"Of course you live near here," she said quietly. "I'd quite forgotten." With that, she put out her hand.
The other stared at this, biting her lip. Then she took it uncertainly.
"I'm sorry," she said jerkily. "You'll— you'll think I'm not safe to be about. The first time we meet I behave like an idiot child: and now, like— like a maniac." She laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose you know where you are ... whose grave that is?"
"Yes," said Valerie.
André shot her a long and searching glance. Then she fixed her eyes upon an adjacent headstone.
When she spoke again, her voice was strained and low.
"It was my earnest desire to put up a memorial.... I went to see the Vicar ten minutes ago.... He tells me he's given permission to somebody else— some other woman." She paused. "I asked if she was a relative, and he said she had told him 'No.'"
"That's right," said Valerie quietly. "He gave it to me."
"So I was right," breathed André. She turned upon the other with smouldering eyes. "What's your imagined authority for doing this?"
"Major Lyveden and I were engaged."
Miss Strongi'th'arm stared.
"When?"
"At the time of his death."
"But he was mad."
Valerie shook her head.
"We got him all right," she said. "Apparently, perfectly well. It— "
"'We'? Who's 'we'?"
"His friends," said Valerie. "It was only right at the end that he had a relapse."
"D'you swear this?" demanded André.
"Of course."
"Why didn't you tell me at Dinard?"
"Until you opened your mouth, I hadn't the slightest idea. When you'd opened it, it was too late."
"'Too late to stop me telling my rival the details of how her lover had turned me down?" She pointed to the grave at their feet. "I wonder what he’d think about it."
"He'd understand," said Valerie. "So would you, if you'd only think for a moment. I never dreamed, of course, I should ever see you again."
The other gave a short laugh.
"No," she said dryly. "I don't suppose you did. One doesn't bother, as a rule, about a sucked orange."
Valerie lifted her eyes and stared at the tops of the elms.
"I'm sorry," she said gently, "you take it like this. God knows I meant you no harm."
"Then why did you let me talk— strip myself? Because you wanted to see my nakedness. You'd landed the wonderful thing I'd lost my heart to, and so my failure was interesting ... a posthumous titbit ... the hell of a feather in your cap. That I was sticking it there was simply superb. You must have screamed when I'd gone."
"Do I look that kind of woman?"
"I wish you did," said André bitterly. "Then I'd 've held my tongue."
"You know I never laughed when you'd gone."
The other shrugged her shoulders.
"A woman who'll do such a rotten, shameless— "
"Why do you talk like this?" said Valerie. "Why are you so unfair? I never invited your confidence."
"You abused it."
"I never abused it. Listen. For one thing, you know I was ill— almost out of my mind."
"Rot," said André. "Your nerve was like iron."
"I say," repeated Valerie, "that I was almost mad. Anthony was dead. You find his loss hard enough. What d'you think it was— is, to me? Well, you offered to tell me your tale, and I offered to listen. Suddenly, without any warning, I found you were giving yourself away.... I had to decide what to do— instantly. There was no time to think. I had to decide whether it was better to stop you— make things desperately awkward for both of us, and drive you wild with yourself for having spoken, or to let you go on and away without knowing who I was. I don't think I ever decided. While I was trying to think, you went on talking, until it was clearly too late."
"How could I help in the end finding out who you were?"
"It didn't seem likely then. I never expected to come to see his grave."
"Till after I'd spoken?"
Valerie nodded.
"I owe you a debt," she said. "When you spoke so handsomely— "
"Rub it in," said André.
With a gesture of despair, Valerie turned away.
"In fact," said André, "it was only when you found that there was some one who cared, living a couple of miles from where he lay ... some one whose right to care was technically smaller than your own ... some poor rotter who might be 'expected to come to see his grave,' that it occurred to you to use your authority and put up a gravestone— 'In Loving Memory.' After all, what's the use of a door marked 'Private' if you've nobody's face to slam it in?" She stamped her foot upon the ground. "Upon my soul, I wonder you don't order me out of this churchyard."
Valerie stepped to the birch and picked up her hat. Her face was very white, and when she spoke there was the chill of death in her tone.
"Before I go I'll tell you what you've done.
"I came here to-day, laden and desolate, after two solid months of horror, misery and despair. And here, for the very first minute in all these frightful weeks, I felt at peace. The weight that was breaking me was taken: that awful, desolate feeling fell away. Perhaps you can imagine the relief— after two solid months. I could have cried with gratitude. In fact, I did. Then I went to the village and took a room at the inn, so that I might be able to come here every day....
"And now— you've smashed my sanctuary ... sown it with stinging memories ... poisoned the peace I found here ... hunted me back into the night.... I tell you, you've robbed the destitute. You say you're poor. You fool. I am Poverty. And yet you've found a pocket in my rags— and rifled that."
She turned and passed out of the pleasaunce like a stricken queen....
Her red lips parted, wide-eyed, the other watched her go, and, after she had gone, stared at her point of disappearance.
Presently her brown eyes narrowed, and she began to frown.
IT TOOK A good deal to stagger Miss André Strongi'th'arm, but the trick had been done. For this, a finer personality, a blow from an unexpected quarter, and an air of frozen dignity were together responsible. She had been shaken much as a confident boxer may be shaken by the shock of the sudden punch of a better man. She walked home thoughtfully.
THAT SAME NIGHT, in her chamber, she threw herself, dressed, on her bed and considered her plight. Her windows were wide open, and from where she lay she could command the dark heaven, literally crammed with stars. These afforded, as ever, a majestic spectacle, conducive to meditation. Occasionally one of them would leave its place in the pageant and take its dying leap into eternity.... After a little André began to feel that Fate not only was pretty powerful, but possibly knew its job rather better than she.
For more than six dragging months she had been most deeply in love with Anthony Lyveden. Never once in all that time had she viewed this passion impersonally. It was, of course, a question of effort, purely: and the effort had never been made. She had let herself go— let herself love, dream, suffer. Six months ago she had stumbled upon a pool, sunlit, inviting. Without an instant's thought, she had flung herself in.... Soon the sunlight had gone and the waters begun to grow chill. She had stayed there desperately. Gradually the waters had become icy: but she would not come out, because they had once been warm and the sun had lighted them. To-night, for the very first time, she saw herself crouched in the pool, wide-eyed, frozen.... She was only just in time. A moment later the pool was empty.
A feeling of resignation stole into André's heart, as blood that has been congealed begins to liquefy.
The reason for this is plain.
The girl was a fine lover, handsome and careless. This morning she would have given her life to bring back Anthony, and given it gladly, without a thought. But to-night— no. She would not have crooked a finger. This morning she would have asked no questions, made no conditions, but would have gone to the block with the shining eyes of a zealot. To-night she w
ould have seen eternity end before she brought him back for another woman. André was neither selfish nor unselfish. She was just human. Continuing to look through her new, impersonal lens, she perceived that Lyveden's death had been predestinate. This discovery relieved her immensely. Till now she had always felt that she might have saved him. The millstone of self-condemnation began to slip from her neck.... Still using this comfortable lens, she found it perfectly manifest that Anthony was not for her, because he was for no woman. This finding was more than a relief: it was a positive cordial.
The glow of resignation began to course through André's veins, as blood which has got going begins to circulate.
Staring up at the regalia of Destiny, it struck her that Anthony Lyveden had crossed her path like one of those falling stars, flooding her life with his radiance, dragging her heart with him in his dying leap. Pondering the truth of this simile, André found him ethereal, made of the silver stuff of dreams, a prince passing. The man began to change into a memory— a most important transition.
Out of the highway of Life there runs a sable lane whose name is Mourning. Down this we, that are quick, walk with our blessed dead. Sooner or later, sirs, the lane will bend— sooner or later. And there at the turn, the dead enter in at the gate which is that of Memory, but we, that are quick, pass on, and lo! an instant later, we are back upon the old highway.
When Anthony became a memory, André came out of mourning. The prince had passed.
After all, our emotions are nothing more than a set of hooks on which we hang things. And Lyveden had been transferred from the hook of passionate love to that of affectionate remembrance. Of this the direct result was that the hook of passionate love was now unoccupied. Nature abhors a vacuum. Miss Strongi'th'arm's nature went further. Her hook of passionate love had to be filled. Never in all her life had it gone spare. Dolls had hung there. So had horses, often. Dogs, dancing, Donegal, men— one after another, these had been tenants at will— a very uncertain will. But that is beside the point, which is, as I have hinted, that the hook was now empty....
André switched on the light and slid off the bed. Then she crossed to her table and opened a drawer.
Here lay a letter which had arrived that morning.
Sitting upon the edge of the table, she re-read it carefully.
My Dear André,
They tell me you know that I am well, but that, after all you have been through, you do not feel able to see me just yet. I am not surprised. (Remember, I can only take their words literally, without trying to read something which may or may not be written, between the lines.) I neither know nor desire to know the circumstances of my loss of reason— I am told that it was caused by overwork at that place which was recently burned, Gramarye— but, however it came about, the shock to you must have been awful.
You see, my dear girl, I know that, when my mind was taken, you and I were engaged.
That my love for you should have survived my illness, is not surprising. I was, in a sense, less affected than anyone else. But I want you to know, André, that it has survived, and that I can think of no one else.
Whether you love me still, is another matter. You may. If you do not, I can most perfectly understand. Possibly you may not know whether you do or not.
In any event, write to me candidly: and what you wish, my lady, that I will do. If you think it better, I will keep away— for a while, or for ever. If you would like to see me, I will come— as a friend. If...
André, my darling, I have tried, to write dispassionately. In return, don't let me down. Tell me the absolute truth, however harsh it may be. It's far kinder.
Always,
Richard Winchester.
Now, André believed firmly in going whither the winds of Fate were minded to carry her. How little she practised this faith she was sublimely unconscious. She was fully persuaded and often averred with conviction that she had done so all her life. As a matter of hard fact, she went where she listed: and the winds of Fate had usually to work themselves into a hurricane before she became aware that any suggestion was being made. In the present case a whole gale had been driving for over twelve hours.
Only two people knew that her engagement with Richard had been broken off. Of these, one— Anthony— was dead, while the other— Richard himself— had forgotten. 'When my mind was taken, you and I were engaged.' Probably they were. That night when she had flung down her ring he was already mad— obviously.
Of her affair with Anthony, of course, he knew nothing at all. As likely as not, he did not remember Lyveden. 'That place which was recently burned.' That place...
There was no doubt about it. By an amazing accident the clock had been put back, and André was being offered her 'time' over again. The question was, whether to accept it or no.
André flung back her head and stared at the light.
Richard ... Richard Winchester.... normal, was a most splendid being. She had been crazy about him— till she had met Lyveden. When he had asked her to marry him, it had been the proudest moment of her life....
Harlequin-like, the scene flashed into her mind, gallant and glittering. The two were riding home after a hunt. It was a mild evening, and the rain, which had been falling, had slackened and died. With no wind to carry it, the smell of the soaking earth rose up sweet and lingering. On either side of them a beechwood gave back the jingle of bits and the hollow slap of hoofs. Far down the silent road an early light was whipping on the dusk.... Suddenly Richard had leaned forward and caught her bridle. 'Will you marry me, André?' 'I will.' Without a word he had lifted her out of her saddle and gathered her in his arms. Then he had kissed her mouth and set her upon his saddle-bow....
André closed her eyes and drew in her breath.
Of course he needed a job— a job which would give him a chance to use his amazing powers. Big-game hunting, for instance. If she had realized that twelve months ago, things might have been different. But she had not. She had resented the way in which he had courted occupation. All the time it had been the man's nature. She might as well have been jealous of his appetite.... If the clock had been put back, not so her experience. She had been shown most clearly what cards to play. Big-game hunting.... Well, she would love that. That was a job she could enter into heartily. And if Richard hadn't much money— why, she was rich....
André began to appreciate that she was a most fortunate girl. She had come an unearthly cropper, and— the record had been expunged. Not a living soul was aware— yes. One was. Not that she mattered, still...
Which brought her to Valerie French.
A faint frown of vexation gathered on André's brow.
"I am a fool," she said sharply. "A headstrong fool. I had no case at all. If I'd liked to show her my cards, it wasn't her fault. All the same..." She gnawed at her underlip. "I am a fool," she repeated. "I suppose she thinks I don't know any better. There, of all places.... I wish to Heaven I'd pulled myself together before— before she went. Of course she thinks I'm just rank. She, of all people— to think that of me." André flushed red with mortification. "With what I told her at Dinard and then what I did to-day— Oh, of course she thinks it. She must. So would anyone. It's just like shouting 'I'm rank. I'm the cheapest, rankest bounder you ever saw.' Hell! Why was I such a fool? Such a rotten fool?"
She stepped to a box by her bed and took out a cigarette. When she had lighted this, she flung herself into a chair.
"I shall have to see her," she said. "Somehow. Barley's probably got her address. Yes. That's the only thing to do. I can't leave things as they are— possibly."
It was, of course, a question of self-respect. While Valerie did not respect her, André could not possibly respect herself. This was unbearable. That her own respect should depend on that of somebody else, was humiliating. That it should depend upon that of her idol's darling, made André writhe. In a mad moment she had pawned her dignity. Now, at whatever cost, this must be redeemed.
That she was quite unrepentant must
not be charged to her account. Fate had been rough with her. That she should have chosen Valerie to be her confidante was most outrageous fortune. What had resulted, if distressing, was natural enough. At two-fifteen that day Miss Strongi'th'arm had had no reason to believe that she was not upon dry ground. At two-fifteen and a half she had made the unpleasant discovery that the ground was not dry at all, but a particularly odious slough, in which she had for some eight days been standing up to her knees. Few girls would not have floundered. André's mettlesome nature had sent her in up to her neck. Incidentally, it was the same vehement spirit which was now peremptorily demanding to be released from this plight. Mettle is a good subject, but, as an autocrat, apt to cost rather more than he is worth. The cheques he draws upon Humiliation are cruelly fat. It is good to think that in Miss Strongi'th'arm's case these were invariably honoured.
André tossed her cigarette into the night and began to make ready for sleep....
Before nine o'clock the next morning she sent a telegram.
This was addressed to Winchester, and was most eloquently brief.
Come.
VALERIE'S sudden decision to keep a diary was a desperate move. She was prompted by much the same motive as prompted political prisoners who were not sculptors to carve the walls of their cells. She had to do something. But, since she was not a diarist and never could be, she kept it only so long as there was nothing— to her mind— worth recording. Indeed, this fragment ends abruptly upon the fifth day. After all, I will wager that such political prisoners as were eventually released alive did not keep up their carving.
August 7th.— Breakfast at nine. Tried to decide whether to return to Dinard or not. Couldn't. Wrote to Aunt Harriet and said I was staying in Town and would wire before I left. Asked her to try and think of some 'Professions for Girls.' I cannot get that sordid business of yesterday out of my head. Is everything to be denied me? I've only to scratch up some wretched, miserable crumbs, for these to be taken away. I feel like the prisoner who managed to tame a rat; and then one day they found him feeding his pet, and killed it. The flat needs decoration. Made up my mind to send for —— to-morrow. But I shall not. What is the good? We may not ever come here again. Even if we do.... Walked in the Park before luncheon. Something impelled me to ring up Daphne Pleydell. Happily, she was out of Town. Of course, everyone is. Luncheon— a solitary meal. Pity the idle rich. Then I had the car round and drove into Hertfordshire— to The Dogs' Home. The superintendent seemed pleased to see me again. I was a fool to go. I was a bigger fool to have tea at The Leather Bottel. Even they remembered me. They also remembered Joe ... and Patch ... and him. I never asked. They just rambled on and dragged them all into the fairy tale. I came home and dined in melancholy state. Afterwards I tried to read, but I could only think. Why did I leave Dinard? I am getting frightened. This loneliness makes me afraid. Yet I cannot go back. I can't face the villa again. That girl was there, for one thing. Besides ...
Valerie French (1923) Page 6
