August 8th.— I think waking is the worst time of all. For a fraction of a second, after I'm awake, everything's rosy and golden. Then, with a paralysing shock, I remember.... What a cruel thing Life is! Every morning now, for nearly a month, I have been informed most bluntly that my darling is dead. And every morning I am stunned with the awful news. I suppose I must be thankful that I sleep as well as I do. This morning I rang up Forsyth. He begged me to come and see him. I promised to go to-morrow. I dread it terribly. Sole legatee, sole executrix. The misery it means. I shall tread the steps he trod— that awful day: sit in the chair he sat in: use the same pen. The clerks will stare at me. Forsyth will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. He'll think he's doing it beautifully— he's done it so often.... And I shall sit and watch him, just as one watches a photographer moving his screens about. A letter from Betty Alison came by the second post. A very sweet note. I feel I should like to see her, but of course she can't get away. And I daren't go to Hampshire. Dear old Val, she says, we think of you all day long. Lift up your beautiful head. Don't say there's nothing to lift it up for. Lift it up and wait. I must try. After luncheon I put on a coat and skirt and drove to Richmond Park. I tramped all over it for hours. I should like to be able to say it did me good. It didn't. Coming home, I saw a dog run over— rather like Patch. The owner— a little girl— was like a mad thing. I took her home in the car with the dead dog clasped in her arms.... It is obvious that I am to be spared nothing. Soon I shall be afraid to go out. I spent a bad evening and was thankful to go to bed.
August 9th.— I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields. Forsyth was very kind— not at all what I had expected. If he moved any screens about, I didn't see it going on. He said I must try to regard him as an old family butler— four-fifths servant and one-fifth friend. He showed me the Will— a very short document. Another longer one had been prepared, to be signed after our marriage. I saw this, too. There was really no difference, except that there was a memorandum attached to this, suggesting that, if I liked, I should give George and Betty and Anne ten thousand apiece and Slumper two hundred a year until his death. Of course I shall do this delightedly, as soon as ever I can. I came home to luncheon, not so much comforted as relieved. I am very fortunate in Forsyth. What a misleading thing anticipation is! The wind you dread turns out a zephyr. The wind you hail cuts like a knife. After luncheon I wrote to Aunt Harriet and said I was coming back— probably to-morrow. I cannot stand it here. All the same, I dread Dinard. Perhaps, because I dread it, it won't be so bad. If only she wasn't so comfortable there, I would suggest Paris. For some inexplicable reason I don't want to go far afield. Then I went to the Wallace Collection— rather desperately. I felt that awful depression coming on. I stayed there till I was turned out. Fragonard's Villa d'Este and Rembrandt's Landscape did me a lot of good. I kept going back to them. I came in to find a letter from Uncle John— very short, very wise, very honest. My dear, I am not going to risk my position, as your adviser, by giving you valueless advice. For one thing, you are no fool, and, for another, I love you too well. I can only say this. Do not lose heart. Refuse to let yourself go. There is, I know, a breaking-point. Nine girls out of ten would have been broken by now. But you, if you please, need not be broken at all. I tell you, I cannot think of any calamity which could subdue your high spirit, if only you opposed its assault. There lies the danger— that you will let yourself go. You are tired of holding on. Of course. Remember, there is always one more ounce of resistance left in us than we believe. It seems a pity not to use it. Why? Because, if you use it, you will come through ... and out ... into the light. 'Into the light.' Then there is light ahead. I'm thankful I didn't ask him, because I should have suspected his reply. But he would never volunteer a lie. I am going to bed more hopefully than I have for weeks and weeks. 'Into the light.'
August 10th.— This morning arrived a letter from André Strongi'th'arm. The moment I saw the writing I knew it was hers. And I felt cold. Ashamed of my barbarous behaviour ... cannot rest till I have seen you.... I am very much changed ... my eyes have been opened.... I know I'm asking a lot, but will you see me? If you are in London, I'm coming up on Thursday for two or three days. Will you send me a line to the Berkeley? I'm glad in a way she wrote, but I don't want to see her at all. Why can't she leave it at that? It isn't as if we were friends. There's nothing to be made up. Now that she's written, the incident ought to be closed. Yet she's keeping it open— setting her foot in the door. Why? I suppose she wants to show me she can behave. As if I cared. The obvious thing to do is to leave for France. I had meant to to-day. But I don't want to go, and, after Uncle John's letter I felt I could stay....
I went to the Wallace Collection again this morning. I might as well have stayed in the flat. That wretched letter kept cropping up all the time. I don't want to see her, and yet I suppose I must. After luncheon I took the two-seater and drove, down the Portsmouth Road. I shan't do it again. I found the traffic a strain, and London's too big. By the time you're out of it you're tired. At least, I am. This is the first sign of age I've seen in myself. I welcome it. Dinner— a ghastly meal, because I knew after dinner I must decide. I've tried to argue it out— for and against. I couldn't get far. The only thing against seeing her is that I don't want to. On the other side, I don't want to seem to be keeping it up. (Keeping what up? I can't recognize any hostility. I've never drawn my sword.) Besides, if I see her, I can snuff the whole thing out. After a lot of hesitation, I wrote and asked her to come on Friday at twelve. After all, when the morning comes, I can send her a wire. But I shan't. I know I shall see her. What does it matter? I think everybody would say that in this I was at perfect liberty to please myself. Even Uncle John. Yet I'm not going to, and I am right. I feel instinctively that I am right. I suppose it's another phase— a draught's only got to be nasty to be worth drinking. Late as it was, I took the letter to the post— to make certain. I suppose I am right.
August 11th.— I have had a bad day. Anthony is dead. Years— centuries ago I made a terrible mistake. I paid most heavily. Then I paid again— most heavily. Each time I thought the debt was settled. Each time I was wrong. I was paying the pence ... the shillings. The pounds were to come. And now I have paid the pounds. I hold the receipt. It came before breakfast this morning. The Executors of the late Major Lyveden, Bell Hammer. Dr. to Benjamin Punch, Saddler, 7 Castle Street, Brooch. June 9th. To Dog's Collar, 4s. 8d. Anthony is dead. Yet everything is just the same. Boys have been whistling in the street, cars have swept on their way, and once a band passed. I know. I have not been out. Of course I do not expect the world to stand still, but there is no difference. This frightful tragedy does not count. Is it nothing to them? Nothing. They don't know. If they knew, they wouldn't care. Betty says, 'We think of you all day long.' Yes, but they eat just as well. They're just as put out, if they run out of jam. No jam— and Anthony is dead. Can such a hideous catastrophe be so confined? Is it possible? Yes. Outside the room I sit in, it doesn't count. I think I must have some straw put down outside in the street. Then when people go by they'll toss a thought to the dying person inside. There will be no dying person. That doesn't matter. The straw will make them think. I must make people realize that there's something wrong. This present frightful indifference is unendurable.
I had breakfast. I had luncheon. I had dinner. The thought of that interview to-morrow has driven me nearly mad. Yet I must go through with it. 'Lift up your head.' 'Refuse to let yourself go.' 'One more ounce.' I suppose to-morrow will bring the breaking-point. But I shan't break. Why? Because I can't break. I'm not naturally made. There's some terrible stuff in my composition which can stand any strain. The hell I go through doesn't matter. My mind may be twisted and wrenched, but it will not give way. It's like those rag-books— untearable.
A letter from Aunt Harriet arrived this evening— a kind, rational letter, full of good things. But they are wasted on me. I am too wretched. It shows that my absence has done her a lot of good. Which is hardly surprising
. I'm glad I didn't go back. Poor woman, by now she has my letter, saying I'm coming. I must send her a wire to-morrow, that she may breathe again. I must be terrible company. I have read the letter again. I can see that its wit is brilliant, but I cannot smile. The salt has lost its savour. Anthony is dead.
Ten o'clock is striking. Only another hour, and, with any luck, I shall be asleep— until to-morrow. That's the awful part— 'until to-morrow.' I'm never out of it. My bed has been brought into the torture-chamber. I have slept there for weeks. And I shall. I do not see that I shall ever come out any more. How can I? Anthony is dead.
AS ANDRÉ TURNED into Hill Street, a neighbouring clock began to announce midday. Three minutes later she was seated in a cool morning-room, looking composedly about her.
She had come, as we know, to regain Valerie's respect. This was not her hope, but her intention. It had never occurred to her that she might fail of her quest. Delicate mission as this was, she had thought out nothing to say. The time would provide the sentences....
Sitting on the arm of a chair, she surveyed the tip of a little patent-leather shoe with infinite satisfaction.
There was no doubt about it, —— made the best shoes in London....
Then the door was opened, and Valerie came in.
I think it was the quiet, grave smile which hung in those tired blue eyes that knocked Miss Strongi'th'arm out.
Be that as it may, it is quite certain that she was greeted, shaken hands with, and quietly thanked for her letter, before she could try to speak, and it is equally indisputable that, when her hostess had finished and was standing silent, André stood in front of her, nervously wringing her gloves and trying without success to use her tongue.
"Let's sit down," said Valerie. André did as she was bid. "And now please tell me your news. I'm sure from your letter it's good, and I’d like to hear it."
"You— you've made it seem very small," said André, slowly. "It seemed important when I wrote, but now I'm ashamed to tell it." She hesitated. "After all, what am I to you? What if I did care about your— the man who was engaged to you?"
"Did care?"
"Did. I see my mistake. I shall always remember him with a grateful heart— as your affianced husband. I'm very lucky. Richard loves me, you know, and I'm going to marry him. He's quite himself again— speaks of Gramarye as 'that place.' He hasn't mentioned ... Major Lyveden. I don't think he remembers him."
"Please call him 'Anthony,'" said Valerie. "And why should you think that the fact that you cared about him would mean nothing to me?"
"Oh, I don't know," said André, looking away. "I expect a good many girls cared about him, if the truth were known. But that's then: pigeon," she added, with a half-hearted laugh. "The general doesn't know every soldier."
"You’d like me to like Richard."
"I wouldn't like it if you rammed the fact down my throat and, when he was dead, came and heckled me at the graveside."
There was a moment's silence.
Then—
"That's very handsome of you," said Valerie, quietly. "And I'm awfully glad you're going to marry Colonel Winchester. I didn't know he was well."
"You know that Gramarye's burned?"
"I heard so at Girdle."
"The day it was burned out, his mind came back."
Valerie stiffened suddenly and went dead white.
After a long minute, she drew in her breath sharply and bowed her head....
A thoroughly frightened André fell on her knees.
"What have I said?" she cried. "What have I said?"
For a moment Valerie made no answer at all.
Then—
"Oh, nothing," she said quietly. "Only ... only it seems a pity that it wasn't burned a little earlier ... before— Anthony— died."
"My God!" said André. And then again, "My God!" She buried her face in her hands. "I never meant it," she breathed. "I swear I didn't. It never occurred to me. Oh, what a fool I am! What a poisonous, blundering fool! I came to try and repair what I did last week. I've made it a million times worse. I've..."
Her voice broke and she began to weep passionately.
'One more ounce ... one more ounce....'
The words danced before her, searing Valerie's brain. It occurred to her that they were a satire upon her misery— a sham, a cheat, a trick of the torture-chamber. They were the carrot hung in front of the donkey's nose— the grapes of Tantalus— the national anthem of the damned. 'One more ounce.' Then the words stopped dancing and fell into step with the tick of the Vulliamy clock beside the fireplace. 'One more— one more— always— one more...' André's sobs got in the way of the rhythm, and Valerie wished she would stop. She began to beat time with her foot, to try to preserve the sober, measured tread.... Suddenly the words stopped marching and came to rest. The fine, firm handwriting of Cardinal Forest appeared, with the phrase set in its context at the top of the sheet. Remember, there is always one more ounce of resistance left in us than we believe. And there, a little lower down, into the light....
With a tremendous effort, Valerie lifted up her head.
"It's not your fault," she said gently. "I was bound to know one day. Besides, it's nothing new. The whole affair is studded with the words 'If only.' Every tragedy is. That's what makes a tragedy."
Still sobbing, André shook her head.
"You’d never 've known," she wailed, "if I hadn't told you. If I hadn't come to-day, you’d 've been spared that." She dropped her hands and looked up at Valerie's face. "You do know I didn't mean it?" she added desperately.
"Of course I do," said Valerie. "I don't bear you the slightest grudge for— for anything."
"You do, you do. You must. You wouldn't be human if— "
"I don't," said Valerie. "As I live, I don't. Because there's a curse on me, that isn't your fault." She laughed bitterly. "Tell me of Colonel Winchester. I know a little about him, but not very much."
André started and glanced at the watch on her wrist.
"I think I've lost my balance," she said, wiping her eyes. "I did a senseless thing. He had to go into the City, and I told him to call for me here at half-past twelve. I'm afraid I felt I’d like you to see him. I actually thought it might interest you."
"So it will," said Valerie.
André got upon her feet.
"How can it possibly?" she said. "You can't say anything else. I'm afraid I'm very self-centred," she added miserably, "as well as an awful fool. And now I'm going. I'm frightfully, terribly sorry for all I've done, and I'll never forgive myself for— "
Here the door was opened, and a servant came in.
"Colonel Winchester."
A man like a Viking was ushered into the room.
Confusedly, André introduced him.
Valerie and he shook hands.
"I'm afraid I'm late," he said in a steady, deep voice. "You said 'a quarter past twelve.'"
"Half past," corrected André.
"Did you? That's a relief." He turned to Valerie. "I hate being late, Miss French. But while I was driving up Fleet Street I saw a man I knew going into the Temple. By the time I was out of the cab he was out of sight, and I wasted a quarter of an hour trying to find him. I shouldn't have bothered, but I've not many friends, and he was a very good chap." He turned again to André. "I don't think you ever met him. Lyveden, his name was. He was with me at— "
The sentence stopped in its stride, and Winchester stared at his audience with a dropped jaw.
Valerie was standing, shaking, with a hand to her brow. André had shrunk against her and was clutching her arm. The eyes of both were starting out of their heads.
"B-but he's dead!" shrieked André. "He's dead! He's buried at Girdle."
"Dead?" shouted Winchester. "Nonsense! I’d know him anywhere. Besides, he had his dog with him— a Sealyham, with a big black patch on his back. And he heard me call his master, though Lyveden didn't. He turned and looked about in the moment he heard my voice."
4:
Blind Alley
A GIRL WITH auburn hair stared out of a window. It was a blazing afternoon.
Immediately below her the traffic of Piccadilly advanced in an everlasting series of short rushes, like infantry going into action. The laboured breathing of the 'buses in the intervals between their spurts at once lent colour to the illusion and made up a stertorous foundation of uproar, above which little but coughs and hoots of warning, the sudden storm of an engine or the crash of a taxi's gears managed to rise. Beyond, raked by the afternoon sun, a somewhat stale Green Park belied its name. The pitiless drought waxing, London's precious fields had come to look second-hand.
But the girl with auburn hair was spared tumult and shabbiness alike. She neither heard the one nor perceived the other. In a word, André Strongi'th'arm was preoccupied.
Hers was not the case of the widow who, after she has re-married, encounters her first husband, but it was pretty closely allied to that most awkward condition. Her plight was that of the dog— unaccountably omitted by Æsop— who, after considerable hesitation, has preferred substance to shadow, only to find that the shadow was, after all, no shadow, but stuff just as good as it looked.
Valerie French (1923) Page 7
