CHAPTER XXXIII
IF YOU WOULD ONLY LET YOURSELF GO
Luke was sitting at a desk, writing, when Louisa entered his room.Only one lamp shaded with yellow silk hung above the desk, throwinggolden light on paper and blotting pad and on the hand which held thepen.
When Luke turned at the sound of the opening door his face remained indeep shadow. He could not of course see her distinctly, as her figurewas silhouetted against the light in the passage behind her; that wasno doubt the reason why he did not rise to greet her when she entered,but remained seated at his desk.
"May I come in, Luke?" she asked.
"Certainly," he replied. "I was just writing to you."
"Then give me your unfinished letter, and tell me what else you weregoing to write."
"Oh! I had only got as far as your name," he said, pointing to theempty page before him.
"Was it so difficult then," she asked, "to tell me everything?"
She had come forward into the room, and stood beside his desk, onehand resting upon it, her face looking down at the letter which he hadnot yet begun to write. He still made no attempt to rise, for now herface was in full golden light, and he could see its every feature.
"It is so difficult," he said, "not to write drivel when one is sayinggood-bye."
"You are going away?" she asked.
"Yes."
"To-night?"
"In half an hour."
"You are going abroad?"
"Certainly."
"Why?"
This last question came abruptly, in harsh, trenchant tones,altogether different to those of her smooth contralto voice. He turnedhis eyes away from her face, and looked down at his own hands, whichwere clasped in front of him.
"Because," he replied without the slightest hesitation, "I cannot facewhat lies before me if I remain."
"Why not?"
"For many reasons. There's Uncle Rad to consider first and foremost,then Edie, and Jim, and Frank."
"What have they to do with it?"
"Everything. After the evidence at the inquest to-day a warrant willbe out for my arrest within the next few hours."
"What of it?"
"The evidence against me is overwhelming. I should be tried, perhapshanged, for murder, at best sent to penal servitude for life. I cannotchance that. I must think of Uncle Rad, of Edie, of Jim and of Frank."
"You have yourself to think of first and foremost."
"Well," he retorted simply, "I have thought of myself, and I do notsee how with my own dagger-stick brought up in evidence against me,and my ill-feeling toward--toward the dead man so well-known, I canpossibly escape condemnation."
He spoke in such even and perfectly natural tones, that just for amoment--it was a mere flash--Louisa wondered if he were absolutelysane. It seemed impossible that any man could preserve such calm inface of the most appalling fate that ever threatened human being. She,too, like the indifferent, hide-bound official this afternoon wasseized with an irrepressible desire to break through that surface ofice. The outer covering must be very thin, she thought; her presencemust have melted all the coldness that lay immediately below thesurface. Without saying another word, quietly and simply she came downon her knees. Her skirts had not swished as she did so, not a soundfrom her revealed the movement. When he looked up again, her face wason a level with his, and her eyes--those great luminous eyes that shedno tears at moments such as this--looked straight into his own.
"For pity's sake, Lou," he said, "don't make a drivelling coward of menow."
And he rose, pushing his chair aside, leaving her there, kneelingbeside the desk, humbled and helpless. And he retreated within theshadow of the room.
"Luke," she said, imploring him, "you are going to tell me all thattroubles you."
"Nothing," he replied curtly, "troubles me. You are wasting yoursympathy, you know. And I have a train to catch."
"You are not going, Luke?"
"Indeed I am."
"You condemn yourself for a crime which you have not committed."
"I am already as good as condemned. But I do not choose to hang forthe murder of the Clapham bricklayer's son."
He laughed. It almost sounded like a natural laugh--would have doneso, no doubt, to all ears except hers. Then he added dryly:
"Such a purposeless crime too. Fancy being hanged for killing PaulBaker."
"Luke," she said simply, "you don't seem to realize how you arehurting me!"
One ejaculation, "My God!" escaped him then. He stood quite still, inthe shadow, and presently his hand wandered with the old familiargesture down the smooth back of his head. She remained on her kneesand after awhile he came back to her, and sat down on the chair besidethe desk, his eyes on a level with hers.
"Look here, Lou," he said quietly, "I have got to go and that's allabout it. I have got to, do you understand? The consequences of thiscrime cannot be faced--not by any one--not by me. There's Uncle Rad tothink of first. He is broken and ill; he has more than one foot in thegrave. The trial and the scandal couldn't be kept from him; it wouldbe bound to leak out sooner or later. It would be too big a scandal,and it would kill him outright. Then, you see, Lou, it would never do!I should be Earl of Radclyffe and a felon--it wouldn't do, now wouldit? Who has ever heard of a peer undergoing a life sentence--or beinghanged? It wouldn't do--you know it wouldn't do----"
He reiterated this several times, with quaint insistence, as if hewere discussing with her the possibility or impossibility of attendinga race meeting, or a ball in Lent, she proving obstinate.
She did not reply, leaving him to ramble on in his somewhat wildspeech, hoping that if she let him talk on uninterruptedly, he wouldsooner or later betray something of that enigma which lay hiddenbehind the wooden mask which he still so persistently wore.
"Besides," he continued, still arguing, "there's Frank to thinkof--the next heir to the title. I believe that people in penalservitude live an unconscionable time--especially if they are wantedto die. Think of poor old Frank waiting to come into his own--into anold title held by a felon. It is all much too much of a muddle, Lou.It is simpler that I should go----"
"But," she said, really trying now to speak as simply, as calmly as hedid himself, "all these arguments which you are using now, Luke, willequally apply if you make yourself a fugitive from justice."
"Oh, I shouldn't be that for very long!" he said lightly.
"You are thinking of suicide?"
"No," he replied simply, "I am not. Only of the chances of a wanderinglife."
"You seem to look at every chance, Luke, except one."
"Which one is that?"
"That though you might be arrested, though you might be accused andeven tried for the murder of--of that man--truth might come out, andyour innocence proved."
"That would be impossible, Lou," he said quietly.
"Why--in Heaven's name, Luke!" she exclaimed passionately, "why?"
"My dagger-stick was found inside the railings of the park--and thestains on it are irrefutable proofs."
"That's only circumstantial evidence," she argued, "you can demolishit, if you choose."
"I cannot," he replied. "I should plead guilty--Mr. Dobson says thatif I plead guilty, counsel can plead extenuatingcircumstances--intense provocation and so forth--and I might get amore lenient sentence."
"Luke," she said, looking him straight in the face, compelling hiseyes to meet hers, for in their clear depths she meant to read thetruth, to compel the truth at last. He had never lied in his life. Ifhe lied now she would know it, she would read it in his face. "Luke!you are shielding some one by taking the crime on your own shoulders."
But his eyes remained perfectly clear and steady as they gazedstraight into hers. There was not a shadow in them, not a quiver, ashe replied quietly:
"No, Lou, I am shielding no one."
"It was you who killed that man--Philip de Mountford--or PaulBaker--whoever he may be?"
And he answered her firmly, looking steadi
ly into her face:
"It was I."
She said nothing more then, but rose to her feet, and went quite closeup to him. With a gesture that had no thought of passion in it, onlysublime, motherly love, she took Luke's head in both her hands andpressed it to her heart.
"My poor old Luke!" she murmured.
She smoothed his hair as a mother does to an afflicted child; themotherly instinct was up in arms now, even fighting the womanly, thepassionate instinct of a less selfless love. She bent down and kissedhis forehead.
"Luke," she said gently, "it would do you such a lot of good if youwould only let yourself go."
He had contrived to get hold of her hands: those hands which he lovedso dearly, with their soft, rose-tinted palms and the scent of sweetpeas which clung to them. His own hot fingers closed on those smallhands. She stood before him, tall, elegant--not beautiful! LouisaHarris had never been beautiful, nor yet a fairy princess ofromance--only a commonplace woman! A woman of the world, over whosegraceful form, her personality even, convention invariably threw hermantle--but a woman for all that--with a passion burning beneath thecrust of worldly _sang-froid_--with heart attuned to feel everyquiver, every sensation of joy and of pain. A woman who loved withevery fibre in her--who had the supreme gift of merging self inLove--of giving all, her soul, her heart, her mind and everythought--a woman who roused every chord of passion in a man'sheart--the woman whom men adore!
And now as Luke de Mountford held her hands, and she stood closebeside him, her breath coming and going in quick gasps, with thesuppressed excitement of latent self-sacrifice, her eyes glowing andtearless, he half slid from the chair on which he was sitting, and oneknee was on the ground, and his face turned up to hers.
He almost smiled, as she repeated, with a little sigh:
"If you would only let yourself go!"
"If I would let myself dwindle down to the level of drivelling fools,"he said. "God knows, Lou, it would be easy enough now, when I holdthose lovely little hands of yours, and the scent of sweet peas whichcomes from your dear self reminds me of summer, of old-fashionedgardens of enduring peace. Lou! I dare not even kiss your hands, andyet my whole body aches with the longing to press my lips on them. Yousee how easily I drift into being a drivelling fool? Would to God Icould lie on the ground here before you, and feel the soles of yourfeet on my neck. How lucky slaves were in olden days, weren't they?They could kneel before their mistress and she would place her nakedfoot upon their necks. I am a drivelling fool, you see--I talk andtalk and let the moments slip by--I am going, Lou, and this is thevision which I am taking with me, the last impression which will dwellin my memory, when memory itself will seem only a dream. You, Lou,standing just here, so close to me that your sweet breath fans mycheek, your dear hands in mine, the scent of sweet peas in mynostrils. The light of this lamp throws a golden radiance over you,your lips are quivering--oh! ever so slightly, and your eyes reveal tome the exquisiteness of your soul. Lou, I am a lucky mortal to havesuch a vision on which to let my memory dwell!"
She listened in silence, enjoying the delight of hearing himunburdening his soul at last. His love for her! Never had it seemed sogreat and so pure, now that he spoke of parting! And there was aquaint joy in hearing him thus rambling on--he, the reserved man ofthe world. Convention had so often sealed his lips, and restrained hispassion when he was still wandering happily with her on the smoothpaths of Love. Now Fate had hurled stone upon stone down that path.The way was rugged and difficult, parting too, was close at hand; allthe restraint of past months tore at the barrier of convention. Lukeabout to lose the mortal presence of his love, allowed his lips to saythat which he had hidden in his heart for so long. The man of theworld lost himself in the man who loved.
When he had ceased speaking she said quietly:
"You talk, Luke, as if we were going to part."
"To-night, Lou. I must catch the night boat to Calais."
"My luggage can be sent on," she rejoined simply. "I am quite ready tostart."
"To start?" he repeated vaguely.
"Why, yes, Luke," she replied with a smile, "if you go to-night, or atany time, I go with you."
"You cannot, Lou!" he stammered, almost stupidly, feeling quitebewildered, for he had been forcibly dragged back from a happydreamlike state, to one of impossible reality.
"Why not?"
"You have said it yourself, Lou. I shall be a fugitive from justice .. . a man with whom no decent woman would care to link her fate."
"Let us admit then," she said almost gaily, "that I am not a decentwoman, for my fate is irretrievably linked with yours."
"This is preposterous . . ." he began.
But already she had interrupted him, speaking quietly in that even,contralto voice of hers which he loved to hear.
"Luke," she said, "you must try and understand. You must, because Ihave so fully made up my mind, that nothing that you could say wouldmake me change it, unless you told me that you no longer loved me. Andthis," she added with the ghost of a smile, "you cannot now pretend,Luke, after all that you said just now. It is not that my mind wantedmaking up. My mind has very little to do with it all. It knows just asmy heart does that I could not now live without you. I'm not talkingnonsense, Luke, and I seem to be too old for mere sentimental twaddle;therefore, when I say that I could not now live parted from you, I sayit from the innermost conviction of my heart. Sh--sh--dear," shewhispered, seeing that he wished to interrupt her, "don't try and sayanything just yet--not just yet--until I have told you everything. Iwant you to remember, Luke, that I am no longer very young, and thatever since I can remember anything, I have loved you. I must haveloved you even though I did not know it. But if you had never spokenof love to me, if you had never written that letter which I receivedin Brussels, I probably would have been satisfied to go on with myhumdrum life to the end of time; who knows? I might have foundcontentment if not happiness, by and by with some other man. We womenare meant to marry. Men are fond of telling us that our only missionon earth is to marry. But all this possible, quiet content one letterhas dissipated. I could never be happy now, never, save in continuingto love you. Life to me would be unspeakably hideous without you andyour love. Therefore, I say, Luke, that you have no longer any rightto keep me at arm's length. You have no right, having once come intomy life, having once given substance and vitality to my love, towithdraw yourself away from me. Love, dear, is a bond, a mutual bond,as sacred, as binding as any that are contracted on this earth.You--when you wrote that letter, when first you spoke to me oflove--entered into a bond with me. You have no right to force me tobreak it."
The mellow tones of her contralto voice died down in the heavyatmosphere of the room. They echoed and re-echoed in the heart of theman, who was now kneeling before Louisa, as he would before theMadonna, dumb with the intensity of emotion which her simple words,the sublime selflessness of her sacrifice had brought to an almostmaddening pitch. She stood there near him, so devoted, so noble, andso pure, do you wonder or will you smile, when you see him with fair,young head bowed to the ground pressing his lips on the point of hershoe?
"Luke! don't," she cried in passionate sympathy.
She understood him so well, you see!
"Kiss your feet, dear?" he asked. "I would lie down in the dust foryour dear feet to walk over me. I only wonder why God should love meso that he gave you for this one beautiful moment to me. Lou, mydearest saint, I cannot accept your sacrifice. Dear heart! dear, dearheart! do try and believe me, when I say that I cannot accept it. Asfor imagining that I don't understand it and appreciate it, why assoon think that to-morrow's sun will never rise. I worship you, mysaint! and I worship your love--the purest, most tender sentiment thatever glorified this ugly world. But its sacrifice I cannot accept. Icannot. I would sooner do that most cowardly of all deeds, end my lifehere and now, than be tempted for one single instant into thecowardice of accepting it. But the memory of it, dear, that I willtake with me. Do not think of me in future as being unhappy.
No mancan be unhappy whose heart is fed on such a memory!"
He had her two hands imprisoned in his, the scent of sweet peasfloating gently to his nostrils. As he buried his lips in theirfragrant soft palms he was entirely happy. The world had floated awayfrom him. He was in a land of magic with her; in a land where the airwas filled with the fragrance of sweet peas, a land of phantasmagoria,the land of Fata Morgana, which none can enter save those who love.Time sped on, and both had forgotten the world. The fire crackled inthe hearth, the clock alone recorded the passing of time. The noise ofthe great city--so cruel to those who suffer--came but as faint echothrough the closely drawn curtains.
There was a discreet knock at the door, and as no reply came fromwithin, it was repeated more insistently.
Luke jumped to his feet, and Louisa retreated into the shadow.
"Come in!" said Luke.
The door was opened, quite softly from outside, and the well-drilledservant said:
"Two gentlemen to see you, sir."
"Where are they, Mary?" he asked.
"In the hall, sir."
"Did they give their names?"
"No, sir."
"Where's Miss Edie, Mary?"
"In the drawing room, sir, with Colonel Harris."
"Very well. Then show the two gentlemen into the dining-room. I'llcome in a moment."
"Very good, sir."
And the discreet little maid retired, closing the door after her.