Valerie French (1923) (12 page)

Come what might, never, save of his own memory, must Anthony Lyveden learn what their relations had been ... never....

"You disappeared," said Valerie. "Quite suddenly— for no apparent reason. We traced you to the Cotswolds, and there a body was found. They said it was yours.... A month ago you were seen going into the Temple. We've been searching for you ever since."

Anthony stared upon the floor.

"I think your construction of the laws of hospitality is very handsome. Have I no— no people?"

Valerie shook her head.

"No one?"

"No one," said Valerie.

"What am I?"

"A man of considerable means, of no occupation, a Major and a D.S.O."

"Un-unattached?"

"Yes."

"Thank Heaven for that," said Lyveden fervently. "I had a terrible fear that I might have a wife. That was one of the things which made me cling so fast to my Arabian Night. It would have been very awkward, wouldn't it?"

"It might," said Valerie, laughing.

"It would," said Anthony positively. "You know it would. Talk about a one-sided affair..."

"You’d 've forgotten all her shortcomings," said Valerie.

"And her virtues."

"Oh, she’d tell you all those."

"But what about me? Love's very sensitive. Force Love's hand, and however sweet the fruit you take from him, it's bound to be a bit sticky."

"How do you know?"— mischievously.

"Instinct," said Lyveden promptly. "Besides, I've a dog called Hamlet. And now you're evading the question. What about me?"

"I hope," said Valerie, "you’d remember a certain appropriate proverb— about ignorance and bliss, and thank the good St. Luke for the nice, warm summer he was providing."

"I hope so, too," said Anthony. "But, after this afternoon, I fear the good St. Luke would go empty away. You see, I'm sure my wife wouldn't have stars in her eyes." Valerie laughed joyously. "We agreed that to-day shouldn't count, and it shan't. I promise you that. But I’d like you to know that you'll always stand alone. Your niche— — "

"I'm human enough," said Valerie. "Don't make a statue of me. As to-day doesn't count, I can tell you it's meant— a good deal to me."

"You're awfully sweet," said Lyveden.

"No, I'm not. I mean what I say. When you walked into that room— I nearly cried."

"That's because of your very sweet nature. I felt embarrassed, overwrought. Out of your gentle pity, you felt the same."

"But I don't pity you. Why shouldn't I be glad?"

"Glad— yes. If you please. But it wasn't the sort of gladness I was expecting. You weren't boisterous. I'd often pictured my recognition. I always assumed I should be found one day. I saw myself being stopped— perhaps in the street. I saw people wringing my hand, slapping me on the back, stamping.... And I dreaded it all. I knew that I couldn't respond, and I dreaded it terribly. But you did none of these things. You seemed to feel my trouble— to understand. You were so quiet, but you seemed so very pleased."

"I was. I am," cried Valerie. "It's the biggest ... surprise I ever had," she concluded tamely.

Anthony fell upon the substantive.

"I know. But you never showed it. That's my point. You might have been waiting and watching, with your precious eyes riveted upon the door through which you knew I should pass. And when I came stumbling out, there was your little, firm hand to hold me up." He threw back his head and put his hands over his eyes. "You must forgive me. I— I can't get you out of my head. I ought to be asking all manner of questions, I know. I ought to be wild to hear all about myself. But I'm not. I don't care. I don't want to know." He let fall his hands and leaned forward with burning eyes. "I want to make the most of to-day. The rest can wait. I've all my life to listen to the mistakes I've made. But to-day ... I feel I'm standing with you, looking down on the world. To-day our position is sublime, because I'm a shade. I can exult in your company ... stare at my exquisite guide ... open my heart, because— to-day doesn't count. To-morrow you'll be Miss French and I shall be Mr. Lyveden. To-day I'm a child, and you're— just Valerie. You've seen a child run to its betters, cling to their knees, look up into their faces. If you asked it why, it couldn't tell. Neither can I. But I think it's because it— knows— they— understand."

Valerie crossed to the hearth and stood by his side. "I'm not your better," she said, "but I— understand. Take hold of me, if you will. To-day the clocks have stopped. There is no time."

Very gently he took her in his arms.

"You wonderful creature," he breathed. "You glorious, wonderful thing. How can you understand? Why am I not afraid to take you like this? Why do I dare to lay my cheek against yours? Why do you suffer me? Convention's not dead. But you.... to-day ... We're out of the world; we must be. I hardly know your name; yet we speak the same tongue. I've called and you've answered— and nobody else would have heard. We're alone on the edge of some cliff overhanging the earth.... I was alone ... and now you've come to my side." He turned his head sharply and peered into her eyes. "Am I mad?" he demanded. "Do I speak as a fool?"

"No," said Valerie quietly. "You've spoken the absolute truth. I let you hold me like this because it's my will that you should— because I have need of your arms. I hoped that you’d put them about me, and then you did."

"Why? Why did you hope it? What's this astounding language that only you and I speak? It isn't love. It can't be. I haven't been here half an hour.... I throw an invisible ball— you catch it and throw it back. I lose my head, to find I've not lost it at all. I flounder, to find I'm on rock. What does it mean? ... Never mind. I don't want to know. I'm a king— for an afternoon."

"Listen," said Valerie. "What made you want to— to set your cheek against mine?"

"I don't know. I don't care. I—"

"Try to think."

She felt his temples contract.

"It sounds absurd," he said, "but it seemed— it seemed so natural. The moment I saw you, you filled the whole of my brain. The questions I've asked, I've asked with difficulty. Up to just now I was acting, Valerie. Now I'm myself. I feel at— at ease, somehow. Why don't you mind?"

"I feel at ease, too."

"I know, I know. Why? You don't know. You can't say. It's natural and yet unnatural. It's out of order, yet right. It's like a fairy tale, where the poor boy kisses the beauty he's never set eyes on before. And nobody minds, and even Convention approves." He held her off firmly. "But this is Life— where there aren't any fairy tales and where this sort of thing isn't done."

Her eyes upon his, the girl was thinking furiously. Should she tell him the truth ... explain that
his heart had thrown back
... shatter the brilliant bubble which he had blown? The time seemed ripe. Surely no harm could result. And the bubble would not be shattered, but rather turned to crystal. Yet ... 'Love's very sensitive. Force Love's hand, and...' The jest rang in her ears. Her imagination turned it into the bell of a buoy, swinging to mark that yellow, inviting sandbank she had determined to shun.

"I know," she said gravely. "I know that as well as you. Yet I'm not cheap in your sight."

"
Cheap
? You're the finest gold that ever gladdened man's eyes."

"Then why do you frown so, Anthony? To-day I can read your fairy tale and share your dream."

He drew her head down on to his chest.

"I love your hair," he said simply. "It smells so sweet. You can't be a princess, or it 'ld be all golden. And so you must be a queen."

"For an afternoon," she whispered.

He put a hand under her chin and raised her head.

"For ever," he said, smiling. "We're in the land of Oxymoron. To-day doesn't count, yet it will last out Time. It's not in the almanac, yet it's gold-letter. I've lost my memory, yet I can never forget. And heresy's orthodox, and fairy tales are fact.... D'you think, if I kissed your mouth, it’d turn into a flower? It's awfully like one."

"I— I don't think it would."

He kissed her tenderly....

Presently she put up a hand and touched his hair.

ANTHONY WALKED back across the Park with his head in the air.

The man was exalted. The dog had just had his day. And, while all days are as grass, the splendour of this afternoon would never die. That he had been born again was nothing at all. His heart had leaped and had been caught and held at the very top of its bent— so held that it would never come down— sink any more. Of this he was quite certain. No disaster could alter his state. Not even the sudden production of a duly accredited harem could shatter this illusion. He had been given the original— the model after which illusions are made. Like fire, it had been filched out of Heaven.

That he did not perceive what any fool could have told him, is not surprising. His memory was gone. It lay like a silent pool, walled up with rock. Upon this pool, for more than forty days his eyes had been riveted. And nothing— no sight, or sound, or scent had stirred its waters. Then had come Valerie.... The moment he saw her he knew that if ever the pool was to be troubled, now was the appointed time. Peering at its surface, he found it motionless as death. She whom no man, having seen, could ever forget, with whom he had once been familiar, had failed to wake the faintest ripple upon those silent waters. Therefore Anthony
knew
that the strange exhilaration he had felt was not out of Memory. And if it was not out of Memory, neither was it by Love. That was obvious. Love was a slippery fellow, but he was not so swift as all that. Besides, it was to be hoped that he (Anthony) had not lost all control. As for the lady.... Oh, indubitably it was not love....

His mental arithmetic was, I think, sound. Anthony had done his sum right and had got the wrong answer. Any fool could have got the right answer without doing the sum at all. But that is because lookers-on see the best of the game. And if anyone but a fool had done the sum, he would have seen instantly that the error lay in the premises. Whereupon he would have worked backwards, with the result that in about two seconds he would have located the mistake. This was that, while the surface of the pool of Remembrance was motionless as death, its depths were considerably troubled. Still waters run deep.

It was as he was approaching Kensington Palace Gardens that Anthony Lyveden realized with a shock how very slight was the report which he was prepared to render. Sir Andrew would naturally expect to be regaled with a wealth of crisp information regarding the former existence of his
protégé
.... Anthony began to wonder what on earth he should say. He could not explain that he had been in Paradise. For only one thing, not to put it too high, the knight would hardly appreciate such a translation....

With his key in the lock, Anthony fingered his chin. Then he made a grimace and tiptoed into the hall.

The drone of a voice in the library fell upon his ears. He stepped to the door.

"And so, you see, young fellow, we've got to part. I'm a creature of habit— bad habit. Don't think I don't know that. It's not my fault. My temper's spoiled. Men are such maddening fools.... And when you're a creature of habit, your habits— good and bad— count higher than anything else. Well, you're a habit of mine— a bad one, of course. Whoever heard of a dog getting up on a bed? Bringing his fleas and dirt into your blankets? The moment you're out of the house, I'll have 'em cleaned.... The point is, I'm used to you. D'you hear? Used. And there's the rub. In a sense, you've been— my dog ... my little dog.... I know I've been rough, but I think you've understood. You've never been afraid. You've— Damn it, you ugly swine, you've seemed to like me. And I'm— I'm a man of few friends.... Habit, habit, habit— that's all it is. Why does one feel the breaking of habits so much? You and your man Wood— Lyveden, are in my pocket. I shall feel lost when you're gone. I contracted for service: he's given me infinitely more. Why? Heaven knows. But he has. Something that's not for sale. And I've got used to it, you brute, as I've got used to you.... Well, it's my own fault. The whole affair's been fantastic, and fantasy's not in my line. I knew it, of course. I'm guilty. I stole by finding. And now I've got to pay.... Come here.... D'you remember, a week ago, I threw a book at you? And it— it hurt you, and— you— cried out? .... I'm sorry for that— very. Ah, you're a forgiving swine.... But I— I'd give a hundred pounds to call that moment back ... my fellow ... my little dog...."

Anthony stole upstairs like a thief in the night.

By the time he had bathed and changed, his plans were made, and when Sir Andrew descended at eight o'clock, his secretary was seated at the great table, writing assiduously.

"Hullo," said the knight, "I didn't know you were in."

"I expect you were dressing," lied Anthony. "I hurried rather, because I'm a little behind." He picked up a sheet of paper. "There's a letter here, sir, from—"

"I dare say there is," said Sir Andrew, crossing to a great French window and opening it wide. "Tell me your news."

Lyveden laid down the paper and rose to his feet.

"First and foremost," he said, "by the grace of God, I'm unattached. I've no dependents and no responsibilities. Beyond that, I don't know a great deal. I shall hear more to-morrow, and if you can spare me—"

"Yes."

"— for one or two hours—"

"Your time's your own," rapped Sir Andrew over his shoulder. "You needn't bother about notice. If you want to go to-morrow, go."

"I don't want to do that."

"If it's any convenience to you to stay in this house until—"

"If you will keep me," said Lyveden, "I’d like to stay on." Sir Andrew swung round. "I don't want to leave your service."

"Don't think I can't spare you, you know."

"I know you can," laughed Anthony. "But it seems that, when I went down, I was out of a job. I hope you're not going to sack me because I've changed my name."

For a moment the giant stared at him. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room...

When, five minutes later, his secretary came to tell him that dinner had been announced, the knight was pacing the garden with Patch at his heels. And when, still later, the two men were sitting at meat, the sober candle-light revealed three short white hairs adhering to Sir Andrew's sleeve.