Part 43 (1/2)

”I cannot,” he replied. ”I should plead guilty--Mr. Dobson says that if I plead guilty, counsel can plead extenuating circ.u.mstances--intense provocation and so forth--and I might get a more lenient sentence.”

”Luke,” she said, looking him straight in the face, compelling his eyes to meet hers, for in their clear depths she meant to read the truth, to compel the truth at last. He had never lied in his life. If he lied now she would know it, she would read it in his face. ”Luke!

you are s.h.i.+elding some one by taking the crime on your own shoulders.”

But his eyes remained perfectly clear and steady as they gazed straight into hers. There was not a shadow in them, not a quiver, as he replied quietly:

”No, Lou, I am s.h.i.+elding no one.”

”It was you who killed that man--Philip de Mountford--or Paul Baker--whoever he may be?”

And he answered her firmly, looking steadily into her face:

”It was I.”

She said nothing more then, but rose to her feet, and went quite close up to him. With a gesture that had no thought of pa.s.sion in it, only sublime, motherly love, she took Luke's head in both her hands and pressed it to her heart.

”My poor old Luke!” she murmured.

She smoothed his hair as a mother does to an afflicted child; the motherly instinct was up in arms now, even fighting the womanly, the pa.s.sionate instinct of a less selfless love. She bent down and kissed his forehead.

”Luke,” she said gently, ”it would do you such a lot of good if you would only let yourself go.”

He had contrived to get hold of her hands: those hands which he loved so dearly, with their soft, rose-tinted palms and the scent of sweet peas which clung to them. His own hot fingers closed on those small hands. She stood before him, tall, elegant--not beautiful! Louisa Harris had never been beautiful, nor yet a fairy princess of romance--only a commonplace woman! A woman of the world, over whose graceful form, her personality even, convention invariably threw her mantle--but a woman for all that--with a pa.s.sion burning beneath the crust of worldly _sang-froid_--with heart attuned to feel every quiver, every sensation of joy and of pain. A woman who loved with every fibre in her--who had the supreme gift of merging self in Love--of giving all, her soul, her heart, her mind and every thought--a woman who roused every chord of pa.s.sion in a man's heart--the woman whom men adore!

And now as Luke de Mountford held her hands, and she stood close beside him, her breath coming and going in quick gasps, with the suppressed excitement of latent self-sacrifice, her eyes glowing and tearless, he half slid from the chair on which he was sitting, and one knee was on the ground, and his face turned up to hers.

He almost smiled, as she repeated, with a little sigh:

”If you would only let yourself go!”

”If I would let myself dwindle down to the level of drivelling fools,”

he said. ”G.o.d knows, Lou, it would be easy enough now, when I hold those lovely little hands of yours, and the scent of sweet peas which comes from your dear self reminds me of summer, of old-fas.h.i.+oned gardens of enduring peace. Lou! I dare not even kiss your hands, and yet my whole body aches with the longing to press my lips on them. You see how easily I drift into being a drivelling fool? Would to G.o.d I could lie on the ground here before you, and feel the soles of your feet on my neck. How lucky slaves were in olden days, weren't they?

They could kneel before their mistress and she would place her naked foot upon their necks. I am a drivelling fool, you see--I talk and talk and let the moments slip by--I am going, Lou, and this is the vision which I am taking with me, the last impression which will dwell in my memory, when memory itself will seem only a dream. You, Lou, standing just here, so close to me that your sweet breath fans my cheek, your dear hands in mine, the scent of sweet peas in my nostrils. The light of this lamp throws a golden radiance over you, your lips are quivering--oh! ever so slightly, and your eyes reveal to me the exquisiteness of your soul. Lou, I am a lucky mortal to have such a vision on which to let my memory dwell!”

She listened in silence, enjoying the delight of hearing him unburdening his soul at last. His love for her! Never had it seemed so great and so pure, now that he spoke of parting! And there was a quaint joy in hearing him thus rambling on--he, the reserved man of the world. Convention had so often sealed his lips, and restrained his pa.s.sion when he was still wandering happily with her on the smooth paths of Love. Now Fate had hurled stone upon stone down that path.

The way was rugged and difficult, parting too, was close at hand; all the restraint of past months tore at the barrier of convention. Luke about to lose the mortal presence of his love, allowed his lips to say that which he had hidden in his heart for so long. The man of the world lost himself in the man who loved.

When he had ceased speaking she said quietly:

”You talk, Luke, as if we were going to part.”

”To-night, Lou. I must catch the night boat to Calais.”

”My luggage can be sent on,” she rejoined simply. ”I am quite ready to start.”

”To start?” he repeated vaguely.

”Why, yes, Luke,” she replied with a smile, ”if you go to-night, or at any time, I go with you.”

”You cannot, Lou!” he stammered, almost stupidly, feeling quite bewildered, for he had been forcibly dragged back from a happy dreamlike state, to one of impossible reality.