CHAPTER TEN · Part 5

That gentleman, having acquitted himself of his duty to the juvenile lead, disappeared, banging the door, leaving the old occupant and the new occupant of the mean, bare room to make each other's acquaintance.

Mr. Binney did not think it worth while to get up, as the juvenile lead was no guest of his, but he raised himself on one elbow, and observed Loveland with an interest that might or might not develop into friendliness. He was thin, pale, and delicate-looking, but he had bright eyes--almost too bright for health--and a firm chin.

For a moment Val resented the youth's existence so keenly that he did not trust himself to speak; but brief reflection reminded him that after all, he was the intruder. A short time ago he would have been intolerant of circumstances even less disagreeable, such as finding himself forced to share a cabin on shipboard, or a _wagon-lit_ compartment, after expecting to travel alone. But much water had gone under the mill of his pride since then; and besides he had learned, greatly to his own surprise, that kindly, agreeable human beings can be found in the lowest classes and queerest circumstances.

Ed Binney looked as though he might have pleasant qualities, if approached in the right way, so with amazing self-restraint Loveland refrained even from the mild insult of a disgusted glance. He said, in his nice voice, that he hoped Mr. Binney wouldn't mind his coming, as he really couldn't help himself. Whereupon Mr. Binney grinned, showing teeth white as a girl's, and replied that if it weren't Mr. Gordon it would be someone else, who might be worse, as it struck Mr. Binney that Mr. Gordon would at least be fond of washing himself.

To this Mr. Gordon responded that there were few things he liked better, but it seemed as if there wouldn't be much opportunity at Smith's Hotel. You had to do it in sections, with a washbowl, said Mr. Binney, but never mind, you got there just the same, if you were in earnest. Then they both laughed, and Binney exclaimed with evident relief, that he was jolly glad Gordon wasn't the sort of boy who put on airs. He'd been afraid at first sight that was the kind he was, but now he guessed it was all the high collar. The feeling was for low, in Miss de Lisle's company, yet he didn't know but those stove pipe ones had a sort of style about 'em.

Then he bounced off his tremulous cot (which had a patchwork quilt somewhat the worse for contact with his boots and was the twin of another little iron-framed bed in a far corner). He showed his room-mate "the ropes"; in other words, which "bureau drawers" were at the newcomer's disposition; where he had better keep his toothbrush, and so on. He confided to Loveland the fact that he himself had not been long in the company, but had come from a better one, which he would now regret if the "one night" stands had not been too much for his strength. "If your lungs are always playing you tricks, you have to put up with barn-stormers, for at least they give you week stands, and most of the hotels throw in fires free," he explained. "I can see that you've stepped down in the world a bit, too, so we ought to have a fellow feelin' for each other."

While Loveland made himself presentable for the early dinner, Ed Binney went on to sketch the members of the "crowd," though in a manner very different from the manager's sarcastic descriptive efforts. He said that Jacobus was a tyrant and a bully, but that he could act; that everyone except Miss Moon was afraid of "J. J.," and she wouldn't be afraid of an Indian chief on the war path: that Miss de Lisle didn't dare say her soul was her own, or that black was black, if old Jack remarked that it wasn't; that Jacobus had done a very good thing for himself in getting hold of Lillie as a star, although she had no money--for she was a peach, a live wire, just the sort of little gal to be a "go" at towns like this. "Folks are wild about her, she's as pretty and as dainty as they make 'em, a whole haystack above what they generally see in these barns," went on Ed. "But she needs managin'--and gee, Jack and his wife do manage her. But the old girl's jealous. I don't know how long the show will last, for if she says stop, Jack stops, you bet. He's as scared of her as everybody else is of _him_. She runs the shebang, and there's two of her sons by her first husband in it. They can't act, and they can't look, but by gum, they're good to their mother!"

Into the midst of his discourse crashed a ferocious dinner-bell, and in sheer self-defense they rushed downstairs, in the hope of stopping the clamour by their presence.

The dining-room opened off the long passage on the ground floor, and already other members of the company had assembled for the midday meal, which must be eaten in haste before the rehearsal.

Mr. Jacobus was there, in the act of sitting down between two ladies at the head of a long table; but seeing Loveland he condescended to summon him with a gesture.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Bill's Star

Val could have laughed aloud as he imagined the old self of a few weeks since--the young and popular officer-in-the-Guards self--obeying the beckoning finger of such a man. But he walked towards it like a lamb, and was introduced to Mrs. Jacobus (Miss Moon) and Miss de Lisle.

As Star of the company, Miss de Lisle ought of course to have come first, but Miss Moon, the heavy lead ("heavy" in more senses than one) was not a lady to submit to such distinctions.

She would probably have said that Lillie de Lisle was a star only because it suited the convenience of Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus to head the troupe, financed by their money, with a pretty enough little soubrette, likely to take the popular fancy.

Miss Moon's first sweeping glance at the newcomer was one of self-conscious, important condescension; but seeing that he was an extremely handsome, well dressed young man, with an air and an appearance widely different from the tenth-rate actors of her acquaintance, past and present, her face and manner changed. Instead of posing as the manager's wife, she set herself to vie with Lillie de Lisle in youthful charm, as she sent forth a radiant, long-lashed look to fascinate Mr. Perceval Gordon.

She was a big woman of forty-two or three, with the splendid ruin of what had been a fine figure, an erectness of head which partly concealed the existence of a double chin, a complexion spoiled by a love of rich food and constant use of powder, singularly wide-open dark eyes fringed with painted lashes, and a good deal of bright crimson hair edged with rusty brown at the roots.

Beside Miss Moon, Bill's "little gal" looked like a tiny fishing boat bobbing under the lee of a large schooner; but she was a pretty creature whose curly hair was naturally almost as golden as it glittered, grey-blue eyes which ought to have been mischievous and merry, but were anxious, a clear, rather freckled white skin, and the piquant nose and innocent smile of a child.

These ladies were not dressed as tidily as their best friends might have wished, but Loveland had grown used to Isidora, and did not pick flaws lightly. They were both very cordial to him, somewhat--it would have seemed--to Mr. Jacobus's contemptuous annoyance; and then, at Miss Moon's suggestion, Ed Binney introduced Mr. Gordon, across and down the length of the table, to all the other members of the company.

There were a few non-theatrical diners in the room, commercial travellers, apparently; but they were at the far end of the table, and were not addressed, though they were on nodding acquaintance with several of the actors and actresses.

The latter were two in number besides Miss de Lisle and Mrs. Jacobus. Miss Ruby St. Clare, whose mission was to act small parts, and play the piano, was of the startled fawn order of young female, evidently not long out of amateurhood; and Mrs. Winter, who had passed the age when it was necessary to preserve her maiden name for programmes. She was a reserved and suspicious-looking woman, who watched her husband with short, sidelong glances of anxiety either for his conduct or his health. As for him, he was a thin, dejected, grey little man who suffered apparently from a broken heart or a shattered digestion. His lips worked, and the lids of his eyes, which winked almost continually, were red-rimmed. He seemed acutely conscious of Mrs. Winter's constant scrutiny.

The remaining male members of the company were Mrs. Jacobus's two sons, Tom and Bob Eccles. They were between twenty and twenty-five, and like their mother, though one was fat, with the lazy smile of a Buddha, and the other, who through a cast in his eye just missed being handsome, inclined to be truculent.

Loveland had intended to take a chair next his room-mate, but Miss Moon made a place for him between herself and Buddha--smiling Bob. As everybody except Jack Jacobus and the Winters talked and joked continually, it was surprising how fast they ate. The corned beef and cabbage, the onions, and the tinned American corn which, with other eatables and uneatables, surrounded their plates in a wreath of little earthenware dishes, disappeared as if by conjuring, to be swiftly replaced by apple-pie and cheese that magically vanished from the face of the table in their turn. Nearly everyone drank large cupfuls of milky coffee with their dinner; and twenty minutes after beginning the meal, all had finished, with the exception of Loveland, who was not accustomed to giving his food such short shrift. He rose with the others, however, and a few moments later the company was straggling in a procession to the theatre.

But after all, it was not a theatre, and even courtesy gave it no more high sounding name than "hall." It stood at the end of Main Street, its brick front wall plastered with wonderful coloured posters representing the most sensational scenes in the Human Flower's repertoire. To reach the stage it was necessary to mount a long, mud-caked staircase, and to pass through the auditorium. As for dressing rooms, they did not exist, for it had been a second thought of some light-minded town council, to turn the hall into a place where theatrical representations might lawfully be produced: but a space on either side of the stage had been curtained off with sheets, shawls and squares of canvas, ingeniously coaxed to hold together. These screens reached unevenly from twenty-four to twelve inches of the floor, and at worst an actor in dressing himself could be seen no higher than the knees--unless, perhaps, a too bright light behind the partition might reveal his whole person _en silhouette_.

Loveland was anxious to talk with the Star about her old friend--if not love--Bill Willing; and he had hoped on starting to walk by her side; but Miss Moon, seeing his desire, had instantly frustrated it by calling him and beginning to talk of the part he was about to rehearse. As old "Dave Dreadnought," he was supposed to curse her with menaces, and he felt that it would not be difficult to do so realistically, even in the character of Loveland; but he contrived to listen politely, if coldly, to the story of her first marriage at the early age of fifteen. "I'm not quite sixteen years older than my eldest son, who is over twenty now," she said, and did not look pleased when the juvenile lead found no more tactful comment than an absent-minded "Is it possible?"

On the stage he received the short MS. part of Dave Dreadnought, which Mr. Jacobus had not after all been able to unearth before, and was allowed to glance it over while the scene of his "dying curse" was being set. He was too inexperienced to remember what in gay, amateur days he had learned of stage directions, and Jacobus was inclined to be sarcastic at his expense; but both Miss Moon and Miss de Lisle, as well as Ed Binney, befriended him, whispering hurriedly what "down centre," "up left," "take the stage," or "wait on the prompt side" meant; and thanks to their good nature he got on reasonably well. He was called upon also to rehearse the ball scene, where he "walked on" as a young man of fashion, and had the privilege of dancing with Miss Moon before dwindling, in the last act, to a mere Dead Hand. All the "business" had to be repeated again and again, until at last he was confident, and the stage manager almost hopeful.

It was five o'clock by the time Jacobus snapped irritably: "You'll _have_ to do, anyhow"; but as afternoon tea was not a custom in the Human Flower Company, they missed little by absence from the hotel. Still, Loveland had found no chance for a private word with Lillie, who remained ignorant of his acquaintance with Bill Willing.

At six o'clock a meal, which called itself supper, was ready; and having bolted a cold edition of dinner, eked out with tinned peaches and cups of tea, actors and actresses marched forth in a body to begin the evening's work.

The curtain did not rise until half past seven, but this was Saturday night, and the town was eager for its entertainment. The young girls and their escorts liked nothing better than to see the "show men and women" walk past them up the hall, on the way to that thrilling region known as "behind the scenes," therefore at least a score of persons were seated in the dismal auditorium, munching apples or candy, and cracking peanuts, when the Human Flower and her company filed in.

A few little boys on the cheap benches at the back whistled, clapped their hands, stamped on the floor, and made "cat calls" as a greeting to the players, but those saluted took no notice, and skurried by like hunted things. Miss St. Clare hastened to her seat at the piano, near which an elderly quadroon had already begun to tune a fiddle, and melancholy Mr. Winter remained at the door to help the ticket seller, until it should be time for him to "make up" as the heroine's millionaire parent.

The gentlemen of the company (Loveland had already learned that they never spoke of each other as mere "men") dressed behind one partition, the ladies behind another, and the crowding could scarcely have been worse in the Black Hole of Calcutta. Nevertheless, everyone was more or less good natured. Costumes of a sort, and odds and ends of grease paints were offered to Loveland who, to his own surprise, was shaking and perspiring oddly with stage fright.

"What rot!" he roughly scolded himself. "As if an audience in a tenth-rate country village mattered! What do I care whether or not I know my part, or what they think of me?"

But the queer fact remained that he did care, and his heart thumped faster than it had thumped when he was roused one dark night to fight his first battle. As he saw what personable looking men his companions became after manipulating a few bits of grease-paint, putting on wigs and carefully-kept stage costumes, he began in spite of himself to take this queer theatrical engagement of his more seriously. He wanted to act well; he wanted to please Lillie de Lisle, and to satisfy Ed Binney, who was wishing him luck; he wanted to make a good impression on the pretty bright-eyed country girls who had stared at him with interest as he passed through the auditorium.

There were not nearly enough local stage hands employed in the theatre, and acting was not the only work the actors had to do. They helped place the scenery, and change the settings; they flew about like distracted demons, half dressed, with suspenders flying, turning a burglar's den into a millionaire's drawing-room; and between the bewildering alterations of scene, there was no rest for the sole of anyone's foot.

How they ever got themselves out of one costume into another in time, how they ever remembered which of their many doublings came first, which last, Loveland could not conceive; but, standing in the wings waiting for his own dreaded turn, he was filled with an increasing respect for the barn-stormers, male and female. They could act, too, most of them, which seemed to him the strangest part of all, for he had not expected to find the satellites of Bill's little Star twinkling with the light of talent. As for his own performance, he realised before it had begun that such histrionic efforts as had won him applause when an amateur in London would not be good enough to gain him admiration as a professional in Modunk. It was another thing when, as a handsome young soldier, Lord Loveland had swaggered easily about the stage, pleased with himself and pleasing everyone else, because everyone had come with the intention of being pleased.

Here, in remote little Modunk, the audience was evidently far more critical, and if it didn't like what it saw, it said so audibly with a voice from the cheap seats, or at least indulged in a prolonged fit of bored coughing. If Loveland could have gone on "as himself," as Jacobus had said, he might have captured the fancy of the girls; but as old Dave Dreadnought in a wild wig, and moth-eaten beard lent by "Pa" Winter, the new addition to the company could conquer the audience only by sheer force of acting.

Fortunately for Loveland, he was not obliged to walk onto the stage in answer to a cue, or it seemed to him that he could not have moved. It was bad enough to be "discovered," in the act of being murdered; and as the moment came when he would have to make his first speech, his blood was beating like a drum in his temples. His throat felt dry, and when his cue to speak was given by Jacobus with meaning emphasis, he could only swallow, and glare. Not a word of the carefully rehearsed part could he remember, and involuntarily looking out in front (a thing Ed Binney had warned him not to do) it seemed as if the rows of faces down below the yellow footlights were leaping up at him like a wave.

If he had seen the mocking grins or heard the titters which his morbid fears and exaggerated sensitiveness led him to expect, he would have collapsed into gasping helplessness, and died without giving the famous curse on which the rest of the play depended. But to his intense, almost agonising relief, the eyes staring up at him were eager, excited. The people were taking him in earnest! They were not laughing at him. He had power over them; and suddenly he felt able to make use of it.

Just as Jacobus bent over him, frantically glaring, ready to prompt and swear at the same time, Loveland's frozen hesitation melted into words and gestures, the right words, the right gestures. Jacobus sighed a great sigh of thanksgiving, and Val delivered his curse with a transport of zeal. He was half frightened at his own explosiveness, but the audience enjoyed it, and when the curtain went down upon his death there was a round of applause from the audience.

"They liked it all right," said Miss Moon.

"Are they doing that for me?" Loveland asked, incredulously.

"Why, of course," she replied. "You were the star of the scene."

"It would have to be a mighty rotten Dave not to get a few hands on his curse," said Jacobus. "Never saw one yet bad enough for that. It's the scene, not the actor, they clap."

But even this cold douche did not depress Loveland. Though dead as Dave, it was his business to rise again in the third act as a young man of fashion--a youthful butterfly from an ancient chrysalis--and drunk with the sweet draught of triumph, he made the change gaily, as happy for the moment as if he were playing before an audience of kings and queens.

He had dressed, and was lurking in the wings again, watching with some interest the arrest of the leading man for his (Loveland's) murder, on false evidence snakily given by Ed Binney, when Miss de Lisle flitted noiselessly up, very insufficiently disguised as a boy.

"I suppose you _do_ remember that you're a young English Lord?" she whispered, anxiously.

Loveland started, and stared. Had she found him out?

"In your next scene," she explained.

"Oh," said Loveland, relieved. "Am I--er--a lord?"

"Yes. Didn't Jacobus tell you? But perhaps he thought it didn't matter."

"It doesn't seem to," retorted Val, smiling faintly at his own hidden meaning.

"You're supposed to be the son of the Duke of Highgate. Pa Winter's the Duke, you know. Of course, though, you haven't seen the whole play yet--only your own scenes, so you can't keep track of everything. You only have to walk on; or rather _waltz_ on with Miss Moon, you know; and when she goes off, and I come on in girl's clothes again, you must say, "The next is mine, I believe," with an English drawl. But the part's down on the program as 'Lord William Vane.'"

"By Jove, I know Willy Vane. He's in the Black Wa----" began Loveland, but he bit his lip and broke off abruptly.

The Human Flower laughed. "I don't suppose _your_ friend's a lord, though!"

Loveland did not reply, as the choice lay between a fib and an affirmative.

"You ought to know how lords behave, more than any of us," went on the girl, "as you're an Englishman. I suppose you've seen some?"

"Yes, a few," said Val cautiously.

"Did you ever get a chance to speak to one?"

"Now and then."

"Were they very haughty?"

"Not all of them."

"Well, as you've seen them you'll know just how to act, and you _look_ real swell. This is an exciting play, ain't it? And my! how it does makes us all work. This is my only quiet time, and I guess you're tired. Perhaps you'd rather watch Jack Jacobus's big scene than talk to me? I have to go on, anyhow, in about four minutes."

"I'd rather talk to you than watch, if you'll let me," said Val.

"Well, as long as you don't make yourself too interesting, so I miss my cue! J. J. will be cross if he sees us whispering here, but he's too taken up with himself and his wife in this scene to notice much."

"That's lucky, because I have a message for you from an old friend of yours, that I've been wanting to tell you all day," Loveland began hastily, not to waste one of the four minutes. "I wonder if you remember him? Bill Willing?"

"Bill Willing!--a friend of _yours_?" the girl spoke sharply, in her surprise.

"Then you haven't forgotten him."

"Forgotten him? I never will, to my dying day."

Her voice quivered a little, for, like most actresses of her type, her emotions were as easily played upon as harp-strings.

"Those are almost the words he used about you," said Loveland, interested in Lillie's part of the broken love melody, as he had been in Bill's. "Only--his were stronger."

"What were they--exactly?"

"Shall I tell you, really?"

"Yes, quick--quick."

"He said he always _had_ loved you, and always would love you till his dying day."

"Oh!" Lillie de Lisle gulped down a small sob. "I thought he'd forgotten all about me--long, long ago. He never wrote."

"No. He told me he didn't dare, or something like that, but he couldn't resist sending a message by me."

"If you _knew_ what it is to me to hear from him again! How in the world did you meet him?"

But that was a long story, and before Loveland could begin to sketch it, the Human Flower heard her cue. With professional instinct she darted out of the entrance on to the stage, and took up her part, as if she had thought of nothing else since she laid it down.

It was not until the end of the third act that there was the smallest chance to continue the talk so suddenly broken short. Loveland had to change back again into the beard, wig, and bloodstained clothes of murdered Dave Dreadnought in order to appear as a ghost, and wave his Dead Hand under the remorseful villain's nose. But this act of retribution was reserved for the end of the play; therefore, encouraged by Lillie, Val stood half concealed in the shadow of some disused scenery, talking of Bill to Bill's Star.

He told her of Bill's dog, Shakespeare, the tiny creature "who made up a bit for the lost 'little gal.'" He told her how Bill generally contrived to put aside a dime each week, to buy a stage paper, solely in the hope of finding news of her. He described Bill's delight at hearing that she had become a "Star," with her own company, and explained how it was by Bill's wish and advice that he had written to ask for his present engagement.

"If only it _was_ my company, really," sighed the poor little Star, "wouldn't I just send for Bill to come out? But I haven't got any more say than the property man, and J. J. used to hate Bill, because--because he was jealous. You see, that was before Jacobus married. Oh, since you're a friend of Bill's and he told you he cared about me, I can talk to you as if I'd known you for ever. If Bill had asked me to marry him, I would, in a minute. But he never did. I wasn't sure he ever really cared, till what you said tonight. He was the best man I ever knew."

"I'm not sure he isn't the best I ever knew, too," said Loveland.

"I'd have sooner _begged_ with him than be a queen with a crown on my head, if he wasn't the king!" sighed Miss de Lisle. "Don't _you_ feel that way, too, about love?"

"Yes," Loveland answered. "I didn't always: but then I used not to understand."

"It's too late now," Bill's Star went on. "We shall never see each other again."

The words echoed in Loveland's head. "Too late now; we shall never see each other again."

The Human Flower's thoughts were far away with Bill Willing. But at least she knew where he was, and was sure that he loved her, while Val did not even know the name of the place near Louisville where Lesley Dearmer lived, and he was sure that she did not love him. Yes, he was sure of that, though perhaps there was a time, he told himself, when he might have made her care.

Instead of trying to win her when he had the chance, he had asked her advice about the best way of making love to other girls. Oh, he deserved all he had got, he thought with sudden fury--all--even to being a waiter at Alexander's, and a leading juvenile under the management of "J. J."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

A Mysterious Disappearance

"Gordon, come to our room directly after dinner. I want to talk to you," said Miss Moon. "Not a word to anyone, mind."

She spoke in a low voice, with an air of mystery, stopping Loveland on the stairs, and then passing with a significant look and a finger on her lips, as a door shut sharply somewhere above.

Of course she took it for granted that he would accept the Royal invitation which was a command, and did not need an answer. Equally of course Loveland knew that he would be knocking at the door, at the moment desired, though he was puzzled by the request and the secretive way in which it was made.

It was only a week that day since he had joined the company, but the longest week of his life, save one. Already the time when he had not been a barn-storming country actor seemed distant. He was "old man" or "dear boy," with all the men except Jacobus, and "Gordon" with the actresses. He had heard the life-story of almost everyone among his comrades, male and female; knew why, by evil fate or mere fluke, they had lost splendid and well-deserved chances of gracing Metropolitan theatres; had grown to look upon them all, even Buddha, as fellow beings, and was doing his worried, wearied best with seven new parts committed to memory in as many days.

If Lesley Dearmer were an actress, and it were her company instead of Lillie de Lisle's, he said to himself, how happy he could be in spite of all hardships; for the longing to see Lesley was never absent. He regretted her desperately, and the chance he might have had with her--the chance he had thrown away. He dreamed of her at night, instead of living his troubles over again, and in involved fancies often saw her acting with him on the stage, in the place of Bill's "little gal." Always she seemed near; always she was in his thoughts; but perhaps this was partly because someone had mentioned incidentally that Ashville--where the company was playing now--lay only about thirty miles from Louisville.

Somewhere near Louisville she lived, and if he were Lord Loveland, with money in his pocket--even a little money--instead of being just a strolling actor named Gordon, with two suits of clothes to his back, he would have tried his hardest to find her. He no longer regretted the hopelessness of finding favour in the eyes of American heiresses, because he was homesick for the light in Lesley's sweet eyes, the only woman's eyes that had ever mattered seriously to him--except his mother's. Nothing had happened, really, to make money of less importance to him; rather the other way, yet money did not seem as important as it had, and he told himself that he was well punished for not asking Lesley to marry him. But now he had let her learn to despise him. And being Gordon, the barn-stormer, instead of Lord Loveland, he would have avoided a meeting with the girl if it had come in his way. He could not have endured to be seen by her as he was now, and even should his luck change--as it must before long--with news from home--there would still remain between them as a barrier Lesley's scorn of him which he had taught her to feel, and her knowledge of all his ridiculous adventures. What a contrast to the pictures he had painted for her of his reception in America! With her impish sense of fun, the humorous side of his welcome by New Yorkers must have appealed to her intensely, he was sure, and he did not think that even when he ceased to be P. Gordon, Lesley Dearmer would ever care to think of him seriously again.

She had been very frank that last morning on the _Mauretania_; and many times since, he had recalled every word she had said to him as they leaned on the rail watching the ship draw into the New York dock. Lesley would feel, as he began to, but even more, that everything which had happened "served him right." He could almost hear her pronouncing sentence, smiling, yet in earnest. How she must have laughed at his fallen pride, and the wildly farcical things such merry humourists as Tony Kidd had doubtless put into the papers! He had become a mere figure of fun for America, and therefore, for Lesley Dearmer, who had never been a respecter of persons; and the fear that the Human Flower's Company might play at Louisville had been hot in his mind, until Ed Binney reassured him. Louisville was not for the "likes of them," and they would never get nearer such an important town than they were now. Soon, they would be out of Kentucky, and in Missouri: indeed, the "date" following Ashville, was in the latter state, and Loveland had been advised that his forthcoming address would be Bonnerstown. Only the day before his meeting with Miss Moon on the stairs he had written to Bill Willing, asking him to send on any mail to Bonnerstown, Missouri; and now the lady's mysterious summons gave him an uneasy moment.

He had supposed that his acting was satisfactory, and had worked hard over the learning and rehearsing of his parts, seldom getting to sleep before five in the morning, then dropping off with a MS. in his hand as well as in his head. But what if Miss Moon meant to break the news that "J. J." thought he could not act well enough, and that he must expect his discharge?

Loveland had little appetite for dinner, though the hotel at Ashville was better than at Modunk, and the cooking was good Southern cooking. Immediately after the meal he went upstairs and knocked at the door of Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus's room, with no feeling of strangeness in doing so, because he had learned, since joining Miss de Lisle's company, that for "pros" bedroom was another word for parlour.

The stage manager and his wife were both there, Jacobus smoking, in sulky silence which he broke only with a grunt by way of greeting for the "juvenile lead." But Miss Moon made up in cordiality for her husband's coldness.

"Mr. Jacobus is cross with me," she announced coquettishly, "about you."

"About me?" Loveland repeated, puzzled and vaguely uncomfortable.

"Yes. There's an idea of mine I want to talk to you about, and he says you'll blab it to the others. But _I_ say you won't if you promise you won't. That's so, isn't it?"

"Of course," answered Loveland.

"And you do promise, don't you--and that you won't say a word to a living soul, if I tell you a thing in strict confidence?"

"I promise," Loveland returned imprudently, impressed with the idea that he was to hear some comment on his own acting.

"There! That's all right, then, I trust you. Yes, I just _will_, J. J., so there! I guess I have a right to my say in this show, haven't I?"

J. J. answered by a shrug of the shoulders, but it was a shrug of resentful acquiescence, and showed that he acknowledged his wife's supremacy--the eternal supremacy of the Golden Calf.

"Sit down, and make yourself at home," went on Miss Moon, smiling on the handsome young man, who was not much older than her sons. "Full Moon" was her nickname in the company, and Loveland thought, as she cordially indicated a chair by the stove, that her figure merited the _sobriquet_.

"I know you're a great friend of _Lillie's_," the lady slily began again, when she and Loveland were seated near the fire, and J. J. had drowned himself in a theatrical paper. "But all the same, you must admit that her acting gets worse every day. She's so awful careless! And she's failed to go down with audiences here. We've done rotten business."

"The house has seemed good every night," said Loveland.

"Ah, it's _seemed_ all right; but it's been half paper. It's mighty discouragin', for me and Mr. Jacobus, I can tell you, after the money _I've_ put into the show, and the work _he's_ put in. The fact is, it's so discouragin' we're thinkin' of makin' a change; breakin' up the company, in a way, and then startin' again, with only the ones we _really_ want in a new crowd. Would you like to join?"

Loveland looked her straight in the face, with almost brutally frank disapproval on his. The extra touches she had given to her hair, and eyelashes, and complexion for his benefit, were all in vain. She might have been a block of painted wood, for any admiration in his eyes.

"You mean, you're going to send Miss de Lisle away?" he asked.

"We're going to send ourselves away from _her_," Miss Moon corrected him.

"Leaving her in the lurch!" exclaimed Loveland; with that uncompromising truthfulness of his which was a virtue or a vice, according as one had reason to regard it.

The big woman flushed darkly through her powder. "There's no 'lurch' about it!" she defended herself with a new sharpness in her tone. "I don't intend to shell out any more of my good money carting Lillie de Lisle around the country as a star, that's all. I suppose I have a right to do as I choose with my own? _You_ oughtn't to complain. I'm offering you a chance that lots of real actors would grab. You can go with the new company, and have better parts, and better pay, than what you're getting now. But you'll have to choose, right away, between me--between us and Lillie de Lisle. Well, what do you say?"

"I say that I choose Miss de Lisle," said Loveland.

Miss Moon burst out laughing, hysterically.

"There, I told you what you'd get!" ejaculated her husband. But she shook her shoulders angrily, seeming to transfer to him all the resentment Loveland had roused.

"Let things alone, can't you?" she snapped. "Gordon's only guying, ain't you, Gordon? Or anyhow, you don't understand. When I said 'choose between us' there's nothing _to_ choose, for Lillie de Lisle hasn't got a thing to offer you, and we have a lot. We can bust her up and when she's bust, she is bust. Why, she hasn't a dime to bless herself with, I shouldn't think. She ain't the savin' kind, and she won't even have any advertisin' paper to go along with, if she wanted to go along on her own. Her name ain't printed on any of the posters; I took care of that, starting out. The slips with 'Lillie de Lisle' are all separate, joined on to the posters with paste--and as for her litho, she's welcome to _that_. She looks a fright, bad enough to scare crows. The pictorial paper's _ours_, every sheet of it, and we can start another show inside two days. All we've got to do, is to wire a Chicago agent for a new star, if I don't choose to do the starring myself, and as many folks as we want. Now, you see how things stand, don't you?"

"I think I do," said Loveland.

"Well, what do you decide?"

"The same that I decided before."

"Oh, you do, do you? Ain't you silly! You won't take a good thing when it's offered you?"

"I won't take the thing you've offered me."

She bounced up from her chair, her large face flaming. "Very well, then, all I've got left to say is, I wish you joy of your choice, and--_good_ afternoon!"

"Good afternoon," said Loveland, rising, and walking towards the door.

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Miss Moon, stopping him as he turned the handle. "See here, if you please. You're no gentleman if you play the sneak, and tell."

"I've given you my word not to do that," Loveland assured her.

"Mind you keep it! I wash my hands of you," cried the angry woman, and thinking that he might as well take this as his cue for exit, Loveland left the room.

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," he heard her husband quoting with a vicious laugh, before there had been time to shut the door.

Loveland went up to his own room, more than a little troubled. He had learned to like Lillie de Lisle, not only for Bill's sake, but for her own. She was a sweet, bright little creature, a lady by nature, though not by birth or education; and if she had a chance, might even yet--in spite of bad training--become a charming actress. The Moon woman was jealous of the star's youth and prettiness, of course; and now she meant to play her rival a shameful trick, yet he might not warn the poor girl because of that stupid promise he had given.

It was a new thing for Loveland to trouble himself about the affairs of his acquaintances; but he knew too well now what it was like to be deserted by friends, cold-shouldered by the world, not to have learned how to feel for others. He was genuinely uncomfortable about Lillie, but he could only make up his mind to stand by the deposed star whatever happened to her, and to himself. For the present, he did not see what else he could do, bound as he was to silence. But there was one comfort, he consoled himself: a new company could not be formed in a minute. This was Saturday. They would all go on to Bonnerstown next day, no doubt; perhaps Mrs. Jacobus would reconsider the spiteful decision to which her henpecked husband agreed with evident reluctance. In any case, there were a few days in which to plan. Loveland hoped that he might hear from England in another week; and at worst, salaries were payable on Saturdays. He would be the possessor of ten hard earned dollars that night.

Dinner had been at twelve, because of the matinée which would begin at two o'clock. Now it was already after one, and everybody had started for the theatre, except himself, the Jacobuses, and Ed Binney, who was ill with a racking cough, and keeping his room till the last minute.

Loveland went upstairs to see how Ed was feeling, found him ready though coughing hard, and they walked to the Ashville Opera House together.

After all, salaries were not paid that night. J. J. informed the expectant members of the company that business hadn't "run to it." They must wait for their money till next week. Bonnerstown was a bigger place than Ashville, and there was every prospect of better things for the future. Two or three of the actors and actresses wheedled a few dollars out of the manager, to "go on" with; but they were "old fakirs," as they would have said themselves, and knew how to manage such matters. Loveland, however, took the news quietly, as he had begun to take the various blows which fortune successively dealt him.

In these small towns, the hotel breakfast was from seven till eight, or until eight-thirty by favour; and on Sundays, if one were a quarter of an hour later in coming down, nothing actively unpleasant was said aloud, though there might be mumblings and dark looks. On this Sunday morning Loveland availed himself of the last amount of grace, hurrying down at a quarter to nine lest he should be told, grumpily, that breakfast was cleared away.

Ed Binney was in bed, for his room-mate had volunteered to carry something up, but Lillie de Lisle, "Pa and Ma Winter," and Miss St. Clare were still at the table.

"Have the others finished and gone already?" asked Loveland, for the two Eccles were usually the last to appear, unless it were "J. J.," who invariably took his wife's breakfast upstairs before beginning his own.

"No. It's queer, none of them have been down yet," replied Mrs. Winter. "They wrote cards on their doors, saying they weren't to be disturbed or their fires to be made, and didn't want breakfast. The cards are up yet. It's the first time they've ever done such a thing since I knew 'em; and that's two years."

"I do hope they haven't committed suicide," whispered Miss St. Clare, who battened on detective stories.

Loveland did not offer any opinion, but he flushed slightly on hearing the news, and went on eating his lukewarm breakfast, with eyebrows drawn together in an anxious frown. Could there be any connection between this mysterious and unprecedented conduct on the part of the manager, his wife, and his wife's family, and the secret proposal made yesterday to the juvenile lead?

Loveland had told himself then that the threatening storm would not break until the following week at earliest, but now a disquieting idea had jumped into his head. So disquieting was it, that when he had finished his breakfast he paused before the door of the room occupied by the Eccles brothers, and disregarding the card conspicuously pinned on the panel, knocked very hard.

No answer came, and he knocked again, still harder. Then a third time, so violently that no natural sleep could have resisted the clamour.

By this time the landlord, the landlord's son, the landlord's wife and niece, and several commercial travellers were in the passage or on the stairs.

"They're dead drunk, or else they've hooked it," suggested one of the latter.

"Scott! Jacobus ain't paid for his week yet!" exclaimed the landlord, his thin yellow face turning a shade yellower. He rushed to the closed door on the floor below, and pounded furiously with no result.

"The snides! I'm hanged if they ain't gallivanted with my money, and made me the expense of bustin' in my doors and gettin' 'em mended!" wailed the proprietor of the hotel.

Luckily for his feeling and pocket, one of the commercial travellers was an amateur locksmith, and the door, which hid the secret of the Jacobus family, was soon opened. The bed had not been slept in. The room was clear of all Jacobus's belongings; and the landlord reproached himself for not being "fly enough" to suspect treachery earlier. He had actually seen, with his own eyes, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobus carrying bundles to the theatre, when starting for the matinée, and again before the evening performance, but had thought nothing of it, because his acquaintance with Jacobus had extended over several years.

"I was a crazy loon to think he was all right," the defrauded man groaned. "And then, business was A 1 the whole week, so I wasn't keepin' my eyes peeled for any larks. I'm big enough, and old enough, and ought to o' known better. But the rest o' ye ain't goin' to take a shine out o' me like that. I keep your hotel luggage till you hand over every red cent of your board, and I wish to goodness the law wasn't too cranky to give me holt o' your theatre trunks, too."

"I can't believe they've really gone and left us like this," pleaded the little Star, wide-eyed and pale, though unnaturally composed. "Let's wait and see, before we think the worst. Somebody'd better run over to the Opera House and find out if their things are there. If they've sneaked them away in the night, why--then I'll _have_ to believe; but I won't before."

"I guess my son's there and half-way back by this time," growled the landlord. "Meanwhile, I'll just have a go at t' other lock."

He had the go, and by the time the opening door had revealed emptiness, bad news had come back from the theatre. The worst had happened. With incredible stealth and cunning, the manager and his family had slipped away in the night, leaving nothing behind them but a stranded, broken, and penniless company.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Marooned

After consultation in the room of the Star, it appeared that the funds of the deserted six amounted to exactly six dollars, or, if equally divided, one dollar apiece.

Lillie, who had been--more or less regularly--in the enjoyment of thirteen dollars a week, was in the habit of sending all she could spare out of her salary to a bedridden sister in a semi-charitable institution. Pa and Mrs. Winter were suspected of having "something up their sleeves," but they produced only two dollars to match Lillie's two--and after all, their joint earnings were but ten dollars a week. As for Ed Binney, he supported parents, one of whom was almost blind, the other nearly crippled with rheumatism. Besides this regular call upon his purse, he was obliged reluctantly, from time to time, to buy a tonic which might keep his delicate chest in working order. Miss St. Clare was chronically penniless; and everybody knew that Gordon had received no salary yet.

The landlord, disappointed at finding very little of value in the rooms of the actors (with whom it was a cautious habit to safeguard their most cherished possessions in their theatre trunks), had threatened in the first outburst of anger to turn them all into the street; but Loveland and Lillie de Lisle argued that he would lose nothing by waiting an hour or two, until matters had been discussed and something of advantage to everybody perhaps arranged.

But, at the end of a long and gloomy talk, nobody had found anything brilliant to suggest. There was too little money to be of any use, said Pa Winter, who was by nature a pessimist; and for his part he didn't see what was to become of them all, unless they went to the poor-house, and waited for something to turn up, or induced the town authorities to organise a subscription.

"I won't go to the poor-house, and I won't be an object of charity," exclaimed Lillie, pluckily. "I've been in bad scrapes before, and got out of 'em somehow, and I bet we all have, unless it's Gordon--so I guess we can again."

Relieved by Mr. Jacobus's treachery, of his obligation to be silent, Val repeated his conversation with Mrs. Jacobus yesterday, adding that he had been very far from suspecting her real intention.

"That's because you're an amatoor, dear boy," said Binney, coughing harshly. "If they'd let out as much to one of _us_--but they'd have had too much gumption. If only you could have put us wise we'd o' been on the watch; but don't think we're blamin' you, for we ain't. You did the straight thing, accordin' to your lights. Full Moon was always green jealous of Miss de Lisle, but after you joined the show, if she'd been a cat with four legs instead of two, she'd o' spit and scratched. As it was, she did the next best thing--tried to take you away under her arm, and spite Lillie. For the rest of us she didn't care a tinker's dash, one way or another. Then, when you turned on her, and blurted out just what you thought of her and her schemes, and how you meant to stand by Miss de Lisle, she was as sour on you as she had been sweet. I bet she's chucklin' this minute, thinkin' of our plight. It'll be nuts to her."

"Can't we get at them and punish them somehow?" Loveland wanted to know.

"Takes money to do that sort of thing, even if we could. It would cost the boss of the hotel more than Jacobus owes him for us all, to go to law, now they've vamoosed, out of the state, too. As for us, we're not _in_ it--except the soup. They had plenty of money, too, the beasts, for Full Moon's a regular oof bird, with 'most a thousand dollars of her own over and above what J. J. has 'blowed,' and the Ashville business _has_ been jolly good, I don't care how they tried to stuff you up. They must have lit out with a pretty penny--to say nothing of all the company's scenery, paper, and MS. plays. We're stripped clear of everything but our theatre trunks, and they'd have taken them if they'd dared."

But Loveland had not even a theatre trunk.

"If we could get up some kind of a benefit performance, those that are left of us," he suggested, after thinking very hard for a few heavy minutes, "we might make enough to go--somewhere."

"Good idea, if we had a play," said Eddy. "But we--no, by Jinks, we _have_ got one!"

"What one?" asked Lillie de Lisle, clasping her hands.

"Sidney Cremer's 'Lord Bob.' Old J. J. gave me the MS. to copy into parts only three days ago, and I was too seedy to hustle much with it. He said if the parts were ready to distribute Monday it would do, and I was going to finish by then, sure. I suppose he dasn't ask me for the MS. back, for fear I'd smell a rat--or else he forgot. Anyhow, I've got the play, and half the parts are done."

"A new play by Sidney Cremer ought to be a draw even here," said Lillie, "and 'Lord Bob' is _bran_ new--as new as tomorrow's bread."

"Lord Bob," by Sidney Cremer: Loveland remembered seeing the posters up in New York, and for the last year or two the young American playwright's name had been well known even in London. This piece Loveland believed had been produced for the very first time on his first night in New York. Yet these barn-stormers had got hold of it!

He made some remark that showed surprise, and Lillie, laughing rather sadly, replied that a New York man with whom J. J. was in touch had offered to give him the play cheap. "We don't pay the author anything," she said. "Seems mean, doesn't it?--and I suppose it's a kind of stealing. But I've been brought up to it, ever since I was a 'pro'; and we don't hurt the playwright much by producing his pieces in places like our week stands. No company that pays author's fees comes here once in a blue moon. The question is, could we put the play on, and could we get the Opera House for any nights this week? It was Jacobus who knew all those things, not me. I was in his hands, and I just let myself drift."

"There are only three women--two girls, and an old lady in the play. That would suit all right," said Eddy, eagerly. "As for the men, it isn't quite so easy--never is; but there are only five. One's a servant, another a policeman; and there's no scenery to speak of. I guess we could fake. I don't feel very grand, but I'll try and write out the rest of the parts by tonight, in case we can get the theatre, and bring the stunt off."

"I'll write out the parts you haven't done," said Loveland. "I'll find the manager of the alleged Opera House, too, and have a talk with him."

"Do. A real heart to heart talk," urged Lillie. "Tell him we mean sharing terms, of course. If it really can be fixed up, it's pretty sure the landlord'll keep us all on spec."

Loveland, who was now the only able-bodied young man of the party, and whose idea it had been to get up the entertainment, went out at once, luckily catching the local manager of the grandiloquently named Opera House, just as he was virtuously setting forth to church.

Jacobus, it seemed, had "settled up all right" with him the night before, and he was surprised to hear of the flight. But he had his bride--a third bride--with him, and feared that she would not consider it decorous to discuss theatrical business in the street, on Sunday, on the way to church. He would have sent the "show man" away rather cavalierly without any definite answer if the bride, who, like an intelligent baby, was already beginning to "take notice," had not put in a word for the handsome young Englishman.

"I don't care if we are five minutes late," said she, conscious of a hat which would receive the more appreciation if all the other hats were already in their pews.

So the manager relented, and admitted to Loveland that the "house" was "open" for three nights. After that, the Dandy Lady Minstrels were coming to finish out the week. Their advance agent would arrive on Monday, without doubt, and "bill the town," so that a makeshift show wouldn't stand much chance. As the Opera House was free, however, the marooned actors might have their chance, but it was a "spec" for him--the manager--and ordinary sharing terms weren't good enough. He stipulated for two thirds of the profits, if any, above expenses, and would not unbend, though the bride motioned her compassion for the actors, with lifted eyebrows.

All the rest of the day, Loveland was busy. He finished copying the parts, which must be learned and rehearsed, so that the play might be produced tomorrow night.

There was a newspaper in Ashville, which came out once a week; and the company decided, after a stormy debate, to spend one of the six dollars in buying from the office large sheets or rolls of the coarse white paper on which this weekly publication was printed. Having secured a good supply, and obtained black paint and a big brush from a sympathetic sign-painter, who was a customer of the hotel, Loveland set to work, with Binney's aid and direction, to manufacture some crude posters.

He announced in black letters, so gigantic as to be almost convincing, that the principal members of the Little Human Flower's All Star Company had been persuaded to remain for a special three nights' engagement, in order to produce the sparkling comedy, "Lord Bob," New York's Latest and Biggest Success, by the popular playwright, Sidney Cremer.

At least a dozen duplicates of this announcement he produced, after hours of painstaking labour, which cost him a cramp in his right hand, if not in his temper.

It really was nervous work for an amateur, drawing out and spacing the huge letters with pencil, then filling them in with thick splashes of black paint--especially as the paper was thin, sometimes letting the big brush break through, and costing another sheet, another hour's toil. But it was extraordinary how much interest Loveland took in his self-appointed task, how easily controlled was his impulse to be cross when Ed Binney or "Pa" Winter interrupted him with a suggestion.

He felt that the company's present plight had been brought about partly by him; through his friendship with Lillie (how could Miss Moon guess it was for Bill's sake?) and his thoughtless promise of secrecy. Therefore he was inclined to do his best to atone; and the _blasé_ young soldier who once had thought all work and most pleasures a bore, toiled like a slave through a whole day and half a night to save Ed Binney fatigue.

After midnight, when the impromptu posters were ready, Loveland and "Pa" Winter went out together with big rolls of paper under their arms, and a huge pot of flour paste, stirred up (for the sake of Gordon's _beaux yeux_) by the hand of the landlord's niece, over the kitchen fire.

They had no right to "grab spaces," Pa Winter pointed out; and if they put up the new paper on top of the old the agent of the "Dandy Lady Minstrels" would ruthlessly cause it to be covered over with his own bills. Still, despite these pessimistic prophecies, Loveland distributed the advertisements of "Lord Bob" as well as he could, hoping for the mercy or the negligence of the coming rival.

What remained of the night he spent in committing to memory the part of "Lord Bob," for which, without a dissenting voice, the five other members of the company had cast him.

It was a part which a London or New York leading man would have studied for two weeks, rehearsed for three, and finally played with joy mingled with misgiving. But Loveland could not afford artistic scruples. The play was the thing, and the acting must take care of itself.

They went out to rehearsal early next morning, and were thankful that there had been neither rain nor snow to destroy the fragile posters. In front of one which Loveland had put up on the face of the Opera House, stood a girl and an old man, talking in low voices.

"They're reading about the play and making up their minds to come," muttered Loveland to Lillie de Lisle, with whom he had walked to the theatre. As he spoke, the pair turned and stared sharply for an instant at the actor and actress. Loveland was disappointed. After all, they did not look like the sort of persons who would care to attend a performance given by barn-stormers. The girl was a lady, the man a gentleman. They were well dressed, their faces had a cultivated expression, indescribable yet unmistakable. Altogether, they were of a different order from the people who had composed the audiences at the Opera House during the past week.

"I shall certainly write and tell them what's going on," remarked the girl to her companion, who was probably her father. "It's a shame. Something ought to be done."

"We might telegraph, if you think it would be worth while," replied the old man.

Loveland heard the words, spoken as the pair turned away to walk down the street, towards the residence part of the town, but he attached no importance to the disjointed sentences. The affairs of the Human Flower Company were occupying his mind for the moment, to the exclusion of all else. He was not even thinking of lost Lesley Dearmer, or wondering whether there would be a letter from his mother forwarded by Bill to Bonnerstown this week.

Everybody was in deadly earnest, and the rehearsal went off very well, considering all its disadvantages. They had another in the afternoon; and by that time, they learned joyfully, a few seats had actually been booked in advance.

Ed Binney's cough had not improved, but he was kept up on strong, hot coffee, and they got through the performance that night, two men short, almost without a hitch. Nevertheless, though "Lord Bob" was a great New York success, as Sidney Cremer's comedies always were, and bristled with brilliant scenes and bright dialogue, it was a little above the heads of an average Ashville audience.

A few well, though plainly, dressed ladies and gentlemen were in the front seats, and all seemed to know each other, laughing and talking together between the acts; and among them, through a peephole in the curtain, Loveland recognised the nice-looking girl and old man he had seen staring at his home-made poster in the morning. The rest of the audience, however, were of the usual sort, and preferred wild melodrama to sparkling light comedy.

The profits of the first performance, and the next, were not what Val had expected, though the acting of the company improved; but on the last night Loveland tried to hope that Ashville would turn out in full force.

Having set the first scene himself, in default of a stage manager or competent stage hands, he applied an anxious eye to a small "spy-hole" in the curtain, and peeped out.

His heart sank. The house was half empty. But it was early still. There was hope yet. People were coming in. There was the old gentleman and the girl he had seen before, finding their way once more to the front seats. Someone was with them; they were bringing guests. That looked encouraging!

Val lingered at the "spy-hole."

The girl and her father sat down.

With them were Lesley Dearmer and her aunt, Mrs. Loveland.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Pirates!

For an instant Val thought of nothing but the heavenly surprise of seeing the girl he loved.

Recognition brought a shock of joy, and a wave of love which had been held in check for a time by the weight of misfortune, as the waters of a stormy river in flood are held back by the shut gates of a lock. He had known that he loved her, too well for peace of mind, more passionately and purely than he had thought it was in him to love. But until he saw her face looking up, as if at him, yet unconscious of his gaze--the dear, charming face he had longed for through all his miseries, scarcely dreaming ever to see her again--he had not realised how utterly precious it was, how entirely indispensable in his life.

A wild impulse rushed over him to call her name--"Lesley--Lesley!" and spring from behind the curtain, as if they two were alone together in a world of their own. But after the first luminous instant, the joy of her presence was blotted out in darkness.

He remembered everything; remembered that he was Perceval Gordon, an actor of the submerged tenth, a wretched, penniless barn-stormer, who for the moment came near to being an object of charity.

When he had bidden Lesley goodbye, he was a splendid being who looked down from his heights, and, though loving her, saw her impossible as a wife. Their friendship had begun by being somewhat of a condescension on his part--from his own point of view, at least; and she, half amused, half angry, had seen that point of view quite clearly, nor had she ever attempted to change it, to the last.

At the thought that the curtain would ring up and show him as he was now, to the astonished eyes of Lesley Dearmer, he could have run away, out of the theatre, anywhere--it mattered not where--if only she need not see him, need not know that the magnificent Lord Loveland and the miserable P. Gordon were one.

His blood surged up to his head, throbbing in his temples, and tingling in his ears, but through the confusion of his senses penetrated the knowledge that he could not go.

This trial of endurance--it seemed to him the hardest of all the ordeals he had been forced to face during that fortnight which was a decade--he would have to go through, as he had gone through the others; because, to evade it, he must be worse than a coward. He would be coward and traitor as well; and under all his faults there was something which would not let him be traitor or coward.

Selfish he had been, but the shell of his selfishness had been broken by many hard knocks, and the real self, once so comfortably housed within, was finding itself, though all a-shiver still with the cold.

Let him suffer as he might and must, he couldn't desert these people whom he had undertaken to help out of the trouble in which by his inexperience he had landed them.

He was responsible for putting on "Lord Bob," and his was the principal part. Crudely as he knew that he played it, the performance could not go on without him. If he refused to act the curtain could not ring up, and the money in the theatre would have to be refunded to the disappointed audience. There were not many dollars there--at all events not many would remain for the company after the local manager had taken out his share, but there would be enough with what had come in on the two previous nights, to pay the ever-growing bill at the hotel.

Loveland felt that it would have been almost easier to shoot himself than to give the signal for the curtain to ring up; yet the moment came when he could delay no longer. He was not actor enough to forget in his acting the world beyond the stage. He did not lose his lines; but, conscious of Lesley's eyes upon him, he felt as stiff, as jerky in every movement, as a mechanical doll.

It was worse between acts than when he was on the stage, for he pictured Lesley's head and her aunt's bent near to one another, while he and his affairs were discussed in whispers, perhaps with stifled laughter. It seemed to him that the evening would never end; but at last the curtain went down on the third act, and Loveland was making a "bolt" for his dressing room when one of the stage hands intercepted him, holding out an envelope.

"Say, you're the manager of this show, ain't you?" asked the man.

"I suppose I am at present," said Loveland, not attempting to evade responsibility.

"Well, then, this is for you," and the letter was in his hand.

"To the Manager of the Company producing 'Lord Bob,'" was the address pencilled in an attractive handwriting, which might be that of a man or a woman.

Val hesitated for an instant, and then tore open the envelope. On a sheet of the Ashville theatre paper were written the words, "A friend and agent of Sidney Cremer will be obliged by a few words with the Manager of the Company, in the private room of the Manager of the Opera House, kindly lent for the occasion."

Loveland read the communication, and handed it to Ed Binney, who was passing. Ed gave a long, low whistle, which set him coughing again, and said, "Whew! This is the last straw, isn't it?"

"Why?" asked Loveland.

"Don't you see? Someone's put the author on to us. You know we're pirates--regular play-snatchers, don't you?"

"Yes," replied Val. "Jacobus initiated me into the mysteries. But what can they do to us?"

"There's a big fine for the offence."

Loveland laughed. "I wish Mr. Cremer joy of it."

"Oh, that's all very well, but if he cuts up rough, he can make us a lot of trouble, I'm afraid, though I don't know much about such things. I only know we were always running the risk; but in these small towns there ain't much danger, as the shows don't get noticed by the dramatic papers. I believe Jacobus was never caught. But we're copped this time, sure enough. I wouldn't go into the lion's den, if I was you. Let the lion come to us, at the hotel--if he doesn't find out beforehand that we wouldn't make a meal worth eating."

"Meanwhile, perhaps, he'll have the police 'attach' the luggage or something," argued Loveland. "Heaven knows, I haven't got much; but the rest of you have, and you can't afford to lose it. No, I'll go and face the music. Perhaps when Cremer's agent understands the fix we're in, he'll let us down easy."

"Well, maybe you're right," Binney agreed. "But it seems a shame you should have to stand up and be shot at alone."

Loveland laughed dubiously. "I'm riddled with bullets already. I'll wipe the paint off my face, and go tell the fellow to aim straight and have done with it."

"I'd see you through, if I wasn't such a crock," said poor Ed, coughing.

"Go and tell the others what's up," Val advised him. "They may be able to strike camp and get away with the supply wagons while I engage the enemy."

Three minutes later, Loveland was at the door of the local manager's room. He opened it, and found himself face to face with Lesley Dearmer, who was standing there, alone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Whole Truth

"Miss Dearmer!" he stammered.

"Mr. Gordon, I believe?" she said primly.

She wore a simple grey dress, which he remembered to have seen and liked on the ship. How sweet, how dear she was, with her soft, bright eyes, and long curled eyelashes!

Involuntarily he put out his hand, but she seemed not to see the gesture, and the hand dropped.

"I used the name. I--thought it was better," he explained, trying to keep his head.

"Yes. No doubt it was better," she answered.

"And it really _is_ my name," he went on. "One of my names."

"You have so many?"

"My sponsors in baptism----"

"The newspapers accused you of being your own sponsor."

"The newspapers accused me--what do you mean?"

"Surely you know. I told you I should read about you, but I expected to read very different things. However, we won't talk of that now----"

"But we must." For a moment he was the old, masterful Loveland. "We must. I want to know what you mean."

"That can wait awhile. I came to ask what _you_ mean. Though I did read the newspapers, I was surprised to find you here. I'm acting for my friend, Sidney Cremer. A cousin of Sidney's and mine, who lives a few miles out of Ashville, saw 'Lord Bob' advertised for performance, and telegraphed. Sidney couldn't come, but my aunt brought me tonight, as Sidney Cremer's interests and mine are rather closely allied. And you know, nobody has a right to produce the play without the author's permission."

"Yes, I know," answered Loveland dejectedly. But his depression arose, not so much from the consciousness of wrongdoing, as from the suspicion engendered by the girl's tone in speaking of Sidney Cremer. Cremer's interests and hers were "closely allied"! She had blushed and even faltered a little, as she made the statement, and Val sprang instantly to the conclusion that she was engaged to marry Cremer.

It had never occurred to him, when they played at platonic friendship on board the _Mauretania_, that Lesley Dearmer might be engaged. She had never said in so many words that she was not, but she hadn't at all the manner of a girl who had disposed of her future. In any case, however, whether the affair were new or of old standing, Loveland felt miserably certain that she was engaged now. And he stood convicted of defrauding the man whom she intended to marry. Was there any depth of wretchedness or of humiliation which the thirteenth Marquis of Loveland had not plumbed at last?

"You admit that you knew, and yet you produced and played in the piece?"

"I did. But----" he hesitated. Should he attempt to excuse himself, to disclaim responsibility, or would that only seem cowardly in her eyes?

"But--what? You see, I'm bound to report to my friend."

"Your friend!" broke out Loveland, losing his head. "You are going to marry him!"

"Sidney Cremer?"

"Yes. You don't deny it."

She laughed gently. "Why should I deny it--to you? Have you any right to question me, or bring me to book--about anything, Mr. Gordon?"

"I know I have no right," he admitted. "Forgive me." He guessed that her emphasis, and her frequent repetition of the name "Gordon" meant that she wished him to understand the change in their relationship. To her he was now only Gordon the actor, who had stolen Sidney Cremer's play. The past was to be forgotten.

"I must remind you again," Lesley went on, in a cool, businesslike manner, though her eyes were starry, "that I have come twenty miles to question you. And my aunt is waiting for you with the cousins who telegraphed about 'Lord Bob.' You know, you mustn't go on using Sidney Cremer's play."

"We have no intention of doing so," said Loveland. And then, in as few words as possible, without any attempt at defending himself for his part in the transaction, he explained baldly that the manager had deserted the company, and that they had only one piece, "Lord Bob." They had produced it for three nights, in the hope of making money enough to get away, but the result had proved disappointing.

"My affairs are rather in a muddle just now," Loveland finished; "but as soon as I get them straightened out again, which I expect to do shortly, I will myself pay Mr. Cremer's fee for these performances, if you'll let me know what they are."

"Oh, Sidney wouldn't want you to do that," the girl explained. "I--neither of us knew that the company was in trouble. My cousins here didn't tell us that--I suppose they didn't know, either. We thought it was simply an ordinary case of piracy. But I can answer for Sidney, as if it were for myself. He wouldn't want fees, and he wouldn't take any severe measures in such a case as this. If only you give me your word, Lord Lo--, I mean, Mr. Gordon, that these people won't go about the country playing this piece, I'll ask nothing more."

"You may set Mr. Cremer's mind at rest about that," Loveland answered bitterly. "They aren't likely to go about the country playing any piece."

"You mean, they--you--are stranded here?" enquired Lesley.

"Oh, I'm all right," Loveland said hurriedly, far from wishing to pose as an object of pity. "It's the others I'm thinking of."

She gave him a quick, clear look. "Would you go away and leave them here, in trouble?" she asked.

"No, I won't do that," replied Val. "I mean to do something for them."

"What can you do, if your affairs are in such a muddle as you say?"

"I don't know yet. I'm trying hard to think."

"Won't there be money enough from these three performances of 'Lord Bob' to pay their railway fares somewhere?"

"I'm afraid not. Hardly enough to settle with the landlord and get him to release their luggage, which he's keeping till last week's board bills are paid."

"Your luggage, too?"

Loveland grew red. "I haven't any."

"Oh!" the colour flew to her cheeks, as if in sympathy with the flush she could not help seeing on his. "No trunks?"

"You say you read the newspapers," said Loveland. "If you did, you perhaps saw that the hotel people in New York treated me rather curiously. I didn't read the stuff myself. I really couldn't bring myself to do it. But I gathered from hints given me here and there that the journalists had a pretty rough game with me."

"You had a game with them, to begin with," said Lesley.

"I shut my door in the face of one, on my first day in New York," Loveland admitted. "Next day I hadn't a door to shut. America hasn't been very hospitable to me."

"What could you expect?" asked Lesley, defending her countrymen. Her face was grave, but there was an odd sparkle in her eyes. "Americans don't like having tricks played on them."

"I played no trick."

"You played a part--the part of Lord Loveland."

Val stared. "How can a man play that he's himself?"

"Do you deny the newspaper accusations, then?"

"What accusations? I did knock a man down in the street, and he gave his own version of the story."

"Oh, I don't mean that story, but quite another. The story he said you knocked him down for alluding to--when----"

"We're talking at cross purposes," broke in Loveland, bewildered. "For the sake of any friendship you may ever have had for me--though I'm not asking you to continue it in future--explain what you mean."

"But, do _you_ mean that you read nothing, heard nothing, of what they were saying about you in New York?"

"I told you I wouldn't look at the papers. What I heard I of course took for granted was in connection with the hotel affair and the row in the street."

Lesley thought for a minute, with an expression on her face which Loveland could not understand, though he did not take his eyes from her fallen lashes, the beautiful lashes which had fascinated him at first sight of her on the _Mauretania_.

Presently an idea seemed to commend itself to the girl. On her arm, a little gold and platinum bag hung from its chain. Loveland had often seen this bag, on shipboard, and had even frequently picked it up from the floor, where the girl dropped it half a dozen times each day, when she slipped out from under the rugs of her deck chair. Well did he know the two compartments in this favourite little receptacle of Lesley's treasures! He knew in which one she kept the handkerchief which smelt like fresh violets; in which her money, her cardcase, her stylographic pen, and a letter or two; and now he watched her, with eyes homesick for past days, as she took out the remembered cardcase, and from an inner pocket of that cardcase, a folded newspaper cutting.

"It's quite time you did read for yourself," she said. "This will make you understand better than I can tell you. Fanny Milton cut it out of 'New York Light,' and posted it to me. I've kept it here--I hardly know why, but now I'm glad I did."

It was Tony Kidd's first article that Loveland read with a shock of surprise, which, at the very beginning, set the blood humming in his ears like the sound of the sea in a shell.

Tony had told his story spicily, in a way to make his readers laugh. But Loveland did not laugh. He read on and on, dazed at first, then with a burst of enlightenment which made clear many mysteries.

"The Difficult Young Man to Approach" had come to New York to see Heiresses and conquer Papas, said Tony. He had begun the conquering process on board ship, being a youth of a thrifty turn of mind, who believed in taking time by the forelock. He had made friends; he had even, perhaps, made love. Soon, no doubt, he would have made a match; but the schemes of mice, men, and even marquises have a way of going wrong, especially when--and that "when" reminded Tony to pause and ask a conundrum. "When is a Marquis not a Marquis?" The writer invited the public to guess. "Why, when he's a Valet, of course." And then Tony went on to protest gaily, that neither he nor his paper was responsible for the assertion that this Marquis was not a Marquis. They merely put the question, and gave the answer for what it was worth, on the strength of certain sensational news just received from the land where Marquises grew on blackberry bushes for heiresses to cull.

A number of people prominent in New York society had received cablegrams from London, informing them that the valet of the Marquis of Loveland had absconded with his lordship's jewellery, and other belongings; that the fugitive was known to have impersonated his master in London, obtaining goods from tradesmen, and running up bills at hotels, in Lord Loveland's name. If a person calling himself the Marquis of Loveland should appear in New York presenting letters of introduction to the said Prominent People earlier than the arrival of the White Star Liner _Baltic_, they were to beware of him, as the real Lord Loveland expected to sail on that ship.

On the very day when these cablegrams were received--Tony Kidd went on to state--there arrived by a strange (?) coincidence an attractive looking and haughty young gentleman, known among acquaintances collected on the _Mauretania_ as Lord Loveland. This alleged nobleman had gone to the Waldorf-Astoria, where, through a servant of the hotel, it was soon discovered that his pretentious trunks were practically empty. He had (perhaps naturally) refused to be interviewed by a representative of "Light"; and the manner of his refusal was somewhat graphically described.