The Heart of a Woman

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  WHICH SPEAKS ONLY OF FAREWELLS

  The door had scarcely closed, and already she was near him.

  "Luke," she whispered, and her voice was hoarse now and choked, "thepolice!"

  "That's about it," he said. "I thought that they meant to let me getaway."

  "So father understood from Sir Thomas Ryder. What will you do, Luke?"

  "I can't do anything, I am afraid. I wanted to get away----"

  "And I have kept you--and now it is too late."

  A very little while ago she had hated the idea of his going. Luke--afugitive from justice--was a picture on which it was intolerable tolook. But now the womanly instinct rose up in revolt, at the verythought that he should be arrested, tried, and condemned! Whatmattered if he were a fugitive, if he were ostracized and despised?what mattered anything so long as he lived and she could be near him?A very little while ago, she would have done anything to keep him fromgoing; she almost longed for his arrest and the publicity of thetrial. She was so sure that truth would surely come out, that hisinnocence would of necessity be proved.

  But now, woman-like, she only longed for his safety, and forgettingall the tradition of her past life, all the old lessons ofself-restraint, forgetting everything except his immediate danger, sheclung to him with all the true passion in her, which she no longertried to keep in check.

  "No, Luke," she murmured in quick, jerky tones, "it is not toolate--not at all too late. You stay in here quietly and I'll askfather to go and speak to them. He'll tell them that you haven't comehome yet, and that he is waiting here for you himself. Father is wellknown; they won't suspect him of shielding you; and in the meanwhileyou can slip out easily; we'll send your luggage on. You can write andlet us know where you are--it is quite easy--and not too late----"

  Whilst she spoke, she was gradually edging toward the door. Her voicehad sunk to a hoarse whisper, for maddening terror almost deprived herof speech. With insistent strength she would not allow him to detainher, and he, whilst trying to hold her back, was afraid of hurtingher. But at the last when she had almost reached the door, hecontrived to forestall her, and before she could guess his purpose hehad pressed a finger on the button of the electric bell.

  She heard the distant tinkle of the bell, and this made her pause.

  "What is it, Luke?" she asked. "Why did you ring?"

  "For your father, dear," he replied simply.

  "Then you will do what I want you to?" she rejoined eagerly, "you willgo away?"

  He gave no immediate answer, for already the maid's footstep was heardalong the passage. The next moment she was knocking at the door. Lukewent up to it, gently forcing Louisa back into the shadow behind him.

  "Mary," he said, with his hand on the latch of the door, holding itslightly ajar, "just ask Colonel Harris to come here, will you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The girl was heard turning away, and walking back briskly along thepassage. Then Luke faced Louisa once again.

  He went up to her and without a word took her in his arms. It was asupreme farewell and she knew it. She felt it in the quiver of agonywhich went right through him as he pressed her so close--so close thather breath nearly left her body and her heart seemed to stand still.She felt it in the sweet, sad pain of the burning kisses with which hecovered her face, her eyes, her hair, her mouth. It was the finalpassionate embrace, the irrevocable linking of soul and heart andmind, the parting of earthly bodies, the union of immortal souls. Itwas the end of all things earthly, the beginning of things eternal.

  She understood and her resistance vanished. All that had been dark toher became suddenly transfigured and illumined. With the merging ofearthly passion into that Love which is God's breath, she--the pureand selfless woman, God's most perfect work on earth--became as God,and knew what was good and what had been evil.

  Neither of them spoke; the word "farewell" was not uttered betweenthem. His final kiss was upon her eyes, and she closed them afterthat, the better to imprint on her memory the vision of his face litup with the divine fire of an unconquerable passion.

  The entrance of Colonel Harris brought them both back to presentreality. He, poor man, looked severely troubled, and distinctly olderthan he usually did.

  "Did you want me, Luke?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir," replied the latter, "the police are here, and I thoughtthat perhaps you and Louisa would be so kind as to take Edie alongwith you. Jim is going to sleep in barracks to-night, and Edie oughtnot to stay here alone."

  "Yes. We'll take Edie," said the colonel curtly, "she'll be all rightwith us. Are you ready, Lou?"

  "Yes, dear," she replied.

  And she passed out of the door without another word, or another look.

  The supreme farewell had been spoken. Further words--even anotherkiss--would have almost desecrated its undying memory.

  The two men remained alone, and Colonel Harris without any hesitationheld out his hand to Luke de Mountford.

  "The police are here, sir," said Luke, without taking the hand thatwas offered him.

  "I know they are," muttered the other, "that's no reason why youshould refuse an old friend's hand."

  Then as Luke--hesitating no longer--placed his burning hand in that ofhis friend, Colonel Harris said quietly, almost entreatingly:

  "It's only a temporary trouble, eh, my boy? You can easily refute thisabominable charge, and prove your innocence?"

  "I think not, sir," replied Luke. "I cannot refute the charge and myinnocence will be difficult to prove."

  "But you are mad, man!" retorted the older man hotly. "You are mad!and are breaking a woman's heart!"

  "Heaven forgive me for that, sir. It is the greatest crime."

  Colonel Harris smothered a powerful oath. Luke's attitude puzzled himmore and more. And his loyalty had received such a succession ofshocks to-day that it would have been small wonder if it had begun tototter at last.

  He turned away without another word. But at the door he paused oncemore--in obvious hesitation.

  "There's nothing else I can do for you?" he asked.

  "Nothing, sir. Thank you."

  "You--you were not thinking--of----"

  "Of what, sir?" asked Luke.

  Then as he saw the other man's eyes wandering to the drawer of thedesk, he said simply:

  "Of suicide, you mean, sir?"

  Colonel Harris nodded.

  "Oh, no," rejoined Luke. And he added after a slight pause: "Not atpresent."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean that I shouldn't exactly hang for the murder of the Claphambricklayer. I shouldn't let it come to that. I am sorry I did notmanage to get away to-night. I thought they meant to let me."

  "I think they did mean to. Some blunder I suppose on the part of thesubordinates."

  "I suppose so."

  "Well, Luke," said Colonel Harris with a deep sigh, "I have known youever since you were a child, but, by G--d, man! I confess that Idon't understand you."

  "That's very kindly put, sir," rejoined Luke with the semblance of asmile. "You have every right to call me a confounded blackguard."

  "I shall only do that after your trial, my boy," said the other. "WhenI have heard you confess with your own lips that you killed thatd----d scoundrel in a moment of intense provocation."

  "I had better not keep the police waiting any longer, sir, had I?"

  "No! no! that's all right. I'll take my poor Lou away at once, andwe'll see after Edie, and Jim--we'll look after them--and Frank, too,when he comes home."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "S'long my boy."

  And Colonel Harris--puzzled, worried, and miserable--finally went outof the room. On the threshold he turned, moved by the simple andprimitive instinct of wishing to take a last look at a friend.

  He saw Luke standing there in the full light of the electric lamp,calm, quite serene, correct to the last in attitude and bearing. Theface was just a mask--marble-like and impassive--jealously guardin
gthe secrets of the soul within. Just a good-looking, well-bred youngEnglishman in fact, who looked in his elegant attire ready to startoff for some social function.

  Not a single trace either on his person or in his neat, orderlysurroundings of the appalling tragedy which would have broken thespirit of any human creature, less well-schooled in self-restraint.

  Convention was triumphant to the end.

  The man of the world--the English gentleman, hypocritical orunemotional? which?--was here ready to face abject humiliation andhopeless disgrace as impassively as he would have received the welcomeof an hostess at a dinner-party.