Valerie French (1923) (7 page)

Out of the highway of Life there runs a sable lane whose name is Mourning. Down this we, that are quick, walk with our blessed dead. Sooner or later, sirs, the lane will bend— sooner or later. And there at the turn, the dead enter in at the gate which is that of Memory, but we, that are quick, pass on, and lo! an instant later, we are back upon the old highway.

When Anthony became a memory, André came out of mourning. The prince had passed.

After all, our emotions are nothing more than a set of hooks on which we hang things. And Lyveden had been transferred from the hook of passionate love to that of affectionate remembrance. Of this the direct result was that the hook of passionate love was now unoccupied. Nature abhors a vacuum. Miss Strongi'th'arm's nature went further. Her hook of passionate love
had
to be filled. Never in all her life had it gone spare. Dolls had hung there. So had horses, often. Dogs, dancing, Donegal, men— one after another, these had been tenants at will— a very uncertain will. But that is beside the point, which is, as I have hinted, that the hook was now empty....

André switched on the light and slid off the bed. Then she crossed to her table and opened a drawer.

Here lay a letter which had arrived that morning.

Sitting upon the edge of the table, she re-read it carefully.

My Dear André,

They tell me you know that I am well, but that, after all you have been through, you do not feel able to see me just yet. I am not surprised. (Remember, I can only take their words literally, without trying to read something which may or may not be written, between the lines.) I neither know nor desire to know the circumstances of my loss of reason— I am told that it was caused by overwork at that place which was recently burned, Gramarye— but, however it came about, the shock to you must have been awful.

You see, my dear girl, I know that, when my mind was taken, you and I were engaged.

That my love for you should have survived my illness, is not surprising. I was, in a sense, less affected than anyone else. But I want you to know, André, that it has survived, and that I can think of no one else.

Whether you love me still, is another matter. You may. If you do not, I can most perfectly understand. Possibly you may not know whether you do or not.

In any event, write to me candidly: and what you wish, my lady, that I will do. If you think it better, I will keep away— for a while, or for ever. If you would like to see me, I will come— as a friend. If...

André, my darling, I have tried, to write dispassionately. In return, don't let me down. Tell me the absolute truth, however harsh it may be. It's far kinder.

Always,

Richard Winchester.

Now, André believed firmly in going whither the winds of Fate were minded to carry her. How little she practised this faith she was sublimely unconscious. She was fully persuaded and often averred with conviction that she had done so all her life. As a matter of hard fact, she went where she listed: and the winds of Fate had usually to work themselves into a hurricane before she became aware that any suggestion was being made. In the present case a whole gale had been driving for over twelve hours.

Only two people knew that her engagement with Richard had been broken off. Of these, one— Anthony— was dead, while the other— Richard himself— had forgotten. 'When my mind was taken, you and I were engaged.' Probably they were. That night when she had flung down her ring he was already mad— obviously.

Of her affair with Anthony, of course, he knew nothing at all. As likely as not, he did not remember Lyveden. 'That place which was recently burned.'
That place
...

There was no doubt about it. By an amazing accident the clock had been put back, and André was being offered her 'time' over again. The question was, whether to accept it or no.

André flung back her head and stared at the light.

Richard ... Richard Winchester.... normal, was a most splendid being. She had been crazy about him— till she had met Lyveden. When he had asked her to marry him, it had been the proudest moment of her life....

Harlequin-like, the scene flashed into her mind, gallant and glittering. The two were riding home after a hunt. It was a mild evening, and the rain, which had been falling, had slackened and died. With no wind to carry it, the smell of the soaking earth rose up sweet and lingering. On either side of them a beechwood gave back the jingle of bits and the hollow slap of hoofs. Far down the silent road an early light was whipping on the dusk.... Suddenly Richard had leaned forward and caught her bridle. 'Will you marry me, André?' 'I will.' Without a word he had lifted her out of her saddle and gathered her in his arms. Then he had kissed her mouth and set her upon his saddle-bow....

André closed her eyes and drew in her breath.

Of course he needed a job— a job which would give him a chance to use his amazing powers. Big-game hunting, for instance. If she had realized that twelve months ago, things might have been different. But she had not. She had resented the way in which he had courted occupation. All the time it had been the man's nature. She might as well have been jealous of his appetite.... If the clock had been put back, not so her experience. She had been shown most clearly what cards to play. Big-game hunting.... Well, she would love that. That was a job she could enter into heartily. And if Richard hadn't much money— why, she was rich....

André began to appreciate that she was a most fortunate girl. She had come an unearthly cropper, and— the record had been expunged. Not a living soul was aware— yes. One was. Not that she mattered, still...

Which brought her to Valerie French.

A faint frown of vexation gathered on André's brow.

"I am a fool," she said sharply. "A headstrong fool. I had no case at all. If I'd liked to show her my cards, it wasn't her fault. All the same..." She gnawed at her underlip. "I am a fool," she repeated. "I suppose she thinks I don't know any better. There, of all places.... I wish to Heaven I'd pulled myself together before— before she went. Of course she thinks I'm just rank. She, of all people— to think that of me." André flushed red with mortification. "With what I told her at Dinard and then what I did to-day— Oh, of course she thinks it. She must. So would anyone. It's just like shouting 'I'm rank. I'm the cheapest, rankest bounder you ever saw.' Hell! Why was I such a fool? Such a rotten fool?"

She stepped to a box by her bed and took out a cigarette. When she had lighted this, she flung herself into a chair.

"I shall have to see her," she said. "Somehow. Barley's probably got her address. Yes. That's the only thing to do. I can't leave things as they are— possibly."

It was, of course, a question of self-respect. While Valerie did not respect her, André could not possibly respect herself. This was unbearable. That her own respect should depend on that of somebody else, was humiliating. That it should depend upon that of her idol's darling, made André writhe. In a mad moment she had pawned her dignity. Now, at whatever cost, this must be redeemed.

That she was quite unrepentant must not be charged to her account. Fate had been rough with her. That she should have chosen Valerie to be her confidante was most outrageous fortune. What had resulted, if distressing, was natural enough. At two-fifteen that day Miss Strongi'th'arm had had no reason to believe that she was not upon dry ground. At two-fifteen and a half she had made the unpleasant discovery that the ground was not dry at all, but a particularly odious slough, in which she had for some eight days been standing up to her knees. Few girls would not have floundered. André's mettlesome nature had sent her in up to her neck. Incidentally, it was the same vehement spirit which was now peremptorily demanding to be released from this plight. Mettle is a good subject, but, as an autocrat, apt to cost rather more than he is worth. The cheques he draws upon Humiliation are cruelly fat. It is good to think that in Miss Strongi'th'arm's case these were invariably honoured.

André tossed her cigarette into the night and began to make ready for sleep....

Before nine o'clock the next morning she sent a telegram.

This was addressed to Winchester, and was most eloquently brief.

Come.

VALERIE'S sudden decision to keep a diary was a desperate move. She was prompted by much the same motive as prompted political prisoners who were not sculptors to carve the walls of their cells. She
had
to do something. But, since she was not a diarist and never could be, she kept it only so long as there was nothing— to her mind— worth recording. Indeed, this fragment ends abruptly upon the fifth day. After all, I will wager that such political prisoners as were eventually released alive did not keep up their carving.

August 7th.
— Breakfast at nine. Tried to decide whether to return to Dinard or not. Couldn't. Wrote to Aunt Harriet and said I was staying in Town and would wire before I left. Asked her to try and think of some 'Professions for Girls.' I cannot get that sordid business of yesterday out of my head. Is everything to be denied me? I've only to scratch up some wretched, miserable crumbs, for these to be taken away. I feel like the prisoner who managed to tame a rat; and then one day they found him feeding his pet, and killed it. The flat needs decoration. Made up my mind to send for —— to-morrow. But I shall not. What is the good? We may not ever come here again. Even if we do.... Walked in the Park before luncheon. Something impelled me to ring up Daphne Pleydell. Happily, she was out of Town. Of course, everyone is. Luncheon— a solitary meal. Pity the idle rich. Then I had the car round and drove into Hertfordshire— to The Dogs' Home. The superintendent seemed pleased to see me again. I was a fool to go. I was a bigger fool to have tea at
The Leather Bottel
. Even they remembered me. They also remembered Joe ... and Patch ... and him. I never asked. They just rambled on and dragged them all into the fairy tale. I came home and dined in melancholy state. Afterwards I tried to read, but I could only think. Why did I leave Dinard? I am getting frightened. This loneliness makes me afraid. Yet I cannot go back. I can't face the villa again. That girl was there, for one thing. Besides ...

August 8th.
— I think waking is the worst time of all. For a fraction of a second, after I'm awake, everything's rosy and golden. Then, with a paralysing shock, I remember.... What a cruel thing Life is! Every morning now, for nearly a month, I have been informed most bluntly that my darling is dead. And every morning I am stunned with the awful news. I suppose I must be thankful that I sleep as well as I do. This morning I rang up Forsyth. He begged me to come and see him. I promised to go to-morrow. I dread it terribly. Sole legatee, sole executrix. The misery it means. I shall tread the steps he trod— that awful day: sit in the chair he sat in: use the same pen. The clerks will stare at me. Forsyth will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. He'll think he's doing it beautifully— he's done it so often.... And I shall sit and watch him, just as one watches a photographer moving his screens about. A letter from Betty Alison came by the second post. A very sweet note. I feel I should like to see her, but of course she can't get away. And I daren't go to Hampshire.
Dear old Val
, she says,
we think of you all day long. Lift up your beautiful head. Don't say there's nothing to lift it up for. Lift it up and wait
. I must try. After luncheon I put on a coat and skirt and drove to Richmond Park. I tramped all over it for hours. I should like to be able to say it did me good. It didn't. Coming home, I saw a dog run over— rather like Patch. The owner— a little girl— was like a mad thing. I took her home in the car with the dead dog clasped in her arms.... It is obvious that I am to be spared nothing. Soon I shall be afraid to go out. I spent a bad evening and was thankful to go to bed.

August 9th.
— I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields. Forsyth was very kind— not at all what I had expected. If he moved any screens about, I didn't see it going on. He said I must try to regard him as an old family butler— four-fifths servant and one-fifth friend. He showed me the Will— a very short document. Another longer one had been prepared, to be signed after our marriage. I saw this, too. There was really no difference, except that there was a memorandum attached to this, suggesting that, if I liked, I should give George and Betty and Anne ten thousand apiece and Slumper two hundred a year until his death. Of course I shall do this delightedly, as soon as ever I can. I came home to luncheon, not so much comforted as relieved. I am very fortunate in Forsyth. What a misleading thing anticipation is! The wind you dread turns out a zephyr. The wind you hail cuts like a knife. After luncheon I wrote to Aunt Harriet and said I was coming back— probably to-morrow. I cannot stand it here. All the same, I dread Dinard. Perhaps, because I dread it, it won't be so bad. If only she wasn't so comfortable there, I would suggest Paris. For some inexplicable reason I don't want to go far afield. Then I went to the Wallace Collection— rather desperately. I felt that awful depression coming on. I stayed there till I was turned out. Fragonard's
Villa d'Este
and Rembrandt's
Landscape
did me a lot of good. I kept going back to them. I came in to find a letter from Uncle John— very short, very wise, very honest.
My dear, I am not going to risk my position, as your adviser, by giving you valueless advice. For one thing, you are no fool, and, for another, I love you too well. I can only say this. Do not lose heart. Refuse to let yourself go. There is, I know, a breaking-point. Nine girls out of ten would have been broken by now. But you, if you please, need not be broken at all. I tell you, I cannot think of any calamity which could subdue your high spirit, if only you opposed its assault. There lies the danger— that you will let yourself go. You are tired of holding on. Of course. Remember, there is always one more ounce of resistance left in us than we believe. It seems a pity not to use it. Why? Because, if you use it, you will come through ... and out ... into the light
. 'Into the light.' Then there is light ahead. I'm thankful I didn't ask him, because I should have suspected his reply. But he would never volunteer a lie. I am going to bed more hopefully than I have for weeks and weeks. 'Into the light.'