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Updated: June 5, 2025
So they stood for a type and a symbol and a sign that never, as long as the world endures, shall Margerisons get the better of Urquharts. They both looked at Peter, and Urquhart's brows rose a little, as if to say, "More Margerisons yet?" Hilary said, "What's the matter, Peter? Why have you come?" Peter said, rather faintly, "I meant to stop you before you saw Denis.
His manners to Peter on the sands were still quite queer so queer that Peter and Leslie only stayed a few minutes more. Peter refused Urquhart's suggestion that they should have tea together on the island, and they crossed over to the lagoon side and got into their waiting gondola. The lagoon waters were smooth like glass, and pale, and unflushed as yet with the coming sunset.
"This is a hideous business, Murray," said I as he entered. "There's something wrong with Urquhart's story. Indeed, between ourselves it has the fatal weakness that he won't tell it." Murray took a minute to digest this, then he answered, "I don't know anything about Urquhart's story, sir. But there's something wrong about Urquhart." Here he hesitated. "Speak out, man," said I: "in confidence.
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.
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.
Among all classic translations of the classic works of the world, I know of none that for absolute mastery and perfect triumph over all accumulation of obstacles, for supreme dominion over supreme difficulty, can be matched with the translation of Shakespeare by Francois-Victor Hugo; unless a claim of companionship may perchance be put in for Urquhart's unfinished version of Rabelais.
Sunday was his day for going to see Lucy, and it wasn't Urquhart's day, perhaps because Urquhart was so often away for week-ends; though last Sunday, indeed, he had just left the Hopes' house when Peter arrived. Lucy, when Peter had told her his tale of dishonour two months ago, had said, half laughing at him, "How stupid of all of you!" She hadn't realised quite how much it mattered.
The Judge, suddenly aware of him between them, put a hand upon his head as you might fondle the top of a pedestal which Lancelot, intent upon his prey, endured. Then his moment came, a decent subsidence of anecdotes, and his upturned eyes caught Urquhart's. "I say, will you come and see my orange-tree? It's just over there, in the conservatory. It's rather interesting to me, you know."
So I left them, and requesting my brother to follow me, mounted to my own room. The door was no sooner shut than I turned on him. "Surely," I said, "this is a bad mistake of Urquhart's? It's an incredible charge. From all I've seen of him, the lad would never be guilty ..." I paused, expecting his assent. To my surprise he did not give it, but stood fingering his chin and looking serious.
"I see that we get a little more destitute every day." It was true. Every day the Margerisons seemed to lose something more. To-night Peter had lost something he could ill afford to part with another degree of Denis Urquhart's regard. That seemed to be falling from him bit by bit; perhaps that was why he felt so cold.
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