The Heart of a Woman

  CHAPTER XXIII

  WHY ALL THIS MYSTERY?

  I have often smiled myself at the recollection of Luke de Mountfordwalking that selfsame afternoon with Louisa Harris up and down thelong avenue of the Ladies' Mile: the selfsame Luke de Mountford whohad knelt at his Lou's feet in humble gratitude for the love she gavehim: the selfsame Luke de Mountford who stood under suspicion ofhaving committed a dastardly and premeditated murder.

  The puppets were once more dangling on the string of Convention. Theyhad readjusted their masks and sunk individuality as well as sentimentin the whirlpool of their world's opinion.

  Louisa had desired that Luke should come with her to the park, sinceconvention forbade their looking at chrysanthemums in the TempleGardens, on the day that Philip de Mountford lay dead in the mortuarychamber of a London police court: but everybody belonging to their ownworld would be in the park on this fine afternoon. And yet, the openair, the fragrance of spring flowers in the formal beds, would givefreedom to the breath: there would not reign the oppressive atmosphereof tea-table gossip; the early tulips bowing their stately heads wouldsuggest aloofness and peace.

  And so they went together for a walk in the park, for she had wishedit, and he would have followed her anywhere where she had bidden himto go.

  He walked beside her absolutely unconscious of whisperings and gossipwhich accompanied them at every step.

  "I call it bad form," was a very usual phrase enunciated by many arouged lip curled up in disdain.

  This was hurled at Louisa Harris. The woman, in such cases, alwayscontrives to get the lion's share of contempt.

  "Showing herself about with that man now! I call it vulgar."

  "They say he'll be arrested directly after the inquest to-morrow. Ihave it on unimpeachable authority."

  "Oh! I understand that he has been arrested already," asserted a ladywhose information was always a delightful mixture of irresponsiblevagueness and firm conviction.

  "How do you mean?"

  "Well, you see he is only out on--what do they call it?--I mean he hashad to give his word that he won't run away--or something. I heardHerbert say something about that at lunch--oh! what lovely tulips! Idote on that rich coppery red, don't you?"

  "Then does he go about in Black Maria escorted by a policeman?"

  "Probably."

  This somewhat more vaguely, for the surmise was doubtful.

  "I can't understand Louisa Harris, can you?"

  "Oh, she thinks it's unconventional to go about with a murderer. Sheonly does it for notoriety."

  But the Countess of Flintshire, who wrote novels and plays under theelegant _nom de plume_ of Maria Annunziata, was deeply interested inLuke and Louisa, and stopped to talk to them for quite a considerabletime. She said she wanted "to draw Luke de Mountford out." Sointeresting to get the impressions of an actual murderer, you know.

  The men felt uncomfortable. Englishmen always do when theunconventional hovers about in their neatly ordered atmosphere.Common-sense--in their case--whispered loudly, inking that this man inthe Sackville Street clothes, member of their own clubs, by Jove!could not just be a murderer! Hang it all! Harris would not allow hisdaughter to go about with a murderer!

  So they raised their hats as they passed by Louisa Harris and said,"Hello! How de do?" to Luke quite with a genial smile.

  But Luke and Louisa allowed all this world to wag on its ownirresponsible way. They were not fools, they knew their _milieu_. Theyguessed all that was being said around them and all that remainedunspoken. They had come here purposely in order to see and to be seen,to be gossiped about, to play their role of puppet before their worldas long as life lasted, and whilst Chance and Circumstance still choseto hold up the edifice of their own position of their consideration,mayhap of their honour.

  The question of the crime had not been mooted between them again:after the understanding, the look from her to him, and his humblegratitude on his knees, they had left the mystery severely alone. Hehad nothing to say, and she would never question, content that shewould know in good time; that one day she would understand what was soun-understandable just now.

  Colonel Harris alone was prostrated with trouble. Not that he doubtedLuke, but like all sober-sensed Englishmen he loathed a moral puzzle.Whilst he liked and trusted Luke, he hated the mystery which now methim at every turn, just as much as he hated the so-called problemplays which alien critics try to foist on an unwilling Anglo-Saxonpublic.

  He would have loved to hear Luke's voice saying quite frankly:

  "Of course I did not kill my cousin. I give you my word, colonel, thatI am incapable of such a thing."

  That was the only grievance which the older man of the world hadagainst the younger one. The want of frankness worried him. Luke wasinnocent of course; but, d--n it, why didn't he say so?

  And how came that accursed stick behind the railings of the park?