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diff --git a/old/51642-0.txt b/old/51642-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7b37f3f..0000000 --- a/old/51642-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9405 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucinda, by Anthony Hope - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Lucinda - -Author: Anthony Hope - -Release Date: April 2, 2016 [EBook #51642] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCINDA *** - - - - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: - -—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected. - - - - - LUCINDA - - ANTHONY HOPE - - - - - LUCINDA - - BY - - ANTHONY HOPE - - AUTHOR OF “THE SECRET OF THE TOWER,” “THE PRISONER - OF ZENDA,” “RUPERT OF HENTZAU,” ETC. - - THE RYERSON PRESS - TORONTO - 1920 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY - - ANTHONY HOPE HAWKINS - - PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. THE FACE IN THE TAXI 1 - - II. THE SIGNAL 13 - - III. A HIGH EXPLOSIVE 26 - - IV. THE FOURTH PARTY 38 - - V. CATCH WHO CATCH CAN! 52 - - VI. VENICE 64 - - VII. SELF-DEFENSE 78 - - VIII. THE NEEDLEWOMAN 91 - - IX. LIKE TO LIKE 103 - - X. HER LADYSHIP 116 - - XI. DUNDRANNANIZATION 131 - - XII. A SECRET VISIT 144 - - XIII. AN INTRODUCTION 157 - - XIV. FOR AULD LANG SYNE 171 - - XV. THE SYSTEM WORKS 186 - - XVI. PURPLE—AND FINE LINEN 199 - - XVII. REBELLION 211 - - XVIII. THE WINNING TICKET 225 - - XIX. VIEWS AND WHIMS 239 - - XX. LIVING FUNNILY 252 - - XXI. PARTIE CARRÉE 264 - - XXII. SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS 276 - - XXIII. THE BANQUET 288 - - XXIV. THE MASCOT 299 - - XXV. HOMAGE 312 - - XXVI. THE AIR ON THE COAST 325 - - XXVII. IN FIVE YEARS 339 - - - - -LUCINDA - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE FACE IN THE TAXI - - -HIS “Business Ambassador” was the title which my old chief, Ezekiel -Coldston, used to give me. I daresay that it served as well as any -other to describe with a pleasant mixture of dignity and playfulness, -the sort of glorified bag-man or drummer that I was. It was my job -to go into all quarters of the earth where the old man had scented a -concession or a contract—and what a nose he had for them!—and make it -appear to powerful persons that the Coldston firm would pay more for -the concession (more in the long run, at all events) or ask less for -the contract (less in the first instance, at all events) than any other -responsible firm, company, or corporation in the world. Sir Ezekiel (as -in due course he became) took me from a very low rung of the regular -diplomatic ladder into his service on the recommendation of my uncle, -Sir Paget Rillington, who was then at the top of that same ladder. My -employer was good enough to tell me more than once that I had justified -the recommendation. - -“You’ve excellent manners, Julius,” he told me. “Indeed, quite -engaging. Plenty of tact! You work—fairly hard; your gift for -languages is of a great value, and, if you have no absolute genius for -business—well, I’m at the other end of the cable. I’ve no cause to be -dissatisfied.” - -“As much as you could expect of the public school and varsity brand, -sir?” I suggested. - -“More,” said Ezekiel decisively. - -I liked the job. I was very well paid. I saw the world; I met all -sorts of people; and I was always royally treated, since, if I was -always trying to get on the right side of my business or political -friends, they were equally anxious to get on the right side of -me—which meant, in their sanguine imaginations, the right side of -Sir Ezekiel; a position which I believe to correspond rather to an -abstract mathematical conception than to anything actually realizable -in experience. - -However, I do not want to talk about all that. I mention the few -foregoing circumstances only to account for the fact that I found -myself in town in the summer of 1914, back from a long and distant -excursion, temporary occupant of a furnished flat (I was a homeless -creature) in Buckingham Gate, enjoying the prospect of a few months’ -holiday, and desirous of picking up the thread of my family and social -connections—perhaps with an eye to country house visits and a bit of -shooting or fishing by and by. First of all, though, after a short -spell of London, I was due at Cragsfoot, to see Sir Paget, tell him -about my last trip, and console him for the loss of Waldo’s society. - -Not that anything tragic had happened to Waldo. On the contrary, he -was going to be married. I had heard of the engagement a month before -I sailed from Buenos Aires, and the news had sent my thoughts back to -an autumn stay at Cragsfoot two years before, with Sir Paget and old -Miss Fleming (we were great friends, she and I); the two boys, Waldo -and Arsenio, just down from Oxford; respectable Mrs. Knyvett—oh, most -indubitably respectable Mrs. Knyvett;—myself, older than the boys, -younger than the seniors, and so with an agreeable alternation of -atmosphere offered to me—and Lucinda! True that Nina Frost was a good -deal there too, coming over from that atrocious big villa along the -coast—Briarmount they called it—still, she was not of the house party; -there was always a last talk, or frolic, after Nina had gone home, and -after Mrs. Knyvett had gone to bed. Miss Fleming, “Aunt Bertha,” liked -talks and frolics; and Sir Paget was popularly believed not to go to -bed at all; he used to say that he had got out of the habit in Russia. -So it was a merry time—a merry, thoughtless——! - -Why, no, not the least thoughtless. I had nearly fallen into a -_cliché_, a spurious commonplace. Youth may not count and calculate. -It thinks like the deuce—and is not ashamed to talk its thoughts right -out. You remember the Oxford talk, any of you who have been there, -not (with submission to critics) all about football and the Gaiety, -but through half the night about the Trinity, or the Nature of the -Absolute, or Community of Goods, or why in Tennyson (this is my date -rather than Waldo’s) Arthur had no children by Guinevere, or whether -the working classes ought to limit—well, and so on. The boys brought -us all that atmosphere, if not precisely those topics, and mighty -were the discussions,—with Sir Paget to whet the blades, if ever they -grew blunt, with one of his aphorisms, and Aunt Bertha to round up a -discussion with an anecdote. - -And now Lucinda had accepted Waldo! They were to be married -now—directly. She had settled in practice the problem we had once -debated through a moonlight evening on the terrace that looked out -to sea. At what age should man and woman marry? He at thirty, she at -twenty-five, said one side—in the interest of individual happiness. -He at twenty-one, she at eighteen, said the other, in the interest -of social wellbeing. (Mrs. Knyvett had gone to bed.) Lucinda was now -twenty-one and Waldo twenty-six. It was a compromise—though, when I -come to think of it, she had taken no part in discussing the problem. -“I should do as I felt,” had been her one and only contribution; -and she also went to bed in the early stages of the wordy battle. -Incidentally I may observe that Lucinda’s exits were among the best -things that she did—yes, even in those early days, when they were all -instinct and no art. From Sir Paget downwards we men felt that, had -the problem been set for present solution, we should all have felt -poignantly interested in what Lucinda felt that she would do. No man -of sensibility—as they used to say before we learnt really colloquial -English—could have felt otherwise. - -I will not run on with these recollections just now, but I was -chuckling over them on the morning of Waldo’s and Lucinda’s wedding -day—a very fine day in July, on which, after late and leisurely -breakfast, I looked across the road on the easy and scattered activity -of the barracks’ yard. That scene was soon to change—but the future -wore its veil. With a mind vacant of foreboding, I was planning only -how to spend the time till half-past two. I decided to dress myself, go -to the club, read the papers, lunch, and so on to St. George’s. For, of -course, St. George’s it was to be. Mrs. Knyvett had a temporary flat in -Mount Street; Sir Paget had no town house, but put up at Claridge’s; he -and Waldo—and Aunt Bertha—had been due to arrive there from Cragsfoot -yesterday. Perhaps it was a little curious that Waldo had not been in -town for the last week; but he had not, and I had seen none of the -Cragsfoot folk since I got home. I had left a card on Mrs. Knyvett, -but—well, I suppose that she and her daughter were much too busy to -take any notice. I am afraid that I was rather glad of it; apprehensive -visions of a _partie carrée_—the lovers mutually absorbed, and myself -left to engross Mrs. Knyvett—faded harmlessly into the might-have-beens. - -I walked along the Mall, making for my club in St. James’s Street. At -the corner by Marlborough House I had to wait before crossing the road; -a succession of motors and taxis held me up. I was still thinking of -Lucinda; at least I told myself a moment later that I must have been -still thinking of Lucinda, because only in that way could I account, -on rational lines, for what happened to me. It was one o’clock—the -Palace clock had just struck. The wedding was at half-past two, and -the bride was, beyond reasonable doubt, now being decked out for it, -or, perchance, taking necessary sustenance. But not driving straight -away from the scene of operations, not looking out of the window of -that last taxi which had just whisked by me! Yet the face at the taxi -window—I could have sworn it was Lucinda’s. It wore her smile—and -not many faces did that. Stranger still, it dazzled with that vivid -flush which she herself—the real Lucinda—exhibited only on the rarest -occasions, the moments of high feeling. It had come on the evening when -Waldo and Arsenio Valdez quarreled at Cragsfoot. - -The vision came and went, but left me strangely taken aback, in a way -ashamed of myself, feeling a fool. I shrugged my shoulders angrily as I -crossed Pall Mall. As I reached the pavement on the other tide, I took -out my cigarette case; I wanted to be normal and reasonable; I would -smoke. - -“Take a light from mine, Julius,” said a smooth and dainty voice. - -It may seem absurd—an affectation of language—to call a voice “dainty,” -but the epithet is really appropriate to Arsenio Valdez’s way of -talking, whether in Spanish, Italian, or English. As was natural, he -spoke them all with equal ease and mastery, but he used none of them -familiarly; each was treated as an art, not in the choice of words—that -would be tedious in every-day life—but in articulation. We others used -often to chaff him about it, but he always asserted that it was the -“note of a Castilian.” - -There he stood, at the bottom corner of St. James’s Street, neat, cool, -and trim as usual—like myself, he was wearing a wedding garment—and -looking his least romantic and his most monkeyish: he could do wonders -in either direction. - -“Hullo! what tree have you dropped from, Monkey?” I asked. But then I -went on, without waiting for an answer. “I say, that taxi must have -passed you too, didn’t it?” - -“A lot of taxis have been passing. Which one?” - -“The one with the girl in it—the girl like Lucinda. Didn’t you see her?” - -“I never saw a girl like Lucinda—except Lucinda herself. Have you -lunched? No, I mean the question quite innocently, old chap. Because, -if you haven’t, we might together. Of course you’re bound for the -wedding as I am? At least, I can just manage, if the bride’s punctual. -I’ve got an appointment that I must keep at three-fifteen.” - -“That gives you time enough. Come and have lunch with me at White’s.” -I put my arm in his and we walked up the street. I forgot my little -excitement over the girl in the cab. - -Though he was a pure-blooded Spaniard, though he had been educated -at Beaumont and Christ Church, Valdez was more at home in Italy than -anywhere else. His parents had settled there, in the train of the -exiled Don Carlos, and the son still owned a small _palazzo_ at Venice -and derived the bulk of his means (or so I understood) from letting -the more eligible floors of it, keeping the attics for himself. -Here he consorted with wits, poets, and “Futurists,” writing a bit -himself—Italian was the language he employed for his verses—till he -wanted a change, when he would shoot off to the Riviera, or Spain, or -Paris, or London, as the mood took him. But he had not been to England -for nearly two years now; he gave me to understand that the years of -education had given him, for the time, a surfeit of my native land: not -a surprising thing, perhaps. - -“So I lit out soon after our stay at Cragsfoot, and didn’t come back -again till a fortnight ago, when some business brought me over. And I’m -off again directly, in a day or two at longest.” - -“Lucky you’ve hit the wedding. I suppose you haven’t seen anything of -my folks then—or of the Knyvetts?” - -“I haven’t seen Waldo or Sir Paget, but I’ve been seeing something of -Mrs. Knyvett and Lucinda since I got here. And they were out in Venice -last autumn; and, as they took an apartment in my house, I saw a good -deal of them there.” - -“Oh, I didn’t know they’d been to Venice. Nobody ever writes to tell me -anything when I’m away.” - -“Poor old chap! Get a wife, and she’ll write to tell you she’s in debt. -I say, oughtn’t we to be moving? It won’t look well to be late, you -know.” - -“Don’t be fidgety. We’ve got half an hour, and it’s not above ten -minutes’ walk.” - -“There’ll be a squash, and I want a good place. Come on, Julius.” He -rose from the table rather abruptly; indeed, with an air of something -like impatience or irritation. - -“Hang it! you might be going to be married yourself, you’re in such a -hurry,” I said, as I finished my glass of brandy. - -As we walked, Valdez was silent. I looked at his profile; the delicate -fine lines were of a poet’s, or what a poet’s should be to our fancy. -Not so much as a touch of the monkey! That touch, indeed, when it did -come, came on the lips; and it came seldom. It was the devastating -acumen and the ruthless cruelty of boyhood that had winged the shaft -of his school nickname. Yet it had followed him to the varsity; it -followed him now; I myself often called him by it. “Monkey Valdez”! -Not pretty, you know. It did not annoy him in the least. He thought it -just insular; possibly that is all it was. But such persistence is some -evidence of a truthfulness in it. - -“Have you been trying a fall with Dame Fortune lately?” I asked. - -He turned his face to me, smiling. “I’m a reformed character. At least, -I was till a fortnight ago. I hadn’t touched a card or seen a table for -above a year. Seemed not to want to! A great change, eh? But I didn’t -miss it. Then when—when I decided to come over here, I thought I would -go round by the Riviera, and just get out at Monte Carlo, and have a -shot—between trains, you know. I wanted to see if my luck was in. So -I got off, had lunch, and walked into the rooms. I backed my number -everyway I could—_en plein_, _impair_, all the rest. I stood to win -about two hundred louis.” - -“Lost, of course?” - -“Not a bit of it. I won.” - -“And then lost?” - -“No. I pouched the lot and caught my train. I wasn’t going to spoil the -omen.” He was smiling now—very contentedly. - -“What was the number?” - -“Twenty-one.” - -“This is the twenty-first of July,” I observed. - -“Gamblers must be guided by something, some fancy, some omen,” he said. -“I had just heard that Waldo and Lucinda were to be married on the -twenty-first.” - -The monkey did peep out for a moment then; but we were already in -George Street; the church was in sight, and my attention was diverted. -“Better for you if you’d lost,” I murmured carelessly. - -“Aye, aye, dull prudence!” he said mockingly. “But—the sensation! I can -feel it now!” - -We were on the other side of the road from the church, but almost -opposite to it, as he spoke, and it was only then that I noticed -anything peculiar. The first thing which I marked was an unusual -animation in the usual small crowd of the “general public” clustered on -either side of the steps: they were talking a lot to one another. Still -more peculiar was the fact that all the people in carriages and cars -seemed to have made a mistake; they drew up for a moment before the -entrance; a beadle, or some official of that semi-ecclesiastical order, -said something to them, and they moved on again—nobody got out! To -crown it, a royal brougham drove up—every Londoner can tell one yards -away, if it were only by the horses—and stopped. My uncle, Sir Paget -himself, came down the steps, took off his tall hat, and put his head -in at the carriage window for a moment; then he signed, and no doubt -spoke, to the footman, who had not even jumped down from the box or -taken off his hat. And the royal brougham drove on. - -“Well, I’m damned!” said I. - -Valdez jerked his head in a quick sideways nod. “Something wrong? Looks -like it!” - -I crossed the road quickly, and he kept pace with me. My intention was -to join Sir Paget, but that beadle intercepted us. - -“Wedding’s unavoidably postponed, gentlemen,” he said. “Sudden -indisposition of the bride.” - -There it was! I turned to Valdez in dismay—with a sudden, almost -comical, sense of being let down, choused, made a fool of. “Well, -twenty-one’s not been a lucky number for poor Lucinda, at all events!” -I said—rather pointlessly; but his story had been running in my head. - -He made no direct reply; a little shrug seemed at once to accuse and to -accept destiny. “Sir Paget’s beckoning to you,” he said. “Do you think -I might come too?” - -“Why, of course, my dear fellow. We both want to know what’s wrong, -don’t we?” - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE SIGNAL - - -BY now it was past the half-hour; the arrivals dwindled to a few late -stragglers, who were promptly turned away by the beadle; the crowd of -onlookers dispersed with smiles, shrugs, and a whistle or two: only a -group of reporters stood on the lowest step, talking to one another -and glancing at Sir Paget, as though they would like to tackle him but -were doubtful of their reception. One did quietly detach himself from -the group and walked up to where my uncle stood on the top step. I saw -Sir Paget raise his hat, bow slightly, and speak one sentence. The man -bowed in return, and rejoined his fellows with a rueful smile; then all -of them made off together down the street. - -My uncle was a little below middle height, but very upright and spare, -so that he looked taller than he was. He had large features—a big, -high-peaked nose, wide, thin-lipped mouth, bushy eyebrows, and very -keen blue eyes. He bore himself with marked dignity—even with some -stiffness towards the world at large, although among intimates he was -the most urbane and accessible of men. His long experience in affairs -had given him imperturbable composure; even at this moment he did not -look the least put out. His manner and speech were modeled on the old -school of public men—formal and elaborate when the occasion demanded, -but easy, offhand, and familiar in private: to hear him was sometimes -like listening to behind-the-scenes utterances of, say, Lord Melbourne -or the great Duke which have come down to us in memoirs of their period. - -When we went up to him, he nodded to me and gave his hand to Valdez. -He had not seen him for two years, but he only said, “Ah, you here, -Arsenio?” and went on, “Well, boys, here’s a damned kettle of fish! The -girl’s cut and run, by Gad, she has!” - -Valdez muttered “Good Lord!” or “Good Heavens!” or something of that -kind. I found nothing to say, but the face I had seen at the taxi -window flashed before my eyes again. - -“Went out at ten this morning—for a walk, she said, before dressing. -And she never came back. Half an hour ago a boy-messenger left a note -for her mother. ‘I can’t do it, Mother. So I’ve gone.’—That was all. -Aunt Bertha had been called in to assist at the dressing-up, and she -sent word to me. Mrs. Knyvett collapsed, of course.” - -“And—and Waldo? Is he here?” asked Valdez. “I’d like to see him and—and -say what I could.” - -“I got him away by the back door—to avoid those press fellows: he -consented to go back to the hotel and wait for me there.” - -“It’s a most extraordinary thing,” said Valdez, who wore an air of -embarrassment quite natural under the circumstances. He was—or had -been—an intimate of the family; but this was an extremely intimate -family affair. “I called in Mount Street three days ago,” he went on, -“and she seemed quite—well, normal, you know; very bright and happy, -and all that.” - -Sir Paget did not speak. Valdez looked at his watch. “Well, you’ll want -to be by yourselves, and I’ve got an appointment.” - -“Good-by, my boy. You must come and see us presently. You’re looking -very well, Arsenio. Good-by. Don’t you go, Julius, I want you.” - -Arsenio walked down the steps very quickly—indeed, he nearly ran—and -got into a taxi which was standing by the curb. He turned and waved his -hand towards us as he got in. My uncle was frowning and pursing up his -thin, supple lips. He took my arm and we came down the steps together. - -“There’s the devil to pay with Waldo,” he said, pressing his hand on my -sleeve. “It was all I could do to make him promise to wait till we’d -talked it over.” - -“What does he want to do?” - -“He’s got one of his rages. You know ‘em? They don’t come often, but -when they do—well, it’s damned squally weather! And he looks on her as -as good as his wife, you see.” He glanced up at me—I am a good deal the -taller—with a very unwonted look of distress and apprehension. “He’s -not master of himself. It would never do for him to go after them in -the state he’s in now.” - -“After—_them?_” - -“That’s his view; I incline to it myself, too.” - -“She was alone in the taxi.” I blurted it out, more to myself than to -him, and quite without thinking. - -I told him of my encounter; it had seemed a delusion, but need not seem -so now. - -“Driving past Marlborough House into the Mall? Looks like Victoria, -doesn’t it? Any luggage on the cab?” - -“I didn’t notice, sir.” - -“Then you’re an infernal fool, Julius,” said Sir Paget peevishly. - -I was not annoyed, though I felt sure that my uncle himself would have -thought no more about luggage than I had, if he had seen the face as I -had seen it. But I felt shy about describing the flush on a girl’s face -and the sparkle in her eyes; that was more Valdez’s line of country -than mine. So I said nothing, and we fell into a dreary silence which -lasted till we got to the hotel. - -I went upstairs behind Sir Paget in some trepidation. I had, for -years back, heard of Waldo’s “white rages”; I had seen only one, and -I had not liked it. Waldo was not, to my thinking, a Rillington: we -are a dark, spare race. He was a Fleming—stoutly built, florid and -rather ruddy in the face. But the passion seemed to suck up his blood; -it turned him white. It was rather curious and uncanny, while it -lasted. The poor fellow used to be very much ashamed of himself when -it was over; but while it was on—well, he did not seem to be ashamed -of anything he did or said. He was dangerous—to himself and others. -Really, that night at Cragsfoot, I had thought that he was going to -knock Valdez’s head off, though the ostensible cause of quarrel was -nothing more serious—or perhaps I should say nothing less abstract—than -the Legitimist principle, of which Valdez, true to his paternal -tradition, elected to pose as the champion and brought on himself a -bitter personal attack, in which such words as hypocrites, parasites, -flunkeys, toadeaters, etc., etc., figured vividly. And all this before -the ladies, and in the presence of his father, whose absolute authority -over him he was at all normal moments eager to acknowledge. - -“I’m going to tell him that you think you saw her this morning,” said -Sir Paget, pausing outside the door of the room. “He has a right to -know; and it’s not enough really to give him any clew that might -be—well, too easy!” My uncle gave me a very wry smile as he spoke. - -Waldo was older now; perhaps he had greater self-control, perhaps the -magnitude of his disaster forbade any fretful exhibition of fury. It -was a white rage—indeed, he was pale as a ghost—but he was quiet; -the lightning struck inwards. He received his father’s assurance that -everything had been managed as smoothly as possible—with the minimum -of publicity—without any show of interest; he was beyond caring about -publicity or ridicule, I think. On the other hand, it may be that these -things held too high a place in Sir Paget’s mind; he almost suggested -that, if the thing could be successfully hushed up, it would be much -the same as if it had never happened: perhaps the diplomatic instinct -sets that way. Waldo’s concern stood rooted in the thing itself. This -is not to say that his pride was not hit, as well as his love; but it -was the blow that hurt him, not the noise that the blow might make. - -Probably Sir Paget saw this for himself before many minutes had passed; -for he turned to me, saying, “You’d better tell him your story, for -what it’s worth, Julius.” - -Waldo listened to me with a new look of alertness, but the story seemed -to come to less than he had expected. His interest flickered out again, -and he listened with an impatient frown to Sir Paget’s conjectures as -to the fugitive’s destination. But he put two or three questions to me. - -“Did she recognize you? See you, I mean—bow, or nod, or anything?” - -“Nothing at all; I don’t think she saw me. She passed me in a second, -of course.” - -“It must have been Lucinda, of course. You couldn’t have been mistaken?” - -“I thought I was at the time, because it seemed impossible. Of course, -now—as things stand—there’s no reason why it shouldn’t have been -Lucinda, and no doubt it was.” - -“How was she looking?” - -I had to attempt that description, after all! “Very animated; -very—well, eager, you know. She was flushed; she looked—well, excited.” - -“You’re dead sure that she was alone?” - -“Oh, yes, I’m positive as to that.” - -“Well, it doesn’t help us much,” observed Sir Paget. “Even if anything -could help us! For the present I think I shouldn’t mention it to any -one else—except, of course, Mrs. Knyvett and Aunt Bertha. No more talk -of any kind than we can help!” - -“Besides you two, I’ve only mentioned it to Valdez; and, when I did -that, I didn’t believe that the girl was Lucinda.” - -“Monkey Valdez! Did he come to the—to the church?” Waldo asked quickly. -“I didn’t know he was in London, or even in England.” - -“He’s been in town about a fortnight, I gathered. He’d seen the -Knyvetts, he said, and I suppose they asked him to the wedding.” - -“You met him there—and told him about this—this seeing Lucinda?” - -“I didn’t meet him at the church. He lunched with me before and we -walked there together.” - -“What did he say?” - -“Oh, only some half-joking remark that you couldn’t take any other girl -for Lucinda. He didn’t seem to attach any importance to it.” - -Waldo’s eyes were now set steadily on my face. “Did you tell him at -lunch, or as you walked to the church, or at the church?” - -“As a matter of fact, before lunch. I mentioned the matter—that was -half in joke too—as soon as I met him in the street.” - -Sir Paget was about to speak, but Waldo silenced him imperiously. “Half -a minute, Father. I want to know about this. Where did you meet—and -when?” - -“As soon as the taxi—the one with the girl in it—had gone by. I had to -wait for it to go by. I crossed over to St. James’s Street and stopped -to light a cigarette. Just as I was getting out a match, he spoke to -me.” - -“Where did he come from?” - -“I don’t know; I didn’t see him till he spoke to me.” - -“He might have been standing at the corner there—or near it?” - -“Yes, for all I know—or just have reached there, or just crossed from -the other corner of St. James’s Street. I really don’t know. Why does -it matter, Waldo?” - -“You’re dense, man, you’re dense!” - -“Gently, Waldo, old boy!” Sir Paget interposed softly. He was standing -with his back to the fireplace, smoking cigarette after cigarette, but -quite quietly, not in a fluster. It was plain that he had begun to -follow the scent which Waldo was pursuing so keenly. - -“I beg your pardon, Julius. But look here. If he was at either corner -of the street, or on the refuge in the middle—there is one, I think—he -may well have been there a moment before—standing there, waiting -perhaps. The taxi that passed you would have passed him. He would have -seen the girl just as you saw her.” - -“By Jove, that’s true! But he’d have told me if he had.” - -“He didn’t say he hadn’t?” - -I searched my memory. “No, he didn’t say that. But if—well, if, as you -seem to suggest, he was there in order to see her, and did see her——” - -“It was funny enough your happening to see her. It would be a lot -funnier coincidence if he just happened to be there, and just happened -to see her too! And just as funny if he was there and didn’t see her, -eh?” - -“But how could he carry it off as he did?” - -“My dear chap, the Monkey would carry off a load of bricks that hit him -on the head! There’s nothing in that.” - -“What’s your theory, Waldo?” Sir Paget asked quietly. - -Waldo sat silent for a full minute. He seemed by now to be over the -first fit of his rage; there was color in his cheeks again. But his -eyes were bright, intent, and hard. He seemed to be piecing together -the theory for which his father asked him—piecing it together so as to -give it to us in a complete form. Waldo was not quick-witted, but he -had a good brain. If he got hold of a problem, he would worry it to a -solution. - -“I’ve written to her every day,” he began slowly. “And she’s answered, -quite affectionately—she’s never offensive; she’s given me no hint that -she meant to go back on me like this. The day before yesterday I wired -to her to know if I might come up; she wired: ‘For pity’s sake don’t. I -am too busy. Wait till the day.’” - -“Nothing much in that,” said his father. “She’d put it that -way—playfully.” - -“Nothing much if it stood alone,” Waldo agreed. “But suppose she was -struggling between two influences—mine and his.” For a moment his -voice faltered. “He’s always been against me—always—ever since that -time at Cragsfoot.” I heard a swallow in his throat, and he went on -again steadily. “Never mind that. Look at it as a case, a problem, -impersonally. A girl is due to marry a man; another is besieging her. -She can’t make up her mind—can’t make it up even on the very day -before the wedding; or, if you like, won’t admit to herself that she -has really resolved to break her promise, to be false to the man to -whom she is already——” Again there was a falter in his voice—“already -really a wife, so far as anything short of—short of the actual thing -itself—can make her——” - -He came to a sudden stop; he was unable to finish; he had invited us to -a dispassionate consideration of the case as a case, as a problem; in -the end he was not equal to laying it before us dispassionately. “Oh, -you see, Father!” he groaned. - -“Yes,” said Sir Paget. “I see the thing—on your hypothesis. She -couldn’t make up her mind—or wouldn’t admit that she had. So she told -the other man——” - -“Valdez?” - -“Yes, Julius. Arsenio Valdez. She told Arsenio to be at a certain spot -at a certain time—a time when, if she were going to keep her promise, -she would be getting ready for her wedding. ‘Be at the corner of St. -James’s Street at one o’clock.’ That would be it, wouldn’t it? If I -drive by in a taxi, alone, it means yes to you, no to him. If I don’t, -it means the opposite.’ That’s what you mean, Waldo?” - -Waldo nodded assent; but I could not readily accept the idea. - -“You mean, when I saw her she’d just seen him, and when I saw him, he’d -just seen her?” - -“Wouldn’t that account for the animation and excitement you noticed in -her face—for the flush that struck you? She had just given the signal; -she’d just”—he smiled grimly—“crossed her Rubicon, Julius.” - -“But why wasn’t he with her? Why didn’t he go with her? Why did he come -to the wedding? Why did he go through that farce?” - -Sir Paget shrugged his shoulders. “Some idea of throwing us off the -scent and getting a clear start, probably.” - -“Yes, it might have been that,” I admitted. “And it does account -for—for the way she looked. But the idea never crossed my mind. There -wasn’t a single thing in his manner to raise any suspicion of the sort. -If you’re right, it was a wonderful bit of acting.” - -Waldo turned to me—he had been looking intently at his father while Sir -Paget expounded the case—with a sharp movement. “Did Monkey ask for me -when he came to the church?” - -“Yes, I think he did. Yes, he did. He said he’d like to see you and—and -say something, you know.” - -“I thought so! That would have been his moment! He wanted to see how -I took it, damn him! Coming to the church was his idea. He may have -persuaded her that it was a good ruse, a clever trick. But really he -wanted to see me—in the dirt. Monkey Valdez all over!” - -I believe that I positively shivered at the bitterness of his anger -and hatred. They had been chums, pals, bosom friends. And I loved—I -had loved—them both. Sir Paget, too, had made almost a son of Arsenio -Valdez. - -“And for that—he shall pay,” said Waldo, rising to his feet. “Doesn’t -he deserve to pay for that, Father?” - -“What do you propose to do, Waldo?” - -“Catch him and—give him his deserts.” - -“He’ll have left the country before you can catch him.” - -“I can follow him. And I shall. I can find him, never fear!” - -“You must think of her,” I ventured to suggest. - -“Afterwards. As much as you like—afterwards.” - -“But by the time you find them, they’ll have—I mean, they’ll be——” - -“Hold your tongue, for God’s sake, Julius!” - -I turned to Sir Paget. “If he insists on going, let me go with him, -sir,” I said. - -“Yes, that would be—wise,” he assented, but, as I thought, rather -absently. - -Waldo gave a laugh. “All right, Julius. If you fancy the job, come -along and pick up the pieces! There’ll be one of us to bury, at all -events.” I suppose that I made some instinctive gesture of protest, for -he added: “She was mine—mine.” - -Sir Paget looked from him to me, and back again from me to him. - -“You must neither of you leave the country,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -A HIGH EXPLOSIVE - - -I HAVE said so much about Waldo’s “rages” that I may have given quite -a wrong impression of him. The “rages” were abnormal, rare and (if one -may not use the word unnatural about a thing that certainly was in -his nature) at least paradoxical. The normal—the all but invariable -and the ultimately ruling—Waldo was a placid, good-tempered fellow; -not very energetic mentally, yet very far from a fool; a moderate -Conservative, a good sportsman, an ardent Territorial officer, and a -crack rifle-shot. He had an independent fortune from his mother, and -his “Occupation” would, I suppose, have to be entered on the Government -forms as “None” or “Gentleman”; all the same, he led a full, active, -and not altogether useless existence. Quite a type of his class, -in fact, except for those sporadic rages, which came, I think, in -the end from an extreme, an exaggerated, sense of justice. He would -do no wrong, but neither would he suffer any; it seemed to him an -outrage that any one should trench on his rights: among his rights -he included fair, honorable and courteous treatment—and a very high -standard of it. He asked what he gave. It seems odd that a delicacy of -sensitiveness should result, even now and then, in a mad-bull rage, but -it is not, when one thinks it over, unintelligible. - -Sir Paget had spoken in his most authoritative tone; he had not -proffered advice; he issued an order. I had never known Waldo to -refuse, in the end, to obey an order from his father. Would he obey -this one? It did not look probable. His retort was hot. - -“I at least must judge this matter for myself.” - -“So you shall then, when you’ve heard my reasons. Sit down, Waldo.” - -“I can listen to you very well as I am, thank you.” “As he was” meant -standing in the middle of the room, glowering at Sir Paget, who was -still smoking in front of the fireplace. I was halfway between them, -facing the door of the room. “And I can’t see what reasons there can be -that I haven’t already considered.” - -“There can be, though,” Sir Paget retorted calmly. “And when I tell you -that I have to break my word in giving them to you, I’m sure that you -won’t treat them lightly.” - -Frowning formidably, Waldo gave an impatient and scornful toss of his -head. He was very hostile, most unamenable to reason—or reasons. - -At this moment in walked Miss Fleming—Aunt Bertha as we all called -her, though I at least had no right to do so. She was actually aunt -to Waldo’s mother, the girl much younger than himself whom Sir Paget -had married in his fortieth year, and who had lived for only ten -years after her marriage. When she fell sick, Aunt Bertha had come to -Cragsfoot to nurse her; she had been there ever since, mistress of Sir -Paget’s house, his _locum tenens_ while he was serving abroad, guide -of Waldo’s youth, now the closest friend in the world to father and -son alike—and, looking back, I am not sure that there was then any one -nearer to me either. I delighted in Aunt Bertha. - -She was looking—as indeed she always did to me—like a preternaturally -aged and wise sparrow, with her tiny figure, her short yet aquiline -nose, her eyes sparkling and keen under the preposterous light-brown -“front” which she had the audacity to wear. I hastened to wheel a chair -forward for her, and she sank into it (it was an immense “saddlebag” -affair and nearly swallowed her) with a sigh of weariness. - -“How I hate big hotels, and lifts, and modern sumptuousness in -general,” she observed. - -None of us made any comment or reply. Her eyes twinkled quickly over -the group we made, resting longest on Waldo’s stubborn face. But she -spoke to me. “Put me up to date, Julius.” - -That meant a long story. Well, perhaps it gave Waldo time to cool off a -little; halfway through he even sat down, though with an angry flop. - -“Yes,” said Aunt Bertha at the end. “And you may all imagine the -morning I had! I got to Mount Street at half-past eleven. Lucinda -still out for a walk—still! At twelve, no Lucinda! At half-past, -anxiety—at one, consternation—and for Mrs. Knyvett, sherry and -biscuits. At about a quarter to two, despair. And then—the note! I -never went through such a morning! However, she’s in bed now—with a -hot-water bottle. Oh, I don’t blame her! Paget, you’re smoking too many -cigarettes!” - -“Not, I think, for the occasion,” he replied suavely. “Was Mrs. -Knyvett—she was upset, of course—but was she utterly surprised?” - -“What makes you ask that, Paget?” - -“Well, people generally show some signs of what they’re going to do. -One may miss the signs at the time, but it’s usually possible to see -them in retrospect, to interpret them after the event.” - -“You mean that you can, or I can, or the Knyvett woman can?” Aunt -Bertha asked rather sharply. - -“Never mind me for the minute. Did it affect her—this occurrence—just -as you might expect?” - -“Why, yes, I should say so, Paget. The poor soul was completely knocked -over, flabbergasted, shocked out of her senses. But—well now, upon my -word, Paget! She did put one thing rather queerly.” - -“Ah!” said Sir Paget. Waldo looked up with an awakened, though still -sullen, animation. I was listening with a lively interest; somehow I -felt sure that these two wise children of the world—what things must -they not have seen between them?—would get at something. - -“When her note came—that note, you know—what would you have said in her -place? No, I don’t mean that. You’d have said: ‘Well, I’m damned!’ But -what would you have expected her to say?” - -“‘Great God!’ or perhaps ‘Good gracious!’” Sir Paget suggested -doubtfully. - -“She’s gone—gone!” I ventured to submit. - -“Just so—just what I should have said,” Aunt Bertha agreed. “Something -like that. What our friend Mrs. Knyvett did say to me was, ‘Miss -Fleming, she’s done it!’” - -“What did you say?” Sir Paget as nearly snapped this out as a man of -his urbanity could snap. - -“I don’t think I said anything. There seemed nothing to——” - -“Then you knew what she meant?” - -Aunt Bertha pouted her lips and looked, as it might be, apprehensively, -at Sir Paget. - -“Yes, I suppose I must have,” she concluded—with an obvious air of -genuine surprise. - -“We sometimes find that we have known—in a way—things that we never -realized that we knew,” said Sir Paget—“much what I said before. -But—well, you and Mrs. Knyvett both seem to have had somewhere in your -minds the idea—the speculation—that Lucinda might possibly do what -she has done. Can you tell us at all why? Because that sort of thing -doesn’t generally happen.” - -“By God, no!” Waldo grunted out. “And I don’t see much good in all this -jaw about it.” - -A slight, still pretty, flush showed itself on Aunt Bertha’s wrinkled -cheeks—hers seemed happy wrinkles, folds that smiles had turned, not -furrows plowed by sorrow—“I’ve never been married,” she said, “and I -was only once in love. He was killed in the Zulu war—when you were no -more than a boy, Paget. So perhaps I’m no judge. But—darling Waldo, can -you forgive me? She’s never of late looked like—like a girl waiting for -her lover. That’s all I’ve got to go upon, Paget, absolutely all.” - -I saw Waldo’s hands clench; he sat where he was, but seemed to do it -with an effort. - -“And Mrs. Knyvett?” - -“Nothing to be got out of her just now. But, of course, if she really -had the idea, it must have been because of Arsenio Valdez!” - -The name seemed a spur-prick to Waldo; he almost jumped to his feet. -“Oh, we sit here talking while——!” he mumbled. Then he raised his -voice, giving his words a clearer, a more decisive articulation. “I’ve -told you what I’m going to do. Julius can come with me or not, as he -likes.” - -“No, Waldo, you’re not going to do it. I love—I have loved—Lucinda. I -held my arms open to her. I thought I was to have what I have never -had, what I have envied many men for having—a daughter. Well, now——” -his voice, which had broken into tenderness, grew firm and indeed harsh -again. “But now—what is she now?” - -“Monkey Valdez’s woman!” - -These words, from Waldo’s lips, were to me almost incredible. Not for -their cruelty—I knew that he could be cruel in his rage—but for their -coarse vulgarity. I did not understand how he could use them. A second -later he so far repented—so far recovered his manners—as to say, “I beg -your pardon for that, Aunt Bertha.” - -“My poor boy!” was all the old lady said. - -“Whatever she may be—even if she were really all that up to to-day you -thought—you mustn’t go after her now, Waldo—neither you nor Julius with -you.” He paused a moment, and then went on slowly. “In my deliberate -judgment, based on certain facts which have reached me, and reënforced -by my knowledge of certain persons in high positions, all Europe will -be at war in a week, and this country will be in it—in a war to the -death. You fellows will be wanted; we shall all be wanted. Is that the -moment to find you two traipsing over the Continent on the track of a -runaway couple, getting yourselves into prison, perhaps; anyhow quite -uncertain of being able to get home and do your duty as gentlemen? And -you, Waldo, are a soldier!” - -Waldo sat down again; his eyes were set on his father’s face. - -“You can’t suspect me of a trick—or a subterfuge. You know that I -believe what I’m telling you, and you know that I shouldn’t believe it -without weighty reasons?” - -“Yes,” Waldo agreed in a low tone. His passion seemed to have left -him; but his face and voice were full of despair. “This is pretty well -a matter of life and death to me—to say nothing of honor.” - -“Where does your honor really lie?” He threw away his cigarette, walked -across to his son, and laid a hand on his shoulder. But he spoke -first to me. “As I told you, I am breaking my word in mentioning this -knowledge of mine. It is desirable to confine that breach of confidence -to the narrowest possible limits. If I convince Waldo, will you, -Julius, accept his decision?” - -“Of course, Sir Paget. Besides, why should I go without him? Indeed, -how could I—well, unless Mrs. Knyvett——” - -“Mrs. Knyvett has nothing to do with our side of the matter. Waldo, -will you come out with me for an hour?” - -Waldo rose slowly. “Yes. I should like to change first.” He still -wore his frock coat and still had a white flower in his buttonhole. -Receiving a nod of assent from Sir Paget, he left the room. Sir Paget -returned to the fireplace and lit a fresh cigarette. - -“He will do what’s right,” he pronounced. “And I think we’d better -get him to Cragsfoot to-morrow. You come too, Julius. We’ll wait -developments there. I have done and said what I could in quarters to -which I have access. There’s nothing to do now but wait for the storm.” - -He broke away from the subject with an abrupt turn to Aunt Bertha. -“It’s a damned queer affair. Have you any views?” - -“The mother’s weak and foolish, and keeps some rather second-rate -company,” said the old lady. “Surroundings of that sort have their -effect even on a good girl. And she’s very charming—isn’t she?” - -“You know her yourself,” Sir Paget observed with a smile. - -“To men, I mean. In that particular way, Paget?” - -“Well, Julius?” - -“Oh, without a doubt of it. Just born to make trouble!” - -“Well, she’s made it! We shall meet again at tea, Aunt Bertha? I’ll -pick up Waldo at his room along the passage. And I’d better get rid -of my wedding ornament too.” He took the rose out of the lapel of his -coat, flung it into the fireplace, and went out of the room, leaving me -with Aunt Bertha. - -“On the face of it, she has just suddenly and very tardily changed her -mind, hadn’t the courage to face it and own up, and so has made a bolt -of it?” I suggested. - -“From love—sudden love, apparently—of Arsenio Valdez, or just to avoid -Waldo? For there seems no real doubt that Arsenio’s taken her. He’s -only once been to the flat, but the girl’s been going out for walks -every day—all alone; a thing that I understand from her mother she very -seldom did before.” - -“Oh, it’s the Monkey all right. But that only tells us the fact—it -doesn’t explain it.” - -“Very often there aren’t any explanations in love affairs—no reasonable -ones, Julius. Waldo takes it very hard, I’m afraid.” - -“She’s made an ass of him before all London. It can’t really be hushed -up, you know.” - -“Well,” Aunt Bertha admitted candidly, “if such an affair happened in -any other family, I should certainly make it my business to find out -all I could about it.” She gave a little sigh. “It’s a shock to me. -I’ve seen a lot, and known a lot of people in my day. But when you grow -old, your world narrows. It grows so small that a small thing can smash -it. You Rillington men had become my world; and I had just opened it -wide enough to let in Lucinda. Now it seems that I might just as well -have let in a high explosive. In getting out again herself, she’s blown -the whole thing—the whole little thing—to bits.” - -“Love’s a mad and fierce master,” I said—with a reminiscence of my -classics, I think. “He doesn’t care whom or what he breaks.” - -“No! Poor Lucinda! I wish she’d a nice woman with her!” - -I laughed at that. “The nice woman would feel singularly _de trop_, I -think.” - -“She could make her tea, and tell her that in the circumstances she -could hardly be held responsible for what she did. Those are the two -ways of comforting women, Julius.” - -“As it is, she’s probably gone to some beastly foreign place where -there isn’t any tea fit to drink, and Monkey Valdez is picturesquely, -but not tactfully, insisting that her wonderful way has caused all the -trouble!” - -“Poor Lucinda!” sighed Aunt Bertha again. - -And on that note—of commiseration, if not actually of excuse—our -conversation ended; rather contrary to what might have been expected, -perhaps, from two people so closely allied to the deserted and outraged -lover, but because somehow Aunt Bertha enticed me into her mood, and -she—who loved men and their company as much as any woman whom I have -known—never, I believe, thought of them _en masse_ in any other way -than as the enemy-sex. If and where they did not positively desire that -lovely women should stoop to folly, they were always consciously or -unconsciously, by the law of their masculine being, inciting them to -that lamentable course. Who then (as the nice woman would have asked -Lucinda as she handed her the cup of tea) were really responsible when -such things came about? This attitude of mind was much commoner with -Aunt Bertha’s contemporaries than it is to-day. Aunt Bertha herself, -however, always praised Injured Innocence with a spice of malice. There -was just a spice of it in her pity for Lucinda and in the remedies -proposed for her consolation. - -My own feeling about the girl at this juncture was much what one may -have about a case of suicide. She had ended her life as we had known -her life in recent years; that seemed at once the object and the effect -of her action. What sort of a new life lay before her now was a matter -of conjecture, and we had slender _data_ on which to base it. What did -seem permissible—in charity to her and without disloyalty to Waldo—was -some sympathy for the struggle which she must have gone through before -her shattering resolve was reached. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -THE FOURTH PARTY - - -AS Sir Paget had suggested, we—we three Rillington men and Aunt -Bertha—spent the Twelve Days, the ever-famous Twelve Days before -the war, at Cragsfoot. On the public side of that period I need say -nothing—or only just one thing. If we differed at all from the public -at large in our feelings, it was in one point only. For us, under Sir -Paget’s lead, it was less a time of hope, fear, and suspense than -of mere waiting. We other three took his word for what was going to -happen; his certainty became ours—though, as I believe (it is a matter -of belief only, for he never told me what he told Waldo on that walk -of theirs on the afternoon of the wedding day—which was not the day of -a wedding), his certainty was based not so much on actual information -as on a sort of instinct which long and intimate familiarity with -international affairs had given him. But, whatever was his rock of -conviction, it never shook. Even Waldo did not question it. He accepted -it—with all its implications, public and private. - -Yes, and private. There his acceptance was not only absolute; it was -final and—a thing which I found it difficult to understand—it was -absolutely silent. He never referred to his project of pursuit—and of -rescue, or revenge, or whatever else it had been going to be. He never -mentioned Lucinda’s name; we were at pains never to pronounce it in -his presence. It was extraordinary self-control on the part of a man -whom self-control could, on occasion, utterly forsake. So many people -are not proof against gossiping even about their own fallen idols, -though it would be generally admitted that silence is more gracious; -pedestal-makers should be sure that they build on a sound foundation. -However, Waldo’s silence was not due to delicacy or to a recognition -of his own mistake; that, at least, was not how I explained it. He -recognized the result of his own decision. The event that was to -raise for all the civilized world a wall of division between past and -future—whom has it not touched as human being and as citizen?—erected a -barrier between Lucinda and himself, which no deed could pass, which no -word need describe. Only memory could essay to wing over it a blind and -baffled flight. - -In spite of the overwhelming preoccupation of that national crisis—Sir -Paget remained in close touch with well-informed people in town, and -his postbag gave rise to talk that lasted most of the morning—my -memory, too, was often busy with those bygone days at Cragsfoot, when -the runaways had been of the party. Tall, slim, and fair, a girl -on the verge of womanhood, ingenuous, open, and gay though she was, -the Lucinda of those days had something remote about her, something -aloof. The veil of virginity draped her; the shadow of it seemed to -fall over her eyes which looked at you, as it were, from out of the -depths of feelings and speculations to which you were a stranger and -she herself but newly initiated. The world faced her with its wonders, -but the greatest, the most alluring and seductive wonder was herself. -The texture of her skin, peculiarly rich and smooth—young Valdez once, -sitting on a patch of short close moss, had jokingly compared it to -Lucinda’s cheeks—somehow aided this impression of her; it looked so -fresh, so untouched, as though a breath might ruffle it. Fancy might -find something of the same quality in her voice and in her laughter, a -caressing softness of intonation, a mellow gentleness. - -What were her origins? We were much in the dark as to that; even Aunt -Bertha, who knew everything of that sort about everybody, here knew -nothing. The boys, Waldo and Valdez, had met mother and daughter at a -Commem’ Ball; they came as guests of the wife of one of their dons—a -lady who enjoyed poor health and wintered in “the South.” There, “in -the South,” she had made friends with the Knyvetts and, when they -came to England, invited them to stay. Mrs. Knyvett appeared from her -conversation (which was copious) to be one of those widows who have -just sufficient means to cling to the outskirts of society at home -and abroad; she frequently told us that she could not afford to do the -things which she did do; that “a cottage in the country somewhere” was -all she wanted for herself, but that Lucinda must “have her chance, -mustn’t she?” The late Mr. Knyvett had been an architect; but I believe -that Lucinda was by far the greatest artistic achievement in which he -could claim any share. - -So—quite naturally, since Waldo always invited any friends he chose—the -pair found themselves at Cragsfoot in the summer of 1912. And the play -began. A pleasant little comedy it promised to be, played before the -indulgent eyes of the seniors, among whom I, with only a faint twinge -of regret, was compelled to rank myself; to be in the thirties was to -be old at Cragsfoot that summer; and certain private circumstances made -one less reluctant to accept the status of an elder. - -Valdez paid homage in the gay, the embroidered, the Continental -fashion; Waldo’s was the English style. Lucinda seemed pleased with -both, not much moved by either, more interested in her own power -to evoke these strange manifestations than in the meaning of the -manifestations themselves. Then suddenly the squall came—and, as -suddenly, passed; the quarrel, the “row,” between Waldo and Valdez; -over (of all things in the world) the Legitimist principle! The -last time I had seen Waldo in a rage—until the day that was to have -brought his wedding with Lucinda! It had been a rage too; and Valdez, -a fellow not lacking in spirit as I had judged him, took it with a -curious meekness; he protested indeed, and with some vigor, but with -a propitiatory air, with an obvious desire to appease his assailant. -We elders discussed this, and approved it. Waldo was the host, he the -guest; for Aunt Bertha’s and Sir Paget’s sake he strove to end the -quarrel, to end the unpleasantness of which he was the unfortunate, if -innocent, cause. He behaved very well indeed; that was the conclusion -we arrived at. And poor dear Waldo—oh, badly, badly! He quite -frightened poor Lucinda. Her eyes looked bright—with alarm; her cheeks -were unwontedly, brilliantly red—with excited alarm. The girl was all -of a quiver! It was inexcusable in Waldo; it was generous of Valdez -to accept his apologies—as we were given to understand that he had -when the two young men appeared, rather stiff to one another but good -friends, at the breakfast table the next morning. - -How did this view look now—in the light of recent events? Was there -any reason to associate the old quarrel of 1912 with the catastrophe -which had now befallen Waldo? I had an impulse to put these questions -to Aunt Bertha, perhaps to Sir Paget too. But, on reflection, I kept my -thoughts to myself. Silence was the _mot d’ordre_; Waldo himself had -set the example. - -It was on the Saturday—the day on which the question of Belgian -neutrality defined itself, according to my uncle’s information, as the -vital point—that, wearied by a long talk about it and oppressed by -Waldo’s melancholy silence, I set out for a walk by myself. Cragsfoot, -our family home, lies by the sea, on the north coast of Devon; a cleft -in the high cliffs just leaves room for the old gray stone house and -its modest demesne; a steep road leads up to the main highway that runs -along the top of the cliff from east to west. I walked up briskly, not -pausing till I reached the top, and turned to look at the sea. I stood -there, taking in the scene and snuffing in the breeze. A sudden wave -of impatient protest swept over my mind. Wars and rumors of wars—love -and its tragedies—troubles public and private! My holiday was being -completely spoilt. A very small and selfish point of view, no doubt, -but human, after all. - -“Oh, damn the whole thing!” I exclaimed aloud. - -It must have been aloud—though I was not conscious that it was—for -another audible voice spoke in response. - -“That’s just what Father said this morning!” - -“It’s just what everybody’s saying,” I groaned. “But—well, how are you -after all this time, Miss Frost?” - -For it was Nina Frost who stood beside me and I felt oddly surprised -that, in my retrospect of that earlier summer at Cragsfoot, I had never -thought of her; because she had been a good deal with us in our sports -and excursions. But the plain fact is that there had been little about -her in those days that would catch a mature man’s attention or dwell in -his memory. She was a chit of a girl, a couple of years or so younger -than Lucinda, much more the school-girl, pretty enough but rather -insignificant, attaching herself to the other three rather by her own -perseverance than thanks to any urgent pressing on their part. Lucinda -had altogether outshone her in the eyes of us all; she had been “little -Nina Frost from Briarmount.” - -But now—she was different. A first glance showed that. She was not only -taller, with more presence; she had acquired not merely an ease of -manner; it was a composure which was quite mature, and might almost be -called commanding. - -“You’ve changed!” I found myself exclaiming. - -“Girls do—between sixteen and eighteen—or nearly nineteen! Haven’t you -noticed it, Mr. Rillington?” She smiled. “Hasn’t Lucinda changed too? -I expect so! Oh, but you’ve been abroad, haven’t you? And since she -didn’t—I mean, since the wedding didn’t—Oh, well, anyhow, perhaps you -haven’t seen her?” - -“No, I haven’t seen her.” I had not—officially. “Are you going towards -Briarmount? May I walk with you?” - -“Yes, do. And perhaps I haven’t changed so much, after all. You see, -you never took much notice of me. Like the others, you were dazzled by -Lucinda. Are you at liberty to tell me anything, Mr. Rillington? If you -aren’t, I won’t ask.” - -She implied that she was not much changed. But would any child of -sixteen put it like that? I thought it precocious for eighteen; for -it cornered me. I had to lie, or admit practically the whole thing. I -tried to fence. - -“But didn’t you go to the wedding yourself?” I asked. “If you did——” - -“No, I didn’t. Father wasn’t very well, and I had to stay down with -him.” - -As we walked, I had been slyly studying her face: she had grown -handsome in a style that was bold and challenging, yet in no -way coarse; in fact, she was very handsome. As she gave me her -most respectable reason for not having attended—or attempted to -attend—Waldo’s wedding, she grew just a little red. Well, she was still -only eighteen; her education, though I remained of opinion that it had -progressed wonderfully, was not complete. She was still liable to grow -red when she told fibs. But why was she telling a fib? - -She recovered her composure quickly and turned to me with a rather -sharp but not unpleasant little laugh. “As it turned out, I’m glad. -It must have been a very uncomfortable occasion.” She laughed -again—obviously at me. “Come, Mr. Rillington, be sensible. There are -servants at Cragsfoot. And there are servants at Briarmount. Do you -suppose that I haven’t heard all the gossip through my maid? Of course -I have! And can’t I put two and two together?” - -I had never—we had never—thought of this obvious thing. We had thought -that we could play the ostrich with its head in the sand! Our faithful -retainers were too keen-sighted for that! - -“Besides,” she pursued, “when smart society weddings have to be put -off, because the bride doesn’t turn up at the last moment, some -explanation is put in the papers—if there is an explanation. And -she gets better or worse! She doesn’t just vanish, does she, Mr. -Rillington?” - -I made no reply; I had not one ready. - -“Oh, it’s no business of mine. Only—I’m sorry for Waldo, and dear Miss -Fleming.” A gesture of her neatly gloved and shapely hands seemed to -dismiss the topic with a sigh. “Have you seen anything of Don Arsenio -lately?” she asked the next moment. “Is he in England?” - -“Yes. He was at the wedding—well, at the church, I mean.” - -She came to a stop, turning her face full round to me; her lips were -parted in surprise, her white teeth just showing; her eyes seemed full -of questions. If she had “scored off” me, at least I had startled her -that time. “Was he?” she murmured. - -At the point to which our walk had now brought us, the cliffs take a -great bulge outwards, forming a bold rounded bluff. Here, seeming to -dominate, to domineer over, a submissive Bristol Channel, Mr. Jonathan -Frost (as he then was—that is, I think, the formula) had built his -country seat; and “Briarmount” he had called it. - -“Good Heavens,” said I, “what’s happened to the place? It’s grown! It’s -grown as much as you have!” - -“We’ve built on a bit—a few more bedrooms, and bathrooms. And garages, -you know. Oh, and a ballroom!” - -“No more than that?” - -“Not at present. Come in and have a look—and some tea. Or are you in -too deep mourning?” - -I found myself not exactly liking the girl, but interested in her, in -her composure—and her impudence. I accepted her invitation. - -Since he could very well afford it, no blame need rest on Mr. Frost -for building himself a large house and equipping it sumptuously. The -only thing was that, when he had got it, he did not seem to care a bit -about it. Probably he built it to please Nina—or to enshrine Nina; -no doubt he found in his daughter a partial and agreeable solution -of the difficulty of how to spend the money which he could not help -making. He himself was a man of the simplest ways and tastes—almost -of no tastes at all. He did not even drink tea; while we took ours, -he consumed a small bowlful of one of those stuffs which, I believe, -they call cereals—this is a large domed hall of glass—conservatory, -winter-garden, whatever it should be called—full of exotic plants -and opening on a haughty terrace with a view of the sea. He was -small, slight, shabby, simple, and rather nervous. Still I gazed on -him with some awe; he was portentously rich; Mother Earth labored, -and her children sweated, at his bidding; he waved wands, and -wildernesses became—no, not quite paradises perhaps, but at all events -garden-cities; he moved mountains and where the ocean had been he made -dry land. Surely it beseems us to look with some awe on a man like -that? I, at least, being more or less in the same line of business, -recognized in him a master. - -He greeted me very kindly, though I think that it had cost him an -effort to “place” me, to remember who I was. He spoke warmly of the -kindness which my uncle and Miss Fleming had shown to his motherless -girl. “They’ve made you quite at home at Cragsfoot, haven’t they, Nina? -And your cousin Waldo—Mr. Waldo taught you billiards, didn’t he?” -(There was no billiard room at Cragsfoot; these lessons presumably took -place at Briarmount.) “And he made company for your rides, too! I hope -he’s very well, Mr. Rillington? Oh, but didn’t you tell me that he was -engaged to be married, my dear?” - -One must allow for preoccupation with important affairs. Still, this -was Saturday; as recently as the preceding Tuesday week, Mr. Frost -would have attended Waldo’s wedding, but for his own indisposition. I -stole a glance at Nina; she was just a little red again. I was not far -from embarrassment myself—on Waldo’s account; I gave a weak laugh and -said: “I’m afraid it’s not quite certain that the event will come off.” - -“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured apologetically. “It was the -pretty girl who came here with him once or twice—Miss—Miss—yes, Miss -Knyvett?” - -“Yes, it was, Mr. Frost. But the—well, the arrangement is sort of—of -suspended.” With that distinctly lame explanation I rose to take my -leave. - -I rather thought that Nina, being by now pretty plainly convicted of -fibbing, would stay where she was, and thus avoid being left alone -with me. However, she escorted me back through Briarmount’s spacious -hall—furnished as a sitting-room and very comfortable. She even came -out into the drive with me and, as she gave me her hand in farewell, -she said, with a little jerk of her head back towards the scene of my -talk with her father, “After that, I suppose you’re wondering what was -the real reason for my not coming to the wedding?” - -“Perhaps I am. Because you seem to have kept up the old friendship -since I’ve been away.” - -“Sometimes people don’t go to functions because they’re not invited.” - -“What, you mean to say——” - -“I should have been the skeleton at the feast!” She looked me in the -face, smiling, but in a rather set, forced fashion. Then, as she turned -away, she added with a laugh, “Only, as it turned out, there was no -feast, was there, Mr. Rillington?” - -When I got back to Cragsfoot, I met Waldo in the garden, walking up and -down in a moody fashion and smoking his pipe. “Been for a walk?” he -asked. - -“I started on one, but I met Nina Frost and she took me in to tea.” - -He stood still, smoking and staring out to sea. “Did she say anything -about me?” he asked. - -“Hardly about you yourself. She referred to—the affair. The servants -have been chattering, it seems. Well, they would, of course!” - -He gave a nod of assent. Then he suddenly burst out in a vehement -exclamation: “She wasn’t there to see it, anyhow, thank God!” With that -he walked quickly away from me and was soon hidden in the shrubbery at -the end of the walk. - -How did he know that she had not come to the church? He had not been -in the body of the church himself—only in the vestry. Many people had -actually gone in—early arrivals; Sir Paget had told me so. Many more -had been turned away from the doors. Waldo could not have known from -his own observation that Nina Frost was not there. Possibly somebody -had told him. More probably he had known beforehand that she would not -be there, because she had not been invited. But why should he thank God -that she was not at the church? - -So there was the coil—unexplained, nay, further complicated by the -intrusion of a fourth party, Miss Nina Frost. Unexplained I had to -leave it. The next morning—Sunday though it was—Sir Paget carried me -off to town, by motor and rail, to interview some bigwig to whom he had -mentioned me and who commanded my attendance. I had not even a chance -of a private talk with Aunt Bertha, whose silence about Nina now struck -me as rather odd. - -The war was upon us. It had many results for many people. One result -of it was that, instead of the start of hours for which they had -schemed, our runaway couple secured a start of years. That made a great -difference. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -CATCH WHO CATCH CAN! - - -I DO not want to say more about the war or my doings during it than is -strictly necessary to my purpose. The great man to whom I have referred -took a note of my qualifications. Nothing came of this for a good many -months, during which I obtained a commission, went through my training, -and was for three months fighting in France. Then I was called back, -and assigned to non-combatant service (it was not always strictly that, -as a nasty scar on my forehead, the result of a midnight “scrap” in a -South American seaport where I happened to be on business, remains to -testify). My knowledge of various parts of the world and my command of -languages made me of value for the quasi-diplomatic, quasi-detective -job with which I was entrusted, and I continued to be employed on -it throughout the war. It entailed a great deal of traveling by sea -and land, and a lot of roughing it; it was interesting and sometimes -amusing; there was, of course, no glory in it. I was a mole, working -underground; there were a lot of us. For the best part of a year I was -out of Europe; I was often out of reach of letters, though now and -then I got one from Aunt Bertha, giving me such home news as there was, -and copying out extracts from what she described as “Waldo’s miserable -letters” from France—meaning thereby not unhappy—he wrote very -cheerfully—but few, short, and scrappy. Sir Paget, it appeared, had -found some sort of advisory job—a committee of some kind—in connection -with the Foreign Office. - -It was when I came back to Europe, in the spring of 1916, and was -staying for a few days at a small town in the South of France—I -was at the time covering my tracks, pending the receipt of certain -instructions for which I was waiting, but there is no harm in saying -now that the town was Ste. Maxime—that I ran into Lucinda Knyvett. That -is almost literal. I came round a sharp corner of the street from one -direction, she from another. A collision was so narrowly avoided that I -exclaimed, “_Pardon!_” as I came to an abrupt stop and raised my hat. -She stopped short too; the next moment she flung out both her hands -to me, crying, “You, Julius!” Then she tried to draw her hands back, -murmuring, “Perhaps you won’t——!” But I had caught her hands in mine -and was pressing them. “Yes! And it’s you, Lucinda!” - -It was about midday, and she readily accepted my suggestion that we -should lunch together. I took her to a pleasant little restaurant on -the sea-front. It was bright, warm, calm weather; we ate our meal out -of doors, in the sunshine. In reply to her inquiries—made without any -embarrassment,—I told her what Cragsfoot news I had. She, in return, -told me that Arsenio—he also was mentioned without embarrassment—had -gone to Italy when that country entered the war, and was at this moment -on the staff of some General of Division; he wrote very seldom, she -added, and, with that, fell into silence, as she sipped a glass of wine. - -She had changed from a girl into a woman; yet I did not divine in -her anything like the development I had marked in Nina Frost. In -appearance, air, and manner she was the Lucinda whom I had known at -Cragsfoot; her eyes still remotely pondering, looking inwards as well -as outwards, the contour of her face unchanged, her skin with all its -soft beauty. But she was thinner, and looked rather tired. - -“Arsenio told me that you saw me in the taxi that day,” she said -suddenly. - -“He must have been very much amused, wasn’t he? He certainly made -a pretty fool of me! And put the cap on it by coming to the—to the -church, didn’t he?” - -“I suppose, when once he’d met you, he was bound to go there, or you’d -have suspected.” - -“He could have made some excuse to leave me, and not turned up again.” - -She did not pursue her little effort to defend Valdez; she let it go -with a curious smile, half-amused, half-apologetic. I smiled back. -“Monkey Valdez, I think!” said I. She would not answer that, but her -smile persisted. “You were looking very happy and bonny,” I added. - -“I was happy that day. I had at last done right.” - -“The deuce you had!” That was to myself. To her I said, rather dryly, -“It certainly was at the last, Lucinda.” - -“It was as soon as I knew—as soon as I really knew.” - -The waiter brought coffee. She took a cigarette from me, and we both -began to smoke. - -“And it’s true that I didn’t dare to face Waldo. I was physically -afraid. He’d have struck me.” - -“Never!” I exclaimed, indignant at the aspersion on my kinsman. - -“Oh, but yes!—I thought that he would fight Arsenio that night at -Cragsfoot—the night Arsenio first kissed me.” She let her cigarette -drop to the ground, and leant back in her chair. Her eyes were on mine, -but the shadow of the veil was thick. “It all began then—at least, I -realized the beginning of it. It all began then, and it never stopped -till that day when I ran away. Shall I tell you about it?” - -“We were all very fond of you—all of us. I wish you would.” - -She laid her hand on my arm for a moment. “I couldn’t have told -then—perhaps I can now. But, dear Julius, perhaps not quite plainly. -There’s shame in it. Some, I think, for all of us—most, I suppose, for -me.” - -At this point a vision of Aunt Bertha’s “nice woman” flitted before -my mind’s eye; it was a moment for her ministrations—or ought to have -been, perhaps. Lucinda was rather ruminative than distressed. - -“We were very happy that summer. I had never had anything quite like -it. Mother and I went to lunches and teas—and I’d just begun to go to a -few dances. But people didn’t ask us to stay in country houses. Three -days’ visit to Mrs. Wiseman at Oxford was an event—till Cragsfoot came! -I love that old house—and I shall never see it again!—Oh, well——! The -boys were great friends; all three of us were. If anything, Waldo and -I took sides against Arsenio, chaffing him about his little foreign -ways, and so on, you know. Waldo called him Monkey; I called him -‘Don’—sometimes ‘Don Arsenio.’ I called Waldo just ‘Waldo’—and I should -have called Arsenio just by his name, only that once, when we were -alone, he asked me to, rather sentimentally—something about how his -name would sound on my lips! So I wouldn’t—to tease him. I thought him -rather ridiculous. I’ve always thought him ridiculous at times. Well, -then, Nina Frost took to coming a good deal; Miss Fleming had pity on -her, as she told me—her mother wasn’t long dead, you know, and she was -all alone at Briarmount with a governess. Do you remember Fräulein -Borasch? No? I believe you hardly remember Nina? You hardly ever came -on excursions, and so on, with us. The boys told me all that sort of -thing bored ‘old Julius.’ Nina rather broke up our trio; we fell into -couples—you know how that happens? The path’s too narrow, or the boat’s -too small, or you take sides at tennis. And so on. For the first time -then the boys squabbled a little—for me. I enjoyed that—even though I -didn’t think victory over little Nina anything to boast about. Well, -then came that day.” - -Lucinda leant forward towards me, resting her arms on the table between -us; she was more animated now; she spoke faster; a slight flush came on -her cheeks; I likened it to an afterglow. - -“Nina had been there all the afternoon, but she went home after tea. -We’d been quite jolly, though. But after dinner Waldo whispered to me -to come out into the garden. I went—it was a beautiful evening—and -we walked up and down together for a few minutes. Waldo didn’t say -anything at all, but somehow I felt something new in him. I became a -little nervous—rather excited. We were at the end of the walk, just -where it goes into the shrubbery. He said, ‘Lucinda!’—and then stopped. -I turned sharp round—towards the house, suddenly somehow afraid to -go into the shrubbery with him; his voice had sounded curious. And -there—he must have come up as silently as a cat—was Arsenio, looking -so impishly triumphant! Waldo had turned with me; I heard him say -‘Damn!’ half under his breath. ‘Do I intrude?’ Arsenio asked. Waldo -didn’t answer. The moon was bright; I could see their faces. I felt -my cheeks hot; Waldo looked so fierce, Arsenio so mischievous. I felt -funnily triumphant. I laughed, cried, ‘Catch who catch can!’ turned, -and ran down the winding path through the shrubbery. I ran quite a long -way. You know how the path twists? I looked back once, and saw Arsenio -running after me, laughing: I didn’t see Waldo, but I could hear his -footsteps. I ran round another turn. By then Arsenio was quite close. I -was out of breath and stopped under a big tree. I put my back against -it, and faced Arsenio; I think I put out my hands to keep him off—in -fun, you know. But he came and took hold of my hands, and pulled me -to him and kissed me on my lips. ‘Caught!’ he said as he let me go. -Then I saw Waldo just a few yards off, watching us. I was trembling -all over. I ran away from them, back towards the house; but I didn’t -dare to go straight in; I felt that I shouldn’t be able to answer, if -anybody spoke to me. I sat down on the bench that stands close by the -door, but is hidden from it by the yew hedge. Presently I heard them -coming; I heard Waldo speaking angrily, but as they got nearer the -house, he stopped talking, so I didn’t hear anything that he said. But -Arsenio told me—later on—that he said that English gentlemen didn’t -do things like that, though dirty Spaniards might—and so on. I sat -where I was, and let them go in. But presently I felt that I must see -what was happening. So I went in, and found them quarreling: at least, -Waldo was abusing Arsenio—but you know about that; you were there. -I thought they’d fight—they would have if you and Sir Paget hadn’t -been there—but somehow, by now, I didn’t mind if they did. I wasn’t -frightened any more; I was excited. You know how it ended. I didn’t -then, because after a good deal of it Sir Paget sent me to bed—don’t -you remember? I went to bed, but I didn’t go to sleep for ever so long. -I felt that something great had happened to me. Men had tried to kiss -me a few times before; one or two had managed just to kiss my cheek in -a laughing kind of way. This was different to me. And there was Waldo -too! I was very young. I suddenly seemed to myself immensely important. -I wondered—oh, how I wondered—what they would do the next morning—and -what I should do. I imagined conversations—how I should be very stiff -and dignified—and Arsenio very penitent, but protesting his devotion. -But I couldn’t imagine how Waldo would behave. Anyhow, I felt that the -next morning would be the most awfully exciting moment in my life, that -anything might happen.” - -Lucinda paused, looking at me with a smile that mocked the girl whose -feelings she had been describing. “Nothing did!” - -After another pause she went on: “Later on, of course, I heard how -that was. I’ve heard it from both of them! Arsenio didn’t really care -for me at that time, though Waldo did. And Arsenio was very fond of -Waldo; he felt he’d behaved rather badly, and he didn’t bear malice -against Waldo for abusing him. Arsenio is malicious in a way; it’s -fun to him to make people look and feel silly; but he doesn’t harbor -malice. He’s not rancorous. He went to Waldo’s room early in the -morning—while Waldo was still in bed—and apologized. He said he must -have had a glass too much of champagne, that he hadn’t meant anything, -and that if he’d had the least notion how Waldo would feel about -it—and so on! In fact, he made light of the whole thing, so far as I -was concerned. Waldo listened to it all in silence, and at the end -just said, ‘All right, old chap. There’s an end of it.’ But he didn’t -really forgive Arsenio—and he didn’t forgive me, though it hadn’t been -my fault—had it? In the first-place, between us we’d made him give -himself away; he’s very proud, and he hates that. In the second, he’s -much better than you’d suppose at seeing into things; he has a sort of -instinct; and from that day, right on, he was instinctively afraid of -Arsenio; he felt that, if Arsenio chose, he could be dangerous—about -me. I know it, from the way he used to speak of him later on—when we -were engaged—always trying to probe me, to find out my feelings about -Arsenio, whether I was thinking about him, whether I ever heard from -him, and things like that. All the time he never had Arsenio out of -his mind. Well—he was right. - -“But I knew nothing of all that at the time. To me they seemed just a -little sulky to one another, and to me, too. Otherwise they ignored -what had happened, made nothing of it, never referred to it in any -way. I was most frightfully hurt and—and let down. To me it had been a -great beginning—of something, though I didn’t know of what. I couldn’t -understand how Arsenio could treat it as nothing—that he shouldn’t -apologize and abase himself if he’d meant nothing serious, that he -shouldn’t speak to me again if he really cared for me. I felt utterly -bewildered. Only I had a strange feeling that somehow, in some way, -Arsenio had acquired a right over me by kissing my lips. Of that -feeling I never got rid.” - -From a frown she broke into a smile again, as she went on. “It was a -miserable week—till we went. Both the boys avoided me whenever they -could. Both have told me why since, but I don’t believe that either of -them told me the truth. Arsenio said it was because he couldn’t trust -himself not to make love to me, and he had practically promised that -he wouldn’t. I think it was because he thought I would expect to be -made love to (I did!), and he didn’t want to; he wasn’t in love with -me then; besides he was afraid of Waldo. Waldo said it was because he -was ashamed of himself. I daresay he was ashamed, but it was much more -because he was in love with me, but was too proud to seem to compete -with Arsenio. Whatever the reasons, the result was—triumph for Nina! -She was invited over every day and all day. Both of them tried to keep -with her—in order to avoid me. I wasn’t exactly jealous, because I knew -that they really wanted to be with me—but for the complications. But I -was exasperated to see that she thought—as, of course, she must—that -she had cut me out. How her manner changed! Before this she had adored -me—as younger girls do older ones sometimes; ‘Darling Lucinda!’ and so -on! I’d noticed her trying to imitate me, and she used to ask where I -got such pretty frocks. Now she patronized me, told me how I must wish -I had a nice home (she knew I hadn’t) like Cragsfoot or Briarmount, -and said what a pity it was my mother couldn’t give me more chances of -riding, so that I could improve! She did ride much better than I—which -made it worse.” - -Here I looked at Lucinda, asking leave to laugh. She gave it in her own -low-murmuring laughter at herself. “So it ended. We went away, and I -was very glad when we did. I went away without either Arsenio or Waldo -having said to me a single word that mattered.” - -“I must have been very dull to have noticed nothing—except just the -quarrel; well, the quarrel itself, and how you looked while it was -going on—till you were sent to bed.” - -“How did I look?” - -“Just as you did when I saw you in the taxi at the corner by -Marlborough House.” - -“I’m very glad I didn’t see you! You’d have brought back what I’d -managed to put out of my mind. As though I could put it out of my life!” - -Suddenly and abruptly she pushed her chair back from the table. “Aren’t -we staying here a frightfully long time? That waiter’s staring at us.” - -“But surely I haven’t heard all the story yet?” - -“All the story? No. Only the prologue. And the prologue’s a comedy, -isn’t it? A children’s comedy! The rest isn’t quite like that. Pay the -bill and let’s go. For a walk, if you like—and have time.” - -“I ought just to call at my hotel—the _Méditerranée_—and see if there’s -anything for me—any telegrams. If there aren’t, I should like to sit by -the sea, and smoke, and hear the next chapter.” - -At the moment Lucinda merely nodded. But as we walked away, she put her -arm in mine and said, “The next chapter is called ‘Venice,’ and it’s -rather a difficult one for me to tell.” - -“I hope I’m not a person who has to have all the t’s crossed and all -the i’s dotted. Arsenio has—or had—a ‘palazzo’ at Venice?” - -“Yes. We stayed there.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -VENICE - - -THE instructions for which I was waiting did not reach me for three -days: I found reason to suspect, later on, that bribery had been at -work; they had almost certainly been delayed, copied, and communicated -to enemy quarters. The bulk of these enforcedly idle hours I spent with -Lucinda—at the restaurant, on the sea-front, once or twice at my hotel, -but never in the little house where she had a room: I often escorted -her to the door, but she never asked me in. But we grew intimate; she -told, I think, all, or almost all, the story, though often still with -the air of examining herself, or of rendering an account to herself, -rather than of being anxious to tell me: sometimes she would seem even -to forget my presence. At other points, however, she would appeal -directly to me, even urgently, as though she hung on my verdict. These -changes gave variety and life to her story; one saw her living again -through all her moods and experiences: on the other hand, it cannot be -denied that they lengthened the narrative. - -In the spring of 1913—the spring after their visit to Cragsfoot—her -mother and Lucinda went to stay on the top floor but one in Arsenio -Valdez’s palazzo at Venice, Valdez himself inhabiting the attics -immediately above them. Poverty, the satirist remarked long ago, has -no harsher incident than that of making people ridiculous; it may have -worse moral effects. Mrs. Knyvett had not so much accepted Valdez’s -invitation as intrigued and cadged for it; and they stayed rent free, -though even then Valdez was by no means a well-to-do man. And Mrs. -Knyvett could not receive favors in the grand manner. She took, but -she took cringingly; she over-acknowledged, constantly by manner and -even by word, reminding the donor and herself of the gift, reminding -her daughter also. She did not, it is true, know about the kiss in the -garden at Cragsfoot; Lucinda kept that to herself; her view was that in -her mother’s hands it would have been another lever. “Arsenio lodged us -free as it was; if mother had known that, she’d have made him board us -too!” Even as it was, he seemed to have entertained them a good deal -(as was only natural) while he played _cicerone_, showing them the -sights and pleasures of the place. - -It was by no means Mrs. Knyvett’s intention or desire that her daughter -should marry Arsenio. Her ambition flew higher. Cragsfoot was to her -still the most eligible prospect or project which had so far presented -itself; she kept in touch with it by letters to Aunt Bertha; in them -she angled for another invitation there, just as she had cadged for -Arsenio’s invitation to the palazzo. How many invitations does a -charming daughter “make” in the arithmetic of genteel poverty? Arsenio -was quite aware of her attitude towards him, but it pleased his -monkeyish humor to pretend to believe that she favored a suit which -he had himself no intention of pressing. Arsenio could not afford to -marry a poor girl, and probably did not want to marry at all. His -taste was for a bachelor life, and his affairs were in a precarious -state. He could hardly be said to live by gambling; he existed in -spite of it—in a seesaw between prosperity and penury; as such men do, -he splashed his _lire_ about when he had them; when he was “cleaned -out,” he would disappear from the ken of the Knyvetts for a day or -two, engaged in “milking” sundry old and aristocratic friends of his -father, who still resided at Venice in a stately and gloomy seclusion, -and could be persuaded to open their not very fat purses to help a -gentleman of Spain who upheld the Legitimist principle, as we know—from -past events—that Arsenio did! No, he certainly did not intend at the -beginning of their visit to mate poverty to poverty. - -But—there was Lucinda! Lucinda under blue skies by day and soft -moonlight by night. There was that secret memory between them, the -meeting of their lips; for him an incentive to gallantry, almost an -obligation, according to his code; for her, more subtly, a tie, a -union that she could not lightly nor wholly disown. He did not speak -of it directly, but he would circle round it in talk, and smile in an -impish exchange of the unspoken memory; he would laugh at Waldo, while -with feigned sincerity he praised his sterling qualities. “Oh, his -reliability, his English steadiness—dear, good, old Waldo! You’d trust -him—even in a gondola, Lucinda!” - -The gondola! Let it stand for the whole of Venice’s romantic -paraphernalia; an old theme, a picture painted a thousand times. No -need to expatiate on it here. To him it was all very familiar—the -nearest thing he had to a home; to her, of course, it was a revelation. -They were both susceptible to impressions, to beauty. He retained his -sensibility, she developed hers. She saw new things through his eyes; -he saw old ones newly reflected in the light of hers. His feelings -regained freshness, while hers grew to maturity—a warm ripeness in -which the man and the place were fused together in one glowing whole. -“Oh, I lived then!” she cried, clasping her hands together and beating -them upon her knee. - -Yet it must still have been with her own aloofness, delicacy, -difficulty of approach; the fires gleamed through the veil, but the -veil was round them. He complained, it appeared, of her coldness, of -the distance at which she kept him, at relapses into formality after -hours of unreserved merriment. Mrs. Knyvett chid her; was he not the -friend, the host, the benefactor? Within prudent bounds he should be -handsomely encouraged—and rewarded. “Mother told me that well-bred -girls knew how to make themselves respected without being prudish.” -Maternal philosophy of an affectionately utilitarian order—one eye on -present amenities, the other on grander prospects in the future! - -But was there no fear also in that maternal breast? Did the situation -and the actors raise no apprehension? To some people—to how many? Some -have maintained to all!—morality is not a master, but a good and ever -vigilant servant. It preserves the things that are of real value, the -marketable stuff. And it dignifies its watch and ward with such high -names, such sacred and binding traditions, that—well, really, what -between the august sanctions on the one hand and the enormous material -advantages on the other, can it be dreamt of that any reasonable girl -will forget herself? So one may suppose that Mrs. Knyvett reasoned. For -what, after all, is the “leading article” in a girl’s stock-in-trade? -Who, properly instructed, would sell that under market price, and so -stand bankrupt? - -So much may be said in apology for Mrs. Knyvett’s blindness to her -daughter’s peril; for in peril she was. Then an apology is needed for -Arsenio? It would show a lack of humor to tender it; it is the last -thing which those who have known and liked Monkey Valdez would think -of doing. He was a “good Catholic” by tradition, and a gentleman by -breeding; but he was an honest man only by fits and starts—when honesty -appealed to his histrionic sense, when it afforded him the chance of -a _beau geste_, when he felt himself under the eyes of the men with -whom he had been brought up, who expect honesty even in dealings with -women—at all events, with girls of their own caste; who draw a broad -distinction between an intrigue and a seduction; who are, in fact (not -to labor the subject), born and trained adepts in the niceties, some of -them curious, of the code of honor, which is certainly not a religious -rule or an ethical system, but may be considered to embody the laws of -sex warfare, to be a Hague Convention between the sexes. - -Yet there is no need to picture the poor Monkey as the deliberate -villain of the stage. Your true villain must be deliberate and must -rejoice in his villainy, or all the salt is out of him. Arsenio was -certainly not deliberate, and in no way realized himself as a villain. -The event—the course of affairs afterwards—proves that. He probably let -his boat drift pleasantly, delightfully, down the river, till the swirl -of rapids caught it; it is likely that he was himself surprised; the -under-nature stormed the hesitating consciousness. - -She gave me no particulars; I asked for none. She shrank from them, as -I did. It was after a delightful evening alone together, on the water, -that it came. Mrs. Knyvett had gone to bed; they were alone, full of -the attraction of each other—and of “it all.” So Lucinda summed up the -notoriously amatory influences of the Adriatic’s Queen. She appealed -to me—woman now, to a man of middle age—to understand how it happened. -As she told me—well, she hardly told me, she let me see—she laid her -hand in mine, her eyes sought mine, straight, in question—yet hardly -to me—rather to some tribunal which she blindly sought, to which she -made a puzzled but not despairing, not altogether too tragic, appeal: -“At Cragsfoot he had kissed my lips, you know; and I wasn’t angry. That -meant I liked him, didn’t it? That meant——? That meant—the same?” - -That seemed to me to record—as she, saying it, still seemed to retain—a -wonderful freedom from the flesh. She judged things by the spirit. -A terribly dangerous criterion; anybody can distort it; anybody may -snigger at it—though I think that it offers more resistance to an -honest laugh. There is a sort of pathos about it. Meant the same! -Poor dear! The gulf between the two things! Immeasurable! Let speak -religion (though there perhaps the voices have varied), morality, -prudence, the rest of them! And virgin modesty? Shall we lay its fall -most essentially in the less or the greater—in the parley or in the -surrender? That’s what she seemed to ask. But what answer could a plain -man of the world give her? - -She had a few—a very few days of happiness, of forgetfulness of -everything except their love. Then the clouds gathered. She waited -for a word from him that did not come—not the first time that he -had kept her thus waiting—yet how different! Arsenio grew fretful, -disconsolate, and sometimes sullen. One of his disappearances occurred; -he was raising the wind among his long-suffering aristocrats; he was -scraping together every coin he could and throwing them all on the -gaming table. If fortune smiled, he would do the right thing, and do -it handsomely; if she frowned—and there could be no doubt that she -was frowning now—what lay before him, before them? A scamped and mean -_ménage à trois_, existence eked out with the aid of Mrs. Knyvett’s -scanty resources, and soured by her laments! No money for gayety, for -play, to cut a figure with! He shrank from the prospect. He could not -trust his love with it; probably he did not trust hers either. He began -to draw away from her; she would not reproach or beseech. “I had taken -the chances; I had gambled too,” she said. - -Unless something had happened which put Arsenio under an even more -imperative obligation—one which, as I would fain believe, he must -have honored—it seems probable that the affair would in any case have -ended as it did; but the actual manner of its ending was shaped by an -external incident. - -The two were sitting together one morning in the Knyvett _salon_, -Lucinda mending her gloves, Arsenio doing nothing and saying nothing, -melancholy and fagged after a bout of gambling the night before. Mrs. -Knyvett came in, with an air of triumph, holding a letter in her hand. -She was still ignorant of the situation; still sure that her daughter -was making herself respected—though surely less apprehensive of her -prudishness? And, while they had been pursuing their devices, she had -had hers also to pursue. Success had crowned her efforts. The letter -was from “dearest Miss Fleming”; it invited mother and daughter to pay -another visit to herself and Sir Paget as soon as they returned to -England; that is, in about six weeks; for they had a stay with friends -in Paris arranged in the immediate future—a thing that had already -begun to trouble Lucinda. - -“It’s delightful!” said Mrs. Knyvett. “Won’t it help us splendidly -through the summer! Any chance of your being there too, Don Arsenio? -That would make it perfect!” - -The good lady did not stay for an answer. She had her hat on, and was -going out to do her marketing. She laid the letter down on the table -between them, and bustled out, her face still radiant with the joy of -successful maneuver. - -So Cragsfoot, completely forgotten of recent days, made its reëntry on -the scene. - -For a few moments they sat silent still, with the letter between -them. Then Lucinda said, “What are we to do, Arsenio?” She raised her -eyes from her sewing and looked across at him. He did not return her -glance; he was scowling. The invitation to Cragsfoot (he did not know -about the French visit, which Mrs. Knyvett could readily have put off -if she had preferred to stay on at Venice) brought him up short; it -presented him with an issue. It forced Lucinda’s hand also. No mere -excuse, no mere plea of disinclination, would prevent Mrs. Knyvett from -going to Cragsfoot and taking her daughter with her. To stay there was -not only a saving and a luxury, in her eyes it was also prestige—and a -great possibility! - -“Damn Cragsfoot!” she heard him mutter. And then he laid his head -between his hands on the table and began positively to sob. How much -for unsuccessful gambling, how much for too successful love, Heaven -knows! But Monkey Valdez sobbed. - -She put down her work, went round to the back of his chair, and put her -arms about his neck. “I know, I know, Arsenio. Don’t be so miserable, -dear. I understand. And—and there’s no harm done. You only loved me too -much—and if you can’t do what—what I know you want to do——” - -He raised his head and said (in what she called “a dead voice”), “I’m -what he called me, that’s the truth. He called me a dirty Spaniard; he -said no English gentleman would do what I did. The night I kissed you -at Cragsfoot! Waldo!” - -“He said that to you? He told you that? Waldo? Oh, I knew he was very -angry; but you’ve never told me that he said that.” - -“Then,” said Lucinda, as she told her story to me, “I did something, -or said something, that seemed to make him suddenly angry. What he -repeated—what Waldo had said—somehow struck me with a queer sense of -puzzle. It seemed to put him and Waldo back into the same sort of -conflict—or, at least, contrast—that I had seen them in at Cragsfoot. -I didn’t, of course, accept the ‘dirty Spaniard’ part; Waldo was just -angry when he said that. But the words did bring Waldo back to my -mind—over against Arsenio, so to speak. I don’t know whether you’ve -ever noticed that I sometimes fall into what they call a brown study? I -get thinking things over, and rather forget that I’m talking to people. -I wasn’t angry with Arsenio; I was feeling sorry for him; I loved him -and wanted to comfort him. But I had to think over what he had told -me—not only (perhaps not so much) as it bore on Arsenio, but as it bore -on myself—on what I had done and felt, and—and allowed, you know. Well, -Arsenio suddenly called out, quite angrily, ‘You needn’t pull your arms -away like that!’ I had done it, but I hadn’t been conscious of doing -it; I didn’t think about it even then. I was thinking of him—and Waldo. -And I know that I was smiling, as the old Cragsfoot days came back to -me. I wasn’t thinking in the least about where my arms were! ‘Of course -you and Waldo are curiously different,’ I said. - -“He jumped to his feet as if I had struck him, and broke out in a -torrent of accusation against me. A few minutes before he had himself -said that Waldo had told the truth about him. Now he declared that -it was I who had said it. I hadn’t said anything of the sort—at all -events, meant anything of the sort. I suppose I was sore in my heart, -but I should never have said a word. But he would have it that I had -meant it. He talked very fast, he never stopped. And—I must tell -you the truth, Julius—it all seemed rather ridiculous to me, rather -childish. I believe that I listened to most of it smiling—oh, not a -merry smile, but a smile all the same. I was waiting for him to work -himself out, to run down; it was no good trying to interrupt. And all -the time the contrast was in my mind—between him and Waldo, between -Waldo’s anger and—this! I felt as I suppose a woman feels towards her -naughty child; I wanted to scold and to kiss him both at once. I even -thought of that wicked nickname that Waldo has for him! At last—after -a great deal of it—he dashed one hand through his hair, thumped the -table with the other, and flung out at me, ‘Then go to him! Go to your -English gentleman! Leave me in the gutter, where I belong!’ And he -rushed out of the room. I heard his steps pattering up the stone stairs -to his own floor.” - -“You must have been terribly distressed,” I said—or something formal of -that kind. - -“No. I didn’t believe that anything had really happened. I waited half -an hour to let him cool down. But Mother might be back every minute; -there was still that question about Cragsfoot! I had to have some -answer! I went up to his apartment and knocked. I got no answer. I went -down to Amedeo the _portière_, and he told me that Arsenio had gone -out ten minutes before—I hadn’t heard his footsteps coming down again, -he must have stolen down softly; he was carrying a bag, had a gondola -called, and went off in the direction of the station, saying that he -would be back in a few days. That was the end of—Venice!” - -She came to a stop, gently strumming her fingers on the arm of her -chair. On an impulse I leant forward and asked her a question: “Are you -Madame Valdez now, Lucinda?” - -“Donna Lucinda Valdez, at your service, sir! Since the day after you -saw me in the taxi.” - -“Then he must have explained—Venice?” - -“Never. From the first day that we met again, we have never mentioned -Venice.” She touched my arm for a moment. “I rather like that. It seems -to me rather a tactful apology, Julius. He began courting me all afresh -when he came to England. At least he took it up from where it had -stopped at Cragsfoot.” - -“It may be tactful; it’s also rather convenient,” I commented gruffly. -“It avoids explanations.” - -A gleam of amusement lit up her eyes. “Poor Arsenio! He was in a -difficulty—in a corner. And he’d been losing, his nerves were terribly -wrong. There was the question of—me! And the question of Cragsfoot! -And then Waldo came into it—oh, I’m sure of that. Those two men—it’s -very odd. They seem fated to—to cross one another—to affect one another -sometimes. I wonder whether——!” She broke off, knitting her brow. “He -sounded most genuine in that outbreak of his when he mentioned Waldo. -I think he was somehow realizing what Waldo would think and say, if he -knew about Venice. Perhaps so, perhaps not! As for the rest of it——” - -“You think he wasn’t quite as angry as he pretended to be?” - -She seemed to reflect for a moment. “I didn’t say his anger was unreal, -did I? I said it was childish. When a child runs heedlessly into -something and hurts himself, he kicks the thing and tells his mother -that it’s horrid. I was the thing, you see. Arsenio’s half a child.” -Again she paused. “He’s also an actor. And he contrived, on the whole, -a pretty effective exit!” - -“That you ever let him come back again is the wonder!” I cried. - -“No. It’s what happened before he came back that puzzles me,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -SELF-DEFENSE - - -LUCINDA told me nothing about how “the end of Venice” struck or -affected Mrs. Knyvett. Some bewilderment of that good lady may be -conjectured; whether she wisely asked no questions or, asking them, -received the sort of replies which the proverb indicates as the fate -of questioners, I did not know. Nor, indeed, did I care—any more than -I cared what had become of Mrs. Knyvett at that moment. (In fact, as I -learned afterwards, she had quartered herself—it was her one talent!—on -an old and wealthy spinster, and was living with her at Torquay.) My -interest was where Lucinda’s was—centered in Lucinda herself. - -Her narrative jumped straight from Venice to Cragsfoot. She did not say -anything of her feelings in the interval; she went on to what “puzzled” -her—to the relations that came about between her and Waldo Rillington. -To those, from the beginning and all through, Valdez and what he had -been to her formed a background, and more than that, they were a factor -and a contributory, just as Nina Frost was. But it was in that way she -treated them. Waldo was now the leading figure; round him centered the -main theme, the thing to be explained. - -“We arrived in the afternoon before tea. Only Aunt Bertha (I noticed -that she still used the name which she had learnt to use during her -engagement to Waldo) was in; Sir Paget was in town, Waldo was out -riding. She was wonderfully nice to me. ‘My dear, you’re in great -looks!’ she said. I like those rather old-fashioned phrases of hers. -‘You were a very pretty girl last summer, now you’re a beautiful young -woman. And you’re so grown up. Let’s see—you’re only two years older -than Nina Frost. But she’s a school-girl—quite raw—compared to you. -She said this as if she were pleased. I didn’t understand then why she -should be, but I came to, later. You see, Aunt Bertha never liked Nina, -and positively hated Briarmount and all its works. We might be shabby, -but to her we were gentle folks—and the Briarmount people weren’t; and -she thought Nina bold and inclined to be impudent—in which she was -right. Don’t laugh, Julius; if you differ, you can state your views -afterwards; you mustn’t interrupt. - -“Mother was purring over all this—rather taking credit for it, you -know, and I was feeling, as you may suppose, rather guilty—a feeling of -false pretenses!—and we had settled down to tea, when I heard laughing -and talking in the hall. The door opened, and Nina appeared, ushered in -by Waldo. They had been riding; she had a good color and was looking -prettier, I thought, but her figure was still lumpy and rather awkward. -She hesitated by the door for just a moment, giving me a surprised -look. ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Knyvett and Lucinda were due -to-day,’ said Waldo with a laugh. ‘I only knew it myself yesterday -morning.’ - -“‘I ran no risk of disappointing him,’ Aunt Bertha explained. ‘I didn’t -tell him when you were coming till I was quite sure of the date.’ - -“I thought Waldo gave her a rather amused glance as he passed her, -greeted Mother, and then came to me. He sat down by me, after we -had shaken hands. Nina took her tea off to the sofa; he didn’t seem -to treat her with much ceremony—perhaps to him too she was still a -school-girl; I was grown up—and, of course, a new arrival. We got -talking and, as far as I’m concerned, I forgot her, till I heard her -saying, ‘I must go home. You’ll ride with me, won’t you, Waldo?’ For -just a moment he didn’t answer or turn away from me. ‘You said you -would, when you persuaded me to come in to tea,’ she added. - -“‘Perhaps he’s tired. We’ll send a groom with you,’ said Aunt Bertha. - -“‘Oh, no, I’ll come, Nina. I said I would.’ He was quite good-natured -about it, but I must admit that his voice sounded a little reluctant. -He got up and stretched himself lazily. ‘All right, I’m coming, Nina.’ -She turned on her heel and marched out, not waiting for him to open the -door. He followed, with a little shrug. When they were gone I saw Aunt -Bertha smiling to herself. - -“I’ve told you that in detail because it—what shall I say?—sets the -scene. I can only tell you generally how things developed. At first I -was very happy, and so, I suppose, very gay and cheerful. I seemed, -in the end, to have had a great escape and to have got into a safe -harbor. My feeling of guiltiness wore off under their kindness. I could -see that Waldo liked and admired me—and I’ve never been indifferent -to admiration or unaffected by it. Aunt Bertha petted me, and Sir -Paget made much of me too, when he came back. Mother, of course, was -all smiles—and enthusiastic about the food! Then, after two or three -days, Waldo told me that he had an appointment to ride with Nina, -and asked me to come too. I laughed and said I wouldn’t spoil their -_tête-à-tête_. He looked put out, but didn’t press me. The same thing -happened again, and he insisted on my coming; otherwise he wouldn’t -go himself. So we three began to ride, or to walk, together. And Nina -Frost began to fight me! - -“She had every right and every excuse. That girl, even then, young as -she was, had not only made a hero of Waldo—that would have been a thing -that one often sees—but she adored him in a jealous, fierce way that -I—well, it’s not mine; I hardly understand it. But I could see it in -her; she seemed to take little pains to hide it from me, though she did -try to hide it from Aunt Bertha. And Waldo—I don’t know to this day -how much reason he had given her for hoping, but it was evident that -they had seen a great deal of one another since my first visit, and -that her homage wasn’t disagreeable to him. You must remember that I -probably don’t do justice to her attractions! Well, she made me angry. -She assumed from the first that I meant to catch Waldo; I was a female -fortune-hunter! She rubbed in our poverty in her old way. And she threw -out hints about Arsenio—quite at random, but I’m not sure I always -managed to look unembarrassed. Waldo would frown at her then, and try -to shut her up; but I caught him looking oddly at me once or twice. I -had my secret to keep; I took the obvious way of doing it; I began to -flirt with Waldo myself. That was my line of defense, Julius. I’ve not -spared my morals in what I’ve told you, and I’m not pretending to you -that I behaved particularly nicely at Cragsfoot. I had no business to -flirt with Waldo, you’ll say, not even in self-defense? So be it. But -since I make these concessions—_en revanche_ I won’t spare my modesty -either; I had more success than I desired, or at all events deserved. -Waldo took fire!” - -She had distinctly recollected me for a moment; she had pronounced my -name! Now she gave me one of her smiles—never too numerous. “I don’t -know how much you trust me, Julius, but I really am trying to tell the -truth.” - -“A difficult and thankless task, Lucinda?” - -“Not thankless—somehow—to you.” She gave me, this time, a friendly -little nod, and went back to her story. We had dined together on this -evening; I smoked my cigar and listened; everybody else had finished, -and departed; properly speaking, the _salle-à-manger_ was shut. I had -tipped the waiter to leave us one light. It shone behind her face, -throwing it into relief; the rest of the room was in dimness. I had -no difficulty at all in understanding that her “line of defense” had -proved successful—only too sure and only too successful. - -“When I said just now that I didn’t desire success—at any rate beyond -what was necessary to my self-defense—I spoke too broadly. I feared -too much success; if Waldo came to love me, to ask me to marry him, I -should have to deal with a situation the thought of which frightened -me. But what a lot of things there were to make me desire that success! -Some obvious and, if you like, vulgar—the name, the money, the comfort, -the end of cadging and scamping. A little higher comes the appeal that -dear old Cragsfoot made to me—I should love to live at Cragsfoot. -Then I was very fond of all you Rillingtons; it would be in its way -wonderful to belong to the family, to be one of you. And Sir Paget and -Aunt Bertha wanted me—by this time I was quite sure of that. Especially -Aunt Bertha—though at first, perhaps, mainly because I wasn’t Nina -Frost! Indeed, I came to believe that my being at Cragsfoot at all -just then was a plot of Aunt Bertha’s; she had scented the Nina danger -and looked round for a weapon against it! All those things influenced -me—I suppose, too, poor Mother’s obvious delight at the idea. But -the chief things I’ve left to the last. One I can tell you quite -simply—Nina Frost! Is that vulgar too? I daresay, but I think it’s -human. She had declared herself my enemy. Who likes to see his enemy -triumph? And she would think that I was beaten on my merits! If Waldo -asked me, and I refused him, could I tell her that? Would she believe -me if I did? Besides, my real triumph would be in taking and keeping, -not in refusing. If I refused, she would step in—or so I thought. The -other thing—the last thing—was, of course, what I felt about Waldo -himself, and the way in which I should stand towards him. It was funny. -I had had no sense of taking a chance at Venice—though I did take a -chance—gambled and, as it had turned out, lost heavily; but there was -nothing but just plain being in love in the case at Venice. Don’t -smile—love of that kind is really very simple. But with Waldo—and in -the circumstances—matters were very different. I liked him very much; -he was such a change from Arsenio, about whom I was still, of course, -very sore—sore, not angry. He was very jolly at that time; if he’d -behaved rather badly to Nina, it troubled him, I think, almost as -little as it troubled me—which was not at all! But, first and foremost, -Waldo was an adventure. Great as my charms were—we’ve agreed about -that, haven’t we, Julius?—I knew that they would avail me nothing if -Waldo knew the truth. Because I had—gone wrong! That would have been a -shock; it would have meant a storm. But—well, who knows? Perhaps——! But -Arsenio! With Arsenio! They had been great friends, those two; but in -the end—deep down, there was antagonism, aversion. The one despised, -the other felt himself despised. Oh, but I know—look what I’ve been to -them both! And now they were rivals! Through me! All through Venice -Arsenio had never forgotten Waldo—nor what Waldo called him, as I’ve -told you. All through Cragsfoot Waldo never forgot Arsenio. It was -not only Nina who dragged Arsenio in—though she did. Waldo used to -bring in his name—and watch me. He said to me once, in a light way, -‘I suppose you and our friend Monkey had a picturesque flirtation at -Venice—gondolas and concerts on the Grand Canal, and all the rest of -it?’ I laughed and said, ‘Of course we had! But I don’t think I found -Venice any more intoxicating than—well, than Cragsfoot, Waldo.’ That -lifted the cloud from his face. He took it to himself—as I meant him -to; a bit of self-defensive tactics! That was by no means the only time -that he tried to draw me about Arsenio. But he never put a single -question—not one—to Mother. That was against his code, you know. - -“There it all was: the charm of Cragsfoot, the desire to please, -comfort, soreness with Arsenio, anger at Nina, liking for Waldo—and the -adventure! I seemed, in the end, to act on an impulse; I suppose that -it was really the outcome of all these things. But it seemed impulse, -and Nina was the direct—I mean, the immediate—cause of it. How I -remember that day! - -“She came to lunch at Cragsfoot, and was fairly agreeable—for her. -After lunch we three were alone in the smoking room, and she proposed -that Waldo should walk back to Briarmount with her and play billiards. -It was inclining to rain, not attractive for a long walk. Waldo asked -me to come too. The weather didn’t tempt me; I said no. By now I was -not, of course, in the least afraid of leaving him alone with Nina. -However, he went on pressing me, and at last I consented. She kept -quiet during the pressing, but I saw the hard look in her eyes that -always meant temper. We started off, all in our mackintoshes, for the -rain was coming down smartly now. Silence for the first half mile or -so; Nina’s nose was in the air, Waldo was sullen; I was amused; but I -wasn’t going to make talk for them if they chose to be sulky. Suddenly -she began on Arsenio again. She wished Don Arsenio was here! What jolly -times we had when Don Arsenio was here! And so on. Neither of us said -anything. Then she said directly to me, across Waldo, who was walking -between us, ‘Don’t you know where he is? Don’t you ever hear from him? -He was a great admirer of yours.’ I answered carelessly that I hadn’t -heard since he left Venice; but I felt my color rising. Waldo listened -silently, but I felt him getting annoyed—I always could. And I was -getting afraid. If we’d been alone, I could easily have got away from -the topic and smoothed him down. But she was there. ‘Don’t you miss him -too, Waldo? You and he and Lucinda used to have such fun together!’ I -could see that Waldo was just holding himself in. ‘The Monkey’s all -right,’ he said, ‘but I can live without him, you know. And I imagine -you can too, Lucinda?’ There was a look on his face that I didn’t like. -I saw that, Nina or no Nina, I must do something. ‘Perfectly!’ I said -with a laugh. I put my arm through his and gave him a little squeeze on -his wrist. I think we’re quite all right as we are, Waldo!’ - -“We were just at the top of the hill—where you turn along the cliff -towards Briarmount. Waldo pressed my arm between his arm and his side, -so that I couldn’t draw it away. He stopped, and stood facing Nina like -that, making me face her too, with my arm in his like that. ‘Now you -understand our views, and you can drop the subject,’ he said in a low -voice; it trembled a little. I felt very excited; I didn’t know how -she would take it, what she would say; his voice was brusque, angry, -contemptuous. But I wasn’t the least prepared for what did happen. She -stood opposite to us for a minute, smiling sarcastically, or trying -to smile; then her mouth began to work, and her lips turned down, -and—she began to cry! Quite loudly—like a passionate child. What I’d -been through is supposed to be the greatest humiliation a woman can -go through—being taken and left. But this that she was going through -seemed to me infinitely worse. I whispered, ‘Nina!’ and tried to draw -my arm away from Waldo; I felt that I must go to her. He wouldn’t let -me; he held my arm in a vise, and himself just stood looking at her, -pale as pale, absolutely quiet! She tried to speak, but couldn’t get -any words out, because of her sobbing. She gave it up, and began to -undo her mackintosh, to get her handkerchief. She found it, and wiped -her eyes; but she was sobbing still. I clung to Waldo now, for support; -my legs were shaking under me; I didn’t sob, but I felt tears on my -cheeks. At last she threw out her arm towards us, in a threatening sort -of gesture, sobbed out, ‘You’ll be sorry for this!’ turned away, and -hurried off along the cliff towards Briarmount. Her figure swayed as -she walked. It was very pitiful. - -“But Waldo watched her without any sign of pity—watched her till she -was quite a long way off. Then he turned to me, put his hands under my -arms and drew me close to him; he covered my face with kisses—my face -wet with both rain and tears. ‘You love me, you love me, Lucinda?’ -he whispered. I didn’t speak; I let him kiss me. I think I did love -him; at any rate, I was completely overmastered. Now I began to sob -myself, just repeating ‘Waldo! Waldo!’ through my sobs—nothing else—and -clinging to him.” - -Lucinda came to a stop and then turned her eyes to mine—they had been -looking into the dimness of the _salle-à-manger_—“So—it happened,” she -said. - -She had brought her scene before my eyes vividly enough—the three -wet, drab, mackintoshed figures there on the cliff in the rain; the -sudden explosion of misery, spite, and love; the fight between the two -girls; the disaster to one, to the other a victory that had brought no -abiding peace. Yet, as she talked, there had been also in my mind’s -eye another, a competing, picture. At the same spot—quite accidentally -the same, or did she haunt it?—a tall, stately young woman—her figure -quite ‘finished’ now, no longer lumpy—a young woman composed, ironical, -verging indeed on the impudent—yet just vulnerable, prone to flush, -tempted to fib, when the wedding of Waldo and Lucinda was the topic. -I saw now why she had not been invited to that ceremony. Her presence -would have been awkward for all parties. The skeleton at the feast -indeed—if the feast had ever happened! But set against her, the sobbing -girl, with her pitiful passion, her melodramatic “You’ll be sorry for -this”—thrown out in the random of fury and spite, but perhaps not -without some subtle instinct, some feminine intuition of the truth. - -“I saw Nina Frost once when I was last in England,” I said after a -long pause. “If you ever meet her again, you’ll find her a good deal -changed. She’s quite a woman of the world now.” - -“She’s the last person in the whole world that I wish to meet!” - -“I understand that. It couldn’t be pleasant for either of you. Well, -probably you never will.” - -“Yes, we shall. It isn’t all finished between me and Nina yet. I had my -victory; I threw it away. I saw her in her awful humiliation; how will -she see me next, I wonder!” - -“Isn’t that sort of idea very—well, fanciful, Lucinda?” - -She made no reply; the veil had fallen over her eyes; she gave a little -shiver. - -“It’s cold here,” I said. “Let’s go where it’s warm and light—to the -restaurant—and finish the evening.” I smiled as I added, “And the story -too, please.” - -“I can bring it right up to date. I had a letter from Arsenio to-day.” - -I was conscious of a slight shock of surprise. I had been thinking of -Arsenio as a historical figure—an episode in her past. He was, however, -also an existing fact; but what sort of a fact? About that I was still -ignorant. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE NEEDLEWOMAN - - -ON the way home I made Waldo promise not to tell about our engagement -till I agreed. He did promise, but I think he must have given a pretty -strong hint at home. There was such a wonderful absence of awkward -references or questions. My mother never spoke of Arsenio; Aunt -Bertha refrained from comment when it became known that Mr. Frost and -his daughter had suddenly gone on a holiday, yachting—at the very -beginning of what would have been Nina’s first season! And Sir Paget, -besides petting me more than ever, began to talk to me as if I had a -proprietorial interest in Cragsfoot. Waldo himself was very gentle and -patient with me; he felt that he had ‘rushed’ me, I think, and was -anxious not to frighten me. I believe that the possibility of something -like what did in the end happen was always at the back of his mind; he -never felt secure. There was always Arsenio; and I was—unaccountable! -So he soothed and smoothed me, and let me put off the announcement of -the engagement for nearly six months. We weren’t at Cragsfoot all that -time, but coming and going between there and London. Mother took the -Mount Street flat then; my opinion was—and is—that Sir Paget or Waldo -paid for it. But, whether in town or country, Waldo and I were meeting -all the time. - -“I didn’t announce the engagement because I didn’t want to burn my -boats; and then I did agree to announce it because I did want to burn -my boats! That was the kind of person I was then—at all events, the -kind of condition I was in. I had got over my fears almost entirely. -Nina had thrown up the sponge; Arsenio wouldn’t betray me; Waldo dreamt -of nothing worse than the picturesque flirtation in a gondola (though -he didn’t like even that!). Nobody could prove, or even plausibly -suggest, anything; unless my own nerve gave way, I was quite safe. So I -thought then, anyhow. And I had almost got over my sense of guiltiness -too. It came over me now and then; but it didn’t any longer seem very -real; perhaps I had just exhausted my feelings about it. It wasn’t what -I had done which troubled me all through those long months, both before -the announcement and after it; it was what I was doing and what I was -going to do. I liked Waldo enormously, and more and more as I knew him -better. In spite of his tempers, he’s a great gentleman. But he never -kissed me, he never took me in his arms, without my thinking of Arsenio. - -“I had the oddest sense that this thing wasn’t final, that something -would occur to end it. I didn’t expect to finish it myself, but I -expected that something would. The feeling made me terribly restless; -and it often made me cold and wayward with Waldo: then I had to be -very affectionate to make him happy again. I liked making him happy, -and I could do it. But I always seemed to be playing a part. I suppose -I loved Arsenio. Love Arsenio after what had happened! That seemed -monstrous. I wouldn’t open my eyes to it. I wouldn’t have gone to -him if I could. And yet I couldn’t go happily to Waldo. I felt I was -Arsenio’s—I wouldn’t own it, but I couldn’t help it. Julius, I believe -that I’m a very primitive woman.” - -“You’ve been sounding rather complicated up to now; I don’t mean—well, -unnatural.” - -“You’ve had love affairs, of course. I know you’ve had one big one. I -even know her name; Aunt Bertha told me.” - -“She shouldn’t have done that.” - -“I was one of the family then, you see. She is—dead?” - -“Yes, some few years ago—two years before we met at Cragsfoot.” - -“That’s how you come not to have married?” - -“I don’t know; many men don’t marry. Well—probably. But it’s your story -we’re after, not mine.” - -“Yes, but your having had an affair like that may help you—may help -me to make you understand. What is it that sometimes seems to tie two -people together in spite of themselves? Arsenio’s coming back to me -was just chance—chance on chance. He was in this very place where we -are now; in very low water, living in the little house I’m living in -now, and employed as clerk to a wine merchant. He had given up all -thoughts of me, of coming back to England. He couldn’t do it; he hadn’t -the money. The English papers hardly ever came his way. One day a man -came in, for a bottle of whisky—an Englishman; he had a copy of the -_Times_ with him, and tore off a sheet of it to wrap the bottle in, and -threw the rest on the floor. When he was gone, Arsenio picked it up and -read it. And he saw the announcement of the date of my wedding—July the -twenty-first.” - -“He told me, that day in London, that he had already decided to come to -England when he saw that.” - -“He couldn’t tell you all the truth that day. This is what happened. -Seeing that notice, a queer fancy took him; he would see whether that -number—my number he called it—would bring him luck. He scraped together -some money, went over to Monte Carlo, and won, won, won! His luck went -to his head; everything seemed possible. He came straight to England—to -see if the luck held, he said. You can guess the rest.” - -“Pretty well. You must have had a time of it, though!” - -“I think my mind really made itself up the moment I saw Arsenio. The -rest was—tactics! I mustn’t see Waldo; I invented excuses. Waldo -mustn’t see Arsenio—that at all costs! He always suspected Arsenio, -and Arsenio might give it away—you know his malicious little airs of -triumph when he scores! You picture me as miserable? No! I was fearful, -terrified. But I was irrepressibly excited—and at last happy. My doubt -was done and ended.” - -“You were not ashamed?” I ventured. - -“Yes, I was ashamed too—because of Aunt Bertha and Sir Paget. Because -of them, much more than because of Waldo. They loved me; they had taken -me to be, as it were, their daughter. Between Waldo and Arsenio it had -always been a fight—yes, from that first day at Cragsfoot. I was the -prize! But in a way I was also just a spectator. I mean—in the end I -couldn’t help which won; something quite out of my power to control had -to decide that. And that something never had any doubt. How could I go -against everything that was real in me?” - -“I think you are rather primitive,” I said. “It seems to you a fight -between the males. You await the issue. Well—and what’s happened? I -hope things are—flourishing now?” - -She looked at me with one of her slow-dawning smiles; evidently, for -some reason, she was amused at me, or at the question which I had put. - -“I’ve spent the greater part of the waking hours of three days with -you, Julius. I’ve walked, lunched, and dined with you. I’ve talked to -you interminably. You must have looked at me sometimes, haven’t you?” - -“I’ve looked at you, to tell the truth, a great deal.” - -“And you’ve noticed nothing peculiar?” - -“I shouldn’t use the word ‘peculiar’ to describe what I’ve noticed.” - -“Not, for instance, that I’ve always worn the same frock?” She was -leaning her elbows on the table now, her chin resting between her -hands. “And what that means to a charming woman—oh, we agreed on -that!—invited out by a fine figure of a man——! And yet you ask if -things are flourishing!” - -“By Jove, I believe you have! It’s a very pretty frock, Lucinda. No, -but really it is!” - -“It’s an old friend—and my only one. So let’s speak no evil of it.” Yet -she did speak evil of the poor frock; she whispered, “Oh, how I hate -it, hate it, this old frock!” She gave a little laugh. “If it came my -way, I wonder whether I could resist splendor! Guilty splendor!” - -“Didn’t poor old Waldo present himself to you—oddly, I must say—rather -in that light? And you resisted!” - -“I’ve changed. You’re talking to a different woman—different from -the girl I’ve been boring you about. The girl I’ve been boring you -about wouldn’t—couldn’t—marry Waldo with Arsenio there; I—the I that -am—could and, I think, would.” - -“Because of your old friend here?” I touched lightly the sleeve of her -gown. - -“For what it has meant, and does mean—oh, and for itself too! I’m no -heroine. Primitive women love finery too.” - -Her face was untouched by time, or struggle, or disillusion. Her -eyes were as they always had been, clear, calm, introspective. Only -her figure was more womanly, though still slim; she had not Nina’s -statuesque quality. But the soul within was changed, it seemed. This -train of thought brought me to an abrupt question: “No child, Lucinda?” - -“There was to have been. I fell ill, and——It was one of the times when -our luck was out. Arsenio made nothing for months. We soon spent what -Number 21 brought us.” - -“You don’t mean to say that you were—in want? At that time!” - -“Yes. Well, I can’t learn all lessons, but I can learn some. I’ve a -trade of my own now.” - -I confess that I yielded for a moment to a horrible suspicion—an idea -that seemed to make my blood stop. I did not touch her arm this time; I -clasped it roughly. I did not speak. - -“Oh, no,” she said with a little laugh. “But thank you, dear old -Julius. I see that you’d have cared, that you’d have cared very much. -Because I shall have a bruise there—and for your sake I’ll kiss it. -I’ve neglected my work for your sake—or my pleasure—these last three -days. But I work for Madame—well, shall we say Madame Chose?—because -I don’t want you to go and criticize my handiwork in the window. I -embroider _lingerie_, Julius—chemises and pants. There’s a demand -for such things—yes, even now, on this coast. I was always a good -needlewoman. I used to mend all my things. Do you remember that on one -occasion I was mending my gloves?” - -“But Arsenio?” - -“Arsenio pursues Dame Fortune. Sometimes he catches her for a moment, -and she pays ransom. She buys herself off—she will not be permanently -his. She’s very elusive. A light-o’-love! Like me? No, but I’m not.” -She leant forward to me, with a sudden amused gurgle of laughter. “But, -you know, he’s as brave as a lion. He was dying to fight from the -beginning. Only he didn’t know whom to fight for, poor boy! He wanted -to fight for Germany because she’s monarchical, and against her because -she’s heavy and stupid and rigid and cruel—and mainly Protestant!—and -against France because she’s republican and atheistical—oh, no -less!—but for her because she’s chivalrous, and dashing, and—well, the -_panache_, you know! He was in a very difficult position, poor dear -Arsenio, till Italy came in; and even then he had his doubts, because -Austria’s clerical! However, Italy it is!” - -“Didn’t England appeal to him?” - -“For England, monsieur, Don Arsenio has now an illimitable scorn.” - -“The devil he has!” said I softly. - -She laughed again at that, and something of her gayety still -illuminated her face as she gave me a warning. “I’ve told you nearly -all my secrets—all I’m going to tell! If any of them get to that -deplorable England, to that damp, dripping and doleful Devonshire -(the epithets are Arsenio’s!) I’ll cut you dead. And if they get -to—Briarmount—I’ll kill you!” - -“I’ll say that you live in a palace, with seven attendant princes, and -seventy-seven handmaids!” - -“Yes!” she agreed gleefully. “Who’s that woman looking for?” - -The woman in question was a stout person in a sort of official uniform. -Her eyes traveled over the few guests at the little restaurant; in -her hand she held a blue envelope. “She’s looking for me. She’s been -sent on from my hotel, depend upon it,” I said, with a queer sense of -annoyance. I, who had been fuming because my instructions did not come! - -I was right. The woman gave me the envelope and took my receipt. I -made a rapid examination of my package. “I must be off early to-morrow -morning,” I said to Lucinda. - -She did say, “I’m sorry,” but without any sign of emotion. And the -next moment she added, “Because you’ll just miss Arsenio. He arrives -to-morrow evening—to pay me a visit.” - -“I think I’m rather glad to miss Arsenio,” I remarked frankly. “Oh, not -because he ran away with you, and made fools of us all that day, but -because of what you’ve been telling me just now.” - -“If you liked him before, you’d like him still. He hasn’t changed a -bit, he’s just as he always was—very attractive in his good and gay -moods, very naughty and perverse in his bad ones. Yes, just the same. -And that’s what makes it so unfair in me to—to feel as I do about him -now. That’s one of the difficult things about love, isn’t it? And -marriage. The other person may go on being just what he was—what you -knew he was; but you may change yourself, and so not like him any -more—at least, not be content; because there’s a lot about Arsenio -that I still like.” Her eyes now wore their most self-examining, -introspective look. - -She pushed her chair back from the table. “It’s late, and you’ve got to -start early. And I must be early and long at work, to make up for lost -time—if it’s not rude to call it that.” - -I raised my glass. “Then—to our next meeting!” - -“When will that be, I wonder!” - -“Heaven knows! I roam up and down the earth, like the Enemy of Mankind. -But, after all, in these days to be on the earth and not under it, is -something. And you, Lucinda?” - -“I suppose I shall stay here—with Madame—Chose. War or no war, ladies -must have _lingerie_, mustn’t they?” - -“It seems a—well, a drab sort of life!” - -“Well—yes,” said Lucinda. “But one of us must earn some money, you see. -Even if I were that sort of person—and I don’t think I am—I couldn’t -afford to do anything useful or heroic. The pay for that isn’t high -enough.” - -I walked to her house with her, according to our custom—now of three -days’ standing. As we went, I was summoning up courage for a venture. -When we reached the door I said, “May I let you know from time to -time—whenever it’s possible—where I am? So that, if you were in—if real -occasion arose, you could write to me and——?” - -“Yes, I shall like to hear from you. But I probably shan’t -answer—unless I’ve something different to tell you—different from -Madame Chose—and better.” - -“But if it were—worse?” - -“I couldn’t take money from you, if that’s what you mean. Oh, it’s not -your fault, it’s nothing in you yourself. But you’re a Rillington.” - -“Isn’t that, again, rather fanciful?” - -“You seem to call all my deepest instincts fanciful!” she protested, -smiling. “But that one’s very deep. Goodness, I could almost as soon -conceive of myself accepting Nina Frost’s cast-off frocks!” - -We smiled together over that monstrous freak of the imagination. And -so, still smiling, we parted—she to go back to Madame Chose and her -_lingerie_, I to my wanderings and nosing about. I did from time to -time send her an address that would probably find me; but, as her words -had foreshadowed, I got no answers. So it was still Madame Chose—or -worse? I had to suppose that; and I was sorrowful. She had been much -to blame, but somewhat to be pitied; the root feeling under which -she had in the end acted—fidelity to the man to whom she had first -belonged—might be primitive, as she herself suggested; it did not seem -to me ignoble. At all events, she had not in the end been worldly; she -had not sold herself. No, not yet. - -For a while I thought a good deal about her; she had made a vivid -impression on me in those three days; her face haunted my eyes -sometimes. But—well, we were all very busy; there was a lot to think -about—plenty of food both for thought and for emotion, immediate -interests too strong for memories and speculations to fight against. -The echo of her voice was drowned by the clamor of war. The vision of -her face faded. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -LIKE TO LIKE - - -IT was in May, 1916, that Waldo got a severe wound in the right -shoulder, which put him out of action for the rest of the war and sent -him, after two or three months in a hospital, back to Cragsfoot. He -had done very well, indeed distinguished himself rather notably; had -fortune been kinder, he might have expected to rise to high rank. The -letters which I received—I was far away, and was not at the time able -to get leave, even had I felt justified in asking for it—reflected -the mingled disappointment, anxiety, and relief, which the end of his -military career, the severity of his wound, and his return home—alive, -at all events!—naturally produced at Cragsfoot. - -Sir Paget wrote seldom and briefly, but with a quiet humor and an -incisive touch. Aunt Bertha’s letters—especially now that she had only -me to write to, and no longer spent the larger part of her epistolary -energy on Waldo—were frequent, full, vivid, and chatty. But she was -also very discursive; she would sandwich in the Kaiser between the -cook and the cabbages, Waldo’s wound between Bethmann-Hollweg and Mr. -Winston Churchill. It was, however, possible to gather from her, aided -by Sir Paget, a pretty complete picture of what was going on both at -Cragsfoot and at Briarmount. - -For at Briarmount too anxiety reigned, and the times were critical. As -might be expected of him, Mr. Jonathan Frost had wrought marvels during -the war. The whole of his vast establishments had been placed at the -disposal of the Ministry of Munitions; he had effected wonders of rapid -adaptation and transformation, wonders of organization and output; he -“speeded up” a dozen Boards and infused his own restless energy into -somnolent offices. But two years of these exertions, on the top of a -life of gigantic labor, proved too much even for him. He won a peerage, -but he gave his life. In the September of that same year he came back -to Briarmount, the victim of a stroke, a dying man. His mind was still -clear and active, but he had considerable difficulty in speaking, and -was unable to move without assistance. His daughter, who had sedulously -nursed him through his labors, was now nursing him through the last -stage of his earthly course. - -But there was also a newcomer at Briarmount, a frequent visitor there -during the last months of its master’s life, one in whom both Aunt -Bertha and Sir Paget took considerable interest. This was Captain -Godfrey Frost. Lord Dundrannan (he took his title from a place he had -in Scotland) was old-fashioned enough not to approve of confiding to -women the exclusive command of great interests; they lacked the broad -view and the balance of mind, however penetrating their intuitions -might on occasion be! And too much power was not good for them; he -even seemed to have hinted to Sir Paget that they were quite masterful -enough already! That he meant to leave his daughter handsomely, indeed -splendidly, endowed, was certain; but he was minded to provide himself -with an heir male in the person of this young man. It would have been -natural, perhaps, to suspect him of planning a match between the -cousins, but this did not seem to be in his head—perhaps because such -personal matters as marriages held a small place in his mind; perhaps -because he suspected that his daughter’s ideas on that subject were -already settled; perhaps because his nephew was somewhat too young -and—from a social point of view—unformed to be a good mate for his -accomplished daughter. - -Captain Frost was, in fact, inexperienced and backward, shy and rather -silent, in society; but unquestionably he had a full share of the -family business ability—so much so that, when Lord Dundrannan “cracked -up,” he was brought back from the front (against his protests, it is -only fair to add), and put in charge, actual if not always nominal, -of a great part of the important activities on which his uncle had -been engaged. His disposition appeared to be simple, amiable, and -unassuming. He was pleasantly deferential to Sir Paget, rather afraid -of Aunt Bertha’s acute eyes, cordial and attentive to Waldo. Towards -Nina he was content to accept the position of pupil and _protégé_; he -let her put him through his social paces; he regarded her with evident -respect and admiration, and thought her worthy to be her father’s -daughter—more than that he could not do! There was no trace of any -sentiment beyond this, or different in kind from it. There was, in -fact, to be detected in Aunt Bertha’s letters an underlying note of -satisfaction; it might be described in the words, “He’s quite nice, but -there’s nothing to fear!” - -But if such a note as that were really to be heard in Aunt Bertha’s -letters, it could mean only one thing; and it marked a great change in -her attitude towards Nina. It meant that she was looking forward with -contentment, apparently with actual pleasure, to a match between Nina -and Waldo. Other signs pointed in the same direction—her mention of -Nina’s frequent calls at Cragsfoot, of her kindness to Waldo, of her -devotion to her father, of her praiseworthy calm and level-headedness -during this trying time. The change had perhaps started from a -reaction against Lucinda; after the first impulse of sympathy with -the distracted fugitive (a very real one at the time) had died down, -Lucinda’s waywardness, her “unaccountability,” presented themselves -in a less excusable light. But the main cause lay, no doubt, in Waldo -himself. Aunt Bertha was—passing impulses apart—for Waldo and on his -side. Any shifting of her views and feelings in a matter like this -would be certain to reflect a similar alteration in his attitude. - -In November a letter from Sir Paget told me of Lord Dundrannan’s death, -at which, by chance, he was himself present; evidently moved by the -scene, he recounted it with more detail than he was wont to indulge in. -Hearing that his neighbor was worse, he went to inquire; as he stood at -the door, Nina drove up in her car—she had been out for an airing—and -took him into the library where her father was, sitting in a chair by -the fire. It was very rarely that he would consent to keep his bed, and -he had insisted on getting up that day. “Godfrey Frost was there” (my -uncle wrote) “and Dr. Napier, standing and whispering together in the -window. By the sick man sat an old white-haired Wesleyan minister, whom -he had sent for all the way from Bradford, where he himself was born: -he had ‘sat under’ this old gentleman as a boy, and a few days before -had expressed a great longing to see him. The minister was reading the -Bible to him now. It looked as though he had foreseen that the end -was coming. He had had a sort of valedictory talk with Nina and young -Frost a week before—about the money and the businesses, what they were -to do, what rules they were to be guided by, and so on. That done, -he appeared to dismiss worldly affairs, this world itself, from his -thoughts, and ‘took up’ the next. I am not mocking; yet I can hardly -help smiling. He seemed to have ‘taken it up’ in the same way that he -would have inquired into a new, important and interesting speculation; -and he got his expert—the old minister from Bradford—to advise him. He -was not afraid, or agitated, or remorseful; his feelings seemed, so -far as his impaired speech enabled him to describe them to his family, -those of a curious and earnest interest in his prospects of survival—he -eagerly desired to survive—and in what awaited him if he did survive. -The fact that he had neglected religion for a great many years back -did not trouble him; nor did ‘How hardly shall a rich man——’ He seemed -confident that, if immortality were a fact, some place and some work -would be found for Jonathan Frost. Whether it was a fact was what he -wanted to know; he hated the idea of nothingness, of inactivity, of -stopping! - -“The old minister shut his book when I came in. Nina led me up to her -father. He recognized me and smiled. I said a few words, but I doubt -if he listened. He pointed towards the book on the minister’s knee—he -could move his left hand—and tried to say something: I think that he -was trying to pursue the subject that engrossed him, perhaps to get my -opinion on it. But the next moment he gave a smothered sort of cry—not -loud at all—and moved his hand towards his heart. Napier darted across -the room to him; Nina put her arm round his neck and kissed him. He -gave a sigh, and his head fell back on her arm. He was gone—all in a -minute—gone to get the answer to his question. Then there was a ringing -of bells, of course, and they came in and took him way. Nina put her -hands in mine for a second before she followed them out of the room: -‘My dear father!’ she said. Then she put her arm in young Frost’s, -and he led her out of the room, very gently, in a very gentleman-like -way, I must say. I was left alone with the old minister. ‘The end of -a remarkable life!’ I said, or something of that sort. ‘I’m glad it -came so easily at the end.’ He bowed his white head. ‘He did great -things for his country,’ he answered. ‘God’s ways are not our ways, Sir -Paget.’ I said good-by, and left him with his book.” - -A month after Lord Dundrannan’s death I got Christmas leave, came to -England, and went down to Cragsfoot on the Friday before Christmas Day; -it fell on a Monday that year. It was jolly to be there again, and to -find old Waldo out of danger and getting on really famously. - -But how he was changed! I will not go into the physical changes—they -proved, thank God, in the main temporary, though it was a long -time before he got back nearly all his old vigor—but I can’t help -speculating on how much they, and the suffering they brought, had to -do with the change in the nature of the man. Perhaps nothing; it is, I -suppose, rather an obscure subject, a medical question; but I cannot -help thinking that they worked together with his other experiences. -At least, they must have made him in a way older in body, just as -the other experiences made him older in mind. I never realized till -then—though I ought to have—how very little I had really been through, -in what had seemed two tolerably exciting and exhausting years, -compared to him who had “stuck it through” all the time at the front. I -said something of this sort to him as we gossiped together, and it set -him talking. - -“Well, old chap,” he said, laughing, “I don’t know how you found -it—you were, of course, a grown man, a man of the world, before it all -began—but I just had to change. It’s no credit to me—I had to! I was a -cub, a puppy—I had to become a trained animal. As it was, that infernal -temper of mine nearly cost me my commission in the first three months. -It would have, by Jove, if Tom Winter—my Company Commander—hadn’t been -the best fellow in the world; he was killed six months later, poor -chap, but he’d got a muzzle on me before that. You will find me a bit -better there; I haven’t had a real old break-out ever since.” - -“Oh, I daresay you will, when you get fit!” said I consolingly. - -“Thank you,” he laughed again. “But I don’t want to, you know. They -were a bit upsetting to everybody concerned.” He smiled as though in -a gentle amusement at his old self. “Only father could manage me—and -he couldn’t always. Lord, I was impossible! I might have committed a -murder one fine day!” - -I recollected a certain fine day on which murder, or something very -like it, was certainly his purpose. Oh, with a good deal of excuse, no -doubt! - -Perhaps his thoughts had moved in the same direction; seeing me again -might well have that effect on him. - -“I don’t want to exaggerate things. I daresay I’ve a bit of the devil -left in me. And I don’t know whether men in general have been affected -much by the business. Some have, some haven’t, I expect. Perhaps I’m a -special case. The war came at what was for me a very critical moment. -For me personally it was a lucky thing, in spite of this old shoulder; -and it was lucky that my father was so clear about its coming. I was -saved from myself, by Jove, I was!” - -The “self” of whom he spoke came back to my memory as strangely -different and apart from the languid, tranquil man who was talking to -me on the long invalid’s chair. He reclined there, smiling thoughtfully. - -“I bear no malice against the girl,” he went on. “It was my mistake. -She went to her own in the end; it was inevitable that she should; and -better before marriage—even just before!—than after. Like to like—she -and Monkey Valdez!” - -Though I had my own views as to that, I held my tongue. If once I let -out that I had seen Lucinda, one question—if not from Waldo, at any -rate from Aunt Bertha—would lead to another, and I should be in danger -of betraying the needlewoman’s secret. I had made up my mind to lie if -need be, but if I kept silence, it was a hundred to one that it would -not occur to any one at Cragsfoot to ask whether I had seen Lucinda. -Why should I have seen her? It never did occur to any of the three of -them; I was asked no questions. - -“The best thing to be hoped is that we never run up against one another -again. I might still be tempted to give the Monkey a thrashing! Oh, -I forgot—I don’t suppose I shall ever be able to give anybody a -thrashing! Sad thought, Julius! Well, there it is—let’s forget ‘em!” A -gesture of his sound arm waved Lucinda and her Monkey into oblivion. - -So be it. I changed the subject. “Very sad about poor old Frost. -Dundrannan, I mean.” - -“Yes, poor old boy! For a week or two it was about even betting between -him and me—which of us would win out, I mean. Well, I have; and he’s -gone. We didn’t half do him justice in the old days. Really a grand -man, don’t you think?” - -I agreed. Lord Dundrannan—Jonathan Frost—had always filled me with the -sort of admiration that a non-stop express inspires; and Sir Paget’s -letter had added a pathetic touch to the recollection of him—made him -more of a human being, brought him into relation with Something that he -did not create; that, in fact, I suppose, created him. Really quite a -new aspect of Lord Dundrannan! - -“She’s come through it splendidly,” said Waldo. - -“What, Miss Nina?” - -Waldo laughed. “Look here, old chap, you don’t seem to be up to date. -Been in Paraguay or Patagonia, or somewhere, have you? She’s not ‘Miss -Nina’—she’s my Lady Dundrannan.” - -“Nobody told me that there was a special remainder to her!” - -“Well, he’d done wonders. He was old and ill. No son! They could hardly -refuse it him, could they? The peerage would have been an empty gift -without it.” - -“Lady Dundrannan! Lady Dundrannan!” - -“You’ve got it right now, Julius. Of Dundrannan in the county of Perth, -and of Briarmount in the county of Devon—to give it its full dignity.” - -“I expect she’s pleased with it?” - -“We’re all human. I think she is. Besides, she was very fond and proud -of her father, and likes to have her share in carrying on his fame.” - -“And she has wherewithal to gild the title!” - -“Gilt and to spare! But only about a third of what he had. A third to -her, a third to public objects, a third to Godfrey Frost. That’s about -it—roughly. But business control to Godfrey, I understand.” - -“Does she like that?” I asked. - -He laughed again—just a little reluctantly, I thought. “Not -altogether, perhaps. But she accepts it gracefully, and takes it out of -the young man by ordering him about! He’s a surprisingly decent young -chap; she’ll lick him into shape in no time.” - -“From what Aunt Bertha said, you and she have made great friends?” - -“Yes, we have now.” He paused a moment. “She was a bit difficult at -first. You see, there were things in the past——Oh, well, never mind -that—it’s all over.” - -There were things in the past; there were: that group of three on the -top of the cliffs; the girl sobbing wildly, furiously, shamefully; the -man holding the other girl’s arm in his as in a vise of iron. Meeting -Nina again may well have been a bit difficult at first! It was also a -bit difficult to adjust one’s vision to Baroness Dundrannan and Madame -Chose’s needlewoman, to re-focus them. How would they feel about one -another now? Lucinda had found some pity for the sobbing girl; would -Lady Dundrannan find the like for the needlewoman? - -Or would Waldo himself? In spite of the new gentleness that there was -in his manner, taken as a whole, there had been an acidity, a certain -sharpness of contempt, in his reference to Lucinda. “That girl”—“like -to like”—“she and Monkey Valdez.” It was natural, perhaps, but—the -question would not be suppressed—was it quite the tone of that “great -gentleman” whom Lucinda herself still held in her memory? - -I was content to drop the subject. “Your father’s looking splendid,” I -remarked, “but Aunt Bertha seems to me rather fagged.” - -“Aunt Bertha’s been fretting a dashed sight too much over me—that’s the -fact.” He smiled as he went on. “Well, I’m out of it for good and all, -they tell me—if I need telling—and I suppose I ought to be sorry for -it. But really I’m so deuced tired, that——! Well, I just want to lie -here and be looked after.” - -“Oh, you’ll get that!” I assured him confidently. There was Aunt Bertha -to do it; Aunt Bertha, at all events. Possibly there was somebody else -who would do it even more efficiently. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -HER LADYSHIP - - -“YES,” said my uncle, as he warmed himself before the library fire, “a -young man of very considerable ability, I think. One might trust old -Jonathan Frost to make no mistake about that. He might be led by family -feeling—but not led astray! Hard-headed, and ambitious—for himself, I -mean, apart from his business, the boy is. He’s different from the old -man in that; the old man thought of nothing but his undertakings, he -was just the most important part of their machinery. This boy’s got his -eye on politics, he tells me. I’ve no doubt he’ll get on in them. Then, -with a suitable wife——” - -“Lady Arabella—or something of that sort?” - -“Precisely. You catch my train of thought, Julius.” Sir Paget smiled -his shrewdly reflective smile, as he continued: - -“We may regard the Frost family, then, as made—in both its branches. -Because my lady, with her possessions and her looks, is undoubtedly -made already—indeed, ready-made. - -We must move with the times—or at any rate after them. You’ve done it; -you’re a commercial man yourself, and doing very well at it, aren’t -you?” - -“I hope to—after the war. I believe Sir Ezekiel means to keep me at -home and put me in charge in London—if London’s still standing, I mean, -of course. But I don’t feel it in my bones to rival the kin of Jonathan -Frost.” - -“Yes—a remarkable family. What do you make of the girl herself?” - -“You’ve seen a lot more of her than I have. What do you?” - -“Brain above the average, but nothing wonderful. Will very strong—she’s -as tenacious as a limpet.” - -“I should think so. But she’s got her feelings too, hasn’t she?” - -“That’s the point on which I have some doubt. Well, study her for -yourself. I think she’s worth it.” He was frowning a little as he -spoke, as though his doubt troubled him, although he could give no very -good reason for it. “However, she has lots of good qualities—lots,” he -ended. He gave the impression of a man trying to reconcile himself to -something, and finding his task difficult. He praised the Frost family -in handsomely general terms, with hardly a reservation; yet with just -the hint of one. It was as though Nina—and her cousin too, for that -matter—just failed to give him complete satisfaction, just lacked -something that his nature or his taste needed. I did not think that it -was anything very serious—not anything that could be called moral, a -matter of lack of virtue or presence of vice. It was rather a dourness, -too much solidity, too little gayety, humor, responsiveness. The Frosts -were perhaps not “out of working harness” enough. Did his mind insist -on drawing a contrast? He had loved the girl of whom we did not speak. - -Aunt Bertha’s attitude was different, as her letters had suggested. Her -acute and eminently practical mind wasted no time in pining for ideals, -or in indulging delicate dissatisfactions. It preferred to concentrate -on the pleasant aspects of the attainable. One can’t expect everything -in this world! And it may even be doubted whether the softer charms, -the insidious fascinations, are desirable attributes in women (men, of -course, never possess them, so that the question doesn’t arise there); -don’t they bring more trouble than good to their possessors, or anyhow -to other people? (To her dear Waldo?) - -Perhaps they do. At any rate, it was by hints of this order that Aunt -Bertha, having seen reason herself, sought to overcome the lingering -sentimentalities, and perhaps memories, of Sir Paget. - -“The kindness of the girl!” said Aunt Bertha. “All through her own -trouble—and you know how she loved her father!—she never forgot us and -our anxiety. She used to manage to see me almost every day; came with -grapes—you know the Briarmount grapes?—or something, for Waldo, and -cheered me up with a little talk. She may not gush, she may not splash -about, but Nina has a heart of gold, Julius.” - -“Then she’s gold all through, inside and out,” I said, rather -flippantly. - -“Men are often fools,” Aunt Bertha remarked—and I hope that the -observation may be considered irrelevant. “They undervalue the real -things that matter in a woman.” - -“What’s the application of that? I’m sure that Waldo likes Lady -Dundrannan very much.” - -“Of course he does. And whatever my remark meant, it didn’t mean that -Waldo is a fool. Waldo has grown a great deal wiser than he was. And -for that very reason you’re turning up your nose at him, Julius!” - -There her acumen came in. She defined in a single homely sentence -the mental attitude against which I was struggling. It was true. I -collapsed before Aunt Bertha’s attack. - -“I’ll do my best to fall in love with her myself,” I promised. - -“It won’t make any difference what you try,” was the best I got out of -her in return for my concession. - -All the same, her emotional _volte-face_ continued to surprise me. She -might, perhaps, well forget that she had loved and pitied Lucinda. -Was it—well, decent—so entirely to forget that she had once heartily -disliked Nina, and to call me a fool on the score that my feelings -were the same as hers had been not much more than two years before? -Besides, I did not dislike Nina. I merely failed (as Sir Paget failed) -to find in her certain characteristics which in my judgment lend charm -and grace to a woman. I tried to explain this to Aunt Bertha; she -sniffed and went on knitting. - -The young man, Captain Frost, anyhow, I did like; I took to him at -once, and he, I think, to me. He was spending a brief Christmas holiday -at Briarmount, with a certain Mrs. Haynes, a friend of Nina’s, for -company or _chaperon_ to the cousins. He was a tall, straight fellow, -with a bright blue eye and fair curly hair. There was an engaging -candor about him; he was candid about things as to which men are often -not candid with one another—about his stupendous good luck and how he -meant to take advantage of it; his ambitions and how he could best go -about to realize them; his extremely resolute purpose to let nothing -interfere with his realizing them. He was even candid about his affairs -of the heart; and this was supreme candor, because it lay in confessing -to me—an elder man to whom he would wish to appear mature at least, -if not _rusé_—that he had never had any; a thing, as every man of the -world knows (God forgive them!) much harder for any young man to own to -than it would be to plead guilty to—or to boast of—half a dozen. - -“But why haven’t you?” I couldn’t help asking. He was himself -attractive, and he was not, I fancied, insusceptible to beauty; for -example, he admired his cousin—at the respectful distance which her -Ladyship set between them. - -“Well, up to now I couldn’t have afforded to marry,” was his reply, -given in all seriousness, as though it were perfectly explanatory, -perfectly adequate. But it was so highly revealing that comment on it -is needless. - -“Well, now you can,” I said—I am afraid a little tartly. - -“Yes; but it’s a matter needing careful consideration, isn’t it? An -awful thing if a man makes a mistake!” His eyes, bright and blue, fixed -themselves on mine in a glance which I felt to be “meaning.” “Your -cousin, for instance, Major Rillington, was very nearly let in, wasn’t -he?” - -“Oh, you know about that, do you? Was it Lady Dundrannan who told you?” - -He laughed. “Oh, no! It was Miss Fleming. And she didn’t tell me -anything about who it was—only just that he’d had a lucky escape from -a girl quite unworthy of him. She said I must remember the affair—it -was all over London just before the war. But as I was in the works at -Dundee at the time, and never read anything in the papers except racing -and football, I somehow missed it; and when I asked Nina about it, she -shut me up—told me not to talk scandal.” - -“But I thought that she was fitting you for polite society!” - -“That’s good—jolly good, Captain Rillington!” he was kind enough to -say. “I shall tell Nina that; it’ll amuse her.” - -He seemed disposed to take me for a Mentor—to think that I might -supplement the social education which his cousin proposed to give him; -that I might do the male, the club side, while she looked after the -drawing-room department—or deportment. On the other hand, he instructed -me rather freely on business, until he happened to gather—from Sir -Paget—that in the piping times of peace I held a fairly good position -in Ezekiel Coldston & Co., Ltd.; after which he treated me, if not -with a greater, yet with a more comprehensive, respect. “That’s a big -concern,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Of course you and we don’t come -into competition at all—quite separate fields, aren’t they?” - -“Oh, quite,” said I, tacitly thanking heaven for the fact. - -As I have said, an engaging young man, and interesting. I wondered -what he and life would make of one another, when they became better -acquainted. Meanwhile our intimacy increased apace. - -Human nature is, and apparently always has been, prone to poke fun -at newly acquired greatness; I suppose that it hangs on the person -stiffly, like a frock coat fresh from the tailor’s. If Lady Dundrannan -wore her dignity and power rather consciously, she also wore them well. -She made an imposing figure in her mourning; but her stateliness was -pleasantly and variously tempered to suit the company in which she -found herself. For Aunt Bertha and Sir Paget there was an infusion of -the daughterly; for Captain Godfrey of the elder-sisterly. I myself -still found in her that piquant directness of approach which, in an -earlier moment of temerity, I have ventured to call her impudence; -it seasoned and animated her grandeur. She was, behind her dignity, -mockingly confidential; she shared a half-hidden joke with me. She was -naturally impelled to share it, if there were anybody with whom she -could; it was to her the spice of the situation. Not the situation -itself, of course; that was to her entirely serious and all important; -she was attached to Waldo with all her limpet tenacity, with all her -solidity of purpose, with all the tenderness, moreover, of which her -heart was capable; finally, with an intensity of straight downright -passion, of which I know by hearsay, but should hardly have divined -from her own demeanor. But the joke, though not the situation itself, -was a lively element in it. She could not share it with Waldo, or Aunt -Bertha, or Sir Paget; nor would she share it with young Godfrey Frost, -since it hardly became the status of an elder sister. But she could and -did share it with me. The joke, of course, was Lucinda. - -It would have been a still better joke, had she known all that I -knew about Madame Valdez, or Donna Lucinda Valdez, or Madame Chose’s -needlewoman; she might not have been so ready to share it with me, had -she known that I knew about the girl on the cliffs, passionately, -shamefully sobbing in wounded love, pride, and spite. As matters stood -to her knowledge, the joke was good enough, and yet fit to share. For -here was she—the uninvited skeleton at the abortive feast—triumphant, -in possession of the field, awaiting in secure serenity the fruition of -her hopes. And so placed, moreover, that the attainment of her object -involved no stooping; a queen bowing acquiescence from her throne is -not said to stoop. Yes, here she was; here she was, with a vengeance; -and—where was Lucinda? - -Well, that was just what she wanted to know. Not in any uneasiness or -apprehension, but in good, straight, honest, human, feminine curiosity -and malice. Moreover, that was what, before we had been much together, -she came to have a suspicion, an inkling, that I could tell her—if I -would. This was no marvel of feminine intuition. It was my fault, or -my mischief. It was my side of the joke, without which the joke would -have been to me rather a grim one. I could not help playing with her -curiosity, inciting and balking her malice. - -She used to come to see Waldo almost every day, sitting with him an -hour or more. Being a young woman of active habits, she generally came -on foot, and, since he could not escort her home, that duty fell to -my lot; we had several walks back from Cragsfoot to Briarmount, just -as twilight began to fall on those winter evenings, her clear-cut, -handsome features still showing up boldly above her rich dark furs. -She really looked very much My Lady! - -But it is one walk that stands out conspicuous in memory. It was the -afternoon on which Waldo had asked her to be his wife—though I did not -know it. - -Up to now, when I had occasion to pronounce her name, I had called her -Lady Dundrannan, and she had not protested, although she continued to -use my Christian name, as she always had since Waldo, Arsenio, and -Lucinda set the example. But on this day, when her title happened to -fall from my lips, she turned to me with an amused smile: - -“Don’t you think you might call me Nina? You used to. And, really, -mayn’t I almost be considered one of the family now?” - -“I don’t care about calling you Nina just because I used to, or just -because you’re almost one of the family, Lady Dundrannan——” - -“There you go again!” she protested. - -“Well, I rather admire the name. It sounds wild, feudal, Caledonian. -But I’ll call you Nina if you like me well enough.” - -“I’ve always liked you quite well, though I don’t think you used to -like me much.” - -“Let bygones be bygones, Nina!” - -“Well, they are, aren’t they?” she said, with quite undisguised -meaning—and undisguised triumph too. I was stupid not to suspect the -cause. “But I believe you’re sorry for it!” - -“I was sorry for it, of course, at the time it happened. We were all -of us—well, much more than sorry. Stunned! Aghast!” - -“You do use big words over that girl,” remarked Lady Dundrannan. - -“You’re letting yourself go this evening! Hitherto you’ve been more -subtle in trying to get at what I think—or thought—of Lucinda.” Mark my -own subtlety here! I substituted “thought” for “think”; and what she -had been trying to get at was not what I thought of Lucinda, but what -I knew about her—if anything. But I meant to lead her on; I gave her a -smile with the words. - -“If you felt all that about it, I should have thought you’d have tried -to get some explanation out of her—or him. Something to comfort the -family! You yourself might have acted as a go-between.” - -“But they vanished.” - -“Oh, people don’t vanish so completely as all that!” - -“There’s the war, you know. We’ve all been busy. No time for useless -curiosity.” I did not advance these pleas in a very convincing tone. - -She looked at me suspiciously. “You’ve never heard a word from either -of them?” - -I took it that she meant to ask if I had received any letters. “Never,” -said I—upon the assumption, truthfully. - -“Where do you suppose Arsenio Valdez is?” - -“I don’t know where he is. Fighting for Italy, I suppose. He was -bound to end by doing that, though, of course, he’s by way of being a -tremendous Clerical. In with the Black Nobility at Venice, you see.” - -“Nobility, indeed! A scamp like that!” - -Now she had no particular reason for enmity against Valdez; rather the -contrary. But Waldo had, and she reflected Waldo, just as I thought -that Waldo’s flavor of bitterness towards Lucinda reflected her quality -of mind, the sharp edge of her temper. - -“How do you account for what she did?” she asked me, with a touch of -irritation and restlessness. - -“‘Account for it!’ Love is unaccountable, isn’t it?” I remembered that -Lucinda had used the words about herself. - -“Doesn’t her mother ever hear from her?” - -“I don’t know. I’m not in touch with that excellent woman. She has, -I fancy, vanished from the ken of Cragsfoot as completely as her -daughter.” - -“I expect they’ve just gone under, that pair—Lucinda and Arsenio. -Because they were just a pair, weren’t they?” - -I seemed to hear an echo of Waldo’s “like to like.” Or more probably -Waldo’s “like to like” was an echo of what I now heard. - -“Oh, I don’t see why they should have. We may very likely knock up -against them some day,” I remarked with a laugh. - -It was still light enough for me to see a flash in her eyes as she -turned quickly on me. “If you think I’m——” she exclaimed impetuously; -but she pulled herself up, and ended with a scornful little laugh. - -But of course she had not pulled herself up in time; I knew that she -had been going to say “afraid,” and she knew that I knew it. Lucinda -had avowed a feeling that it was not all over between herself and Nina -yet. Something of a similar feeling seemed to find a place in Lady -Dundrannan’s mind; she contemplated the possibility of another round in -the fight—and she was not afraid of it. Or was she? Just a little—in -her heart? I did not think that she need be, seeing the sort of man -that Waldo was, knowing (as I now knew) Lucinda’s mind; knowing too, -alas, Lucinda’s fate. But it was curious to find the same foreboding—if -one could call it that—in both women. - -“I really don’t see why you should think any more about Lucinda,” I -said. - -“I don’t think I need,” she agreed, with a smile that was happy, proud, -and confident. - -I looked her in the face, and laughed. She stopped, and held out her -hand to me. As I took it she went on. “Yes, Waldo is telling the old -people down there, and I’ll tell you here. We’re engaged, Julius; Waldo -asked me this afternoon, and I said yes.” - -“I hope you will believe that I congratulate you and him very -sincerely, and, if I may, gladly welcome you into the family.” - -“Without any _arrière-pensée_?” Her challenge was gay and good-humored. - -“Absolutely! Why do you suspect anything else?” - -“Well then, because you are—or were—fond of Lucinda.” - -“Oh, you’ve got it out at last! But, even supposing so—and I’ve no -reason for denying it—I’m not put to a choice between you, am I? Now at -all events!” - -“No,” she admitted, but with a plain touch of reluctance; she laughed -at it herself, perhaps at her failure to conceal it. “Anyhow, you’ll -try to like me, won’t you, Cousin Julius?” - -“I do like you, my dear—and not a bit less because you don’t like -Lucinda. So there!” - -By now we were at the gates of Briarmount. I pointed to the house. - -“You’ve got somebody else to tell your news to, in there. And you’d -better tell him directly. I hope he’s not been cherishing vain hopes -himself, poor boy!” - -“Godfrey?” She laughed again. “Oh, nonsense! He’s just my little -brother.” - -“You’ve got two men to manage now. Your hands will be full, Nina.” - -“Oh, I think I shall be equal to the task!” - -“And, when you want, you can still unburden your mind to me about -Lucinda.” - -“I think I’ve done that! I shall take your advice and think no more -about her. Good-night, Julius. I—I’m very happy!” - -I watched her walk briskly up the Briarmount drive in the dusk. -Certainly a fine figure of a girl; and one who improved on -acquaintance. I liked her very much that afternoon. But she certainly -did not like Lucinda! Put as mildly as possible, it came to that. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -DUNDRANNANIZATION - - -THE family history during the rest of the war—up to the Armistice, that -is—will go into a brief summary. Waldo was discharged from the army, as -permanently unfit for service, early in 1917. His wedding took place in -February of that year. It was solemnized not at St. George’s, Hanover -Square, but in the country, from the bride’s seat of Briarmount. I was -not present, as I went abroad again almost directly after my Christmas -visit to Cragsfoot, the salient features of which have already been -indicated. All good fortune waited on the happy pair (here I rely -on Aunt Bertha’s information, not having had the means of personal -observation), and Nina became the mother of a fine baby in December. -The child was a girl; a little bit of a disappointment, perhaps; the -special remainder did not, of course, go beyond the present Baroness -herself, and a prospective Lord Dundrannan was naturally desired. -However, there was no need to pull a long face over that; plenty of -time yet, as Aunt Bertha consolingly observed. - -Finally, Captain Godfrey Frost—who must, I suppose, now be considered -a member of the Rillington-cum-Dundrannan family and was certainly -treated as one—made such a to-do in the influential quarters to -which he had access, that at last he was restored to active service, -sent to the Near East, and made the Palestine campaign with great -credit. The moment that its decisive hour was over, however, he was -haled back again. It may be remembered that there was a Ministry of -Reconstruction, and it appeared (from Aunt Bertha again) that no -Reconstruction worth mentioning could be undertaken, or at all events -make substantial progress, without the help of Captain Frost. If that -view be correct, it may help to explain some puzzles; because Captain -Frost got malaria on his way home, and had to knock off all work, -public and private, for two or three months—just at the time that was -critical for Reconstruction, no doubt. - -That is really all there is to say, though it may be worth while to let -a letter to me from Sir Paget throw a little sidelight on the progress -of affairs: - -“Our married couple seem in complete tune with one another. Congreve -says somewhere—in _The Double Dealer_, if I remember rightly—‘Though -marriage makes man and wife one flesh, it leaves them still two fools.’ -Agreed; but he might have added (if he hadn’t known his business too -well to spoil an epigram by qualifications) that it doesn’t leave -them quite the same two fools. I have generally observed (I would say -always, except that a diplomatist of seventy has learnt never to say -always) that when Mr. Black marries Miss White, either she darkens or -he pales. The stronger infuse its color into the weaker—or, if you like -to vary the metaphor, there is a partial absorption of the weaker by -the stronger. Excuse this prosing; there is really nothing to do in -the country, you know! And perhaps you will guess how I came by this -train of reflection. In fact, I think that Waldo—about the happiest -fellow in the world, and how good that he should be, after all he has -gone through!—is experiencing a partial process of Dundrannanization. -There’s a word for you! I made it this morning, and it pleased me! I -should like to have suggested it to old Jonathan Frost himself. Don’t -think it too formidable for what it represents. Not, of course, that -the process will ever be complete with Waldo; there will remain a -stratum of Christian weakness which it will not reach. But it may go -far with him; the Frost (forgive me, Julius!) may be inches deep over -his nature! And I am quite convinced that I have acquired a daughter, -but not quite sure that I haven’t lost a son. No, not lost; half lost, -perhaps. Briarmount overpowers Cragsfoot: I suppose it was bound to be -so; of course it was; Aunt Bertha says so. She is an admirable herald -of the coming day. He loves me no less, thank God; but the control of -him has passed into other hands. He is, quite dignifiedly, henpecked; -his admiration for her stops only short of idolatry. I don’t know that -it ought to stop much sooner, for she is a notable girl. I’m very fond -of her; if I ever saw her burst into tears, or have hysterics, or do -anything really weak and silly, I believe I should love her even more.” - -Quite so. It was what might have been expected. And Sir Paget’s -assessment of his daughter-in-law was precisely in accord with all that -he had had the opportunity of observing in that young woman. That she -could burst into tears, could have something very like hysterics, could -behave in a way that might be termed weak and silly, was a piece of -knowledge confined, as I believed, to three persons besides herself. -She thought it was confined to two. She had married one of them; did he -think of it, did he remember? As for the other—it has been seen how she -felt about the other. I was glad that she did not know about the third; -if I could help it, she never should. I did not believe that she would -forgive my knowledge any more than she forgave Lucinda’s. I don’t blame -her; such knowledge about oneself is not easy to pardon. - -There was a postscript to Sir Paget’s letter. “By the way, Mrs. Knyvett -is dead—a month ago, at Torquay. Aunt Bertha saw it in the _Times_. -An insignificant woman; but by virtue of the late Knyvett, or by some -freak of nature, she endowed the world with a beautiful creature. -Hallo, high treason, Julius! But somehow I think that you won’t hang -me for it. I hope that poor child is not paying too dearly for her -folly.” - -I remember that, when I had read the postscript, I exclaimed, “Thank -God!” Not of course, because Mrs. Knyvett had died a month before at -Torquay; the event was not such as to wring exclamations from one. It -was the last few words that evoked mine. Lucinda had a friend more in -the world than she knew. If I ever met her again, I would tell her. -She had loved Sir Paget. If his heart still yearned ever so little -after her, if her face ever came before his eyes, it would, I thought, -be something to her. The words brought her face back before my eyes, -whence time and preoccupation had banished it. Did the face ever—at -rare moments—appear to Waldo? Probably not. He would be too much -Dundrannanized! - -The process for which Sir Paget’s reluctant amusement found a nickname -was a natural one in the circumstances of the case. If the Dundrannan -personality was potent, so was the Dundrannan property. Cragsfoot was -a small affair compared even to Briarmount alone; Waldo was not yet -master even of Cragsfoot, for Sir Paget was not the man to take off -his clothes before bedtime. Besides Briarmount, there was Dundrannan -Castle, with its deer and its fishing; there was the Villa San Carlo at -Mentone; never mind what else there was, even after “public objects” -and Captain Frost had, between them, shorn off so large a part of the -Frost concerns and millions. Moreover, another process set in, and -was highly developed by the time I returned to England in the autumn -of 1918, when my last foreign excursion on Government service ended. -Family solidarity, and an identity of business interests in many -matters, brought Nina, and, by consequence, Waldo, into close and ever -closer association with Godfrey Frost. The young man was not swallowed; -he had too strong a brain and will of his own for that; but he was -attached. The three of them came to form a triumvirate for dealing with -the Frost concerns, settling the policy of the Frost family, defining -the Frost attitude towards the world outside. And everybody else was -outside of that inner circle, even though we of Cragsfoot might be only -just outside. So as Waldo, on his marriage, had shifted his bodily -presence from Cragsfoot to Briarmount, his mind and his predominant -interests also centered there; and presently to his were added, in -great measure, Godfrey Frost’s. Nina presided over this union of hearts -and forces with a sure tact; she did not seek to play the despot, but -she was the bond and the inspiration. - -Naturally, then, if the three saw eye to eye in all these great -matters, they also saw eye to eye, and felt heart to heart, on such -a merely sentimental subject as the view to take of Lucinda—of whom, -of course, Godfrey derived any idea that he had mainly from Nina. -Probably the idea thus derived was that she was emphatically a person -of whom the less said the better! Only—the curious fact crops up -again—she was not one of whom Nina was capable of saying absolutely -nothing, of giving no hints. Her husband excepted, anybody really near -to her was sure to hear something of Lucinda. Besides, there was the -information, sketchy indeed, but significant, which he had received -from Aunt Bertha, and perhaps that had made him question his cousin; -then either her answers or even her reluctance to answer would have -been enlightening to a man of his intelligence. - -He got home some time in October, and at his request I went to see -him in London, while he was convalescent from that malaria which so -seriously impeded Reconstruction. From him I heard the family plans. -They were all three going shortly to Nina’s villa at Mentone for the -winter. For the really rich it seemed that “the difficulties of the -times” presented no difficulty at all; a big motor car was to take the -party across France to their destination. - -“You see, we’re largely interested in works near Marseilles, and I’m -going out to have a look at them; Waldo’s got doctor’s orders, Nina -goes to nurse him—and the kid can’t be left, of course. All quite -simple. Why don’t you come too?” - -“Perhaps I will—if I’m asked and can get a holiday. It sounds rather -jolly.” - -“Top-hole! Besides, the war’s going to end. Nina’ll ask you all right; -and, as for a holiday, you can’t do much at your game till the tonnage -is released, can you?” - -He seemed about right there; on such questions he had a habit of being -right. At the back of my mind, however, I was just faintly reluctant -about embracing the project, a little afraid of too thick a Dundrannan -atmosphere. - -“Well, I must go to Cragsfoot first. After that perhaps—if I am -invited.” - -“Jolly old place, Cragsfoot!” he observed. “I don’t wonder you like to -go there—even apart from your people. It’s unlucky that Nina’s taken -against it, isn’t it?” - -“I didn’t know she had.” - -“Oh, yes. You’ll see that—when the time comes—I hope it’s a long way -off, of course—she won’t live there.” - -“Waldo’ll want to live there, I think.” - -“No, he won’t. He’d want to now, if it fell in. But by the time it -does, he’ll have had his mind altered.” He laughed good-humoredly. - -I rather resented that, having a sentimental feeling for Cragsfoot. -But it would probably turn out true, if Nina devoted her energies to -bringing it about. - -“Regular old ‘country gentleman’ style of place—which Briarmount isn’t. -Sort of place I should like myself. I suppose you’d take it on, if -Waldo didn’t mean to live there?” - -“You look so far ahead,” I protested. “The idea’s quite new, I haven’t -considered it. I’ve always regarded it as a matter of course that Waldo -would succeed his father there—as the Rillingtons have succeeded, son -to father, for a good many years.” - -“Yes, I know, and I appreciate that feeling. Don’t think I don’t. Still -that sort of thing can’t last forever, can it? Something breaks the -line at last.” - -“I suppose so,” I admitted, rather sulkily. If Waldo did not live at -Cragsfoot, if I did not “take it on,” I could not help perceiving that -Godfrey had fixed his eye—that far-seeing Frost eye—on our ancestral -residence. This was a further development of the Dundrannan alliance, -and not one to my taste. Instinctively I stiffened against it. I felt -angry with Waldo, and irritated with Godfrey Frost—and with Nina too. -True, the idea of Cragsfoot’s falling to me—without any harm having -come to Waldo—was not unpleasant. But everything was in Waldo’s power, -subject to Sir Paget’s life interest; I remembered Sir Paget’s telling -me that there had been no resettlement of the property on Waldo’s -marriage. Could Waldo be trusted not to see with the Frost eye and not -to further the Frost ambitions? - -“It seems queer,” Godfrey went on, smiling still as he lit his -cigarette, “but I believe that Nina’s dislike of the place has -something to do with that other girl—Waldo’s old flame, you know. She -once said something about painful associations—of course, Waldo wasn’t -in the room—and I don’t see what else she could refer to, do you? She’s -a bit sensitive about that old affair, isn’t she? Funny thing—nothing’s -too big for a really clever woman, but, by Jove, nothing’s too small -either!” - -“Like our old friend the elephant and the pin that we were told about -in childhood?” - -“Exactly. Nina will hatch a big plan one minute, and the next she’ll be -measuring the length of the feather on the scullery-maid’s hat.” - -“Well, but—I mean—love affairs aren’t always small things, are they?” - -“N—no, perhaps not. But when it’s all over like that!” - -“Yes, it is rather funny,” I thought it best to admit. - -Certainly it would be funny—a queer turn of events—if things worked out -as I suspected my young friend Godfrey of planning; if Nina persuaded -Waldo that he did not want to live at Cragsfoot, and Waldo transferred -his old home to his new cousin. And if Nina’s reason were that -Cragsfoot had “painful associations” for her! Because then, ultimately, -if one went right back to the beginning, it would be not Nina, but that -other girl, Waldo’s old flame, who would eject the Rillington family -from its ancestral estate! It was impossible not to stand somewhat -aghast (big words about that girl again!) at such a trick of fate. - -“The fact is, I suppose,” he went on, “that she’s been fond of Waldo -longer than she can afford to admit. Then the memory might rankle! And -Nina’s not over-fond of opposition at any time. I’ve found that out. -Oh, we’re the greatest pals, as you know, but there’s no disguising -that!” He laughed indulgently. “Yes, that’s Nina. I often think that I -must choose a wife with a meek and quiet spirit, Julius.” - -“The Apostle says that it is woman’s ornament.” - -“Nina certainly thinks that it’s other women’s. Oh, must you go? -Awfully kind of you to have come. And, I say, think about Villa San -Carlo! I believe it’s a jolly place, and Nina’s having it fitted up -something gorgeous, she tells me.” - -“Isn’t it rather difficult to get the work done just now?” I asked. - -“Oh, no, not particularly. You see, we’ve an interest in——” - -“Damn it all!” I cried, “have you Frosts interests in everything?” - -Godfrey’s good humor was imperturbable. He nodded at me, smiling. “I -suppose it must strike people like that sometimes. We do bob up rather, -don’t we? Sorry I mentioned it, old fellow. Only you see—it does -account for Nina’s being able to get the furniture for Villa San Carlo, -and consequently for her being in a position to entertain you and me -there in the way to which we are accustomed—in my case, recently!” - -“Your apology is accepted, Godfrey—if I go there! And I don’t -seriously object to you Frosts straddling the earth if you want to. -Only I think you might leave us Cragsfoot.” - -“I wouldn’t get in your way for a minute, my dear chap—really I -wouldn’t. We might live there together, perhaps. That’s an idea!” he -laughed. - -“With the wife of a meek and quiet spirit to look after us!” - -“Yes. But I’ve got to find her first.” - -“Sir Paget is very well, thank you. There’s no hurry.” - -“But there’s never any harm in looking about.” - -He came with me to the door, and bade me a merry farewell. “You’ll get -your invitation in a few days. Mind you come. Perhaps we’ll find her -on the Riviera! It’s full of ladies of all sorts of spirits, isn’t it? -Mind you come, Julius.” - -My little fit of irritation over what he represented was not proof -against his own cordiality and good temper. I parted from him in a very -friendly mood. And, sure enough, in a few days I did get my invitation -to the Villa San Carlo at Mentone. - -“If you’ve any difficulty about the journey,” wrote Nina, “let us know, -because we can pull a wire or two, I expect.” - -“Pull a wire or two!” I believe they control the cords that hold the -firmament of heaven in its place above the earth! - -Besides—so another current of my thoughts ran—if wires had to be -pulled, could not Ezekiel Coldston & Co., Ltd., pull them for -themselves? Did the Frosts engross the earth? I had no intention of -letting Nina Dundrannan graciously provide me with “facilities”; that -is the term which we used to employ in H. M.’s Government service. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -A SECRET VISIT - - -I STAYED longer at Cragsfoot than I had intended. The old folk there -seemed rather lonely and moody; and, if the truth must be told, not -quite so fully in harmony with one another as of yore. Aunt Bertha was -ailing, showing at last signs of age and feebleness; Sir Paget was -suffering from a reaction after his war-time anxieties and activities. -A latent opposition of feeling between them occasionally cropped out -on the surface. In Sir Paget it showed itself in humorously expressed -fears that I too—“the only one of my family left”—should be “swallowed” -if I went to Mentone; but Aunt Bertha met the humor peevishly: “What -nonsense you talk, Paget!” or “Really, one would think that you regret -Waldo’s marriage! At all events, things might have been worse.” -Words like these last skirted forbidden places, and we steered the -conversation away. But the opposition was real; when they were alone -together, it was probably more open, and therefore worse. I lingered -on, with the idea that my presence in the house softened and eased it. - -Moreover, I must own to a feeling in myself which seemed ridiculous -and yet was obstinate—a reluctance to go to Villa San Carlo. What was -the meaning, or the sense, of that? Was I afraid of being “swallowed” -there, of being drawn into the Dundrannan orbit and thereafter circling -helplessly round the Dundrannan sun? No, it was not quite that. I -took leave to trust to an individuality, an independence, in myself, -though apparently Sir Paget had his doubts about it. It was rather -that going to the Villa seemed a definite and open ranging of myself -on Nina’s side. But on her side in what, my reason asked. There was -no conflict; it was all over; the battle had been fought and won—if -indeed there could be said to have been any battle at all, where one -side had declined victory and left the prize at the mercy of the other. -But here again, however irrationally, the feeling persisted, and, -when challenged to show its justification, called to witness the two -combatants themselves. In the end it was their words, their tones, -hints of some vague foreboding in themselves, which had infected my -mind. - -What in the end overcame my reluctance and took me to Mentone? Not -the attraction of the Villa, nor the lure of a holiday and sunshine. -It was, unexpectedly and paradoxically—a letter from Arsenio Valdez! -Addressed to my club, it was forwarded to me at Cragsfoot. After a -silence of more than four years, he resumed his acquaintance with me -in this missive; resumed it without the least embarrassment and with a -claim to the cherished privilege of old friendship,—that of borrowing -money, of course. - -He had, it appeared, joined the Italian Army rather late in the -day. Whether he took the step of his free will—having solved his -difficulties as to the proper side to champion in the war—or on -compulsion, he did not say, and I have never discovered; I was ignorant -of Italian legislation, and even of his legal nationality. Perhaps -he made no great figure as a soldier, brave as Lucinda had declared -him to be; at any rate, before very long he was put on transport work -connected with the Italian troops serving on the Western front, with -his quarters at Genoa. Even from this form of military service the -Armistice appeared now to have freed him. He was for the present “out -of a job,” he said, and he gave me an address in Nice, to which I was -to reply, enclosing the fifty pounds with which he suggested that I -should accommodate him. “Number 21 hasn’t been quite so good a friend -to me lately; hence temporary straits,” he wrote. I could imagine the -monkeyish look on his face. And that reference to “Number 21” was as -near as he approached to any mention of his wife. - -I arranged for him to get the money through my bank, and wrote to him -saying that possibly I should be in the South of France shortly and -that, if so, I would look him up. More precise details of my plans I -did not give; it was no business of his with whom I proposed to stay. -A week later I set out for Mentone—with, I suppose, treason in my -heart; for, during my sojourn at Villa San Carlo, I meant to enter into -communication with the enemy, if I could; and I did not intend to ask -Lady Dundrannan’s permission. - -It was just before Christmas that I reached Mentone—without Frost -facilities—and joined the Big Three; that nickname developed a little -later (and was accepted by her ladyship with complaisant smiles); I -use it now for convenience. They were established, of course, in the -height of luxury; there seemed no difficulty about getting anything; -the furniture had all come; they had two cars—one to enable Godfrey to -visit those works near Marseilles, another to promote the convalescence -of Waldo. I gathered that another could be procured for me, if I -liked—on what particular false pretense I did not inquire. I said -that, what with trams, trains, and legs, I could manage my own private -excursions; it was only when I accompanied them that dignity was -essential. Nina never objected to sly digs at her grandeur; they were -homage, though indirect. - -Besides Godfrey and myself, the only guest in the house was Lady Eunice -Unthank, a small, fair girl of about nineteen or twenty, younger sister -of a friend whom Nina had made at her “finishing” school in Paris, -and who had subsequently made what is called a brilliant marriage, -so brilliant that it reflected added luster on Lady Eunice’s own -aristocracy. The latter was a pleasant, simple, unassuming little -person, very fond of the baby (as babies go, it was quite a nice one), -obedient and adoring to Nina, frankly delighted with the luxury in -which she found herself. I understood that her own family was large and -not rich. However, Godfrey was rich enough for two. Yes, that was the -idea which at once suggested itself. Mr. Godfrey (he had dropped his -“Captain” by now) and Lady Eunice Frost! The one thing Godfrey needed. -And a gentle, amenable Lady Eunice too, quite satisfying the Apostle! -That perhaps was what Lady Dundrannan also desired, that her rule might -not be undermined; the far-seeing eye embraced the future. Anybody -vulgar enough might have said that Lady Eunice was at Villa San Carlo -“on appro.” What Lady Dundrannan said was that it was a charity to give -the child a good time; she did not get much fun at home. But I think -that it was organized charity—on business principles. - -What the sultan who had the handkerchief to throw thought about this -possible recipient of it, it was too soon to say. He was attentive and -friendly, but as yet showed no signs of sentiment, and made no efforts -after _solitude à deux_. We were all very jolly together, and enjoyed -ourselves famously; for the first ten days or so I quite forgot that -Arsenio’s letter had had anything to do with bringing me to Mentone! -In fact, I had never before encountered Nina in such an entirely -benign and gracious mood; her happiness in her husband and baby seemed -to spread its rays over all of us. In such a temper she was very -attractive; but it also signified that she was well content. In fact, -there was, just now, an air of triumph about her good humor and her -benevolence; it seemed especially pronounced in some smiles which she -gave me as it were, aside, all to myself. What was there about me to -excite her triumph? It could hardly be because I came to stay with her; -were we not now cousins, and privileged—or doomed—to one another’s -society all our lives? - -“Well, this is a fine time, after all our labors,” I said to Waldo one -morning as we smoked our pipes after early breakfast. “You look tons -better already!” - -He smoked on for a moment before he spoke. “I’m a very happy man now,” -he said, and smiled at me. “I know you laugh a bit, old chap, at the -way Nina runs us all. I don’t mind that. By Jove, look how well she -does it! She’s a wonderful girl!” - -“She is,” I agreed. - -“After all, unless a man takes the position that all men are cleverer -than any woman——” - -“Which is absurd! Yes, Waldo?” - -“He may admit that a particular woman is cleverer than himself.” - -“That seems logical.” - -“Of course, it’s not only her cleverness. I’m much fonder of her than -I used to—than I was even when I married her. Anything that there -was—well, the least bit too decisive about her—has worn off. She’s -mellowed.” - -“So have you,” I told him with a laugh. - -“My real life seems now to begin with my marriage,” he said soberly. It -could scarcely be doubted that he meant to convey to me that a certain -episode in the past had lost all its importance for him. Was that the -explanation of his wife’s air of triumph? No doubt a sufficient one -in itself, and perhaps enough to account for her liking to share her -triumph with me. I had, after all, known her in days when she was not -triumphant. However that might be, Waldo’s statement took my mind -back to things that had happened before his “real life” began—and -incidentally to Arsenio Valdez. I decided to bring off my secret -expedition, and on the next day—there being nothing in particular on -foot at the Villa—I slipped away directly after _déjeuner_, and caught -a train to Nice. - -It traveled slowly, but it got me there by two o’clock, and I made -my way towards the address which Arsenio had given me. I need hardly -add that this was a furtive and secret proceeding on my part. I -relied on not being questioned about him, just as I had relied—and -successfully—on not being questioned about Lucinda at Cragsfoot. - -I had a little difficulty in finding my way. The house was in a back -street, reached by several turns, and not everybody I asked knew where -it was. But I found it; it was a _pâtisserie_ of a humble order. -Apparently the shop entrance was the only one, so I went in by that, -and asked if Monsieur Valdez lodged there. A pleasant, voluble woman -was serving at the counter, and she told me that such was the case. -Monsieur Valdez had a room on the second floor and was at home. He had -not been out that day; he had not been out for _déjeuner_ yet, late as -it was. But there, Monsieur had employment which kept him up at nights; -he often slept far into the day; it was indeed highly possible that I -might find him still in bed. - -Was it? And she had spoken of “a room.” I thought it judicious to -obtain one more bit of information before I mounted to the room on the -second floor. - -“And—er—he’s sure to be alone, is he?” - -She shook her head at me, her bright black eyes twinkling in an -affectation of rebuke. - -“Monsieur need not disturb himself. Monsieur Valdez is not married, and -for the rest—in my house! _Mais non, Monsieur!_” - -“A thousand pardons, Madame,” said I, as I prepared to mount the -stairs, which rose from the back of the shop. - -“My husband is most scrupulous about my dignity,” she cried to me in a -tone of great pride, as I ascended the first steps. - -So that explained that; and I went upstairs. - -There were only two rooms on the second floor—one to the front, the -other to the back of the house. The door of the former was open; it -was a bedroom with an obviously “double” appearance. I turned to the -latter and tried the door. It opened. I walked in and closed the door -softly behind me. - -It was a small room, plainly but tidily furnished, and well lighted -by a big window above the bed in which Arsenio lay. He was sleeping -quietly. I stood by the door, watching him, for quite a long while. -He was not greatly changed by the years and whatever experiences he -had passed through; his face was hardened rather than coarsened, its -lines not obliterated by any grossness of the flesh, but more sharply -chiseled. A fallen spirit perhaps, but with the spiritual in him -still. His devilry, his malice, would still have the redeeming savor -of perception and humor; he might yet be responsive to a picturesque -appeal, capable of a _beau geste_, even perhaps, on occasion, of a true -vision of himself; but still also undoubtedly prone to those tricks -which had earned for him in days of old his nickname of Monkey Valdez. - -It was time to rouse him. I advanced towards the bed, took hold of -a chair that stood by it, sat down, and forced a cough. He awoke -directly, saw me, apparently without surprise, and sat up in bed. - -“Ah, it’s you, Julius! You’ve turned up, as you said you might. But -you’ve not come for your fifty pounds, I hope? My surroundings hardly -suggest any success there, do they? What time is it? I’ve—shall we say -lost?—my watch. Never mind. And I’m not going to ask you for another -loan—oh, well, only a fiver perhaps—because I’m expecting a remittance -any hour.” He looked up at the window. “Ah, I perceive that the day is -advanced. I’ll get up. Don’t suppose that I can’t get up! I’ve got two -good suits—one for the day, and one for the night; it’s a bad workman -who pawns his tools! You smoke while I dress, and we’ll have a talk.” - -He jumped lightly out of bed and proceeded to make his toilet, -questioning me briskly the while about the state of affairs in England -and what had happened to me since our last meeting; he did not refer to -any of our common acquaintances. I observed with some surprise that, -when the time for it came, the neatly folded suit which he took out of -his chest of drawers was evening dress. It was only a little past three -in the afternoon. He cast a mocking glance at me. - -“In enforced intervals,” he explained, “I pursue an avocation that -demands the garb of ceremony from five o’clock in the day onwards -till—well, till it’s day again sometimes.” - -“Intervals between what?” - -“Between seasons of plenty.” He was now in trousers and vest. He looked -at his chin in the glass. “Oh, but I must shave! Excuse me a moment.” - -He ran out of the room, and was back in a minute or two with a jug of -steaming water. As he stropped his razor, he went on, as though there -had been no interruption: “But on the whole I have much to be thankful -for. Brains will tell even—or indeed especially—in a stupid world. Now -tell me what you’re doing on this pleasant coast. Oh, I know you came -to see me—partly. I’m grateful. But—for example—you’re not staying with -me. Where are you staying?” - -“At Mentone. With some old friends of ours.” - -“Ah, and who may they be?” he asked, as he scraped his chin. - -“Lady Dundrannan—as she now is—and her husband.” - -He stopped shaving for a moment and turned round to me, one side of his -face scraped clean, the other still covered with lathered soap. “Oh, -are they here? At Mentone?” - -“They’ve got a villa there—Villa San Carlo. We live in great state.” - -“I won’t ask you to forsake them then, and share my quarters. I take -an interest in that household; in fact, I feel partly responsible for -it. I hope it’s a success?” He grinned at me, as he sponged and then -toweled his face. - -“A very brilliant success,” I assured him with a laugh. - -“That arrangement was always my idea of what ought to happen—adjoining -estates, the old blood mingling with the new. So very suitable! That -process has been the salvation of the British aristocracy, hasn’t it? -So I—er—felt less scruple in interfering with a less ideal arrangement.” - -Here was a chance for him to refer to his wife. He did not avail -himself of it. I did not wish to be the one to introduce that subject; -if I showed curiosity, he might turn mischievous and put me off with a -gibe or a lie. - -He had finished his dressing by putting on a dinner jacket. He sat -down on the bed—I still occupied the only chair in the room—and lit a -cigarette. - -“Did you mention at Villa—Villa what did you say it was?” - -“San Carlo.” - -“Yes, of course! Did you mention at Villa San Carlo that you were -coming to see me?” - -“No, I didn’t. It’s about the last thing I should think of mentioning -there,” I said. - -“Quite right. Better not!” he said with an approving nod and, I -fancied, an air of relief. “An awkward topic! And a meeting would be -more awkward still. I must avoid Mentone, I think—at all events, the -fashionable quarter of it!” - -At this moment the woman whom I had talked to in the shop knocked -at the door, opened it, and ushered in another woman—the bearer of -a registered letter. “Aha!” cried Arsenio joyfully, as he took it, -hastily signed the receipt, and tore the envelope open. Then he called -his landlady back just as she was closing the door: “Pray, Madame, -have the kindness to send word to my—er—office that indisposition will -prevent my attendance this evening.” - -“Ah, Monsieur, for shame!” said she, with the same indulgent -affectation of reproof as that which she had bestowed on me. - -“Gentlemen of means don’t go to offices,” he said, waving his envelope. -With a smile and a shrug Madame left us. - -“Now, Julius, if you’re returning to Villa—Villa—?—yes, San Carlo!—this -afternoon, I’ll do myself the pleasure of accompanying you as far as -Monte Carlo. That will enable me to see more of you, my friend, and—who -knows but that Number 21 may be kind to me to-night?” - -“Monte Carlo is very near Mentone,” I remarked. - -“True, true! But delicacy of feeling, however desirable and -praiseworthy, must not interfere with the serious business of life. We -must take our chance, Julius. If any unlucky meeting should occur, I -authorize and indeed implore you to cut me dead! They will cut me, I -shall cut them, I shall cut you, you will cut me! We shall all cut, and -all be cut! And no harm will be done, no blood shed. _Voilà_, Julius! -See how, as they say in French, at the very worst the thing will -arrange itself!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -AN INTRODUCTION - - -ARSENIO VALDEZ was in the highest of spirits that evening—the effect of -the registered letter, no doubt! His fun and gayety brought back, or -even bettered, the boy that he had been at Cragsfoot; and he assumed a -greater, a more easy, intimacy with me: we had been boy to man then; we -were both men now. He was very friendly; whatever his feelings might -be about encountering my kindred, evidently he found nothing awkward -in meeting me. As we walked up from the station at Monte Carlo, he -put his arm in mine and said, “You must dine with me to-night. Yes, -yes, it’s no good shaking your head.” He smiled as he added, “You may -just as well dine with me as with Lady Dundrannan. But if you feel any -scruples, you may consider the dinner as taken out of your fifty, you -know!” - -It was a polite way of telling me that I had seen the last of my fifty. - -“I didn’t send that money altogether for you alone,” I ventured to -observe. - -He looked at me. “You remind me, Julius! Let me do it before we dine, -or I might forget. Half of this little windfall that I have had goes to -Lucinda. Half of it! Ah! there’s a post office. Wait for me, I won’t be -a minute.” And he darted into the place. When he rejoined me, he wore -an air of great self-satisfaction. “Now I shall enjoy my evening,” he -said; “and all the more when I think of what I should otherwise have -been doing.” - -“And what’s that?” I asked; the question did not seem impertinent in -view of his own introduction of the subject. - -“Do you ever frequent what are pharisaically known as ‘hells’? For my -part, I should sooner call them ‘heavens.’ If you do, you’ll remember -a little bureau, or sometimes just a table, under the care of a civil -official, by whose kind help you change notes that you had not meant to -change, and cash checks that you had never expected to have to write? -My suave and distinguished manners, together with my mastery of several -languages, enable me to perform my functions in an ideal way—so much -so that even an occasional indisposition, such as overtook me this -evening, is sure to be benevolently overlooked. Yes, I’m a cashier in a -gambling den, Julius.” - -“Well, I’m hanged!” said I, as we entered the _Café de Paris_. - -We sat down, and Arsenio ordered the best dinner that was to be -had. This done, he proceeded: “You see, I’m a man who prizes his -independence. In that I resemble Lucinda; it’s one of our points -of union. She insists on pursuing her own occupation, and accepts -an occasional present from me—such as I’ve just had the pleasure of -sending her—only under protest. When I’m in funds, I insist. So with -me. I also like to have my own occupation; it gives me the sense of -independence that I like.” - -“But occasionally you have recourse to——?” - -His eyes sparkled at me over his glass of wine. “My dear Julius, an -occasional deviation from one’s ruling principle—what is it? To err is -human, to forgive divine. And since you’ve forgiven me that fifty, I -shall be positively hurt if you don’t make an excellent dinner!” - -“It’s difficult to over value the privilege of being your guest,” I -observed rather grimly. - -He laughed, and went on with his merry chatter. I tried to take stock -of him, as I listened and threw in a remark here and there. Was he -trying to deceive himself with his talk of independence, or was he -merely trying to deceive me? Or was it that he did not really care a -straw about deceiving either of us? He might like to puzzle me; that -would be in his monkey vein. Evidently he had given none of my fifty -pounds to Lucinda. Had he really sent her anything when he went into -the post office this evening? And, if anything, what proportion of his -“windfall”? As much as half? Did Lucinda take money from him—under -protest? Or did she never get the chance? And did she give him money? -If his object were to puzzle me—he did it! But I believed what he told -me about his occupation; there was the evidence of his dress suit, and -of Madame’s playful rebuke. Besides, it was in character with him. When -he lacked the wherewithal to play himself, he would be where others -played. At least he got the atmosphere. Perhaps, too, his suave manners -and linguistic services were worth the price of a stake to him now and -then. - -“Yes,” he went on, with a laugh, after describing one or two odd shifts -to which he had been put, “the war may have paid my dear adopted -country all right—_sacro egoismo_, you know, Julius!—but it played -the devil with me. Zeppelins and ‘planes over Venice! All the tenants -bolted from my _palazzo_, and forgot to leave the rent behind them. Up -to now they’ve not come back. Hence this temporary fall in my fortunes. -But it’ll all come right.” - -“It won’t, if you go on gambling with any money that you happen to get -hold of.” - -He became serious; at least, I think so. At all events, he looked -serious. - -“Julius, I have no more doubt about it than I have about the fact -that I sit here, on this chair, in this restaurant. Some day—some day -soon—I shall bring off a great _coup_, a really great _coup_. That will -reëstablish me. And then I shall have done with it.” The odd creature’s -face took on a rapt, an almost inspired look. “And that _coup_ will be -made, not at _trente-et-quarante_, not at baccarat, but at good old -roulette, and by backing Number 21. It happened once before—you know -when. Well, it’ll happen again, my friend, and happen even bigger. Then -I shall resume my proper position; I shall be able to give Lucinda her -proper position. Our happy days will come again.” His voice, always a -melodious one, fell to a soft, caressing note: “We haven’t lost our -love for one another. It’s only that things have been difficult. But -the change will come!” His voice rose and grew eager again. “It nearly -came with your fifty. It was coming. I actually saw it coming. But a -fellow with a damned ugly squint came and backed my play, the devil -take him! Oh, you may smile, but I know a _jettatore_ when I see one! -Of course every blessed penny went!” - -“Yes, here he was sincere. It was perhaps his one sincerity, his only -faith. Or could the love he spoke of—his love for his wife—also be -taken as sincere? Possibly, but there I felt small patience with him. -As to his faith in his gambler’s star, that was in its way pathetic. -Besides, are not we all of us prone to be somehow infected by a faith -like that, however ridiculous our reason tells us that it is? - -“That’s a rum idea of yours about Number 21,” I said (I apologize for -saying it thoughtfully!); “you somehow associate it with——?” - -“There’s really no need of your diplomacy,” he mocked me. “What I -didn’t tell you about it, Lucinda did. Number 21 won me Lucinda.” He -paused, gave a pull to his cigarette—we had by now begun smoking—and -added, “Won me Lucinda back, I mean. But you know, I think, all about -us.” - -“And you know, it seems, about my meeting with her—it must be nearly -three years ago. I mean—at Ste. Maxime?” - -“She told me about it. She had been so delighted to see you. You -made great friends, you and she? Well, she always liked you. I think -you liked her. In fact”—he smoked, he sipped his coffee, then his -cognac—“in fact, I’ve always wondered why you chose to consider -yourself out of the running that summer at Cragsfoot long ago. You -chose to play the fogy, and leave Waldo and me to do battle.” - -“She was a child, and I——” - -“As for a child—well, I found her more than that. So did Waldo. As -for your venerable years—a girl is apt to take a man’s age at his -own reckoning. Short of a Methuselah, that is. Well, if you ever had -a chance—I think you had—you’ve lost it. You’ll never get her now, -Julius!” - -“How much more damned nonsense are you going to talk to-night, you—you -Monkey?” - -“Yes, yes, I’m still Monkey Valdez, aren’t I? The Monkey that stole the -fruit! But I got it, and I shall keep it. After what she’s done for me, -could I ever distrust her?” His voice sounded as it had when he spoke -of Number 21. - -“I certainly think that you’ve tried her pretty high already,” I -remarked dryly. - -“And you’re very angry with me about it?” - -“What would be the good? Only I wish the devil you’d pull yourself -together now.” - -“Remember Number 21!” And now his voice sounded as it had when he spoke -of Lucinda! - -“Where is she now, Arsenio? Still at Ste. Maxime?” - -“I couldn’t possibly tell you where she is without her permission.” - -“Oh, stuff! If you think that she and I are such friends—I hope we -are—surely——?” - -“I don’t think that she would care to receive visits from a member of -Lady Dundrannan’s house party.” - -“Good Lord, I forgot that!” - -“And I certainly wouldn’t take the responsibility of concealing that -fact about you—with the chance of her discovering it afterwards. As -for you, wouldn’t you get into hot water with both ladies, if your -duplicity happened to be discovered? As regards one another, aren’t -they a trifle sensitive?” He leaned back in his chair, with an air of -amusement at the situation which he had suggested. “Even your little -visit to me you thought it judicious to make on the quiet,” he reminded -me with a chuckle. - -I sat silent; if the truth must be told, I was rather abashed. On -reflection—and on a reflection prompted by Monkey Valdez!—what I had -been proposing to do seemed not quite the square thing. Anyhow, a -doubtful case; it is a good working rule not to do things that you -would not like to be found out in. - -“Then I suppose I oughtn’t to have come to see you either?” - -“Oh, I don’t matter so much. Nina has no animosity against me.” His -eyes twinkled. “Still, don’t mention it, there’s a good fellow. You -see, she’d question you, and I am rather down on my luck. Lucinda and I -both are. I daresay you’ll understand that we shouldn’t care for that -to get round through Nina to Waldo?” - -That feeling seemed natural and intelligible enough. The contrast -between splendor and—well—something like squalor—in view of the past -they would hardly wish Lady Dundrannan and her husband to be in a -position to draw it. - -“Oh, well, what’s done’s done; but you and I had perhaps better not -meet any more just for the present.” - -“I’ve roused your scruples?” he laughed. “I, the moralist! Just as you -like, old fellow. I’m glad you happened to hit on a lucky night—hope -you’ve enjoyed the dinner?” - -“Immensely, thanks. But I’d better be getting back now, I think.” - -“Well, it’s about time I got to business.” He jerked his thumb in the -direction of the Casino. “Let me pay, and we’ll be off.” - -In another five minutes we should have parted company, and my -indiscretion in visiting Arsenio Valdez from Villa San Carlo would have -had no consequences. But things were not fated to end that way. While -my host was paying the bill—he put down very openly, perhaps with some -slight flourish, a note for five hundred francs—I felt a hand laid on -my shoulder. I looked up, and saw Godfrey Frost. - -“Ah!” said he, with a laugh, “you’re not the only truant! I got a -little bored myself, and thought I’d run over here and have a flutter. -We’ll go back together, shall we? May I sit down at your table? I’m -late, but they say they can give me something cold.” - -Arsenio’s eyes were upon me; with his infernal quickness the fellow -must have detected an embarrassment on my face; his own puckered into a -malicious smile. He settled back into the chair which he had been about -to vacate—and waited. - -What could I do? With fate and Monkey Valdez both against me? He -divined that for some reason I did not want to introduce him. Therefore -I must be made to! Godfrey also waited—quite innocently, of course, -just expecting the proper, the obvious thing. I had to do it; but, with -a faint hope that they might not identify one another, I said merely, -“Sit down, of course. Mr. Frost—my friend, Mr. Valdez.” - -The Monkey twisted his face; I believe that he was really vexed. (Had -not Lucinda said that he had taken against all things English?) “I’m -not _Mr._ Valdez, Julius. I’m Monsieur Valdez, if you like, or, more -properly, Don Arsenio Valdez.” - -“Delighted to meet you, Don Arsenio,” said young Frost, composedly -taking his seat. “I think I’ve heard of you from my cousin, Lady -Dundrannan.” - -“An old acquaintanceship,” said the Monkey. “One of the many that, -alas, the war interrupted! I hope that your cousin is well?” - -“First class, thank you,” answered Godfrey. “Ah, here’s my cold -chicken!” - -With the arrival of the stranger Arsenio had assumed his best manner, -his most distinguished air; he could do the high style very well when -he chose, and if his dress suit was a trifle shabby, there was always -the war to account for a trifle like that. He was evidently bent on -making a favorable impression. The talk turned on the tables, where -Godfrey had been trying his luck with some success. But Arsenio was no -longer the crazy gambler with a strange hallucination about Number 21; -he was a clear-sighted, cool-minded gentleman who, knowing that the -odds against him must tell in the end, still from time to time risked a -few louis for his pleasure. - -“After all, it’s one of the best forms of relaxation I know. Just -enough excitement and not too much.” - -“I never play for more than I can afford to lose,” said Godfrey. “But I -must confess that I get pretty excited all the same.” - -“It can’t make much difference to you what you lose,” I growled. This -meeting, for which I felt responsible, somehow put me out of temper. -What was the Monkey up to? He was so anxious to make a good impression! - -“It would be affectation to pretend not to know that you can afford to -treat the freaks of fortune with composure,” he said to Godfrey with a -smile. - -Godfrey looked pleased. He was still fresh to his position and his -money; he enjoyed the prestige; he liked to have the Frost greatness -admired, just as his cousin Nina did. - -“When I played more than I do now,” Arsenio pursued, “I used to play -a system. I don’t really believe in any of them, but I should like to -show it to you. It might interest you—though I’ve come now to prefer a -long shot—a bold gamble—win or lose—and there’s an end of it! Still my -old system might——” - -I got up. I had had enough of this—whatever Arsenio’s game might be. -“It’s time we were getting back,” I said to Godfrey. “Have you your car -here?” - -“Yes, and we’ll go. But look here, Don Arsenio, I should like to hear -about your system. If you’re free, lunch with me here to-morrow, and -afterwards we’ll drop in and try it—in a small way, just for fun, you -know.” - -“To-morrow? Yes, I shall be delighted. About half-past twelve? Shall I -see you, too, Julius?” - -“No; systems bore me to death,” I said gruffly. “Besides, those -Forrester people are coming to lunch at the Villa to-morrow, Godfrey.” - -“All the more reason for being out!” laughed Godfrey. “We’ll meet, -then, Don Arsenio, whether this old chap comes or not. That’s agreed?” - -Arsenio assented. We left him outside the _café_, waving his hand to us -as the car started. At the last moment he darted one of his mischievous -glances at me. At least, he was thoroughly enjoying the situation; at -most—well, at most he might be up to almost anything. He had told us -that he did not, after all, feel like playing that night, since we had -to leave him; he would go straight home, he said. That probably meant -that he was saving up his money for something! - -Godfrey was silent on the way home, and did not refer to Arsenio till -we found ourselves in the smoking room at the Villa: we had it to -ourselves; the others had gone to bed. - -“I was interested to meet that fellow,” he then remarked. “Where did -you run into him?” - -I told him of my visit. “For the sake of old times I just wanted to see -how he was getting on,” I added apologetically. “But I doubt whether I -did right, and I don’t mean to see any more of him at present.” - -“Why do you doubt whether you did right?” - -“Well, I’m Nina’s guest just now; frankly, I don’t think she’d like -it.” - -“There’s no reason to tell, is there?” - -“As a matter of fact, I didn’t mean to tell her. But you turned up!” - -He laughed. “Oh, I won’t tell her either. We’ll keep it dark, old -fellow.” - -“But you’ve arranged to meet him at lunch again to-morrow.” - -“Nina will be lunching here—with the Forresters, so that will be all -right, though it’s a doubtful point whether affording us bed and board -gives Nina a right of control over the company we keep outside the -house.” - -“I just had a feeling——” - -“Yes. Well, perhaps you’re right.” He was standing before the fire, -smoking a cigar; he seemed to ponder the little question of morals, or -etiquette, for a moment. Then he smiled. “So that’s the dashing lover -who cut out poor Waldo and ran away with the famous Lucinda, is it? But -where’s the lady, Julius?” - -“I haven’t any idea. She wasn’t at the place where I found him to-day. -Why do you want to know where she is?” - -I suppose that my tone was irritable. He raised his brows, smiling -still. “Don’t you think that a little curiosity is natural? She is, -after all, an important figure in the family history. And she is, so -far as I’m aware, the only woman who’s ever got the better of Nina. I -should like to see her.” He paused a moment, his lips set in the firm -and resolute smile with which I was familiar on Lady Dundrannan’s -lips—the Frost smile. “Yes, I should certainly like to see her. And -I’m not really much interested in roulette systems. That for your -information, Julius!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -FOR AULD LANG SYNE - - -I AWOKE the next morning with my head full of Lucinda; the thought of -her haunted me. My desire to see her, to know how she fared, had been -constant since I came to Mentone; it had really prompted my visit to -Arsenio Valdez; it had made me restless under the gilded hospitality of -Villa San Carlo—a contrast was always thrusting itself under my eyes. -But it was brought to a sharper point by the events of the day before, -by the mode of living in which I had found Valdez, by his concealment -of her and reticence about her. I felt now simply unable to go on -faring sumptuously at Villa San Carlo every day, while she was in all -likelihood suffering hardship or even want. - -There was another strain of feeling, which developed now, or came -to the surface. As I drank my morning coffee and smoked a cigar, my -memory traveled back through my acquaintance with her—back through my -intercourse with her at Ste. Maxime, with all its revelation of her -doings, feelings, and personality; back through all that to the first -days at Cragsfoot which seemed now so long ago, on the other side of -the barrier which her flight had raised and the war had made complete. -It was Arsenio who had set me on the line of thought. I recalled my -mood in those days, the state of mind in which I had been, and saw how -justly his quick wits had then divined it and had yesterday described -it. I had chosen to play the fogy, to consider myself out of the -running. It was quite true. He had paid me the compliment of saying -that he did not know why I should have done this. He did not know. I -do not think that I knew myself at the time. We see our feelings most -clearly when they possess us no longer. The woman who had been more -than any one else in the world to me was still alive in my heart in -those days, and still mistress of my thoughts, though she walked the -earth no longer and her voice was forever silent. It was still seeming -to me, as it does to a man in such a case, that my story was told and -finished, that I was done. Beside the fresh young folk at Cragsfoot, I -might well feel myself a fogy. What could Lucinda seem to me then but a -charming child playing with her fellows? - -If Arsenio’s words set me thus smiling—even if half in melancholy over -a vanished image that rose again from the past, and flitted transiently -across a stage that she had once filled—smiling at the memory of how -old—how “finished” for affairs of the heart—I had once seemed to -myself, there was a danger that they might make me forget how old I -was, in sad fact, at the present moment. - -Towards this mistake another thing contributed. Combativeness is -usually a characteristic of youth; Godfrey Frost had stirred it up -in me. In spite of the plea of “family history” which he had put -forward (with a distinct flavor of irony in his tone), my feelings -acknowledged no warrant for his claim to a just curiosity and interest -about Lucinda, and resented the intimation, conveyed by that firm and -resolute Frost smile, that he intended to take a hand in her affairs, -on the pretext of studying a roulette system under her husband’s -tuition. Such an attitude, such an intention, seemed somehow insulting -to her; if the Rillingtons had a right to treat her with less respect -than that which is due to any lady—even if Nina based a right to do -so on what had happened in the past—Godfrey had none. If she chose to -remain hidden, what business was it of his to drag her into the light? -There seemed something at least ungallant, unchivalrous in it. I ought -to have remembered that he had only the general principles of chivalry -to guide him, whereas I had the knowledge of what Lucinda was, of her -reserve and delicate aloofness. In the end his curiosity might find -itself abashed, rebuked, transformed. I did not think of that, and for -the time anger clouded my liking for him. - -Coincidently there came over me a weariness, an impatience, of -Villa San Carlo. It was partly that Lady Dundrannan created—quite -unintentionally, of course—the atmosphere of a Court about her; there -was always the question of what would please Her Majesty! This was -amusing at first, but ended by growing tedious. But, deeper than this, -there was the old conflict, the old competition. Some unknown and dingy -lodging, somewhere on the Riviera coast, was matching its lure against -all the attractions of magnificent Villa San Carlo. That was the end of -it with me—and with Godfrey Frost! - -I sought out Nina before lunch in her boudoir, a charming little room -opening on the garden, with Louis Quinze furniture on the floor and old -French Masters on the walls; really extremely elegant. - -Her ladyship sat at her writing table (a “museum piece,” no doubt), -sorting her letters. She was not looking her most amiable, I regretted -to observe, but, as soon as I came in, she spoke to me. - -“Isn’t this too bad? Godfrey’s had to go over to the works. Some -trouble’s arisen; he doesn’t even tell me what! He went off at ten -o’clock, before I was downstairs, merely leaving a note to say he’d -gone, and might not be back for two or three days. He took his man and -a portmanteau with him in the car, Emile tells me. And to-morrow is -Eunice’s birthday, and he’d delighted the child by promising to take -us for a long drive and give us lunch somewhere. It’s so seldom that -he puts himself out to give her pleasure, that I was—that it seems a -shame.” - -“A disappointment, certainly, Nina.” - -“It knocks the whole thing on the head. The day would be too long for -Waldo, and what would she care about going with you and me? Oh, I beg -your pardon, but——” - -“Of course! Two’s company; four can move in companies; but three’s -hopeless!” - -“I’m really vexed.” She looked it. “I wonder if he’s really gone on -business!” - -“You could telephone the works and find out if he’s there,” I suggested -rather maliciously. To tell the truth, I did not think that he would -be—not much there, at all events. - -“My dear Julius, I’m not quite an idiot in dealing with young men whom -I want to—whose friendship I like and value. Do you suppose he’d like -me telephoning after him as if I was his anxious mother?” - -A wise woman! But just at the moment she was irritated, so that she had -nearly put the relations which she wished to maintain between herself -and Godfrey too bluntly. However, her amendment was excellent. - -“Well, there it is! I must explain it to poor Eunice as well as I -can. After all, you might take her to Monte and let her have a little -gamble. I’ll give her a present. That’ll be better than nothing.” - -“Thank you, Nina! But—well, the fact is——” - -“Oh, do you want to go off on your own, too?” she asked rather sharply. -“Well, I suppose it is dull here. Waldo and I are too conjugal, and -Eunice—well, she’s a dear, but——” - -“It’s not a bit dull here. It never could be where you are” (I meant -that), “and anyhow old Waldo would be enough for me. And I’m not out -for sprees, if that’s what you mean. But—may I smoke?” - -“Of course! Don’t be silly!” - -I began to smoke. She rose and came to the fireplace, where she stood -with her arm resting on the mantelpiece, looking down at me, for I had -sat down on one of her priceless chairs; it seemed rather a liberty, -but I did it—a liberty with the chair, I mean, not with its owner. - -She was looking very vexed; she hated her schemes to go awry. She had -been kind to me; I liked her; and she was one of us now—the wife of -a Rillington, though she bore another name. More than ever it seemed -that I ought to play fair with her—for those reasons; also because it -appeared likely that she was not meeting with fair play elsewhere—at -all events, not with open dealing. - -“I’m your guest,” I began, with some difficulty, “and your—well, and -all the rest of it. And I want——” - -“To do something that you think I mightn’t like a guest and friend of -mine to do?” - -“That’s it.” I gratefully accepted her quick assistance. It was quick -indeed, for the next instant she added: “That means that you want to go -and see Lucinda Valdez? It’s the only thing you can mean. What else is -there which you could think would matter to me?” - -“Yes, I do. I want to find out where she is, what she’s doing, and -whether she’s in distress. I hope you won’t think that wrong, or -unnatural, or—or disloyal to Waldo or to you?” - -I looked up at her as I spoke. To my surprise her air of vexation, her -thwarted air, gave place to that sly, subtle look of triumph which I -had marked on her face before. She seemed to consider for a moment -before she answered me. - -“Go, of course, if you like. I have no possible claim to control your -actions. I shan’t consider that you’re doing anything unfriendly to -Waldo, much less to me—though I do think it would be better not to -mention it to Waldo. But if all you want is to know where Lucinda is, -and whether she’s in distress, I’m in a position to save you trouble by -informing you on both those points.” - -“The deuce you are!” I exclaimed. She had really surprised me this -time. She saw it; her lips curved in a smile of satisfaction. - -“She’s living with her husband at Nice, and, whatever may have been the -case before, she isn’t at present in distress, because for the last -two months or so—since soon after we came out—I have had the privilege -of supplying her wants.” - -I nearly fell out of the priceless chair. I did stare at her in -sheer astonishment. Then the memory flashed into my mind—Arsenio’s -remittance, his dinner at the _Café de Paris_, his remark that I might -just as well dine with him as with Lady Dundrannan. It did come to much -the same thing, apparently! - -“I did it for Auld Lang Syne,” said Nina gently, softly. Oh, so -triumphantly! - -Now I understood her sly, exultant glances at me in the preceding -days. She had always suspected me of being on the enemy’s side, one of -Lucinda’s faction (it was small enough). What would I have to think -of Lucinda now? Nina had been conceiving of herself as the generous -benefactress of a helpless and distressed Lucinda. A grateful Lucinda, -eating from her hand all but literally! That was her revenge on the -girl who had cut her out with Waldo, on the girl who had seen her -sobbing on the cliff. It was not a bad one. - -“One would not like to think of her being in want, and so exposed to -temptation,” Nina remarked reflectively. “Because, of course, she is -pretty; she was, anyhow.” - -I smiled at that—though I fancy that she meant to make me angry. - -“You must excuse me, Nina, but I don’t believe it.” - -“Oh, all right!” She walked across to her desk, unlocked a drawer, -took out a letter, and brought it back with her. She gave it to me. -“Read that, then, Julius.” - -It was from Arsenio. I read it hastily, for it disgusted me. It sent -to Madame la Baronne (he wrote in French) the grateful thanks of his -wife and himself for her most generous kindness, once again renewed. -In a short time he hoped to be independent; might he for one week more -trespass on her munificence? It was not for himself; it was simply to -enable his wife to make a decent appearance, until an improvement in -her health, now, alas, _very_ indifferent, made it possible for her to -seek some suitable employment——So far I read, and handed the letter -back to Nina; she would not take it. - -“Keep it,” she said. “I’ve several more; he says the same thing every -week—oh, that about the ‘decent appearance’ is new; it’s been rent and -food before. Otherwise it’s the same as usual.” - -I looked at the date of the letter; it had been written three days -before. - -“When did you last send him money?” - -“The day before yesterday, if you want to know.” - -Yes, I had dined on it. And Arsenio had sent half of it to Lucinda; so -he had told me, at least. And the rest he was keeping, in order to show -Godfrey Frost the working of his system. - -“I was with him when he got it.” - -“You were with him? When? Where?” she asked quickly. - -I told of my afternoon with Monkey Valdez; surely he had now doubly, -trebly earned the name! She listened with every sign of satisfaction -and amusement. - -“You didn’t see his wife? She was out at her work, I suppose?” - -“He’s living in a single room. There was no sign of her, and -the—er—furniture did not suggest——” - -“Really, Julius, I’m not interested in their domestic arrangements,” -said Lady Dundrannan. “And you left him at Monte Carlo?” - -I assented; but I kept Godfrey’s secret. It was not my affair to meddle -in that; the more so inasmuch as his meeting with Arsenio had not been -his fault at all, but my own. To give him away would be unpardonable in -me. Nor did I tell her that Arsenio had at least professed to send half -the money to Lucinda; I was not convinced that he had really done it; -and—well, I thought that she was triumphant enough already. - -I folded Arsenio’s letter and put it in my pocket, with no clear idea -of what I meant to do with it, but with just a feeling that it might -give me a useful hold on a slippery customer. Then I looked up at -Nina again; she had the gift of repose, of standing or sitting still, -without fidgets. She stood quite still now; but her exultant smile had -vanished; her face was troubled and fretful again. - -“Of course I’ve told you this in confidence,” she said, without looking -at me. “I’ve not bothered Waldo with it, and I shan’t until he’s -stronger, at all events.” - -“I quite understand. But I’m not in the least convinced.” - -Then she turned quickly towards me. “The letter speaks for itself—or do -you think I’ve forged it?” - -“The letter speaks for itself, and it convicts Arsenio Valdez. But -there’s nothing to show that Lucinda knows where the money comes from. -He probably tells her that he earns it, or wins it, and then lies to -you about it.” - -“Why should he lie to me about it?” - -“He thinks that you’d be more likely to send it for her than for him, I -suppose. At any rate, I’m convinced that she would rather starve than -knowingly take money from you.” - -“Why?” - -I retorted her own phrase on her. “Because of Auld Lang Syne, Nina.” - -“You don’t know much about that,” she remarked sharply. - -“Yes, a good deal. Some you’ve told me yourself. Some Lucinda has told -me. I met her down here—not at Mentone, but on the Riviera,—about three -years ago.” - -“What was she doing then?” - -“I can tell you nothing of that. She did not wish you or the people at -Cragsfoot to know.” - -“I daresay not!” Then she went on, quietly but with a cold and -scornful impatience. “What do all you men find in the woman? You, -Julius, won’t believe the plainest evidence where she’s concerned. -Waldo won’t hear her name mentioned; he does recognize the truth about -her by now, of course—what she really was—but still he looks as if I -were desecrating a grave if I make the most distant reference to the -time when he was engaged to her—and really one can’t help occasionally -referring to old days! And now even Godfrey seems eaten up with -curiosity about her; he’s been trying to pump me about her. I suppose -he thinks I don’t see through him, but I do, of course.” - -“She’s an interesting woman, Nina. Don’t you think so yourself?” - -“How can she be interesting to Godfrey, anyhow? He’s never seen her. -Yet I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if at this moment he’s hunting the -Riviera for her!” - -How sharp she was, how sharp her resentful jealousy made her! - -“It’s as if you were all in a conspiracy to prevent me from getting -that woman out of my head! Well—you don’t make any answer!” - -“About what?” - -“About what Godfrey’s doing.” - -“I know nothing about what he’s doing. There’s what he said in the note -he left for you.” - -She gave an impatient shrug. “Oh, the note he left for me! Why didn’t -he tell me face to face? I suppose he could have waited half an hour!” - -It was plain that Godfrey’s departure—sudden and certainly -unceremonious compared with the deference which he had been (indeed, -which all of our party were) in the habit of showing towards her—had -upset her seriously. She showed me more of her inner mind, of a secret -uneasiness which possessed her. It had been lulled to rest by that -picture of a helpless and grateful Lucinda; I had shaken her faith in -that, or at least my obstinate skepticism had made her faith angry -rather than serene, eager to convince the skeptic and thereby to -confirm itself anew. - -After a long pause she spoke again in a much more composed fashion, and -even smiling. - -“Well, Julius, go and see; go and find her, and find out the truth -about it. That’ll be the best thing. And you can come back and tell -me. In view of Arsenio Valdez’s letter I’m entitled to know their real -circumstances, anyhow. Into her secrets I don’t want to pry, but I’ve -sent them money on the strength of his letters.” - -“What I expect is to be able to tell you not to send any more.” - -“Yes, I know you expect that. But you’ll find yourself wrong about it.” - -“That’s the ‘issue to be tried,’” I said with a laugh, as I rose from -my chair. I was glad to be able to obey the impulse within me without -quarreling with Nina. I hoped to be able to carry the whole thing -through—wherever it might lead—without that. - -“You’re off directly?” she asked. - -“Oh, not this minute. After lunch will be time enough, I think.” - -“It wasn’t time enough for Godfrey,” she reminded me quickly. But the -next moment she flushed a little, as though ashamed. “Oh, never mind -that! Let’s stick to business. What you’re going to find out for me is -whether Arsenio Valdez—yes, Arsenio—is a proper object for charitable -assistance, whether he makes a proper use of what I send him, and -whether I ought to send more.” - -“That, so far as you’re concerned, is it precisely.” - -On which polite basis of transparent humbug Nina and I parted for the -moment. We were to meet again at lunch. But Waldo would be there; so no -more of our forbidden subject. - -Alas! here was to be the end of the subject altogether for some little -while. At lunch a very crestfallen man, though he tried to wear an -unconcerned air, informed Lady Dundrannan that Sir Ezekiel Coldston -had wired him a peremptory summons to attend an important business -conference in Paris; so there was an end of the Riviera too for the -time being. The order must be obeyed at once. Waldo came into the -room just as I achieved this explanation; somehow it sounded like a -confession of defeat. - -“Oh, well, the Riviera will wait till you come back,” said Her -Ladyship, with an unmistakable gleam of satisfaction in her eye. - -She had tactfully agreed to the search for Lucinda, but she had not -liked it. It was at any rate postponed now. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -THE SYSTEM WORKS - - -I WAS in Paris for full four weeks, representing Sir Ezekiel (who was -laid up with asthma) on the International Commercial Conference on the -Regulation and Augmentation of the World’s Tonnage, a matter in which -our company was, of course, deeply interested. It was the best chance -I had yet secured of distinguishing myself in the business world. The -work, besides being important and heavy, was also interesting. The -waking intervals between our sessions and conferences were occupied -by luncheons, banquets, and _conversaziones_; if we dealt faithfully -with one another at the business meetings, we professed unlimited -confidence in one another on the social occasions. In fact, if we had -really believed all we said of one another after lunch or after dinner, -each of us would have implored his neighbor to take all the goods, or -tonnage, or money that he possessed and dispose of it as his unrivaled -wisdom and unparalleled generosity might dictate. We did not, however, -make any such suggestions in business hours; the fact that we did quite -the opposite prolonged the negotiations. - -All of which brings me to the ungallant confession that the two ladies, -who had occupied so much of an idle man’s thoughts at Mentone, occupied -considerably less of a busy man’s at Paris. They were not forgotten, -but they receded into the background of my thoughts, emerging to the -forefront only in rare moments of leisure; even then my mental attitude -was one of greater detachment. I had a cold fit about the situation, -and some ungracious reflections for both of them. Absence and -preoccupation blunted my imagination, even when they did not entirely -divert my thoughts. My mind was localized; it did not travel far or for -long outside my daily business. - -It was when our deliberations had almost reached a conclusion, as the -official report put it—when our agreement had gone to the secretaries -to be drafted in proper form—that I got a telegram from Godfrey Frost, -telling me that he would be in Paris the next day and asking me to dine -with him. Putting off some minor engagement which I had, I accepted his -invitation. - -It was not till after dinner, when we were alone in his sitting room -at the hotel, that he opened to me what he had to say. He did it in a -methodical, deliberate way. “I’ve something to say to you. Sit down -there, and light a cigar, Julius.” - -I obeyed him. Evidently I was in for a story—of what sort I did not -know. But his mouth wore its resolute look, not the smile with which he -had chaffed me after our meeting with Arsenio Valdez at Monte Carlo. - -“The system worked,” he began abruptly. - -“You won?” I asked, astonished. - -“I don’t want you to interrupt for a little while, if you don’t mind. -Of course, I didn’t win; I never supposed I should. But the system -worked. I found Madame Valdez. Be quiet! After two nights of the -system, I politely—more or less politely—intimated that I was sick of -it; also that I didn’t see my way to finance any further the peculiarly -idiotic game which he played on his own account, in the intervals of -superintending the system. The man’s mad to think that he’s got a -dog’s chance, playing like that! He’d stayed with me in Monte those -two days. I said that I was afraid his wife would never forgive me if -I kept him from her any longer. He said that, having for the moment -lost _la veine_, he was not in a position to return my hospitality; -otherwise he and his wife would have been delighted to see me at Nice. -Well, with the usual polite circumlocutions, he conveyed to me that -there was a pleasant, quiet little hotel in Nice where he generally -stayed—when he was in funds, he meant, I suppose—and that, although -Madame Valdez was not staying there at present, she might be prevailed -upon to join him there, and certainly we should make a pleasant party. -‘I am _le bienvenu_ at a very cozy little place in Nice, if we want an -hour’s distraction in the evening. My wife goes to bed early. She’s -a woman with her own profession, and it takes her out early in the -morning.’ So that seemed all right, only—you can guess! I smoothed over -the difficulty. At that little hotel, at dinner on the next Sunday, I, -Valdez’s welcome guest, had the privilege of being presented to Madame -Valdez—or, as he called her, Donna Lucinda.” - -“Yes, the system worked, Godfrey,” I observed. - -He did not rebuke my interruption, but he took no heed of it. His own -story held him in its grip, whatever effect it might be having on his -auditor. - -“She came just as if she were an invited guest, and rather a shy one -at that; a timid handshake for Valdez, a distant, shy bow for me. He -greeted her as he might have a girl he was courting, but who would -generally have nothing to do with him—who had condescended just this -once, you know. Only she said to him—rather bashfully—‘Do you like the -frock I bought, Arsenio?’ It was a pretty little frock—a brightish -blue. Quite inexpensive material, I should say, but very nicely put -together; and it suited her eyes and hair. What eyes and hair she has, -by Jove, Julius!” - -He had told me not to interrupt; I didn’t. - -“Why didn’t you tell me what she was like?” he asked suddenly and -rather fiercely. - -“It was what you told me you meant to find out for yourself, Godfrey.” - -“Well, we sat there and had dinner. She seemed to enjoy herself -very much; made a good dinner, you know, and seemed to accept his -compliments—Valdez’s, I mean—with a good deal of pleasure; he was -flowery. I didn’t say much. I was damned dull, in fact. But she glanced -at me out of the corner of her eye now and then. Look here, Julius, I’m -an ass at telling about things!” - -“I’ve known better _raconteurs_; but get on with it, if you want to.” - -“Want to? I must. As a matter of fact, I’ve come to Paris just to tell -you about it. And now I can’t.” - -“She isn’t exactly easy to describe, to—to give the impression of. But -remember—I know her.” - -He had been walking up and down; he jerked himself into a chair, and -relit his cigar—it had gone out. “I don’t much remember what we talked -about at first—oh, except that she said, ‘I don’t like your gambling, -and I should hate to be dependent on your winnings, Arsenio.’—My God, -his winnings! He leant across the table towards her—he seemed to forget -me altogether for the minute—and said, ‘I never make you even a present -out of them except when I back Number 21.’ She blushed at that, like -a girl just out of the schoolroom. Rather funny! Some secret between -them, I suppose. The beggar was always backing twenty-one; though he -very seldom brings it off. What’s his superstition? Did he meet her -when she was twenty-one, or marry her when she was, or was it the date -when they got married, or what?” - -“It’s the date—the day of the month—when she and Waldo didn’t get -married,” I explained. - -“By Jove! Then they’re—they’re lovers still!” The inference which -Godfrey thus drew seemed to affect him considerably. He sat silent for -a minute or two, apparently reflecting on it and frowning sullenly. -Then he went on. “Then Valdez said, with one of his grins, ‘Mr. Frost -can give you news of some old friends, Lucinda.’ She wasn’t a bit -embarrassed at that, but she didn’t seem interested either. She was -just decently polite about it—hoped they were all well, was sorry to -hear of Waldo’s wound, wished she had happened to meet you and asked -if you were coming back—I’d mentioned that you’d gone to Paris on this -job of yours. In fact, she didn’t shirk the subject of the family, but -she treated it as something that didn’t matter to her; she looked as if -she was thinking of something else all the time. She often gives you -that kind of impression. Valdez had never referred again to her joining -us at the hotel—staying there with us, I mean; and he said nothing -about it at this meeting. I could only suppose that she had refused. -And now, when she got up to go, he didn’t propose that we, or even he -himself, should escort her. I made some suggestion of the kind, but she -just said, ‘Oh, no, thank you, I’d rather go by myself.’ And off she -went—about half-past nine. We finished the evening playing baccarat—at -least I did—at the little hell to which he had already taken me. He -seemed very much at home there; all the people of the place knew him, -laughed and joked with him; but he didn’t often play there; he doesn’t -much care about baccarat. He used to sit talking with the proprietor, -a fat old Jew, in the corner, or chatting with the fellow who changed -your money for you, with whom he seemed on particularly friendly terms. -All that part of it was a bore, but she always went away early, and one -had to finish the evenings somewhere.” - -“Oh, then she came again, did she?” I asked. - -“She came to dinner the next three nights; once again to dine with -Arsenio; he’d got some funds from somewhere and actually insisted on -paying for those two dinners—I was footing the general hotel bill, of -course; twice as my guest. She was always much the same; cool, quiet, -reserved, but quite pleasant and amused. Presently I got the idea that -she was amused at me. I caught her looking at me sometimes with a smile -and a sort of ruminative look in her eyes; once, when I smiled back, -she gave a little laugh. The fact is, I suppose, she saw I admired her -a good deal. Well, that brought us to the Thursday. I had to go over to -the works that day, and I spent the night with our manager. I didn’t -get back till Friday evening, and then I found that Valdez, getting -bored, I suppose, and having some money in his pocket, had gone off to -Monte Carlo. Rather cool, but I expect he couldn’t help it. He left -word that he’d be back next day. I spent an infernally dull evening by -myself at that dreary little hole of a hotel. I almost had the car out -again and went back to Villa San Carlo, It would have saved a lot of -trouble if I had! - -“I’m not going to tell you what I felt; I’m not good at it. I’ll tell -you what I did, and you can draw your own conclusions. I was quit of -Valdez for a bit; I spent all the next day on my feet, prowling about -the town, looking for her; because, after all, she must be somewhere in -the place. And I knew that she had a job. So I reckoned the likeliest -chance to happen on her in the streets was during the _déjeuner_ hour. -So I didn’t lunch, but prowled round all that hour. My next best chance -would be the going home hour; you see that?” - -“The business mind applied to gallantry is wonderful,” I replied. “Now -a mere poet would have lain on the sofa and dreamt of Donna Lucinda!” - -“But I had to put in the time in between—always with the off-chance, of -course. I got pretty tired, and, when I found myself up at Cimiez about -four o’clock, I felt like a cup of tea, so I turned into the first -hotel I came to. One of those big affairs, with palm gardens and what -not; the ‘Imperial Palace’ it called itself, I think. I pushed through -one of those revolving doors and came into a lounge place—you know the -sort of thing? - -“I sat down at a table about halfway down the lounge and ordered tea. -Then I lit a cigarette and looked about me. Round about the door there -were a lot of showcases, fitted on to the wall, with jewelry, silver -plate, and so on, displayed in them. There was another large one, full -of embroidered linen and lace things; it was open, and at it, sampling -the goods and chattering away like one o’clock, were Mrs. Forrester -and Eunice Unthank—no, not Nina too, thank Heaven! Because the neat -girl who was selling, or trying to sell, the stuff, was Madame Valdez! -I picked up a copy of the day before yesterday’s _Temps_ from the -next table, held it before my face, and peered at them over it. She -wasn’t in her blue frock now; she wore plain black, with a bit of white -round the neck; short skirt and black silk stockings. They brought my -tea; I drank it with one hand and held the _Temps_ up with the other; -naturally I didn’t want Mrs. Forrester and Eunice to see me! - -“They were the deuce of a time—Lord, I could buy or sell half Europe -in the time a woman takes over a pocket-handkerchief!—but I didn’t -mind that; I had my plan. At last they went; she did up their parcel -and went with them to the door, with lots of ‘Thank you’ and ‘Good-by’ -(they spoke English) on both sides. It was past five; I waited still, -and meanwhile finished and paid for my tea. I saw her making entries -in a ledger; then she went through the case, checking her stock, I -suppose; then, just as a clock struck five-thirty, she shut the case -with a little bang and turned the key; then she disappeared into a -cupboard or something, and came back in her hat and jacket. By that -time I was by the door, with my hat and stick in my hand. We met just -by her case—which, by the way, had on it in large gilt letters, _Maison -de la Belle Étoile_, Nice. - -“‘Good-evening,’ I said. ‘May I have the pleasure of walking home with -you, Madame Valdez?’ - -“She didn’t seem surprised. ‘I’m Mademoiselle Lucie here,’ she said, -smiling. ‘Oh, yes, if you like. Take me down to the Promenade—by the -sea. I’m half stifled.’ - -“We said hardly anything on the way down—at any rate, nothing of any -importance; and it was dusk; I could see her face only dimly. When we -got to the Promenade, and the wind from the sea caught us in the face, -she sighed, ‘Ah!’ and suddenly took my arm. ‘Was it a fluke, or did you -come to look for me? Did Arsenio tell you?’ - -“‘No, he didn’t. I’ve hunted the town all day for you. And I’ve found -you at last. Arsenio’s gone to Monte Carlo.’ - -“‘I know he has. Why did you want to find me? You needn’t worry about -me. I’m all right. I’ve got a very good situation now. I find it’s -easier work to sell things than to make them, Mr. Frost. And the -_patrons_ are pleased with me. They say I have an ingratiating way that -produces business! I wonder whether I was ingratiating with that woman -and girl just now! They spent three hundred francs!’ - -“Do you know the sudden change that comes in her voice when she means -to be extra friendly? I can’t begin to describe it—something like the -jolliest kitten in the world purring! No, that’s absurd——Oh, well! -What she said was, ‘I like you and I like your dinners. But aren’t you -rather silly to do it?’ Yes, she was very friendly, but just a bit -contemptuous too. ‘Because you’re a great young man, aren’t you? And -I’m a _midinette_! Besides, you know about me, I expect. And so you’ll -know that Arsenio and I are married. Ask your cousin, Mr. Frost.’ - -“All I said was, ‘I’m glad you like me.’ She laughed. ‘And you like me? -Why?’ - -“Then I made a most damned fool of myself, Julius. I don’t really know -how I came to do it, except that the thing’s true, of course. I’ve -laughed at the thing myself ever since I laughed at anything—in revues, -and _Punch_, and everywhere. I said,—yes, by Jove, I did!—I said, -‘You’re so different from other women, Donna Lucinda!’ - -“What an ass! Of course you can’t help laughing too, Julius! But, -after all, I’m glad I did make such an ass of myself, because she just -burst into an honest guffaw—and so did I, a minute later. We became a -thousand times better friends just in that minute.” - -Godfrey paused in his narrative and gazed at me. I am afraid that a -smile still lingered on my face. “You didn’t do yourself justice; you -tell the story very well,” I said. - -“Of course I wasn’t quite such an ass as I sounded,” said he. “What I -really meant, but couldn’t exactly have said, was——” - -“I know exactly what it was, Godfrey. But I think it was much cleverer -of you to know you meant it than it is of me to know that you meant -it. You meant that Donna Lucinda Valdez has a personality markedly -different from that possessed by Lady Dundrannan?” - -“I don’t suppose that I did know that I meant it—at that moment.” - -“But you know that you mean it now?” - -“That—and more,” he said. - -“Your idea of seeing whether Arsenio’s system worked seems to have led -you a little further than you contemplated,” I observed. He had chaffed -me that evening, after my dinner at Arsenio’s—or Nina’s—expense; he had -aired his shrewdness. I seemed entitled to give him a dig. - -“Are you surprised?” he asked, after a pause, suddenly, taking not the -least heed of my gibe. - -There were a hundred flippant answers that I might have given him. But -I gave him none of them. His young, strong face wore a dour look—the -look of a man up against something big, determined to tackle it, not -yet seeing how. The animation which had filled him, as he warmed to -his story, had for the moment worked itself out. He looked dull, -heavy, tired. - -“No, I’m not surprised,” I said. “But what’s the use? You know her -story.” - -“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, rather peremptorily. - -“She threw up everything in the world for Arsenio Valdez; she still -blushes like a school-girl when Arsenio backs Number 21. They’re -lovers still, as you yourself said a little while ago. Well, then——! -Besides—there’s Nina. Are you going to—desert?” - -“Nina?” He repeated the name half-absently; perhaps the larger share -of his attention was occupied by the other part of my remarks. “Yes, -Nina, of course!” But, as he dwelt on the thought of Lady Dundrannan -(suddenly, as it seemed, recalled to his mind), his look of depression -disappeared. He smiled in amusement—with an element of wonder in it; -and he spoke as if he were surprising me with a wonderful discovery. - -“I say, Julius, Lucinda positively laughs at Nina, you know!” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -PURPLE—AND FINE LINEN - - -THAT Lucinda had once got the better of Nina had been the thing about -her which most stirred Godfrey’s curiosity; that Lucinda now laughed -at Nina evidently aroused in him an almost incredulous wonder. Perhaps -it was calculated to surprise any one; to a Frost it must have seemed -portentous; for Frosts, father, daughter, and nephew, judged by what -you did and, consequently, had, not by what you were. Judged by -their standards, Lucinda’s laughter was ridiculous, but in Godfrey’s -fascinated eyes also sublime: such a sublime audacity as only a -supremely attractive woman dare and can carry. The needlewoman, the -_midinette_, the showcase girl, laughing at Lady Dundrannan! But there -it was. I think that it shook to its foundations something that was -very deeply set in Godfrey Frost. - -“Well, I suppose Lucinda knew that you were seeing her on the sly,” I -suggested. - -He flushed a little. “I don’t particularly like that way of putting it. -I’m not responsible to Nina for my actions.” - -I shrugged my shoulders. He lit another cigarette, and suddenly resumed -his story. - -“Well, this is what happened. Arsenio didn’t come back; I suppose he -won a bit, or kept his head above water somehow. I stayed in Nice, -seeing a lot of Lucinda, for about another week. I used to go up to -that hotel for lunch or tea, and put in the time somehow till she -knocked off work. Then we had our walk; once or twice she dined with -me, but she was rather difficult about that. She always kept just the -same as she was at the beginning, except that, as I say, she liked to -hear about Nina, and seemed a lot amused at what I told her—Nina’s sort -of managing ways, and—and dignity, and so on. By the way, she asked -about you too sometimes; what you’d been doing since she last heard -from you, and so on. Apparently you used to write to her?” - -“Just occasionally—when I was on my travels. I hope she spoke kindly of -me?” - -“Oh, yes, that was all right,” he assured me carelessly. “Well, then -came her weekly afternoon off; it was on a Friday she had it; she got -off at half-past twelve. I had managed to persuade her to lunch with -me, and I went up to the hotel to fetch her. I was a bit early, and I -walked up and down just outside the hotel gardens, waiting for her. -Nobody was further from my thoughts at that moment than Nina, but just -at a quarter past twelve—I’d looked at my watch the moment before—I -saw a big car come up the road. I recognized it directly. It was -Nina’s.” - -“Rather odd! How did she find out that——?” - -“This is what must have happened, so far as I’ve been able to piece -it together. Those two women—Mrs. Forrester, you know, and Eunice -Unthank—went back to Villa San Carlo with their three hundred francs’ -worth of stuff, and told Nina about Mademoiselle Lucie; described -her, I suppose, as something out of the common; they naturally would, -finding a girl of her appearance, obviously English, and a lady, -doing that job. Nina’s as sharp as a needle, and it’s quite possible -that the description by itself was enough to put her on the scent; -though, for my own part, I’ve always had my doubts whether she didn’t -know more about the Valdez’s than she chose to admit; something in -her manner when I brought the conversation round to them—and I did -sometimes—always gave me that impression. Anyhow, there she was, and -Eunice Unthank with her.” - -“That must have been a week—or nearly—since she’d heard about -Mademoiselle Lucie from the two women. Had you heard anything from her -in the interval?” - -“Yes, I’d had two letters from her, addressed to our works and -forwarded on—I had to leave an address at the works—saying they missed -me at the Villa and asking when I expected to be back; but I hadn’t -answered them. I didn’t exactly know what to say, you see, so I said -nothing. As a matter of fact, I felt bored at the idea of going back; -but I couldn’t have said that, could I?” - -“Certainly not. And so—at last—she had to come?” - -“What do you mean by ‘at last’? And why had she to come?” - -There was in my mind a vivid imagining of what that week had been -to Lady Dundrannan; a week of irresolution and indecision, of pride -struggling against her old jealousy, her old memory of defeat and -shame. To seem to take any interest in the woman was beneath her; yet -her interest in the woman was intense. And if an encounter could seem -quite accidental——? Why shouldn’t it? Just the two women’s report—no -hasty appearance after it—quite a natural thing to motor over to Cimiez -for lunch! And, given that the encounter was quite accidental, it -admitted no interest; it would satisfy curiosity; she had the power of -turning it into a triumph. And Godfrey—her _protégé_, her property—had -been missing a week and had left two letters unanswered. My own talk -with her—just before I came away—returned to my mind. - -“I suppose that Lady Eunice—or Mrs. Forrester—kept on worrying her. Was -that it?” My attempt to explain away the form of my question was not -very convincing. Godfrey disposed of it unceremoniously. - -“If you were really such a damned fool as you’re trying to appear, I -shouldn’t be here talking to you,” he remarked. “There was more in it -than that of course.” - -“Well, tell me what happened. We can discuss it afterwards,” I -suggested. - -“Just what happened? All right—and soon told. Nina saw me walking up -and down, smoking. She smiled what they call brightly; so did Lady -Eunice. One or other of them pulled the string, I suppose; the car -stopped; the chauffeur lay back in his seat in the resigned sort of -way those chaps have when they’re stopped for some silly reason or -other—most reasons do seem to appear silly to them, don’t they? Really -superior chauffeurs, I mean, such as Nina’s bound to have. I took off -my hat and went up to the car. ‘Why, it’s Mr. Frost!’ said Eunice, just -as surprised as you’d have expected her to be.” - -“I certainly acquit Lady Eunice of malice aforethought,” said I. - -“‘And who’d have thought of meeting him here?’ said Nina. You know that -smile of hers?” - -“Have I found thee, O my enemy?” - -“Exactly. I must say that you do know a thing or two about Nina. -‘I thought you were in Nice all the time!’ she went on—oh, quite -pleasantly. ‘We’ll take him in to lunch and make him give an account of -himself, won’t we, Eunice? He’s deserted us disgracefully!’ You never -saw anybody more amiable. And Lady Eunice was awfully cordial too—‘Oh, -yes, you must lunch with us, Mr. Frost, and tell us what you’ve been -doing. We’ve been very dull, haven’t we, Lady Dundrannan?’ The thing -seemed going so well”—here Godfrey gave one of the reflective smiles -which witnessed to the humor that lay in him, though it was deeply -hidden under other and more serviceable qualities—“that the chauffeur, -after a yawn, got down from his seat and opened the door of the car for -me to get in. And I was just going to get in—hypnotized or something, -I suppose—when down the drive from the hotel came Donna Lucinda. -She came along with that free swinging walk of hers, as independent -and unconcerned as you please, in her neat, plain, black frock, and -carrying one of those big, round, shiny black boxes that you see the -_midinettes_ with. Only her stockings looked a shade smarter than -most of them run to. Of course she didn’t know the car by sight as I -did—some people think that yellow too showy, but I like it myself, -provided you’ve got a good car to show it off on—and I suppose I was -hidden, or half hidden by it. At any rate, she came sailing down the -hotel drive all serene. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking -more splendid in all my life!” - -“You’d known her for just about a week.” - -“Well, then, damn it, in all the week that I had known her. I do wish -you wouldn’t interrupt me, Julius!” - -“I don’t interrupt you half as much as you interrupt yourself. I want -to know what happened. What’s the good of gassing about the chauffeur -and the color of the car?” - -“Well, to me that’s all part of the picture—I suppose I can’t make it -for you. The big yellow car—a three thousand wouldn’t nearly cover -it nowadays, you know—and Jefferson, a tall, slim chap, dark; been a -company sergeant-major—oh, damned genteel!—Lady Eunice quite out of the -situation—as she would be—but—what do you call it?—a little patrician -all over—and Nina—at her most stately! Over against all that—and it was -rather overpowering; I can tell you I felt it—the _midinette_ with her -box walking down the drive. That girl—she didn’t look more than a girl, -I swear, though I suppose she’s five-and-twenty——” - -“And who were you going to lunch with?” I interrupted again. I could -not help it. I think that I laughed, shortly and rather harshly. A -ridiculous little _impasse_ it seemed for him. He had told his story -clumsily, but somehow he had brought the scene before my eyes. Memory -helped me, I imagine; it put more into the figure swinging down the -drive, more into her stately ladyship seated in that challenging, -possibly too showy, yellow car. “Which of them did you lunch with?” I -laughed on the question, but I was rather excited. - -He had stopped smoking; he sat in a rather odd attitude—upright, with -his legs so close together that they left only just room for him to -thrust his hands, held together as if he were saying his prayers, -between them just above the knees. - -“After all—was it a matter of so much importance? A lunch!” I mocked. - -He didn’t pay attention to that, and he did not change his position. -“Then Nina saw her. Things are funny. She’d come on purpose to see -her, of course. Still, when she did, her mouth suddenly went stiff—you -know what I mean? She didn’t move, though; it was just her mouth. And -I stood there like a fool—actually with one foot on the ground and one -on the step of the car, I believe; and Jefferson stifling another yawn -beside me! - -“Donna Lucinda came through the gate of the drive and up to where the -car was standing; it was sideways on to the gate; Lady Eunice sat on -the side near the gate, I was on the other side, with Nina between -us. Lucinda seemed to see Eunice first, and to recognize her; she -made a very slight formal little bow—as she would to a customer. The -next second her eyes fell on Nina and on me. She stopped short, just -by the car. Her cheeks flushed a little, and she gave a little low -exclamation—‘Oh!’ or ‘Ah!’—I hardly heard it. Then, ‘It’s Nina!’ That -was hardly louder. I just heard it. Eunice, of course, must have and -Nina; I doubt whether Jefferson could. Then she gave a queer little -laugh—what you’d call a chuckle coming from an ordinary person—as -if she were laughing to herself, inwardly amused, but not expecting -anybody else to share her amusement. She didn’t look a bit put out or -awkward. But the next moment she smiled directly at me—across the other -two—and shook her head—sympathizing with me in my predicament, I think. - -“Nina made her a stately bow. She was very dignified, but a little -flushed too. She looked somehow disturbed and puzzled. It seemed as if -she really were shocked and upset to see Lucinda like that. The next -moment she leant right across Eunice, throwing out her hand towards the -bandbox that Lucinda was carrying. - -“‘Surely there’s no need for you to do that?’ she said, speaking very -low. ‘And—I hope you’re better?’ - -“Lucinda spoke up quite loud. ‘I like it, thank you. There’s every need -for me to earn my living; and I’ve never been better in my life, thank -you.’ - -“Nina turned her head round to the chauffeur. ‘I’ll call you, -Jefferson.’ He touched his hat and strolled off along the road, taking -out a cigarette case. Nina turned back to Lucinda, leaning again -across Lady Eunice, who was sitting back in her seat, looking rather -frightened; I don’t know whether she knew who Lucinda was; I don’t -think so; but it must have been pretty evident to her that there was -thunder in the air. - -“‘How long have you been doing this? Does your husband know you’re -doing it?’ - -“Her questions sounded sharp and peremptory; Lucinda might well have -resented them. - -“‘Of course he knows; he’s known it for three months. It’s just that -I like to be independent.’ She gave a little bow with that, as if she -meant to end the conversation, but before she could walk on—if that -was what she meant to do—Nina flung herself back on the cushions, -exclaiming in a low voice, but passionately, ‘How dare he tell me lies -like that!’ - -“‘What do you mean——?’ Lucinda began. But Nina would not wait for her. -‘Call Jefferson,’ she told me. ‘Are you coming with us, Godfrey?’ - -“I called Jefferson, and then answered her question. ‘Thanks awfully, -but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m engaged to lunch.’ And I shut the door of -the car which Jefferson had left still open. - -“She looked from me to Lucinda, and back again to me. It _was_ a look -that I got, I can tell you! But if you’re going to stand up to Nina, -you must do it thoroughly. I looked her full in the eye; of course -she saw that I meant I was going to lunch with Lucinda. ‘Drive on—to -the hotel, Jefferson,’ she said in that dry voice of hers that means -she’s furiously angry. Off the car went, in at the gates—and I was left -standing on the road opposite Donna Lucinda.” - -Godfrey got up from his seat and walked across to the fireplace; -he appeared to have exhausted his matches, for he searched for a -box there, and found one at last, hidden under a newspaper on the -mantelpiece. - -“So, in the end, you lunched with Lucinda, after all?” I asked. - -“No,” he answered, “I didn’t lunch with Lucinda, as it happened. When I -took a step up to her, she seemed absolutely lost in her own thoughts, -hardly aware of my being there, at least realizing that I was there -with a sort of effort; her eyes didn’t look as if they saw me at all. -‘You must let me off to-day, Mr. Frost,’ she said in a hurried murmur. -‘I—I’ve got something to do—something I must think about.’ Her cheeks -were still rather red; otherwise she was calm enough, but obviously -entirely preoccupied. It would have been silly to press her; I mean, it -would have been an intrusion. ‘All right, of course,’ I said. ‘But when -are we to meet again, Donna Lucinda?’ - -“‘I don’t know. In a few days, I hope. Not till I send you word to the -hotel.’ - -“‘Try to make it Sunday.’ I smiled as I added, ‘Then I shall see you in -the blue frock; that’s the one I like best.’ - -“‘The blue frock!’ she repeated after me. Then she suddenly raised -her free arm—she’d been holding that infernal bandbox all the time, -you know—clenched her fist and gave it a little shake in the air. ‘If -he’s really done that, I’ll have no more to do with him in this world -again!’ she said. And off she went down the road, without another word -to me or a glance back. I believe she’d forgotten my very existence.” - -“Did she turn up on Sunday—in the blue frock?” - -“I’ve never set eyes on her since—nor on Arsenio either. They both -appear to have vanished into space—together or separately, Heaven only -knows! I hunted for Valdez in all the likely places. I tried for her -at the hotel at Cimiez, at her shop, at her lodgings. I’ve drawn blank -everywhere. I got thoroughly sick and out of heart. So I thought I’d -run up here and see what you thought about it.” - -“I don’t know why I should make any mystery about it,” said I. -“Anything that puzzles you will be quite plain in the light of that -letter.” - -I took the letter from Arsenio Valdez, which Nina had given me, out -of my pocket, and flung it down on the table. “Read it—and you’ll -understand why she repeated after you ‘The blue frock!’ That was what -gave her the clew to Nina’s meaning!” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -REBELLION - - -THERE was the situation; for Godfrey was quick enough to see what had -happened as soon as he had read Arsenio’s letter; he finished it, -which was more than I had done, and so found more lies than I had. We -discussed the situation far into the night, Godfrey still doing most of -the talking. He had come to Paris to see me about it, to ask my advice -or to put some question to me; but he had not really got the problem -clear in his mind. On subsidiary points—or, perhaps, one should rather -say, on what seemed such to him—his view was characteristic, and to -me amusing. He thought that most of Nina’s anger was due to the fact -that she had been “done” by Arsenio, that he had got her money for -Lucinda and for himself on false pretenses; whereas Nina was really -furious with Lucinda herself for not having consciously accepted her -charity, and made comparatively little of friend Arsenio’s roguery. -He was much more full of admiration of Lucinda for not minding being -discovered carrying a bandbox—and for laughing at her encounter with -Lady Dundrannan while she was doing it—than of appreciation of her -indignation over the blue frock; he thought she made a great deal too -much of that. “Since she didn’t know, what does it come to?” he asked. -And he wasted no reprobation on Arsenio. He had known Arsenio for a -rogue before—a rogue after his money, and willing to use his wife as -a bait to catch it; that he now knew that Arsenio was more completely -a rogue all round—towards Nina as well as towards him—was merely a -bit of confirmatory evidence; he saw nothing in the fact that Arsenio -had, after all, given Lucinda the blue frock, though he would have -been quite safe—as safe, anyhow—if he had given her nothing. His whole -analysis, so far as it appeared in disjointed observations, of the -other parties to the affair, ran on lines of obvious shrewdness, and -was baffled only where they appeared—as in Lucinda’s case—to diverge -from the lines thus indicated. Lucinda was a puzzle. Why had she hidden -herself from him? She could “have it out” with Valdez, if she wanted -to, without doing that! - -But he was not immensely perturbed at her temporary disappearance; he -could find her, if he wanted to. “It’s only a matter of trouble and -money, like anything else.” And if she were furious with Valdez, no -harm in that! Rather the reverse! Thus he gradually approached his -own position, and the questions which he was putting to himself, and -had found so difficult that he had been impelled to come and talk -them over. These really might be reduced to one, and a very old one, -though also often a very big one; it may be variously conceived and -described as that between prudence and passion, that between morality -and love, that between will and emotion, between the head and the -heart. For purposes of the present case it could be personified as -being between Nina and Lucinda. As a gentleman, if as nothing more, he -had been obliged to own up to his engagement to lunch with Lucinda and -to stand by it. But that act settled nothing ultimately. The welcome -of a returning Prodigal would await him at Villa San Carlo, though -the feast might perhaps be rather too highly peppered with a lofty -forgiveness; he was conscious of that feature in the case, but minded -it less than I should have; Nina’s pupil was accustomed to her rebukes, -and rather hardened against her chastisement. But if arms were open to -him elsewhere—soft and seducing arms—what then? Was he to desert Nina? - -Her and what she stood for? And really, in this situation, she stood -for everything that had, up to now, governed his life. She stood (she -would not have felt at all inadequate to the demand on her qualities) -for prosperity, progress, propriety, and—as a climax—for piety itself. -Godfrey had been religiously brought up (the figure of the white-haired -Wesleyan Minister at Briarmount rose before my eyes) and was not -ashamed to own that the principles thus inculcated had influenced his -doings and were still a living force in him. I respected him for the -avowal; it is not one that men are very ready to make where a woman is -in question; it had been implicit in his reason for knowing nothing of -women, given to me a long time ago—that he had not been able to afford -to marry. - -Piety was the highest impersonation which Nina was called upon to -undertake. Was it the most powerful, the most compelling? There were so -many others, whose images somehow blended into one great and imposing -Figure—Regularity, with her cornucopia of worldly advantages, not -necessarily lost (Godfrey was quite awake to that) by a secret dallying -with her opposite, but thereby rendered insincere—that counted with -him—uneasy, and perpetually precarious. He was a long-headed young -man; he foresaw every chance against his passion—even the chance that, -having first burnt up all he had or hoped for, it would itself become -extinct. Then it was not true passion? I don’t know. It was strong -enough. Lucinda impersonated too; impersonated things that are very -powerful. - -He spoke of her seldom and evasively. In the debate which he carried -on with himself—only occasionally asking for an opinion from -me—he generally indicated her under the description of “the other -thing”—other (it was to be understood) from all that Nina represented. -Taken like that, the description, if colorless, was at least -comprehensive. And it did get Lucinda—bluntly, yet not altogether -wrongly. He saw her as an ideal—the exact opposite of the ideal to -which he had hitherto aspired, the ideal of regularity, wealth, -eminence, reputation, power, thirty per cent., and so on (including, -let us not forget, piety). So seen, she astonished him in herself, -and astonished him more by the lure that she had for him. Only he -distrusted the lure profoundly. In the end he could not understand it -in himself. I do not blame him; I myself was considerably puzzled at -finding it in him. To say that a man is in love is a summary, not an -explanation. Jonathan Frost—old Lord Dundrannan—had been a romantic -in his way; Nina too in hers, when she had sobbed in passion on the -cliffs—or even now, when she cherished disturbing emotions about things -and people whom she might, without loss of comfort or profit, have -serenely disregarded. There was a thread of the romantic meandering -through the more challenging patterns of the family fabric. - -Half a dozen times I was on the point of flying into a rage with -him—when he talked easily of “buying Valdez,” when he assumed Lucinda’s -assent to that not very pretty transaction, when he hinted at the -luxury which would reward that assent, and so on. But the genuineness -of his conflict, of his scruples on the one hand, of his passion -on the other, made anger seem cruel, while the bluntness of his -perception seemed to make it ridiculous. Perhaps on this latter point -I exaggerated a little—asking from him an insight into the situation to -which I was helped by a more intimate knowledge of the past and of the -persons; but at all events he was, as I conceived, radically wrong in -his estimate of the possibilities. At last I was impelled to tell him -so. - -It was very late; in disregard of his “Don’t go yet, I haven’t -finished,” I had actually put on my coat, and taken my hat and stick in -my hand. I stood like that, opposite to where he sat, and expounded my -views to him. I imagine that to a cool spectator I should have looked -rather absurd, for by now I too was somehow wrought up and excited; -he had got me back into my pre-Paris state of mind, the one in which -I had been when I intimated to Nina that I must hunt the Riviera for -Lucinda and find out the truth about her at all costs. The Conference -on Tonnage was routed, driven pell-mell out of my thoughts. - -“You can’t buy Valdez,” I told him, “not in the sense that you mean. -He’ll sell himself, body and soul, for money—to you, or me, or Nina, or -all of us, or anybody else. But he won’t sell Lucinda. He sells himself -for money, but it’s because of her that he must have the money—to -dazzle her, to cut a figure in her eyes, to get her back to him. He -used her to tempt you with, to make you shell out—just as he did, in -another way, with Nina. But he knew he was safe; he knew he’d never -have to deliver what he was pretending to sell. She’s not only the one -woman to him, she’s the one idea in his head, the one stake he always -plays for. He’d sell his soul for her, but he wouldn’t sell her in -return for all you have. You sit here, balancing her against this and -that—now against God, now against Mammon! He doesn’t set either of them -for a moment in the scales against her.” - -If what I said sharpened his perception, it blunted his scruples. The -idea of Valdez’s passion was a spur to his own. - -“Then it’s man against man,” he said in a sullen, dogged voice. “If I -find I can’t buy her, I’ll take her.” - -“You can try. If she lets you, she’s a changed woman. That’s all I can -say. I need hardly add that I shall not offer you my assistance. Why, -hang it, man, if she’s to be got, why shouldn’t I have a shot at her -myself?” - -He gave a short gruff laugh. “I don’t quite associate the idea -with you, but of course you’d be within your rights, as far as I’m -concerned.” - -I laughed too. “There’s fair warning to you, then! And no bad blood, -I hope? Also, perhaps, enough debate on what is, after all, rather -a delicate subject—a lady’s honor—as some scrupulous people might -remind us. By way of apology to the proprieties, I’ll just add that -in my private opinion we should neither of us have the least chance -of success. She may not be Valdez’s any more—as to that I express -no opinion, though I have one—but I don’t believe she’ll be any one -else’s.” - -“What makes you say that?” he grumbled out surlily. - -“She herself makes me say it; she herself and what I know about her. -And, considering your condition, it seems common kindness to tell you -my view, for what it’s worth. Now, my friend, thanks for your dinner, -and—good-night!” - -“Are you staying here—in Paris—much longer?” - -“I shall be for a week—possibly a fortnight—I expect.” - -“Then good-by as well as good-night; I shall go back to-morrow.” - -“To Villa San Carlo?” - -“No, I don’t know where I shall go. It depends.” - -“To where you can test the value of my view, perhaps?” He had now -risen, and I walked across to him, holding out my hand. He took it, -with another gruff laugh. - -“This sort of thing plays hell with a man; but there’s no need for us -to quarrel, Julius?” - -“Not at present, at all events. And it looks as if you had a big enough -quarrel on your hands already.” - -“Nina? Yes.” It was on that name, and not on the other, that at last we -parted. And I suppose that he did “go back” the next day; for I saw him -no more during the rest of my stay in Paris. - -But a week later—our “labors” being “protracted” to that extent and -longer—I had an encounter that gave me indirect news of him, as well as -direct news of other members of the Rillington-cum-Dundrannan family. -To my surprise, I met my cousin Waldo in the Rue de la Paix. Nina and -he—and Eunice—were on their way home. In the first place, Sir Paget -had written that Aunt Bertha was seedy and moping, and wondering when -they would be back. In the second, Nina had got restless and tired of -Mentone, while he himself was so much better that there was no longer -any reason to stay there on his account. - -“In fact, we got a bit bored with ourselves,” Waldo confessed as he -took my arm and we walked along together, “after we lost you two -fellows. Dull for the ladies. Oh, I know you couldn’t help yourself, -old fellow; this job here was too big to miss. But we lost Godfrey -too.” His voice fell to a confidential pitch, and he smiled slyly as -he pressed my arm. “Well, you know, dear Nina is given to making her -plans, bless her! And she’s none too pleased when they don’t come -off, is she? I rather fancy that she had a little plan on at the -Villa—Eunice Unthank, you know—and a nice girl she is—and that Godfrey -didn’t feel like coming up to the scratch. So he tactfully had business -at the works that kept him away from the Villa. Do you see what I mean?” - -“Well, I suppose he was better away if he didn’t mean to play up. If -he’d stayed, it might have put ideas in the girl’s head that——” - -“Exactly, old chap. Though we were awfully sorry he went, still that -was the view Nina took about it. I think she was right.” - -Facts had supplied a sufficient explanation of my disappearance from -Villa San Carlo; here plainly was the official version of Godfrey’s. -In order to cover a great defeat, Lady Dundrannan, with her usual -admirable tactics, acknowledged a minor one. It was a quite sufficient -explanation to offer to unsuspecting Waldo; and it was certainly true, -so far as it went; the Eunice-Godfrey project had miscarried. - -“I liked the girl and I’m sorry,” said Waldo. “But there’s lots of -time, and of course, the world being what it is, he can always make a -good marriage.” He laughed gently. “But I suppose women always like to -manage a man’s future for him, if they can, don’t they?” - -His ignorance of the great defeat was evidently entire; his wife -had looked after that. But it was interesting to observe that—as a -concomitant, perhaps, of his returning physical vigor—his mind gave -hints of a new independence. He had not ceased to love and admire his -wife—there was no reason why he ever should—but his smile at her foible -was something new—since his marriage, I mean. The limit thus indicated -to his Dundrannanization was welcome to me, a Rillington. What the -smile pointed to was, the next moment, confirmed by the sigh with -which he added, pursuing what was to him apparently the same train of -thought, “Nina’s against our living at Cragsfoot when I succeed.” - -“Well, if you will marry thumping heiresses, with half a dozen palaces -of their own——” - -“Yes, I know, old man. Still—well, I can’t expect her to share my -feeling about it, can I?” He smiled again, this time rather ruefully. -“In fact, she’s pressing me to settle the matter now.” - -“What do you mean? Sir Paget’s still alive! Is she asking for a -promise, or what?” - -“She wants me to sell my remainder—subject to my father’s -life-interest. Nina likes things definitely settled, you see. She -doesn’t like Cragsfoot.” To my considerable surprise, he accompanied -these last words with a very definite wink. A smile, a sigh, a -wink—yes, Waldo was recovering some independence of thought, if not of -action. But in this affair it was his action that mattered, not his -thoughts. Still, the fact remained that his wink was an unmistakable -reference to the past—to Lucinda. - -“Sir Paget wouldn’t like it, would he?” I suggested. - -“No, I’m afraid not—not the idea of it, at first. But a man is told -to cleave to his wife. After all, if I have a son to inherit it, he -wouldn’t be Rillington of Cragsfoot, he’d be Dundrannan.” - -“Of course he would. I’d forgotten. But does it make much difference?” - -“And amongst all the rest of it, Cragsfoot wouldn’t be much more than -an appendage. I love Nina, Julius, but I wish sometimes that she wasn’t -quite so damned rich! Don’t think for an instant that she ever rams it -down my throat. She never would.” - -“My dear chap, I know her. I’m sure she’d be incapable of——” - -“But there the fact is. And it creates—well, a certain situation. I -say, I’m not keeping you? My ladies are shopping, and I’ve an hour off, -but if you——” - -“I’ve time to hear anything you want to say. And you’re not tired?” - -“Strong as a horse now. I enjoy walking. Look here, old chap. Of -course, there are lots of these ‘new rich,’ as the papers call them, -who’d pay a long price for Cragsfoot, but——” - -“Thinking of anybody in particular?” I put in. - -“Never mind!” He laughed—almost one of his old hearty laughs. “Well, -yes. Have you ever had any reason——? I mean, it’s funny you should ask -that.” - -“Something a certain friend of ours once let fall set me thinking.” - -“Well, if that idea took shape, if Nina wanted it——” - -Perhaps in the end she wouldn’t! I was thinking that possibly the -course of events might cause Lady Dundrannan not to wish to see her -cousin—and his establishment—at Cragsfoot. - -“If she did—and he did,” Waldo went on, “well, I should be in a tight -corner. Because, of course, he could outbid practically everybody, if -he chose—and what reason for objecting could I give?” - -“You seem to have something in your mind. You’re looking—for you—quite -crafty! Out with it!” - -“Well, supposing I’d promised that, if I sold, I’d give you first -offer?” - -Waldo had delivered himself of his idea—and it seemed nothing less -than a proposal to put a spoke in the wheel of his wife’s plans as he -conceived them! Decidedly rebellion was abroad—open and covert! It -worked mightily in Godfrey; it was working even in Waldo. - -“I don’t like your selling,” I said. “You’re the chief—I’m a cadet. But -if you’re forced—I beg your pardon, Waldo! If you decide”—he pressed my -arm again, smiling at my correction, but saying nothing—“to go, there’s -nothing I should like so much as to settle down there myself. But I -can’t outbid——” - -“A man doesn’t ask his own kinsman more than a fair price, when the -deal’s part of a family arrangement,” said Waldo. “May I speak to my -father, and write you a proposal about it? And we’ll let the matter -stand where it does till we know what he thinks and till you’ve had an -opportunity of considering.” - -“All right,” said I, and we walked on a little way in silence. Then I -felt again the slight pressure on my arm. “Well, here’s where we’re -staying. I promised to meet them at tea. Will you come in?” - -I shook my head, murmuring something about business. He did not press -the point. “We’re off again early to-morrow, and dining with some -friends of Eunice’s to-night. See you again soon at Cragsfoot—we’re -going to Briarmount. Good-by!” - -But that was not quite his last word. He gave my arm a final squeeze; -and he smiled again and again a little ruefully. “I rather think that, -in his heart, the old pater would prefer what I’ve suggested even to -our—to any other arrangement, Julius.” - -It was quite as much as it was diplomatic to say about his father’s -feelings on that point. Like the one which had been discussed by -Godfrey and myself, it might be considered delicate. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -THE WINNING TICKET - - -THEN came the astonishing turn of fortune’s wheel—that is almost fact, -scarcely metaphor—which seemed to transform the whole situation. It -came to my knowledge on the very day on which those protracted labors -of ours reached a conclusion at last. - -We had had a long and tedious final session—for this time there was -not only business to wind up, but compliments to be exchanged too—and -I came out of it at half-past six in the evening so exhausted that I -turned into the nearest _café_ at which I was known, and procured a -whisky-and-soda. With it the waiter brought me a copy of _Le Soir_, -and, as I sipped my “refresher” and smoked a cigar, I glanced through -it, hoping (to be candid) to find some complimentary notice of the -achievements of my Conference. I did not find that—perhaps it was too -soon to expect it—but I did find something which interested me a great -deal more. Among the miscellaneous items of “intelligence” I read the -following: - - “The first prize in yesterday’s draw of the Reparation Lottery Loan - has been won by M. Arsenio Valdez of Nice. The amount of the prize is - three million francs. The number of the winning ticket was two hundred - and twelve thousand, one hundred and twenty-one. We understand that - the fortunate winner purchased it for a trifling sum from a chance - acquaintance at Monte Carlo.” - -I re-read the winning number; indeed, I took my pencil out of my pocket -and wrote it down—in figures—on the margin of the newspaper. I believe -that I said softly, “Well, I’m damned!” The astonishing creature had -brought it off at last, and brought it off to some tune. Three million -francs! Pretty good—for anybody except the Frosts of this world, of -course! - -Aye, Arsenio would buy that ticket from a chance acquaintance (probably -one of the same kidney as himself) if he had the coin, or could -beg, borrow, or steal it! Number 212, 121! There it was three times -over—21—21—21. He would have seemed to himself absolutely mad if he -had let that ticket escape him, when chance threw it in his way. It -was, indeed, as though Fortune said, “I have teased you long enough, -O faithful votary, but I give myself to you at last!” And she had—she -actually had. Arsenio’s long quest was accomplished. - -What would he do with it, I pondered, as I puffed and sipped. I saw him -resplendent again as he had been on that never forgotten Twenty-first, -and smiling in monkeyish triumph over all of us who had mocked him -for a fool. I even saw him paying back Nina and Godfrey Frost, -though possibly this was a detail which might be omitted, as being a -distasteful reminder of his days of poverty. I saw him dazzling Lucinda -with something picturesquely extravagant, a pearl necklace or a carpet -of banknotes—what you will in that line. I heard him saying to her, -“Number twenty-one! Always twenty-one. _Your_ number, Lucinda!” And I -saw her flushing like a girl just out of the schoolroom, as Godfrey had -seen her flush at Nice. - -Ah, Godfrey Frost! This event was—to put the thing vulgarly—one in -the eye for him, wasn’t it? He had lost his pull; his lever failed -him. He could no longer pose, either to himself or to anybody else, as -the chivalrous reliever of distress, the indignant friend to starving -beauty. And Nina’s gracious, though sadly unappreciated, bounty to a -fallen rival—that went by the board too. - -These things were to the good; but at the back of my mind there lurked -a discontent, even a revolt. Godfrey had proposed to buy Valdez; to buy -Lucinda from Valdez, he had meant. Now Arsenio himself would buy her -with his winning ticket, coating the transaction with such veneer of -romance as might still lie in magic Twenty-one, thrice repeated. One -could trust him to make the most of that, skillfully to eke it out to -cover the surface as completely as possible. Would it be enough? His -hope lay in what that flush represented, the memories it meant, that -feeling in her which she herself, long ago, had declared to be hers -because she was a primitive woman. - -I did not, I fear, pay much attention to the speeches—though I made -one of them—at the farewell dinner of our Conference that night; and -next day, my first free day, was still filled with the thought of -Arsenio and his three million francs; my mind, vacant now of pressing -preoccupations, fell a prey to recollections, fancies, images. A -restlessness took possession of me; I could not stay in Paris. I was -entitled to a holiday; where should I pass it? I did not want to go -to Cragsfoot; I had had enough of the Riviera. (There was possibly a -common element, ungallant towards a certain lady and therefore not -explicitly confessed to myself, in my reluctance to turn my steps in -either of those directions.) Where should I go? Something within me -answered—Venice! - -Why not? Always a pleasant place for a holiday in times of peace; and -one read that “peace conditions” were returning; the pictures, and -so on, were returning too, or being dug up, or taken out of their -sandbags. And the place was reported to be quite gay. Decidedly my -holiday should be passed at Venice. - -Quite so! And a sporting gamble on my knowledge of Arsenio, of his -picturesque instinct, his eye for a situation! As a minor attraction, -there were the needy aristocrats, his father’s old set, whom he -had been wont to “touch” in days of adversity; it would be fine to -flaunt his money in their eyes; they would not sniff, Frost-like, at -three million francs. Here I felt even confident that he would speak -gracefully of repayment, though with care not to wound Castilian pride -by pressing the suggestion unduly. But the great thing would be the -association, the memory, the two floors at the top of the _palazzo_. -Surely she would go there with him if she would go anywhere? Surely -there, if anywhere, she would come back to him? That, beyond all -others, was the place to offer the pearl necklace, to spread the carpet -of bank notes. If the two were to be found anywhere in the world -together, it would be at Venice, at the _palazzo_. - -So to Venice I went—on an errand never defined to myself, urged by -an impulse, a curiosity, a longing, to which many things in the past -united to give force, which the present position sharpened. “I must -know; I must see for myself.” That feeling, which had made me unable to -rest at Villa San Carlo, now drove me to Venice. Putting money in my -pocket and giving my Paris bankers the name of my hotel, I set out, on -a road the end of which I could not see, but which I was determined to -tread, if I could, and to explore. - -In spite of my “facilities”—I had them again, and certainly this time -Lady Dundrannan, if she knew my errand, would not have offered to -secure them—my journey was slow, and interrupted at one point by a -railway strike. When I arrived at my hotel on the Grand Canal—Arsenio’s -_palazzo_ was just round the corner by water, to be reached by land -through a short but tortuous network of alleys with a little high -stone bridge to finish up the approach to its back door—a telegram had -been waiting forty-eight hours for me, forwarded from Cragsfoot by way -of Paris. In it Waldo told me of Aunt Bertha’s death; influenza had -swooped down on the weakened old body, and after three days’ illness -made an end. It was hopeless to think of getting back in time for the -funeral; I could have done it from Paris; I could not from Venice. I -despatched the proper reply, and went out to the Piazza. My mind was -for the moment switched off from what I had come about; but I thought -more about Sir Paget than about poor old Aunt Bertha herself. He would -be very lonely. Would Briarmount allay his loneliness? - -It was about eleven o’clock on a bright sunny morning. They were -clearing away the protective structures that had been erected round the -buildings—St. Mark’s, the Ducal Palace, the new Campanile. I sat in a -chair outside Florian’s and watched. There on that fine morning the war -seemed somehow just a bad dream—or, rather, a play that had been played -and was finished; a tragedy on which the curtain had fallen. See, -they were clearing away the properties, and turning to real ordinary -life again. So, for a space, it seemed to a man seduced by beauty into -forgetfulness. - -They came and went, men, women and children, all on their business and -their recreations; there were soldiers too in abundance, some draggled, -dirty, almost in rags, some tidy, trim and new, but all with a subtle -air of something finished, a job done, comparative liberty at least -secured; even the prisoners—several gangs of them were marched by—had -that same air of release about them. Hawkers plied their wares—women -mostly, a few old men and young boys; baskets were thrust under my -nose; I motioned them away impatiently. I had traveled all night, and -uncomfortably, with little sleep. Here was peace; I wanted peace; I was -drowsy. - -Thus, half as though in a dream, half as if it were an answer to what -my mood demanded,—beauty back into the world, that was it—she came -across the Piazza towards the place where I sat. Others sat there -too—a row of them on my left hand; I had taken a chair rather apart, -at the end of the row. She wore the little black frock—the one she had -worn at Ste. Maxime, the one Godfrey had seen her in at Cimiez, or the -fellow of it. On her left arm hung an open basket; it was full of fine -needlework. I saw her take out the pieces, unfold them, wave them in -the air. She found customers; distant echoes of chaff and chaffering -reached my ears. From chair to chair she passed, coming nearer to me -always. - -I had upon me at this moment no surprise at seeing her, no wonder why -she, wife of the now opulent Don Arsenio Valdez, was hawking fine -needlework on the Piazza. The speculation as to the state of affairs, -with which my mind had been so insatiably busy, did not now occupy it. -I was just boyishly wrapped up in the anticipation of the joke that -was going to happen—that must happen unless—horrible thought!—she sold -out all her stock before she got to me. But no! She smiled and joked, -but she stood out for her price. The basket would hold out—surely -it would!—As she came near, I turned my head away—absorbed in the -contemplation of St. Mark’s—just of St. Mark’s! - -I felt her by me before she spoke. Then I heard, “Julius!” and a little -gurgle of laughter. I turned my head with an answering laugh; her eyes -were looking down at my face with their old misty wonder. - -“You here! I can’t sit down by you here. I’ll walk across the -Piazzetta, along to the quay. Follow me in a minute. Don’t lose sight -of me!” - -“I don’t propose to do that,” I whispered back, as she swung away from -me. I paid my account, and followed her some fifty yards behind. I did -not overtake her till we were at the Danieli Hotel. “Where shall we go -to talk?” I asked. - -“Once or twice I’ve done good business on the Lido. There’s a boat -just going to start. Shall we go on board, Julius?” - -I agreed eagerly and followed her on to the little boat. She set me -down in the bows, went off with her basket, and presently came back -without it. “I’ve left it with the captain,” she explained; “he knows -me already, and will take care of it for me. No more work to-day, -since you’ve come! And you must give me lunch, as you used to at Ste. -Maxime. Somewhere very humble, because I’m in my working clothes.” She -indicated the black frock, and the black shawl which she wore over her -fair hair, after the fashion of the Venetian girls; I was myself in -an uncommonly shabby suit of pre-war tweeds; we matched well enough -so far as gentility was concerned. I studied her face. It had grown -older, rather sharper in outline, though not lined or worn. And it -still preserved its serenity; she still seemed to look out on this -troublesome world, with all its experiences and vicissitudes, from -somewhere else, from an inner sanctum in which she dwelt and from which -no one could wholly draw her forth. - -“How long have you been here?” I asked her, as the little steamboat -sped on its short passage across to the Lido. - -“Oh, about a fortnight or three weeks. I like it, and I got work at -once. I’d rather sew than sell, but they sew so well here! And they -tell me I sell so well. So selling it mainly is!” - -“Then you came before the—the result of the lottery?” - -“Oh, you’ve heard about the lottery, have you? From Arsenio, or——?” - -“No. I just saw it in the papers.” - -The mention of the lottery seemed to afford her fresh amusement, but -she said nothing more about it at the moment. “You see, I wanted to -come away from the Riviera—never mind why!” - -“I believe I know why!” - -“How can you? If you’ve not heard from Arsenio!” - -“I’ve been in Paris—and there I saw Godfrey Frost.” - -“Oh!” The exclamation was long drawn out; it seemed to recognize that -my having seen Godfrey Frost might explain a good deal of knowledge on -my part. But she went on with her explanation. “Since the air raids -have stopped, Arsenio has managed to let one floor of the _palazzo_—the -_piano nóbile_; and I suggested to him that I might come and live -on the top floor. I’d saved enough money for the journey, and I pay -Arsenio rent. I’m entirely independent.” - -“As you were at Ste. Maxime—and at Nice—or Cimiez?” - -“I believe you do know all about it!” - -“Shall I mention a certain blue frock?” - -She flushed—for her, quite brightly—and slowly nodded her head. Then -she sat silent till we reached the Lido, and had disembarked. Now she -seemed unwilling to talk more of her affairs; she preferred to question -me on mine. I told her of Aunt Bertha’s death. - -“Ah, she liked me once. Poor Sir Paget!” was her only comment. “I think -he likes you still,” I suggested. She shook her head doubtfully, and -insisted on hearing about what I had been doing in Paris. - -It was not till after we had lunched and were sitting drinking our -coffee—just as in old days at Ste. Maxime—that I brought her back to -her own affairs—to the present position. - -“And you’re alone here—on the top floor of the _palazzo_?” I asked. - -“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “Alone—alone on the top floor. I came -here alone; we had had a quarrel over—over what we’ll call the blue -frock. Arsenio promised not to follow me here unless I gave him -leave—which I told him I never should do. ‘Oh, yes, you will some day,’ -he said; but he gave me the promise. Oh, well, a promise from him! -What is it? Of course he’s broken it. He arrived here the day before -yesterday. He’s now at the _palazzo_—on the floor below mine. It’s just -like Arsenio, isn’t it?” - -She spoke of him with a sharper bitterness than she had ever shown at -Ste. Maxime, though the old amusement at him was not entirely obscured -by it. Her tone made me—in spite of everything—feel rather sorry for -him. The dream of his life—was it to come only half true? Was the half -that had come true to have no power to bring the other half with it? -However little one might wish him success, or he deserve it, one pang -of pity for him was inevitable. - -“Well, perhaps he had some excuse,” I suggested. “He was -naturally—well, elated. That wonderful piece of luck, you know!” - -“Oh, that!” she murmured contemptuously—really as if winning three -million francs, on a million to one chance or something like it, -was nothing at all to make a fuss about! And that to a man who had -spent years of his life, and certainly sacrificed any decency and -self-respect that he possessed, in an apparently insane effort to do it. - -Her profile was turned to me now; she was looking over the sands -towards the Adriatic. I watched her face as I went. “And he won on his -favorite number! On twenty-one, three times repeated! That must have -seemed to him——” There was no sign of emotion on her face. “Well, he -called it your number, didn’t he?” - -She knew what I meant, and she turned to me. But now she did not flush -like a girl just out of the schoolroom. There was no change of color, -no softening of her face such as the flush must have brought with it. - -“You’re speaking of a dead thing,” she told me in a low calm voice. -“Of a thing that is at last quite dead.” - -“It died hard, Lucinda.” - -“Yes, it lived through a great deal; it lived long enough—obstinately -enough—to do sore wrong to—to other people,—better people than either -Arsenio or me; long enough to make me do bad things—and suffer them. -But now it’s dead. He’s killed it at last.” - -At the moment I found nothing to say. Of course I was glad—no use in -denying that. Yet it was grievous in its way. The thing was dead—the -thing that so long, through so much, had bound her to Arsenio Valdez. -The thing which had begun with the kiss in the garden at Cragsfoot, -years ago, was finished. - -“He put me to utter shame; he made me eat dirt,” she whispered with -a sudden note of passion in her voice. She laid her arm on mine, and -rose from her chair. “It spoils my meeting with you to think of it. -Come back; I can do some work before it’s dark, and you can go and -see him—he’ll be at the _palazzo_. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be -friends with him still.” - -“I don’t quite know about that,” I observed cautiously. - -“I’m willing enough to be friendly with him, for that matter. But -that’s—that’s not enough. Come along, we shall just about catch a boat, -I think.” - -We began to walk along to the quay where we were to embark. - -“So he says he’s going to kill himself!” Lucinda added with a scornful -laugh. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -VIEWS AND WHIMS - - -SUCH, then, was Lucinda’s state of mind with regard to the matter. -Her encounter with Nina at Cimiez had opened her eyes; after that, no -evasions or lies from Arsenio could avail to blind her. The keys of -the fort had been sold behind her back. The one thing that she had -preserved and cherished out of the wreck of her fortunes, out of the -sordid tragedy of her relations with her husband, had been filched from -her; her proud and fastidious independence had been bartered; Arsenio -had sold it; Nina Dundrannan had bought it. It was in effect that -wearing of Nina’s cast-off frocks which, long ago at Ste. Maxime, she -had pictured, with a smile, as an inconceivable emblem of humiliation. -Arsenio had brought her to it, tricked her into it by his “presents” -out of his “winnings.” - -A point of sentiment? Precisely—and entirely; of a sentiment rooted -deep in the nature of the two women, and deep in the history of their -lives, in the rivalry and clash that there had been between them and -between their destinies. The affair of the blue frock (to sum up the -offense under that nickname—there had probably been other “presents”) -might be regarded as merely the climax of the indignities which Arsenio -had brought upon her—the proverbial last straw. To her it was different -in kind from all the rest. In her _midinette’s_ frock, in her Venetian -shawl, she could make or sell her needlework contentedly; if on that -score Nina felt exultation and dealt out scorn, Nina was wrong; nay, -Nina was vulgar, and therefore a proper object for the laughter which -had amazed and impressed Godfrey Frost. But she had been made Nina’s -dependent, the object of her triumphant contemptuous bounty. That was -iron entering her soul, a sharp point piercing to the very heart of -it. This deadly stroke at her pride was fatal also to the last of her -tenderness for Arsenio. The old tie between them—once so strong, so -imperious, surviving so much—was finally broken. She was willing to be -friendly—if friendliness can co-exist with undisguised resentment, with -a sense of outrage bitter as death itself. But, in truth, how could it? - -That same afternoon I made my way to the _palazzo_, rather a gloomy, -ruinous-looking old building, on a narrow side canal, facing across it -on to the heavy blank bulk of a convent. This, then, was the scene of -“Venice,” of the old romance. To this they had come back—not indeed -quite in the manner that I had imagined their return in my musings -at Paris, but still, I could not doubt, on his part at least with -something of the idea and the impulse which my fancy had attributed to -him. How was he now finding—and facing—the situation as it stood? - -I climbed up the stone staircase—past the _piano nóbile_, now let, as -I had learnt, past another apartment _al secondo_—to the third floor. -There I knocked. The door was opened by a small wizened man, dressed in -seedy black. He looked like a waiter or a valet, run to seed. I asked -for Valdez. Yes, Monsieur was in, and would no doubt see Monsieur. -He himself was Monsieur Valdez’s servant—might he take my hat and -stick? He talked while he did it; he had come with Monsieur from the -Riviera—from Nice; he had been—er—in the same business establishment -with Monsieur at Nice before—before Monsieur’s great _coup_. In -fact—here he smiled proudly and detained me in the passage, laying -one grimy finger on my arm—Monsieur considered him a mascot; it was -from him that Monsieur had purchased ticket 212,121. Imagine that! “A -pity you didn’t keep it!” said I. He just shrugged his shoulders, a -weary smile acquiescing in that bit of bad luck. “However, Monsieur -is very good to me,” he ended as he—at last—opened an inner door. -Apparently Monsieur’s wonderful luck gave him a sort of divinity in a -fellow-gambler’s eyes. - -I found myself in a long narrow room, with three windows facing on the -canal and the convent. The furniture was sparse, and looked old and -rickety, but it had the remains of elegance; only a small rug or two -mitigated the severity of the stone floor; one could see by dirty marks -where pictures had once hung on the walls, but they hung there no more; -altogether a depressing apartment. - -Arsenio Valdez was sitting at a big bureau between two of the windows, -with his back towards the door. He turned round a dreary-looking face -as he heard my entrance. But the moment he saw who I was, he sprang -up and greeted me warmly, with evident pleasure. He even held my hand -while I accounted for my presence as best I could. I had a holiday, I -thought that perhaps the change in his fortunes would bring him back to -Venice, and I couldn’t resist the chance of congratulating him. I tried -to make a joke of the whole business, and ended by squeezing his hand -and felicitating him anew on his magnificent luck. “It took my breath -away when I read it in the papers,” I said. - -“Oh, but I knew, I knew!” he declared, as he led me to where a couple -of armchairs were placed by a small table in the third window, and -made me sit down. “It was a question of time, only of time. If I could -keep afloat, it was bound to come! That was what nobody would believe. -People are so queer! And when Louis, that poor little chap who showed -you in, offered me the ticket—he worked at that little den in Nice—when -he offered me that ticket—well, it was growing dark, and I had to spell -out the figures one by one—two one, two one, two one! You see! There -it was. I was as certain as if I had the prize in my pocket. Hard luck -on him? No—he’d never have won with it—though the little fool may think -he would. That number would never have won except for me. It was my -number—and again my number—and once again!” - -He poured this out in a torrent of excited triumph, every bit of -him from top to toe full of movement and animation. It was a great -vindication of himself, of his faith, that he was putting before the -skeptic’s eyes. He stood justified by it in all that he had done and -suffered, in all that he had asked others to do and to endure. He was -more than justified. It was a glorification of him, Arsenio Valdez, -who had never doubted or faltered, who had pursued Fortune for years, -unwearied, undaunted. He had caught her by the mantle at last. _Voilà!_ -He ended with a last tumultuous waving of both his hands. - -“Well, you’re entitled to your crow, old chap,” I said, “even if it -doesn’t alter the fact that you were a damned fool.” - -“Ah, you never had any poetry, romance, imagination in you!” he -retorted, now with his old mocking smile. “You haven’t got it, you -Rillingtons—neither you, nor yet Waldo. That was why I——” He stopped, -looking monkeyish. - -“Why Twenty-one became your lucky number? Exactly; I remember the day -very well myself. By the way, I ought to tell you that I’ve already -seen Lucinda.” - -He listened to a brief account of our meeting and excursion in silence, -seeming to watch my face keenly. “You and she have always been very -good friends,” he remarked thoughtfully at the end. He seemed to be -considering—perhaps whether to take me into his confidence, to consult -me. I did not, of course, feel entitled—or inclined!—to tell him of the -confidences that Lucinda had reposed in me. - -“Meanwhile,” I observed, “beyond acquiring a manservant——” - -“Louis? Oh, well, I should have been a fool not to keep him about me, -shouldn’t I?” - -“Yes! Didn’t Roman Generals at their triumphs carry a slave along, -whose business it was to remind them that they were mortal? If you look -at the unfortunate Louis from that point of view——” - -“That fellow will bring me luck again,” he asserted positively and -seriously. - -“Rot! What I was going to say was that you don’t seem to have launched -out much on the strength of your three millions.” I cast a glance round -the faded room. - -He jerked his head towards the big bureau at which I had found him -seated. “The money’s all in there. I haven’t touched a penny of it. I -shan’t—just yet.” Again he was watching me; he was, I think, wondering -how much Lucinda had said to me. “I’ve got a tenant for the first -floor, and get along on the rent of that. And Lucinda——” He gave what -may be called an experimental smile, a silent “feeler”——“Well, she -persists in her whim, as you’ve seen. Whatever may be said of it down -at Nice, it’s purely a whim now, isn’t it?” - -“Whims are powerful things with women,” I remarked. And platitudes are -often useful conversational refuges. - -He sat frowning for a minute, with the weary baffled air that his face -had worn before he caught sight of me. “Perhaps you don’t care for such -a short let, but, if it suits you, I’ll take the second floor for a -month certain,” I continued. - -In an instant his face lit up. “You, Julius! Why, that’s splendid! -You’ll have to rough it a bit; but Louis will look after you. He’s -really very good. Will you actually do it?” - -“Of course I will—and glad to get it.” - -“Well now, that is good!” - -I knew that he was friendly towards me, but this seemed an excess of -pleasure. Besides, his face, lately so weary and dreary, had assumed -now the monkey smile which I knew so well—the smile it wore when he -was “doing” somebody, getting the better of somebody by one of his -tricks. But whom could he be doing now? Me? Lucinda? We two seemed the -only possible victims. That we were victims—that we fitted into his -plan—appeared clear, later on. But it was a mistake to suppose that we -only were concerned. His next words enlightened me as to that. - -“I should be most delighted to have you for a neighbor, under my -roof, in any case. I’m sure you know that. Oh, yes, I’m grateful to -you. You might have cut me! I know it. But you’ve taken a broad view. -You’ve allowed for the heart—though not for the imagination, for the -certainties that lie beyond probability. Besides all that—which I feel -deeply—by taking that floor you relieve me of a little difficulty.” - -“I’m glad to hear it. How’s that?” - -“Since I came here, I have naturally paid some visits among my old -friends. You smile! Oh, yes, I’m human enough to like congratulations. -Some of them are people of rank, as you know—you used to chaff me -about my grandees! Their names appear in the papers—those society -paragraphs—the Paris editions of American papers—Oh, my Lord! My name -appeared—an item—‘Don Arsenio Valdez has returned to Palazzo Valdez!” -He rose, went to the big bureau, and came back with a telegram. -“Received to-day,” he added, as he put it into my hands. - -I read it, looked across at him, and laughed. It was what I had -expected; the only surprise was that Godfrey had taken rather long to -track them. Scruples still obstinate, perhaps! - -“So he wants to take an apartment in your _palazzo_, does he?” - -“I’ve been under some obligations to him; it would be difficult to -refuse. We’re good friends, but—I didn’t want him here. It wouldn’t -be—convenient.” Now he was looking furtive and rather embarrassed, as -if he were uncertain how much truth and how much lie he had better -administer to me. - -“I saw him in Paris,” I remarked, “the other day, and from what he said -it seemed that he’d made very good friends both with you and with your -wife.” - -He smiled; having no such shame as ordinary mortals have, he accepted -exposure easily. He relapsed into the truth quite gracefully. “I don’t -know how the devil Lucinda feels about him,” he confessed. “I wish he -wouldn’t come at all, but I can’t help that. At all events he needn’t -be in the house with us now!” - -“Have you any reason to suppose she doesn’t like him?” I asked. - -His restlessness returned, and with it his dreary look. He got up and -began to wander about the long room, fingering furniture and ornaments, -then drifting back to me at the window, and the next moment away again. -Suddenly, from the other end of the room, he came out with, “What have -they told between them? Godfrey at Paris, and Lucinda here to-day?” - -“Well, pretty nearly everything, I fancy. If you mean the money and -Nina Dundrannan, and so forth. He described that meeting at Cimiez, -for example.” - -“Yes, they’ve told you everything—everything that matters. Well, what -do you think?” - -“If we’re to be friends, I’d sooner not offer an opinion.” - -He flashed out at me. “There’s your code—your damned code! Didn’t -I learn it in England? Didn’t I have it literally drubbed into -me—thrashed into me—at school? And you keep it even when you love a -woman!” - -“H’m! Not always in that case, I’m afraid, Arsenio.” - -“If you ever do love a woman,” he went on contemptuously. “For my part, -I don’t believe any of you know how!” He came to a stand before me. -“Why didn’t Waldo come after me and shoot me through the head?” - -“There was the greatest difficulty in stopping him, I honestly assure -you. But the war came, you know, and it was his duty——” - -“His duty! Oh, my Lord, his duty!” He positively groaned at the point -of view. “I give you my word, if he had come after me, I would have -never returned his fire. I would have bared my breast—so!” A rapid -motion of his hands made as though to tear the clothes from his chest; -it was a very dramatic gesture. “But when he didn’t come—pooh!” - -“He was fighting for his country,” I suggested mildly. - -“And even you might have taken up the quarrel with great propriety,” he -said gravely. - -“I apologize for not having shot you. Try not to be such an ass, -Arsenio.” - -“You and he can sit down under such an affront as I put on you and your -family, and shelter yourselves under duty. Duty! But up go your noses -and down go your lips when I, adoring the adorable, milk a couple of -vulgar millionaires of a few pounds to make her happy, splendid, rich -as she ought to be. Yes, yes, about that you—offer no opinion! And -these people—my dupes, eh?” - -“The word’s rather theatrical—as you’re being, Arsenio. But let it -pass.” - -“Oh, yes, theatrical! I know! If a man doesn’t love just like, and -no more than, a bull, in England, he’s theatrical. Well, what about -my dupes? The woman with her moneybags, meanly revengeful—Ah, you -give her up to me! You haven’t a word to say, friend Julius! And the -young man? Let us forgive the good God for creating the young man! He -would buy my wife! Ah, would he? And buy her cheap! All I’ve had of -him would perhaps buy her a fur coat! For the rest, he relied on his -fascinations. Cheaper than cash! I would have cashed a million pounds -and flung them at her feet!” - -“But that’s just as vulgar,” I protested, rather weakly. I was a little -carried away by Arsenio’s eloquence; it was at least a point of view -which I had not sufficiently considered. - -“Not from him! It would be giving what he loves best!” He laughed in a -bitter triumph, then suddenly flung himself down into his chair again. -“I had ten louis left—five of hers, five of his. With hers I bought the -ticket; on his I starved till the draw came. Am I not revenged on the -woman who would humiliate my wife, on the man who would buy the honor -of Donna Lucinda Valdez?” - -“It’s about the oddest kind of revenge I ever heard of,” was all I -found to say. “You’ll complete it, I suppose, by dazzling Godfrey, when -he arrives, with the spectacle of Luanda’s virtuous splendor? Or is he -to find her still selling needlework on the Piazza?” - -He leant across the little table and laid his hand on my arm. I -imagined that it must be the table at which Lucinda had once sat, -mending her gloves—most skillfully no doubt, for had she not proved -herself a fine needlewoman? - -“You too are against me?” he asked in a low voice. “Bitterly against -me, Julius?” - -“Once you took her—yes, here. Then you forsook her. Then you took her -again. And you’ve dragged her in the dirt.” - -“But now I can——!” - -“That to her would be dirt too,” I said. “I suppose she won’t touch -that money? That’s why she’s still peddling her wares on the Piazza?” - -He made a despairing gesture of assent with his hands—despairing, -uncomprehending. Then he raised his head and said proudly, “But if she -doesn’t yet understand, I shall make her!” Then, with a sudden change -of manner, he added, “And you’ll move into the floor below to-morrow? -That’s capital! You might ask us both to dinner—give a housewarming! -Louis will look after your marketing and cooking.” - -“With the greatest of pleasure,” I agreed, but with some surprise. It -would have seemed more natural in him to invite me on the first night. - -He saw my surprise; what didn’t he see when he exercised his wits? - -“It must be that way; because she never comes into my apartment,” he -said, but now quietly, cheerfully, as if he were mentioning another of -those whims which are so powerful with women. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -LIVING FUNNILY - - -THE “housewarming” so adroitly suggested by Arsenio duly took place; -it was followed by other meetings of the same kind. Louis had -evidently received his instructions; every evening at half-past seven -he laid dinner for three in my _salon_; and this without any apology -or explanation. When his table was spread, he would say, “I will -inform Madame and Monsieur that dinner is served.” Presently Madame -and Monsieur would arrive—separately; Madame first (I think Arsenio -listened until he heard her step passing his landing), Monsieur -completing the party. I played host—rather ostentatiously; there had to -be no mistake as to who was the host; and every morning I gave Louis -money for the marketing. - -Except for this evening meeting, we three saw little of one another. -Arsenio was either out or shut up in his own apartment all day; Lucinda -went punctually to her work in the morning and did not return till -six o’clock; I did the sights, went sailing sometimes, or just mooned -about; I met Lucinda now and then, but beyond a nod and a smile she -took no notice of me; there were no more excursions to the Lido. -Perhaps the claims of business did not permit them to her; perhaps she -thought them unnecessary, in view of our opportunities for conversation -in the evening. - -For we had many. Arsenio’s views on the position in which he found -himself had appeared pretty clearly from what he had said. By an -incomprehensible perversity—of fate, of woman, of English temperament -and morals—his grand _coup_ had proved a failure; he would not accept -that failure as final, but neither for the moment could he alter it. -He always seemed to himself on the brink of success; every day he was -tantalized by a fresh rebuff. She was friendly, but icily cold and, -beyond doubt, subtly, within herself, ridiculing him. The result was -that, in the old phrase, he could live neither with her nor without -her. The daily meeting which he had engineered, with my aid (and at -my expense), was a daily disappointment; his temper could endure only -a certain amount of her society in the mood in which she presented -herself to him. After that, his patience gave; he probably felt that -his self-control would. So always, soon after our meal was finished, he -would go off on some pretext or another; sometimes we heard him above -in his own apartment, walking about restlessly; sometimes we heard him -go downstairs past my landing—out somewhere. He seldom came back before -ten o’clock; and his return was always the signal for Lucinda to -retire to her own quarters at the top of the house. - -During his absence she and I sat together, talking or in silence, -I smoking, she sewing; if the evening was fine and warm, we sat in -the armchairs by the little table in the window; if the weather was -chilly—and in that dingy stone-floored room it was apt to seem chillier -than it was—Louis made us a little fire of chips and logs, and we sat -close by it. The old fleeting intimacy of Ste. Maxime renewed itself -between us. After five or six evenings spent in this fashion, it almost -seemed as though Arsenio were a visitor who came and went, while she -and I belonged to the establishment. - -“The atmosphere’s quite domestic,” I said to her with a smile. It was -cold that night; we were close by the fire; her fingers were busy with -her work under the light of the one lamp which showed up her face in -clear outline—just as it had been defined against the gloom of the dark -_salle-à-manger_ at Ste. Maxime. - -“Well, you see, you’re a restful sort of person to be with,” she -answered, smiling, but not looking up, and going on with her sewing. - -We had not talked much more about her affairs, or Arsenio’s. She seemed -to think that enough had been said as to those, on the Lido; her -conversation had been mostly on general matters, though she also took -pleasure in describing to me the incidents and humors of her business -hours, both here at Venice and in the past at Ste. Maxime and Nice. -To-night I felt impelled to get a little nearer to her secret thoughts -again. - -“Wasn’t Waldo restful—barring an occasional storm?” - -“Yes; but then—as I’ve told you—at that time I wasn’t. Never for an -hour really. Now I am. I should be quite content to go on just as we -are forever.” She looked up and gave me a smile. “I include you in -‘we’, Julius. You give me a sense of safety.” - -“You can’t sell needlework on the Piazza all your life,” I expostulated. - -“Really I could quite happily, if only I were let alone—otherwise. But -I shan’t be, of course. Arsenio will get tired of his present tactics -soon—the ones he’s followed since you came. We shall either go back to -storms and heroics again, or he’ll discover something else. Just now -he’s trying the patient, the pathetic! But he won’t stick to that long. -It’s not in his nature.” - -How calmly now she analyzed and dissected him! With amusement -still mingled with her scorn, but—it must be repeated—with the old -proportions terribly reversed. It cannot be denied that there was -something cruel in the relentless vision of him which she had now -achieved. - -“He’ll try something spectacular next, I expect,” she pursued, -delicately biting off a thread. - -“You don’t mean—what you referred to on the Lido?” I asked, raising my -brows and passing my hand across my jugular vein. - -“Oh, no! That would be something real. His will be a performance of -some sort. It’s ten days since he poured all his bank notes on the -table before me, and swore he’d burn them and kill himself if I didn’t -pick them up. Of course he hasn’t done either! He’s locked them up -again, and he’s trying to get you to persuade me to see reason—in the -way he sees it!” - -“But I’ve told him that—I’ve told what I think of him—or as good as!” - -“Well, as soon as he’s convinced this plan won’t work, he’ll try -another. You’ll see!” She smiled again. “I shouldn’t wonder if the -arrival of Godfrey Frost were to produce some manifestation, some -change in his campaign.” - -It was almost the first—I am not sure that it was not absolutely the -first—time that she had referred to Godfrey. Though I felt considerable -curiosity about her feelings with regard to that young man, I had -forborne to question her. Whatever he might be in himself, he was -friend, partner, kinsman to Nina Dundrannan. The subject might not be -agreeable. - -“What’s that young man coming here for?” I asked. - -Something in my tone evidently amused her. She laid her work down -beside her, drew her chair nearer the fire, and stretched out her legs -towards the blaze. She was thoughtful as well as amused, questioning -herself as well as talking to me; it was quite in her old fashion. - -“I liked him; he amused me—and it amused me. He’s Nina, isn’t he? -Nina writ large and clumsily? What she is delicately, he is coarsely. -Oh, well, that’s rather a hard word, perhaps. I mean, obviously, -insistently. Where she carries an atmosphere, he works an air pump. -Still I liked him; he was kind to me; he gave me treats—as you did. And -it was fun poaching on Nina’s preserves. After all, she didn’t have it -all her own way when we met at Cimiez!” - -“She’s not having it now, I should imagine—since he’s coming to Venice.” - -“I like treats, and I like being admired, and I liked the poaching,” -Lucinda pursued. “He gave me all that. And he really was generously -indignant at my having to earn an honest living—no, having to earn a -poor living, I mean.” - -“He gave Arsenio money too, didn’t he?” Of course I knew the answer, -but I had my reason for putting the question. - -“Yes; I didn’t know it, but I suspected it—or Arsenio wouldn’t have -been so accommodating to him. But he really wanted to help me, to make -things easier for me. That wasn’t her motive!” - -Remembering what I did of Lady Dundrannan’s attitude and demeanor -during my stay at Villa San Carlo, I did not feel equal to arguing that -it was. - -“So—altogether—I let him flirt with me a good deal. I don’t think you -know much about flirtation, do you, Julius? Oh, I don’t mean love! -Well, it’s a series of advances and retreats, you see.” (She entered -on this exposition with a feigned and hollow gravity.) “When the man -advances, the woman retreats. But if the man retreats, the woman -advances. And so it goes on. Do you at all see, Julius?” - -“I’m disposed to believe that you’re giving me a practical -demonstration—of the advance!” - -She laughed gaily. “Pure theory—for the moment, at all events! But he -didn’t always advance at the proper moment. Never you dare to tell Nina -that! But he didn’t. I’m not a vain woman, am I, or I shouldn’t tell -even you! Something always seemed to bring him up short. Fear of Nina, -do you think? Or was he too big a man? Or had he scruples?” - -“A bit of all three, perhaps.” I had had the benefit of another version -of this story—at Paris. - -“Anyhow he never did, or suggested, anything very desperate. And so—I’m -rather wondering what’s bringing him to Venice. Because now we’re -rich—we have at least a competence. We’re respectable. Monsieur Valdez -can afford to be honest; Madame Valdez can afford to keep straight. -Desperation might have had its chance at Nice. Oh, yes, it might -easily! It hasn’t surely got half such a good chance now? I mean, it -couldn’t seem to have—to Godfrey Frost.” - -“I’m not quite sure about that. He saw the famous meeting at Cimiez. -He’s told me about it—I told you I’d seen him since, didn’t I? I fancy -he understands your feelings better than you think. He has a good brain -and—plenty of curiosity.” - -“Then if he does understand—and still comes to Venice——?” She looked -at me with her brows raised and a smile on her lips. “Looks serious, -doesn’t it?” she ended. She broke into low laughter. “It would be such -glorious fun to become Mrs. Godfrey Frost!” - -“You’ve got a husband still, remember!” - -“That’s nothing—now. Or do you set up Arsenio as morality?” - -“Oh, no! If Arsenio’s morality, why, damn morality!” I said. - -“And there’s just the piquant touch of uncertainty as to whether I -could do it—whether I could become even so much as an unofficial Mrs. -Godfrey—whom Nina didn’t know, but whom she’d think about! Still—he is -coming to Venice. It’s rather tempting, isn’t it, Julius?” - -“Does a revenge on Arsenio come into it at all?” - -Her smile disappeared, her face suddenly grew sad. “Oh, no, I’m having -that already. I don’t want to have—not as revenge—but I can’t help it. -It is so with me—no credit to me, either.” - -“All the same, Arsenio isn’t pleased at our friend coming to Venice. -He was very glad when I took this apartment—mainly because then Godfrey -couldn’t.” - -“If you hadn’t come, and he had—I wonder!” - -“Do you care for him in the very least?” I asked, perhaps rather hotly. - -“No,” she answered with cool carelessness. “But is that the question?” -She dropped out of her chair on to her knees before the fire, holding -out her hands to warm them. Her face, pale under the lamp, was ruddy -in the blaze of the logs. “You’re a silly old idealist, Julius. You -idealize even me—me, who did, in this very place, what shouldn’t be -done—me who ran away from a good marriage and a better man—me who have -knocked about anyhow for years—knowing I was always on sale—I’m on sale -every afternoon on the Piazza—if only I chose to make the bargain. But -you choose to see me as I was once.” She laughed gently. “Well, I think -you’ve saved my life—or my reason—twice—here and at Ste. Maxime—so I -suppose I must put up with you!” - -“You’ll never go to a man unless you love him,” I said obstinately. - -Suddenly she flung her hands high above her head. “Oh, what does one -keep in this wicked world, what does one keep?” - -Her hands sank down on to her knees—as though their reluctant fall -pictured the downward drag of the world on the spirit. In that posture -she crouched many minutes without moving; and I, not stirring either, -watched her. - -“I had my one virtue,” she said at last. “My primitive virtue. I was -faithful to my man—even when I tried not to be, still I was. Now I’ve -lost even that. It wouldn’t cost me an hour’s sleep to deceive or -desert Arsenio. I should, in fact, rather enjoy it, just for its own -sake.” - -“I daresay. But you’re not for sale—in marriage or out of it. And, as -you said, isn’t your revenge complete?” - -“That’s the worst of revenge; is it ever, in the end, really complete?” -She turned round on me suddenly and laid a hand on my knee. “Yes—that’s -what has been in my mind. But it’s only just this minute that I’ve seen -it. I daresay you’ve seen it, though, haven’t you? I’m becoming cruel; -I’m beginning to enjoy tormenting him. I’ve read somewhere that people -who have to punish do sometimes get like that, even when it’s a just -punishment. But it’s rather an awful idea.” - -Her face was full of a horrified surprise. “I do get things out so, -in talking to you,” she added in a hurried murmur. “Oh, not words; -thoughts, I mean. You let me go on talking, and I straighten myself -out before my own eyes. You know? Till now, I’ve never seen what I was -coming down to. Poor old Arsenio! After all, he’s not a snake or a -toad, is he?” She laughed tremulously. “Though why should one be cruel -even to toads and snakes? One just leaves them alone. That’s what I -must do with Arsenio.” - -“An illogical conclusion—since he isn’t snake or toad,” I said, as -lightly as I could. - -“Oh, you know! That’s it! Yes, I’ve been saying that I was very just, -and fine, and all that! And I’ve really been enjoying it! Julius dear, -has my honest work been all just viciousness—cattiness, you know?” - -“God bless you, no! Why do you round on yourself like this? You’ve come -through the whole thing splendidly. Oh, you’re human! There’s Nina, and -all that, of course. But it’s nonsense to twist the whole thing like -that.” - -“Yes, it is,” she decided—this time quickly, even abruptly. “It hasn’t -been that—not most of it anyhow. But it’s in danger of being it now. It -almost is it, isn’t it?” - -“Sometimes, at dinner, I’ve thought you a little cruel.” - -“Yes—I have been.” She rose to her feet almost with a jump. “If I have -to go—to rescue myself from that—will you help me, Julius? Because I’ve -no money to go far—to take myself out of his reach.” - -As—on this question—we stood opposite to one another, she just -murmuring “Yes, that’s it,” I nonplussed at her question, at the whole -turn her talk had taken—we heard the tramp of steps on the stone -staircase. She flung me a glance; more than one person was coming up. -“It’s just like Arsenio not to have told us!” she whispered with a -smile. - -“You mean——?” I whispered back. - -“He’s been to meet him at the station, of course! Julius, how shall I -behave?” - -We heard the door of the apartment opened. The next moment Arsenio -opened the door of the room, and ushered in Godfrey Frost, in a big fur -coat, fresh from the train evidently. - -“Here he is!” Arsenio cried, almost triumphantly. - -Godfrey stood on the threshold, obviously taken aback. It was clear -that Arsenio had not told him that he was to meet the pair of us. - -Arsenio wore his most characteristic grin. I could not help smiling at -it. Lucinda laughed openly. Godfrey, caught unawares as he was, carried -the position off bravely. - -“Delightful to see you both! But where am I? Whose charming room is -this?” - -“It’s the devil and all to know that! We live so funnily,” said Monkey -Valdez. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -PARTIE CARRÉE - - -WHEN I awoke the next morning, it was with the memory of one of the -queerest hours that I had ever spent in my life. After I had drunk -my coffee, I lay late in bed, reviewing it, smiling over Arsenio’s -malicious gayety, over Godfrey’s surly puzzlement, over myself -struggling between amusement and disgust, over Lucinda’s delicate -aloofness and assumed unconsciousness of anything peculiar in the -situation. - -For the devil and all—to use his own phrase—took possession of Monkey -Valdez. Lucinda was not the only one to whom the infliction of pain -and punishment might become a joy. Arsenio had been powerless to -prevent Godfrey from coming to Venice; he meant to make him pay for -having come; to make him pay, I suppose, for having sought to take -advantage of Arsenio’s need, for having dared to think that he could -buy Lucinda—from a husband who all but told him that he was willing to -sell her! Great crimes in the eyes of Arsenio, now no more in need, now -grown rich, yet with his riches turned to useless dross, because of -him, and of them, Lucinda would have nothing. - -He could not pose as the happy husband. That would not be plausible; -Lucinda would not second it, and Godfrey knew too much. But by every -means within the range of his wonderful and impish ingenuity, by -insinuation and innuendo, by glances, smiles, and gestures, he pointed -Godfrey to the inference that I was the favored man, the aspiring, -perhaps already the successful, lover. In that Godfrey was to find the -explanation of the “funny” way in which we lived—an apartment for each -of us, husband and wife meeting only at my board, her cool defensive -demeanor towards him, my friendly toleration of his presence, which I -must dislike, but also must endure because it was a cover and a screen. -None of this, of course, in words, but all acted—admirably acted, so -that it was equally impossible for Godfrey not to accept it, and for -either Lucinda or myself to repudiate it. Had we tried, he would have -made us appear ridiculous; there was not a definite word on which we -could fasten, not a peg on which to hang the denial. - -Lucinda did not want to deny, to judge by her demeanor; but neither -did she do anything or show any signs that could be construed into an -admission. She behaved just as a woman of the world would behave in -such a situation—with a husband so unreasonable, so ill-bred as to let -his jealousy appear in the presence of an outsider! To see nothing of -what he meant, not to consider it possible that he could mean it—that -would be the woman of the world’s cue; it was perfectly taken up in -Lucinda’s cool and remote self-possession, the aloofness of her eyes as -she listened to Arsenio, her easy cordiality towards both myself and -Godfrey, her absolute ignoring of the “funniness” of our way of living. -No, she did not want to deny, any more than she meant actively to aid, -the impression. It was Arsenio’s game—let him play it. If to behave -naturally tended to strengthen it, that was not her fault. Meanwhile -she enjoyed the comedy; not a single direct glance at me told that—only -an occasional faint smile at Arsenio’s adroitest touches. - -She might be pardoned for enjoying the comedy; it was good. Perhaps for -not sharing the distaste that mingled with my own appreciation—for not -feeling the disgust that I felt at this cheapening of her. In her eyes -Arsenio had already cheapened her to the uttermost; he could do nothing -more in that direction. He could still give her pleasure—of a kind; by -suffering cruelty himself, as it seemed, or by being cleverly cruel to -others. He could no longer give her pain; he had exhausted his power to -do that. - -He knew what he could do and what he could not. If she was a character -in his comedy, she was his audience too. He played to her for all he -was worth; he saw the occasional smile and understood it as well as I -did. His eyes sought for any faint indications of her applause. - -And the victim? As I said, he carried off the meeting well at first; -the Frost composure stood him in good stead; he was not readily to be -shaken out of it. But at last, under Arsenio’s swift succession of -pricks, he grew sullen and restive. His puzzled ill-humor vented itself -on me, not on his dexterous tormentor. - -“When did you make up your mind to come here? You said nothing about -anything of the sort in Paris!” - -The half-smothered resentment in his tone accused me of treachery—of -having stolen a march on him. Arsenio smiled impishly as he -listened—himself at last silent for a minute. - -“The news of our friends’ good fortune encouraged me to join them,” I -said. It was true—roughly; and I was very far from acknowledging any -treachery. - -This was the first reference that any one had made to the grand -_coup_—to the winning ticket—a reticence which had, no doubt, increased -Godfrey’s puzzle. He could not put questions himself, but I had -seen him eyeing Lucinda’s black frock; Arsenio too was uncommonly -shabby; and, as the latter had incidentally mentioned, I was paying -rent: “I can’t afford not to charge it,” he had added with a rueful -air, ostentatiously skirting the topic. Now he took it up, quite -artificially. “Ah, that bit of luck! Oh, all to the good! It settles -our future—doesn’t it, Lucinda?” (Here came one of her rare faint -smiles.) “But we’re simple folk with simple tastes. We haven’t -substantially altered our mode of living. Lucinda has her work—she -likes it. I stick on in the old ancestral garrets.” (“Ancestral” was -stretching things a bit—his father had bought the _palazzo_, and -re-christened it.) “But we shall find a use for that windfall yet. -Still, now you’ve come, we really must launch out a bit. Julius is one -of the family—almost; but you’re an honored guest. Mustn’t we launch -out a little, Lucinda?” - -“Do as you like. It’s your money,” she answered. “At least, what you -don’t owe of it is.” - -Then, at that, for a sudden short moment, the real man broke through. -“Then none of it’s mine, because I owe it all to you,” he said. The -words might have been a continuation of his mockery; they would have -borne that construction. But they were not; his voice shook a little; -his mind was back on Number Twenty-one and what that meant—or had -meant—to him. But he recovered his chosen tone in an instant. “And -behold her generosity! She gives it back to me—she won’t touch a penny -of it!” - -At that a sudden gleam of intelligence shot into Godfrey’s eyes. -He fixed them inquiringly on Lucinda. She was in great looks that -evening—in her plain, close-fitting, black frock, with never an -ornament save a single scarlet flower in her fair hair; he might well -look at her; but it was not her beauty that drew his gaze at that -moment. He was questioning more than admiring. She gave him back his -look steadily, smiling a little, ready to let him make what he could of -her husband’s exclamation. - -“Let me give one dinner party out of it,” implored Arsenio. “Just we -four—a perfect _partie carrée_. If I do, will you come to it, Lucinda?” - -She gave him an amused little nod; he had touched her humor. “Yes, if -you give Mr. Frost a dinner, I’ll come,” she said. “What day?” - -“Why, the first on which we can eat a dinner! And that’s to-morrow! -Upstairs—in my apartment?” - -“No—here—if Julius will let us,” she said mildly, but very firmly. “You -accept, Mr. Frost? And we’ll all dress up and be smart,—to honor Mr. -Frost, and Arsenio’s banquet.” - -So the arrangement was made, and it promised, to my thinking, as I lay -in bed, another queer evening. Somebody, surely, would break the thin -ice on which Arsenio was cutting his capers! What if we all began to -speak our true thoughts about one another? But the evening that I was -recalling held still something more in it—the most vivid of all its -impressions, although the whole of it was vivid enough in my memory. - -Godfrey rose to take his leave. “Till to-morrow, then!” he said, as he -took Lucinda’s hand, bowing slightly over it; he pressed it, I think, -for her fingers stiffened and she frowned—Arsenio standing by, smiling. - -“See him down the stairs, Arsenio,” she ordered. “The light’s very -dim, and two or three of the steps are broken.” - -The two went out! I heard Arsenio’s voice chattering away in the -distance as they went down the high steep stairs. Lucinda stood where -she was for a minute, and then came across to the chair on which I had -sat down, after saying good-night to Godfrey. She dropped on her knees -beside it, laying her arms across my knees, and looking up at me with -eyes full of tears. - -“I do pity him,” she murmured, “I do! And I’d be kind to him. I don’t -want him to go on being as bitter and unhappy as he is—oh, you saw! One -can’t help being amused, but every time he hit Godfrey, he hit himself -too—and harder. But what’s the use? Nothing’s any use except the thing -that I can’t do!” - -I laid my hand on hers—they lay side by side on my knee. “It’s rather a -case of ‘God help us all!’ I think.” - -“You too?” - -“Yes—when you’re unhappy.” - -I felt her hands rise under my hand, and I released them. She took mine -between hers and raised it to her lips. Then a silence fell between us, -until I became conscious that Arsenio was standing on the threshold, -holding the knob of the opened door. He had stolen back with the -quietness of a cat; we had neither of us heard a sound of him. - -Lucinda saw him, and slowly rose to her feet; she was without a trace -of embarrassment. She walked across to the door; he held it wide open -for her to pass—she always went upstairs alone—But to-night—against the -custom of their nightly parting during the last week—she stopped and -took his hand. Her back was towards me now; I could not see her eyes, -but there must have been an invitation in them, for he slowly advanced -his head towards hers. She did not need to stoop—she was as tall as he -was. She kissed him on the forehead. - -“If you will be content with peace, peace let it be,” she said. - -He made no motion to return the kiss—the invitation could not have -carried so far as that; he stood quite still while she passed out and -while her footsteps sounded on the stairs. - -There came the noise of a door opening and shutting, up above us, on -the top floor. He shut the door that he had been still holding, and -came slowly up to the hearthrug, by which I sat. - -I lit a cigarette. All the while that it took me to smoke it he stood -there in silence, with his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His -impishness had dropped from him, exorcised, as it seemed, by Lucinda’s -kiss. His face was calm and quiet. - -“Well, that’s finished!” he said at last, more to himself than to me. -I did not speak; he looked down at me and addressed me more directly. -“You saw her? You saw what she meant by that? It was—good-by!” - -“I’m afraid I think so too, old friend—especially in view of what she’d -just been saying to me. She’s greatly distressed about it, but——” At -that moment I myself was greatly distressed for him, indeed for both -of them; but the next he spoilt my feeling (so to say) as far as he -was concerned, and made Lucinda’s distress look overdone, or even -gratuitous. He drew himself up pompously and spread his arms out on -either side of him, holding his hands palms uppermost, rather as if he -were expounding an argument to a public meeting. - -“Very well! I accept. Whatever her future feelings may be, I take her -at her word, and accept—once and for all! It is not consonant with my -dignity, my self-respect——” I sighed. He gave me a short, sharp look, -but then went on in just the same fashion—“to prolong this situation, -to persecute, to trouble. I will relieve her of my presence, of the -thought of me. She is still young—almost a girl. She will find another -life to live. She will find love again—though not the love I gave her. -And if ever she thinks of Arsenio Valdez, let it be with charity and -forgiveness!” - -It seemed rather cruel to recognize the fact,—but a fact it obstinately -and obviously was—that Lucinda’s future thinking of him formed part of -the program; relieving her of the thought of him was a mere flourish; -whatever he proposed to do with himself, he did not propose to do that. - -“Time softens bitter memories, the mind dwells on what is sweet in the -past. So may it be with her, when I am gone, Julius!” - -“Where do you propose to go?’” I asked irritably. His pomposity and -sentimentality seemed to me transpontine. The man could not be sincere -for five minutes; he was cutting a figure again. - -“Ah! that, my friend, need not be put in words. There is one course -always open to a gentleman who has staked his all and lost.” - -It occurred to me that Arsenio had very often staked his all and lost, -and that his course had been to borrow some more from other people. But -what was the good of saying that to him when he was on his high horse—a -very prancing steed? In a different mood, though, he would have laughed -at the reminder himself. - -Of course I knew what he meant me to understand. But, frankly, I did -not at the time believe a word of it; and now, as I lay thinking it -over, I believed in it even less, if possible. I took it for another -flourish, and smiled to myself at it, as Lucinda had laughed at the -threat when she mentioned it to me on the Lido. - -“Sleep on it, old fellow,” I advised him. “You’ll feel better about it, -perhaps, in the morning. If you so decide to give her a separation or a -divorce, it can all be arranged in a friendly way. She wants to be as -kind and friendly as she can to you.” - -“As I say, I trust that her memory of me will be that,” he said in his -most solemn sepulchral voice. “And you, my friend, you too——” - -“Oh, damn it all, let my memories of you alone, Arsenio! I assure you -that talking this sort of stuff won’t improve them.” I got up from my -chair. “Go to bed now—think it over to-morrow. At any rate, you’ve got -your dinner to-morrow evening; you can’t do anything till after that.” - -“Yes,” he agreed thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve got my dinner to-morrow.” -He seemed to meditate on the prospect with a gloomy satisfaction. I -meditated on the same prospect now with considerable apprehension. -He had finally left me the night before still in his tragic vein, -still on his high horse. But who in the world could tell in what mood -this evening would find him? On whom might he not turn? What outrage -on the social decencies might he not commit? Last night we had been -presented with an extensive selection from his _répertoire_, ranging -from schoolboy naughtiness to the _beau geste_—the insufferable _beau -geste_—of a romantically contemplated suicide. What might we not be -treated to to-night? And I did not feel at all sure how much Lucinda -could stand—or how much Godfrey Frost would. - -With a knock at the door, Louis came in, in his usual sleek and -deferential fashion. He laid a little bundle of letters on the table -by the bed, and inquired whether Monsieur would take _déjeuner_ at -home to-day—or would he perhaps prefer to go out? It was obvious, -from the way the question was put, which Louis himself preferred. And -the next moment he murmured the humble suggestion that there were the -preparations, for dinner to-night, of course. - -“Are there? Special preparations, do you mean, Louis?” - -“Monsieur Valdez is, I understand, with your permission, Monsieur, -intending to provide a few decorations for the _salon_. He tells me -that he entertains to-night in honor of the arrival of his friend -Monsieur Frost.” (Froost, he called it). - -“Oh, all right! I’ll certainly lunch out, if it makes things easier for -you, Louis.” - -When he was gone, I opened my letters. Among them was one from Waldo, -and another from Sir Paget, both of some length, touching the family -arrangement which Waldo had suggested with regard to Cragsfoot. I -decided to put them in my pocket and read them later—while I had my -lunch. I had lain already overlong in bed, my thoughts busy with the -events of the _partie carrée_ of last night. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -SUITABLE SURROUNDINGS - - -WALDO’S was a business letter; any feelings that might be influencing -the proposed transaction, any sentiment that might be involved—whether -of Nina’s, of his own, of his father’s, or of mine—he appeared to -consider as having been adequately indicated in our talk at Paris, and -accorded them only one passing reference. He assumed that I should be -bearing all that—he had a habit of describing the emotions as “all -that,” I remembered—in mind; what remained was to ask me whether I were -favorably disposed to the arrangement, the value of his remainder—which -must, alas, before many years were out, become an estate in -possession—to be fixed by a firm of land agents selected by himself and -me—“from which price I should suggest deducting twenty-five per cent. -in consideration of what I believe the lawyers call ‘natural love and -affection’; in other words, because I’d much sooner sell to you than -to a stranger—in fact, than to _anybody else_.” The underlining of the -last two words clearly asked me to substitute for them a proper name -with which we were both well acquainted. He added that he thought the -land agents’ valuation would be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty -thousand pounds, timber included—and so, with kindest remembrances -from Nina, who was splendidly fit, _considering_ (another underlining -gave me news of possible importance for the future of the Dundrannan -barony), he remained my affectionate cousin. - -Though I suspect that son and father, at the bottom of their hearts, -felt much the same about the matter, Sir Paget’s letter was expressed -in a different vein. Leaving the business to Waldo, he dealt with the -personal aspect: - -“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that I hadn’t always hoped -and expected that the heir of my body and the child of my dear wife -should succeed me here. That’s nature; but _Dis aliter visum_. The -All-Highest herself decides otherwise.” (I saw in my mind the humorous, -rather tired, smile with which he wrote that.) “But I should be an -ungrateful churl indeed if I repined at the prospect of being succeeded -at Cragsfoot by you, who bear the old name (and, I am told, are to get -a handle to it!)—you who are and have been always son of my heart, if -not of my body—a loyal, true son too, if you will let me say it. So, if -it is to be, I receive it with happiness, and the more you come to your -future dominions while I—_brevis dominus_—am still here to welcome you, -the better I shall be pleased. But, prithee, Julius, remember that you -provide, in your own person, only for the next generation. When your -turn comes for the doleful cypresses, what is to happen? You must look -to it, my boy!” - -After a touching reference to his old and now lost companion, Aunt -Bertha, and to his own loneliness, he went on more lightly: “But Waldo -comes over every day from Briarmount when they are ‘in residence,’ and -the aforesaid All-Highest herself pays me a state visit once or twice -a week. The Queen-Regent expects an Heir-Apparent. Oh, confidently! I -think she can’t quite make out how fate, or nature, or the other Deity -dared to thwart her, last time! I confess I am hypnotized—I too have -no doubt of the event! So, as to that, all is calm and confidence—the -third peer of the line is on his way! But is there anything wrong -in her outlying dominions? Villa San Carlo, though it sounds like -a charming winter palace, doesn’t seem to have been an unqualified -success. ‘Rather tiresome down there!’ she said. I asked politely after -the cousin. Very well, when she had seen him last, but she really -didn’t know what he was doing; it seemed to her that he was taking -a very long holiday from business—‘Our works down there are of only -secondary importance.’ I remarked that you had written saying how much -you were enjoying yourself at Villa San Carlo, and how you regretted -being detained in Paris. ‘Oh, he meant to leave us anyhow, I think!’ -I fancied somehow that both of you gentleman had incurred the royal -displeasure. What have you been up to? Rebellion, _lèse-majesté_, -treason? You are bold men if you defy my Lady Dundrannan! Well, she’s -probably right in thinking that Cragsfoot is too small for her, and not -worth adding to her dominions!” - -Though the purchase would need some contriving, the price that Waldo’s -letter indicated was not an insuperable difficulty, thanks to the value -which Sir Ezekiel was now kind enough to put on my services; I could -pay it, and keep up the place on a footing of frugal decency when the -time came. For the rest, the prospect was attractive. Cragsfoot had -always been an integral part of my life; my orphaned childhood had been -spent there. If it passed to a stranger, I should feel as it were dug -up by the roots. If I did not fall in with the arrangement, pass to a -stranger it would; I felt sure of that; the All-Highest had issued her -command. “So be it!” I said to myself—half in pleasure, still half in -resentment at the Dundrannan fiat, which broke the direct line of the -Rillingtons of Cragsfoot. I also made up my mind to obey Sir Paget’s -implied invitation as soon as—— - -As soon as what? The summons from Cragsfoot—the call back to -home and home life (my appointment to our London office was now -ratified)—brought me up against that question. I could answer it only -by saying—as soon as Lucinda’s affair had somehow settled itself. -She could not be left where she was; as a permanency, the present -situation was intolerable. She must yield or she must go; Valdez would -never let her alone, short of her adopting one of those alternatives; -he would keep on at his pestering and posturing. She had no money; her -mother had lived on an annuity, or an allowance, or something of that -kind, which expired with the good lady herself. Clearly, however, she -was able to support herself. She must not sell flowers on the Piazza -all her life; I thought that she would consent to borrow enough money -from me to set herself up in a modest way in business, and I determined -to make that proposal to her on the morrow—as soon as we had got -through the ordeal of this evening’s dinner. I fervently hoped that we -might get through it without a flare-up between Arsenio and his honored -guest Godfrey Frost. Out of favor at Briarmount was he, that young man? -I could easily have told Sir Paget the reason for that! - -The only one of the prospective party whom I encountered in the course -of the afternoon—though I admit that I haunted the Piazza in the hope -of seeing Lucinda—was the host himself. I met him in company with -a tall, lean visaged, eminently respectable person, wearing a tall -hat and a black frock coat. Arsenio stopped me, and introduced me to -his companion. He said that Signor Alessandro Panizzi and I ought to -know one another; I didn’t see why, and merely supposed that he was -exhibiting his respectable friend, who was, it appeared, one of the -leading lawyers in Venice and, indeed, an ex-Syndic of the city. Signor -Panizzi, on his part, treated Arsenio with the greatest deference; -he referred to him, in the course of our brief conversation, as “our -noble friend,” and was apparently hugely gratified by the familiar, if -somewhat lordly, bearing which Arsenio adopted towards him. But, after -all, Arsenio was now rich—notoriously so, thanks to the way in which -wealth had come to him; one could understand that he might be regarded -as a highly-to-be-valued citizen of Venice. Perhaps he was going to run -for Mayor himself—one more brilliant device to dazzle Lucinda! - -There it was—in thinking of him one always expected, one always came -back to, the bizarre, the incongruous and ridiculous. It was the -overpowering instinct for the dramatic, the theatrical, in him, without -any taste to guide or to limit it. That was what made it impossible to -take him, or his emotions and attitudes, seriously; Waldo’s “all that” -seemed just the applicable description. I walked away wondering just -what particular line his bamboozlement of Signor Alessandro Panizzi -might be taking. Moreover, that he could find leisure in his thoughts -to posture to somebody else—besides Lucinda and myself—was reassuring. -It made his hints of the night before seem even more unreal and -fantastic. - -That same last word was the only one appropriate to describe what I -found happening to my unfortunate _salon_, when I got back early in -the evening. Half a dozen men, under the superintendence of Louis and -the fat old _portière_ who lived in a sort of cupboard on the ground -floor, opening off the hall, were engaged in transforming it into what -they obviously considered to be a scene of splendor. The old _portière_ -was rubbing his plump hands in delight; at last Don Arsenio was -launching out, spending his money handsomely, doing justice to Palazzo -Valdez; the rich English nobleman (this was Godfrey Frost—probably -after Arsenio’s own description) would undoubtedly be much impressed. -Very possibly—but possibly not quite as old Amedeo expected! The -table groaned—or at all events I groaned for it—under silver plate -and silver candlesticks. The latter were also stuck galore in sconces -on the walls. Table and walls were festooned with chains of white -flowers; the like bedecked the one handsome thing that really belonged -to the room—the antique chandelier in the middle of the ceiling; I -had never put lights in it, but they were there now. And the banquet -was to be on a scale commensurate with these trappings. “Prodigious! -Considering the times, absolutely prodigious!” Amedeo assured me; he, -for his part, could not conceive how Don Arsenio and Signor Louis had -contrived to obtain the materials for such a feast. Signor Louis smiled -mysteriously; tricks of the trade were insinuated. - -It seemed to me that Arsenio had gone stark mad. What were we in for -this evening? - -Just as this thought once again seized on my mind, I saw something that -gave me a little start. The butt of a revolver or pistol protruded from -the side-pocket of Louis’s jacket, and the pocket bulged with the rest -of the weapon. - -“What in the world are you carrying that thing about for?” I exclaimed. - -“Monsieur Valdez told me to clean it,” he answered quietly. “He gave it -to me for that purpose—out of his bureau.” - -“He didn’t tell you to carry it about with you while you did your work, -did he?” - -“No, he didn’t,” said Arsenio’s voice just behind me. The door stood -open for the workers, and he had come in, in his usual quiet fashion. -I turned round, to find him grinning at me. “Give it here, Louis,” he -ordered, and slipped the thing into his own pocket. “The room looks -fine now, doesn’t it?” he asked. - -“What do you want with your revolver to-day?” I asked. - -He looked at me with malicious glee. “Aha, Julius, I did frighten you -last night then, after all! You pretended to be very scornful, but -I did make an impression! Or else why do you question me about my -revolver?” - -“I didn’t believe a word of that nonsense you hinted at last night,” I -protested. “But what do you want with your revolver?” - -“My dear fellow, I don’t want to boast of my wealth, but there’s a -considerable sum of money in my bureau—very considerable. No harm in -being on the safe side, is there?” - -That seemed reasonable: his manner too changed suddenly from derision -to a plausible common sense. “Possessing a revolver—as most of us who -served do—doesn’t mean that one intends to use it—on oneself or on -anybody else, does it?” - -I felt at a loss. When he wanted me to believe, I didn’t. When he -wanted me not to believe, I did—or, at all events, half did. With -Arsenio the plausible sensible explanation was always suspect; to be -merely sensible was so contrary to his nature. - -The busy men had apparently finished their ridiculous work. Louis came -in and looked round with a satisfied air. - -“Splendid, Louis!” said Arsenio. “Here, take this thing and put it on -the bureau in my room.” As Louis obediently took the revolver and left -us alone together, Arsenio added to me: “Don’t spoil your dinner—a good -one, I hope, for these hungry days—by taking seriously anything I said -last night. Perhaps in the end I did mean—No, I didn’t really. I was -wrought up. My friend, wasn’t it natural?” - -Well, it was natural, of course. On a man prone to what Lucinda had -called “heroics” the hour in which she had given him that kiss—the kiss -of farewell, as we had both interpreted it to be—would naturally induce -them. I should have been disposed to accept his disclaimer of any -desperate intentions, except for the fact that somehow he still seemed -to be watching me, watching what effect his words had on me, and rather -curiously anxious to efface the impression which the sudden appearance -of the revolver had made upon me. - -“Last night—yes!” He dropped into a chair. “Her action affected me -strangely. It is long since she kissed me. And then to kiss me like -that! Can you wonder that I gave way?” He smiled up at me. “One -doesn’t easily part from Lucinda. Why, you told me that Waldo—our old -Waldo—went nearly mad with rage when I took her from him.” His brows -went up and he smiled. “It needed a European War to save me, you said! -Well, if my excitements are not as tremendous as Waldo’s, I must admit -that they are more frequent. But to-day I’ve come to my senses. Pray -believe me, my dear Julius—and don’t let any absurd notion spoil your -dinner.” - -He was very anxious to convince me. My mind obstinately urged the -question: Was he afraid that I might watch him, that I might interfere -with his plan? I tried to shake off the notion—not quite successfully. -I had a feeling that “heroics” might be like strong drink; a man could -indulge in a lot of them, and yet be master of them—and of himself. -But there might come a point where they would gain the mastery, and he -would be a slave. In which case—— - -“You think this dinner of mine a mad affair?” I found Arsenio saying. -“Well, think so, in your stolid English fashion!” He shrugged his -shoulders scornfully. “You don’t see what it means? Oh, of course you -don’t! I suppose you love Lucinda as well—I said, Julius, that you -loved Lucinda as well—and the one merit of the English language is, -that ‘love’ is a tolerably distinctive word when applied to a woman—in -that damned black frock as if she were dressed as her beauty deserves? -Well, I don’t; I know—we know, we Southerners—how the setting enhances -the jewel. By my cunning incitements—you heard, but you had no ears—she -will dress herself to-night; you’ll see!” He waved his hands to embrace -the room. “And I have given her suitable surroundings!” - -“I suppose it’s about time that we bedecked ourselves,” I suggested, -rather wearily. - -“Yes—but one moment!” He leant forward in his chair. “What’s to become -of her, Julius?” - -I answered him rather fiercely, brutally perhaps. “I think you’ve lost -the right to concern yourself with that.” - -“I have, I know. Hence the occasion of this evening. But you, Julius?” - -“I shall always be at her service, if she needs help. As you know, -she’s very independent.” - -He nodded his head. Then he smiled his monkey smile. “And there’s -Godfrey Frost, of course. Entirely in a position to assist her! A sound -head! A good business man! Wants his price, but——!” - -“Oh, damn you, go and dress for your infernal dinner!” - -The devil was in him. He got up with a grin. “I doubt whether you’ll -be very good company! Oh, let’s see, where’s that revolver? Oh, I gave -it back to Louis, so I did! Our esteemed friend ought to be here in -half an hour. Do you happen to know that he and Lucinda have been to -the Lido together this afternoon? No, you don’t? Oh, yes! My friend -Alessandro and I saw them embarking. Doesn’t that fact add a further -interest to this evening? But look at the room—the table! Shall we not -outshine the Frost millions to-night—you and I, Julius?” - -“It isn’t my affair, thank God!” - -“Oh, that’s as it may turn out! _Au revoir_, then, in half an hour!” - -He succeeded in leaving me in about as bewildered a state of mind as -I have ever been in in all my life; I, who have often had to decide -whether a politician was an honest man or not!—— - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -THE BANQUET - - -SINCE I was not to play host that evening, I decided to let Arsenio -be first on the gaudy scene which he had prepared. He should receive -the other guests; he should take undivided responsibility for the -decorations. I waited until I heard him come down and speak to Louis, -and even until I heard—as I very well could, in my little bedroom -adjoining the _salon_—Louis announcing first “Monsieur Froost,” and -then—no, it was fat old Amedeo who effected the second announcement, -arrogating to himself the rights of an old family servant—that of the -most excellent and noble Signora Donna Lucinda Valdez. Thereupon I -entered, Amedeo favoring me with no laudatory epithets, but leaving me -to content myself with Louis’ brief “Monsieur Reelinton.” - -Lucinda was in splendor; she was—as I, at least, had never before -seen her—a grown woman in a grown woman’s evening finery. Through -all her wanderings she must have dragged this gown about, a relic of -her pre-war status—for all I knew, part of the _trousseau_ of the -prospective Mrs. Waldo Rillington! But it did not look seriously out -of fashion. (If I remember right, women dressed on substantially the -same lines just before the war as they did in the first months after -it.) It was a white gown, simple but artistic, of sumptuous material. -She wore no ornaments—it was not difficult to conjecture the reason for -that—only her favorite scarlet flower in her fair hair; yet the effect -of her was one of magnificence—of a restrained, tantalizing richness, -both of body and of raiment. - -Whether she had arrayed herself thus in kindness or in cruelty, or in -some odd mixture of the two, indulging Arsenio’s freak with one hand, -while the other buffeted him with a vision of what he had lost, I know -not; but a glance at her face showed that her tenderer mood was now -past. Arsenio’s decorations had done for it! She was looking about her -with brows delicately raised, with amusement triumphant on her lips and -in her eyes. If Arsenio’s frippery had been meant to appeal to anything -except her humor, it had failed disastrously. It had driven her back to -her scorn, back to her conception of him as a trickster, a mountebank, -a creature whose promises meant nothing, whose threats meant less; an -amusing ape—and there an end of him! - -But perhaps the plate and the festoons might impress the third guest, -who completed Arsenio’s party. Godfrey Frost did not, at first sight, -seem so much as to notice them, to know that they were there. His eyes -were all for Lucinda. Small wonder, indeed! but they did not seek or -follow her in frank and honest admiration, nor yet in the chivalrous -though sorrowful longing of unsuccessful love. There was avidity in -them, but also anger and grudge; rancor struggling with desire. He was -not looking amiable, the third guest. He set me wondering what had -passed on the Lido that afternoon. - -Arsenio sat down with the air of a man who had done a good day’s work -and felt justified in enjoying his dinner and his company. He set -Lucinda to his right at the little square table, Godfrey to his left, -myself opposite. He gave a glance round the three of us. - -“Ah, you’re amused,” he said to Lucinda, with his quick reading of -faces. “Well, you know my ways by now!” His voice sounded good-humored, -free from chagrin or disappointment. “And, after all, it’s my first -and last celebration of the bit of luck that Number Twenty-one at last -brought me.” - -“The first and last bit of luck too, I expect,” she said; but she too -was gay and easy. - -“Yes, I shall back it no more; its work is done. Not bad champagne, -is it, considering? Louis got it somehow. I told you he’d bring luck, -Julius! Louis, fill Mr. Frost’s glass!” He sipped at his own, and then -went on. “The charm of a long shot, of facing long odds—that’s what -I’ve always liked. That’s the thing for us gamblers! And who isn’t a -gambler—willingly or _malgré lui_? He who lives gambles; so does he who -dies—except, of course, for the saving rites of the Church.” - -“You were a little late with that reservation, Arsenio,” I remarked. - -“You heretics are hardly worthy of it at all,” he retorted, smiling. -“But, to gamble well, you must gamble whole-heartedly. No balancing of -chances, no cutting the loss, no trying to have it both ways. Don’t you -agree with me, Frost?” - -“I don’t believe that Mr. Frost agrees with you in the least,” Lucinda -put in. “He thinks it’s quite possible to have it both ways. Don’t you, -Mr. Frost? To win without losing is your idea!” - -He gave her a long look, a reluctant sour smile. She was bantering -him—over something known to them, only to be conjectured by Arsenio and -me; something that had passed on the Lido? She had for him a touch of -the detached scornful amusement which Arsenio’s decorations had roused -in her, but with a sharper tang in it—more bite to less laughter. - -“I’m not a gambler, though I’m not afraid of a business risk,” he -answered. - -She laughed lightly. “A business risk would never have brought the -splendor of to-night!” She smiled round at the ridiculously festooned -walls. - -We were quickly disposing of an excellent, well-served dinner; -Louis was quick and quiet, fat Amedeo more sensible than he looked, -undoubtedly a good cook was in the background. Growing physically very -comfortable, I got largely rid of the queer apprehensions which had -haunted me; I paid less heed to Arsenio, and more to the secret subtle -duel which seemed to be going on between the other two. Arsenio played -more with his topic—birth, death, life, love—all gambles into which -men and women were involuntarily thrown, with no choice but to play -the cards or handle the dice; all true and obvious in a superficial -sort of way, but it seemed rather trifling—a mood in which life can be -regarded, but one in which few men or women really live it. That he was -one of the few himself, however, I was quite prepared to concede; the -magnitude of his gains—and of his loss—as convincing. - -Louis and Amedeo served us with coffee and Louis set a decanter of -brandy in front of Arsenio. - -Then they left us alone. Arsenio poured himself out a glass of brandy, -and handed the decanter round. Holding his glass in his hand, he turned -to Lucinda. “Will you drink with me—to show that you forgive my sins?” - -Her eyes widened a little at the suddenness of the appeal; but she -smiled still, and answered lightly, “Oh, I’ll drink with you——” She -sipped her brandy—“in memory of old days, Arsenio!” - -“I see,” he said, nodding his head at her gravely. She had refused -to drink with him on his terms; she would do it only on her own. -“Still—you shall forgive,” he persisted with one of his cunning smiles. -Then he turned suddenly to Godfrey Frost with a change of manner—with -a cold malice that I had never seen in him before, a malice with -no humor in it, a straightforward viciousness. “Then let us drink -together, my friend!” he said. “It was with that object that I brought -you here to-night. We’ll drink together, as we have failed together, -Godfrey Frost! A business risk you spoke of just now! It wasn’t a bad -speculation! A couple of hundred or so—Oh, I had more from your cousin, -but her motives were purely charitable, eh?—just a beggarly couple of -hundred for a chance at that!” A gesture indicated Lucinda. His voice -rose; it took on its rhetorical note, and the words fell into harmony -with it. “To buy a man’s honor and beauty like that for a couple of -hundred—not a bad risk!” - -Godfrey looked as if he had been suddenly hit in the face; he turned -a deep red and leant forward towards his host—his very queer host. He -was too shaken up to be ready with a reply. Lucinda sat motionless, -apparently aloof from the scene. But a very faint smile was still on -her lips. - -“What the devil’s the use of this sort of thing?” I expostulated—in -a purely conventional spirit, with one’s traditional reprobation -of “scenes.” My feeling somehow went no deeper. It seemed then an -inevitable thing that these three should have it out, before they went -their several ways; the conventions were all broken between them. - -“Because the truth’s good for him—and for me; for both of us who -trafficked in her.” - -Lucinda suddenly interposed, in a delicate scorn, an unsparing -truthfulness. “It’s only because you’ve failed yourself that you’re -angry with him, Arsenio. Let him alone; he’s had enough truth from me -this afternoon—and a lot of good advice. I told him to go home—to Nina -Dundrannan. And for Heaven’s sake don’t talk about ‘trafficking,’ as if -you were some kind of a social reformer!” - -She turned to me, actually laughing; and I began to laugh too. Well, -Godfrey looked absurd—like a dog being whipped by two people at once, -not knowing which he most wanted to bite, not sure whether he dared -bite either—possibly thinking also of a third whipping which would -certainly befall him if he followed Lucinda’s good advice. And Arsenio, -cruelly let down from his heroics, looked funnily crestfallen too. He -was not allowed to be picturesquely, rhetorically indignant—not with -Godfrey, not even with himself! - -“Besides,” she added, “he did offer to stick to his engagement to lunch -with me that day at Cimiez!” - -The mock admiration and gratitude with which she recalled this -valiant deed—to which she might, in my opinion, well have dedicated -a friendlier tone, since it was no slight exploit for him to beard -his Nina in that fashion—put a limit to poor Godfrey’s tongue-tied -endurance. - -“Yes, you were ready enough to take my lunches, and what else you could -get!” he sneered. - -Lucinda gave me just a glance; here was a business reckoner indeed! -Of course he had some right on his side, but he saw his right so -carnally; why couldn’t he have told her that they’d been friends—and -who could be only a friend to her? That was what, I expect, he meant in -his heart; but his instincts were blunt, and he had been lashed into -soreness. - -Still, though I was feeling for him to that extent, I could not help -returning Lucinda’s glance with a smile, while Arsenio chuckled in an -exasperating fashion. It was small wonder really that he pushed back -his chair from the table and, looking round at the company, groaned -out, “Oh, damn the lot of you!” - -The simplicity of this retort went home. I felt guilty myself, and -Lucinda was touched to remorse, if not to shame. “I told you not to -come to-night,” she murmured. “I told you that he only wanted to tease -you. You’d better go away, perhaps.” She looked at him, and his glance -obeyed hers instantly; she put out her hand and laid it on one of his -for just a moment. “And, after all, I did like the lunches. You’re -quite right there! Arsenio, can’t we part friends to-night—since we -must part, all of us?” - -“Oh, as you like!” said Arsenio impatiently. A sudden and deep -depression seemed to fall upon him; he sat back, staring dejectedly -at the table. He reminded one of a comedian whose jokes do not carry. -This banquet was to have been a great, grim joke. But it had fallen -flat—sunk now into just a wrangle. And at last his buoyant malice -failed to lift it—failed him indeed completely. We three men sat in a -dull silence; I saw Lucinda’s eyes grow dim with tears. - -Godfrey broke the silence by rising to his feet, clumsily, almost with -a stumble; I think that he caught his foot in the tablecloth, which -hung down almost to the floor. - -“I’ll go,” he said. “I’m sorry for all this. I’ve made a damned fool of -myself.” - -Nobody else spoke, or rose. - -“If it’s any excuse”—he almost stumbled in his speech, as he had almost -stumbled with his feet—“I love Lucinda. And you’ve used her damnably, -Valdez.” - -“For what I’ve done, I pay. For you—go and learn what love is.” This, -though as recorded it sounds like his theatrical manner, was not so -delivered. It came from him in a low, dreary voice, as though he were -totally dispirited. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it had -gone ten o’clock; he seemed to shiver as he noted the hour. He looked -across at me with a helpless appeal in his eyes. He looked like an -animal in a trap; a trap bites no less deeply for being of one’s own -devising. - -Godfrey was staring at him now in a dull, uncomprehending bewilderment. -Lucinda put her elbows on the table, and supported her chin in her -hands, her eyes set inquiringly on his face. I myself stretched out -my hand and clasped one of his. But he shook off my grasp, raised -his hands in the air and let them fall with a thud on the table; all -the things on it rattled; even the heavy plate that he had bought or -hired—I didn’t know which—for his futile banquet. Then he blurted out, -in the queerest mixture of justification, excuse, defiance, bravado: -“Oh, you don’t understand, but to me it means damnation! And I can’t -do it; now—now the time’s come, I can’t!” There was no doubt about his -actual, physical shuddering now. - -Lucinda did not move; she just raised her eyes from where he sat to -where Godfrey stood. “You’d better go,” she said. “Julius and I must -manage this.” Her tone was contemptuous still. - -I got up and took Godfrey’s arm. He let me lead him out of the room -without resistance, and, while I was helping him on with his hat and -coat, asked in a bewildered way, “What does it mean?” - -“He meant to go out in a blaze of glory—with a _beau geste_! But he -hasn’t got the pluck for it at the finish. That’s about the size of it.” - -“My God, what a chap! What a queer chap!” he mumbled, as he began to go -downstairs. He turned his head back. “See you to-morrow?” - -“Lord, I don’t know! I’ve got him to look after. He might find his -courage again! I can’t leave him alone. Good-night.” I watched him down -to the next landing, and then went back towards the _salon_. I did not -think of shutting the outer door behind me. - -Just on the threshold of the _salon_ I met Arsenio himself in the act -of walking out of the room, rather unsteadily. “Where are you going?” I -demanded angrily. - -“Only to get some whisky. I’ve a bottle in my room. I want a -whisky-and-soda. It’s all right; it really is now, old fellow.” - -“I shall come with you.” I knew of a certain thing that he had in his -own room upstairs, and was not going to trust him alone. - -He shrugged his shoulders slightly, but made no further objection. -“We’ll be back in a minute,” I called out to Lucinda, who was still -sitting at the table, her attitude unchanged. Then Arsenio and I passed -through the open door and went up the stairs together. As we started on -our way, he said, with a curious splutter that was half a sob in his -voice, “Lucinda knows me best, and you see she’s not afraid. She didn’t -try to stop me.” - -“She’s never believed you meant it at all; but I did,” I answered. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -THE MASCOT - - -ARSENIO opened the door of the apartment with his latchkey and stood -aside to let me pass in first. The door of his sitting room, the long, -narrow room which I have described before, stood slightly ajar, and a -light shone through it. I advanced across the passage—the hall could -hardly be called more—and flung the door wide open as I entered, -Arsenio following just behind. - -There, in the middle of the room, two or three paces from the big -bureau, one side of which flapped open, showing shelves and drawers, -stood Louis the valet, the waiter from that “establishment” of -Arsenio’s at Nice, the seller of the winning ticket, the author of -Arsenio’s luck. In his left hand he held, clasped against his body, -a large black leather portfolio or letter case; in his right was the -revolver which his master had given him to clean. - -He stood quite still, frightened, as it seemed, into immobility, -glaring at us with a terrified face. He had thought that we were safely -bestowed, round the table downstairs, for some time to come. Our -footsteps on the stairs had disturbed him when his work was almost -finished; our entrance cut off his retreat. Even if he had had the -presence of mind to bar the door, it would have given him only a brief -respite; escape by the window was impossible; but he did not look as if -he were capable of reckoning up the situation, or his chances, at all. -He was numb with fear. - -“Drop that thing, you scoundrel!” I cried; and it is my belief to this -day that he would have obeyed me, put down his weapon, and meekly -surrendered, if he had been let alone. He was certainly not built for -a burglar or for deeds of violence, though I suppose the possession of -the revolver had nerved him to this enterprise of his. - -But Arsenio did not let him alone, or wait to see the effect of my -order. Even as I spoke, he dashed forward in front of me, uttering -a wild cry; it did not sound like fear—either for his money or for -his life—or even like rage; really, it sounded more like triumph -than anything else. And he made straight for the armed man, utterly -regardless of the weapon that he held. - -Thus put to it, Louis fired—once, twice. Arsenio ran, as it were, right -on to the first bullet. I had darted forward to support his attempt -to rush the thief—if that really was what he had in his mind—and he -fell back plump into my arms, just as the second bullet whizzed past -my head. Then with a yell of sheer horror—at what he had done, I -suppose—Louis dropped the revolver with a bang on the floor, dropped -the fat portfolio too with a flop, and, before I, cumbered with -Arsenio’s helpless body, could do anything to stop him, bolted out of -the room like a scared rabbit. I heard his feet pattering down the -stairs at an incredible pace. - -Arsenio was groaning and clutching at his chest. I supported him to his -shabby old sofa, and laid him down there. Then I violently rang the -bell which communicated with the ground floor where Amedeo abode. - -The next moment Lucinda came into the room—very quickly, but calmly. -“Did he do it himself, after all?” - -“No, Louis; he’d been rifling the bureau; and the revolver——” - -“Ah, it was Louis that I heard running downstairs! I’ll look after him. -Go for a doctor.” There were no telephones in the old _palazzo_; the -owner had not spent his precarious gains in that fashion! - -“I thought of sending Amedeo——” - -“You’ll be quicker. Go, Julius.” She knelt down by Arsenio’s sofa. - -As I went on my errand—I knew of a doctor who lived quite close—I met -old Amedeo, lumbering upstairs, half-dressed, and told him what had -happened. “He looks very bad,” I added. - -Amedeo flung up his hands with pious ejaculations. “As I go by the -_piano nobile_ I’ll call Father Garcia, and take him up with me. Don -Arsenio’s a good Catholic.” - -Yes! That fact perhaps had something to do with the course which events -had ultimately taken that night! - -When I got back with the doctor—he had gone to bed, and kept me -waiting—Arsenio had been moved into his bedroom. The priest was still -with him, but, when he was informed of the doctor’s arrival, he came -out and Amedeo took the doctor in to the patient, on whom Lucinda was -attending. - -Father Garcia was a tall, imposing old ecclesiastic, of Spanish -extraction, and apparently a friend of the Valdez family, for he spoke -of “Arsenio” without prefix. “I have done my office. The doctor can -do nothing—Oh, I’ve seen many men die in the war, and I can tell! -He’s just conscious, but he can hardly speak—it hurts him to try. -Poor Arsenio! His father was a very worthy man, and this poor boy -was a good son of the Church. For the rest——!” He shrugged his ample -shoulders; he was probably reflecting the opinions of the aristocratic -and antiquated coterie which Arsenio had been in the habit of laying -under requisitions when he was in Venice. “But a curious event, a -curious event, just after his prodigious luck!” Father Garcia’s eyes -bulged rather, and they seemed to grow bulgier still as, between sniffs -at a pinch of snuff, he exclaimed slowly, “Three million francs! Donna -Lucinda will be rich!” - -The old fellow seemed disposed to gossip; there was nothing else to do, -while we awaited the verdict. - -“A gamester, I’m afraid, yes. His father feared as much for him—and a -good many of my friends had reason to suspect the same. You’re a friend -of his, Mr.—er——?” - -“My name’s Rillington, sir,” I said. - -He raised his brows above his bulging eyes. “Oh!—er—let me see! Wasn’t -Donna Lucinda herself a Rillington—or am I making a mistake?” - -“Only just,” said I. I couldn’t help smiling. “Donna Lucinda all but -became a Rillington——” - -“Ah!” he interrupted. “Now I remember the story. Some visitors from -London brought it over in the early days of the war—I think they were -propaganda agents of your nation, in fact. It was before Italy made the -mis——it was before Italy joined in the war.” - -“Donna Lucinda’s maiden name was Knyvett. Her mother and she once -rented this very apartment from Arsenio, I believe.” - -“Yes, and I think I remember that too.” However, he did not seem -to remember too much about it, for he went on. “And so the romance -started, I suppose! She’s a very beautiful woman, Mr. Rillington.” - -The expression in his eyes justified my next remark. “Whatever else one -may say about the poor fellow, he was a devoted lover to his wife, and -she was—absolutely true to him.” - -“I’m old-fashioned enough to think that that covers a multitude of -sins. She’s not, I gather, a Catholic?” - -“No, I believe not.” - -“A pity!” he said meditatively; whether he was thinking of Lucinda’s -soul or of her money, I didn’t know—and I will forbear from -speculating. If he was thinking about the money, it was, of course, -only with an eye—a bulging eye—on other people’s souls—as well as -Lucinda’s. - -“Pray, sir,” I asked, on a sudden impulse, “do you know anything of a -friend of Arsenio’s here—Signor Alessandro Panizzi?” - -“I know what everybody knows,” he replied with a sudden -fierceness—“that he’s a pestilent fellow—a radical, a freemason, an -atheist! Was he a friend of Arsenio’s?” - -“Oh, well, I really don’t know. I happened to meet them walking -together on the Piazza this afternoon, and Arsenio introduced me.” - -“Then he kept worse company than any of us suspected,” the old priest -sternly pronounced. If the opinion thus indicated was a just one, -Signor Panizzi must be a very bad man indeed! I was just adding hastily -that I knew nothing of the man myself (he had looked the acme of -respectability) when Lucinda opened the door of the room and beckoned -to me. With a low bow to Father Garcia, who was still looking outraged -at the thought of Signor Panizzi, I obeyed her summons. - -“He has only a few minutes to live,” she whispered hurriedly, as we -crossed the passage. “He seems peaceful in mind, and suffers little -pain, except when he tries to speak. Still I’m sure there’s something -he wants to say to you; I saw it in his eyes when I mentioned your -name.” - -He was in bed, partly undressed. The end was obviously very near. -The doctor was standing a yard or two from the bed, not attempting -any further ministration. I bent over Arsenio, low down, nearly to -his pale face, and laid my hand gently on one of his. He did look -peaceful; and, as he saw me, the ghost of his monkeyish smile formed -itself on his lips. He spoke, with a groan and an effort: “I told -you—Julius—that fellow would—bring me luck. But you never believed—you -never believed—in my——” His voice choked, his words ended, and his -eyes closed. It was only a few minutes more before we left him to the -offices of old Amedeo and the old wife whom he summoned from their -cupboard of a place on the ground floor. - -By this time the police were on the scene; there is no need to detail -their formalities, though they took some time. The case appeared a -simple one, but Lucinda and I were told that we must stay where we -were, pending investigations, and the arrest and trial of Louis; we -knew him by no other name, and knew about him no more than what Arsenio -had told me. They let Lucinda retire to her apartment soon after -midnight, and me to mine half an hour later; one of them remained -on duty in the hall of the _palazzo_; and, of course, they took that -portfolio away with them. - -In the end the formalities proved to be just that, and no more. Two -days later a body was found in the Grand Canal, having been in the -water apparently about thirty hours. Amedeo and I identified it. The -inference was that, although Louis had no stomach for fighting, he had -that form of courage in which his master had at the last moment failed; -it is probable that he was not a good Catholic. I felt indebted to him -for the manner of his end; it saved us a vast deal of trouble. Poor -wretch! I do not believe that he had any more intention of killing -Arsenio than I had myself. The knowledge of all that money overcame his -cupidity; perhaps he felt some proprietary right in it! The possession -of the revolver probably screwed him up to the enterprise. But the -actual shooting was, I dare swear, an instinctive act of self-defense; -Arsenio’s furious, seemingly exultant, rush terrified him. Anyhow, -there was an end of him; the mascot had brought the luck and, having -fulfilled its function, went its appointed way. - -But by no means yet an end of Don Arsenio Valdez! That remarkable -person had prepared posthumous effects, so characteristic of him -in their essence, yet so over-characteristic, that he seemed to be -skillfully burlesquing or travestying himself: in those last days -he must have been in a state of excitement almost amounting to -light-headedness (he had seemed barely sane at the banquet), a complete -prey to his own vanity and posturing, showing off on the brink of the -grave, contriving how to show off even after it had closed over him; -and speculating—I do not in the least doubt—how all the business would -impress Lucinda. One thing fails to be said about it: he succeeded in -stamping it with that vinegary comedy which was the truest hall mark of -Monkey Valdez. - -Quite early on the morning after the catastrophe—if that be the right -word to use—I was sitting in my room, musing over it and awaiting -a summons from Lucinda, when I was favored with a call from that -eminently respectable (?), most pestilent (?) person, Signor Alessandro -Panizzi. After elaborate lamentations and eulogies (it would have -warmed Arsenio’s heart to hear them), and explanations of how he, in -his important position, was in close touch with the police authorities, -and so heard of everything directly it happened, and consequently had -heard of this atrocious crime as soon as he was out of his bed—he -approached the object of his visit. I was, he had understood from the -deceased gentleman, his confidential friend; also an intimate family -friend of Donna Lucinda; was I aware that Don Arsenio had made a -disposition of his property on the afternoon of the very day of his -death?—“a thing which might impress foolish and superstitious people,” -Signor Panizzi remarked with a sad but superior smile. He himself, as -a notary, had drawn up the document, which Don Arsenio had executed -in due form; it was in his custody; he produced from his pocket a -copy, or rather an abstract, of the operative part of it. To sum up -this instrument as briefly as possible, Arsenio bequeathed: First, ten -thousand lire to the Reverend Father Garcia, in trust to cause masses -to be said for his soul, should Holy Church so permit (it sounded -as if Arsenio had his doubts, whether well-founded or not, I do not -know, and, as things had turned out, immaterial); secondly, the entire -residue of his estate to his wife, the most excellent Signora Donna -Lucinda Valdez, his sole surviving near relative; but, thirdly, should -the said most excellent Lady, being already fully provided for (!), -accept only the _palazzo_—as it was his earnest wish that she should -accept it, his ancestral residence—and renounce the inheritance of his -personal estate, then and in that case, he bequeathed the whole of that -personal estate to Signor Alessandro Panizzi and two other gentlemen -(I forgot their names, but they were both, I subsequently learnt from -Father Garcia, “pestilent” friends of Panizzi’s, one may suppose, and -naturally pestilent), on a trust to apply the same, in such ways as the -law permitted, to the use and benefit of the City of Venice and its -inhabitants, which and who were so dear to the heart of the adopted but -devoted son of the said City, Arsenio Valdez. - -“It is prodigious!” said Signor Alessandro Panizzi. He handed me the -abstract, adding, “You will perhaps like to show it to the Excellent -Lady?” He paused. “It is, of course, a question what course she will -adopt. The sum is a large one, I understand.” - -The anxiety that showed itself in his voice was natural and creditable -to a Venetian patriot—and quite intelligible too in a gentleman who -saw himself with the chance of handling an important public trust. -There would be _kudos_ to be got out of that! But I did not pay much -attention to his anxiety. - -“You’re right. It is prodigious,” I said, smiling broadly in spite of -myself. How Arsenio must have enjoyed giving those instructions! No -wonder he had looked complacent when I met him with Panizzi on the -Piazza; and no wonder that Panizzi had been so deferential. A foretaste -for Arsenio of the posthumous praise which he was engineering—the talk -of him after his death, the speculation about him! Because, of course, -he was quite safe with Lucinda—and he knew it. He was obliged, I -believe, though I do not profess to know the law, to leave her part of -his property. But it was handsome, more gallant and chivalrous, to give -it all to her—in the sure and certain knowledge that she would not take -the money brought by the winning ticket! And, next to her in his heart -came his dear City of Venice! If not beloved Lucinda, then beloved -Venice! The two Queens of his heart! What a fine flourish! What an exit -for himself he had prepared! The plaudits would sound loud and long -after he had left the stage. - -“It is, of course, possible,” I found Signor Panizzi saying, “that our -lamented friend had discussed the matter with his wife and that they -had——” - -“Well, that’s not at all unlikely. You’d like me to tell her about -this?” - -“It would, no doubt, be convenient to have, as soon as possible, an -indication of her——” - -“Naturally. I’ll speak to her, and let you know her views as soon as -possible. It is a large sum, as you say. She may desire to take time -for consideration.” I knew that she would not take five minutes. - -“I may tell you—without breach of confidence, I think—that our lamented -friend was at first disposed to confine his benefaction, in the event -of its becoming operative by his wife’s renunciation, to distinctly -ecclesiastical charities. I allowed myself the liberty—the honor—of -suggesting to him a wider scope. ‘Why be sectional?’ I suggested. ‘The -gratitude, the remembrance, of all your fellow citizens—that would be -a greater thing, Don Arsenio,’ I permitted myself to say. And the idea -appealed to him.” - -“Really, then,” I remarked, “Venice is hardly less indebted to -you—Venice as a whole, I mean—than to poor Arsenio himself!” - -“No, no, I couldn’t allow that to be said. But I’m proud if I, in any -way, had a humble——” - -“Exactly. And if that comes out—and surely why shouldn’t it?—everybody -will be very grateful to you—except perhaps the distinctly -ecclesiastical charities! By the way, do you know this Father Garcia? -He’s living in this house, on the first floor, and we called him in to -see Arsenio—last night, you know,—before he died.” - -“I don’t know Father Garcia personally,” he said stiffly, “but very -well by repute.” He paused; I waited to see what he would say of Father -Garcia. “An utter reactionary, a black reactionary, and none too good -an Italian.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Strongly suspected of -Austrian sympathies!” - -“I see,” I replied gravely. He had almost got even with the old -priest’s “pestilent.” - -He rose and bade me a ceremonious farewell. As he went out, he -said, “This bequest—and whether it comes into operation or not, it -must receive publicity—coming from a member of the old reactionary -nobility—from a Spanish Catholic—may well be considered to mark a stage -in the growing solidarity of Italy.” - -That seemed as much as even Arsenio himself could have expected of it! - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -HOMAGE - - -LUCINDA’S mental idiosyncrasy resisted any attempt at idealization; for -all that she had accused me of making the attempt. Though she would -not persist in cruelty, and would remove herself from the temptation -to it when once she had realized what it was, yet she could be, and -had been, cruel. In like manner she could be hard and callous, very -inaccessible to sentimentality, to that obvious appeal to the emotions -which takes its strength from our common humanity, with its common -incidents—its battle, murder, and sudden death—and so on. She did not -accept these things at their face value, or in what one may call their -universal aspect. In her inner mind—she was not very articulate, or at -all theoretical, about it—but in her inner mind she seemed to re-value -each of such incidents by an individual and personal standard which, -in its coolness and intellectual detachment, certainly approached what -most of us good human creatures—so ready to cry, as we are so ready -to laugh—would call a degree of callousness. There was a considerable -clear-sightedness in this disposition of hers, but also fully that -amount of error which (as I suppose) our own personality always -introduces into our judgments of people. We see them through our own -spectacles, which sometimes harden and sometimes soften the outlines -of the objects regarded—among which is included the wearer of the -spectacles. - -She had loved Arsenio once; she had cleaved unto him with a fidelity to -which—in these days—her own word “primitive” must be allowed to be the -most obviously applicable; remorse had smitten her over her cruelty to -him. All the same, in a measure she erred about him, judging his love -solely by the standard of his conduct, his romance in the light of his -frivolity and shamelessness, his sensibility by his failure adequately -to understand a subtle and specialized sensibility in herself. That, at -least, was the attitude to which her years of association with him—now -intimate, now distant and aloof—had brought her. It was not, of course, -to be attributed in anything like its entirety to the girl whom he had -kissed at Cragsfoot, or whom he had loved at Venice, or carried off -from Waldo. Her final judgment of him was the result of what is called, -in quite another connection, a progressive revelation. - -Thus it happened that his tragic death was—to put it moderately—no more -tragic to her than it was to me his friend rather by circumstances than -choice or taste, by interest and amusement more than by affection. -She took him at his word, so to say, and accepted the note of -ironical comedy which he himself was responsible for importing into -the occurrence. Keen-eyed for that aspect, and in a bitter way keenly -appreciative of it, she was blind to any other, and indeed reluctant to -try to see it—almost afraid that, even dead, he might befool her again, -still irremediably suspicious that he was deceiving her by lies and -posturings. As a result, she was really and truly—in the depths of her -soul—unmoved by the catastrophe, and not unamused by the trappings with -which Arsenio had be-draped it—or, rather, his previously rehearsed but -never actually presented, version of it. - -For the outside observer—comparatively outside, anyhow—and for -the amateur of comedy and its material—human foibles, prejudices, -ambitions—there was amusement to be had. As soon as Lucinda’s decision -to renounce the inheritance—except the _palazzo_ which, as she -observed to me, had been honestly come by, and honestly preserved by -being let out in lodgings—Arsenio’s last will and testament became -an animated topic of the day—and a rather controversial one. The -clericals and their journals—Signor Panizzi’s black reactionaries and -pro-Austrians—paid lip-service to the ten thousand lire for masses, -but could not refrain from some surprise at the choice of trustees -which the lamented Don Arsenio—a good Catholic and of old noble -stock—had made (the trustees were all pestilent, as I had suspected); -while the other side—the patriots, the enlightened, the radicals, -the pestilents, while most gratefully acknowledging his munificence, -and belauding the eminent gentlemen to whom he had confided his -trust, pointed out with satisfaction how the spirit of progress and -enlightenment had proved too strong in the end even for a man of Don -Arsenio’s clerical antecedents and proclivities. As for Signor Panizzi, -both sides agreed that his finger had been in the pie; his position as -first and dominating trustee was for the one a formidable menace to, -and for the other a sufficient guarantee of, a wise, beneficial, and -honest administration of the fund. - -Under the spur of this public interest and discussion, Don Arsenio’s -funeral assumed considerable dimensions, and was in fact quite -an affair—with a sprinkling of “Blacks,” a larger sprinkling of -“pestilents,” a big crowd of curious Venetian citizens, a religious -service of much pomp conducted by Father Garcia, followed at the -graveside (the priests and the “Blacks” having withdrawn with -significant ceremony) by a fiery panegyric from Signor Panizzi. -Altogether, when I next go to Venice, I shall not be surprised to see a -statue of Arsenio there; I hope that the image will wear a smile on its -face—a smile of his old variety. - -Lucinda did not attend the ceremony; it would have been too much -for her feelings—for some of her feelings, at all events. But to my -surprise I saw Godfrey Frost there. I had been thrust, against my -will, into the position of one of the chief mourners; he kept himself -more in the background, and did not join me until the affair was -finished. Then we extricated ourselves from the crowd as soon as we -could, and made our way back together, ending up by sitting down to a -cup of coffee on the Piazza. I had seen and heard nothing of him since -his disordered exit from my apartment, just before the catastrophe. I -had indeed been inclined to conclude that he had left Venice and, not -thinking that his condolences would be well received, had left none -behind him. But here he was—and in a gloomy and disgruntled state of -mind, as it seemed. He had been thinking things over, no doubt—with the -natural conclusion that he had not got much profit or pleasure out of -the whole business, out of that acquaintance with the Valdez’s, which -he had once pursued so ardently. - -“I didn’t choose to seem to run away,” he told me, “in case there was -any investigation, or a trial, or anything of that kind. Besides”—he -added this rather reluctantly—“I had a curiosity to see the last of the -fellow. But they tell me I shan’t be wanted, as things have turned out, -and I’m off to-morrow—going home, Julius.” - -There was evidently more that he wanted to say. I smoked in silence. - -“I don’t want to see Lucinda—Madame Valdez,” he blurted out, after a -pause. “But I wish you’d just say that I’m sorry if I annoyed her. I’ve -made a fool of myself; I’m pretty good at business; but a fool outside -it—so far, at least. I don’t understand what she was up to, but—well, -I’m willing to suppose——” - -I helped him out. “You’re willing to give a lady the benefit of the -doubt? It’s usual, you know. I’ve very little doubt that she’ll make -friends with you now, if you like.” - -He turned to me with a smile, rather sour, yet shrewd. “Would you think -that good enough yourself?” - -At first I thought that he was questioning me as to the state of my own -affections. But the words which he immediately added—in a more precise -definition of his question—showed that he was occupied with his own -more important case. “In my place—situated as I am, you know?” - -As a result of shock, or of meditation thereupon, or of contemplation -of the lamentable life and death of Arsenio Valdez, Mr. Godfrey Frost -was becoming himself again! I do not think that the Wesleyan strain -had anything to do with the matter at this stage. It was the Frost -business instinct that had revived, the business view. Godfrey might -have counted the world well lost for Lucinda’s love—at all events, well -risked; business-risked, so to put it. But not for the mere friendship, -the hope of which I had held out to him. “In my place—situated as I -am.” The phrases carried a good deal to me, a tremendous lot to him. -The world—such a world as his—was not to be lost, or bartered, for -less than a full recompense. After all, whoever did talk of losing -his world for friendship? Most people think themselves meritorious -if they lose a hundred pounds on that score. And Godfrey had in all -likelihood—the precise figures were unknown—already dropped a good -deal more than that, and had taken in return little but hard words and -buffeting. No wonder the Frost instinct looked suspiciously at any -further venture! Not of actual money, of course; that stood only as a -symbol; and to be even an adequate symbol would have required immense -multiplication. If a symbol were to be used in any seriousness, the old -one served best—the old personification of all that he, in an hour of -urgent impulse, had been willing to lose or to risk for Lucinda. - -“Well, my dear fellow,” I said urbanely, “there were always -circumstances, to which we needn’t refer in detail, that made any -intimate acquaintance between you and the Valdez’s—well, difficult. -Affectation to deny it! I’ve even felt it myself; of course in a minor -degree.” - -“Why a minor degree?” he asked rather aggressively. “If I’m Nina’s -cousin, you’re Waldo’s!” - -“There’s all the difference,” I said decisively, though I was not at -all prepared to put the difference into words. However, I made a weak -and conventional effort: “Old Waldo’s so happy now that he can’t bear -any malice——” - -He cut across the lame inadequacy of this explanation (not that there -wasn’t a bit of truth in it). - -“I’m damned rich,” he observed moodily, “and everybody behaves to me as -if I was damned important—except you and the Valdez’s, of course. But -I’m not free. Let’s have a liqueur to wash down that coffee, shall we?” - -I agreed, and we had one. It was not a moment to refuse him creature -comforts. - -“I’m part of the concern,” he resumed, after a large sip. “And jolly -lucky to be, of course—I see that. But it limits what one may call -one’s independence. It doesn’t matter a hang what you do, Julius (This -to me, London representative of Coldston’s!)—Oh, privately, I mean, -of course. But with me, private life—well, family life, I mean—and -business are so infernally mixed up together. Nina can’t absolutely -give me the sack, but it would be infernally inconvenient not to be on -terms with her.” He paused, and added impressively: “It might in the -end break up the business.” - -One might as well think of breaking up the great Pyramid or Mount -Popocatepetl! Too large an order even for an age of revolution! - -“But you and Nina have nothing to quarrel about,” I -expostulated—dishonestly. - -He eyed me, again smiling sourly. “Oh, come, you know better than -that!” his smile said, though his tongue didn’t. “And, besides, it -would upset that idea that she and I talked over, and that rather -particularly attracted me. I think I spoke to you about it? About -Cragsfoot, you know.” - -“Have you heard from Lady Dundrannan lately?” I inquired. - -“No—not since I left the Villa.” He made this admission rather sulkily. - -“Ah, then you’re not up-to-date! Cragsfoot’s all arranged. I’m to have -it.” And I told him about the family arrangement. - -Here I must confess to a bit of malicious triumph. The things envisaged -itself to me as a fight between Rillington and Frost, and Rillington -had won. Waldo’s old allegiance had resisted complete absorption. But -my feeling was—at the moment—rather ungenerous; he was a good deal -humbled already. - -He took the disappointment very well. “Well, it was a fancy of mine, -but of course you ought to have the first call, if Waldo sells out. So -you’ll be living at Cragsfoot after Sir Paget’s death?” He appeared to -ruminate over this prospect. - -“Yes—and I hope to be there a good deal of my time, even before that.” - -“With Nina and Waldo for your neighbors at Briarmount?” - -“Of course. Why not? What do you mean? I shall see you there too -sometimes, I hope.” - -“I hope you’ll get on well with her.” He was smiling still, though in -a moody, malicious way—as one is apt to smile when contemplating the -difficulties or vexations of others. “You and your family,” he added -the next moment. And with that he rose from his chair. “No good asking -you to dine to-night, I suppose?” I shook my head. “No, you’ll have to -be on hand, of course! Well, good-by, then. I’m off early to-morrow.” -He held out his hand. “It’ll interest Nina to hear about all this.” He -waved his hand round Venice, but no doubt he referred especially to the -death and burial of the eminent Don Arsenio Valdez. - -“Pray give her my best regards. Pave the way for me as a neighbor, -Godfrey!” - -“Taking everything together, it’ll need a bit of smoothing, perhaps.” -He nodded to me, and strolled away across the Piazza. - -His words had given me material for a half-amused, half-scared -reflection—the mood which the neighborhood of Lady Dundrannan—and -much more the possibility of any conflict with Lady Dundrannan—always -aroused in me. Sir Paget’s letter had reflected—in a humor slightly -spiced with restiveness—the present relations between Cragsfoot and -Briarmount. What would they be with me in residence, and presently in -possession? With me and my family there, as Godfrey Frost said? My -family which did not exist at present! - -But I did not sit there reflecting. I paid for our -refreshments—Godfrey, in his preoccupation, had omitted even to offer -to do so—and went back to the _palazzo_. Old Amedeo waylaid me in -the hall and told me that Donna Lucinda had requested me to pay her -a visit as soon as I returned from the funeral; but he prevented me -from obeying her invitation for a few minutes. He was in a state of -exultation that had to find expression. - -“Ah, what a funeral! You saw me there? No! But I was, of course. A -triumph! The name of Valdez will stand high in Venice henceforth! Oh, I -don’t like Panizzi and that lot, any more than Father Garcia does. My -sympathies are clerical. None the less, it was remarkable! Alas, what -wouldn’t Don Arsenio have done if he hadn’t been cut off in his youth!” - -That was a question which I felt—and feel—quite incapable of answering, -save in the most general and non-committal terms. “Something -astonishing!” I said with a nod, as I dodged past the broad barrier of -Amedeo’s figure and succeeded in reaching the staircase. - -Right up to the top of the tall old house I had to go this time—past -Father Garcia and his noble “Black” friends, past the scene of the -banquet and the scene of the catastrophe. I think that Lucinda must -have been listening for my steps; she opened the door herself before I -had time to knock on it. - -She was back in the needlewoman’s costume now—her black frock, with -her shawl about her shoulders. Perhaps this attire solved the problem -of mourning in the easiest way; or perhaps it was a declaration of -her intentions. I did not wait to ask myself that; the expression of -her face caught my immediate attention. It was one of irrepressible -amusement—of the eager amusement which seeks to share itself with -another appreciative soul. She caught me by the hand, and drew me -in, leading me through the narrow passage to the door of her sitting -room—much of a replica of Arsenio’s on the floor below, though the -ceiling was less lofty and the windows narrower. - -Then I saw what had evoked the expression on her face. Between the -windows, propped up against the discolored old hangings on the wall, -stood the largest wreath of _immortelles_ which I have ever seen on or -off a grave, in or out of a shop window; and, occupying about half of -the interior of the circle, there was a shield, or plaque, of purple -velvet—Oh, very sumptuous!—bearing an inscription in large letters of -gold: - -“To the Illustrious Donna Lucinda Valdez and to the Immortal Memory -of the Illustrious Señor Don Arsenio Valdez, the City and Citizens of -Venice offer Gratitude and Homage.” - -“Isn’t it—tremendous?” whispered Lucinda, her arm now in mine. - -“It certainly is some size,” I admitted, eyeing the creation ruefully. - -“No, no! The whole thing, I mean! Arsenio himself! Oh, how I should -like to tell them the truth!” - -“The funeral too was—tremendous,” I remarked. “But I suppose Amedeo’s -told you?” - -“Yes, he has! Also Father Garcia, who paid me a visit of condolence. -And a number of Arsenio’s noble friends have sent condolences by -stately, seedy menservants. Oh, and those trustees have left their -cards, of course! Panizzi and the others!” - -All this time we had been standing arm in arm, opposite the portentous -monument of grief, gratitude, and homage. Now Lucinda withdrew her hand -from my arm, and sank into a chair. - -“I’m having fame thrust upon me! I’m being immortalized. The munificent -widow of the munificent Arsenio Valdez! I’m becoming a public -character! Oh, he is having his revenge on me, isn’t he? Julius, I -can’t stand it! I must fly from Venice!” - -My attention stuck on the monstrous wreath. “What are you going to do -with that?” - -“I wonder if there would ever be a dark enough night to tie a flat-iron -to it, steal out with it round our necks, and drop it in the Grand -Canal!” Lucinda speculated wistfully. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -THE AIR ON THE COAST - - -“AND did a dark enough night ever come, Julius?” Sir Paget asked with a -chuckle. - -It was late summer. I had arrived that day to pay him a visit and, -incidentally, to complete the transaction by which Waldo was to convey -to me the reversion to Cragsfoot. My uncle and I sat late together -after dinner, while I regaled him with the story of the last days of -Arsenio Valdez—of his luck, his death, and his glorification. - -“Alas, sir, such things can’t actually happen in this world. They’re -dreams—Platonic ideas laid up in heaven—inward dispositions towards -things which can’t be literally translated into action! We did it in -our souls. But, no; the wreath doesn’t, in bare and naked fact, lie at -the bottom of the Grand Canal. It hangs proudly in the hall of Palazzo -Valdez, the apple of his eye to fat old Amedeo, with whom Lucinda left -it in charge—a pledge never likely to be demanded back—when she leased -the _palazzo_ to him. He undertakes the upkeep and expenses, pays her -about two hundred a year for it, and expects to do very well by letting -out the apartments. He considers that the wreath will add prestige to -the place and enhance its letting value. Besides, he’s genuinely very -proud of it, and the Valdez legend loses nothing in his hands, I assure -you.” - -“It’s a queer story. And that’s the end of it, is it? Because it’s -nearly six months since our friend the Monkey, as you boys used to call -him, played his last throw—and won!” - -“There’s very little more to tell. As you know, Sir Ezekiel’s death -sent me on my travels once again—to the States and South America; -I was appointed Managing Director, and had to go inspecting, and -reorganizing, and so forth. That’s all settled. I’m established now in -town—and here, thank God, I am—at old Cragsfoot again!” - -“You’ve certainly been a good deal mixed up in the affair—by fate or -choice,” he said, smiling, “but you’re not the hero, are you? Arsenio -claims that _rôle_! Or the heroine! What of her, Julius?” - -“She came back to England four or five months ago. She’s living in -rooms at Hampstead. She’s got the _palazzo_ rent, and she still does -her needlework; she gets along pretty comfortably.” - -“You’ve seen her since you came back, I suppose?” - -“Yes, pretty nearly every day,” I answered. “She was the first person -I went to see when I got back to London; she was the last person I saw -before I left London this morning.” - -He sat rubbing his hands together, and looking into the bright fire of -logs that his old body found pleasant now, even on summer evenings; the -wind blows cold off the sea very often at Cragsfoot. - -“You’re telling me the end of the story now, aren’t you, Julius?” - -“Yes, I hope and think so. Indeed, why shouldn’t I say that I know it? -I think that we both knew from the hour of Arsenio’s death. We had -been too much together—too close in spirit through it all—for anything -else. How could we say good-by and go our separate ways after all that? -It would have seemed to us both utterly unnatural. First, my head had -grown full of her—in those talks at Ste. Maxime that I told you we’d -had; and, when a woman’s concerned, the heart’s apt to follow the head, -isn’t it?” - -“I don’t wonder at either head or heart. She was a delightful child; -she seems to have grown into a beautiful woman—yes, she would have—and -one that might make a man think about her. There was nothing between -you while he lived? No, I don’t ask that question, I’ve no right -to—and, I think, no need to.” - -“With her there couldn’t have been; it was as impossible as it proved -in the end for her to marry Waldo. For her it was a virtue in me that I -knew it.” - -“She wasn’t married to Arsenio Valdez when she ran away from Waldo?” - -“In her own eyes she was, and when he called her—called her back—well, -she had to go.” - -“Ah, I’ve sometimes fancied that there might have been some untold -history like that.” - -“She now wishes that you and Waldo—just you two—should know that there -was. Will you tell him, sir? I’d rather not. She thinks it may make you -and him feel more gently to her; she’s proud herself, you know, and was -sorry to wound others in their pride.” - -“It’s generous of her. I’ll tell him—what I must; and you need tell me -no more than you have. I shouldn’t wonder if the idea isn’t quite new -to him either. There are—quarters—from which something of the sort may -have been suggested, eh, Julius?” - -“I know nothing as to that, but, as you say, it’s very possible. You’ll -have gathered how the feelings of these two ladies towards one another -runs through the whole business. And we’re not finished with them yet. -Before Waldo sets his hand to that agreement, he must know that the -arrangement which is to bring me to Cragsfoot will bring Lucinda there -too.” - -“Yes, as its mistress; even in my lifetime, if she so pleases; after -me, in any case.” He looked across to me, smiling. “And the moment so -difficult—the more difficult because it’s otherwise so triumphant! -The Heir-Apparent is born—a month ago—I wrote you about it. The -dynasty is assured; Her Majesty is at her grandest and—I will add—her -most gracious. I saw her about again for the first time the day -before yesterday, and she said to me, ‘Now I’m really content, Sir -Paget!’—implying, as it seemed to me, that the subject world ought -to be content also. All the Court was there—the Heir itself, our -dear old Prince Consort, the Grand Vizier—forgive me mixing East and -West, but that seems to be the sort of position which she assigns -to young Godfrey Frost; an exalted but precarious position, with a -throne on one hand, and a bowstring on the other! Oh, yes, and there -was a Lady-in-Waiting into the bargain, a pretty girl called Eunice -Something-or-other.” - -“Oh, yes, she was at Villa San Carlo—Eunice Unthank,” said I, smiling. -Nina—pertinacious as a limpet! - -“And now we’re to come breaking in on this benevolent despotism! Our -schemes border on conspiracy, don’t they?” He grew graver, though he -still smiled whimsically. “A reconciliation possible?” he suggested -doubtfully. - -I laughed. “There’s a crowning task for your diplomacy, Sir Paget!” - -“If I could change the hearts of women, I should be a wizard, not a -diplomatist. Their feuds have a grand implacability beside which the -quarrels of nations are trivial and transient affairs. In this matter, -I’m a broken reed—don’t lean upon me, Julius! And could you answer for -your side—for your fair belligerent?” - -“Lucinda makes war by laughing,” said I, laughing myself. “But—well, I -think she would go on laughing, you know.” - -“Just what my Lady Dundrannan always hates, and occasionally -suspects—even in me!” - -“I wish to blazes that Waldo would have one of his old rages, and tell -her it’s not her business!” - -“I daresay he may wish you hadn’t taken so much interest in his runaway -_fiancée_,” was Sir Paget’s pertinent retort. “No, he’ll have no rages; -like you, I sometimes regret it. If she vetoes, he’ll submit.” He shook -his head. “Here are we poor men up against these grand implacabilities; -they transcend our understanding and mock our efforts. Even Arsenio, -the great Arsenio, though he made use of them, tripped up over them -in the end! What can you and I, and poor Waldo, do?” He got up. “I’ll -write a line to Waldo on the point—on the two points—to-night; and -send it up by the car to-morrow; he can let us know his answer before -Stannard is due here, with the deeds, in the afternoon. There might -even be time to telephone and stop him from starting, if the answer’s a -veto!” - -Diplomatist though Sir Paget was, man of affairs as I must assume -myself to be—or where stands the firm of Coldston’s?—our judgments were -clumsy, our insight at fault; we did no justice to the fine quality -of Lady Dundrannan’s pride. It was not to be outdone by the pride -of the needlewoman of Cimiez—outwardly, at all events; and do not -many tell us that wholly to conquer, or even conceal, such emotions -as fear and self-distrust is a moral triumph, where not to feel them -is a mere fluke of nature—just the way one happens to be concocted? -The only answer that came to Sir Paget’s no doubt very delicately, -diplomatically expressed note, came over the telephone (Sir Paget had -not trusted its secrecy!), from butler to butler. Marsden at Briarmount -told Critcher at Cragsfoot that he was to inform Sir Paget that Colonel -Rillington said it was all right about this afternoon. Critcher -delivered the message as Sir Paget and I were sitting in the garden -before lunch—on that bench by the garden door whereon Lucinda had once -sat, listening fearfully to the quarrel of angry youths. - -“Very well, Critcher,” said Sir Paget indifferently. But when the man -had gone, he turned to me and said, with a tremor in his voice, “So you -can come, you see—you and Lucinda, Julius.” I had not known till then -how much he wanted us. “I say, what would poor old Aunt Bertha have -said? She went over, bag and baggage!” - -“She’d have come back—with the same _impedimenta_,” I declared, -laughing. - -There was a stateliness in Lady Dundrannan’s assent, given by her -presence and countenance to the arrangement which the allied family -of the Rillingtons had—well, I suppose Waldo had—submitted to her -approval. The big Briarmount car—even bigger, more newly yellow, than -the car of Cimiez—brought down the whole bunch—all the Court, as Sir -Paget had called it. Briarmount’s approval was almost overwhelmingly -signified. It was not, of course, the thing to mention Lucinda—that -was unofficial; perhaps, moreover, slightly shameful. Godfrey, at -least, wore an embarrassed air which the ostensible character of the -occasion did not warrant; and little Lady Eunice—I suspected that -the information had filtered down to her through the other three of -them—seemed to look at me with something of the reproachful admiration -one reserves for a dare-devil. Waldo, for his part, gave my hand a -hard, though surreptitious, squeeze, smiling into my eyes with his -old kindness, somehow conveying an immense deal to me about how he -for his part felt about the implacabilities, and the way they had -affected his life—and now mine. Of course I was myself in the mood -to perceive—to exaggerate, or even to imagine—such thoughts in him; -but there it was—his eyes traveled from my face to his lady’s shapely -back (she was putting Mr. Stannard, the lawyer, at his ease—he was a -cadet of an old county family, and one of the best known sportsmen -in the neighborhood), and back to my face again, and—well, certainly -the situation was not lost on Waldo. But it was only after our -business was finished—a short recital of the effect of the deeds from -Stannard—didn’t we know more than he did about that? But no doubt it -was proper—and then the signatures (“Dundrannan” witnessing in a fine, -bold, decisive hand!)—that he said a word to me. “God give you and -yours happiness with the old place, Julius!” The pang of parting from -it spoke there, as well as kindliness and forgiveness for us. - -Sir Paget insisted—certainly not to the displeasure of Mr. Stannard—on -“wetting the signatures” with a bottle of his Pommery 1900. Nina just -wetted her lips—even to that vintage she could condescend. Then we all -strolled out into the garden, while tea was preparing. There was the -old place—the high cliffs above it, one narrow wooded ledge fronting -the sea; scant acres, but, as it were, with all our blood in them. I -felt like a usurper (in spite of the honest money that I was paying), -the younger branch ousting the elder, even through an abdication. But I -was a usurper happy and content—as, I daresay, they often are, in spite -of the poets and the dramatists. Sir Paget and Stannard paired off; -Godfrey and Eunice; Waldo sat down on the bench by the door and lit -his pipe; I found myself left with Nina Dundrannan. With the slightest -motion of her hand she invited me to accompany her along the walk -towards the shrubbery. At once I knew that she meant to say something -to me, though I had not the least idea on what lines her speech might -run. She could be very candid—had she not been once, long ago, she the -“skeleton at the feast”? She could also put the truth very decisively -in its proper place—a remote one. Fires burnt in her—I knew that; but -who could tell when the flames would show? - -There was a seat placed where a gap in the trees gave a view of the -sea; here we sat down together. With her usual resoluteness she began -at once with what she had made up her mind to say. - -“Waldo didn’t show me Sir Paget’s note, but he told me a piece of news -about you which it gave him; he gave me to understand that you and Sir -Paget thought that I, as well as he himself, should know it. He told -me that the arrangement was no longer repugnant to his own feelings, -although it once would have been; he felt both able and willing to -ignore the past, and start afresh on terms of friendship with Madame -Valdez—with Lucinda. He asked me what my feelings were. I said that in -my view that was hardly the question; I had married into the Rillington -family; any lady whom Sir Paget and he, the heads of the family, were -prepared to accept and welcome as a member of it, would, as a matter of -course, be accepted by me; I should treat her, whenever we met, with -courtesy, as I should no doubt be treated by her; a great degree of -affection, I reminded Waldo, was not essential or invariable between -relations-in-law.” Here Lady Dundrannan smiled for a moment. “Least of -all should I desire that any supposed feelings of mine should interfere -with the family arrangement about Cragsfoot which you all three felt -to be desirable; the more so as it had in a way originated with myself, -since, if I had wished to make this place our principal residence, the -present plan would never have been thought of at all. So I told him to -put me entirely out of the question; he would be quite safe in feeling -sure that I should accept the situation with a good grace.” - -She paused, and I took occasion to say: “I think we’re all much -indebted to you—and myself most of all. Any other attitude on your part -would have upset an arrangement which I have come to have very much at -heart. I’m grateful to you, Nina.” - -“You know a great deal—indeed, you probably know pretty well -everything—that has happened between Lucinda and me. You wouldn’t -defend all that she did; I don’t defend all I did. When I’m challenged, -I fight, and I suppose Jonathan Frost’s daughter isn’t dainty as to her -weapons—that’s your point of view about me, anyhow, isn’t it? You’ve -always been in her camp. You’ve always been a critic of me.” - -“Really I’ve regretted the whole—er—difficulty and—well, difference, -very much.” - -“You’ve laughed at it even more than you’ve regretted it, I think,” she -remarked drily. “But I’ve liked you better than you’ve liked me—though -you did laugh at me—and I’m not going to make things difficult or -uncomfortable for you. When I accept a state of things, I accept it -without reservation. I don’t want to go on digging pins in.” - -“If I have ever smiled—as you accuse me of having done—as well as -regretted, it was because I saw your qualities as well as hers. -The battle was well joined. You’ve both had your defeats and your -victories. I should like you to be friends now.” - -“Yes, I believe you would; that’s why I’m talking like this to -you. But”—her voice took on a sudden ring of strong feeling—“it’s -impossible. There are such memories between us.” - -I did not urge the point; it would be useless with her, very likely -also with Lucinda. I let it go with a shrug. - -She sat for a moment in the stately composed silence that so well -became her. - -“It’s probable that we shall divide our time mainly between London, -Dundrannan, and Villa San Carlo in future. It’s even likely that if -Godfrey settles matters with Eunice Unthank, as I think he will, he’ll -take a lease of Briarmount. That would not be disagreeable to you, -would it?” - -“Not the least in the world,” I answered, smiling. “I like them both -very much.” - -She turned to me with a bland and simple sincerity of manner. “The -doctor thinks that the air on this coast is too strong for baby.” - -I seemed to be hearing an official bulletin—or _communiqué_, as for -some occult reason—or pure love of jargon—they used to call it. There -was no question of a reverse at the hands of the enemy; but climatic -conditions rendered further operations undesirable; the withdrawal -was being effected voluntarily, in perfect order, and without loss. -That the enemy was taking possession of the evacuated territory was a -circumstance of no military significance whatever—though, to be sure, -it might make some little difference to the inhabitants. - -“It won’t do to run any risks with that precious boy!” I observed, with -an approving smile, and (as I flatter myself) with just the artistic -shade of jocosity—as if I were gently chaffing her on a genuine but -exaggerated maternal solicitude. - -“Well, when the doctor says that, what can one do?” asked Lady -Dundrannan. - -“Oh, one must follow his advice, of course!” I murmured, with a nod of -my head. - -The bark of our conversation (another metaphor may well be employed to -illustrate her skill) being thus piloted through the shoals of truth -into the calm deep waters of humbug, its voyage ended prosperously. “I -should never forgive myself, and Waldo would never forgive me, if I -took the slightest risk,” Nina concluded, as she rose from the seat. - -But as we stood there, facing one another—before we began to stroll -back to the house—as we stood facing one another, all alone, we allowed -ourselves one little relapse into reality. - -“Do you think of being off soon?” I asked, with a smile. - -She gave me one sharp glance and a contemptuous smile. “Before your -wedding—whenever that may be, Julius!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -IN FIVE YEARS - - -WINTER had set in again when Lucinda and I came together to Cragsfoot. -The picture of her on her first evening there stands out vivid in my -memory. - -Sir Paget had received her with affectionate, but perhaps somewhat -ceremonious, courtesy; there was a touch of ratifying a treaty of peace -in his manner. She was minded to come closer in intimacy; for in these -recent days—before and just after our wedding—a happy confidence seemed -to possess her. Self-defense and the hardness it has to carry with it -were necessary to her no longer; she reached out more freely for love -and friendship, and broke the bounds of that thoughtful isolation which -had so often served to keep the woman herself apart from all about her. -She was not on guard now; that was the meaning of the change which had -come over her; not on guard and not fighting. - -After dinner she drew a low stool up beside the old man’s big armchair -before the fire, and sat down beside him, laying one arm across his -knees; I sat smoking on the other side of the hearth. Sir Paget laid -his hand on hers for a moment, as though to welcome her bodily presence -thus in touch with him. - -“You’ll be wondering how it happened,” she began, “and Julius won’t -have been able to tell you. Probably it never occurred to him to try, -though I suppose he’s told you all the actual happenings—the outward -things, I mean, you know. It was at Ste. Maxime that we—began to be -‘we’ to one another. I knew it in him then—perhaps sooner than he -did—but I don’t know; he’s still rather secretive about himself, though -intolerably inquisitive about other people. But I did know it in him; -and I searched, and found it in myself—not love then, but a feeling of -partnership, of alliance. I was very lonely then. Well, I can stand -that. I was standing it; and I could have gone on—perhaps! I wonder if -I could! No, not after I found out about Arsenio’s taking that money! -That would have broken me—if it hadn’t been for Ste. Maxime.” - -She paused for a moment; when she spoke again, she addressed me—on the -other side of the fireplace. - -“You went away for a long while; but you remembered and you wrote. I’m -not a letter-writer, and that was really the reason I didn’t answer. -I have to be with people—to feel them—if I’m to talk with them to any -purpose—to ask then questions and get answers, even though they don’t -say anything.” (I saw her fingers bend in a light pressure on old Sir -Paget’s knee.) “I should have sounded stupid in my letters. Or said too -much! Because the only thing was to say nothing about it, wasn’t it? -You knew that as well as I did, didn’t you? If once we had talked—in -letters or when you came back——! I did nearly talk when you suddenly -appeared there on the Piazza at Venice. It was pretty nearly as good as -a declaration, wasn’t it, Julius?” - -She gave a low merry laugh; but then her eyes wandered from my face to -the blaze of the fire, and took on their self-questioning look. - -“I think it’s rare to be able to see the humor of things all by -yourself—I mean, of course, of close things, things very near to -you, things that hurt, although they’re really funny. You want a -sympathizer—somebody to laugh with. Oh, well, it goes deeper than that! -You want to feel that there’s another world outside the miserable -little one you’re living in—outside it, different from it—a place -where you yourself can be different from the sort of creature which -the life you’re leading forces you to be—at least, unless you’re a -saint, I suppose; and I never was that! You want a City of Refuge for -your heart, don’t you, Sir Paget? For your heart, and your feelings; -yes, and your humor; for everything that you are or that you’ve got, -and want to go on being or having. Because the worst thing that -anybody or any state of things can do to you, or threaten you with, -is the destruction of yourself—whether it’s done by assault or by -starvation! In the world I lived in—the actual one as it had come to -be for Arsenio and me—I was done for! There was hardly anything left -of me!” She suddenly turned her face up to Sir Paget, with a murmur of -laughter. “It was like the Cheshire cat! Nothing left but a grin and -claws! A grin for his antics, claws to protect myself. That’s what I -had come to in my own world—the little world of Arsenio and me! Claws -and a grin—wasn’t I, Julius?” - -“I would not hear your enemy say so, but——” - -“You know it’s true; I knew at the time that you felt it, but I -couldn’t alter myself. Well, I told you something about it at -Venice—trying to change, not succeeding! Even his love for me had -become one more offense in him—and that was bad. The only thing that -carried me through was the other world you gave me—outside my own; -where you were, where he wasn’t—though we looked at him from it, and -had to!—where I could take refuge!” - -She went on slowly, reflectively, as though she were compelled -reluctantly to render an account to herself. “I have escaped; I have -gained my City of Refuge. But I bear the marks of my imprisonment—even -as my hands here bear the marks of my work—of my sewing and washing and -ironing. I’m marked and scarred!” - -Sir Paget laid his hand on hers again. “We keep a salve for those -wounds at Cragsfoot,” he said gently. “We’ve stored it up abundantly -for you, Lucinda.” - -She turned to him, now clasping his arms with her hands. “You! Yet I -put you to shame; I betrayed you; I was false—Oh, and cruel to Waldo!” -For the first time in all my knowledge of her I saw tears running down -her cheeks. Sir Paget took her hands into his and kissed her upturned -face. - -“Waldo’s as happy as a king—or, at least, a Prince Consort,” he said, -smiling, though I think that his voice shook a little. “And, since -it’s an evening of penitence and confession, I’ll make my confession -too. I’ve always been a bit of a traitor, or a rebel, myself. You know -it well enough, Julius!” He smiled. “Sitting here, under the sway of -Briarmount, I’m afraid that I have, before now, drunk a silent toast -to the Queen over the Water. Because I remembered you in old days, my -dear.” - -The mention of Briarmount brought the smiles back to Lucinda’s face. -She rose from her stool and stood on the hearthrug between us, looking -from one to the other. She gave a defiant toss of her fair head. -“Guilty, my lords! I can’t abide her. And I’m glad—yes, I am—that she’s -not here at Cragsfoot!” - -“Moreover, she has retreated even from Briarmount before you,” chuckled -Sir Paget. - -“When I advanced in strength, she always retreated,” said Lucinda with -another toss. “The fact is—I had the least bit more effrontery. I could -bluff her, whatever was in my heart. She couldn’t bluff me.” - -“Reconciliation, I suppose, impossible?” hazarded the diplomatist _en -ratraite_, not able to resist the temptation of plying his trade, of -getting round the grand implacability; what a feather in his cap it -would be! - -“Looking down the vista of years,” said Lucinda, now gayly triumphant -in her mastery over the pair of us, “a thing I used to do, Julius, -oftener than I need now—I see two old ladies, basking somewhere in the -sun—perchance at Villa San Carlo—which I have not, up to now, visited, -though I know the surrounding district. From under their wigs, in old -squeaky voices——” - -“I thank God for my mortality,” murmured old Sir Paget as he looked at -her. - -“They’re telling one another that they must both of them have been very -wonderful, clever, attractive, beautiful! Or else they’d never have -made so much trouble, and never squabbled so much. And I shouldn’t -wonder if they said—both of them—that nothing in the whole business was -their fault at all; it was only the men who were so silly. But then -they made the men silly. What men wouldn’t they make silly, when they -were young and beautiful so long ago?” - -“How much of this is Lady Dundrannan—and how much more is you?” - -“Mostly me, Julius. Because I have, as I told you, the least bit more -effrontery. But her ladyship agrees, and the two old gossips sip their -tea and mumble their toast, with all the harmony and happiness of -superannuated sinners. I’m sure I needn’t explain that feeling to -men—they knew all about it!” - -“This picture, distant though it is, saps my conception of Lady -Dundrannan,” I protested. “Perhaps of you too; do you mind if I call -you a good hater?” - -A smile hung about her lips; but her voice passed from the gay to the -gentle, and the old inward-looking gaze took possession of her eyes. -“No, I don’t mind, I like my hatreds; even for me there never failed to -be something amusing in them. I wonder if I do myself too much credit -in saying—something unreal? Did I play parts—like poor Arsenio? But -still they seemed very real, and they kept my courage up. I suppose -it’s funny to think that one behaves well—honorably—sometimes, just to -spite somebody else. I’m afraid it is so, though—isn’t it, Sir Paget?” - -“The Pharisee in the Temple comes somewhere near your notion.” - -She came and sat herself down on the arm of my chair, and threw her arm -round my neck. “Yes, hatreds serve their turn. But they ought to die; -being of the earth earthy, they ought to, oughtn’t they? And they do. -Do any of us here hate poor Arsenio now?” Suddenly she kissed me. “You -never did, because you’re so ridiculously understanding—and I thank you -for that now, because it helped me to try not to, to try to remember -that he loved me, and that he couldn’t help being what he was. But -where’s all my anger gone? Why, you and I often talk of him, and enjoy -his tricks, don’t we? They can’t hurt us now; they’re just amusing, and -we’re grateful to the poor man, and don’t feel hard to him any more, do -we?” She fell silent for a moment, and then, with a broader smile, and -with one hand uplifted in the air, she said, “And so, Sir Paget, very, -very dear Sir Paget, I back myself to make friends with Nina in—well, -say five years!” - -The prudently calculated audacity of this undertaking made us laugh. -“And with Waldo—how soon?” asked Sir Paget. - -“Oh, to-morrow! But if I do that, I must take ten years, instead of -five, for Nina!” - -“You’d better arrange the time-table in your own way, my dear,” Sir -Paget admitted discreetly. “Now I’ll go off to bed and leave you to -have a talk together.” - -He rose from his chair and advanced towards her, to give her his -good-night greeting. Quicker than he was, she met him almost before he -had taken a step. Catching his hands in hers, she fell on her knees -before him. “Have you a blessing left for the sinner that repenteth—for -your prodigal daughter?” - -She was not in tears now, nor near them. She was just wonderfully and -exultantly coaxing. - -The old man disengaged his hands, clasped her face with them, turned -it up to him, and gallantly kissed it. “Your sunshine warms my old -bones,” he said. “I’m glad you’re back at Cragsfoot, Lucinda.” He -turned away quickly and left us. - -I went to her and raised her from her knees. - -“That’s all right!” she said, with a tremulous but satisfied little -laugh. “And I love him even more than I’ve tried to make him love -me—and that’s saying a good deal to you, who’ve seen me practice my -wiles! Are the tricks stale to you, Julius?” - -“Yes. Try some new ones!” - -“Ah, you’re cunning! The old ones are, I believe—I do believe—good -enough for you.” - -“The new ones had better be for Nina!” - -“In five years, Julius, as sure as I live—and love you!” - -“How do you propose to begin?” I asked skeptically. I knew my Nina! I -knew Lucinda. It seemed, at the best, a very even bet whether she could -bring it off. - -Lucinda laughed in merry confidence and mockery. “Why, by giving her -to understand that you make me thoroughly unhappy, of course. How else -would you do it?” - - - THE END - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lucinda, by Anthony Hope - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUCINDA *** - -***** This file should be named 51642-0.txt or 51642-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/4/51642/ - -Produced by Giovanni Fini, Suzanne Shell and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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