<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER IV</h2>
<p class="pch">THE FOURTH PARTY</p>
<p class="drop-cap18">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.</p>
<p>Yes, and private. There his acceptance was not<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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 <i>mot d’ordre</i>; Waldo himself
had set the example.</p>
<p>It was on the Saturday—the day on which the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>“Oh, damn the whole thing!” I exclaimed aloud.</p>
<p>It must have been aloud—though I was not conscious
that it was—for another audible voice spoke
in response.</p>
<p>“That’s just what Father said this morning!”</p>
<p>“It’s just what everybody’s saying,” I groaned.
“But—well, how are you after all this time, Miss
Frost?”</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“You’ve changed!” I found myself exclaiming.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“No, I haven’t seen her.” I had not—officially.
“Are you going towards Briarmount? May I walk
with you?”</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</SPAN></span>
by Lucinda. Are you at liberty to tell me anything,
Mr. Rillington? If you aren’t, I won’t ask.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“But didn’t you go to the wedding yourself?” I
asked. “If you did——”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t. Father wasn’t very well, and I
had to stay down with him.”</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</SPAN></span>
maid? Of course I have! And can’t I put two and
two together?”</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>I made no reply; I had not one ready.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“Yes. He was at the wedding—well, at the
church, I mean.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</SPAN></span>
Jonathan Frost (as he then was—that is, I think,
the formula) had built his country seat; and “Briarmount”
he had called it.</p>
<p>“Good Heavens,” said I, “what’s happened to the
place? It’s grown! It’s grown as much as you
have!”</p>
<p>“We’ve built on a bit—a few more bedrooms, and
bathrooms. And garages, you know. Oh, and a
ballroom!”</p>
<p>“No more than that?”</p>
<p>“Not at present. Come in and have a look—and
some tea. Or are you in too deep mourning?”</p>
<p>I found myself not exactly liking the girl, but interested
in her, in her composure—and her impudence.
I accepted her invitation.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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?”</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>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?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps I am. Because you seem to have kept
up the old friendship since I’ve been away.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes people don’t go to functions because
they’re not invited.”</p>
<p>“What, you mean to say——”</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</SPAN></span>
added with a laugh, “Only, as it turned out, there
was no feast, was there, Mr. Rillington?”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“I started on one, but I met Nina Frost and she
took me in to tea.”</p>
<p>He stood still, smoking and staring out to sea.
“Did she say anything about me?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Hardly about you yourself. She referred to—the
affair. The servants have been chattering, it
seems. Well, they would, of course!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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?</p>
<p>So there was the coil—unexplained, nay, further<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />