Love and Lucy
undisguisedly, for his own sake; for he had no zest for helping to
carry a bier over the Folgefond. They made a litter of alpen-stocks
and the mackintosh, and so between them carried Urquhart down the
mountain. No need to dwell on it. They reached the hotel at Odde about
midnight, but halfway to it they found help.
CHAPTER XXIV
URQUHART'S APOLOGY
Macartney was right when he said to Lucy, in talking over the
adventure, that Urquhart had no moral sense, though she had not then
been convinced. But she was to be convinced before she had done with
him.
He asked for her repeatedly, and with no regard at all to what had
happened. At last he was told that if he excited himself she would
leave the hotel. Vera Nugent told him that, having installed herself
his nurse. Vera, who knew nothing but suspected much, guessed that
Macartney had had as much of her brother as he cared about. As for
Lucy, on the whole she despised her for preferring James with the Law
to Jimmy without it. In this she did little justice to James's use of
his advantage; but, as I say, she didn't know what had happened. All
she could see for herself was that where she had once had a _faible_
for Urquhart she was now ridiculously in love with her husband. Vera
thought that any woman was ridiculous who fell into that position.
She was not alone in the opinion.
However, the main thing was that Jimmy shouldn't fret himself into a
fever. If he kept quiet, she believed that he would recover. There was
no dislocation, the doctors told her, but a very bad wrench. He must
be perfectly still--and we should see.
Lucy was not told how impatiently she was awaited. James, maybe, did
not know anything about it. He felt great delicacy in telling what he
had to tell her of the events of that day. But she guessed nearly
everything, even that Urquhart had intended to break his own neck. "He
would," she said, being in a stare; "he's like that." James agreed,
but pointed out that it had nearly involved his own end likewise. Lucy
stared on, but said, "That wouldn't occur to him at the time." No,
said James, on the contrary. It had occurred to him at the time that
if he cut the rope, he, James, would immediately turn for home. She
nodded her head several times. "He's like that." And then she turned
and hid her face. "It's all dreadful," she said; "I don't want to know
any more." It was then that James pronounced upon Urquhart's absence
of morality, and found out that she was very much interested in him
anyhow.
She was curious about what had passed between him and James, for she
was sure that there had been something. James admitted that. "It was
very uncomfortable," he said; "I cut him as short as I could--but I
was awfully sorry for him. After all, I had scored, you see."
She gave him a long look. "Yes, you scored. All ways. Because, it was
only when I was angry with you that I--thought he might do." There
could be no comment on that. Then she said, "I'm thankful that I told
you everything before he did."
"So am I, by Jove," said James. He put his arm round her. "If you
hadn't," he said, "I think I could have let him die." Lucy shook her
head.
"No, you wouldn't have done that. He would have--but not you. If you
had been capable of that you wouldn't have called me to come to you as
you did--that day." He knew which day she meant, and felt it necessary
to tell her something about it.
"On that day," he said, "though you didn't know it, I was awfully in
love with you." She looked at him, wonderfully. "No, I didn't know
that! What a donkey I was! But I was wretched. I simply longed for
you."
"If you hadn't cried, you would never have had me." That she
understood.
"You wanted to pity me."
"No, I had been afraid of you. Your tears brought you down to earth."
"That's poetry," said Lucy.
"It's the nature of man," he maintained.
She wanted to know if he "minded" her seeing Urquhart. He did, very
much; but wouldn't say so.
"You needn't mind a bit," she told him. "He has terrified me. I'm not
adventurous at all; besides--"
"Besides--?"
"No, no, not now." She would say nothing more.
* * * * *
An expedition was made to the foot of the snow-field--for the benefit
of the boys. From a distance they saw the great cornice, and the
plateau where James had watched by Urquhart. Lancelot was here
confronted with irony for the first time. His loyalty was severely
tried. By rights Mr. Urquhart ought to have rescued the lot. Not for
a moment could he doubt of that. As for his father, accepted on all
hands as a hero, there were difficulties in the way which he could not
get over. He had to go very warily to work because of his mother; but
he went as far as he could. Why was it that Mr. Urquhart was hurt and
Father was not, when they both had the same drop? Lucy could only say
that Father dropped better--or fell better. And then there was a
pause. "What! With an eyeglass!" He allowed himself that--with her;
but with Patrick Nugent he was short and stern. Patrick had said
something of the same kind, as they were journeying home together. Why
hadn't Lancelot's governor smashed his eyeglass when he dropped?
Lancelot sniffed offence immediately, and snorted, "Hoo! Jolly good
thing for him he didn't! It kept the cold out of his eye. It's like
feeding a mouse when you're a prisoner in dungeons. Afterwards it
comes and gnaws the rope. Pooh, any ass could see that." And so much
for Patrick and cheek.
* * * * *
But the sick man, fretting in his bed, took short views. To see Lucy
again had become so desirable that he could think of nothing else.
She glanced before him as a Promise, and his nature was such that a
Promise was halfway to a fulfilling. As strength grew, so did he wax
sanguine, and amused himself by reconstructing his Spanish castle.
Vera Nugent gave him no encouragement; and perhaps overdid it. "Hadn't
you really better let the woman alone? She's perfectly happy--in spite
of you." He could afford to laugh at this.
"She doesn't know what happiness is. She thinks it is safety. I could
teach her better."
"You've made a great mess of it so far," Vera said. He ignored that.
"You say that she's happy. I suggest that she is merely snug. That's
what a dormouse calls happiness."
"Well, there's a good deal of the dormouse in Lucy," Vera said. "If
you stroke her she shines."
"Silence!" he cried sharply out. "You don't know anything at all. I
have had her radiant--like a moonstone. When am I to see her?"
"I'll tell her that you want to see her--but it would be reasonable if
she refused."
"She won't refuse," he said.
* * * * *
James must be told, of course. He took it quietly. "Yes, on the
whole--yes. I don't think you can refuse him that. It will try you."
"It will be horrid--but anyhow you know everything he can say."
"He doesn't know that I do. He'll build on that."
"Build!" said Lucy quickly. "What sort of building?"
"Oh, fantastic architecture. Bowers by Bendemeer. Never mind. Are you
going?"
"Yes," said Lucy slowly. "Yes, I'll go now." She went to him and put
her hands on his shoulders. Her eyes searched his face, and found it
inscrutable. "You mind," she said, "I know you do. You ought not--but
I'm glad of it."
He humbled himself at once. They parted as lovers part; but for the
life of him he could not understand how she could find the heart to
go. With himself, now, it would have been a point of honour not to go.
He did not see that the more a woman loves the more love she has to
spare.
Vera Nugent took her into the room, pausing outside the door. "You'll
find him very jumpy," she said; and then, "My dear, you're so
sensible."
Lucy, who knew that she meant precisely the opposite, said, "No, I
don't think I am. I'm excitable myself. What do you want me to do?"
"Keep cool," said Vera. "He won't like it, but it's important." Then
they went in. "Jimmy, here's Mrs. Macartney."
The quick eyes from the bed had been upon her from the first. It was
immediately evident to her that she was not to be spared. She heard
his "At last!" and braced herself for what that might mean.
"I should have come before if the doctors had approved--so would James
and Lancelot," she said as briskly as she might. He took no notice of
her addition. Vera Nugent, saying, "Don't let him talk too much," then
left her with him.
She began matter-of-fact enquiries, but he soon showed her that she
had not been brought in for such platitude. He played the mastery of
the invalid without hesitation.
"Oh, I'm very sick, you know. They tell me that I shall be as fit as
ever I was, if I behave--but really I don't know. I've a good deal
behind me--and not much before--so that I'm comparatively indifferent
how the thing goes.... Look here, Lucy," he said suddenly--and she
stiffened at her name--"I have to talk to you at last. It's wonderful
how we've put it off--but here it has come."
She said in low tones, "I don't see why we should talk about anything.
I would much rather not. Everything is changed now--everything."
Urquhart began with a touch of asperity ill disguised. "Might one be
allowed to enquire...?" Scared perhaps by his pomposity, he broke off:
"No, that won't do. I'll ask you simply, what has happened? You liked
me--to say no more. Now you don't. No, no, don't protest yet. Leave it
at that. Well, and then there's Macartney. Macartney didn't know you
existed. Now he doesn't see that any one else does. What has happened,
Lucy?"
She was annoyed at his _Lucy_, annoyed that she could be annoyed,
annoyed at his question, and his right to ask it--which she had given
him. Mostly, perhaps, she was annoyed because her answer must sound
ridiculous. Hateful, that such should be the lot of men and wives! She
repeated his question, "What has happened? I don't know how to tell
you. I found out, before we started--James found out-- Please don't
ask me to talk about it. Believe me when I say that everything is
changed. I can't say more than that."
He didn't move his eyes from her. She knew they were there though she
would not face them. "Everything isn't changed. I'm not changed. I
don't know that you are, although you say so." She faced him.
"Indeed, I am. I hope you'll understand that." He frowned, his fever
flushed him.
"You can't be. We can never be ordinary acquaintance. I have kissed
you--"
"You had no right--"
"You have kissed me--"
"You are cruel indeed."
"I am not cruel--I don't pretend to excuse myself. The first time--it
was the act of a cad--but I worked it all out. It couldn't fail; I
knew exactly how it would be. You would of course think it was he. You
would be awfully touched, awfully pleased--set up. And you were. I saw
that you were when we all came into the room. You went over and stood
by him. You put your hand on his arm. I said, 'You divine,
beautiful, tender thing, now I'll go through the fire to get you....'"
Lucy had covered her face with her hands; but now she lifted it and
showed him as it might be the eyes of an Assessing Angel.
"You went through no fire at all. But you put me in the fire." But he
continued as if she had said nothing material.
"I had made up my mind to be satisfied. I thought if I could see you
exalted, proud of what you had, that would be enough. But you found
him out; and then you found me out too ... and we never spoke of it.
But there it was, Lucy, all the time; and there it is still, my
dear--"
Her face was aflame, but her eyes clear and cold. "No," she said,
"it's not there. There is nothing there at all. You are nothing to me
but a thought of shame. I think I deserve all that you can say--but