CHAPTER V
JUST AN OBVIOUS DUTY
But it was she who gave him an opening.
"Luke," she said, "it's all very well, but the matter does concern youin a way; far more so, in fact, than it does Lord Radclyffe. Nothingcan make any difference to Lord Radclyffe, but if what this young manasserts is all true, then it will make a world of difference to you."
"I know that. That's just the trouble."
"You were thinking of yourself?"
"No. I was thinking of you."
"Of me?"
"Yes," he said now very abruptly, quite roughly and crudely, notchoosing his words lest they helped to betray what he felt, and allthat he felt. "If what this man says is true, then I am a pennilessnonentity whom you are not going to marry."
"You are talking nonsense, Luke, and you know it," was all she said.And she said it very quietly, very decisively. He was talkingnonsense, of course, for, whatever happened or didn't happen, therewas one thing in the world that was absolutely, undeniably impossible,and that was that she should not marry Luke.
Whilst she Louisa Harris, plain, uninteresting, commonplace LouisaHarris was of this world, her marriage with Luke must be. People, inthis present day, matter-of-fact world, didn't have their heartswrenched out of them; they were not made to suffer impossible andunendurable tortures; then why should she Louisa Harris, be threatenedwith such a cataclysm?
"I am not," he was saying rather tonelessly, "talking nonsense, Lou. Ihave thought all that over. It's over eight days since that lettercame; eight times twenty-four hours since I seemed in a way to see allmy future through a thick, black cloud, and I've had time to think. Isaw you too, through that thick, black cloud--I saw you just as youare, exquisite, beautiful, like a jewel that should forever remain ina perfect setting. I----"
He broke off abruptly, and, mechanically, his hand went up to hisforehead and eyes. Where was he? He gave a sudden, quaint laugh.
"What a drivelling fool you must think me, Lou."
She looked straight at him, pure of soul, simple of heart, with apassion of tenderness and self-abnegation as yet dormant beneath theouter crust of a conventional education and of commonplacesurroundings, but with the passion there nevertheless. And it wasexpressed in the sudden, strange luminosity of her eyes--I would nothave you think that they were tears--as they met and held his own.
They didn't say anything more just then. People of their type andclass in England do not say much, you know, under such circumstances.They have been drilled not to: drilled and drilled from childhoodupward, from the time when, after a fall and a cut lip or brokentooth, the tears have to be held back, lest the words "snivel" or"cry-baby" be mentioned. But quietude does not necessarily meanfreedom from pain. A cut lip hurts worse when it is not wetted withtears.
It was only the shadow that was hovering over these two as yet:nothing really tangible. And the shadow was not between them. Shewould not let it come between them. If it covered him, it should wrapher too. The commonplace woman had no fear of its descent, only as faras it affected him.
"Nothing," she said after awhile, "could make a difference to ourmarriage, Luke. Except, of course, if you ceased to care."
"Or you, Lou," he suggested meekly.
"Do you think," she retorted, "that I should? Just because you had nomoney?"
"Not," he owned, "because of that. But I should be such a nonentity. Ihave no real profession, and there are the others. Jim in the Bluescosts a fearful lot a year, and Frank in the diplomatic service musthave his promised allowance. I have read for the bar, but beyond thatwhat am I?"
"Your uncle's right hand," she retorted firmly, "his agent, hissecretary, his factotum, all rolled into one. You manage his estates,his charities, his correspondence. You write his speeches and controlhis household. Lord Radclyffe--every one says it in London--would notbe himself at all without Luke de Mountford behind him."
"That's not what I mean, Lou."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that--"
He paused a moment then added with seeming irrelevance:
"We all know that Uncle Rad is a curious kind of man. If this storyturns out to be true, he would still say nothing, but he would fretand fret and worry himself into his grave."
"The story," she argued obstinately, "will not turn out to be true.It's not like you, Luke, to jump at conclusions, or to be afraid of anightmare."
"I am not afraid," he rejoined simply. "But I must look atpossibilities. Yes, dear," he continued more forcibly, "it is possiblethat this story is true. No good saying that it is impossible:improbable if you like, but not impossible. Look at it how you like,you must admit that it is not impossible. Uncle Arthur may havemarried in Martinique; he was out there in 1881; he may have had ason; his telling no one about his marriage is not to be wondered at;he was always reticent and queer about his own affairs. This Philipmay possibly be Uncle Rad's sole and rightful heir, and I may possiblybe a beggar."
She uttered an exclamation of incredulity. Luke, a beggar! Luke theone man in all the world, different from every other man! Luke oustedby that stranger upstart!
God hath too much sense of humour to allow so ridiculous a Fate towork her silly caprice.
"And," she said with scorn, "because of all these absurd possibilitiesyou talk of breaking off your engagement to me. Do you care so littleas all that, Luke?"
He did not reply, but continued to walk beside her, just a yard or soapart from her, turning his steps in the direction of the gates,toward the Albert Bridge, their nearest way home. She--meekly now, foralready she was sorry--turned to look at him. Something in hisattitude, the stoop of the shoulders, usually so square and erect,the hands curiously clasped behind his back, told her that hershaft--very thoughtlessly aimed--had struck even deeper than itshould.
"I am so sorry, dear," she said gently.
His look forgave her, even before the words were fully out of hermouth, but with characteristic reticence, he made no reply to hertaunt. Strangely enough she was satisfied that he should say nothing.The look, which did not reproach even whilst it tried to conceal theinfinite depth of the wound so lightly dealt, had told her more thanany words could do. Whatever Luke decided to do, it would be from asense of moral obligation, that desire for doing the right thing--inthe worldly sense of the term--which is inherent in Englishmen of acertain class. No sentiment save that of a conventional one of honourwould be allowed to sway her destiny and his.
Conventionality--that same strained sense of honour and duty--decreedthat under certain mundane circumstances a man and woman should notmate. Differences of ancestry, of parentage, of birth and of country,divergence of taste, of faith, of belief--all these matter not onejot. But let the man be beggared and the woman rich, and conventionsteps in and says, "It shall not be!"
These two bowed to that decree: unconventional, in so far that theyboth made the sacrifice out of the intense purity of their sentimentto one another. They made an absolutely worldly sacrifice for a whollyunworldly motive. Luke would as soon have thought of seeing Louisa ina badly fitting serge frock, and paying twopence for a two-mile ridein an omnibus, as he would expect to see a diamond tiara packed in acard-board box, it would be unfair on the jeweller who had made thetiara thus to subject it to rough treatment; and it would be equallyunfair on the Creator of Louisa to let her be buffeted about by thecruder atoms of this world.
Louisa only thought of Luke and that perhaps he would feel happier inhis mind if she allowed him to make this temporary sacrifice.
There is such wonderful balm in self-imposed sacrifice.
"What," she asked simply, "do you want me to say, Luke?"
"Only that--that you won't give me up altogether unless----"
Here he checked himself abruptly. Was there ever an Englishman bornwho could talk sentiment at moments such as this? Luke was noexception to that rule. There was so much that he wanted to say toLouisa, and yet the very words literally choked him before he couldcontrive to utter th
em.
"Don't," she said quietly, "let us even refer to such things, Luke. Ido not believe in this shadow, and I cannot even understand why youshould worry about it. But whatever happens, I should never give youup. Never. We will put off fixing the day of our wedding; since wehave made no announcement this won't matter at all: but I only agreeto this because I think that it is what you would like. I fancy thatit would ease your mind. As for breaking our engagement in thefuture--in case the worst happens--well it shall not be with myconsent, Luke, unless you really cease to care."
They had reached the gate close to the bridge. Life pulsated all roundthem, the life of the big city, callous, noisy, and cruel. Omnibuses,cabs, heavy vans, rattled incessantly past them. People jostled oneanother, hurrying and scurrying, pigmies and ants adding their tinyload of work, of care, of sorrow to the titanic edifice of this livingworld.
Louisa's last words remained unanswered. Luke had, by his silence,said everything there was to say. They stood on the pavement for amoment, and Luke hailed a passing taxicab.
At the corner opposite, an omnibus pulled up on its way westward. Aman stepped off the curb ready to enter it. Louisa caught his eye, andhe raised his hat--the man who had passed them in the park just now.