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, worked

its spell upon our travellers, and freed them from themselves for a

while. For awhile they were as singleminded as the boys, content to

live and breathe that wine-tinctured air, and watch out those flawless

days and serene grey nights. London had sophisticated some of them

almost beyond redemption: Francis Lingen was less man than sensitive

gelatine; James was the offspring of a tradition and a looking-glass.

But the zest and high spirits of Urquhart were catching, and after a

week Francis Lingen ceased to murmur to ladies in remote corners, and

James to care whether his clothes were pressed. Everybody behaved

well: Urquhart, who believed that he possessed Lucy's heart, James,

who knew now what he possessed, Vera Nugent, who was content to sit

and look on, and Lucy herself, who simply and honestly forgot

everything except the beauty of the world, and the joy of physical

exertion. She had been wofully ill on the passage from Newcastle and

had been invisible from beginning to end. But from the moment of

landing at Bergen she had been transformed. She was now the sister of

her son, a wild, wilful, impetuous creature, a nymph of the heath,

irresponsible and self-indulgent, taking what she could get of comfort

and cherishing, and finding a boundless appetite for it. It was

something, perhaps, to know in her heart that every man in the party

was in love with her; it was much more--for the moment at least--to be

without conscience in the matter. She had put her conscience to sleep

for once, drugged it with poppy and drowsy syrups, and led the life of

a healthy and vigorous animal.

Urquhart enjoyed that; he was content to wait and watch. For the time

James did not perceive it. The beauty and freshness of this new world

was upon him. Francis Lingen, born to cling, threw out tentative

tendrils to Margery Dacre.

Margery Dacre was a very pretty girl; she had straw-coloured hair and

a bright complexion. She wore green, especially in the water. Urquhart

called her Undine, and she was mostly known as the Mermaid. She had

very little mind, but excellent manners; and was expensive without

seeming to spend anything. For instance, she brought no maid, because

she thought that it might have looked ostentatious, and always made

use of Lucy's, who didn't really want one. That was how Margery Dacre

contrived to seem very simple.

For the moment Urquhart took natural command. He knew the country, he

owned the motor-boat; he believed that he owned Lucy, and he believed

that James was rather a fool. He thought that he had got the better of

James. But this could not last, because James was no more of a fool

than he was himself, though his intelligence worked in a different

way. Things flashed upon Urquhart, who then studied them intensely and

missed nothing. They dawned on James, who leisurely absorbed them, and

allowed them to work out their own development.

It was very gradually now dawning upon James that Urquhart had assumed

habits of guidance over Lucy and was not aware of any reason why he

should relinquish them. He believed that he understood her thoroughly;

he read her as a pliant, gentle nature, easily imposed upon, and

really at the mercy of any unscrupulous man who was clever enough to

see how she should be treated. He had never thought that before. It

was the result of his cogitations over recent events. So while he kept

his temper and native jealousy under easy control, he watched

comfortably--as well he might--and gained amusement, as he could well

afford to do, from Urquhart's marital assumptions. When he was tempted

to interfere, or to try a fall with Urquhart, he studiously refrained.

If Urquhart said, as he did sometimes, "I advise you to rest for a

bit," James calmly embraced the idea. If Urquhart brought out a cloak

or a wrap and without word handed it to her, James, watching, did not

determine to forestall him on the next occasion. And Lucy, as he

admitted, behaved beautifully, behaved perfectly. There were no

grateful looks from her, such as he would expect to see pass between

lovers. Keenly as he watched her, he saw no secret exchange. On the

other hand, her eyes frequently sought his own, as if she wanted him

to understand that she was happy, as if, indeed, she wanted him to be

happy by such an understanding. This gave him great pleasure, and

touched 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 he

loved _de haut en bas_. He found that it was so, and hated himself for

it. The one thing he really grudged Urquhart was his simplicity and

freedom from ulterior motive. Urquhart was certainly able to enjoy the

moment for the moment's worth. But James must always be calculating

exactly what it was worth, and whether to be enhanced by what might

follow it.

He was kinder to her than he had ever been before. In fact, he was

remarkably interesting. She told him of it in their solitary moments

of greatest intimacy. "This is my honeymoon," she said, "and I never

had one before."

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

it.

"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't

say 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 much

nearer. Own it."

He held her closely and kissed her. "You are a little darling, if

that's what you mean."

"Oh, but it isn't; it isn't at all what I mean. Why, you wouldn't call

me 'little' if you didn't know you were superior. Because I'm rather

tall for a woman."

He knew that she was right, and respected her for the discernment. "My

love," he said, "I'm a self-centred, arrogant beast, and I don't like

to think about it. But you'll make something of me if you think it

worth while. But listen to me, Lucy. I'm going to talk to you

seriously." Then he whispered in her ear: "Some day you must talk to

me." He could feel her heart beat, he could feel her shiver as she

clung.

"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." She

started 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 hoped

that she was right about him. One thing amazed him to discover--how

women imputed their own virtues to the men they loved. It struck him a

mortal blow to realise that his evident happiness would give Lucy

joy, whereas hers would by no means necessarily add to his. "What does

give me happiness, then?" he asked himself; "what could conceivably

increase my zest for life? Evidence of power, exercise of faculty: so

far as I know, nothing else whatever. A parlous state of affairs. But

it is the difference, I presume, between a giving creature and a

getting one which explains all. Is a man, then, never to give, and be

happy? Has he ever tried? Is a woman not to get? Has she ever had a

chance of it?" He puzzled over these things in his prosaic, methodical

way. One thing was clear to everybody there but Urquhart in his

present fatuity: Lucy was thriving. She had colour, light in her eyes,

a bloom upon her, a dewiness, an auroral air. She sunned herself like

a bird in the dust; she bathed her body, and tired herself with long

mountain and woodland walks. When she was alone with her husband she

grew as sentimental as a housemaid and as little heedful of the

absurd. She grew young and amazingly pretty, the sister of her son. It

would 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 her

lover for a foil, is a gift of the gods. So she took it--with the sun

and green water, and wine-bright air. Let the moralists battle it out

with the sophists: it did her a world of good.