That she did not there and then make good her escape shows, I think, that Valerie's personality, like the Cheshire cat's grin, was surviving her presence in the flesh. The steady, blue eyes were gone, but the look of them was still there. Before it, as a sheep before her shearers, André was dumb.
She stood as Valerie had left her, leaning against a table, with her lips parted and her beautiful head thrown back....
Stretched upon the hearth, his nose between his paws, the Sealyham regarded her silently.
Anthony came in swiftly, dressed for dinner.
"You want me, Valerie? I—"
He saw who it was, and stopped dead.
André never moved.
Only the dog jumped up and ran to his lord.
"What's the matter?" said Anthony: "Are you ill?"
"No," breathed André, "I'm not. I wish I was. I wish I was dead."
There was a pause.
"I don't know why you say that," said Lyveden awkwardly. "But I don't know what's happened. I'd no idea you were here. Of course, Plague had no right to ask you to come."
A faint frown gathered on André's brow.
Then she lifted her head and turned to the man.
"Plague— ask me to come? What do you mean?"
Anthony stared.
"Didn't he get you here?"
"Plague?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand," said André. "Why should Plague get me here?"
"We quarrelled about it this morning," said Anthony "He wanted me to see you, and I refused."
"Why did he want us to meet?"
"Because he believes that you could bring my memory back."
"And why," said André slowly, "did you refuse?" The man hesitated. "Don't you want it back?"
"Yes, yes, I do."
"Then why did you refuse?"
"I want it for Valerie. She wants my memory back. And— and I don't think she’d care about it, if it came through another girl."
A curious gleam leapt into André's eyes— almost a glitter. She veiled it instantly.
"No," she said slowly, "I don't suppose she would. I shouldn't either." An odd strained note slid into her voice. "It would be a sort of stigma— suggesting that, however you and she felt, down at the bottom of things, the— the other girl had meant more."
"That's right," cried Anthony eagerly. "You've got it in one. I couldn't make Plague see it. Of course, the suggestion would be false—"
"Of course. 'False as— as dicers' oaths.'"
The irony of the quotation, the hysterical mockery in her tone, fell upon deaf ears.
The man continued excitedly.
"Exactly. But what— what’d make it so ghastly is that, so long as she and I lived, the stigma would stay. Once my memory's back, it's back for good. The mischief'd be irreparable. It'd last—."
The look in the big, brown eyes cut short the sentence. Tense, burning, desirous, it bored its way into his brain. Dumbly the man stared back— fascinated, paralysed....
He was snared— netted— limed ... caught in the very toils which he had been teaching his enemy to spread....
Already something was stirring at the back of his brain ... something....
"Till death," breathed André. "It’d last ... till death...."
The room seemed to grow smaller— the walls were closing in: the scene— my God, the scene was changing! André was in evening dress— with a great fur coat, flung open, and a throat and chest like snow. Where the light caught it, her wonderful, auburn hair burst into flame. Behind her gaped a huge fire-place, and the breathless silence of Night in the grip of Frost hung like a pall....
Suddenly the girl recoiled and clapped her hands to her mouth. The burning look in her eyes changed to a bright stare of horror.
"Don't!" she shrieked. "Don't! Think what you're doing, man! My God, d'you want—"
Quick as lightning she turned and struck at the elegant lamp-stand with all her might.
The pillar fell with a crash....
Wrapped in the sudden darkness, neither she nor Lyveden could see where the other stood. Gradually the glow of the fire silhouetted two shadowy forms....
André was whispering hoarsely.
"Where— did you— meet me— before?"
There was a dreadful silence.
At length—
"I— I don't know," faltered the man. "I— I can't remember."
A sigh ... the brush of a dress ... a footfall....
When Anthony pulled himself together, groped his way to the door and turned a switch, the room was empty.
Only the Sealyham stood by the broken pillar, with his ears back, tentatively wagging his tail....
10: Until The Day Break
HERE IS MATTER, sirs, which neither you nor I were ever intended to see— a human document, penned by a girl in her bedroom, night after night, while her husband sleeps or wakes upon the other side of the wall.
November 7th.— We were married a month ago to-day. I cannot realize it yet. I'm rather happier, because I have him all the time. But that is all— all. Strange, how, from childhood on, one stares at one's marriage as at an elephant, finger in mouth. The nearer it comes, the more curiously excited one gets. Every one tells you you're going to begin a new life: and you thank them nervously and get all ready to be reincarnated. Your entrance into wedlock becomes a soul-shaking event. Sometimes it looms, and you're afraid. The step is invested with such tremendous, immemorial traditions, that it ranks with Death itself. The Prayer Book, in fact, does the two equal honour. By the time the day is here, you fully believe you are going to be transferred to another plane— take on a new shape, or something. And then ... nothing happens— nothing. You're just exactly the same. So's everything. The momentous words have been spoken, the charm has been uttered, the wand waved, but the miracle has not come off. If you've taken a step, there's no sign of it. You've certainly changed your name, but you can do that in The Times. I never was so disillusioned— and relieved. At least, it reduces Death to the level of a sea voyage, which one just doesn't want to take. I suppose one does take it. I daren't assume anything now....
I like Cairo. Who wouldn't? It's like a dramatic version of Æsop, done in the stalls. You brush against fables or parables at every turn. I saw a camel to-day, its body completely hidden under its load of hay. It looked like a moving stack. It just swayed philosophically along, blinking. A man with a goat-skin of water on his back was selling it outside Shepheard's. Inside, Martinis were being mixed. As we were driving home, we fell in with a funeral. Just then the traffic was stopped, and for a moment or two our eight-cylinder cabriolet marched with a trolley of professional wailers. We got in so late last night that we took it easy to-day. We went to the Bazaar and, later, to the Citadel, to see the sun go down. To-morrow...
Anthony remembers nothing. He knows what the places are like and tells me what to expect. Cairo, like Port Said, is familiar; but he cannot remember having been here before. A curious thing happened. We were wondering which on earth of the hundreds of cigarette-shops sold the best cigarettes. Presently, he picked out one, saying he liked its style. The moment he went inside, the people recognized him. That was the shop he had chosen when he was here before... But that's not memory. If it is, it's unconscious and amounts to a glorified instinct He can remember nothing.
With it all, he's just splendid. I hope and believe he's happy. I know I'm— happy. He's a magnificent squire.... I'm minded to cross out those words, because, reading them over, I feel hot with shame. But I won't. I'll let them stand, and read them over every night and beg his pardon for daring to set them down. He's not a squire at all. He's the finest, most perfect lord that ever a woman had. And, to do his wretched wife honour, he's playing the squire. And she lets him ... lets him... It's lucky for me I live in the twentieth century. A hundred years ago I should have met with a very short shrift. I wonder if he's asleep. If I was sure, I’d go in and put his clothes straight and look at his blessed face. But I'd better not.
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November 8th.— I feel very small. So does Anthony. This morning we looked upon the face of the Pharaoh 'which knew not Joseph.' It is a hard, proud face. One understands why he was so harsh about the bricks. A live statue of the overseer of the building of the Great Pyramid was also most illuminating. With unlimited labour and that man's 'drive' behind the work, the stones simply had to go up. This afternoon we saw what that 'drive' had done.... We both agreed that you can't appreciate it at once: so to-morrow we move to Mena. I repeat, we feel very small. That Abraham was probably taken to see it, just as we've been taken to-day, is too big a thought for my brain. The poor thing recoils, like a puppy that has been sent to round up a mammoth. And Abraham stared upon it from much the same distance in time as we stare upon the Coliseum.... Such antiquity surely can put one in one's place. In its presence I feel a ragamuffin puppet, striking attitudes in a giants' council-chamber. My 'sea of troubles' sinks to an insignificant puddle: my joys, to a child's scratches in the sand. And yet ... Cheops and Abraham and Rameses were puppets too. They had their puddles and scratches. And, when they told themselves 'It's all the same in a hundred years,' it didn't do any good. It didn't dry up their puddles. They're dry now, of course. Mine'll be dry— when I'm dead.... I wonder if his memory is coming back. If it isn't, what are we to do? What is to become of us? I can't sit down and tell him the story of our love. I can't. For one thing, it won't go into words. It was the most precious ritual that ever was used. And we never learned it. It just came natural, like instinct. How can you teach a miracle? You can't. If you do, it becomes a conjuring-trick. Why do I care? Why does it matter so terribly? God knows. I suppose, because he remembered André. I suppose so. At least it's founded on that. That started the mill. Jealousy.... Yet, I'm not jealous of her— now. The point is, what are we going to do? We might go on like this for ever, if we weren't in love. But we are, passionately. Both of us. Only, I'm in love with the original, while the reproduction's in love with me.... At present we're drifting amicably— most amicably— in the hope of picking up a tow. Which means that we're going the wrong way. Presently, he'll get tired of playing the squire. He'll go to the Club ... hunt six days a week to my three ... work. And, one of these days, he'll go. Anthony, my Anthony will go. I'm asking for it, of course. And yet ...
November 9th.— He is wonderful. So gentle, so easy, so natural, so handsome in all he does. Except that he doesn't call me 'Ma'am,' I might be a queen, and he my dearest equerry. He calls me 'Valerie'— never 'darling' or 'dear,' but 'Valerie' always. He just rules Sentiment right out. He gave his word and he is determined to keep it up to the hilt. I try to make his path smooth, and my wretched efforts show what an infinitely inferior creature I am. I trip and blunder and fall over myself. He walks steadily, with bleeding feet. More. As often as I stumble and am like to pull us both down, it is he that holds me up. To-day my shoes got full of sand. He made me sit down, untied the laces, took off the shoes, emptied them and put them on again, talking evenly all the time about Andrew Plague and Patch. He was flushed and his hands were shaking, but he never touched me. Now, most unobtrusively, he avoids, when he can, the loose sand. I see it, because I'm a fool and would rush in. But he is an angel.... I kiss him, of course. I began without thinking and I can't give it up. I didn't, one morning. He just looked at me. "Listen, Valerie. If I wanted to kiss an image, I should. I should please myself. 'Eyes have they, but they see not.' The porridge, I may add, is beneath contempt. You know. Lumpy. Still, this sea air is so imperious..." He not only sinks his feelings, but he spares mine. 'Spares'? He considers— waits upon them. He is a king, who has put a slave's collar about his neck. He has tried to turn himself into an image, and he has become an idol— my blessed idol. 'He that shall humble himself, shall be exalted.' And I— I suffer it. I suffer this monstrous Saturnalia to prevail.... I broke down to-night. We had walked to the Great Pyramid and stared at it under the moon. Coming home, I broke down— suddenly. Anthony stopped, took off his coat and spread it upon the sand. I sat down, and he sat down by my side. I put my head in his lap and cried like a child. He talked quietly, in a steady tone. "It will come back, Valerie. Don't lose heart. Together, we can do anything. It will come back...." After a while, I put up my face and kissed him. Cold as it was, his face was wet with sweat.... I believe I have married a god. Yet, a god would not kneel. No. I have married the finest man God ever made— whose love for me is wonderful. As we got up, I asked him, "How can you love me?" "How can I help it?" he said. "There's no one like you and never has been, in all the rolling world." I could not say anything. I cannot say anything now. Such devotion, such respect for such a cause leaves me dumb.
November 10th.— I have realized that I am a married woman. I realized it to-day. We had driven to Cairo for luncheon at Shepheard's Grill. Afterwards, I was sitting in the lounge, and Anthony left me to speak to a clerk at the bureau. As he was coming back, I saw a man stop him and speak. The two stood talking for a moment, and I watched them impersonally, casually, as one regards other people in an hotel. Suddenly, out of the blue, it occurred to me that one of those men was mine— my husband.... That tall, handsome man, with the dark hair and the cigarette in his hand, was my husband.... A thousand times I had looked on husbands and wives and thought no more of the relation than I had of their size in gloves. 'What's Hecuba to him?' And now, I was a wife: and that, standing there, was my husband. We were married, joined for all time. I had failed, hitherto, to see the wood, for the trees: with the result that I had almost unconsciously passed over into that state which I had always regarded so distantly, with so detached— so mild an interest.... I was still tingling with the excitement of realization, when the two came across and Anthony introduced the man. They had been gunners together, so the man said. His name was Toby Redruth. He seemed very nice and delighted to see Anthony again. He said he wasn't sure of him at first— he looked so much older. And, when Anthony looked straight at him and took no notice, he thought he was wrong. Then he became positive.... He was clearly swept off his feet by Anthony's loss. He couldn't get hold of it at all. His naïve bewilderment made us both laugh. It seems the last time they were together was here, at Shepheard's Hotel. And then one went east, and the other— Anthony— west. Redruth is English, but has a job in Australia. I liked him a lot, and, just as we were going, he fairly won my heart. He'd begun to recover by then. He was walking with us to the door, when he stopped and touched Anthony upon the arm. "There's just one thing which you really ought to know. You actually saw it happen, and it's a thing that half the Army would have given their teeth to see." Then he told how a subaltern in France had got the guns away out of the very jaws of the German infantry. Anthony and I listened, spell-bound. "And I saw that with my eyes," concluded Redruth. "He ought to have had the V.C. with a couple of bars: but you know how these honours go." "Did he get nothing?" cried Anthony. Redruth smiled very tenderly. Then he turned to me and put out his hand. "And that," he said simply, "is why your husband was given the D.S.O." I could have kissed his honest face. But for him, I might never have known ... never ... what my husband had done....
November 11th.— I have done it. I have been in, while he slept. I have seen my husband, my Anthony, fast asleep. The room was full of moonlight— this wonderful Egyptian moon. I stole in, like a ghost, barefoot. I was afraid to breathe. Then, when I saw him, I forgot my fear. I didn't want to wake him, because it would have been a crime: but that was all. He looked like some picture I've seen— I can't think where. 'A Shepherd Asleep,' or something. His precious lips were parted, and there was a smile on his glorious face. His sleeve had slipped back, and his head was resting on his bare, brown arm. His hair was rumpled, and his colour was high. His coat, open at the neck. He looked so young and happy ... so free from care.... For a moment, I couldn't grasp it, and then— I understood. He was relaxed ... at play. The strong, resolute look had disappeared. He was a child again, a care-free child, that has no need of resolution, because the World's smiling and L
ife's a game. No need of resolution.... That eager, happy look cut me like a knife. It was the most terrible rebuke that ever a woman had. He must sleep, to be at ease. My darling must go to sleep, before he can put off care. All day he is on duty— goes armed. His eyes are always vigilant, his jaw set, his nerves taut, his soul patiently possessed. Only, when sleep comes, does the soldier disappear and the boy come out to play. Poor boy. Poor pit-pony, that toils so patiently day after labouring day, and never scampers in the meadows— never, save in his dreams.... He was dreaming, I think. I think he must have been. He looked so happy....
I stole out, as I stole in. And here I am writing now, while he is dreaming. I feel dazed. I never realized that I was committing crime. I never should have realized, if I had not been in and seen the boy at play. He is a thousand times more splendid than I had ever dreamed. I have married some sylvan deity, some laughing-eyed Daphnis, who, for love of me, stamps on his springing nature, shoulders outrageous burdens he never was meant to bear, grows old and serious before his time ... for love of me. And he does it all with such grace, that I never dreamed that at heart he was just a child. Even in the old days, he never looked like that. Once, yes. Once. Before Gramarye: before I sent him away. One morning, at the meet, after he knew that we were meant for each other, stand in the way what might.... I wonder what he was dreaming of. Golden days of some sort— blessed, breathless moments, when the blood sang in his veins and his heart danced to the tune that Life was piping ... forgotten days and moments.... Forgotten? My God, is it possible? Is it possible that he is remembering in his sleep? Or was he smiling at some fantasy of an unharnessed brain? Supposing— supposing he was remembering.... Supposing that at night, when he sleeps, his memory returns ... the fugitive, the wandering spirit comes back, like a shy, wild thing stealing out of the woods to visit its empty cage ... starting at every rustle, vanishing always at dawn.... I am a fool. He might have been dreaming of anything— of yesterday turned upside down, of Sir Andrew teaching Abraham to drive, of any nonsense you like, spun by some Puck out of the action of the last three months. And yet ... I cannot forget that look upon his face. It was so happy.
Valerie French (1923) Page 22
