Valerie French (1923) (8 page)

August 10th.
— This morning arrived a letter from André Strongi'th'arm. The moment I saw the writing I knew it was hers. And I felt cold.
Ashamed of my barbarous behaviour ... cannot rest till I have seen you.... I am very much changed ... my eyes have been opened.... I know I'm asking a lot, but will you see me? If you are in London, I'm coming up on Thursday for two or three days. Will you send me a line to the Berkeley
? I'm glad in a way she wrote, but I don't want to see her at all. Why can't she leave it at that? It isn't as if we were friends. There's nothing to be made up. Now that she's written, the incident ought to be closed. Yet she's keeping it open— setting her foot in the door. Why? I suppose she wants to show me she can behave. As if I cared. The obvious thing to do is to leave for France. I had meant to to-day. But I don't want to go, and, after Uncle John's letter I felt I could stay....

I went to the Wallace Collection again this morning. I might as well have stayed in the flat. That wretched letter kept cropping up all the time. I don't want to see her, and yet I suppose I must. After luncheon I took the two-seater and drove, down the Portsmouth Road. I shan't do it again. I found the traffic a strain, and London's too big. By the time you're out of it you're tired. At least, I am. This is the first sign of age I've seen in myself. I welcome it. Dinner— a ghastly meal, because I knew after dinner I must decide. I've tried to argue it out— for and against. I couldn't get far. The only thing against seeing her is that I don't want to. On the other side, I don't want to seem to be keeping it up. (Keeping what up? I can't recognize any hostility. I've never drawn my sword.) Besides, if I see her, I can snuff the whole thing out. After a lot of hesitation, I wrote and asked her to come on Friday at twelve. After all, when the morning comes, I can send her a wire. But I shan't. I know I shall see her. What does it matter? I think everybody would say that in this I was at perfect liberty to please myself. Even Uncle John. Yet I'm not going to, and I am right. I feel instinctively that I am right. I suppose it's another phase— a draught's only got to be nasty to be worth drinking. Late as it was, I took the letter to the post— to make certain. I suppose I am right.

August 11th.
— I have had a bad day. Anthony is dead. Years— centuries ago I made a terrible mistake. I paid most heavily. Then I paid again— most heavily. Each time I thought the debt was settled. Each time I was wrong. I was paying the pence ... the shillings. The pounds were to come. And now I have paid the pounds. I hold the receipt. It came before breakfast this morning.
The Executors of the late Major Lyveden, Bell Hammer. Dr. to Benjamin Punch, Saddler, 7 Castle Street, Brooch. June 9th. To Dog's Collar, 4s. 8d
. Anthony is dead. Yet everything is just the same. Boys have been whistling in the street, cars have swept on their way, and once a band passed. I know. I have not been out. Of course I do not expect the world to stand still, but
there is no difference
. This frightful tragedy does not count. Is it nothing to them? Nothing. They don't know. If they knew, they wouldn't care. Betty says, 'We think of you all day long.' Yes, but they eat just as well. They're just as put out, if they run out of jam. No jam— and Anthony is dead. Can such a hideous catastrophe be so confined? Is it possible? Yes. Outside the room I sit in, it doesn't count. I think I must have some straw put down outside in the street. Then when people go by they'll toss a thought to the dying person inside. There will be no dying person. That doesn't matter. The straw will make them think. I must make people realize that there's something wrong. This present frightful indifference is unendurable.

I had breakfast. I had luncheon. I had dinner. The thought of that interview to-morrow has driven me nearly mad. Yet I must go through with it. 'Lift up your head.' 'Refuse to let yourself go.' 'One more ounce.' I suppose to-morrow will bring the breaking-point. But I shan't break. Why? Because I
can't
break. I'm not naturally made. There's some terrible stuff in my composition which can stand any strain. The hell I go through doesn't matter. My mind may be twisted and wrenched, but it will not give way. It's like those rag-books— untearable.

A letter from Aunt Harriet arrived this evening— a kind, rational letter, full of good things. But they are wasted on me. I am too wretched. It shows that my absence has done her a lot of good. Which is hardly surprising. I'm glad I didn't go back. Poor woman, by now she has my letter, saying I'm coming. I must send her a wire to-morrow, that she may breathe again. I must be terrible company. I have read the letter again. I can see that its wit is brilliant, but I cannot smile. The salt has lost its savour. Anthony is dead.

Ten o'clock is striking. Only another hour, and, with any luck, I shall be asleep— until to-morrow. That's the awful part— 'until to-morrow.' I'm never out of it. My bed has been brought into the torture-chamber. I have slept there for weeks. And I shall. I do not see that I shall ever come out any more. How can I? Anthony is dead.

AS ANDRÉ TURNED into Hill Street, a neighbouring clock began to announce midday. Three minutes later she was seated in a cool morning-room, looking composedly about her.

She had come, as we know, to regain Valerie's respect. This was not her hope, but her intention. It had never occurred to her that she might fail of her quest. Delicate mission as this was, she had thought out nothing to say. The time would provide the sentences....

Sitting on the arm of a chair, she surveyed the tip of a little patent-leather shoe with infinite satisfaction.

There was no doubt about it, —— made the best shoes in London....

Then the door was opened, and Valerie came in.

I think it was the quiet, grave smile which hung in those tired blue eyes that knocked Miss Strongi'th'arm out.

Be that as it may, it is quite certain that she was greeted, shaken hands with, and quietly thanked for her letter, before she could try to speak, and it is equally indisputable that, when her hostess had finished and was standing silent, André stood in front of her, nervously wringing her gloves and trying without success to use her tongue.

"Let's sit down," said Valerie. André did as she was bid. "And now please tell me your news. I'm sure from your letter it's good, and I’d like to hear it."

"You— you've made it seem very small," said André, slowly. "It seemed important when I wrote, but now I'm ashamed to tell it." She hesitated. "After all, what am I to you? What if I did care about your— the man who was engaged to you?"

"Did care?"

"Did. I see my mistake. I shall always remember him with a grateful heart— as your affianced husband. I'm very lucky. Richard loves me, you know, and I'm going to marry him. He's quite himself again— speaks of Gramarye as 'that place.' He hasn't mentioned ... Major Lyveden. I don't think he remembers him."

"Please call him 'Anthony,'" said Valerie. "And why should you think that the fact that you cared about him would mean nothing to me?"

"Oh, I don't know," said André, looking away. "I expect a good many girls cared about him, if the truth were known. But that's then: pigeon," she added, with a half-hearted laugh. "The general doesn't know every soldier."

"You’d like me to like Richard."

"I wouldn't like it if you rammed the fact down my throat and, when he was dead, came and heckled me at the graveside."

There was a moment's silence.

Then—

"That's very handsome of you," said Valerie, quietly. "And I'm awfully glad you're going to marry Colonel Winchester. I didn't know he was well."

"You know that Gramarye's burned?"

"I heard so at Girdle."

"The day it was burned out, his mind came back."

Valerie stiffened suddenly and went dead white.

After a long minute, she drew in her breath sharply and bowed her head....

A thoroughly frightened André fell on her knees.

"What have I said?" she cried. "What have I said?"

For a moment Valerie made no answer at all.

Then—

"Oh, nothing," she said quietly. "Only ... only it seems a pity that it wasn't burned a little earlier ... before— Anthony— died."

"My God!" said André. And then again, "My God!" She buried her face in her hands. "I never meant it," she breathed. "I swear I didn't. It never occurred to me. Oh, what a fool I am! What a poisonous, blundering fool! I came to try and repair what I did last week. I've made it a million times worse. I've..."

Her voice broke and she began to weep passionately.

'One more ounce ... one more ounce....'

The words danced before her, searing Valerie's brain. It occurred to her that they were a satire upon her misery— a sham, a cheat, a trick of the torture-chamber. They were the carrot hung in front of the donkey's nose— the grapes of Tantalus— the national anthem of the damned. 'One more ounce.' Then the words stopped dancing and fell into step with the tick of the Vulliamy clock beside the fireplace. '
One
more—
one
more—
al
ways—
one
more...' André's sobs got in the way of the rhythm, and Valerie wished she would stop. She began to beat time with her foot, to try to preserve the sober, measured tread.... Suddenly the words stopped marching and came to rest. The fine, firm handwriting of Cardinal Forest appeared, with the phrase set in its context at the top of the sheet.
Remember, there is always one more ounce of resistance left in us than we believe
. And there, a little lower down,
into the light
....

With a tremendous effort, Valerie lifted up her head.

"It's not your fault," she said gently. "I was bound to know one day. Besides, it's nothing new. The whole affair is studded with the words 'If only.' Every tragedy is. That's what makes a tragedy."

Still sobbing, André shook her head.

"You’d never 've known," she wailed, "if I hadn't told you. If I hadn't come to-day, you’d 've been spared that." She dropped her hands and looked up at Valerie's face. "You do know I didn't mean it?" she added desperately.

"Of course I do," said Valerie. "I don't bear you the slightest grudge for— for anything."

"You do, you do. You must. You wouldn't be human if— "

"I don't," said Valerie. "As I live, I don't. Because there's a curse on me, that isn't your fault." She laughed bitterly. "Tell me of Colonel Winchester. I know a little about him, but not very much."

André started and glanced at the watch on her wrist.

"I think I've lost my balance," she said, wiping her eyes. "I did a senseless thing. He had to go into the City, and I told him to call for me here at half-past twelve. I'm afraid I felt I’d like you to see him. I actually thought it might interest you."

"So it will," said Valerie.

André got upon her feet.

"How can it possibly?" she said. "You can't say anything else. I'm afraid I'm very self-centred," she added miserably, "as well as an awful fool. And now I'm going. I'm frightfully, terribly sorry for all I've done, and I'll never forgive myself for— "

Here the door was opened, and a servant came in.

"Colonel Winchester."

A man like a Viking was ushered into the room.

Confusedly, André introduced him.

Valerie and he shook hands.

"I'm afraid I'm late," he said in a steady, deep voice. "You said 'a quarter past twelve.'"

"Half past," corrected André.

"Did you? That's a relief." He turned to Valerie. "I hate being late, Miss French. But while I was driving up Fleet Street I saw a man I knew going into the Temple. By the time I was out of the cab he was out of sight, and I wasted a quarter of an hour trying to find him. I shouldn't have bothered, but I've not many friends, and he was a very good chap." He turned again to André. "I don't think you ever met him. Lyveden, his name was. He was with me at— "

The sentence stopped in its stride, and Winchester stared at his audience with a dropped jaw.

Valerie was standing, shaking, with a hand to her brow. André had shrunk against her and was clutching her arm. The eyes of both were starting out of their heads.

"B-but he's
dead
!" shrieked André. "He's dead! He's buried at Girdle."

"
Dead?
" shouted Winchester. "Nonsense! I’d know him anywhere. Besides, he had his dog with him— a Sealyham, with a big black patch on his back. And he heard me call his master, though Lyveden didn't. He turned and looked about in the moment he heard my voice."

A GIRL WITH auburn hair stared out of a window. It was a blazing afternoon.

Immediately below her the traffic of Piccadilly advanced in an everlasting series of short rushes, like infantry going into action. The laboured breathing of the 'buses in the intervals between their spurts at once lent colour to the illusion and made up a stertorous foundation of uproar, above which little but coughs and hoots of warning, the sudden storm of an engine or the crash of a taxi's gears managed to rise. Beyond, raked by the afternoon sun, a somewhat stale Green Park belied its name. The pitiless drought waxing, London's precious fields had come to look second-hand.

But the girl with auburn hair was spared tumult and shabbiness alike. She neither heard the one nor perceived the other. In a word, André Strongi'th'arm was preoccupied.

Hers was not the case of the widow who, after she has re-married, encounters her first husband, but it was pretty closely allied to that most awkward condition. Her plight was that of the dog— unaccountably omitted by Æsop— who, after considerable hesitation, has preferred substance to shadow, only to find that the shadow was, after all, no shadow, but stuff just as good as it looked.

She had officially renounced the late Anthony Lyveden. She had resigned all claim to the deceased in favour of Valerie French. Also she had resumed her engagement with Richard Winchester. Renunciation, resignation and resumption had all worked together very well. They were, of course, jointly and severally founded upon Anthony Lyveden's death. And now, without any warning, the rock had crumbled away. Anthony Lyveden was alive and in London. He had been seen that morning.

These were the hard facts. Now for the little ironies.

It was Richard Winchester who had seen Lyveden: it was she who had arranged for Richard and Valerie to meet: it was at this meeting that Richard, in all ignorance, had announced his amazing news. More. What I am sure would have pleased Sophocles was that Richard was at this moment most capably assisting Valerie to find his rival....

Pell-mell the three had repaired to the Temple, where Anthony had been seen. There Richard had posted each of the girls at a point commanding two exits. Himself he had sworn delightedly to answer for the rest, while a transfigured Valerie had thanked him with a smile out of heaven itself.... So soon as he was out of sight, André had made her escape and had returned to her hotel. The limit had been reached— passed. Labouring under a delusion, she had conveyed her freehold: she could not bring herself to subscribe to the livery of seisin. To be pressed enthusiastically into such monstrous service was more than André's flesh and blood could endure.... She could not know that two minutes after she had deserted her post Anthony Lyveden had followed her out of the Temple.

André stared at the sunshine decking the havoc it had wrought.

What should she do? Was she to lie in the bed which she had made? Or should she declare her position, demolish her existing couch, and set herself forthwith to make another? The idea of setting to work without telling Richard and Valerie never occurred to her. André was honest to a fault. She would not have deceived a dog. She could strike, and that without pity, but she could never feint. Craft of any sort she abhorred utterly. It was as much this very abhorrence as anything else which, though she did not know it, had compelled her to leave the Temple two hours before....

Supposing she made a new bed, what would it be like?

First, Richard must be sent packing. The stage had to be cleared. Then Valerie must be told that she— André— was out for Anthony Lyveden. Finally, for the bed to be anything other than the planks of misery, Lyveden, when found, had to be made to love her.

There is nothing like looking the future full in the face ... André observed that, viewed from this standpoint, its features left much to be desired.

For one thing, if Richard were dismissed, he would never re-enter her service. That was as clear as daylight. It was hardly likely that the clock would be put back a second time. André disliked the proverb which sets the poulterer's shelf above the butts. She found it unsporting. All the same, the saw edged its way into her mind and sat there, looking very wise and unpleasantly worthy.

What was less certain, but very possible, was that Anthony Lyveden would not come up to the scratch. Once before he had failed signally. Besides, he was Valerie French's affianced husband.... Thackeray's tremendous dictum bundled into her mind. 'A woman with fair opportunities, and without an absolute hump, may marry
whom she likes
.' Yes, but Thackeray left himself a tremendous loophole. 'Fair opportunities.' Noun and adjective alike were extremely flexible. And her opportunities were not fair. In fact, she had none. Like the prospective bed, they had to be made.

Indeed, the one and only thing to be said for such an attempt was that the bed, successfully contrived, would knock her existing couch into a cocked hat. The deal, if compassed, would make the audacious speculator unearthly rich ... if compassed....

Always the flame of speculation was flickering in André's heart. She was so built. Her daring in the hunting-field was a byword. Only her love of horses restrained her at all. But for that, she would have been killed years ago.

And so, madness as it may seem, before the radiance of the prize André almost went down. Inspired by some false god, almost she determined 'to put it to the touch to gain or lose it all.' Blinded by the glory of a phantom success, she could not see failure. So it was not the certainty of failure which stopped her dead. Neither— to her discredit— was it the thought of Richard, that splendid, honourable giant, which brought her up all standing. It was a pair of violet eyes, very beautiful and very, very tired, but smiling gently and easily for all their weariness....

Success meant that Valerie French, her rival, would be broken, body and soul, upon the wheel.

As I have hinted, André was not of the kind that waste their pity. If others went to the wall on her account, that was their own look-out. They should have shoved harder. But here was a difference. Twice she had done Valerie most grievous wrong. She knew it. The fact could not be blinked. That the injuries were now repaired was beside the point. She had not repaired them. She owed the girl something. She had kicked her when she was down. Now she was on her feet, it was out of the question that she should administer the
coup de grâce
. Anthony or no, it could not possibly be done....

Of course, if Anthony saw her— preferred her to Valerie— made the running himself, that would be different. As it was, she could not move in the matter ... could not, possibly....

Noblesse oblige
.

Where reason, decency, common sense— even the instinct of self-preservation had gone for nothing, magnanimity of all emotions had done the trick. And this was no daw in peacock's feathers, but the real thing. André honestly considered that she was standing aside, letting Valerie French go in and win.

That same evening André visited Valerie and told her in very plain terms why she had deserted her post. She added that, if Valerie would allow it, she would henceforth do her utmost to help her find Anthony Lyveden.

Valerie laughed gaily.

"I should think you ride pretty straight," she said simply. "And now it's my turn. I very nearly kissed your Richard this afternoon. I had to drag him away, or he’d 've been there still. Not that I wanted to go, but Rome wasn't built in an eight-hour day. I know that Anthony's alive and here— in London. The rest will follow. I'm sure of it. Colonel Winchester was kindness itself— and efficiency. He went home swearing that Anthony should be found and that he’d find him. I asked him why he was so good. He simply stared. 'But you're a friend of André's,' he said. 'Aren't you?'"

"I hope you said 'Yes,'" said André Strongi'th'arm.

Valerie nodded.

WHEN COLONEL Richard Winchester affirmed that he had seen Anthony Lyveden alive and walking, exactly twenty-eight days after the remains of Anthony Lyveden had been reverently interred at Girdle, it will be seen that he was making a statement which might easily have been questioned. That it was accepted wholly by his hearers was due in some measure to the fact that, while both of them had seen the grave, neither of them had seen its contents, but, mainly, to Winchester himself. The man's personality simply compelled belief....

And so, though the days went by, and Lyveden was neither seen again nor heard of, Valerie found no fault in her portion. Indeed, she held herself blessed. True, she was not yet in Paradise, but she had escaped out of that Pit which hath no exit. Her dead had been raised. The 'great gulf fixed' no longer mattered: Anthony and she were both upon the same side. Paradise could wait....

Not that she and her councillors wasted their time. The most exhaustive inquiries were set on foot: advertisements appeared: Winchester himself conducted a house-to-house investigation of the Temple. Indeed, short of setting a price upon Anthony Lyveden's head, everything possible was done to locate the gentleman. With it all, the latter obstinately defied detection.

And there, of course, was the rub— the riddle which no one could read.

If Lyveden was alive and up and doing, why did he make himself scarce?

I have not discussed it because it was not discussed: Valerie never referred to it, nor did the others: it did not depress her, because an eccentric lion is so much better than a dead one. But...

Speculation
, wrote Lady Touchstone,
is idle— nothing worth. Anthony holds the answer in his fine, grey eyes. When we find him we shall know— instantly. Personally, I am convinced that there is nothing seriously amiss. He is not mad. That ghost was laid when Gramarye was burned. Probably he thinks he is not wanted. Once before he thought so, and with good reason. And now his mind has thrown back.... Meanwhile we wait— triumphantly. We know that it is only a matter of time. Such confidence would be ridiculous, if it were not sublime. (I am trying to write coherently, but there is a distracting buzzing noise which I cannot locate.) Talking of eyes, if ever veiled pity looked out of anyone's orbs, it looks out of the lawyers'. Need I say that they are wholly sceptical of our discovery? They do not believe a word of it. Not that they say so. Oh, no. They listen attentively to what we say, fall in with our plans, respectfully endorse our enthusiasm. They 'hope very much that we shall find Major Lyveden very soon.' But they know that we shan't. They simply cannot get over the death certificate. That Somerset House should be harbouring an impostor is to them incomprehensible— a heathenish suggestion. Anthony is legally dead. I had it out with Forsyth the other day. "Why," I said, "are you so hide-bound?" "Ma'am," says he, "there is a faith which can remove mountains. I have always coveted it." "So have I," said I. "But I don't covet common sense, because I've got some." Forsyth spread out his hands. "Pity the weaker vessel," he said. "Pity the legal mind," said I, "that places black and white before flesh and blood. I'll dance at their wedding yet— but not with a lawyer." "No, don't," says he. "They'll trip you up every time." I could afford to laugh. (I wish this mysterious noise would stop. I cannot think what it is. It sounds so indignant.) If you could see Valerie, John, your heart would leap. Her radiance, her eagerness, her
joie de vivre
make me feel that I must paw the ground. I actually do so sometimes, under the table. Her beauty takes away my breath. Her eyes alone.... I tell you, people stop still in the street and stare after her. And I see them and try not to burst into tears. The very gods must be amazed at the effects of their gift. Her confidence would frighten me to death, if I did not share it. But, as I have said, it is sublime, not of this world. We have no doubt— this time. Anthony will be found, if not to-day, to-morrow. It is inevitable. We are a singular quartette— Valerie, André Strongi'th'arm, Colonel Winchester and I, and should, I think, go very well in a revue. Valerie contributes the life, Winchester the drive, André the dash, and I the low comedy, as a sort of confidential groom-of-the-chambers, fat, forgetful, superfluous and spending half my life asking people to 'spell it' over the telephone. Which reminds me, I've left the receiver off
....

SIR ANDREW Plague was in Chambers.

That the Temple was empty and the Law Courts closed did not matter to him. The man was above custom. He went as he pleased.

A desultory fire of snorts and grunts of indignation, audible in the clerks' room and greatly relished by the two 'juniors,' suggested that their master was perusing Case Law, while the occasional crash of a volume declared the K.C.'s contempt for a dictum which should not have been printed and might have been left unsaid.

After a while the objections suddenly ceased, and from the succeeding silence a listener might have assumed that Sir Andrew was asleep. The clerks knew better, and fell to whispering or, if they had occasion to move, did so a-tiptoe. Sir Andrew was not asleep: he was using his brain.

By dint of supreme concentration he was at once shaping, ordering, compressing and expressing his conclusions regarding a question of law, and doing it about thirty times as swiftly and twice as skilfully as could anyone else alive.

There was nothing traditional about his pose. His huge arms folded upon the table, his massive head bowed, his great red face buried in his sleeve, the man might have been dead. From a tray by his side a cigar sent up a slender, swaying column of smoke. Before him an old chronometer measured the moments with the deliberate dignity of a forgotten age....

Presently the thinker lifted up his head. For a moment he stared at the chronometer. Then he sat back in his chair and blew through his nose. His work was done.

Sir Andrew stretched out his hand and smote with great violence the hand-bell upon his table. The instrument, which had survived outrageous treatment for nearly two months, followed the example of its predecessors and broke. With an oath, Sir Andrew flung it into a corner.