"You know," said Lady Touchstone, when she was comfortably installed, "I'm really almost relieved not to be sitting next to Anthony Lyveden. Don't think I don't like him, because I do. I'm positively silly about him, and always was. But his present defect bewilders me. I know exactly how I'm going to feel when we come face to face. I've had the sensation before— two or three times. Have you ever been suddenly presented with the wrong end of an ear-trumpet?"
"Not," said Sir Andrew, "that I can remember. Charity is indiscriminate, I know, but not so indiscriminate as all that."
Lady Touchstone laughed delightedly.
"I see," she said, "that you respect the dictum of Solon. Yet he was on the Bench."
Sir Andrew heaved with merriment.
"I have," he said, "a fellow-feeling. If you remember, he was once thought to be mad."
Lady Touchstone choked. At length—
"As I was saying," she continued, "I shall feel at a loss— tongue-tied. I shall flounder. I shall fall back upon that vulgar tramp of a topic— that well-worn copper which is in every dummy's purse— the weather."
"No, you won't," said Sir Andrew. "He'll see to that. His charm of manner is quite remarkable. The servants, who ought to hate him because of his office, worship the ground he treads. Of course, I know what you mean. He's your familiar friend, and the foundation of that familiarity has been cut away. He was your gossip, and reminiscence is the breath by which gossips live. How did your niece get on?"
"She's said very little," said Lady Touchstone, guardedly. "But she seemed very happy about him. He was the dearest fellow, and I gather he's exactly the same."
Sir Andrew frowned.
"Sentimentality," he said shortly, "is certainly among his failings."
"I should," said Lady Touchstone hurriedly, "have said 'lovable.'"
"Madam," said Sir Andrew severely, "I cannot appreciate that adjective. Only the other night Major Lyveden confessed to a dread that he might be a husband. And when, while admitting the horror of such a contingency, I remarked that what had been suffered in the past could probably be endured again, he replied that what was concerning him was that he would not love the woman." Lady Touchstone became extremely interested. "I reproved him, of course," continued Sir Andrew Plague, "but, you will agree that it is distressing to find such a fly in such ointment. Otherwise, his outlook upon life is sane and discerning. And, if he is somewhat stubborn, his charm of manner does much to redeem that fault."
"You say," said Lady Touchstone, "that he was dreading the idea that he might be a married man?"
"Naturally. The first thing he told me last night was that he was unattached. It was plainly a great relief."
Lady Touchstone sipped her champagne. Then—
"Have you the slightest idea," she inquired, "why he has failed to-night? I know he gave you no reason, but do you suspect any cause? Did he let fall any hint?"
Sir Andrew reflected.
At length—
"I have no idea," he said. "But I can tell you this. Last night he was in the very best of spirits. This morning he was late for breakfast— he had been abroad, I believe— and he seemed unusually quiet. He desired my permission to keep two appointments he had made. I gave it, of course. But his subdued manner was noticeable."
"One of those appointments," said Lady Touchstone, "was with my niece. If he is not here to-night, because he is depressed, it looks as if she may be suffering from the same malady."
"Which he communicated to her?"
"Exactly. You say he went out before breakfast?"
"So I believe. But what—"
"Cherchez la femme," flashed Lady Touchstone. Sir Andrew started. "I'm sure of it. While he was out, he met some one."
"But what has this," said Sir Andrew, "to do with your niece? Assume that he met some woman. I think it highly improbable, but let that pass. Assume that the encounter depressed him. Why should this depression affect your niece?"
Lady Touchstone looked her host full in the face.
"I am about," she said, "to commit a breach of trust. I have sworn to Valerie not to disclose a certain fact, and I am going to break my word. I am going to make a confidential communication. I believe that it will go no further."
Sir Andrew smiled.
"Secrets," he said, "never do. Their next step is always the last."
"Don't wither me," said his guest. "That would be inhospitable."
Sir Andrew inclined his head.
"Where forty winters," he said, "have so signally failed, I cannot hope to succeed."
"Fifty-three," said Lady Touchstone, blushing. "You know that as well as I do."
The knight lifted his glass.
"I never flatter," he said. "It is a contemptible practice. You and I, madam, were born in the same year. I have often counted it an ill-starred period: henceforth I shall remember it as a year of grace."
Lady Touchstone drank with a bewitching smile.
Then—
"I demand," she said, "to be shown the woman whom you have paid two compliments in the same minute. We are getting on well, aren't we?" she added naïvely. "At this rate, by the end of the evening we shall have changed hats."
Sir Andrew began to shake with laughter.
"Is that your secret?" he gurgled. "I can hardly believe that your niece was so optimistic."
"As a matter of fact," said my lady, "it's the champagne. I don't often revel, and I've never attained that dizzy height of communion which is too exuberant for words and can only be expressed by the exchange of headgear. But the idea has always appealed to me. No, the secret is this. When your secretary disappeared, he was about to be married."
"He was engaged?"
Lady Touchstone nodded.
"And deeply attached— to my niece."
"No!"
"Yes, indeed. And she, most properly, won't hear of him being told."
"Why not?" cried the K.C. "The contract stands. And, as a man of honour, Lyveden has only to learn his liability— — "
"Which," said Lady Touchstone, "is precisely why Valerie won't have him told. If he was told, he’d want to carry out his contract. And she would never know whether he was following his heart's desire or keeping his honour bright."
"Does she want to marry him?"
"Only if he wants to marry her."
"He wanted to once," said Plague.
"Very much."
"Then it may be fairly presumed—"
"If you were in her position," said Lady Touchstone, "you’d want to know. You wouldn't want to take any chances, however slight."
"Madam," said Plague deliberately, "you are talking nonsense. Marriage is notoriously the most reckless gamble in life. You stake your birthright, and once in a million throws you get your money back. What does it matter what subordinate chances you take? A gambler stakes a fortune, and backs himself to win for half-a-crown."
His guest put a hand to her head.
"I'm not going to argue," she said, "because, if I do, I shall lose. I can see that. There must be some obvious flaw in your contention, and I shall probably perceive it just as I'm going to get into bed. Valerie's perfectly right, and so am I. Remember, I'm greatly handicapped by your inability to appreciate a common enough emotion, and I consider that I have shown the greatest restraint by not referring to it before. However, we've wandered terribly. The point is that, whereas last night their relations were happy, this afternoon my niece and Anthony Lyveden are no longer at one. If they were, they’d be here. More. If only one was unhappy, the other would have turned up. Therefore they are both in distress. Cherchez la femme."
"Is that a command?" said the knight. "Or only a quotation?"
"I should like it to be a command."
Sir Andrew fingered his chin. "There were," he said tentatively, "two other guests..."
My lady, who was about to drink, hesitated and then set down her glass.
"There were," she said.
"Why have they failed?"
&
nbsp; For a moment Lady Touchstone sat motionless, staring at the keen, blue eyes three feet away. Then she smiled very sweetly.
"You're very obedient," she said, "and very, very clever."
Sir Andrew frowned.
"I have yet to learn," he said, "that the man who slew Ahab was accounted a marksman."
WHEN, an hour and a half later, Sir Andrew Plague re-entered his hall to see a telegram lying upon the table, he took and opened the envelope as of right.
Joshua will be by the Albert Memorial to-morrow at seven o'clock.
Sir Andrew stared at the writing.
Joshua? Who the devil was—
Then he saw that the communication had not been addressed to him. Also, because he was no fool and had come fresh from the council, he perceived that the flimsy sheet which he held in his hand was the ace of trumps itself.
It was characteristic of the man that he did not hesitate.
He put the ace of trumps into his pocket, entered the library, and rang the bell.
When a servant appeared—
"Is Major Lyveden abed?"
"No, sir. He's not come in."
"When he comes in, say nothing about that telegram."
"Very good, sir."
"And, however contrary his orders, call him at eight o'clock."
"Very good, sir."
"Call me at six."
"Very good, sir."
Sir Andrew's intuition was sound.
Before the knight was in bed, his secretary returned, footsore and dejectedly inquisitive. Happily, the servant he summoned knew how to obey....
"No message at all?"
"No, sir."
"Ah! Well, call me at half-past six, please."
"Very good, sir."
"And be sure you wake me. I'm tired."
"Er— yes, sir."
"Good night."
The servant retired, and Lyveden sank into a chair and stared before him.
"Feet of clay," he muttered, "feet of clay. Those little, shining insteps— vile clay. And yet ... My God," he burst out suddenly, "what's the good of pretending? I’d rather kiss those insteps than André's mouth. Clay or platinum— what does it matter? They're hers ... her feet ... her little, precious feet...." He looked upon his terrier and laughed. "And that's the naked truth, my fellow. Anybody want to buy a soul?"
Patch, who hoped he was being asked whether he was hungry, sat up and begged.
THERE, the long day is over, and all but one of my puppets are gone to their rest. The strutting André, the fretting Lyveden, conspirators Plague and Touchstone, honest, unwitting Winchester— all are up on their shelf until to-morrow. For the last of all, sirs, we will not wait, because she will lie awake the whole night long, hearing the owls cry and the merciless stable clock telling the sluggard hours. She might be dead— this puppet with the thick dark hair— so very still she lies, so cold are those glorious temples, that delicate throat, those beautiful, slender arms. But for her eyes, she might be some fairy queen, sleeping in dull, cold marble to mark her majesty's tomb ... but for her dark-blue eyes. These are restless. Their field is limited, because she lies so still, and so is their vision, because the night is dark, but so much as they can compass they know by heart— the dim silhouette of the table against the black of the wall, the faint, familiar outline of the great pier-glass, the panelled foot of the bed and, beyond, the square, black mouth of the open window, breathing the cool night air and, now and again, a sigh of the wandering wind. See, she is moving at last. She is sitting up, while her thick dark hair falls like a cloak about her breast and shoulders. She is drawing up her knees, setting her chin upon them, clasping her hands about her insteps. She can peer into the park now, and very soon her eyes will pick up the line of the woods against the sky. Yet, but for those restless eyes, she is still the fairy queen and still sculpture. And, as I have said, we will not wait for this puppet, that neither struts nor frets nor sleeps, because the stable clock is merciless and the hours sluggard.
7: The Sieve Of Vanity
Sir Andrew Plague approached the Albert Memorial with the sober steps of one who has no objective, but is merely taking the air. This, by the way, was worth breathing, for it was fresh from Night's cellar and had not lain long enough in Day's parlour to lose its cool bouquet. Sir Andrew marked this and snuffed luxuriously.
He might have been deep in meditation. As a matter of fact, he was looking for a gentleman of Jewish extraction, who, he had reason to think, would, upon being accosted, prove suspicious and obstructive.
Joshua will be by the Albert Memorial to-morrow at seven o'clock.
Sir Andrew lifted his head and looked about him.
The shrine, however, seemed to be alone in its glory.
The knight perambulated it, frowning.
Its precincts were deserted. More. Except for a distant horseman and two park-keepers, there was no human being in sight.
Sir Andrew glanced at his watch and began to pace up and down....
As he turned for the second time, a clock struck seven.
A moment later, the horseman, who was now abreast of the Memorial, stopped, dismounted and began to make much of his horse. Then he ran his eye over his charge, flicked a speck of dust from the great quarters and looked about him.
Sir Andrew blew through his nose. He was not in the mood for company, least of all for that of a groom, who was doing the same as himself. He was there to watch, not to be watched. Damn it, how the fellow was staring! Why couldn't he mind his own business? Why didn't his master come and send him packing? Why—
Here the servant approached and touched his hat.
"Major Lyveden, sir?" he ventured.
"That's right," said Sir Andrew faintly, trying to recognize his own voice.
Without a word, the groom turned Joshua round. Then he stepped to the saddle, whipped his head under a flap and proceeded to tighten the girths. This seemed to annoy Joshua, for the moment he felt the pressure he laid back his delicate ears, raised an itching hind-leg with a meaning which was not to be mistaken, and, flinging round his head, snapped viciously in the direction of his aggressor. Beyond, however, conjuring the horse to 'get up,' the servant ignored his vexation and, after a glance at Sir Andrew, lengthened the stirrup-leathers to their full extent.
The knight, who had not ridden for thirty years, watched the preparations as a man in a trance.
He was to ride this— this brute. Almost immediately. He was to put his foot into that stirrup and haul himself up into— into hell. It was ordained— necessary. He had put his hand to the plough. He had to be brought to the woman— la femme of the proverb. And this brute would bring him. There was no other way. No other way? Goats and monkeys! Had one to hark back to the Iliad to do a neighbour a service? He wasn't a bushranger— a highwayman. This was the twentieth century— not Jack and the Beanstalk or any other damned pantomime. A-a-ah, the vicious swine! The—
Here the groom looked over the withers and touched his hat.
With a shock, Sir Andrew realized that his hour was come.
For one frantic instant he considered whether he could with decency lead Joshua to meet his mistress. Then that fantastic hope was still-born, and with a frightful grunt the giant heaved himself into the saddle....
As he gathered the reins—
"Miss André'll be i' the Row, sir. Comin' this way."
Sir Andrew swallowed.
"Right," he said thickly. Then: "Make the brute walk."
Obediently, the groom took the bridle and started Joshua off....
As horse and rider passed down the broad road, he watched their going gloomily, fingering his chin. Presently he sighed profoundly.
"An' a major, too," he muttered. "Must 'ave bin i' the Camuel Detachmen'."
Now, Joshua was a very sound judge— not of men, as a whole, but of such as got upon his back. Sir Andrew's seat and hands told him that the knight was no horseman. His instinct told him, first, that the latter was not in the least afrai
d, and, secondly, that he was a man who meant to have his own way.
Accordingly, Joshua respected him, hoped very much that he would be content to be a 'passenger,' and decided that, if his directions were given with a heavy hand, they must be accepted in good part.
He walked along slowly, as one who has a charge to fulfil.
As for Sir Andrew, he was concerned entirely for his dignity and his convenience. For the desperate venture upon which he had set out to be successful, he would need every grain of wit and every ounce of assurance at his disposal. And here, right at the commencement of his enterprise, he had been placed at an appalling disadvantage. He not only felt a fool; he was leaning upon the shoulder of Discomfiture itself. The brute between his knees had only to toss its head to distract his attention: while, if it elected to shy...
He rode out of Kensington Gardens, cursing bitterly, to cross a taxi's bows with the air of an Earl Marshal....
As he passed down the Row, the feeling of liability began to wear off. The brute he was riding seemed to be able to behave ... seemed...
Valerie French (1923) Page 14
