Lord Loveland Discovers America Part 10

"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 pa.s.sed 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 desert anyone or anything for you."

"Thank you. I believe you really mean that--this minute."

"I----"

"No. Don't protest. Sufficient for the minute is the meaning thereof. I must go--I _want_ to go--while you still mean it all. And I'd rather not see you again, because I'd like to keep the memory of you as you look and are in this minute--nothing less. It will seem afterwards to justify our temporary partnership, in case I ever ask myself--Why?"

And before he could answer she was gone.

He dared not follow, and instantly lost sight of her in the crowd that poured to the rail to greet the waiting crowd below. Afterwards, on the dock, he saw her again, but only at a distance, for her aunt's luggage had been marked "D," that it might chaperon Miss Dearmer's, and enable the two ladies to keep each other company during the tedious time of waiting.

From the far off stall under the big letter "L," Loveland gazed sadly at the back of his lost friend's head, her face, either by accident or design, being turned from him. His boxes were long in coming, and as it happened that none of his ship-acquaintances were "L's," he had no one to talk to, nothing pleasanter to do than look at Miss Dearmer's back and gradually lose hope of her relenting.

She had brought a little camp-stool for her aunt, and that lady sat facing Loveland, her eyes so dest.i.tute of interest when now and then they strayed in his direction, that he began to believe her niece had never mentioned his existence. More than once he had pictured Lesley describing her aunt's distinguished namesake; had fancied Mrs. Loveland asking questions; and wished that he might hear the answers. The lady's indifference was not flattering to his self-esteem; but Mrs. Loveland did not look a woman to claim a relation because he was a peer.

Lesley's aunt was a little woman with dove-grey hair, folded like dove's wings that slanted softly down her forehead, covering her ears. Hers was a gentle face, with eyes that gazed kindly, and somehow impersonally, out upon the world. She had the air which many American mothers wear, of having contentedly stepped aside from the fore-front of life in favour of a younger generation, and of having lost interest in herself as a separate ent.i.ty.

Lesley and Mrs. Loveland all got their luggage dumped down under letter "D," before a single "L" box had appeared. Then, when Val's did come, and the property of other impatient "L's" at the same time, the outside world was lost to view. Loveland got hold of a good-natured Custom House man, who, considering the indubitable fact that he was dealing with a British subject, and believing the "Britisher's" statement that he was merely on a visit to America, made no unnecessary trouble. He was in a hurry, like everybody else, and did little more than casually open the leather portmanteaux, the cabin trunk, the hat box, and the fitted suit-case glittering with coronets, which const.i.tuted Lord Loveland's luggage.

Very few minutes were wasted in the examination, though Americans all around were suffering severely. Nevertheless, when his keys were in his hand again, and Val was ready to separate himself and his belongings from the seething ma.s.s of anxious "L's," Miss Dearmer and her aunt had vanished off the face of the dock.

CHAPTER NINE

Foxham Redivivus

Loveland tried to put thoughts of the girl out of his head as he drove through the exciting streets of New York, which seemed to him colourful and strange as a vast flower-garden, sown regardlessly. But, despite the rush and roar of "elevated trains" above his head, the swift whirr of electric trams to left, to right, of him on a level, and the bizarre effect of the "sky-sc.r.a.pers," which turned long thoroughfares into shadowed valleys, he could not throw open his mind to the rush of new impressions. This brilliant New York made him feel after all a person of comparatively small importance. He began to repent having refused invitations, for instead of b.u.mping dolefully to a hotel, in a cab which was the least modern thing New York had shown him, he might now be spinning uptown in any one of half a dozen hospitable ten-thousand-dollar motor cars. In his isolation he regretted the Coolidges, and even Cadwallader Hunter who had pressed him to spend a day or two at his flat; however, he was consoled by the reflection that he had decided wisely, and that wisdom would be its own reward. It was better not to lend himself to anyone until he had seen everyone, and decided to whom he would permanently belong.

When the bear had refused the hospitality of its leader's cage, Cadwallader Hunter had suggested a quiet new hotel, uptown and near his apartment. But the bear did not know that it was a bear, and had tired of dictation. Loveland had heard of the Waldorf-Astoria, and he had not heard of the quiet new hotel. Men he knew, who ran over to New York on such errands as his own, stopped at the Waldorf-Astoria, or Holland House, or the Plaza, and Val, who believed that the best was only just good enough, would not risk hiding his light under a bushel. True, he had very little money, but he had plenty of invitations and was certain to have more. A couple of days at the most expensive hotel could not break him; and Jim and Betty Harborough's millionaire friends would probably expect him to be conspicuous. Now was the tide in his affairs which must be taken at the flood, and he could not afford to let his future relations-in-law (whoever they might be) learn to despise him.

Loveland's intention had been to ask for a small room, high in situation and low in price; but once inside the immense, red-brown building, which looked vast enough to hold half New York, pride tied his tongue. Pretty girls, beautifully dressed, and prosperous-looking men, with facial expressions as supercilious as his own, were standing within earshot; and Loveland could not resist satisfying an impulse of boyish vanity. He announced to a superior gentleman at a desk that he wanted a good room with a bath. His charming voice and "English accent" attracted the Americans near him, and under his mask of indifference Loveland was aware of the attention he excited.

The superior gentleman thought for a moment and consulted a book. Then he said that he had no single rooms with baths disengaged at present, but that there was a suite consisting of bedroom, bath and parlour; just one suite, and that probably would be gone in another minute.

The hint of rivalry decided Loveland. "Very well. I will take it," he said. "Here's my card, if you wish to know to whom you are letting your rooms," he went on haughtily, in response to a sharp glance from shrewd, experienced eyes. And the hotel clerk read aloud, "Marquis of Loveland."

At this, everyone who had not been staring at the handsome, arrogant young Englishman, began to stare, and Loveland was not displeased.

"My luggage will be here soon, I hope," he said, showing several metal discs about which his ideas were rather vague. The clerk answered civilly that the trunks ought to arrive in half an hour or so, and a smart youth in livery was told off to show Lord Loveland his rooms.

They were very luxurious rooms, almost too luxurious, and Loveland experienced a faint qualm as it occurred to him that he had neglected to ask the price. "But they can't come to more than five or six pounds a day at the worst," he thought, hopefully.

He had brought his suit-case in the cab, and as the letters of introduction were in a little portable writing-desk contained among the fittings, he got out the packet to read over the addresses. All the friends to whom Jim and Betty were commending him lived in New York, and Cadwallader Hunter had said that most New Yorkers were at home in November. Loveland was just deciding that the letters had better reach their destination before night, when his baggage appeared, looking not much the worse for wear.

Now was the moment when the inestimable Foxham would be really missed.

On shipboard there had been little to unpack; but the contents of the portmanteaux must have been rudely stirred on the dock, and ought immediately to be rescued by an expert. Loveland touched an electric bell in his bedroom, demanded of an unexpectedly responsive telephone that the hotel should produce a valet; and criticised the product adversely when it came.

Luncheon time was near, and Val was hungry, but he would not leave wardrobe and jewellery to the discretion of a strange servant. In a mood swinging towards impatience, he sat down on a cushioned sofa to watch the valet's proceedings.

The larger of the two n.o.ble portmanteaux was opened; the neat square of gold-braided and coronetted brown velvet, with which Foxham always covered the contents of each box, was removed; and a pile of clothing was deftly excavated.

Loveland's face changed from attention to surprise, then to bewilderment. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "those don't look like my things." Then springing up alertly he began to toss over the pile as the hotel valet deposited it upon the bed, to toss it over as a haymaker tosses hay. But, in the midst, he drew back his hand as if he had inadvertently touched pitch. "Jove!" he stammered again.

"Wrong luggage, sir?" ventured the servant.

Loveland did not reply. He did not even hear, for his thoughts had taken a trip of record quickness across the sea, and were already in London, chasing a mystery. But, if the valet had stopped to think, an answer would have been unnecessary. The keys fitted the portmanteaux; and there were the big initials and the small coronets which distinguished Lord Loveland's property from the vulgar trunks of the common herd.

Had Foxham gone mad? For the moment Loveland could think of no other explanation. The portmanteau was filled with discarded garments, many of which Loveland had given to Foxham at parting. Other things were there, too, which Val dimly remembered having actually seen on the person of Foxham, and it was from the touch of these contaminated remnants that he recoiled in disgust.

"Open the other portmanteau," he directed, flushed now, and anxious-eyed.

The hotel servant obeyed. Another neat square of brown velvet was whisked away, and piles of shirts were revealed; but, save for a deceitful top layer, they were not Loveland's shirts. They might have been bought ready-made in the Edgware Road; probably had been--by Foxham. There was underclothing also; but not the pale pink, blue and heliotrope silk variety affected by Foxham's master.

"Now the hat box," Loveland went on, almost sure that he was talking in his sleep. For it was unbelievable that he would not soon wake up to find that this was a bad dream.

There were hats in the hat box; Foxham's hats, perhaps; certainly not Lord Loveland's. And in the boot box which came next were boots, but boots which had lost all claim to self-respect; boots which even Foxham would have found it difficult to give away.

Only the Custom House official's good nature and haste, and Loveland's complete absence of mind on the dock had delayed discovery until this moment, but now that the secret was out, there seemed nothing to do, if not to rage helplessly.