Valerie French (1923)

by Dornford Yates

  André entered the Berkeley and passed upstairs....

  A letter addressed by Valerie's hand lay on her table. The girl ripped it open with shaking fingers.

  I've been trying frantically to get you all the evening. Anthony's FOUND. Isn't it wonderful? And he's as right as rain, André, as right as rain. Only— he's lost his memory. He can't even remember Gramarye or anything. He didn't even know his own name. Which, of course, explains why he didn't answer the advertisements. One word, just in case I don't see you before we all meet. He has no idea, of course, that he and I were engaged. ON NO ACCOUNT TELL HIM, OR GIVE HIM THE SLIGHTEST HINT. I rely upon you. You can understand why. And dine with us to-morrow at Claridge's— you and Richard— without fail. Say eight o'clock....

  For a long time André stared at the document. Then she lifted her eyes....

  AND WHEN HE WAS PRESENTLY DISCOVERED, IN DESPERATION HE PRETENDED TO VALERIE THAT HE HAD LOST HIS MEMORY. THEN HE MET ANDRÉ STRONGI'TH'ARM....

  Now that the meaning was confirmed, what was to be done?

  If André had been at once less confident and less infatuate, she would not have gathered so naïvely the chaff into her garner and trampled the wheat of truth under her feet. Still, since she had had no say in her construction, and nobody else had had any in her development, I do not think she can be blamed for her egregious mistake. This was made in good faith. And in good faith she decided that Valerie must be told the terrible truth. She was faintly surprised that Anthony had shrunk from this duty. Then the beam in her eye again interfered with her vision, and she recalled the convenient fact that it was not yet six months since he had cast off brain-fever. Still, Valerie must be told, and he must tell her....

  She sent a wire to Lyveden that afternoon.

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

  When Winchester returned from the country at half-past five, his fiancée sent down word that she was in bed. Winchester raised his eyebrows and pulled his moustache. Then he went out and bought her the finest roses that he could procure. And presently, knowing nothing of his invitation to dinner, he dined at his club.

  LYVEDEN WAS LATE for breakfast that sunshiny morning. Had he hastened he might have been in time: but, instead, he tramped slowly, as a man who is tired.

  His brain was no longer labouring and losing its labour. That burst of frenzy was done. The storm had blown itself out. He was thinking quite quietly and rather dully. His glorious, great adventure had come to a sudden end. All at once he had rambled out of Arcadia into the common thoroughfare of Life ... real, earnest Life ... unpleasantly real, mercilessly earnest. His shepherdess, of course, was belonging to Arcadia. She could not step over the frontier into the thoroughfare of Life. It was not allowed. He had passed out of her province ... out of her care ... into that of another, who— had— no— stars— in— her— eyes. Their idyll was finished. Something else, not at all Arcadian, more like a satire, was being spouted. The pipe had been replaced by the barrel-organ. He had come down to earth.

  Anthony felt very cold suddenly. Paradise was lost.

  He began to wonder miserably what Valerie French would say. She would be sorry, of course: very sorry, because she was very kind. She would be surprised, too, because she had no knowledge of this clandestine engagement. She would be disappointed— for his sake. She would know what it meant. She— she would understand ... And then she would wave 'Good-bye' from the edge of Arcadia, and he would see her no more.

  He would see her no more.

  Anthony stopped and put a hand to his head.

  Why was he assuming that he would see her no more? What rot! They had been— great friends. Now— just because he was engaged— was he to lose her friendship? And that at the very moment when his need of it was so sore? What awful rot! And who said she couldn't leave Arcadia? Just because....

  Then the spurt of revolt died down, and Anthony found himself looking the truth in the eyes.

  He could see her no more, because he loved her.

  For an instant the heavens were opened, and he saw what might have been. Then the sovereign vision faded— faded into the picture of a handsome, careless face, with large, brown eyes and a mass of auburn hair....

  Some one laughed— horribly. And Patch ran to his master and tried, leaping frantically, to lick his face.

  I think it was largely because he had been so apprehensive that Anthony had jumped to the conclusion that the worst was at hand. He had, of course, a good deal to go on. André alone had waked his memory. Why? Because, presumably, she had meant more to him than anyone else. He had met her alone and kissed her. So much he actually remembered. She loved him. That he had seen— and confirmed. She had read in his disappearance a sign that he loved her no more. This showed plainly that he had loved her once....

  To erect a clandestine engagement upon this foundation of fact was very simple. Anyone less scrupulous would have perceived that the foundations would have supported equally well an ordinary, not very creditable, love affair. But that did not occur to Anthony. It was his memory he had lost, not his outlook.

  Had he been told there and then that he had remembered the wrong girl, he would still have been most uneasy. He was persuaded, of course, that he had given her cause....

  As he made his way home that sunshiny morning, had they but known the truth, the very stones must have pitied him. The prince had become pauper. The pauper was being shown the prince's heritage— treasures of love and laughter, broad, smiling roods of happiness, castles of delight ... gone, all gone, lost, forfeited by some madman's folly— some sudden, fleeting fancy for a Bacchante's face. The prince had sold his birthright for the brush of a girl's lips. The prince had plighted his troth. To keep it meant desolation. To break it, defilement. "What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"

  Later that morning, as Sir Andrew was leaving for the Temple, Lyveden desired his permission to keep two appointments he had made.

  "One's at twelve, and the other at half-past one. That means that I shall be out, sir, from eleven to three."

  "Do as you please," was the answer. "Do as you please. By the way, d'you think they really want me to come to this dinner to-night? Or is it some fool's idea of being polite?"

  "I'm sure they do," said Anthony gravely.

  Sir Andrew blew through his nose.

  "Once for all," he said shortly. "I'll bet they don't ask me again."

  He clapped his hat on his head and left the house.

  Anthony's first appointment was with Forsyth and Co., Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields. He kept it punctually, to learn quite a lot about himself. Amongst other things, he learned that he was extremely wealthy and possessed a mansion in Town and an estate in the West Country. But, since his fiancée had visited Forsyth at ten, he did not learn that he had been engaged to be married to Valerie French. Once he had asked for his Will: and Forsyth, with bulging eyes and the Will in a drawer, had sworn that he had not made one. The attorney writhed, but the man was resolute. He had given his word.

  Lyveden's second appointment was luncheon with Valerie French.

  As they had taken tea the day before, so they lunched— by themselves. Lady Touchstone, like Plague, was to appear at dinner.

  Valerie was, I suppose, in the fifth or sixth heaven.

  Anthony was very quiet: very tender, but awfully quiet.

  Throughout the meal they discussed his visit to Forsyth and what he had learned. Of their meeting the day before, nothing was said. It had been agreed, of course, that that day shouldn't count....

  At last coffee was served, and they were left alone.

  Instantly Anthony rose and crossed to her side.

  "Valerie, I've something to tell you. Yesterday afternoon I asked you a question— a very vital question. I asked if, when I— went down, I was unattached." He paused.

  "Yes?" whispered Valerie, dry-mouthed.

  Had Forsyth talked? Surely Forsyth hadn't sho
wn him his Will? Surely he couldn't have been so faithless. Yet...

  "And you said yes— I was free."

  Valerie nodded. She dared not trust her voice.

  "Well, I have reason to think that, when I disappeared, I— was— engaged."

  'Reason to think' ... Then it was Forsyth. Something he had said— some slip— some paper— some draft....

  Valerie began to tremble.

  "You see," he went on slowly, "I've— I've remembered something."

  Valerie's heart gave one tremendous bound.

  "Yes?" she breathed. "Yes?"

  Anthony looked at her sharply. He had expected that she would be astounded: instead, she seemed nervous, almost apprehensive ... Why on earth—

  A sudden, terrible explanation burst into his brain.

  "Valerie! Yesterday— when I asked if I was engaged— why did you tell me a lie?"

  For an instant the girl hesitated. Then she rose to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders.

  "Because," she said simply, "I wanted you to think you were free."

  Love is notoriously blind.

  Even when she saw the grief in his fine, grey eyes she mistook it for glory....

  So they stood for a moment.

  Then very gently he took her two hands from his shoulders and let them fall to her sides.

  "'We won't count to-day,'" he quoted. "Of course, I see now. D'you know, I'm not quite certain, but I think you've broken my heart."

  He turned and passed out of the room.

  Valerie stood paralysed....

  She heard him take his hat, and a moment later the door of the flat was shut.

  LADY TOUCHSTONE had a grand air. For all that, the moment she opened her mouth, you felt at ease. Not that the grandeur departed. She never stepped down. Instead, she made you step up and sit down by her side. She could have hobnobbed with a swineherd— in fact, she had. And the swineherd had enjoyed her fellowship rather more than that of any crony he had ever known. She made him laugh till he cried, but he never felt an impulse to slap her upon the back. They actually had a drink together before they parted. And ever after the incident the swineherd regarded the bank upon which he had found her with much the same veneration as is due to the Stone of Scone. Indeed, if he passed it alone, he always pulled his forelock.

  It was, indeed, the lady's remarkable personality which lifted her out of the ditch into which, this September evening, she had been bundled without any warning and with no ceremony at all.

  She had spent the day in the country and had returned rather late— at a quarter past seven, to wit, just five hours after Anthony had taken his leave. And dinner, as we know, was at eight ... at Claridge's....

  She hurried into her room and rang for her maid.

  Then a note on her table attracted her eye.

  DEAR AUNT HARRIET,

  Will you deputize for me to-night? I am not myself, and by the time you have this I shall have left for Bell Hammer. Your loving

  VALERIE.

  So much for the ditch itself. Now for the brambles within.

  The object of the dinner was to celebrate Anthony Lyveden's return to the fold. Of the four guests, one was coming because he loved Valerie, two to congratulate Valerie, and the fourth because he was a friend of Anthony Lyveden. And Valerie had left for Hampshire, and— it was twenty past seven.

  So much for the briers in the ditch. Now for the convenient culvert by which poor Lady Touchstone decided to crawl out of her plight.

  Upon resorting frantically to the telephone, with the purpose of stopping the guests, she found that that useful contrivance was out of order. And Valerie had left for Hampshire, and— it was seven twenty-five....

  It now became obvious to Lady Touchstone that, unless the situation was to become a total wreck, the sooner she made her toilet, the better for her.

  Mercifully, her maid had deft fingers....

  Half an hour later her ladyship entered a taxi, admirably clothed, and hoping very hard that she was in her right mind.

  Verily, Valerie's action was enough to unhinge anyone. Why she had seen fit to take it, Lady Touchstone did not attempt to consider. She had had enough of trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. Besides, she was desperately anxious to spare her wits. If this dinner-party was not to prove a far-reaching fiasco, she would have to rise to the occasion, as no understudy had ever risen before. Valerie was no ordinary star. Hamlet was going to be rendered without the Prince of Denmark and the play had got to be a roaring success....

  Lady Touchstone set her white teeth.

  The reflection that Richard and André were to make two of the guests comforted her. Richard Winchester was a tower of strength, and André— André, at least, was another woman. Besides, she knew them well. They would understand. She was a little afraid of meeting Anthony Lyveden. Scylla and Charybdis were hanging about that encounter. She must not forget that he had lost his memory. She must not remember that he had once lost his mind. Above all things, she must forget that he had lost his heart. Of the fourth guest, Sir Andrew Plague, K.C., she was actually frightened. Besides, he was a comparative stranger. She trusted that Anthony Lyveden would keep him in order....

  She entered Claridge's hall at two minutes to eight.

  As she was scanning the lounge, Sir Andrew rose from a chair and advanced upon her.

  Lady Touchstone offered up a short prayer.

  "Madam," said the knight shortly, "I am here under false pretences."

  "Good," said Lady Touchstone agreeably. "So'm I."

  Sir Andrew stared.

  "I have come without Major Lyveden. While I was dressing for dinner and wondering where he might be, I received a telephone message, begging me to make his excuses and say that he could not come. I need hardly say that I am extremely angry. He has forced my hand and he has made fools of us both."

  "And my niece," said Lady Touchstone, "has done precisely the same. I can only assume that the mantles of insanity with which you and I clothed each other yesterday afternoon have fallen upon their respective shoulders." She turned to look round the lounge. "There ought to be two other fools waiting to catch our eye. But they're probably on the way. Shall we sit down and exchange abuse of our betrayers until they appear? I know some splendid epithets."

  "Madam," said Plague, with a grin, "I can confirm that statement."

  Lady Touchstone laughed.

  "The finger of Fate," she observed, sinking into a chair, "is undoubtedly double-jointed. As you have justly recalled, three days ago I sat upon the opposite side of this street and called you to order." Sir Andrew choked. "Let me take this occasion," added Lady Touchstone quickly, "of apologizing for assuming a rôle to which I had no shadow of right, which I did not adorn."

  Sir Andrew threw up a deprecating hand.

  "You have chastised me with whips," he said gently, "and my chastisement was deserved. I beg that you will not now chastise me with scorpions. May I add that the object of my visit yesterday afternoon was to offer a profound apology for my misconduct? Then I had the misfortune to fall over one of your hassocks—"

  "You must admit," said Lady Touchstone, "that I behaved like a prize idiot. Go on. Without prejudice."

  Sir Andrew tried not to grin.

  "I have had," he replied, "no opportunity of observing the manners and customs of the happily exceptional class of individuals to which you refer, but, if I may say so, Lady Touchstone, my observation of your intellect suggests that you had reason for what you did. I was foolishly excited and, no doubt, spoke as a fool. If I was misunderstood, I have no just cause of complaint."

  "That's very handsome," said Lady Touchstone, "and I should like to keep it. But I must hand it back. You never spoke as a fool. Of my own idiocy I dug myself into the mire, and then picked it up and threw it at you. I think it was very nice of you not to throw it back. And, talking of fools, it looks very much as if these two we're awaiting are wiser than we. If not, then they're knaves as well. It's ten minutes pas
t eight."

  "Knaves, if you please," said the knight. "I can't call them wise if they knew they were dining with you."

  "Us," said Lady Touchstone. "I quite agree. I think we're excellent company and by no means such fools as we thought."

  Sir Andrew rose to his feet.

  "Madam," he said, "since our hostess has failed, I have the honour to ask you to be my guest."

  Lady Touchstone inclined her head.

  "I warn you," she said, "I'm very hungry."

  Then she rose and preceded Sir Andrew Plague into the restaurant....

  The late opponents made a striking pair.

  Lady Touchstone was much more than handsome, and, if her figure was not what it had been, it must be remembered that it had been the talk of London. An admirable complexion had literally saved her face, and the spirit of youth, which had always inhabited her eyes, was apparently a tenant for life. She behaved as became her years: her soft, grey hair declared that she was over the crest of life, yet all the time her most attractive countenance was delivering an astounding rebutter. As for her beautiful eyebrows, they gave demeanour and greyness the lie direct. Moreover, she knew how to dress, and used the knowledge.

  Sir Andrew Plague, in repose, distinguished any company: in eruption, he overwhelmed. The man's tremendous personality was royally and, so, suitably lodged. His height saved him from being outrageously fat. A man of six feet five who is proportionately broad can wear a big apron. Moreover, Sir Andrew Plague had no need of a bearing-rein. His head was always high and his shoulders square. Between his height and his carriage his stomach fell flat. As for his looks, the knight was much less than handsome. Shorn of its strength, his mighty face would have made the fortune of a thirteenth-century jester. But nobody ever laughed, because the strength was no beard. It was, indeed, part and parcel of the great countenance. The set of the jaw, the proud curve of the lips, the supremacy of the keen, blue eyes were all trumpeting a puissance of another age. Wherever he went, every one heard the fanfare, and such as were in his path gave him the wall. And every one who did not know who he was inquired immediately and in some excitement. What is still more to the point is that the inquiries were always respectfully couched. If Sir Andrew had gone to a ball as the Widow Twankey, I believe that the other revellers would have laughed more out of politeness than anything else. After all, Richard Crookback excited but little derision.