Valerie French (1923) (3 page)

An Eve stared back.

A painter once said of Miss French that she had never been born. He was meaning, I fancy, that she had sprung, like Cytheræa, out of the loins of Nature. Indeed, she did not look a daughter of men: and if Cytheræa rose from the foam of the sea, Valerie French came stepping out of the heart of a forest one sweet September morning, twenty-six years ago.

Nature's treasuries had been ransacked to make her lovely. The cool of the dawn lay in her fingertips; the breath of the mountains hung in her nostrils. Violets, dew, and stars went to the making of those wonderful eyes. Her skin was snowy, save where the great sun had kissed her— on either cheek; her mouth was a red, red flower. Her voice was bird's music; her dark hair, a cloud; her carriage, that of a deer. As for her form, straight, clean-limbed, lithe, its beauty was old as the hills. In a word, Valerie French threw back to Eden.

Valerie gazed and gazed....

After a long while—

"Not a grey hair," she said slowly. "Not one. By rights, my hair should be white. By rights, my eyes should be staring.... They're not even strained. I ought to be thin, pale as a ghost, with great rings under my eyes.... I looked a million times worse before— before it happened.... And now, when nothing matters, when everything's gone— smashed— finished, I look my best.... I suppose it's because I can't care ... the power of caring is gone. I’d give my life to cry, but it can't be done." Her gaze fell to the table. "First, the golden bowl; then the cord— that beautiful, silver cord; then the pitcher of life; and now the wheel at the cistern.... Yes. The wheel's broken. I can't draw up any tears." She fell to brushing her hair absently. "We should have been married now, and he'd've been dressing, too. The door'd've been open, and he 'ld 've come walking in. Perhaps he'd've played with my hair.... bent back my head and kissed me ... laid his cheek against mine.... Instead, he's lying at Girdle, under the ground. No one was there to hold his head at the last ... to give him water ... tell him it wouldn't be long. Perhaps the dog was with him ... whining ... licking his face. I wonder what Patch did when— when it was all over.... I'll bet he cared, poor scrap. But I, his queen ... no. I'm not allowed. The wheel's broken."

THREE slow-treading hours had gone by since Valerie looked at herself, and now Lady Touchstone and she were listening to an admirable orchestra rendering the duet from
Cavalleria Rusticana
with real emotion.

A silence had fallen upon the frivolous crowd. Beneath the music's spell the hubbub of mirth and chatter had sunk to a murmur of talk; in turn the murmur had died; only one voice had survived, nasal and drawling.... For a moment it seared the music.... Then some one touched its owner upon the shoulder. The drawl snapped off short.

Step by step the air climbed to the pinnacles of Glistering Grief, trailing its audience behind. The exquisite atmosphere became rarer, more difficult to endure. A merciless fellowship of wizards, the band slaved at its charm, sobering vanity, finding souls in the soulless, plucking out hearts right and left and clapping them upon sleeves. Lips began to tremble, hands to be clenched; eyes stared upon the floor.

Lady Touchstone blinked back her tears.

Valerie sat still, watching a moth that was busy about a lantern, and wondering where they would go when they left Dinard.

Suddenly, six feet away, a girl broke down.

Her chin on her fists, her elbows propped on a table, blowing furiously at a cigarette, she strove to carry it off. All the time tears coursed down her cheeks. The man beside her bent forward.... She shook him away fiercely. Her gleaming shoulders began to shake convulsively. A quivering sob fought its way out....

The girl flung down her cigarette, buried her face in her hands, and bowed before the storm.

Perhaps five hundred eyes saw Valerie step to her side, put an arm about her, and lead her away. She went like a lamb. Lady Touchstone followed, snivelling and praising God. The gallant came last, feeling his position and savaging a young moustache....

As they came to the doors—

"We'll take her home, Aunt Harriet. She says that she’d like to come."

The car was sent for.

As the girl took her seat—

"Don't you come," she jerked out, addressing her squire. "Tell th' others I met some friends."

The youth uncovered relievedly. The last thing he wanted to do was to enter that car.

Then the door slammed, and he was left standing, headgear in hand.

He stared at his hat before replacing it.

"André!" he said. "André of all women!..." He sighed profoundly. "My word, what a show!" He clapped his hat on his head and sought for a drink.

So far as that search was concerned, his lady beat him. While he was still wobbling between a vermouth, which he disliked, and a whiskey, which he mistrusted, she was seated in a salon of the Villa Narcisse, sipping a brandy-and-soda of a very fair strength.

The liquor steadied her nerves. After a minute or two she accepted a cigarette.

Once she began to stammer some gratitude.

Valerie checked her at once.

"We'll talk when you're better," she said.

Then she turned her back and picked up a book....

André Strongi'th'arm was English and an attractive lady. Tears, of course, will make havoc of any countenance. They could not hide, however, her exquisite complexion, nor could they alter the shape of her maddening mouth. Pearls looked dull against the white of her throat, while her auburn hair alone made her remarkable. Enough and to spare for two women was crowning her pretty head. The lights that flashed from this glory beggar description. Her fine green frock became her mightily. This was none too long, but the shape of the slim silk stockings and little shining feet turned the shortcoming into a virtue.

Perhaps five minutes slipped by.

Then—

"You must think me a fool," faltered André. "A soppy, half-bred fool."

The other closed her book and rose to her feet, smiling.

"I don't at all," she said quickly, turning about. "As a matter of fact, I should think you could stand more than most people."

"I can," came the reply. "You're perfectly right. That music to-night caught me bending. I'd been thinking all day ... thinking ... letting myself remember ... sticking a knife in my heart. Then that duet came along and drove it home." She snuffed out a sob with a laugh. "Serves me right," she added, "for being a fool."

"I wish," said Valerie French, "you’d teach me to cry."

The other stared at her.

"What on earth for?" She gave a hard laugh. "'Teach you to cry?' My dear, you wait.... Yes, and thank your stars. When your hour comes, you won't want any teaching."

"It's come," said Valerie. "It came a fortnight ago."

Miss Strongi'th'arm shook her bright head.

"No, it hasn't," she said. "Don't think I mean to be rude, but I know what I'm talking about. You think it has, but it hasn't. I know the symptoms too well."

"And I haven't got them?" smiled Valerie. "I know. That's just my trouble.... Supposing you're deadly ill, with a temperature of a hundred and four. All the time you look perfectly well, and the thermometer says 'normal.' Yet the fever's there— raging. Raging all the more because it's suppressed...."

"You’d die," said André.

"I don't," said Valerie. "I wish I could. But that's where the body's so much better off than the mind. Symptoms or none, it can take to its bed and die. The mind can't. It just carries on and on." She sat on the arm of a chair and crossed her knees. "Death and tears are denied me. What's worse, I can't even care."

"Then why on earth worry?" said André bitterly. "My God, I wish I couldn't!"

"I don't worry," said Valerie, taking a cigarette. "I tell you I can't. But you forget the fever ... the raging fever ... raging to be expressed. You see, the tears are there. They must be. I can't get them out."

André Strongi'th'arm stared at this strange, quiet girl who talked of death and tears as though they were pens and ink. She began to realize that she was in the presence of one whose acquaintance with Grief was rather more intimate than she had believed.

At length—

"You ask me," she said slowly, "to teach you to cry. Well, I'll tell you a tale. If that doesn't make you weep, I shouldn't think anything would."

"Do," said Valerie French.

The other leaned back in her chair and covered her eyes.

"I was engaged," she said, "to a king among men. He looked like a god. He could have married anyone, and— he chose me. The trouble was, Life wasn't big enough for him. He wanted worlds to conquer, and there weren't any worlds going. He was like Warwick the King-maker. If the earl was alive to-day, I imagine he'd be out of a job. So was Richard. Then some relative died, and he inherited. Hardly any money, but an estate— a cursed horror of woodland down in the Cotswold Hills." Valerie started violently. Her face went very white. The voice proceeded jerkily. "A place called Gramarye. Only about forty minutes from where I live.... Well, the estate was a wreck. A park had been made once— cut out of a forest. Then it had been let go, and the forest had gradually swallowed it up again. It was a pity, of course, but the damage was done. Any idea of restoration was fantastic ... out of the question. Very good. So was any idea of building the Pyramids....

"I said Richard wanted a world. Well, here was one for him to conquer. He set himself to restore this dreadful estate. It gave his ambition scope, his wonderful 'drive' a field, his tremendous physical energy something to spend itself on. But the place was accursed. Soon it got into his blood. He could think of nothing else. Our marriage was postponed ... postponed ... postponed.... I hung on and hung on, watching Gramarye squeeze me out of his life and worm her way into his brain....

"Then ... some one else came along— more splendid than Richard. His name was Anthony...."

The girl stifled a sob and bowed her head, pressing her pointed fingers against her temples till the blood ran back from the nails. Valerie French sat as though carved out of stone— or salt.

"He— was— the— most— perfect— thing.... I told you Richard was a king and looked like a god. Well, Anthony was a god and looked like a king. He was the handsomest man in mind and body anyone ever saw. Of course I went under at once— right under. I flung myself at his head. So would you. I dare say you think you wouldn't, but I tell you you would. I never even stopped to think— I'll tell you why.
This wonderful creature was sitting at Richard's feet ... working at Gramarye, too .... wrapping her ghastly toils about his brain
. If I hadn't lost my head, I might have saved him. He might have listened to me if only I'd held myself in. I went to see him one night, determined to open his eyes. I opened them wider than I meant— and finished everything. I meant him to turn down Gramarye. I only strengthened her case and got turned down myself....

"Well, Richard went mad. I knew he would. He's in an asylum now. And, after a little, Anthony went mad, too. Where he is, I don't know."

There was a long silence. Presently André's hands slid into her lap.

"I think that's enough to bear," she continued dully, "but there's some more to come— a sort of aftermath. You see, my people don't know ... that there was somebody else. They know I'm half off my head— all my friends do.
But they think it's because of Richard
. They're sweet and land and gentle. They do all they can. Their interest's amazing, their understanding marvellous. But all the time
they're bathing the wrong leg
. Bathing and rubbing and bandaging till I could scream." She smote upon the arm of her chair. "I don't care a damn about Richard. He's nothing to me. They tell me the doctors' reports— break the bad ones gently, and wave the good ones about as if they were flags. All the time I don't care ... I don't care. I'm thankful he's out of my life. I've not a scrap of compunction. I never meant anything to him. He was too big.... When I say I don't care— as I do— they think it's a phase of my grief. When I say he means nothing, they soothe me and change the subject. They've not the faintest idea that there's anyone else...."

She broke off and shrugged her white shoulders.

"Well, there you are. You're not crying, I see, but then it's not your affair. Besides, I've told it badly. But if you could have seen that glorious specimen of manhood— that great-hearted, clean-handed gentleman, quietly working out his own damnation with an eager, grateful heart ... if you'd had a chance of stopping this hideous rot, and chucked it away ... if he'd shown you out of his cottage as held show out a wanton— so firmly, so sadly, so handsomely— with the kindest look that ever a man gave woman— — "

André stopped short, and a finger flew to her lip.

The other's eyes were swimming ...

A moment later Valerie French was weeping passionately.

TWELVE more hours had gone by, and André Strongi'th'arm was packing her trunk.

A sudden knock at her door preceded a page, bearing a telegram.

André ripped it open casually enough.

Most splendid news darling come home at once Gramarye caught fire and is burned out apparently as direct result of this Richard completely recovered wire where and when you arrive Mother.

The girl stared at the words.

These slid to and fro, making absurd combinations. Presently they became ridiculously minute.

The sheet slipped from her fingers, but she continued to stare blindly.

Behind her, the page, who was waiting to hear if she had any answer to send, began to fidget. After a little, he stood upon one leg....

THE MAN WHO had lost his memory was growing tired.

Fourteen miles he had come from the village of Broad-i'-the-Beam— he and Hamlet, his dog. So much a map would have told you. As a matter of fact, they had covered a good twenty. Ever since nine o'clock the two had gone as they pleased. Time was nothing to them, except an easy-going host. The clocks they saw and heard were jolly-faced, merry-tongued butlers, predicting meals and sleep. Did Jonathan like the look of that peeping church, the shrine had been visited. Did Hamlet, panting, declare this wood a rabbitry, the brake had been scoured. Somewhere about noon the gentle plash of water had attracted them both, and tacked a brace of miles on to their journey. The two had spent an hour beside the scrambling stream, looking for water-rats, unearthing brown pebbles, finding in 'flotsam and jetsam' a gay significance which Blackstone seems to have missed. The burden of the day became a shuttlecock; its heat, a cordial. Man and dog 'fleeted the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.' What if they were making for Oxford, and Oxford was yet a score of miles away? Were they not Time's guests? The city could wait. What if the two of them were growing tired? They would sleep the sounder. What if they had but sixteen shillings in the world? The morrow should take thought of itself. The past had done so— was doing so, and doing it devilish well.

The man who had lost his memory burst into song....

It was at this musical juncture that the two wayfarers rounded a bend of the road to see a large brown limousine perhaps one hundred yards ahead. The car was standing idle under the grateful shadow of a convenient wood. Its back was towards them, and the business of a blue-suited chauffeur about the spare wheel behind was arguing the recent occurrence of a familiar mishap.

That there was something amiss, however, beside mere tire trouble soon became evident. Indeed, as the pair drew abreast of the workman, the latter raised his fists skywards and shook them in inarticulate fury.

Jonathan stopped still.

"What's the matter?" he said.

The man started violently, looked the speaker up and down, and then put a finger to a coarse lip.

"Shut yer row," he whispered. He jerked his head at the car. "My bloke's asleep, 'e is. If you go an' wake 'im, there'll be the — dooce."

"All right," said Jonathan quietly. "But what's the matter?"

"Lef' me spanner be'ind," was the savage reply.

"Firs' a — puncture: then this 'ere's the wrong wheel: now the 'ub-cap won't move."

"But if the spare wheel's no use, what's the good of taking it down?"

"So's I kin take it beck to the — 'ouse an' git the right one, smarty. 'Ere, jus' 'old this — catch in. Shove the — 'ome whiles I turn."

With a frown, Jonathan did as he was bid, and a moment later the refractory wheel-cap began to revolve.

The trick was done.

With a protruding tongue, the chauffeur lifted the wheel clear of its brackets. Then he turned to his ministrant.

"If you'll watch 'ere with the car, you kin give me a 'and, you kin— when I comes beck. An' if I puts in a word— why, my toff's good fer 'alf a dollar."

Jonathan hated the fellow, but two good shillings and sixpence were not to be sneezed at. Clearly the morrow was taking thought of itself. Not to encourage such initiative would be cavalier. He nodded agreement.

The other trundled the wheel down the road, and presently dived at right angles into a lane and out of sight.

Jonathan and Hamlet sat down in the shade of the trees by the side of the road...

Ten minutes, perhaps, had gone by, when somebody yawned.

Hamlet leaped to his feet and put his head on one side.... Nothing further occurring, the dog shot his smiling master a reproachful glance and once more laid himself down.

Another yawn was luxuriously expressed.

Again the terrier started to his feet and put his head on one side.... After a moment he approached the car gingerly, nosing the nearest running-board, as one who suspects a booby-trap. Venturing farther, he had placed two paws upon the step and was snuffing the sill of the door, when an explosion from within the limousine, in the shape of a violent inclination to sneeze violently indulged, at once confirmed his suspicions, cost him his balance, and sent him sprawling upon his back....

Heedless of the contingent two shillings, Jonathan roared his pent-up merriment, while Hamlet, conscious of lost dignity, retreated to the bank and, apologetically wagging his tail, trumpeted a ridiculous defiance of his invisible discomfiter.

The face, however, presently thrust out of the limousine's window should have been sobering enough.

Large, round, red, transfigured with wrath and surmounted by a vast grey hat, it was filling most of the frame, and when a tremendous fist followed it, to be shaken furiously in Hamlet's direction, there was practically no room left. The puffed-out cheeks suggested Æolus at work, blasphemously 'potted' by Aristophanes: the monstrous air, a pet of Rabelais'. Only the keen, blue eyes redeemed the countenance. By rights, these should have been flaming. That they were merely bright, argued the rage skin-deep.

But for Jonathan, Red Face and Hamlet might have exchanged threatenings for half an hour. The more the one bellowed, the more the other lifted up his voice. The dog had now just cause. The extraordinary picture clamoured for criticism.

His master called Hamlet to order and took off his hat.

"I'm very sorry, sir. The dog— "

"Venomous brute," raged Red Face.

"— didn't know you were there, and when you sneezed— "

"I didn't sneeze!" shouted the other. "Where's my chauffeur?"

Jonathan swallowed.

"I think he'll be here any minute, sir. The spare wheel was not satisfactory, and he's gone— "

"What d'you mean— 'spare wheel'? What's the spare wheel got to do with it?"

"You've got a puncture, sir, and— "

"You're drunk!" roared Red Face. "Most beastly drunk. Where's the puncture?"

Swiftly Jonathan perambulated the car.
Each tire was as sound as a bell
. He returned to the near-side door in some uneasiness.

"You're perfectly right, sir. I— "

"Of course I am."

"— I must have misunderstood. When I arrived, your chauffeur was having some difficulty with the spare wheel, and I helped him to— "

"You're a lying vagabond," said the other. "You did nothing of the kind. You're attempting to extort money."

"I tell you, sir— "

"You've never set eyes on my chauffeur. You've— "

"If it hadn't been for me," retorted Jonathan, "he'd never've had the spare wheel— "

"Goats and monkeys!" yelled Red Face. "'S the man mad?" He wrenched at the door-handle. "Lemme get out, you fool." Jonathan opened the door, for a body and limbs proportionate to the face to be launched into the road. "Now, then, what the devil d'you mean by it? Where's this spare wheel, you— "

"It's gone," said Jonathan. "The chauffeur's taken it away."

The simple announcement appeared to bereave Red Face of the power of speech. Taking advantage of the silence, Jonathan led the way to the rear of the car and pointed to the empty brackets.

"You see?" he said quietly. With bulging eyes, the stranger regarded them. "I certainly understood that you'd had a puncture, but, any way, the chauffeur's taken it back to get another."

"'Back'?" croaked Red Face. "'Back,' you gibbering fool? Back where?"

As he spoke, the beat of a coming engine made itself heard, and, without waiting for an answer, the giant stepped from behind the car to peer up the road.

A moment later a Ford came to rest alongside, and a spruce little man in fawn-coloured livery descended, filter in hand, and touched his hat.

"Where the devil have you been?" demanded his employer.

"Quick as I could, sir"— cheerfully.

"You lying hound," said the other. "You've stopped at every pub for miles round. You know you have. Where's the spare wheel?"

The chauffeur stared at its room.

"It was there when I left, Sir Andrew."

"
What?
"

Jonathan put in his oar.

"This isn't the chauffeur I helped," he said. There was a dreadful silence. "In fact," he added stoutly, "I'm afraid— I'm awfully sorry, but the more I think of it, the more afraid I am that I've helped some fellow or other to pinch your wheel."

The murder was out.

For a moment Jonathan thought the giant was going to strike him. The chauffeur plainly was of the same mind, for he made an obvious movement to catch his master's arm.

But Sir Andrew never moved.

After a little while he took a deep breath.

"Did I call you a liar?" he said.

"You did," said Jonathan.

"Well, I dare say you are. The world's full of 'em. Still..."

It was a gruff ghost of an apology, yet the best Sir Andrew Plague had made for twenty years. It was not the man's fault that it was no better. His pride's neck had grown stiff. As though to correct the impression that it was at all flexible, he turned upon his chauffeur with a quick roar.

"Move, you fool, move. Don't stand there drivelling. Fill up, and send these thieves about their business." A mechanic in the Ford shifted uneasily, and his fellow let fall a can. "A-a-ah, you blundering felon...." He swung on his heel and called to Jonathan. "Here."

The latter followed him, walking up the road.

"Never help anyone," said Sir Andrew. "If you do, you'll regret it. If I'd caught you assisting to steal my wheel, I’d 've broken your back: and if my chauffeur'd caught you, you’d 've got twelve months— if there's any law left in England. Never help anyone." He turned abruptly, to make his way back to the car. "Oh, and get rid of that dog," he added, over his shoulder.

Jonathan watched him stop to curse his chauffeur and shake a fist at the mechanics, before flinging open the door and heaving himself out of sight. He was sorry, to tell the truth, to see the last of him....

He liked Sir Andrew Plague and admired him enormously. For such admiration, he must himself be admired. Worth knows worth in an instant, smother it how you will. That which the mechanics reluctantly respected, Jonathan found inspiring. Whensoever a deep calls, the shallows tremble, but only a deep will respond.

Jonathan saw in Plague a man born out of time. He saw a man made of the Conqueror's stuff, cast in the Norman mould, seized of that dukely 'drive,' in mind, as body, towering above his fellow-men— to his own hurt. He saw a giant stalking through pygmy-land, chafing for company and finding none— a giant whose lack of peers and vigorous mental fellowship had spoiled his temper, who had come to say in his haste, 'All men are fools.' Here was a lion, then— flaunting a lion's faults— cloaking a lion's virtues. All the time the lion's personality blazed...

Jonathan's estimate was very sound.

Sir Andrew Plague's nickname was 'The King of Beasts.'

What Plague thought of Jonathan will presently appear. Suffice it that the deeps were in touch.

"Hi!"

The large red face was protruding from the limousine's window.

Jonathan hurried to the car.

The engine was running, and the chauffeur was in his seat.

"What's your name?"

The man who had lost his memory started. Then he lifted his eyes and stared at the dust-laden trees.

"Wood," he said suddenly. "Wood. Jonathan Wood."

"Mine's Plague," said the other roughly. "Andrew Plague. Want any help any time, I'm in the book. But don't telephone. Filthy instrument. Where's that brute of a dog?"

Jonathan whistled, and Hamlet came running up.

Sir Andrew blew through his nose. Then—

"Does he eat sausage?" he asked.

"He will— gratefully."

"Ugly brute," said Sir Andrew. "Get rid of him." He turned to rave at his chauffeur. "Drive on, you fool, drive on. What the hell are you waiting for?" He flung himself back on the seat and closed his eyes.

The chauffeur let in the clutch....

Before the car was fifty paces away, something white came fluttering out of the window.

Upon examination it proved to be a confectioner's paper bag containing a sausage-roll.

TALL, GRAVE-FACED Jonah Mansel, of White Ladies, Hampshire, could tell a good tale. That which he told to his cousins, some five days after Hamlet had eaten the sausage-roll, was no exception. I will, if you please, set out his very own words.

"I'd meant to lunch at Oxford, but by the time I'd got there it was a quarter to one, so I thought I'd better push on to Ruby Green. I found it easily enough. Nice little place, smacking of peace and plenty. Obviously old as the hills, and, happily, off the map. Stocks, pound, etc., and a church you could get inside a furniture-van. We must go there one day.... Well, I found out where the Justice Room was, and then I made for the inn.

"To tell you the truth, I'd expected a royal welcome. You know. Genial host, scurrying maids, foaming tankards, venison pasty, raspberries and cream— and the rest. The place suggested it. I was never more mistaken. I got no welcome at all. The goods were there all right, but they weren't delivered. I couldn't get any attention. The host was— well, preoccupied and perspiring. The maids certainly scurried, but not for me. The tankard only foamed because I filled it myself. I actually had to force my way into the kitchen to get any food.... Anybody would have thought the devil was in the house.
As a matter of fact, he was
.

"D'you remember, when Dumas' Musketeers honoured a tavern in an ill humour, how they made things hum? Well, there you are. Porthos was in the parlour and the deuce of a rage. Only one or other of that Big Four could possibly have raised such Cain— and got away with it. The house was bewitched ... terrorized. The one idea of every soul in that inn was to gratify 'his' desires the instant they were expressed— 'lest a worse thing befall.' Did 'he' want cream, there was a rush for the dairy. Did 'he' want pepper, the boots was hounded to the grocer's. Did 'he' want ale, the bar was stormed. And as 'he' was never satisfied, it was a constant
Sauve qui peut
. All the time Porthos was bellowing like twenty bulls. The inn was no longer an inn, but Porthos' temple. All other custom went by the board. I could have eaten and drunk as much as I liked. As a matter of fact, I did— and put five bob in the till by way of payment. If I'd taken out ten, instead, it wouldn't have mattered....