Valerie French (1923) (14 page)

"Valerie! Yesterday— when I asked if I was engaged— why did you tell me a lie?"

For an instant the girl hesitated. Then she rose to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Because," she said simply, "I wanted you to think you were free."

Love is notoriously blind.

Even when she saw the grief in his fine, grey eyes she mistook it for glory....

So they stood for a moment.

Then very gently he took her two hands from his shoulders and let them fall to her sides.

"'We won't count to-day,'" he quoted. "Of course, I see now. D'you know, I'm not quite certain, but I think you've broken my heart."

He turned and passed out of the room.

Valerie stood paralysed....

She heard him take his hat, and a moment later the door of the flat was shut.

LADY TOUCHSTONE had a grand air. For all that, the moment she opened her mouth, you felt at ease. Not that the grandeur departed. She never stepped down. Instead, she made you step up and sit down by her side. She could have hobnobbed with a swineherd— in fact, she had. And the swineherd had enjoyed her fellowship rather more than that of any crony he had ever known. She made him laugh till he cried, but he never felt an impulse to slap her upon the back. They actually had a drink together before they parted. And ever after the incident the swineherd regarded the bank upon which he had found her with much the same veneration as is due to the Stone of Scone. Indeed, if he passed it alone, he always pulled his forelock.

It was, indeed, the lady's remarkable personality which lifted her out of the ditch into which, this September evening, she had been bundled without any warning and with no ceremony at all.

She had spent the day in the country and had returned rather late— at a quarter past seven, to wit, just five hours after Anthony had taken his leave. And dinner, as we know, was at eight ... at Claridge's....

She hurried into her room and rang for her maid.

Then a note on her table attracted her eye.

DEAR AUNT HARRIET,

Will you deputize for me to-night? I am not myself, and by the time you have this I shall have left for Bell Hammer. Your loving

VALERIE.

So much for the ditch itself. Now for the brambles within.

The object of the dinner was to celebrate Anthony Lyveden's return to the fold. Of the four guests, one was coming because he loved Valerie, two to congratulate Valerie, and the fourth because he was a friend of Anthony Lyveden. And Valerie had left for Hampshire, and— it was twenty past seven.

So much for the briers in the ditch. Now for the convenient culvert by which poor Lady Touchstone decided to crawl out of her plight.

Upon resorting frantically to the telephone, with the purpose of stopping the guests, she found that that useful contrivance was out of order. And Valerie had left for Hampshire, and— it was seven twenty-five....

It now became obvious to Lady Touchstone that, unless the situation was to become a total wreck, the sooner she made her toilet, the better for her.

Mercifully, her maid had deft fingers....

Half an hour later her ladyship entered a taxi, admirably clothed, and hoping very hard that she was in her right mind.

Verily, Valerie's action was enough to unhinge anyone. Why she had seen fit to take it, Lady Touchstone did not attempt to consider. She had had enough of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. Besides, she was desperately anxious to spare her wits. If this dinner-party was not to prove a far-reaching fiasco, she would have to rise to the occasion, as no understudy had ever risen before. Valerie was no ordinary star.
Hamlet
was going to be rendered without the Prince of Denmark and the play had got to be a roaring success....

Lady Touchstone set her white teeth.

The reflection that Richard and André were to make two of the guests comforted her. Richard Winchester was a tower of strength, and André— André, at least, was another woman. Besides, she knew them well. They would understand. She was a little afraid of meeting Anthony Lyveden. Scylla and Charybdis were hanging about that encounter. She must not forget that he had lost his memory. She must not remember that he had once lost his mind. Above all things, she must forget that he had lost his heart. Of the fourth guest, Sir Andrew Plague, K.C., she was actually frightened. Besides, he was a comparative stranger. She trusted that Anthony Lyveden would keep him in order....

She entered Claridge's hall at two minutes to eight.

As she was scanning the lounge, Sir Andrew rose from a chair and advanced upon her.

Lady Touchstone offered up a short prayer.

"Madam," said the knight shortly, "I am here under false pretences."

"Good," said Lady Touchstone agreeably. "So'm I."

Sir Andrew stared.

"I have come without Major Lyveden. While I was dressing for dinner and wondering where he might be, I received a telephone message, begging me to make his excuses and say that he could not come. I need hardly say that I am extremely angry. He has forced my hand and he has made fools of us both."

"And my niece," said Lady Touchstone, "has done precisely the same. I can only assume that the mantles of insanity with which you and I clothed each other yesterday afternoon have fallen upon their respective shoulders." She turned to look round the lounge. "There ought to be two other fools waiting to catch our eye. But they're probably on the way. Shall we sit down and exchange abuse of our betrayers until they appear? I know some splendid epithets."

"Madam," said Plague, with a grin, "I can confirm that statement."

Lady Touchstone laughed.

"The finger of Fate," she observed, sinking into a chair, "is undoubtedly double-jointed. As you have justly recalled, three days ago I sat upon the opposite side of this street and called you to order." Sir Andrew choked. "Let me take this occasion," added Lady Touchstone quickly, "of apologizing for assuming a rôle to which I had no shadow of right, which I did not adorn."

Sir Andrew threw up a deprecating hand.

"You have chastised me with whips," he said gently, "and my chastisement was deserved. I beg that you will not now chastise me with scorpions. May I add that the object of my visit yesterday afternoon was to offer a profound apology for my misconduct? Then I had the misfortune to fall over one of your hassocks—"

"You must admit," said Lady Touchstone, "that I behaved like a prize idiot. Go on. Without prejudice."

Sir Andrew tried not to grin.

"I have had," he replied, "no opportunity of observing the manners and customs of the happily exceptional class of individuals to which you refer, but, if I may say so, Lady Touchstone, my observation of your intellect suggests that you had reason for what you did. I was foolishly excited and, no doubt, spoke as a fool. If I was misunderstood, I have no just cause of complaint."

"That's very handsome," said Lady Touchstone, "and I should like to keep it. But I must hand it back. You never spoke as a fool. Of my own idiocy I dug myself into the mire, and then picked it up and threw it at you. I think it was very nice of you not to throw it back. And, talking of fools, it looks very much as if these two we're awaiting are wiser than we. If not, then they're knaves as well. It's ten minutes past eight."

"Knaves, if you please," said the knight. "I can't call them wise if they knew they were dining with you."

"Us," said Lady Touchstone. "I quite agree. I think we're excellent company and by no means such fools as we thought."

Sir Andrew rose to his feet.

"Madam," he said, "since our hostess has failed, I have the honour to ask you to be my guest."

Lady Touchstone inclined her head.

"I warn you," she said, "I'm very hungry."

Then she rose and preceded Sir Andrew Plague into the restaurant....

The late opponents made a striking pair.

Lady Touchstone was much more than handsome, and, if her figure was not what it had been, it must be remembered that it had been the talk of London. An admirable complexion had literally saved her face, and the spirit of youth, which had always inhabited her eyes, was apparently a tenant for life. She behaved as became her years: her soft, grey hair declared that she was over the crest of life, yet all the time her most attractive countenance was delivering an astounding rebutter. As for her beautiful eyebrows, they gave demeanour and greyness the lie direct. Moreover, she knew how to dress, and used the knowledge.

Sir Andrew Plague, in repose, distinguished any company: in eruption, he overwhelmed. The man's tremendous personality was royally and, so, suitably lodged. His height saved him from being outrageously fat. A man of six feet five who is proportionately broad can wear a big apron. Moreover, Sir Andrew Plague had no need of a bearing-rein. His head was always high and his shoulders square. Between his height and his carriage his stomach fell flat. As for his looks, the knight was much less than handsome. Shorn of its strength, his mighty face would have made the fortune of a thirteenth-century jester. But nobody ever laughed, because the strength was no beard. It was, indeed, part and parcel of the great countenance. The set of the jaw, the proud curve of the lips, the supremacy of the keen, blue eyes were all trumpeting a puissance of another age. Wherever he went, every one heard the fanfare, and such as were in his path gave him the wall. And every one who did not know who he was inquired immediately and in some excitement. What is still more to the point is that the inquiries were always respectfully couched. If Sir Andrew had gone to a ball as the Widow Twankey, I believe that the other revellers would have laughed more out of politeness than anything else. After all, Richard Crookback excited but little derision.

"You know," said Lady Touchstone, when she was comfortably installed, "I'm really almost relieved not to be sitting next to Anthony Lyveden. Don't think I don't like him, because I do. I'm positively silly about him, and always was. But his present defect bewilders me. I know exactly how I'm going to feel when we come face to face. I've had the sensation before— two or three times. Have you ever been suddenly presented with the wrong end of an ear-trumpet?"

"Not," said Sir Andrew, "that I can remember. Charity is indiscriminate, I know, but not so indiscriminate as all that."

Lady Touchstone laughed delightedly.

"I see," she said, "that you respect the dictum of Solon. Yet he was on the Bench."

Sir Andrew heaved with merriment.

"I have," he said, "a fellow-feeling. If you remember, he was once thought to be mad."

Lady Touchstone choked. At length—

"As I was saying," she continued, "I shall feel at a loss— tongue-tied. I shall flounder. I shall fall back upon that vulgar tramp of a topic— that well-worn copper which is in every dummy's purse— the weather."

"No, you won't," said Sir Andrew. "He'll see to that. His charm of manner is quite remarkable. The servants, who ought to hate him because of his office, worship the ground he treads. Of course, I know what you mean. He's your familiar friend, and the foundation of that familiarity has been cut away. He was your gossip, and reminiscence is the breath by which gossips live. How did your niece get on?"

"She's said very little," said Lady Touchstone, guardedly. "But she seemed very happy about him. He was the dearest fellow, and I gather he's exactly the same."

Sir Andrew frowned.

"Sentimentality," he said shortly, "is certainly among his failings."

"I should," said Lady Touchstone hurriedly, "have said 'lovable.'"

"Madam," said Sir Andrew severely, "I cannot appreciate that adjective. Only the other night Major Lyveden confessed to a dread that he might be a husband. And when, while admitting the horror of such a contingency, I remarked that what had been suffered in the past could probably be endured again, he replied that what was concerning him was that he would not love the woman." Lady Touchstone became extremely interested. "I reproved him, of course," continued Sir Andrew Plague, "but, you will agree that it is distressing to find such a fly in such ointment. Otherwise, his outlook upon life is sane and discerning. And, if he is somewhat stubborn, his charm of manner does much to redeem that fault."

"You say," said Lady Touchstone, "that he was dreading the idea that he might be a married man?"

"Naturally. The first thing he told me last night was that he was unattached. It was plainly a great relief."

Lady Touchstone sipped her champagne. Then—

"Have you the slightest idea," she inquired, "why he has failed to-night? I know he gave you no reason, but do you suspect any cause? Did he let fall any hint?"

Sir Andrew reflected.

At length—

"I have no idea," he said. "But I can tell you this. Last night he was in the very best of spirits. This morning he was late for breakfast— he had been abroad, I believe— and he seemed unusually quiet. He desired my permission to keep two appointments he had made. I gave it, of course. But his subdued manner was noticeable."

"One of those appointments," said Lady Touchstone, "was with my niece. If he is not here to-night, because he is depressed, it looks as if she may be suffering from the same malady."

"Which he communicated to her?"

"Exactly. You say he went out before breakfast?"

"So I believe. But what—"

"
Cherchez la femme
," flashed Lady Touchstone. Sir Andrew started. "I'm sure of it. While he was out, he met some one."

"But what has this," said Sir Andrew, "to do with your niece? Assume that he met some woman. I think it highly improbable, but let that pass. Assume that the encounter depressed him. Why should this depression affect your niece?"

Lady Touchstone looked her host full in the face.

"I am about," she said, "to commit a breach of trust. I have sworn to Valerie not to disclose a certain fact, and I am going to break my word. I am going to make a confidential communication. I believe that it will go no further."

Sir Andrew smiled.

"Secrets," he said, "never do. Their next step is always the last."