Love and Lucy
minutes, but he wanted to see her again--now. He craved the sight of
that charming diffidence of the woman who knows herself desired. He
became embarrassed as he thought of it, but did not cease to desire.
Should he yield to the whim--or hold himself...?
At that moment Lancelot was admitted. He heard him race upstairs
calling, "Mamma, Mamma! frightfully important!" That decided the
thing. He opened his door, listening to what followed. He heard Lucy's
voice, "I'm here. You can come in...." and was amazed. Was that Lucy's
voice? She was happy, then. He knew that by her tone. There was a lift
in it, a _timbre_. Was it just possible, by some chance, that he had
been a damned fool? He walked the room in some agitation, then went
hastily upstairs to dress.
Whether to a new James or not, dinner had a new Lucy to reveal; a Lucy
full of what he called "feminine charm"; a Lucy who appealed to him
across the table for support against a positive Lancelot; who brought
him in at all points; who was concerned for his opinion; who gave him
shy glances, who could even afford to be pert. He, being essentially
a fair-weather man, was able to meet her half-way--no more than that,
because he was what he was, always his own detective. The discipline
which he had taught himself to preserve was for himself first of all.
Lancelot noticed his father. "I say," he said, when he and Lucy were
in the drawing-room, "Father's awfully on the spot, isn't he? It's
Norway, I expect. Bucks him up."
"Norway is enough to excite anybody," Lucy said--"even me."
"Oh, you!" Lancelot was scornful. "Anything would excite you. Look at
Mr. Urquhart."
Lucy flickered. "How do you mean?" Lancelot was warm for his absent
friend.
"Why, you used to take a great interest in all his adventures--you
know you did."
This must be faced. "Of course I did. Well--?"
"Well," said Lancelot, very acutely, "now they seem rather
ordinary--rather chronic." _Chronic_ was a word of Crewdson's, used as
an augmentive. Lucy laughed, but faintly.
"Yes, I expect they are chronic. But I think Mr. Urquhart is very
nice."
"He's ripping," said Lancelot, in a stare.
James in the drawing-room that evening was studiously himself, and
Lucy fought with her restlessness, and prevailed against it. He was
shy, and spun webs of talk to conceal his preoccupations. Lucy watched
him guardedly, but with intense interest. It was when she went
upstairs that the amazing thing happened.
She stood by him, her hand once more upon his shoulder. He had his
book in his hand.
"I'm going," she said. "You have been very sweet to me. I don't
deserve it, you know."
He looked up at her, quizzing her through the detested glass. "You
darling," he said calmly, and she thrilled. Where had she heard that
phrase? At the _Walkuere_!
"You darling," he said; "who could help it?"
"Oh, but--" she pouted now. "Oh, but you can help it often--if you
like."
"But, you see, I don't like. I should hate myself if I thought that I
could."
"Do let me take your glass away for one minute."
"You may do what you please with it, or me."
The glass in eclipse, she looked down at him, considering, hesitating,
choosing, poised. "Oh, I was right. You look much nicer without it.
Some day I'll tell you."
He took her hand and kept it. "Some day you shall tell me a number of
things."
She did not cease to look at him, but he saw fear in her eyes. "Some
day, perhaps, but not yet."
"No," said he, "not yet--perhaps."
"Will you trust me?"
"I always have."
She sighed. "Oh, you are good. I didn't know how good." Then she
turned to go. "I told you I was going--and I am. Good night."
He put his book down. She let his eyeglass fall. He drew her to his
knee, and looked at her.
"It's not good night," he said. "That's to come."
She gave him a startled, wide look, and then her lips, before she
fled.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HARDANGER
That enchanted land of sea and rock, of mountains rooted in the water,
and water which pierces the secret valleys of the mountains, worked
its spell upon our travellers, and freed them from themselves for a
while. For awhile they were as singleminded as the boys, content to
live and breathe that wine-tinctured air, and watch out those flawless
days and serene grey nights. London had sophisticated some of them
almost beyond redemption: Francis Lingen was less man than sensitive
gelatine; James was the offspring of a tradition and a looking-glass.
But the zest and high spirits of Urquhart were catching, and after a
week Francis Lingen ceased to murmur to ladies in remote corners, and
James to care whether his clothes were pressed. Everybody behaved
well: Urquhart, who believed that he possessed Lucy's heart, James,
who knew now what he possessed, Vera Nugent, who was content to sit
and look on, and Lucy herself, who simply and honestly forgot
everything except the beauty of the world, and the joy of physical
exertion. She had been wofully ill on the passage from Newcastle and
had been invisible from beginning to end. But from the moment of
landing at Bergen she had been transformed. She was now the sister of
her son, a wild, wilful, impetuous creature, a nymph of the heath,
irresponsible and self-indulgent, taking what she could get of comfort
and cherishing, and finding a boundless appetite for it. It was
something, perhaps, to know in her heart that every man in the party
was in love with her; it was much more--for the moment at least--to be
without conscience in the matter. She had put her conscience to sleep
for once, drugged it with poppy and drowsy syrups, and led the life of
a healthy and vigorous animal.
Urquhart enjoyed that; he was content to wait and watch. For the time
James did not perceive it. The beauty and freshness of this new world
was upon him. Francis Lingen, born to cling, threw out tentative
tendrils to Margery Dacre.
Margery Dacre was a very pretty girl; she had straw-coloured hair and
a bright complexion. She wore green, especially in the water. Urquhart
called her Undine, and she was mostly known as the Mermaid. She had
very little mind, but excellent manners; and was expensive without
seeming to spend anything. For instance, she brought no maid, because
she thought that it might have looked ostentatious, and always made
use of Lucy's, who didn't really want one. That was how Margery Dacre
contrived to seem very simple.
For the moment Urquhart took natural command. He knew the country, he
owned the motor-boat; he believed that he owned Lucy, and he believed
that James was rather a fool. He thought that he had got the better of
James. But this could not last, because James was no more of a fool
than he was himself, though his intelligence worked in a different
way. Things flashed upon Urquhart, who then studied them intensely and
missed nothing. They dawned on James, who leisurely absorbed them, and
allowed them to work out their own development.
It was very gradually now dawning upon James that Urquhart had assumed
habits of guidance over Lucy and was not aware of any reason why he
should relinquish them. He believed that he understood her thoroughly;
he read her as a pliant, gentle nature, easily imposed upon, and
really at the mercy of any unscrupulous man who was clever enough to
see how she should be treated. He had never thought that before. It
was the result of his cogitations over recent events. So while he kept
his temper and native jealousy under easy control, he watched
comfortably--as well he might--and gained amusement, as he could well
afford to do, from Urquhart's marital assumptions. When he was tempted
to interfere, or to try a fall with Urquhart, he studiously refrained.
If Urquhart said, as he did sometimes, "I advise you to rest for a
bit," James calmly embraced the idea. If Urquhart brought out a cloak
or a wrap and without word handed it to her, James, watching, did not
determine to forestall him on the next occasion. And Lucy, as he
admitted, behaved beautifully, behaved perfectly. There were no
grateful looks from her, such as he would expect to see pass between
lovers. Keenly as he watched her, he saw no secret exchange. On the
other hand, her eyes frequently sought his own, as if she wanted him
to understand that she was happy, as if, indeed, she wanted him to be
happy by such an understanding. This gave him great pleasure, and
touched him too. If he had been capable of it, he would have told her;
but he was not. It was part of his nature to treat those whom he
loved _de haut en bas_. He found that it was so, and hated himself for
it. The one thing he really grudged Urquhart was his simplicity and
freedom from ulterior motive. Urquhart was certainly able to enjoy the
moment for the moment's worth. But James must always be calculating
exactly what it was worth, and whether to be enhanced by what might
follow it.
He was kinder to her than he had ever been before. In fact, he was
remarkably interesting. She told him of it in their solitary moments
of greatest intimacy. "This is my honeymoon," she said, "and I never
had one before."
"Goose," said he, "don't attempt to deceive me." But she reasserted
it.
"It's true, James. You may have loved me in your extraordinary way,
but I'm sure I didn't love you. I was much too frightened of you."
"Well," he laughed, "I don't discover any terrors now." She wouldn't
say that there were none. So far as she dared she was honest.
"We aren't on an exact equality. We never shall be. But we are much
nearer. Own it."
He held her closely and kissed her. "You are a little darling, if
that's what you mean."
"Oh, but it isn't; it isn't at all what I mean. Why, you wouldn't call
me 'little' if you didn't know you were superior. Because I'm rather
tall for a woman."
He knew that she was right, and respected her for the discernment. "My
love," he said, "I'm a self-centred, arrogant beast, and I don't like
to think about it. But you'll make something of me if you think it
worth while. But listen to me, Lucy. I'm going to talk to you
seriously." Then he whispered in her ear: "Some day you must talk to
me." He could feel her heart beat, he could feel her shiver as she
clung.
"Yes," she said very low; "yes, I promise--but not now."
"No," he said, "not now. I want to be happy as long as I can." She
started away, and he felt her look at him in the dark.
"You'll be happier when I've told you," she said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I shall be happier myself then," she said; and James hoped
that she was right about him. One thing amazed him to discover--how
women imputed their own virtues to the men they loved. It struck him a
mortal blow to realise that his evident happiness would give Lucy
joy, whereas hers would by no means necessarily add to his. "What does
give me happiness, then?" he asked himself; "what could conceivably
increase my zest for life? Evidence of power, exercise of faculty: so
far as I know, nothing else whatever. A parlous state of affairs. But
it is the difference, I presume, between a giving creature and a
getting one which explains all. Is a man, then, never to give, and be
happy? Has he ever tried? Is a woman not to get? Has she ever had a
chance of it?" He puzzled over these things in his prosaic, methodical
way. One thing was clear to everybody there but Urquhart in his
present fatuity: Lucy was thriving. She had colour, light in her eyes,
a bloom upon her, a dewiness, an auroral air. She sunned herself like
a bird in the dust; she bathed her body, and tired herself with long
mountain and woodland walks. When she was alone with her husband she
grew as sentimental as a housemaid and as little heedful of the
absurd. She grew young and amazingly pretty, the sister of her son. It