Valerie French (1923) (20 page)

"Yes," he said shakily, "it will."

Then for the second time he turned away.

The arms slipped from his neck, and Valerie rose to her feet.

Anthony stood up and put his hands behind him.

"So the queen," he said gently, "cast her bread upon the waters and married her squire. And she never regretted this because, while others looked upon her as the squire's lady, the squire never forgot that she was his queen."

Valerie took his head between her cool palms.

"She was a very lucky woman," she said tremulously.

Then she drew down his head and kissed his eyes.

A CARDINAL laid down his pen and sat back in his chair. For the last three days he had wished for tidings from England, and wished in vain. And now another postman had passed and had left no letters....

His Eminence rose to his feet and started to pace the room, with his chin in his hand. For all his simple faith, John, Cardinal Forest, was growing uneasy.

A servant entered the chamber, salver in hand.

"The postman returned, Monseigneur. He had overlooked this dispatch."

The prelate ripped open the letter with an impatient forefinger.

Bell Hammer,

New Forest.

Sept. 24th.

Dear John,

The weather is improving, and the glass is slowly going up. That stifling, thunderous atmosphere has been done away, so far as I was concerned, in the very nick of time. I tell you, I was being choked. But now, upon the seventh day of October, Valerie and Anthony Lyveden are to be wed, and I can breathe again. I know this will bring you to England, and the thought exhilarates me. If the Vatican refused you leave, I should wire to the Pope. Our little crowd is huddled about the gate of Paradise, knocking and ringing and staring between the bars. But the porter will hear you....

To Anthony his loss of memory means nothing at all: to Valerie it means— everything. It meant nothing to her, either, till he remembered André Strongi'th'arm.... Yet it is not just vanity. Valerie is not like that. There is vanity there, but there is something else. So long as his memory was dead, it was out of the question— like the moon. Then, suddenly, the moon was available. Somebody else had had it— for half an hour.... There is nothing like potential possession for making a thing desirable. No collector covets the Venus of Milo, because she is not for sale. But if the Louvre were "To be Sold, Furnished," half the rich men in America would be licking their lips. I am, of course, discreetly begging the question. Already your shrewd forefinger has found the flaw in my plea, which is that I am valuing his memory at more than it is worth. It is, you will rightly say, not to be compared with Venuses or moons. I cannot help that. Neither can Valerie. You know that she is not whimsical. You know it, John. Yet she craves to be remembered. She smothers her craving as much as ever she can; but it is there, in her heart. And Anthony knows this, and would readily sell his soul to give her her heart's desire....

That is the sum of my trouble— trouble which no outsider would ever suspect. Valerie seems radiant, Anthony the happiest of men. The Pleydells dined with us last night; the Alisons arrived after dinner; they all danced in the gallery, and at two o'clock this morning I felt twenty-six. I confess that six hours later I felt four score, but, then, the flesh is weak. Oh, the glass is rising without a shadow of doubt.

When they are married, they will go abroad for some months; certainly they will visit Rome and sit at your feet, so you must come quickly and give them just cause for veneration. As you know, they will be provocatively rich. Anthony's place in Dorsetshire is very fine; the house is warm and red, and was designed by Inigo Jones; its staircase makes my mouth water. The estate itself is considerable and very lovely. His town house is a convenient luxury; six tiled bathrooms and a passenger lift. He has bought a new Rolls, as he says, to assert his opulence, and we all four float about the country with the smug superiority of profiteers. 'All four,' I say...

Andrew Plague, whom, if I have done him justice in other letters, you must be itching to meet, is a tower of sanity and strength. I have never met anyone whose contributions to every kind of conversation were so consistently invaluable. His reputation is unspeakable, but Anthony or I stumbled upon the rich vein of humour which underlies his nature and has never been exploited before. Its yield is amazing. This is as well, for I am to be his wife. I am indeed. When you come, you will see why. For one thing, there are some honours too high to be declined; for another, his personality is most compelling— I simply dared not refuse; finally, I love children— and he is nothing but a great child that has never been understood. He insists that he does not love me— is most emphatic upon this point. He has, he declares, the greatest regard for me— delights in my company, but that is all. After all, it is a child's prerogative to lay down the laws of the game. I play it gravely— at times with tears in my eyes. He reminds me of Samson's lion. 'Out of the strong came forth sweetness.' How wild the lion would have been, could he have foreseen his posthumous philanthropy!

He will go on with his work— for a while, at any rate. At the moment he is on holiday— his first for twenty-five years. He likes it so well that his clerk is at his wits' end. The finest mill at the Bar, the only mill which never, never stopped, has at last come to rest. Solicitors can't get their grist ground. They won't go elsewhere, but keep on demanding their meal. And Andrew sits on the terrace and gloats placidly over the consternation he is causing. Not all the time, of course. I won't allow that. Yesterday we made him help Anthony to change a wheel. He protested violently, but I reminded him of Mucius Scævola and dissolved his wrath in a posset of toothsome wit which he brewed at my expense. I meant Cincinnatus, of course. Now he is most interested in cars and is to learn to drive. I told you he was a child.

And so, you see, our spikenard is exquisite stuff. So clear and exquisite, John, that it shows up that speck of a fly which I have dealt with. If it were cruder ointment, the fly would pass.

Affectionately yours,

HARRIET TOUCHSTONE.

P.S.— Yes, of course, I am hoping most desperately that he'll remember you. If you were here with them, you’d be catching at straws. Besides, he might— easily.

His Eminence picked up a diary and knitted his brows....

That evening he made his arrangements.

He left for the county of Hampshire the following day.

"THE ALMANAC'S out," said Lady Touchstone. "The calendar's lost its place. To-morrow's October, and here's another midsummer's day." She turned to the sideboard. "And mushrooms and all."

"Let me put on the lid," laughed Valerie. "Or can't you bear it?"

"My dear," said her aunt, "my cup is bottomless. And don't talk of lids. It hasn't got one."

"Uncle John's on his way."

Lady Touchstone clasped her hands.

"I shall go to Church this morning," she announced tremulously, "whether there's a service or not. It's— it's only decent."

Sir Andrew looked up from his letters and into the park.

"Will you drive me to Brooch after breakfast?" he said, quietly enough.

"I will," said Anthony.

The women heard the request and wondered, but not for long. After all, the K.C.'s affairs were high matters, and Lyveden was still in his confidence, if not in his pay.

The meal proceeded cheerfully.

Sir Andrew had no desire to be driven to Brooch— and, for the matter of that, no intention, either. But he was extremely anxious to talk with Lyveden undisturbed.

Let us see why.

The moment the knight had appreciated that the curing of Anthony's defect was seriously desired, he had appreciated also that there was only one way to go about it. Whether even that way would lead to success, no one on earth could tell. But there was no other way at all. What exasperated Sir Andrew was his knowledge that the way in question was barred— barred by a flimsy rail, only meet, to his mind, to be trodden under foot. This was the Rail of Sentiment.

Valerie French was desiring that Lyveden's memory should return. Very well. It
had
returned once ... once only ... for a moment of time. And that was at the instance of André Strongi'th'arm.... Reason suggested bluntly that
the latter should try again
. There was a chance— a good sporting chance that she could develop her success, that she would be able to coax the capricious truant back into its cage. The devil of it was that the lady could not be employed....

Why? Because, forsooth, fruit of her picking would lose its flavour. Miss Valerie French was nice— nice. So she had the grapes what did it matter whose fingers reached them down? Such fastidiousness was grotesque— sickening....

However, care as he might, Sir Andrew was so sure that André's agency would be unwelcome that he had not so much as hinted at such a venture even to his affianced wife. Instinctively he knew that to do so would be to waste his time. The flimsy rail, in her eyes, was a five-barred gate— which it was sacrilege to approach. These women....

For all that, an honest firm of detectives had not lost sight of the girl. The knight, for what it was worth, received a report of her movements every morning ... for what it was worth....

It was the latest report, delivered by hand at breakfast, which made Sir Andrew so anxious to talk with Lyveden.

Hitherto the road had been closed— by a rail or a gate. Now it was about to be obliterated. In less than thirty-six hours it would have ceased to exist.

I have, I suppose, a weakness for letting things speak for themselves. Five minutes ago I thrust an original document into your hands. And now, sirs, here is another. In a sense, I am avoiding my duty. Yet this I do, not of laziness, but in a belief that evidence at first-hand is preferred to secondary, however tricked out and garnished the latter may be.

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.

Sept. 29th.

Sir,

We beg to enclose a copy of the further information, regarding Miss S., obtained by our agent, and received by us this evening at eleven o'clock.

Your obedient servants,

LACKLESS AND Co.

MISS S.

Thursday, September 29th.

This lady left Chipping Norton for London to-day.

She was met at Paddington by Col. Winchester, and proceeded to the Berkeley Hotel.

They lunched in the restaurant, and left the hotel together at 2 p.m.

Miss S. returned alone at 6.45 p.m.

At 8 p.m. she proceeded to the Carlton Grill, where she was joined by Col. Winchester.

Shortly before 9.30 p.m. Col. Winchester escorted her back to the Berkeley Hotel, leaving her at the door.

She did not go out again.

Observation concluded at 10.30 p.m.

I have ascertained that:—

(
a
)
Two passages have been taken in the names of Col. and Mrs. Winchester on the
Castle Rising,
which leaves Southampton for Cape Town on Saturday next.

(
b
)
Col. Winchester and Miss S. are to be married to-morrow
(
Friday
)
before the registrar.

(
c
)
Immediately after their marriage the lady will proceed alone to Southampton, where rooms have been reserved for to-morrow
(
Friday
)
night at the Grand Hotel.

(
d
)
Col. Winchester will proceed to Southampton on Saturday next by the boat-train which will be run in connection with the
Castle Rising.

By a quarter-past ten Sir Andrew, Anthony, and Patch were in the Rolls, and the latter was stealing down the long avenue into a flashing wonderland of green and silver.

The forest keeps the road from Bell Hammer to Brooch, walls it with bracken, wards it with beechwoods, screens it with sentinel firs, honours it with the majesty of reverend oaks. And in due season, this side of Napery Green, a certain pride of maples will find for it a sovereign's escort, gorgeous and brilliant beyond belief. Your progress, sirs, may be royal, any day of the week. But drench all these champions with dew and then clap the gay sunshine on to their trappings.... Sirs, you shall see a parade which will beggar Bravery itself. More. The cool, fresh atmosphere is charged with the bouquet of a forgotten wine— wine that was trodden by Romance, bottled by History. You shall, if you please, snuff the very perfume of dreams. On either side, magnificence of green, laced all with silver, stands up and peers or nods its dazzling plumes; the yellow road becomes a scented gallery driven through laughing magic, raised by some Oberon to please his queen; and every sunlit glade leads to some Castle Peerless, each hollow hides the splendid fret of chargers, and every glistering brake stifles the echoes of some haunting call.

When they had gone, perhaps, three-quarters of a mile, Sir Andrew touched Anthony upon the arm.

"We're coming to a road on the right— a private road. I marked it the other day."

"I know," said Anthony. "There's a gate."

"That's right. I want to go that way."

"Right," said Lyveden. "I don't know where it leads, but— — "

"I assume it leads to privacy. That's what I want."

The gate appeared, and Anthony slowed down.

"I'll get out," he said, "and you drive her through. It's all practice. Put her in first and— — "

"Another time," said Sir Andrew, opening his door. "I want to get on now— to where we can talk."

He alighted and opened the gate.

Wondering what was afoot, Anthony passed through....

Two minutes later the highway was out of sight, and the car had dropped into a little dell, with a fair greensward on either side and a whispering splash before. Thick screens of foliage turned the spot into a natural court. Indeed, but for the alleys letting the narrow road, the close, green walls stood snug and flawless. Luck was with the two men. They had stumbled upon the very parlour of Seclusion itself.

Anthony slowed to a standstill without a word.

Then he stopped the engine and opened his door.

Patch leaped out excitedly and stared about him.

The dog regarded the car as a magic carpet. Its function was to carry him to pleasant places. If during a run he was not permitted to alight, the carpet had not come off....