Valerie French (1923)

by Dornford Yates

  With his key in the lock, Anthony fingered his chin. Then he made a grimace and tiptoed into the hall.

  The drone of a voice in the library fell upon his ears. He stepped to the door.

  "And so, you see, young fellow, we've got to part. I'm a creature of habit— bad habit. Don't think I don't know that. It's not my fault. My temper's spoiled. Men are such maddening fools.... And when you're a creature of habit, your habits— good and bad— count higher than anything else. Well, you're a habit of mine— a bad one, of course. Whoever heard of a dog getting up on a bed? Bringing his fleas and dirt into your blankets? The moment you're out of the house, I'll have 'em cleaned.... The point is, I'm used to you. D'you hear? Used. And there's the rub. In a sense, you've been— my dog ... my little dog.... I know I've been rough, but I think you've understood. You've never been afraid. You've— Damn it, you ugly swine, you've seemed to like me. And I'm— I'm a man of few friends.... Habit, habit, habit— that's all it is. Why does one feel the breaking of habits so much? You and your man Wood— Lyveden, are in my pocket. I shall feel lost when you're gone. I contracted for service: he's given me infinitely more. Why? Heaven knows. But he has. Something that's not for sale. And I've got used to it, you brute, as I've got used to you.... Well, it's my own fault. The whole affair's been fantastic, and fantasy's not in my line. I knew it, of course. I'm guilty. I stole by finding. And now I've got to pay.... Come here.... D'you remember, a week ago, I threw a book at you? And it— it hurt you, and— you— cried out? .... I'm sorry for that— very. Ah, you're a forgiving swine.... But I— I'd give a hundred pounds to call that moment back ... my fellow ... my little dog...."

  Anthony stole upstairs like a thief in the night.

  By the time he had bathed and changed, his plans were made, and when Sir Andrew descended at eight o'clock, his secretary was seated at the great table, writing assiduously.

  "Hullo," said the knight, "I didn't know you were in."

  "I expect you were dressing," lied Anthony. "I hurried rather, because I'm a little behind." He picked up a sheet of paper. "There's a letter here, sir, from—"

  "I dare say there is," said Sir Andrew, crossing to a great French window and opening it wide. "Tell me your news."

  Lyveden laid down the paper and rose to his feet.

  "First and foremost," he said, "by the grace of God, I'm unattached. I've no dependents and no responsibilities. Beyond that, I don't know a great deal. I shall hear more to-morrow, and if you can spare me—"

  "Yes."

  "— for one or two hours—"

  "Your time's your own," rapped Sir Andrew over his shoulder. "You needn't bother about notice. If you want to go to-morrow, go."

  "I don't want to do that."

  "If it's any convenience to you to stay in this house until—"

  "If you will keep me," said Lyveden, "I’d like to stay on." Sir Andrew swung round. "I don't want to leave your service."

  "Don't think I can't spare you, you know."

  "I know you can," laughed Anthony. "But it seems that, when I went down, I was out of a job. I hope you're not going to sack me because I've changed my name."

  For a moment the giant stared at him. Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room...

  When, five minutes later, his secretary came to tell him that dinner had been announced, the knight was pacing the garden with Patch at his heels. And when, still later, the two men were sitting at meat, the sober candle-light revealed three short white hairs adhering to Sir Andrew's sleeve.

  Master and man observed them simultaneously.

  For a moment the giant regarded them. Then he grew slowly red.

  "Off one o' the chairs," he muttered, slapping his cuff. "The brute must be moulting." Here the butler approached, whiskey in hand. "No, you fool, no. Take it away. Bring two bottles of Clicquot. I— we want a change."

  AT HALF-PAST FIVE the next morning Sleep took his leave of Lyveden and, being gone, flatly refused to return, although importuned to do so for thirty restless minutes. I fancy the whimsical god was getting his own back. The night before he had met with a cold reception— had had, in fact, to cool his heels for a long hour while Anthony paced his chamber, thinking high thoughts. And possibly the repulse rankled. Be that as it may, at six o'clock Anthony yawned, sighed, sat up and then switched on the light.

  From the foot of his bed a bright, brown eye, set in a white ball, regarded him.

  Anthony stared back.

  "I'm sorry, old chap," he said, "but it can't be done. Dogs have the knack, I know; but we poor men haven't got Sleep on a lead." A piece of the ball detached itself and moved up and down. "The question is, my fellow, what shall we do. The tea won't be here for an hour, and I'm not even drowsy." He slid out of bed and stepped to a window. Pulling the curtains aside, he saw the dawn coming up over distant Mayfair. "I know," he said, turning to meet the eye, which was watching him fixedly. "I know." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Walks."

  As a charm pronounced, the word left 'Sesame' standing. The latter merely opened a door. The former turned a one-eyed ball into a well-bred Sealyham, panting with excitement and leaping like a young ram....

  A quarter of an hour later the two entered Kensington Gardens and raced for the Round Pond.

  It was a perfect morning. Trees, grass and earth were drenched with a heavy dew; the air, washed as a garment, smelled like fair linen; London was at her toilet and her best. Then the sun got up, to overlay the lawns with transient silver, mark out pale effigies of walks and avenues, and aid a flickering breeze to send the jolly pond into long ripples of Ægean laughter.

  Anthony and Patch found their adventure sterling— too good to curtail. Indeed, they were deep in Hyde Park, when seven o'clock was unbelievably announced. Reluctantly enough, they turned homeward and, presently skirting the Serpentine, fell in beside the Row.

  Till now the Park had been theirs, but here a sprinkling of riders was sharing the brave sunshine. Anthony watched their going with envious eyes. He must, he felt sure, have ridden a lot in the shadowy past; the saddle attracted him so strongly, and the sight of a good-looking horse so gladdened his eyes.

  There was a beauty coming— a great, rich brown, walking towards him. Look at that fine, deep chest, that small clean-cut head, those steady great eyes, those delicate ears, the elegant line of that neck, those clean big-kneed legs— above all, that free, true action.... What a horse for a man to ride! Ah, it was a girl in the saddle ... a girl with auburn— Good God, he knew her! Her name was ... was ... André.

  It was at this moment that André Strongi'th'arm saw Anthony Lyveden for the first time. She started so violently that the good-looking brown leaped almost out of his skin, and it took quite a lot of cajolery to reassure him. When she had him in hand, Lyveden stepped under the rails and took off his hat.

  "How d'you do?" he said nervously.

  André tried to reply, but she could not speak.

  The girl was rattled. The sight of Anthony Lyveden— no shade, but the man himself— had thrown her into a panic. For a moment she thought she must faint. More. André knew in a flash what this panic, this faintness meant, and the knowledge tied up her tongue and set her heart pounding against her ribs. She knew that the love she had choked was no more dead than she was.

  André began to tremble.

  "I'm— I'm afraid I've given you a shock," said Anthony, with an embarrassed smile. "You— you didn't expect to see me."

  André's lips were moving, but no words came. She continued to stare fixedly.

  Anthony laughed uneasily.

  "I might have risen from the dead," he said.

  His brain was thrashing, hammering, wrenching at a shut-fast door— the door of Memory. He had remembered— did remember the girl. The door had been opened, then.... He remembered faintly that he had met her alone— more than once. Where? When? Why? He could not remember. The door had been slammed before he could ... And she— — Good God! Why did she look so strange? W
hy didn't she speak? What was the matter? Who was she? André. Yes, but André Who? And what was she to him? What ... They had talked— intimately. Yes. That was right. Intimately.... More. Infinitely more. Looking upon those lips, he could remember the feel of them— perfectly. They were soft, warm lips ... wry soft ... very— — How did he know? How on earth did he know? If he remembered this, why couldn't he remember— — Because the door was shut. Because ... Was this Memory? Or had he dreamed some terrible— — Oh, of course, it was Memory. Undoubtedly. Well, then...

  It was, indeed. For an instant a corner of the veil had been lifted. Then the corner had slipped, and the veil had fallen ... back ... into its place. For the second time the waters of the pool of Remembrance had been considerably troubled. But this time the surface had swayed.

  The girl was speaking, haltingly.

  "You might ... In fact, we— I did think you were dead. You— you disappeared. And— and last time we met..."

  She stopped dead.

  "Yes?"— eagerly.

  Her eyes held his for an instant, striving to read his mind. Then they fell to her knees.

  "We won't talk about that," she said in a low voice,

  "But I want to," cried Anthony. "Please. You see— — "

  "What?"

  "Well, I— I don't know what you can have thought of my clearing out as I did." André started. "You must have thought it very strange."

  There was a moment's silence. Then—

  "I didn't expect anything else," faltered the girl.

  Anthony stared at her boot— a tiny, patent-leather affair, too small for the shining iron.

  "I don't know why you say that," he said slowly.

  "D'you mean to say you're glad to see me again?"

  "Of course," cried Anthony, thankful to be on apparently firmer ground. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

  "Glad?" She leaned far out of the saddle, with burning eyes. "Glad? What d'you think ... Anthony?"

  There was no mistaking her meaning. If ever love flamed in a phrase, it went flaming in that.

  "I— I don't know what to think," he stammered, flushing to the roots of his hair.

  This was the bare truth. For the matter of that, he did not know what to say, either. He had seen the blow coming: then he had lost sight of it: and now it had fallen, and he had been knocked out. All the time his brain was pounding upon that cursed door— clapping its eye to the keyhole— trying to picture the ghost which lay behind. And this was pure folly, of course. The only thing to do was to study the facts he had and learn of them, to endeavour to piece together this terribly vital document— at least, such fragments thereof as had been vouchsafed him. With a supreme effort, he managed to focus his mind. This girl— André— loved him. And he ... Reference to his fragments argued that he had given her cause.... As for his state, it seemed absurd to say that he had lost his memory. Of course she would think it a lie, and with good reason. If he had lost his memory, how did he remember her?

  Oh, why had he come out this sunshiny morning? Why.... No. That was a rotten thought. His way was clear, if steep....

  He lifted his head.

  "I haven't been myself for a long time," he said slowly. "But now, when I looked up and saw you coming..." He stopped and passed a hand across his forehead. "Tell me what you've been doing," he added desperately.

  André raised her eyes and stared down the shadowy Row.

  "Oh, floating round," she said carelessly. "Riding ... thinking ... trying— trying to forget."

  "You sound as if you'd been unhappy," said Anthony. André shrugged her shoulders. The man braced himself. "Was that because of me?"

  The girl stiffened.

  "What right have you to ask?"

  "I think, perhaps," he said slowly, "I had a right once. If I remember..." He broke off helplessly. "Won't you help me?" he said. "It's very difficult."

  "It was because of you."

  There was a long silence. The murder was out.

  At length—

  "I'm very sorry," said Anthony. "I think, perhaps, when I tell you everything, you'll understand. I will— very soon. Not now. It's hard to explain. Don't think too hardly of me," he added piteously.

  André stifled a cry.

  "Don't, Anthony, don't. How can you talk like that?" She set her hand on his shoulder. "You've said you're glad to see me. What more do I need? I thought you must never want to see me again. I thought it was finished ... dead. It nearly broke my heart, but I made sure you didn't— care."

  Anthony caught his breath. Blow after blow now. What did it matter? Besides ... It wasn't his fault, of course, but— he owed her something. She'd suffered a lot, plainly. She'd said as much. And— it— was— all— through— him.

  "Poor lady," he said gently. "You won't be unhappy any more?"

  The touch on his shoulder became a grip, tense and quivering.

  Lips parted, eyes blazing, her beautiful, careless face aglow with ecstasy, for a moment André let the world slip....

  Then the hand slid away, and she took a deep breath.

  "Where are you now?" she said suddenly.

  He told her and she turned her horse round.

  "I'll ride back with you," she said. "No." She checked the great brown. "We'll go our ways. To-morrow we'll ride together. You shall ride Joshua." She patted the brown's shoulder. "And now— good-bye."

  She pulled off a glove and stretched out a little, white hand.

  Anthony took it in his.

  After a moment's hesitation he put it to his lips.

  6: Poor Players

  IT IRKS ME, sirs, that I cannot go two ways at once. But then no man can do that— not even the puppeteer. I have my cap of darkness: my boots are many-leagued: at a nod from me, the sun will stand still in his heaven. I should, I suppose, be satisfied. Yet am I not content, because I have sent one puppet East and another West, and I would follow them both.... Since I cannot do that, I must choose. And I choose the lady. And when I have done with her, by your leave, we will have Time back and follow her startled squire about his business.

  André rode down the Row as a girl in a trance.

  What did it mean? She had always been apprehensive about her next meeting with Lyveden. The last had been so painful that the next must of necessity be most embarrassing. When a girl has told a man that she loves him and the man has thereupon promptly shown her the door, and when, because he will not kiss her, she has taken the law into her own small hands and kissed him wildly upon the mouth, it is hardly to be expected that their next encounter will be convivial. It is still less probable that the man will have executed a complete volte face and, apparently regretting his rejection of her advances, will instantly reopen the matter, apologize for his behaviour and, figuratively speaking, take the girl's two arms and put them about his neck. Yet that is precisely what had happened. And Valerie French, to whom he had been engaged, who was simply living to see her lover again, was never referred to.... 'When I tell you everything, you'll understand ... It's hard to explain.' What did it mean? What did it all mean? André realized suddenly that she was afraid. The meaning was plain— written in shining letters upon the wall. And she was afraid to read it. It was too— too big....

  Slowly she raised her eyes.

  WHEN ANTHONY LYVEDEN WAS SICK, IT WAS VALERIE FRENCH WHO WON HIM BACK TO HEALTH. OUT OF GRATITUDE HE ASKED HER TO MARRY HIM. ALL THE TIME HE LOVED ANDRÉ STRONGI'TH'ARM. AT LENGTH HE COULD BEAR HIS POSITION NO LONGER, AND SO HE JUST DISAPPEARED.

  The thing was plain. There was no other explanation. It was unfortunate— very, but it had happened before.... 'The marriage which had been arranged, will not take place.'

  Arrived at Hyde Park Corner, André dismounted and gave her horse to a groom. Then she crossed Piccadilly and entered the Green Park.

  Ordinarily she drove: but to-day she wanted to think. She must not be rushed. Her hotel stood in the danger zone: there she could be visited, addressed.... And she was not ready: she must have time.
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  She made her way eastward slowly, biting her lips.

  Was ever a girl so placed?

  She was engaged and pledged up to the hilt, and now Anthony had come and turned engagements and pledges into a bundle of vanities.

  Her engagement to Winchester was nothing. As she had given, so she could take away. She was sorry— for Richard's sake. It would shake him up badly. Still, he would understand. It was a nasty business— rather like shooting a horse. But it was just as easy. What was presenting a truly formidable front was her allegiance to Valerie French.

  So far as Valerie was concerned, everything seemed to have combined to make her triumph more ghastly than any defeat. If only Valerie had been less mad about Anthony Lyveden— if only she and Valerie had not become such friends— if only their friendship had not been founded upon their love for the same man— above all, if only she had not at first disputed Valerie's right, and then renounced her claim in Valerie's favour.... The omission of any one of those protases would have made all the difference. As it was, Valerie stood in her path, radiant and unsuspecting, and she was going deliberately to ride the girl down. And it was not her fault. Fate had her bridle-rein.... Fate.... And when the murder was over, Fate was going to libel her— publish an infamous slander of what she had done ... and she would have no redress. She was going to be called treacherous ... shameless ... accursed... Fate was going to indicate excitedly a hundred other paths she might have chosen, show that she had gone out of her way to ride down Valerie, raise his false eyes to heaven and lament her sin.

  Was there ever such a coil— such a monstrous, tragical coil?

  André thrust it aside and gave herself up to a contemplation of her amazing fortune. Anthony loved her ... Anthony ... all the time— and she had not known it. He had fought not to, and he had been borne down. Once he had turned her away: now he had come, stepping out of the sweet of the morning, straight to her side ... himself ... Anthony ... What if she had to pay for such a prize? What if she was to be slandered— vilified? God in heaven, it was worth while! It was worth anything. The price was not even high. No price could be. Such profit was above price ... She remembered the evening when she had seen him first— how they had passed together up Gallowstree Hill, and he had talked of his work, and she had challenged his zeal.... Then she had gone to his cottage— because she loved him, and he, because he loved her, had sent her away....