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LOVE AND LUCY

by

MAURICE HEWLETT

Author of "The Forest Lovers, " "The Life andDeath of Richard Yea and Nay, " etc. 

New YorkDodd, Mead and Company1916

Copyright, 1916by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. 

 _BEATI POSSIDENTES_

CONTENTS

 CHAPTER

 I ONSLOW SQUARE 1 II A DINNER PARTY 16 III IN THE DRAWING-ROOM 31 IV AFTER-TALK 41 V EROS STEPS IN 53 VI A LEAP OUTWARDS 74 VII PATIENCE AND PSYCHE 84 VIII AGAIN 102 IX SUNDRY ROMANTIC EPISODES 112 X AT A WORLD'S EDGE 121 XI ANTEROS 134 XII MARTLEY THICKET (1) 148 XIII MARTLEY THICKET (2) 162 XIV THE GREAT SCHEME 175 XV JAMES 188 XVI _Amari Aliquid_ 196 XVII THE SHIVERING FIT 209 XVIII THE HARDANGER 227 XIX THE MOON-SPELL 235 XX FAIR WARNING 247 XXI THE DEPARTURE 256 XXII CATASTROPHE 268 XXIII JAMES AND JIMMY 280 XXIV URQUHART'S APOLOGY 292 EPILOGUE: _Quid Plura_? 306

LOVE AND LUCY

CHAPTER I

ONSLOW SQUARE

This is a romantic tale. So romantic is it that I shall be forced topry into the coy recesses of the mind in order to exhibit a connected, reasonable affair, not only of a man and his wife prosperously seatedin the mean of things, _nel mezzo del cammin_ in space as well astime--for the Macartneys belonged to the middle class, and were wellon to the middle of life themselves--, but of stript, quivering andwinged souls tiptoe within them, tiptoe for flight into diviner spacesthan any seemly bodies can afford them. As you peruse you may find itdifficult to believe that Macartney himself--James Adolphus, thatremarkable solicitor--could have possessed a quivering, winged soulfit to be stript, and have hidden it so deep. But he did though, andthe inference is that everybody does. As for the lady, that is not sohard of belief. It very seldom is--with women. They sit so much atwindows, that pretty soon their eyes become windows themselves--out ofwhich the soul looks darkling, but preening; out of which it sometimeslaunches itself into the deep, wooed thereto or not by _aubade_ or_serena_. But a man, with his vanity haunting him, pulls the blindsdown or shuts the shutters, to have it decently to himself, and hislooking-glass; and you are not to know what storm is enacting deeplywithin. Finally, I wish once for all to protest against the fallacythat piracy, brigandage, pearl-fishery and marooning are confined tothe wilder parts of the habitable globe. Never was a greater, if moreamiable, delusion fostered (to serve his simplicity) by Lord Byron andothers. Because a man wears trousers, shall there be no more cakes andale? Because a woman subscribes to the London Institution, desires thesuffrage, or presides at a Committee, does the _bocca baciata perdeventura_? Believe me, no. There are at least two persons in each ofus, one at least of which can course the starry spaces and inhabitwhere the other could hardly breathe for ten minutes. Such is my ownexperience, and such was the experience of the Macartney pair--and nowI have done with exordial matter. 

The Macartneys had a dinner-party on the twelfth of January. Therewere to be twelve people at it, in spite of the promised assistance ofLancelot at dessert, which Lucy comforted herself by deciding wouldonly make twelve and a half, not thirteen. She told that to herhusband, who fixed more firmly his eyeglass, and grunted, "I'm notsuperstitious, myself. " He may not have been, but certainly, Lucy toldherself, he wasn't very good at little jokes. Lancelot, on the otherhand, was very good at them. "Twelve and a half!" he said, lifting oneeyebrow, just like his father. "Why, I'm twelve and a half myself!"Then he propounded his little joke. "I say, Mamma, on the twelve andhalfth of January--because the evening is exactly half the day--twelveand a half people have a dinner-party, and one of them _is_ twelve anda half. Isn't that neat?"

Lucy encouraged her beloved. "It's very neat indeed, " she said, andher grey eyes glowed, or seemed to glow. 

"It's what we call an omen at school, " said Lancelot. "It means--oh, well, it means lots of things, like you're bound to have it, and it'sbound to be a frightful success, or an utter failure, or something ofthat kind. " He thought about it. Developments crowded upon him. "Isay, Mamma--" all this was at breakfast, Macartney shrouding himselfin the _Morning Post_:

"Yes, Lancelot?"

"It would be awfully good, awfully ingenious and all that, if one ofthe people was _twice_ twelve and a half. "

She agreed. "Yes, I should like that. Very likely one of them is. "

Lancelot looked extremely serious. "Not Mr. Urquhart?" he said. 

"No, " said Lucy, "I am sure Mr. Urquhart is older than that. Butthere's Margery Dacre. She might do. "

Lancelot had his own ideas as to whether women counted or not, inomens, but was too polite to express them. 

"Is she twenty-five, do you think? She's rather thin. " Lucy exploded, and had to kiss the unconscious humourist. "Do you think we growfatter as we grow older? Then you must think me immense, because I'mmuch more than twenty-five, " she said. 

Here was a vital matter. It is impossible to do justice to Lancelot'sseriousness, on the edge of truth. "How much more are you, really?"he asked her, trembling for the answer. 

She looked heavenly pretty, with her drawn-back head and merry eyes. She was a dark-haired woman with a tender smile; but her eyes wereher strong feature--of an intensely blue-grey iris, ringed withblack. Poising to tantalise him, adoring the fun of it, suddenly shemelted, leaned until her cheek touched his, and whispered the dreadfultruth--"_Thirty-one_. "

I wish I could do justice to his struggle, politeness tussling withpity for a fall, but tripping it up, and rising to the properlightness of touch. "Are you really thirty-one? Oh, well, that'snothing. " It was gallantly done. She kissed him again, and Lancelotchanged the subject. 

"There's Mr. Lingen, isn't there?" he asked, adding, "He's alwayshere. "

"Much more than twenty-five, " said his mother, very much aware of Mr. Lingen's many appearances in Onslow Square. She made one more attemptat her husband, wishing, as she always did wish, to draw him into thecompany. It was not too successful. "Lingen? Oh, a stripling, " he saidlightly and rustled the _Morning Post_ like an aspen tree. 

"Father always talks as if he was a hundred himself, " said Lancelot, who was not afraid of him. He had to be content with Miss Dacre afterall. The others--the Judge and Lady Bliss, Aunt Mabel and UncleCorbet, the Worthingtons, were out of the question. As for MissBacchus--oh, Miss Bacchus was, _at least_, five hundred, saidLancelot, and wished to add up all the ages to see if they came to amultiple of twelve and a half. 

Meanwhile Mr. Macartney in his leisurely way had risen from the table, cigar in mouth, had smoothed his hair before the glass on thechimney-piece, looked at his boots, wriggled his toes in them withgratifying results, adjusted his coat-collar, collected his letters ina heap, and left the room. They saw no more of him. Half an hour laterthe front door shut upon him. He had gone to his office, or, as healways said, Chambers. 

He was rather bleak, and knew it, reckoning it among his socialassets. Reduced into a sentence, it may be said of Macartney that theChief Good in his philosophy was to be, and to seem, successfulwithout effort. What effort he may have made to conceal occasionalstrenuous effort is neither here nor there. The point is that, atforty-two, he found himself solidly and really successful. Thehusband of a very pretty wife, the father of a delightful and healthyson, the best-dressed solicitor in London, and therefore, you mayfairly say, in the world, with an earned income of some three or fourthousand a year, with money in the funds, two houses, and all the restof it, a member of three very old-fashioned, most uncomfortable andabsurdly exclusive clubs--if this is not success, what is? And all gotsmoothly, without a crease of the forehead, by means of an eyeglass, acold manner and an impassivity which nothing foreign or domestic hadever disturbed. He had ability too, and great industry, but it wascharacteristic of him to reckon these as nothing in the scales againstthe eyeglass and the manner. They were his by the grace of God; butthe others, he felt, were his own additions, and of the best. Thesesort of investments enabled a man to sleep; they assured one ofcompleteness of effect. Nevertheless he was a much more acute andvigorous-minded man than he chose to appear. 

He was a solicitor, it is true, and had once been called an attorneyby a client in a rage; but he could afford to smile at that because hewas quite a peculiar sort of solicitor, by no means everybody'smoney. Rather, he was a luxury, an appanage of the great. His office, which he called "Chambers, " as if it was an old house in the country, was in Cork Street; his clients were landed gentry, bankers, peers andsons of peers. The superior clergy, too: he handled the affairs of aBishop of Lukesboro', and those of no less than three Deans andChapters. Tall, dark and trenchant, with a strong nose and chin, andclouded grey eyes, a handsome man with a fine air of arrogant comforton him, he stood well, and you could not but see what good clothes hewore--to my taste, I confess, a little too good. His legs were afeature, and great play was made by wits with his trousers. He wassaid to have two hundred pairs, and to be aiming at three hundred andsixty-five. Certainly they had an edge, and must have been kept inorder like razors; but the legend that they were stropped after everyday's use is absurd. They used to say that they would cut papereasily, and every kind of cheese except Parmesan. 

He wore an eyeglass, which, with the wry smile made necessary by itsuse, had the marked effect of intimidating his clients and drivingthem into indiscretions, admissions and intemperate discourse. Hypnotised by the unknown terrific of which the glitter of the blanksurface, the writhen and antick smile were such formidable symbols, they thought that he knew all, and provided that he should by tellingit him. To these engines of mastery he had added a third. He practisedlaconics, and carried them to the very breaking point. He had in histime--I repeat the tale--gone without his breakfast for three daysrunning rather than say that he preferred his egg poached. His wifehad been preoccupied at the time--it had been just before Lancelot wasborn, barely a year after marriage--and had not noticed that he leftcup and platter untouched. She was very penitent afterwards, as he hadintended she should be. The egg was poached--and even so she wasafraid to ask him when the time was ripe to boil it again. It made hermiserable; but he never spoke of it. Of course all that was oldhistory. She was hardened by this time, but still dreadfully consciousof his comforts, or possible discomforts. 

This was the manner of the man who, you may say, had quizzed, ormesmerised, Lucy Meade into marriage. She had been scarcely eighteen;I believe that she was just seventeen and a half when he presentedhimself, the second of three pretty, dark-haired and grey-eyed girls, the slimmest and, as I think, by far the prettiest. The Meades livedat Drem House, which is practically within Bushey Park. Here the girlssaw much society, for the old Meades were hospitable, and the MotherMeade, a Scotchwoman, had a great idea of establishing her daughters. The sons she left to Father Meade and his competent money-bags. Herethen James Adolphus Macartney presented himself, and here sat smilingbleakly, glaring through his glass, one eyebrow raised to enclose itsafely--and waited for her to give herself away. Swaying beneath thatshining disk, she did it infallibly; and he heard her out at leisure, and accepted her. 

That's poetry of course. Really, it came near to that. He had said toher at a garden-party, in his easiest, airiest manner, "You can't helpknowing that I am in love with you. Now, don't you think that weshould be a happy couple? I do. What do you say, Lucy? Shall we have ashot?" He had taken her hand--they were alone under a cedar tree--andshe had not known how to take it away. She was then kissed, and hadlost any opportunity there might have been. That was what reallyhappened, and as she told her sister Mabel some time afterwards, whenthe engagement had been made public and there could be no question ofgoing back, "You know, Mabel, he seemed to expect it, and I couldn'thelp feeling at the time that he was justified. " Mabel, tossing herhead up, had protested, "Oh, my dear, nobody knows whether he wasjustified but yourself;" and Lucy, "No, of course not. " "Thequestion, " Mabel went on, "is whether you encouraged him or not. " Lucywas clear about that: "No, not the least in the world. He--encouragedhimself. I felt that I simply had to do something. "

I suspect that that is perfectly true. I am sure that he did just as Isaid he always did, and bluffed her into marriage with an eyeglass andsmile awry. Whether or no he bluffed himself into it too, tempted bythe power of his magic apparatus, is precisely the matter which I amto determine. It may have been so--but anyhow the facts show you howsuccessful he was in doing what had to be done. _Cosa fatta capo ha_, as the proverb says. The thing done, whether wisely or not, wassmoothly done. Everything was of a piece with that. He pulled offwhatever he tried for, without any apparent effort. People used to saythat he was like a river, smoothly flowing, very deep, rippling, constant in mutability, husbanding and guiding his eddies. It's not abad figure of him. He liked it himself, and smiled more askew andpeered more blandly when he heard it. 

Small things betray men. Here is one. His signature was invariably infull: "Yours very truly, James Adolphus Macartney. " It was as if heknew that Adolphus was rather comic opera, but wouldn't stoop todisguise it. Why bother? He crowded it upon the Bishop, upon the Deanand Chapter of Mells, upon old Lord Drake. He said, "Why conceal thefact that my sponsors made a _faux pas_? There it is, and have donewith it. Such things have only to be faced to be seen as nothings. What! are we reasonable beings?"

Now when Lucy Meade, practically a child for all her sedateness andserious eyes, married him, two things terrified her on the day. Onewas her husband and the other lest her friends should discover it. They never did, and in time her panic wore off. She fought it in thewatches of the night and in the glare of her lonely days. Not a soul, not her mother, not even Mabel, knew her secret. James never becamecomic to her; she never saw him a figure of fun; but she was able totreat him as a human being. Lancelot's arrival made all thedifference in the world to that matter as to all her other matters, for even Lucy herself could not help seeing how absurdly jealous Jameswas of his offspring. For a time he was thrown clean out of the saddleand as near falling in his own esteem as ever in life. But herecovered his balance, and though he never regained his oldascendency, which had been that of a Ju-ju, he was able to feelhimself, as he said, "Master in his own house, " with a very realreserve of terrorism--if it should be wanted. The great thing, Macartney thought, was discipline, constant, watchful discipline. Aman must bend everything to that. Women have to learn the virtue ofgiving up, as well as of giving. Giving is easy; any woman knows that;but giving up. Let that be seen as a subtle, a sublimated form ofgiving, and the lesson is learned. But practice makes perfect. Youmust never relax the rein. He never did. There was all the ingenuityand patience of a woman about him. 

By this time, after twelve years and more of marriage, they were verygood friends; or, why not say, old acquaintances? There are two kindsof crystallisation in love affairs, with all respect to M. DeStendhal. One kind hardens the surfaces without any decorativeeffect. There are no facets visible, no angles to catch the light. Inthe case of the Macartney marriage I suspect this to have been theonly kind--a kind of callosity, protective and numbing. The less theywere thrown together, she found, the better friends they were. At homethey were really no more than neighbours; abroad she was Mrs. Macartney, and never would dine out without him. She wasold-fashioned; her friends called her a prude. But she was not at allunhappy. She liked to think of Lancelot, she said, and to be quiet. And really, as Miss Bacchus (a terrible old woman) once said, Lucy wasso little of a married woman that she was perfectly innocent. 

But she was one-and-thirty, and as sweet and pretty a woman as youwould wish to see. She had the tender, dragging smile of a LuiniMadonna; grave, twilight eyes, full of compassionate understanding;very dark eyebrows, very long lashes, like the fringe of rain over amoorland landscape. She had a virginal shape, and liked her clothes tocling about her knees. Long fingers, longish, thin feet. But herhumorous sense was acute and very delightful, and all children lovedher. Such charms as these must have been as obvious to herself as theywere to everybody else. She had a modest little court of her own. Francis Lingen was almost admittedly in love with her; one ofMacartney's friends. But she accepted her riches soberly, and did notfret that they must be so hoarded. If, by moments, as she saw herself, or looked at herself, in the glass, a grain of bitterness surged up inher throat, that all this fair seeming could not be put out tousury--! well, she put it to herself very differently, not at all inwords, but in narrowed scrutinising eyes, half-turns of the prettyhead, a sigh and lips pressed together. There had been--nay, therewas--Lancelot, her darling. That was usufruct; but usury was adifferent thing. There had never been what you would call, or MissBacchus would certainly call, usury. That, indeed! She would raise herfine brows, compress her lips, and turn to her bed, then put out thelight. Lying awake very often, she might hear James chain the frontdoor, trumpet through his nose on the mat, and slowly mount the stairsto his own room. She thought resolutely of Lancelot pursuing hispanting quests at school, or of her garden in mid-June, or of thegorse afire on Wycross Common, --and so to sleep. 

A long chapter, but you will know the Macartney pair by means of it. 

CHAPTER II

A DINNER PARTY

This was not to be one of Macartney's grand full-dress dinner-parties, the sort where you might have two lords, and would be sure to have onewith his lady; or a Cabinet Minister in a morning-coat and greenishtie; or a squire and squiress from Northumberland up for a month ofthe season; or the Dean of Mells. No, nor was it to be one which Lucyhad to give to her visiting-list, and at which, as Macartney rarelyfailed to remark, there was bound to be a clergyman, and some leanwoman with straw-coloured hair interested in a Settlement. It was tobe a particular kind of dinner-party, this one, of which the firstobject was to bring Urquhart in touch with Lingen. It could have beendone at a club, no doubt. Macartney admitted it. "Yes, I know, Iknow, "--he used his most tired voice, as if he had been combating thesuggestion all along. "You are perfectly right. It might--if it hadnot happened to be exactly what I didn't want. Jimmy Urquhart israther a queer fish. He is apt to shy off if one is not careful. Itdon't suit me to bring them together explicitly, do you see? I wantthem to happen on each other. They can do that better here thananywhere. Do you see?"

Lucy saw, or saw enough. She never enquired into James's law affairs. "Shall I like Mr. Urquhart, do you think?" she asked him. 

The eyeglass focussed upon the cornice, and glared at a fly whichfound itself belated there. "Oh, I think so. Why not?"

"Well, you see, I don't know why not--or why I should. Have I everseen him?"

James was bored. "No doubt you have. He's very much about. "

"Yes, " said Lucy, "but I am not. "

James left the fly, and fixed her--apparently with horror. Then helooked at his boots and moved his toes up and down. "He looks like anaval officer, " he said; "you instinctively seek the cuffs of hiscoat. Beef-coloured face, blue eyes, a square-jawed chap. Yes, youmight like him. He might amuse you. He's a great liar. " Lucy thoughtthat she might like Mr. Urquhart. 

On those lines the party was arranged: the Blisses because "we owethem a dinner; and I think the Judge will be amused by Jimmy;" theWorthingtons--make-weights; but "She's a soft pink woman, like aPersian kitten. "

"Does Mr. Urquhart like that?" Lucy asked, but James, who didn't likehis jokes to be capped, said drily, "I don't know. "

Then Lucy's favourite sister Mabel was to be allowed because Jamesrather liked Corbet. He thought him good style. Now we wanted twowomen. One must be Miss Bacchus--"hideous, of course, " said James; "akind of crime, but very smart. " He meant that she mixed with thearistocracy, which was true, though nobody knew why. The last was tobe Margery Dacre, a very pretty girl. Lucy put her forward, and Jamesthought her over, gazing out of window. "I like her name, " he said--soLucy knew that she was admitted. 

That was all. The rest was her care, and he washed his mind of it, very sure that she would see to it. He wished the two men to meet fora particular reason in a haphazard way, because it was better to driftUrquhart into a thing than to lead him up to it. Moreover, it was notat all disagreeable to him that Urquhart, a club and officeacquaintance, should see how comfortably placed he was, how wellappointed with wife and child, with manservant and maidservant andeverything that was his. Urquhart was a rich man, and to know that hislawyer was rich was no bad thing. It inspired confidence. Now theparticular thing to be done with the two men, Francis Lingen andUrquhart, was this. Francis Lingen, who might be a baronet some dayand well to do, was at the moment, as at most moments hitherto, veryshort of money. Urquhart always had plenty. Macartney's idea was thathe might get Urquhart to fill Francis Lingen's pockets, on terms whichcould easily be arranged. There was ample security, of course. FrancisLingen could have gone to the Jews, or the bank, but if the thingcould be done in a gentlemanly way through one's lawyer, who alsohappened to be a gentleman, in one's own set, and so on--well, whynot?

Hence the little dinner, over whose setting forth Lucy puckered herbrows with Mrs. Jenkins, her admirable cook, and wrote many notes onlittle slips of paper which she kept for the purpose. She knew quitewell when James was "particular" about a party. He said less thanusual when he was "particular. " Over this one he said practicallynothing. So she toiled, and made a success of it. 

The drawing-room looked charming, and she herself in black over white, with her pearls, the most charming thing in it. It wanted a week ofLancelot's day for school; he was to come in to dessert--that wasunderstood. But the possible danger of a thirteenth was removed bytheir being two tables of six each. James had suddenly ordered thisvariation of practice--he did not say why--and so it was to be. Crewdson, the invaluable butler-valet of the house, who presided overa zenana of maids, and seemed to carry his whiskers into the fray likean oriflamme, was visibly perturbed at this new notion. "Mr. Macartneyhas his reason, we know. But how is one gentleman's servant to splithimself in halves? And where does he stand, Mrs. Jenkins? With tablesdotted about--like a café--or an archumpelygo?" He knew that it wasdone in the highest places, but he knew his own place best. "We arenot what you call the smart set, " he said. "We are not Park Lane orBrook Street. But we are solid--the professions--the land and thechurch. No jinks in this house. And small tables is jinks. Not adinner, but a kick-up. " So Crewdson thought, and so he looked, but hismaster was flint. 

Mabel came the first, the lively and successful Mabel, two yearsyounger than Lucy--she and Laurence: he was Laurence Corbet, Esq. , ofPeltry Park, Wavertree, and Roehampton, S. W. , a hunting man andretired soldier, as neatly groomed as a man may be. He was jolly, andadored his Mabel. He was county, and approved by James. Lucy used tosay of him that his smile could cure a toothache. Lancelot pouncedupon the pair instantly and retired with them to the conservatory toshow off his orange-tree, whose pip had been plunged on his firstbirthday. But before long a suspicious sliding of the feet and a shoutfrom Corbet of "Goal!" betrayed the orange-tree's eclipse. 

Next plunged Miss Bacchus, with her front hair and front teeth, andair of digging you in the ribs. She explained that she made a point ofbeing early lest she should be taken for an actress, and forestalledMacartney's assurance that she never would be--which annoyed him. TheWorthingtons--she like an autumn flower-bed, and he pale andsleek--and Francis Lingen came in together: Lingen, a very elegant, pale pink and frail young man with a straw-coloured moustache, whobowed when he shook your hand as if he was going to kiss it butremembered just in time that he was in England. He lowered his voicewhen he spoke to women, and most of them liked it. Lucy wasn't surewhether she did or not. It made her self-conscious and perverse atonce. She found herself wondering (a) whether he was going to makelove to her, (b) when he was going to begin, and (c) how she mightbest cut him out. All this was bewildering, made her feel stupid, andannoyed her. But she really liked Francis Lingen, and had been amusedto discover how much he was "Francis" in her private mind. Certainlyhe was very elegant. He had an outside pocket to his dress coat, and ahandkerchief which you could have plugged your tooth with. 

He had just said to Lucy, "I'm so glad to see you. It's more than aweek since we met--and I want your advice--" when Crewdson, like apriest, announced Sir Matthew and Lady Bliss. The Judge and his damewere before Lucy--the lady had a motherly soul in crimson satin andpaste, the gentleman square and solid, like a pillar-box with a baldhead. That is a pretty exact description of him. The Judge was verysquare-headed, very shiny and very plain; but he was solid, and he wasuseful. Macartney used to say that he had a face like a bad egg. Certainly he was curdled--but he shone and looked healthy. 

Lucy allowed herself to be mothered, and in the meantime murmured theJudge's name and Miss Bacchus's. 

"Everybody knows Miss Bacchus, " said the gallant man, and Miss Bacchusbriskly rejoined, "More people know Tom Fool--" After that they got onexcellently. Then she heard from the door, "Mr. Urquhart" and had timeto turn Francis Lingen over to Lady Bliss before she faced the ruddyand blue-eyed stranger. Her first thought, the only one she had timefor, was "What very blue eyes, what a very white shirt-front!" whenshe shook hands. 

"How d'ye do? You won't know who I am, " he said at once. 

"Oh, but I do, " she assured him. "James described you to me. "

He blinked. "Oh, did he? I suppose he told you I was a great liar?"

James's very words. She nodded without speaking, but laughterflickered over her face like summer lightning. 

"Well, " said Urquhart, "I am--to him. I've known Macartney foryears--long before you did. I like him, but I think he gives himselfairs. Now you can't, you know, when the man with you is a liar. Younever know where to have a liar, or whether you have him or not. Andthen you get in a fright whether he's not having you. Macartney, saving your presence, doesn't like being had. "

Lucy laughed, and turned to wave her hand to Lancelot in the entry ofthe conservatory. 

"That your boy?" Urquhart asked. "But of course. He's like you--withhis father's tricks. " That was perfectly true. "And that's yoursister, of course. Pretty woman. Like you too--you in a sunset. "Perfect unconsciousness robbed this open commentary of sting. 

Upon him drifted Mrs. Worthington, like a peony in the tideway. Urquhart bowed. "Your servant, ma'am. "

She cried, "Hullo, Jimmy, you here?"

"Where else?"

"Why, I thought you were in Switzerland. "

"So I was, " he said. "All among the curates. But I came back--becausethey didn't. " He turned to Lucy. "And because I was asked here. "

She asked him, "Were you ski-ing? Lancelot will grudge you that. "

He told her, "I was not. No lonely death for me. I was bobbing it. Youare swept off by dozens at a time there--by fifties in a cave. It'smore cheerful. " Then he seemed to remark something which he thoughtshe ought to know. "Jimmy. You heard her? Now Macartney and I are bothcalled James. But who ever made a Jimmy of him?" She was annoyed withhim--the man seemed to suppose she could be pleased by crabbingJames--and glad of Margery Dacre, a mermaid in sea-green, who swam inwith apologies--due to Macartney's abhorrent eyeglass upon her. Andthen they all went in to their archumpelygo, where Crewdson and hisladies were waiting for them, _rari nautes_. 

Lucy's table--she was between the Judge and Urquhart and had Mabel, Worthington and Miss Bacchus before her--at once took the mastery. Urquhart fixed Crewdson with his eye and thenceforward commandedhim. James's eyeglass, speechless with horror over Lady Bliss'sshoulder, glared like a frosty moon. 

Miss Bacchus, it seems, was his old acquaintance. She too called himJimmy, and drove at him with vigour. He charged her not to rally him, and being between the two sisters, talked to both of them at once, orrather started them off, as a music-hall singer starts the gallery, and then let them go on over his head. 

They talked of Wycross, Lucy's house in the country, compared it withPeltry, which Mabel deprecated as a barrack, and came to hear ofUrquhart's house in the New Forest. It was called Martley Thicket. Urquhart said it was a good sort of place. "I've made an immenselake, " he said, with his eyes so very wide that Miss Bacchus said, "You're making two, now. " He described Martley and the immense lake. "House stands high in beech woods, but is cut out to the south. Itheads a valley--lawns on three sides, smooth as billiard tables--thenthe lake with a marble lip--and steps--broad and low steps, in flightsof eight. Very good, you know. You shall see it. "

Lucy wanted to know, "How big was the lake, really. "

Urquhart said, "It looked a mile--but that's the art of the thing. Really, it's two hundred and fifty yards. Much better than a jab inthe eye with a blunt stick. I did it by drainage, and a dam. Took ayear to get the water up. When a hunted stag took to it and swamacross, I felt that I'd done something. Fishing? I should think so. And a bathing-house in a wooded corner--in a cane-brake of bamboos. You'll like it. "

Miss Bacchus said, "I don't believe a word of it;" but he seemed notto hear her. 

"When will you come and see it?" he asked Lucy. 

She agreed that see it she must, if only to settle whether it existedor not. "You see that Miss Bacchus has no doubts. "

Urquhart said, "She never has--about anything. She is fixed incertainty like a bee in amber. A dull life. "

"Bless you, Jimmy, " she said, "I thrive on it--and you'll neverthrive. "

"Pooh!" said Urquhart, "what you call thriving I call degradation. What! you snuggle in there out of the draughts--and then somebodycomes along and rubs you, and picks up bits of paper with you. " Hisgood spirits made the thing go--and James's eyeglass prevailed notagainst it. 

But Urquhart's real triumph was at dessert--Lancelot sedately by hismother; between her and the Judge, who briskly made way for him. Lancelot in his Eton jacket took on an air of precocious, meditativewisdom infinitely diverting to a man who reflects upon boys--and, nodoubt, infinitely provocative. 

His coming broke up the talk and made one of those momentous pauseswhich are sometimes paralysing to a table. This one was so, and eventhreatened the neighbouring island. Upon it broke the voice ofUrquhart talking to Mabel Corbet. 

"I was out in Corfù in 1906, " he was heard to say; "I was in fact inthe bath, when one of my wives came to the door, and said that therewas a Turk in the almond-tree. I got a duck-gun which I had and wentout--" Lancelot's eyes, fixed and pulsing, interdicted him. They heldup the monologue. In his hand was a robust apple; but that wasforgotten. 

"I say, " he said, "have you got two wives?"

Urquhart's eyes met his with an extenuating look. "It was some timeago, you see, " he said; and then, passing it off, "There are as manyas you like out there. Dozens. "

Lancelot absorbed this explanation through the eyes. You could seethem at it, chewing it like a cud. He was engrossed in it--Lucywatched him. "I say--two wives!" and then, giving it up, with a savageattack he bit into his apple and became incoherent. One cheek bulgeddangerously and required all his present attention. Finally, after atime of high tension, Urquhart's wives and the apple were boltedtogether, and given over to the alimentary juices. The Turk in thealmond-tree was lost sight of, and no one knows why he was there, orhow he was got out--if indeed he ever was. For all that, Urquhartfinished his story to his two ladies; but Lucy paid him dividedattention, being more interested in her Lancelot than in Urquhart'sTurk. 

Francis Lingen, at the other table, kept a cold eye upon the easy manwho was to provide him with ready money, as he hoped. He admired easeas much as anybody, and believed that he had it. But he was very muchin love with Lucy, and felt the highest disapproval of Urquhart's kindof spread-eagle hardihood. He bent over his plate like thewillow-tree upon one. His eyelids glimmered, he was rather pink, andused his napkin to his lips. To his neighbour of the left, who wasLady Bliss, he spoke _sotto voce_ of "our variegated friend, " and feltthat he had disposed of him. But that "one of his wives" filled himwith a sullen despair. What were you to do with that sort of man?Macartney saw all this and was dreadfully bored. "Damn JimmyUrquhart, " he said to himself. "Now I shall have to work for myliving--which I hate, after dinner. "

But he did it. "We'll go and talk to the Judge, " he said to hiscompany, and led the way. Urquhart settled down to claret, and wastaciturn. He answered Linden's tentative openings in monosyllables. But he and the Judge got on very well. 

CHAPTER III

IN THE DRAWING-ROOM

After dinner, when the men came into the drawing-room, Francis Lingenwent directly to Lucy and began to talk to her. Lancelot fidgeted forUrquhart who, however, was in easy converse with the Judge and hishost--looking at the water-colours as the talk went on, and cutting inas a thought struck him. Lucy, seeing that all her guests werereasonably occupied, lent herself to Lingen's murmured conversation, and felt for it just so much tolerance, so much compassion, you maysay, as to be able to brave Mabel's quizzing looks from across theroom. Mabel always had a gibe for Francis Lingen. She called him theEwe Lamb, and that kind of thing. It was plain that she scorned him. Lucy, on the other hand, pitied him without knowing it, which was evenmore desperate for the young man. It had never entered Lingen's head, however, that anybody could pity him. True, he was poor; but then hewas very expensive. He liked good things; he liked them choice. Andthey must have distinction; above all, they must be rare. He had somethings which were unique: a chair in ivory and bronze, one of a setmade for Mme. De Lamballe, and two of Horace Walpole's snuff-boxes. Hehad a private printing-press, and did his own poems, on vellum. He hadturned off a poem to Lucy while she was inspecting the _appareil_once. "To L. M. From the Fount. " "Sonnets while you wait, " said Mabel, curving her upper lip; but there was nothing in it, because manyladies had received the same tribute. He had borrowed that too fromHorace Walpole, and only wanted notice. Now you don't pity a man whocan do these things, even if he has got no money; and for what elsebut want of money could you pity a man of taste?

I believe myself that both Mabel and Lucy overrated Francis Lingen'sattentions. I don't think that they amounted to much more thanproviding himself with a sounding-board, and occasional looking-glass. He loved to talk, and to know himself listened to; he loved to lookand to know himself looked at. You learned a lot about yourself thatway. You saw how your things were taken. A poet--for he called himselfpoet, and had once so described himself in a hotel visitors' book--apoet can only practise his art by exerting it, and only learn itseffect by studying his hearers. He preferred ladies for audience, andone lady at a time: there were obvious reasons for that. Men neverlike other men's poetry. Wordsworth, we know, avowedly read but hisown. 

But Mabel, and Lucy too, read all sorts of implications. His loweredtones, his frequency, his persistence--"My dear, he caresses you withhis eyes. You know he does, " Mabel used to say. Lucy wondered whetherhe really did, and ended by supposing it. 

Just now, therefore, Francis Lingen flowed murmuring on his way, likea purling brook, rippling, fluctuant, carrying insignificant straws, insects of the hour, on his course, never jamming, or heaving up, monotonous but soothing. And as for implications--! Good Heavens, hewas stuffed with them like a Michaelmas goose.... "I do so wish thatyou could talk with her. You could do so much to straighten things outfor the poor child. You are so wise. There's a kind of balm in yourtouch upon life, something that's aromatic and healing at once. _Sainfoin_, the healing herb--that should be your emblem. I havealways thought so. By the by, have you an emblem? I wish you'd let mefind you one. Old Gerrard will give it me--and I will give it to you. Some patient, nimble-fingered good soul has coloured my copy. Youshall have it faithfully rendered; and it shall be framed by Le Nôtreof Vigo Street--do you know his work? You must--and stand on yourwriting-table.... I see you are shaping a protest. Frugality? Anotherof your shining qualities. Not of mine? No, no. I admire it in you. Itis not a manly virtue. A 'frugal swain' means a harassed wife. Now, confess. Would you have me board? I believe I would do it if you askedme.... " Not very exciting, all this; but if you want implications--!

It was while this was going on that Lancelot, hovering and full ofpurpose, annexed Urquhart. The Judge, suddenly aware of him betweenthem, put a hand upon his head as you might fondle the top of apedestal--which Lancelot, intent upon his prey, endured. Then hismoment came, a decent subsidence of anecdotes, and his upturned eyescaught Urquhart's. 

"I say, will you come and see my orange-tree? It's just over there, in the conservatory. It's rather interesting--to me, you know. "

Urquhart considered the proposition. "Yes, " he said, "I'll do that. "And they went off, Lancelot on tiptoe. Lucy's attention strayed. 

The orange-tree was exhibited, made the most of; its history wasrelated. There was nothing more to say about it. Lancelot, his purposegrowing, gave a nervous laugh. 

"No Turk could hide in that, I expect, " he said, and trembled. Urquhart gazed at the weedy little growth. 

"No, " he said, "he couldn't--yet. But a ladybird could. " He picked outa dormant specimen. But Lancelot was now committed to action beyondrecall. The words burned his lips. "I say, " he said, twiddling a leafof his orange-tree, "I expect you've been a pirate?"

The Judge had wandered in, and was surveying the pair, his hands deepin his trousers-pockets. 

Urquhart nodded. "You've bit it, " he said. 

Lancelot had been certain of it. Good Lord! The questions crowded uponhim. "What kind of a ship was yours?"

"She was a brigantine. Fifteen hundred tons. "

"Oh! I say--" with the air of, You needn't tell me if you'd rathernot--"was she a good one?"

"She was a clipper. "

"What name?"

"The _Dog Star_. "

This was beyond everything. "Oh--good. Did you ever hang fellows?"

"We did. "

"Many?"

"Some. "

He had expected that too. He felt that he was being too obvious. Theman of the world in him came into use. "For treachery, I suppose, andthat kind of thing?"

"Yes, " said Urquhart, "and for fun, of course. "

Lancelot nodded gloomily. "I know, " he said. 

"So does Sir Matthew, now, " he said. "You've led me into admissions, you know. "

"You are up to the neck, " said the Judge. For a moment Lancelot lookedshrewdly from one to the other. Was it possible that--? No, no. Hesettled all that. "It's all right. He's a guest, you see--the same asyou are. "

Urquhart was looking about him. "I should smoke a cigarette, if I hadone, " he said. 

Lancelot's hospitality was awake. "Come into Father's room. He hastons. " He led the way for his two friends. They pierced theconservatory and entered another open glass door. They were now inJames's private room. 

On the threshold Lancelot paused to exhibit what he said was a jollyconvenient arrangement. These were two bay windows, with two glassdoors. Between them stretched the conservatory. "Jolly convenient, "said Lancelot. "What, for burglars?" the Judge asked. "Yes, forburglars, and policemen, and Father, you know ... I don't think, " saidthe terse Lancelot. "Why don't you think, my friend?" says the Judge, and Lancelot became cautious. "Oh, Father won't come into thedrawing-room if he can possibly help it. He says it's Mamma'sprovince--but I expect he's afraid of meeting women, I mean ladies. "Urquhart blinked at him. "'Never be afraid of any one' will do for youand me, " he said; and Lancelot said deeply, "Rather not. " Then theywent into the misogynist's study. The Judge and Urquhart wereaccommodated with cigarettes, and Lancelot entertained them. But hedid not pry any further into Urquhart's past. A hint had been enough. 

Conversation was easy. Lancelot talked freely of his father. "Fatherwill be awfully waxy with me for not going to bed. He might easilycome in here--hope he won't, all the same. But do you know what helikes? He likes the same things to happen at the same time every day. Now Mamma and I don't agree with him, you see. So it's rather pinksometimes. "

"I expect it is, " Urquhart said. 

"Mamma of course likes to be quiet a bit. She doesn't likeructions--hay, and all that. So I keep myself pretty close. "

"Quite right, " said the Judge. 

"I know, " Lancelot said, dreamily, and then with great briskness, "Beastly grind, all the same. " The Judge had a fit of coughing, andUrquhart got up and looked about. Then the Judge said that he tooshould catch it if he didn't go back and make himself polite. 

Lancelot led the way back, but at the entry of the drawing-room, wherethe talk was buzzing like bees in a lime-tree, he put his hand on theswitch, and showed the whites of his eyes. "Shall I dare you toswitch it off?" he said to Urquhart, who replied, "Don't, or I shalldo it. " Lancelot and he entered the room; but before the Judgefollowed there was a momentary flicker of the lights. Lancelot nudgedUrquhart. "_He's_ all right, " he said out of one corner of his mouth. "Oh, he's all right, " Urquhart agreed. 

They both went to Lucy, and Lingen looked mildly round, interrupted inhis flow. Lancelot's greeting was, "Darling, you really must go tobed. " He knew it. It was so obvious--the abhorrent eyeglassapart--that he didn't even try the pathetic "Only a week beforeschool. "

He got up, enquiring of his mother if she would swear to come uppresently. "Well, good-bye, " he said to Urquhart, and held out hishand. 

"Good night to you, " said Urquhart. "Anyhow, you know the worst. "

But Lancelot shook his cautious head. "No, " he said, "not theworst"--and then with a deep chuckle, "but the best. Hoho! Two wives!"With that he went. 

"Jolly chap, " said Urquhart, and sat himself down by Lucy, to Lingen'sinexpressible weariness. She warmed to his praise, but denied him, herconscience at work. "No, you mustn't sit down. I shall take you totalk to Lady Bliss. You'll like her. "

"No, I shan't, " he said. "I can see that. And she'll think I'vecorrupted her husband. " But he had to go. Lingen, also, she recruitedfor service. He had had a good innings and found himself able to beenthusiastic about Urquhart. He could bear to discuss him--in possiblerelations with himself, of course. Miss Bacchus sized him up aloud, according to her habit. "Jimmy Urquhart--a good man? Yes, he's a liveman. No flies on Jimmy Urquhart. Been everywhere, had a bit of mostthings. Why, I suppose Jimmy has eaten more things than you've everread about. "

"I've read Brillat-Savarin, " said Lingen modestly. 

"I dare say Jimmy's had a notch out of _him_, " said Miss Bacchus. "He's what I call a blade. "

Lingen didn't ask her what she called him. 

CHAPTER IV

AFTER-TALK

Nevertheless the two men talked down to Knightsbridge together, andLingen did most of the talking. He chose to expand upon Macartney, thenearest he dared get to the subject of his thoughts. "Now Macartney, you know, is a very self-contained man. No doubt you've noticed how heshies at expression. Chilling at times. Good in a lawyer, no doubt. You get the idea of large reserves. But perhaps as a--well, as afather, for instance-- That bright boy of theirs now. You may havenoticed how little there is between them. What do you think of theSpartan parent--in these days?"

"Oh, I think Mr. Lancelot can hold his own, " said Urquhart. "He'lldo--with his mother to help. I don't suppose the Spartan boy differedvery much from any other kind of boy. Mostly they haven't time tonotice anything; but they are sharp as razors when they do. "

An eager note could be detected in Francis Lingen's voice, almost acrow. "Ah, you've noticed then! The mother, I mean. Mrs. Macartney. Now, there again, I think our friend overdoes the repression business. A sympathetic attitude means so much to women. "

"She'll get it, somewhere, " said Urquhart shortly. 

"Well, " said Lingen, "yes, I suppose so. But there are thequalifications of the martyr in Mrs. Macartney. "

"Greensickness, " Urquhart proposed; "is that what you mean?"

Lingen stared. "It had not occurred to me. But now you mentionit--well, a congestion of the faculties, eh?"

"I don't know anything about it, " said Urquhart. "She seemed to me afond mother, and very properly. Do you mean that Macartney neglectsher?"

Lingen was timid by nature. "Perhaps I went further than I should. Ithink that he takes a great deal for granted. "

"I always thought he was a supercilious ass, " said Urquhart, "but Ididn't know that he was a damned fool. "

"I say, "--Lingen was alarmed. "I say, I hope I haven't made mischief. "Urquhart relieved him. "Bless you, not with me. I use a lawyer forlaw. He's no fool there. "

"No, indeed, " Lingen said eagerly. "I've found him most useful. Infact, I trust him further than any man I know. "

"He's a good man, " Urquhart said, "and he's perfectly honest. He'dsooner put you off than on, any day. That's very sound in a lawyer. But if he carries it into wedlock he's a damned fool, in my opinion. "

They parted on very good terms, Lingen for the Albany, Urquhartelsewhere. 

Meantime Lancelot, wriggling in his bed, was discussing Urquhart. "Isay, Mamma, " he said--a leading question--"do you think Mr. Urquhartreally had two wives?"

"No, darling, I really don't. I think he was pulling our legs. "

That was bad. "All our legs?"

"All that were pullable. Certainly your two. "

"Perhaps he was. " Lancelot sighed. "Oh, what happened to the Turk? Iforgot him, thinking of his wives.... He said, 'one of my wives, ' youknow. He might have had six then.... I say, perhaps Mr. Urquhart is aTurk in disguise. What do you think?"

Lucy was sleepy, and covered a yawn. "I don't think, darling. I can't. I'm going to bed, and you are going to sleep. Aren't you now?"

"Yes, of course, yes, of course. Did I tell you about the pirate part?His ship was a brigantine ... Called the _Dog Star_. "

"Oh, was it?"

"Yes, it was. And he used to hang the chaps, sometimes for treachery, and sometimes for fun. "

"How horrid!" said Lucy. "Good night. "

"Oh, well, " came through the blankets, "of course you don'tunderstand, but I do. Good night. " And he was asleep at the turn ofthat minute. 

James had disappeared into his room, so she took herself off to bed. Surely he might have said a word! It had all gone off so well. Mr. Urquhart had been such a success, and she really liked him very much. And how the Judge had taken to him! And how Lancelot! At the firststair she stopped, in three quarters of a mind to go in and screw asentence out of him. But no! She feared the angry blank of theeyeglass. Trailing up to bed, she thought that she could date thecrumbling of her married estate by the ascendency of the eyeglass. Andto think, only to think, that when she was engaged to James she usedto play with it, to try it in her eye, to hide it from him! Well, shehad Lancelot--her darling boy. That brought to mind that, a weekto-night, she would be orphaned of him. The day she dreaded was comingagain--and the blank weeks and months which followed it. 

True to his ideas of "discipline, " of the value of doing a thing wellfor its own sake, Macartney was dry about the merits of thedinner-party when they met at breakfast. "Eh? Oh, yes, I thought itwent quite reasonably. Urquhart talked too much, I thought. "

"My dear James, "--she was nettled--"you really are--"

He looked up; the eyeglass hovered in his hand. "_Plaît-il_?"

"Nothing. I only thought that you were hard to please. "

"Really? Because I think a man too vivacious?"

Lancelot said to his porridge-bowl, over the spoon, "I think he'sripping. "

"You've hit it, " said his father. "He'd rip up anybody. "

Lucy, piqued upon her tender part, was provoked into what she alwaysavoided if she could--acrimony at breakfast. 

"I was hostess, you see; and I must say that the more people talk themore I am obliged to them. I suppose that you asked Mr. Urquhart sothat he might be amusing.... "

James's head lifted again. You could see it over the _Morning Post_. "I asked Urquhart for quite other reasons, you remember. "

"I don't know what they were, " said Lucy. "My own reason was that heshould make things go. 'A party in a parlour... '" She bit her lip. The_Morning Post_ quivered but recovered itself. 

"What was the party in a parlour, Mamma? Do tell me. " That wasLancelot, with a _flair_ for mischief. 

"It was 'all silent and all damned, '" said Lucy. 

"Jolly party, " said Lancelot. "Not like yours, though. " The _MorningPost_ clacked like a bellying sail, then bore forward over an evenkeel. Lucy, beckoning Lancelot, left the breakfast-room. 

She was ruffled, and so much so that Lancelot noticed it, and, beingthe very soul of tact where she was concerned, spoke neither of hisfather nor of Urquhart all the morning. In the afternoon the weatherseemed more settled, and he allowed himself more play. He would liketo see Mr. Urquhart on horseback, in a battle, he thought. He expectedhe'd be like Henry of Navarre. Lucy thought that he might be. Would hewear a white plume though? Much head-shaking over this. "Bareheaded, Ibet you. He's just that sort. Dashing about! Absolutelyreckless!--frightfully dangerous!--a smoking sword!--going like oneo'clock! Oh, I bet you what you like. " Then with startling conviction, "Father doesn't like him. Feels scored off, I expect. He wasn'tthough, but he might be, all the same ... I think Father alwaysexpects he's going to be scored off, don't you? At any minute. " Lucyset herself to combat this hazard, which was very amusing and by nomeans a bad shot. Poor James! What a pity it was that he couldn't lethimself like anybody. It was true--it was quite true--he was afraidof being scored off. She husbanded a sigh. "Poor James!"

To pity James was a new experience. She felt all the better for it, and was able to afford a lighter hand when they met at dinner. It mayeven be that James himself had thought the time come for a littlerelaxation of _askêsis_, or he may have had something to forestall: heseldom spoke of his affairs without design. At any rate, he told herthat Francis Lingen had been with him, and that Urquhart was likely tobe of use. "I've written to him, anyhow. He will do as he thinks well. Urquhart is a sharp man of business. "

Lucy said, "He struck me so. I thought that he could never have anydoubt of his own mind. "

James wriggled his eyeglass, to wedge it more firmly. "Ah, you noticedthat? Very acute of you, Lucy. We may have a meeting before long--toarrange the whole thing.... It's a lot of money ... Ten thousandpounds.... Your Francis is an expensive young man ... Or let's say_ci-devant jeune homme_. "

"Why do you call him 'my' Francis?" she asked--rather mischievous thanartless. 

The eyeglass dropped with a click and had to be sought. "Well, I canhardly call him _mine_, could I?"

"I don't see why he should be anybody's, " said Lucy, "except his own. "

"My dear girl, " said Macartney, "_himself_ is the last person hebelongs to. Francis Lingen will always belong to somebody. I must saythat he has chosen very wisely. You do him a great deal of good. "

"That's very nice of you, " she said. "I own that I like FrancisLingen. He's very gentle, not too foolish, and good to look at. Youmust own that he's extremely elegant. "

"Oh, " said James, tossing up his foot, "elegant! He is what his goodHorace would have called 'a very pretty fellow'--and what I call 'anice girl. '"

"I'm sure he isn't worth so much savagery, " Lucy said. "You are likeUgolino--and poor Francis is your _fiero pasto_. "

James instantly corrected himself. "My besetting sin, Lucy. But I mustobserve--" He applied his glazed eye to her feet--"the colour of yourstockings, my friend. Ha! a tinge of blue, upon my oath!" So it passedoff, and that night when, after his half-hour with the evening paperin the drawing-room, he prepared to leave her, she held out her handto him, and said good night. He took it, waved it; and then stooped toher offered cheek and pecked it delicately. The good girl felt quiteelate. She did so like people to be kind to her. 

Half an hour later yet, in her evening post was a letter fromUrquhart. He proposed for herself and Lancelot to go to the play withhim. The play, _Raffles_, "which ought to meet the case, " he said. Headded, "I don't include Macartney in this jaunt, partly because hewon't want to come, but mainly because there won't be room for him. Iam taking a nephew, one Bob Nugent, an Osborne boy, but very graciousto poor civilians like Lancelot and me. " He signed himself, "Yours tocommand. "

Lucy was pleased, and accepted promptly; and Lancelot was pleased whenhe heard of it. His hackles were up at the graciousness of the Osbornekid. He honked over it like a heron. "Ho! I expect you'll tell himthat I'm R. E. , or going to be, " he said, which meant that he himselfcertainly would. The event, with subsequent modifications on thetelephone, proved to be the kind of evening that Lancelot'sphilosophy had never dreamed of. They dined at the Café Royal, whereUrquhart pointed out famous Anarchists and their wives to his youngguests; they went on to the theatre in what he called a 'bus, butLancelot saw to be a mighty motor which rumbled like a volcano atrest, and proceeded by a series of violent rushes, accompanied byexplosions of a very dangerous kind. The whole desperate passage, short as it was, had the right feeling of law-breaking about it. Policemen looked reproachfully at them as they fled on. Lancelot, asguest of honour, sat in front, and wagged his hand like a semaphore atall times and in all faces; he felt part policeman and partmalefactor, which was just right. Then they thrilled at the smooth andaccomplished villainy of Mr. Du Maurier, lost not one line of hisfaultless clothes, nor one syllable of his easy utterance, "liketreacle off a spoon, " said Urquhart; and then they tore back throughthe starry night to Onslow Square, leaving in their wake the wrecksand salvage of a hundred frail taxis; finally, from the doorstep wavedthe Destroyer, as the boys agreed she should be called, upon herruthless course, listened to the short and fierce bursts of her wrathuntil she was lost in the great sea of sound; and then--replete tospeechlessness--Lancelot looked up to his mother and squeezed herhand. She saw that his eyes were full. "Well, darling?" she said. "Youliked all that?" Lancelot had recovered himself. He let go her hand. His reply was majestic. "Not bad, " he said. Lucy immediately huggedhim. 

Now that was exactly what James would have said, _mutatis mutandis_. Yet she would not have hugged James for it, nor have loved him becauseof it. "These are our crosses, Mr. Wesley!" Reflecting on the jaunt, she warmed to the thought of Urquhart, who had, she felt, the knack ofmaking you at ease. What had he done, or how done it? Well, he seemedto be interested in what you said. He looked at you, and waited forit; then he answered, still looking at you. Now, so many men looked attheir toes when they answered you. James always did. Yet Mr. Urquhartdid not look too much: there were men who did that. No, not too much. 

CHAPTER V

EROS STEPS IN

When she was told that Francis Lingen and Urquhart were coming on thenineteenth, not to dine, Lucy said, "Oh, what a bore!" and seeing themild shock inflicted on the eyeglass by her remark, explained that itwas Lancelot's day for going to school, and that she was alwaysdepressed at such times. The eyeglass dropped, and its masterstretched out his fine long legs, with a great display of blackspeckled sock. "My dear, absurd as it may seem, they are coming to seeMe. I know your little way. You shan't be disturbed, if I may beindulged so far as to contrive that the house hold us both. I hadthought that it would be only civil to bring them in to you for aminute or two, when they've done. But that is for you to decide. "

She was immediately penitent. "Oh, do, of course. I daresay they willbe useful. I'm very foolish to miss him so much. " The eyeglassruefully stared at the fire. 

"Urquhart consents, " said James, "and Lingen will have his money. More snuff-boxes, you'll find. But he's had to work for it. Insuredhis life--and a letter from Sir Giles, which must have cost himsomething. " Sir Giles Lingen was the uncle of Francis, a childlessveteran. He turned his disk upon her for a moment. "You likeUrquhart?"

"Yes, " Lucy said, "I do. I like him--because he likes Lancelot. "

"Ah, " said James, who thought her weak where the boy was concerned. Headded, "Urquhart gets on with children. He's a child himself. "

"Why do you call him that?" she asked, with a tinge of offence in hervoice. James could raise the fine hairs at the back of her neck by amere inflection. 

He accepted battle. "Because he only thinks of one thing at a time. Because to get what he wants he'll sacrifice every mortal thing--veryoften the thing itself which he's after. "

But Lucy had heard all that before, and wasn't impressed. "All men arelike that, " she said. "I could give you a much better reason. "

James and his eyeglass both smiled. "Your exquisite reason?"

"He is like a child, " said Lucy, "because he doesn't know thatanybody is looking at him, and wouldn't care if anybody was. "

James clasped his shin. "Not bad, " he said, "not at all bad. But thetest of that is the length to which you can carry it. Would he wear apot hat with a frock-coat?--that's the crux. "

It really was, to James, as she knew very well. She perused theglowing fire with its blue salt flames. Perhaps to most men. Probablyalso to Mr. Urquhart. But she felt that she would be lowering agenerous ideal if she probed any further: so James was left to histriumph. 

 * * * * *

The fatal week wore on apace; one of the few remaining days was whollyoccupied with preparations for the last. A final jaunt together wascharged with a poignancy of unavailing regrets which made it a hardertrial than the supreme moment. Never, never, had she thought thisbright and intense living thing which she had made, so beautiful andso dear. Nor did it make a straw's worth of difference to the passionwith which she was burdened that she felt precisely the same thingevery time he left her. As for Lancelot, he took her obvious troublelike the gentleman he was. He regretted it, made no attempt toconceal that, but was full of little comfortable suggestions whichmade her want to cry. "You'll have no more sapping upstairs directlyafter dinner, I suppose!" was one of them; another was, "No moredraughty adventures by the Round Pond. " Lucy thought that she wouldhave stood like Jane Shore by the Round Pond, in a blizzard, foranother week of him. But she adored him for his intention, and wasalso braced by it. Her sister Mabel, who had three boys, did notconceal her satisfaction at the approaching release--but Mabel spentChristmas at Peltry; and the hunting was a serious matter. 

The worst of her troubles was over when they were at Victoria. Lancelot immediately became one of a herd. And so did she: one of aherd of hens at the pond's edge. Business was business. Lancelotremained kind to her, but he was inflexible. This was no place fortears. He even deprecated the last hug, the lingering of the lastkiss. He leaned nonchalantly at the window, he kept his eye on her;she dared not have a tear. The train moved; he lifted one hand. "Solong, " he said, and turned to his high affairs. She was almost aghastto realise how very small, how very pale, how atomy he looked--toconfront a howling world! And so to listen to the comfortable wordsof Mrs. Furnivall-Briggs. "My dear, they've no use for us. The utmostwe can do is to see that they have good food. And warm socks. I amuntiring about warm socks. That is what I am always girding mycommittee about. I tell the Vicar, 'My dear sir, I will give you theirsouls, if you leave me their soles. ' Do you see? He is so much amused. But he is a very human person. Except at the altar. _There_ he's everyinch the priest. Well, good-bye. I thought Lancelot looked delightful. He's taller than my Geoff. But I must fly. I have a meeting of workersat four-fifteen. Bless me, I had no idea it was four o'clock. Theparish-room, Alphonse. " A Spartan mother. 

Lucy paid two calls, on people who were out, and indulged herself withshopping in Sloane Street. Lancelot had recently remarked on hergloves. "You have jolly thin hands, " he had said. "It's having goodgloves, I expect. " The memory of such delightful sayings encouragedher to be extravagant. She thought that perhaps he would find herankles worth a moment--if she took pains with them. Anyhow, he wasworth dressing for. James never noticed anything--or if he did, hisambiguity was two-edged. "Extraordinary hat, " he might say, and drophis eyeglass, which always gave an air of finality to comments of thesort. But her shopping done, for Lancelot's sake, life stretchedbefore her a grey waste. She went back to tea, to a novel, to a weeklypaper full of photographs of other people's houses, dogs, children andmotor-cars. It was dark, she was bored as well as child-sick, dissatisfied with herself as well as heart-hungry. She must getherself something to do, she said. Who was the Vicar of Onslow Square?She didn't know. Somehow, religion, to her, had always seemed such avery private affair. Not a soul must be near her when she said herprayers--except Lancelot, of course. When he was at home she alwayssaid them while he said his. Last night--ah, she had not been able tosay anything last night. All her faculties had been bent to watchinghim at it. Was it bravery in him--or insensibility? She remembered Mr. Urquhart had talked about it. "All boys are born stoics, " he said, "and all girls Epicureans. That's the instinct. They change placeswhen they grow up. " Was James an Epicurean?

It was six o'clock. They would be at their meeting in James's room. Surely they wouldn't want tea? Apparently Crewdson thought that theymight, otherwise--well, she would leave it to Crewdson. James neverseemed to care for anything done by anybody except Crewdson. Sometimeshe seemed to resent it. "Have we no servants then?" the eyeglassseemed to inquire. She wondered if James knew for how much hiseyeglass was answerable. How could one like to be kissed, with thatglaring disk coming nearer and nearer? And if it dropped just at themoment--well, it seemed simply to change all one's feelings. Oh, tohave her arms round Lancelot's salient young body, and hear himmurmur, "Oh, I say!" as she kissed his neck!... 

At this moment, being very near to tears, the light was switched off. She seemed to be drowning in dark. That was a favourite trick ofLancelot's, who had no business, as a matter of fact, in his father'sroom. It gave her a moment of tender joy, and for another she playedwith the thought of him, tiptoeing towards her. Suddenly, all in thedark, she felt a man's arms about her, and a man's lips upon hers. Towild alarm succeeded warm gratitude. Lucy sobbed ever so lightly; herhead fell back before the ardent advance; her eyes closed. Withparted lips she drank deep of a new consolation: her heart drummed atune to which, as it seemed, her wings throbbed the answer. The kisswas a long one--perhaps a full thirty seconds--but she was releasedall too soon. He left her as he had come, on silent feet. The lightwas turned up; everything looked as it had been, but everything wasnot. She was not. She found herself an Ariadne, in a drawing-room, still lax from Theseus' arms. Yes, but Theseus was next door, andwould come back to her. 

To say that she was touched is to say little. She was more elated thantouched, and more interested than either. How utterly romantic, howperfectly sweet, how thoughtful, how ardent of James! James, of allpeople in the world! Her husband, of course: but who knew better thanshe what that office had implied--and who less than she what it musthave hidden? Really, was it true? Could it be true?

For some time she sat luxurious where she had been left, gloating (theword is fairly used) over this new treasure. But then she jumped upand looked at herself in the glass, curiously, quizzingly, and evenperhaps shamefaced. Next she laughed, richly and from a full heart. "My dear girl, it's not hard to see what has happened to you. You'vebeen--" Not even in her thoughts did she care to end the sentence. Butthose shining dark eyes, that air of floating, of winged feet--"Ha, mydear, upon my word! At thirty-one, my child. Really, it becomes youuncommonly. "

She found herself now walking swiftly up and down the room, claspingand unclasping her hands. To think that James--the last man in theworld--had kept this up his coat-sleeve for years--and at last--! Andhow like the dear thing to turn the light out! To save his own face, of course, for he must have known, even _he_ must have known, that_she_ wouldn't have cared. She would have liked the light--to see hiseyes! There had been no eyeglass this time, anyhow. But that was it. That was a man's romance. In _Cupid and Psyche_, it had been Psychewho had wanted to know, to see. Women were like that. Such realists. And, as Psyche was, they were always sorry for it afterwards. Well, bless him, he should love her in the dark, or how he pleased. 

She stopped again--again in front of the glass. What had he seen--whatnew thing had he seen to make him--want to kiss her like that?Was she pretty? She supposed that she really was. She fingered thecrinkled whiteness at her neck; touched herself here and there; turnedher head sideways, and patted her hair, lifting her chin. Now, wasthere anything she could put on--something she could put in--fordinner? Her thoughts were now turned to serious matters--this and thatpossibility flashed across her mind. They were serious matters, because James had made them so by his most extraordinary, mostromantic, most beautiful action. Then she stretched out her hands, thepalms upward, and sighed out her heart. "Oh, what a load is lightened. Oh, days to come!"

Voices in the conservatory suddenly made her heart beat violently. Hewas coming! She heard James say--oh, the rogue!--"Yes, it's rathernice. We put it up directly we came. Lucy's idea. Mind the little stepat the door, though. " Urquhart, Francis Lingen were in theroom--Francis' topknot stood up like a bottle-brush. Then came thehero of the evening, James, the unknown Eros. She beamed into theshining disk. Sweet old spyglass, she would never abuse it again. Allthe same, he had pocketed it for the occasion the last time he hadbeen in the room!

Urquhart refused tea. "Tea at seven o'clock at night!" All her eyeswere for James, who had sought her in love and given her heart again. The eyeglass expressed its horror of tea at seven o'clock. "Godforbid, " said James, dear, ridiculous creature. 

Mr. Urquhart talked at once of Lancelot. "Well, he's off with all therest of them. They love it, you know. It's movement--it's towards theunknown, the not impossible--the 'anything might turn up at anyminute. ' Now, we don't feel so sure about the minutes, do we?"

Oh, don't we though? She laughed and tilted her chin. "We feel, anyhow, for _their_ minutes, bless them, " she said, and Urquhartlooked at her with narrowed eyes. 

"'He for God only, she for God in him, '" he said. He added, "I likethat boy of yours. I think he understands me"--and pleased her. 

There were a few minutes' desultory talk, in the course of which Lucygravitated towards James, and finally put her hand in his arm. Youshould have seen the effect of this simple caress upon the eyeglass. Like a wounded snake it lifted its head to ask, "Who has struck me?"It wavered and wagged. But Lucy was glass-proof now. 

Urquhart said that he was going away shortly, at least he supposed heshould. A man he knew wanted to try a new motor. They were to rushdown to Biarritz, and possibly over the frontier to Pampluna. Butnothing was arranged. Here he looked scrutinising and half quizzicalat her. "Are you adventurously inclined? Will you try my monster? It'sa dragon. "

She was very adventurously inclined--as James might know! but not witha Mr. Urquhart necessarily: therefore she hesitated. "Oh, I don'treally know--" Urquhart laughed. "Be bold--be bold--be not too bold. Well, there it is. I start for the Newmarket road at elevento-morrow--but I'll fetch you for twopence. Ask _him_. " He jerked hishead forward towards James, on whose arm her hand rested. Lucy lookedup at her romantic lord--a look which might have made a man proud. ButJames may have been proud enough already. At any rate, he didn't seeher look, but was genial to Urquhart--over whom he considered that hehad triumphed in the library. 

"Sooner her than me, " he said. "I know that she likes it and so adviseher to go. But I should die a thousand deaths. "

"She won't, " said Urquhart; and then to Lucy, "Well, ma'am?"

Her eyes assented before she did. "Very well, I'll come. I dare say itwill be delightful. "

"Oh, it will, " he said. 

Still he rambled on--plain, grumbling, easy, familiar talk, while Lucyfumed and fidgeted to be alone with her joy and pride. "Your handsomesister has asked me to hunt in Essex. Don't like hunting, but I dolike her--and there's a great deal waiting to be done at Martley. Idon't know. We'll talk about it to-morrow. " Then he asked her, "Wouldshe come and look at Martley?" It seemed she had half promised. 

She said, "Oh, yes, of course. " Nothing of that kind seemed veryimportant. But James here looked down at her, which made it different. "We might go at Whitsuntide, " he said. 

She looked deeply up--deeply into him, so to speak. "Very well, wewill. If you'll come. "

"Oh, he'll come, " Urquhart said; and James, "I should like it. " Sothat was settled. Heavens, how she wished these people would go. Shecould see that Francis Lingen wanted to be asked to stay to dine, butshe didn't mean to have that. So when Urquhart held out his hand witha blunt "Good night to you, " she let hers hover about Francis as ifhis was waiting for it--which it wasn't, but had to be. "Oh, goodnight, " said the embarrassed exquisite, and forgot to be tender. 

James picked up the evening paper and was flickering his eye over theleading articles, like a searchlight. Lucy, for her part, hoveredquick-footed in his neighbourhood. This was her hour of triumph, andshe played with it. She peeped at the paper over his shoulder till hesaid, "Please, " and moved it. Her fingers itched to touch his hair, but very prudently refrained. She was too restless to settle toanything, and too happy to wish it. If she had been a singing-bird shewould have trilled to the piano; but she had not a note of music. Thedressing-gong gave her direction. There was plenty to be done. "Thegong! I'm going to make myself smart, James. Quite smart. Are youcoming up?"

James had the paper open in the middle. "Eh? Oh, there's lots oftime--run away. I'm rather busy. "

"You're not a bit busy. But I'll go. " And she went with hardly aperceptible hang-back at the door. Upstairs she rejected her usualchoice with a curled lip. "No, no, too stuffy. " "Oh, Smithers, Icouldn't. It makes me look a hundred. " No doubt she was absurd; butshe had been starved. Such a thing as this had not happened to hersince her days of betrothal, and then but seldom. When she hadsatisfied herself she had a panic. Suppose he said, "Comic Opera!"

He said nothing at all. He was in a thoughtful mood, and talked mostlyof Urquhart's proposal for Whitsuntide. "I believe it's ratherremarkable. Quite a place to be seen. Jimmy does things well, youknow. He's really a rich man. "

"As rich as you?" Lucy asked, not at all interested in Urquhart justnow. 

The eyeglass was pained. "My dear soul! You don't know what you'resaying!" She quizzed him with a saucy look. "I didn't say anything, dear. I asked something. "

If eyeglasses shiver, so did James's. "Well, well--you quibble. I daresay Urquhart has fifteen thousand a year, and even you will know thatI haven't half as much. "

She quenched her eyes, and looked meek. "No, dear, I know. All right, he's quite rich. Now what does he do with it?"

"Do with it?" James tilted his head and scratched his neck vigorously, but not elegantly. "Very often nothing at all. There will be yearswhen he won't spend a hundred above his running expenses. Then he'llget a kind of maggot in the brain, and squander every sixpence he canlay hands on. Or he may see reason good, and drop ten thousand in alap like Lingen's. Why does he do it? God knows, Who made him. He'smade like that. "

Lucy said it was very interesting, but only because she thought Jameswould be pleased. 

Then she remembered, with a pang of doubt, that she was to be drivenby this wild man to-morrow. But James--would he--? He had never beenreally jealous, and just now she didn't suppose he could possibly beso; but you can't tell with men. So she said, "James dear, " verysoftly, and he looked over the table at her. "If you don't thinkit--sensible, I could easily telephone. "

"Eh? What about?--to whom?--how? I don't follow you. "

"I mean to Mr. Urquhart, about his motor to-morrow. I don't care aboutit in the least. In fact--"

"Oh, " said James, "the motor? Ah, I had forgotten. Oh, I think youmight go. Urquhart's been very reasonable about this business ofLingen's. I had a little trouble, of course--it's a lot of money, evenfor him. Oh, yes, I should go if I were you. Why, he might want _me_to go, you know--which would bore me to extinction. But I know youlike that sort of thing. " He nodded at her. "Yes, I should go. "

She pouted, and showed storm in her eyes--all for his benefit. But hedeclined benefit. A strange, dear, bleak soul. 

"Very well. If it saves you anything, I'll do it, " she said. James wasgratified; as he was also by the peeling of walnuts and service ofthem in a sherry glass, which she briskly performed, as if she likedit. Further than that she was too shy to go; but in the drawing-room, before it might be too late, she was unable to forbear her newtenderness. 

She stood behind him; her hand fell upon his shoulder, and restedthere, like a leaf. He could not but be conscious of it--he was veryconscious of it, and accepted it, as a tribute. Such a tribute wasgratifying. Lucy was a charming woman. She did pretty things in apretty way, as a man's wife should, but too seldom did. How many men'swives--after fourteen years of it--would stand as she was standingnow? No--the luck held. He had a tradition of Success--success withoutvisible effort. The luck held! Like a steady wind, filling a sail. 

Discipline, however; gentle but firm! He went on reading, but said, most kindly, "Well, Luce, well--" adding, on an afterthought, "How canI serve you?"

Her eyes were luminous, dilating her gentle mood, downcast towards hissmooth black hair. She sighed, "Serve me? Oh, you serve me well. I'mhappy just now--that's all. "

"Not fretting after the boy?"

"No, no. Not now. Bless him, all the same. "

"To be sure. " Whereon, at a closer touch of her hand, he lookedcomically up. Her head moved, ever so slightly, towards him. Hedropped his eyeglass with a smart click and kissed her cheek. Sheshivered, and started back. A blank dismay fell upon her; her heartseemed to stop. Good Heavens! Not so, not at all so, had James kissedher in the dark. 

There wasn't a doubt about that--not the shade of a doubt. Here hadbeen a brush on the cheek; here the cold point of his nose had peckeda little above. She had felt that distinctly, more distinctly than thetouch of his lips. Whereas that other, that full-charged message ofhope and promise--oh, that had been put upon her mouth, soft andclose, and long. She recalled how her head had fallen back and back, how her laden heart had sighed, how she had been touched, comforted, contented. Good God, how strange men were! How entirely outside herphilosophy!

She strayed about her drawing-room, touching things here and there, while he complacently fingered his _Punch_, flacking over theleaves with brisk slaps of the hand. At this moment he was ascomfortably-minded a householder as any in London, engaged solely indigestion, at peace at home and abroad, so unconscious of thefretting, straining, passionate lost soul in the room with him, hovering, flicking about it like a white moth, as to be supremelyridiculous--to any one but Lucy. It is difficult to hit off her stateof mind in a word, or in two. She was fretted; yes, but she wasprovoked too. She was provoked, but she was incredulous. It could notcontinue; it was too much. Men were not made so. And yet--andyet--James was a possible Eros, an Eros (bless him!) with an eyeglass:and Eros loved in the dark. 

She comforted herself with this thought, which seemed to her a brightsolution of the puzzle, and saw James rise and stretch his lengthwithout mutiny. She received the taps on the cheek of his rolled_Punch_, allowed, nay, procured, another chilly peck, with no poutinglips, no reproachful eyes. Then came a jar, and her puzzlementrenewed. "Shall you be late?" "Oh, my dear soul, how can I possiblysay? I brought papers home with me--and you know what that means! It'san interesting case. We have Merridew for us. I am settling thebrief. " Alas, for her. The infatuate even stayed to detail points ofthe cause. Much, it appeared, depended upon the Chancellor of thediocese: a very shaky witness. He had a passion for qualification, andmight tie himself into as many knots as an eel on a night-line. Oh, might he indeed? And this, this was in the scales against her prideand joy! She was left--alone on Naxos now--while James went sharplyto his papers. 

There I must leave her, till the hour when she could bear the room nomore. She had fought with beasts there, and had prevailed. Yetunreason (as she had made herself call it) lifted a bruised head atthe last. Papers! Papers, after such a kiss! Oh, the folly of thewise! Caught up she knew not whence, harboured in the mind she knewnot how, the bitter words of an old Scots song tasted salt upon herlips:

 There dwelt a man into the West, And O gin he was cruel; For on his bridal night at e'en He up and grat for gruel. 

 They brought him in a gude sheepshead, A bason and a towel. "Gar take thae whimwhams far frae me, I winna want my gruel!"

Standing in the hall while these words were ringing in her head, shestayed after they were done, a rueful figure of indecision. Instinctfought instinct, and the acquired beat down the innate. She regardedthe shut door, with wise and tender eyes, without reproach; then benther head and went swiftly upstairs. 

CHAPTER VI

A LEAP OUTWARDS

She arose, a disillusioned bride, with scarcely spirit enough to clingto hope, and with less taste for Urquhart's motor than she had everhad for any duller task-work. Nothing in the house tended to hercomfort. James was preoccupied and speechless; the coffee was wrong, the letters late and stupid. She felt herself at cross-purposes withher foolish little world. If James had resought her love overnight, ithad been a passing whim. She told herself that love so desired wasalmost an insult. 

Nevertheless at eleven o'clock the motor was there, and Urquhart inthe hall held out his hand. "She can sprint, " he said; "so much I'velearned already. I think you'll be amused. "

Lucy hoped so. She owned herself very dull that morning. Well, saidUrquhart, he could promise her that she should not be that. She mightcry for mercy, he told her, or stifle screams; but she wouldn't stifleyawns. "Macartney, " he said, "would sooner see himself led out by afiring-party than in such an engine as I have out there. " She smiledat her memory. "James is not of the adventurous, " she said--but wasn'the? "Shall I be cold?"

"Put on everything you have, " he bade her, "and then everything else. She can do sixty. "

"You are trying to terrify me, " she said, "but you won't succeed. Idon't know why, but I feel that you can drive. I think I have caughtLancelot's complaint. "

"Perhaps so. I know that I impose upon the young and insipient. "

"And which am I, pray?"

He looked at her. "Don't try me too far. "

She came forth finally to see Crewdson and her own chauffeur groupedwith Urquhart. The bonnet was open; shining coils, mighty cylinderswere in view, and a great copper feed-pipe like a burnishedboa-constrictor. The chauffeur, a beady-eyed Swiss, stared approval;Crewdson, rubbing his chin, offered a deft blend of the deferentialbutler and the wary man of the world. She was tucked in; the Swissstarted the monster; they were off with a bound. 

They slashed along Knightsbridge, won Piccadilly Circus by a seriesof short rushes; avoided the City, and further East found a broad roadand slow traffic. Soon they were in the semi-urban fringe, among villagardens, over-glazed public-houses, pollarded trees and countryglimpses in between. There was floating ice on the ponds, a violetrime traversed with dun wheelmarks in the shady parts of the way. After that a smooth white road, deep green fields, much frozen water, ducks looking strangely yellow, and the low blue hills of Essex. 

Urquhart was a sensitive driver; she noticed that. The farseeing eyewas instantly known in the controlling foot. He used very littlebrake; when he pushed his car there was no mark upon him of urgency. Success without effort! The Gospel of James! Urquhart accepted it as acommonplace, and sought his gospel elsewhere. 

He began to talk without any palpable beginning, and drifted intoreminiscence. "I remember being run away with by a mule train inRonda ... The first I had ever handled. They got out of hand--it was anasty gorge with a bend in it where you turn on to the bridge. I gotround that with a well-directed stone which caught the off-side leaderexactly at the root of his wicked ear. He had only one ear, so youcouldn't mistake it. He ducked his head and up with his heels. He wentover, and the next pair on top of him. We pulled up, not much theworse. Well, the point of that story is that the pace of that oldcoach and six mokes, I assure you, has always seemed to me faster thanany motor I've ever driven. It was nothing to be compared with it, ofcourse; but the effort of those six mad animals, the _élan_ of thething, the rumbling and swaying about, heeling over that infernalgorge of stone--! You can't conceive the whirl and rush of it. Nowwe're doing fifty, yet you don't know it. Wind-screen: yes, that'svery much; but the concealment of effort is more. "

"You've had a life of adventure, " she said. "Lancelot may have beenright. "

"He wasn't far wrong, " Urquhart said. "As a fact, I have never been apirate; but I have smuggled tobacco in the Black Sea, and that's asnear as you need go. I excuse myself by saying that it was a long timeago--twenty years I dare say; that I was young at the time; that I wasvery hard up, and that I liked the fun. Lovely country, you know, thatstrip of shore. You never saw such oleanders in your life. And sandlike crumbled crystal. We used to land the stuff at midnight, up toour armpits in water sometimes; and a man would stand up afterwardsshining with phosphorus, like a golden statue. Romantic! No poet couldrelate it. They used to cross and recross in the starlight--all thegleaming figures. Like a ballet done for a Sultan in the ArabianNights. I was at that for a couple of years, and then the gunboats gottoo sharp for us and the game didn't pay. "

She had forgotten her spleen. Her eyes were wide at the enlarginglandscape. "And what did you do next--or what had you done before?Tell me anything. "

"I really don't know what I did before. I went out to the Chersonesefrom Naples. I remember that well. I had been knocking about Vesuviusfor a bit, keeping very bad company, which, nevertheless, behaved verywell to me. But finally there was a row with knives, which rathersickened me of the Vesuvians; so I shipped for Constantinople and fellin with a very nice old chap on board. He took me on at his contrabandjob. I didn't get very much money, but I got some, and saw a deal oflife. When it was over I went to Greece. I like the Greeks. They area fine people. "

"What did you do in Greece?" she insisted, not interested in thefineness of the people. 

"Blasting, first, " he said. "They were making the railway from Larissathrough Tempe. That was a dangerous job, because the rock breaks soqueerly. You never know when it has finished. I had seen a good dealof it in South America, so I butted in, and was taken on. Then I didsome mining at Lavrion, and captained a steamer that carried mailsamong the islands. That was the best time I had. You see, I likeresponsibility, and I got it. Everything else was tame--out there, Imean.... 

"I got into Government service at Corfù and stopped there six years ormore ... I was all sorts of things--lighthouse-keeper, inspector ofmarine works, harbour-master ... And then my wicked old father (I musttell you about him some day. You could write a book about him) up anddied--in his bed of all places in the world, and left me a good dealof money. That was the ruin of me. I really might have done somethingif it hadn't been for that. Strange thing! He turned me out of thehouse in a rage one day, and had neither seen me nor written me aletter from my seventeenth to my thirtieth birthday, when he died--orthereabouts. But at the last, when he was on his bed of death, herolled himself over and said to the priest, 'There's Jimmy out at hisdevilry among the haythen Turks, ' he says. 'Begob, that was a fineboy, and I'll leave him a plum. ' And so he did. I wish he hadn't. Iwas making my hundred and fifty in Corfù and was the richest man inthe place. And I liked the life. "

"That was where you had so many wives, " she reminded him. 

"So it was. Well, perhaps I needn't assure you that the number hasbeen exaggerated. I've very nearly had some wives, but there wasalways something at the last minute. There was a girl at Valletta, Iremember--a splendid girl with the figure of a young Venus, and atragic face and great eyes that seemed to drown you in dark. LadyMacbeth as a child might have been like that--or Antigone with thedoom on her, or perhaps Elektra. No, I expect Elektra took after hermother: red-haired girl, I fancy. But there you are. She was a lovely, solemn, deep-eyed, hag-ridden goose. Not a word to say--thoughtmostly of pudding. I found that out by supposing that she thought ofme. Then I was piqued, and we parted. I suppose she's vast now, andglued to an upper window-ledge with her great eyes peering through aslat in the shutter. Living in a bed-gown. Imagine a wife who lives ina bed-gown!"

They were lunching at Colchester when these amorous chapters werereached. Lucy was quite at her ease with her companion. "A wife whowas always at the dressmaker's would suit you no better. But I don'tknow that mixed marriages often answer. After all, so dreadfully muchcan never be opened between you. "

"That's quite true, " he said, "and by no means only of mixedmarriages. How much can your average husband and wife open betweenthem? Practically nothing, since they choose to live by speech. "

"But what else have we?"

"I would choose to live by touch, " he said. "If two people can'tcommunicate fully and sufficiently by the feelers they are not in thesame sphere and have no common language. But speech is absurd. Why, every phrase, and nearly every word, has a conventional value. "

By touch! She was set dreaming by that. So she and James--a James shehad had no conception of--had communicated not four-and-twenty hoursago. Certainly subsequent speech had not advanced the intelligencethen conveyed. 

But she resumed Urquhart's affairs. "And do you despair of finding awoman with whom you can hold communion?"

"No, " he said, looking at the bread which he broke. "I don't despairat all. I think that I shall find her. " And then he looked steadily ather, and she felt a little uncomfortable. But it was over in a minute. 

She feared to provoke that again, so made no fishing comment; but shewas abundantly curious of what his choice would be. Meantime he musedaloud. 

"What you want for a successful marriage is--a layer of esteem, without which you will infallibly, if you are a man, over-reachyourself and be disgusted; then a liberal layer of animalpassion--and I only shrink from a stronger word for fear of beingmisunderstood--which you won't have unless you have (a) vitality, (b)imagination; thirdly, for a crown, respect. You must know your due, and your duty, and fear to omit the one or excuse the other. Everything follows from those three. "

"And how do you know when you have found them?"

He looked up and out into the country. "A sudden glory, " he said, "aflare of insight. There's no mistake possible. "

"Who was the man, " she asked him, rather mischievously, "who saw agirl at a ball, and said, 'That's a fine girl; I'll marry her'--anddid it--and was miserable?"

He twinkled as he answered, "That was Savage Landor; but it was hisown fault. He could never make concessions. " She thought him a veryinteresting companion. 

On the way home he talked more fitfully, with intervals of broodingsilence. But he was not morose in his fits, and when he excusedhimself for sulking, she warmly denied that he did any such thing. "Iexpect you are studying the motor, " she said; and he laughed. "I'mvery capable of that. "

Altogether, a successful day. She returned braced to her duties, herJames, and his hidden-up Eros. To go home to James had become anexciting thing to do. 

CHAPTER VII

PATIENCE AND PSYCHE

There are two ways of encountering an anti-climax, an heroic, anunheroic. Lucy did her best to be a heroine, but her temperament wasagainst her. Her imagination was very easily kindled, and her reasonsmuch at the mercy of the flames. By how much she was exalted, by somuch was she dashed. But she had a conscience too, a lively one with aforefinger mainly in evidence. It would be tedious to recount howoften that wagged her into acquiescence with a James suddenly revealedfreakish, and how often she relapsed into the despair of one sharplyrebuffed when she found him sedately himself. However, or by means ofher qualities, the time-cure worked its way; her inflammation woreitself out, and her life resumed its routine of dinner-parties, callsand callers, Francis Lingen's purring, and letters to or fromLancelot--with this difference, mind you, that far recessed in hermind there lay a grain, a grain of promise: that and a glamorousmemory. 

She was able to write her first letter to Lancelot in high spirits, then, to tell him her little bits of news and to remind him (really toremind herself) of good days in the past holiday-time. Something shemay have said, or left unsaid, as the chance may be, drew thefollowing reply. She always wrote to him on Friday, so that he mightanswer her on Sunday. 

"Dear Mama, " he wrote, "I was third in weakly order which was rathergood (I. D. T. )*. Mr. Tonks said if I go up so fast I shall brake theceialing. Bad spelling I know but still. Last Wendesday a boy namedJenkinson swalowed a button-hook but recovered it practically as goodas when bought (or perhaps a Xmas present). He was always calledBolter for a nickname, so it was jolly convene. For once he did theright thing. Mostly he is an utter ass. How is the polligamous pirategetting on with wives &c. ? That comes from a Greek word polis, a city, so I suppose in the country they are too conventual. I likehim awfully. He's my sort (not Father's though). Well, the term iswaring away. Five days crost off on new diery. Where shall we go thistime three months? Easter I mean. Wycross I hope, but suppose dreeryBrighton, hope not. I must swot now Kings of Isereel and such-like sogoodby now or so long as we say here--LANCELOT. "

She thought that she must show the letter to Urquhart when next shesaw him, and meantime, of course, showed it to James. The eyeglassgrew abhorrent over the spelling. "This boy passes belief. Look atthis, Lucy. C-e-i-a-ling!" "Oh, don't you see?" she cried. "He had itperfectly: c-e-i. Well, and then a devil of doubt came in, and hetried an _a_. Oh, I can see it now, on his blotting-pad! Whichever hedecided on, he must have forgotten to cross out the other. Youshouldn't be so hard on your own son. His first letter too. "

James felt compunction. "No, no, I won't be hard. It's all right, ofcourse. " He read on. The polligamous pirate with wives &c. Had to beexplained. She told him the story. The eyeglass became a searchlightexploring her. 

"Did Urquhart tell that tale? Upon my soul--!"

"It was sheer nonsense, of course, but--"

"Oh, I don't know, " said James. "You can't tell with a man of thatsort. He can be a March hare if he's in the mood. He'd as soon shoot aTurk as a monkey, or keep two women as half a dozen. By the by, Lucy, "and the eyeglass went out like a falling star, "don't let thatsentimental idiot make too much of an ass of himself. "

Lucy's eyes concentrated; they shone. "Who is your sentimental idiot?I haven't the least notion what you mean. "

"I mean Francis Lingen, of course. You must admit-- Oh, " and he nippedher indignation in the bud, "I know you won't misunderstand me. I amnot at all a fool. You are kindness itself, generosity itself. Butthere it is. He's an ass, and there's really nothing more to say. "

Lucy was mollified. She was, indeed, amused after the first flash. Remembering the James of a week ago, the eager wooer of the dark, shewas able to be playful with a little jealousy. But if he could haveknown--or if she had cared to tell him--what she had been thinking ofon Sunday afternoon when Francis purred to her about himself andsought her advice how best to use his ten thousand of Urquhart'spounds--well, James would have understood, that's all!

So she laughed. "Poor Francis Lingen! He is not very wise. But I mustsay that your honour is perfectly safe with me. "

"My dear child--" said James, frowning. 

"No, no, I shall go on. It will do you good. There is one thing youmay always be quite sure of, dear, and that is that the more FrancisLingen is a goose, the less likely I am to encourage him in goosery, if there is such a word. "

James pished, but she pursued him. Mabel was announced, up from thecountry to dine and sleep. The Parthian shot was delivered actually onthe way to Mabel's embrace. "But I'm flattered to see youjealous--please understand that. I should like you to be jealous ofthe chair I sit on. "

James was hurt and uncomfortable. He thought all this rank form. AndMabel--the bright and incisive Mabel with her high huntingcolour--made it much worse. "What! Is James jealous? Oh, how perfectlysplendid! Is he going to give secret orders to Crewdson not to admitMr. --? As they do in plays at the St. James's? Oh, James, do tell mewhom you darkly suspect? Cæsar's wife! My dear and injured man--"James writhed, but he was in the trap. You may be too trenchant, itwould seem, and your cleaver stick fast in the block. 

It behooved him to take a strong line. This kind of raillery must bestopped. He must steer between the serious and the flippant. He hatedto be pert; on the other hand, to be solemn would be offensive toLucy--which he would not be. For James was a gentleman. "Mabel, mydear, you stretch the privileges of a guest--" a promising beginning, he thought; but Lucy pitied him plunging there, and cut all short by away of her own. "Oh, Mabel, you are a goose. Come and take your thingsoff, and tell me all about Peltry, and the hunting, and the new horse. Mr. Urquhart told me he was going to stay with you. Is he? I'm so gladyou like him. Lancelot and I highly approve. I must show youLancelot's letter about him. He calls him the polligamous pirate--withtwo _l_'s of course. "

"Yes, " said James, who had recovered his composure, "yes, my dear; buthe gives you the accent in polis. "

"Does he though? I'm afraid that was beyond me. " She paused to beamat James. "That pleases you?"

"It's a sign of grace, certainly. " So the squall blew over. 

James was dining out somewhere, so the sisters had a short dinner anda very long evening by the fire. Lucy dallied with her great newsuntil Crewdson had served the coffee--then out it came, withinordinate and delightful delicacy of approach. Mabel's eyesthroughout were fixed upon her face.... "And of course, naturally--"Here Lucy turned away her own. "But nothing--not a sign. Neither thennor since. I--"; she stopped, bit her lip, then broke forth. "I shallnever understand it. Oh, I do think it extraordinary!"

Mabel said at once, "It's not at all extraordinary. It would be withany one else; but not with James. "

Lucy lifted her head. "What do you mean, Mabel?"

"Well, it's difficult to explain. You are so odd about James. He iseither the sort of being you name in a whisper--or makes you edgy allover--like a slate-pencil. But James--I dare say you haven't noticedit: you think he's a clever man, and so he may be; but really he hasnever grown up. "

Lucy's foot began to rock. "My dear girl, really--"

"Oh, I know. I know. Of course you're annoyed, especially after such aqueer experience. We won't discuss it--it will be useless. But that'smy opinion, you know. I think that he was completely successful, according to his own ideas. " The battle raged; I need not add that themystery, far from being undiscussed, was driven up and down the fieldof possibility till a late hour; nor that Mabel held to her position, in high disparagement, as Lucy felt, of Lancelot, deeply involved. 

An upshot, and a shrewd one, was Mabel's abrupt, "Well, what are yougoing to do now? I mean, supposing he does it again?"

Lucy mused. "I don't somehow think he will, for a long time. " Sheadded naïvely, "I wish he would. I like it. "

Mabel understood her. "You mean that you like him for doing it. " Anddreamy Lucy nodded. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean. I do, awfully. "

Mabel here kissed Lucy. "Dearest, you're wonderfully sweet. You wouldlove anybody who loved you. "

"I don't think I would, " Lucy said, "but I should certainly have lovedJames more if he had ever seemed to love me. And I can't possiblydoubt that he did that day that Lancelot went back. What bothers me isthat he stopped there. " And so, to it again, in the manner of women, tireless in speculation about what is not to be understood. 

James, restored in tone, was affable, and even considerate, in themorning. Mabel, studying him with new eyes, had to admire his flawlesssurface, though her conviction of the shallow depth of him wasfirmlier rooted than before. "He is--he really is--a tremendousdonkey, poor James, " she thought to herself as he gave out playfulsarcasms at her expense, and was incisive without loss of urbanity. Mabel was urgent with her sister to join the party at Peltry whenUrquhart was there. "I do wish you would. He's rather afraid of you, Ithink, and that will throw him upon me--which is what is wanted. " Thatwas how she put it. 

James, quite the secure, backed her up. "I should go if I were you, "he said to Lucy from behind the _Morning Post_. "It will do you agreat deal of good. You always choose February to moult in, and youwill have to be feathered down there. Besides, it's evident you can beuseful to Mabel. " Lucy went so far as to get out her engagement book, and to turn up the date, not very seriously. What she found confirmedher. "I can't, " she said; "it's out of the question. "

"Why, what is happening?" Mabel must know. 

"It's an Opera night, " said Lucy. "The _Walküre_ is happening. "

"Oh, are they? H'm. Yes, I suppose I can't expect you. "

Lucy was scornfully clear. "I should think not indeed. Not for awilderness of Urquharts!"

"Not all the peltry of Siberia--" said James, rather sharply, as hethought; and dismissed the subject in favour of his own neatly-spattedfoot. "Wagner!" he said. "I am free to confess that, apart from theglory of the thing, I had rather--"

"Marry one of Mr. Urquhart's wives, " said the hardy Mabel. 

"Two, " said James, quite ready for her. 

Mabel rattled away to her Essex and left her sister all the better forthe astringent she had imparted. Lucy did not agree with her by anymeans; it made her hot with annoyance to realise that anybody could sothink of James. At the same time she felt that she must steadyherself. After all, a man might kiss his wife if he pleased, and hemight do it how he pleased. It was undignified to speculate about it. She tried very hard to drive that home to herself, and she did succeedin imposing it upon her conduct. But she was not convinced. She wastoo deeply romantic for conviction by any such specious reasoning. That affair in the dark had been the real thing; it implied--oh, everything. Let come what might, let be what was, that was the truetruth of the mystery. And to be loved like that was--oh, everything!

But she dismissed it from her thoughts with an effort of will, andrelations with James resumed their old position. They became formal, they were tinged now and again with the old asperity; they were ratherdreary. Lancelot's star rose as James's sank in the heavens. Hisletters became her chief preoccupation. But James's star, fallen lowthough it were, still showed a faint hue of rose-colour. 

Some little time after this--somewhere in early February, she metUrquhart at a luncheon party, and was glad to see him. He shook handsin his usual detached way, as if her gladness and their acquaintancewere matters of course. He sat next to her without ceremony, removinganother man's name-card for the purpose, and after a few short, snapped phrases about anything or nothing, they drifted into easytalk. Lucy's simplicity made her a delightful companion, when she wassure of her footing. She told him that she had been saving upLancelot's letter to show him. "Good, " he said. "I want it. "

But it was not here, as it happened. So she wrote out from memory thesentence about Urquhart: the polligamous pirate, with wives &c. "Aren't you flattered?" she asked him, radiant with mirthful malice. He frowned approval. He was pleased, but, like all those who makelaughter, he had none of his own. "That shot told. I got him with thefirst barrel. Trust a boy to love a law-breaker. He'll never forget methat. He's my friend for life. " He added, as if to himself, "Hope so, anyhow. "

Lucy at this, had she been a cat, would have purred and kneaded thecarpet. As it was, her contentment emboldened her to flights. She wasmuch more bird than cat. "I wonder if you are really a law-breaker, "she said. "I don't think I should be surprised to know it of you. "

He frowned again. "No, I should say that the ground had been preparedfor that. You wouldn't be surprised--but would you be disturbed?That's what I want to know before I tell you. "

This had to be considered. What did she in her private mind think oflaw-breakers? One thing was quite clear to her. Whatever she mightthink of them, she was not prepared to tell him. 

"I'm a lawyer's wife, you know. "

"That tells me nothing, " he said. "That would only give you theposition of an expert. It doesn't commit you to a line. I'll tell youthis--it may encourage you to a similar confidence. If I wanted tobreak a law very badly, I shouldn't do it on reflection perhaps; but Icould never resist a sudden impulse. If somebody told me that it wouldbe desirable in all sorts of ways to break a man's head I shouldn't doit, because I should be bothering myself with all the possibilities ofthe thing--how desirable it might be, or how undesirable. But if, happening to be in his company, I saw his head in a breakableaspect--splosh! I should land him a nasty one. That's a certainty. Now, what should you say to that? It happens that I want to know. " Itwas evident to her that he really did. 

Lucy gave him one of her kind, compassionate looks, which always madeher seem beautiful, and said, "I should forgive you. I should tell youthat you were too young for your years; but I should forgive you, I'msure. "

"That's what I wanted to know, " said Urquhart, and remained silent fora while. When he resumed it was abruptly, on a totally new matter. "Ishall bring my sister over to you after this. She's here. I don't knowwhether you'll like her. She'll like you. "

"Where is she?" Lucy asked, rather curious. 

"She's over there, by our hostess. That big black hat is hers. She'sunderneath it. " Lucy saw a spry, black-haired youngish woman, veryvivacious but what she herself called "good. " James would have said, "Smart. " Not at all like her brother, she thought, and said so. "She'snot such a scoundrel, " Urquhart admitted, "but she takes a line ofher own. Her husband's name is Nugent. He is South Irish, where we areNorth. That boy who went with us to the play is her son. He is alively breed--so it hasn't turned out amiss. She's not at all yoursort, but as you know the worst of us you may as well know what we cando when we exert ourselves. " He added, "My old father, now withBeelzebub, was a terror. "

"Do tell me about him. "

"It would take too long. He was very old-fashioned in most ways. Theyused to call him King Urquhart in Donegal. The worst of it was that heknew good claret and could shoot. That makes a bad combination. Heused to sit on a hogshead of it in his front yard and challenge alland sundry to mortal combat. He really did. Duels he used to callthem. He said, 'Me honour's involved, d'ye see?' and believed it. Butthey were really murders, because he was infallible with a revolver. He adored my mother, but she couldn't do anything with him. 'Tush, medear, ' he used to say, 'I wouldn't hurt a hair of his bald head. ' Andthen he'd have to bolt over to France for a bit and keep quiet. Buteverybody liked him, I'm sorry to say. They gave him a public funeralwhen he died. They took him out of the hearse--imagine the great sootyplumes of it--and carried him to the chapel--half a mile away. " Lucydidn't know how much of this to believe, which made it none the worse. 

"He was a Catholic?"

"He was. "

"And so are you?"

He looked up. "Eh? I suppose I am--if any. "

"What _do_ you mean?" she insisted. 

"Well, " he said. "It's there, I expect. You don't get rid of it. " Sheconsidered this to herself. 

Mrs. Nugent--the Honourable Mrs. Nugent, as it afterwardsappeared--made herself very amiable. "We both like boys, " she said, "which makes everything easy. I hope you liked my Pat--you met him, Iknow. Yours seems to be an unconscious humourist. Jimmy is alwayschuckling over him. Mine takes after the Urquharts; rather grim, butquite sound when you know them. My husband is really Irish. He mightsay 'Begorra' at any minute. The Urquharts are a mixed lot. Jimmysays we're Eurasians when he's cross with us--which means withhimself. I suppose we were border thieves once, like the Turnbulls andPringles. But James I planted us in Ireland, and there have been JamesUrquharts ever since. I don't know why that seems satisfactory, but itdoes. "

"I saw what Jimmy was saying, you know, " she said presently. "He beganupon me, and then slid off to our deplorable father. An inexhaustiblesubject to Jimmy, who really admires that kind of thing. "

Lucy smilingly deprecated the criticism. 

"Oh, but he does. If he could be like that, he would be. But he wantstwo qualities--he can't laugh, and he can't cry. Father could onlylaugh internally. He used to get crimson, and swallow hard. That washis way. Jimmy can't laugh at all, that's the mischief of it. Andcrying too. Father could cry rivers. One of the best things I rememberof him was his crying before Mother. 'Damn it all, Meg, I missed him!'he said, choking with grief. Mother knew exactly what to say. 'You'llget him next time, Jimmy. Come and change your stockings now. ' Well, _our_ Jimmy couldn't do that. To begin with, of course, he wouldn'thave 'missed him. '"

"No, " said Lucy, reflecting, "I don't think he would miss--unless hewas in too much of a hurry to hit. "

Mrs. Nugent looked quickly at her. "That is very clever of you. Youhave touched on his great difference from Father. He is awfullyimpatient. "

All this did Lucy a great deal of good. James thought that she hadbetter call on Mrs. Nugent. He knew all about her. 

CHAPTER VIII

AGAIN

The second time was in late February, at the Opera: the _Walküre_, ofall operas in the world, where passion of the suddenest is seen on itsmost radiant spring morning. James, who was dreadfully bored byWagner, and only went because it was the thing to do, and truly alsobecause "a man must be seen with his wife, " could not promise to bethere, dressed, at such an unearthly hour as half-past six--James, Isay, did not go with her, but vowed to be there "long before seven. "That he undertook. So she went alone, and sat, as she always did, halfhidden behind the curtain of her box on the second tier. 

The place was flooded with dark. The great wonder began--the amazingprelude with its brooding, its surmisals, its storms, its poundinghooves remorselessly pursuing, and flashes of the horn, like the blareof lightning. She surrendered herself, and as the curtain rose settleddown to drink with the eyes as well as with the ears; for she was nomusician, and could only be deeply moved by this when she saw andheard. It immediately absorbed her; the music "of preparation andsuspense" seemed to turn her bones to liquor--and at this moment sheagain felt herself possessed by man's love: the strong hand over herheart, the passion of his hold, the intoxication of the kiss. To theaccompaniment of shrill and wounded violins she yielded herself tothis miracle of the dark. She seemed to hear in a sharp whisper, "Youdarling!" She half turned, she half swooned again, she drank, and shegave to drink. The music speared up to the heights of bliss, thensubsided as the hold on her relaxed. When she stretched out her handfor her lover's, he was not near her. She was alone. The swift andpoignant little drama may have lasted a minute; but like a dream ithad the suggestion of infinity about it, transcending time as itdefied place. Confused, bemused, she turned her attention to thestage, determined to compose herself at all cost. She sat very still, and shivered; she gave all her powers to her mind, and succeeded bymain effort. Insensibly the great drama doing down there resumed itshold; and it was even with a slight shock that she became aware byand by of James sitting sedately by her, with the eyeglass sharply setfor diversion anywhere but on the scene. Again she remembered withsecret amusement that she had not been conscious of the eyeglasswhen--for reasons of his own--he had paid his mysterious homage tolove and her. 

She kept a firm grip of herself: she would not move an inch towardshim. She could never do that again. But she passed him over theplay-bill, and lifted the glasses to show him where they were. Shesaw the eyeglass dip as he nodded his thanks, and heard him whisper ashe passed back the bill, "No good. Dark as the grave. " Oh, extraordinary James! She suffered hysterical laughter, but persistedagainst it, and succeeded. 

When the lights went up she afforded herself a gay welcome of him, from gleaming, happy and conscious eyes. He met it blandly, smiledawry and said, "You love it?"

"Oh, " she sighed, meaning all that she dared not say, "how I love it!"

James said, "Bravo. I was very punctual, you'll admit. " That verynearly overcame her. But all she said was, "I didn't hear you comein--or go out. "

James looked very vague at that. He was on the point of frowning overit, but gave it up. It was a Lucyism. He rose and touched hiscoat-collar, to feel that it gripped where it should. "Let's see who'sin the house, " he said, and searched the boxes. "Royalty, as usual!That's what I call devotion. Who's that woman in a snow-leopard? Oh, yes, of course. Hullo. I say, my child, will you excuse me? I've justseen some people I ought to see. There's lots of time--and I won't belate. " And he was off. A very remarkable lover indeed was James. 

Mrs. Nugent waved her hand across the parterre. Francis Lingen knockedand entered. She could afford that; and presently a couple addedthemselves, young married people whom she liked for their poverty, hopefulness and unaffected pleasure in each other. She made Lingenacquainted with them, and talked to young Mr. Pierson. He spoke with acheer in his voice. "Ripping opera. Madge adores it. We saw yourhusband downstairs, but I don't think he knew us. "... And through herhead blew the words like a searching wind: "You darling! You darling!"Oh, that was great love! Small wonder that James saw nothing of thePiersons. And yet--ah, she must give up speculating and judging. That had undone poor Psyche. Young Mr. Pierson chattered away aboutMadge and Wagner, both ripping; James returned, bland, positive, dazzling the man of exclusive clubs; was reminded of young Mrs. Pierson, with whom he shook hands, of young Mr. Pierson, to whom henodded and said "Ha!" and finally of Francis Lingen. "Ha, Lingen, youhere!" Francis shivered. That seemed to him to ring a knell. Sincewhen had he been Lingen to James. Since this moment. Now why had Jamescold-shouldered him? Was it possible that he had noticed too muchdevotion?... And if he had, was it not certain that she must havenoticed it? He stopped midway of the stairs, and passers-by may havethought he was looking for a dropt sixpence. Not at all. The earthseemed to be heaving beneath his feet. But a wave of courage surged upthrough him. Pooh! no woman yet ever disregarded the homage of a man. He would send some roses to-morrow, without a card. She wouldunderstand. And so it went on. Wagner came back to his own. 

On this occasion, after this second great adventure, Lucy had noconflict with fate. Thankfully she took the gift of the God; she tookit as final, as a thing complete in itself, a thing most beautiful, most touching, most honourable to giver and recipient. It revived allher warmth of feeling, but this time without a bitter lees to thedram. And she was immensely the better for it. She felt in charitywith all the world, her attitude to James was one of clear sight. Oh, now she understood him through and through. She would await thefulness of time; sufficient for the day was the light of the day. 

She was happier than she had been for many years. Half-term wasapproaching, when she would be allowed to go down and see Lancelot; inthese days she felt Spring in the air. February can be kind to us, andshow a golden threshold to March. She had a letter from Mabel tellingher of Mr. Urquhart's feats in the hunting field.... "He's quite mad, I think, and mostly talks about you and Lancelot. He calls youProserpine. As for his riding, my dear, it curdles the blood. Hedoesn't ride, he drives; sits well back, and accelerates on the nearside. He brought his own horses, luckily for ours and his neck. Theyseem to understand it. He hunted every day but one; and then he rushedup to town to keep some appointment and came back to a very latedinner, driving himself in his motor. He is a tempestuous person, butcan be very grave when he likes. He talked beautifully oneevening--mostly about you. " Lucy's eyes smiled wisely over thisletter. She liked to think that she could induce gravity upon ahunting party. She had never quite approved of the Peltry atmosphere. Hard riding seemed to involve hard living, and hard swearing. She hadonce heard Laurence let himself go to some rider over hounds, and hadput him on a back shelf in her mind--him and his Peltry with him. Aprude? No, she was sure she was nothing of the sort; but she likedpeople to keep a hold on themselves. 

A gay little dinner-party, one of hers, as she told James, finished amonth of high light. The young Pierson couple, some Warreners, a Mrs. Treveer and Jimmy Urquhart--eight with themselves. The faithfulFrancis Lingen was left out as a concession to James and love in thedark. She noticed, with quiet amusement, how gratified James was. Hewas so gratified that he did not even remark upon it. Now James'slittle weakness, or one of them, let us say, was that he could notresist a cutting phrase, when the thing did not matter. Therefore--shereasoned--Francis Lingen, absurdly enough, did matter. That heshould, that anything of the sort should matter to James was one moresign to her of the promise, just as the weather was one. The Springwas at hand, and soon we should all go a-maying. 

So we dined at one table, and had a blaze of daffodils from Wycross, and everybody seemed to talk at once. Pierson told her after dinnerthat Madge thought Urquhart ripping (as she had thought Wagner); andcertainly he was one to make a dinner-party go. He was ridiculousabout Laurence Corbet and his sacred foxes. "Don't _shoot_ that thing!God of Heaven, what are you about?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, Ithought--" "Are you out of your senses? That must be torn to pieces bydogs. " He was very good at simulating savagery, but had a favouritetrick of dropping it suddenly, or turning it on himself. He caughtMrs. Treveer, a lady of ardour not tempered by insight. She agreedwith him about hunting. "Oh, you are so right! Now can't something bedone about it? Couldn't a little paper be written--in that vein, youknow?" "Not by me, " said Urquhart. "I'm a hunting man, you see. " Mrs. Treveer held up her fan, but took no offence. 

Lucy, with Mabel's letter in mind, gave her guest some attention; butfor the life of her could not see that he paid her any beyond what hehad for the others or for his dinner. He joined Pierson at her side, and made no effort to oust him. He did not flatter her by recallingLancelot; he seemed rather to muse out loud. James with his coat-tailsto the fire was quite at his ease--and when Urquhart offered to driveher down to Westgate for the half-term (which she herself mentioned), it was James who said, "Capital! That will be jolly for you. " "But_you_ wouldn't come, would you?" "My child, it is that I _couldn't_come. A motor in March! I should die. Besides, " he added, "as youknow, I have to be at Brighton that Sunday. " She had known it, and shehad known also that Brighton was an excuse. One of the bogies she keptlocked in a cupboard was James's _ennui_ when Lancelot was to thefore. Could this too be jealousy!

"I'll tell you what I'll do, " Jimmy Urquhart said. "The run down wouldbe rather jolly, but the run back in the dark might be a bore. TheNugents have got a house at Sandwich. Why shouldn't you go there? Youknow my sister Nugent, as they used to say. "

"Yes, of course I do, " Lucy said, "but I couldn't really--"

"But she is there, my dear ma'am. That's the point. I'll drop youthere on my way back. I wish I could stop too, but that's notpossible. She'll arrange it. "

James thought it an excellent plan; but Lucy had qualms. Odd, that thevisit of Eros should a second time be succeeded by a motor-jaunt! Togo motoring, again, with a Mr. Urquhart--oh! But she owned that shewas absurd. James did not conceal his sarcasms. "She either fears herfate too much... " he quoted at her. She pleaded with him. 

"Darling, " she said--and he was immensely complacent over that--"Isuppose it's a sign of old age, but-- After all, why shouldn't I go bytrain--or in our own car, if it comes to that?"

"Firstly, " said James through his eyeglass, "because Urquhart asks youto go in his--a terror that destroyeth in the noonday compared toours; and secondly because, if you don't want it, I should rather liketo go to Brighton in mine. "

"Oh, " said she, "then you don't mind motoring in March!"

"Not in a closed car, " said James--"and not to Brighton. " This actedas an extinguisher of the warmer feelings. Let Mr. Urquhart do hisworst then. 

CHAPTER IX

SUNDRY ROMANTIC EPISODES

A little cloud of witness, assembled at will like seagulls out of theblue inane, would come about her in after years. That madlyexhilarating rush to Westgate, for instance, on a keen March morning;and that sudden question of hers to Urquhart, "What made you think ofasking me?" And his laconic answer, given without a turn of the head, "Because I knew you would like it. You did before, you know. And thatwas January. " There was one. Another, connected with it, was her goingalone up to the schoolhouse, and her flush of pleasure when Lancelotsaid, "Oh, I say, did He bring you down? Good--then we'll goimmediately and see the car; perhaps it's a new one. " She could affordto recall that--after a long interval. They had had a roaring day, "all over the place, " as Lancelot said afterwards to a friend; andthen there had been her parting with Urquhart in the dark at the opendoor of Queendon Court. "Aren't you going to stop?" "No, my dear. "She remembered being amused with that. "Aren't you even coming in?" "Iam not. Good-bye. You enjoyed yourself?" "Oh, immensely. " "That's whatI like, " he had said, and "pushed off, " as his own phrase went. Atopof that, the return to James, and to nothingness. For nothinghappened, except that he had been in a good temper throughout, whichmay easily have been because she had been in one herself--until theEaster holidays, when he had been very cross indeed. Poor James, toget him to begin to understand Lancelot's bluntness, intensity, andpassion for something or other, did seem hopeless. 

They were at Wycross, on her urgent entreaty, and James was bored atWycross, she sometimes thought, because she loved it so much. Jealousy. A man's wife ought to devote herself. She should lovenothing but her husband. He had spent his days at the golf course, notcoming home to lunch. Urquhart was asked for a Sunday--on Lancelot'saccount--but couldn't come, or said so at least. Then, on theSaturday, when he should have been there, James suddenly kissed her inthe garden--and, of course, in the dark. 

She hadn't known that he was in the house yet. He had contracted thehabit of having tea at the club-house and talking on till dark. He didthat, as she believed, because she always read to Lancelot in theevenings: she gave up the holidays entirely to him. Well, Lancelotthat afternoon had been otherwise engaged--with friends of aneighbour. She had cried off on the score of "seeing something ofFather, " at which Lancelot had winked. But James was not in to tea, and at six--and no sign of him--she yielded to the liquid calling of athrush in the thickening lilacs, and had gone out. There she stayedtill it was dark, in a favourite place--a circular garden of hercontriving, with a pond, and a golden privet hedge, so arranged as tothrow yellow reflections in the water. Standing there, it grewperfectly dark--deeply and softly dark. The night had come down warmand wet, like manifold blue-black gauze. She heard his quick, lightstep. Her heart hammered, but she did not move. He came behind her, clasped and held her close. "Oh, you've come--I wondered. Oh, howsweet, how sweet--" And then "My love!" had been said, and she hadbeen kissed. In a moment he was gone. She had stayed on motionless, enthralled by the beauty of the act--and when she had withdrawnherself at last, and had tiptoed to the house, she saw his lamp on thetable, and himself reading the _Spectator_ before a wood fire!Recalling all that, she remembered the happy little breath of laughterwhich had caught her. "If it wasn't so perfectly sweet and beautiful, it would be the most comic thing in the world!" she had said toherself. 

A telegram from Jimmy Urquhart came that night just before dinner. "Arriving to-morrow say ten-thirty for an hour or so, Urquhart. " Itwas sent from St. James's Street. Lancelot had said, "Stout fellow, "and James took it quite well. She herself remembered her feeling ofannoyance, how clearly she foresaw an interrupted reverie and ahampered Sunday--and also how easily he had falsified her prevision. There had been an animated morning of garden inspection, in the courseof which she had shown him (with a softly fluttering heart and perhapsenhanced colour) the hedged oval of last night's romance; a pony race;a game of single cricket in the paddock--Lancelot badly beaten; lunch, and great debate with James about aeroplanes, wherein Lancelot showedhimself a bitter and unscrupulous adversary of his parent. Finally, the trial of the new car: an engine of destruction such as Lancelothad never dreamed of. It was admittedly too high-powered for England;you were across the county in about a minute. And then he had departedin a kind of thunderstorm of his own making. Lancelot, preternaturallymoved, said to his mother, "I say, Mamma, what a man--eh?" She, lightly, "Yes, isn't he wonderful?" and Lancelot, with a snort: "Aman? Ten rather small men--easily. " And James, poor James, saw nothingkissable in that!

It hadn't been till May of that year that Lucy began to think aboutUrquhart--or rather it was in May that she discovered herself to bethinking about him. Mabel assisted her there. Mabel was in CadoganSquare for the season, and the sisters saw much of each other. Now ithappened that one day Mabel had seen Lucy with Urquhart walking downBond Street, at noon or thereabouts, and had passed by on the otherside with no more than a wave of the hand. It was all much simplerthan it looked, really, because Lucy had been to James's office, whichwas in Cork Street, and coming away had met Jimmy Urquhart inBurlington Gardens. He had strolled on with her, and was telling herthat he had been waterplaning on Chichester Harbour and was gettingrather bitten with the whole business of flight. "I'm too old, I know, but I'm still ass enough to take risks. I think I shall get theticket, " he had said. What ticket? The pilot's ticket, or whateverthey might call it. "I expect you are too old, " she had said, andthen-- "How old are you, by the way?" He told her. "We call itforty-two. " "Exactly James's age; and exactly ten years older than me. Yes, too old. I think I wouldn't. "

He had laughed. "I'm certain I shall. It appeals to me. " Then he hadtold her, "The first time I saw a man flying I assure you I could haveshed tears. " She remembered that this was out of his power. "Oddthing! What's gravitation to me, or I to gravitation? A commonplacewhereby I walk the world. Never mind. There was that young manbreaking a law of this planet. Well--that's a miracle. I tell you Imight have wept. And then I said to myself, "My man, you'll do this orperish. " Then she: "And have you done it?" and he: "I have not, butI'm going to. " She had suddenly said, "No, please don't. " His quicklook at her she remembered, and the suffusion on his burnt face. "Oh, but I shall. Do you wish to know why? Because you don't mean it;because you wouldn't like me if I obeyed you. " She said gravely, "Youcan't know that. " "Yes, but I do. You like me--assume that--" Lucysaid, "You may"; and he, "I do. You like me because I am such as I am. If I obeyed you in this I should cease to be such as I am and becomesuch as I am not and never have been. You might like me more--but youmight not. No, that's too much of a risk. I can't afford it. " She hadsaid, "That's absurd, " but she hadn't thought it so. 

Mabel came to her for lunch and rallied her. "I saw you, my dear. ButI wouldn't spoil sport. All right--you might do much worse. He's verymuch alive. Anyhow, he doesn't wear an--" Then Lucy was hurt. "Oh, Mabel, that's horrid. You know I hate you to talk like that. " Mabelstood rebuked. "It was beastly of me. But you know I never could standhis eyeglass. It is what they call anti-social in their novels. Really, you might as well live in the Crystal Palace. " Then she heldout her hand, and Lucy took it after some hesitation. But Mabel wasirrepressible. Almost immediately she had jumped into the fray again, with "You're both going to his place in Hampshire, aren't you?" ThenLucy had flushed; and Mabel had given her a queer look. 

"That's all right, " she presently said. "He asked us, you know, but wecan't. I hear that Vera Nugent is to be hostess. I rather liked her, though of course you can never tell how such copious conversation willwear. I don't think she stopped talking for a single moment. Laurencethought he was going mad. It makes him broody, you know, like a hen. He rubs his ears, and says his wattles are inflamed. "

It was either that day, or another such day--it really doesn't matterwhich day it was--that Mabel drifted into the subject of what shecalled "the James romance. " Did James--? Had James--? And where werewe standing now? Lucy, whose feelings upon the subject were morecomplicated than they had been at first, was not very communicative;but she owned there had been repetitions. Mabel, who was desperatelyquick to notice, judged that she was mildly bored. "I see, " she said;"I see. But--that's all. "

"All!" cried Lucy. "Yes, indeed. "

Mabel said again, "I see. " Lucy, who certainly didn't see, was silent;and then Mabel with appalling candour said, "I suppose you would haveit out with him if you weren't afraid to. "

Lucy was able to cope with that kind of thing. "Nothing would induceme to do it. I shouldn't be able to lift my head up if I did. It wouldnot only be--well, horrible, but it would be very cruel as well. Ishould feel myself a brute. " On Mabel's shrug she was stung into anattack of her own. "And whatever you may say, to me, I know that youcouldn't bring yourself to such a point. No woman could do it, whorespected herself. " Mabel had the worst of it in the centre, but by aflanking movement recovered most of the ground. She became very vague. She said, as if to herself, "After all, you know, you may be mistaken. Perhaps the less you say the better. "

Mistaken! And "the less you say"! Lucy's grey eyes took intensedirection. "Please tell me what you mean, my dear. Do you think I'mout of my senses? Do you really think I've imagined it all?"

"No, no, " said Mabel quickly, and visibly disturbed. "No, no, ofcourse I don't. I really don't know what I meant. It's all tooconfusing for simple people like you and me. Let's talk aboutsomething else. " Lucy, to whom the matter was distasteful, agreed; butthe thought persisted. Mistaken ... And "the less you say... !"

CHAPTER X

AT A WORLD'S EDGE

It was after that queer look, after her too conscious blush that shebegan to envisage the state of her affairs. She was going to MartleyThicket for Whitsuntide; it was an old engagement, comparatively old, that is; she did want to go, and now she knew that she did. Well, howmuch did she want to go? Ought she to want it? What had happened?

Questions thronged her when once she had opened a window. What did itmatter to her whether Urquhart qualified as an aviator or not? Whathad made her ask him not to do it? How had she allowed him to say"Assume that you like me"? The short dialogue stared at her in redletters upon the dark. "Assume that you like me--" "You may assumeit. " "I do. " She read the packed little sentences over and over, andstudied herself with care. No, honestly, nothing jarred. There was noharm; she didn't feel any tarnish upon her. And yet--she was lookingforward to Martley Thicket with a livelier blood than she had feltsince Easter when James had kissed her in the shrouded garden. Alivelier blood? Hazarding the looking-glass, she thought that shecould detect a livelier iris too. What had happened? Well, of course, the answer to that question was involved in another: how much was sheto assume? How much did Urquhart like her? She hoped, againstconviction, that she might have answered these questions before shemet him again--which would probably be at Martley. Just now, stoutlybearing her disapproval, he was doubtless at Byfleet or elsewhererisking his neck. She answered a question possibly arising out of thisby a shrewd smile. "Of course I don't disapprove. He knows that. Ishiver; but I know he's perfectly right. He may be sure. " The meetingat Martley would, at the very least, be extremely interesting. Sheleft it there for the moment. 

But having once begun to pay attention to such matters as these, shepursued her researches--in and out of season. It was a busy time ofyear, and James always laid great stress on what he called "the dutiesof her station. " She must edge up crowded stairways behind him, standat his side in hot and humming rooms where the head spun with theeffort not to hear what other people were saying--so much moreimportant, always, than what your partner was. James's height andeyeglass seemed to give him an impartial air at these dreadfulceremonies. Behind his glass disk he could afford to be impertinent. And he was certainly rude enough to be an Under-Secretary. Withoutthat shining buckler of the soul he would have been simply nobody;with it, he was a demi-god. Here then, under the very shadow of hisimmortality, Lucy pursued her researches. What of the romantic, hidden, eponymous James? Where did he stand now in her regard?

Since Easter at Wycross, James had not been her veiled Eros, but thepossibilities were all there. He was not a garden god, by any means, nor a genius of the Spring. January and Onslow Square had not frozenhis currents; February and the Opera House had heightened his passion. At any moment he might resume his devotional habit--even here inCarlton House Terrace. And what then? Well--and this was odd--thisought to have produced a state of tension very trying to the nerves;and, well--it hadn't. That's all. At that very party in Carlton HouseTerrace, with a band braying under the stairs, and a fat lordshouting in her ear, her secret soul was trembling on a brink. She wasfinding out to her half-rueful dismay--it was only half--that she wasprepared to be touched, prepared to be greatly impressed, but notprepared to be thrilled as she had been, if James should kiss heragain. She was prepared, in fact, to present--as statesmen do whenthey write to their sovereign--her grateful, humble duty--and no more. In vain the band brayed, in vain Lord J----, crimson by her ear, roared about the weather in the West of Ireland, Lucy's soul waspeering over the edge of her old world into the stretches of a mistynew one. 

This was bad enough, and occupied her through busy nights and days;but there was more disturbing matter to come, stirred up to cloud hermind by Mabel's unwonted discretion. Mabel had been more thandiscreet. She had been frightened. Pushing out into a stream of newsurmise, she had suddenly faltered and hooked at the quay. Lucyherself was at first merely curious. She had no doubts, certainly nofears. What had been the matter with Mabel, when she hinted thatperhaps, after all, James had never done anything? What could Mabelknow, or guess, or suspect? Lucy owned to herself, candidly, thatJames was incomprehensible. After thirteen years, or was itfourteen?--suddenly--with no warning symptoms, to plunge into suchdevotion as never before, when everything had been new, and he onlyengaged--! Men were like that when they were engaged. They aren'tcertain of one, and leave no chances. But James, even as an engagedman, had always been certain. He had taken her, and everything else, for granted. She remembered how her sisters, not only Mabel, but thecritical Agnes (now Mrs. Riddell in the North), had discussed him andfound him too cocksure to be quite gallant. Kissed her? Of course hehad kissed her. Good Heavens. Yes, but not as he had that night at theOpera. "You darling! You darling!" Now James had called her "mydarling" as often as you please--but never until then "you darling. "There's a world of difference. Anybody can see it. 

And then--after the beautiful, the thrilling, the deeply touchingepisode--the moment after it--there was the old, indifferent, slightlybored James with the screwed eye and the disk. Not a hint, not aripple, not the remains of a flush. It was the most bewildering, themost baffling jig-saw of a business she had ever heard of. You wouldhave said that he was two quite separate people; you might havesaid--Mabel would have said at once--that James had had nothing to dowith it. 

But she _had_ said so! The discovery stabbed Lucy in the eyes like aflash of lightning, left her blind and quivering, with a swim of redbefore her hurt vision. That was why Mabel had been frightened. Andnow Lucy herself was frightened. 

Francis Lingen, absurd! Mr. Urquhart? Ah, that was quite anotherthing. She grew hot, she grew quite cold, and suddenly she began tosob. Oh, no, no, not that. A flood of tossing thoughts came riotingand racing in, flinging crests of foam, like white and beaten water. She for a time was swept about, a weed in this fury of storm. She waslost, effortless, at death's threshold. But she awoke herself from thenightmare, walked herself about, and reason returned. It was nonsense, unwholesome nonsense. Why, that first time, he was in the library withJames and Francis Lingen, his second visit to the house! Why, when shewas at the Opera he had been at Peltry with the Mabels. And as forWycross, he had wired from St. James's in the afternoon, and come onthe next day. Absurd--and thank God for it. And poor Francis Lingen!She could afford to laugh at that. Francis Lingen was as capable ofkissing the Duchess of Westbury--at whose horrible party she had beenthe other night--as herself. 

She felt very safe, and enormously relieved. So much so that she couldafford herself the reflection that if hardihood had been all that waswanting, Jimmy Urquhart would have had plenty and to spare. Oh, yes, indeed. But--thank God again--he was a gentleman if ever there wasone. Nobody but a gentleman could afford to be so simple in dealing. 

Having worked all this out, she felt that her feet at least were onsolid ground. A spirit of adventure was renewed in her, and a ratherunfortunate _contretemps_ provoked it. Before she knew where she was, she was up to the neck, as Urquhart would have said, in a turbidstream. 

Francis Lingen, that elegant unfortunate, was certainly responsible, if you could call one so tentative and clinging responsible foranything. He had proposed the Flower Show, to which she had been, asan earnest gardener, early in the morning, by herself, with anote-book. She did not want to go with him at all; and moreover shehad an appointment to meet James at a wedding affair in Queen's Gate. However, being ridiculously amiable where the pale-haired hectic wasconcerned, go she did, and sat about at considerable length. He hadonly cared to look at the sweet-peas, his passion of the hour, andurged a chair upon her that he might the better do what he reallyliked, look at her and talk about himself. So he did, and read her apoem, and made great play with his tenderness, his dependence upon herjudgment and his crosses with the world. He pleaded for tea, which, ordered, did not come; then hunted for the motor, which finally shefound for herself. She arrived late at Queen's Gate; the eyeglassglared in horror. James, indeed, was very cross. What any chancevictim of his neighbourhood may have endured is not to be known. Sofar as Lucy could see he did not open his mouth once while he wasthere. He refused all nourishment with an angry gleam, and seemedwholly bent upon making her self-conscious, uncomfortable and, finally, indignant. Upon this goodly foundation he reared his mountainof affront. 

He made himself a monument of matter-of-fact impassivity during thedrive home. His arms were folded, he stared out of window; she thoughtonce she heard him humming an air. But he didn't smoke, as hecertainly would have done had relations been easy. He kept her at adistance, but not aggressively. 

Lucy was by this time very much annoyed. Her apologies had been frozenat the front by his angry glare. She had no intention now of renewingthem, nor did she care to justify herself, as she might have done, bypointing out that, while she was half-an-hour late, he was probably aquarter of an hour too early. This would have been a safe venture, forhis fussiness over an appointment and tendency to be beforehand withit were quite well known to himself. She kept the best face she couldupon the miserable affair, but was determined that she would force acrisis at home, come what might. 

Arrived at Onslow Square, James strode into the library and shut thedoor behind him. When Crewdson was disposed of on his numerousaffairs, Lucy followed her lord. He turned, he stared, and waited forher to speak. 

Lucy said, "I think that you must be sorry that you have treated meso. I feel it very much, and must ask you how you justify it. "

James did his best to an easy calm. "Apologies should be in the air. Ishould have looked for one myself an hour or so ago. "

"You should have had it, " she said, "if you had given me time. But youstared me out of countenance the moment I came in. Anger before youhad even heard me is not a nice thing to face. "

James turned pale. He used his most incisive tones. "I am ready tohear your explanation. Perhaps I had better say that I know it. "

Lucy showed him angry eyes. "If you know it, there is no need for meto trouble you with it. You must also know that it isn't easy to getaway from a great crowd in a minute. "

But he seemed not to hear her. He had another whip in waiting, whichnothing could have kept him from the use of. "I think that I musttrouble you, rather. I think I should be relieved by hearing from youwhere the crowd was of which you were one--or two, indeed. "

She discovered that he was white with rage, though she had never seenhim so before. "What do you mean, James?" she said--and he, "I knowthat you were at the Flower Show. You were there with Lingen. "

"Yes, " said Lucy, "I was indeed. And why shouldn't I be?"

"I have told you before this what my views are about that. I don'tintend to repeat them, at present. "

"I think you must be mad, " said Lucy. "Do you mean to tell me that youobject to Francis Lingen to that extent--to the extent of such a sceneas this?"

He faced her from his height. "I do mean that. "

"Then, " she said, out of herself, "you are insulting me. I don't thinkyou can intend to do that. And I should like to say also that you, ofall the men in the world, are the last person to be jealous orsuspicious of anybody where I am concerned. "

She hadn't meant to say that; but when she saw that he took it as acommonplace of marital ethics, she determined to go further still. 

He took it, in fact, just so. It seemed to him what any wife would sayto any indignant husband. "I beg your pardon, " he said, "you don'tquite follow me. I agree with you that I should be the last person;but I beg to point out to you that I should also be the first person. And I will go on to add, if you will excuse me, that I should be theonly person. "

"No person at all, " said Lucy, "has the right or the reason to suspectme of anything, or to be jealous of any of my acquaintance. You didn'tunderstand me: I suppose because you are too angry. What I meant youto remember was how much, how very much, you are bound to believe inme--now of all times in our life. "

Here then was a Psyche with the lamp in her hand. Here was Lucy on thelimit of a world unknown. Here she stood, at her feet the tuftedgrasses and field herbs, dusty, homely, friendly things, which sheknew. Beyond her, beyond the cliff's edge were the dim leagues of aland and sea unknown. What lay out there beyond her in the mist? Whatmountain and forest land lay there, what quiet islands, what soundingmains?

But it was done now. James gazed blankly, but angrily, puzzled intoher face. 

"I haven't the faintest notion what you mean, " he said. Evidently hehad not. 

She must go on, though she hated it. "You are very surprising. I canhardly think you are serious. Let me remind you of the opera--of the_Walküre_. "

He gave his mind to it, explored the past, and so entirely failed tounderstand her that he looked rather foolish. "I remember that we werethere. " Then he had a flash of light--and shed it on her, God knows. "I remember also that Lingen was in the box. "

"Oh, Lingen! Are you mad on--? Do you not remember that you were therebefore Lingen?"

"Yes, I do remember it. " He stood, poor fool, revealed. Lucy's voicerang clear. 

"Very well. If that is all that your memory brings you, I have nothingmore to say. "

She left him swiftly, and went upstairs in the possession of anastounding truth, but rapt with it in such a whirlwind of wonder thatshe could do no more than clutch it to her bosom as she flew. She sentout word that she was not coming down to dinner, and locked herself inwith her truth, to make what she could of it. 

CHAPTER XI

ANTEROS

Macartney was no fool in his own world, where a perfectly clear ideaof what you want to do combined with a nonchalant manner of "Take itor leave it" had always carried him through the intricacies ofbusiness. If he was a fool in supposing that precisely the samearmoury would defend him at home, there is this excuse for him, thatLucy had encouraged him to suppose it. When she dashed from the roomat this recent moment he sat for some time with his eyes fixed uponhis foolscap; but presently found himself reading the same sentenceover and over again without understanding one word in it. He droppedthe document, rose and picked himself out a cigar, with deliberationand attention disproportionate to the business. He cut, stabbed andlighted the cigar, and stood by the mantelpiece, smoking and gazingout of window. 

He had overdone it. He had stretched _régime_ too far. There had beena snap. Now, just where had he failed? Was it with Francis Lingen?Perhaps. He must admit, though, that some good had come out of thetrouble. He felt reassured about Francis Lingen, because, as hejudged, women don't get angry in cases of the kind unless the husbandhas nothing to be angry about. He felt very world-wise and shrewd ashe propounded this. Women like their husbands to be jealous, especially if they are jealous with reason. Because, then, they say tothemselves, "Well, anyhow, he loves me still. I have him to fall backupon, at all events. " Capital! He gave a short guffaw, and resumed hiscigar. But Lucy was angry: obviously because he had wasted goodjealousy on a mere fancy. Damn it, he had overdone it. The nextthing--if he didn't look out--would be that she would give himsomething to be jealous of. He must calm her--there would be nodifficulty in that, no loss of prestige. 

Prestige: that was the thing you wanted to maintain. Discipline bejiggered--that might do mischief--if you drove it too hard. The factwas, he was a little too sharp with Lucy. She was a dear, gentlecreature, and no doubt one fell into the habit of pushing a willinghorse. He could see it all now perfectly. He had been put out when hearrived at the Marchants' too early--she was not there; and then thatold fool Vane with his, "Saw your wife at the Chelsea thing, withLingen. They looked very settled"; that had put the lid on. That washow it was; and he had been too sharp. Well, one must makemistakes--

He wondered what she had meant about the Opera. Why had she harpedupon that string? "You were there before Francis Lingen, " she hadsaid--well, and then--she had been furious with him. He had said, "Iknow that I was, " and she, "If that is all your memory brings you--"and off she went. He smoked hard--lifted his hand and dropped itsmartly to his mantelpiece. No; that was a thing no man could fathom. A Lucyism--quite clear to herself, no doubt. Well, he'd leave thatalone. The more one tried to bottom those waters, the less one fishedup. But he would make peace with her after dinner. 

He heard, "Mrs. Macartney is not dining this evening; she has a badheadache, and doesn't wish to be disturbed, " received it with a curtnod, and accepted it simply. Better to take women at their word. Hertroubles would have simmered down by the morning, whereas if he wereto go up now, one of two things: either she'd be angry enough to lethim batter at the door to no purpose--and feel an ass for his pains;or she would let him in, and make a fuss--in which case he would feelstill more of an ass. "Ask Mrs. Macartney if I can do anything, " hehad said to Smithers, and was answered, "I think Mrs. Macartney isasleep, sir. " He hoped she was. That would do her a world of good. 

Morning. In the breakfast-room he faced a Lucy self-possessed, withguarded eyes, and, if he could have seen it, with implied reproachstiffening every line of her. Her generosity gratified him, but shouldhave 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, wasone of gratification. That was all right. She had come in. To thatsucceeded a wave of kindness. He dropped his glass, and took herstrongly in his arms. "Dearest, I behaved very badly. I'm trulysorry. " He kissed her, and for a moment she clung to him, but avoidedhis further kisses. Yet he had kissed her as a man should. She hadnothing more to say, but he felt it her due that he should addsomething while yet he held her. "As for poor Francis--I know that Iwas absurd--I admit it frankly. " He felt her shake and guessed herindignation. "You'll believe me, dear. You know I don't like owningmyself a fool. " Then she had looked up, still in his arms--"Whyshould 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'tbe more abject, for the life of me. I have confessed that I was anabounding ass. Please to believe in me. Ask Francis Lingen to tea fora month of days--and not a word from me!"

She had laughed, rather scornfully, and tried to free herself. Hekissed her again before he let her go. Almost immediately he resumedhis habits--eyeglass, _Morning Post_, and scraps of comment. He madean effort and succeeded, he thought, in being himself. "Johnny Malletgives another party at the Bachelors to-day. I believe I go. Has heasked you? He means to. He's a tufthunter--but he gets tufts.... I seethat the Fathers in God are raving about the Tithe Bill. I shall haveJasper Mellen at me--and the Dean too. Do you remember--did you everhear, I wonder, of _Box and Cox_? They have a knack of coming to me onthe same day. Once they met on the doorstep, and each of them turnedand fled away. It must have been very comic.... " Lucy busied herselfwith her letters and her coffee-cups. She wished that she did not feelso ruffled, but--a walk would do her good. She would go into the Parkpresently, and look at the tulips and lilacs. It was horrid to feel sostuffy on such a perfect day. How long to Whitsuntide? That was to beheavenly--if James didn't get inspired by the dark! Something wouldhave 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 hisJohnny Mallet and the tufted. Lucy, her household duties done, arrayedherself 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 wonderand dismay, the broken snatches of dream-sleep, and the heavy slumberwhich exhaustion finally gave her--all this had brought downstairs, tobe kissed, embraced and forgiven, a Lucy disillusioned and tired todeath, but schooled to patience. Her conclusion of the whole matternow was that it was James who had indeed loved her in the dark, withan access of passion which he had never shown before and could dropapparently as fitfully as he won to it, and also with a fulness ofsatisfaction to himself which she did not pretend to understand. Itwas James and no other, simply because any other was unthinkable. Suchthings were not done. Jimmy Urquhart--and what other could she imagineit?--was out of the question. She had finally brushed him out as agirl flecks the mirror in a cotillon. It was James; but why he hadbeen so moved, how moved, how so lightly satisfied, how his conduct atother times could be fitted in--really, it didn't matter two straws. It meant nothing but a moment's silliness, it led to nothing, itmended nothing--and it broke nothing. Her soul was her own, her heartwas her own. It was amiable of him, she dared say, but had becomerather a bore. She conceived of a time at hand when she might have tobe 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 itrest at that. So arrayed, she faced him, and, to let nothing beomitted on her part, she herself apologised for what had been hisabsurd fault, and so won as much from him as he could ever have givenanybody. As for Francis Lingen--she had not once given him a thought. 

Now, however, James away to his Bishops, she arrayed herself anew, andwent out, _fraîche et dispose_, into the Park, intending that sheshould see Urquhart. And so she did. He was on horseback anddismounted the moment he saw her. He was glad to see her, she couldtell, but did not insist upon his gladness. He admired her, she couldsee, but took his admiration as a matter of course. She worechampagne-colour. She had snakeskin shoes, a black hat. She wasexcited, and had colour; her eyes shone. 

"Well, " he said, "here you are then. That's a good thing. I began togive 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 areyou going?"

She nodded her direction. "Tulips. Just over there. I alwayspilgrimise them. "

"All right. Let us pilgrimise them. Tulips are like a drug. A littleis exquisite, and you are led on. Excess brings no more enchantment, only nausea. You buy a million and plant your woodland, and the resultis 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 bethere. "Is that what you've done at Martley? I shan't praise you whenI see it. I hate too-muchness. "

"So do I, but always too late. I ought to learn from you, whosefrugality 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 atan 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 torefuse Mallet. He seemed to want me. I was flattered. As a matter offact--I _have_ flown. "

"Alone?"

"Good Lord, no. I had an expert there. He let me have the levers. Ihad 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 amachine, 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 coloureddeeply. Urquhart seemed full of his own thoughts. 

"How's Lancelot?" he asked her. 

That helped her. "Oh, he delights me. Another 'living spirit. ' Henever fails to ask after you. "

"Stout chap. "

"He harps on your story. The first you ever told us. This time he putin 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, heholding 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'sbrother. Fat and friendly, with a beard, and knows a good deal aboutmachines, 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. Nicefeelings. That's much better than manners. "

"Yes, I dare say they are. " She thought about it. "There's adifference 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 havecharming manners: your feelings' clothes and a jolly good fit. "

"How kind you are. " She was very pleased. "Now, _you_--what shall Isay?"

"You might say that I have no manners, and not offend me. I have nouse 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 havedone 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 isinstinct?"

"Yes, " she said, "but I suppose we have feelings in us so that we mayrealise that other people have them too. "

"Yes, yes--or that we may give them to those who haven't got any oftheir own. "

They had become grave, and he, at least, moody. Lucy dared not pushenquiry. She had the ardent desire to help and the instinct to makethings comfortable on the surface, which all women have, and whichmakes nurses of them. But she discerned trouble ahead. Urquhart'sstartling frankness had alarmed her before, and she didn't trustherself to pass it off if it flashed once too often. Flashes like thatlit up the soul, and not of the lamp-holder only. 

They parted, with unwillingness on both sides, at Prince's Gate, andLucy sped homewards with feet that flew as fast as her wingedthoughts. That "You darling" was almost proof positive. And yet he hadbeen at Peltry that night; and yet he couldn't have dared! Now even asshe uttered that last objection she faltered; for when daring cameinto question, what might he not dare? Remained the first. He had beenat Peltry, she knew, because she had been asked to meet him there andhad refused on the opera's account. Besides, she had heard about hisriding horses as if they were motors, and-- Here she stood still; andfound herself shaking. That letter--in that letter of Mabel's abouthis 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. Whatwas the date of his call to London? Could she find that letter? Andshould she hunt for it, or leave it vague? And then she thought ofMartley. And then she blushed. 

CHAPTER XII

MARTLEY THICKET (1)

Urquhart was a man of explosive action and had great reserve ofstrength. He was moved by flashes of insight, and was capable oflong-sustained flights of vehement effort; but his will-power wasnourished entirely by those moments of intense prevision, which showedhim a course, and all the stages of it. The mistakes he made, and theywere many and grievous, were mostly due to overshooting his mark, sometimes to underrating it. In the headlong and not too scrupulousadventure 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 muchwas proof that he had already done so; but it was the suddenconviction of it which inspired him, filled him with effervescentnonsense and made him the best of company, for a dinner-party. Throughout it, at his wildest and most irresponsible, his fancy andimagination were at work upon her. He read her to the soul, orthought so. 

Chance, and Lancelot, gave him the chart of the terrain. The switch atthe drawing-room door gave him his plan. The opportunity came, and hedared to take it. He marked the effect upon her. It was exactly whathe had foreseen. He saw her eyes humid upon Macartney, her hand atrest on his arm. Jesuitry palliated what threatened to seem monstrous, even to him. "God bless her, I drive her to her man. What's the harmin that?"

So he went on--once more, and yet again; and in the meantime bydaylight and by more honest ways he gained her confidence and herliking. He saw no end to the affair so prosperously begun, and didn'ttrouble about one. All he cared about just now were twocourtships--the vicarious in the dark, and the avowed of the daylight. 

He intended to go on. He was full of it--in the midst of his otherpassions of the hour, such as this of the air. He was certain of hisdirection, as certain as he had ever been. But now his mistakes andmiscalculations began. He had mistaken his Lucy, and his Macartneytoo. 

What he didn't know about Macartney, Lucy did know; what he didn'tknow about Lucy was that she had found out James. James as Eroswouldn't do, chiefly because such conduct on James's part would havebeen incredible. Urquhart didn't know it would be incredible, nor didhe know that she did. 

One other thing he didn't know, which was that Lucy was half his ownbefore she started for Martley. She, in fact, didn't know it either. She had been his from the moment when she had asked him to keep out ofthe air, and he had declined. 

All this is necessary matter, because in the light of it his nextdeliberated move in his game was a bad mistake. 

On the night before she was expected at Martley, being there himself, he wrote her a letter to this effect:

 "Dear Mrs. Macartney: To my dismay and concern I find that I can't be here to receive you, nor indeed until you are on the point to go away. I shall try hard for Sunday, which will give me one day with you--better to me than a thousand elsewhere. Vera will be my curate. Nothing will be omitted which will show you how much Martley owes you, or how much I am, present or absent, yours, "J. U. "

That letter he gave to Vera Nugent to deliver to Lucy. Vera wanted toknow what it was all about. 

"It's to say that I can't be here, " he said. "That is the fact, unfortunately. "

"Why, my dear Jimmy, I thought you adored her. Isn't the poor lady thevery latest?"

"My dear girl, I do adore her. Leave it at that. It's an excellentreason for not being here: the best. But I'm going up with a star, which is another reason. And I hope to be here on Sunday, which is themost I can afford myself. Really, that's all. But you like her, yousay; or you should. "

"I do like her. She's not very talkative--to me; but listens well. Considine will like her. Listeners are rare with him, poor dear. Butyou move me. I didn't know you were so far gone. "

"Never mind how far I am gone, provided that I go, " said Urquhart. 

"Oh, at this rate, I will hasten you. I can't be bothered with a_cause célèbre_. But what am I to tell the lady? You must bepractical, my fine man. "

"Tell her that I was sent for in a hurry. Hint at the air if you thinkproper. I think I have said all that is necessary in the note. "

 * * * * *

The Macartneys were expected to lunch. Urquhart left his house atnoon, driving himself in a motor. He disappeared in the forest, butdidn't go very far. 

James heard of his host's defection with impassivity and a glance ofhis eyeglass. "Wonder what Jimmy has shied off for?" he said to Lucythrough the dressing-room door. "Aeroplaning or royalty, do you think?The ----s may have sent for him. I know he knows them. But it'scharacteristic. He makes a fuss about you, so that you think you'rehis life or death; and then you find out--not at all! You simply don'texist--that's all. What do you think?"

"I don't think that we don't exist, " she said. "I think that somethingimportant has happened. "

"Oh, well, " said James, "one had got into the way of thinking that onewas important oneself. D----d cool, I call it. "

There had been a moment when Lucy knew anger; but that had soonpassed. She knew that she was bitterly disappointed, and found arueful kind of happiness in discovering how bitterly. She had reachedthe stage where complete happiness seems to be rooted inself-surrender. In a curious kind of way the more she suffered themore surely she could pinch herself on the chin and say, "My dear, youare caught. " There was comfort in this--and Martley itself, house, gardens, woodlands, the lake, the vistas of the purple wolds of forestcountry, all contributed to her enchaining. Luncheon passed off wellunder Vera Nugent's vivacious brown eyes, which could not penetratethe gentle mask of Lucy's manner. Nugent the husband was a sleepy, good-humoured giant; Lord Considine, whose beard was too long, andjacket-sleeves much too short--as were his trousers--"his so-calledtrousers, " as James put it in his scorn--talked fiercely aboutbirds'-nests and engaged Lucy for the whole afternoon. This was notallowed him by his sister-in-law, who had other more sociable plans, but the good man had his pleasure of a docile listener after tea, tookher for a great walk in the woods, and exhibited nearly all histreasures, though, as he said, she should have been there six weeksearlier. Alas, if she had been, she would have had a more open mindto give to the birds and their affairs. 

After dinner, when they were on the terrace under the stars, hereturned to his subject. There were nightingales, it seemed. What didMrs. Macartney say to that? It appeared that six miles away thenightingale was an unknown fowl. Here, of course, they werelegionaries. You might hear six at a time: two triangles of them. Didshe know that they sang in triangles? She did not. Very well, then:what did she say? What about shoes--a cloak--a shawl? All these thingscould be brought. Lucy said that she would fetch them for herself, andwent upstairs--shallow, broad stairs of black oak, very much admiredby the experts. But of them and their excellence she had no thought. She did not care to let her thoughts up to the surface just then. Adventure beckoned her. 

When she returned Nugent had withdrawn himself to the smoking-room, and James was talking to Vera Nugent about people one knew. Neither ofthem was for nightingales. "You are very foolhardy, " James said. "Ican't help you with nightingales. " Lord Considine, in a black Spanishcloak, with the staff of a pilgrim to Compostella, offered his arm. "We'll go first to the oak Spinney, " he said. "It's rather spongy, I'mafraid, but who minds a little cold water?" Vera assured him that shedid for one, and James added that he was rather rheumatic. "Comealong, Mrs. Macartney, " said the lord. "These people make me sorry forthem. " So they went down the steps and dipped into the velvet night. 

It was barely dark skirting the lake. You could almost see the ringsmade by rising trout, and there was enough of you visible at least tosend the waterfowl scuttering from the reeds. Beyond that again, youcould descry the pale ribbon of the footpath, and guess at theexuberant masses of the peony bushes, their heavy flowers, when theywere white, still smouldering with the last of the sunset's fire. Butonce in the woods you had to feel your way, and the silence of it all, like the darkness, was thick, had a quality which you discovered onlyby the soft close touch of it upon your cheeks and eyes. It seemed toclog the ears, and made breathing a deeper exercise. The further inthey went the greater the guesswork of the going. Lord Considine wentin front, to keep the branches from her face. 

Upon that rich, heavy silence the first birds' song stole like asense of tears: the low, tentative, pensive note which seems like thewelling of a vein. Lucy stayed and breathlessly listened. Thedoubtfulness, the strain of longing in it chimed with her own mood, which was one, perhaps, of passive wonderment. She waited, as one whois to receive; she was not committed, but she was prepared: everythingwas to come. The note was held, it waxed, it called, and then broke, as it were, into a fountain of crystal melody. Thereafter it purred ofpeace, it floated and stopped short as if content. But out of the darkanother took up the song, and further off another, provoking our firstmusician to a new stave. Lucy, with parted lips, held her heart. Lovewas in this place, overshadowing her; her sightless eyes were wide, waiting upon it; and it came. She heard a step in the thicket; shestayed without motion, will or thought. _Expectans expectavit. _ Shewas in the strange arms, and the strange kisses were on her partedlips. 

She knew not, nor cared, how long this rapture held. She got, and shegave. James, or another, this was Eros who had her now. She heard, "Oh, Lucy, oh, my love, my love, " and she thought to have answered, "You have me--what shall I do?" But she had no reply to her question, and seemed to have no desire unsatisfied. 

Lord Considine's voice calling, "I say, shall we go on--or do youthink you had better go in?" sounded a very homely note. Her Erosstill held her, even as she answered, "Perhaps we had better turn backnow. I could stop out forever on such a night. It has been morebeautiful than I can say. " Approval of the sentiment expressed wasstamped upon her. For a moment of wild surrender she clung as shekissed; then she was gently relinquished, and the lord was at hand. "There's nothing quite like it, is there?" he said. "I've heardastounding orchestras of birds in South America; but nothing at alllike this--which, moreover, seems to me at its best in England. InGranada, up there in the Wellington elms, they absolutely--mind, mind, here's a briar-root--they shout at you. There's a brazen hardihoodabout them. In Athens, too, in the King's Garden, it is a kind ofclamour of sound--like an Arab wedding. No, no, I say that we areunrivalled for nightingales. " The enthusiastic man galloped on, andLucy, throbbing in the dark, was grateful to him. 

The lights of the house recalled her to the world. Presently, up theslope, she saw Vera Nugent, at the piano, turning to say something tosomebody. It was James, rather bored in an arm-chair. James likedneither the society of women nor the notes of a piano. But he likedstill less for such things to be known of him. His own social standardmay perhaps be put thus: he liked to appear bored without boring hiscompanions. On the whole he flattered himself that, high as it was, henearly always reached it. 

"Where's my beautiful young brother?" said Lord Considine, plunging inupon them. "Asleep, I'll take my oath. My dear Vera, you are too easywith him. The man is getting mountainous. You two little know whatyou've missed--hey, Mrs. Macartney?" He was obviously overheated, butcompletely at ease with himself. 

"What do you say we have missed?" Vera asked of James, and he now, onhis feet, said bravely, "For myself, a nasty chill. " A chill--outthere!

 * * * * *

Lucy was asked, Did she like it all, and boldly owned, All. "The darkis like an eiderdown bed. Impossible to imagine anything softer. " Sherubbed her eyes. "It has made me dreadfully sleepy, " she said. "Ithink, if you won't be horrified--" Vera said that she should go upwith her. James stooped to her cheek, Lord Considine bowed over herhand. 

In Lucy's room the pair had a long talk, all of which I don't pretendto report. It began with, "I'm so glad that you take to poorConsidine. You are so very much his sort of woman. He's a dear, simplecreature, far too good for most of us--and a Nugent freak, I assureyou. They've never known the like in the County of Cork.... I like himimmensely, but of course he's too remote for the like of me. No smalltalk, you know, and I'm aburst with it. I talk while I'm thinking, andhe when he _has_ thought. You understand that kind, evidently. Isuppose your clever husband is like that. Not that I don't get on with_him_. We did excellently--I think he knew everybody that I couldthink of, and I everybody he chose to mention. But Jimmy likesConsidine, you know.... By the way, it was very disgraceful of Jimmy, but not so disgraceful as you might think. In its way it's acompliment. He thinks so much of you--Oh, I may as well tell you theshocking truth. He ran away. What a moth in the drawing-room ought todo, but never can, Jimmy, not at all a moth, quite suddenly did. Mydear Mrs. Macartney, Jimmy ran away from you. Flying! I doubt itprofoundly. Wrestling, I fancy, fighting beasts at Ephesus. You havedoubtless discovered how enthusiastic Jimmy is. Most attractive, nodoubt, but sometimes embarrassing. As once, when we were in Naples--inthe funicolare, halfway up Vesuvius--Jimmy sees a party at the otherend of the carriage: mother, daughter, two pig-tailed children, _and_a governess--quite a pretty gel. Jimmy was enormously struck with thisgoverness. He could see nothing else, and nobody else either, least ofall me, of course. He muttered and rolled his eyes about--his chinjutted like the bow of a destroyer. Presently he couldn't stand it. Hemarched across the carriage and took off his hat with a bow--my dear, to the governess, poor gel! 'I beg your pardon, ' says he, 'but I haveto tell you something. I think you are the most beautiful person Iever saw in my life, and take pride in saying so. ' Wasn't it awful? Ididn't dare look at them--but it seemed all right afterwards. Isuppose she told her people that of course he was mad. So he is, in away; but it's quite nice madness. I won't say that Jimmy never goestoo far--but nobody could be nicer about it afterwards than Jimmy--noone. He's awfully sorry, and contrite, and all that. Most people likehim amazingly. I suppose he's told you about our father? He loves allthe stories there are about him ... " and so on. Vera Nugent was agreat talker. 

Lucy at her prayers, Lucy in her bed, had large gaps in the sequenceof her thoughts. Safety lay only with Lancelot. She could centreherself in him. Lancelot it was who with forceful small fingers, andhalf-shy, half-sly eyes, finally closed down hers, with a "Go tosleep, you tired mamma. "

CHAPTER XIII

MARTLEY THICKET (2)

The day that succeeded was prelude to the night, sufficient to showLucy her way into that spacious unknown. By her own desire she passedit quietly, and had leisure to review and to forecast. 

She put it to herself, roughly, thus. I may guess, but I don't know, who loves me so. It cannot continue--it shall stop this very night. But this one night I must go to him, if only to say that it can neverbe again. And it won't be again; I am sure of that. However he maytake it, whatever he may be driven to, he will do what I say must be. As for me, I don't think women can ever be very happy. I expect Ishall get used to it--one does, to almost anything, excepttoothache. And I have Lancelot. She put all this quite frankly toherself, not shirking the drab outlook or the anguish of doing a thingfor the last time--always a piercing ordeal for her. As for James, ifshe thought of him at all, it was with pity. Poor dear, he really wasrather dry!

She ought to have been very angry with Urquhart, but she was not. "Thefirst time he did it, I understand. I am sure he had a sudden thought, and couldn't resist it. It must have been more than half fun, and therest because it was so romantic. The other times were much more wrong. But I'm not angry with him. I ought to be--but I'm not--not at all. Isuppose that is because I couldn't be angry with him if I tried ... Not if he did much more.... No, I am sure he doesn't hold me cheap. He's not at all like that. James might--only James holds all womencheap. But He doesn't. I never felt at all like this about a manbefore. Only--it must stop, after this once.... "

You see, he had not kindled passion in her, even if there were any tobe kindled. Lucy, with a vehement imagination, lacked initiative. Youcould touch her in a moment, if you knew how, or if you were the rightperson. Now Urquhart had never touched, though he had excited, her. Tobe touched you must respond to a need of hers--much more that thanhave a need of your own. And to be the right person you must beempowered, according to Lucy. Urquhart was not really empowered, butan usurper. Of course he didn't know that. He reasoned hastily, andsuperficially. He thought her to be like most women, struck byaudacity. What really struck her about him were his timeliness--he hadresponded to a need of hers when he had first kissed her--and his raremoments of tenderness. "You darling!" Oh, if James could only havesaid that instead of "My darling!" Poor James, what a goose he was. 

It was a very peaceful day. James and Nugent had driven out to playgolf on some first-class course or other by the sea. Lord Considinewas busy with his secretary over a paper for the British Association. In the afternoon he promised Lucy sight of two golden orioles, andkept his promise. She had leisure to look about her and find traces ofUrquhart in much that was original, and more that was comfortable andintimate, in Martley Thicket. It was a long two-storeyed house ofwhitewashed brick, with a green slate roof, intermixed withreed-thatch, deep-eaved and verandahed along the whole south front. The upper windows had green _persanes_. The house stood on the side ofa hill, was terraced, and looked over a concave of fine turf into avalley, down whose centre ran the lake, at whose bottom was the wood;and beyond that the moors and beech-masses of the forest. Beside thehouse, and behind it, was a walled kitchen garden, white-walled, witha thatch atop. On the other side were stables, kennels and such-like. Everything was grown to the top of its bent; but there was nothingvery rare. "No frills, " said Lord Considine, and approved of it all. "I dare say a woman would beautify it, but it would cease to beJimmy's and would cease to be interesting too. She would have moreflowers and fewer shrubs. Now Jimmy knows enough about it tounderstand that shrubs and trees are the real test of gardening. Anybody can grow flowers; but shrubs want science. " Lucy felt rebuked. She had desiderated more flowers. James, who knew nothing and caredlittle about gardens, passed approval of the house and offices. "Itdoesn't smell of money, " he said, "and yet you see what a lot it meanswhen you look into it. " Success, in fact, without visible effort: oneof James's high standards. He didn't know how Jimmy got his money, buthad no doubts at all of its being there. A man who could lend FrancisLingen £10, 000 without a thought must be _richissimè_. Yet Jimmy hadno men-servants in the house, and James glared about him for thereason. Lucy had a reason. "I suppose, you know, he wants to be reallycomfortable, " she proposed, and James transferred his mild abhorrenceto her. "Comfortable, without a fellow to put out his things!" Hescoffed at her. But she was rather short with him, even testy. "Mydear James, Mr. Urquhart's things are things to be put on or takenoff--like Lord Considine's 'so-called clothes. ' To you they seem to berobes of ceremony, or sacrificial vestments. " James stared ratherthrough than at her, as if some enemy lurked behind her. "My clothesseem to annoy you. May I suggest that somebody must get the mud offthem, and that I had rather it wasn't me? As for ceremony--" But shehad gone. James shrugged her out of mind, and wondered vaguely if shewas rather attracted by Jimmy Urquhart. It was bound to besomebody--at her age. Thirty-two she must be, when they begin to likea fling. Well, there was nothing in it. Later on it occurred to himthat she was looking uncommonly well just now. He saw her, in white, cross the lawn: a springy motion, a quick lift, turn of the head. Shelooked a girl, and a pretty one at that. His heart warmed to her. Howcould a man have a better wife than that? Success without effortagain! There it was. 

The evening came, the close of a hot and airless day. The sun setheavy and red. A bluish mist seemed to steal out of the forest andshroud the house. The terrace was not used after dinner, and when themen joined Vera and her in the drawing-room Lord Considine, who hadproposed a game of chess to James at the table, now came forward withboard and box of men. Nugent, as usual, had disappeared. "He's dormantwhen there's no hunting, " his wife explained. "He has nothing to killand hates his fellow-creatures. " "Then, " said James, "he might killsome of them. I could furnish him with a rough list. " Lucy feltrestless and strayed about the room, looking at things here and therewithout seeing them. Vera watched her, saw her wander to the openwindow and stand there looking gravely into the dark. She saidnothing, and presently Lucy stepped out and disappeared. Vera, withraised eyebrows and a half smile, resumed her book. 

Lucy was now high-hearted on her quest--her quest and mission. It wasto be this once, and for the last time. She followed the peony pathfrom the lake to the thicket, entered among the trees and pushed herway forward. Long before she reached the scene of last night's wondershe was a prisoner, her lips a prize. There was very little disguiseleft now. For a full time they clung together and loved without words;but then he spoke. "So you came! I hoped, I waited, I thought that youmight. Oh, my Lucy, what a fact for me!"

She answered simply and gently, "I came--I had to come--but--"

"Well, my love?"

"Ah, " she said, "but this must be for the last time. " This was nottaken as she had meant it to be. Love began again. Then he said, "That's absurd. "

"No, no, " she protested, "it's right. It must be so. You would nothave me do anything else. "

"And I must go?"

"Yes, indeed, you must go now. "

"Not yet, Lucy. Soon. "

"No, at once, " she told him. "The last time is come, and gone. Youmust not keep me. "

"Let me talk to you, so, for a few minutes. There's everything tosay. "

"No, " she said, "tell me nothing. I dare not know it. Please let me gonow. "

"A last time, then, Lucy. " She yielded her lips, but unwillingly; fornow her mind was made up. The thing had to be done, and the sooner thebetter. 

"Ah, " he said, "how can I let you go?"

"Easily, " she answered, "when I ask you"; and was unanswerable. Sheforced herself free, and stood undecided. 

"You needn't go back yet, " he said, but she thought she must. 

"I came out alone, " she told him, "but Vera was in the room. So werethe others. I don't know what they will think. "

"Nothing at all, " he said. "Well, everything shall be as you wish. Yousee that you have only to name your wish. "

"I have one thing to ask you--I dare not ask any more, " she said. Hervoice had a wavering sound. 

"Ask, " he said, "and I'll tell you the truth. "

"You don't think it wicked of me, to have come? Because I did come. Ithought that I must, because--because I could never explain at anyother time, in any other way. You don't think--lightly of me?"

"Oh, my dear, my dear, " he said--and she felt him tremble, though hedid not touch her. "I think more dearly of you than of anything inheaven. The world holds no other woman for me. So it will always be. "

She said quietly, "It's very wonderful. I don't understand it at all. I thought perhaps--I wondered--if I had been angry--"

"I deserve that, and more. "

"I know I ought to be angry. So I should be if--"

"Well, my love, well?"

But she couldn't tell him, and asked him to let her go. They parted atthe entry of the wood with Good night, and Lucy flitted back with apain in her heart like the sound of wailing. But women can wail atheart and show a fair face to the world. Her stretched smile had lostnone of its sweetness, her eyes none of their brightness. Vera Nugentwatched her narrowly, and led the conversation upstairs. She thoughtthat she detected a pensive note, but assured herself that all waspretty well. "That's a remarkable woman, " she said to herself, "whowould rather have a heartache now than grin with misery next week. After this I'd trust her anywhere. "

 * * * * *

On Sunday morning Urquhart made an explicit return to Martley, arriving at the hour of eleven in his motor of battleship grey colourand formidable fore-extension. Behind it looked rather like a toy. Lucy had gone to church alone, for James never went, and Vera Nugentsimply looked appealing and then laughed when she was invited. Thatwas her way of announcing her religion, and a pleasant one. LordConsidine was out for the day, with sandwiches bulging his pockets. Nugent had been invisible since overnight. He was slugging, said hiswife. 

Returning staidly through the wood, she saw Urquhart waiting for herat the wicket, and saw him, be it owned, through a veil of mist. Butit was soon evident, from his address, that the convention set up wasto be maintained. The night was to take care of itself; the day was toknow nothing of it, officially. His address was easy andlight-hearted. "Am I to be forgiven? Can I expect it? Let me tell youthat I do expect it. You know me better than to suppose that I didn'twant to be here on your first visit. "

She answered him with the same spirit. "I think you might have been, Imust say. "

"No, I couldn't. There was no doubt about it. I simply had to go. "

"So Vera told me. " Then she dared. "May I ask if you went far?"

He tipped his head sideways. "Too far for my peace of mind, anyhow. "

"That tells me nothing. I am not to know any more?"

"You are to know what you please. "

"Well, " she said, "I please to forget it. Now I had better tell youhow much I love Martley. James says that the house is perfect in itsway; but I say that you have done justice to the site, and think ithigher praise. "

"It is. I'm much obliged to you. The problem was--not to enhance thesite, for that was out of the question; rather to justify theimpertinence of choosing to put any building there. Because of courseyou see that any house is an impertinence in a forest. "

"Yes, of course--but not yours. "

Urquhart shrugged. "I'm not afraid of your flatteries, because Iknow, " he said. "The most that can be said for me is that I haven'tchoked it up with scarlet and orange flowers. There's not a geraniumin the place, and I haven't even a pomegranate in a tub, though Imight. "

"Oh, no, " she said warmly, "there's nothing finicky about yourgarden--any more than there is about you. There was never such a manof direction--at least I never met one. " The moment she had said itshe became embarrassed; but he took no notice. His manner was perfect. They returned by the lake, and stayed there a while to watch Nugenttrying to catch trout. The rest of the day she spent in Urquhart'scompany, who contrived with a good deal of ingenuity to have her tohimself while appearing to be generally available. After dinner, feeling sure of him, she braved the tale-bearing woods andnightingales vocal of her sweet unease. There was company on thisoccasion, but she felt certain it would not have been otherwise hadthey been retired with the night. She was thoughtful and quiet, andreally her heart was full of complaining. He was steadily cheerful, and affected a blunt view of life at large. 

She did not look forward to leaving him on the morrow, and as good assaid so. "I have been enchanted here, " she said, "and hate the thoughtof London. But James won't hear of Wycross in June. He loves theworld. "

Urquhart said, "What are you going to do in August? Wycross?"

"No, we never go there in August. It's too hot-- And there'sLancelot. A boy must have excitement. I expect it will come to mytaking him to the sea, unless James consents to Scotland. We used todo that, but now--well, he's bored there. "

He was looking at her, she felt, though she couldn't see him. "Did youever go to Norway?" She shook her head. He said no more on that headjust then. 

"I shall see you in London, " he told her. "I am going to take myCertificate at Brooklands. Next week I hope. You might come andapplaud. "

"No, indeed, " said she. "I couldn't bear to see you in thoseconditions. I have nerves, if you have none. "

"I have plenty, " he said, "but you ought to do it. Some day you willhave to face it. "

"Why shall I?" He wouldn't tell her. 

That made her daring. "Why shall I?"

His first answer was a steady look; his second, "Nothing stops, youknow. Things all swim to a point. Ebb and flow. They don't go backuntil they reach it. "

"And then?"

"And then they may--or they may not blot it out and swim on. "

CHAPTER XIV

THE GREAT SCHEME

The height of her esteem for Urquhart was the measure of her growingdisrelish for James. It was hard to visit upon a man the sense that hewas not what he had never dreamed of being; but that is what happenedto him. By how much he had risen in her eyes when she made an Eros ofhim, by so much did he fall when she found out her mistake. Because hewas obviously no Eros, was he so obviously but part of a man? Itseemed so indeed. If he discerned it there's no wonder. He irritatedher; she found herself instinctively combating his little preparationsfor completeness of effect--she was herself all for simplicity inthese days. She could not conceal her scorn, for instance, when herefused to go with her to dine in a distant suburb because he wouldnot have time to dress. "As if, " she said, "you eat your shirt-front!"Trenchancy from James produced a silent disapproval. As he said, ifshe didn't sniff, she looked as if she felt a cold coming on. Sheknew it herself and took great pains; but it coloured her tone, if nother words. Too often she was merely silent when he was very muchhimself. Silence is contagious: they passed a whole dinner throughwithout a word, sometimes. 

Now James had his feelings, and was rather unhappy over what he calledher moods. He thought she did not go out enough. She ought to see morepeople: a woman liked to be admired. It did not occur to him that shemight have been very glad of it from him; but then he didn't know howhighly she had been elated with what she called, thinking it reallyso, his love-in-the-darkness. No, Macartney, if ever he looked intohimself, found nothing wrong there. He kept a wary eye through hismasking-glass upon Urquhart's comings and goings. As far as he couldascertain he was rarely in London during June and early July. No doubthe wrote to Lucy; James was pretty sure of it; yet he could not stoopto examining envelopes, and had to leave that to Providence andherself. He mingled with his uneasiness a high sense of her integrity, which he could not imagine ever losing. It was, or might have been, curious to observe the difference he made between his two jealousies. He had been insolent to Francis Lingen, with his "Ha, Lingen, youhere?" He was markedly polite to Jimmy Urquhart, much more so than hishabit was. He used to accompany him to the door when he left, anunheard-of attention. But that may have been because Lucy went thitheralso. 

As a matter of fact Urquhart saw very little of her. He was very muchaway, on his aerial and other affairs, and did not care to come to thehouse unless James was there, nor, naturally, very much when he was. They mostly met in the Park, rarely at other people's houses. Once shelunched at the Nugents' and had the afternoon alone with him; twice hedrove her to Kew Gardens; once she asked him for a week-end toWycross, and they had some talks and a walk. He wrote perhaps once aweek, and she answered him perhaps once a fortnight. Not more. She hadto put the screw on herself to outdo him in frugality. She respectedhim enormously for his mastery of himself, and could not have told howmuch it enhanced her love. It was really comical that precisely whatshe had condemned James for she found admirable in Jimmy. James hadneglected her for his occupations, and Jimmy was much away about his. In the first case she resented, in the second she was not far fromadoration of such a sign of serious strength. 

They never alluded directly to what had happened, but sometimes hintedat it. These hints were always hers, for Urquhart was a random talker, said what came into his head and had no eye for implications. He madeone odd remark, and made it abruptly, as if it did not affect anybodypresent. "It's a very funny thing, " he said, "that last year I didn'tknow Macartney had a wife, and now, six months later, I don't realisethat you have got a husband. " It made her laugh inwardly, but she saidgently, "Try to realise it. It's true. "

"You wish me to make a point of it?" he asked her that with a shrewdlook. 

"I wish you, naturally, to realise me as I am. "

"There doesn't seem much of you involved in it, " he said; but sheraised her eyebrows patiently. 

"It is a fact, and the fact is a part of me. Besides, there'sLancelot. "

"Oh, " he said, "I don't forget him. You needn't think it. He is asymbol of you--and almost an emanation. Put it like this, that whatyou might have been, he is. "

"Oh, " said she, "do you want me to be different?"

He laughed. "Bless you, no. But I like to see what you gave up to bemade woman. And I see it in your boy. "

She was impelled to say what she said next by his words, which excitedher. "I can't tell you--and perhaps I ought not--how happy you make meby loving Lancelot. I love him so very much--and James never has. Ican't make out why; but it was so from the beginning. That was thefirst thing which made me unhappy in my life at home. It was thebeginning of everything. He seemed to lose interest in me when hefound me so devoted. "

Urquhart said nothing immediately. Then he spoke slowly. "Macartney isuneasy with boys because he's uneasy with himself. He is only reallyinterested in one thing, and he can see that they are obviouslyuninterested in it. "

"You mean--?" she began, and did not finish. 

"I do, " said Urquhart. "Most men are like that at bottom--only some ofus can impose ourselves upon our neighbours more easily than he can. Half the marriages of the world break on that rock, and the other halfon idleness. "

She then confessed. "Do you know what I believe in my heart? I believethat James's eyeglass stands in his way with Lancelot--as it certainlydid with me. "

"I think you are right there, " he agreed. "But you must allow for it. He's very uncertain of his foothold, and that's his war armour. "

She was more tolerant of James after that conversation, and lessmutinous against her lot. She wondered, of course, what was to becomeof them, how long she could hold him at arms' length, how she couldbring herself to unsay what had been said in the dark of MartleyThicket. But she had boundless faith in Urquhart, and knew, amongother things, that any request she made him would be made easy forher. 

But when, at the end of June, he broached to her his great scheme, shewas brought face to face with the situation, and had to ask herself, could she be trusted? That he could she knew very well. 

He had a project for a month or six weeks in Norway. He had hinted atit when she was at Martley, but now it was broached. He didn'tdisguise it that his interest lay wholly in her coming. He laid itbefore her: she, Lancelot and James were to be the nucleus. He shouldask the Corbets and their boys, Vera and hers. Nugent would refuse, heknew. Meantime, what did she say? He watched her shining eyesperpending, saw the gleam of anticipated delight. What a plan! Butthen she looked down, hesitating. Something must now be said. 

"Oh, of course Lancelot would go mad with joy, and I dare say I couldpersuade James--"

"Well? But you?"

"I should live every moment of the time, but--sometimes life seems tocost too much. "

He held out his hand to her, and she took it very simply. "Promise tocome, and you shan't repent it. Mind, you have my word on that. " Thenhe let her go, and they discussed ways and means. She would speak toJames; then he should come and dine, and talk it out. Meantime, lethim make sure of Vera, and do his best with the Corbets. If they werefixed up, as she thought probable, he might get some other people. Considine might like it. "He's very much at your disposal, let me tellyou. You have him at your feet. "

So it was settled, and James was attacked in front. She told him asthey were driving out to dinner that she had met Mr. Urquhart thatafternoon. "I dare say you might, " said James. But he had stiffened toattention. 

"He blazed upon me a plan for August. I said I would ask you aboutit. "

James said, "H'm. Does it rest with me?"

"Naturally it does. I should not think of any plans without talking toyou. "

"No, I suppose you wouldn't, " said he. Then he asked, "And what doesUrquhart want you to do?"

"He doesn't want me, particularly. He wants all three of us. "

"I think, " said James, "you'll find that he wants you most. "

She felt that this must be fathomed. "And if he did, " she said, "should you object to that?" He kept very dry. 

"It isn't a case of objecting to that, or this. The question before meat present is whether I want to form one of a party which doesn't wantme, and where I might be in the way. "

"From what I know of Mr. Urquhart, " she answered, "I don't think hewould ever ask a person he didn't want. "

"He might, if he couldn't get the person he did want in any otherway, " said James. "Who else is to come?"

"Vera Nugent and her boy, and perhaps Lord Considine. He is going toask Laurence and Mabel and all the boys too. "

"It will be a kind of school-treat, " said James. "I own it doesn'tsound very exciting. Where are we to go to?"

"To Norway. He knows of a house on the Hardanger Fiord, a house in awood. He wants to hire a steamer to take us up from Bergen, and meansto bring a motor-boat with him. There will be fishing of sorts if youwant it. "

"I don't, " said James; then held up his chin. "Is my tie straight?"

She looked. "Perfectly. What am I to say to Mr. Urquhart?"

He said, "I'll talk about it; we'll discuss it in all its bearings. Idon't think I'm so attracted as you are, but then--"

"It's very evident you aren't, " Lucy said, and no more. She felt in aprickly heat, and thought that she had never wanted anything so muchin her life as this which was about to be denied her. She dared notwrite to Lancelot about it; but to Urquhart she confessed her despairand hinted at her longing. He replied at once, "Ask me to dinner. I'll tackle him. Vera and child will come; not Considine. The Corbetscan't--going to Scotland, yachting. We needn't have another woman, butVera will be cross if there is no other man. Up to you to find one. "

This again she carried to James, who said, "Let him come--any freenight. Tell me which you settle, will you?"

James had been thinking it out. He knew he would have to go, and wasprepared with what he called a spoke for Jimmy's wheel. Incidentallyit would be a nasty one for Lucy, and none the worse for that. Heconsidered that she was getting out of hand, and that Urquhart mightbe a nuisance because such a spiny customer to tackle. But he had alittle plan, and chuckled over it a good deal when he was by himself. 

He was, as usual, excessively urbane to Urquhart when they met, andhimself opened the topic of the Norwegian jaunt. Urquhart took up theball. "I think you might come. Your wife and boy will love it, andyou'll kindle at their joy. 'They for life only, you for life inthem, ' to flout the bard. Besides, you are not a fogey, if I'm not. Ibelieve our ages tally. You shall climb mountains with me, Macartney, and improve the muscles of your calves. You don't fish, I think. Nordo I. I thought I should catch your brother-in-law with that bait--butno. As for mine, he'll spend the month in bed somewhere. "

"Is your sister coming?" James asked. 

Urquhart nodded. "And her youngster. Osborne boy, and a good sort. Lancelot and he have met. "

"They'll fight, " said James, "and Mrs. Nugent and Lucy won't speak. "

"Vera would speak, I'm sure, " said Lucy, "and as for me, I seldom geta chance. "

"A very true saying, " said Urquhart. "I don't believe the LastJudgment would prevent Vera from talking. Well, Macartney, what saysthe Man of the World?"

"If you mean me, " said James, "I gather that you all want to go. Lucydoes, but that's of course. Lancelot will, equally of course. But Ihave a suggestion to make. Might not the party be a little bigger?"

"It might, and it should, " said Urquhart; "in fact, I asked Considineto join us. He would love it, but he has to make a speech at aCongress, or read a paper, and he says he can't get out of it. TheCorbets can't come. I'll ask anybody else you like. "

James, who was now about to enjoy himself, said, "I leave the ladiesto Lucy and Mrs. Nugent. Their choice would no doubt be mine. But Icertainly think we want another man. Much as you and I esteem eachother, my dear Urquhart, if there's walking to be done--seriouswalking, I think we shall be better three than two. I don't at allagree that three is no company. Where men are concerned I think itbetter than two or four. If only to give a knee, or hold the sponge!And with more than four you become a horde. We want a man now. "

"I think so too, " Urquhart said. "Well, who's your candidate?"

James meditated, or appeared to meditate. "Well, " he said, looking upand fixing Urquhart with his eyeglass, "what do you say to FrancisLingen? Lucy likes him, I am used to him, and you will have to be someday. "

Lucy was extremely annoyed. That was evident. She bit her lip, andcrumbled her bread. She said shortly, "Francis couldn't walk to savehis life. "

"Let us put it another way, " said James, enjoying his little _coup_. "Let us say that if he did walk, he might save his life. "

Urquhart marked the breeze, and sailed into it. "I leave all that toyou. All I know about Lingen is that I have done my best to oblige himin his private affairs. I confess that I find him mild, not to sayinsipid, but I dare say he's the life of a party when he's put to it. "

"Oh, " said James, not averse from disparaging an old rival, "Oh, poorchap, he hasn't many party tricks. I'd back him at cat's-cradle, and Idare say he plays a very fair game at noughts-and-crosses. Besides, he'll do what he's told, and fetch things for you. You'll find him ahandy and obliging chap to have about. "

"Sounds delightful, " said Urquhart pleasantly. He turned to Lucy. "We'll give him Lingen, shall we?"

She said, "By all means. It doesn't matter in the least to me. "

So James had his little whack, after all. 

CHAPTER XV

JAMES

James, hardly knowing it, was bracing himself for a serious situation. He had a keen eye for a man, a feeling for style; in his judgmentUrquhart was momentous, so much so that he could not afford to beirritated. Jealousy to him was a weakness, only pardonable when thecause was trivial. It had been trivial with poor Lingen. Fishing inheavy water, a skipjack snaps at your fly, and you jerk him out tobank with a Devil take you. But the swirling shoulder, the long ridgeacross the pool, and the steady strain: you are into a twelve-pounder, and the Devil is uninvoked. 

He asked Jimmy to lunch at his club, and took the candid line aboutthe Norwegian project. Lucy was desperately tired, he said, so he waspleased with the scheme. The poor dear girl was run down, the factwas. "You are very good for her, I believe. You exhilarate her; sheforgets her troubles. She admires audacity--from the bank. "

"I'll be as audacious as you please, " said Jimmy. 

"Oh, you won't take me in, " James said. "I'm an old hand. I know myUrquhart. But Lucy will expect feats of strength. You are a champion. "

"D---- your eyes!" said Urquhart to himself. 

"The boy is one of your slaves, too. I can't tell you how contented Iam that you approve of him. "

"He's all right, " said Urquhart, who didn't like all this. James, onthe contrary, liked it awfully. He became a chatterbox. 

"He's more than that in his mother's esteem. But Lucy's a wise mother. She moves with her finger on her lip. And that, mind you, withoutcoddling. She'll risk him to the hair's-breadth--and never a word. Butshe won't risk herself. Not she! Why, she might be wanted! But thereit is. Women can do these things, God knows how! It's men who make afuss. Well, well--but I babble. "

"My dear man, " said Urquhart, "not at all. It's a thing you never do. "

Thus encouraged, James plugged onwards. He talked more of himself andhis affairs than he had ever done in his life before; expatiated uponhis growing business, assumed his guest's contentment in hishappiness, invited praise of his Lucy, and was not rebuffed at theirdenial. Urquhart, at first amused, ended by being annoyed. He felt asif James was a busy dwarf engaged in tying him up in lengths of blackcotton. Round and round he went, coil after coil was added; beforeluncheon was over he could move neither hand nor foot. It was ratherludicrous, really; reduced to speechlessness, he sat and staredblankly at a voluble James, prattling away about things which didn'tmatter. He found himself even admiring things about him: the way hecould bite pull-bread, for instance; the relish he had for his food. But all this chatter! He was too uncomfortable to see that James'spresent relish was chiefly for that. The Stilton and biscuits, theglass of port were but salt to the handling of Jimmy Urquhart; forJames was a good fighter when he had a good man against him. 

His parting words were these: "Now I shouldn't be surprised if shefound herself out of conceit with this beano before we start. She'slike that, you know. In such a case it's up to you to do something. You and Lancelot between you. That's an irresistible pair. I defy agentlewoman, and a mother, to lose heart. Come in when you can. Tellus tales of far Cashmere. Sing us songs of Araby. I won't promise tojoin in the chorus--if you have choruses; but I shall revel in myquiet way. Now don't forget. I count upon you. By-bye. "

"D---- your eyes, oh, d---- your eyes!" said Jimmy, shouldering the hillas he went his way. 

Really, he began to lose nerve a little--and for such a sanguine man alittle was much. It was as if he was on the downward slide of thewave, no longer cresting the flow, which surged on ahead of him, carrying him no longer. The fact was that he was now at the difficultpart of an enterprise which had been so far too easy. At the moment itwas not obvious to him what he was to do. James was aware, that wasplain; and James had a strong hand--if he knew that too, he had anunassailable hand. But did he? Urquhart thought not. He chuckledgrimly to himself as he saw his complacent host taken at his word. Helooked at his wrist. "Half-past three? D---- him, I'll go and see hernow. "

But Lucy, as James had truly put it, held firmly to the bank. Glad ofhim she certainly was, amused by his audacities; but not tempted toplunge. He saw very soon that he must be careful with her. A referenceto the Hardanger woods at night, to the absence of nightingales, absence of the dark--she veiled her eyes with blankness, and finallyshut down the topic. "Don't let's talk of what is not in Norway. Tellme what is there. I have to keep Lancelot supplied you know. " No manhas so little self-esteem as to suppose that a woman can definitelyput him away. Urquhart had plenty, and preferred to think that shethrust him more deeply within her heart. "Quite right, " he said, andexerted himself on her amusement. James, coming home early, found himon the hearth-rug, talking really well about his flying. Nobody couldhave behaved better than James. He took his cup of tea, listened, wasinterested, smoked a cigarette; then touched Lucy's shoulder, saying, "I leave you to your escapades. " He went to his own room, with nothingto do there, and sat it out. He fought his nervousness, refused to seehis spectres, sat deep in his chair, grimly smoking. He heard thedrawing-room door open, Urquhart's voice: "Yes, it will be all right. Leave all that to me. " Lucy said something, he could not tell what. His heart beat faster to hear her tones. Urquhart let himself out: shehad not gone with him to the front door. Was that a good sign? or abad one? He frowned over that intricate question; but kept himselffrom her until dinner-time. She might have come in--he half expectedher; but she did not. What was she doing in there by herself? Was shethinking where she stood? So pretty as she was, so innocent, such agentle, sweet-natured creature! Alas, alas!

In short, James was growing sentimental about Lucy. Man of fashion ashe was, with that keen eye for style and the mode, it may well be thatUrquhart's interest in her was a kind of _cachet_. A hall-mark!However that may be, James looked at her more curiously during thatJuly than he had done since he saw her first in the garden of DremHouse. Yes, Lucy was pretty; more than that, she had charm. He saw itnow. She moved her head about like a little bird--and yet she was nota little woman by any means; tall, rather, for a woman. But there wasan absence of suspicion about Lucy--or rather of fundamental suspicion(for she was full of little superficial alarms), which was infinitelycharming--but how pathetic! It was deeply pathetic; it made himvaguely unhappy, and for a long time he did not know why tears swaminto his eyes as he watched her over the top of his evening paper, orwas aware (at the tail of his eye) of her quick and graceful motionsbefore her dressing-glass. Studying his feelings deeply, as neverbefore, he found himself out. It was that he was to lose her, hadperhaps lost her, just as he had found out how inexpressibly dear shewas to be. And amazement came upon him, and dismay to realise thatthis sweetness of hers, this pliancy of temper, this strength withinbeauty were really there in her apart from him. As if he had believedthat they lay in his esteem! No, indeed: they were her own; she couldbestow them where she pleased. 

But he couldn't touch her--now: he would die sooner than touch her. And he couldn't say anything to her: that would have been to throw upthe game. She should never pity him, and give him for pity what wouldhave become, in the very giving, negligible to herself. He knewhimself well: he could never ask for a thing. No! but could he get herto ask for something? Ah, then she might find out whom she hadmarried! A man, he judged, of spendthrift generosity, a prodigal ofhimself. Yes, that was how it must be, if to be at all. He kept hiseyes wide, and followed her every movement, with a longing to helpwhich was incessant, like toothache. At the same time he was carefulto keep himself quiet. Not a tone of voice must vary, not a dailyaction betray him. That hand on the shoulder, now, when Urquhart waslast here. Too much. There must be no more of it, though he couldstill feel the softness of her in the tips of his fingers. Thus hebraced himself. 

He held good cards: but he didn't know how good. 

CHAPTER XVI

AMARI ALIQUID

Lingen was exceedingly gratified by Lucy's letter. James had thoughtthe invitation should come from her, and, as the subject-matter wasdistasteful to her, sooner than discuss it she had acquiesced. Fewpin-pricks had rankled as this one. She had never had any feeling buttoleration for Lingen; James had erected him as a foible; and that heshould use him now as a counter-irritant made her both sore anddisgustful. She wished to throw up the whole scheme, but was helpless, because she could neither tell James, who would have chuckled, norUrquhart either. To have told Urquhart, whether she told him herreason or left him to guess it, would have precipitated a confessionthat her present position was untenable. In her heart she knew it, forthe heart knows what the mind stores; but she had not the courage tosummon it up, to table it, and declare, "This robe is outworn, stretched at the seams, ragged at the edges. Away with it. " Just nowshe could not do it; and because she could not do it she was trapped. James had her under his hand. 

Therefore she wrote her, "Dear Francis, " and had his gratefulacceptance, and his solemn elation, visible upon his best callingface. "I can't tell you how happy you have made me. It is beautiful, even for you, to make people happy. That is why you do it: what elsecould you do? Life is made up of illusions, I think. Let me thereforeadd to the sum of mine that you have desired my happiness. " This sortof thing, which once had stirred her to gentle amusement, now made herwords fall dry. "You mustn't forget that James has desired it too. ""Oh, " said Francis Lingen, "that's very kind of him. "

"Really, it is Mr. Urquhart's party. He invented it. "

"Did he desire my happiness too?" asked Lingen, provoked into mockeryof his own eloquence by these chills upon it. 

"At least he provided for it, " said Lucy, "and that you shouldn't beuncomfortable I have asked Margery Dacre to come. "

Lingen felt this to be unkind. But he closed his eyes and said, "Howsplendid. "

That was the fact. It had been an afterthought of hers, and partiallycountered on James. Margery Dacre also had accepted. She had said, "How too delicious!" James, when made aware that she was coming, ducked his head, it is true, but made a damaging defence. 

"Is she?" he said. "Why?"

"She'll make our number a square one, " she replied, "to begin with. And she might make it more pleasant for the others--Francis Lingen andMr. Urquhart. "

If she hadn't been self-conscious she would never have said such athing as that. James's commentary, "I see, " and the subsequentdigestion of the remark by the eyeglass, made her burn with shame. Shefelt spotted, she felt reproach, she looked backward with compunctionand longing to the beginning of things. There was now a tarnish on theday. Yet there was no going back. 

Clearly she was not of the hardy stuff of which sinners must be madeif they are to be cheerful sinners. She was qualmish and easilydismayed. Urquhart was away, or she would have dared the worst thatcould befall her, and dragged out of its coffer her poor tattered robeof romance. Between them they would have owned to the gaping seamsand frayed edges. Then he might have kissed her--and Good-bye. But hewas not at hand, and she could not write down what she could hardlycontemplate saying. 

Never, in fact, was a more distressful lady on the eve of a party ofpleasure. Lancelot's serious enjoyment of the prospect, evident inevery line of his letters, was her only relish; but even that couldnot sting her answers to vivacity. "I hope the Norwegians are verysensible. They will need all their sense, because we shall have nonewhen the pirate is there. " "There used to be vikings in Norway. Theycame to England and stole wives and animals. Now we bring them a manfor wives. That is what for with the chill of. " "I must have a newreel to my fishing-rod. The old one has never been the same since Imade a windlass of it for the battleship when it was a canal-boat, andit fell into the water when we made a landslide and accident which wasburied for three days and had a worm in the works. Also a v. Sharpknife for reindeer, etc. They are tough, I hear, and my knife issharpest at the back since opening sardines and other tins, all rathersmall. " He drove a fevered pen, but retained presence of mind enoughto provide for his occasions: "The excitement of Norway may lose mesome marks in term's order. Not many I dare say. " Again, "When you areexcited reports go bad. I have been shouting rather, kicking up ashine. Once there was a small fight which was twigged. Norway is aserious matter. " There was an undercurrent of nervousness, discernibleonly to her eyes. She could not account for it till she had him home, and they were on the edge of adventure. It was lest he should beseasick and disgrace himself in the esteem of young Nugent, who, as anaval officer, was of course sea-proof. "I expect Nugent likes it veryrough, " he said--and then, "I don't, you know, much. Not for weeks ata time. Rather a nuisance. " However, it was solved in the event byNugent being prostrate from the time they left the Tyne. Between hisspasms he urged his mother to explain that Lord Nelson was alwaysseasick. But Lancelot was very magnanimous about it. 

There was diversion in much of this, and she used it to lighten herletters to Urquhart, which, without it, had been as flat asyesterday's soda-water. As the time came near when they should leavehome she grew very heavy, had forebodings, wild desires to be donewith it all. Then came a visitation from the clear-eyed Mabel and acleansing of the conscience. 

Mabel said that she was sorry to miss Norway. It would have amused herenormously. "To see you in the saddle, with two led horses!" Shealways talked as if she was an elder sister. "I almost threw Laurenceover; but of course I couldn't do that. He's so dependent and silentand pathetic--but thank goodness, he hasn't found out, like James, thereal use of wives. That is, to have somebody to grumble to who reallyminds. There's your James for you. He doesn't want to go a bit; he'dmuch rather be at Harrogate or somewhere of that sort. Perhaps he'dlike Homburg. But he wouldn't go for the world. He's not pathetic atall, though he wants to be; but he wants to be sarcastic at the sametime, and is cross because the two things won't go together. Of coursehe stuck in Francis Lingen. He would. As if he cared about FrancisLingen, a kind of poodle!"

"You oughtn't to abuse James to me, " Lucy said, not very stoutly; "Idon't abuse Laurence. "

"Abuse him!" cried Mabel. "Good Heavens, child, I only say out loudwhat you are saying to yourself all day. We may as well know where weare. " Then came a pause; and then, "I suppose you and Jimmy Urquhartare in a mess. "

Lucy said nothing; whereupon Mabel showed her clear sight. "And Isuppose you know now who turned the light off. " At that terriblesurmise Lucy got up and stood above her sister. "Mabel, I don't knowwhat to do. "

"I am sure you don't, " said Mabel. "On the other hand, you know whatyou have to do. "

"Yes, " Lucy replied; "but it isn't so easy as you would think. Yousee, I have never spoken to him about it, nor he to me; and it seemsalmost impossible to begin--now. "

Mabel was out of her depth. "Do you mean--? What do you really mean?"

"I mean exactly what I say. I found out the truth, by a kind ofaccident--one day. It wasn't possible to doubt. Well, then--it wenton, you know--"

"Of course it did, " said Mabel. "Well?"

--"And there was no disguise about it, after there couldn't be. "

"Why should there be, if there couldn't be?" Mabel was at her wits'end. 

"There was no disguise about it, while it was going on, you know. Butin the daytime--well, we seemed to be ordinary people, and nothing wassaid. Now do you see?"

Mabel did. "It makes it very awkward for you. But feeling as you donow, you simply must have it out. "

"I can't, " Lucy said with conviction. "I know I can't do that. No, itmust stop another way. I must--be hateful. "

"Do you mean to make him dislike you? To put him off?"

Lucy nodded. "Something like that. "

"Try it, " said Mabel. 

"You mean it won't answer?"

"I mean that _you_ won't, my dear. You are not that sort. Much tookind. Now I could be perfectly beastly, if I felt it the only thing. "

Lucy was in a hard stare. "I don't feel kind just now. James has givenme a horror of things of the sort. I don't believe he meant it. Ithink he felt snappish and thought he would relieve his feelings thatway. But there it is. He has made it all rather disgusting. It'sbecome like a kind of intrigue of vulgar people, in a comedy. "

"These things do when you take them out and look at them, " Mabel said. "Like sham jewellery. They are all right in their cases. The velvetlining does so much. But although you may be disgusted with James'shandling of your private affairs, you are not disgusted with--theother?"

"No, I suppose not. I really don't know. He is the most understandingman in the world, and I would trust him through everything. I don'tthink he could tell me an untruth. Not one that mattered, anyhow. Icould see him go away from me for a year, for two, and not hear a wordfrom him, and yet be sure that he would come back, and be the same, and know me to be the same. I feel so safe with him, so proud of hisliking me, so settled in life--I never felt settled before--like beingin a nest. He makes everything I love or like seem more beautiful andprecious--Lancelot, oh, I am much prouder of Lancelot than I used tobe. He has shown me things in Lancelot which I never saw. He has madethe being Lancelot's mother seem a more important, a finer thing. Idon't know how to say it, but he has simply enhanced everything--asyou say, like a velvet lining to a jewel. All this is true--andsomething in me calls for him, and urges me to go to him. But now--butyet--all this hateful jealousy--this playing off one man againstanother--Francis Lingen! As if I ever had a minute's thought ofFrancis Lingen--oh, it's really disgusting. I didn't think any one inour world could be like that. It spots me--I want to be clean. I'dmuch rather be miserable than feel dirty. "

Here she stopped, on the edge of tears, which a sudden access of angerdried up. She began again, more querulously. "It's his fault, ofcourse. It was outrageous what he did. I'm angry with him because Ican't be angry with myself--for not being angry. How could I be angry?Oh, Mabel, if it had been James after all! But of course it wasn't, and couldn't be; and I should be angry with him if I wasn't so awfullysorry for him. "

Mabel stared. "Sorry for James!"

"Yes, naturally. He's awfully simple, you know, and really ratherproud of me in his way. I see him looking at me sometimes, wonderingwhat he's done. It's pathetic. But that's not the point. The point isthat I can't get out. "

"Do you want to get out?" Mabel asked. 

"Yes, I do in a way. It has to be--and the sooner the better. Andwhether I do or not, I don't like to feel that I can't. Nobody likesto be tied. "

"Then nobody should be married, " said Mabel, who had listened to theseoutbursts of speech, and pauses which had been really to find wordsrather than breath, with staring and hard-rimmed eyes. She had a giftof logic, and could be pitiless. "What it comes to, you know, " shesaid, "is that you want to have your fun in private. We all do, Isuppose; but that can't come off in nine cases out of ten. Especiallywith a man like James, who is as sharp as a razor, and just as edgy. The moment anybody peers at you you show a tarnish, and get put off. It doesn't look to me as if you thought so highly of--the other as youthink you do. After all, if you come to that, the paraphernalia of awedding is pretty horrid; one feels awfully like a heifer at theCattle Show. At least, I did. The complacency of the bridegroom ispretty repulsive. You feel like a really fine article. But one livesit down, if one means it. "

Lucy told her to go, or as good as told her. Sisters may be plain witheach other. She wasn't able to answer her, though she felt that ananswer there was. 

What she had said was partly true. Lucy was a romantic without knowingit. So had Psyche been, and the fatal lamp should have told her so. The god removed himself. Thus she felt it to be. He seemed justoutside the door, and a word, a look, would recall him to his darkbeauty of presence. That he was beautiful so she knew too well, thathe was unbeautiful in the glare of day she felt rather than knew. Thefault, she suspected, lay in her, who could not see him in the lightwithout the blemish of circumstance--not his, but circumstance, inwhose evil shade he must seem smirched. What could she do with herfaulty vision, but send him away? Was that not less dishonourable thanto bid him remain and dwindle as she looked at him? What a kink in heraffairs, when she must be cruel to her love, not because she loved himless, but rather that she might love him more!

But the spirit of adventure grew upon her in spite of herself, thesense of something in the wind, of the morning bringing one nearer toa great day. It pervaded the house; Crewdson got in the way of saying, "When we are abroad, we shall find that useful, ma'am"; or "Mr. Macartney will be asking for that in Norway. " As for James, it hadchanged his spots, if not his nature. James bought marvellous climbingboots, binoculars, compasses of dodgy contrivance, sandwich-cases, drinking-flasks, a knowing hat. He read about Norway, studied adictionary, and ended by talking about it, and all to do with it, without any pragmatism. Lucy found out how he relied upon Urquhart andsometimes forgot that he was jealous of him. Jealous he was, but notwithout hope. For one thing, he liked a fight, with a good man. Lingencaught the epidemic, and ceased to think or talk about himself. He hadheard of carpets to be had, of bold pattern and primary colouring; hehad heard of bridal crowns of silver-gilt worthy of any collector'scabinet. He also bought boots and tried his elegant leg in aflame-coloured sock. And to crown the rocking edifice, Lancelot camehome in a kind of still ecstasy which only uttered itself inconvulsions of the limbs, and sudden and ear-piercing whistles throughthe fingers. From him above all she gained assurance. "Oh, Mr. Urquhart, he'll put all that straight, I bet you--in two ticks!... "and once it was, "I say, Mamma, I wonder where you and I would bewithout Mr. Urquhart. " James heard him, and saw Lucy catch her breath. Not very pleasant. 

CHAPTER XVII

THE SHIVERING FIT

They were to start on the 8th of August, and it was now the 5th. Packing had begun, and Crewdson, as usual, was troublesome. He had thehabit of appearing before Lucy and presenting some small deficiency asa final cause of ruin and defeat. "I can't find any of the BrownPolish, ma'am. I don't know what Mr. Macartney will do without it. "This, or something like it, had become a classic in the family. It hadalways been part of the fun of going away. But this year Lucy wasfretted by it. She supposed herself run down and whipped herself towork. She found herself, too, lingering about the house, with anaffection for the familiar aspect of corners, vistas, tricks of lightand shadow, which she had never thought to possess. She felt extremelyunwilling to leave it all. It was safety, it was friendliness; itasked no effort of her. To turn away from its lustrous and orderedelegance and face the unknown gave her a pain in the heart. It wasodd to feel homesick before she had left home; but that was the sum ofit. She was homesick. Urquhart was very much in her mind; a letter ofhis was in her writing-table drawer, under lock and key; but Urquhartseemed part of a vague menace now, while James, though he did hisunconscious utmost to defeat himself, got his share of the sunset glowupon the house. Fanciful, nervous, weary of it all as she was, shedevoted herself to her duties; and then, on this fifth of August, inthe afternoon, she had a waking vision, perfectly distinct, and sovivid that, disembodied and apart, she could see herself enacting it. It was followed by a shivering fit and depression; but that must tellits own tale. 

 * * * * *

The vision occurred while she was on her knees, busied beside a trunk, turning over garments of lace and fine linen and pale blue ribbonswhich a maid, in the same fair attitude, was bestowing as she receivedthem. Lancelot was out for the afternoon with Crewdson and a friend. They had gone to the Zoological Gardens, and would not be back tilllate. She had the house to herself; it was cool and shadowed from thesun. The Square, muffled in the heat, gave no disturbing sounds. Looking up suddenly, for no apparent reason, she saw herself withJimmy Urquhart in a great empty, stony place, and felt the dry windwhich blew upon them both. All but her own face was visible; of thatshe saw nothing but the sharp outline of her cheek, which was verywhite. She saw herself holding her hat, bending sideways to thegale; she saw her skirt cling about her legs, and flack to get free. She wondered why she didn't hold it down. The wind was a hot one; shefelt that it was so. It made her head ache, and burned her cheek-bone. Urquhart was quite visible. He looked into the teeth of the wind, frowning and fretful. Why didn't she say something to him? She had aconviction that it was useless. "There's nothing to say, nothing tosay. " That rang in her head, like a church bell. "Nothing to say, nothing to say. " A sense of desolation and total loss oppressed her. She had no hope. The vacancy, the silence, the enormous dry emptinessabout her seemed to shut out all her landmarks. Why didn't she thinkof Lancelot? She wondered why, but realised that Lancelot meantnothing out there. She saw herself turn about. She cried out, "James!James!" started up with a sense of being caught, and saw the maid'sface of scare. She was awake in a moment. "What is it, ma'am? What isit?"

Lucy had recovered her faculties: "Nothing, Emily; it's nothing. I wasgiddy. " But she was shivering and couldn't go on. "I think I'll liedown for a minute, " she said, and asked for the aspirin. She took twotabloids and a sip of water, was covered up and left to herself. Emilytiptoed away, full of interest in the affair. 

The shivering fit lasted the better part of an hour. Lucy crouched andsuffered, open-eyed but without any consciousness. Something hadhappened, was happening still; a storm was raging overhead; she layquaking 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 layimmediately before her. Disrelish of the Norwegian expedition wasnow a reasonable thing. Either it must be given up, or the disasterreckoned with. _Advienne que pourra. _ But in either case she must"have it out" with James. What did that mean? Jimmy Urquhart would bethrown over. He would go--and she would not. She lay, picturing ratherthan reasoning; saw him superbly capable, directing everything. Shefelt 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 theheart to know that she could not be there. But the mere thought ofthat sickened her. Out of the question. 

She must "have it out" with James. That might be rather dreadful; itmight take her where she must refuse to go--but on the whole, shedidn'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 ofJames would not prevail against it. Besides that, deeply withinherself, lay the conviction that James was kind if you took him theright way. He was irritable, and very annoying when he was sarcastic;but he was good at heart. And it was odd, she thought, that directlyshe got into an awkward place with a flirtation, her first impulse wasto 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 suchmatters were concerned. She was not really contrite for what she haddone, neither regretted that she had done it, nor that it was donewith. She wanted to discharge her bosom of perilous stuff. James wouldforgive 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 bringJames home; she heard his latch-key, and the shutting of the doorbehind him. Her heart beat high, but she did not falter. He wasreading a letter in the hall when she came downstairs; he was verymuch aware of her, but pretended not to be. She stood on the bottomstair looking at him with wide and fixed eyes; but he would not lookup. He was not just then in a mood either to make advances or toreceive 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 goto Norway. "

Then he did look up, keenly, with a drawn appearance about his mouth, showing his teeth. "Eh?" he said. "Oh, absurd. " He occupied himselfwith his letter, folding it for its envelope, while she watched himwith a pale intensity which ought to have told him, and perhaps didtell him, what she was suffering. 

"I don't think you should call me absurd, " she said. "I was never verycertain of it. "

"But, my dearest child, you made me certain, at any rate, " he toldher. "You made everybody certain. So much so that I have the ticketsin my pocket at this moment. "

"I'm very sorry. I could pay for mine, of course--and I'm sure Verawould 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 plungedhis hands into his pockets. He thought that they were on the edge ofthe gulf. 

"Look here, Lucy, " he said; "hadn't you better tell me something moreabout this? Perhaps you will come into the library for a few minutes. "He led the way without waiting for her, and she stood quaking whereshe was. 

She was making matters worse: she saw that now. Naturally she couldn'ttell James the real state of the case, because that would involve herin history. James would have to understand that he had been believedto have wooed her when he had done nothing of the kind. That was athing which nothing in the world would bring her to reveal to him. Andif she left that out and confined herself to her own feelings forUrquhart--how was all that to be explained? Was it fair to herself, orto Urquhart, to isolate the flowering of an affair unless you couldshow the germinating of it? Certainly it wasn't fair to herself--asfor Urquhart, it may be that he didn't deserve any generous treatment. She knew that there was no defence for him, though plenty ofexcuse--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 mercyfor her at this moment. Suspicions thronged his darkened mind. Butnothing of her rueful beauty escaped him. The flush of sleep was uponher, and her eyes were full of trouble. 

"It isn't that I have any reason which would appeal to you, " she toldhim. She faltered her tale. "I think I have been foolish--I know thatI'm very tired and worried; but--I have had presentiments. "

James clicked his tongue, which he need not have done--as he knew verywell. 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 amtelling you the truth. I don't know what is going to happen. I feelafraid of something--I don't know what--"

"Run down, " said James, looking keenly at her, but kindly; "end of theseason. Two days at sea will do the job for you. Anyhow, my dear, wego. " He threw himself in his deep chair, stretched his legs out andlooked at Lucy. 

She was deeply disappointed; she had pictured it so differently. Hewould have understood her, she had thought. But he seemed to be in hisworst mood. She stood, the picture of distressful uncertainty, hot andwavering; her head hung, her hand moving a book about on the table. Tohis surprise and great discomfort he now discerned that she wassilently 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 theway to touch him, as he was prepared to be touched. "My child, " hesaid, "why, what's the matter with you?" She shook her head, tried tospeak, 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 youthfulact--for Lucy had never yet cried before him; her flushed cheeks, hertremulous lips--what? If I could answer the question I should resolvethe problem of the flight of souls. He looked at her and knew that hedesired her above all things. A Lucy in tears was a new Lucy; a Jameswho could afford to let his want be seen was a new James. That whichstirred him--pity, need, desire, kindness--vibrated in his tones. Tohear was to obey. 

He took her two hands and drew her down to his knee. He made her sitthere, 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 youngwoman. You will, and you won't; and then you cry, and I becomesentimental. I shall end by falling in love with you. "

At these strange words she broke down altogether, and sobbed her soulout upon his shoulder. Again he assured himself that he had never seenher cry before. He was immensely touched by it, and immensely at hisease too. His moral status was restored to him. He knew now what hewanted. "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 tohave 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 veryclose, kissed her wet cheeks, her wet eyes and her lips. She struggledin his embrace, but not for long. She yielded, and returned hiskisses. So they clung together, and in the silence, while time seemedto stand still, it really did nothing of the kind; for if he gainedexperience she lost it. 

He must have grown more experienced, for he was able to return withoutembarrassment to the affairs so strangely interrupted. She must havegrown less so, because she answered him simply, like a child. He askedher what had upset her, and she told him, a dream. A dream? Had shebeen asleep? No, it was a waking dream. She told him exactly what itwas. She was with Mr. Urquhart in a horrible place--a dry, sandy placewith great rocks in it. "And where did I come in?" "You didn't comein. That was why I called you. " "You called for me, did you? ButUrquhart was there?" "Yes, I suppose he was still there. I didn'tlook. " "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; andthen when he kissed her again, she opened her eyes very wide, andsaid, "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'tcare 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 Ididn't, you said?" Lucy was now excited, and full of her wrongs. 

"How extraordinary! Surely you see? I had reason to think that youcared for me very much--oh, very much indeed; and then I found outthat 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 pursuethe embroilment. But he valued her in this melting mood. He held hervery 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 inNorway. "

James felt very triumphant; but true to type, he sent her upstairs todress with the needless injunction to make herself look pretty. 

Presently, however, he stood up and stared hard at the ground. "GoodLord!" he said. "I wonder what the devil--" Then he raised hiseyebrows to their height. "This is rather interesting. "

 * * * * *

The instinct was strong in him to make her confess--for clearly therewas something to be known. But against that several things worked. Onewas his scorn of the world at large. He felt that it was beneath himto enquire what that might be endeavouring against his honour orpeace. Another--and a very new feeling to him--was one of compassion. The poor girl had cried before him--hidden her face on his shoulderand cried. To use strength, male strength, upon that helplessness; tobreak a butterfly on a wheel--upon his soul, he thought he couldn't doit. 

And after all--whether it was Lingen or Urquhart--he was safe. He knewhe was safe because he wanted her. He knew that he _could_ not wantwhat was not for him. That was against Nature. True to type again, helaughed at himself, but owned it. She had been gone but five or tenminutes, but he wanted to see her again--now. He craved the sight ofthat charming diffidence of the woman who knows herself desired. Hebecame 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 upstairscalling, "Mamma, Mamma! frightfully important!" That decided thething. He opened his door, listening to what followed. He heard Lucy'svoice, "I'm here. You can come in.... " and was amazed. Was that Lucy'svoice? She was happy, then. He knew that by her tone. There was a liftin it, a _timbre_. Was it just possible, by some chance, that he hadbeen a damned fool? He walked the room in some agitation, then wenthastily upstairs to dress. 

Whether to a new James or not, dinner had a new Lucy to reveal; a Lucyfull of what he called "feminine charm"; a Lucy who appealed to himacross the table for support against a positive Lancelot; who broughthim in at all points; who was concerned for his opinion; who gave himshy glances, who could even afford to be pert. He, being essentiallya 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 disciplinewhich he had taught himself to preserve was for himself first of all. 

Lancelot noticed his father. "I say, " he said, when he and Lucy werein the drawing-room, "Father's awfully on the spot, isn't he? It'sNorway, 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 atMr. Urquhart. "

Lucy flickered. "How do you mean?" Lancelot was warm for his absentfriend. 

"Why, you used to take a great interest in all his adventures--youknow you did. "

This must be faced. "Of course I did. Well--?"

"Well, " said Lancelot, very acutely, "now they seem ratherordinary--rather chronic. " _Chronic_ was a word of Crewdson's, used asan augmentive. Lucy laughed, but faintly. 

"Yes, I expect they are chronic. But I think Mr. Urquhart is verynice. "

"He's ripping, " said Lancelot, in a stare. 

James in the drawing-room that evening was studiously himself, andLucy fought with her restlessness, and prevailed against it. He wasshy, and spun webs of talk to conceal his preoccupations. Lucy watchedhim guardedly, but with intense interest. It was when she wentupstairs that the amazing thing happened. 

She stood by him, her hand once more upon his shoulder. He had hisbook in his hand. 

"I'm going, " she said. "You have been very sweet to me. I don'tdeserve it, you know. "

He looked up at her, quizzing her through the detested glass. "Youdarling, " he said calmly, and she thrilled. Where had she heard thatphrase? At the _Walküre_!

"You darling, " he said; "who could help it?"

"Oh, but--" she pouted now. "Oh, but you can help it often--if youlike. "

"But, you see, I don't like. I should hate myself if I thought that Icould. "

"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 ofthings. "

She did not cease to look at him, but he saw fear in her eyes. "Someday, 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 sheturned 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 hisknee, 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 shefled. 

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, workedits spell upon our travellers, and freed them from themselves for awhile. For awhile they were as singleminded as the boys, content tolive and breathe that wine-tinctured air, and watch out those flawlessdays and serene grey nights. London had sophisticated some of themalmost beyond redemption: Francis Lingen was less man than sensitivegelatine; James was the offspring of a tradition and a looking-glass. But the zest and high spirits of Urquhart were catching, and after aweek Francis Lingen ceased to murmur to ladies in remote corners, andJames to care whether his clothes were pressed. Everybody behavedwell: Urquhart, who believed that he possessed Lucy's heart, James, who knew now what he possessed, Vera Nugent, who was content to sitand look on, and Lucy herself, who simply and honestly forgoteverything except the beauty of the world, and the joy of physicalexertion. She had been wofully ill on the passage from Newcastle andhad been invisible from beginning to end. But from the moment oflanding at Bergen she had been transformed. She was now the sister ofher son, a wild, wilful, impetuous creature, a nymph of the heath, irresponsible and self-indulgent, taking what she could get of comfortand cherishing, and finding a boundless appetite for it. It wassomething, perhaps, to know in her heart that every man in the partywas in love with her; it was much more--for the moment at least--to bewithout conscience in the matter. She had put her conscience to sleepfor once, drugged it with poppy and drowsy syrups, and led the life ofa healthy and vigorous animal. 

Urquhart enjoyed that; he was content to wait and watch. For the timeJames did not perceive it. The beauty and freshness of this new worldwas upon him. Francis Lingen, born to cling, threw out tentativetendrils to Margery Dacre. 

Margery Dacre was a very pretty girl; she had straw-coloured hair anda bright complexion. She wore green, especially in the water. Urquhartcalled her Undine, and she was mostly known as the Mermaid. She hadvery little mind, but excellent manners; and was expensive withoutseeming to spend anything. For instance, she brought no maid, becauseshe thought that it might have looked ostentatious, and always madeuse of Lucy's, who didn't really want one. That was how Margery Dacrecontrived to seem very simple. 

For the moment Urquhart took natural command. He knew the country, heowned the motor-boat; he believed that he owned Lucy, and he believedthat James was rather a fool. He thought that he had got the better ofJames. But this could not last, because James was no more of a foolthan he was himself, though his intelligence worked in a differentway. Things flashed upon Urquhart, who then studied them intensely andmissed nothing. They dawned on James, who leisurely absorbed them, andallowed them to work out their own development. 

It was very gradually now dawning upon James that Urquhart had assumedhabits of guidance over Lucy and was not aware of any reason why heshould relinquish them. He believed that he understood her thoroughly;he read her as a pliant, gentle nature, easily imposed upon, andreally at the mercy of any unscrupulous man who was clever enough tosee how she should be treated. He had never thought that before. Itwas the result of his cogitations over recent events. So while he kepthis temper and native jealousy under easy control, he watchedcomfortably--as well he might--and gained amusement, as he could wellafford to do, from Urquhart's marital assumptions. When he was temptedto interfere, or to try a fall with Urquhart, he studiously refrained. If Urquhart said, as he did sometimes, "I advise you to rest for abit, " James calmly embraced the idea. If Urquhart brought out a cloakor a wrap and without word handed it to her, James, watching, did notdetermine to forestall him on the next occasion. And Lucy, as headmitted, behaved beautifully, behaved perfectly. There were nograteful looks from her, such as he would expect to see pass betweenlovers. Keenly as he watched her, he saw no secret exchange. On theother hand, her eyes frequently sought his own, as if she wanted himto understand that she was happy, as if, indeed, she wanted him to behappy by such an understanding. This gave him great pleasure, andtouched 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 heloved _de haut en bas_. He found that it was so, and hated himself forit. The one thing he really grudged Urquhart was his simplicity andfreedom from ulterior motive. Urquhart was certainly able to enjoy themoment for the moment's worth. But James must always be calculatingexactly what it was worth, and whether to be enhanced by what mightfollow it. 

He was kinder to her than he had ever been before. In fact, he wasremarkably interesting. She told him of it in their solitary momentsof greatest intimacy. "This is my honeymoon, " she said, "and I neverhad one before. "

"Goose, " said he, "don't attempt to deceive me. " But she reassertedit. 

"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'tsay 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 muchnearer. Own it. "

He held her closely and kissed her. "You are a little darling, ifthat's what you mean. "

"Oh, but it isn't; it isn't at all what I mean. Why, you wouldn't callme 'little' if you didn't know you were superior. Because I'm rathertall for a woman. "

He knew that she was right, and respected her for the discernment. "Mylove, " he said, "I'm a self-centred, arrogant beast, and I don't liketo think about it. But you'll make something of me if you think itworth while. But listen to me, Lucy. I'm going to talk to youseriously. " Then he whispered in her ear: "Some day you must talk tome. " He could feel her heart beat, he could feel her shiver as sheclung. 

"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. " Shestarted 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 hopedthat she was right about him. One thing amazed him to discover--howwomen imputed their own virtues to the men they loved. It struck him amortal blow to realise that his evident happiness would give Lucyjoy, whereas hers would by no means necessarily add to his. "What doesgive me happiness, then?" he asked himself; "what could conceivablyincrease my zest for life? Evidence of power, exercise of faculty: sofar as I know, nothing else whatever. A parlous state of affairs. Butit is the difference, I presume, between a giving creature and agetting one which explains all. Is a man, then, never to give, and behappy? Has he ever tried? Is a woman not to get? Has she ever had achance of it?" He puzzled over these things in his prosaic, methodicalway. One thing was clear to everybody there but Urquhart in hispresent fatuity: Lucy was thriving. She had colour, light in her eyes, a bloom upon her, a dewiness, an auroral air. She sunned herself likea bird in the dust; she bathed her body, and tired herself with longmountain and woodland walks. When she was alone with her husband shegrew as sentimental as a housemaid and as little heedful of theabsurd. She grew young and amazingly pretty, the sister of her son. Itwould be untrue to say that, being in clover, she was unaware of it. For a woman of one-and-thirty to have her husband for a lover, and herlover for a foil, is a gift of the gods. So she took it--with the sunand green water, and wine-bright air. Let the moralists battle it outwith the sophists: it did her a world of good. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE MOON-SPELL

Macartney fell easily into habits, and was slow to renounce them. Having got into the way of making love to his wife, he by no meansabandoned it; at the same time, and in as easy a fashion, it came tobe a matter of routine with him to play piquet with Vera Nugent afterdinner. It was she who had proposed it, despairing of a quartette, oreven of a trio, for the Bridge which was a dram to her. Here alsoJames would have been only too happy; but nobody else would touch it. Lucy never played cards; Urquhart, having better things to do, saidthat he never did. Margery Dacre and Lingen preferred retirement andtheir own company. Lingen, indeed, was exhibiting his heart to thepale-haired girl as if it was a specimen-piece. "I am really a verysimple person, " he told her, "one of those who, trusting once, trustfor ever. I don't expect to be understood, I have no right to ask forsympathy. That would be too much to look for in a jostling, market-day world like ours. But I cherish one or two very fragrantmemories of kindnesses done. I open, at need, a drawer; and, like thescent of dry rose-leaves, or lavender, a sweet hint steals out thatthere are good women in the world, that life is not made up ofreceipted bills. Don't you understand the value of such treasures? Iam sure that you do. You always seem to me so comprehending in youroutlook. " Margery said that she hoped she was. 

 * * * * *

It was Lucy's business immediately after dinner to see that Lancelotwas decently abed. The lad took the last ounce out of himself beforethat time came, and was to be brought by main force to the bath, crimson to the roots of his hair and dripping with sweat. Protestingto the uttermost, still panting with his final burst in the open, shesaw to it that he was quiet before she could be so herself. Then shewas free, and Urquhart found--or looked for--his chance. The woodscalled her, the wondrous silver-calm of the northern night. She longedto go; but now she dreaded Urquhart, and dared not trust herself. Ithad come to this, that, possessed as she was, and happy in possession, he and all that he stood for could blot the whole fair scene up incold fog. That was how she looked at it in the first blush of her newlife. 

He didn't understand that; but he saw that she was nervous, and sethimself to reassure her. He assumed his dryest tone, his mostnegligent manner. When she came downstairs from Lancelot, and afterwatching the card-players, fingering a book or magazine, drifted tothe open window and stood or leaned there, absorbing the glory of thenight--Urquhart left her, and pulled at his pipe. When she spoke tothe room at large--"Oh, you stuffy people, will you never understandthat all the world is just out here?" he was the first to laugh ather, though he would have walked her off into that world of magic anddream, straight from the window where she stood. He was a wildidealist himself, and was sure of her. But he must wait her good time. 

Often, therefore, she drifted out by herself, and he suffereddamnably. But she never went far--he comforted himself with thatassurance. "She has the homing instinct. She won't go without me; andshe knows that I can't come--but oh, to be kissing her under thosebirches by the water's edge!"

He was not the only one who was aware that she had flitted. Macartneywas always intensely aware of it, and being by this time exceedinglyfond, it tended to spoil his play. So long as Urquhart left her alonehe was able to endure it. 

Then came an evening when, tending to the open door, she foundUrquhart there before her. He had behaved so admirably that her fearswere asleep. He acted with the utmost caution, saying just enough, with just enough carelessness of tone, to keep her unsuspicious. Theboreal lights were flashing and quivering in the sky: very soon he sawher absorbed in the wonder and beauty of them. "A night, " she said, "when anything might happen!"

"Yes, it looks like that, " he agreed. "But that is not what enrapturesyou. "

"What do you think enraptures me?" she wished to know. 

"The certainty, " he replied, "that nothing will. "

She waited a while, then said, "Yes, you are right. I don't wantanything else to happen. "

"You have everything you want, here in the house. Safe to hand! YourLancelot in bed, your James at cards, and myself at the window. Wonderful! And you are contented?"

"Yes, yes. I ask so little, you see. But you despise me for it. "

"God forbid. I promised you that you shouldn't repent this trip. Andyou don't, I hope?"

Her eyes were wide open and serious. "No, indeed. I never expected tobe so happy as this. It never happened to me before. " She had nocompunctions at all--but he was in the fatuous stage, drugged by hisown imaginings. 

"That's good. Shall we go down to the water?"

"I think we might, " she said, not daring to look back into the room, lest he should think that she feared him. 

They strolled leisurely through the wood, she in a soft rapture ofdelight at the still grey beauty of the night; Urquhart in a state ofmind bordering upon frenzy. He gripped himself by both hands to makesure of the mastery. What gave him conviction was his constant senseof Lucy's innocency. This beautiful woman had the heart of a child andthe patience of the mother of a god. To shock the one or gibe at theother were a blasphemy he simply couldn't contemplate. What then wasto be the end of it? He didn't know; he didn't care. She loved him, he believed; she had kissed him, therefore she must love him. Suchwomen don't give their lips without their hearts. But then she hadbeen scared, and had cried off? Well, that, too, he seemed tounderstand. That was where her sense of law came in. He could not butremember that it would have come in before, had she known who herlover was. As things fell out, she slipped into love without knowingit. The moment she had known it, she withdrew to the shadow of herhearth. That was his Lucy all over. _His_ Lucy? Yes, for that wasn'tthe Solicitor's Lucy--if, indeed, the solicitor had a Lucy. But hadhe? A little weakness of Urquhart's was to pride himself on being aman of whims, and to suppose such twists of the mind his uniquepossession. All indeed that he had of unique was this, that heinvariably yielded to his whims; whereas other people did not. 

However, he set a watch upon himself on this night of witchery, andsucceeded perfectly. They talked leisurely and quietly--of anything ornothing; the desultory, fragmentary interjections of comment whichpass easily between intimates. Lucy's share was replete with softwonderings at the beauty of the world. Neither of them answered theother. 

Under the birch-trees it was light, but very damp. He wouldn't allowher to stop there, but bade her higher up the hillside. There werepines there which were always dry. "Wait you there, " he said; "I'mgoing back to get you a wrap. " She would have stopped him, but he hadgone. 

Urquhart, walking up sharply to the house, was not at all prepared forMacartney walking as sharply down from it. In fact, he was very muchput out, and the more so because from the first James took the upperhand. 

"Hulloa, " said the lord of the eyeglass. 

"Hulloa, yourself, " said Urquhart, and stopped, which he need not havedone, seeing that Macartney with complete nonchalance continued hiswalk. 

"Seen my wife anywhere?" came from over his shoulder. Urquhart turnedon his heels. "Yes, " he said, and walked on. 

There was an end of one, two and three--as the rhyme goes. Urquhartwas hot with rage. That bland, blundering fool, that glasshouse, thatdamned supercilious ass: all this and more he cried upon James. Hescorned him for his jealousy; he cursed him for it; he vowed that hewould carry her off before his very eyes. "Let her give the word, liftan eyebrow, and I take her across the world. " And the lad too, blesshim. What did the quill-driver want of them but credit? Damn him, hehung them up in his house, as tradesmen use the royal arms. He baitedfor his deans and chapters with them. He walked far into the night ina passion of anger. It never once occurred to him that James was arival. And there he was right. 

He thought that Urquhart had certainly been with Lucy; he knew that hewas in love with her; but oddly enough that stimulated instead ofquelled him. It enhanced her. It made her love worth keeping. He had agreat respect, in his heart of hearts, for Urquhart's validity in aworld of action which certainly comprehended the taking and keeping ofhearts. Now he came to think of it, he must confess that he had neverloved Lucy as he did now until he had observed that so redoubtable achampion was in the lists against him. Odd thing! He had been jealousof Francis Lingen, as he now was of Urquhart; but it was the latterjealousy which had made him desire Lucy. The former had simplydisgusted him, the latter had spurred him to rivalry--and now to maindesire. James was no philosopher; he had an idle mind except in theconduct of his business. He could not attempt, then, to explain hisstate of mind--but he was very much interested. Soon he saw her in thedusk under the pines: a slim white shape, standing with one hand uponthe trunk of a tree. Her back was towards him; she did not turn. 

She supposed that it was Urquhart come back, and was careful not toseem waiting for him. "How quick you have been!" she said lightly, andstood where she was. No answer was returned. Then came a shock indeed, and her head seemed to flood with fear. Two hands from behind hercovered her eyes; her head was drawn gently back, and she was kissedardently on the lips. She struggled wildly; she broke away. "Oh!" shesaid, half sobbing. "Oh, how cruel you are--how cruel! How could youdare to do it?" And then, free of the hands, she turned uponUrquhart--and saw James. "Oh, my love!" she said, and ran to him andbroke into tears. 

James had secured his eyeglass, but now let it drop. He allowed her tocry her fill, and then made the best of a rather bad business. "Ifevery man who kissed his wife, " said he, "was answered like that, lipswould go dry. "

She said through her tears, "You see, I thought you were Mr. Urquhartwith my wrap. "

"Oh, the dickens you did, " said James. "And is that how Mr. Urquhartusually brings you a wrap?"

She clung to him. "Well, no. If he did, I suppose I shouldn't havebeen so angry--by this time. "

"That's a very good answer, " James allowed. "I'll only make onecomment upon it. You cried out upon the cruelty of the attack. Now ifit had been--assume it for the moment--our--well, friend, let us say, why would it have been cruel of him? Shameful, flagrant, audacious, impudent, insolent, all that I can understand. But cruel, Lucy?"

Lucy's cheek was upon his shoulder, and she let it stay there, evenwhile she answered. The moment was serious. She must tell him as muchas she dared. Certain things seemed out of the question; but somethingshe must tell him. 

"You see, James, " she said, "I think Mr. Urquhart is fond of me--infact, I'm sure of it--"

"Has he told you so?"

"Not in so many words--but--"

"But in so many other words, eh? Well, pursue. "

"And I told him that I couldn't possibly join the party--on thataccount. "

"Did you tell him it was on that account?"

"No, " said Lucy, "I didn't; but he understood that. I know heunderstood it, because he immediately said that if I would come Ishouldn't repent it. And I haven't. He has never made me feeluncomfortable. But just now--when I was expecting him--oh, it seemedto me quite horrible--and I was furious with him. "

"You were indeed. It didn't occur to you that it might havebeen--well, somebody with more right. "

Her arm tightened, but she said nothing. The unconscious James wenton. "I was wrong. A man has no right to kiss a woman unawares--in thedark. Even if it's his wife. She'll always want to know who it was, and she's bound to find out. And he'll get no thanks for it, either. "Then it became necessary for Lucy to thank him. 

"Mind you, my dear, " he told her. "I have no quarrel with JimmyUrquhart up to now. You say he's in love with you, and I think thathe is. I've thought so for some time, and I confess that I didn'trelish the idea that he should be out here with us. But since we arein for confessions I'll make one more. If he hadn't been in love withyou I don't believe that I should be--as I am now. "

Lucy laughed--the laugh of a woman rich. "Then I'm very much obligedto him, " she said. 

But Urquhart was harder to convince than James. 

CHAPTER XX

FAIR WARNING

Vera Nugent, a brisk woman of the world, with a fondness for vividclothing and a Spanish air which went oddly with it, took the troubleone fine day to tackle her brother. "Look here, Jimmy, " she said asthey breasted a mountain pass, "are you quite sure what you are up towith these people?"

Urquhart's eyes took a chill tinge--a hard and pebbly stare. "I don'tknow what you mean, " he said. 

"Men always say that, especially when they know very well. Of course Imean the Macartneys. You didn't suppose I was thinking of thePoplolly?" The Poplolly, I regret to say, was Francis Lingen, whomVera abhorred. The term was opprobrious, and inexact. 

But Urquhart shrouded himself in ice. "Perhaps you might explainyourself, " he said. 

Vera was not at all sure that she would. "You make it almostimpossible, you know. "

They were all out in a party, and were to meet the luncheon and theboys, who had gone round in the boat. As parties will have it, theyhad soon scattered. Lingen had taken Margery Dacre to himself, Lucywas with her husband. Urquhart, now he came to think of it, began tounderstand that the sceptre was out of his hands. The pass, worn outof the shelving rock by centuries of foot-work, wound itself aboutthe breasting cliffs like a scarf; below them lay the silver fiord, and upon that, a mere speck, they could see the motor-boat, with awake widening out behind her like parallel lines of railway. 

Urquhart saw in his mind that he would be a fool to quarrel with Vera. She was not on his side, he could feel; but he didn't despair of her. One way of putting her off him forever was to allow her to think him afool. That he could not afford. 

"Don't turn against me for a mannerism, my dear, " he said. 

"I turn against you, if at all, for a lack of mannerism, " said Verabriskly. "It's too bad of you. Here I am as so much ballast for yourparty, and when I begin to make myself useful, you pretend I'm notthere. But I _am_ there, you know. "

"I was cross, " he said, "because I'm rather worried, and I thought youwere going to worry me more. "

"Well, maybe that I am, "--she admitted that. "But I don't like to seea sharp-faced man make a donkey of himself. The credit of the familyis at stake. "

He laughed. "I wouldn't be the first of us--and this wouldn't be thefirst time. There's whimsy in the blood. Well--out with it. Let meknow the worst. "

Vera stopped. "I intend to do it sitting. We've heaps of time. None ofthe others want us. "

Urquhart hit the rock with his staff. "That's the point, my child. Dothey--or don't they?"

"You believe, " Vera said, "that Lucy is in love with you. "

Urquhart replied, "I know that she was. "

"There you have the pull over me, " she answered. "I haven't eitheryour confidence or hers. All I can tell you is that now she isn't. "Urquhart was all attention. "Do you mean, she has told you anything?"

"Good Heavens, " Vera scoffed, "what do you take me for? Do you think Idon't know by the looks of her? If you weren't infatuated you'd knowbetter than I do. "

"My dear girl, " Urquhart said, with a straight look at her, "the factis, I am infatuated. "

"I'm sorry for you. You've made a mess of it. But I must say that I'mnot at all sorry for her. Don't you suppose that she is the sort tofind the world well lost for your _beaux yeux_. Far from that. She'dwilt like a rose in a window-box. "

"I'd take her into fairy-land, " said Urquhart. "She should walk in thedawn. She wouldn't feel her feet. "

"She would if they were damp, " said Vera, who could be as direct asyou please. "If you think she's a wood nymph in a cage, you're verymuch mistaken. She's very domestic. "

"I know, " said the infatuate, "that I touched her. " Vera tossed herhead. 

"I'll be bound you did. You aren't the first man to light a fire. That's what you did. You lit a fire for Macartney to warm his hand at. She's awfully in love with him. "

Urquhart grew red. "That's not probable, " he said. 

Vera said, "It's certain. Perhaps you'll take the trouble to satisfyyourself before you take tickets for fairy-land. It's an expensivejourney, I believe. Had you thought what you would be doing aboutLancelot--a very nice boy?"

"No details had been arranged, " said Urquhart, in his very annoyingway. 

"Not even that of the lady's inclinations, it appears. Well, I'vewarned you. I've done it with the best intentions. I suppose even youwon't deny that I'm single-minded? I'm not on the side of yoursolicitor. " That made Urquhart very angry. 

"I'm much obliged to you, my dear. We'll leave my solicitor out ofaccount for the moment. " But that nettled Vera, who flamed. 

"Upon my word, Jimmy, you are too sublime. You can't dispose of peoplequite like that. How are you to leave him out of account, when youbrought his wife into it? If you ever supposed that Macartney wasnothing but a solicitor, you were never more mistaken in yourlife--except when you thought that Lucy was a possible law-breaker. "

At the moment, and from where they stood, the sea-scape and thecoast-road stood revealed before and behind them for many a league. Infront it descended by sharp spirals to a river-bed. Vera Nugentstanding there, her chin upon her hands, her hands upon her staff, could see straight below her feet two absorbed couples, as it were ondifferent grades of the scene. In the first the fair Margery Dacreleaned against a rock while Lingen, on his knees, tied her shoestring;at a lower level yet Macartney, having handed his Lucy over a torrent, stooped his head to receive his tribute. Vera, who had a grain of pityin her, hoped that Urquhart had been spared; but whether he was or notshe never knew. No signs of disturbance were upon him at the ensuingpicnic, unless his treatment of Macartney--with a kind of humoroussavagery--betrayed him. They talked of the Folgefond, that mightysnow-field beyond the fiord which the three men intended to traversein a day or two's time. 

"Brace yourself, my friend, " Urquhart said. "Hearts have been brokenon that ground before now. "

James said that he had made his peace with God--but Lucy lookedfull-eyed and serious. 

"I never know when you are laughing at us, " she said to Urquhart. 

"Be sure that I have never laughed at you in my life, " he said acrossthe table-cloth. 

"He laughs at me, " said James behind his eyeglass; "but I defy him. The man who can laugh at himself is the man I envy. Now I never coulddo that. "

"You've hit me in a vital spot, " Urquhart said. "That's my littleweakness; and that's why I've never succeeded in anything--even inbreaking my neck. "

Lancelot nudged his friend Patrick. "Do you twig that?"

Patrick blinked, having his mouth too full to nod conveniently. 

"Can't drive a motor, I suppose! Can't fly--I don't think. "

"As to breaking your neck, " said James, "there's still a chance foryou. "

"I shall make a mess of it, " Urquhart retorted. 

"Is this going to be a neck-breaking expedition?" That was fromLingen, who now had an object in life. 

"I never said so, " Urquhart told him. "I said heart-breaking--a farsimpler affair. "

"What is going to break your heart in it, please?" Lucy asked him. She saw that there lay something behind his rattle. 

"Well, " said Urquhart, brazening it out, "it would break mine to getover the snow-field--some eight miles of it, there are--and to findthat I couldn't get down. That might easily happen. "

"And what would you do?"

James fixed her with his eyeglass. "That's where the neck-breakingmight intervene, " he said. "Jimmy would rather risk his neck any day. "

"Than his heart!"

"Heart!" said Vera. "No such thing. Quite another organ. It's a caseof dinner. He'd risk his neck for a dinner, and so would any man. "

"I believe you are right, " said James. 

Lucy with very bright eyes looked from one to the other of her lovers. Each wore a mask. She determined to ask James to give up theFolgefond, discerning trouble in the air. 

They went home by water, and Lancelot added his unconscious testimony. He was between Urquhart's knees, his hand upon the tiller, his moodconfidential. 

"I say--" he began, and Urquhart encouraged him to say on. 

--"It's slightly important, but I suppose I couldn't do the Folgefondby any chance?"

"You are saying a good deal, " said Urquhart. "I'll put it like this, that by some chance you might, but by no chance in the world couldPatrick. "

"Hoo!" said Lancelot, "and why not, pray?"

"His mother would put her foot on it. Splosh! it would go like acockroach. "

"I know, " said dreamy Lancelot. "That's what would happen to me, Iexpect. " Then he added, "That's what will happen to my father. "

"Good cockroach, " said Urquhart, looking ahead of him. "You think shewon't want him to go. "

Lancelot snorted. "_Won't_ want him! Why, she doesn't already. Andhe'll do what she wants, I'll bet you. "

"Does he always?"

"He always does now. It's the air, I fancy. "

CHAPTER XXI

THE DEPARTURE

But pout as she might, she could not prevail with James, whose vanityhad been scratched. 

"My dear girl, I'd sooner perish, " he said. "Give up a jolly walkbecause Jimmy Urquhart talks about my heart and his ownneck--preposterous! Besides, there's nothing in it. "

"But, James, " she said, "if I ask you--"

He kissed the back of her neck. She was before the glass, busy withher hair. "You don't ask me. You wouldn't ask me. No woman wants tomake a fool of a man. If she does, she's a vampire. "

"Mr. Urquhart is very impulsive, " she dared to say. 

"I've known that for a long time, " said James. "Longer than you have, I fancy. But it takes more than impulse to break another man's neck. Besides, I really have no reason to suppose that he wants to break myneck. Why should he?"

Here they were up against the wall again. If there were reasons, hecould not know them. There was no getting over it yet. They were tostart betimes in the morning, and sleep that night at Brattebö, whichis the hithermost spur of the chain. Dinner and beds had been orderedat Odde, beyond the snow-field. 

Dinner was a gay affair. They toasted the now declared lovers. True tohis cornering instincts, Lingen had told Lucy all about it in theafternoon. "Your sympathy means so much to me--and Margery, whose mindis exquisitely sensitive, is only waiting your nod to be at your feet, with me. "

"I should be very sorry to see either of you there, " Lucy said. "I'mvery fond of her and I shouldn't take it at all kindly if she demeanedherself. When do you think of marrying?"

He looked at her appealingly. "I must have time, " he said; "time tobuild the nest. "

"A flat, I suppose, " she said, declining such poetical flights. 

"A flat!" said Francis Lingen. "Really, it hadn't occurred to me. "

From Lucy the news went abroad, and so the dinner was gay. Urquhartconfined himself to the two boys, and told them about theFolgefond--of its unknown depth, of the crevasses, of the glacier onits western edge, of certain white snakes, bred by the snow, whichmight be found there. Their bite was death, he said. 

"Frost-bite, " said Patrick Nugent, who knew his uncle's way; butLancelot favoured his mother. 

"Hoo!" he said. "I expect that you'd give him what for. One blow ofyour sword and his head would lie at your feet. "

"That's nasty, too, " said Urquhart. "They have white blood, Ibelieve. " Lancelot blinked. 

"Beastly, " he said. "Did Mamma hear you? You'd better not tell her. She hates whiteness. Secretly--so do I, rather. "

It was afterwards, when the boys had gone to bed, that a seriousnessfell upon those of them who were given to seriousness. James and VeraNugent settled down squarely to piquet. Francis Lingen murmured to hisaffianced bride. 

"I don't disguise from myself--and from you I can have nosecrets--that there is danger in the walk. The snow is verytreacherous at this season. We take ropes, of course. Urquhart is saidto know the place; but Urquhart is--"

"He's very fascinating, " said Margery Dacre, and Francis lifted hiseyebrows. 

"You find that? Then I am distressed. I would share everything withyou if I could. To me, I don't know why, there is somethingcrude--some harsh note--a clangour of metal. I find him brazen--attimes. But to you, my love, who could be strident? You are the veryhome of peace. When I think of you I think of doves in a nest. "

"You must think of me to-morrow, then, " said Margery. He rewarded herwith a look. 

Lucy, for her part, had another sort of danger in her mind. It seemedabsolutely necessary to her now to speak to Urquhart, because she hada conviction that he and James had very nearly come to grips. Womenare very sharp at these things. She was certain that Urquhart knew thestate of her heart, just as certain as if she had told him of it. Thatbeing so, she dreaded his impulse. She suspected him of savagery, andas she had no pride where love was concerned she intended to appeal tohim. Modesty she had, but no pride. She must leave great blanks in herdiscourse; but she trusted him to fill them up. Then there wasanother difficulty. She had no remains of tenderness left for him: nota filament. Unless she went warily he might find that out and bemortally offended. All this she battled with while the good-nights toLancelot were saying upstairs. She kissed his forehead, and stood overhim for a moment while he snuggled into his blankets. "Oh, my lamb, you are worth fighting for!" was her last thought, as she wentdownstairs full of her purpose. 

The card-players sat in the recess; the lovers were outside. Urquhartwas by himself on a divan. She thought that he was waiting for her. 

With a book for shield against the lamp she took the chair he offeredher. "Aren't they extraordinary?" she said. He questioned. 

"Who is extraordinary? Do you mean the card-sharpers? Not at all. It'smeat and drink to them. It's we who are out of the common: daintierfeeders. "

"No, " she said, "it's not quite that. James's strong point is that hecan keep his feelings in separate pigeonholes. I'm simply quaking withfear, because my imagination has flooded me. But he won't think aboutthe risks he's running--until he is running them. "

Urquhart had been looking at her until he discovered that James hadhis eye upon her too. He crossed his leg and clasped the knee of it;he looked fixedly at the ceiling as he spoke. 

"I should like to know what it is you're afraid of, " he said in acarefully literal but carefully inaudible tone. He did that sort ofthing very well. 

Lucy was pinching her lip. "All sorts of things, " she said. "I sufferfrom presentiments. I think that you or James may be hurt, forinstance--"

"Do you mean, " said Urquhart--as if he had been saying "Where did youget this tobacco?"--"Do you mean that you're afraid we may hurt eachother?"

She hung her head deeply. 

"You needn't be. If you can fear that you must forget my promise. " Hesaw her eyes clear, then cloud again before her difficulties. 

"James, at least, " she said, "has never done you any harm. " It wasawfully true. But it annoyed him. Damn James!

"None whatever, " he answered sharply. "I wonder if I haven't done himany good. "

Looking at her guardedly, through half-closed eyes, he saw that shewas strongly moved. Her bosom rose and fell hastily, like short waveslipping a wharf. Her hands were shut tight. "You have been the bestfriend I ever had, " she said. "Don't think I'm not grateful. "

That came better. He tapped his pipe on the ash-tray at hand. "Mydear, " he said, "I intend to live on your gratitude. Don't be afraidof anything. _Lascia fare a me. _" She rewarded him with a shy look. Arueful look, it cut him like a knife; but he could have screwed itround in the wound to get more of such pain. There's no morebitter-sweet torment to a man than the thanks of the beloved woman forher freedom given back to her. 

He felt very sick indeed--but almost entirely with himself. For her hechose to have pity; of Macartney he would not allow himself to thinkat all. Danger lay that way, and he did not intend to be dangerous. Hewould not even remember that he was subject to whims. The thoughtflitted over his mind, like an angel of death, but he dismissed itwith an effort. After all, what good could come of freebooting? Thegame was up. Like all men of his stamp, he cast about him far and widefor a line of action; for directly the Folgefond walk was over hewould be off. To stay here was intolerable--just as to back out of thewalk would be ignominious. No, he would go through with that somehow;but from Odde, he thought, he might send for his things and clear out. It did not occur to him that he might have to deal with Macartney. What should Macartney want that he had not? He had vindicated the law!

But the hour was come when Macartney was to know everything. Lucy wasadorable, and he simply adored her; then in the melting mood whichfollows she sobbed and whispered her broken confession. He had thewhole story from the beginning. 

He listened and learned; he was confounded, he was deeply touched. Hemight have been humiliated, and so frozen; he might have beenoffended, and so bitter; but he was neither. Her tears, her sobs, herclinging, her burning cheeks, the flood of her words, or the suddenebb which left her speechless--all this taught him what he might be toa woman who dared give him so much. He said very little himself, andexacted the last dregs from her cup. He drank it down like a thirstyhorse. Probably it was as sweet for him to drink as for her to pour;for love is a strange affair and can be its own poison and antidote. 

At the end he forgot his magnanimity, so great was his need of hers. "You have opened my eyes to my own fatuity. You have made me what Inever thought I could be. I am your lover--do you know that? And Ihave been your husband for how long? Your husband, Lucy, and now yourlover. Never let these things trouble you any more. "

She clung to him with passion. "I love you, " she said. "I adore you. If I've been wicked, it was to prove you good to me, and to crush meto the earth. Love me again--I am yours forever. "

Later she was able to talk freely to him, as of a thing past and done. "It's very odd; I can't understand it. You didn't begin to love meuntil he did, and then you loved me for what he saw in me. Isn't thattrue?"

"I couldn't tell you, " he said, "because I don't know what he didsee. "

"He thought I was pretty--"

"So you are--"

"He thought that I liked to be noticed--"

"Well, and you do--"

"Of course. But it never struck you. "

"No--fool that I was. "

"I love you for your foolishness. "

"Yes, but you didn't. "

"No, " she said quickly. "No! because you wouldn't allow it. You mustlet women love before you can expect them to be meek. "

He laughed. "Do you intend to be meek?"

Then it was her turn to laugh. "I should think I did! That's my prideand joy. You may do what you like now. "

He found that a hard saying; but it is a very true one. 

The departure was made early. Lucy came down to breakfast, and theboys; but Margery Dacre did not appear. Vera of course did not. Noonwas her time. The boys were to cross the fiord with them and return inthe boat. Lucy would not go, seeing what was the matter with Urquhart. 

Urquhart indeed was in a parlous frame of mind. He was very grim toall but the boys. He was to them what he had always been. Polite andvery quiet in his ways with Lucy, he had no word for either of hiscompanions. James treated him with deference; Francis Lingen, who felthimself despised, was depressed. 

"Jolly party!" said Lancelot, really meaning it, and made Urquhartlaugh. But Lucy shuddered at such a laugh. She thought of the wolvesin the Zoological Gardens when at sundown they greet the night. Itmade her blood feel cold in her veins. 

"If no one's going to enjoy himself, why does anybody go?" she said ata venture. James protested that he was going to enjoy himselfprodigiously. As for Lingen, he said, it would do him no end of good. 

"I jolly well wish I could go, " was Lancelot's fishing shot, and Lucy, who was really sorry for Urquhart, was tempted to urge it. But Jameswould not have heard of such a thing, she knew. 

Then they went, with a great deal of fuss and bustle. James, a greatstickler for the conventions, patted her shoulder for all good-bye. Urquhart waited his chance. 

"Good-bye, my dear, " he said. "I've had my innings here. You won't seeme again, I expect. I ask your pardon for many things--but I believethat we are pretty well quits. Trust me with your James, won't you?Good-bye. " He asked her that to secure himself against whims. 

She could do no more than give him her hand. He kissed it, and lefther. The boat was pushed out. Urquhart took the helm, with Lancelot inthe crook of his arm. He turned once and waved his cap. 

"There goes a man any woman could love, " she told herself. If she hada regret she had it not long. "Some natural tears they shed, but driedthem soon. "

They made a good landing, bestowed their gear in a cart, and set outfor a long climb to Brattebö, which they reached in the lateafternoon--a lonely farm on the side of a naked hill. They sleptthere, and were to rise at four for the snow-field. 

CHAPTER XXII

CATASTROPHE

They were up and away before the light, taking only one guide withthem, a sinewy, dark man with a clubbed beard on his chin. If they hadhad two it had been better, and Urquhart, who knew that, made a greatfuss; but to no purpose. All the men were at the sæters, they weretold; haymaking was in full swing out there. There was nothing to bedone. Urquhart was put out, and in default of another man of sensemade James his partner in griefs. "I know these chaps, " he said. "Whenthey are alone they lose their heads. The least little difficulty, they shy off and turn for home. I judge this man of ours to have theheart of a mouse. He don't want to go at all. If there are two of themthey egg each other on. They talk it over. Each tries to be the bolderman. "

"But is there going to be any difficulty?" James enquired, surveyingthe waste through his eyeglass. "I don't see why there should be. "

"You never know, " Urquhart said curtly; but presently he was moreconfidential. "Don't tell that ass Lingen; but it might be quitedifficult to get off this place. "

James stared about him. "You know best. But is it harder to get offthan on?"

"Of course it is, my dear chap, " said Urquhart, quite in his old veinof good-tempered scorn. "We are going up on the north side, where thesnow is as hard as a brick. "

"Ah, " said James, "now I see. And we go down on the south, where it'sas soft--"

"Where it may be as soft as a bran-mash. Or blown over into cornices. "

James saw, or said that he did. In his private mind he judged Urquhartof trying to intimidate him. The vice of the expert! But he noticedthat the guide had a coil of rope, and that Urquhart carried a shovel. 

It was easy going until near noon, with no snow to speak about. Theyclimbed a series of ridges, like frozen waves; but each was higherthan the last, and took them closer to the clouds. When they lunchedunder the shelter of some tumbled rocks a drifting rain blew acrossthe desolation. 

"Jolly!" said James, but quite happily. Lingen shivered. 

"My dear man, " said Urquhart, "just you wait. I'll surprise you in aquarter of an hour's time. " He spoke in his old way, as hectoring whomhe tolerated. James noticed it, and was amused. He hadn't yet had timeto be angry with this rascal; and now he began to doubt whether heshould. After all, he had gained so very much more than he had lost. Honour? Oh, that be jiggered. Something too much of his own honour. Why, it was through Urquhart's attack upon Lucy that he had found outwhat Lucy was. Urquhart, at this time, was marching rather in front ofhim: James looked him over. A hardy, impudent rogue, no doubt--withthat square, small head on him, that jutting chin--and his pair ofblue eyes which would look through any woman born and burn her heartto water. Yes, and so he had had Lucy's heart--as water to be pouredover his feet. By Heaven, when he thought of it, he, James Adolphus, had been the greater rogue: to play the Grand Turk; to hoard thatlovely, quivering creature in his still seraglio; to turn the key, andleave her there! And Jimmy Urquhart got in by the window. Of coursehe did. He was not an imaginative man by nature; but he was now alover and had need to enhance his mistress. How better do that than bycalling himself a d----d fool (the greatest blame he knew)? It followsthat if he had been a fool, Urquhart had not! Impudent dog, if youlike, but not a fool. Now, for the life of him, James could notdespise a man who was not a fool. Nor could he hate one whom he hadbested. He did not hate Urquhart; he wasn't angry with him; hecouldn't despise him. On the contrary, he was sorry for him. 

But now the miracle happened, and one could think of nothing else. Asthey tramped through the cold mist, over snow that was still crisp andshort with frost, the light gained by degrees. The flying fog becameblue, then radiant: quite suddenly they burst into the sun. Thedazzling field stretched on all sides so far as the eye could see. Snow and cloud, one could not distinguish them; and above them thearch of hyaline, a blue interwoven with light, which throbbed to thepoint of utterance, and drowned itself in the photo-sphere. The lightseemed to make the sun, to climb towards the zenith, to mass and thento burst in flame. All three men took it in, each in his fashion. Lingen was greatly moved; Urquhart became jocular. 

"Well, " he said to Macartney, "what do you make of that? That's worthcoming up for. That ought to extenuate a good deal. " James was quickto notice the phrase. 

"Oh, " he said, "you can show me things. I'm very much obliged to you. This is a wonder of the world. "

"Now what the deuce does he mean by that?" Urquhart thought tohimself. Had Lucy told him anything? He didn't believe it. Impossible. Women don't tell. 

They had seven miles of snow, pretty soft by now, and steadily uphill. They bent themselves seriously to it, and found no occasion fortalk. There were crevasses--green depths of death--to be avoided. Their guide, light-eyed for scares, seemed to know them all, andreserved his alarm for signs in the sky invisible to the party. Hemended the pace, which became rather severe. Francis Lingen wasdistressed; Macartney kept back to give him company. Urquhart forgedon ahead with the guide. 

By four in the afternoon one at least of them was gruelled. That wasLingen. "If we don't get down after all, it'll go hard withPoplolly, " Urquhart said to James. James replied, "Oh, we must getdown. That's all nonsense. " Urquhart said nothing, and they went on. 

They reached a point where their guide, stopping for a moment, lookedback at them and pointed forward with his staff. "Odde is over there, "he said, and Urquhart added that he knew whereabouts they were. "If itwere clear enough, " he told them, "you might see it all lying belowyou like a map; but I doubt if you'll see anything. " They pushed on. 

Before the last slope, which was now close at hand, the ground becamevery bad. The crevasses showed in every direction, raying out likecracks on an old bench. The guide was evidently anxious. He gave upall appearance of conducting his party and went off rapidly byhimself. They waited for him in silence; but presently Urquhart said, "I bet you any money he won't want to go down. "

"Don't he want to dine as much as we do?" said James. 

"He doesn't want to break his neck, " said Urquhart; "that's his littleweakness. "

"I sympathise with him, " James said; "but I should like to know morebefore I turn back. "

"You'll only know what he chooses to tell you, " Urquhart answered. Lingen was sitting on the snow. 

The guide came back with firm steps. His eyes sought Urquhart'snaturally. 

"Well?" he was asked; and lifted his stock up. 

"Impossible, " he said. 

"Why impossible?" James asked Urquhart, having none of the language, but guessing at the word. 

Urquhart and the man talked; the latter was eloquent. 

"He says, " Urquhart told them, "that there's a great cornice, and adrop of forty feet or so. Then he thinks there's another; but he's notsure of that. He intends to go back. I knew he did before he went outto look. It's a beastly nuisance. "

James looked at Lingen, who was now on his feet. "Well, " he said, "what do you feel about it?"

Lingen, red in the face, said, "You'll excuse me, but I shall do whatthe guide proposes, though I admit to great fatigue. I don't think itwould be right, under the circumstances, to do otherwise. I feel agreat responsibility; but I gather that, in any case, he himself woulddecline to go down. You will think me timid, I dare say. "

"No, no, " James said. "That's all right, of course. Personally, Ishould be inclined to try the first cornice anyhow. There's always achance, you know. "

Urquhart looked at him keenly. "Do you mean that?" he asked him. 

"Yes, " James said. "Why do you ask?" Urquhart turned away. When hefaced James again he was strangely altered. His eyes were narrower;lines showed beside his mouth. Temptation was hot in the mouth. "We'dbetter talk about it, " he said, and jerked his head sideways. 

James walked with him a little way. "What's all this mystery?" heasked. 

"I wonder if you know what you are doing, " Urquhart said; "I wonder ifyou know what this means. Do you know, for instance, that I don't carea damn whether I break my neck or not, and on the whole would ratherthat you did than didn't? You ought to know it. But I'm asking you. "

James kept his eyeglass to his eye. "I think you are talkingnonsense, " he said, "but I don't suppose you intend it for nonsense. You inspire me to say, taking you on your face value, that I shall trythe first cornice. If it's a forty-foot drop, we ought to have ropeenough. "

Urquhart peered at him. "You mean what you say?"

"Certainly I do. " Urquhart turned on his heel. 

"All right, " he said, and went over to the other two. 

"Macartney and I are going down, " he said to Lingen. "I don't at allblame you for going back, but I'll trouble you to see that this mandoes the needful to-morrow. The needful is to come out here as earlyas he can get over the ground, to see if we want him. He had betterfire a gun, or shout. If we are alive we shall answer him. If we don'tanswer, he had better see about it. I don't want to scare you, butthis is not a joke, and I can't afford to be misunderstood. Now I'mgoing to tell him all that in his own lingo. "

Lingen took it very badly; but said nothing. Urquhart spoke vehementlyto the guide, who raised his staff and appeared to be testifying toHeaven. He handed over the rope, the shovel, and the kit with an airof Pilate washing his hands. 

"Now, " Urquhart said to James, "we'll rope, and see if we can cut somesteps through this thing. I've seen that done. " James, dropping hiseyeglass, said that he was in his hands. Everybody was quiet, but theywere all in a hurry. 

Lingen came up to say good-bye. He was very much distressed, nearlycrying. The guide, on the other hand, was chafing to be off. "If thatchap calls himself a guide, " said Urquhart, "he ought to be shot. " Theguide thereupon threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. Lingensaid that he couldn't possibly go until he had seen them down. Theguide, who was sullen and nervous, remained to help them. Even thatseemed to be against his convictions. 

They fixed one of the stocks in a crevasse; Urquhart roped. Then hewent forward to the edge, or what seemed to be the edge, and havingcrawled on his belly so far as to be almost invisible, presently wasseen to be standing up, then to fall to it with the shovel. He seemedto be cutting steps, and descending as he worked. Gradually hedisappeared, and the pull on the rope began. They paid out cautiouslyand regularly--all seemed well. He might have had twenty feet of it;and then there was a sudden violent wrench at it, and it came backlimp in Macartney's hands. 

"He's gone, " he said. Then he shouted with all his might. No answercame. They all shouted; the echoes rang round the waste, driven backon them from the hidden mountain tops. In the deathlike hush whichfollowed one of them thought to hear an answering cry. Lingen heardit, or thought that he did, and began to haul up the rope. When theyhad the end of it in their hands it was found to be cut clean. "He didthat himself, " James said, then added, "I'm going down. Give me outthis rope--for what it's worth. " To Lingen he said, "Get back as quickas you can, and bring up some men to-morrow. " Then, having securedhimself, he went down the flawless snow slope, and they paid out thecord as he wanted it. He had no particular sensation of fear; he knewtoo little about it to have any. It is imaginative men who fear theunknown. True, the rope had been cut once, and might have to be cutagain. If Urquhart had had to cut, it was because it had been tooshort. And now it would be shorter. But there was no time to think ofanything. 

The snow seemed to be holding him. He had got far beyond Urquhart'sledges, was upon the place where Urquhart must have slid rapidly down. All was well as yet, but he didn't want to overshoot the mark. He kepthis nerve steady, and tried to work it all out in his mind. If thiswere really a cornice it must now be very thin, he thought. He droveat it with his staff, and found that it was so. It was little morethan a frozen crust. He kicked into it with his feet, got a foothold, and worked the hole bigger. Then he could peer down into the deep, where the shadows were intensely blue. It looked a fearful drop; buthe saw Urquhart lying there, and went on. He descended some ten, orperhaps fifteen feet more, and found himself dangling in the air. Hewas at the end of the rope then. "I'll risk it, " he said, and got hisknife out. 

He dropped within a few yards of Urquhart. 

CHAPTER XXIII

JAMES AND JIMMY

Macartney found him lying very still; nothing, in fact, seemed to bealive but his eyes, which were wide open and missed nothing. 

"You're hurt, I'm afraid. Can you tell me anything?"

Urquhart spoke in a curiously level tone. It seemed to giveimpartiality to what he said, as if he had been discussing thetroubles of a man he hardly knew. 

"Back broken, I believe. Anyhow, I can't feel anything. I'm sorry youcame down after me. "

"My dear fellow, " said James, "what do you take me for?"

Those bright, all-seeing, steady eyes were fixed upon him. They hadthe air of knowing everything. 

"Well, you knew what I _did_ take you for, anyhow, and so it wouldhave been reasonable--"

"We won't talk about all that, " James said. "Let me cover you up withsomething--and then I'll see what can be done about moving you. "

Urquhart spoke indifferently about that. "I doubt if you can getdown--and it's a good step to Odde. Four hours, I dare say. "

"Yes, but there would be a house nearer than Odde. If I could get somebearers--we'd get you comfortable before dark. "

"Oh, I'm comfortable enough now, " Urquhart said. James thought that abad sign. 

He unpacked the rücksacks, got out the brandy-flask, a mackintosh, asweater and a cape. "Now, my dear man, I'm going to hurt you, I'mafraid; but I must have you on a dry bed; and you must drink some ofthis liquor. Which will you have first?"

"The brandy, " said Urquhart, "and as soon as you like. "

He helped as much as he could, groaned once or twice, sweated with theeffort; but the thing was done. He lay on the mackintosh, his head ona rücksack, the cape and sweater over him. Macartney went to the edgeof the plateau to prospect. A billowy sea of white stretched out to ablue infinity. The clouds had lifted or been vaporised. He could seenothing of Odde; but he believed that he could make out a thread ofsilver, which must be the fiord. It would take him too long to get outthere and back--and yet to stay here! That meant that the pair of themwould die. It is but just to him to say that no alternative presenteditself to him. The pair of them would die? Well, yes. What else wasthere? He returned. Urquhart was waiting for him, intensely awake toeverything. 

"Old chap, " said James, "that's no go. I didn't try the snow; but Ican judge distances. It's a deuce of a way down, even if there _is_ away, and--"

"It's all right, " Urquhart said, "there isn't a way. I'm cornered thistime. But there's just a chance for you--if you work at it. It'llbegin to freeze--in fact, it has begun already. Now if you can findthe shovel, you might employ yourself finely, digging a stairway. You'll be up by midnight. "

"Never mind about me, " James said. "I'm going to keep you warm first. "

But Urquhart was fretting. He frowned and moved his head about. "No, no, don't begin that. It's not worth it--and I can't have you do it. You ought to know who I am before you begin the Good Samaritan stunt. I want to talk to you while I can. I've got a good deal to tell you. That will be better for me than anything. " Jimmy was prepared forsomething of the kind. 

"I believe it will, " he said. "Go on, then, and get it over. "

It had been his first impulse to assure the poor chap that he knew allabout it; but a right instinct stopped him. He would have to hear it. 

So Urquhart began his plain tale, and as he got into it the contrastbetween it and himself became revolting, even to him. A hale man mighthave brazened it out with a better air. A little of the romance withwhich it had begun, which indeed alone made it tolerable, would havebeen about it still. A sicker man than Urquhart, who made a hard deathfor himself, would have given up the battle, thrown himself at James'sfeet and asked no quarter. Urquhart was not so far gone as that; alittle bluster remained. He did it badly. He didn't mean to be brutal;he meant to be honest; but it sounded brutal, and James could hardlyendure it. 

He saw, too, as the poor chap went on, that he was getting angry, anddoing himself harm. That was so. Every step he took in his narrativesharpened the edge of the fate which cut him off. He would have madea success of it if he could--but he had been really broken before hebroke his back, and the knowledge exasperated him. 

So he took refuge in bluster, made himself out worse than he was, andin so doing distorted Lucy. James was in torment, remembering what hemust. He felt her arms close about his neck; he felt the rush of herwords: "And oh, darling, I thought it was you--of course I thoughtso--and I was proud and happy--that you should like me so much! Ilooked at myself in the glass afterwards. I thought, 'You must berather pretty. ' ... " Oh, Heaven, and this mocking, dying devil, withhis triumphs!

"Say no more, man, say no more, " broke from him. "I understand therest. I have nothing to say to you. You did badly--you did me awrong--and her too. But it's done with, and she (God bless her!) cantake no harm. How can she? She acted throughout with a pure mind. Shethought that you were me, and when she found that you weren't--well, well, take your pride in that. I give it up to you. Why shouldn't I?She gave you her innocent heart. I don't grudge you. "

"You needn't, " said Urquhart, "since I'm a dead man. But if I had beena living one, who knows--?" He laughed bitterly, and stung the other. 

"You forget one thing, " said James, with something of his old frozencalm. "For all that you knew, ten minutes after you had left my housethat day--the first of them--I might have benefited by your act--andyou been none the wiser, nor I any the worse off. And there would havebeen an end of it. "

Urquhart considered the point. James could have seen it working in hispoor, wicked, silly mind, but kept his face away. 

"Yes, " Urquhart said, "you might; but you didn't. " Then he laughedagain--not a pleasant sound. 

"Man, " said James indignant, "don't you see? What robs me of utteranceis that I _have_ benefited by what you have done. "

"It's more than you have deserved, in my opinion, " Urquhart retorted. "I'll ask you not to forget that she has loved me, and doesn't blameme. And I'll ask you not to forget that it is I who am telling you allthis, and not she. " It was his last bite. 

The retort was easy, and would have crushed him; but James did notmake it. Let him have his pitiful triumph. He was not angry any more;he couldn't be--and there was Lucy to be thought of. What wouldUrquhart think of a Lucy who could have revealed such things as these?He would have judged her brazen, little knowing the warm passion ofher tears. Ah, not for him these holy moments. No, let him diethinking honour of her--honour according to his own code. He put hishand out and touched Urquhart's face with the back of it. 

"Let us leave it at this, " he said; "we both love her. We are neitherof us fit. She would have taken either of us. But I came first, andthen came Lancelot--and she loves the law. Put it no other way. "

"The law, the law!" said the fretful, smitten man. 

"The law of her nature, " said James. 

He felt Urquhart's piercing eyes to be upon him and schooled himselfto face them and to smile into them. To his surprise he saw them fillwith tears. 

"You are a good chap, " Urquhart said. "I never knew that before. "Macartney blew his nose. 

No more was said, but the sufferer now allowed him to do what hewould. He chafed his hands and arms with brandy; took off his bootsand chafed his feet. He succeeded in getting a certain warmth intohim, and into himself too. He began to be hopeful. 

"I think I shall pull you through, " he told him. "You ought to be apretty hard case. I suppose you don't know how you came to fall sobadly. "

"Well, I do, " Urquhart said. 

"Don't tell me if you'd rather not. "

"Oh, what does it matter now? It was a whim. "

James smiled. "Another whim?"

"Yes--and another fiasco. You see, in a way, I had dared you to come. "

"I admit that. "

"Well, I hadn't played fair. I knew, and you didn't, that it was a badjob. You can't get down this way--not when the snow's like this. "

"Oh, can't you?"

"I think not. Well, I ought to have told you. I was tempted. That'sthe worst thing I ever did. I ask your pardon for that. "

"You have it, old chap, " said James. 

"You can afford to be magnanimous, " Urquhart snapped out fiercely. "Damn it, you have everything. But I felt badly about it as I wasgoing down, and I thought, 'They'll feel the break, and know it's allover. So I cut the painter--do you see?"

"Yes, " said James, "I see. " He did indeed see. 

Urquhart began to grow drowsy and to resent interference. He was toofar gone to think of anything but the moment's ease. James, on theother hand, was entirely absorbed in his patient. "I'm not going tolet you sleep, " he said. "It's no good making a fuss. I've got thekinch on you now. " It was as much as he had. The air was biting cold, and the colder it got the more insistent on sleep Urquhart became. 

James stared about him. Was this the world that he knew? Were kindlycreatures moving about somewhere in it, helping each other? Was Lucyin this place? Had she lain against his heart two nights ago? Had hebeen so blessed? Had life slipped by--and was this the end? Which wasthe reality, and which the dream? If both had been real, and this wasthe end of men's endeavour--if this were death--if one slipped out inthis cur's way, the tail between the legs--why not end it? He couldsleep himself, he thought. Suppose he lay by this brother cur of hisand slept? Somewhere out beyond this cold there were men by firelightkissing their wives. Poor chaps, they didn't know the end. This wasthe end--loneliness and cold. Yes, but you could sleep!... 

 * * * * *

Suddenly he started, intent and quivering. He had heard a cry. Everyfibre of him claimed life. He listened, breathlessly. Above theknocking of his own heart he heard it again. No doubt at all. Heturned to Urquhart and shook him. "They are coming--they arecoming--we are going to be saved!" He was violently moved; tears werestreaming down his face. Urquhart, out of those still, aware, dreadfully intelligent eyes, seemed to see them coming--whoever theywere. He too, and his pitiful broken members, were calling on life. 

James, on his feet, shouted with might and main, and presently wasanswered from near at hand. Then he saw Lingen and the guide wadingthrough the snow. "They have found us, " he told Urquhart; "it'sFrancis Lingen and the guide. How they've done it I don't pretend toguess. "

"They've got around the cornice, " Urquhart said. "It can be done Iknow. " He seemed indifferent again, even annoyed again that hecouldn't be allowed to sleep. James thought it a pose, this time. 

Lingen, out of breath but extremely triumphant, met James. 

"Thank God, " he said. James with lifted brows waved his head backwardto indicate the sufferer. 

"He's very bad, " he said. "How did you get him to come?" He meant theguide. 

Flaming Lingen said, "I made him. I was desperate. I've never donesuch a thing before, but I laid hands on him. "

"You are a brick, " said James. 

Lingen said, "It's something to know that you can throttle a man whenyou want to badly enough. I hadn't the slightest idea. It's a thing Inever did before. I rather like it. "

Throttled or not, the guide saved the situation. He saved it, undisguisedly, for his own sake; for he had no zest for helping tocarry a bier over the Folgefond. They made a litter of alpen-stocksand the mackintosh, and so between them carried Urquhart down themountain. No need to dwell on it. They reached the hotel at Odde aboutmidnight, but halfway to it they found help. 

CHAPTER XXIV

URQUHART'S APOLOGY

Macartney was right when he said to Lucy, in talking over theadventure, that Urquhart had no moral sense, though she had not thenbeen convinced. But she was to be convinced before she had done withhim. 

He asked for her repeatedly, and with no regard at all to what hadhappened. At last he was told that if he excited himself she wouldleave the hotel. Vera Nugent told him that, having installed herselfhis nurse. Vera, who knew nothing but suspected much, guessed thatMacartney had had as much of her brother as he cared about. As forLucy, on the whole she despised her for preferring James with the Lawto Jimmy without it. In this she did little justice to James's use ofhis advantage; but, as I say, she didn't know what had happened. Allshe could see for herself was that where she had once had a _faible_for Urquhart she was now ridiculously in love with her husband. Verathought 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 afever. If he kept quiet, she believed that he would recover. There wasno dislocation, the doctors told her, but a very bad wrench. He mustbe perfectly still--and we should see. 

Lucy was not told how impatiently she was awaited. James, maybe, didnot know anything about it. He felt great delicacy in telling what hehad to tell her of the events of that day. But she guessed nearlyeverything, even that Urquhart had intended to break his own neck. "Hewould, " she said, being in a stare; "he's like that. " James agreed, but pointed out that it had nearly involved his own end likewise. Lucystared 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 thatif he cut the rope, he, James, would immediately turn for home. Shenodded her head several times. "He's like that. " And then she turnedand hid her face. "It's all dreadful, " she said; "I don't want to knowany more. " It was then that James pronounced upon Urquhart's absenceof morality, and found out that she was very much interested in himanyhow. 

She was curious about what had passed between him and James, for shewas sure that there had been something. James admitted that. "It wasvery uncomfortable, " he said; "I cut him as short as I could--but Iwas awfully sorry for him. After all, I had scored, you see. "

She gave him a long look. "Yes, you scored. All ways. Because, it wasonly when I was angry with you that I--thought he might do. " Therecould be no comment on that. Then she said, "I'm thankful that I toldyou everything before he did. "

"So am I, by Jove, " said James. He put his arm round her. "If youhadn't, " he said, "I think I could have let him die. " Lucy shook herhead. 

"No, you wouldn't have done that. He would have--but not you. If youhad been capable of that you wouldn't have called me to come to you asyou did--that day. " He knew which day she meant, and felt it necessaryto tell her something about it. 

"On that day, " he said, "though you didn't know it, I was awfully inlove with you. " She looked at him, wonderfully. "No, I didn't knowthat! What a donkey I was! But I was wretched. I simply longed foryou. "

"If you hadn't cried, you would never have had me. " That sheunderstood. 

"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, verymuch; but wouldn't say so. 

"You needn't mind a bit, " she told him. "He has terrified me. I'm notadventurous 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 benefitof the boys. From a distance they saw the great cornice, and theplateau where James had watched by Urquhart. Lancelot was hereconfronted with irony for the first time. His loyalty was severelytried. By rights Mr. Urquhart ought to have rescued the lot. Not fora moment could he doubt of that. As for his father, accepted on allhands as a hero, there were difficulties in the way which he could notget over. He had to go very warily to work because of his mother; buthe went as far as he could. Why was it that Mr. Urquhart was hurt andFather was not, when they both had the same drop? Lucy could only saythat Father dropped better--or fell better. And then there was apause. "What! With an eyeglass!" He allowed himself that--with her;but with Patrick Nugent he was short and stern. Patrick had saidsomething of the same kind, as they were journeying home together. Whyhadn't Lancelot's governor smashed his eyeglass when he dropped?Lancelot sniffed offence immediately, and snorted, "Hoo! Jolly goodthing for him he didn't! It kept the cold out of his eye. It's likefeeding a mouse when you're a prisoner in dungeons. Afterwards itcomes and gnaws the rope. Pooh, any ass could see that. " And so muchfor Patrick and cheek. 

 * * * * *

But the sick man, fretting in his bed, took short views. To see Lucyagain had become so desirable that he could think of nothing else. She glanced before him as a Promise, and his nature was such that aPromise was halfway to a fulfilling. As strength grew, so did he waxsanguine, and amused himself by reconstructing his Spanish castle. 

Vera Nugent gave him no encouragement; and perhaps overdid it. "Hadn'tyou really better let the woman alone? She's perfectly happy--in spiteof you. " He could afford to laugh at this. 

"She doesn't know what happiness is. She thinks it is safety. I couldteach 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'swhat a dormouse calls happiness. "

"Well, there's a good deal of the dormouse in Lucy, " Vera said. "Ifyou stroke her she shines. "

"Silence!" he cried sharply out. "You don't know anything at all. Ihave 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 ifshe refused. "

"She won't refuse, " he said. 

 * * * * *

James must be told, of course. He took it quietly. "Yes, on thewhole--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 yougoing?"

"Yes, " said Lucy slowly. "Yes, I'll go now. " She went to him and puther hands on his shoulders. Her eyes searched his face, and found itinscrutable. "You mind, " she said, "I know you do. You ought not--butI'm glad of it. "

He humbled himself at once. They parted as lovers part; but for thelife of him he could not understand how she could find the heart togo. 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 tospare. 

Vera Nugent took her into the room, pausing outside the door. "You'llfind him very jumpy, " she said; and then, "My dear, you're sosensible. "

Lucy, who knew that she meant precisely the opposite, said, "No, Idon'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. " Thenthey went in. "Jimmy, here's Mrs. Macartney. "

The quick eyes from the bed had been upon her from the first. It wasimmediately evident to her that she was not to be spared. She heardhis "At last!" and braced herself for what that might mean. 

"I should have come before if the doctors had approved--so would Jamesand Lancelot, " she said as briskly as she might. He took no notice ofher addition. Vera Nugent, saying, "Don't let him talk too much, " thenleft her with him. 

She began matter-of-fact enquiries, but he soon showed her that shehad not been brought in for such platitude. He played the mastery ofthe invalid without hesitation. 

"Oh, I'm very sick, you know. They tell me that I shall be as fit asever I was, if I behave--but really I don't know. I've a good dealbehind me--and not much before--so that I'm comparatively indifferenthow the thing goes.... Look here, Lucy, " he said suddenly--and shestiffened at her name--"I have to talk to you at last. It's wonderfulhow 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 beallowed to enquire... ?" Scared perhaps by his pomposity, he broke off:"No, that won't do. I'll ask you simply, what has happened? You likedme--to say no more. Now you don't. No, no, don't protest yet. Leave itat that. Well, and then there's Macartney. Macartney didn't know youexisted. 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 givenhim. Mostly, perhaps, she was annoyed because her answer must soundridiculous. Hateful, that such should be the lot of men and wives! Sherepeated his question, "What has happened? I don't know how to tellyou. I found out, before we started--James found out-- Please don'task me to talk about it. Believe me when I say that everything ischanged. I can't say more than that. "

He didn't move his eyes from her. She knew they were there though shewould not face them. "Everything isn't changed. I'm not changed. Idon't know that you are, although you say so. " She faced him. 

"Indeed, I am. I hope you'll understand that. " He frowned, his feverflushed him. 

"You can't be. We can never be ordinary acquaintance. I have kissedyou--"

"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--itwas the act of a cad--but I worked it all out. It couldn't fail; Iknew exactly how it would be. You would of course think it was he. Youwould be awfully touched, awfully pleased--set up. And you were. I sawthat you were when we all came into the room. You went over and stoodby 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 andshowed 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 hecontinued as if she had said nothing material. 

"I had made up my mind to be satisfied. I thought if I could see youexalted, proud of what you had, that would be enough. But you foundhim 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, mydear--"

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 mebut a thought of shame. I think I deserve all that you can say--butsurely you have said enough to me now. I must leave you if you go onwith this conversation. Nothing whatever is there--"

He laughed, not harshly, but comfortably, as a man does who is sure ofhimself. "Yes, there is something there still. I count on that. Thereis a common knowledge, unshared by any one but you and me. He wouldhave it so. I was ready to tell him everything, but he wouldn't hearme. It was honourable of him. I admired him for it; but it left mesharing 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 knewalready from me?"

Urquhart went pale. Grey patches showed on his cheeks and spread likedry 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 utterlydisconcerted that she could have pitied him. 

"So that's why he didn't want to hear me! No wonder. But--why didn'the tell me that he knew it? I taunted him with not knowing. " He turnedtowards her; his eyes were bright with fever. "If you know, perhapsyou'll tell me. "

Lucy said proudly, "I believe I know. He didn't want to change yourthoughts 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 gotup to leave him, really angry, but unwilling to appear so. "You mustforget all this, " she said, "and get well. Then you will do wonderfulthings. "

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'sa 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 yousee her about. Good-bye. " She left him. 

 * * * * *

She went through the hall, with a word to Vera, who was writingletters 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 sawthe party at tea on the balcony. James paused in his carefuloccupations, and focussed her with his eyeglass. She went quickly tothe 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 sheavoided James's eye, and eyeglass, with great care. But on a swiftafterthought she stooped and kissed Lancelot. 

EPILOGUE

Really, the only fact I feel called upon to add is the followingannouncement, 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 theaverage reader. Let it then stand for the point of my pair'spilgrimage. 

I promised a romantic James and have given you a sentimental one. Itis a most unfortunate thing that it should be thought ridiculous for aman to fall in love with his wife, for his wife to fall in love withhim; and we have to thank, I believe, the high romanticks for it. Theymust have devilry, it seems, or cayenne pepper. But I say, Scorn notthe sentimental, though it be barley-sugar to ambrosia, a canary'sflight to a skylark's. Scorn it not; it's the romantic of theunimaginative; and if it won't serve for a magic carpet, it makes auseful anti-macassar. 

The Macartneys saw no more of Urquhart, who, however, recovered theuse of his backbone, and with it his zest for the upper air. He sentLucy some flowers after the event of June, and later on, at the end ofJuly, 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? Thatletter? 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 "sæters" (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.