Lord Loveland Discovers America. C. N. Williamson

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СКАЧАТЬ in his mind as suffering from motor bicycle face, bridge eye, clutch knee and tennis elbow. Then when she had tired of her flirtation she went to bed.

      Next morning it was only as the Mauretania neared her slip that the girl appeared again. Without seeming to notice Loveland she stood leaning her elbows on the rail, not far from him. It occurred to Val that after all it was a matter of no importance to her that their lives were to be lived apart. And the separation was at hand. He had thought of this hour, but now it was here. He was going to lose her. Tomorrow, and all the tomorrows, he would have no sweet, merry, mysterious-eyed friend to advise him and listen half-amused, half in earnest, to his confidences.

      Suddenly his heart felt like a large, cold boiled beetroot in his breast. He went and stood behind the girl, dumb with a strange new misery he could not understand, and, as though she had heard the "unerring speech" of his silence, she turned.

      At first her beautiful brown eyes flashed a laughing challenge at him, as if they said, "Wouldn't you like to make me think you really care? But I don't think it, and won't. And neither do you care. We've both been playing."

      Then, something in his look softened hers. She smiled kindly, though not wholly without guile.

      "Aren't you excited?" she asked.

      "Why should I be excited?" he grumbled.

      "Because—well, you're a soldier, and know what war is like. I've heard that the most exciting thing which can happen is a call to make a sortie in the middle of the night, in the midst of a dream—and on an empty stomach. But I should think the call to a matrimonial sortie——"

      "On an empty purse?"

      "Yes; when it's a question of selling yourself to fill it."

      "I don't mean to sell myself. I shall still belong to myself and to one other. I won't say who that other is, for I've pretty well told you already."

      "It's no use pretending not to understand. I know what you want me to think you mean."

      "If I never knew before how much I do mean it, I know now, when I've got to say 'goodbye.'"

      "You needn't say it."

      "You've tried hard to keep me from saying it, haven't you? But look here, Lesley—do look at me. I'm awfully cut up at leaving you."

      "You're not to call me Lesley."

      "You can't prevent my calling you Lesley to myself."

      "You'll soon forget the name."

      "Never. I can never forget you—worse luck. The thought of you is going to come between me and—other things."

      "The thought must learn better manners. Not to 'butt in,' as we say over here. Oh, it will soon be tamed. You'll have so much to do."

      "I hope I shall," said Loveland. "I say, are you going to forget me as soon as we're parted?"

      The girl was silent for a moment. Then she laughed. Yet her laugh had not quite the frank lightheartedness which was usually one of its charms. "I shall make a note of you for my next story but one," she answered.

      "You're not very kind."

      "Are you sure you deserve kindness?"

      "I'm sure I want it—from you."

      "How you have always got what you wanted in your life, haven't you—one way or another?"

      "Life wouldn't be worth living if one didn't."

      "Oh, it's not much good saying to you that that's a selfish way of looking at life. But you've never had any lessons, and I suppose you never will have. You'll go on getting what you want, and taking it for granted that you ought to get it, till the end."

      "I hope so, sincerely," said Val, without shame. "But I shan't get one of the things I want most, unless you promise to write to me."

      She shook her head. "I can't promise that. I wouldn't if I could. As for getting your news, I shall read it in the papers, which are sure to chronicle all Lord Loveland does and says, and a lot he doesn't do or say. The Louisville papers will have things about you, copied from New York, in the Sunday editions. Yes, I shall be able to read about you every Sunday—lots of things you wouldn't tell in letters if I let you write. I shall see rumours of your engagement, then an announcement. I wonder if it will be the survival of the prettiest; Miss Coolidge—or if you'll be knocked down—on your knees—to a higher bid?"

      "You're not letting me get much pleasure out of my last moments with you," he complained, his blue eyes really pathetic. "Do you despise me, after all?"

      She looked up at him. "Only one side of you," she answered, a little sadly. "But—you're rather like the moon. We see only one of her sides. The other we have to take on faith. Perhaps it's silly of me, yet sometimes—in some moods—I do take your other side on faith."

      "What is there—on that side?" he asked, eagerly.

      "I don't know. And I'm sure you don't. You probably never will. For the light shines so brightly on the one turned towards the world. Now it must be 'goodbye.' There's my dear little aunt—who's been on deck ever since we passed Governor's Island—looking for me."

      "Are these to be our last words together, then?" Val had a sickening pang. He had not known it was going to be as bad as this. And it wouldn't have been so bad, if she had seemed to care more.

      "Yes, they must be the last, unless just a snippy 'goodbye, very pleased to have met you,' as we leave the ship. I wish you the best luck. Shall I say 'Thine own wish, wish I thee'?" She spoke in a hard, bright tone, just poising like a bird on the wing, before flitting to her aunt.

      "Don't forget me. Think of me sometimes," Loveland implored, as he wrung the little hand she held out. And perhaps never in his life had there been so much true feeling in his voice.

      "I will think of you sometimes," she said, as if mechanically repeating the words.

      "Try and think the best of me."

      "Yes. I'll try to do that, too. Goodbye."

      But he would not let her hand go. It seemed to him that he could not—although he knew he must. It was all he could do to keep back a plea that she would love him, that she would marry him, even though the crumbling walls of Loveland Castle fell. But instead he stammered, "Am I never to see you again? Can't you stop in New York for a few days, and let me call on—on you and your aunt—just to break the blow of parting?"

      "No, we can't stop," she said. "We've been away from home too long already. We have lots to do. You know I work for my living."

      "Those stories! Yes. But couldn't you write them in New York?"

      "No, I couldn't, indeed. Aunt Barbara and I start for Louisville this afternoon. We live not far away."

      "Mayn't I go with you to the train?"

      "What! desert valuable friends whom it's your duty to cultivate—if you're to have flowers in the garden of your future?"

      "I'd СКАЧАТЬ