CHAPTER XXXV
WHICH TELLS OF PICTURES IN THE FIRE
It did not take poor little Edie very long to get her things on and tomake ready to go away with Colonel Harris and with Louisa. Somethingof the truth had to be told to her, and we must do her the justice tostate that when she understood the full strength of the calamity whichhad befallen her and Luke, something of her brother's calm dignityshowed itself in her own demeanour.
She pulled herself together with remarkable vigour, and before Mary,the maid, she contrived to behave just as if nothing of greatimportance had occurred.
"I am going to dine out to-night, Mary," she said quite calmly, "and Imayn't be home until sometime to-morrow. So don't sit up for me."
"No, miss," replied Mary demurely, who kept her own counsel, like thewell-drilled, good-class servant that she was.
"And tell cook that Mr. de Mountford won't be in either, nor Mr. Jim.I'll see her to-morrow and let her know when we all come back."
"Very good, miss."
Louisa gave ungrudging admiration, and whispered praise to the younggirl. She was proud of Edie's behaviour, and grateful to her too. Thisatmosphere of reserve did her good. She could not have endured ascene of weeping, and keep her own nerves in check all the while.
It was close upon eight o'clock when at last they reached the LanghamHotel. Colonel Harris ordered the dinner to be served in the privatesitting room. Of course none of them could eat anything. Their inwardthoughts were following Luke de Mountford along that weary Calvarywhich he had set himself to mount.
Soon after dinner Edie elected to go to bed. The poor child had avague desire to be alone, and also a vague, unhappy feeling that shewas in the way. She was quite woman enough now to understand how muchmore acutely Louisa Harris must be suffering, than she was herself,and since she--the sister--longed for solitude, how much keener mustbe that longing in the heart of the woman who loved and had lost Luke.
So she went quietly off to bed. Louisa kissed her with real affection.Edie seemed like something of Luke: like a tender bequest made by adying man.
After that she herself said "good night" to her father. Colonel Harriswas obviously in such acute distress that Louisa felt that, above allthings, he must have the companionship of those of his own sex. Theatmosphere of woman's sorrow was essentially bad for him. He was not ayoung man, and the last two days had tried him very severely. Louisahoped that if she pretended to go to bed early, he would perhaps beinduced to go to his club for an hour.
If he only sat there for an hour, reading the papers, and nodding tohis many friends, it would take him out of himself.
"I am very tired, dear," she said, after she had seen Edie safelytucked up amongst the blankets. "I think I'll follow Edie's goodexample. It's no use sitting here, staring into the fire. Is it,dear?"
"Not a bit of use, Lou. And I suppose you would like to be alone?"
"I shan't go to bed, dear, unless you go to the club."
"Very well, Lou. It seems the right thing to do, doesn't it? You go tobed, and I'll go to the club for an hour. As you say, it's no usesitting staring into the fire."
Her room gave on one side of the sitting room, and her father's on theother. She waited until Colonel Harris went away, having helped him onwith his overcoat. After he left she felt a little twinge of remorse.The night was cold and raw and he really had not wanted to go out. Hewould have been quite willing to sit in front of the fire, smoking andreading. He had only gone because his own innate kindliness and tacthad suggested to him that Louisa wished to remain alone.
He too, like Edie, felt a little in the way. His daughter's grief wasof a nature that a father's love cannot soothe. The greatest solacefor it now would be solitude. So, in spite of the fog, in spite of theunpleasantness that met Colonel Harris on every page of everynewspaper, he sallied out of the hotel and got into a hansom, with theavowed intention of spending a couple of hours at his club.
Louisa left alone in the sitting room, in front of the cheery fire,sat down for a moment on the sofa and rested her head against thecushions. There was memory even in that, for when she closed her eyes,she could imagine that Luke was sitting at the foot of the sofa; shecould see him almost, with his eyes turned ever toward her, and thatquaint gesture of his when he passed his hand over the back of hisneatly groomed head.
The memory was intolerable now. She rose--restless and feverish--andstood by the fire, one hand on the high mantel-shelf, her foreheadresting against that hand, one foot on the fender, and her aching eyesgazing into the red hot glow.
It was one of those big red fires, partly made up of coke and partlyof coal, wherein only here and there tiny blue flames flit waywardly,and in the building up of which hotel servants are usually pastmasters. The glowing coal heaped up high in the old-fashioned gratepresented a wonderful picture of mysterious architecture: streets andlanes of crimson incandescence, palaces and towers of molten heat, andthe little blue flames dancing and peeping out from the fiery depths,mocking and wayward, twirling and twisting as with the joy of life.
Louisa gazed into this city of brilliant crimson and gold, thestreets, the palaces, and the towers. And as she gazed--with eyesalmost seared--these same streets of fire assumed different shapes;they became stately and wide, with rows of trees forming an avenuealong the middle, and tall houses on either side. One or two peoplewere walking along the pavement, but quickly, as if they had businessto transact and did not care to loiter. One figure, that of a woman,in neat ulster and serviceable hat--was walking briskly between therow of trees.
The blue flames danced, and disclosed a few vehicles hurrying pastswiftly in the night, huge tramways lumbering along, and one or twoflying motor cabs. And far ahead--right in the heart of the glow--thedistant lights of a more busy thoroughfare. Now the wide street wasmore dark and lonely than before, only the solitary female figureappeared in the fiery picture, walking among the trees. The last ofthe lumbering tramways had been merged in the distant lights: onlyfrom afar came flying on the blue flames, a taxicab at lightningspeed.
It came along, its headlights burning more and more brightly, itrattled past the solitary female pedestrian. Then it stopped in thedark angle made by a huge piece of coal: the blue flames gave a hissand from every corner of the grate crowds of people came rushing tothe spot where the taxicab had halted. The solitary female pedestrianalso hurried to the spot. She stopped on the outskirts of the crowd,and yet she saw everything that went on in and round the motor, thehorror-stricken driver, the bustling gendarmes, the huddled up mass inthe darkest corner of the vehicle.
Then the coal, consumed by its own power, fell together in a formlessheap and the picture vanished. Louisa closed her eyes, for the heat inthem was intolerable. But only for a moment: for now her mind was madeup.
Ever since she had parted from Luke, one thought had been dominant inher mind, one memory had obtruded itself beyond all others, takingdefinite shape in the visions conjured up by the glowing embers of thefire--that night in Brussels!--the great unforgettable night, on whichher whole life's history seemed to find its birth-time.
One great resolve, too, had now taken definite shape.
Louisa rang for her maid, and asked for hat and cloak. Themaid--somewhat horrified that her mistress should think of going outalone at so late an hour--was too well drilled to offer advice or makecomment. She brought a warm wrap and a closely fitting, simple hat,and respectfully wished to know when she should expect her mistresshome.
"In about an hour's time," said Louisa. "Come down into the hall withme, and tell the porter to call me a cab."
Then she went down, accompanied by her maid. A cab was called, and shedirected the driver to 56 Chester Terrace.
The address was that of Lady Ryder's town house. The maid--feelingmore satisfied--went up stairs again.
The Heart of a Woman Page 35
