Part 24

The porter answered that the _chauffeur_ was at another hotel, and that he had not joined the excursion, but he had seen the ladies off with their donkeys and guide. When the man began to understand that we were all more interested in the whereabouts of the _chauffeur_ than of the mistresses, he added that one of the servants of the hotel who had just been down to the station had mentioned meeting the _chauffeur_ in very smart clothes (quite different from when he had been with the ladies) going down the hill towards Santa Margherita, Sir Evelyn Haines' house, where there was a big reception on.

While we were talking another man came out--a sort of under-porter, and when he heard our porter telling that Miss Randolph had gone up to Mola, he said in that case he had made a great mistake, for he had sent an American gentleman who had been inquiring for her to the wrong place. He had supposed that she would be at Sir Evelyn Haines' house, for a bazaar was being held there for the benefit of a charity, and almost all the English and Americans at the hotel San Domenico and the other Taormina hotels had gone to it. The gentleman seemed in a great hurry, the porter had noticed; and he had said that he had come from Palermo in a special train, so as not to waste any time.

"Ah, didn't I tell you what Chauncey Randolph would do?" exclaimed Mr. Payne, turning to me as if we were old friends. I believe Chauncey Randolph has the reputation of being a millionaire; but I don't suppose he's got any more money or is a bit more important than Pa.

We had kept our cab, which was waiting outside, and after a few minutes' discussion between Lady B. and Mr. Payne, it was decided that we should drive straight down to Sir Evelyn Haines', where probably the horrible _chauffeur_ was audaciously passing himself off as the Honourable Jack Winston, whom Sir Evelyn had never met.

Just as Pa was helping Lady B. into a cab, Mr. Payne exclaimed "Molly!" and I looked over my shoulder to see the stuck-up thing I had met in Blois. She was dressed differently, but I recognized her at once. I suppose some people would call her pretty, but I don't in the least, though she may be the sort of girl men like. She was walking, and her fat aunt was hanging on to her arm, and an Italian man leading two donkeys was close behind them.

"Why, Jimmy!" she answered, appearing to be very surprised, and glancing from Mr. Payne to Lady B., from her to Pa and me. She shook hands, then walked up to the cab to speak to Lady B., and had begun explaining that her aunt had had a fall off the donkey she was riding, and they had given up their excursion, when Mr. Payne interrupted her to do a little explaining on _his_ side.

She stood looking perfectly dazed, as he told her how it was now proved beyond a doubt that her _chauffeur_, of whom she thought so highly, was a fraudulent villain, a thief, and, it was to be feared, even worse. He said that he had suspected for some time, but now his suspicions were confirmed by Lady Brighthelmston, who believed that some terrible evil had fallen upon her son through this Brown. Miss Kedison chimed in, and so did Lady B., and I don't much wonder that it took the girl some time to understand what they were all driving at, sharp as these Yankee women are. When it was clear what they accused the _chauffeur_ of doing, she said it was absolutely impossible, that there was certainly some extraordinary mistake, and she would not believe any harm of Brown. Then Mr. Payne told her that anyhow her father believed, and owing to a warning letter, had come all the way from New York to take her from the clutches of an unscrupulous scoundrel capable of anything. She _was_ surprised at that. Evidently her father hadn't let her know he was coming. Perhaps he thought that if he did, she'd elope with the _chauffeur_. She had gone from red to white, from white to red, while the three poured accusations on her favourite; but when she heard her father was actually on the spot, she really _did_ look rather handsome for a moment. It was as if a light from inside illuminated her face. "Dad _here_!" she exclaimed, with her eyes shining. "Oh, then everything will be all right! Where--where is he?"

"Gone down to look for you at the house of Lady Brighthelmston's friend, Sir Evelyn Haines, where your _chauffeur_ is swaggering about like a wolf in sheep's clothing to be presently delivered into our hands," replied Mr. Payne solemnly. "Come with us, meet your father, and be convinced with your own eyes of that scoundrel's guilt."

"If my father is there looking for me, I will go," said the girl. "Aunt Mary, you had better stay here and lie down."

That is the way these American girls order their middle-aged relatives about. If I told Pa to stop somewhere and lie down, he'd tell me to go hang, but Aunt Mary didn't seem to mind. She just bowed to everybody and trotted away, as meek as a fat white lamb, and Mr. Payne engaged another cab for Miss Randolph and himself, and we drove down the hill. Those two were in front of us, and I could see him talking to her all the way like a father-confessor, his face close to her ear; but she never looked round at him once.

I was almost as much excited as Lady B. by the time we stopped at the gate of Sir Evelyn Haines' house, which used to be a monastery. Most things in Sicily seem to have been monasteries or palaces. Our luggage had been sent straight up there from the railway station in another cab, for owing to Lady B.'s state of mind at Syracuse, no word had been sent as to what train we would arrive by. You don't drive in, for it isn't a modern gentleman's place at all, but has been left as much as possible as it was in old, old days. We walked, Lady B. leaning on Pa's arm, I by her other side, and Mr. Payne behind us with Miss Randolph, because she wouldn't go ahead, though I know he wanted to.

It's really a beautiful place, for people who like that old-fashioned, queer kind of thing, with a lovely garden, full of all kinds of flowers such as you see at home, and quite tropical ones, too. There were a great many well-dressed people walking about, for the charity bazaar was on, and no doubt everybody was glad of a chance to get into the house and talk about it afterwards as if they knew Sir Evelyn and had been his guests. There were tables set out under the trees, and tea was being carried round. Suddenly I heard Miss Randolph exclaim, "There's Dad!" and at the same moment she ran ahead of us, across the grass to where a tall, big man with short, curly grey hair and a smooth-shaven face stood under a tree talking to another man whose back--which was turned to us--looked a tiny bit familiar.

At once Mr. Payne stepped forward, and said eagerly, "Lady Brighthelmston, the man Brown is here. He has got hold of Miss Randolph's father. Heaven knows what may have passed. Come with me, and confront him with a question about your son."

With a sort of gasp the poor old lady allowed herself to be hurried across the lawn, and I begged Pa to come along quick, because I didn't want to miss Mr. Payne's great moment.

Miss Randolph had got to the tall, grey-haired man, and was holding out her hands, without a word, when Mr. Payne said in a sharp voice, "Brown!" The other man turned. It was the courier I snapshotted in Blois.

"_Jack!_" cried Lady B. And then it was our turn to be surprised.

We supposed at first that she'd gone mad; but, my dear girl, it was _true_. The murderous _chauffeur_ was the Honourable Jack! But I do believe he was ashamed of himself for the silly trick he'd played, for all he laughed and showed his white teeth, because he was as red as a beet through his brown skin, and pulled his moustache, trying to talk, when his mother interrupted him by exclaiming, and asking questions which she never gave him a chance to answer. And while he talked to his mother, attempting to brazen it out, he looked at Miss Randolph, but she kept her head turned away.

As for poor Mr. Payne, I was sorry for him. He had meant so well, and worked so hard for everybody's good, and now it had come to nothing. He did his best to make himself right with his American friend, saying, "Mr. Randolph, at all events, this man has insulted your daughter, travelling around Europe with her under false pretences. What do you intend to do about it?"

But the big man answered, in a slow, drawling way, as if he were just ready to laugh, "Well, I guess I won't do much. Mr. Winston and I met here accidentally, and talked to each other awhile before either of us knew who the other was; and when we did know, why, he was able to give me a pretty satisfactory explanation. I guess there's nothing much that's wrong; and I hope Mr. Winston will introduce me to his mother."

Aren't Americans queer? I will say, though, that the girl didn't seem inclined to take things so calmly. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes looked about twice too big for her face with anger or something like it.

Pa and I were rather out of the "durbah," for like the bat in the fable, we were neither bird nor beast, and had to stand aside while the fight between the two kinds of creatures went on. By-and-by Mr. Payne joined us, poor fellow, and I did what I could to console him, telling him that was always the way in this world, with the well-meaning, unselfish people. He was awfully grateful for my kindness, and when he heard that Pa and I had just that very minute been talking things over and deciding we'd had enough of being abroad, he asked if we'd mind his travelling with us as far as England, where he might stop for a few weeks, and drive about in his motor-car. Of course, I said we wouldn't mind; so I _may_ bring him to the dance at Kensington Town Hall; if he isn't too big a swell for that set.

Of course, Sir Evelyn Haines soon found us out, and was very kind; but Mr. Payne would go, and I've hardly seen anything of Lady B. since, though it's now after dinner. I suppose the Honourable Jack is by way of being in love with Miss Randolph, or else he wants her dollars, which is most likely, considering the foxy way he seems to have gone about the business. But these American girls think such a lot of themselves, that they don't like being played with; and judging by the look on her face this afternoon when she heard the truth, she was hurt and angry all the way down to the quick. I shouldn't wonder if she refused to have anything more to do with him, for all he seemed to have got on the soft side of her father; and I must say, in my opinion, it would serve him right if she did.

Good-bye, my child. It's late, and I'm tired. I don't care a rap how the thing does turn out. It isn't _my_ business.

Your affectionate Syb.

MOLLY RANDOLPH TO HERSELF

_January 28_, Hotel San Domenico, Taormina.

I'm going to write it all down just as it happened, and see how it looks in black and white. Then perhaps I can judge better whether I've been very weak and undignified, and a lot of other things which I've always been sure I never would be, under any provocation; or whether I've done what no normal girl could help doing.

It's the sort of thing one couldn't possibly tell anybody, not even one's dearest school-friend. I did promise Elise Astley that if I ever got engaged, she should be told exactly what He said, and what I said, but then I didn't know how differently one would feel about it afterwards; besides, I'm _not_ engaged. I only--no, this isn't the way I meant to begin. I am afraid I'm getting a good deal mixed. I must be--more concise.

_Note 1._ If I think when I come to read this over that I have not demeaned myself like a self-respecting, patriotic American girl, I will tear this up and write a letter to--a Certain Person.

_Note 2._ If, on the contrary, I decide, on mature deliberation, that I could not have acted otherwise, I will keep this always in the secret drawer of my writing-desk, where I can take it out and look at it at least once every year until I am an old woman--ever so much older than Aunt Mary.

When Jimmy Payne suddenly hurled himself at me out of a cab (just as Aunt Mary and I and a donkey were trailing disconsolately down from Mola) and exploded into fireworks calculated to blow my poor Lightning Conductor into fragments, I threw cold water on his Roman candles and rockets.

All the same, though, I felt as if I had been dipped first into boiling hot, then freezing cold water myself. I couldn't, wouldn't and shouldn't believe any of Jimmy's sensational accusations of Brown, and I defended him whenever Jimmy would let me get in a word edgewise. But when he told me that Dad had come half across the world from New York to Sicily on the strength of his statements, I was _wild_--partly with anger and

## partly with anxiety to see my dear old Angel "immediately if not

sooner."

I don't remember a word Jimmy said to me, driving down to Sir Edward Haines', where Dad had gone expecting to find me. I've just a hazy recollection of being hurried through a beautiful garden; I knew that poor Lady Brighthelmston (piteously worried about her son) and a rather common girl and her father, whom we'd stumbled across in Blois, were with us. Their cab had come behind ours. I saw Dad in the distance, talking to Brown, who looked less like a hired _chauffeur_ than ever, and then--then came the thunderbolt.

It was almost as difficult to believe at first that he had tricked me by pretending to be Brown, when he was really Mr. Winston, as it would have been to believe Jimmy Payne's penny-dreadful stories. But you can't go on doubting when a virtuous old lady claims a man as her own son. I had to accept the fact that he was Jack Winston.

For an instant I felt as if it were a play, and I were someone in the audience, looking on. It didn't seem real, or to have anything to do with me. Then I caught his eyes. They were saying, "Do forgive me"; and with that I realized how much there was to forgive. He had made me behave like a perfect little fool, giving him good advice and tips--actually _tips_!--telling him (or very nearly) that he was "quite like a gentleman," and hundreds of other outrageous things which all rushed into my mind, as they say your whole past life does when you are drowning.

I gave him a glance--quite a short one, because I could hardly look him in the face, thinking of those tips and other things.

Then I turned away, and began talking to Dad; but very likely I talked great nonsense, for I hadn't the least idea what I was saying, except that I kept exclaiming the same five words over and over, like a phonograph doll: "I _am_ glad to see you! I _am_ glad to see you!"

Perhaps I had presence of mind enough to invite the dear thing to take a stroll with me, for the sake of escaping from Brown; for, anyway, I woke up from a sort of dream, to find myself walking into a summer-house alone with Dad.

"Don't you think," he was saying, "that you treated Mr. Winston rather rudely?"

"Rudely?" I repeated. "How has he treated _me_, I should like to know?"

"If you really would like to know," returned Dad, in that nice, calming way he has which, even when you are ruffled up, makes you feel like a kitty-cat being stroked, "I don't see, girlie dear, that you have so very much to complain of. I've been having a chat with him, and if he tells the truth, he appears to have served you pretty well. But perhaps you will say he doesn't tell the truth as to that?"

"Oh, he _served_ me well enough--too well," said I. "But let's not speak of him. I want to talk about you."

"There's plenty of time for that," said Dad. "I've come to stay--for a while. Before we begin on me, let's thrash out this matter of Mr. Winston."

"It deserves to be thrashed," I remarked, trying to laugh. But I've heard things that sounded more like laughs than that. I hoped Dad didn't notice it was wobbly.

"He's told me the whole story," went on Dad, "so perhaps I'm in a position to judge better than you. Women are supposed to have no abstract sense of justice, but I thought my girl was different. You hear what Winston has got to say first, and then you can send him to the right-about if you please."

"I don't see anything abstract in that. It's purely personal," said I. "Mr. Winston can't expect me to hear him, or even to see him, again."

"He hopes, not expects, as a chap feels about going to heaven," said Dad. "I'll fetch him, and you can get it over."

"Do nothing of the kind!" I exclaimed. "Let him stay with his mother."

"I guess I'm competent to entertain his mother for a few minutes," suggested Dad. "She's a very pleasant-looking lady."

I would have stopped him if I could; but when I saw he was determined, I just shut my lips tight, and let him go. What I meant to do was to whisk out as soon as his back was turned, so that when Mr. Winston should come, he would find me gone. There was no danger he wouldn't understand why; and a decided action like that on my part would settle everything for the future.

But as I got to the door I saw him, not six feet distant. He must either have been on the way to the summer-house when Dad left me, or else he'd been waiting close by. Anyhow, evidently he and Dad couldn't have said two words to each other; there hadn't been time; and there was Dad marching off as if to find and "entertain" Lady Brighthelmston. I should almost have had to push past Mr. Winston, if I'd persisted in escaping, which would have looked childish, so quickly I resolved to stand my ground--in the summer-house--and face it out. My heart was beating so fast I could hardly think, and I had to tell myself crossly, with a sort of mental shake, that after all _he_ was the guilty one, not I, before I could catch at even a decent amount of _savoir faire_.

Naturally, as it was the only thing to be said, his lips asked the same question his eyes had asked before. "Can you forgive me?"

I always thought Brown's voice one of the nicest things about him, unless perhaps his eyes; and both were at their very nicest now. I hadn't realized, till he came to me, how much I should _want_ to forgive him. I did want to, awfully, but I felt it would never do; and I think I must have been commendably dignified as I answered: "The hardest possible thing for a woman to forgive a man is making her ridiculous."

"But then," he cut in, quite boldly, "I don't ask you to forgive me for a sin I haven't committed, only for those I have."

"You _have_ made me ridiculous," I insisted.

"I fancied it was myself; but I didn't mind that, or anything else which gave me a chance of being near you, even under false pretences. It is for deceiving you that I ask to be forgiven. I lived a good many lies as Brown, but honestly, I believe I never told one. Do forgive me. I sha'n't be able to bear my life if you don't."

"I can't forgive you," I said again.

"Then punish me first and forgive me afterwards--very soon. I deserve that you should do both."

"I think you do deserve the first, but I don't quite see how or why you deserve the second."

"Because I worship you, and would rather be your servant than be king of a country in which you didn't live."

"Oh!" I couldn't say another word, for thinking of Brown being in love with me, and there being no reason why I shouldn't let myself love him too--except, of course, one's self-respect after all that had happened. But just for an instant I didn't think about that last part; and I was so surprised, and so happy--or so shocked and so unhappy (I couldn't be sure which; only, whatever the sensation was, it was very violent), that I was speechless.

Brown took advantage of that, and talked a great deal more. I tried to look away from him, but I simply couldn't. He held my eyes, and after he had told me whole chapters about his thoughts and feelings since the very first day of our meeting, it occurred to me that he was holding my hands too--both of them. I am not sure he hadn't been doing it for some time before I found out, but it was his kissing the hands which brought me to myself.

It seemed too extraordinary that Brown should be doing that--almost as if I were dreaming. And to be perfectly frank with myself, it was an exquisite dream; because such strange things can happen in dreams, and you don't seem to mind a bit. Luckily, he didn't know this; and I snatched my hands away, exclaiming: "Mr. Winston!"

"Don't call me that," he begged. "Call me Brown."

"But you are not Brown."

"I love you just as much as when I was Brown, and more. If you only knew what thousands of times I have longed to tell you, and the heavenly relief it is to do it at last!"

"You have no more right now. Less, even; for Brown _seemed_ honest."

"If Brown had forgotten himself, and--and kissed the hem of your dress, what would you have done?"

"I--don't know," was my feeble answer.

"You would have sent him away."

"No--I don't think I could have done that. I--I depended on Brown so much. I used--to wonder how I should ever get on without him."

"Don't get on without him. I'll be your _chauffeur_ all my days, if those are the only terms on which you'll take me back. But are there no other terms? What I want is--"

"What?" I couldn't resist asking when he paused.

"Everything!"