Love and Lucy
suffered, open-eyed but without any consciousness. Something had
happened, was happening still; a storm was raging overhead; she lay
quaking and waited for it to pass. She fell asleep, slept profoundly,
and awoke slowly to a sense of things. She had no doubt of what lay
immediately before her. Disrelish of the Norwegian expedition was
now a reasonable thing. Either it must be given up, or the disaster
reckoned with. _Advienne que pourra._ But in either case she must
"have it out" with James. What did that mean? Jimmy Urquhart would be
thrown over. He would go--and she would not. She lay, picturing rather
than reasoning; saw him superbly capable, directing everything. She
felt a pride in him, and in herself for discovering how fine he was.
His fineness, indeed, was a thing shared. She felt a sinking of the
heart to know that she could not be there. But the mere thought of
that sickened her. Out of the question.
She must "have it out" with James. That might be rather dreadful; it
might take her where she must refuse to go--but on the whole, she
didn't think it need. The certainty that she couldn't go to Norway,
that James must be made to see it, was a moral buttress. Timidity of
James would not prevail against it. Besides that, deeply within
herself, lay the conviction that James was kind if you took him the
right way. He was irritable, and very annoying when he was sarcastic;
but he was good at heart. And it was odd, she thought, that directly
she got into an awkward place with a flirtation, her first impulse was
to go to James to get her out. In her dream she had called to him,
though Urquhart had been there. Why was that?
She was thinking now like a child, which indeed she was where such
matters were concerned. She was not really contrite for what she had
done, neither regretted that she had done it, nor that it was done
with. She wanted to discharge her bosom of perilous stuff. James would
forgive her. He must not know, of course, what he was forgiving;
but--yes, he would forgive her.
* * * * *
At six or thereabouts, listening for it, she heard the motor bring
James home; she heard his latch-key, and the shutting of the door
behind him. Her heart beat high, but she did not falter. He was
reading a letter in the hall when she came downstairs; he was very
much aware of her, but pretended not to be. She stood on the bottom
stair looking at him with wide and fixed eyes; but he would not look
up. He was not just then in a mood either to make advances or to
receive them. His grievance was heavy upon him.
"James," said Lucy, "I've been listening for you."
"Too good," said he, and went on with his letter.
"I wanted to tell you that I don't think--that I don't much want to go
to Norway."
Then he did look up, keenly, with a drawn appearance about his mouth,
showing his teeth. "Eh?" he said. "Oh, absurd." He occupied himself
with his letter, folding it for its envelope, while she watched him
with a pale intensity which ought to have told him, and perhaps did
tell him, what she was suffering.
"I don't think you should call me absurd," she said. "I was never very
certain of it."
"But, my dearest child, you made me certain, at any rate," he told
her. "You made everybody certain. So much so that I have the tickets
in my pocket at this moment."
"I'm very sorry. I could pay for mine, of course--and I'm sure Vera
would look after Lancelot. I wouldn't disappoint him for the world."
"What are you going to tell Urquhart?" said James. Her eyes paled.
"I believe that he would take it very simply," she said. James plunged
his hands into his pockets. He thought that they were on the edge of
the gulf.
"Look here, Lucy," he said; "hadn't you better tell me something more
about this? Perhaps you will come into the library for a few minutes."
He led the way without waiting for her, and she stood quaking where
she was.
She was making matters worse: she saw that now. Naturally she couldn't
tell James the real state of the case, because that would involve her
in history. James would have to understand that he had been believed
to have wooed her when he had done nothing of the kind. That was a
thing which nothing in the world would bring her to reveal to him. And
if she left that out and confined herself to her own feelings for
Urquhart--how was all that to be explained? Was it fair to herself, or
to Urquhart, to isolate the flowering of an affair unless you could
show the germinating of it? Certainly it wasn't fair to herself--as
for Urquhart, it may be that he didn't deserve any generous treatment.
She knew that there was no defence for him, though plenty of
excuse--possibly. No--she must go through with the Norway business.
Meantime James was waiting for her.
She stood by the library table while James, back to the fireplace,
lifted his head and watched her through cigar-smoke. He had no mercy
for her at this moment. Suspicions thronged his darkened mind. But
nothing of her rueful beauty escaped him. The flush of sleep was upon
her, and her eyes were full of trouble.
"It isn't that I have any reason which would appeal to you," she told
him. She faltered her tale. "I think I have been foolish--I know that
I'm very tired and worried; but--I have had presentiments."
James clicked his tongue, which he need not have done--as he knew very
well. But he had not often been arbiter of late.
"My child," he said, "really--" and annoyed her.
"Of course you are impatient. I can't help it, all the same. I am
telling you the truth. I don't know what is going to happen. I feel
afraid of something--I don't know what--"
"Run down," said James, looking keenly at her, but kindly; "end of the
season. Two days at sea will do the job for you. Anyhow, my dear, we
go." He threw himself in his deep chair, stretched his legs out and
looked at Lucy.
She was deeply disappointed; she had pictured it so differently. He
would have understood her, she had thought. But he seemed to be in his
worst mood. She stood, the picture of distressful uncertainty, hot and
wavering; her head hung, her hand moving a book about on the table. To
his surprise and great discomfort he now discerned that she was
silently crying. Tears were falling, she made no effort to stop them,
nor to conceal them. Her weakness and dismay were too much for her.
She accepted the relief, and neither knew nor cared whether he saw it.
James was not hard-hearted unless his vanity was hurt. This was the
way to touch him, as he was prepared to be touched. "My child," he
said, "why, what's the matter with you?" She shook her head, tried to
speak, failed, and went on crying.
"Lucy," said James, "come here to me." She obeyed him at once.
Something about her attitude moved him to something more than pity.
Her pretty frock and her refusal to be comforted by it; her youthful
act--for Lucy had never yet cried before him; her flushed cheeks, her
tremulous lips--what? If I could answer the question I should resolve
the problem of the flight of souls. He looked at her and knew that he
desired her above all things. A Lucy in tears was a new Lucy; a James
who could afford to let his want be seen was a new James. That which
stirred him--pity, need, desire, kindness--vibrated in his tones. To
hear was to obey.
He took her two hands and drew her down to his knee. He made her sit
there, embraced her with his arm. "There, my girl, there," he said;
"now let me know all about it. Upon my soul, you are a baffling young
woman. You will, and you won't; and then you cry, and I become
sentimental. I shall end by falling in love with you."
At these strange words she broke down altogether, and sobbed her soul
out upon his shoulder. Again he assured himself that he had never seen
her cry before. He was immensely touched by it, and immensely at his
ease too. His moral status was restored to him. He knew now what he
wanted. "You poor little darling, I can't bear to see you cry so.
There then--cry away, if it does you good. What does me good is to
have you here. Now what made you so meek as to come when I called you?
And why weren't you afraid that I should eat you up? So I might, Lucy,
you know; for you've made me madly in love with you."
It seemed to her beating heart that indeed he was. He held her very
close, kissed her wet cheeks, her wet eyes and her lips. She struggled
in his embrace, but not for long. She yielded, and returned his
kisses. So they clung together, and in the silence, while time seemed
to stand still, it really did nothing of the kind; for if he gained
experience she lost it.
He must have grown more experienced, for he was able to return without
embarrassment to the affairs so strangely interrupted. She must have
grown less so, because she answered him simply, like a child. He asked
her what had upset her, and she told him, a dream. A dream? Had she
been asleep? No, it was a waking dream. She told him exactly what it
was. She was with Mr. Urquhart in a horrible place--a dry, sandy place
with great rocks in it. "And where did I come in?" "You didn't come
in. That was why I called you." "You called for me, did you? But
Urquhart was there?" "Yes, I suppose he was still there. I didn't
look." "Why did you call for me, Lucy?" "Because I was frightened."
"I'm grateful to you for that. That's good news to me," he said; and
then when he kissed her again, she opened her eyes very wide, and
said, "Oh, James, I thought you didn't care for me any more."
James, master of himself, smiled grimly. "I thought as much," he said;
"and so you became interested in somebody else?"
Lucy sat up. "No," she said, "I became interested in you first."
That beat him. "You became interested in _me_? Why? Because I didn't
care for you?"
"No," she said sharply; "no! Because I thought that you did."
James felt rather faint. "I can't follow you. You thought that I
didn't, you said?" Lucy was now excited, and full of her wrongs.
"How extraordinary! Surely you see? I had reason to think that you
cared for me very much--oh, very much indeed; and then I found out
that you didn't care a bit more than usual; and then--well, then--"
James, who was too apt to undervalue people, did not attempt to pursue
the embroilment. But he valued her in this melting mood. He held her
very close.
"Well," he said, "and now you find that I do care--and what then?"
She looked at him, divinely shy. "Oh, if you really care--"
This would have made any man care. "Well, if I really do--?"
"Ah!" She hid her face on his shoulder. "I shall love to be in
Norway."
James felt very triumphant; but true to type, he sent her upstairs to
dress with the needless injunction to make herself look pretty.
Presently, however, he stood up and stared hard at the ground. "Good
Lord!" he said. "I wonder what the devil--" Then he raised his
eyebrows to their height. "This is rather interesting."
* * * * *
The instinct was strong in him to make her confess--for clearly there
was something to be known. But against that several things worked. One
was his scorn of the world at large. He felt that it was beneath him
to enquire what that might be endeavouring against his honour or
peace. Another--and a very new feeling to him--was one of compassion.
The poor girl had cried before him--hidden her face on his shoulder
and cried. To use strength, male strength, upon that helplessness; to
break a butterfly on a wheel--upon his soul, he thought he couldn't do
it.
And after all--whether it was Lingen or Urquhart--he was safe. He knew
he was safe because he wanted her. He knew that he _could_ not want
what was not for him. That was against Nature. True to type again, he
laughed at himself, but owned it. She had been gone but five or ten