Love and Lucy
lost, effortless, at death's threshold. But she awoke herself from the
nightmare, walked herself about, and reason returned. It was nonsense,
unwholesome nonsense. Why, that first time, he was in the library with
James and Francis Lingen, his second visit to the house! Why, when she
was at the Opera he had been at Peltry with the Mabels. And as for
Wycross, he had wired from St. James's in the afternoon, and come on
the next day. Absurd--and thank God for it. And poor Francis Lingen!
She could afford to laugh at that. Francis Lingen was as capable of
kissing the Duchess of Westbury--at whose horrible party she had been
the other night--as herself.
She felt very safe, and enormously relieved. So much so that she could
afford herself the reflection that if hardihood had been all that was
wanting, Jimmy Urquhart would have had plenty and to spare. Oh, yes,
indeed. But--thank God again--he was a gentleman if ever there was
one. Nobody but a gentleman could afford to be so simple in dealing.
Having worked all this out, she felt that her feet at least were on
solid ground. A spirit of adventure was renewed in her, and a rather
unfortunate _contretemps_ provoked it. Before she knew where she was,
she was up to the neck, as Urquhart would have said, in a turbid
stream.
Francis Lingen, that elegant unfortunate, was certainly responsible,
if you could call one so tentative and clinging responsible for
anything. He had proposed the Flower Show, to which she had been, as
an earnest gardener, early in the morning, by herself, with a
note-book. She did not want to go with him at all; and moreover she
had an appointment to meet James at a wedding affair in Queen's Gate.
However, being ridiculously amiable where the pale-haired hectic was
concerned, go she did, and sat about at considerable length. He had
only cared to look at the sweet-peas, his passion of the hour, and
urged a chair upon her that he might the better do what he really
liked, look at her and talk about himself. So he did, and read her a
poem, and made great play with his tenderness, his dependence upon her
judgment and his crosses with the world. He pleaded for tea, which,
ordered, did not come; then hunted for the motor, which finally she
found for herself. She arrived late at Queen's Gate; the eyeglass
glared in horror. James, indeed, was very cross. What any chance
victim of his neighbourhood may have endured is not to be known. So
far as Lucy could see he did not open his mouth once while he was
there. He refused all nourishment with an angry gleam, and seemed
wholly bent upon making her self-conscious, uncomfortable and,
finally, indignant. Upon this goodly foundation he reared his mountain
of affront.
He made himself a monument of matter-of-fact impassivity during the
drive home. His arms were folded, he stared out of window; she thought
once she heard him humming an air. But he didn't smoke, as he
certainly would have done had relations been easy. He kept her at a
distance, but not aggressively.
Lucy was by this time very much annoyed. Her apologies had been frozen
at the front by his angry glare. She had no intention now of renewing
them, nor did she care to justify herself, as she might have done, by
pointing out that, while she was half-an-hour late, he was probably a
quarter of an hour too early. This would have been a safe venture, for
his fussiness over an appointment and tendency to be beforehand with
it were quite well known to himself. She kept the best face she could
upon the miserable affair, but was determined that she would force a
crisis at home, come what might.
Arrived at Onslow Square, James strode into the library and shut the
door behind him. When Crewdson was disposed of on his numerous
affairs, Lucy followed her lord. He turned, he stared, and waited for
her to speak.
Lucy said, "I think that you must be sorry that you have treated me
so. I feel it very much, and must ask you how you justify it."
James did his best to an easy calm. "Apologies should be in the air. I
should have looked for one myself an hour or so ago."
"You should have had it," she said, "if you had given me time. But you
stared me out of countenance the moment I came in. Anger before you
had even heard me is not a nice thing to face."
James turned pale. He used his most incisive tones. "I am ready to
hear your explanation. Perhaps I had better say that I know it."
Lucy showed him angry eyes. "If you know it, there is no need for me
to trouble you with it. You must also know that it isn't easy to get
away from a great crowd in a minute."
But he seemed not to hear her. He had another whip in waiting, which
nothing could have kept him from the use of. "I think that I must
trouble you, rather. I think I should be relieved by hearing from you
where the crowd was of which you were one--or two, indeed."
She discovered that he was white with rage, though she had never seen
him so before. "What do you mean, James?" she said--and he, "I know
that you were at the Flower Show. You were there with Lingen."
"Yes," said Lucy, "I was indeed. And why shouldn't I be?"
"I have told you before this what my views are about that. I don't
intend to repeat them, at present."
"I think you must be mad," said Lucy. "Do you mean to tell me that you
object to Francis Lingen to that extent--to the extent of such a scene
as this?"
He faced her from his height. "I do mean that."
"Then," she said, out of herself, "you are insulting me. I don't think
you can intend to do that. And I should like to say also that you, of
all the men in the world, are the last person to be jealous or
suspicious of anybody where I am concerned."
She hadn't meant to say that; but when she saw that he took it as a
commonplace of marital ethics, she determined to go further still.
He took it, in fact, just so. It seemed to him what any wife would say
to any indignant husband. "I beg your pardon," he said, "you don't
quite follow me. I agree with you that I should be the last person;
but I beg to point out to you that I should also be the first person.
And I will go on to add, if you will excuse me, that I should be the
only person."
"No person at all," said Lucy, "has the right or the reason to suspect
me of anything, or to be jealous of any of my acquaintance. You didn't
understand me: I suppose because you are too angry. What I meant you
to remember was how much, how very much, you are bound to believe in
me--now of all times in our life."
Here then was a Psyche with the lamp in her hand. Here was Lucy on the
limit of a world unknown. Here she stood, at her feet the tufted
grasses and field herbs, dusty, homely, friendly things, which she
knew. Beyond her, beyond the cliff's edge were the dim leagues of a
land and sea unknown. What lay out there beyond her in the mist? What
mountain and forest land lay there, what quiet islands, what sounding
mains?
But it was done now. James gazed blankly, but angrily, puzzled into
her face.
"I haven't the faintest notion what you mean," he said. Evidently he
had not.
She must go on, though she hated it. "You are very surprising. I can
hardly think you are serious. Let me remind you of the opera--of the
_Walkuere_."
He gave his mind to it, explored the past, and so entirely failed to
understand her that he looked rather foolish. "I remember that we were
there." Then he had a flash of light--and shed it on her, God knows.
"I remember also that Lingen was in the box."
"Oh, Lingen! Are you mad on--? Do you not remember that you were there
before Lingen?"
"Yes, I do remember it." He stood, poor fool, revealed. Lucy's voice
rang clear.
"Very well. If that is all that your memory brings you, I have nothing
more to say."
She left him swiftly, and went upstairs in the possession of an
astounding truth, but rapt with it in such a whirlwind of wonder that
she could do no more than clutch it to her bosom as she flew. She sent
out word that she was not coming down to dinner, and locked herself in
with her truth, to make what she could of it.
CHAPTER XI
ANTEROS
Macartney was no fool in his own world, where a perfectly clear idea
of what you want to do combined with a nonchalant manner of "Take it
or leave it" had always carried him through the intricacies of
business. If he was a fool in supposing that precisely the same
armoury would defend him at home, there is this excuse for him, that
Lucy had encouraged him to suppose it. When she dashed from the room
at this recent moment he sat for some time with his eyes fixed upon
his foolscap; but presently found himself reading the same sentence
over and over again without understanding one word in it. He dropped
the document, rose and picked himself out a cigar, with deliberation
and attention disproportionate to the business. He cut, stabbed and
lighted the cigar, and stood by the mantelpiece, smoking and gazing
out of window.
He had overdone it. He had stretched _regime_ too far. There had been
a snap. Now, just where had he failed? Was it with Francis Lingen?
Perhaps. He must admit, though, that some good had come out of the
trouble. He felt reassured about Francis Lingen, because, as he
judged, women don't get angry in cases of the kind unless the husband
has nothing to be angry about. He felt very world-wise and shrewd as
he propounded this. Women like their husbands to be jealous,
especially if they are jealous with reason. Because, then, they say to
themselves, "Well, anyhow, he loves me still. I have him to fall back
upon, at all events." Capital! He gave a short guffaw, and resumed his
cigar. But Lucy was angry: obviously because he had wasted good
jealousy on a mere fancy. Damn it, he had overdone it. The next
thing--if he didn't look out--would be that she would give him
something to be jealous of. He must calm her--there would be no
difficulty in that, no loss of prestige.
Prestige: that was the thing you wanted to maintain. Discipline be
jiggered--that might do mischief--if you drove it too hard. The fact
was, he was a little too sharp with Lucy. She was a dear, gentle
creature, and no doubt one fell into the habit of pushing a willing
horse. He could see it all now perfectly. He had been put out when he
arrived at the Marchants' too early--she was not there; and then that
old fool Vane with his, "Saw your wife at the Chelsea thing, with
Lingen. They looked very settled"; that had put the lid on. That was
how it was; and he had been too sharp. Well, one must make
mistakes--
He wondered what she had meant about the Opera. Why had she harped
upon that string? "You were there before Francis Lingen," she had
said--well, and then--she had been furious with him. He had said, "I
know that I was," and she, "If that is all your memory brings you--"
and off she went. He smoked hard--lifted his hand and dropped it
smartly to his mantelpiece. No; that was a thing no man could fathom.
A Lucyism--quite clear to herself, no doubt. Well, he'd leave that
alone. The more one tried to bottom those waters, the less one fished
up. But he would make peace with her after dinner.
He heard, "Mrs. Macartney is not dining this evening; she has a bad
headache, and doesn't wish to be disturbed," received it with a curt
nod, and accepted it simply. Better to take women at their word. Her
troubles would have simmered down by the morning, whereas if he were
to go up now, one of two things: either she'd be angry enough to let
him batter at the door to no purpose--and feel an ass for his pains;
or she would let him in, and make a fuss--in which case he would feel
still more of an ass. "Ask Mrs. Macartney if I can do anything," he
had said to Smithers, and was answered, "I think Mrs. Macartney is
asleep, sir." He hoped she was. That would do her a world of good.