AND THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO DO NOT CARE
For the first time in the whole course of her life Louisa Harris felt
that convention must be flouted and social duties could not be
fulfilled.
When the coroner, rising from his seat, gave the signal for general
exodus, she had felt her father's firm hand grasping her arm, and
leading her out of the fog-ridden, stuffy room into the cold, gray
passages outside.
The herd of cackling geese were crowding round her. Heavens above, how
they cackled and gossiped! It seemed as if the very floodgates of a
noisy, bubbling stream had been torn asunder, and a whirlpool of
chattering women been let loose upon the earth.
Convention, grim and untractable, tried to pull the string to make all
puppets dance. But for once Louisa Harris rebelled. She closed her
ears to insinuating calls from her friends, responding with a mere
curt nod to the most gushing "Oh, Miss Harris! how are you?" which
greeted her from every side.
She turned her back resolutely on convention. The slave for once
rebelled against the taskmaster: the puppet refused to dance to the
ever-wearying monotonous tune.
She had lost sight of Luke the moment the court rose. She supposed
that his solicitor, Mr. Dobson, knowing the ropes, had got him away
from the reach of cackling geese by leading him through some other
more private way. But she was far too dazed, too numb, either to
wonder or to be disappointed at this. She felt as if she had pitched
head foremost down a long flight of stairs, and had only just had
sufficient strength to pick herself up, and not to let other people
see quite how severely she had been bruised.
Mentally, morally, even physically, she felt bruised from head to
foot.
Colonel Harris contrived to steer her through the crowd: at the gate
outside even the smoke-laden atmosphere seemed pure and invigorating
in comparison with that stuffy pen, wherein the herd of cackling geese
had found its happy hunting ground. Louisa drew in a long breath,
filling her lungs with fog, but feeling a little freer, less choked in
spite of the grime which she inhaled.
"I think," said Colonel Harris now, "that you'd better go straight
back to the Langham, and get some tea. You'll feel better when you've
had your tea."
"I feel all right, dear," she said, trying to smile.
"So much the better," he retorted with an equal effort at
cheerfulness. "I'll come along as soon as I can."
"Where are you off to, dear?" she asked.
"I'll just go and have a talk to Tom," he replied.
"I'll come with you. I can wait in the cab. I don't suppose that
you'll be long."
He tried to protest, but obviously she had made up her mind. Perhaps
she did not like the idea of going back to the hotel alone. So he
hailed a passing cab and told the man to drive to Scotland Yard.
He had deliberately--and despite former prejudices--selected a
taxicab. He wanted to see Tom as soon as was possible.
Louisa leaned back in the corner of the vehicle silent and motionless.
Father and daughter did not exchange a single word whilst the cab
rattled through the crowded streets of London. Hansoms, omnibuses,
innumerable other taxis, rattled along the selfsame way, just as they
had always done before this, just as they would go on doing to the end
of time. People walked along, busy and indifferent. Many went past the
shrieking news vendors without even stopping to buy a paper.
Luke stood accused, almost self-convicted, of a horrible crime, and
there were thousands, nay millions, of people who didn't even care!
The taxicab flew past the railings of the Green Park, there where
another taxicab had drawn up a couple of evenings ago, and where a
snake-wood stick marked with tell-tale stains had been found clumsily
buried in the mud. Louisa peered out of the window of the cab. People
walked past that spot, indifferent and busy. Two girls were standing
close to the railings chatting and giggling.
And Luke to-morrow, or perhaps to-night, would be under
arrest--charged with murder--horrible, cruel, brutal murder--a vulgar,
cowardly crime! The snake-wood stick had told a tale which he had not
attempted to refute.
Presently the cab drew up and Colonel Harris jumped down.
"I won't be longer than I can help," he said. "Will you be all right?"
"Yes, father dear," she replied, "I'll be all right. Don't hurry."
She saw her father disappearing through the wide open door, above
which a globe of light shone yellow through the fog. She remained
huddled up in her furs, for she felt very cold. Her feet were like
ice, and the fog seemed to have penetrated to her very marrow. Few
people were to be seen in the narrow roadway, and only an occasional
cab rattled past.
From the embankment close by came the cry of news vendors rushing
along with late editions of the evening papers.
A church clock not far away slowly struck six, but she held no count
of time. A kind of drowsiness was upon her, and the foggy atmosphere,
coupled with intense, damp cold, acted as a kind of soporific.
She may have waited years, or only a few minutes; she did not know,
but presently her father came back. His presence there under the
lintel of the door seemed to have roused her from her torpor, as if
with a swift, telepathic current. As he stood for a moment beneath the
electric light, adjusting the collar of his coat, she saw his face
quite distinctly: its expression told her everything. Luke's arrest
was imminent. It was but a question of a few hours, moments perhaps.
"I am going to Exhibition Road at once," he said, speaking quickly,
like a man deeply troubled.
And without waiting for her assent, which was a foregone conclusion,
he gave the chauffeur the address: "Fairfax Mansions, Exhibition
Road"; and added, "drive as fast as you can!"
Then he jumped in beside Louisa. The taxicab moaned and groaned whilst
it manoeuvred for turning; then it rattled off once more at prohibited
speed.
"It is," she said simply, "only a question of time, I suppose?"
"The warrant is out," he replied curtly. "Any moment now the police
may be at his door."
"Uncle Ryder is convinced of Luke's guilt?"
"Absolutely."
"Beyond that what does he say?"
"That unless Luke chooses to make a bolt of it, he had better plead
guilty and intense provocation. But he thinks Luke would be wise to
catch the night boat for Calais."
"They'd get him back on extradition."
"Tom says they won't try very hard. And if Luke keeps his wits about
him, and has a sufficiency of money he'll be able to get right through
to Spain and from thence to Tangiers. With money and influence much
can be done, and Tom says that if Luke will only get away to-night he
himself is prepared to take all the blame and all the responsibility
of having allowed a criminal to escape. It's very decent of Tom,"
added the colonel thoughtfully, "for he risks his entire future."
But the sorely troubled father did not tell his daughter all that Sir
Thomas had told him in the course of the brief interview.
In effect the chief of the Criminal Investigation Department had given
a brief alternative by way of advice.
"A ticket to anywhere via Calais at once--or a revolver."
And he had added dryly:
"I see nothing else for it. The man has practically confessed."
But this Colonel Harris would not admit, and so the two men parted.
Louisa's father, thinking a great deal of his friend but still more of
his daughter, wanted above all things to have a final talk with Luke.
Louisa in the meanwhile sat silent in the corner of the cab.
She was trying to visualize this new picture: Luke--a fugitive from
justice!
The taxicab was making a slight detour as Whitehall and the Mall were
closed for road repairs. The chauffeur was driving round by St.
Martin's Lane. At one of the theatres there, a popular play was
filling the house night after night with enthusiastic crowds. It was
only half past six now, and in a long queue extending over two hundred
yards away from the pit and gallery doors of the lucky playhouse,
patient crowds waited for the evening's pleasure.
People were going to theatres, they laughed at farces, and wept at
tragedies. Was there ever such a tragedy enacted inside a theatre, as
now took place in the life of a commonplace man and woman?
Luke--a fugitive from justice! Money and influence could do much! They
could enable a wealthy criminal to escape the consequences of his own
crime! They could enable him to catch express trains unmolested, to
fly across land and sea under cover of the night, to become,
Cain-like, a wanderer on the face of the earth without rest and
without peace.
Could they prevent him from seeing ever present at his elbow the grim
Angel of Remorse, holding in one hand the glass wherein relentlessly
flowed the sands of time, and in the other, the invisible sword of a
retarded but none the less sure vengeance? Could they prevent his
hearing the one word, Nemesis?
Luke--a fugitive from justice! Accused of a crime which he did not
commit, self-convicted, almost self-accused, and fleeing from its
consequences as he would from Remorse!
And people went to theatres, and laughed and cried. People ate and
danced and sang. News vendors shrieked their wares, the latest
sensational news; the gentleman criminal who had money and influence
and with their help evaded the grip of justice.