The Heart of a Woman

  CHAPTER X

  LIFE MUST GO ON JUST THE SAME

  They met at dances and at musical At Homes, for the world wagged justas it had always done, and here--don't you think?--lies the tragedy ofthe commonplace. Luke and Louisa, with the whole aspect of lifechanged for them, with a problem to face of which hitherto they had noconception, and the solution of which meant a probing of soul andheart and mind--Luke and Louisa had to see the world pass them by thesame as heretofore, with laughter and with tears, with the wearinessof pleasure, and the burdens of disappointment.

  The world stared at them--curious and almost interested--searchingwounds that had only just begun to ache, since indifferent hands haddared to touch them. And convention said: "Thou shalt not seem tosuffer; thou shalt pass by serene and unmoved; thou shalt dance andsing and parade in park or ball room; thou art my puppet and I havenought to do with thy soul."

  So Luke and Louisa did as convention bade them, and people stared atthem and asked them inane questions that were meant to be delicate,but were supremely tactless. People too wondered what they meant todo, when the engagement would be duly broken off, or what ColonelHarris's--Louisa's father--attitude would be in all this. Somehowafter the first excitement consequent on Lord Radclyffe's openacknowledgment of the claimant things had tamed off somewhat; Luke deMountford looked just the same as before, although awhile ago he hadbeen heir to one of the finest peerages in England and now was apenniless son of a younger son. I don't know whether people thoughtthat he ought to look entirely different now, or whether he shouldhenceforth wear shabby dress clothes and gloves that betrayed the drycleaner; certain it is that when Luke entered a reception room, adozen lips were ready--had they dared or good-breeding allowed--toframe the question:

  "Well, and what are you going to do now?"

  Or,

  "Do tell us how it feels to find one's self a beggar all of a sudden."

  Enterprising hostesses made great attempts to gather all parties intheir drawing rooms. With strategy worthy of a better cause theymanoeuvred to invite Philip de Mountford and Lord Radclyffe, and Lukeand Louisa--all to the same dinner party--promising themselves andtheir other guests a subtle enjoyment at sight of these puppetsdancing to rousing tunes, beside which the most moving problem playwould seem but tame entertainment.

  But Philip de Mountford--though as much sought after now as Luke hadbeen in the past--declined to be made a show of for the delectation ofbored society women; he declined all invitations on his own and LordRadclyffe's behalf.

  So people had to be content to watch Luke and Louisa.

  They were together at the Ducies' At Home. There was a crush, aHungarian band from Germany, a Russian singer from Bayswater, a greatmany diamonds, and incessant gossip.

  "Luke de Mountford is here--and Miss Harris. Have you seen them?"

  "Oh, yes! we met on the stairs, and had a long chat."

  "How do they seem?"

  "Oh! quite happy."

  "They don't care."

  "Do they mean to break off the engagement?"

  "I have heard nothing. Have you?"

  "Louisa Harris has a nice fortune of her own."

  "And Lord Radclyffe will provide for Luke."

  "I don't think so. He practically turned him out of the house, youknow."

  "Not really?"

  "I know it for a positive fact. My sister has just got a new butler,who left Lord Radclyffe's service the very day Philip de Mountfordfirst walked into the house."

  "Old Parker, I remember him."

  "He says Lord Radclyffe turned all the family out, bag and baggage.They were so insolent to Philip."

  "Then it's quite true?"

  "That this Philip is the late Arthur de Mountford's son?"

  "Quite true, I believe. Lord Radclyffe openly acknowledges it. He issatisfied apparently."

  "So are the lawyers, I understand."

  "Oh! how do you do, Miss Harris? So glad to see you looking so well."

  This, very pointedly, as Louisa, perfectly gowned, smiling serenely,ascended the broad staircase.

  "I have not been ill, Lady Keogh."

  "Oh, no! of course not. And how is Mr. de Mountford?"

  "You can ask him yourself."

  And Louisa passed on to make way for Luke. And the same remarks andthe same question were repeated _ad infinitum_, until a popular waltzplayed by the Hungarian gentlemen from Germany drew the fashionablecrowd round the musicians' platform.

  Then Luke and Louisa contrived to make good their escape, and to reachthe half-landing above the heads of numerous young couples thatadorned the stairs. The hum of voices, the noise of shrill laughter,and swish of skirts and fans masked their own whisperings. The coupleson the stairs were absorbed in their own little affairs; they weresitting out here so that they might pursue their own flirtations.

  Luke and Louisa could talk undisturbed.

  They spoke of the flat in Exhibition Road and of the furniture thatLouisa had helped Edie to select.

  "There are only a few odds and ends to get now," Louisa was saying,"coal scuttles and waste-paper baskets; that sort of thing. I hope youdon't think that we have been extravagant. Edie, I am afraid, hadrather luxurious notions----"

  "Poor Edie!"

  "Oh! I don't think she minds very much. Life at Grosvenor Square inthe past month has not been over cheerful."

  Then as Luke made no comment she continued in her own straightforward,matter-of-fact way--the commonplace woman facing the ordinary dutiesof life:

  "Now that the flat is all in order, you can all move in whenever youlike--and then, Luke, you must begin to think of yourself."

  "Of you, Lou," he said simply.

  "Oh! there's nothing," she said, "to think about me."

  "There you are wrong, Lou, and you must not talk like that. Ourengagement must be officially broken off. Colonel Harris has been toopatient as it is."

  "Father," she rejoined, "does not wish the engagement broken off."

  "All these people," he said, nodding in the direction of the crowdbelow, "will expect some sort of announcement."

  "Let them."

  "Lou, you must take back your word."

  "How does one take back one's word, Luke? Have you ever done it? Ishouldn't know how to."

  She looked at him straight, her eyes brilliant in the glare of theelectric lamps, not a tear in them or in his, her face immovable, lestindifferent eyes happened to be turned up to where these twointeresting people sat. Only a quiver round the lips, a sign thatpassion palpitated deep down within her heart, below the Bond Streetgown and the diamond collar, the soul within the puppet.

  She held his glance, forcing him into mute acknowledgment that hisphilosophy, his worldliness, was only veneer, and that he had notreally envisaged the hard possibility of actually losing her.

  Oh, these men of this awful conventional world! How cruel they can bein that proud desire to do what is right!--what their code tells themis right!--no law of God or nature that!--only convention, thedictates of other men! Hard on themselves, selfless in abnegation, butnot understanding that the dearest gift they can bestow on a woman isthe right for her to efface herself, the right for her to be the giverof love, of consolation, of sacrifice.

  Commonplace, plain, sensible Louisa understood everything that Lukefelt; those great luminous eyes of hers, tearless yet brilliant, readevery line on that face drilled into impassiveness.

  No one else could have guessed the precise moment at which softnesscrept into the hard determination of jaw and lips; no ear but herscould ever have perceived the subtle change in the quivering breath,from hard obstinacy that drew the nostrils together, and set everyline of the face, to that in-drawing of the heavy air around caused bypassionate longing which hammered at the super-excited brain, and madethe sinews crack in the mighty physical effort at self-repression.

  But to all outward appearance perfect calm, correct demeanour, theattitude and tone of voice prescribed by the usages of this so-calledsociety. r />
  "Lou," he said, "it is not fair to tempt me. I should be a miserablecur if I held you to your word. I am a penniless beggar--a wastrelnow, without a profession, without prospects, soon to be withoutfriends."

  He seemed to take pleasure in recalling his defects, and she let himramble on; women who are neither psychological puzzles nor interestingpersonalities have a way of listening patiently whilst a tortured souleases its burden by contemplating its own martyrdom.

  "I am a penniless beggar," he reiterated. "I have no right to ask anywoman to share my future dull and humdrum existence. A few thousandsis all I have. I think that Edie will marry soon and then I can goabroad--I must go abroad--I must do something----"

  "We'll do it together, Luke."

  "I feel," he continued, rebellious now and wrathful, all the primaryinstincts alive in him of self-preservation and the desire to destroyan enemy, "I feel that if I stayed in England I should contrive to beeven with that blackguard. His rights? By God! I would never questionthose. The moment I knew that he was Uncle Arthur's son I should havebeen ready to shake him by the hand, to respect him, to stand aside aswas his due. But his attitude!--the influence he exercises over UncleRad!--his rancour against us all! Jim and Edie! what had they done tobe all turned out of the house like a pack of poor relations--and poorUncle Rad----"

  He checked himself, for she had put a hand on his coat sleeve.

  "Luke, it is no use," she said.

  "You are right, Lou! and I am a miserable wretch. If you only knew howI hate that man----"

  "Don't," she said, "let us think of him."

  "How can I help it? He robs me of you."

  "No," she rejoined, "not that."

  Her hand still rested on his arm, and he took it between both his. Thecouples in front of them all down the length of stairs paid no heed tothem, and through the hum of voices, from a distant room beyond, camesoftly wafted on the hot, still air the strains of the exquisitebarcarolle from the "Contes d' Hoffmann."

  Louisa smiled confidently, proudly. He held her hand and she felt thathis--hot and dry--quivered in every muscle at her touch. Thecommonplace woman had opened the magic book of Love. She had turnedits first pages, the opening chapters had been simple, unruffled,uncrumpled by the hand of men or of Fate. But now at last she read thechapter which all along she knew was bound to reach her ken. Theleaves of the book were crumpled; Fate with cruel hand had tried toblur the writing; the psychological problem of to-day--the one thatgoes by the name of "modern woman"--would no doubt ponder ere shetried to read further; she would analyze her feelings, her thoughts,her sensations; she would revel over her own heartache and delight inher own soul agony. But simple-minded, conventional Louisa did none ofthese things. She neither ruffled her hair, nor dressed in ill-madeserge clothes; her dress was perfect and her hand exquisitely gloved.She did nothing out of the way; she only loved one man altogetherbeyond herself, and she understood his passionate love for her, andall that troubled him in this world in which they both lived.

  "I love that barcarolle, don't you?" she said after awhile.

  "I did not hear it," he replied.

  "Luke."

  "It's no use, Lou," he said under his breath. "You must despise me forbeing a drivelling fool, but I have neither eyes nor ears now. I wouldgive all I have in the world to lie down there on the floor now beforeyou and to kiss the soles of your feet."

  "How could I despise you, Luke, for that?"

  "Put your hand on my knee, just for a moment, Lou. I think I shall gomad if I don't feel your touch."

  She did as he asked her, and he was silent until the last note of thebarcarolle died away in a softly murmured breath.

  "What a cowardly wretch I am," he said under cover of the wave ofenthusiastic applause which effectually covered the sound of his voiceto all ears save hers. "I think I would sell my soul for a touch ofyour hand, and all the while I know that with every word I am playingthe part of a coward. If Colonel Harris heard me he would give me asound thrashing. A dog whip is what I deserve."

  "I have told you," she rejoined simply, "that father does not wish ourengagement to be broken off. He sticks to your cause and will do sothrough thick and thin. He still believes that this Philip is animpostor, and thinks that Lord Radclyffe has taken leave of hissenses."

  She spoke quite quietly, matter-of-factly now, pulling, by her serenecalm, Luke's soul back from the realms of turbulent sensations to theprosy facts of to-day. And he--in answer to her mute dictate and witha movement wholly instinctive and mechanical--drew himself upright,and passed his hand over his ruffled hair, and the jeopardizedimmaculateness of shirt front and cuffs.

  "Philip de Mountford," he said simply, "is no impostor, Lou. He hasbeen perfectly straightforward; and Mr. Dobson for one, who has seenall his papers, thinks that there is no doubt whatever that he isUncle Arthur's son. His clerk--Mr. Downing--went out to Martinique,you know, and his first letters came a day or two ago. All inquiriesgive the same result, and Downing says that it is quite easy to tracethe man's life, step by step, from his birth in St. Pierre, past thedark days of the earthquake and the lonely life at Marie-Galante.Mrs. de Mountford was a half-caste native, as we all suspected, butthe marriage was unquestionably legal. Downing has spoken to people inMartinique and also in Marie-Galante, who knew her and her son, or atany rate, of them. I cannot tell you everything clearly, but there area great many links in a long chain of evidence, and so far Mr. Dobsonand his clerk have not come across a broken one. That the Mrs. deMountford who died at Marie-Galante was Uncle Arthur's wife, and thatPhilip is his son, I am afraid no one can question. He has quite anumber of letters in his possession which Uncle Arthur wrote after hehad practically abandoned wife and child. I think it was the lettersthat convinced Uncle Rad."

  "Lord Radclyffe," she remarked dryly, "has taken everything far toomuch for granted."

  "He is convinced, Lou--and that's all about it."

  "He is," she retorted more hotly than was her wont, "acting in a crueland heartless manner. Even if this Philip is your uncle Arthur's son,even if he is heir to the peerage and the future head of the family,there was no reason for installing him in your home, Luke, and turningyou and the others out of it."

  "I suppose," rejoined Luke philosophically, "the house was neverreally our home. What Uncle Rad gave freely, he has taken away againfrom us. I don't suppose that we have the right to complain."

  "But what will become of you all?"

  "We must scrape along. Frank must have his promised allowance or he'llnever get along in the service, and five hundred pounds a year is abig slice out of a thousand. Jim, too, spends a great deal. Uncle Radnever stinted him with money, for it was he who wanted Jim to be inthe Blues. Now he may have to exchange into a less expensive regiment.I think Edie will marry soon--Reggie Duggan has been in love with herfor the past two years--she may make up her mind now."

  "But you, Luke?"

  He did not know if he ought to tell her of his plans. The ostrich farmout in Africa--the partnership offered to him by a cousin of hismother's who was doing remarkably well, but who was getting old andwanted the companionship of one of his kind. It was a livinganyway--but a giving up of everything that had constituted life in thepast--and the giving up of his exquisite Lou. How could he ask her toshare that life with him?--the primitive conditions, the total absenceof luxuries, the rough, every-day existence?

  And Lou, so perfectly dressed, so absolutely modern and dainty, waitedon hand and foot----

  But she insisted, seeing that he was hesitating and was trying to keepsomething from her.

  "What about you, Luke?"

  He had not time to reply, for from the hall below a shrill voicecalled to them both by name.

  "Mr. de Mountford, Miss Harris, the young people want to dance. You'lljoin in, won't you?"

  Already he was on his feet, every trace of emotion swept away from hisface, together with every crease from his immaculate dress clothes,and every stray wisp of hair from his well-groo
med head. Not a man,torn with passion, fighting the battle of life against overwhelmingodds, casting away from him the hand which he would have given hislast drop of blood to possess--only the man of the world, smilingwhile his very soul was being wrung--only the puppet dancing to theconventional world's tune.

  "Dancing?" he said lightly: "Rather--Lady Ducies may I have this firstwaltz? No?--Oh! I say that's too bad. The first Lancers then? Good!Lou, may I have this dance?"

  And the world went on just the same.