AND THE PUPPETS DANCED
And so he went to meet Louisa and Colonel Harris at the Danish
Legation, and found them a taxicab and generally saw to their
comparative comfort.
There was no restraint between the three of them. It was as natural to
them all to avoid speaking of important matters on the door step of a
neighbour's house, as it was to eat or drink or breathe. So Luke asked
if the dinner had been enjoyable and the reception crowded, and
Colonel Harris comfortably complained of both. He hated foreign
cooking, and society crushes, and had endured both to-night. No doubt
the terrible events of this night, as yet mere shadows--hardly
admitted to be real--were weighing on the kind old man's usual hearty
spirits.
But so versed were they all in the art of make believe that each one
individually was able to register in the innermost depths of an
anxious heart the firm conviction that the other "had not heard."
Luke was convinced that the gruesome and sordid news could not have
penetrated within the gorgeous mansion where Lou in an exquisite gown
had sung modern songs in her pure contralto voice. He felt sure that
neither Lou nor Colonel Harris had heard that Philip de Mountford had
been murdered in a taxicab and that police officers had thought fit
to speak to him--Luke--in tones of contemptuous familiarity. Nay more!
now that he himself sat thus opposite good-natured, prosy, sensible
Colonel Harris, he began to think that he must have been dreaming,
that the whole thing could not have occurred, but that he had imagined
it all whilst leaning against the garden-railings trying to strain his
ears so that they should hear the soft faint echo of that pure
contralto voice.
Perhaps the wish had been father to the thought; whilst gazing up at
those brilliantly illumined windows, he might in his heart of hearts
have wished the non-existence of Philip--not his death, but the
annihilation of the past few months, the non-advent of the intruder:
and, thus wishing, he may have imagined the whole thing--the murder in
the cab, the police officer on the door step of the old home in
Grosvenor Square.
A sense of supreme well-being encompassed him now. Lou sat opposite to
him. He could not distinguish her face in the gloom, only the outline
of her head with the soft brown hair perfectly dressed by the hand of
an accomplished maid: Lou, the personification of modernity, of
ordinary commonplace life, but exquisite--just the woman whom he loved
with every fibre of his heart, every tendril of his being and every
sense within him. A soft perfume of sweet peas clung to her gown and
was wafted to his nostrils. He closed his eyes, and drew in a long
breath of supreme delight. Now and then as the cab gave a jerk his
knee came in contact with hers, and down on the ground quite close to
his own there rested a small neatly shod foot, the sole of which he
would have given his heart's blood to kiss.
Oh, yes; he was quite, quite happy: this was reality: his exquisite
Louisa, the outline of her perfect head, the touch of her knee, the
scent of sweet peas which intoxicated him and whipped his senses to
madness and to dreams. It was reality and the other was only the wild
phantasmagoria of a wild imagination--the insane thought born of
insane desire. In the darkness which enveloped him and Lou, he could,
you see, give free rein to himself. The world was not gaping;
conventionality held no sway within these four narrow walls; the
puppet could loosen the string which had forced it to dance, it could
lie placid for awhile, dead to the world, but enjoying its own
existence and its own vitality.
And Lou, watching him in that same darkness which concealed him
entirely, save to her eyes of watchfulness, believed that he had heard
nothing as yet. She vaguely combated the desire to tell him everything
then and there, so that he should hear the worst and the best from her
lips rather than through indifferent channels later on.
But with that subtle perception peculiar to her--the modern,
commonplace woman of the world--she divined that he was living for the
moment in a world of his own, from which it was sacrilege to try and
drag him away.
Just then the cab drew up outside the Langham Hotel. The every-day
world had returned with its flaring electric lights, its hall porters,
its noise and bustle, and chased away the illusions of the past few
moments. Luke jumped out, ready to help Lou down--a happy second that,
for her hand must needs rest in his.
The glare of the electric lamp above fell full on his face, which was
serene, placid, the usual mask of supreme indifference: only Louisa
read beyond the mask, and as her hand rested in his for just a thought
longer than conventionality allowed, she realized that he knew
everything: the murder, the horror, and the suspicion which had
touched him already with the tip of its sable wing.
Her eyes, and the pressure of her hand bade him "good-night" and she
passed on into the lighted hall of the hotel. He followed Colonel
Harris into the lobby.
"You have heard?" he asked quickly and in a whisper, lest Lou should
hear.
"Yes," replied the other.
"And Louisa? Does she know?"
"Gossip was all over the confounded place," was Colonel Harris's
muttered comment.
"But you've heard no details?"
"No. Have you?"
"Very little. Only what the police officer chose to tell me."
"Then," queried the older man, "it's an absolute fact?"
"Absolute, unfortunately."
"Hm! As to that--have you seen your uncle?"
"No. I went round as soon as I knew, but the police had forestalled me
and broken the news to him."
"But why didn't you see him?"
"He sent word that he would rather I come back in the morning.
Philip's influence still prevalent, you see."
"Well, it's a confounded business," ejaculated Colonel Harris with
hearty conviction, "but I'm not going to lament over it. After all's
said and done it's a very simple way out of an impossible situation."
"A very horrible way."
"Bah!"
And the good-natured old man shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of
supreme indifference.
"Well," said Luke quietly, "it's late now, sir. You'll want to get to
bed."
"Well," retorted the other with quite a touch of joviality "it's an
ill wind--you know."
"Good night, sir."
"Good night, my boy. How will you get back?"
"Oh, a taxi is the quickest. Edie might have heard something, and be
anxious. I must hurry home now."
Louisa was standing in the hall at the top of the steps. Luke raised
his hat to her and having shaken hands with Colonel Harris quietly
turned to go, and was soon lost in the gloom beyond.
No one who had been standing in the lobby of the hotel would have
guessed that these three people who had talked and bowed and shaken
hands so quietly were facing one of life's most appalling, most
overwhelming tragedies.
The world's puppets had been strung up again, because indifferent eyes
were there to watch and gape, and in the presence of these modern
Bulls of Bashan the puppets danced to the prevalent tune.