"Besides—what?" Val almost snapped at her.
"It seems as if it wasmeantto be, as Uncle Wally says when he breaks a dish. And I'm wondering whether I shall be brave enough to let you teach me to drive. Sidney will want me to know how, I'm sure."
Loveland suddenly felt a wild longing to kill Sidney Cremer, the successful novelist-playwright, and to smash Sidney Cremer's beautiful new car.
No letter was forwarded to the Hill Farm from the theatre at Bonnerstown, for the very good reason that Miss Moon, having found one for Mr. P. Gordon, opened, read, and out of sheer spite, destroyed it with its several enclosures.
The envelope was addressed in Bill Willing's inappropriately beautiful handwriting, and there was a short note from him, saying that he had great pleasure in enclosing two letters just arrived from England; also that he sent his "undying love to Lillie de Lisle."
One of the English letters blazed to the actress's dazzled eyes with a gilded coronet, and began, "My own darling Val, how can you ever forgive me for not answering your poor, dear cablegram, but of course I thought it was from that horrible wretch Foxham. It seems now, hesoldyour ticket for theBaltic, and sailed for Australia. All sorts of reports came in about him directly after you must have sailed, and I learn now that even before you left, James Harborough suspected him, because of some forged cheque he'd heard of—I'm really too confused and upset to remember how or when or what. But in any case it wasmostremiss of James not to have instantly warned you against the man, even on the slightest suspicion."
This was only the beginning of the coroneted letter, which had no paragraphs and very few punctuations. Jealous still, Miss Moon was relieved to see that the signature was "Your adoring mother," but she was at a loss to understand allusions to duchesses and other persons of title. Indeed, it would have appeared to her like a "property" letter to be read on the stage by an aristocratic hero of melodrama, had it not been for the post office order for three hundred dollars, which it contained. It was a genuine order, as Miss Moon might have been inclined to prove for herself, if she had had any hope of obtaining the money, which she had not; therefore the next best thing was to throw the document into the fire, that Gordon might not benefit by it.
The other letter enclosed had no coronet, not even a crest; but the paper was very nice, smelled faintly of spring flowers, and had for an address a number in Park Lane, which Miss Moon had read of in English novels as a street mostly inhabited by elderly millionaire villains who persecuted poor, but beauteous heroines. The writing was pretty, and the letter was signed "Your affectionate cousin, Betty." At the end was a postscript in a different hand, which seemed somehow to suit the rather dashing signature—"Jim."
This second letter was even more difficult than the first for an uninitiated person to understand, and it irritated Miss Moon to a high pitch of nervousness.
"Cousin Betty" seemed to be explaining and justifying a thing that "Jim" had done.
"It was partly a joke, and partly earnest, but it had a good motive," wrote Betty. "I guessed, the morning your really very conceited letter about the New York introductions came, that Jim had something quaint up his sleeve, to spring upon you when you'd arrived in America, but I didn't know what. To tell the truth, Val, I was even more disgusted than Jim, by your cool way of assuming that you had only to show yourself on the other side, to pick and choose among all the nicest as well as richest girls. I should havelovedto box your ears, and I said 'Of course we won't give him any letters, and I'll tell him just what we think of him. Then maybe he won't go.' But Jim said 'Yes, wewillgive him the letters, and he shall go. We may find another way of teaching him a lesson, a way that will do him good if he's worth being done good to.'
"That was all, and as Jim didn't refer to the subject again after we posted the letters of introduction, the conversation slipped my mind. I didn't think any more about it until weird things began to be copied into London papers from New York ones, and your mother wired Jim to ask what, if anything, could be done to punish Foxham. You see, she thought you were on theBaltic.
"Jim soothed all her worries, so you needn't be anxious about her, as of course you would if you thought she'd been alarmed. When I saw paragraphs in the papers I talked to Jim, and it was only then that he told me what he'd done; how it was all his fault really, and he was very sorry, because everything had turned out a lot worse for you than he'd ever dreamed of wanting it to be. 'Fate took a hand in the game, and played it for all it was worth,' Jim said.
"It seems that Foxham, your man, asked Jim to cash a cheque signed by you, one night not long ago (don't you remember when he and I were at Battlemead, and you came down for Saturday to Monday?). Jim suspected something wrong, but wouldn't speak to you till he'd made sure, because that wouldn't have been fair, and Foxham was such an invaluable valet. A few days later, when Jim was making enquiries about the man, he found out that the horrid creature had actually impersonated you at two or three hotels, and run up bills in your name. It was the very evening before your letter about America came that Jim got the first part of this information, and day by day more kept coming in, up to the time when we heard Foxham had given you notice. All along Jim was thinking out the idea of that lesson for you—the joke that was to be half in earnest—and then, when Mr. VanderPot couldn't sail in theMauretania, the whole plan was mapped out, without a word being said, even to me.
"Of course, I want to assure you again (and Jim will write a postscript) that he meant nothing worse to happen to you than a disappointment, and a blow to your conceit. He telegraphed to several of the people to whom you had letters, saying that if a person turned up calling himself by your name,beforetheBalticlanded, they'd better wait and make sure before being nice to you, thatyou weren't your own absconding valet sailing under false colours. He didn't say itwouldn'tbe you, and he supposed that his friends would simply hang back for a few days, making no sign, thus giving you to think that you weren't as important in America as you'd fancied. He imagined, too, that theheiressbusiness wouldn't come offquiteas easily as you expected, and that altogether you might be a little sobered down. As for your trouble with the bank, we know now, thatthisis what happened: It turns out that Henry van Cotter has lately become a partner in the bank which corresponds with yours in London, and having got Jim's wire about the valet (probably at the same time when instructions arrived from the London and Southern), naturally he told his people to be prepared, and not to pay. How could Jim think of such a thing happening—or that Mr. van Cotter and the others would run about gossiping of what he told them as a meresupposition? It must have been too dreadful for you at the hotel!—and as for that Mr. Milton, I'm sure he is ahorror.
"Then, it was anothercontretempsthat neither Jim nor I saw the newspapers at first. We'd gone off on a motor trip, as the weather was lovely, and were darting all about Cornwall and Wales, starting so early every morning, and not arriving at hotels till so late at night, that we didn't bother with the papers for nearly a week. Of course the minute Jim knew what had been going on, he wired everywhere, and wrote long letters of explanation, too (a little earlier than he'd originally meant), to put an end to the misunderstanding he'd set in motion. But meanwhile you'd disappeared from New York. Poor dear, my heart quite bleeds for you! And yet—and yet—I wonder if all that you've gone through isentirelya matter for regret?"
It was here, after the "Affectionate Cousin Betty" signature, that the other handwriting began.
"I wonder, too? I want to know what you think about it. Now it's all explained, and you see just where and how much I'm to blame for what's past, you may or may not be inclined to forgive me for trying to play Providence, that good might come of evil. But if there are any things which you don't regret, perhaps you'll partly understand—yourself and me. Anyhow, I apologise, having now done my best to atone, in case you want to go back to New York in a blaze of glory and be made a lion of. Meanwhile, I await your verdict, and am—as the writers of anonymous letters are supposed to sign themselves—'your friend and well-wisher,' Jim."
Again Fate had "taken a hand in the game," and used Miss Moon as catspaw. Into the fire in her bedroom at Bonnerstown went all those elaborate explanations; and Loveland did not dream that he had only to communicate with the bank in New York to receive apologies and a sum of money which, after his vicissitudes, would have seemed a fortune. He had not even a prophetic "pricking in his thumbs" while his mother's post office order for three hundred dollars—sixty pounds—gaily burned in a Bonnerstown stove. He had no suspicion that New York Society—or an important section of it—was wearing sackcloth and ashes on his account. No instinct told him that even while the letters and money order were being reduced to ashes, Tony Kidd was concocting a glorious "story" about the Marquis of Loveland, which would ring through the country; neither did he know that Lesley Dearmer, whether believing him a genuine article or not, had sent him an anonymous donation which lay unclaimed at the Waldorf-Astoria.
Of all these things was he ignorant, and Lesley (sure that he had never received her offering) would have seen Sidney Cremer's forty horse-power Gloria burnt before her eyes rather than confess what she had done. Nevertheless, she was enjoying herself very much, and if Cremer's chauffeur went about with an unsmiling face it did not depress her spirits, unless for a minute at a time when she was particularly and foolishly soft-hearted. She knew that all the chauffeur's bodily wants were being well cared for at the Hill Farm. He had a comfortable bedroom and a little sitting-room attached, in the far corner of the west wing, which was the newest part of the old red brick house. She did not suggest his wearing the costume of a chauffeur, but sent him by Uncle Wally a fur-lined overcoat and motoring cap which she said, Sidney Cremer had ordered for the future driver of his car. Mr. Gordon's meals were served in his own small sitting-room, and he had plenty of books to read. Had it not been that Miss Dearmer wished to drive Cremer's automobile, Val would have seen little of her; but she took two lessons a day.
Her aunt, Mrs. Loveland, sat in the tonneau, dutifully, perhaps cheerfully, playing the part of chaperon, after Lesley had experimented a little, and become proficient enough not to be a public danger. But the girl sat in the driver's seat, with Mr. Cremer's temporary chauffeur beside her, and they could talk of what they chose (if they chose to talk at all) without being overheard by Aunt Barbara in the snug shelter of the Limousine.
Loveland wrote to the theatre at Bonnerstown, asking the manager to forward anything that might arrive; but days passed on, and nothing came. This was not strange, considering Miss Moon's bold treatment of Bill's fat envelope with its important contents. But it seemed strange to Loveland, who had allowed more than enough time for letters to his mother and Betty Harborough to be answered and forwarded.
Everything in his life of late was so extraordinary, however, that to find his expectations fulfilled in a commonplace way would have surprised him almost more than having them blighted.
Besides, his disappointment at not hearing from home was not as poignant as it had been. He had kept ten dollars for himself, out of his advance of salary, therefore he was not entirely penniless, and he had few, if any, expenses at the Hill Farm, where all his needs were as carefully considered as if he had been a member of the family.
Though Sidney Cremer's speedy arrival dangled over his head, like a sharp sword, which might fall at any moment and cut short the thread of his happiness, while it lasted the thread was of glistening gold.
He could not be sure whether Lesley Dearmer believed in him as Lord Loveland, or whether she really thought him a repentant impostor, whom she was befriending and trying to reform; but she was unvaryingly kind, and the subject of his true identity was not further discussed. He was too proud to allude to, and force it upon her, after the doubts which she had hinted, and she seemed to have no wish to bring it up. As to that sweet and kindly lady who was chaperon and aunt, she appeared to take Mr. Gordon trustfully for granted as an unfortunate but talented young gentleman rescued from a run of bad luck. She spoke to him pleasantly when necessary, asked polite questions now and then about the car, or his personal comfort in the house, but otherwise seemed to regard him with no very lively interest.
Lesley was everything to her. She adored Lesley, and whatever Lesley did or wished to do was perfect in her eyes. Therefore it was not odd that she should accept the transplanted actor as "one of Lesley's lucky finds."
In the house, he and Miss Dearmer had no intercourse, and he did not even know what the girl's daily occupations were, or what visitors she saw. But at least three hours out of every twenty-four gave her to him as an intimate companion, near in mind and body; therefore until the hateful Cremer should fall out of a clear sky, Val was not eager for home news which would leave no excuse for lingering at this old homestead in the Blue Grass country.
Though he was a paid employé, the Hill Farm seemed to him the pleasantest place in which he had ever lived, not excepting any splendid and well ordered country mansion where he had been a flattered member of a house party.
Ways at the Hill Farm were simple ways, and there was no grandeur, no display in the quaint, rambling red brick house. All the servants were coloured, and were either elderly men and women who had served "the family" before the war which freed them from slavery, or else young, happy-go-lucky sons and daughters of the old servitors. There were a great many of them about the place, indoors and out, so many that Loveland could hardly tell one face from another, but they were all kindly, dark faces that brightened into glittering grins at sight of the English chauffeur.
Everything was done on a lavish, though far from pretentious, scale, but the ordering of the establishment might mean wealth, or might mean no more than a comfortable competence. The furniture was good, and in the best of taste, but it was almost all antique, brought from England by ancestors of Mrs. Loveland's or Lesley Dearmer's perhaps, in that good time when Chippendale and Sheraton treasures were regarded as ordinary possessions.
In the stables were a couple of beautiful hunters, Lesley's property, for Loveland soon discovered that a true daughter of Kentucky considers it a disgrace to the county for every girl not to be a fearless and accomplished rider. There were two fat old carriage horses, also, and other animals for the farm work which was carried on by a middle-aged married couple. Altogether it was clear that Mrs. Milton's and Cadwallader Hunter's estimate of the ladies' circumstances had been unjust. Mrs. Loveland and her niece were not "teachers taking a holiday while their money lasted." Perhaps the farm and the money were all Mrs. Loveland's; but Lesley had told Val on ship board that she earned enough for self-support by writing stories. Therefore she was not in any case entirely dependent upon her aunt, and it was evident that the girl and the elderly lady were very content in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call them.
It seemed to Val that Lesley was always happy; and because she was happy herself she could not bear to see others sad or unfortunate. Though she asked no questions about her chauffeur's English past, she showed frank interest in his American experiences. She led him on, as they spun through the country side by side, to talk of Bill Willing, of Lillie de Lisle, of Ed Binney, and even of Isidora, the almond-eyed. Of the fire at Alexander the Great's she had read in the papers, and she deigned a few words of praise for Loveland's behaviour. She was curious, also, to hear "what happened afterwards"; and though Val was silent as to Isidora's part in his next move, woman's wit supplied the missing link.
Too delicate-minded to put her suspicions into words, Lesley, nevertheless, contrived tactfully to pluck from Loveland some scanty information concerning Miss Alexander's semi-engagement to the Jewish commercial traveller.
"She'll never marry him," the girl announced authoritatively.
"I wish I could think you were right," said Loveland. "Poor Isidora has a warm, generous heart, and it would be a beastly shame to waste her on the oily creature. But Alexander's hard to beat, once he makes up his mind."
"When I first knew you, it wouldn't have occurred to you that the affairs of a common little person like that might be worth bothering about!" exclaimed Lesley. "But now I believe you're really interested."
"I really am," admitted Val. "I hope that doesn't disgust you?"
"Exactly the other way," Lesley assured him. "But you needn't be anxious. An only daughter, spoiled by her father, is just as 'hard to beat' as the most obstinate and tyrannical old parent. Isidora won't marry the Cohen man—after all that's happened. She won't marry anyone, for a good long time, but bye and bye she will, and then it will be somebody of her own choosing, not her father's."
"What makes you think so?" asked Loveland.
"Oh—because I'm a woman myself." And then she would say no more on that subject; but she talked eagerly of Bill Willing and his Star.
Sidney Cremer would play fairy godfather to the two, she said, speaking with that happy certainty of her lover's mind which invariably depressed and irritated Loveland.
There were numerous country companies "on the road," touring with Sidney's pieces in very good towns. Sidney would take "Mr. Gordon's" word for Lillie de Lisle's ability as a soubrette, and would offer her a part shortly to be open, owing to the marriage of the girl now playing it. As for "that perfect lamb of a Bill," a place should be found for him in the same company, that Lesley would promise. He could travel as a sort of handy man, to repaint and freshen up the scenery and as Sidney would doubtless guarantee the pair a permanent engagement together, they could marry at once on the strength of it.
"You had better wait and hear what Mr. Cremer says," suggested Loveland almost bitterly, when Lesley had instructed him to write the good news at once to Lillie and Bill. Ed Binney was also to be provided for, sent to a convalescent home, and given hope for a chance as "property man" with one of Sidney's plays, when he should be strong enough to go on tour again.
"Oh, Sidney and I always think alike. Haven't I told you that before?" was Lesley's answer. "There's no need to wait. I know all about Sidney's business. And I thought it would be a pleasure to you to write, and be the means of making your friends happy."
"So it would, if Iwerethe means," muttered Loveland. "But I'm not. It's Mr. Sidney Cremer. Everything is Sidney Cremer, and he is everything."
"Some day I may remind you of that speech," said Lesley. Then she laughed in a mysterious little way she had. But she was determined that Loveland should write the letters she desired written; and learning the lesson of unselfishness, he tried to rejoice sincerely in his friends' good luck.
"It's a long lane that has no turning," he said to himself as he sealed letters which would change the face of the world for three persons. "Their turning has come at last, and I'm glad. But my lane is blocked. Whatever happens, that brute Sidney Cremer will always stand at the end and bar my way out."
It was the day after Val had sent off the joyful tidings to his friends in the big world beyond the Hill Farm that tidings from the big world came to him.
Thanks to Miss Moon, the letters from home were lost; but greatly as that lady would have delighted in so sweeping a measure, it was impossible to keep P. Gordon for ever in the dark, by destroying whole issues of New York journals.
Uncle Wally was in the habit of bringing the gentleman chauffeur his breakfast, and with that meal—which consisted of delicious Southern dishes—the morning paper.
Loveland did not find American news particularly exciting, and, as a rule, merely glanced through the paper as he ate; but "New York Light" had a special interest for him. He associated it not only with his first American adventures, but with Tony Kidd, for whom he felt a queer, friendly sort of regard since their work together and their short chat afterwards at Alexander the Great's. If Val were to be "righted" in the eyes of New York, he had the idea that it would be through the pen of Tony Kidd, which had once blackened him with so scandalous a spatter of ink.
Miss Dearmer, or Mrs. Loveland, subscribed for the Sunday edition of "New York Light," and today was Monday. The paper had arrived: and as Loveland rose early to attend to the car (with far more alacrity than he had ever risen for guard mounting at home) it appeared that he was to have first chance at the news.
His eyes lighted with a certain interest as he saw the paper laid conspicuously on the breakfast tray; for this was his first Monday at the Hill Farm, and consequently his first sight of the New York Sunday paper.
"I suppose the ladies won't be wanting this for a few minutes yet?"
"No, sah, ole Miss nevah looks at de papahs till a'tah brekfus, and young Miss was writin' late las' night, so she won't be ringin' yet awhile, I reckon," said the grey-headed darkey who had been a slave when Mrs. Loveland was a child.
Val laid aside the Louisville Monday paper, and began to read "New York Light."
Suddenly he cried out an excited "By Jove!" and forgot that he had not finished his breakfast: but as by this time Uncle Wally had gone, there was nobody to be surprised by his emotion.
Yes, it had come at last—his justification, and even his triumph; for the story as told by Tony Kidd made it seem almost a triumph. Indeed, he had hardly realised himself how dramatic it all was, until he saw the printed account of what he had gone through. Bill Willing had been interviewed at the Bat Hotel, of which a graphic sketch and description were given. Alexander the Great had been interviewed, and thus secured another free advertisement for the red restaurant. Isidora had been interviewed, and photographed in her best hat. And last, though far from least, Mr. Henry van Cotter had been interviewed. From him, it seemed, Tony Kidd had got on the trail of the truth. Mr. van Cotter's friend, Jim Harborough, had wired from London that it was all a mistake about the valet impersonating the Marquis of Loveland, a mistake which had partly arisen through the sailing of Lord Loveland on theMauretaniainstead of theBaltic, as expected. The valet had sailed for Australia, but would be arrested at the first port, and it was the Marquis of Loveland himself whom Fate and Society had hounded out of New York.
"Where is Lord Loveland?" was one of the several sensational headlines, with which Tony had ornamented his two-column article, for though Bill Willing had told of the barn-storming episode, he did not yet know, and therefore could not tell (even if he would) his "swell friend's" present address.
So great and even touching was Tony's eloquence, that tears had fallen from bright eyes for Loveland's sorrows, and the most tears from the brightest eyes were those shed by Fanny Milton. Never had she liked Tony half as well as on that Sunday morning when she read what Loveland read the following day. And as Tony had shrewdly guessed at her feelings, he thought that he could not make a wiser move than to call at Mrs. Milton's house on Sunday evening. Mrs. Milton was out, but Fanny was at home; and such was her gratitude to the journalist for his championship of her hero, that before Tony left her he had won more than half the promise he wanted.
Loveland, however, was not thinking of Fanny Milton, but of Lesley Dearmer.
Now that he had come into his own again, he could no doubt somehow get money almost at once, on that unlucky letter of credit, pay back the advance Miss Dearmer had made him, cease to be a gentleman chauffeur, leave the Hill Farm, and return to New York to be a gentleman at large.
But there was no joy in the thought of ceasing to be a chauffeur, and still less in that of leaving the Hill Farm.
The play was played out, and the adventure was over, but life could not be as it had been for Loveland. He could not take up the old life or the old self where he had dropped both, one night in Central Park. He was a different man in these days, caring for different things; and unfortunately the thing he cared for most was the one thing he could not have: Lesley Dearmer's love.
He had wanted it from the first, though not enough just at the first to try for it at the risk of great self-sacrifice. Now, he would have counted no sacrifice too great if it could give him that which once he had not known how to value worthily. Being once more Lord Loveland, and having a repentant New York at his feet, would not give him Lesley Dearmer.
By this time, his mother must have written, he thought, and Betty, too. Though the Bonnerstown secret was hidden from him, he believed letters had been sent. All ought soon to be right with him, in the best of possible worlds; but because there was also a Sidney Cremer in that world, nothing could be wholly right even for Lord Loveland. While he was thinking how good it would have been—were Fate a better stage manager—to justify himself to Lesley, Lesley sent for him by Uncle Wally.
To her he was still the chauffeur; and the darkey who politely delivered the message, announced that "Young Miss would be obliged to Massah Gordon if he would take her out in the car as quick as possible."
Loveland flung aside "Light," and Uncle Wally let it lie neglected where it fell. Probably he thought that "young Miss" was too impatient for an early motor-spin to care about wasting a moment on a newspaper.
As Loveland looked over the Gloria, making her purr pleasantly in preparation for the run, he tried to decide definitely what to do next.
If he flaunted his public justification in Lesley's face, there would no longer be an excuse to remain a chauffeur, and no doubt the girl would think as much, if he did not propose to leave. Because of her engagement to Sidney Cremer, he could not beg Lesley to let bygones be bygones, and go to England with him as his wife; yet the thought of going back without her, of never seeing her again in this world, impaled Loveland on the sharp prongs of pain.
Since he had known the girl in her own home, it seemed that his first love for her had hardly deserved the name of love, so much more did he love her now. Face to face with the certainty of separation, and her marriage with another man, every hour spent with the loved one became a priceless treasure. He resolved not only to be silent about the article in "New York Light" but to go back to his room, and carefully hide the newspaper.
This he did, delighted to find the big budget lying on the floor where he had left it.
Of course, Lesley or Mrs. Loveland might enquire for "Light" and learn that it had last been seen on his breakfast table. But it would not seem a miracle that a newspaper should be mislaid; and there was a chance that Louisville journals might not have space to "feature" Lord Loveland's affairs. As Lesley had elected to make an early expedition, it was almost certain that she would not have looked at a paper; and if she had skimmed one over, she might easily have missed a paragraph here and there. At worst, Loveland felt sure of this morning with her on the old terms. If she said nothing afterwards, he, too, would simply be mute, until Sidney Cremer's arrival. When Cremer was in the house, he would be glad to go, and glad to prove to Lesley before going that he was all he had once claimed to be.
When the car was ready he drove to the front door, and found Lesley tying on her motor veil, a charming picture set in a rustic frame.
Loveland's spirits rose when he saw that she was alone. "Auntie" in the Limousine was the least obtrusive of chaperons; still, there was joy in having the girl to himself.
"For a wonder I couldn't sleep last night," said Lesley, "and I thought an early spin in the car would clear my brain of cobwebs. I hope you don't mind being routed out at an unearthly hour."
Loveland would have liked to answer that it was unearthly only because it gave him the companionship of a being divine. But chauffeurs, even gentlemen chauffeurs, do not make such remarks to their employers, still less to the fiancées of their employers. He merely said, therefore, that he was sorry to hear Miss Dearmer had not slept, and was pleased to take her out at any hour. "Uncle Wally told me," he added, "that you'd been writing late last night."
"Not exactly writing," explained Lesley, finishing the chiffon bow under her chin with dainty elaboration. "I was looking over an act of a new play which Sidney has begun. Perhaps that excited me. Anyway, I tossed for hours thinking of a thousand things, when I might better have been dreaming. And then I was waked at seven by a telegram, and couldn't sleep again."
Something in her eyes, gleaming like fairy jewels under an enchanted lake, as they shone through the filmy veil, made Val miserably sure that Cremer had sent the telegram.
But he was becoming (outwardly) quite a well-trained servant, and only under the greatest provocation could he be goaded into asking impertinent questions.
"Shall I drive this morning, Miss Dearmer, or will you?" he enquired, trying to erase all expression from his face.
"Perhaps you'd better, at first. I'm almost too nervous," she said. "Bye and bye, we shall see."
She let him help her into the car, and even the touch of a thick, knitted mitten was electric for Loveland. Then he took the chauffeur's seat by her side, and sent the Gloria spinning down the avenue towards the gate.
"You've heard nothing from your people yet?" asked Lesley, after a few minutes' silence, while they flew along a road smooth as if it had been made for generations.
"Not yet," replied Val. "But I daresay something will be forwarded from Bonnerstown theatre in a day or two. I told you I'd written to the manager there, giving this address, for Bill would have sent on to Bonnerstown anything that came for me to his care in New York."
"Yes, you told me," said Lesley. "But I was wondering if you'd had good news, because——"
"Because of something in your telegram?" Loveland could not resist breaking into the slight pause she made.
"Yes, indirectly. Dear me, Mr. Gordon, don't you think you went round that corner too fast?"
"Did I?" asked Loveland. "I'm sorry. I didn't notice."
"What an alarming confession from one's chauffeur! Oh! and thatchicken! you nearly ran over it. I believe your nerves must be a little 'jumpy,' too. I think I could drive almost as well as that myself."
"I deserve to be scolded," said Loveland. "I'm afraid I was absent-minded for an instant, though the chicken didn't seem worried about itself."
"Kentucky chickens never do. They're so high-spirited. Takecareof that baby pig, Mr. Gordon! I think I will drive for awhile after all, if you don't mind."
"Delighted," said Loveland, in a mood to rejoice if the girl upset the car and killed them both, because it would be so much more agreeable to go out of the world with her than to remain in it while she became lost to him as Mrs. Cremer.
He put on the brakes and stopped the car, which panted impatiently by the roadside, while Lesley and he changed places. The way was straight and fairly level, with no sudden risings and fallings, or intricate twistings and turnings; therefore no reason existed why Lesley should not show her newly acquired skill. She began cautiously, but in a few moments put the forty horse-power Gloria on fourth speed, throttling her down to a pace within reason.
"There! Aren't you proud of your pupil?" the girl asked, gaily.
"Very proud," answered Loveland.
"And do you think I should be able to get on without much more teaching from a real expert?"
"Oh, yes. With a decent sort of chauffeur to do your repairs, you can drive the car through country like this, without danger——"
"Unless I get absent-minded."
"Yes, unless you get absent-minded. But why should you be absent-minded, when so soon you'll have the person you care for most sitting beside you, where I sit now? Oh, I ought to beg your pardon for saying such things, Miss Dearmer. But you see, you and I were once friends, not employer and servant, so I forget myself sometimes. And besides, I can't help thinking this morning that you're leading up to saying something which perhaps you find it a little difficult to say. Yet, why should it be difficult for you to tell me if you've heard that Mr. Cremer's coming at once and bringing another chauffeur."
"My telegram didn't say that, but it made me feel that I shan't be able to keep you very long at the Hill Farm," said Lesley.
Gone was the elaborate scheme for staying on at any cost! She wanted him to go. She was hinting for him to go.
"I can leave whenever you like to get rid of me," returned Val, his tone roughened, made almost brutal by his effort to hide the sharp pain he suffered.
"Oh, don't think I feel like that!" exclaimed Lesley, eagerly—so eagerly that in her excitement she did the very thing she had reproached Loveland for doing. She forgot that a person controlling a powerful motor-car is ill advised to be in earnest about anything except the business in hand.
They were approaching a somewhat abrupt turn in the road at the moment Lesley chose to assure Loveland that she didn't mean to hurt his feelings. Being genuinely sorry for the effect her words produced, she did not realise until too late that the corner would expect her to slow down before turning it. Had she been an experienced driver, the right action would have been mechanical; but as it was, she discovered with a quick rush of blood to her heart that she could not check the speed in time. She tried to make up for her mistake by a feat of accurate steering, but the task was beyond her powers. The big Gloria swung round the curve on two wheels, refused to take the new direction, and bounded gaily off the road, across a ditch and into a meadow.
The next thing that Loveland knew, he was sitting in a bog, which felt quite soft and comfortable, so comfortable that he at first believed himself to be in bed, waking out of a bad dream. Then with a flash he remembered all that had happened, and scrambled up in a cold sweat of fear for Lesley.
He was dripping with water and mossy mud, but though his limbs felt heavy and he staggered a little, his temples throbbing as if his brain were propelled by a steam engine, he was hardly conscious that his own body still existed. His one thought was of the girl.
A cataract of sparks which showered before his eyes dimmed his sight at first, but in a moment he saw a slight, grey-clad figure lying limply on the ground not far away. As for the motor-car which rested on its side at a little distance, its pleasant purring stilled, Loveland had forgotten all about it.
"Lesley!" he cried, as he ran to her. "Lesley!"
But she neither stirred nor answered.
Down he dropped on both knees beside her, and raised her head upon his arm. Her eyes were closed, and through the chiffon veil he could see the long lashes dark on the pallor of her cheeks.
The ground where she lay was spongy after a day of heavy rain which had soaked through the thick carpet of dead grass, deeply into the earth. The girl's position was easy, giving Loveland the hope that no bones were broken, and there was no stain of blood on the white face or the soft brown hair. But she lay very still; there was no flutter of the eyelashes, no faint gasping for breath.
Sick with fear that she might be dead, Loveland's memory refused the barrier between them. He was conscious only of his love for her, and his passionate remorse for the wish, harboured for a moment—the wish that she might let something happen to the car, and that they two might go out of the world together. There was no torture which he would not have prayed to suffer now, if through it he could even hope to bring her back to life.
"Dearest—precious one—darling!" he called her. "For God's sake wake up. Speak to me—only speak to me. I love you so!"
Instantly she opened her eyes wide, shivering a little in his arms, and looked up at him—half dazedly at first, then smiling as a woman might who has dreamed of a distant lover and wakes to find him near.
"Thank God you're not dead!" he stammered.
"And that—you'renot!" she answered faintly. "You—you're not much hurt?"
"Not at all, and if I were it wouldn't matter," Loveland assured her fervently. "If only I hadn't let you drive—or if I hadn't talked to you!—it's all my fault. What shall I do if you're injured?"
"I—I'm all right, and—and rather happy," whispered Lesley. "I don't think anything's the matter at all—except a little shock."
"Let me lift you up for a minute, so that we can make sure whether you are hurt," said Val. "I'll do it so gently——"
"No. I'd rather lie still—just as I am," the girl answered.
"Would you be more comfortable if I laid your head on the ground?"
"No, keep it on your arm, please. I like it there," said Lesley; and Loveland was made so happy by the words and by the sudden revulsion from despair to hope that he could have broken down and sobbed.
"I feel as if I'd been dreaming," she murmured on. "I dreamed that you—that you called me—your darling: that you said you loved me."
"Forgive me!" exclaimed Loveland. "I couldn't help it. I was half mad."
"Then it wasn't a dream?"
"No. It wasn't a dream," he confessed. "Even though you think me an impostor, you can't believe me a wholly unredeemed villain, or you wouldn't have taken me into your house—for charity's sake, though it was. So you must know now that you've nothing to fear from my love."
"Is it real love—tell me?" she asked, her head nestling comfortably against his arm.
"It's the realest thing about me—it's grown to be the whole of me," Loveland broke out. "Nothing else matters. That's why I should have had to kill myself if you'd been hurt—or—but I can't speak of it. Thank God, you're alive and not injured. Yes, that's enough for me—it's got to be enough, and I ought to be happy though you're going to belong to another man."
"Youwouldn't have wanted to marry me, any way," said Lesley.
"I wouldn't have wanted to—when it's the thing I'd give all but one year of my life for—the one year I'd keep to be happy in with you."
"Just a poor little humble story writer—and you would really like to marry It?"
"Don't torture me," said Loveland. "I've had about all I can stand. If I were the impostor you think me——"
"Idon'tthink you an impostor," replied Lesley, beginning to speak in quite a natural tone of voice again, though she kept the support of Loveland's arm. "I never said I did. I only asked you once, why I should have more faith in you than others had? But I'd be ready to take you on faith, if you were ready to take me without a fortune."
The blood rushed to Loveland's face, which had been pale and drawn. "Is it true—do you mean it?" he stammered. "Doyou care for me a little?"
"A great deal," said Lesley. "Too much, I used to think on the ship; but I don't think so now, because you're different. It's the real you I loved all the time. The miracle's happened, you know.I'm seeing the other side of the moon.But wouldn't it be doing you an injury to marry you, when you and your family counted on a great heiress?"
"It was the otherMe, who hadn't the sense to see what a beastly, caddish thing it would be to marry a girl just because she was rich—a girl I didn't love," Val hurried on. "Oh, Lesley, you're not playing with me, are you? I couldn't marry any other woman but you."
"What about the old family home that's tumbling to ruin?"
"It will have to tumble."
"And your family?"
"There's only my mother, and what she wants most is my happiness. My love for you has somehow shown me how to appreciate her more. But, Lesley—what about Sidney Cremer? Do you care enough for me—a man you say you're 'taking on faith'—to give up all Cremer's money and to throw him over for my sake?"
"I can't throw him over."
"Then how can we be married?"
"And I can't give up his money," she added.
"Lesley! Have you raised me up only to let me fall deeper into the pit than ever?"
"We both fell into the pit together, didn't we?" she said, laughing a little. "If you go deeper, I'll go deeper, too, for we're going to stand or fall together now."
"Then, what do you mean?" asked Val. "You'll have to send one of us away—me or Sidney Cremer."
"Let me sit up, and we'll talk it over," said Lesley, with a quaint cheerfulness and matter-of-factness that utterly bewildered Loveland. "I feel so well and so happy now, that I believe I can find my way out of any entanglement so long as we go hand in hand." And sitting on the wet grass in her thick fur coat she twisted herself so lithely about that there could no longer be any fear of obscure injuries.
Val, resting on one knee, took the little grey mitten that she held out to him, and pressed the hand in it. But there was bitterness in his voice as he answered. "This is an entanglement that you'll find no way out of. You can't keep us both."
"You don't trust me," Lesley reproached him. "Just wait before deciding to give me up, until we've thoroughly thrashed things out, beginning at the beginning, and going right on to the end."
"I shan't decide to give you up; nothing can make me do that now," Loveland said. "It's Cremer who'll have to go to the wall."
Lesley laughed. "Like his motor. Poor,poorcar—I'm sorry for it, but it hasn't sacrificed itself in vain. I was beginning to wonder how on earth to bring all this about. That was what kept me awake last night, if I'm to tell the whole truth. Ithadto come some way, and it had to come soon. Well, Sidney's motor-car has solved the difficulty, and Sidney will be glad, for my happiness is the same to him as his own. And now I've gone so far, I may as well confess that from the very minute I saw you play 'Lord Bob,' in that dingy little hall at Ashville, I hoped—oh, but hoped more thananything, that you would ask me to marry you. Please, please, don't be shocked, but I invited you to come here just for that."
Loveland was utterly at sea, or would have been if her hand had not lain in his, and if she had not begged him to wait and trust her.
"Yet, you were engaged to Sidney Cremer," he said, half to himself.
"I was bound to Sidney just as I am now, and just as I have been for the last three years. And I wasn't tired of him then, not a bit, and I'm not, even at this minute. But I loveyou—the Real You."
"Darling!" exclaimed Loveland. Yet he marvelled at her. This was a phase of the girl's character—her true and noble character—which he was at a loss to understand.
"You were very cold to me that night at Ashville," he ventured to say.
"I was trying you. I wasn't quite sure, you see, which side of the moon I was looking at; and if after all it was only the same old side, I didn't want to let myself be dazzled by it, as I couldn't help being at first. Oh, but don't misunderstand me! It wasn't the reflected light—the light of a high position—that had dazzled me. That never mattered. It was a different light—a light that never shone on land or sea, but shines just once, they say, in every woman's life. That means what I said before: that I was in love with you on the boat, even when I laughed at your talk of love. I felt more like crying than laughing, though, because the sort of love you gave me in return for mine wasn't worth my having. I was too good for it."
"Heaven knows you were," Val admitted, humbly.
"But I'm not too good—no, not good enough, for what you give me now; and that's why I'm so frightfully happy, and delighted that Sidney's motor jumped over conventionalities instead of my having to take the leap myself. Instead, I just leaped with the car, and you leaped, too—and everything is going to be Heavenly for all the rest of our lives."
"I don't quite see how, if you're not tired of Cremer," said Loveland.
"Don't be jealous of Sidney any more; I liked making you a little jealous of him at first—after I saw how you felt. It was fun for me—and I thought it was good for you. But now it's different. I'm sure—sure—about the other side of the moon, and I want you to be as happy as I am. Oh, don't speak yet! I must go on a little further. You know, I told you I had a telegram this morning?"
"Yes—yes."
"Well, you thought it was from Sidney Cremer, and I didn't contradict. Lots of things you've thought lately I let you go on thinking, without contradicting. The telegram was from little Fanny Milton—about you."
"About me?"
"She knew from a journalist who is a friend of hers that you'd come to this part of the country with a theatrical troupe, and they'd found out that the actors were playing pieces of Sidney Cremer's at Ashville. They talked it over together—Fanny and this Mr. Kidd. He wanted to know for his paper's sake where you'd disappeared to when the company broke up. Last evening he suggested that she should telegraph to me. They both thought I might have heard about you. So that's why I felt that you wouldn't be stopping on as my chauffeur very long."
"Did Miss Milton say in the telegram that New York had discovered its mistake about me?"
"No, she didn't say that, though it was a long telegram. I expect she thought I would have seen the newspapers. Well, I haven't; but I can put two and two together quite nicely, and I was sure that you'd come into your own again with the great American public—perhaps partly through Fanny Milton's Mr. Kidd. I'd be willing to wager all the profits of Sidney Cremer's next play or novel—if I had them—that you can now go back, if you like, and get without any difficulty the heiress you came across the water for."
"I'm sick of the very word heiress!" protested Loveland, with complete sincerity.
"That's the new You. And what a very new You it is, when one comes to think of it! Only a few weeks old. But it's the only real one. The other was a shell which has broken."
"You broke it," said Val.
"I cracked it a little, maybe, on the boat; but it took a big hammer to smash it, and now I've swept all the fragments away. There's just the real you and the real me in the world—with the wonderful light from the other side of the moon shining on us two—and Sidney Cremer."
"Oh, Sidney Cremer!" cried Loveland. "He still stands between us."
"No, he doesn't. If you love me you'll have to love Sidney, too, because Sidney Cremer and I are one, and his money is mine; because I earn it, anddon'tI enjoy it, too! Haven't I enjoyed it for three whole years, since all of a sudden from being a poor girl, dependent on Aunt Barbara, I waked up to find myself a rich one—oh, not rich in your meaning of the word, not rich enough to line castle walls with gold and diamonds, but rich enough to do nice little things for an old Kentucky farm-house, and perhaps even to help restore ancient British strongholds if the lord of them and of my heart will give me so much happiness.
"You—you are Sidney Cremer?" Loveland could only stammer the words stupidly.
"Yes. Are you so surprised that I'm clever enough to make a success with my brain and my pen? I often wondered when you'd begin to suspect—but you never did. And I was wondering, too, whether Sidney Cremer would have to propose to you in the end. It's been great fun keeping my secret from the world, never letting anyone know the real truth except Auntie and the Ashville cousins—though Fanny Milton and lots of other acquaintances thought I was afriendof Sidney Cremer's—perhaps even a poor relation of his. But the most fun of all has been keeping the secret from you till the time was ripe to tell. Do you remember saying the other day, 'Sidney Cremer is everything?' I told you I'd remind you of that some time, and ask if you could say it again. Can you now?"
"Sidney Cremer is everything," repeated Loveland. Whereupon Lesley gave one of her little soft, cooing sighs, and let him take her into his arms.
They were both very muddy and mossy, and rather bruised and shaken, if they had not been too deeply absorbed in the feelings of their hearts to think of the feelings of their bodies. And perhaps a boggy field with no shelter save a motor-car lying rakishly on one side, was a queer place for an engagement between a young English Marquis and a celebrated American novelist-playwright. But for Lesley and Loveland it was perfect. Sidney Cremer's vivid fancy had never created a more enchanting scene for the love-making of hero and heroine. And though, if there had been an audience, it would have seen the stage lit up only with pale rays of wintry sunshine, for the girl and the man it was illumined with ineffable light from the other side of the moon.