Valerie French (1923)

by Dornford Yates

  The direction was sound and the road good. The car made up for the check handsomely...

  Indeed, she finished her business at a quarter to one by coming to rest at the steps of a broad mansion, upon which its spreading mantle of wistaria was blooming for the second time.

  Anthony Lyveden alighted and rang the bell.

  A moment later he was standing before Valerie French.

  The girl looked tired, as one who has slept but ill the night before, and, when she spoke, her tone was that of the soldier who has retired from the fight— not because he is beaten, or afraid, or weary, but because he has perceived that he is not destined to prevail.

  "Why have you come?"

  "Because I love you, Valerie."

  Valerie turned her head and stared out of a window.

  "Do you?" she said listlessly. "Why?"

  "I think it's very natural," said Anthony Lyveden. "I loved you the moment I saw you— that afternoon. I didn't know it then. But I do now."

  "Who's told you?" said Valerie. "My aunt?"

  Anthony shook his head.

  "I realized it myself— yesterday morning."

  A faint frown gathered on Valerie's brow.

  "Yesterday morning?" she said, as one who is troubled with a problem he has no desire to solve.

  "Yesterday morning," repeated Anthony, "before I saw you, or Forsyth.... Yesterday morning I found out a terrible thing. I found that I was engaged— engaged to somebody else. I wasn't really, but I believed I was.... And when I made that discovery— that false discovery ... when I realized what it meant— then all of a sudden I knew that I loved you.... It's strange, but I suppose that's the way of a fool. If you're a fool, you've got to have something forcibly taken away before you can realize that without it you can't go on.... Well, I'm a prize fool. There I was in my Paradise, wondering why on earth I was so happy. Suddenly my Paradise was gone.... And the loss opened my eyes."

  "What," said Valerie slowly, "what made you think that you were engaged?"

  "I met a girl in the Park, and I recognized her. I can't tell you how or why. I just did. I remembered her, and I remembered her name."

  "Yes?"

  "André."

  Valerie caught her breath. Then she went very white.

  "Go on," she said quietly.

  "I couldn't remember where I'd met her, or anything else— except ... except that there'd been something between us ... something ... I didn't know what.... Well, we spoke for a little, and I seem to have said the wrong things. It seemed absurd to tell her I'd lost my memory, because I'd remembered her. And somehow, in my efforts to get at the truth, I gave her the impression that I wanted to call back Time.... I only wanted to find out how I stood; she thought I wanted to take back something I'd said or done.... And when we parted she thought that I loved her, and I thought that I was engaged....

  "Well, I had to tell you— somehow. I knew you had no idea— knew. You’d never 've let me hold you and kiss your lips if you'd known that all the time I was pledged elsewhere. Some girls, perhaps ... But you— never. And then, when I told you, I found that you did know— had known all along. I found that you had deceived me. I found that you, my idol, had done the most despicable thing. You told me so, Valerie. You never even tried to conceal it. You put your arms round my neck and told me so ... told me you'd cheated me and let another girl down....

  "And I went out of your flat, picked up Patch, and tramped the streets of London till I could hardly stand. I was beside myself, partly because I'd been disillusioned, but mainly because, for all my disillusionment, I knew that I loved you still...."

  There was a long silence. At length—

  "Why are you here?" said Valerie.

  "Because this morning I met her, and she told me the truth."

  "You know..."

  "I know enough. I know that yesterday I made a ghastly blunder. I know that I was engaged ... but not to her. And I know, thank God, that my hands are clean, Valerie, and that I have the right to come and ask your pardon for a mindless man's mistake."

  Valerie put a hand to her head.

  "You remembered her," she said. "You remembered André. And then you thought ... I see," she added slowly. "Yes, it was natural enough." She rose and put out her hands. "I'm awfully glad you came, Anthony. Most awfully glad." He went to her quickly and took her hands in his. "But I'm awfully sorry you know about our engagement. And now"— she looked in his eyes— "for once I'm going to tell you the absolute truth. You're not engaged to me. You were, but you're not any more. You're free— free as the air."

  "You mean..."

  "What I say, Anthony. You are— released."

  "But, Valerie, I love you! I love you! Don't you— don't you love me?"

  The girl turned her head and regarded a photograph. This was framed in silver and standing upon the mantel-piece. It was a splendid likeness of Anthony Lyveden.

  "I did— frightfully," she said. "I loved you so much that nothing in the world mattered— except your smile. But now..."

  "Valerie! Valerie!" cried the man. "What have I done? It wasn't my fault that I made that crack-brained mistake. And I’d never 've dreamed you'd deceived me if you hadn't told me yourself."

  "You would. You did. You asked me before I told you."

  "Only because your manner gave you away."

  "I know," said Valerie fretfully. "I know. It— it wasn't your fault."

  "And though you'd done this thing— this dreadful thing, I loved you still. I tell you, I tramped the streets. I was nearly out of my mind. Don't you believe me?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why d'you think it was? If I hadn't loved you, Valerie, d'you think I’d 've cared? What made my engagement so hideous? My love for you! What made your deception so bitter? My love for you. I tell you, I've come out of Hell. Don't send me back."

  "I know you love me," said Valerie. "I know you do." With a sudden movement she put her arms round his neck. "No, don't kiss me. Just look me full in the eyes. There, like that. That's how you used to look, lad.... And now listen. I think you'll understand.

  "I'm thankful this mistake's been cleared up— most thankful. In a way, it's been like a bad dream. And now I'm awake ... in a way. When you left me yesterday, I prayed for death. It— was— the— last— straw. And there have been so many ... I don't blame you in the least. To tell you the truth, I think I should have done just the same. In fact, once upon a time I did. But that's another story.... And when you say you love me, I believe you do. And I'm very, very proud and very grateful. But..."

  "You ... don't ... love ... me?"

  "I want your old love, Anthony. And only the return of your memory can give me that. Perhaps I'm asking a lot, but then, you see, I'm spoiled. You've spoiled me. You can't remember doing it, but you did. And when you do remember, lad, then you'll understand why this new lamp— handsome and shining as it is— isn't the same."

  "But, Valerie, you loved me yesterday— the day before! You say that, when I left you, you prayed for death. That means you loved me. The new lamp was good enough then."

  "I suppose it was. I don't know if it would have lasted. Perhaps it would. But now...." She dropped her head upon his chest. "Oh, Anthony, can't you see? Must I tell you right out?"

  The man stared over her head, frowning and seeing nothing.

  After a little—

  "No," he said, "I can't see. You must tell me right out."

  "Well, then," said Valerie gently, "you must remember that I'm a woman.... And women are vain ... proud ... bursting with amour propre. It isn't your fault, I know, but— you've remembered André...." She felt him stiffen, and lifted up her head. "And so, you see, dear," she added, with her eyes on his, "you've just got somehow to remember me," and the moment the words had been spoken she could have bitten out her tongue.

  Her hands slipped from his shoulders and she turned away.

  As she came to a window—

  "I'm going into the garden," she said shakily. "Ri
ng and tell them you want to get ready for lunch. And then come and find me— just as you used to do."

  Anthony watched her pass across the terrace and down the sunlit steps.

  Then he flung back his head and clapped his hands to his eyes.

  VALERIE PASSED down into the garden, cold with rage. She was furious with Fate, most furious with herself. She had done the unspeakable thing. She had squealed under the lash.

  She had been hurt hideously, and she had shown Anthony the wound. She had lost desperately, and she had let him see that she cared. Worse. She had usurped his heart's function ... told him the way to comfort her ... explained in so many words that his kiss could make her well.

  For two or three minutes she wallowed in the torment of mortification. Then the red mist lifted, and she examined her stripes.

  Truly Fate knew how and where to lay on.

  After everything— after all Anthony and she had been to each other— after all her blazing advertisement of his love— after all her secure compassion for André Strongi'th'arm, he had forgotten her and remembered André ... remembered a girl he had only seen twice in his life. The king had forgotten his queen, but remembered the wench who had dared to aspire to the steps of her throne. And André— the wench— was laughing ... hugging the truth to her breast, where it would hang for ever. The queen might have Anthony's love, but the wench had his remembrance. And Anthony had only seen her twice ... only twice....

  Valerie stopped still and stared at a fat peacock hewn out of box.

  "My God," she breathed, "what's the matter with me? Have I no personality, no charm? No beauty of body or soul? No strength of character? Have I made no impression at all— after all these months? None. But André ... in half an hour ... How can I feel the same? How can I? How could anyone?"

  She pulled herself together and went on slowly.

  He would be coming now— any moment. And she had plans to make. Things had to be determined at once. Their position had to be defined— that afternoon. She had released him, and he ... did not desire ... to be released. He would plead— importune her to let their engagement go on.... Valerie decided to let him have his way. He would want it so much, and she— she didn't care. Yes. It had come to that. She didn't care.

  Didn't she? Was she sure? Because, if she didn't care...

  For the life of her, Valerie could not determine whether she cared or not. Her love had been stunned. And she was turning it over, trying to ascertain whether it was quick or dead. Then, whilst she was peering, she heard Anthony call. And at the sound of his voice her love opened its eyes.

  She did care, then? Yes, of course she cared. But— in a different way. There was something— some bar between them. Not a bar, exactly—

  Again she heard him call her— quietly, with no assurance ... like a man who is rather afraid of a Christian name.

  A great wave of pity surged over Valerie's heart. She felt as though she had beaten a faithful dog. And now, for all its devotion, the dog was afraid of her, uncertain of its reception. It was pathetic. After all, it wasn't the dog's fault. He couldn't understand....

  He couldn't understand.

  The phrase flamed. That was it. That was the bar— the shadow which lay between. Their mutual understanding had been infinite. And now it was gone. The splendid, perfect bridge had become a jetty. And while she could go the length of the jetty, Anthony must stand still upon the opposite shore— because he couldn't understand. And he couldn't understand because he couldn't remember.

  Twenty-four hours ago that hadn't mattered. But then his memory was withered. Then, whole or halt, the man was still Anthony— her Anthony. Then she could have crooned over his infirmity. But now the lame had walked— for somebody else.... What hadn't mattered twenty-four hours ago had become vital.

  Valerie turned to meet Lyveden, feeling curiously uncertain of herself.

  Her anger was gone. Her overwhelming pity had put out that fire. Her love was in fretful attendance. One moment it was there, panting: the next, it was out of reach. It seemed to come in gusts, as the wind on a boisterous day. Now it was tearing, and now the air was dead calm.

  She spent the whole of luncheon and most of the afternoon probing this mystery— a painful and bootless operation. As for Anthony, he spent the whole of his time trying to remember. This was transparently plain. Indeed, he made no secret of his endeavours. Valerie could have screamed....

  When luncheon was over, by his request the girl showed him the house— an uncanny business. After a little, however, she fell into her stride....

  "This is the library."

  Anthony followed her in.

  For a moment he stood, looking round. Then—

  "What a very beautiful room," he said.

  Valerie agreed politely. She could not tell him that, only three months before, it had been his sanctuary: that that was his tobacco upon the table: that those were his pipes...

  It was the same everywhere. The place bristled with memories. Real evidence of his recent habitation stood out on every side. He admired a rug he had given her, 'because it was fit for a queen.' He brushed by his own overcoat: accepted his own cigarettes.... Memories and evidence alike fell upon the bare rock. 'And because they had no root, they withered away.' He was pushing his way through a thicket, searching for boughs. Valerie tramped behind, and the boughs, which, of his blindness, Anthony thrust out of his way, flung back and hit her in the face.

  On a sudden, desperate impulse, she took him upstairs and showed him the room in which he had lain sick of brain fever.

  Anthony stared about him.

  "I take it," he said slowly, "this was my room."

  Valerie could only nod.

  Then she stepped to the wardrobe and pulled out a drawer. It was full of collars and ties.

  Together they peered at them.

  "Mine?" he whispered.

  "Yes."

  Presently they walked in the garden, as they had walked before— times without number. It seemed impossible that he should find the pleasaunce strange ... hesitate at this corner, where they always turned ... spell out the motto on the sundial, like a visitor. Yet he did all these things.

  They came to the spot— the low stone seat where he had asked Valerie to be his wife. As they approached it, Valerie began to tremble. Surely this ... The next instant they were by— safe and sound. It meant no more to him than a seat on the front at Brighton meant to her.

  Later, Anthony announced that he thought she could sing.

  "Not that I remember," he added hastily. The poor fellow was honest enough. "But there was a piano in the library, and I saw music about."

  "I used to," said Valerie. "Would you like me to now?"

  "Oh, if you would...."

  Such pathetic anxiety could have but one sire.

  Valerie shivered.

  For half an hour, perhaps, she sang steadily. Anthony sat in a chair with his head in his hands. The airs were brutally familiar, the beautiful voice foreign. It was no good.

  She gave him tea on the terrace before he left. And there, as well as they could, they thrashed things out.

  "D'you want me to keep away?" said Anthony suddenly.

  Valerie regarded the toe of a little suede shoe.

  "No," she said, "I don't. I love you, you know."

  "But you said— — "

  "I know. Don't remind me of that. You don't mean to me what you did. But nothing else on earth means anything at all." She lifted her head and gazed into the park. Under the afternoon sun this made a royal picture. A Goldsmith might have caught the landscape's smile, a Boucher its dainty charm, but only a dying John of Gaunt could have heard its utterance. Valerie continued slowly, measuring her words: "You see, when I thought your memory was dead, I didn't care. The only thing that could have made me mind would have been your regret. But you didn't seem to care at all. So I didn't, either. But now— now that I know it's not dead— only asleep— perhaps because it's human to be a fool, I want it back
. All of a sudden it's become a precious bit of you— a bit I can't spare. But I can't spare what's left of you, either, Anthony lad. Be sure of that."

  Anthony rose to his feet and bared his head.

  "I'm very rich," he said gently. "Because I was richer once, I'm not going to whine. As for my memory, if there's a God in heaven, it'll come back. And when it does— when it does, will you marry me, Valerie?"

  "Yes," said Valerie, "I will."

  "Till then— may we be betrothed?"

  "Yes."

  Anthony hesitated. Then—

  "You're very good to me," he said, turning away.

  In an instant the girl was on her knees at his feet.

  "Anthony, Anthony," she wailed, "how can you talk like that?" She caught his hands and pressed them against her face. "You blessed, wonderful thing! I'm the very luckiest woman in all the world— and the most ungrateful. You talk about my being good. I'm wicked, graceless, cruel. 'Good to you.' I couldn't be good to you, Anthony. A priest can't be good to his god. Besides, I love you too much. D'you hear? I love you too much. It's because I love you so much that I've behaved as I have this miserable day. Yesterday was a shock— a frightful shock. I've been dazed— distracted ever since...." She put her arms about him and buried her face in his coat. Anthony stood like a rock. "I won't come back this evening," she added quietly. "I want to be quite alone. But I'll come up to-morrow to stay, and if you'll ask me to dinner, I'll dine with you. Don't think I'm being nice. That's utter blasphemy. I'm just crazy about you, and that's the truth."

  If ever a heart gave tongue, it did so then. If ever love was afire, that speech betrayed it.

  Anthony lifted her up and kissed her mouth....

  It was a most natural action. Valerie herself would have been surprised, dismayed, if he had not done it. It was the acceptance of her oblation the touching and return of the cup....

  Yet, when she felt his touch, only by a most violent effort did she subdue a shudder. And when he kissed her, the blood froze in her veins.

  Anthony noticed nothing, or, if he did, attributed it to the shaking she had had the day before. When all was said and done, he felt shaken himself— shaken and rather shy of his beautiful lady.