Lord Loveland Discovers America Part 47

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 ident.i.ty 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 Gra.s.s country.

Though he was a paid employe, 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' circ.u.mstances 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.dfather 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 a.s.sociated 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 n.o.body 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y was at home; and such was her grat.i.tude 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 f.a.n.n.y 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.