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 judgment

Urquhart was momentous, so much so that he could not afford to be

irritated. Jealousy to him was a weakness, only pardonable when the

cause was trivial. It had been trivial with poor Lingen. Fishing in

heavy water, a skipjack snaps at your fly, and you jerk him out to

bank with a Devil take you. But the swirling shoulder, the long ridge

across 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 about

the Norwegian project. Lucy was desperately tired, he said, so he was

pleased with the scheme. The poor dear girl was run down, the fact

was. "You are very good for her, I believe. You exhilarate her; she

forgets 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 my

Urquhart. 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 I

am that you approve of him."

"He's all right," said Urquhart, who didn't like all this. James, on

the 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, without

coddling. She'll risk him to the hair's-breadth--and never a word. But

she won't risk herself. Not she! Why, she might be wanted! But there

it is. Women can do these things, God knows how! It's men who make a

fuss. 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 and

his affairs than he had ever done in his life before; expatiated upon

his growing business, assumed his guest's contentment in his

happiness, invited praise of his Lucy, and was not rebuffed at their

denial. Urquhart, at first amused, ended by being annoyed. He felt as

if James was a busy dwarf engaged in tying him up in lengths of black

cotton. Round and round he went, coil after coil was added; before

luncheon was over he could move neither hand nor foot. It was rather

ludicrous, really; reduced to speechlessness, he sat and stared

blankly at a voluble James, prattling away about things which didn't

matter. He found himself even admiring things about him: the way he

could bite pull-bread, for instance; the relish he had for his food.

But all this chatter! He was too uncomfortable to see that James's

present relish was chiefly for that. The Stilton and biscuits, the

glass of port were but salt to the handling of Jimmy Urquhart; for

James was a good fighter when he had a good man against him.

His parting words were these: "Now I shouldn't be surprised if she

found herself out of conceit with this beano before we start. She's

like 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 a

gentlewoman, and a mother, to lose heart. Come in when you can. Tell

us tales of far Cashmere. Sing us songs of Araby. I won't promise to

join in the chorus--if you have choruses; but I shall revel in my

quiet way. Now don't forget. I count upon you. By-bye."

"D---- your eyes, oh, d---- your eyes!" said Jimmy, shouldering the hill

as he went his way.

Really, he began to lose nerve a little--and for such a sanguine man a

little was much. It was as if he was on the downward slide of the

wave, no longer cresting the flow, which surged on ahead of him,

carrying him no longer. The fact was that he was now at the difficult

part of an enterprise which had been so far too easy. At the moment it

was not obvious to him what he was to do. James was aware, that was

plain; and James had a strong hand--if he knew that too, he had an

unassailable hand. But did he? Urquhart thought not. He chuckled

grimly to himself as he saw his complacent host taken at his word. He

looked at his wrist. "Half-past three? D---- him, I'll go and see her

now."

But Lucy, as James had truly put it, held firmly to the bank. Glad of

him she certainly was, amused by his audacities; but not tempted to

plunge. He saw very soon that he must be careful with her. A reference

to the Hardanger woods at night, to the absence of nightingales,

absence of the dark--she veiled her eyes with blankness, and finally

shut down the topic. "Don't let's talk of what is not in Norway. Tell

me what is there. I have to keep Lancelot supplied you know." No man

has so little self-esteem as to suppose that a woman can definitely

put him away. Urquhart had plenty, and preferred to think that she

thrust him more deeply within her heart. "Quite right," he said, and

exerted himself on her amusement. James, coming home early, found him

on the hearth-rug, talking really well about his flying. Nobody could

have behaved better than James. He took his cup of tea, listened, was

interested, smoked a cigarette; then touched Lucy's shoulder, saying,

"I leave you to your escapades." He went to his own room, with nothing

to do there, and sat it out. He fought his nervousness, refused to see

his spectres, sat deep in his chair, grimly smoking. He heard the

drawing-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: she

had not gone with him to the front door. Was that a good sign? or a

bad one? He frowned over that intricate question; but kept himself

from her until dinner-time. She might have come in--he half expected

her; but she did not. What was she doing in there by herself? Was she

thinking where she stood? So pretty as she was, so innocent, such a

gentle, sweet-natured creature! Alas, alas!

In short, James was growing sentimental about Lucy. Man of fashion as

he was, with that keen eye for style and the mode, it may well be that

Urquhart's interest in her was a kind of _cachet_. A hall-mark!

However that may be, James looked at her more curiously during that

July than he had done since he saw her first in the garden of Drem

House. Yes, Lucy was pretty; more than that, she had charm. He saw it

now. She moved her head about like a little bird--and yet she was not

a little woman by any means; tall, rather, for a woman. But there was

an absence of suspicion about Lucy--or rather of fundamental suspicion

(for she was full of little superficial alarms), which was infinitely

charming--but how pathetic! It was deeply pathetic; it made him

vaguely unhappy, and for a long time he did not know why tears swam

into his eyes as he watched her over the top of his evening paper, or

was aware (at the tail of his eye) of her quick and graceful motions

before her dressing-glass. Studying his feelings deeply, as never

before, he found himself out. It was that he was to lose her, had

perhaps lost her, just as he had found out how inexpressibly dear she

was to be. And amazement came upon him, and dismay to realise that

this sweetness of hers, this pliancy of temper, this strength within

beauty were really there in her apart from him. As if he had believed

that they lay in his esteem! No, indeed: they were her own; she could

bestow 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 up

the game. She should never pity him, and give him for pity what would

have become, in the very giving, negligible to herself. He knew

himself well: he could never ask for a thing. No! but could he get her

to ask for something? Ah, then she might find out whom she had

married! A man, he judged, of spendthrift generosity, a prodigal of

himself. Yes, that was how it must be, if to be at all. He kept his

eyes wide, and followed her every movement, with a longing to help

which was incessant, like toothache. At the same time he was careful

to keep himself quiet. Not a tone of voice must vary, not a daily

action betray him. That hand on the shoulder, now, when Urquhart was

last here. Too much. There must be no more of it, though he could

still feel the softness of her in the tips of his fingers. Thus he

braced himself.

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