<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER V</h2>
<p class="pch">CATCH WHO CATCH CAN!</p>
<p class="drop-cap00">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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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, “<i>Pardon!</i>”
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!”</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Arsenio told me that you saw me in the taxi
that day,” she said suddenly.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“I suppose, when once he’d met you, he was
bound to go there, or you’d have suspected.”</p>
<p>“He could have made some excuse to leave me,
and not turned up again.”</p>
<p>She did not pursue her little effort to defend Valdez;
she let it go with a curious smile, half-amused,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>“I was happy that day. I had at last done right.”</p>
<p>“The deuce you had!” That was to myself. To
her I said, rather dryly, “It certainly was at the
last, Lucinda.”</p>
<p>“It was as soon as I knew—as soon as I really
knew.”</p>
<p>The waiter brought coffee. She took a cigarette
from me, and we both began to smoke.</p>
<p>“And it’s true that I didn’t dare to face Waldo.
I was physically afraid. He’d have struck me.”</p>
<p>“Never!” I exclaimed, indignant at the aspersion
on my kinsman.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“We were all very fond of you—all of us. I
wish you would.”</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</SPAN></span>
shame in it. Some, I think, for all of us—most, I
suppose, for me.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</SPAN></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>Lucinda paused, looking at me with a smile that
mocked the girl whose feelings she had been describing.
“Nothing did!”</p>
<p>After another pause she went on: “Later on,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</SPAN></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</SPAN></span>
things like that. All the time he never had Arsenio
out of his mind. Well—he was right.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“How did I look?”</p>
<p>“Just as you did when I saw you in the taxi
at the corner by Marlborough House.”</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>“But surely I haven’t heard all the story yet?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“I ought just to call at my hotel—the <i>Méditerranée</i>—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.”</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“Yes. We stayed there.”</p>
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