I heard from Forest yesterday, promising to attend our wedding and speaking highly of you and of his niece. I would do much for that man, who does much to redeem for me the painful impression created by certain other divines.
I hope that you are well and do not regret what you have done. There is nothing which I can usefully say of your predicament, so I shall hold my peace. Lady Touchstone and I speak frequently of you both and wish you very well.
Should you write to me from Egypt, I beg that you will not dilate upon the Pyramids, which, though commonly accounted one of the wonders of the world, only commemorate the blockish mentality of the scene-shifters who ordered their construction. They are not decorative and serve no purpose. Their erection certainly entailed more labour, blood and tears than any building that ever was set up: and they are probably the most idiotically useless things that ever cumbered the earth.
Give my regards to Mrs. Lyveden.
Faithfully yours,
ANDREW PLAGUE.
Lyveden picked up a pen and made ready to write.
His thoughts, however, were mutinous.
After a minute or two, he rose and crossed to the window, to knock out his pipe.
As he leaned over the sill, Valerie passed out of the hotel— a delicate, dark-haired ghost, silent, fleeting.
For an instant the man stood still, taken and held by surprise. The next moment, he was fighting his way into a pair of tennis-shoes....
That Valerie should be abroad, unattended, by night, was not to be thought of. Plainly, she wished to be alone. He would respect her desire. She should go and do as she pleased. But, though she should not know it, the squire would be within call. It was his job.
In a flash, he was downstairs and out in the sable road.
There he stood, hatless, peering into the shadows, straining his eyes and ears, to know which way she had gone.
The sons of Nature seemed to have conspired to thwart his senses. The silence, which she had shaken, lay still as death. The jewellery of heaven was shedding a lesser light. A wandering breeze lisped, to smother her footfalls.
Then, fifty paces away, something flickered against the black of the way ... something ...
A moment later, Lyveden was following a pale figure, steadily flitting into the wilderness.
That the figure was that of an Egyptian, and not that of his wife, rather naturally never entered his head. Both were dark-headed, grey-clad, spectral. But this was of no consequence. The Egyptian was following the lady.
The three proceeded Sphinxward, Valerie setting the pace— blind leading the blind....
The girl was curiously excited. Mystery was in the air. She was persuaded that, naturally or unnaturally, in the presence of the Sphinx the field of her intelligence expanded and its focus became more sharp.
It is probable that her persuasion was sound. There was, to my mind, no mystery. Plainly, the monument inspired her. Her identification of the dead the night before was an inspiration.
It was, however, most natural that the girl should smell magic. Others, wiser than she, have done so, with less excuse. Darkness, silence, the wilderness, tradition, an age so old as passeth all understanding— if such a pasture will not draw Magic, then will no pasture. Be that as it may, the magic she smelled made her the more receptive. By the time she had sighted the Sphinx, Valerie was quite prepared to be among the prophets.
The Egyptian's emotions were at once less fine and more hazy.
Perceiving a white woman passing alone into desert places, he had followed her of instinct. Here was something superior to and feebler than himself, an opportunity to overpower which with impunity was being offered him. Not to avail himself of such an invitation would have been indecent. His forbears would have turned in their graves. He had no intent, save violence; no plan of action, save surprise. Instinct was his conductor, and brutal instinct would tell him what to do.
The beast was evil and would have been hanged long ago, but for the love he bore his own skin— an inconvenient affection, which had spoiled more sport than he could remember. To-night, however, he could junket without a qualm. Retribution was asleep. The mists of insult, robbery, murder wreathed themselves glittering before his protruding eyes. Gliding behind his quarry, he began to feel extraordinarily brave. It was only with an effort that he mastered an inclination to expectorate contemptuously.
Anthony went thoughtfully, his eyes riveted upon the splash of grey ahead. He was sure, of course, that Valerie was for the Sphinx. He feared that she was unhappy ... was sleeping ill. He wondered if she had ever gone out by night before, decided that she probably had, sweated to think of the perils she had invited. The reflection that now all danger was overpast, he found most comfortable. The thought that she would never be aware of his vigilance, that night after night, perhaps, she would go forth, unconscious alike of peril and wardship, that his darling would be under his government, though his darling would never know, gave him an exhilarating sense of seigniory— a feeling not to be found in the prescribed equipment of squires. He kept his distance carefully, with a grateful heart.
That upon her beholding the Sphinx and presently contemplating the monster as dispassionately as she could, nothing, which could, by any stretch of imagination, be construed as a revelation was vouchsafed to Valerie, is not surprising. Divers commonplace thoughts wandered casually into her head— to be pounced upon, sifted and scrutinized in vain. Here was no gold. Presently, naturally enough, she thought of what had happened the night before— as luck would have it, a fatal exercise. Her mind fell upon the memory and refused to let go. She hauled it away and drove it elsewhither. Always, it eluded her goad and came pelting back. To see what would happen, she allowed it to have its way. It swallowed the memory whole, and then settled comfortably down to chew the cud....
A feeling of disappointment began to edge its way into Valerie's heart. Apparently, the oracle was not to work to-night. After all, it could not be expected to function regularly. Still, she had hoped— felt...
She did not know what she had hoped. There was no communication which she at all desired. That which had been made her the night before, she did not especially value. It was, after all, of no use. Still...
She had a ridiculous feeling that the Sphinx was interested. To-morrow, perhaps...
Valerie rose to her feet.
The moon would be rising soon. Very soon, the gentle fuller of the firmament would be about her business. Any moment now, her exquisite craft would come stealing over the desert, slashing Night's doublet with silver, furbishing a dull world.
Her thoughts slid back to a night a year ago, when she had stood, as now, looking upon a landscape which was smiling in its sleep: on the terrace ... at home ... at Bell Hammer ... with Anthony at her side.... And he had wrapped his love in a fairy tale— a tale of a frog and a princess. The princess had kissed the frog, because— 'because it pleased her to kiss him,' and— nothing had happened. The frog had loved her so much and had hoped so very hard, and then— nothing had happened. Poor frog....
With a sigh, the girl turned, to meet the Egyptian face to face.
She started violently, and then stood still as death.
The look in the creature's eyes told her her hour was come. There was no hope.
In a flash, her folly stood out in all its nakedness.
She must have been out of her mind to leave the hotel. Even in England, it would have been unwise. In Egypt ... She must have been mad ... bewitched. Her wretched, idiot fancy that the Sphinx had power to— Power? My God! This was its power ... this...
How clear it was, now. How simple. 'Those whom the gods will destroy, they first send mad.' She had asked to be shown the mystery, and her prayer had been heard. She had sat at the feet of the Sphinx, and the Sphinx had shown her the way to dig her own grave. She had thought herself so clever, because she had found its secret— counted herself one of the elect, because she had felt its spell ... and, all the time, the Sphinx was luring her
on ... all the time she was strutting up to her doom.
And, now, the comedy was over— all but the last short scene. And Anthony, in whose presence every hair of her head was safe, was sleeping peacefully ... with a happy look on his face....
She wondered dully whether the Sphinx ever smiled.
Surely, if ever it did, it was smiling now ... leering and staring, as this thing before her was leering and staring horribly ... gloating ... with a trickle of spittle running down over its chin.
Valerie felt very sick, suddenly.
The Egyptian began to mow and gibber in an ecstasy of hate.... A filthy breath beat upon her face... Instinctively, the girl shrank. Instantly, a hand like a clumsy claw fell shaking upon her shoulder....
It was at this moment that Anthony took her assailant by the throat.
To be exact, he took him by the sides of the neck, standing directly behind him, with his thumbs braced against his backbone and his powerful fingers pressing upon his windpipe. For a first attempt at garroting, it was extremely good.
The Egyptian fought like a beast that will stave off Death, without the slightest result. The inexorable grip grew slowly tighter and tighter. The pain in his spine became an agony, which no manner of screams could express. What was so frightful was that he could not scream— because he could not breathe. The pressure upon his windpipe was preventing him. Here he perceived that it was necessary that he should fill his lungs. It had been necessary for a long, long time. It was becoming vital— vital. He must breathe, instantly— or die. His head was bursting, like a skin that is stretched too tight. The blood was heaving, pounding against the back of his eyes. His lungs were delivering an ultimatum. The agony in his spine was not consistent with life. Something warm was running out of his ears. The inside of his head had fetched loose and was flapping like canvas in the wind, and the wind was roaring. The stars had slipped and were rushing earthward in a mad swirl ...
Anthony, who had always understood that compression of the windpipe induced insensibility, was beginning to wonder whether Egyptians were abnormally built, when his victim's knees sagged and he collapsed upon the sand.
Anthony stepped over the body and up to Valerie's side.
The girl stared at the huddle with frightened eyes.
"Dead?" she whispered.
Anthony shook his head.
"To-morrow," he said, "Douglas will have a stiff neck. Possibly, his throat will be sore. And, if he identifies me, he'll want to enter my service at a nominal wage. But I don't think we'll have him."
Valerie tried to laugh, and burst into tears...
As they were nearing the hotel—
"You do everything well," she said.
"Even violence?"
"Yes, everything. You always did. Gods do, I suppose."
"Valerie, Valerie."
The girl turned and caught him by the arm.
"I take it back," she said. "You're not a god. If you were, you wouldn't love me. That's your only fault. That you can waste your time on a— No. Don't stop me, lad. I want you to know how I feel. I want you to know that I realize that we're playing parts— that I'm playing the part of a queen, in a pasteboard crown, while you're playing the part of my man, to do me pleasure. You're my lord, really. You know you are. But if you don't know it, I do. The first time I ever saw you, you were my lord. The royalty in you just crooked its finger, and I had to come. I masked it as best I could, because I'm a woman. But I had to come.... I'd seen you, and that was enough. I was your slave." She lifted her eyes and looked at the rising moon. "So I am now. It is my glory.... I lost my balance once, and trod it under my feet. I might as well have kicked against a marble wall. I was your slave.... How d'you think a slave feels, when her lord makes much of her? I'll tell you. It makes her very happy and very proud, and it turns her love into an adoration. But how d'you think a slave feels, when her lord kneels at her feet ... humbles himself to do her honour ... gives up his titles and estate, because he will not use what she has not? I'll tell you, because I know. She feels as though her heart would break, Anthony ... and, sometimes, she wishes to God that they had never met...."
There was a long silence.
At length the girl sighed and lowered her eyes. The cold, searching wind of self-reproach had died down. When she spoke again, the wild note in her voice had become wistful.
"I don't know why I keep thinking of old times to-night. But you and I stood like this once, together ... one perfect night ... my birthday, a year ago. You told me a fairy tale ... a tale of a frog, poor fellow, who was in love with a princess...."
"I take it, I was the frog," said Anthony.
"That's right. And he thought that, if the princess were to kiss him, he’d turn into a prince."
"That wasn't very original," said Anthony. "The idea of Beauty bracing herself to kiss a repulsive Beast has almost the standing of a proverb."
As he spoke the words, the girl's brain plunged.
Beauty bracing herself....
The cap fitted. It was her very plight.
The curious persistence with which the fairy tale had thrust into her mind was suddenly explained, its moral immeasurably reinforced. The Sphinx— the oracle had spoken, just as the night before— — It occurred to Valerie that she had done the creature wrong. The evil that had befallen her was not its fault. Besides, no evil had befallen her. She had been miraculously preserved.... Indubitably, she had been right. Her first impression had been right The Sphinx was interested. And— it— had— pointed her— the way....
Anthony was speaking— from a great way off. His voice was sounding ridiculously minute.
"What happened?" he was saying. "Did the princess eventually kiss him?"
"Yes," said Valerie faintly. "And— and he turned into a prince."
AN HOUR had gone by— the happiest hour that Anthony had ever known.
Fearful lest her recent experience should prey upon her mind, the man had laid himself out, cost what it might, to lift up his lady's heart. He had his reward. Before he knew where he was, her heart had caught his and lifted it clean into Paradise.
The two sat in her room, talking familiarly of bygone days. He could not remember them. It did not matter. She made him free of her memory, invited his curiosity, rallied his eagerness.
For the first time since their compact, they had exchanged rôles. The man was natural, and the woman was playing a part. Valerie was pretending that she did not care....
Perched sideways upon a table, the slim white fingers of one hand resting upon her hip, those of the other keeping a cigarette, her back straight as an arrow, the girl was a sight to make the angels shout. Every precious bit of her was remembering Nature. The sun and the rain might have dressed her wonderful hair, berries have bled the scarlet of her mouth, violets and stars conjured the magic of her eyes. Her voice was birds' music; the smell of her, the faint scent of blossoms upon a summer's night. Fresh, lithe, glowing, she was embodying most exquisitely that very nonesuch of quality, that precious offset to decay, seldom of this world, never of any other, red, quivering vitality itself. The spring of her movement, the course of the blood in her veins, the clean breath of her body— these unseen mysteries were patent as the day. The wild thing was out of the forest: Eve was in Eden.
Sitting there, on the table, pausing now and again to shudder over a sip of brandy and soda— medicine, which he had prescribed— Valerie gave the impression of a wild thing that knew no fear. Once, she burst into song— flung out a snatch of a lullaby, which he had used to love....
Little wonder that, looking upon her, the man's heart burned within him. The queen had put off her crown.
If the queen had put off her crown, the soldier was not upon parade.
Seated on the arm of a chair, his pipe between his white teeth, Anthony Lyveden was looking like a young god, refreshed— some god of the woods and streams, whom a man might take for a shepherd of high degree. The light of laughter hung in his fine, grey eyes. His firm wel
l-shaped mouth had taken a happy curve. The eager tilt of his chin, his heightened colour, the fresh brilliance of his tone told that the porter had laid aside his pack. Care had slipped down from his pillion. The pony was out of the pit.
Valerie saw this, and the sight gladdened her eyes. She began to forget that she was playing a part. Pretence slid into Reality. If Reason flung out an arm, Nature brushed it aside. That blessed, happy look was worth anything— anything. Besides, she— she did not care ... any more. At least ... How could she care, when the boy had come out to play? At the thought that it was she who had coaxed him, a smile of unutterable tenderness swept into her face....
Anthony saw it and, smiling, praised God.
An overwhelming desire to do more came flooding into Valerie's heart. She was giving, doing nothing— nothing, and he deserved so much. She wanted to honour her darling, to whom honour was due. She wanted to exalt her lover, as no man had ever been exalted before. Before his excellence, words failed her. She felt inarticulate. Yet, express herself somehow, she must. She must make him realize how incredibly dear he was. Her king had no idea— no conception how much he meant. The impulse to open his eyes became irresistible. Her ecstasy, his merit simply had to be expressed.
Valerie slipped off the table, fell on her knees and put her arms round his neck....
Instantly, the happy look faded.
Before her horrified gaze, the quiet, resolute mien stole into place.
In a flash, the boy was gone, and the soldier was on parade.
The strain had come back.
For a second, the girl peered at him, wide-eyed, speechless with dismay.
Then the dam burst, and her heart lifted up its voice.
"Anthony! Don't go back! My sweet, my darling, don't be on guard any more! I've seen you relaxed, my precious, I've seen you relaxed. I've seen you at ease— off duty, and I can't let you go. I never knew— never realized what it meant to you, and I hadn't the faintest notion of what it meant to me. It means everything, Anthony— everything in the world. What's your memory to me? Nothing! D'you hear? D'you understand? Nothing! I think I must have been mad to want it back. It's you, I want, my darling, you, you, you! When I see you happy like that, I simply don't care. I couldn't care if your memory never came back. The present's so dazzling that the past pales by its side— fades into insignificance. All these wretched weeks I've wrestled and fought with a shadow— a rotten ghost. And because you've loved me with a love I don't deserve, you've wrestled and fought, too. And now the ghost's laid. Smashed— broken for ever. It can't ever rise again. I don't know whether to laugh or cry when I see what a fool I've been. And you must try and forgive me, darling lad. They say Love's blind, and that's been the trouble with me. But now I can see. You've shown me. You've come off duty and shown me your blessed self. Oh, Anthony, Anthony, smile as you did just now. Look into my eyes and smile. Show me you know it's true that your memory doesn't count. Don't think I'm acting. I'm not. I mean what I say. If I were acting, how could I talk like this? I tell you, it doesn't count, darling. It'll never count any more. I don't care what you remember or what you forget. If you want to make me happy, do as I say. Smile— look— be as you were just now. Remember the barrier's gone, and that you and I are together, overlooking the rolling world. Look back at the last half-hour and see how happy I've been. I broke into song just now. Why d'you think I did that? Because I just had to sing— out of pure joy. Does that look as if I was caring about your memory? Oh, Anthony, my darling, my heart, blot out the last two months, and start again. Forget that they've ever been— except the last half-hour. Not that you haven't been wonderful, because you have. You've played the squire as it's never been played before. But now you've spoiled it all and shown me the king ... my king ... my glorious, happy boy, with a crown on his head and a look in his blessed eyes that I can't do without, my darling ... that I can't do without any more."
Valerie French (1923) Page 24
