AND THERE ARE SOCIAL DUTIES TO PERFORM
The first November fog.
The world had wagged on its matter-of-fact way for more than six
months now, since that day in April when Philip de Mountford--under
cover of lies told by Parker--had made his way into Lord Radclyffe's
presence: more than five months since the favoured nephew had been so
unceremoniously thrust out of his home.
Spring had yielded to summer, summer given way to autumn, and already
winter was treading hard on autumn's heels. The autumn session had
filled London with noise and bustle, with political dinner parties and
monster receptions, with new plays at all the best theatres, and
volumes of ephemeral literature.
And all that was--to-night--wrapped in a dense fog, the first of the
season, quite a stranger, too, in London, for scientists had asserted
positively that the era of the traditional "pea-souper" was over; the
metropolis would know it no more.
Colonel Harris was in town with his sister, Lady Ryder, and Louisa,
and swearing at London weather in true country fashion. He declared
that fogs paralyzed his intellect that he became positively imbecile,
not knowing how to fight his way in the folds of such a black pall.
Taxicab drivers he mistrusted; in fact, he had all an old sportsman's
hatred of mechanically propelled vehicles, whilst he flatly refused to
bring valuable horses up to town, to catch their death of cold whilst
waiting about in the fog.
So Luke had promised to pilot the party as far as the Danish Legation,
where they were to dine to-night. This was the only condition under
which Colonel Harris would consent to enter one of those confounded
motors.
Colonel Harris had remained loyal to the core to Luke and to his
fortunes. It is a way old sportsmen have, and he had never interfered
by word or innuendo in Louisa's actions with regard to her engagement.
His daughter was old enough, he said, to know her own mind. She liked
Luke, and it would be shabby to leave him in the lurch, now that the
last of the society rats were scurrying to leave the sinking ship.
They were doing it, too, in a mighty hurry. The invitations which the
penniless younger son received toward the end of the London season
were considerably fewer than those which were showered on him at its
beginning before the world had realized that Philip de Mountford had
come to stay, and would one day be Earl of Radclyffe with a rent roll
of eighty thousand pounds a year, and the sore need of a wife.
It had all begun with the bridge parties. Luke would no longer play,
since he could no longer afford to lose a quarter's income at one
sitting. Uncle Rad used to shrug indifferent shoulders at such losses,
and place blank checks at the dear boy's disposal. Imagine then how
welcome Luke was at bridge parties, and how very undesirable now.
Then he could no longer make return for hospitable entertainments. He
had no home to which to ask smart friends. Lord Radclyffe though a
monster of ill-humour, gave splendid dinner parties at which Luke was
quasi host. Now it was all give and no take; and the givers retired
one by one, quite unregretted by Luke, who thus was spared the
initiative of turning his back on his friends. They did the turning,
quite politely but very effectually. Luke scarcely noticed how he was
dropping out of his former circle. He was over-absorbed and really did
not care. Moreover his dress clothes were getting shabby.
To-night at the Langham, when he arrived at about seven o'clock so as
to have an undisturbed half hour with Lou, Colonel Harris greeted him
with outstretched hand and a cordial welcome.
"Hello, Luke, my boy! how goes it with you?"
Louisa said nothing, but her eyes welcomed him, and she drew him near
her, on to the sofa in front of the fire, and allowed her hand to rest
in his, for she knew how he loved the touch of it. People were
beginning to say that Louisa Harris was getting old: she never had
been good-looking, poor thing, but always smart, very smart--now she
was losing her smartness, and what remained?
She had come up to town this autumn in last autumn's frocks! and the
twins were after all being chaperoned by their aunt. Would that absurd
engagement never be broken off? Fancy Louisa Harris married to a poor
man! Why, she did not know how to do her hair, and dresses were still
worn fastened at the back, and would be for years to come! Louisa
Harris and no French maid! Cheap corsets and cleaned gloves! It was
unthinkable.
Perhaps the engagement was virtually broken off--anyhow the wedding
could never take place.
Unless Philip de Mountford happened to die.
But it did not look as if the engagement was broken off. Not at any
rate on this raw November evening, when there was a dense fog outside,
but a bright, cheery fire and plenty of light in the little sitting
room at the Langham, and Luke sat on the sofa beside Louisa, and plain
Louisa--in last autumn's gown--looking at him with her candid,
luminous eyes.
"How is Lord Radclyffe?" asked Colonel Harris.
"Badly," replied Luke, "I am afraid. He looks very feeble, and his
asthma I know must bother him. He was always worse in foggy weather."
"He ought to go to Algeciras. He always used to."
"I know," assented Luke dejectedly.
"Can't something be done? Surely, Luke, you haven't lost all your
influence with him."
"Every bit, sir. Why, I hardly ever see him."
"Hardly ever see him?" ejaculated Colonel Harris, and I am afraid that
he swore.
"I haven't been to Grosvenor Square for over six weeks. I am only
allowed to see him when Philip is out, or by special permission from
Philip. I won't go under such conditions."
"How that house must have altered!"
"You wouldn't know it, sir: All the old servants have gone, one after
the other; they had rows with Philip and left at a month's notice. I
suppose he has no idea how to set about getting new ones--I know I
shouldn't! There's only a man and his wife, a sort of charwoman who
cleans and cooks, and the man is supposed to look after Uncle Rad; but
he doesn't do it, for he is half seas over most of the time."
"Good God!" murmured Colonel Harris.
"They have shut up all the rooms, except the library where Uncle Rad
and Philip have their meals when they are at home. But they lunch and
dine at their club mostly."
"What club do they go to? I called in at the Atheneum last night,
thinking to find Radclyffe there, but the hall porter told me that he
never went there now."
"No. He and Philip have joined some new club in Shaftesbury
Avenue--The Veterans' I think it is called."
"Some low, mixed-up kind of place! Old Radclyffe must be out of his
senses!"
"He likes it, so he tells me, because people don't come and bother him
there."
"I should think not indeed. I wouldn't set foot in such a place."
"He goes there most evenings, and so does Philip--and it's so bad for
Uncle Rad to be out late these foggy nights."
"You ought to make an effort and stop it, Luke."
"I have made many efforts, sir. But, as a matter of fact, I had made
up my mind to make a final one to-night. Uncle Rad ought to go abroad,
and I thought I would try to impress this on Philip. He can't be a bad
man."
"Oh! can't he?" was Colonel Harris's muttered comment.
"At any rate, if I have no influence, he has, and he must exert it and
get Uncle Rad down to Algeciras or anywhere he likes so long as it is
well south."
Luke paused awhile, his face flushed with this expression of
determination which must have caused his pride many a bitter pang.
Then he resumed more quietly:
"It's rather humiliating, isn't it, to go to that man as a
suppliant?"
"Don't go as a suppliant, my boy. You must insist on your uncle being
properly looked after."
Colonel Harris thought all that sort of thing so easy. One always does
before one has had a genuine tussle with the unpleasant realities of
life; to the good country squire with an assured position, an assured
income, assured influence, it seemed very easy indeed to insist. He
himself never had to insist; things occurred round him and at his
word, as it were, of themselves.
But Louisa, knowing how matters stood, made no suggestion. She knew
that Luke would do his best, but that that best was of little avail
now; as Philip de Mountford arranged so it would all come about.
Friends and well-wishers could but pray that the intruder was not a
bad man, and that he had his uncle's health at heart.
She gave the signal to go, saying simply,
"We mustn't be late for dinner, father, must we?"
And she rose to go, held back by the hand, by Luke's fervent
insistence.
He could not accustom himself to part from her, as he often had to do.
It seemed absurd, but undeniable. He was supremely happy in her
company, and snatched as much of it as ever he could; but the wrench
was always awful and Louisa--subtly comprehensive--was conscious of
the terrible pain which she gave him at every parting. She felt the
repercussion of it in all her nerves, although her sound common-sense
condemned the sensation as unreal.
To-night the feeling was even stronger than it had ever been before.
At her first suggestion that it was time to go, an elusive current
passed from him to her. He had been holding her hand, and his had
been cool and only slightly on the quiver from time to time when her
own fingers pressed more markedly against his. But now, all at once it
seemed as if a sudden current of lava had penetrated his veins; his
hand almost scorched her own, and though visibly it did not move, yet
she felt the pulses throbbing and trembling beneath the flesh. The
look of misery in his face made her own heart ache though she tried to
smile with easy gaiety.
"To-morrow we go to the Temple Show together; don't forget, Luke."
Her words seemed to recall him from another world, and he quickly
enough pulled himself together and helped her on with her cloak.
Colonel Harris with the gentle tactfulness peculiar to kind hearts had
loudly announced that he would be waiting in the hall.
"Anything the matter, Luke?" she asked as soon as her father had gone
from the room.
He contrived to smile and to look unconcerned.
"Not particularly," he replied.
"You seem different to-night, somehow."
"How different?"
"I can't explain. But you are not yourself."
"Myself more than ever. My adoration for you is more
uncontrolled--that is all."
She wrapped herself up in her furs, for it was silence that gave the
best response. And then he said quite calmly:
"Will you go first. I'll switch off the light."
"Father will be waiting down stairs," she rejoined.
Then she went past him and out through the door, and he had to go back
to the mantel-piece where one of the electric light switches was. He
turned off the light; the room remained in darkness save where the
dying embers of the fire threw a red glow on the sofa where she had
sat with him, and the footstool on which her evening shoe had rested.
And the conventional man of the world, schooled from childhood onward
to discipline and self-control, fell on both knees against that mute
footstool, and leaning forward he pressed his burning lips against the
silk cushions of the sofa, which still bore the impress and the
fragrance of her exquisite shoulders.
Then he, too, went out of the room.