines, the colour came
streaming into her cheeks. She threw it to the ground. He picked it up
and replaced it in his pocket.
"But it is preposterous!" she cried. "That is a marriage license!"
"That's precisely what it is," he admitted. "I thought we'd be married
at Nice. My sister is waiting to go along with us. I said we'd pick her
up at the Hotel de Paris."
Severe critics of her undoubted beauty had ventured at times to say that
Fedora's face lacked expression. There was, at that moment, no room for
any such criticism. Amazement struggled with indignation in her eyes.
Her lips were quivering, her breath was coming quickly.
"Do you mean--have you given her or any one to understand that there was
any likelihood of my consenting to such an absurd scheme?"
"I only told her what I hoped," he said quietly. "That is all I dared
say even to myself. But I want you to listen to me."
His voice had grown softer. She turned her head and looked at him. He
was much taller than she was, and in his grey tweed suit, his head a
little thrown back, his straw hat clasped in his hands behind him, his
clear grey eyes full of serious purpose, he was certainly not an
unattractive figure to look upon. Unconsciously she found herself
comparing him once more with the men of her world, found herself
realising, even against her will, the charm of his naïve and dogged
honesty, his youth, his tenacity of purpose. She had never been made
love to like this before.
"Please listen," he begged. "I am afraid that your father must be in a
tearing rage by now, but it can't be helped. He is out there and he
hasn't got an earthly chance of getting back until I give the word.
We've got plenty of time to reach Nice before he can land. I just want
you to realise, Fedora, that you are your own mistress. You can make or
spoil your own life. No one else has any right to interfere. Have you
ever seen any one yet, back in your own country, amongst your own
people, whom you really felt that you cared for--who you really believed
would be willing to lay down his life to make you happy?"
"No," she confessed simply, "I do not know that I have. Our men are not
like that."
"It is because," he went on, "there is no one back there who cares as I
do. I have spent some years of my life looking--quite unconsciously, but
looking all the same--for some one like you. Now I have found you I am
glad I have waited. There couldn't be any one else. There never could
be, Fedora. I love you just in the way a man does love once in his life,
if he's lucky. It's a queer sort of feeling, you know," he continued,
leaning a little towards her. "It makes me quite sure that I could make
you happy. It makes me quite sure that if you'll give me your hand and
trust me, and leave everything to me, you'll have just the things in
life that women want. Won't you be brave, Fedora? There are some things
to break through, I know, but they don't amount to much--they don't,
really. And I love you, you know. You can't imagine yet what a wonderful
difference that makes. You'll find out and you'll be glad."
She stood quite still. Her eyes were still fixed seawards, but she was
looking beyond the yacht, now, to the dim line where sky and sea seemed
to meet. The vision of her past days seemed to be drawn out before her,
a little monotonous, a little wearisome even in their splendour, more
than a little empty. And underneath it all she was listening to the new
music, and her heart was telling her the truth.
"You don't need to make any plans," he said softly. "Go and put on your
hat and something to wear motoring. Bring a dressing-bag, if you like.
Flossie is waiting for us and she is rather a dear. You can leave
everything else to me."
She looked timidly into his eyes. A new feeling was upon her. She gave
him her hand almost shyly. Her voice trembled.
"If I come," she whispered, "you are quite sure that you mean it all?
You are quite sure that you will not change?"
He raised her hand to his lips.
"Not in this world, dear," he answered, with sublime confidence, "nor
any other!"
She stole away from him. He was left alone upon the terrace, alone, but
with the exquisite conviction of her return, promised in that last
half-tremulous, half-smiling look over her shoulder. Then suddenly life
seemed to come to him with a rush, a new life, filled with a new
splendour. He was almost humbly conscious of bigger things than he had
ever realised, a nearness to the clouds, a wonderful, thrilling sense of
complete and absolute happiness.... Reluctantly he came back to earth.
His thoughts became practical. He went to the back of his car, drew out
a rocket on a stick and thrust it firmly into the lawn. Then he started
his engine and almost immediately afterwards she came. She was wearing a
white silk motor-coat and a thick veil. Behind her came a bewildered
French maid, carrying wraps, and a man-servant with a heavy
dressing-case. In silence these things were stowed away. She took her
place in the car. Lane struck a match and stepped on to the lawn.
"Don't be frightened," he said. "Here goes!"
A rocket soared up into the sky. Then he seated himself beside her and
they glided off.
"That means," he explained, "that they'll let your father and the others
off in two hours. Give us plenty of time to get to Nice. Have you--left
any word for him?"
"I have left a very short message," she answered, "to say that I was
going to marry you. He will never forgive me, and I feel very wicked and
very ungrateful."
"Anything else?" he whispered, leaning a little towards her.
She sighed.
"And very happy," she murmured.