The Heart of a Woman

And Sir Thomas replied: "Thank you."

"Won't you," said the younger man, "wait in the library?"

He had apparently rung a bell, for the man servant came into the hall and was duly told off to whistle for a cab.

"I'd rather go into another room, for a moment, Mr. Warren, if I may," said Sir Thomas. "There are just one or two little questions I would like to put to you."

"Certainly, Sir Thomas," replied Mr. Warren with alacrity.

The two men went together into the dining-room. Louisa by shutting her eyes could almost see them sitting there in the stately and gloomy room, which she knew so well. She could call to mind the last occasion on which she had lunched there, with Lord Radclyffe and Luke, and Edie, and Jim. It was the day on which the impostor first forced his way into the house. Louisa had a clear vision of him even now, just as she had seen him standing that day in the hall, before his interview with Lord Radclyffe. Parker was helping him with his coat and Louisa had seen his face: the bricklayer's son who had come forward with his marvellous array of lies, and who had been so implicitly believed, that he himself had to pay for his lies with a most horrible death.

For that death now – and because of the impenetrable mystery which the impostor had taken with him to his humble grave – Luke stood in danger of being punished with death that was even more horrible than that caused by a stab in the neck under cover of darkness and of fog.

The one chance that there had been of finding a clue to the mystery had been dissipated by the silence of the sick man up stairs. The hand of death was upon him too. He also would take the secret of the bricklayer's son, silently with him to the grave.

Louisa's eyes, vacant and tearless, wandered aimlessly round the room. Doctor Newington was sitting at the desk, writing either a letter or a prescription which apparently required a considerable amount of thought. He seemed deeply absorbed in what he wrote and from time to time referred to a small note-book which he took out of his pocket.

The scratching of his stylo against the paper was the only sound that struck Louisa's ear, the rest of the house seemed lonely and still. Only from far away came the shrill screeching of the cab-whistle.

Louisa rose and went to the door, peeping out into the hall. It was deserted and the dining-room door was shut. She slipped out into the hall. Doctor Newington apparently did not trouble himself about her. Very softly she closed the library door behind her.

Then she ran swiftly up stairs.

CHAPTER XXXIX

A MERE WOMAN FIGHTING FOR THE THING SHE LOVED

Louisa reached the landing slightly out of breath. She knew her way about the old house very well. Two doors now were opposite to her. One of these had been left ajar – intentionally no doubt. It was the one that gave on a smaller morning room, where in the olden days Lord Radclyffe used to have his breakfast and write his private letters: the library being given over to Mr. Warren and to official correspondence.

From this side of the house and right through the silence that hung over it, Louisa could hear very faintly rising from the servants' quarters below, the sound of women's voices chattering and giggling. The nurses then had not returned to their post. With the indifference born of long usage they were enjoying every minute of the brief respite accorded them, content to wait for the doctor's call if the patient had immediate need of them.

Through the chink of the door, the red glow of a shaded lamp came as a sharp crimson streak cutting the surrounding gloom.

Louisa pushed open the door that was ajar and tip-toed softly in.

The little room had been transformed for present emergencies. The desk had been pushed aside, and a small iron bedstead fitted up for the night nurse. A woman's paraphernalia was scattered about on the massive early Victorian furniture: a comb and brush, a cap and apron neatly folded, a couple of long pins, littered the table which used to look so severe with its heavy inkstand and firm blotting-pad. The piano had been relegated into a corner, and the portrait of Luke which always hung over the mantlepiece had been removed.

The door into the bedroom was wide open, and without any hesitation Louisa went in. The bed was immediately in front of her, and between it and the hanging lamp beyond a screen had been placed, so that the upper part of the sick man's figure was invisible at first in the gloom, and the light lay like a red patch right across the quilt at the foot.

Louisa advanced noiselessly and then halted beside the bed. The room was pleasantly warm, and the smell of disinfectants, of medicines, and of lavender water hung in the air – the air of a sick room, oppressive and enervating.

Gradually Louisa's eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness. She fixed them on the sick man who lay quite still against the pillows, his face no less white than the linen against which it rested. Louisa had no idea that any man could alter so in such brief while. It almost seemed difficult to recognize in the white emaciated figure that lay there with the stillness of death, the vigorous man of a few months ago.

The face had the appearance of wax, deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth accentuating its hollow appearance: the hair was almost snow-white now and clung matted and damp to the forehead and sunken temples.

Lord Radclyffe seemed unconscious of Louisa's presence in the room, but his eyes were wide open and fixed on a spot high upon the wall immediately opposite to the bed. Louisa looked to see on what those eyes were gazing so intently, and turning she saw the splendid portrait of Luke de Mountford painted by the greatest living master of portraiture, which we all admired in the rooms of the Royal Academy a few years ago. It had been taken away from the boudoir, and brought in here so that the sick man might have the semblance now that he was parted from the reality.

Only a feeble breath escaped Lord Radclyffe's parted lips: there was no distortion in the face, and the hands lay still, waxen-white, against the quilt. Louisa looked down on the sick man without, at first, attempting to speak. She looked down on this the last cord of hope's broken lute, the frail thread on which hung Luke's one chance of safety: this feeble life almost ended, this weak breath which alone could convey words of hope! For the moment Louisa's heart almost misgave her, when she thought of what she meant to do: to bring, namely, this wandering spirit back to earth, in order to make it conscious of such misery as no heart of man could endure and not break. It seemed like purposeless, inhuman cruelty!

Even if she could call that enfeebled mind back to the hideous realities of to-day, what chance was there that the few words which this dying man could utter would be those that could save Luke from the gallows?

Was it not better to let the broken heart sink to rest in peace, the weakened mind go back to the land of shadows unconscious of further sorrow?

Uncertain now, and vaguely fearful she looked up at the portrait of Luke. The eyes in the magnificently painted portrait seemed endowed with amazing vitality. To the loving, heart-broken woman it seemed as if they made a direct appeal to her. Yet, what appeal did they make?

To let the old man – "Uncle Rad" – die in peace, ignorant of the awful fate which must inevitably befall the man whom he loved with such strange, such enduring affection?

Or did those eyes ask for help there, where no other human being could lend assistance now?

"Lord Radclyffe!"

The words escaped her suddenly, almost frightening her, though all along she knew that she had meant to speak.

"Do you know me, Lord Radclyffe?" she said again, "it is Louisa Harris."

No reply. The great eyes with the shadow of death over them were gazing on the face on which they had always loved to dwell.

"Lord Radclyffe," she reiterated, and the deep notes of her contralto voice quivered with the poignancy of her emotion, "Luke is in very great danger, the gravest possible danger that can befall any man. Do you understand me?"

Again no reply. But the great eyes – sunken and glassy – slowly fell from the picture to her face.

"Luke," she repeated, dwelling on the word, "I must speak to you about Luke."

And the lips, stiff and cold, opened slightly and from between them escaped the word, feebly, like the breath of a dying man:

"Luke!"

"He is in grave danger. Lord Radclyffe," she said slowly, "in danger of death."

And this time the faded lips framed the word distinctly:

"Luke – in danger of death!"

The hands which had lain on the quilt up to now, still and waxen as those of a lifeless image, began to tremble visibly, and the eyes – those great, hollow eyes – had a searching, anxious expression in them now.

"Philip de Mountford has been murdered," said Louisa. "You knew that, did you not?"

The sick man nodded. Life and consciousness were slowly returning and with them understanding and the capacity for suffering.

"And Luke is accused of having murdered him."

The trembling of the hands ceased. With a quick, jerky movement they were drawn back against the figure, then used as a leverage. With a sudden accession of strength, the sick man slowly but steadily drew himself up, away from the pillows, until he was almost sitting up in bed. There was understanding in the eyes now, understanding and an awful look of horror.

"It is not true!" he murmured.

"It is true," she said. "Luke was known to have quarrelled with Philip de Mountford, and the dagger-stick with which the crime was committed was found in the park – stained with blood – the dagger-stick which belonged to Luke."

"Luke didn't do it," murmured the sick man.

"I know that he didn't," she replied firmly, "but he pleads guilty. He owns that the stick was his, and will give no denial, no explanation. He is taking upon himself the crime of another – "

"It is not true!" once more murmured the sick man.

Then he fell back exhausted against the pillows.

There he lay once more, with that awful stillness of death: the hands rested on the quilt as if modelled in wax. The eyes were closed, and from between the pale, parted lips not the faintest breath seemed to escape. Helpless and anxious, Louisa looked round her. On a table close by stood an array of bottles. She went up to it, trying to read the labels, wondering if there was anything there that was a powerful restorative. She found a small bottle labelled "brandy" and took it up in her hand, but as she looked up again, she saw Doctor Newington standing in the doorway of the boudoir. One of the nurses was with him, and he was armed with his most pompous and most professional manner.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.

"I think," she replied, trying to master her excitement, "that Lord Radclyffe has fainted. I did not know what to do."

"I should think not indeed," he said; "and why did you not ring for the nurse? and why are you here?"

"I wished to see Lord Radclyffe myself," she replied.

"Without my permission?"

"You would have refused it."

"Certainly I should. And I must request you to leave the sick room at once."

Baffled and miserable, she stood for a moment hesitating, vaguely wondering if she could rebel. Indeed, she had no option but to obey. The doctor was well within his rights: she, utterly in the wrong.

She turned toward the door ready to go, but in order to reach it from where she stood, she had to go past the foot of the bed.

The nurse was busy administering restoratives, and Doctor Newington had taken up the attitude dear to every Englishman: his stand upon the hearth rug, and his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. He was treating Louisa like a disobedient child, and she had no one to appeal to in this moment of complete helplessness.

One moment only did she debate with herself. The nurse just then had gone to a side table to fetch some brandy. The patient, so Louisa heard her tell the doctor, had not actually fainted; he was merely in a state of exhaustion.

Swift and furtive, like some small animal in danger of its life, Louisa slipped in between the screen and the bed, and before the doctor or nurse could prevent her, she had bent right over the sick man and whispered close to his ear:

"Lord Radclyffe, unless you make an effort now, to-morrow Luke will be standing in the dock – branded as a felon. Make an effort for Luke's sake!"

And the spirit which had gone wandering in the land of shadows came back to earth at sound of that one name.

"Luke!" he whispered, "Luke, my boy. I am strong. I can help you."

"Miss Harris – " interposed the doctor sternly.

But the sick man's words had put new strength into her. She was ready to fight the doctor now. The conventional woman of the world was transformed into just a mere woman fighting for the thing she loved – child, lover, or husband, it is all the same when that womanly instinct of combat is aroused.

Doctor Newington would have had to take Louisa Harris by the shoulders now if he meant to eject her: for until the patient spoke, here she meant to remain.

"Doctor," she quietly, "you have another duty to perform than that of watching over your patient. An innocent man is accused of a terrible crime. Lord Radclyffe, though very weak, is fully conscious. If he can save his nephew by a word that word must be spoken to-night."

"Send for Tom Ryder," murmured the sick man, "he'll understand."

The words came in gasps, but otherwise fairly distinctly. Doctor Newington, in all his professional experience, had never been placed in such an extraordinary dilemma. He was not quite so obstinate about the whole thing as he had originally been, and a kind of hopeless bewilderment showed itself upon his face.

"Will you send for Sir Thomas, doctor?" asked Louisa. "You see that Lord Radclyffe wishes it."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. The responsibility was getting all too heavy for him. Besides being a fashionable physician, he was also a man, and as such not altogether inhuman. He had seen much acute suffering, both mental and physical, throughout the length of his career, but never had he been brought face to face with such an acute psychological problem, and – frankly – he did not know how to deal with it.

So he sent the nurse to ask Sir Thomas Ryder once more to step up stairs, whilst he himself went up to his patient, and with the mechanical movement born of life-long habit, he placed his white, podgy fingers on the feebly fluttering pulse.

"God only knows what will be the issue," he said almost inaudibly. "I don't."

The sick man, on the other hand, seemed to be husbanding his strength. He had most obediently taken the brandy which had been given him, and now he lay back quietly among the pillows, with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. The hands wandered somewhat restlessly along the smooth surface of the quilt, otherwise Lord Radclyffe lay perfectly still. It even seemed – to Louisa's super-sensitive gaze – as if an expression of content had settled over the pale face. Once the sick man opened his eyes and looked up at the portrait: the lips murmured the one word:

"Luke!" and slowly, very slowly, two tears formed in the sunken eyes and trickled down the wan cheeks.

"You had better," said the doctor curtly, "leave the patient to me and to Sir Thomas."

"Certainly," she replied. "I'll wait in the next room."

"Sir Thomas will call you, no doubt, if your presence is desirable."

She was ready enough to obey now: her uncle's footstep was heard on the landing outside. Quietly she relinquished her place beside the bed, and as she did so she bent down and kissed the poor old hand, that wandered so restlessly along the folds of the quilt.

As Sir Thomas entered the room, she was just leaving it. They met under the lintel of the door.

"He seems stronger," she whispered pointing to the sick man. "I think that he will make an effort – for Luke's sake."

She waited a moment in the door-way, until she saw Sir Thomas Ryder installed on one side of the bed, and the doctor on the other side, with his finger on the patient's pulse. Then she retreated into the morning room, and moved by some unaccountable impulses she went to the piano and opening it, she sat down, and with exquisite softness began to play the opening bars of one of her favourite songs.

She sang hardly above a whisper: the velvety tones of her voice sounded like the murmur of ghosts through the heavy tapestries of the room. Whenever her voice died away in the intervals of the song she could hear the hum of men's voices, her uncle's low and clear, now and then a word from the doctor, and through it all the voice of the sick man, feeble and distinct, speaking the words that would mean life to Luke.

CHAPTER XL

AND THUS HER HOUR HAD COME

Half an hour had gone by. The fountain pen dropped from Sir Thomas's cramped fingers.

He had been writing, slowly but incessantly, ever since he sat down beside the sick man, and put his first question to him. Lord Radclyffe, with the tenacity peculiar to a strong nature, had clung to his own strength and will power and had spoken clearly, so that Sir Thomas could not only understand but could write down what he heard, word for word – not omitting a phrase – accurately and succinctly.

Once or twice Doctor Newington had to interfere. The patient was in danger of exhaustion, and brandy had again to be administered. Lord Radclyffe took it eagerly. What will power he had left was concentrated on the desire to keep up his strength.

From the boudoir came the gentle murmur of a tender song, whispered by Louisa's appealing contralto voice. The sick man seemed to enjoy it: it seemed to soothe him too, for every now and again he lay quite still and listened attentively: and when he did so his eyes always sought the portrait of Luke.

When all was finished, and the last word written, Sir Thomas rose and grasped his old friend's emaciated hand.

"You'll feel better to-morrow," he whispered cheerily, "when you have your nephew with you. The doctor here must allow you to see him, if you see no one else."

"Lord Radclyffe must have rest now," said the doctor impatiently.

"Certainly, my dear sir," rejoined Sir Thomas. "I need not trouble you any more. I can but hope that your patient will be none the worse for the effort."

The doctor did not reply. The patient after the great effort was in a dangerous state of collapse and required every attention.

Sir Thomas Ryder took his leave and going through the smaller room, he beckoned to Louisa to follow him.

A moment later the doctor was heard ringing for the nurses. Sir Thomas in the hall was struggling with his coat, whilst Louisa stood by, quite still and patient. She knew that her hour would come, and she was grateful to her uncle for taking her away from here so quickly.

She had not asked a single question and Sir Thomas had not volunteered any information. But she was content to wait, until the time when he told her everything.

The cab which had been called all that long while ago was still waiting at the door. It was now past eleven o'clock. Silently Sir Thomas and Louisa Harris stepped into the cab, Mr. Warren, sympathetic and attentive to the last, giving the address to the chauffeur on their behalf.

Less than five minutes later, they had arrived at the Langham Hotel, but they had not exchanged a single word during that time.

Colonel Harris was in the sitting room, waiting for his daughter's return. The maid had told him that her mistress had gone to Sir Thomas Ryder's and had promised to be home again in about an hour, so he was not really anxious, only very worried about her. Personally, he saw no issue to the terrible tangle, and his heart ached for her, as much as it did for Luke.

He found himself quite unable to sit at the club. Luke de Mountford's name was in every man's mouth. The obsession was unendurable, the countless arguments adduced by indifferent lips was positively nerve-racking. Colonel Harris after half an hour had enough of it, and went back to the Langham.

He did not greet his brother-in-law very warmly: he did not feel very well disposed toward him, as he had a vague idea that Sir Thomas Ryder was in a measure responsible for Luke's terrible fate.

"Lou dear, it's very late," he said with gentle reproach when she came in.

"You'll have to forgive her, Will," interposed Sir Thomas, "she came over to have a talk with me, and we went on to try and see old Rad, who is dying, I am afraid, poor chap."

"Now, my dear," he added turning to Louisa whilst he dived into his breast-pocket, from which he extracted a note-book, "go to your own room and read this through very quietly while I talk to your father."

He gave her the book, which she took without a word.

"It won't," he added, "take you very long to read. When you have finished, bring me the notes back, I want them to-night."

She kissed her father before she went out of the room. He and she had both guessed – by that unexplainable, subtle intuition born of sympathy – what the pages of that note-book contained.

CHAPTER XLI

WHICH TELLS OF THE CONTENTS OF THE NOTE BOOK

Louisa sat beside the fire and read. The notes were written in Sir Thomas's clear caligraphy, in short, jerky sentences, just as the sick man had spoken them, usually in reply to questions put to him.

As Louisa read on, she could almost hear Lord Radclyffe's whispered words, whilst she herself sang Tosti's melancholy song: "Good-bye!"

"I was not altogether ignorant of my brother Arthur's marriage over in Martinique, but he had always given me to understand that the marriage was not a strictly legal one, and that his son Philip had no right whatever to claim any possible succession to our family title and estates. Even on his deathbed Arthur assured me of this, and said to me most emphatically 'Luke is your heir! My son Philip has no legal claim!'

"I never made the slightest effort to communicate with Arthur's widow or with his child, for Arthur had assured me that they were well provided for and quite happy amongst their own kindred. After the catastrophe of St. Pierre I completely lost sight of them.

"Then came a letter addressed to me from St. Vincent, the first inkling which I had that not only did Arthur's son know of his father's position in life, but that he had full and justifiable reasons for believing that he himself was heir presumptive to the family title and estates which would have been his father's, had the latter outlived the present holder.

"This letter was followed by several others about which neither Luke nor Mr. Warren knew anything, for I told them nothing. At last there came one from Brussels. By this time I had searched carefully through some letters which my brother Arthur had desired that I should destroy after his death, but which I had always kept by me, meaning one day to comply with his wish.

"I had more than a suspicion then that my brother's marriage was a perfectly legal one, and that his son was the only true heir-presumptive to the title and estates which I had always fondly thought could only devolve upon Luke. I went over to Brussels determined to see this Philip before he set foot in England. The thought that he would supersede Luke was more than I could bear.

"I arrived in Brussels early one morning, having crossed over in the night. At once I drove to the mean hotel where he was lodging. He was sharing a room with a man with whom he had picked up a casual acquaintanceship on the sea voyage between the West Indies and Antwerp. The two men had come over together in the Belgian boat. They looked a pair of young blackguards, but it did not take me very long to be convinced that for some reason best known to himself my brother Arthur had deceived me and that his son Philip was indeed the legitimate and rightful heir to the title which I hold. The papers were authentic and undisputable. This much I knew and that Luke, whom I loved best in all the world, more than any father has ever loved his son, would never be Earl of Radclyffe so long as Philip de Mountford lived.

"Men will say that I am an abandoned criminal, and, indeed, it may be so. May God forgive me hereafter, for I killed my brother's son. I pretended to rejoice at his homecoming, and in half an hour had gained his confidence. In the afternoon we went out together and after a short walk we picked up a taxicab. Philip gave the driver the address of a restaurant at which I had asked him to dine with me. I kept carefully in the shadow, so that the man shouldn't see me. Then on the way in the cab, I killed him. When his head was turned away from me, I plunged an old Italian stiletto which I had carried about with me, ever since I had had letters from Philip, straight into his neck.