Valerie French (1923) (5 page)

Seated upon a bench outside
The Yew Tree
, Jonathan cared for these things with a full heart.

Sir Andrew Plague had given him three commands. The first was to find the man upon whose hat he had sat, and to pay him two pounds. The second, to go to the inn and get a square meal. The third, to await instructions.

The first two orders had been obeyed, and now he was waiting at ease till Porthos should have finished his tea. A dozen paces away, Hamlet, who had had enough of prison yards, was making horseplay with a retriever.

If Jonathan felt thankful, he also was greatly moved. This is not to be wondered at. He was upon the edge of great matters. The interview, the summons to which he was awaiting, must be momentous. Thereat, for better or for worse, he would learn his identity and his past. His future, too, would in some sort be settled in that same small room where Plague— his godfather— was having tea ...
his godfather
....

Not that he cared about his future. His past was the thing. 'His father, the famous surgeon....'

Jonathan began to wonder what he had done.

He had an uneasy feeling that he had done wrong. There was some mystery about him. If Sir Andrew had known him in Court, he had known him equally well that day by the side of the road. Yet he had never declared himself— would not have done so now, but to save his (Jonathan's) skin. That was as clear as daylight. Oh, indubitably he had erred— in some way. So much the nicer of Plague to have befriended him. But for his intervention...

He wondered what Plague would say to his loss of memory. A thousand to one he’d call him 'a lying hound.' Still, he’d believe what he said.

Here his thoughts flew back— as far as they could. He remembered that terrible night when he had walked with Death. He thought of that morning, a short four days ago, when he had first discovered the virtue of his misfortune— perceived the excellence of his lot in all its glory....

With a shock Jonathan realized that that very freedom from care, which he had found so precious, was about to be withdrawn. The thought of such subversive dispossession daunted him. For a second of time, indeed, he was minded to rise up and go. His state was blessed. Why, then, should he surrender it? He had no real desire to know the past. If such knowledge was to cost him his freedom from care...

Jonathan started to his feet.

Then he sat down again and shook his head.

"No," he said, frowning. "No, I can't run away. I'm sorry it's come so soon, but I can't run away. Besides..."

Here the spruce little chauffeur appeared in the inn's doorway....

Jonathan called Hamlet and put him under his arm.

A moment later he was ushered into the presence.

Stretched luxuriously upon two easy-chairs, Sir Andrew, cigar in hand, regarded the pair.

"Didn't I tell you," he said, "never to help anyone?"

"You did, sir."

"Then why the devil d'you do it?"

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose I forgot, sir."

"Don't lie to me," snapped the other. "You’d do it again to-morrow. You know you would. And next time I shan't be by, to pull you out of the fire. I wouldn't have done it to-day, if I'd thought twice. And turn that dog round. I don't like his ugly face."

Obediently Jonathan reversed the Sealyham.

"I should like to— "

"Ugh! He's still looking at me, the brute. Put him down, can't you?"

Placed upon the floor, Hamlet advanced upon Sir Andrew and, fixing his eyes upon him, sat up and begged.

The K.C. covered his face.

"I have to thank you, sir," said Jonathan, subduing a smile, "for a most handsome action. But for your generous— "

"That'll do. I enjoyed myself. Besides, I've a weakness for seeing justice done." He plucked a case from his pocket and pulled out some notes. "Here's twenty pounds. Don't go and drink it. If you aren't on your feet again by the time that's finished, you ought to be flogged."

Jonathan stared at the money with saucer eyes.

"Take it, you fool, take it. I'm not going to hold it all day."

Jonathan took the notes with trembling fingers.

"You're very kind, sir," he stammered. "Of course I'll pay you back."

"As you please," jerked the other, and fell a-whistling. "Good-bye."

Jonathan could hardly believe his ears. The interview, which was to be so memorable, was at an end. His fortune had not been told.... It occurred to him in a flash that he must be a very black sheep— a family skeleton, in fact. Recalling Sir Andrew's charge, he began to wonder if liquor had been his downfall....

For a moment he hesitated. Then he turned dully away....

Arrived at the door, he swung round.

"Tell me one thing," he said quietly. "Who was my father?"

Sir Andrew stared at him.

"How the devil should I know?"

Jonathan put a hand to his head.

"But you were at school with him. You must have known him well to be my godfa— "

The other leapt to his feet, kicking over a chair.

"Is this blackmail?" he demanded.

"'Blackmail'?" echoed Jonathan. "
Blackmail?
"

"Because," said Sir Andrew, advancing, "because, if it is..."

The cold, deliberate tone was more terrible than any rage. The countenance had lost its grossness and become a grim mask. The keen blue eyes had narrowed to mere points of steel.

Jonathan felt as though he had crossed a king.

Then—

"I may be a waster," he said, "but I've not sunk so low as that." He threw the notes on the floor between the two of them. "I'm deep enough in your debt. I suppose I've given you cause to think this vile thing of me, though why, if I have, you didn't spare your talent this afternoon, I fail to see."

With that, he called the dog and turned again to the door.

"Stop!" Jonathan stood still. "Why on earth did you ask me your father's name?"

"Because you know it, and I do not."

"Why should I know it?"

Jonathan wheeled about.

"Two hours ago you stated in Court— "

Sir Andrew waved his arms.

"Lies, you fool. All lies." The other recoiled. "I had to say something to shake those Justices up. Up to that moment I hadn't a rag of a case."

Jonathan stared and stared. Then he leaned against the wall and began to laugh....

After a long look at him, Sir Andrew returned to his chairs. Sitting down, he proceeded, snorting, to mop his face.

"There's something wrong with you," he burst out suddenly. "What is it?"

"This," said Jonathan weakly. "I've lost my memory."

He told his tale there and then. The eminent lawyer listened with closed eyes. When the recital was over—

"And what," he demanded, "do you propose to do?"

Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.

"Work," he said simply. "At least, I've one recommendation. I've got a clean sheet."

"You haven't a sheet at all," snapped Sir Andrew. "And that's what'll lay you low. That and your cursed folly of helping fools."

"If I'm believed when I say— "

"Would you believe such a tale?"

"I would," said Jonathan.

Sir Andrew let out a squeal, as though suddenly stung, and Hamlet, considerably startled, began to bark.

"I knew it," yelled Plague. "I knew it. In spite of all I've said, you’d help the liar that told it." He turned upon Hamlet with a roar. "Stop it, you venomous swine! Don't yap at me." He snatched
The Times
from the floor and flung himself back in his seat. "What of your friends?" he demanded.

"I don't even know if I have any, much less who they are."

"You can make inquiries."

"I think that's for them to do. They've something to go on. I haven't. Besides, I've got to live."

"In fact, you're content as you are?"

"Perfectly. The past has been taken from me. I don't want it back."

"You may be a millionaire."

Jonathan smiled.

"Felicitate me," he said, "upon my release."

A ghost of a grin stole into the great red face....

Then, as though to obliterate the impression that he knew how to smile, the giant snorted like a wild beast and beat and wrung
The Times
into the shape he desired.

For a moment his eyes were scanning a column of print. Then—

"There's a fool's advertisement here," he announced, "for a secretary. I happen to know the fool. If you like to offer yourself, I'll get you the job."

Jonathan hesitated.

"D'you think I could give satisfaction? I don't want to let your friend down. You see, I've no idea of what I can do."

"Fools go with fools." Sir Andrew dabbed at the paragraph. "You'll suit him admirably." He nodded at pen and ink. "Write a reply now, and I'll take it to Town."

Jonathan did as he was bid.

The Yew Tree,

Ruby Green.

August 5th.

SIR,

In reply to your advertisement, appearing in to-day's issue of
The Times,
I beg to apply for the post you are seeking to fill.

An interview will better enable you to appraise such qualifications as I may have, so, if you entertain this application, will you be good enough to write to me c/o The Poste Restante, Oxford, giving me an appointment?

I am, Sir,

Your obedient servant,
JONATHAN WOOD.

He addressed the letter to the Box, and, rising, humbly offered it to Plague for his inspection.

The latter read it carefully.

"You've told me a pretty tale," he said, without raising his eyes. "As I've tried to point out, not one in a million fools would ever believe you. A sudden loss of memory's too convenient."

Jonathan nodded.

"I see that now," he said slowly. "I realize that. I shall always proudly remember that you believed what I said."

"'M not sure that I do," grunted Plague. "An' now take up that money you flung in my face. Those clothes won't win an appointment, and there's your fare to Town. You'll have to get rid of that beastly dog, you know."

Jonathan started. A finger flew to his lip.

"Hamlet!" he breathed. "Hamlet! I quite forgot."

A touch made him look down. It was the terrier's '
Adsum
.'

One paw raised, his soft, brown eyes alight with eagerness, the dog was awaiting his bidding with a heart no wages can buy. As their eyes met, his tail began to move to and fro. Surely never squire so hung upon the lips of his lord....

Jonathan stooped and patted the small rough head.

"Perhaps they’d let me keep him," he said lamely. "We're rather friends."

"You're mad," said Plague shortly. "The advertisement asks for a man, not a menagerie."

Jonathan straightened his back.

"I can't give him up," he said.

Sir Andrew Plague rose and clawed at the air.

"You blithering fool!" he roared. "It's the dog or the post."

"I choose the dog," said Jonathan quietly enough.

With a fearful effort, the other mastered his voice.

"So," he said hoarsely. "Vagabonds and rogues hang together. Well, I'll keep my word. I'll send your letter along. If you like to cut your own throat, that's your affair."

"I'm afraid you think me ungrateful."

"Never mind what I think," snarled Plague. "But learn of me. Never help anyone." He turned on his heel. "And now go," he added. "I'm tired of fools."

Jonathan went.

ON THE MORNING of August the eighth he was given a letter.

He thrust this into his pocket and left the Post Office. Crossing St. Aldate's, he passed into the meadows....

Presently pacing that majestic nave— that peerless robing-room where youth, panting, barelegged and thoughtless, unconsciously puts on the magic mantle of Tradition to his own use for ever, Jonathan drew out the letter and turned it about meditatively.

Blithely Hamlet preceded him, going upon three legs— indisputable evidence of his approval of The Broad Walk. Abstractedly his master watched him.... After a little while he shook his head.

"I can't give him up," he said shortly. "It's out of the question."

With that, he ripped open the envelope.

45 Kensington Palace Gardens, W.
August 6th.

SIR,

We have had our interview.

I am satisfied that you are stubborn, sentimental, and credulous— three most abominable failings.

Upon the understanding that you will correct your behaviour in these respects, you may become my secretary at a salary of five hundred pounds a year.

Yours faithfully,
ANDREW PLAGUE.

Jonathan Wood, Esq.

P.S.— Acknowledge this letter and be here in three days' time. I have told the steward that your dog will eat sausage-rolls. If this diet is wrong, you had better instruct him direct.

HERE IS A LETTER, sirs, out of a Cardinal's bag. His Eminence will not mind my setting it forth. I am a privileged person, like the King's jester.

Villa Narcisse, Dinard.

August 3d.

DEAR UNCLE JOHN,

It seems impossible that it is not yet one year since I wrote to tell you that I was in love with a footman. I remember writing so well. Just as in another year's time I shall remember writing this letter, which is to tell you— not that Anthony is dead, because you know that, or that I still love him, because you know that too, but that I am sane again and that the power of caring has come back. Of course my occupation is gone. I have not the slightest idea what to do. But I must and mean to do something— take some action of some sort, and that is more than I could say a week ago.

It is, in fact, just five days since I fell in with a girl— a complete stranger— who was unhappy, too. Her trouble was that
she was in love with my darling.
She had no idea, of course.... I don't think she knew he was dead. But she had been very hard hit, and— the clouds had returned after the rain.

I have stated the truth baldly. I do not feel able to comment. It is too big. Truly Fate is an amazing thing. Out of the millions of women— surplus women, Uncle John, of whom your niece is now one— this girl, a Miss Strongi'th'arm, selects me for her peculiar confidence.... I owe her a debt. When I heard her mourning Anthony, it set my heart going again, and I was able to cry.

I think that's all my news, but I’d like your advice.

Tell me about the dead. Can they take part in our lives, assuming they want to? Or are we too small fry? I mean, Death's really a promotion, isn't it? One's given a better brain. New lenses are fitted to our understanding, aren't they? Immensely more powerful. 'Now we see through a glass, darkly....' Well, when those lenses have been fitted, how will this old life look? Shall we be able to see it at all? Or will it be out of focus— beneath contempt?

You see what I'm driving at. I not only want Anthony— I need him. His is the only presence that can help me to stand his loss. I can't realize that he's dead— yet. But I shall soon. And I want his shoulder to lean on— the hem of his garment to clutch at when that realization comes. It's like a wave approaching: already I can see its crest. If I could feel that he saw, felt, understood, perhaps even loved me, looking down from his peak, I think I’d be able to breast this terrible wave— I think I’d feel less famished than I do. I tell you I'm just starving. And Memory's bitter fare— very bitter...

Now that I've written all this, I see I've wasted our time. You can give me only one answer. It would be brutal to give me any other. Besides, you can only guess. You may be a Cardinal, but you're still alive and so as blind as all the rest of us. Your fine red hat was made in a tailor's shop, probably by sweated labour. The point is, it's a hat, not a halo.

No. I may have wasted your time, and I'm sorry for that: but I haven't wasted my own. I feel better for having got rid of all this sob-stuff. For that's all it is.

I am so glad you knew him— so awfully glad. He was so splendid, wasn't he?