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 the

habit of appearing before Lucy and presenting some small deficiency as

a final cause of ruin and defeat. "I can't find any of the Brown

Polish, 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 had

always been part of the fun of going away. But this year Lucy was

fretted by it. She supposed herself run down and whipped herself to

work. She found herself, too, lingering about the house, with an

affection for the familiar aspect of corners, vistas, tricks of light

and shadow, which she had never thought to possess. She felt extremely

unwilling to leave it all. It was safety, it was friendliness; it

asked no effort of her. To turn away from its lustrous and ordered

elegance and face the unknown gave her a pain in the heart. It was

odd to feel homesick before she had left home; but that was the sum of

it. She was homesick. Urquhart was very much in her mind; a letter of

his was in her writing-table drawer, under lock and key; but Urquhart

seemed part of a vague menace now, while James, though he did his

unconscious utmost to defeat himself, got his share of the sunset glow

upon the house. Fanciful, nervous, weary of it all as she was, she

devoted herself to her duties; and then, on this fifth of August, in

the afternoon, she had a waking vision, perfectly distinct, and so

vivid that, disembodied and apart, she could see herself enacting it.

It was followed by a shivering fit and depression; but that must tell

its 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 ribbons

which a maid, in the same fair attitude, was bestowing as she received

them. Lancelot was out for the afternoon with Crewdson and a friend.

They had gone to the Zoological Gardens, and would not be back till

late. She had the house to herself; it was cool and shadowed from the

sun. The Square, muffled in the heat, gave no disturbing sounds.

Looking up suddenly, for no apparent reason, she saw herself with

Jimmy Urquhart in a great empty, stony place, and felt the dry wind

which blew upon them both. All but her own face was visible; of that

she saw nothing but the sharp outline of her cheek, which was very

white. She saw herself holding her hat, bending sideways to the

gale; 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; she

felt 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 a

conviction that it was useless. "There's nothing to say, nothing to

say." 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 emptiness

about her seemed to shut out all her landmarks. Why didn't she think

of Lancelot? She wondered why, but realised that Lancelot meant

nothing out there. She saw herself turn about. She cried out, "James!

James!" started up with a sense of being caught, and saw the maid's

face of scare. She was awake in a moment. "What is it, ma'am? What is

it?"

Lucy had recovered her faculties: "Nothing, Emily; it's nothing. I was

giddy." But she was shivering and couldn't go on. "I think I'll lie

down for a minute," she said, and asked for the aspirin. She took two

tabloids and a sip of water, was covered up and left to herself. Emily

tiptoed away, full of interest in the affair.

The shivering fit lasted the better part of an hour. Lucy crouched and

suffered, open-eyed but without any consciousness. Something had

happened, was happening still; a storm was raging overhead; she lay

quaking 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 lay

immediately before her. Disrelish of the Norwegian expedition was

now a reasonable thing. Either it must be given up, or the disaster

reckoned with. _Advienne que pourra._ But in either case she must

"have it out" with James. What did that mean? Jimmy Urquhart would be

thrown over. He would go--and she would not. She lay, picturing rather

than reasoning; saw him superbly capable, directing everything. She

felt 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 the

heart to know that she could not be there. But the mere thought of

that sickened her. Out of the question.

She must "have it out" with James. That might be rather dreadful; it

might take her where she must refuse to go--but on the whole, she

didn'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 of

James would not prevail against it. Besides that, deeply within

herself, lay the conviction that James was kind if you took him the

right way. He was irritable, and very annoying when he was sarcastic;

but he was good at heart. And it was odd, she thought, that directly

she got into an awkward place with a flirtation, her first impulse was

to 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 such

matters were concerned. She was not really contrite for what she had

done, neither regretted that she had done it, nor that it was done

with. She wanted to discharge her bosom of perilous stuff. James would

forgive 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 bring

James home; she heard his latch-key, and the shutting of the door

behind him. Her heart beat high, but she did not falter. He was

reading a letter in the hall when she came downstairs; he was very

much aware of her, but pretended not to be. She stood on the bottom

stair looking at him with wide and fixed eyes; but he would not look

up. He was not just then in a mood either to make advances or to

receive 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 go

to Norway."

Then he did look up, keenly, with a drawn appearance about his mouth,

showing his teeth. "Eh?" he said. "Oh, absurd." He occupied himself

with his letter, folding it for its envelope, while she watched him

with a pale intensity which ought to have told him, and perhaps did

tell him, what she was suffering.

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

certain of it."

"But, my dearest child, you made me certain, at any rate," he told

her. "You made everybody certain. So much so that I have the tickets

in my pocket at this moment."

"I'm very sorry. I could pay for mine, of course--and I'm sure Vera

would 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 plunged

his hands into his pockets. He thought that they were on the edge of

the gulf.

"Look here, Lucy," he said; "hadn't you better tell me something more

about this? Perhaps you will come into the library for a few minutes."

He led the way without waiting for her, and she stood quaking where

she was.

She was making matters worse: she saw that now. Naturally she couldn't

tell James the real state of the case, because that would involve her

in history. James would have to understand that he had been believed

to have wooed her when he had done nothing of the kind. That was a

thing which nothing in the world would bring her to reveal to him. And

if she left that out and confined herself to her own feelings for

Urquhart--how was all that to be explained? Was it fair to herself, or

to Urquhart, to isolate the flowering of an affair unless you could

show the germinating of it? Certainly it wasn't fair to herself--as

for Urquhart, it may be that he didn't deserve any generous treatment.

She knew that there was no defence for him, though plenty of

excuse--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 mercy

for her at this moment. Suspicions thronged his darkened mind. But

nothing of her rueful beauty escaped him. The flush of sleep was upon

her, and her eyes were full of trouble.

"It isn't that I have any reason which would appeal to you," she told

him. She faltered her tale. "I think I have been foolish--I know that

I'm very tired and worried; but--I have had presentiments."

James clicked his tongue, which he need not have done--as he knew very

well. 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 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 attitude 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 assured 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

embarrassment 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 compassion.

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 butterfly 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 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 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 damned 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