A SECRET VISIT
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.
Moreover, I must own to a feeling in myself 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.
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 privilege of old friendship,—that of borrowing
money, of course.
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.
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 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.
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.
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 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.
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 _solitude à deux_. 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 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?
“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!”
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!”
“She is,” I agreed.
“After all, unless a man takes the position that all men are cleverer
than any woman——”
“Which is absurd! Yes, Waldo?”
“He may admit that a particular woman is cleverer than himself.”
“That seems logical.”
“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, the least bit too decisive about her—has worn off. She’s
mellowed.”
“So have you,” I told him with a laugh.
“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 _déjeuner_, and caught
a train to Nice.
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.
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 _pâtisserie_ of a humble order.
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 _déjeuner_ 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.
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.
“And—er—he’s sure to be alone, is he?”
She shook her head at me, her bright black eyes twinkling in an
affectation of rebuke.
“Monsieur need not disturb himself. Monsieur Valdez is not married, and
for the rest—in my house! _Mais non, Monsieur!_”
“A thousand pardons, Madame,” said I, as I prepared to mount the
stairs, which rose from the back of the shop.
“My husband is most scrupulous about my dignity,” she cried to me in a
tone of great pride, as I ascended the first steps.
So that explained that; and I went upstairs.
There were only two rooms on the second floor—one to the front, the
other to the back of the house. 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.
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 _beau geste_, 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.
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.
“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. 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.”
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.
“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.”
“Intervals between what?”
“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.”
He ran out of the room, and was back in a minute or two with a jug of
steaming water. As 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?”
“At Mentone. With some old friends of ours.”
“Ah, and who may they be?” he asked, as he scraped his chin.
“Lady Dundrannan—as she now is—and her husband.”
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?”
“They’ve got a villa there—Villa San Carlo. We live in great state.”
“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.
“A very brilliant success,” I assured him with a laugh.
“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, hasn’t it?
So I—er—felt less scruple in interfering with a less ideal arrangement.”
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.
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.
“Did you mention at Villa—Villa what did you say it was?”
“San Carlo.”
“Yes, of course! Did you mention at Villa San Carlo that you were
coming to see me?”
“No, I didn’t. It’s about the last thing I should think of mentioning
there,” I said.
“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!”
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 the kindness to send word to my—er—office that indisposition will
prevent my attendance this evening.”
“Ah, Monsieur, for shame!” said she, with the same indulgent
affectation of reproof as that which she had bestowed on me.
“Gentlemen of means don’t go to offices,” he said, waving his envelope.
With a smile and a shrug Madame left us.
“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?”
“Monte Carlo is very near Mentone,” I remarked.
“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. _Voilà_, Julius!
See how, as they say in French, at the very worst the thing will
arrange itself!”