Valerie French (1923) (6 page)

Your loving

VALERIE.

P.S.— I'll write again when I'm through this phase. I leave for London to-morrow, without Aunt Harriet. I won't let her come. I’d like to go to Bell Hammer, but I can't stand that ... yet. I suppose you know he left me every penny. Which means that, with what I already had, I must be worth considerably over a million. Isn't that nice?

Yes, I know. But you must admit I've a lot to make me bitter.

Valerie French, spinster, was as good as her word. Ere her letter had reached Rome, she and her maid had lain one night in London.

The following morning she left for the Cotswold Hills.

The impulse which drove her to Girdle was natural enough. It was, indeed, with the idea of visiting Lyveden's grave that she had left Dinard. She, wanted to see where he rested, desperately. More. She was most pitifully thankful for an object in life. Never pilgrim journeyed to Canterbury one half so undistractedly. The girl had no need of tales to beguile the way. This was all too short. Had her shrine stood in the Antarctic Zone, she would have praised God. Once she found herself wondering what pilgrims do when they have made their pilgrimage. One heard of their going. Whoever heard of their return? Upon that point even Chaucer had broken down.... Clearly the return was empty, flat— an appalling anticlimax. For one thing, of course, they were no longer pilgrims. A frightened look came into Valerie's eyes. To-morrow her pilgrimage would end ... to-morrow. And after that ... She was only twenty-six. Supposing she lived to be seventy.... She brushed the thought away and pictured her shrine anew.

This was much what she had figured— a low, green barrow, seamed across and across, where the late-cut turf had not healed. Valerie was directed to it by a mumbling sexton. She hardly heard what he said and forgot him, so soon as he had spoken, as one forgets a finger-post. The truth is, the girl was overwhelmed. She had hoped so hard that Anthony might lie in a pleasant place: she had never dared to dream that he was buried in a King's Corner.

The Abbey Church of Girdle stands a mile from the village in a most lovely yard. Its day is over, of course. The town it was built to serve has disappeared. Each Sunday a handful of worshippers plod resolutely to Matins, stare for an hour uncomfortably about their heritage, and go their way. Occasionally strangers appear, to glory in the flying buttresses, marvel at the fan-tracery above the choir, and swear the altar-screen an anthem wrung out of stone. For the rest, the great church sleeps, stately and exquisite, amid its whispering elms. As for its ancient retinue, with one superb exception, this is clean gone. Only the footings are left, to turn the shadowy plot into a close. One gentle spokesman of another age remains. There by the south-east corner three lovely arches tell where the cloisters ran. With these the afternoon sun will print three matchless windows upon a little greensward. There is only one grave there yet. And that lies under the silver birch— a low, green barrow, seamed across and across....

After a long half-hour Valerie rose to her feet and sought the sexton. Ten minutes later she rang the Vicarage bell.

Here we are upon the edge of three several interviews, all of which were painful and are relevant. Two, as you shall see, may be swallowed whole; but the third must be chewed. Bear with me, sirs. He who would gather grapes of thorns must at least pick over the brambles.

The first interview— between Miss French and the Vicar of Girdle— took place at a quarter to one. It was distressing, as was the second, because the Reverend Simon Barley was not a lady's man. Moreover, he suffered, poor fellow, from St. Vitus's Dance and was acutely conscious of his infirmity. Both parties were very thankful when it was over.

The second— between Miss Strongi'th'arm and the Vicar of Girdle— took place at two o'clock. This ended abruptly with the slam of a door and left the unfortunate priest a nervous wreck.

The third— between Miss French and Miss Strongi'th'arm— took place at two-fifteen.

Valerie had lunched at Girdle and had returned on foot to the churchyard. Thither her car was to follow at half-past three.

The poor girl was almost cheerful. She had won sanctuary. Sitting on the turf of the cloister, marking the bulwarks of the grey old church, she found an ease of spirit she had not known for months. The old steady look began to steal into her eyes. The atmosphere of the place was ministering to her mind. Viewed from this belvedere, the scenery of Life became less desolate. Far in the distance stood peaks, which the sun was touching....

Valerie took off her hat and, leaning her back against its delicate trunk, stared at the hanging garden which the silver birch made.

A footfall made her look down.

"
You?
"

Framed in one of the archways, Miss Strongi'th'arm was regarding her with burning eyes.

"
You?
" blazed André again. "What are you doing here?"

For a moment Valerie gravely returned her gaze. Then she rose and came forward.

"Of course you live near here," she said quietly. "I'd quite forgotten." With that, she put out her hand.

The other stared at this, biting her lip. Then she took it uncertainly.

"I'm sorry," she said jerkily. "You'll— you'll think I'm not safe to be about. The first time we meet I behave like an idiot child: and now, like— like a maniac." She laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose you know where you are ... whose grave that is?"

"Yes," said Valerie.

André shot her a long and searching glance. Then she fixed her eyes upon an adjacent headstone.

When she spoke again, her voice was strained and low.

"It was my earnest desire to put up a memorial.... I went to see the Vicar ten minutes ago.... He tells me he's given permission to somebody else— some other woman." She paused. "I asked if she was a relative, and he said she had told him 'No.'"

"That's right," said Valerie quietly. "He gave it to me."

"So I was right," breathed André. She turned upon the other with smouldering eyes. "What's your imagined authority for doing this?"

"Major Lyveden and I were engaged."

Miss Strongi'th'arm stared.

"When?"

"At the time of his death."

"But he was mad."

Valerie shook her head.

"We got him all right," she said. "Apparently, perfectly well. It— "

"'We'? Who's 'we'?"

"His friends," said Valerie. "It was only right at the end that he had a relapse."

"D'you swear this?" demanded André.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you tell me at Dinard?"

"Until you opened your mouth, I hadn't the slightest idea. When you'd opened it, it was too late."

"'Too late to stop me telling my rival the details of how her lover had turned me down?" She pointed to the grave at their feet. "I wonder what he’d think about it."

"He'd understand," said Valerie. "So would you, if you'd only think for a moment. I never dreamed, of course, I should ever see you again."

The other gave a short laugh.

"No," she said dryly. "I don't suppose you did. One doesn't bother, as a rule, about a sucked orange."

Valerie lifted her eyes and stared at the tops of the elms.

"I'm sorry," she said gently, "you take it like this. God knows I meant you no harm."

"Then why did you let me talk— strip myself? Because you wanted to see my nakedness. You'd landed the wonderful thing I'd lost my heart to, and so my failure was interesting ... a posthumous titbit ... the hell of a feather in your cap. That
I
was sticking it there was simply superb. You must have screamed when I'd gone."

"Do I look that kind of woman?"

"I wish you did," said André bitterly. "Then I'd 've held my tongue."

"You know I never laughed when you'd gone."

The other shrugged her shoulders.

"A woman who'll do such a rotten, shameless— "

"Why do you talk like this?" said Valerie. "Why are you so unfair? I never invited your confidence."

"You abused it."

"I never abused it. Listen. For one thing, you know I was ill— almost out of my mind."

"Rot," said André. "Your nerve was like iron."

"I say," repeated Valerie, "that I was almost mad. Anthony was dead. You find his loss hard enough. What d'you think it was— is, to me? Well, you offered to tell me your tale, and I offered to listen. Suddenly, without any warning, I found you were giving yourself away.... I had to decide what to do— instantly. There was no time to think. I had to decide whether it was better to stop you— make things desperately awkward for both of us, and drive you wild with yourself for having spoken, or to let you go on and away without knowing who I was. I don't think I ever decided. While I was trying to think, you went on talking, until it was clearly too late."

"How could I help in the end finding out who you were?"

"It didn't seem likely then. I never expected to come to see his grave."

"Till after I'd spoken?"

Valerie nodded.

"I owe you a debt," she said. "When you spoke so handsomely— "

"Rub it in," said André.

With a gesture of despair, Valerie turned away.

"In fact," said André, "it was only when you found that there was some one who
cared
, living a couple of miles from where he lay ... some one whose
right to care
was technically smaller than your own ... some poor rotter who
might
be 'expected to come to see his grave,' that it occurred to you to use your authority and put up a gravestone— 'In Loving Memory.' After all, what's the use of a door marked 'Private' if you've nobody's face to slam it in?" She stamped her foot upon the ground. "Upon my soul, I wonder you don't order me out of this churchyard."

Valerie stepped to the birch and picked up her hat. Her face was very white, and when she spoke there was the chill of death in her tone.

"Before I go I'll tell you what you've done.

"I came here to-day, laden and desolate, after two solid months of horror, misery and despair. And here, for the very first minute in all these frightful weeks, I felt at peace. The weight that was breaking me was taken: that awful, desolate feeling fell away. Perhaps you can imagine the relief— after two solid months. I could have cried with gratitude. In fact, I did. Then I went to the village and took a room at the inn, so that I might be able to come here every day....

"And now— you've smashed my sanctuary ... sown it with stinging memories ... poisoned the peace I found here ... hunted me back into the night.... I tell you, you've robbed the destitute. You say you're poor. You fool. I am Poverty. And yet you've found a pocket in my rags— and rifled that."

She turned and passed out of the pleasaunce like a stricken queen....

Her red lips parted, wide-eyed, the other watched her go, and, after she had gone, stared at her point of disappearance.

Presently her brown eyes narrowed, and she began to frown.

IT TOOK A good deal to stagger Miss André Strongi'th'arm, but the trick had been done. For this, a finer personality, a blow from an unexpected quarter, and an air of frozen dignity were together responsible. She had been shaken much as a confident boxer may be shaken by the shock of the sudden punch of a better man. She walked home thoughtfully.

THAT SAME NIGHT, in her chamber, she threw herself, dressed, on her bed and considered her plight. Her windows were wide open, and from where she lay she could command the dark heaven, literally crammed with stars. These afforded, as ever, a majestic spectacle, conducive to meditation. Occasionally one of them would leave its place in the pageant and take its dying leap into eternity.... After a little André began to feel that Fate not only was pretty powerful, but possibly knew its job rather better than she.

For more than six dragging months she had been most deeply in love with Anthony Lyveden. Never once in all that time had she viewed this passion impersonally. It was, of course, a question of effort, purely: and the effort had never been made. She had let herself go— let herself love, dream, suffer. Six months ago she had stumbled upon a pool, sunlit, inviting. Without an instant's thought, she had flung herself in.... Soon the sunlight had gone and the waters begun to grow chill. She had stayed there desperately. Gradually the waters had become icy: but she would not come out, because they had once been warm and the sun had lighted them. To-night, for the very first time, she saw herself crouched in the pool, wide-eyed, frozen.... She was only just in time. A moment later the pool was empty.

A feeling of resignation stole into André's heart, as blood that has been congealed begins to liquefy.

The reason for this is plain.

The girl was a fine lover, handsome and careless. This morning she would have given her life to bring back Anthony, and given it gladly, without a thought. But to-night— no. She would not have crooked a finger. This morning she would have asked no questions, made no conditions, but would have gone to the block with the shining eyes of a zealot. To-night she would have seen eternity end before she brought him back for another woman. André was neither selfish nor unselfish. She was just human. Continuing to look through her new, impersonal lens, she perceived that Lyveden's death had been predestinate. This discovery relieved her immensely. Till now she had always felt that she might have saved him. The millstone of self-condemnation began to slip from her neck.... Still using this comfortable lens, she found it perfectly manifest that Anthony was not for her, because he was for no woman. This finding was more than a relief: it was a positive cordial.

The glow of resignation began to course through André's veins, as blood which has got going begins to circulate.

Staring up at the regalia of Destiny, it struck her that Anthony Lyveden had crossed her path like one of those falling stars, flooding her life with his radiance, dragging her heart with him in his dying leap. Pondering the truth of this simile, André found him ethereal, made of the silver stuff of dreams, a prince passing. The man began to change into a memory— a most important transition.