Part 20 (1/2)

CHAPTER XII

THE LOSS OF A GOBLET AND OTHER THINGS

Denis and Lucy were married at the end of September. They went motoring in Italy for a month, and by the beginning of November were settled at Astleys. Astleys was in Berks.h.i.+re, and was Urquhart's home. It was rather beautiful, as homes go, with a careless, prosperous grace about it at which Lucy laughed because it was so Urquhartesque.

Almost at once they asked some people to stay there to help with the elections and the pheasant shooting. The elections were hoped for in December. Urquhart did not propose to bother much about them; he was a good deal more interested in the pheasants; but he had, of course, every intention of doing the usual and suitable things, and carrying the business through well. Lucy only laughed; to want to get into Parliament was so funny, looked at from the point of view she had always been used to. Denis, being used by inheritance and upbringing to another point of view, did not see that it was so funny; to him it was a very natural profession for a man to go into; his family had always provided a supply of members for both houses. Lucy and Peter, socially more obscure, laughed childishly together over it. ”Fancy being a Liberal or a Conservative out of all the things there are in the world to be!” as Peter had once commented.

But it was delightfully Urquhart-like, this lordly a.s.sumption of a share in the government of a country. No doubt it was worth having, because all the things Urquhart wanted and obtained were that; he had an eye for good things, like Peter, only he gained possession of them, and Peter could only admire from afar.

They were talking about the election prospects at dinner on the evening of the fifteenth of November. They were a young and merry party. At one end of the table was Denis, looking rather pale after a hard day's hunting, and very much amused with life; at the other Lucy, in a white frock, small and open-eyed like a flower, and very much amused too; and between them were the people, young mostly, and gay, who were staying with them. Lucy, who had been brought up in a secluded Bohemianism, found it very funny and nice having a house-party, and so many servants to see after them all that one needn't bother to run round and make sure everyone had soap, and so on.

One person, not young, who was staying there, was Lord Evelyn Urquhart.

Lucy loved him. He loved her, and told funny stories. Sometimes, between the stories, she would catch his near-sighted, screwed up eyes scanning her face with a queer expression that might have been wistfulness; he seemed at times to be looking for something in her face, and finding it.

Particularly when she laughed, in her chuckling, gurgling way, he looked like this, and would grow grave suddenly. They had talked together about all manner of things, being excellent friends, but only once so far about Lucy's cousin Peter. Once had been too much, Lucy had found. The Margerisons were a tabooed subject with Lord Evelyn Urquhart.

Denis shrugged his shoulders over it. ”They did him brown, you see,” he explained, in his light, casual way. ”Uncle Evelyn can't forgive that.

And it's because he was so awfully fond of Peter that he's so bitter against him now. I never mention him; it's best not.... You know, you keep giving the poor dear shocks by looking like Peter, and laughing like him, and using his words. You _are_ rather like, you know.”

”I know,” said Lucy. ”It's not only looking and laughing and words; we think alike too. So perhaps if he gets fond of me he'll forgive Peter sometime.”

”He's an implacable old beggar,” Denis said. ”It's stupid of him. It never seems to me worth while to get huffy; it's so uncomfortable. He expects too much of people, and when they disappoint him he--”

”Takes umbradge,” Lucy filled in for him. That was another of Peter's expressions; they shared together a number of such stilted, high-sounding phrases, mostly culled either out of Adelphi melodrama or the fiction of a by-gone age.

To-night, when the cloth had been removed that they might eat fruit, Denis was informed that there was a gentleman waiting to see him. The gentleman had not vouchsafed either his name or business, so he could obviously wait a little longer, till Denis had finished his own business.

In twenty minutes Denis went to the library, and there found Hilary Margerison, sitting by the fire in a great coat and m.u.f.fler and looking cold. When he rose and faced him, Denis saw that he also looked paler than of old, and thinner, and less perfectly shaved, and his hair was longer. He might have been called seedy-looking; he might have been Sidney Carton in ”The Only Way”; he had always that touch of the dramatic about him that suggested a stage character. He had a bad cough.

”Oh,” said Urquhart, polite and feeling embarra.s.sed; ”how do you do? I'm sorry to have kept you waiting; they didn't tell me who it was. Sit down, won't you?”

Hilary said thanks, he thought not. He had a keen sense of the fit. So he refused the cigarette Urquhart offered him, and stood by the fire, looking at the floor. Urquhart stood opposite him, and thought how ill and how little reputable he looked.

Hilary said, in his high, sweet, husky voice, ”It is no use beating about the bush. I want help. We are in need; we are horribly hard up, to put it baldly. That has pa.s.sed between your family and mine which makes you the last person I should wish to appeal to as a beggar. I propose a business transaction.” He paused to cough.

Urquhart, feeling impatient at the prospect of a provoking interview when he wanted to be playing bridge, said ”Yes?” politely.

”You,” said Hilary, ”are intending to stand as a candidate for this const.i.tuency. You require for that, I fancy, a reputation wholly untarnished; the least breath dimming it would be for you a disastrous calamity. I have some information which, if sent to the local Liberal paper, would seriously tell against you in the public mind. It is here.”

He took it out of his breast pocket and handed it to Urquhart--a type-written sheet of paper. He must certainly have been to a provincial theatre lately; he had hit its manners and methods to a nicety, the silly a.s.s.

Urquhart took the paper gingerly and did not look at it.

”Thanks; but ... I don't know that I am interested, do you know. Isn't this all rather silly, Mr. Margerison?”

”If you will oblige me by reading it,” said Mr. Margerison.

So Urquhart obliged him. It was all about him, as was to be expected; enough to make a column of the Berks.h.i.+re Press.