When it was time for him to go, she came to the steps. At the last he kissed her hand and remarked how cold it was.
"My hands were always cold," said Valerie.
Anthony read a meaning that was not there, and could have thrown up his hat. And she saw him read it, and could have burst into tears.
Then he entered the car and was whirled away...
Valerie almost fled to the library. Into her hands had been thrust the sleave of truth— the truth about her feeling for Anthony Lyveden. All she had to do was to unravel it. She put a match to the fire and curled herself in a chair..
Anthony was all her world. Whether she loved him or not, there was no one and nothing else. There never would be. That was as clear as daylight. More. Love him she did— desperately ... more, perhaps, than ever she had loved him before, so long as he did not love her.
Anthony in repose she found most worshipful. She could sit all day at his feet. But the moment he became the lover, she loathed the sight of him. In a word, while she could love him, Anthony must not love her. Any protestation of love made her feel cold. A corporal expression of affection was simply revolting. Why? Because he could not remember.
Did she touch his hand— a million tender memories were behind that movement. Did he touch hers— he was impelled by some new motive, in which she had no share. It might be love: it might be— anything. She could take hold of Anthony, but Anthony must not respond. She could caress him, just as one clasps a casket— because of the relics it holds. She would be touching the old Anthony ... the one she had worshipped and lost ... the one who was dead ... dead. And the dead could not respond. If they did, it was gruesome— loathly. If they did, love was swallowed up in death— instantly...
Yes, there lay the truth.
She could go to him, but he could not return to her. When he tried...
Valerie shuddered.
As for Anthony, he was peering out of the limousine's window, marking Brooch's bulwarks and striving desperately to remember that he had seen them before.
8: Straight Street
THE LIMOUSINE sailed into the summer evening, leaving a long wash of dust to mark her passage. The cooler air suited her admirably, and there was now an effortless elasticity about her movements which set the cap of Drowsiness upon her passenger's head and then pulled it down over his eyes. This was as well, for the latter was worn out. Long ere the car reached Basingstoke, Anthony Lyveden was asleep.
The car sailed on.
Soon, with her peculiar magic, sundown set everything afire. Streams ran with golden water: meadows and dells were full of crimson light: pinewoods became the very gates of glory— peering between their bars, you saw the promise of another world: moors glowed and smouldered: peeping windows and weathercocks burst into flame: while the road itself curled in and out of sudden dusk and splendour, flashed between laughing hedgerows, dropped into sober bottoms and, now and again, swung over a solemn shoulder to march beside the pageant for a fantastic mile.
Sleeping steadily, Anthony saw none of these things. Indeed, he was deep in London before he waked, greatly refreshed and astonished that he had slumbered so long. He decided gratefully that if Nature was a good doctor, the chauffeur was an excellent nurse, and had more cause for gratitude than he imagined. If the heat of the day was over, not so its burden.
The journey was finished, Kensington Palace Gardens had been won, and Lyveden, who had just alighted, was in the act of thanking the chauffeur before he entered the house, when a taxi flung up the drive and, skidding with locked wheels to within six inches of the limousine's off fore wing, discharged its frantic passenger into an atmosphere of speechless indignation.
André Strongi'th'arm.
The girl flashed to the steps and seized Anthony by the arm.
"Quick!" she panted, haling him to the door. "Quick! Richard's inside. Richard— the man I'm engaged to. He's like a madman. He wouldn't hear me out, and he swore he’d thrash Plague till he couldn't stand. I tried to stop him, but he threw me across the room and locked the door."
With a shaking hand Anthony rammed the key home....
As the door yielded, a burst of passionate altercation assailed their ears. Then came a screech of fury, the sharp smack of a fist, the snarling worry of a dog, and the crash of a mighty weight meeting the floor.
Anthony hurled himself across the hall....
An instant later the library's door was open, and the two were inside.
A man was standing straight in the middle of the room— a proud, tremendous figure, with a fair, close-cut beard, thoughtfully pulling his moustache. His bearing, physique, and style were those of a ruler of men. Ears back, teeth bared, one paw raised, Patch stood at his feet, bristling with hatred, snarling up into his face— no empty threat, as the trickle of blood upon the great wrist argued. The man, however, did not appear to notice him. He was looking beyond at Sir Andrew, who, with a cut and swelling lip and one leg obviously out of action, was making violent but ineffectual endeavours to get upon his feet.
As Anthony entered, Sir Andrew beckoned him.
"Help me up," he said thickly. "Don't stand there gaping, you fool. I've hurt my knee. Help me up. He's struck me, and I'm going to break his back."
The stranger turned.
"Ah, Lyveden," he said lightly. "I'm glad to see you." He jerked his head at Plague. "Do as he says," he added. "I haven't thrashed him yet."
André flung herself upon his arm.
"Richard, Richard," she cried, "listen to me! If ever a man did you and me a good turn, it's that man there. You know me well enough. I don't beg anyone's pardon without good cause. Yet I apologized to him because— — "
"Don't make it worse," said Winchester, setting her gently aside. Then he took a whip from the table. "Out of the way, Lyveden!"
Anthony, who had helped Sir Andrew to his feet and then treacherously pushed him into a convenient chair, took no notice at all. Indeed, he had his hands full. The knight was beside himself with fury. That the man who struck him was alive was bad enough: that his familiar friend should be preserving the man's life sent him almost out of his mind. He fought and raved fearfully. The chair, however, was deep, and Anthony was behind, with his hands on his shoulders. Sir Andrew could have not risen to save his life.
"Lyveden," said Winchester again, "let him get up."
Anthony looked him in the face.
"One at a time," he said quietly. "You must deal with me first. And after you've dealt with me, you shall deal with him."
"Don't be a fool," said the other; "I've no quarrel with you."
"You have," said Anthony. "But, if you'll leave this house, I'll let that go."
Winchester frowned, and Sir Andrew stopped struggling, screwed his head round and peered into Anthony's face.
After a little—
"I understand," said Winchester, "that you've lost your memory. If you hadn't— you would remember that I mean what I say. That gentleman there"— he pointed contemptuously to Plague— "has got to go through the hoop. If you like to postpone his chastisement for so long as it takes me to knock you out, I can't prevent you. But it seems a futile proceeding. It won't profit him and it'll damage you."
Anthony laughed.
"Since you knew me," he said, "I've grown whimsical." He looked down at his patron. "If I take my hands from your shoulders, sir, will you stay still where you are?"
"No," roared Sir Andrew, "I won't! This is my show. The blackguard struck me, and I'll knock his face through his head."
"Afterwards, sir, afterwards. Let me— — "
"I won't!" raged the knight. "I WON'T! Lemme get up, you hound!" He surged in the chair impotently. "Blast you, lemme get up!"
"Not till you promise to let me have first go."
The paroxysm of rage which this definite defiance provoked was truly frightful. Sir Andrew's complexion rapidly assumed the colour of a damson plum. That one or more blood-vessels must burst seemed to be beyond doubt. His secretary
clung to his shoulders as a helmsman clings to a wheel in heavy weather. At last, however, the tempest blew itself out.
"All right," said Sir Andrew thickly. "An' if you don't kill him, I will. An' I'll kill you, any way," he added violently.
Anthony took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
Then he stepped forward, smiling.
"Put down that whip," he said.
André was clinging to his arm.
"Stop, stop, Anthony! You're mad. You can't touch him. He's twice your weight, and— Richard"— she swung about— "but for these two men here, your life and mine would have been broken up. Is this your payment? Is this—"
"André," said Winchester shortly. "I've heard enough. With motives I'm not concerned. They may have been most worthy. So are the motives of the carter who breaks his horse's back. The gentleman sitting in the chair has to be taught manners"— Sir Andrew began to make a rattling noise— "has to be made to understand that, if he must bully, he should bully men. As for Lyveden, his blood's on his own fool's head. If he can't remember, I should think he could see that I'm the wrong man to cross."
"And I," said André quietly, "am the wrong woman. Give me that whip." Winchester hesitated, staring, and the girl took it out of his hand. "You prate to me of manners. Look to your own." She turned on Anthony and Plague. "And you— and you. You rotten crowd of wasters, where were you bred? Howling and slogging each other in front of me. I'm not a drab from the slums. I don't want to witness your beastly instincts. For ten solid minutes I've stood here, in this room, and been dishonoured. If I'd liked to scream, I could have had half Kensington here. But you all knew I wouldn't do that, because I should pay more dearly than any of you. So you banked on my not screaming. My teeth were drawn, and that was all that mattered. That I was alone— a woman, that I might be scared— revolted, didn't affect the case. And I am revolted. I feel literally sick. As men go, I'd thought you three weren't bad. I was wrong. You're as cheap and rank a bunch as ever I saw. There's nothing to choose between the lot of you. You're just trash: and I hope to God I never see any of you again!"
For a full minute nobody seemed to breathe.
Then—
"I beg your pardon," said Anthony.
"Beg," said André, and cut him across the face.
The dog leaped at her hand, but Lyveden struck him aside and had him fast before he could leap again.
In dead silence the girl stepped to the door, opened it, and passed out.
As she crossed the hall, the chauffeur, butler, and footmen tried to make themselves scarce. They might have spared their pains. She never noticed them.
She opened the front door and left the house.
As she passed down the drive, she began to sob.
"It was the only way," she moaned, as one who has sold one treasure to save another. "The only way— to make sure. Richard won't touch him now."
This was quite true.
After an awkward silence, Winchester shook hands with Lyveden, humbly apologized to Plague, and went his way.
There was no more spirit in him. André had spiked his guns.
NO ONE of those who, upon that memorable evening, assisted to transport the K.C. from his library to his bedroom will ever forget the episode. It would have lived, any way: but the invective alone, with which, as with some preserving chemical, their burden sprayed their travail, assured its incorruption.
The scene was Homeric, worthy of the Gobelins. No mere paint-brush could have caught the tremendous atmosphere. Between them, Anthony and four servants bore the injured giant as retainers their wounded lord. A feature of the exploit, more embarrassing than traditional, was the lord's active interest in the operation. From force of habit, the latter directed his removal and constantly endeavoured, during its progress, physically to correct and punish any failure to appreciate his commands. His frantic efforts, for instance, to reach the butler, who had hold of his right foot, in order to inflict upon him grievous bodily harm, threw everything into confusion— particularly the chauffeur, upon whose face his master was depending for support in his adventure.
The steward hovered, vulture-like, about the procession, with smelling-salts and brandy. The Sealyham made an excited and distracting escort, barking until all present, except Sir Andrew, prayed for death, circling dizzily about the cortège in the open and settling down as an obstructive flank-guard when the Narrows were reached. Indeed, the ascent of the staircase stood out of the epic a patch of true purple. The steward was given notice at the foot: the footmen were sacked before the turn was made: Anthony and the butler succumbed in the course of the turning operation, and the chauffeur, who thought there was one more step than in fact there was, was charged to destroy himself that night.
Finally the bed-chamber was won: the valet offered up a short prayer: the bearers withdrew, and Anthony descended, sweating, to summon a doctor.
As the steward closed the door, Sir Andrew called him back and held out a five-pound note.
"You and your gang have earned it," he said grimly.
The steward bowed.
"If you please, sir, I’d— we’d rather not. I only speak for the others, sir, when I say that we couldn't think of it. Not that we aren't most grateful, but there isn't one of us, sir, as wouldn't be proud to carry you to— to the Marble Harch, sir, if you’d permit it."
"God forbid!" said his master.
"Oh, without doubt, sir," said the steward piously. "But—"
"I shall dine in this room," said Sir Andrew. "So will Major Lyveden. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
The doctor came and was reviled. Finding the knee sprained, he prescribed a recumbent position for seven days, and was instantly desired to go to hell for seven years. As he left the room a glass was thrown at him.
At last dinner was served.
Anthony was rent and cross-examined and rent again. Finally he was ordered to ring up Lady Touchstone and invite her to lunch the next day.
"Say it's important, and say you won't be here. Say I fell off the terrace and can't come to her. Ask what she’d like to eat. Above all, say nothing about this evening's business."
"Very good, sir."
Five minutes later he reported that the lady would come, was deeply concerned, would like an omelette, some stewed fruit, and cheese straws, hoped very much that Sir Andrew would pass a good night.
The knight stared at the Sealyham, slumbering upon his bed.
"A discerning woman," he said. "And a better friend to you and your runaway girl than either of you deserve."
Anthony hesitated. Then—
"You make me a little uneasy," he said slowly. "What are you going to say to Lady Touchstone?"
"What's that to do with you?"
"I don't know," said Lyveden. "That's just why I'm uneasy. You see, she's Valerie's aunt. And I couldn't bear Valerie to think that I was— wire-pulling."
"If she knows you at all, she knows you're too much of a fool," said Sir Andrew shortly. "Knaves pull wires— not fools." He yawned and rang the bell by the side of his bed. "Good night."
"Good night, sir," replied his secretary, picking up Patch.
"And for the love of God, don't go out in the Park to-morrow morning."
That Sir Andrew Plague, misogynist, steadfast disbeliever in romance, should have been plunged into the very surf of a passionate affair, sucked underneath, spewed up, drawn back and then sent sprawling into the backset, was arguing Fate's belief in a rod for the fool's back. That he should have been selected to harness these turbulent breakers was Fate's idea of a joke. That, having harnessed them, he was not satisfied, but felt unaccountably impelled to still their fret, was due to Lady Touchstone alone.
Cherchez la femme.
When a man who hates women and despises love interferes on behalf of a lover and gets knocked out for his pains, it might be thought that he would kick himself with great violence, rend the particular lover, and repair to some far country where women are not al
lowed. Not so Sir Andrew. In the first place, he could not kick himself because the condition of his injured knee put any attempt at gymnastics out of the question. As we know, he rent Anthony; but that was not so much because he was the lover as because Colonel Winchester was yet alive. Finally, he did not leave London, because a searching cross-examination of his secretary concerning the latter's relations with Valerie French had revealed that his work was not over. The 'work' of course, was nothing but a labour of love.
La femme came to lunch the next day and, having eaten and drunk, listened politely to the knight's account of his mishap. When he had finished, she observed gently enough that a man lying to a woman always reminded her of an amateur teaching a professional his job.
"Not that you're not quite good," explained her ladyship. "As one who knows, I think you shape very well. Your falsehood handicap would be about fourteen. But I'm about plus five. All women are. It's a gift, of course. We're just born liars. Never mind. I'm not a bit curious. How did Anthony get on?"
Sir Andrew breathed very hard.
At length—
"From what I can gather," he said, "your niece sees fit to regret his loss of memory. Why the devil she should passes my comprehension. It's nothing to do with her. And, needless to say, she hasn't a leg to stand on. His present defect doesn't affect the contract. Mentally and physically the man's perfectly sound. But apparently she finds it inconvenient. Very well. Assuming she's sane, there must be something she wishes Major Lyveden to remember."
Lady Touchstone frowned.
"She probably wishes," she said, "that he remembered her."
Sir Andrew stared.
"I daresay she does," he snorted. "I wish that I could forget my age. But I don't let the fact that I can't interfere with my appetite. I repeat that, assuming she's sane, there must be something she wishes Major Lyveden to recall."
"And I," said Lady Touchstone, "repeat that that 'something' is Valerie French. And, while I remember it, what delicious bread you gave me! It's perfectly clear that your baker sleeps in the house. And I'm not surprised that misfortunes don't spoil your appetite. It'd take a great deal to spoil mine if I kept a table like yours. Is it a he?"
Valerie French (1923) Page 17
