WHICH TELLS OF PICTURES IN THE FIRE
It did not take poor little Edie very long to get her things on and to
make ready to go away with Colonel Harris and with Louisa. Something
of the truth had to be told to her, and we must do her the justice to
state that when she understood the full strength of the calamity which
had befallen her and Luke, something of her brother's calm dignity
showed itself in her own demeanour.
She pulled herself together with remarkable vigour, and before Mary,
the maid, she contrived to behave just as if nothing of great
importance had occurred.
"I am going to dine out to-night, Mary," she said quite calmly, "and I
mayn't be home until sometime to-morrow. So don't sit up for me."
"No, miss," replied Mary demurely, who kept her own counsel, like the
well-drilled, good-class servant that she was.
"And tell cook that Mr. de Mountford won't be in either, nor Mr. Jim.
I'll see her to-morrow and let her know when we all come back."
"Very good, miss."
Louisa gave ungrudging admiration, and whispered praise to the young
girl. She was proud of Edie's behaviour, and grateful to her too. This
atmosphere of reserve did her good. She could not have endured a
scene of weeping, and keep her own nerves in check all the while.
It was close upon eight o'clock when at last they reached the Langham
Hotel. Colonel Harris ordered the dinner to be served in the private
sitting room. Of course none of them could eat anything. Their inward
thoughts were following Luke de Mountford along that weary Calvary
which he had set himself to mount.
Soon after dinner Edie elected to go to bed. The poor child had a
vague desire to be alone, and also a vague, unhappy feeling that she
was in the way. She was quite woman enough now to understand how much
more acutely Louisa Harris must be suffering, than she was herself,
and since she--the sister--longed for solitude, how much keener must
be that longing in the heart of the woman who loved and had lost Luke.
So she went quietly off to bed. Louisa kissed her with real affection.
Edie seemed like something of Luke: like a tender bequest made by a
dying man.
After that she herself said "good night" to her father. Colonel Harris
was obviously in such acute distress that Louisa felt that, above all
things, he must have the companionship of those of his own sex. The
atmosphere of woman's sorrow was essentially bad for him. He was not a
young man, and the last two days had tried him very severely. Louisa
hoped that if she pretended to go to bed early, he would perhaps be
induced to go to his club for an hour.
If he only sat there for an hour, reading the papers, and nodding to
his many friends, it would take him out of himself.
"I am very tired, dear," she said, after she had seen Edie safely
tucked up amongst the blankets. "I think I'll follow Edie's good
example. It's no use sitting here, staring into the fire. Is it,
dear?"
"Not a bit of use, Lou. And I suppose you would like to be alone?"
"I shan't go to bed, dear, unless you go to the club."
"Very well, Lou. It seems the right thing to do, doesn't it? You go to
bed, and I'll go to the club for an hour. As you say, it's no use
sitting staring into the fire."
Her room gave on one side of the sitting room, and her father's on the
other. She waited until Colonel Harris went away, having helped him on
with his overcoat. After he left she felt a little twinge of remorse.
The night was cold and raw and he really had not wanted to go out. He
would have been quite willing to sit in front of the fire, smoking and
reading. He had only gone because his own innate kindliness and tact
had suggested to him that Louisa wished to remain alone.
He too, like Edie, felt a little in the way. His daughter's grief was
of a nature that a father's love cannot soothe. The greatest solace
for it now would be solitude. So, in spite of the fog, in spite of the
unpleasantness that met Colonel Harris on every page of every
newspaper, he sallied out of the hotel and got into a hansom, with the
avowed intention of spending a couple of hours at his club.
Louisa left alone in the sitting room, in front of the cheery fire,
sat down for a moment on the sofa and rested her head against the
cushions. There was memory even in that, for when she closed her eyes,
she could imagine that Luke was sitting at the foot of the sofa; she
could see him almost, with his eyes turned ever toward her, and that
quaint gesture of his when he passed his hand over the back of his
neatly groomed head.
The memory was intolerable now. She rose--restless and feverish--and
stood by the fire, one hand on the high mantel-shelf, her forehead
resting against that hand, one foot on the fender, and her aching eyes
gazing into the red hot glow.
It was one of those big red fires, partly made up of coke and partly
of coal, wherein only here and there tiny blue flames flit waywardly,
and in the building up of which hotel servants are usually past
masters. The glowing coal heaped up high in the old-fashioned grate
presented a wonderful picture of mysterious architecture: streets and
lanes of crimson incandescence, palaces and towers of molten heat, and
the little blue flames dancing and peeping out from the fiery depths,
mocking and wayward, twirling and twisting as with the joy of life.
Louisa gazed into this city of brilliant crimson and gold, the
streets, the palaces, and the towers. And as she gazed--with eyes
almost seared--these same streets of fire assumed different shapes;
they became stately and wide, with rows of trees forming an avenue
along the middle, and tall houses on either side. One or two people
were walking along the pavement, but quickly, as if they had business
to transact and did not care to loiter. One figure, that of a woman,
in neat ulster and serviceable hat--was walking briskly between the
row of trees.
The blue flames danced, and disclosed a few vehicles hurrying past
swiftly in the night, huge tramways lumbering along, and one or two
flying motor cabs. And far ahead--right in the heart of the glow--the
distant lights of a more busy thoroughfare. Now the wide street was
more dark and lonely than before, only the solitary female figure
appeared in the fiery picture, walking among the trees. The last of
the lumbering tramways had been merged in the distant lights: only
from afar came flying on the blue flames, a taxicab at lightning
speed.
It came along, its headlights burning more and more brightly, it
rattled past the solitary female pedestrian. Then it stopped in the
dark angle made by a huge piece of coal: the blue flames gave a hiss
and from every corner of the grate crowds of people came rushing to
the spot where the taxicab had halted. The solitary female pedestrian
also hurried to the spot. She stopped on the outskirts of the crowd,
and yet she saw everything that went on in and round the motor, the
horror-stricken driver, the bustling gendarmes, the huddled up mass in
the darkest corner of the vehicle.
Then the coal, consumed by its own power, fell together in a formless
heap and the picture vanished. Louisa closed her eyes, for the heat in
them was intolerable. But only for a moment: for now her mind was made
up.
Ever since she had parted from Luke, one thought had been dominant in
her mind, one memory had obtruded itself beyond all others, taking
definite shape in the visions conjured up by the glowing embers of the
fire--that night in Brussels!--the great unforgettable night, on which
her whole life's history seemed to find its birth-time.
One great resolve, too, had now taken definite shape.
Louisa rang for her maid, and asked for hat and cloak. The
maid--somewhat horrified that her mistress should think of going out
alone at so late an hour--was too well drilled to offer advice or make
comment. She brought a warm wrap and a closely fitting, simple hat,
and respectfully wished to know when she should expect her mistress
home.
"In about an hour's time," said Louisa. "Come down into the hall with
me, and tell the porter to call me a cab."
Then she went down, accompanied by her maid. A cab was called, and she
directed the driver to 56 Chester Terrace.
The address was that of Lady Ryder's town house. The maid--feeling
more satisfied--went up stairs again.