<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER XII</h2>
<p class="pch">A SECRET VISIT</p>
<p class="drop-cap00">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.</p>
<p>Moreover, I must own to a feeling in myself<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</SPAN></span>
privilege of old friendship,—that of borrowing
money, of course.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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 <i>solitude à deux</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</SPAN></span>
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?</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>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!”</p>
<p>“She is,” I agreed.</p>
<p>“After all, unless a man takes the position that
all men are cleverer than any woman——”</p>
<p>“Which is absurd! Yes, Waldo?”</p>
<p>“He may admit that a particular woman is cleverer
than himself.”</p>
<p>“That seems logical.”</p>
<p>“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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</SPAN></span>
the least bit too decisive about her—has worn
off. She’s mellowed.”</p>
<p>“So have you,” I told him with a laugh.</p>
<p>“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 <i>déjeuner</i>,
and caught a train to Nice.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <i>pâtisserie</i> of a humble order.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</SPAN></span>
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 <i>déjeuner</i> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“And—er—he’s sure to be alone, is he?”</p>
<p>She shook her head at me, her bright black eyes
twinkling in an affectation of rebuke.</p>
<p>“Monsieur need not disturb himself. Monsieur
Valdez is not married, and for the rest—in my
house! <i>Mais non, Monsieur!</i>”</p>
<p>“A thousand pardons, Madame,” said I, as I prepared
to mount the stairs, which rose from the back
of the shop.</p>
<p>“My husband is most scrupulous about my dignity,”
she cried to me in a tone of great pride, as I
ascended the first steps.</p>
<p>So that explained that; and I went upstairs.</p>
<p>There were only two rooms on the second floor—one
to the front, the other to the back of the house.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<p>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 <i>beau geste</i>, 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“Intervals between what?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>He ran out of the room, and was back in a
minute or two with a jug of steaming water. As<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</SPAN></span>
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?”</p>
<p>“At Mentone. With some old friends of ours.”</p>
<p>“Ah, and who may they be?” he asked, as he
scraped his chin.</p>
<p>“Lady Dundrannan—as she now is—and her
husband.”</p>
<p>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?”</p>
<p>“They’ve got a villa there—Villa San Carlo. We
live in great state.”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>“A very brilliant success,” I assured him with a
laugh.</p>
<p>“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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</SPAN></span>
hasn’t it? So I—er—felt less scruple in
interfering with a less ideal arrangement.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Did you mention at Villa—Villa what did you
say it was?”</p>
<p>“San Carlo.”</p>
<p>“Yes, of course! Did you mention at Villa San
Carlo that you were coming to see me?”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t. It’s about the last thing I should
think of mentioning there,” I said.</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</SPAN></span>
the kindness to send word to my—er—office that
indisposition will prevent my attendance this evening.”</p>
<p>“Ah, Monsieur, for shame!” said she, with the
same indulgent affectation of reproof as that which
she had bestowed on me.</p>
<p>“Gentlemen of means don’t go to offices,” he said,
waving his envelope. With a smile and a shrug
Madame left us.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“Monte Carlo is very near Mentone,” I remarked.</p>
<p>“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.
<i>Voilà</i>, Julius! See how, as they say in French, at
the very worst the thing will arrange itself!”</p>
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