Lord Loveland Discovers America

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Sidney Cremer's Chauffeur

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, he sold your ticket for the Baltic, 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 was most remiss 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 have loved to 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, we will give 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 the Baltic.

"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 the Mauretania, 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, before the Baltic landed, they'd better wait and make sure before being nice to you, that you weren't your own absconding valet sailing under false colours. He didn't say it wouldn't be 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 the heiress business wouldn't come off quite as easily as you expected, and that altogether you might be a little sobered down. As for your trouble with the bank, we know now, that this is 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 mere supposition? It must have been too dreadful for you at the hotel! – and as for that Mr. Milton, I'm sure he is a horror.

"Then, it was another contretemps that 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 is entirely a 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.