<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</SPAN></span></p>
<h2 class="p4">CHAPTER XIV</h2>
<p class="pch">FOR AULD LANG SYNE</p>
<p class="drop-cap00">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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</SPAN></span>
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?</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</SPAN></span>
danger that they might make me forget how old
I was, in sad fact, at the present moment.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Coincidently there came over me a weariness, an
impatience, of Villa San Carlo. It was partly that<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</SPAN></span>
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!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</SPAN></span>
puts himself out to give her pleasure, that I was—that
it seems a shame.”</p>
<p>“A disappointment, certainly, Nina.”</p>
<p>“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——”</p>
<p>“Of course! Two’s company; four can move in
companies; but three’s hopeless!”</p>
<p>“I’m really vexed.” She looked it. “I wonder if
he’s really gone on business!”</p>
<p>“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.</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“Thank you, Nina! But—well, the fact is——”</p>
<p>“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——”</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“Of course! Don’t be silly!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“I’m your guest,” I began, with some difficulty,
“and your—well, and all the rest of it. And I
want——”</p>
<p>“To do something that you think I mightn’t like
a guest and friend of mine to do?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>“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?”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“The deuce you are!” I exclaimed. She had
really surprised me this time. She saw it; her lips
curved in a smile of satisfaction.</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</SPAN></span>
months or so—since soon after we came out—I have
had the privilege of supplying her wants.”</p>
<p>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 <i>Café de Paris</i>, his remark that I might
just as well dine with him as with Lady Dundrannan.
It did come to much the same thing, apparently!</p>
<p>“I did it for Auld Lang Syne,” said Nina gently,
softly. Oh, so triumphantly!</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>I smiled at that—though I fancy that she meant
to make me angry.</p>
<p>“You must excuse me, Nina, but I don’t believe
it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, all right!” She walked across to her desk,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</SPAN></span>
unlocked a drawer, took out a letter, and brought
it back with her. She gave it to me. “Read that,
then, Julius.”</p>
<p>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,
<i>very</i> 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.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>I looked at the date of the letter; it had been
written three days before.</p>
<p>“When did you last send him money?”</p>
<p>“The day before yesterday, if you want to know.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“I was with him when he got it.”</p>
<p>“You were with him? When? Where?” she
asked quickly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“You didn’t see his wife? She was out at her
work, I suppose?”</p>
<p>“He’s living in a single room. There was no sign
of her, and the—er—furniture did not suggest——”</p>
<p>“Really, Julius, I’m not interested in their domestic
arrangements,” said Lady Dundrannan.
“And you left him at Monte Carlo?”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Of course I’ve told you this in confidence,” she
said, without looking at me. “I’ve not bothered<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</SPAN></span>
Waldo with it, and I shan’t until he’s stronger, at
all events.”</p>
<p>“I quite understand. But I’m not in the least
convinced.”</p>
<p>Then she turned quickly towards me. “The letter
speaks for itself—or do you think I’ve
forged it?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“Why should he lie to me about it?”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>I retorted her own phrase on her. “Because of
Auld Lang Syne, Nina.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know much about that,” she remarked
sharply.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“What was she doing then?”</p>
<p>“I can tell you nothing of that. She did not
wish you or the people at Cragsfoot to know.”</p>
<p>“I daresay not!” Then she went on, quietly but<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</SPAN></span>
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.”</p>
<p>“She’s an interesting woman, Nina. Don’t you
think so yourself?”</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>How sharp she was, how sharp her resentful
jealousy made her!</p>
<p>“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!”</p>
<p>“About what?”</p>
<p>“About what Godfrey’s doing.”</p>
<p>“I know nothing about what he’s doing. There’s
what he said in the note he left for you.”</p>
<p>She gave an impatient shrug. “Oh, the note he
left for me! Why didn’t he tell me face to face?<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</SPAN></span>
I suppose he could have waited half an hour!”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>After a long pause she spoke again in a much
more composed fashion, and even smiling.</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“What I expect is to be able to tell you not to
send any more.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I know you expect that. But you’ll find
yourself wrong about it.”</p>
<p>“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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</SPAN></span>
whole thing through—wherever it might lead—without
that.</p>
<p>“You’re off directly?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Oh, not this minute. After lunch will be time
enough, I think.”</p>
<p>“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.”</p>
<p>“That, so far as you’re concerned, is it precisely.”</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>“Oh, well, the Riviera will wait till you come<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</SPAN></span>
back,” said Her Ladyship, with an unmistakable
gleam of satisfaction in her eye.</p>
<p>She had tactfully agreed to the search for Lucinda,
but she had not liked it. It was at any rate
postponed now.</p>
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