<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<p class="pch">THE NEEDLEWOMAN</p>
<p class="drop-cap06">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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>“I had the oddest sense that this thing wasn’t
final, that something would occur to end it. I didn’t<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>“You’ve been sounding rather complicated up to
now; I don’t mean—well, unnatural.”</p>
<p>“You’ve had love affairs, of course. I know
you’ve had one big one. I even know her name;
Aunt Bertha told me.”</p>
<p>“She shouldn’t have done that.”</p>
<p>“I was one of the family then, you see. She
is—dead?”</p>
<p>“Yes, some few years ago—two years before
we met at Cragsfoot.”</p>
<p>“That’s how you come not to have married?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know; many men don’t marry. Well—probably.
But it’s your story we’re after, not mine.”</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</SPAN></span>
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 <i>Times</i> 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.”</p>
<p>“He told me, that day in London, that he had
already decided to come to England when he saw
that.”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“Pretty well. You must have had a time of it,
though!”</p>
<p>“I think my mind really made itself up the moment
I saw Arsenio. The rest was—tactics! I<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>“You were not ashamed?” I ventured.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“I’ve spent the greater part of the waking hours
of three days with you, Julius. I’ve walked, lunched,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</SPAN></span>
and dined with you. I’ve talked to you interminably.
You must have looked at me sometimes,
haven’t you?”</p>
<p>“I’ve looked at you, to tell the truth, a great
deal.”</p>
<p>“And you’ve noticed nothing peculiar?”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t use the word ‘peculiar’ to describe
what I’ve noticed.”</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>“By Jove, I believe you have! It’s a very pretty
frock, Lucinda. No, but really it is!”</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>“Didn’t poor old Waldo present himself to you—oddly,
I must say—rather in that light? And
you resisted!”</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</SPAN></span>
there; I—the I that am—could and, I think, would.”</p>
<p>“Because of your old friend here?” I touched
lightly the sleeve of her gown.</p>
<p>“For what it has meant, and does mean—oh, and
for itself too! I’m no heroine. Primitive women
love finery too.”</p>
<p>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?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“You don’t mean to say that you were—in want?
At that time!”</p>
<p>“Yes. Well, I can’t learn all lessons, but I can
learn some. I’ve a trade of my own now.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</SPAN></span>
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 <i>lingerie</i>, 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?”</p>
<p>“But Arsenio?”</p>
<p>“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 <i>panache</i>, 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!”</p>
<p>“Didn’t England appeal to him?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“For England, monsieur, Don Arsenio has now
an illimitable scorn.”</p>
<p>“The devil he has!” said I softly.</p>
<p>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!”</p>
<p>“I’ll say that you live in a palace, with seven
attendant princes, and seventy-seven handmaids!”</p>
<p>“Yes!” she agreed gleefully. “Who’s that
woman looking for?”</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>She did say, “I’m sorry,” but without any sign of
emotion. And the next moment she added, “Because<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</SPAN></span>
you’ll just miss Arsenio. He arrives to-morrow
evening—to pay me a visit.”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>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.”</p>
<p>I raised my glass. “Then—to our next meeting!”</p>
<p>“When will that be, I wonder!”</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“I suppose I shall stay here—with Madame—Chose.
War or no war, ladies must have <i>lingerie</i>,
mustn’t they?”</p>
<p>“It seems a—well, a drab sort of life!”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>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——?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“But if it were—worse?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“Isn’t that, again, rather fanciful?”</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>We smiled together over that monstrous freak<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</SPAN></span>
of the imagination. And so, still smiling, we parted—she
to go back to Madame Chose and her <i>lingerie</i>,
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
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