"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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_Down he dropped on both knees beside her, and raised her head upon his arm_"]

The ground where she lay was spongy after a day of heavy rain which had soaked through the thick carpet of dead gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d, 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."

"What about the old family home that's tumbling to ruin?"

"It will have to tumble."

"And your family?"

"There's only my mother, and what she wants most is my happiness. My love for you has somehow shown me how to appreciate her more. But, Lesley--what about Sidney Cremer? Do you care enough for me--a man you say you're 'taking on faith'--to give up all Cremer's money and to throw him over for my sake?"

"I can't throw him over."

"Then how can we be married?"

"And I can't give up his money," she added.

"Lesley! Have you raised me up only to let me fall deeper into the pit than ever?"

"We both fell into the pit together, didn't we?" she said, laughing a little. "If you go deeper, I'll go deeper, too, for we're going to stand or fall together now."

"Then, what do you mean?" asked Val. "You'll have to send one of us away--me or Sidney Cremer."

"Let me sit up, and we'll talk it over," said Lesley, with a quaint cheerfulness and matter-of-factness that utterly bewildered Loveland. "I feel so well and so happy now, that I believe I can find my way out of any entanglement so long as we go hand in hand." And sitting on the wet gra.s.s in her thick fur coat she twisted herself so lithely about that there could no longer be any fear of obscure injuries.

Val, resting on one knee, took the little grey mitten that she held out to him, and pressed the hand in it. But there was bitterness in his voice as he answered. "This is an entanglement that you'll find no way out of. You can't keep us both."

"You don't trust me," Lesley reproached him. "Just wait before deciding to give me up, until we've thoroughly thrashed things out, beginning at the beginning, and going right on to the end."

"I shan't decide to give you up; nothing can make me do that now,"

Loveland said. "It's Cremer who'll have to go to the wall."

Lesley laughed. "Like his motor. Poor, _poor_ car--I'm sorry for it, but it hasn't sacrificed itself in vain. I was beginning to wonder how on earth to bring all this about. That was what kept me awake last night, if I'm to tell the whole truth. It _had_ to come some way, and it had to come soon. Well, Sidney's motor-car has solved the difficulty, and Sidney will be glad, for my happiness is the same to him as his own. And now I've gone so far, I may as well confess that from the very minute I saw you play 'Lord Bob,' in that dingy little hall at Ashville, I hoped--oh, but hoped more than _anything_, that you would ask me to marry you. Please, please, don't be shocked, but I invited you to come here just for that."

Loveland was utterly at sea, or would have been if her hand had not lain in his, and if she had not begged him to wait and trust her.

"Yet, you were engaged to Sidney Cremer," he said, half to himself.

"I was bound to Sidney just as I am now, and just as I have been for the last three years. And I wasn't tired of him then, not a bit, and I'm not, even at this minute. But I love _you_--the Real You."

"Darling!" exclaimed Loveland. Yet he marvelled at her. This was a phase of the girl's character--her true and n.o.ble character--which he was at a loss to understand.