Very gently, by way of proving his ox, the lawyer drew the reins towards his chin.
Instantly Joshua eased his pace to a standstill.
Sir Andrew was greatly relieved.
When, however, upon his lowering and, presently, shaking the reins, the big brown stood like a rock, the knight became less easy.
"Go on!" he cried, clacking vigorously with his tongue. "Go on, you swine! I don't want to stand here all day."
Utterly failing to appreciate that he was being addressed, Joshua looked cheerfully about him and, perceiving no horse within sight, whinnied to proclaim his isolation.
The sympathy which Sir Andrew had always felt for Balaam ripened into an entente cordiale.
"Shut up, you fool!" he roared. "And go on, can't you?" He shook the reins frantically. "Proceed. WALK, you blithering ass!"
That Joshua immediately advanced was due partly to the fact that Sir Andrew's delivery was that of the parade-ground, but mainly to the fortunate circumstance that the brown had once put in a month of squadron drill.
The two made their way eastward agreeably enough....
When André Strongi'th'arm perceived them, she at first imagined that she had made a mistake. And when, upon a closer inspection, she observed that the approaching centaur was indeed composed largely of her best hunter, she could hardly believe her eyes. As a matter of fact, it was her obvious, blank astonishment which enabled Sir Andrew to identify a girl he had never seen.
As he came up, frowning, he raised his hat.
"Miss Strongi'th'arm, I think." An almost imperceptible nod confirmed his statement. "Major Lyveden was prevented from coming, and I am here in his stead."
André favoured Sir Andrew with a suspicious stare.
Her sword was out.
"Who are you?" she said shortly.
So far as she was concerned, she could not have said a worse thing. The abrupt demand, the haughtiness of her tone, were like a stoup of wine to her opponent. Sir Andrew forgot himself and Joshua. The peppery knight became the King's Counsel— patient, bland, merciless.
Slowly he drew his rapier.
"My name is Andrew Plague."
"Why isn't Major Lyveden here?"
"Because he's in bed," said Sir Andrew.
"Is he ill?"
"Not yet."
A dangerous light slid into the big brown eyes. Then, because she was André, their owner rushed in.
"What do you mean— 'not yet'?"
"This. Since he met you yesterday, Major Lyveden has been a desperate man— dull, spiritless, shunning the fellowship of friends."
"What friends?"
"His friends," said Sir Andrew, "of whom I have the honour to be one."
André laughed.
"You're very lucky," she said, "to know two such charming people."
Up went the heavy eyebrows.
"Two?"
"Major Lyveden and Valerie French."
"I have never set eyes upon the lady."
André shot the speaker a long and searching look. Sir Andrew blinked back lazily.
"Then why are you here?" she said coldly.
"Because," was the deliberate reply, "a man who has lost his memory is not fair game."
André gasped. Then she went very white.
"D'you mind getting off that horse?" she said. "It— it happens to belong to me."
"I will dismount," said Sir Andrew coolly, "at the close of this interview. I may add that upon this interview your relations with Major Lyveden entirely depend. I have put no pressure upon him, and, if you will deal with me frankly, I shall put none. Otherwise, he will leave the country to-morrow— for the good of his health."
The threat went home. Sir Andrew saw it go....
For a moment the girl hesitated. Then she lifted her head and stared at the gay, blue sky. After all, she could afford to laugh.
"In your opinion," she said, "Major Lyveden must be protected?"
"Should occasion arise. A man who has lost his memory—"
"— can be told anything? I see. I suppose, if you'd lost your memory and somebody told you you owed them five thousand pounds, you'd hand it over?"
"I should not," said Sir Andrew quietly. "Neither, I think, would you. But Lyveden would."
André frowned. Then—
"Perhaps you're right," she said gaily. "He's got a very sweet nature. I suppose," she added, flicking her boot with her whip, "the object of this interview is to get from me a confession of the lies I told him yesterday morning?"
The K.C. studied his finger-nails.
"I've told you," he said, "the position. If you want to see him again, you must first of all satisfy me that that's to his advantage."
"D'you know," said André silkily, "that I've a very good mind to whip you across the face?"
"Isn't that Colonel Winchester's job?"
"As a matter of fact," said André, "it's Anthony Lyveden's."
"I don't think he'll do it," said Plague, grimly. "But let that pass. Why isn't it Colonel Winchester's?"
"Because he is not concerned."
The master of cross-examination applied the lash.
"Have you released him?"
André winced. Then she flushed red as fire.
"If he knew of this," she flashed, "I believe he'd break your neck."
"Then," said Sir Andrew agreeably, "pray for my soul. I'm to see him at ten o'clock."
"What for?"
Sir Andrew gazed abstractedly into the middle distance. At length—
"To ask him," he said dreamily, "to ask him to tell Major Lyveden who is your fiancé."
With the knob of her switch Miss Strongi'th'arm tapped her white teeth, reflectively.
"I see," she said quietly. "Well, if he gives the wrong answer, refer him to me."
It was impossible not to admire such consummate nerve. Indeed, Sir Andrew afterwards confessed that at this juncture he was within an ace of throwing up the sponge.
Instead—
"I hope," said the K.C. gently, "I still hope that it will be unnecessary for Major Lyveden to leave England."
"So," said André, "do I. What makes you think," she added, "that I'm so bad for him?"
"I have told you."
"You've quite decided that his depression was not apprehensive?"
Sir Andrew's eyelids flickered.
"What do you mean?"
"You're sure that it was due to what happened here yesterday morning? Certain that it was not the shadow of some coming event?"
Sir Andrew wrinkled his brow.
"When I know," he said, "what happened here yesterday morning, I shall be in a position to judge."
"But you have judged."
"No. I'm here for that purpose."
"And supposing the information is denied you?"
"I shall still be in a position to judge."
"You mean...?"
"That those who decline to speak," said Sir Andrew Plague, "must take the consequences."
"What shadow of right have you to—"
"None."
"Why don't you ask Major Lyveden?"
"If you can't help me, I shall. But a man who's lost—"
"Because you know he’d tell you to go to hell."
"I don't think he would," said Plague, "before a stranger."
"What stranger?"
"Colonel Winchester. I know they were friends once, but..."
There was a pause.
His face like a mask, the knight sat motionless, staring with half-closed eyes across the park. André eyed him intently, savagely biting her lip, striving desperately to read his thoughts. She could have sworn he was bluffing. He must be. Yet ... How much did he really know? And who— who had told him? And was he honest? Or was he out, if he could, to tear her garland? If he was....
A mounted policeman passed, self-conscious and jingling, and shot the unwitting pair a curious glance. A squall of sparrows' bickering convulsed the slumber of an adjacent tree. Already from betwe
en the high walls of Knightsbridge the confluence of hubbub was beginning to swell into a steady background of uproar, against which the sudden crisp note of a trumpet stood out in bold relief.
As the call faded—
"If I told you the truth," said André, "you wouldn't believe me."
"Be sure that I shall."
"We shall see. You think Major Lyveden has lost his memory?"
"I know it."
"Yet he accosted me yesterday morning— here, in the Row ... came up and wished me well ... begged me to forgive his behaviour ... used my Christian name ... at parting kissed my hand..."
There was a long silence. At length—
"What was the behaviour," said Sir Andrew, "which he asked you to forgive?"
André hesitated. Then—
"Some people," she said, "might call it— desertion."
"No doubt," was the dry reply. "What was it?"
André's eyes narrowed till they became two gleaming slits.
"You said that you would dismount at the close of this interview. Well ... this interview is closed. You came to protect Major Lyveden. You were gallant enough to say so. If you believe what I've told you, it may occur to your intelligence that he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself."
"In fact," said Sir Andrew imperturbably, "you think that his loss of memory is assumed?"
"Naturally."
Sir Andrew rubbed his nose.
"I don't know that I blame you," he said. "Still ... Why should he make belief?"
André took a deep breath.
"I have said that this interview—"
"I know, I know. If you like, I'll beg your pardon. I believed you a knave. I'm going to save you now from being a fool."
"Will you get off that horse?"— passionately.
"No," said Sir Andrew, "I won't. Now, listen to me. Lyveden's lost his memory. You may take that from me. From what you tell me, it seems it's begun to return. He's remembered you— and your works. To-morrow— perhaps to-day— he'll remember—"
"What?" said Anthony Lyveden, quietly enough.
André jumped violently, but Plague never moved. The man was unshakable. He continued to address his opponent.
"The ring you wear," he said steadily, "upon your engagement finger."
There was an electric silence.
André began to tremble suddenly. Instantly Lyveden set a hand upon her knee. The man was out of breath and fairly streaming with sweat. He controlled his voice somehow.
"Try me," he said, smiling. "Don't be afraid of him."
Gently he took her left hand and drew off its glove....
The emerald which Winchester had set there winked in the young sunlight.
For a moment Lyveden peered at the gem. Then—
"That's right," he said quietly. "We chose it together. It had to be made smaller to fit your finger." He put her hand to his lips and let it go. Then he turned to his dumbfounded employer. "You will please," he said coldly, "apologize to this lady for a presumption which no patronage can warrant and no friendship survive."
Twice Sir Andrew opened and shut his mouth. Then he slid off Joshua, uncovered, attempted ineffectually to speak, turned and walked uncertainly away....
"Oh ... Anthony!..."
The sorrow with which that cry was laden wrung Lyveden's heart.
"What?"
André began to weep silently.
"What?" cried Anthony. "What? What have I said?"
"God forgive me," wailed André. "I'm very wicked."
"What d'you mean, André?"
"I thought," sobbed the girl, "you were pretending you'd lost your memory"— Anthony started— "pretending, because— because you loved me best."
"Best?"
"And now— you pretend— you haven't lost it, to— to save— my— rotten— face..." She sat up suddenly and shook the tears out of her eyes. "Get up," she said, pointing to Joshua. "Get up, you splendid gentleman, and come with me."
For a moment Anthony hesitated. Then he swung himself into the saddle....
André was cantering up the Row. He followed her amazedly.
They overtook Sir Andrew, bareheaded, sweating, shaking his fists at heaven and audibly condemning all women to an inferno of which— to judge from his report— Dante can never have heard, to which Rabelais alone could have done justice.
"Mr. Plague!" cried André. "Mr. Plague!"
The knight let an adjective go and stopped still where he stood.
"Begone!" he bellowed. "Begone!"
André flung herself out of the saddle and ran to the rails.
"I've something to say to you," she panted, "which I want Major Lyveden to hear." Sir Andrew waved her away, and Anthony approached dazedly. "I want to beg your pardon." At the word the knight started. Then he let fall his hand and turned to the speaker. "This ring is not Major Lyveden's. He said what he did just now out of loyalty— loyalty to me ... misplaced loyalty. He threw your friendship to the winds to save my face. He doesn't care a damn about me. But, because I'm weak as water and he's strong, he took my part against you, no matter what it cost. And I can't let you go like this. You're right. D'you hear? Right. Right all along the line. God knows how you saw the bog I've jumped in when I couldn't see it myself. But you did. And you've opened my eyes. I'm in up to the neck— and now I'm going to get out." She swung round upon Lyveden. "Ever since yesterday morning you've thought you were tied to me. I gave you that idea. I never meant to. I didn't know you'd lost your memory. You recognized me, and you knew there'd been something between us. But that was all. So there had— but not of your making. I don't know how much you remember, but you can take it from me— your hands are clean ... spotless, as mine are foul. You're brave and gallant and faithful. I'm not fit to lick your boots. But— I forgot all that ... yesterday morning." Her voice broke, and she stamped, as if impatient of this evidence of emotion. "And now give me Joshua and go. I'm going to the man I'm engaged to, to tell him the truth. If he's fool enough to stick to me after that, that's his funeral. And you go to Valerie French, and say I sent you. Tell her she doesn't deserve you, because no woman does that. And tell her I never meant to do her down, black as it looks. Mr. Plague'll tell you I'm not a knave. Only a fool ... a crazy, vain-glorious fool ... with her heart on her sleeve."
She whipped about, vaulted— habit and all— on to Joshua's back, twitched the bridle over the other horse's head, and flung down the Row with irons flying.
The two men stared in her wake.
After a little they turned and looked at one another.
"How the devil," said Plague, blinking, "did she make that horse move?"
THE NEXT TWO hours were crowded.
Anthony's one idea was to see Valerie: Sir Andrew's was to communicate with Lady Touchstone. The one, of course, was depending upon the other. Only her aunt knew where Valerie was. Food and raiment, however, had to be considered. Anthony had neither shaved nor bathed. Sir Andrew had done both, and felt as though he had done neither. A second bath was, of course, essential. Then, breakfast had to be swallowed....
The most pregnant moment of all was that at which Sir Andrew excitedly informed the cook-general of a Bloomsbury boarding-house that 'the misunderstanding had been cleared up, and his secretary was ready and willing to fulfil his contract of marriage with her niece.' It was not the knight's fault that he had been given the wrong number, and, having regard to the war conditions invariably prevailing at Tomb Street during the 'rush' half-hour, Miss Ada Margetts may be forgiven for admitting that she was Lady Touchstone. The result, however, was exhausting. Twice did Miss Margetts desire Sir Andrew to repeat his amazing news, and twice, literally squinting with suppressed emotion, did the knight, to his eternal credit, comply with her request. Then he was asked to ''old the line.' ... After a hideous two minutes, during which Miss Margetts helped a cabman to transport an American trunk from the third floor to the street, communication was re-established.
"'Oo d'you want ter speak
to?" inquired Miss Margetts.
"Goats and monkeys!" shrieked Plague.
"Nothin' doin'," said Ada, replacing the receiver and picking up a pair of boots.
She did not even smile. She had no time. It was the 'rush' half-hour.
Sir Andrew did not replace his receiver. Instead, he detached it with great violence and hurled it into the garden. There it was presently found by Patch, the Sealyham, who played with it for an hour, and then buried it providently under the rhododendrons.
The disruption of the telephone rendered indispensable a visit to Hill Street....
More electricity was induced later, when Lady Touchstone, whose hold on topography was always treacherous, found herself unable to give the direction of Bell Hammer and could only tearfully insist that 'you always passed through Ealing.' Even when it was established that the estate lay in Hampshire, the poor lady continued to confound, by declaring that the passage of Ealing was a condition precedent to anyone's successful arrival at Bell Hammer, and an attempt at joint map-reading, in the proportion of one small-scale map to three shaking forefingers, resulted in Sir Andrew's being assisted into the morning-room and set in a draught. Indeed, had she not finally chanced to refer to the notoriety which Ealing had earned as a haunt of highwaymen—
"Ealing?" shrieked Anthony. "You mean Hounslow! Hounslow Heath!"
Lady Touchstone stared. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth.
"That's right," she whispered. "I meant Hounslow. Not that I like Ealing, but that doesn't matter. It's Hounslow you go through. Did ever you know such an idiot? I'm dreadfully sorry, Anthony. Most dreadfully sorry. And simply frightened to death. I'll go and get under a bed while you break it to him."
THE LIMOUSINE flung through Basingstoke at an unlawful pace, and presently happening upon a ten-mile stretch of metalling, which clearly owed its being to the Roman ruler, swallowed it whole in thirteen minutes dead.
Five minutes later my lady sailed into Brooch, slid past the castle, dropped down the busy main street and then, coming to a carfax, crept to a policeman's elbow humbly enough.
"Bell 'Ammer?" said the peace officer. "Bell 'Ammer lays on your right." He pointed to a slit in an old half-timbered row. "Keep along there till you see the Close on your lef'. Then bear right-'anded on to the Bloodstock road. Bell 'Ammer's the secon' lodge after you pass the village o' Napery Green."
Valerie French (1923) Page 15
