Lord Loveland Discovers America

"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?"

"It was the other Me, 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."