Valerie French (1923) (11 page)

It was at this juncture that Lady Touchstone, wondering who 'Sir Andrew Plague' might be and what he wanted, opened the door....

For a moment she thought the room was empty.

Then—

"Ten thousand devils," said a familiar voice. "Ugly ones."

Lady Touchstone started violently and caught at a chair.

"Where are you?" she said faintly.

"Behind the sofa," said Sir Andrew, making frantic endeavours to rise. "Who's that man on the table?"

"Wh-what man?" stammered his hostess, staring about her.

"Sitting with Hamlet in his lap," cried Sir Andrew, prising himself out of the foliage.

"'Hamlet'!" shrieked Lady Touchstone. "'Hamlet'! Oh, he's mad," she continued, thinking aloud and trembling violently.

"No, he isn't," roared Plague. "He's lost his memory."

By a superhuman effort Lady Touchstone retained a hold upon her wits.... Valerie was out: the servants were not within call. It was a case for strategy.

"Has he?" she said, smiling. "How very awkward."

"He doesn't find it so," said Plague, staring. "As a matter of fact, he rather likes it. At the present moment he's my secretary. What's his name?"

Lady Touchstone side-stepped, as if by accident, towards the door.

"Oh, I shouldn't bother about his name," she said gaily. "What's— er— what's in a name?"

Sir Andrew choked.

"But— but you know him!" he cried, jerking his head at the table. "You must. Don't you want to hear news of him? I tell you he's in my service."

"Of course he is," said Lady Touchstone. "Oh, and devoted to you," she added ecstatically.

"Madam," said Plague, trembling, "this pleasantry is ill-timed. If that man means nothing to you—"

"But he does," cried Lady Touchstone earnestly, regarding the Louis XV table with starting eyes. "He does indeed."

"Then don't you want," raved Sir Andrew, "to know where he is?"

"I’d— I’d give anything," wailed Lady Touchstone frenziedly trying to preserve her mental poise.

"Well, I can tell you," roared Plague. "I've just left him. He's in Kensington Palace Gardens."

Lady Touchstone's brain reeled.

Then—

"I know," she said brightly. "A charming spot. So open. I always think the air there— "

The look upon Sir Andrew's face cut short the sentence.

Twice the giant strove to speak— ineffectually.

At length—

"There," he said thickly, "the air is at least sincere. If we care for nobody, at least we do not advertise a regard which we do not feel." He passed to the door. "Madam, I take my leave. Why I came is of no consequence. I regret extremely that I should have disarranged your ferns, and still more that I should have revived an acquaintance which I shall strive to forget."

As he passed into the hall—

"Stop!" cried Lady Touchstone. "What on earth do you mean?"

Sir Andrew swung on his heel.

"Mean?"

"Mean. I thought you were mad." Sir Andrew recoiled. "You said there was a man on the table and— and other things. But never mind. Why am I insincere?"

"I said there was a man on the table?"

"You did indeed," said Lady Touchstone. "With Macbeth in his arms."

Plague started against the wall.

"I— said—
that
?"

"You did."

Sir Andrew looked wildly about him. Then he clapped his hands to his head.

"Then it's time I was gone," he said shakily. He seized his hat and stick. "I
must
be mad— raving. My fall...."

He lurched to the flat's door, opened it, blundered almost into the arms of Valerie French, muttered an apology and stumbled uncertainly downstairs....

Valerie stood in the doorway, watching him go, wide-eyed.

Presently she turned to her aunt.

"What on earth..."

"That," said Lady Touchstone faintly, "is the man. The one I met at the dentist's."

"But what— "

"Don't ask me," wailed her aunt, putting a hand to her head, "because I can't tell you. One of us is insane." She passed into the drawing-room and sank into a chair. "I came into this room to find him behind the sofa— enumerating ill-favoured devils."

"
What?
"

"It's a fact," said Lady Touchstone. "Then he began to see things. He declared there was a man on the table, and kept on demanding his name."

"What table?" said Valerie, staring.

"That one," said Lady Touchstone, pointing to the Louis XV. "He said he was in his service, and didn't I want to hear of him. All the time, as I tell you, he kept on demanding his name. As if I— Whatever's the matter?"

Vouchsafing no answer, Valerie flashed from the room. A moment later she was flying downstairs....

Hill Street appeared to be empty.

With a beating heart she rushed to the nearest corner....

Upon being interrogated the policeman had seen no one at all corresponding to her description of Sir Andrew Plague. Desperately she turned and ran in the opposite direction....

After a fruitless ten minutes she burst into the flat.

Weakly her aunt regarded her.

"What was his name?" panted Valerie. "What was his name?"

The revival of this terrible query confirmed Lady Touchstone's worst fears. Insanity was in the air.

With an unearthly shriek she clapped her hands over her ears and subsided upon the floor.

As a servant came running—

"What," said Valerie, "was that gentleman's name?"

For a moment the man hesitated.

Then—

"Sir Andrew Plague, miss."

A second later Valerie was at the telephone....

After an interminable delay—

"Is that Sir Andrew Plague's?" cried Valerie French.

"It is," said Anthony Lyveden.

"ANTHONY! Anthony!"

Anthony Lyveden swallowed.

Then—

"This is Sir Andrew Plague's," he said, speaking distinctly.

"Anthony! Don't you know me?" cried the voice.

The man frowned into the mouthpiece.

"I think you're making a mistake," he said quietly. "This is Sir An— "

"I know! I know!"

Anthony raised his eyebrows.

"Who is that speaking?" he said.

"It's me, Anthony. Me— Valerie!"

With an air of amused vexation, the man held off the receiver. After a moment he replaced it against his ear.

"I'm awfully sorry," he said, "but I assure you you're making a mistake. This is Sir Andrew Plague's, and I'm his secretary. Can I— — "

"It's
Valerie
, Anthony.
Valerie
— Valerie French."

The man took a deep breath.

"Could you— would you mind telling me what you want?" he said desperately. "Sir Andrew himself is out, but—"

"Isn't that Anthony Lyveden?"

"No," cried the man, "no."

"Then who is it?"

"It's..."

The sentence died there and then.

For a second of time the man stared at the telephone with a dropped jaw ...

Then he clapped his palm to the mouthpiece and set the receiver down.

"
It's come!
" he whispered. "It's come! My God, it's come!"

He began to tremble.

For a moment he sat, shaking. Then he rose to his feet and stepped to the bell....

A servant appeared.

"Answer the telephone," said the man. "Say I've been called away, and ask for the lady's telephone number and— and name."

The fellow took the receiver and picked up a pencil.

"Hullo?"

"Who's that?" flashed Valerie.

"May I have your number, m'm? The gentleman you were speakin' to has bin called away, m'm."

There was a long silence.

"Hullo?" said the servant, straining his ears. "Hullo, hullo?"

"Mayfair nine double nine," said Valerie, slowly.

"Mayfair nine double nine," repeated the servant, writing. "An', if you please, m'm, your name."

"Miss Valerie French."

The servant repeated her words. Then—

"Thank you, m'm. Good-bye, m'm."

Apologetically, he rang off.

Then he made his report to Anthony Lyveden and left the room.

For a while the latter stood motionless, staring out of a window and across the shadowy lawn. Presently he threw back his head and began to laugh....

Here his Sealyham appeared, leisurely patrolling the terrace and keeping a mistrustful eye upon a gardener whose attitude and demeanour were irregular— the one because he was clipping the edge of the grass, and the other because he found life weary and was grunting and sweating aggressively to advertise his misfortune.

"Hamlet," cried his master, "come here!" The dog obeyed gaily. "Young fellow me lad, we're off. The interval's over, and the curtain's up.
I— have— been— found
.... A lady's found me— a lady with a very nice voice. She seems to know me quite well, and she sounds as pleased as Punch. It's most embarrassing, Hamlet. Very exciting, you know, but frightfully awkward. Something's required of me. I ought to respond— make some sort of return. I must, of course. But ... I've got an attack of stage-fright, Hamlet. I've made my entrance, and now I've nothing to say. I haven't learned any lines— or, if I have, they're forgotten. I can't pick up any cues." Hamlet yawned luxuriously and then stretched himself nonchalantly. "Yes, that's all very well; but, then, you're not shy. I'll bet you've never seen your own father. But if you were to meet him to-morrow and you didn't like the way he wore his tail, you’d—"

The slam of the front door cut short the prophecy.

An instant later Sir Andrew Plague floundered into the room.

"Never again!" he roared. "Never again!" He shook his fist at Lyveden and flung himself into a chair. "I seek to read your riddle and get bogged for my pains. Bogged and badgered and fooled, till I lose my wits! Ugh! It serves me right," he added. "I was a fool to go."

His secretary stared at him, open-mouthed.

"B-but what's happened?" he stammered.

"Happened?" yelled his patron. "I've placed you, you long-limbed fool. Seen your photograph."

"Where?"

"Where I've been, you idiot. At that wretched woman's abode. The place is crammed full of stools. You can't move without falling over them. I fell over one into a gimcrack fernery and hurt my head. I meant to ask your name, but I talked rubbish— trash ... frightened Lady Touchstone to death.... But you're there all right." He waved his hand at the telephone. "Ring her up, you fool. Don't stand there gibbering. Ring her up and find out your name."

"I know it. A girl's just told me. She rang up ten minutes ago and knew my voice."

So soon as Sir Andrew could speak—

"Who?"

His secretary stepped to the table.

"Miss Valerie French," he read. "She rang up and asked if this was your house. When I said it was, she called me 'Anthony.' I thought she'd made a mistake, but she wouldn't have it. She said I was 'Anthony Lyveden.'"

"I've no doubt you are," said Plague. "But you've got some damned funny friends. What did you say?"

"Nothing. I was too rattled. I sent for William and told him to take her number."

"You never replied?"

Anthony shook his head.

"I couldn't," he said. "I was too much taken aback. But— "

The sudden stammer of the telephone-bell erased the sentence.

For a moment the two men looked at each other....

Then Sir Andrew rose and grabbed the receiver.

"Yes?" he said fiercely. "Who's that?"

At the other end of the line Lady Touchstone repressed a scream.

"It's— it's me," she said faintly. Sir Andrew started violently. "Harriet Touchstone.... There's— there's been a terrible mistake.... I believe you were trying to tell me that a friend of ours was with you."

"That," said Sir Andrew heavily, "was my ambition. But you— "

"I know. It was dreadfully stupid. But when you spoke of Hamlet, I— "

"
Hamlet?
" screeched Plague. "You said '
Macbeth
'!"

"I mean Macbeth."

"No, you don't!" yelled Sir Andrew. "Hamlet's his dog."

"Macbeth's?"

"No,
no
, NO! What's-his-name's. Er— er— Augustus."

Lady Touchstone laid down her receiver and looked at her niece.

"Valerie," she said weakly. "I cannot continue this conversation. Perhaps, if I knew my Shakespeare better, I should be in a position to compete. As it is..."

Valerie picked up the instrument.

"Is that Sir Andrew Plague?"

"Get off the line!" raved Sir Andrew. "Get off the line! I'm engaged. Lady Touchstone! Where's Lady Touchstone?"

"I'm speaking for her," shrieked Valerie. "I'm her niece. Please will you come back at once?"

"
Back?
"

"Yes. To Hill Street. And bring your secretary?"

"Was it you who rang up just now?"

"Yes."

"Ah," said Sir Andrew relievedly. "What's the matter with your aunt?"

"Nothing," said Valerie, laughing. "What's the matter with your secretary?"

Sir Andrew smothered a grin.

"You must excuse him," he said. "He's lost his memory."

ANTHONY LYVEDEN proceeded to Hill Street alone. Alone Valerie French awaited his coming. Their respective supporters had failed— for the same reason. Neither felt equal to facing the other again. Later, perhaps, when the monstrous tide of confusion had had time to subside.... So Lady Touchstone girt up her loins and fled to the hairdresser, in ignorance that Sir Andrew had sent his secretary packing and then withdrawn to his chamber and pulled down the blind.

It follows that Jack and Jill had a couple of hours together— very momentous hours.....

As in a play, the servant shall take up the curtain.

"Mr. Lyveden."

Valerie's heart leaped.

Anthony passed into the room.

"How d'you do?" he said, smiling.

The girl tried to speak, vainly. As in a dream, she shook hands....

It was he ... Anthony ... her darling. It was his blessed voice ... his eyes ... his hair.... She wanted to hang on to his hand— kiss it— hold it against her breast. She wanted herself to sit down and him to kneel, so that she could draw his head down into her lap.... Her wonderful, dazzling lover had been restored to her. She wanted to hold and be held by him.... It was her right.

Almost she swayed towards him. The desire to put her arms about his neck was almost irresistible ... almost ...

'Very pleasant hast thou been unto me.'

As for Anthony, he was profoundly moved. It was, of course, a tremendous moment for him. He had stepped over the threshold into another life, through which— at first, at any rate— this glorious, shining creature was to be his shepherdess....

Little wonder that they stood for a minute like two beautiful children— shy, tongue-tied, colouring.

Then—

"You must forgive me," said Lyveden.

"What for?" whispered Valerie.

"For this embarrassment. It's of my making, of course. I gather we used to know one another well— you used my Christian name.... But, as I heard Plague tell you, my memory's gone. Why, I don't know." He spread out his hands. "I know nothing."

"You're well?"

"Perfectly."

"Well ... let's sit down," said Valerie. "One moment." She picked up a frame. "Look."

Curiously Lyveden inspected his own photograph. It was an enlargement of a snapshot— a very good picture. He saw himself seated upon a sunlit lawn, with Hamlet at ease in his lap.

"Where was this taken?" he asked.

"You were staying with us in Hampshire, three months ago."

"Only three months?"

"That's all," said Valerie.

Anthony set down the frame with a laugh.

"Three centuries or hours," he said. "What does it matter? When you've dropped your brain into a bottomless gorge, the breadth of the gorge doesn't count." The girl sat down, and he took his seat by her side. "Do I make you feel dazed?"

Valerie smiled.

"You do a little," she admitted. "It's awfully hard to grasp. You see, you're just the same— exactly. And it's almost impossible to realize that you— well, that, for instance, you can't remember that photograph, there, being taken."

"You do, obviously."

"I took it."

Anthony laughed.

"You're clearly an artist," he said. "It's the image of Hamlet."

"Hamlet?"

"The dog."

Valerie cried out with joy.

"Patch? Have you got him still? Oh, I'm so awfully glad. To— to tell you the truth, I thought it was hopeless to ask."

"He's as fit as a fiddle," said Anthony. "And a very great friend of Plague's. They're together now. He wouldn't come, you know. He said he'd wrought enough havoc for one afternoon.... Which brings me to my affairs. Shall I tell you my story— at least, as much as I know?"

"Do," breathed Valerie.

The six weeks' tale was told quietly, without emotion. The girl listened spell-bound....

"And there you are," concluded Anthony. "It's been a wonderful experience— intensely interesting, amazingly happy. It's been an Arabian Night. And now— the dawn's come."

"Are you sorry?" said Valerie.

Anthony turned and looked at her.

"May I speak frankly?" he said. "Remember, I'm not a man. I'm a shade— feeling its position acutely and very anxious to do the right thing."

"I'm sure you'll do that," said Valerie, smiling. "So please don't be anxious. Still, if it'll make you easier, we won't count to-day. Say what you like, please."

"Well, then, I think you're just the most wonderful thing I ever saw." The girl gasped. "Until I entered this room I was wretched— growing more gloomy and scared every step that I took. You see, I loved my interlude— -my backwater. I'd been so happy in my Arabian Night. And the cab that brought me here was rushing me out of my happiness into— I knew not what. I only knew that it couldn't ever be so jolly as what I was leaving behind. Then I saw you.... Don't think I'm being impertinent, or making love. I'm not. I'm stating facts. I'm a shade. I say— I saw you.... On the day I die, I shall see you, standing as you stood when I came into this room, and the sight will comfort me.... The cold, grey dawn I was so afraid of, you made golden and rosy. You cast out my fear. When I touched your hand, I felt glad to be alive.... And all at once, looking back, my interlude seemed very cold, very dull, very empty." With a sudden movement, he rose and picked up her hand. "I should be a graceless fellow if I didn't praise God that I had such a very sweet friend." He stooped and kissed the slight fingers. "You see," he added, letting fall her hand, "I've taken you at your word and spoken out. If I wasn't a shade, this would be a declaration of love. As a matter of fact, it's just pure gratitude. You've lifted up my heart."

Her eyes like stars, Valerie rose to her feet.

"I told you you needn't be anxious," she said tremulously. Abruptly she turned to a bookcase, disordered two or three volumes and then pushed them back into place. "The duster is mightier than the pen," she explained, over her shoulder. "I— I have to do this every day." She whipped a tear from her cheek and turned to her guest with a smile. "Let's go to the morning-room, and I'll give you some tea."

Anthony followed her thoughtfully out of the room....

He would not eat, but was glad of a cigarette.

"I'm so excited," he said ingenuously. "You would be if you were me."

"I am," said Valerie.

"That's very nice of you."

"It isn't," cried Valerie. "It isn't. I can't help it. You see, you— we knew you so well. You were staying with us when it happened, and—"

"What?"

Valerie put a hand to her head.

Straining her mind's eye, she was hunting for some indication of the course she must shape. Two things stood out of the water— the race down which she was sweeping, was being swept. One was a wreck— the rotting tackle of an old nightmare, which might be no longer dangerous, but must be avoided.
This was the fact that Lyveden had been insane
. The other was a bank of yellow, inviting sand stretching beside her channel for as far as ever she could see.
This was the fact that Anthony and she had been betrothed
. Of the two, Valerie would sooner have driven upon the wreck....