Valerie French (1923) (18 page)

La femme
came to lunch the next day and, having eaten and drunk, listened politely to the knight's account of his mishap. When he had finished, she observed gently enough that a man lying to a woman always reminded her of an amateur teaching a professional his job.

"Not that you're not quite good," explained her ladyship. "As one who knows, I think you shape very well. Your falsehood handicap would be about fourteen. But I'm about plus five. All women are. It's a gift, of course. We're just born liars. Never mind. I'm not a bit curious. How did Anthony get on?"

Sir Andrew breathed very hard.

At length—

"From what I can gather," he said, "your niece sees fit to regret his loss of memory. Why the devil she should passes my comprehension. It's nothing to do with her. And, needless to say, she hasn't a leg to stand on. His present defect doesn't affect the contract. Mentally and physically the man's perfectly sound. But apparently she finds it inconvenient. Very well. Assuming she's sane, there must be something she wishes Major Lyveden to remember."

Lady Touchstone frowned.

"She probably wishes," she said, "that he remembered her."

Sir Andrew stared.

"I daresay she does," he snorted. "I wish that I could forget my age. But I don't let the fact that I can't interfere with my appetite. I repeat that, assuming she's sane, there must be something she wishes Major Lyveden to recall."

"And I," said Lady Touchstone, "repeat that that 'something' is Valerie French. And, while I remember it, what delicious bread you gave me! It's perfectly clear that your baker sleeps in the house. And I'm not surprised that misfortunes don't spoil your appetite. It'd take a great deal to spoil mine if I kept a table like yours. Is it a he?"

"I believe," said the knight, "it's a woman. Happily for us both, I've never seen her; but when the Census was taken, her sex appeared on some paper I had to sign. We get on very well. I pay her as she likes to be paid, and she feeds me as I like to be fed. But to return to your niece. Why does she make this ridiculous stipulation?"

"Does she?"

"That's what it amounts to. Lyveden's a fool, of course. If he wasn't— he’d snuff it out. But, so far as marriage is concerned, his mind's diseased. Instead of demanding performance, he desires to gratify her whim. He recognizes this caprice, dignifies it, confers upon it the rank of a condition— a condition precedent."

"Has he said so?"

"Virtually. He fenced, of course, but his— er— his handicap's about forty-five."

Lady Touchstone laughed. Then she knitted her brow.

"Don't think too hardly of Valerie, and don't despise her squire. They're a remarkable pair. Anthony's desperately honest, and his judgment is sound. Valerie, I want you to meet. She's not only astoundingly lovely, but she has a clearer brain than almost any woman I've ever known. As for her honesty— well, she's a glaring exception to the rule. Her handicap is about the same as yours. They've both suffered most heavily by no fault of their own. They were made for each other, and if they were parted to-morrow for good and all, neither the one nor the other would ever so much as look upon anyone else. I know you mock at love, so I won't refer to it again, but I tell you we're dealing here with something which is above contracts, which no man-made canons can touch. Two perfect, gentle specimens of the human race have been brought together: as one who is interested in humanity, surely you must desire their permanent union."

"Madam," replied Sir Andrew, speaking with considerable warmth, "I do nothing of the sort. But for the fact that a marriage has been arranged, I should seek to prevent my secretary from committing an unwarrantable act of folly which he will live to regret. Since, however, the bargain has already been struck, I am ready to do what I can to compass its execution."

"Your choice of words," said Lady Touchstone, "suggests a hideous comparison. I believe you think all marriages should be solemnized upon the scaffold, and that, when sentence has been passed, some official should bawl, 'So perish all idiots.'"

Sir Andrew shifted uneasily, forgetting his injured knee. The squeal of agony with which he repaired the omission sent his guest's heart into her mouth.

"Oh, what have I said?" she wailed. "What have I said? I assure you—"

"Nothing!" shouted her host. "Nothing at all. I— I beg your pardon." With a shaking finger he indicated the offending joint. "This blasted knee, madam, is enough to drive me mad. I loathe and detest inaction. I hate being girded and carried before my time. Yet if I so much as move..."

He let the sentence go and flung himself back in his chair like a petulant child.

Lady Touchstone was by his side, and her hand on his arm.

"I am so awfully sorry. I know so well what it means. But please try to remember that now you're in Nature's hands. Pain's her signal to stop. If you obey her orders, she treats you better and quicker than any leech alive."

The giant blinked at the slight, gloved fingers upon his sleeve and, after a little, up into the smiling face.

"You're very gracious," he said humbly.

With a heightened colour, my lady resumed her seat and, the iron being hot, presently beat out a promise that the knight would lie abed for two days.

"Of course," she concluded, "I should never have come to-day. It was very handsome of you and most unselfish. You've deliberately retarded your recovery because you were anxious to help two— two— idiots to their doom."

"I was anxious," replied Sir Andrew, "to have your advice. Now that I have it—"

"What counsel have I bestowed?"

"You have advised me that Miss French is sane, that she desires to be personally remembered, that her desire is just. I honour and accept your advice."

Lady Touchstone smiled.

"It's very nice of you to accept what you do not believe."

Sir Andrew reddened.

"You are more eloquent than you think," he said huskily. "I pray you forget my outburst just now. It was the last, blind rush of the bayed boar."

Lady Touchstone caught her breath.

After a moment the giant continued, frowning.

"I have always looked upon women as an unnecessary evil. My mother I never knew. My father died when I was fourteen. In fourteen years I saw him seven times. I was reared by two aunts, neither of whom was necessary, both of whom were evil. They believed that, but for me, they would have inherited my father's fortune— and used me accordingly. At their hands I endured penal servitude for ten long years.... I have fought shy of women ever since.

"Things sentimental I have always scorned and eschewed. Finding life brief, I sought to eliminate such stuff as weighed nothing. Sentiment stood first upon my list. I judged it idle, an empty toy, froth. When I found it clinging to my sleeve, I tore it off and stamped it under my feet.

"It follows that the love of women seemed to me a very perilous vanity, a snare of the devil himself."

The knight paused and passed a hand across his eyes.

"Well, madam, you and Lyveden have opened my eyes. He has shown me that there is a sentiment which is not sickly, which, sired by honesty, illumines the cold severity of life. You and he have shown me that 'there are more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in my philosophy.'"

"I'm— I'm very glad," whispered Lady Touchstone, who was upon the edge of tears. "What— what have I shown you?"

Sir Andrew stared upon the floor.

"You?" he said. "You have shown me that women are not always unnecessary and not necessarily evil."

ONE WEEK had gone halting by.

André Strongi'th'arm had left London: Sir Andrew was walking with a stick: Lady Touchstone was looking tired; Valerie and Anthony Lyveden were the best of friends.

The sky was clear enough, but the atmosphere was unreal. The blue bird was there, but he was off colour.

Looking upon her niece and Anthony, Lady Touchstone felt inclined to scream: looking upon Lady Touchstone, Sir Andrew snorted and blew and, finally, begged her acceptance of a dozen of port.

It was this solicitude for her corporal health which stung the lady into action.

She fell upon Valerie that evening.

"A drink," she said, raising her eyes to heaven. "He actually offers me a drink. It's rather pathetic— like a child pressing a toy upon a woman in tears."

"I hope you'll take it," said Valerie. "I'm sure—"

"I had to give up port," snapped Lady Touchstone, "before you were born. Besides, I don't want booze: I want exercise. Why am I here, in London? The streets are up, and Anthony Lyveden's found. Why on earth don't we get a move on?"

"You mean...?"

"What I say. A move. I don't care what it is. But this appalling inaction is breaking my heart. The play's the thing— not the interval."

"What you really mean," said Valerie, "is that I have provided a ghastly anticlimax. Anthony's entrance was worked up into a perfect sunrise of undreamed-of ecstasy— I worked it up— and, now the millennium's here, we're talking about the weather."

"Let me at once admit," replied her aunt, "that I couldn't have put it so well. Having done that, I feel at liberty to tell you that you ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"But is it my fault, Aunt Harriet? Is it my fault?"

"That the time is out of joint? No. But you alone can reduce the dislocation." Valerie knitted her brows. "Think. What can anyone do except you? How can anyone move until you give the direction? We're all— Sir Andrew included, and Anthony most of all— afraid to breathe, for fear of upsetting the boat. I'm only speaking now because I'm desperate, because I can't sit still and watch us drift and drift...."

"Whither?"

"Who knows? That's the dreadful part of it. We can't see a yard ahead. We may be drifting on to rocks or breakers—"

"Or into harbour."

"No," said Lady Touchstone. "And that's the danger. No ship that ever was launched drifted into harbour. You've got to work to get there."

Valerie pondered awhile.

Presently—

"Shall I ask them to come to Bell Hammer?"

"Just as you please. I can't advise you because you've got the chart. But it's a move of some sort, and I’d rather drift at Bell Hammer than drift in Town."

"I'll ask them to-morrow," said Valerie. "I suppose they'll come."

"If they do," said Lady Touchstone, "my doom is sealed. Sir Andrew's trying to decide whether to marry me or no. And when he sees me on the terrace in my grey corduroy, finishing that jumper for Anthony, it'll be all over. But I don't think I can, can I?"

Valerie laughed mischievously.

"I can't advise you," she said, "because you've got the chart." Lady Touchstone choked. "As an uncle, I should be very proud of him. And if, when he loses Anthony and you lose me—"

"Andrew Plague," said her aunt, leaning forward and looking into Valerie's eyes, "is a man of action." She paused. "If he decides to marry me, he will not wait upon 'I would.' And, if I were to reply that I would marry him if— when you and Anthony are wed, he would immediately withdraw his offer. He has no use for contingencies dependent upon the whim of an inscrutable Fate.... Neither have I. When you told Anthony that you would marry him when he remembered you, you did a barbarous thing." Valerie started. "Yes, barbarous. He loved you passionately. He loves you passionately still. Is he to suffer because of his affliction?"

The girl looked away and down, wringing her pointed fingers. The woman lay back in her chair and shaded her eyes. After a moment, she continued to speak— very tenderly.

"The Lord gave his memory. As a little, motherless child, that wonderful spring began to well at the back of his tiny brain. First he remembered little prayers, asking God nightly to 'make him a good boy.' Then he remembered nursery rhymes— immemorial toys and jingles, sacred nonsense. Every book of those rhymes should have a rubric. 'In nurseries and places where they lisp, here followeth the Anthem.' Well, that wonderful spring has failed. That abundant, refreshing fountain, in which we go and plunge our tired minds a hundred times an hour, has been dried up. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Don't think I'm being harsh. I understand. But, Valerie, unless you can say to yourself, 'I don't love him'—"

"I do!" wailed Valerie. "I do! But..."

"— unless you can say, 'I know I can't make him happy,' unless you can say, 'I believe he will make me unhappy,' it is your bounden duty, after all that has passed, to take that condition back. Think. If he had no sight, wouldn't you give him your eyes? And thank the good God for the blessed privilege? Of course you would. Then let him share your memory. Make him free of your beautiful fountain, and let him bathe his poor, tired brain. When I think of that poor, dear fellow, straining heart and soul, for love of you, to wring a favour out of the fist of Fate—"

"Don't, don't!" cried Valerie, lifting her head. "Don't whip me any more. I never meant to be cruel." She fell on her knees and buried her face in Lady Touchstone's lap. "I love every hair of his head. I’d give him my soul to-morrow— you know I would. If he was ill, and it would help him, they should bleed me white. And you know how little I’d care about his memory if only it— really— was— dead."

"'Vanity of vanities,'" said Lady Touchstone sadly. "'All is vanity.' Don't think I'm lecturing. I'm crying— in the wilderness. Vanity's the terrible freemasonry to which all women subscribe. If I were a man, perhaps I could argue with you. But now you've made me a sign— you've invoked our tacit, cursed sisterhood, and, because I was born a woman, you've shut my mouth."

Valerie looked up into the other's face.

"I'm glad," she said gently, "I'm glad you understand.... For now, when I marry Anthony, as I shall— if he'll take me— within the month, it'll be the greatest comfort in all the world to know that you're there— at my shoulder, that you've got a smile for me, which he can't fathom, that, no matter what's written, you'll always be able to read between the lines."

Lady Touchstone wept.

Presently she smiled through her tears.

"I might be your sister, Valerie."