Valerie French (1923) (15 page)

"Don't wither me," said his guest. "That would be inhospitable."

Sir Andrew inclined his head.

"Where forty winters," he said, "have so signally failed, I cannot hope to succeed."

"Fifty-three," said Lady Touchstone, blushing. "You know that as well as I do."

The knight lifted his glass.

"I never flatter," he said. "It is a contemptible practice. You and I, madam, were born in the same year. I have often counted it an ill-starred period: henceforth I shall remember it as a year of grace."

Lady Touchstone drank with a bewitching smile.

Then—

"I demand," she said, "to be shown the woman whom you have paid two compliments in the same minute. We are getting on well, aren't we?" she added naïvely. "At this rate, by the end of the evening we shall have changed hats."

Sir Andrew began to shake with laughter.

"Is that your secret?" he gurgled. "I can hardly believe that your niece was so optimistic."

"As a matter of fact," said my lady, "it's the champagne. I don't often revel, and I've never attained that dizzy height of communion which is too exuberant for words and can only be expressed by the exchange of headgear. But the idea has always appealed to me. No, the secret is this. When your secretary disappeared, he was about to be married."

"He was engaged?"

Lady Touchstone nodded.

"And deeply attached— to my niece."

"No!"

"Yes, indeed. And she, most properly, won't hear of him being told."

"Why not?" cried the K.C. "The contract stands. And, as a man of honour, Lyveden has only to learn his liability— — "

"Which," said Lady Touchstone, "is precisely why Valerie won't have him told. If he was told, he’d want to carry out his contract. And she would never know whether he was following his heart's desire or keeping his honour bright."

"Does she want to marry him?"

"Only if he wants to marry her."

"He wanted to once," said Plague.

"Very much."

"Then it may be fairly presumed—"

"If you were in her position," said Lady Touchstone, "you’d want to
know
. You wouldn't want to take any chances, however slight."

"Madam," said Plague deliberately, "you are talking nonsense. Marriage is notoriously the most reckless gamble in life. You stake your birthright, and once in a million throws you get your money back. What does it matter what subordinate chances you take? A gambler stakes a fortune, and backs himself to win for half-a-crown."

His guest put a hand to her head.

"I'm not going to argue," she said, "because, if I do, I shall lose. I can see that. There must be some obvious flaw in your contention, and I shall probably perceive it just as I'm going to get into bed. Valerie's perfectly right, and so am I. Remember, I'm greatly handicapped by your inability to appreciate a common enough emotion, and I consider that I have shown the greatest restraint by not referring to it before. However, we've wandered terribly. The point is that, whereas last night their relations were happy, this afternoon my niece and Anthony Lyveden are no longer at one. If they were, they’d be here. More. If only one was unhappy, the other would have turned up. Therefore they are both in distress.
Cherchez la femme
."

"Is that a command?" said the knight. "Or only a quotation?"

"I should like it to be a command."

Sir Andrew fingered his chin. "There were," he said tentatively, "two other guests..."

My lady, who was about to drink, hesitated and then set down her glass.

"There were," she said.

"Why have they failed?"

For a moment Lady Touchstone sat motionless, staring at the keen, blue eyes three feet away. Then she smiled very sweetly.

"You're very obedient," she said, "and very, very clever."

Sir Andrew frowned.

"I have yet to learn," he said, "that the man who slew Ahab was accounted a marksman."

WHEN, an hour and a half later, Sir Andrew Plague re-entered his hall to see a telegram lying upon the table, he took and opened the envelope as of right.

Joshua will be by the Albert Memorial to-morrow at seven o'clock
.

Sir Andrew stared at the writing.

Joshua? Who the devil was—

Then he saw that the communication had not been addressed to him. Also, because he was no fool and had come fresh from the council, he perceived that the flimsy sheet which he held in his hand was the ace of trumps itself.

It was characteristic of the man that he did not hesitate.

He put the ace of trumps into his pocket, entered the library, and rang the bell.

When a servant appeared—

"Is Major Lyveden abed?"

"No, sir. He's not come in."

"When he comes in, say nothing about that telegram."

"Very good, sir."

"And, however contrary his orders, call him at eight o'clock."

"Very good, sir."

"Call me at six."

"Very good, sir."

Sir Andrew's intuition was sound.

Before the knight was in bed, his secretary returned, footsore and dejectedly inquisitive. Happily, the servant he summoned knew how to obey....

"No message at all?"

"No, sir."

"Ah! Well, call me at half-past six, please."

"Very good, sir."

"And be sure you wake me. I'm tired."

"Er— yes, sir."

"Good night."

The servant retired, and Lyveden sank into a chair and stared before him.

"Feet of clay," he muttered, "feet of clay. Those little, shining insteps— vile clay. And yet ... My God," he burst out suddenly, "what's the good of pretending? I’d rather kiss those insteps than André's mouth. Clay or platinum— what does it matter? They're
hers
...
her
feet ...
her
little, precious feet...." He looked upon his terrier and laughed. "And that's the naked truth, my fellow. Anybody want to buy a soul?"

Patch, who hoped he was being asked whether he was hungry, sat up and begged.

THERE, the long day is over, and all but one of my puppets are gone to their rest. The strutting André, the fretting Lyveden, conspirators Plague and Touchstone, honest, unwitting Winchester— all are up on their shelf until to-morrow. For the last of all, sirs, we will not wait, because she will lie awake the whole night long, hearing the owls cry and the merciless stable clock telling the sluggard hours. She might be dead— this puppet with the thick dark hair— so very still she lies, so cold are those glorious temples, that delicate throat, those beautiful, slender arms. But for her eyes, she might be some fairy queen, sleeping in dull, cold marble to mark her majesty's tomb ... but for her dark-blue eyes. These are restless. Their field is limited, because she lies so still, and so is their vision, because the night is dark, but so much as they can compass they know by heart— the dim silhouette of the table against the black of the wall, the faint, familiar outline of the great pier-glass, the panelled foot of the bed and, beyond, the square, black mouth of the open window, breathing the cool night air and, now and again, a sigh of the wandering wind. See, she is moving at last. She is sitting up, while her thick dark hair falls like a cloak about her breast and shoulders. She is drawing up her knees, setting her chin upon them, clasping her hands about her insteps. She can peer into the park now, and very soon her eyes will pick up the line of the woods against the sky. Yet, but for those restless eyes, she is still the fairy queen and still sculpture. And, as I have said, we will not wait for this puppet, that neither struts nor frets nor sleeps, because the stable clock is merciless and the hours sluggard.

Sir Andrew Plague approached the Albert Memorial with the sober steps of one who has no objective, but is merely taking the air. This, by the way, was worth breathing, for it was fresh from Night's cellar and had not lain long enough in Day's parlour to lose its cool bouquet. Sir Andrew marked this and snuffed luxuriously.

He might have been deep in meditation. As a matter of fact, he was looking for a gentleman of Jewish extraction, who, he had reason to think, would, upon being accosted, prove suspicious and obstructive.

Joshua will be by the Albert Memorial to-morrow at seven o'clock.

Sir Andrew lifted his head and looked about him.

The shrine, however, seemed to be alone in its glory.

The knight perambulated it, frowning.

Its precincts were deserted. More. Except for a distant horseman and two park-keepers, there was no human being in sight.

Sir Andrew glanced at his watch and began to pace up and down....

As he turned for the second time, a clock struck seven.

A moment later, the horseman, who was now abreast of the Memorial, stopped, dismounted and began to make much of his horse. Then he ran his eye over his charge, flicked a speck of dust from the great quarters and looked about him.

Sir Andrew blew through his nose. He was not in the mood for company, least of all for that of a groom, who was doing the same as himself. He was there to watch, not to be watched. Damn it, how the fellow was staring! Why couldn't he mind his own business? Why didn't his master come and send him packing? Why—

Here the servant approached and touched his hat.

"Major Lyveden, sir?" he ventured.

"That's right," said Sir Andrew faintly, trying to recognize his own voice.

Without a word, the groom turned Joshua round. Then he stepped to the saddle, whipped his head under a flap and proceeded to tighten the girths. This seemed to annoy Joshua, for the moment he felt the pressure he laid back his delicate ears, raised an itching hind-leg with a meaning which was not to be mistaken, and, flinging round his head, snapped viciously in the direction of his aggressor. Beyond, however, conjuring the horse to 'get up,' the servant ignored his vexation and, after a glance at Sir Andrew, lengthened the stirrup-leathers to their full extent.

The knight, who had not ridden for thirty years, watched the preparations as a man in a trance.

He was to ride this— this brute. Almost immediately. He was to put his foot into that stirrup and haul himself up into— into hell. It was ordained— necessary. He had put his hand to the plough. He had to be brought to the woman—
la femme
of the proverb. And this brute would bring him. There was no other way.
No other way
? Goats and monkeys! Had one to hark back to the Iliad to do a neighbour a service? He wasn't a bushranger— a highwayman. This was the twentieth century— not
Jack and the Beanstalk
or any other damned pantomime. A-a-ah, the vicious swine! The—

Here the groom looked over the withers and touched his hat.

With a shock, Sir Andrew realized that his hour was come.

For one frantic instant he considered whether he could with decency lead Joshua to meet his mistress. Then that fantastic hope was still-born, and with a frightful grunt the giant heaved himself into the saddle....

As he gathered the reins—

"Miss André'll be i' the Row, sir. Comin' this way."

Sir Andrew swallowed.

"Right," he said thickly. Then: "Make the brute walk."

Obediently, the groom took the bridle and started Joshua off....

As horse and rider passed down the broad road, he watched their going gloomily, fingering his chin. Presently he sighed profoundly.

"An' a major, too," he muttered. "Must 'ave bin i' the Camuel Detachmen'."

Now, Joshua was a very sound judge— not of men, as a whole, but of such as got upon his back. Sir Andrew's seat and hands told him that the knight was no horseman. His instinct told him, first, that the latter was not in the least afraid, and, secondly, that he was a man who meant to have his own way.

Accordingly, Joshua respected him, hoped very much that he would be content to be a 'passenger,' and decided that, if his directions were given with a heavy hand, they must be accepted in good part.

He walked along slowly, as one who has a charge to fulfil.

As for Sir Andrew, he was concerned entirely for his dignity and his convenience. For the desperate venture upon which he had set out to be successful, he would need every grain of wit and every ounce of assurance at his disposal. And here, right at the commencement of his enterprise, he had been placed at an appalling disadvantage. He not only felt a fool; he was leaning upon the shoulder of Discomfiture itself. The brute between his knees had only to toss its head to distract his attention: while, if it elected to shy...

He rode out of Kensington Gardens, cursing bitterly, to cross a taxi's bows with the air of an Earl Marshal....

As he passed down the Row, the feeling of liability began to wear off. The brute he was riding seemed to be able to behave ... seemed...

Very gently, by way of proving his ox, the lawyer drew the reins towards his chin.

Instantly Joshua eased his pace to a standstill.

Sir Andrew was greatly relieved.

When, however, upon his lowering and, presently, shaking the reins, the big brown stood like a rock, the knight became less easy.

"Go on!" he cried, clacking vigorously with his tongue. "Go on, you swine! I don't want to stand here all day."

Utterly failing to appreciate that he was being addressed, Joshua looked cheerfully about him and, perceiving no horse within sight, whinnied to proclaim his isolation.

The sympathy which Sir Andrew had always felt for Balaam ripened into an
entente cordiale
.

"Shut up, you fool!" he roared. "And go on, can't you?" He shook the reins frantically. "Proceed. WALK, you blithering ass!"

That Joshua immediately advanced was due partly to the fact that Sir Andrew's delivery was that of the parade-ground, but mainly to the fortunate circumstance that the brown had once put in a month of squadron drill.

The two made their way eastward agreeably enough....

When André Strongi'th'arm perceived them, she at first imagined that she had made a mistake. And when, upon a closer inspection, she observed that the approaching centaur was indeed composed largely of her best hunter, she could hardly believe her eyes. As a matter of fact, it was her obvious, blank astonishment which enabled Sir Andrew to identify a girl he had never seen.

As he came up, frowning, he raised his hat.

"Miss Strongi'th'arm, I think." An almost imperceptible nod confirmed his statement. "Major Lyveden was prevented from coming, and I am here in his stead."

André favoured Sir Andrew with a suspicious stare.

Her sword was out.

"Who are you?" she said shortly.

So far as she was concerned, she could not have said a worse thing. The abrupt demand, the haughtiness of her tone, were like a stoup of wine to her opponent. Sir Andrew forgot himself and Joshua. The peppery knight became the King's Counsel— patient, bland, merciless.

Slowly he drew his rapier.

"My name is Andrew Plague."

"Why isn't Major Lyveden here?"

"Because he's in bed," said Sir Andrew.

"Is he ill?"

"Not yet."

A dangerous light slid into the big brown eyes. Then, because she was André, their owner rushed in.

"What do you mean— 'not yet'?"

"This. Since he met you yesterday, Major Lyveden has been a desperate man— dull, spiritless, shunning the fellowship of friends."

"What friends?"

"His friends," said Sir Andrew, "of whom I have the honour to be one."

André laughed.

"You're very lucky," she said, "to know two such charming people."

Up went the heavy eyebrows.

"Two?"

"Major Lyveden and Valerie French."

"I have never set eyes upon the lady."

André shot the speaker a long and searching look. Sir Andrew blinked back lazily.

"Then why are you here?" she said coldly.

"Because," was the deliberate reply, "a man who has lost his memory is not fair game."

André gasped. Then she went very white.

"D'you mind getting off that horse?" she said. "It— it happens to belong to me."

"I will dismount," said Sir Andrew coolly, "at the close of this interview. I may add that upon this interview your relations with Major Lyveden entirely depend. I have put no pressure upon him, and, if you will deal with me frankly, I shall put none. Otherwise, he will leave the country to-morrow— for the good of his health."

The threat went home. Sir Andrew saw it go....

For a moment the girl hesitated. Then she lifted her head and stared at the gay, blue sky. After all, she could afford to laugh.

"In your opinion," she said, "Major Lyveden must be protected?"

"Should occasion arise. A man who has lost his memory—"

"— can be told anything? I see. I suppose, if you'd lost your memory and somebody told you you owed them five thousand pounds, you'd hand it over?"

"I should not," said Sir Andrew quietly. "Neither, I think, would you. But Lyveden would."

André frowned. Then—

"Perhaps you're right," she said gaily. "He's got a very sweet nature. I suppose," she added, flicking her boot with her whip, "the object of this interview is to get from me a confession of the lies I told him yesterday morning?"

The K.C. studied his finger-nails.

"I've told you," he said, "the position. If you want to see him again, you must first of all satisfy me that that's to his advantage."

"D'you know," said André silkily, "that I've a very good mind to whip you across the face?"

"Isn't that Colonel Winchester's job?"

"As a matter of fact," said André, "it's Anthony Lyveden's."

"I don't think he'll do it," said Plague, grimly. "But let that pass. Why isn't it Colonel Winchester's?"

"Because he is not concerned."

The master of cross-examination applied the lash.

"Have you released him?"

André winced. Then she flushed red as fire.

"If he knew of this," she flashed, "I believe he'd break your neck."

"Then," said Sir Andrew agreeably, "pray for my soul. I'm to see him at ten o'clock."

"What for?"

Sir Andrew gazed abstractedly into the middle distance. At length—

"To ask him," he said dreamily, "to ask him to tell Major Lyveden who is your
fiancé
."

With the knob of her switch Miss Strongi'th'arm tapped her white teeth, reflectively.

"I see," she said quietly. "Well, if he gives the wrong answer, refer him to me."

It was impossible not to admire such consummate nerve. Indeed, Sir Andrew afterwards confessed that at this juncture he was within an ace of throwing up the sponge.

Instead—

"I hope," said the K.C. gently, "I still hope that it will be unnecessary for Major Lyveden to leave England."

"So," said André, "do I. What makes you think," she added, "that I'm so bad for him?"

"I have told you."

"You've quite decided that his depression was not apprehensive?"

Sir Andrew's eyelids flickered.

"What do you mean?"

"You're sure that it was due to what happened here yesterday morning? Certain that it was not the shadow of some coming event?"

Sir Andrew wrinkled his brow.

"When I know," he said, "what happened here yesterday morning, I shall be in a position to judge."

"But you have judged."

"No. I'm here for that purpose."

"And supposing the information is denied you?"

"I shall still be in a position to judge."

"You mean...?"

"That those who decline to speak," said Sir Andrew Plague, "must take the consequences."

"What shadow of right have you to—"

"None."

"Why don't you ask Major Lyveden?"

"If you can't help me, I shall. But a man who's lost—"

"Because you know he’d tell you to go to hell."

"I don't think he would," said Plague, "before a stranger."

"What stranger?"

"Colonel Winchester. I know they were friends once, but..."

There was a pause.

His face like a mask, the knight sat motionless, staring with half-closed eyes across the park. André eyed him intently, savagely biting her lip, striving desperately to read his thoughts. She could have sworn he was bluffing. He must be. Yet ... How much did he really know? And who— who had told him? And was he honest? Or was he out, if he could, to tear her garland? If he was....

A mounted policeman passed, self-conscious and jingling, and shot the unwitting pair a curious glance. A squall of sparrows' bickering convulsed the slumber of an adjacent tree. Already from between the high walls of Knightsbridge the confluence of hubbub was beginning to swell into a steady background of uproar, against which the sudden crisp note of a trumpet stood out in bold relief.

As the call faded—

"If I told you the truth," said André, "you wouldn't believe me."

"Be sure that I shall."

"We shall see. You think Major Lyveden has lost his memory?"

"I know it."

"Yet he accosted me yesterday morning— here, in the Row ... came up and wished me well ... begged me to forgive his behaviour ... used my Christian name ... at parting kissed my hand..."

There was a long silence. At length—

"What was the behaviour," said Sir Andrew, "which he asked you to forgive?"

André hesitated. Then—

"Some people," she said, "might call it— desertion."

"No doubt," was the dry reply. "What was it?"

André's eyes narrowed till they became two gleaming slits.

"You said that you would dismount at the close of this interview. Well ... this interview is closed. You came to protect Major Lyveden. You were gallant enough to say so. If you believe what I've told you, it may occur to your intelligence that he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

"In fact," said Sir Andrew imperturbably, "you think that his loss of memory is assumed?"

"Naturally."

Sir Andrew rubbed his nose.

"I don't know that I blame you," he said. "Still ... Why should he make belief?"

André took a deep breath.

"I have said that this interview—"

"I know, I know. If you like, I'll beg your pardon. I believed you a knave. I'm going to save you now from being a fool."

"Will you get off that horse?"— passionately.

"No," said Sir Andrew, "I won't. Now, listen to me. Lyveden's lost his memory. You may take that from me. From what you tell me, it seems it's begun to return. He's remembered you— and your works. To-morrow— perhaps to-day— he'll remember—"

"What?" said Anthony Lyveden, quietly enough.

André jumped violently, but Plague never moved. The man was unshakable. He continued to address his opponent.

"
The ring you wear
," he said steadily, "
upon your engagement finger
."

There was an electric silence.

André began to tremble suddenly. Instantly Lyveden set a hand upon her knee. The man was out of breath and fairly streaming with sweat. He controlled his voice somehow.

"Try me," he said, smiling. "Don't be afraid of him."

Gently he took her left hand and drew off its glove....

The emerald which Winchester had set there winked in the young sunlight.

For a moment Lyveden peered at the gem. Then—

"That's right," he said quietly. "We chose it together. It had to be made smaller to fit your finger." He put her hand to his lips and let it go. Then he turned to his dumbfounded employer. "You will please," he said coldly, "apologize to this lady for a presumption which no patronage can warrant and no friendship survive."

Twice Sir Andrew opened and shut his mouth. Then he slid off Joshua, uncovered, attempted ineffectually to speak, turned and walked uncertainly away....

"Oh ... Anthony!..."

The sorrow with which that cry was laden wrung Lyveden's heart.

"What?"

André began to weep silently.

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

"God forgive me," wailed André. "I'm very wicked."

"What d'you mean, André?"

"I thought," sobbed the girl, "you were pretending you'd lost your memory"— Anthony started— "pretending, because— because you loved me best."

"
Best?
"

"And now— you pretend— you haven't lost it, to— to save— my— rotten— face..." She sat up suddenly and shook the tears out of her eyes. "Get up," she said, pointing to Joshua. "Get up, you splendid gentleman, and come with me."

For a moment Anthony hesitated. Then he swung himself into the saddle....

André was cantering up the Row. He followed her amazedly.

They overtook Sir Andrew, bareheaded, sweating, shaking his fists at heaven and audibly condemning all women to an inferno of which— to judge from his report— Dante can never have heard, to which Rabelais alone could have done justice.

"Mr. Plague!" cried André. "Mr. Plague!"

The knight let an adjective go and stopped still where he stood.

"
Begone!
" he bellowed. "
Begone!
"

André flung herself out of the saddle and ran to the rails.

"I've something to say to you," she panted, "which I want Major Lyveden to hear." Sir Andrew waved her away, and Anthony approached dazedly. "I want to beg your pardon." At the word the knight started. Then he let fall his hand and turned to the speaker. "This ring is
not
Major Lyveden's. He said what he did just now out of loyalty— loyalty to me ... misplaced loyalty. He threw your friendship to the winds to save my face. He doesn't care a damn about me. But, because I'm weak as water and he's strong, he took my part against you, no matter what it cost. And I can't let you go like this. You're
right
. D'you hear?
Right
. Right all along the line. God knows how you saw the bog I've jumped in when I couldn't see it myself. But you did. And you've opened my eyes. I'm in up to the neck— and now I'm going to get out." She swung round upon Lyveden. "Ever since yesterday morning you've thought you were tied to me. I gave you that idea. I never meant to. I didn't know you'd lost your memory. You recognized me, and you knew there'd been something between us. But that was all.
So there had
— but not of your making. I don't know how much you remember, but you can take it from me— your hands are clean ... spotless, as mine are foul. You're brave and gallant and faithful. I'm not fit to lick your boots. But— I forgot all that ... yesterday morning." Her voice broke, and she stamped, as if impatient of this evidence of emotion. "And now give me Joshua and go. I'm going to the man I'm engaged to, to tell him the truth. If he's fool enough to stick to me after that, that's his funeral. And you go to Valerie French, and say I sent you. Tell her she doesn't deserve you, because no woman does that. And tell her I never meant to do her down, black as it looks. Mr. Plague'll tell you I'm not a knave. Only a fool ... a crazy, vain-glorious fool ... with her heart on her sleeve."