CHAPTER XVI

AMARI ALIQUID

Lingen was exceedingly gratified by Lucy's letter. James had thought

the invitation should come from her, and, as the subject-matter was

distasteful to her, sooner than discuss it she had acquiesced. Few

pin-pricks had rankled as this one. She had never had any feeling but

toleration for Lingen; James had erected him as a foible; and that he

should use him now as a counter-irritant made her both sore and

disgustful. She wished to throw up the whole scheme, but was helpless,

because she could neither tell James, who would have chuckled, nor

Urquhart either. To have told Urquhart, whether she told him her

reason or left him to guess it, would have precipitated a confession

that her present position was untenable. In her heart she knew it, for

the heart knows what the mind stores; but she had not the courage to

summon it up, to table it, and declare, "This robe is outworn,

stretched at the seams, ragged at the edges. Away with it." Just now

she 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 grateful

acceptance, and his solemn elation, visible upon his best calling

face. "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 else

could you do? Life is made up of illusions, I think. Let me therefore

add to the sum of mine that you have desired my happiness." This sort

of thing, which once had stirred her to gentle amusement, now made her

words 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 mockery

of his own eloquence by these chills upon it.

"At least he provided for it," said Lucy, "and that you shouldn't be

uncomfortable I have asked Margery Dacre to come."

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

splendid."

That was the fact. It had been an afterthought of hers, and partially

countered 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 and

Mr. Urquhart."

If she hadn't been self-conscious she would never have said such a

thing as that. James's commentary, "I see," and the subsequent

digestion of the remark by the eyeglass, made her burn with shame. She

felt spotted, she felt reproach, she looked backward with compunction

and longing to the beginning of things. There was now a tarnish on the

day. Yet there was no going back.

Clearly she was not of the hardy stuff of which sinners must be made

if they are to be cheerful sinners. She was qualmish and easily

dismayed. Urquhart was away, or she would have dared the worst that

could befall her, and dragged out of its coffer her poor tattered robe

of romance. Between them they would have owned to the gaping seams

and frayed edges. Then he might have kissed her--and Good-bye. But he

was not at hand, and she could not write down what she could hardly

contemplate saying.

Never, in fact, was a more distressful lady on the eve of a party of

pleasure. Lancelot's serious enjoyment of the prospect, evident in

every line of his letters, was her only relish; but even that could

not sting her answers to vivacity. "I hope the Norwegians are very

sensible. They will need all their sense, because we shall have none

when the pirate is there." "There used to be vikings in Norway. They

came to England and stole wives and animals. Now we bring them a man

for wives. That is what for with the chill of." "I must have a new

reel to my fishing-rod. The old one has never been the same since I

made a windlass of it for the battleship when it was a canal-boat, and

it fell into the water when we made a landslide and accident which was

buried for three days and had a worm in the works. Also a v. sharp

knife for reindeer, etc. They are tough, I hear, and my knife is

sharpest at the back since opening sardines and other tins, all rather

small." He drove a fevered pen, but retained presence of mind enough

to provide for his occasions: "The excitement of Norway may lose me

some marks in term's order. Not many I dare say." Again, "When you are

excited reports go bad. I have been shouting rather, kicking up a

shine. Once there was a small fight which was twigged. Norway is a

serious matter." There was an undercurrent of nervousness, discernible

only 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 be

seasick and disgrace himself in the esteem of young Nugent, who, as a

naval officer, was of course sea-proof. "I expect Nugent likes it very

rough," he said--and then, "I don't, you know, much. Not for weeks at

a time. Rather a nuisance." However, it was solved in the event by

Nugent being prostrate from the time they left the Tyne. Between his

spasms he urged his mother to explain that Lord Nelson was always

seasick. But Lancelot was very magnanimous about it.

There was diversion in much of this, and she used it to lighten her

letters to Urquhart, which, without it, had been as flat as

yesterday's soda-water. As the time came near when they should leave

home she grew very heavy, had forebodings, wild desires to be done

with it all. Then came a visitation from the clear-eyed Mabel and a

cleansing of the conscience.

Mabel said that she was sorry to miss Norway. It would have amused her

enormously. "To see you in the saddle, with two led horses!" She

always talked as if she was an elder sister. "I almost threw Laurence

over; but of course I couldn't do that. He's so dependent and silent

and pathetic--but thank goodness, he hasn't found out, like James, the

real use of wives. That is, to have somebody to grumble to who really

minds. There's your James for you. He doesn't want to go a bit; he'd

much rather be at Harrogate or somewhere of that sort. Perhaps he'd

like Homburg. But he wouldn't go for the world. He's not pathetic at

all, though he wants to be; but he wants to be sarcastic at the same

time, and is cross because the two things won't go together. Of course

he stuck in Francis Lingen. He would. As if he cared about Francis

Lingen, a kind of poodle!"

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

don't abuse Laurence."

"Abuse him!" cried Mabel. "Good Heavens, child, I only say out loud

what you are saying to yourself all day. We may as well know where we

are." Then came a pause; and then, "I suppose you and Jimmy Urquhart

are in a mess."

Lucy said nothing; whereupon Mabel showed her clear sight. "And I

suppose you know now who turned the light off." At that terrible

surmise Lucy got up and stood above her sister. "Mabel, I don't know

what to do."

"I am sure you don't," said Mabel. "On the other hand, you know what

you have to do."

"Yes," Lucy replied; "but it isn't so easy as you would think. You

see, I have never spoken to him about it, nor he to me; and it seems

almost 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 of

accident--one day. It wasn't possible to doubt. Well, then--it went

on, 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. But

in the daytime--well, we seemed to be ordinary people, and nothing was

said. Now do you see?"

Mabel did. "It makes it very awkward for you. But feeling as you do

now, you simply must have it out."

"I can't," Lucy said with conviction. "I know I can't do that. No, it

must 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 too

kind. 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 given

me a horror of things of the sort. I don't believe he meant it. I

think he felt snappish and thought he would relieve his feelings that

way. But there it is. He has made it all rather disgusting. It's

become 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 velvet

lining does so much. But although you may be disgusted with James's

handling of your private affairs, you are not disgusted with--the

other?"

"No, I suppose not. I really don't know. He is the most understanding

man in the world, and I would trust him through everything. I don't

think he could tell me an untruth. Not one that mattered, anyhow. I

could see him go away from me for a year, for two, and not hear a word

from 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 his

liking me, so settled in life--I never felt settled before--like being

in a nest. He makes everything I love or like seem more beautiful and

precious--Lancelot, oh, I am much prouder of Lancelot than I used to

be. He has shown me things in Lancelot which I never saw. He has made

the being Lancelot's mother seem a more important, a finer thing. I

don't know how to say it, but he has simply enhanced everything--as

you say, like a velvet lining to a jewel. All this is true--and

something in me calls for him, and urges me to go to him. But now--but

yet--all this hateful jealousy--this playing off one man against

another--Francis Lingen! As if I ever had a minute's thought of

Francis Lingen--oh, it's really disgusting. I didn't think any one in

our world could be like that. It spots me--I want to be clean. I'd

much rather be miserable than feel dirty."

Here she stopped, on the edge of tears, which a sudden access of anger

dried up. She began again, more querulously. "It's his fault, of

course. It was outrageous what he did. I'm angry with him because I

can'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 awfully

sorry for him."

Mabel stared. "Sorry for James!"

"Yes, naturally. He's awfully simple, you know, and really rather

proud of me in his way. I see him looking at me sometimes, wondering

what he's done. It's pathetic. But that's not the point. The point is

that 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. And

whether I do or not, I don't like to feel that I can't. Nobody likes

to be tied."

"Then nobody should be married," said Mabel, who had listened to these

outbursts of speech, and pauses which had been really to find words

rather than breath, with staring and hard-rimmed eyes. She had a gift

of logic, and could be pitiless. "What it comes to, you know," she

said, "is that you want to have your fun in private. We all do, I

suppose; but that can't come off in nine cases out of ten. Especially

with 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 you

think you do. After all, if you come to that, the paraphernalia of a

wedding is pretty horrid; one feels awfully like a heifer at the

Cattle Show. At least, I did. The complacency of the bridegroom is

pretty repulsive. You feel like a really fine article. But one lives

it down, if one means it."

Lucy told her to go, or as good as told her. Sisters may be plain with

each other. She wasn't able to answer her, though she felt that an

answer there was.

What she had said was partly true. Lucy was a romantic without knowing

it. 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 just

outside the door, and a word, a look, would recall him to his dark

beauty of presence. That he was beautiful so she knew too well, that

he was unbeautiful in the glare of day she felt rather than knew. The

fault, she suspected, lay in her, who could not see him in the light

without the blemish of circumstance--not his, but circumstance, in

whose evil shade he must seem smirched. What could she do with her

faulty vision, but send him away? Was that not less dishonourable than

to bid him remain and dwindle as she looked at him? What a kink in her

affairs, when she must be cruel to her love, not because she loved him

less, but rather that she might love him more!

But the spirit of adventure grew upon her in spite of herself, the

sense of something in the wind, of the morning bringing one nearer to

a 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 had

changed his spots, if not his nature. James bought marvellous climbing

boots, binoculars, compasses of dodgy contrivance, sandwich-cases,

drinking-flasks, a knowing hat. He read about Norway, studied a

dictionary, and ended by talking about it, and all to do with it,

without any pragmatism. Lucy found out how he relied upon Urquhart and

sometimes forgot that he was jealous of him. Jealous he was, but not

without hope. For one thing, he liked a fight, with a good man. Lingen

caught the epidemic, and ceased to think or talk about himself. He had

heard of carpets to be had, of bold pattern and primary colouring; he

had heard of bridal crowns of silver-gilt worthy of any collector's

cabinet. He also bought boots and tried his elegant leg in a

flame-coloured sock. And to crown the rocking edifice, Lancelot came

home in a kind of still ecstasy which only uttered itself in

convulsions of the limbs, and sudden and ear-piercing whistles through

the 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 be

without Mr. Urquhart." James heard him, and saw Lucy catch her breath.

Not very pleasant.