Love and Lucy Part 18

"Of course you are impatient. I can't help it, all the same. I am telling you the truth. I don't know what is going to happen. I feel afraid of something--I don't know what--"

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

She was deeply disappointed; she had pictured it so differently. He would have understood her, she had thought. But he seemed to be in his worst mood. She stood, the picture of distressful uncertainty, hot and wavering; her head hung, her hand moving a book about on the table. To his surprise and great discomfort he now discerned that she was silently crying. Tears were falling, she made no effort to stop them, nor to conceal them. Her weakness and dismay were too much for her.

She accepted the relief, and neither knew nor cared whether he saw it.

James was not hard-hearted unless his vanity was hurt. This was the way to touch him, as he was prepared to be touched. "My child," he said, "why, what's the matter with you?" She shook her head, tried to speak, failed, and went on crying.

"Lucy," said James, "come here to me." She obeyed him at once.

Something about her att.i.tude moved him to something more than pity.

Her pretty frock and her refusal to be comforted by it; her youthful act--for Lucy had never yet cried before him; her flushed cheeks, her tremulous lips--what? If I could answer the question I should resolve the problem of the flight of souls. He looked at her and knew that he desired her above all things. A Lucy in tears was a new Lucy; a James who could afford to let his want be seen was a new James. That which stirred him--pity, need, desire, kindness--vibrated in his tones. To hear was to obey.

He took her two hands and drew her down to his knee. He made her sit there, embraced her with his arm. "There, my girl, there," he said; "now let me know all about it. Upon my soul, you are a baffling young woman. You will, and you won't; and then you cry, and I become sentimental. I shall end by falling in love with you."

At these strange words she broke down altogether, and sobbed her soul out upon his shoulder. Again he a.s.sured himself that he had never seen her cry before. He was immensely touched by it, and immensely at his ease too. His moral status was restored to him. He knew now what he wanted. "You poor little darling, I can't bear to see you cry so.

There then--cry away, if it does you good. What does me good is to have you here. Now what made you so meek as to come when I called you?

And why weren't you afraid that I should eat you up? So I might, Lucy, you know; for you've made me madly in love with you."

It seemed to her beating heart that indeed he was. He held her very close, kissed her wet cheeks, her wet eyes and her lips. She struggled in his embrace, but not for long. She yielded, and returned his kisses. So they clung together, and in the silence, while time seemed to stand still, it really did nothing of the kind; for if he gained experience she lost it.

He must have grown more experienced, for he was able to return without embarra.s.sment to the affairs so strangely interrupted. She must have grown less so, because she answered him simply, like a child. He asked her what had upset her, and she told him, a dream. A dream? Had she been asleep? No, it was a waking dream. She told him exactly what it was. She was with Mr. Urquhart in a horrible place--a dry, sandy place with great rocks in it. "And where did I come in?" "You didn't come in. That was why I called you." "You called for me, did you? But Urquhart was there?" "Yes, I suppose he was still there. I didn't look." "Why did you call for me, Lucy?" "Because I was frightened."

"I'm grateful to you for that. That's good news to me," he said; and then when he kissed her again, she opened her eyes very wide, and said, "Oh, James, I thought you didn't care for me any more."

James, master of himself, smiled grimly. "I thought as much," he said; "and so you became interested in somebody else?"

Lucy sat up. "No," she said, "I became interested in you first."

That beat him. "You became interested in _me_? Why? Because I didn't care for you?"

"No," she said sharply; "no! Because I thought that you did."

James felt rather faint. "I can't follow you. You thought that I didn't, you said?" Lucy was now excited, and full of her wrongs.

"How extraordinary! Surely you see? I had reason to think that you cared for me very much--oh, very much indeed; and then I found out that you didn't care a bit more than usual; and then--well, then--"

James, who was too apt to undervalue people, did not attempt to pursue the embroilment. But he valued her in this melting mood. He held her very close.

"Well," he said, "and now you find that I do care--and what then?"

She looked at him, divinely shy. "Oh, if you really care--"

This would have made any man care. "Well, if I really do--?"

"Ah!" She hid her face on his shoulder. "I shall love to be in Norway."

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

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

The instinct was strong in him to make her confess--for clearly there was something to be known. But against that several things worked. One was his scorn of the world at large. He felt that it was beneath him to enquire what that might be endeavouring against his honour or peace. Another--and a very new feeling to him--was one of compa.s.sion.

The poor girl had cried before him--hidden her face on his shoulder and cried. To use strength, male strength, upon that helplessness; to break a b.u.t.terfly on a wheel--upon his soul, he thought he couldn't do it.

And after all--whether it was Lingen or Urquhart--he was safe. He knew he was safe because he wanted her. He knew that he _could_ not want what was not for him. That was against Nature. True to type again, he laughed at himself, but owned it. She had been gone but five or ten minutes, but he wanted to see her again--now. He craved the sight of that charming diffidence of the woman who knows herself desired. He became embarra.s.sed as he thought of it, but did not cease to desire.

Should he yield to the whim--or hold himself...?

At that moment Lancelot was admitted. He heard him race upstairs calling, "Mamma, Mamma! frightfully important!" That decided the thing. He opened his door, listening to what followed. He heard Lucy's voice, "I'm here. You can come in...." and was amazed. Was that Lucy's voice? She was happy, then. He knew that by her tone. There was a lift in it, a _timbre_. Was it just possible, by some chance, that he had been a d.a.m.ned fool? He walked the room in some agitation, then went hastily upstairs to dress.

Whether to a new James or not, dinner had a new Lucy to reveal; a Lucy full of what he called "feminine charm"; a Lucy who appealed to him across the table for support against a positive Lancelot; who brought him in at all points; who was concerned for his opinion; who gave him shy glances, who could even afford to be pert. He, being essentially a fair-weather man, was able to meet her half-way--no more than that, because he was what he was, always his own detective. The discipline which he had taught himself to preserve was for himself first of all.

Lancelot noticed his father. "I say," he said, when he and Lucy were in the drawing-room, "Father's awfully on the spot, isn't he? It's Norway, I expect. Bucks him up."

"Norway is enough to excite anybody," Lucy said--"even me."

"Oh, you!" Lancelot was scornful. "Anything would excite you. Look at Mr. Urquhart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm going," she said. "You have been very sweet to me. I don't deserve it, you know."

He looked up at her, quizzing her through the detested gla.s.s. "You darling," he said calmly, and she thrilled. Where had she heard that phrase? At the _Walkure_!

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

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

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

"Do let me take your gla.s.s away for one minute."

"You may do what you please with it, or me."

The gla.s.s 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."