Valerie French (1923)

by Dornford Yates

  The form was that of a woman: the pose, the air, those of an artless child. As for her beauty, this was neither childish nor feminine: it was that of the wild flower.

  "D'you know," said Valerie slowly, "I'm twenty-six?"

  The man regarded her, setting his head on one side.

  "I think I’d 've said you were younger, but, to tell you the truth, I've never thought of it at all. You don't suggest years or the passing of time. In fact, you discountenance them. When you speak of your age, it's like a man in waders pointing out that he's standing in water."

  "Nevertheless," said Valerie. "I'm twenty-six. And in a fortnight's time I shall be twenty-seven.... Yes, in two short weeks. You see, I'm very shrewd. I've given you just nice time to think of a present.... And now, having been so considerate, I'm going to spoil it all and ask you to let me choose your present myself.... I'll tell you what I want. I want your name."

  "Valerie!"

  As Anthony started to his feet, the girl swung round and caught the lapels of his coat.

  "Listen, lad, listen. I say, I want your name. For the moment— that's all ... for the moment.... But if you'll do me the honour to give me that— marry me quietly here on my birthday morning— well, you'll make me wonderfully happy, Anthony dear, and, I think, the proudest woman in all the world."

  There was a long silence.

  Then—

  "What is love?" said Anthony, quietly enough. The girl started. "Don't think I'm being dramatic. I want to know. I think I love you. In a way, I think you love me. I asked you to be my wife. You've said that you will— in a way. My impulse is to dance. And yet.... We're young and goodly, we two. Are we in love?"

  "I think so. Use my eyes and look back. We were— passionately."

  "'Were'— yes. Have you outgrown that rapture?"

  Valerie shook her head.

  "No more than you."

  "You mean that it's in abeyance ... pent up?"

  "Yes," said Valerie.

  Anthony stared upon the floor.

  "I wonder," he said. And then again, "I wonder."

  The small, white hands slid away, and the girl slipped back to her corner of the club-kerb.

  "You see," he went on presently, "I feel so much in the dark. That first day was different. The dark didn't matter at all. In fact, there was no dark. But now— now I've eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and I can see the clouds."

  "You’d like to wait?" said Valerie. "Well, it's natural enough. In a sense I've played with you."

  "I told you my impulse was to dance. My impulse is to leap at the offer you make. I'm trying to talk dispassionately, you know. Well, my impulse is to snatch every wretched crumb I can get. My impulse is to take you in my arms, hold you as you've never been held, and then take the pins out of your glorious hair to see what it looks like when it's about your shoulders.... But then you know that." He folded his arms and laughed. "No. You say that the return of my memory will set things right. You're confident, persuaded of that. And I want to be sure, for your sake, that your prophecy is sound. You see, I want to be fair. If you marry me, you're done. You can't go back."

  "What of yourself?" said Valerie.

  Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

  "I love you," he said.

  "And I...?"

  He took his old seat upon the fender.

  "That's different," he said positively. "The squire adores his queen: the queen, her king. When the squire becomes king— — "

  "Anthony, Anthony, what's the matter with me? You call me a queen, dress up my shame in honourable words, turn my miserable— — "

  Anthony checked her with a touch.

  "My queen can do no wrong."

  Valerie covered her face.

  "Listen," she said. "For more than a year, now, I've loved you. The first time I ever saw you I loved you as I do now. We never made love, you and I. We just exchanged hearts the very first time we met. I loved you, body and soul— as I do now. Your smile, your laughter, your voice, your strength and gentleness— all these things were the breath by which I lived. When you touched me, mirrored yourself in my eyes, kissed my hand, I loved you most of all: and when you took me in your arms, the world stood still. I used to long to be married. I wanted to be with you all the time. I wanted to wake in the night and see you asleep by my side, bend over you, kiss your hair.... I want to now." She lifted her head slowly and met his eyes. "I've read about love. I've seen a woman's eyes light when her man came into the room. But I think our love was supernatural. It was like a cord strung tighter than cords are ever strung. A breath made it vibrate. Our understanding was infinite. Our sympathy was so deep that it was almost absurd. We weren't lovesick. We never pawed one another. We never had to be together all day long. Some of our happiest moments were spent apart— apart, Anthony... Sometimes, in those last weeks before you disappeared, you— you used to go to Town just for the day. Well, those days gave us a chance of focusing our love. It was like standing back from a picture to see it in its true light. I told you so once, and you laughed and said you agreed and that, since we both felt the same, we'd better remain single: and then you picked me up and put me on this mantelpiece and asked what it looked like from there. And the Pleydells came into the room before I was down, and Boy put up Adele to keep me company, and Berry stood between us and said he was a cuckoo-clock." She broke off with a half-laugh, half-sob which tore Anthony's heart. The next instant she had herself in hand. "Well, there you are. I'm getting away from the point. We shared everything, you and I. Everything. Every slightest emotion. I can't explain why or how. It was a miracle: and yet it seemed the most natural thing on earth....

  "And now— there's something, Anthony, that we can't share. It's not a chance sensation— I could bear that. It is that very miracle that I've been speaking of. Source, stream and sea— every shining inch that was our heritage, is mine alone. You can't inherit it ... till you remember..."

  His head bowed, Anthony sat very still.

  The girl went on— fiercely.

  "Why should that matter so terribly— make such a difference? I can't explain. There's something I can't control. Perhaps I love you too much. Perhaps the cord's too tight— too sensitive. Perhaps it is that miracles go their own way— override instinct.... But I can't pretend, dear, because that's blasphemy. We're treading holy ground.... I love you. I love to be with you. I love to do what you do— share your life. But there's a gap in our relations that only your memory can fill. Your sympathy is strange: your understanding a substitute. I ask you for bread, Anthony, and you give me a stone.... It's not your fault, lad, it's not your fault. And God knows— God knows it isn't mine. And when— when you remember...." She fell on her knees beside him and put her arms about his neck. "Anthony, Anthony, I love you! 'Love'? The word's useless. You're the only thing in all the world that matters. I'm just mad about you, my darling, but you mustn't be mad about me."

  Anthony looked into the deep blue eyes.

  "I think," he said slowly, "I think I see what you mean. I've forgotten our precious masonry, and yet I'm using the signs. When I kiss you, I'm speaking a language which I don't understand. You don't know what prompts me to do it: you only know that its motive is foreign to you— doesn't spring from that heritage which once was ours. And that heritage— that masonry is something you can't renounce. Whether you would or no, the gods won't let you.... Yes, my dear, I see, I understand.... And I'm easy now. Your prophecy is sound. When my memory returns, it— it'll set things right." He looked away suddenly. "I'm sure it will return," he added. "I'm sure it will. But ... Supposing— supposing it shouldn't, Valerie..."

  "It will, my Anthony, it will."

  "It— it mightn't."

  "It will," breathed Valerie. "It will."

  He turned his head again and looked again into her eyes. The stars were there now, and her whole face was alight with love and eagerness. Her proud lips were parted, and the warm perfume of her breath beat fast upon his chin
. And her arms were about his neck....

  "Yes," he said shakily, "it will."

  Then for the second time he turned away.

  The arms slipped from his neck, and Valerie rose to her feet.

  Anthony stood up and put his hands behind him.

  "So the queen," he said gently, "cast her bread upon the waters and married her squire. And she never regretted this because, while others looked upon her as the squire's lady, the squire never forgot that she was his queen."

  Valerie took his head between her cool palms.

  "She was a very lucky woman," she said tremulously.

  Then she drew down his head and kissed his eyes.

  9: The Swine's Snout

  A CARDINAL laid down his pen and sat back in his chair. For the last three days he had wished for tidings from England, and wished in vain. And now another postman had passed and had left no letters....

  His Eminence rose to his feet and started to pace the room, with his chin in his hand. For all his simple faith, John, Cardinal Forest, was growing uneasy.

  A servant entered the chamber, salver in hand.

  "The postman returned, Monseigneur. He had overlooked this dispatch."

  The prelate ripped open the letter with an impatient forefinger.

  Bell Hammer,

  New Forest.

  Sept. 24th.

  Dear John,

  The weather is improving, and the glass is slowly going up. That stifling, thunderous atmosphere has been done away, so far as I was concerned, in the very nick of time. I tell you, I was being choked. But now, upon the seventh day of October, Valerie and Anthony Lyveden are to be wed, and I can breathe again. I know this will bring you to England, and the thought exhilarates me. If the Vatican refused you leave, I should wire to the Pope. Our little crowd is huddled about the gate of Paradise, knocking and ringing and staring between the bars. But the porter will hear you....

  To Anthony his loss of memory means nothing at all: to Valerie it means— everything. It meant nothing to her, either, till he remembered André Strongi'th'arm.... Yet it is not just vanity. Valerie is not like that. There is vanity there, but there is something else. So long as his memory was dead, it was out of the question— like the moon. Then, suddenly, the moon was available. Somebody else had had it— for half an hour.... There is nothing like potential possession for making a thing desirable. No collector covets the Venus of Milo, because she is not for sale. But if the Louvre were "To be Sold, Furnished," half the rich men in America would be licking their lips. I am, of course, discreetly begging the question. Already your shrewd forefinger has found the flaw in my plea, which is that I am valuing his memory at more than it is worth. It is, you will rightly say, not to be compared with Venuses or moons. I cannot help that. Neither can Valerie. You know that she is not whimsical. You know it, John. Yet she craves to be remembered. She smothers her craving as much as ever she can; but it is there, in her heart. And Anthony knows this, and would readily sell his soul to give her her heart's desire....

  That is the sum of my trouble— trouble which no outsider would ever suspect. Valerie seems radiant, Anthony the happiest of men. The Pleydells dined with us last night; the Alisons arrived after dinner; they all danced in the gallery, and at two o'clock this morning I felt twenty-six. I confess that six hours later I felt four score, but, then, the flesh is weak. Oh, the glass is rising without a shadow of doubt.

  When they are married, they will go abroad for some months; certainly they will visit Rome and sit at your feet, so you must come quickly and give them just cause for veneration. As you know, they will be provocatively rich. Anthony's place in Dorsetshire is very fine; the house is warm and red, and was designed by Inigo Jones; its staircase makes my mouth water. The estate itself is considerable and very lovely. His town house is a convenient luxury; six tiled bathrooms and a passenger lift. He has bought a new Rolls, as he says, to assert his opulence, and we all four float about the country with the smug superiority of profiteers. 'All four,' I say...

  Andrew Plague, whom, if I have done him justice in other letters, you must be itching to meet, is a tower of sanity and strength. I have never met anyone whose contributions to every kind of conversation were so consistently invaluable. His reputation is unspeakable, but Anthony or I stumbled upon the rich vein of humour which underlies his nature and has never been exploited before. Its yield is amazing. This is as well, for I am to be his wife. I am indeed. When you come, you will see why. For one thing, there are some honours too high to be declined; for another, his personality is most compelling— I simply dared not refuse; finally, I love children— and he is nothing but a great child that has never been understood. He insists that he does not love me— is most emphatic upon this point. He has, he declares, the greatest regard for me— delights in my company, but that is all. After all, it is a child's prerogative to lay down the laws of the game. I play it gravely— at times with tears in my eyes. He reminds me of Samson's lion. 'Out of the strong came forth sweetness.' How wild the lion would have been, could he have foreseen his posthumous philanthropy!

  He will go on with his work— for a while, at any rate. At the moment he is on holiday— his first for twenty-five years. He likes it so well that his clerk is at his wits' end. The finest mill at the Bar, the only mill which never, never stopped, has at last come to rest. Solicitors can't get their grist ground. They won't go elsewhere, but keep on demanding their meal. And Andrew sits on the terrace and gloats placidly over the consternation he is causing. Not all the time, of course. I won't allow that. Yesterday we made him help Anthony to change a wheel. He protested violently, but I reminded him of Mucius Scævola and dissolved his wrath in a posset of toothsome wit which he brewed at my expense. I meant Cincinnatus, of course. Now he is most interested in cars and is to learn to drive. I told you he was a child.

  And so, you see, our spikenard is exquisite stuff. So clear and exquisite, John, that it shows up that speck of a fly which I have dealt with. If it were cruder ointment, the fly would pass.

  Affectionately yours,

  HARRIET TOUCHSTONE.

  P.S.— Yes, of course, I am hoping most desperately that he'll remember you. If you were here with them, you’d be catching at straws. Besides, he might— easily.

  His Eminence picked up a diary and knitted his brows....

  That evening he made his arrangements.

  He left for the county of Hampshire the following day.

  "THE ALMANAC'S out," said Lady Touchstone. "The calendar's lost its place. To-morrow's October, and here's another midsummer's day." She turned to the sideboard. "And mushrooms and all."

  "Let me put on the lid," laughed Valerie. "Or can't you bear it?"

  "My dear," said her aunt, "my cup is bottomless. And don't talk of lids. It hasn't got one."

  "Uncle John's on his way."

  Lady Touchstone clasped her hands.

  "I shall go to Church this morning," she announced tremulously, "whether there's a service or not. It's— it's only decent."

  Sir Andrew looked up from his letters and into the park.

  "Will you drive me to Brooch after breakfast?" he said, quietly enough.

  "I will," said Anthony.

  The women heard the request and wondered, but not for long. After all, the K.C.'s affairs were high matters, and Lyveden was still in his confidence, if not in his pay.

  The meal proceeded cheerfully.

  Sir Andrew had no desire to be driven to Brooch— and, for the matter of that, no intention, either. But he was extremely anxious to talk with Lyveden undisturbed.

  Let us see why.

  The moment the knight had appreciated that the curing of Anthony's defect was seriously desired, he had appreciated also that there was only one way to go about it. Whether even that way would lead to success, no one on earth could tell. But there was no other way at all. What exasperated Sir Andrew was his knowledge that the way in question was barred— barred by a flimsy rail, only meet, to his min
d, to be trodden under foot. This was the Rail of Sentiment.

  Valerie French was desiring that Lyveden's memory should return. Very well. It had returned once ... once only ... for a moment of time. And that was at the instance of André Strongi'th'arm.... Reason suggested bluntly that the latter should try again. There was a chance— a good sporting chance that she could develop her success, that she would be able to coax the capricious truant back into its cage. The devil of it was that the lady could not be employed....

  Why? Because, forsooth, fruit of her picking would lose its flavour. Miss Valerie French was nice— nice. So she had the grapes what did it matter whose fingers reached them down? Such fastidiousness was grotesque— sickening....

  However, care as he might, Sir Andrew was so sure that André's agency would be unwelcome that he had not so much as hinted at such a venture even to his affianced wife. Instinctively he knew that to do so would be to waste his time. The flimsy rail, in her eyes, was a five-barred gate— which it was sacrilege to approach. These women....

  For all that, an honest firm of detectives had not lost sight of the girl. The knight, for what it was worth, received a report of her movements every morning ... for what it was worth....

  It was the latest report, delivered by hand at breakfast, which made Sir Andrew so anxious to talk with Lyveden.

  Hitherto the road had been closed— by a rail or a gate. Now it was about to be obliterated. In less than thirty-six hours it would have ceased to exist.

  I have, I suppose, a weakness for letting things speak for themselves. Five minutes ago I thrust an original document into your hands. And now, sirs, here is another. In a sense, I am avoiding my duty. Yet this I do, not of laziness, but in a belief that evidence at first-hand is preferred to secondary, however tricked out and garnished the latter may be.

  PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.

  Sept. 29th.