Lord Loveland Discovers America

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

In the Car Together

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 the Mauretania instead of the Baltic, 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 that chicken! 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. Take care of 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.

CHAPTER FORTY

The Other Side of the Moon

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're not!" 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."

"You wouldn'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 – "

"I don't think 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. "Do you 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?"