Valerie French (1923) (19 page)

Her niece put her arms about her neck.

"Dear Harriet," she said, and kissed her.

Lady Touchstone closed her eyes and blessed God.

PATCH was plainly delighted to see Bell Hammer again, and when he found his log in its proper place he lifted up his voice in heartfelt gratitude.

Anthony watched his excitement with hungry eyes.

He supposed that the log was a toy and, as such, kept for the terrier in the bedroom which he had used; and the dog remembered his plaything as a matter of course, and—

Here the billet was brought and laid at Anthony's feet. Two bright, brown eyes stared up expectantly into his: a short, white tail moved slowly to and fro. Clearly the game was waiting, and he— he had forgotten the rules....

Lyveden stooped and caressed the eager head.

"Not to-day, old chap," he said gently. "To-morrow, perhaps. Or— or the day after."

The man was not unhappy. At times he was radiant. After all, as lovers go, he was unearthly rich. He had been given the very fee simple of Paradise itself. True, the estate was in trust, but one day the trust would be broken and he would enter in ... one day....

Till then— well, he was very lucky: he had much to be thankful for. A serious flaw in his title had been done away. He was, so to speak, in the straight. He would, of course, have liked to be able to see the post— have some sort of idea how long the straight was. Still...

Valerie was very sweet— very. No one could have been sweeter. He was most awfully proud of her. And— and she was splendid company....

Company
. The word seared his brain. His wonderful, peerless shepherdess— his queen— his darling ... was an excellent pal—
pal
. Yes, that was it—
pal
. Hell, how he loathed the word! Pal.... More. The bower had been rearranged— turned into a lounge, a parlour.... Arcadia had been converted into a recreation-ground.... And Love— Love had been decently clothed in a coat and trousers, with a nice, fat gag in his mouth and cuffs on his little pink wrists.... The exquisite masterpiece was gone, and a vulgar parody hung in its sacred room.

Anthony groaned.

It was not that he wanted to sit in the shade of an oak and sigh all day into a reed; it was not that he wanted to lie at the feet of Amaryllis, setting her brows to music and calling the heaven to wonder at her soft, dark hair. He wanted to take her hand and run down the dewy glades: he wanted to lift her to pick the dangling fruit— to stand with her on the hill-top and watch the sun get up, mark the breath of her nostrils upon the evening air, plunge with her into the horseplay of the wind: he wanted to hear the woods give back their laughter: he wanted to know that Love was enlarged, free— free to look out of her eyes, free to float upon her voice, free to sit upon his shoulders and flash in her smile....

Lyveden pulled himself together, wrenched his mind out of this perilous groove and tried to thank his stars for providing such a nice recreation-ground. It was vital that he should not lose heart—
vital
. So long as he did not lose heart, he had the ring on his finger ... the magic ring which, when he had found the trick of it, would turn the recreation-ground into the Garden of Eden.

Then he sat down on his bed and racked his brain until his head ached....

SIX HOURS had passed by.

Valerie, her aunt, and Sir Andrew had retired, and Lyveden and Patch were sharing the library fire.

This was too good to be left.

Most of the logs had melted into a quilt of red-grey ash, and such as were still surviving had become mere rosy brands, which winked and glowed silently and, from time to time, settled peacefully into their feathery grave.

The Sealyham was lying on his side before the hearth. Anthony was sitting on a corner of the broad club-kerb, smoking lazily and remarking the silence of the country with grateful ears. He enjoyed it amazingly, this peace. To listen, with windows open, and hear no sound, save the deliberate movement of a grave-faced clock, was fascinating....

A tall door opened, and Valerie came in.

Patch started up, and Anthony got upon his feet.

"And why," said the girl, advancing, "aren't you in bed? You're tired. You admitted you were. Yet you sit up."

"It's a way children have," said Anthony. "I'm so pleased with the pretty fire my hostess gave me. And I'm not at all sure that isn't why you've come back. I thought you looked at it longingly when you went— to bed."

"As a matter of fact," said Valerie, stooping to stroke the terrier, "I came to see you."

"You're a brilliant hostess," said Anthony, "but an unjust judge. You blame me for sitting up, and then deliberately incite me to repeat the offence."

Valerie laughed.

"It's a way women have," she said.

With that, she stepped over the Sealyham and took her seat on the kerb. Anthony resumed his, and, having knocked out his pipe, stretched up his hand and set it upon the broad stone mantelpiece. Then he folded his arms and looked at the beautiful face four feet away.

Valerie stared, smiling, into the fire.

Miss French was one of those women who are full of natural grace. She never took thought how she should sit or stand, but she never assumed an unbecoming pose. As a Naiad should sit by a fountain, so sat Valerie by that wood fire.

Her turned, down-looking head gave you her lovely profile— straight nose, proud, sensitive mouth, delicate chin. The column of her neck rose, white and gleaming, from the broad mouth of her dress. This was simple— a rich, plain purple— low-waisted, sleeveless, admirably cut, with points touching the ground. Black satin shoes, black stockings enhanced the beauty they shod. She sat sideways, straight-backed, much as a woman sits upon a horse. Her small, firm hands were folded upon her thigh. The toe of one little slipper rested upon the floor: the other lay close, braced against the silk of her stocking, four inches below the knee.

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....