AND THUS THE SHADOW DESCENDED
From within the hum of a man's voice--speaking low and
insistently--still came softly through. Luke, with the prodigality of
youth, would have given ten years of his life for the gift of
second-sight, to know what went on between those four walls beyond the
door where he himself stood expectant, undecided, and more than
vaguely anxious.
"Luke!"
It was quite natural that Louisa should stand here beside him, having
come to him softly, noiselessly, like the embodiment of moral
strength, and a common-sense which was almost a virtue.
"Uncle Rad," he said quietly, "has locked himself in with this man."
"Who is it, Luke?"
"The man who calls himself Philip de Mountford."
"How do you know?"
"How does one," he retorted, "know such things?"
"And Parker let him in?"
"He gave Parker a five-pound note. Parker is only a grasping fool. He
concocted the story of Mr. Dobson and the lease. He is always
listening at key-holes, and he knows that Mr. Dobson often sends up a
clerk with papers for Uncle Rad's signature. Those things are not
very difficult to manage. If one man is determined, and the other
corruptible, it's done sooner or later."
"Is Lord Radclyffe safe with that man, do you think?"
"God grant it," he replied fervently.
Jim and Edie made a noisy irruption into the hall, and Luke and Louisa
talked ostentatiously of indifferent things--the weather, Lent, and
the newest play, until the young people had gathered up coats and hats
and banged the street door to behind them, taking their breeziness,
their optimism, away with them out into the spring air, and leaving
the shadows of the on-coming tragedy to foregather in every angle of
the luxurious house in Grosvenor Square.
And there were Luke de Mountford and Louisa Harris left standing alone
in the hall; just two very ordinary, very simple-souled young people,
face to face for the first time in their uneventful lives with the
dark problem of a grim "might be." A locked door between them and the
decisions of Fate; a world of possibilities in the silence which now
reigned beyond that closed door.
They were--remember--wholly unprepared for it, untrained for any such
eventuality. Well-bred and well-brought up, yet were they totally
uneducated in the great lessons of life. It was as if a man absolutely
untutored in science were suddenly to be confronted with a
mathematical problem, the solution or non-solution of which would mean
life or death to him. The problem lay in the silence beyond the locked
door--silence broken now and again by the persistently gentle hum of
the man's voice--the stranger's--but never by a word from Lord
Radclyffe.
"Uncle Rad," said Luke at last in deep puzzlement, "has never raised
his voice once. I thought that there would be a row--that he would
turn the man out of the house. Dear old chap! he hasn't much patience
as a rule."
"What shall we do, Luke?" she asked.
"How do you mean?"
"You can't go on standing like that in the hall as if you were
eavesdropping. The servants will be coming through presently."
"You are right, Lou," he said, "as usual. I'll go into the
dining-room. I could hear there if anything suspicious was happening
in the library."
"You are not afraid, Luke?"
"For Uncle Rad, you mean?"
"Of course."
"I hardly know whether I am or not. No," he added decisively after a
moment's hesitation, "I am not afraid of violence--the fellow whom we
saw in the park did not look that sort."
He led Louisa back into the dining-room, where a couple of footmen
were clearing away the luncheon things. The melancholy Parker placed
cigar box and matches on a side table and then retired--silent and
with a wealth of reproach expressed in his round, beady eyes.
Soon Luke and Louisa were alone. He smoked and she sat in a deep
arm-chair close to him saying nothing, for both knew what went on in
the other's mind.
Close on an hour went by and then the tinkle of a distant bell broke
the silence. Voices were heard somewhat louder of tone in the library,
and Lord Radclyffe's sounded quite distinct and firm.
"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, "at Mr.---- Tell me the name
and address again, please."
The door leading from library to hall was opened. A footman helped the
stranger on with coat and hat. Then the street door banged to again,
and once more the house lapsed into silence and gloom.
"I think I had better go now."
Louisa rose, and Luke said in matter-of-fact tones:
"I'll put you into a cab."
"No," she said, "I prefer to walk. I am going straight back to the
Langham. Will you go to the Ducies' At Home to-night?"
"Yes," he said, "just to see you."
"You'll know more by then."
"I shall know all there is to know."
"Luke," she said, "you are not afraid?"
It was the second time she had put the question to him, but this time
its purport was a very different one. He understood it nevertheless,
for he replied simply:
"Only for you."
"Why for me?"
"Because, Lou, you are just all the world to me--and a man must feel a
little afraid when he thinks he may lose the world."
"Not me, Luke," she said, "you would not lose me--whatever happened."
"Let me get you a cab."
He was English, you see, and could not manage to say anything just
then. The floodgates of sentiment might burst asunder now with the
slightest word uttered that was not strictly commonplace. Louisa
understood, else she had not loved him as she did. It never occurred
to her to think that he was indifferent. Nay more! his sudden
transition from sentiment to the calling of a cab--from sentiment to
the trivialities of life pleased her in its very essence of
incongruity.
"I said I would walk," she reminded him, smiling.
Then she gave him her hand. It was still gloveless and he took it in
his, turning the palm upward so that he might bury his lips in its
delicately perfumed depths. His kiss almost scalded her flesh, his
lips were burning hot. Passion held in check will consume with inward
fire, whilst its expression often cools like the Nereid's embrace.
He went to the door with her and watched her slender, trim figure
walking rapidly away until it disappeared round the corner of the
Square.
When he turned back into the hall, he found himself face to face with
Lord Radclyffe. Not Uncle Rad--but an altogether different man, an old
man now with the cynical lines round the mouth accentuated and
deepened into furrows, the eyes hollow and colourless, the shoulders
bent as if under an unbearable load.
"Uncle Rad," said Luke speaking very gently, forcing his voice to
betray nothing of anxiety or surprise, "can I do anything for you?"
But even at sight of his nephew, of the man who had hitherto always
succeeded in dissipating by his very presence every cloud on the
misanthrope's brow, even at sight of him Lord Radclyffe seemed to
shrink within himself, his face became almost ashen in its pallor, and
lines of cruel hardness quite disfigured his mouth.
"I want to be alone to-day," he said dryly. "Tell them to send me up
some tea in the afternoon. I'll go to my room now--I shan't want any
dinner."
"But, sir, won't you----?"
"I want to be alone to-day," the old man reiterated tonelessly, "and
to be left alone."
"Very well, sir."
Lord Radclyffe walked slowly toward the staircase. Luke--his heart
torn with anxiety and sorrow--saw how heavy was the old man's step,
how listless his movements. The younger man's instinct drew him
instantly to the side of the elder. He placed an affectionate hand on
his uncle's shoulder.
"Uncle Rad," he said appealingly, "can't I do anything for you?"
Lord Radclyffe turned and for a moment his eyes softened as they
rested on the face he loved so well. His wrinkled hand sought the
firm, young one which lingered on his shoulder. But he did not take
it, only put it gently aside, then said quietly:
"No, my boy, there's nothing you can do, except to leave me alone."
Then he went up stairs and shut himself up in his own room, and Luke
saw him no more that day.