PURPLE—AND FINE LINEN

THAT Lucinda had once got the better of Nina had been the thing about her which most stirred Godfrey’s curiosity; that Lucinda now laughed at Nina evidently aroused in him an almost incredulous wonder. Perhaps it was calculated to surprise any one; to a Frost it must have seemed portentous; for Frosts, father, daughter, and nephew, judged by what you did and, consequently, had, not by what you were. Judged by their standards, Lucinda’s laughter was ridiculous, but in Godfrey’s fascinated eyes also sublime: such a sublime audacity as only a supremely attractive woman dare and can carry. The needlewoman, the midinette, the showcase girl, laughing at Lady Dundrannan! But there it was. I think that it shook to its foundations something that was very deeply set in Godfrey Frost.

“Well, I suppose Lucinda knew that you were seeing her on the sly,” I suggested.

He flushed a little. “I don’t particularly like that way of putting it. I’m not responsible to Nina for my actions.”

I shrugged my shoulders. He lit another cigarette, and suddenly resumed his story.

“Well, this is what happened. Arsenio didn’t come back; I suppose he won a bit, or kept his head above water somehow. I stayed in Nice, seeing a lot of Lucinda, for about another week. I used to go up to that hotel for lunch or tea, and put in the time somehow till she knocked off work. Then we had our walk; once or twice she dined with me, but she was rather difficult about that. She always kept just the same as she was at the beginning, except that, as I say, she liked to hear about Nina, and seemed a lot amused at what I told her—Nina’s sort of managing ways, and—and dignity, and so on. By the way, she asked about you too sometimes; what you’d been doing since she last heard from you, and so on. Apparently you used to write to her?”

“Just occasionally—when I was on my travels. I hope she spoke kindly of me?”

“Oh, yes, that was all right,” he assured me carelessly. “Well, then came her weekly afternoon off; it was on a Friday she had it; she got off at half-past twelve. I had managed to persuade her to lunch with me, and I went up to the hotel to fetch her. I was a bit early, and I walked up and down just outside the hotel gardens, waiting for her. Nobody was further from my thoughts at that moment than Nina, but just at a quarter past twelve—I’d looked at my watch the moment before—I saw a big car come up the road. I recognized it directly. It was Nina’s.”

“Rather odd! How did she find out that——?”

“This is what must have happened, so far as I’ve been able to piece it together. Those two women—Mrs. Forrester, you know, and Eunice Unthank—went back to Villa San Carlo with their three hundred francs’ worth of stuff, and told Nina about Mademoiselle Lucie; described her, I suppose, as something out of the common; they naturally would, finding a girl of her appearance, obviously English, and a lady, doing that job. Nina’s as sharp as a needle, and it’s quite possible that the description by itself was enough to put her on the scent; though, for my own part, I’ve always had my doubts whether she didn’t know more about the Valdez’s than she chose to admit; something in her manner when I brought the conversation round to them—and I did sometimes—always gave me that impression. Anyhow, there she was, and Eunice Unthank with her.”

“That must have been a week—or nearly—since she’d heard about Mademoiselle Lucie from the two women. Had you heard anything from her in the interval?”

“Yes, I’d had two letters from her, addressed to our works and forwarded on—I had to leave an address at the works—saying they missed me at the Villa and asking when I expected to be back; but I hadn’t answered them. I didn’t exactly know what to say, you see, so I said nothing. As a matter of fact, I felt bored at the idea of going back; but I couldn’t have said that, could I?”

“Certainly not. And so—at last—she had to come?”

“What do you mean by ‘at last’? And why had she to come?”

There was in my mind a vivid imagining of what that week had been to Lady Dundrannan; a week of irresolution and indecision, of pride struggling against her old jealousy, her old memory of defeat and shame. To seem to take any interest in the woman was beneath her; yet her interest in the woman was intense. And if an encounter could seem quite accidental——? Why shouldn’t it? Just the two women’s report—no hasty appearance after it—quite a natural thing to motor over to Cimiez for lunch! And, given that the encounter was quite accidental, it admitted no interest; it would satisfy curiosity; she had the power of turning it into a triumph. And Godfrey—her protÉgÉ, her property—had been missing a week and had left two letters unanswered. My own talk with her—just before I came away—returned to my mind.

“I suppose that Lady Eunice—or Mrs. Forrester—kept on worrying her. Was that it?” My attempt to explain away the form of my question was not very convincing. Godfrey disposed of it unceremoniously.

“If you were really such a damned fool as you’re trying to appear, I shouldn’t be here talking to you,” he remarked. “There was more in it than that of course.”

“Well, tell me what happened. We can discuss it afterwards,” I suggested.

“Just what happened? All right—and soon told. Nina saw me walking up and down, smoking. She smiled what they call brightly; so did Lady Eunice. One or other of them pulled the string, I suppose; the car stopped; the chauffeur lay back in his seat in the resigned sort of way those chaps have when they’re stopped for some silly reason or other—most reasons do seem to appear silly to them, don’t they? Really superior chauffeurs, I mean, such as Nina’s bound to have. I took off my hat and went up to the car. ‘Why, it’s Mr. Frost!’ said Eunice, just as surprised as you’d have expected her to be.”

“I certainly acquit Lady Eunice of malice aforethought,” said I.

“‘And who’d have thought of meeting him here?’ said Nina. You know that smile of hers?”

“Have I found thee, O my enemy?”

“Exactly. I must say that you do know a thing or two about Nina. ‘I thought you were in Nice all the time!’ she went on—oh, quite pleasantly. ‘We’ll take him in to lunch and make him give an account of himself, won’t we, Eunice? He’s deserted us disgracefully!’ You never saw anybody more amiable. And Lady Eunice was awfully cordial too—‘Oh, yes, you must lunch with us, Mr. Frost, and tell us what you’ve been doing. We’ve been very dull, haven’t we, Lady Dundrannan?’ The thing seemed going so well”—here Godfrey gave one of the reflective smiles which witnessed to the humor that lay in him, though it was deeply hidden under other and more serviceable qualities—“that the chauffeur, after a yawn, got down from his seat and opened the door of the car for me to get in. And I was just going to get in—hypnotized or something, I suppose—when down the drive from the hotel came Donna Lucinda. She came along with that free swinging walk of hers, as independent and unconcerned as you please, in her neat, plain, black frock, and carrying one of those big, round, shiny black boxes that you see the midinettes with. Only her stockings looked a shade smarter than most of them run to. Of course she didn’t know the car by sight as I did—some people think that yellow too showy, but I like it myself, provided you’ve got a good car to show it off on—and I suppose I was hidden, or half hidden by it. At any rate, she came sailing down the hotel drive all serene. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen her looking more splendid in all my life!”

“You’d known her for just about a week.”

“Well, then, damn it, in all the week that I had known her. I do wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Julius!”

“I don’t interrupt you half as much as you interrupt yourself. I want to know what happened. What’s the good of gassing about the chauffeur and the color of the car?”

“Well, to me that’s all part of the picture—I suppose I can’t make it for you. The big yellow car—a three thousand wouldn’t nearly cover it nowadays, you know—and Jefferson, a tall, slim chap, dark; been a company sergeant-major—oh, damned genteel!—Lady Eunice quite out of the situation—as she would be—but—what do you call it?—a little patrician all over—and Nina—at her most stately! Over against all that—and it was rather overpowering; I can tell you I felt it—the midinette with her box walking down the drive. That girl—she didn’t look more than a girl, I swear, though I suppose she’s five-and-twenty——”

“And who were you going to lunch with?” I interrupted again. I could not help it. I think that I laughed, shortly and rather harshly. A ridiculous little impasse it seemed for him. He had told his story clumsily, but somehow he had brought the scene before my eyes. Memory helped me, I imagine; it put more into the figure swinging down the drive, more into her stately ladyship seated in that challenging, possibly too showy, yellow car. “Which of them did you lunch with?” I laughed on the question, but I was rather excited.

He had stopped smoking; he sat in a rather odd attitude—upright, with his legs so close together that they left only just room for him to thrust his hands, held together as if he were saying his prayers, between them just above the knees.

“After all—was it a matter of so much importance? A lunch!” I mocked.

He didn’t pay attention to that, and he did not change his position. “Then Nina saw her. Things are funny. She’d come on purpose to see her, of course. Still, when she did, her mouth suddenly went stiff—you know what I mean? She didn’t move, though; it was just her mouth. And I stood there like a fool—actually with one foot on the ground and one on the step of the car, I believe; and Jefferson stifling another yawn beside me!

“Donna Lucinda came through the gate of the drive and up to where the car was standing; it was sideways on to the gate; Lady Eunice sat on the side near the gate, I was on the other side, with Nina between us. Lucinda seemed to see Eunice first, and to recognize her; she made a very slight formal little bow—as she would to a customer. The next second her eyes fell on Nina and on me. She stopped short, just by the car. Her cheeks flushed a little, and she gave a little low exclamation—‘Oh!’ or ‘Ah!’—I hardly heard it. Then, ‘It’s Nina!’ That was hardly louder. I just heard it. Eunice, of course, must have and Nina; I doubt whether Jefferson could. Then she gave a queer little laugh—what you’d call a chuckle coming from an ordinary person—as if she were laughing to herself, inwardly amused, but not expecting anybody else to share her amusement. She didn’t look a bit put out or awkward. But the next moment she smiled directly at me—across the other two—and shook her head—sympathizing with me in my predicament, I think.

“Nina made her a stately bow. She was very dignified, but a little flushed too. She looked somehow disturbed and puzzled. It seemed as if she really were shocked and upset to see Lucinda like that. The next moment she leant right across Eunice, throwing out her hand towards the bandbox that Lucinda was carrying.

“‘Surely there’s no need for you to do that?’ she said, speaking very low. ‘And—I hope you’re better?’

“Lucinda spoke up quite loud. ‘I like it, thank you. There’s every need for me to earn my living; and I’ve never been better in my life, thank you.’

“Nina turned her head round to the chauffeur. ‘I’ll call you, Jefferson.’ He touched his hat and strolled off along the road, taking out a cigarette case. Nina turned back to Lucinda, leaning again across Lady Eunice, who was sitting back in her seat, looking rather frightened; I don’t know whether she knew who Lucinda was; I don’t think so; but it must have been pretty evident to her that there was thunder in the air.

“‘How long have you been doing this? Does your husband know you’re doing it?’

“Her questions sounded sharp and peremptory; Lucinda might well have resented them.

“‘Of course he knows; he’s known it for three months. It’s just that I like to be independent.’ She gave a little bow with that, as if she meant to end the conversation, but before she could walk on—if that was what she meant to do—Nina flung herself back on the cushions, exclaiming in a low voice, but passionately, ‘How dare he tell me lies like that!’

“‘What do you mean——?’ Lucinda began. But Nina would not wait for her. ‘Call Jefferson,’ she told me. ‘Are you coming with us, Godfrey?’

“I called Jefferson, and then answered her question. ‘Thanks awfully, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m engaged to lunch.’ And I shut the door of the car which Jefferson had left still open.

“She looked from me to Lucinda, and back again to me. It was a look that I got, I can tell you! But if you’re going to stand up to Nina, you must do it thoroughly. I looked her full in the eye; of course she saw that I meant I was going to lunch with Lucinda. ‘Drive on—to the hotel, Jefferson,’ she said in that dry voice of hers that means she’s furiously angry. Off the car went, in at the gates—and I was left standing on the road opposite Donna Lucinda.”

Godfrey got up from his seat and walked across to the fireplace; he appeared to have exhausted his matches, for he searched for a box there, and found one at last, hidden under a newspaper on the mantelpiece.

“So, in the end, you lunched with Lucinda, after all?” I asked.

“No,” he answered, “I didn’t lunch with Lucinda, as it happened. When I took a step up to her, she seemed absolutely lost in her own thoughts, hardly aware of my being there, at least realizing that I was there with a sort of effort; her eyes didn’t look as if they saw me at all. ‘You must let me off to-day, Mr. Frost,’ she said in a hurried murmur. ‘I—I’ve got something to do—something I must think about.’ Her cheeks were still rather red; otherwise she was calm enough, but obviously entirely preoccupied. It would have been silly to press her; I mean, it would have been an intrusion. ‘All right, of course,’ I said. ‘But when are we to meet again, Donna Lucinda?’

“‘I don’t know. In a few days, I hope. Not till I send you word to the hotel.’

“‘Try to make it Sunday.’ I smiled as I added, ‘Then I shall see you in the blue frock; that’s the one I like best.’

“‘The blue frock!’ she repeated after me. Then she suddenly raised her free arm—she’d been holding that infernal bandbox all the time, you know—clenched her fist and gave it a little shake in the air. ‘If he’s really done that, I’ll have no more to do with him in this world again!’ she said. And off she went down the road, without another word to me or a glance back. I believe she’d forgotten my very existence.”

“Did she turn up on Sunday—in the blue frock?”

“I’ve never set eyes on her since—nor on Arsenio either. They both appear to have vanished into space—together or separately, Heaven only knows! I hunted for Valdez in all the likely places. I tried for her at the hotel at Cimiez, at her shop, at her lodgings. I’ve drawn blank everywhere. I got thoroughly sick and out of heart. So I thought I’d run up here and see what you thought about it.”

“I don’t know why I should make any mystery about it,” said I. “Anything that puzzles you will be quite plain in the light of that letter.”

I took the letter from Arsenio Valdez, which Nina had given me, out of my pocket, and flung it down on the table. “Read it—and you’ll understand why she repeated after you ‘The blue frock!’ That was what gave her the clew to Nina’s meaning!”