Love and Lucy
talk. Lucy's simplicity made her a delightful companion, when she was
sure of her footing. She told him that she had been saving up
Lancelot's letter to show him. "Good," he said. "I want it."
But it was not here, as it happened. So she wrote out from memory the
sentence about Urquhart: the polligamous pirate, with wives &c.
"Aren't you flattered?" she asked him, radiant with mirthful malice.
He frowned approval. He was pleased, but, like all those who make
laughter, he had none of his own. "That shot told. I got him with the
first barrel. Trust a boy to love a law-breaker. He'll never forget me
that. He's my friend for life." He added, as if to himself, "Hope so,
anyhow."
Lucy at this, had she been a cat, would have purred and kneaded the
carpet. As it was, her contentment emboldened her to flights. She was
much more bird than cat. "I wonder if you are really a law-breaker,"
she said. "I don't think I should be surprised to know it of you."
He frowned again. "No, I should say that the ground had been prepared
for that. You wouldn't be surprised--but would you be disturbed?
That's what I want to know before I tell you."
This had to be considered. What did she in her private mind think of
law-breakers? One thing was quite clear to her. Whatever she might
think of them, she was not prepared to tell him.
"I'm a lawyer's wife, you know."
"That tells me nothing," he said. "That would only give you the
position of an expert. It doesn't commit you to a line. I'll tell you
this--it may encourage you to a similar confidence. If I wanted to
break a law very badly, I shouldn't do it on reflection perhaps; but I
could never resist a sudden impulse. If somebody told me that it would
be desirable in all sorts of ways to break a man's head I shouldn't do
it, because I should be bothering myself with all the possibilities of
the thing--how desirable it might be, or how undesirable. But if,
happening to be in his company, I saw his head in a breakable
aspect--splosh! I should land him a nasty one. That's a certainty.
Now, what should you say to that? It happens that I want to know." It
was evident to her that he really did.
Lucy gave him one of her kind, compassionate looks, which always made
her seem beautiful, and said, "I should forgive you. I should tell you
that you were too young for your years; but I should forgive you, I'm
sure."
"That's what I wanted to know," said Urquhart, and remained silent for
a while. When he resumed it was abruptly, on a totally new matter. "I
shall bring my sister over to you after this. She's here. I don't know
whether you'll like her. She'll like you."
"Where is she?" Lucy asked, rather curious.
"She's over there, by our hostess. That big black hat is hers. She's
underneath it." Lucy saw a spry, black-haired youngish woman, very
vivacious but what she herself called "good." James would have said,
"Smart." Not at all like her brother, she thought, and said so. "She's
not such a scoundrel," Urquhart admitted, "but she takes a line of
her own. Her husband's name is Nugent. He is South Irish, where we are
North. That boy who went with us to the play is her son. He is a
lively breed--so it hasn't turned out amiss. She's not at all your
sort, but as you know the worst of us you may as well know what we can
do when we exert ourselves." He added, "My old father, now with
Beelzebub, was a terror."
"Do tell me about him."
"It would take too long. He was very old-fashioned in most ways. They
used to call him King Urquhart in Donegal. The worst of it was that he
knew good claret and could shoot. That makes a bad combination. He
used to sit on a hogshead of it in his front yard and challenge all
and sundry to mortal combat. He really did. Duels he used to call
them. He said, 'Me honour's involved, d'ye see?' and believed it. But
they were really murders, because he was infallible with a revolver.
He adored my mother, but she couldn't do anything with him. 'Tush, me
dear,' he used to say, 'I wouldn't hurt a hair of his bald head.' And
then he'd have to bolt over to France for a bit and keep quiet. But
everybody liked him, I'm sorry to say. They gave him a public funeral
when he died. They took him out of the hearse--imagine the great sooty
plumes of it--and carried him to the chapel--half a mile away." Lucy
didn't know how much of this to believe, which made it none the worse.
"He was a Catholic?"
"He was."
"And so are you?"
He looked up. "Eh? I suppose I am--if any."
"What _do_ you mean?" she insisted.
"Well," he said. "It's there, I expect. You don't get rid of it." She
considered this to herself.
Mrs. Nugent--the Honourable Mrs. Nugent, as it afterwards
appeared--made herself very amiable. "We both like boys," she said,
"which makes everything easy. I hope you liked my Pat--you met him, I
know. Yours seems to be an unconscious humourist. Jimmy is always
chuckling over him. Mine takes after the Urquharts; rather grim, but
quite sound when you know them. My husband is really Irish. He might
say 'Begorra' at any minute. The Urquharts are a mixed lot. Jimmy
says we're Eurasians when he's cross with us--which means with
himself. I suppose we were border thieves once, like the Turnbulls and
Pringles. But James I planted us in Ireland, and there have been James
Urquharts ever since. I don't know why that seems satisfactory, but it
does."
"I saw what Jimmy was saying, you know," she said presently. "He began
upon me, and then slid off to our deplorable father. An inexhaustible
subject to Jimmy, who really admires that kind of thing."
Lucy smilingly deprecated the criticism.
"Oh, but he does. If he could be like that, he would be. But he wants
two qualities--he can't laugh, and he can't cry. Father could only
laugh internally. He used to get crimson, and swallow hard. That was
his way. Jimmy can't laugh at all, that's the mischief of it. And
crying too. Father could cry rivers. One of the best things I remember
of him was his crying before Mother. 'Damn it all, Meg, I missed him!'
he said, choking with grief. Mother knew exactly what to say. 'You'll
get him next time, Jimmy. Come and change your stockings now.' Well,
_our_ Jimmy couldn't do that. To begin with, of course, he wouldn't
have 'missed him.'"
"No," said Lucy, reflecting, "I don't think he would miss--unless he
was in too much of a hurry to hit."
Mrs. Nugent looked quickly at her. "That is very clever of you. You
have touched on his great difference from Father. He is awfully
impatient."
All this did Lucy a great deal of good. James thought that she had
better call on Mrs. Nugent. He knew all about her.
CHAPTER VIII
AGAIN
The second time was in late February, at the Opera: the _Walkuere_, of
all operas in the world, where passion of the suddenest is seen on its
most radiant spring morning. James, who was dreadfully bored by
Wagner, and only went because it was the thing to do, and truly also
because "a man must be seen with his wife," could not promise to be
there, dressed, at such an unearthly hour as half-past six--James, I
say, did not go with her, but vowed to be there "long before seven."
That he undertook. So she went alone, and sat, as she always did, half
hidden behind the curtain of her box on the second tier.
The place was flooded with dark. The great wonder began--the amazing
prelude with its brooding, its surmisals, its storms, its pounding
hooves remorselessly pursuing, and flashes of the horn, like the blare
of lightning. She surrendered herself, and as the curtain rose settled
down to drink with the eyes as well as with the ears; for she was no
musician, and could only be deeply moved by this when she saw and
heard. It immediately absorbed her; the music "of preparation and
suspense" seemed to turn her bones to liquor--and at this moment she
again felt herself possessed by man's love: the strong hand over her
heart, the passion of his hold, the intoxication of the kiss. To the
accompaniment of shrill and wounded violins she yielded herself to
this miracle of the dark. She seemed to hear in a sharp whisper, "You
darling!" She half turned, she half swooned again, she drank, and she
gave to drink. The music speared up to the heights of bliss, then
subsided as the hold on her relaxed. When she stretched out her hand
for her lover's, he was not near her. She was alone. The swift and
poignant little drama may have lasted a minute; but like a dream it
had the suggestion of infinity about it, transcending time as it
defied place. Confused, bemused, she turned her attention to the
stage, determined to compose herself at all cost. She sat very still,
and shivered; she gave all her powers to her mind, and succeeded by
main effort. Insensibly the great drama doing down there resumed its
hold; and it was even with a slight shock that she became aware by
and by of James sitting sedately by her, with the eyeglass sharply set
for diversion anywhere but on the scene. Again she remembered with
secret amusement that she had not been conscious of the eyeglass
when--for reasons of his own--he had paid his mysterious homage to
love and her.
She kept a firm grip of herself: she would not move an inch towards
him. She could never do that again. But she passed him over the
play-bill, and lifted the glasses to show him where they were. She
saw the eyeglass dip as he nodded his thanks, and heard him whisper as
he passed back the bill, "No good. Dark as the grave." Oh,
extraordinary James! She suffered hysterical laughter, but persisted
against it, and succeeded.
When the lights went up she afforded herself a gay welcome of him,
from gleaming, happy and conscious eyes. He met it blandly, smiled
awry and said, "You love it?"
"Oh," she sighed, meaning all that she dared not say, "how I love it!"
James said, "Bravo. I was very punctual, you'll admit." That very
nearly overcame her. But all she said was, "I didn't hear you come
in--or go out."
James looked very vague at that. He was on the point of frowning over
it, but gave it up. It was a Lucyism. He rose and touched his
coat-collar, to feel that it gripped where it should. "Let's see who's
in the house," he said, and searched the boxes. "Royalty, as usual!
That's what I call devotion. Who's that woman in a snow-leopard? Oh,
yes, of course. Hullo. I say, my child, will you excuse me? I've just
seen some people I ought to see. There's lots of time--and I won't be
late." And he was off. A very remarkable lover indeed was James.
Mrs. Nugent waved her hand across the parterre. Francis Lingen knocked
and entered. She could afford that; and presently a couple added
themselves, young married people whom she liked for their poverty,
hopefulness and unaffected pleasure in each other. She made Lingen
acquainted with them, and talked to young Mr. Pierson. He spoke with a
cheer in his voice. "Ripping opera. Madge adores it. We saw your
husband downstairs, but I don't think he knew us."... And through her
head blew the words like a searching wind: "You darling! You darling!"
Oh, that was great love! Small wonder that James saw nothing of the
Piersons. And yet--ah, she must give up speculating and judging.
That had undone poor Psyche. Young Mr. Pierson chattered away about
Madge and Wagner, both ripping; James returned, bland, positive,
dazzling the man of exclusive clubs; was reminded of young Mrs.
Pierson, with whom he shook hands, of young Mr. Pierson, to whom he
nodded and said "Ha!" and finally of Francis Lingen. "Ha, Lingen, you
here!" Francis shivered. That seemed to him to ring a knell. Since
when had he been Lingen to James. Since this moment. Now why had James
cold-shouldered him? Was it possible that he had noticed too much
devotion?... And if he had, was it not certain that she must have