Valerie French (1923) (2 page)

Gentlemen both, neither of his two hosts had asked questions.

"You're awfully kind," said Lyveden, rising and picking up the dog. "I suppose you realize that you've saved my life."

Private Rogers grinned.

"You was a bit queer las' night, sir," he said clumsily. "Firs' good turn the ole Swine's ever done, I reckon."

Half an hour later they stopped before
The Black Goat
.

Preceded by Hoskin, Lyveden and Rogers made their way into the inn. The landlord received them with a nod.

"This 'ere's the gent," said Hoskin, "as I was tellin' you of." The landlord bowed. "'E ain't quite 'isself yet, 'e ain't, but I said as 'ow you'd give 'im a bed to-night, so's 'e kin write to 'is friends."

"'Appy, I'm sure," said the landlord. "Sit down, sir. You've—"

"One minute," said Lyveden. "I have no friends to write to: I haven't a penny piece: and these two gentlemen here are the only beings I know."

The three stared at him.

Then—

"But you're a toff!" cried Hoskin. "A proper toff. Them trousers was dandy once."

"S-sh!" said the landlord. "I know a gent when I sees one. Look 'ere, sir, you've 'ad a tumble or somethin', an' if you'll give me your name— "

Anthony Lyveden started and clapped a hand to his head.

The three watched him curiously.

At last he looked round and smiled.

"Can't be done," he said quietly. "Not even that. You see, my memory's gone."

There was a long silence, broken only by the snuffs and blowings of the Sealyham, who was exploring the parlour and drawing the sweet sawdust into his nose.

"Well," said the landlord at length, "well, that's all— all right, sir. You ... you..."

"If you'll give me shelter," said Lyveden, "just for a day or two, I'll pay you back. As soon as I can earn money, I'll— "

The host of the inn cut short his promises.

"'Ave what you like, sir," he said, "an' settle the bill when you please."

"You're very good," said Lyveden, and called for drinks.

It was before these were finished that Rogers excused himself to Anthony and, promising indeed to return, haled his subordinate outside. After a minute or two they both reappeared— sheepishly.... Then Lyveden asked for paper and wrote down their names. When the time of parting came he walked with them to 'The Swine.'

"You know how it is with me," he said, "so I've little to say. If my memory ever comes back, you'll be the first to hear. One doesn't forget one's pals."

He shook hands with them, and they climbed confusedly on to the footboard.

A moment later 'The Swine' was under way.

Anthony watched it lurch round a corner.

Then came the sound of steps, and Rogers, red in the face, came running back.

"Quite forgot," he said jerkily. "Found this 'ere in your trousers, sir. In the 'ip-pocket. I 'ope perhaps the wordin' 'll 'elp your memory."

He thrust a slip of paper into the other's hand, took two paces backward, saluted, turned round and ran like mad.

As Lyveden unfolded the paper, there fell out two ten-shilling notes.

WHEN Anthony Lyveden realized fully the state he was in— got, so to speak, the hang of his situation— he found it extremely good.

That he did not esteem it at once is not surprising. For one thing, the man was a wreck: for another, his loss was peculiar enough to bewilder a sage. It was not, in fact, until the fourth day of resting in and about
The Black Goat
, that the excellence of his lot presented itself to his mind in all its glory. Many minds would have seen no excellence, nor glory either.
Quot homines, tot sententiæ
. But Lyveden was a philosopher: also his sense of humour was fine and sturdily grown. It was, indeed, thanks to this sterling equipment that he had determined to make the best of a bad business, and, whistling an air, whose extraction he could not remember, climbed cheerfully into bed. He had his reward. Waking at seven o'clock of a fragrant morning, and lazily planning, while he lay, the execution of his recent resolve, Lyveden suddenly saw that his task was already done. He found, in a word, that the business, which he was to better, was not bad at all.

Anthony sat up in bed, his brain whirling.

Here was a man, he judged, some thirty years old, intelligent, healthy, and soon to be very strong, without a care in the world ... without a care.... Actually in the prime of life, he had been miraculously flicked back to the threshold. He had been given that for which Piety and Wit knew that it was idle to ask. The Moving Finger had been lured back to cancel thirty pages.

Sirs, let us take this fortunate point of view, and, doing what Lyveden cannot do for himself, set it under a microscope. Two things stand out at once— a curious egoism, for one, a sense of relief, for another. Philosophy never wrought these. That relatives might be frantic, because he was out of their ken, never occurs to the man. Why? The bare idea of security has made him throw up his hat. Why? The reasons are plain. Lyveden's experience is at work—
behind the veil
. Again let us do as he cannot, and raise that veil. There is the truth, gentlemen, as clear as crystal. An orphan from birth, Anthony has no relations and next to no friends. As for his cares, he has of late been opposing a very sea of troubles....

I have no wish, sirs, to labour this matter, but we are dealing with a man's mind now— always stuff of importance, but in this tale the very headstone of the corner. Here, once for all, if you will, let us examine its state, and then— the lesson over— pass out of the latticed chamber to look at the bowling-green. Brains are all very well, but the turf at the back of the inn is a very masterpiece. But then Nature has slaved at this diaper for more than three hundred years.

That Lyveden had lost his memory is a loose statement. He had lost part of it only. For him, his personal past was blotted out. He could remember nothing that he had ever done or ever suffered. He could remember no acquaintance, local or personal, animate or inanimate, which he had ever had. With these important exceptions, his memory was pretty sound. What general knowledge he had possessed was, more or less, at his disposal. Names that were household words he well remembered, and their associations also: only— from those associations were excluded himself and all his works. Oxford, for instance, he knew for a seat of learning. He could name most of its colleges. He recalled the look of the place— hazily. Whether he had been schooled within its grey walls he had no idea. The fact that he could name but five of the colleges of Cambridge, and could not picture the town, suggested that he had favoured Oxford, but that was all. Again, he was clear that there had been a great war— most recently. Its cause, progress, and result, he perfectly remembered— particularly its progress. He dared not swear that he had soldiered. Later, his detailed recollection of the fighting
suggested
that he had served with the guns on more than one front, but that was all. He could not remember that he had ever dressed for dinner, but he knew that this thing was done....

Here we are coming to Instinct. Lyveden's instinct was as sound as a bell. As such, it was a buckler worth having, for while a baby's instinct is above rubies, that of a man of thirty, who knows his world, cannot well be appraised. Moreover, between Experience and Instinct there is a positive liaison....

The moment that Anthony Lyveden found his necessity virtuous, he became almost debonair. Curiosity would have been inconvenient— spoiled everything. But he was not curious. He had no desire to remember. If it was so ordained, he was quite ready to remember. Indeed, he was eager to see whether the faculty of recognition had gone the way of his memory. Until he recognized something, this question would remain unanswered. It occurred to him that he might be recognized ... accosted. Then he would learn about himself. Without doubt, a rare entertainment awaited him.... Anthony began to like his reincarnation better than ever.

It was later upon that same morning that he addressed the Sealyham. The two were seated beside that elegant green, waiting for the church clock to give the word for their departure. A shabby haversack had been packed, farewells had been taken, compliments exchanged. Refreshed and grateful, man and dog were going to seek their fortune.

"It is clear, my fellow," said Lyveden, "that we cannot remain anonymous." The terrier moistened his lips. "Quite so. You see, it's not only unfashionable— it's inconvenient. That we have names already is a charming but futile reflection. Whatever they happen to be, they've served their turn. You see, I'm a brand-new broom, and you know what new brooms do.... Well, I don't know about dogs, but I have a sort of idea that a man may not be his own godfather. The cryptic phrase 'deed-poll' seems to stick out of the mud at the back of my brain. Still, we must chance that. I propose to give names to us both— nice new names." The dog rolled over upon his back, and Lyveden patted him abstractedly. "The devil of it is, what to choose. They must be slap-up names. We shan't ever get such a chance again, you know, so we may as well do ourselves proud. Let's see..." For a moment he sat, knitting his brows, and stroking the dog's rough coat. Then his face lighted up. "'Hamlet'!" he cried suddenly. "There's a name for a dog. 'Hamlet.' My son, you're lucky. That was a blinkin' brain-wave, that was. Good name to shout and everything. 'Hamlet.' Well, that's that. Now it's my turn. I think," he continued slowly, "I think I must be called 'Jonathan.' I like 'Jonathan.' I've always liked 'Jonathan.' At least, I suppose I have. At any rate, I like it now, and— — "

Here the church clock began to strike nine leisurely....

Two minutes later Hamlet and Jonathan emerged from the kindly shelter of
The Black Goat
and, passing through Broad-i'-the-Beam, set their faces in the direction of the Oxford road.

Sitting in a very French room, overlooking an orchard, Lady Touchstone read through the letter which she had written.

Villa Narcisse,

Dinard.

29th July
.

DEAR JOHN,

Letters from you suggest that we have been corresponding. I am glad to know it. The truth is that for the last six weeks I have done what I have done in a dream.

When Tragedy leaps from behind a curtain on to shoulders as old as mine— I feel four hundred— the effort requisite to deal at all reasonably with the event empties the brain. One's old wits fail. I cannot remember what I have said or done, or— worse still— whether I have said or done it. (I bought our tickets twice over— the same afternoon.) For the first time in my life I have a sound sympathy with those poor old people who, whenever you see them, tell you the same anecdotes. It is not their fault. Some effort has emptied their brains.

Poor Anthony Lyveden's body was found a fortnight ago— in a terrible state. The hot weather, of course. The clothes were gone. They say the left leg was broken.... We had him buried at Girdle. It seemed the best thing to do.

I notice I say 'we.' I should have said 'I.' The moment the news came, Valerie threw down her cards. I tell you, it was like Bridge. Up to that moment she and I had been partners, and she'd been the one that mattered. Suddenly she became 'Dummy,' and I had to play the game. She's been 'Dummy' ever since. Wonderfully sweet and gentle, unnaturally calm, apparently perfectly content. But no initiative— no energy of mind— nothing. Every plan I make is 'admirable': every suggestion 'splendid.' She 'can't imagine how I think of it all.' But ask her opinion, and she'll smile and shrug her shoulders. She just doesn't care about anything, John. The frocks her maid puts out for her Valerie puts on. If she put out odd stockings, on to her feet they'd go.

I brought her here to get her out of herself.

To tell you the truth, I hoped and believed she’d kick. Do you understand? I wanted a sign of life. This agreeable apathy is frightening. A raging Valerie makes me tremulous, but Valerie meek and mild is shortening my life. I tell you I feel aged....

Well, from that point of view, Dinard was such a failure that I was quite thankful I hadn't suggested Pekin. We should have had to go. This terrible approval of one's choice is far more compelling than any criticism.

I heard of a villa somehow, and here we are.

I have a good
maître d'hôtel,
who does everything. I think he is lining his pockets for years to come, but I would not part with him for a thousand pounds.

We eat, sleep, and are driven about the Department. We watch tennis; we hear music; we attend the Casino. We discuss— more or less cheerfully— the small things in Life. The world sees a silly old fool with a devoted niece. I tell you, John, the girl is sweetness itself. Her affection brings tears to my eyes. But she is just 'Dummy.' Her character has gone.

Pray for her. Pray for us both, because, for the moment I am, I think, indispensable.

Affectionately,
HARRIET TOUCHSTONE.

P.S.— If only they had been married instead of betrothed.... I shall always say that wedlock would have been proof against that influence. Valerie's arms would have won. Of course you'll shake your head. You must pretend disapproval, because you're a priest. But you won't groan. I'll bet you don't groan.

H.T.

Lady Touchstone addressed the letter with a sigh.

It was right that John Forest should know what was going on. She had told him, therefore, what she was telling herself. She did not tell him the fear which knocked at her heart daily, insistently. This was that Valerie French, that glorious, dazzling creature, had gone the way of Lot's wife.

'She became a pillar of salt.'

A tall, graceful pillar— stricken, yet tearless— heedless of pain or pleasure as the pitiful dead, Valerie was warranting the comparison. Desire had failed.

Let us see for ourselves.

Upstairs, in a lavender wrap, hairbrush in hand, Valerie sat in her chair and stared at her glass.