Love and Lucy
Morning. In the breakfast-room he faced a Lucy self-possessed, with
guarded eyes, and, if he could have seen it, with implied reproach
stiffening every line of her. Her generosity gratified him, but should
have touched him keenly. She came to him at once, and put up her face.
"I'm sorry I was so cross, James." His immediate feeling, I say, was
one of gratification. That was all right. She had come in. To that
succeeded a wave of kindness. He dropped his glass, and took her
strongly in his arms. "Dearest, I behaved very badly. I'm truly
sorry." He kissed her, and for a moment she clung to him, but avoided
his further kisses. Yet he had kissed her as a man should. She had
nothing more to say, but he felt it her due that he should add
something while yet he held her. "As for poor Francis--I know that I
was absurd--I admit it frankly." He felt her shake and guessed her
indignation. "You'll believe me, dear. You know I don't like owning
myself a fool." Then she had looked up, still in his arms--"Why
should you be so stupid? How can you possibly be? You, of all people!"
There she was again.
But he intended to make peace once and for all. "My dearest, I can't
be more abject, for the life of me. I have confessed that I was an
abounding ass. Please to believe in me. Ask Francis Lingen to tea for
a month of days--and not a word from me!"
She had laughed, rather scornfully, and tried to free herself. He
kissed her again before he let her go. Almost immediately he resumed
his habits--eyeglass, _Morning Post_, and scraps of comment. He made
an effort and succeeded, he thought, in being himself. "Johnny Mallet
gives another party at the Bachelors to-day. I believe I go. Has he
asked you? He means to. He's a tufthunter--but he gets tufts.... I see
that the Fathers in God are raving about the Tithe Bill. I shall have
Jasper Mellen at me--and the Dean too. Do you remember--did you ever
hear, I wonder, of _Box and Cox_? They have a knack of coming to me on
the same day. Once they met on the doorstep, and each of them turned
and fled away. It must have been very comic...." Lucy busied herself
with her letters and her coffee-cups. She wished that she did not feel
so ruffled, but--a walk would do her good. She would go into the Park
presently, and look at the tulips and lilacs. It was horrid to feel so
stuffy on such a perfect day. How long to Whitsuntide? That was to be
heavenly--if James didn't get inspired by the dark! Something would
have to be prepared for that. In her eyes, sedate though they were,
there lurked a gleam: the beacon-fire of a woman beleaguered.
Certainly Jimmy Urquhart liked her. He had said that she liked him.
Well, and so she did. Very much indeed.
James went, forgiven, to his Bishops and Deans, and to lunch with his
Johnny Mallet and the tufted. Lucy, her household duties done, arrayed
herself for the tulips of the Park.
The grey watches of the night with their ache and moments of panic,
the fever and fret, the wearing down of rage and emptying of wonder
and dismay, the broken snatches of dream-sleep, and the heavy slumber
which exhaustion finally gave her--all this had brought downstairs, to
be kissed, embraced and forgiven, a Lucy disillusioned and tired to
death, but schooled to patience. Her conclusion of the whole matter
now was that it was James who had indeed loved her in the dark, with
an access of passion which he had never shown before and could drop
apparently as fitfully as he won to it, and also with a fulness of
satisfaction to himself which she did not pretend to understand. It
was James and no other, simply because any other was unthinkable. Such
things were not done. Jimmy Urquhart--and what other could she imagine
it?--was out of the question. She had finally brushed him out as a
girl flecks the mirror in a cotillon. It was James; but why he had
been so moved, how moved, how so lightly satisfied, how his conduct at
other times could be fitted in--really, it didn't matter two straws.
It meant nothing but a moment's silliness, it led to nothing, it
mended nothing--and it broke nothing. Her soul was her own, her heart
was her own. It was amiable of him, she dared say, but had become
rather a bore. She conceived of a time at hand when she might have to
be careful that he shouldn't. But just now she wouldn't make a fuss.
Anything but that. He was within his rights, she supposed; and let it
rest at that. So arrayed, she faced him, and, to let nothing be
omitted on her part, she herself apologised for what had been his
absurd fault, and so won as much from him as he could ever have given
anybody. As for Francis Lingen--she had not once given him a thought.
Now, however, James away to his Bishops, she arrayed herself anew, and
went out, _fraiche et dispose_, into the Park, intending that she
should see Urquhart. And so she did. He was on horseback and
dismounted the moment he saw her. He was glad to see her, she could
tell, but did not insist upon his gladness. He admired her, she could
see, but took his admiration as a matter of course. She wore
champagne-colour. She had snakeskin shoes, a black hat. She was
excited, and had colour; her eyes shone.
"Well," he said, "here you are then. That's a good thing. I began to
give you up."
"How did you know--?" She stopped, and bit her lip.
"I didn't. But I'm very glad to see you. You look very well. Where are
you going?"
She nodded her direction. "Tulips. Just over there. I always
pilgrimise them."
"All right. Let us pilgrimise them. Tulips are like a drug. A little
is exquisite, and you are led on. Excess brings no more enchantment,
only nausea. You buy a million and plant your woodland, and the result
is horror. A hundred would have been heavenly. That's what I find."
She had mockery in her look, gleams of it shot with happiness to be
there. "Is that what you've done at Martley? I shan't praise you when
I see it. I hate too-muchness."
"So do I, but always too late. I ought to learn from you, whose
frugality is part of your charm. One can't imagine too much Lucy."
"Ah, don't be sure," she cautioned him. "Ask James."
"I shall. I'm quite equal to that. I'll ask him to-day. He's to be at
an idiotic luncheon, to which I'm fool enough to be going.
Marchionesses and all the rest of it."
"How can you go to such things when you might be--flying?"
"Earning your displeasure? Oh, I know, I know. I didn't know how to
refuse Mallet. He seemed to want me. I was flattered. As a matter of
fact--I _have_ flown."
"Alone?"
"Good Lord, no. I had an expert there. He let me have the levers. I
had an illusion. But I always do."
"Do tell me your illusion."
"I thought that I could sing."
"You did sing, I'm sure."
"I might have. One miracle the more. As for the machine--it wasn't a
machine, it was a living spirit."
"A male spirit or a female spirit?"
"Female, I think. Anyhow I addressed it as such."
"What did you say to her?"
"I said, 'You darling.'"
That startled her, if you like! She looked frightened, then coloured
deeply. Urquhart seemed full of his own thoughts.
"How's Lancelot?" he asked her.
That helped her. "Oh, he delights me. Another 'living spirit.' He
never fails to ask after you."
"Stout chap."
"He harps on your story. The first you ever told us. This time he put
in his postscript, 'How is Wives and Co?'"
He nodded. "Very good. I begat an immortal. That tale will never die.
He'll tell it to his grandchildren."
They stood, or strolled at ease, by the railings, she within them, he
holding his horse outside them. The tulips were adjudged, names taken,
colours approved.
"You'll see mine," he said, "in ten days. Do you realise that?"
She was radiant. "I should think so. That has simply got to happen.
Are you going to have other people there?"
"Vera," he said, "and her man, and I rather think Considine, her man's
brother. Fat and friendly, with a beard, and knows a good deal about
machines, one way and another. I want his advice about hydroplanes,
among other things. You'll like him."
"Why shall I like him?"
"Because he's himself. He has no manners at all, only feelings. Nice
feelings. That's much better than manners."
"Yes, I dare say they are." She thought about it. "There's a
difference between manner and manners."
"Oh, rather. The more manner you have the less manners."
"Yes, I meant that. But even manners don't imply feelings, do they?"
"I was going to say, Never. But that wouldn't be true. You have
charming manners: your feelings' clothes and a jolly good fit."
"How kind you are." She was very pleased. "Now, _you_--what shall I
say?"
"You might say that I have no manners, and not offend me. I have no
use for them. But I have feelings, sometimes nice, sometimes horrid."
"I am sure that you couldn't be horrid."
"Don't be sure," he said gravely. "I had rather you weren't. I have
done amiss in my day, much amiss; and I shall do it again."
She looked gently at him; her mouth showed the Luini compassion,
long-drawn and long-suffering, because it understood. "Don't say that.
I don't think you mean it."
He shook his head, but did not cease to watch her. "Oh, but I mean it.
When I want a thing, I try to get it. When I see my way, I follow it.
It seems like a law of Nature. And I suppose it is one. What else is
instinct?"
"Yes," she said, "but I suppose we have feelings in us so that we may
realise that other people have them too."
"Yes, yes--or that we may give them to those who haven't got any of
their own."
They had become grave, and he, at least, moody. Lucy dared not push
enquiry. She had the ardent desire to help and the instinct to make
things comfortable on the surface, which all women have, and which
makes nurses of them. But she discerned trouble ahead. Urquhart's
startling frankness had alarmed her before, and she didn't trust
herself to pass it off if it flashed once too often. Flashes like that
lit up the soul, and not of the lamp-holder only.
They parted, with unwillingness on both sides, at Prince's Gate, and
Lucy sped homewards with feet that flew as fast as her winged
thoughts. That "You darling" was almost proof positive. And yet he had
been at Peltry that night; and yet he couldn't have dared! Now even as
she uttered that last objection she faltered; for when daring came
into question, what might he not dare? Remained the first. He had been
at Peltry, she knew, because she had been asked to meet him there and
had refused on the opera's account. Besides, she had heard about his
riding horses as if they were motors, and-- Here she stood still; and
found herself shaking. That letter--in that letter of Mabel's about
his visit to Peltry, had there not been something of a call to London,
and return late for dinner? And the opera began at half-past six. What
was the date of his call to London? Could she find that letter? And
should she hunt for it, or leave it vague? And then she thought of
Martley. And then she blushed.
CHAPTER XII
MARTLEY THICKET (1)
Urquhart was a man of explosive action and had great reserve of
strength. He was moved by flashes of insight, and was capable of
long-sustained flights of vehement effort; but his will-power was
nourished entirely by those moments of intense prevision, which showed
him a course, and all the stages of it. The mistakes he made, and they
were many and grievous, were mostly due to overshooting his mark,
sometimes to underrating it. In the headlong and not too scrupulous
adventure he was now upon, both defects were leagued against him.
When he first saw Lucy at her dinner-party, he said to himself,
"That's a sweet woman. I shall fall in love with her." To say as much
was proof that he had already done so; but it was the sudden