Kitabı oku: «Lord Loveland Discovers America», sayfa 21

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 I were the 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."

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.