CHAPTER XXXIX
A MERE WOMAN FIGHTING FOR THE THING SHE LOVED
Louisa reached the landing slightly out of breath. She knew her wayabout the old house very well. Two doors now were opposite to her. Oneof these had been left ajar--intentionally no doubt. It was the onethat gave on a smaller morning room, where in the olden days LordRadclyffe used to have his breakfast and write his private letters:the library being given over to Mr. Warren and to officialcorrespondence.
From this side of the house and right through the silence that hungover 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 indifferenceborn of long usage they were enjoying every minute of the briefrespite accorded them, content to wait for the doctor's call if thepatient had immediate need of them.
Through the chink of the door, the red glow of a shaded lamp came as asharp 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 deskhad been pushed aside, and a small iron bedstead fitted up for thenight nurse. A woman's paraphernalia was scattered about on themassive early Victorian furniture: a comb and brush, a cap and apronneatly folded, a couple of long pins, littered the table which used tolook so severe with its heavy inkstand and firm blotting-pad. Thepiano had been relegated into a corner, and the portrait of Luke whichalways hung over the mantlepiece had been removed.
The door into the bedroom was wide open, and without any hesitationLouisa went in. The bed was immediately in front of her, and betweenit and the hanging lamp beyond a screen had been placed, so that theupper part of the sick man's figure was invisible at first in thegloom, and the light lay like a red patch right across the quilt atthe foot.
Louisa advanced noiselessly and then halted beside the bed. The roomwas pleasantly warm, and the smell of disinfectants, of medicines, andof lavender water hung in the air--the air of a sick room, oppressiveand enervating.
Gradually Louisa's eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness. Shefixed them on the sick man who lay quite still against the pillows,his face no less white than the linen against which it rested. Louisahad no idea that any man could alter so in such brief while. It almostseemed difficult to recognize in the white emaciated figure that laythere with the stillness of death, the vigorous man of a few monthsago.
The face had the appearance of wax, deep lines from the nostrils tothe corners of the mouth accentuating its hollow appearance: the hairwas almost snow-white now and clung matted and damp to the foreheadand 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 wallimmediately opposite to the bed. Louisa looked to see on what thoseeyes were gazing so intently, and turning she saw the splendidportrait of Luke de Mountford painted by the greatest living master ofportraiture, which we all admired in the rooms of the Royal Academy afew years ago. It had been taken away from the boudoir, and brought inhere so that the sick man might have the semblance now that he wasparted from the reality.
Only a feeble breath escaped Lord Radclyffe's parted lips: there wasno distortion in the face, and the hands lay still, waxen-white,against the quilt. Louisa looked down on the sick man without, atfirst, attempting to speak. She looked down on this the last cord ofhope's broken lute, the frail thread on which hung Luke's one chanceof safety: this feeble life almost ended, this weak breath which alonecould convey words of hope! For the moment Louisa's heart almostmisgave her, when she thought of what she meant to do: to bring,namely, this wandering spirit back to earth, in order to make itconscious of such misery as no heart of man could endure and notbreak. It seemed like purposeless, inhuman cruelty!
Even if she could call that enfeebled mind back to the hideousrealities of to-day, what chance was there that the few words whichthis dying man could utter would be those that could save Luke fromthe gallows?
Was it not better to let the broken heart sink to rest in peace, theweakened mind go back to the land of shadows unconscious of furthersorrow?
Uncertain now, and vaguely fearful she looked up at the portrait ofLuke. The eyes in the magnificently painted portrait seemed endowedwith amazing vitality. To the loving, heart-broken woman it seemed asif 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 awfulfate which must inevitably befall the man whom he loved with suchstrange, such enduring affection?
Or did those eyes ask for help there, where no other human being couldlend assistance now?
"Lord Radclyffe!"
The words escaped her suddenly, almost frightening her, though allalong she knew that she had meant to speak.
"Do you know me, Lord Radclyffe?" she said again, "it is LouisaHarris."
No reply. The great eyes with the shadow of death over them weregazing on the face on which they had always loved to dwell.
"Lord Radclyffe," she reiterated, and the deep notes of her contraltovoice quivered with the poignancy of her emotion, "Luke is in verygreat danger, the gravest possible danger that can befall any man. Doyou understand me?"
Again no reply. But the great eyes--sunken and glassy--slowly fellfrom the picture to her face.
"Luke," she repeated, dwelling on the word, "I must speak to you aboutLuke."
And the lips, stiff and cold, opened slightly and from between themescaped the word, feebly, like the breath of a dying man:
"Luke!"
"He is in grave danger. Lord Radclyffe," she said slowly, "in dangerof 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 asthose of a lifeless image, began to tremble visibly, and theeyes--those great, hollow eyes--had a searching, anxious expression inthem 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 andwith 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 theywere drawn back against the figure, then used as a leverage. With asudden accession of strength, the sick man slowly but steadily drewhimself up, away from the pillows, until he was almost sitting up inbed. There was understanding in the eyes now, understanding and anawful look of horror.
"It is not true!" he murmured.
"It is true," she said. "Luke was known to have quarrelled with Philipde Mountford, and the dagger-stick with which the crime was committedwas found in the park--stained with blood--the dagger-stick whichbelonged to Luke."
"Luke didn't do it," murmured the sick man.
"I know that he didn't," she replied firmly, "but he pleads guilty. Heowns 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 handsrested on the quilt as if modelled in wax. The eyes were closed, andfrom between the pale, parted lips not the faintest breath seemed toescape. Helpless and anxious, Louisa looked round her. On a tableclose by stood an array of bottles. She went up to it, trying to readthe labels, wondering if there was anything there that was a powerfulrestorative. She found a small bottle labelled "brandy" and took it upin her hand, but as she looked up again, she saw Doctor Newingtonstanding in the doorway of the boudoir. One of the nurses was withhim, and he was armed with his most pompous and most professionalmanner.
"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.
"I think," she replied, trying to m
aster her excitement, "that LordRadclyffe has fainted. I did not know what to do."
"I should think not indeed," he said; "and why did you not ring forthe 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 atonce."
Baffled and miserable, she stood for a moment hesitating, vaguelywondering 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 fromwhere she stood, she had to go past the foot of the bed.
The nurse was busy administering restoratives, and Doctor Newingtonhad taken up the attitude dear to every Englishman: his stand upon thehearth rug, and his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. Hewas treating Louisa like a disobedient child, and she had no one toappeal to in this moment of complete helplessness.
One moment only did she debate with herself. The nurse just then hadgone to a side table to fetch some brandy. The patient, so Louisaheard her tell the doctor, had not actually fainted; he was merely ina 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 thedoctor or nurse could prevent her, she had bent right over the sickman and whispered close to his ear:
"Lord Radclyffe, unless you make an effort now, to-morrow Luke will bestanding in the dock--branded as a felon. Make an effort for Luke'ssake!"
And the spirit which had gone wandering in the land of shadows cameback 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 readyto fight the doctor now. The conventional woman of the world wastransformed into just a mere woman fighting for the thing sheloved--child, lover, or husband, it is all the same when that womanlyinstinct of combat is aroused.
Doctor Newington would have had to take Louisa Harris by the shouldersnow if he meant to eject her: for until the patient spoke, here shemeant to remain.
"Doctor," she quietly, "you have another duty to perform than that ofwatching over your patient. An innocent man is accused of a terriblecrime. Lord Radclyffe, though very weak, is fully conscious. If he cansave 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. DoctorNewington, in all his professional experience, had never been placedin such an extraordinary dilemma. He was not quite so obstinate aboutthe whole thing as he had originally been, and a kind of hopelessbewilderment showed itself upon his face.
"Will you send for Sir Thomas, doctor?" asked Louisa. "You see thatLord Radclyffe wishes it."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. The responsibility was getting alltoo heavy for him. Besides being a fashionable physician, he was alsoa man, and as such not altogether inhuman. He had seen much acutesuffering, both mental and physical, throughout the length of hiscareer, but never had he been brought face to face with such an acutepsychological problem, and--frankly--he did not know how to deal withit.
So he sent the nurse to ask Sir Thomas Ryder once more to step upstairs, whilst he himself went up to his patient, and with themechanical 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. "Idon't."
The sick man, on the other hand, seemed to be husbanding hisstrength. He had most obediently taken the brandy which had been givenhim, and now he lay back quietly among the pillows, with eyes closedand lips slightly parted. The hands wandered somewhat restlessly alongthe smooth surface of the quilt, otherwise Lord Radclyffe layperfectly still. It even seemed--to Louisa's super-sensitive gaze--asif an expression of content had settled over the pale face. Once thesick man opened his eyes and looked up at the portrait: the lipsmurmured the one word:
"Luke!" and slowly, very slowly, two tears formed in the sunken eyesand trickled down the wan cheeks.
"You had better," said the doctor curtly, "leave the patient to me andto 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 onthe landing outside. Quietly she relinquished her place beside thebed, 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 metunder the lintel of the door.
"He seems stronger," she whispered pointing to the sick man. "I thinkthat he will make an effort--for Luke's sake."
She waited a moment in the door-way, until she saw Sir Thomas Ryderinstalled 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 themorning room, and moved by some unaccountable impulses she went tothe piano and opening it, she sat down, and with exquisite softnessbegan to play the opening bars of one of her favourite songs.
She sang hardly above a whisper: the velvety tones of her voicesounded like the murmur of ghosts through the heavy tapestries of theroom. Whenever her voice died away in the intervals of the song shecould hear the hum of men's voices, her uncle's low and clear, now andthen a word from the doctor, and through it all the voice of the sickman, feeble and distinct, speaking the words that would mean life toLuke.
The Heart of a Woman Page 39
