CHAPTER XXXIX
A MERE WOMAN FIGHTING FOR THE THING SHE LOVED
Louisa reached the landing slightly out of breath. She knew her way about the old house very well. Two doors now were opposite to her. One of these had been left ajar—intentionally no doubt. It was the one that gave on a smaller morning room, where in the olden days Lord Radclyffe used to have his breakfast and write his private letters: the library being given over to Mr. Warren and to official correspondence.
From this side of the house and right through the silence that hung over 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 indifference born of long usage they were enjoying every minute of the brief respite accorded them, content to wait for the doctor's call if the patient had immediate need of them.
Through the chink of the door, the red glow of a shaded lamp came as a sharp 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 desk had been pushed aside, and a small iron bedstead fitted up for the night nurse. A woman's paraphernalia was scattered about on the massive early Victorian furniture: a comb and brush, a cap and apron neatly folded, a couple of long pins, littered the table which used to look so severe with its heavy inkstand and firm blotting-pad. The piano had been relegated into a corner, and the portrait of Luke which always hung over the mantlepiece had been removed.
The door into the bedroom was wide open, and without any hesitation Louisa went in. The bed was immediately in front of her, and between it and the hanging lamp beyond a screen had been placed, so that the upper part of the sick man's figure was invisible at first in the gloom, and the light lay like a red patch right across the quilt at the foot.
Louisa advanced noiselessly and then halted beside the bed. The room was pleasantly warm, and the smell of disinfectants, of medicines, and of lavender water hung in the air—the air of a sick room, oppressive and enervating.
Gradually Louisa's eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness. She fixed them on the sick man who lay quite still against the pillows, his face no less white than the linen against which it rested. Louisa had no idea that any man could alter so in such brief while. It almost seemed difficult to recognize in the white emaciated figure that lay there with the stillness of death, the vigorous man of a few months ago.
The face had the appearance of wax, deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth accentuating its hollow appearance: the hair was almost snow-white now and clung matted and damp to the forehead and 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 wall immediately opposite to the bed. Louisa looked to see on what those eyes were gazing so intently, and turning she saw the splendid portrait of Luke de Mountford painted by the greatest living master of portraiture, which we all admired in the rooms of the Royal Academy a few years ago. It had been taken away from the boudoir, and brought in here so that the sick man might have the semblance now that he was parted from the reality.
Only a feeble breath escaped Lord Radclyffe's parted lips: there was no distortion in the face, and the hands lay still, waxen-white, against the quilt. Louisa looked down on the sick man without, at first, attempting to speak. She looked down on this the last cord of hope's broken lute, the frail thread on which hung Luke's one chance of safety: this feeble life almost ended, this weak breath which alone could convey words of hope! For the moment Louisa's heart almost misgave her, when she thought of what she meant to do: to bring, namely, this wandering spirit back to earth, in order to make it conscious of such misery as no heart of man could endure and not break. It seemed like purposeless, inhuman cruelty!
Even if she could call that enfeebled mind back to the hideous realities of to-day, what chance was there that the few words which this dying man could utter would be those that could save Luke from the gallows?
Was it not better to let the broken heart sink to rest in peace, the weakened mind go back to the land of shadows unconscious of further sorrow?
Uncertain now, and vaguely fearful she looked up at the portrait of Luke. The eyes in the magnificently painted portrait seemed endowed with amazing vitality. To the loving, heart-broken woman it seemed as if 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 awful fate which must inevitably befall the man whom he loved with such strange, such enduring affection?
Or did those eyes ask for help there, where no other human being could lend assistance now?
"Lord Radclyffe!"
The words escaped her suddenly, almost frightening her, though all along she knew that she had meant to speak.
"Do you know me, Lord Radclyffe?" she said again, "it is Louisa Harris."
No reply. The great eyes with the shadow of death over them were gazing on the face on which they had always loved to dwell.
"Lord Radclyffe," she reiterated, and the deep notes of her contralto voice quivered with the poignancy of her emotion, "Luke is in very great danger, the gravest possible danger that can befall any man. Do you understand me?"
Again no reply. But the great eyes—sunken and glassy—slowly fell from the picture to her face.
"Luke," she repeated, dwelling on the word, "I must speak to you about Luke."
And the lips, stiff and cold, opened slightly and from between them escaped the word, feebly, like the breath of a dying man:
"Luke!"
"He is in grave danger. Lord Radclyffe," she said slowly, "in danger of 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 as those of a lifeless image, began to tremble visibly, and the eyes—those great, hollow eyes—had a searching, anxious expression in them 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 and with 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 they were drawn back against the figure, then used as a leverage. With a sudden accession of strength, the sick man slowly but steadily drew himself up, away from the pillows, until he was almost sitting up in bed. There was understanding in the eyes now, understanding and an awful look of horror.
"It is not true!" he murmured.
"It is true," she said. "Luke was known to have quarrelled with Philip de Mountford, and the dagger-stick with which the crime was committed was found in the park—stained with blood—the dagger-stick which belonged to Luke."
"Luke didn't do it," murmured the sick man.
"I know that he didn't," she replied firmly, "but he pleads guilty. He owns 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 hands rested on the quilt as if modelled in wax. The eyes were closed, and from between the pale, parted lips not the faintest breath seemed to escape. Helpless and anxious, Louisa looked round her. On a table close by stood an array of bottles. She went up to it, trying to read the labels, wondering if there was anything there that was a powerful restorative. She found a small bottle labelled "brandy" and took it up in her hand, but as she looked up again, she saw Doctor Newington standing in the doorway of the boudoir. One of the nurses was with him, and he was armed with his most pompous and most professional manner.
"What are you doing here?" he asked sternly.
"I think," she replied, trying to master her excitement, "that Lord Radclyffe has fainted. I did not know what to do."
"I should think not indeed," he said; "and why did you not ring for the 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 at once."
Baffled and miserable, she stood for a moment hesitating, vaguely wondering 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 from where she stood, she had to go past the foot of the bed.
The nurse was busy administering restoratives, and Doctor Newington had taken up the attitude dear to every Englishman: his stand upon the hearth rug, and his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. He was treating Louisa like a disobedient child, and she had no one to appeal to in this moment of complete helplessness.
One moment only did she debate with herself. The nurse just then had gone to a side table to fetch some brandy. The patient, so Louisa heard her tell the doctor, had not actually fainted; he was merely in a 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 the doctor or nurse could prevent her, she had bent right over the sick man and whispered close to his ear:
"Lord Radclyffe, unless you make an effort now, to-morrow Luke will be standing in the dock—branded as a felon. Make an effort for Luke's sake!"
And the spirit which had gone wandering in the land of shadows came back 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 ready to fight the doctor now. The conventional woman of the world was transformed into just a mere woman fighting for the thing she loved—child, lover, or husband, it is all the same when that womanly instinct of combat is aroused.
Doctor Newington would have had to take Louisa Harris by the shoulders now if he meant to eject her: for until the patient spoke, here she meant to remain.
"Doctor," she quietly, "you have another duty to perform than that of watching over your patient. An innocent man is accused of a terrible crime. Lord Radclyffe, though very weak, is fully conscious. If he can save 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. Doctor Newington, in all his professional experience, had never been placed in such an extraordinary dilemma. He was not quite so obstinate about the whole thing as he had originally been, and a kind of hopeless bewilderment showed itself upon his face.
"Will you send for Sir Thomas, doctor?" asked Louisa. "You see that Lord Radclyffe wishes it."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. The responsibility was getting all too heavy for him. Besides being a fashionable physician, he was also a man, and as such not altogether inhuman. He had seen much acute suffering, both mental and physical, throughout the length of his career, but never had he been brought face to face with such an acute psychological problem, and—frankly—he did not know how to deal with it.
So he sent the nurse to ask Sir Thomas Ryder once more to step up stairs, whilst he himself went up to his patient, and with the mechanical 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. "I don't."
The sick man, on the other hand, seemed to be husbanding his strength. He had most obediently taken the brandy which had been given him, and now he lay back quietly among the pillows, with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. The hands wandered somewhat restlessly along the smooth surface of the quilt, otherwise Lord Radclyffe lay perfectly still. It even seemed—to Louisa's super-sensitive gaze—as if an expression of content had settled over the pale face. Once the sick man opened his eyes and looked up at the portrait: the lips murmured the one word:
"Luke!" and slowly, very slowly, two tears formed in the sunken eyes and trickled down the wan cheeks.
"You had better," said the doctor curtly, "leave the patient to me and to 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 on the landing outside. Quietly she relinquished her place beside the bed, 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 met under the lintel of the door.
"He seems stronger," she whispered pointing to the sick man. "I think that he will make an effort—for Luke's sake."
She waited a moment in the door-way, until she saw Sir Thomas Ryder installed 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 the morning room, and moved by some unaccountable impulses she went to the piano and opening it, she sat down, and with exquisite softness began to play the opening bars of one of her favourite songs.
She sang hardly above a whisper: the velvety tones of her voice sounded like the murmur of ghosts through the heavy tapestries of the room. Whenever her voice died away in the intervals of the song she could hear the hum of men's voices, her uncle's low and clear, now and then a word from the doctor, and through it all the voice of the sick man, feeble and distinct, speaking the words that would mean life to Luke.