The Lee Shore Part 19

Lucy looked at him. "You _did_ know, didn't you? All this time, I mean?

I didn't tell you, because I never tell you things, of course. You always know them. And this particularly. You _did_ know it, Peter? But when you came in you looked ... you looked as if you didn't."

"I was stupid," said Peter. "I ought to have known."

Looking back, he saw that he certainly ought. He certainly must have, only that his vision had been blocked by a certain deeply-rooted idea, that was as old as his growth. He had a.s.sumed, without words. He had thought that she too had a.s.sumed; neither had ever required words to elucidate their ideas one to the other; they had kept words for the other things, the jolly, delightful things of the foreground.

"How long?" asked Peter, drinking his tea to warm him, for, though it was so hot outside, he felt very cold in here.

She told him. "Oh, since the beginning, I think. I thought you knew, Peter.... We didn't say anything about it till quite lately. Only we both knew."

She came and sat on the rug by his side, and slipped her hand into his.

"Are you glad, Peter? Please, Peter, be glad."

"I will presently," said Peter, with one of his fainter smiles. "Let me just get used to it, and I will."

She whispered, stroking his hand, "We've always had such fun, Peter, we three. Haven't we? Let's go on having it."

"Yes," said Peter. "Let's."

He was vague still, and a little dizzy, but he could smile at her now.

After all, wasn't it splendid? Denis and Lucy--the two people he loved best in the world; so immeasurably best that beside them everyone else was no cla.s.s at all.

He sat very still on the coal-scuttle, making a fresh discovery about himself. He had known before that he had a selfish disposition, though he had never thought about it particularly; but he hadn't known that it was in him to grudge Denis anything--Denis, who was consciously more to him than anyone else in the world. Lucy was different; she was rooted in the very fibre of his being; it wasn't so much that he consciously loved her as that she was his other self. Well, hadn't he long since given to Denis, to use as he would, all the self he had?

But the wrench made him wince, and left him chilly and grown old.

"It's perfectly splendid for both of you," said Peter, himself again at last. "And it was extraordinarily stupid of me not to see it before.... Do you think Denis really meant I could go and see him?

I think I will."

"'Course he did. 'Course you will. Go to-morrow. But now it's going to be just you and me and tea. And honey sandwiches--oh, Peter!" Her eyes danced at him, because it was such a nice world. He came off the coal-scuttle and made himself comfortable in a low chair near the honey sandwiches.

"Will you and Denis try always to have them when I come to tea with you?

I do love them so. Have you arranged when it is to be, by the way?"

"No. Father won't want it to be for ages--he won't like it to be at all, of course, because Denis isn't poor or miserable or revolutionary. But Felicity has done so nicely for him in that way (Lawrence is getting into horrid rows in Poland, you know) that I think I've a _right_ to someone happy and clean, don't you?... And Denis wants it to be soon. So I suppose it will be soon."

"Sure to be," Peter agreed.

The room was full of roses; their sweetness was exuberant, intoxicating; not like Lucy, who usually had small, pale, faint flowers.

"Isn't it funny," she said, "how one thinks one can't be any happier, and then suddenly something happens inside one, and one sees everything new.

I used to think things couldn't be brighter and s.h.i.+ne more--but now they glitter like the sun, all new."

"I expect so," said Peter.

Then she had a little stab of remorse; for Peter had been turned out of the place of glittering things, and moved in a grey and dusty world among things no one could like.

"'Tis so _stupid_ that your work is like that," she said, with puckered forehead. "I wish you could find something nice to do, Peter dear."

"Oh, I'm all right," said Peter. "And there are all the nice things which aren't work, just the same. Rhoda and I went a ride in a steamer this morning. And the sun was s.h.i.+ning on the water--rather nice, it was. Even Rhoda grew a little brighter to see it. Poor Rhoda; the boarders do worry her so. I'm sorry about it; they don't worry me; I rather like them.

Some day soon I want you to come and see Rhoda; it would cheer her up.

I wish she liked things more. She's left off her bead necklace, you know.

And she gets worried because people discuss the condition of 'the departed' (that's what we call them in the boarding-house). Rhoda is sure they are in nothingness. I told her it was impossible for me to speculate on such things. How can one, you know? People have so much imagination.

Mine always sticks at a certain point and won't move on. Could you do it if someone asked you to imagine Denis, say, without his body?"

She wrinkled her forehead, trying to.

"Denis's body matters a lot," was her conclusion. "I suppose it's because it's such a nice one."

"Exactly," said Peter. "People's bodies are nice. And when they're not I don't believe their minds are very nice either, so I'd rather not think about them. Now I must go home."

It was very hot going home. London was a baked place, full of used air--Peter's bedroom on a large scale. Peter tried walking back, but found he was rather giddy, so got into a bus that took him the wrong way, a thing he often did. Riding across London on the top of a bus is, of course, the greatest fun, even if it is the wrong bus. It makes up for almost any misfortune.

A few days later, after office hours, Peter took Urquhart at his word and went to his rooms. Urquhart wasn't there, but would be in some time, he was told, so he sat and waited for him. It was a pleasant change after the boarding-house rooms. Urquhart's things were nice to look at, without being particularly artistic. There was nothing dingy, or messy, or second-rate, or cheap. A graceful, careless expensiveness was the dominant note. An aroma of good tobacco hung about. Peter liked to smell good tobacco, though he smoked none, good or bad.

Urquhart came in at seven o'clock. He was going to dine somewhere at eight, so he hadn't much time.

"Glad to see you, Margery. Quite time you came."

Peter thought it nice of him to speak so pleasantly, seeming to ignore the last time Peter had come to see him. He had been restrained and embarra.s.sed then; now he was friendly, in the old casual, unemphasised way.

"How splendid about you and Lucy," said Peter. "A very suitable alliance, I call it."

"So do I," said Denis, lighting a cigarette. "She's so much the nicest person I know. I perceived that the day you introduced us."

"Of course," said Peter. "You would."

"Do you mind," said Denis, "if I dress? We can talk meanwhile. Rotten luck that I'm booked for dinner, or we could have had it together. You must come another day."

While he dressed he told Peter that he was going to stand at the next elections. Peter had known before that Denis was ultimately destined to a.s.sist in the government of his country, and now it appeared that the moment had arrived.

"Do you _really_ take a side?" Peter enquired. "Or is it just a funny game?"

"Oh, of course it's a game too; most things are. But, of course, one's a Conservative and all that, if one's a person of sense. It's the only thing to be, you know."

"I rather like both sides," said Peter. "They're both so keen, and so sure they're right. But I expect Conservatives are the rightest, because they want to keep things. I hate people who want to make a mess and break things up and throw them away. Besides, I suppose one couldn't really be on the same side as what's his name--that man everyone dislikes so--could one? or any of those violent people."

Urquhart said one certainly couldn't. Besides, there were Free Trade and Home Rule, and dozens of other things to be considered. Obviously Conservatives were right.

"I ought to get in," he said, "unless anything upsets it. The Unionist majority last time was two hundred and fifty."

Peter laughed. It was rather nice to hear Denis talking like a real candidate.

When Denis was ready, he said, "I'm dining in Norfolk Street. Can you walk with me part of the way?"

Peter said it was on the way to Brook Street, where he lived. Denis displayed no interest in Brook Street. As far as he intended to cultivate Peter's acquaintance, it was to be as a unit, detached from his disgraceful relatives. Peter understood that. As he hadn't much expected to be cultivated again at all, he was in good spirits as he walked with Denis to Norfolk Street. No word pa.s.sed between them as to Peter's past disgrace or present employment; Denis had an easy way of sliding lightly over embarra.s.sing subjects.

They parted, and Denis dined in Norfolk Street with a parliamentary secretary, and Peter supped in Brook Street with the other boarders.