Love and Lucy
surely you have said enough to me now. I must leave you if you go on
with this conversation. Nothing whatever is there--"
He laughed, not harshly, but comfortably, as a man does who is sure of
himself. "Yes, there is something there still. I count on that. There
is a common knowledge, unshared by any one but you and me. He would
have it so. I was ready to tell him everything, but he wouldn't hear
me. It was honourable of him. I admired him for it; but it left me
sharing something with you."
She stared at him, as if he had insulted her in the street.
"What can you mean? How could he want to hear from you what he knew
already from me?"
Urquhart went pale. Grey patches showed on his cheeks and spread like
dry places in the sand.
"You told him?"
"Everything. Two nights before you went."
He fell silent. His eyes left her face. Power seemed to leave him.
"That tears it," he said. "That does for me." He was so utterly
disconcerted that she could have pitied him.
"So that's why he didn't want to hear me! No wonder. But--why didn't
he tell me that he knew it? I taunted him with not knowing." He turned
towards her; his eyes were bright with fever. "If you know, perhaps
you'll tell me."
Lucy said proudly, "I believe I know. He didn't want to change your
thoughts of me." He received that in silence.
Then he said, "By George, he's a better man than I am."
Lucy said, "Yes, he is." Her head was very fixed, her neck very stiff.
She was really angry, and Urquhart had sense enough to see it. She got
up to leave him, really angry, but unwilling to appear so. "You must
forget all this," she said, "and get well. Then you will do wonderful
things."
He said, "I've been a blackguard; but I meant something better."
"Oh, I am sure you did," she said warmly.
"I won't see Macartney, if he doesn't mind. Tell him from me that he's
a better man than I am."
"He won't believe you," said Lucy.
"Oh, yes, he will," Urquhart held. "Good-bye. Love to Lancelot."
That melted her. "Don't give us up. We are all your friends now."
He wouldn't have it. "No. I am a neck-or-nothing man. It can't be.
There's no cake in the cupboard. I've eaten it. Send Vera in if you
see her about. Good-bye." She left him.
* * * * *
She went through the hall, with a word to Vera, who was writing
letters there. "He asked for you."
Vera looked up at her. "He's excited, I suppose?"
"No, not now," said Lucy. Then she went into the sitting-room and saw
the party at tea on the balcony. James paused in his careful
occupations, and focussed her with his eyeglass. She went quickly to
the table.
"Oh, let me do it, let me." And then she sighed deeply.
"Hulloa," said James, knowing very well. "What's up?"
She poured the tea. "Only that I'm glad to be here."
Glances were exchanged, quick but reassuring.
Lancelot said, "There's a ripping cake. Mr. Urquhart would like some,
I bet you."
Lucy said, "He can't have any cake just yet." Upon which remark she
avoided James's eye, and eyeglass, with great care. But on a swift
afterthought she stooped and kissed Lancelot.
EPILOGUE
Really, the only fact I feel called upon to add is the following
announcement, culled from a fashionable newspaper.
"On the 3rd June," we read, "at ---- Onslow Square, to Mr. and Mrs.
James Adolphus Macartney, a daughter."
That ought to do instead of the wedding bells once demanded by the
average reader. Let it then stand for the point of my pair's
pilgrimage.
I promised a romantic James and have given you a sentimental one. It
is a most unfortunate thing that it should be thought ridiculous for a
man to fall in love with his wife, for his wife to fall in love with
him; and we have to thank, I believe, the high romanticks for it. They
must have devilry, it seems, or cayenne pepper. But I say, Scorn not
the sentimental, though it be barley-sugar to ambrosia, a canary's
flight to a skylark's. Scorn it not; it's the romantic of the
unimaginative; and if it won't serve for a magic carpet, it makes a
useful anti-macassar.
The Macartneys saw no more of Urquhart, who, however, recovered the
use of his backbone, and with it his zest for the upper air. He sent
Lucy some flowers after the event of June, and later on, at the end of
July, a letter, which I reproduce.
"_Quid plura_? I had news of you and greeted it, and am gone.
I have hired myself to the Greeks for the air. I take two
machines of my own, and an m. b. If you can forgive me when
I have worked out my right we shall meet again. If you, I
shall know, and keep off. Good-bye, Lucy.
"J. U.
"The one thing I can't forgive myself was the first, a wild
impulse, but a cad's. All the rest was inevitable. Good-bye."
She asked Lancelot what _Quid plura_ meant. He snorted. "Hoo! Stale!
It means, what are you crying about? naturally. Who said it? That
letter? Who's it from? Mr. Urquhart, I suppose?"
"Yes, it's from Mr. Urquhart, to say Good-bye. He's going to Greece,
to fly for the navy."
"Oh. Rather sport. Has he gone?"
"Yes, dear, I think so."
"You'll write to him, I suppose?"
"I might."
"I shall too, then. Rather. I should think so."
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
1) Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been retained from the original.
2) The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version
these letters have been replaced with transliterations.
3) Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_.
4) The following misprints have been corrected:
vicacious corrected to vivacious (page 97)
"s[oe]ters" corrected to "saeters" (page 268)
missing text "w____" corrected to "where" (page 279)
5) Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies
in spelling, punctuation, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been
retained.