The Heart of a Woman

"Send for Tom Ryder," murmured the sick man, "he'll understand."

The words came in gasps, but otherwise fairly distinctly. Doctor Newington, in all his professional experience, had never been placed in such an extraordinary dilemma. He was not quite so obstinate about the whole thing as he had originally been, and a kind of hopeless bewilderment showed itself upon his face.

"Will you send for Sir Thomas, doctor?" asked Louisa. "You see that Lord Radclyffe wishes it."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. The responsibility was getting all too heavy for him. Besides being a fashionable physician, he was also a man, and as such not altogether inhuman. He had seen much acute suffering, both mental and physical, throughout the length of his career, but never had he been brought face to face with such an acute psychological problem, and – frankly – he did not know how to deal with it.

So he sent the nurse to ask Sir Thomas Ryder once more to step up stairs, whilst he himself went up to his patient, and with the mechanical movement born of life-long habit, he placed his white, podgy fingers on the feebly fluttering pulse.

"God only knows what will be the issue," he said almost inaudibly. "I don't."

The sick man, on the other hand, seemed to be husbanding his strength. He had most obediently taken the brandy which had been given him, and now he lay back quietly among the pillows, with eyes closed and lips slightly parted. The hands wandered somewhat restlessly along the smooth surface of the quilt, otherwise Lord Radclyffe lay perfectly still. It even seemed – to Louisa's super-sensitive gaze – as if an expression of content had settled over the pale face. Once the sick man opened his eyes and looked up at the portrait: the lips murmured the one word:

"Luke!" and slowly, very slowly, two tears formed in the sunken eyes and trickled down the wan cheeks.

"You had better," said the doctor curtly, "leave the patient to me and to Sir Thomas."

"Certainly," she replied. "I'll wait in the next room."

"Sir Thomas will call you, no doubt, if your presence is desirable."

She was ready enough to obey now: her uncle's footstep was heard on the landing outside. Quietly she relinquished her place beside the bed, and as she did so she bent down and kissed the poor old hand, that wandered so restlessly along the folds of the quilt.

As Sir Thomas entered the room, she was just leaving it. They met under the lintel of the door.

"He seems stronger," she whispered pointing to the sick man. "I think that he will make an effort – for Luke's sake."

She waited a moment in the door-way, until she saw Sir Thomas Ryder installed on one side of the bed, and the doctor on the other side, with his finger on the patient's pulse. Then she retreated into the morning room, and moved by some unaccountable impulses she went to the piano and opening it, she sat down, and with exquisite softness began to play the opening bars of one of her favourite songs.

She sang hardly above a whisper: the velvety tones of her voice sounded like the murmur of ghosts through the heavy tapestries of the room. Whenever her voice died away in the intervals of the song she could hear the hum of men's voices, her uncle's low and clear, now and then a word from the doctor, and through it all the voice of the sick man, feeble and distinct, speaking the words that would mean life to Luke.

CHAPTER XL

AND THUS HER HOUR HAD COME

Half an hour had gone by. The fountain pen dropped from Sir Thomas's cramped fingers.

He had been writing, slowly but incessantly, ever since he sat down beside the sick man, and put his first question to him. Lord Radclyffe, with the tenacity peculiar to a strong nature, had clung to his own strength and will power and had spoken clearly, so that Sir Thomas could not only understand but could write down what he heard, word for word – not omitting a phrase – accurately and succinctly.

Once or twice Doctor Newington had to interfere. The patient was in danger of exhaustion, and brandy had again to be administered. Lord Radclyffe took it eagerly. What will power he had left was concentrated on the desire to keep up his strength.

From the boudoir came the gentle murmur of a tender song, whispered by Louisa's appealing contralto voice. The sick man seemed to enjoy it: it seemed to soothe him too, for every now and again he lay quite still and listened attentively: and when he did so his eyes always sought the portrait of Luke.

When all was finished, and the last word written, Sir Thomas rose and grasped his old friend's emaciated hand.

"You'll feel better to-morrow," he whispered cheerily, "when you have your nephew with you. The doctor here must allow you to see him, if you see no one else."

"Lord Radclyffe must have rest now," said the doctor impatiently.

"Certainly, my dear sir," rejoined Sir Thomas. "I need not trouble you any more. I can but hope that your patient will be none the worse for the effort."

The doctor did not reply. The patient after the great effort was in a dangerous state of collapse and required every attention.

Sir Thomas Ryder took his leave and going through the smaller room, he beckoned to Louisa to follow him.

A moment later the doctor was heard ringing for the nurses. Sir Thomas in the hall was struggling with his coat, whilst Louisa stood by, quite still and patient. She knew that her hour would come, and she was grateful to her uncle for taking her away from here so quickly.

She had not asked a single question and Sir Thomas had not volunteered any information. But she was content to wait, until the time when he told her everything.

The cab which had been called all that long while ago was still waiting at the door. It was now past eleven o'clock. Silently Sir Thomas and Louisa Harris stepped into the cab, Mr. Warren, sympathetic and attentive to the last, giving the address to the chauffeur on their behalf.

Less than five minutes later, they had arrived at the Langham Hotel, but they had not exchanged a single word during that time.

Colonel Harris was in the sitting room, waiting for his daughter's return. The maid had told him that her mistress had gone to Sir Thomas Ryder's and had promised to be home again in about an hour, so he was not really anxious, only very worried about her. Personally, he saw no issue to the terrible tangle, and his heart ached for her, as much as it did for Luke.

He found himself quite unable to sit at the club. Luke de Mountford's name was in every man's mouth. The obsession was unendurable, the countless arguments adduced by indifferent lips was positively nerve-racking. Colonel Harris after half an hour had enough of it, and went back to the Langham.

He did not greet his brother-in-law very warmly: he did not feel very well disposed toward him, as he had a vague idea that Sir Thomas Ryder was in a measure responsible for Luke's terrible fate.

"Lou dear, it's very late," he said with gentle reproach when she came in.

"You'll have to forgive her, Will," interposed Sir Thomas, "she came over to have a talk with me, and we went on to try and see old Rad, who is dying, I am afraid, poor chap."

"Now, my dear," he added turning to Louisa whilst he dived into his breast-pocket, from which he extracted a note-book, "go to your own room and read this through very quietly while I talk to your father."

He gave her the book, which she took without a word.

"It won't," he added, "take you very long to read. When you have finished, bring me the notes back, I want them to-night."

She kissed her father before she went out of the room. He and she had both guessed – by that unexplainable, subtle intuition born of sympathy – what the pages of that note-book contained.

CHAPTER XLI

WHICH TELLS OF THE CONTENTS OF THE NOTE BOOK

Louisa sat beside the fire and read. The notes were written in Sir Thomas's clear caligraphy, in short, jerky sentences, just as the sick man had spoken them, usually in reply to questions put to him.

As Louisa read on, she could almost hear Lord Radclyffe's whispered words, whilst she herself sang Tosti's melancholy song: "Good-bye!"

"I was not altogether ignorant of my brother Arthur's marriage over in Martinique, but he had always given me to understand that the marriage was not a strictly legal one, and that his son Philip had no right whatever to claim any possible succession to our family title and estates. Even on his deathbed Arthur assured me of this, and said to me most emphatically 'Luke is your heir! My son Philip has no legal claim!'

"I never made the slightest effort to communicate with Arthur's widow or with his child, for Arthur had assured me that they were well provided for and quite happy amongst their own kindred. After the catastrophe of St. Pierre I completely lost sight of them.

"Then came a letter addressed to me from St. Vincent, the first inkling which I had that not only did Arthur's son know of his father's position in life, but that he had full and justifiable reasons for believing that he himself was heir presumptive to the family title and estates which would have been his father's, had the latter outlived the present holder.

"This letter was followed by several others about which neither Luke nor Mr. Warren knew anything, for I told them nothing. At last there came one from Brussels. By this time I had searched carefully through some letters which my brother Arthur had desired that I should destroy after his death, but which I had always kept by me, meaning one day to comply with his wish.

"I had more than a suspicion then that my brother's marriage was a perfectly legal one, and that his son was the only true heir-presumptive to the title and estates which I had always fondly thought could only devolve upon Luke. I went over to Brussels determined to see this Philip before he set foot in England. The thought that he would supersede Luke was more than I could bear.