Valerie French (1923) (24 page)

I didn't kiss him. He might have waked. And I have crime enough upon my soul.

November 12th.
— I am sitting, waiting, till I think it is safe to go in....

To-day we rode to Sakkara and saw the Step Pyramid. It actually looks older than those at Mena. Anthony rides very well. Really, we are very happy. We settled all we shall do when we get home. First, the season. We've decided to go the whole hog— Ascot, Lord's, Hurlingham, dances, theatres, night-clubs— just to find out what we like: and then, next year, we can choose. Week-ends at Bell Hammer, of course. After that, Dorset. Then abroad for a month, and back to Bell Hammer for the fall. I can't miss that two years running. Then to Dorset for hunting, with odd days and nights in Town. We shall see... I told him of Gramarye to-day. All things considered, it seemed a wise thing to do. He took it quietly enough. "Winchester's right-hand man, was I? And you couldn't get me away? What a queer thing. You have had a time with me, Valerie...." Then: "I wonder who the poor fellow was they buried instead of me. I’d like to put up a memorial, when we get back— a cross or something. The pitiful dead, you know. And it might have been me, easily. 'The one shall be taken, and the other left.'" We rode back in the afternoon, and the sun was going down as we got in. The desert has seasons of extraordinary beauty. Sundown is one of them. Night is another. By day it is rather too brilliant, too hard, like a frozen smile. One feels that it would smile just as brightly— has smiled just as brightly, while men's throats were cracking with thirst. Thinking it over, I can see the cruel glitter behind a lot of the Rubáiyát.

I was right. By night, his memory returns
. He has been talking in his sleep—
talking of the old days
. I can hardly believe it, and I am so excited I can hardly set the facts down. I knelt by his side and heard it— heard with my ears...
Patch
— that's nothing, of course, because Patch has survived, but wait— Gramarye— true, I'd told him of that this morning, but wait, wait—
the Bumbles, the War, The Leather Bottel, The Dogs' Home
.
ME
... Snatches, shreds only, but
I
knew where they belonged, where they came from.
He's just had distemper, sir.... Oak's the best. It's hard to work, but .. Valerie, I quite forgot. The kiss I gave you that day ... You take the parade, Toby.... I couldn't help it, Patch. She— seemed— so— sweet.... Try and free your right arm.... I feel like a king, Valerie. You ... Colonel Winchester wants the roan at a quarter to eight
.... To the world, incoherent nonsense: to me, the most blessed discourse that ever a woman heard.

Two solid hours I've been there, straining my ears. Sometimes, he never spoke for a quarter of an hour. Then he’d whisper something so low I could hardly hear. The scene kept changing. I never knew where he was. His memory was back at work, and his brain was stepping from incident to incident in that queer, haphazard way it does, when you're letting your thoughts carry you where they will. It was back ... in his blessed head. It flies, when he wakes, of course: but it must be very near. Perhaps ... if, in the morning, he remembered a dream.... Supposing something were to wake him— suddenly ... when he was talking in his sleep ... something ... a kiss, perhaps....

November 13th.
— Fate is a mocker. This morning, at breakfast, Anthony quietly said, "I had a queer dream last night." I think my heart stopped still. "I dreamed that you and I were over the edge of a cliff. And I was hanging on to the branch of a tree, holding you up. I can't remember what happened, but Patch was there. It was amazingly vivid." As soon as I could speak, "It wasn't a dream," I cried. "At least, not fiction. I can show you the cliff we fell over. The earth gave way, while we were sitting there, and you saved both our lives." He gave me a half-frightened look. "Did I
remember
it, then?" "Yes, yes. Don't you remember it
now
?" He looked away, and presently covered his eyes. I sat watching him, with my heart in my mouth. At last: "No," he said slowly, "I don't. I only remember the dream." I couldn't take that. I was frantic. I strove, I fought like a maniac to drag his memory back. I knelt by his side and made him go over the ground, inch by inch. I guided, I led, I encouraged, I pointed the way— I made a fool of myself and I badgered him.... Worse. I showed what a terrible value I set upon his memory, and drove a desperate, hunted look into his darling eyes....

It spoiled our day, of course. God knows how many days it's spoiled. When we rode out after breakfast, the desert's brilliant smile cut me like a whip.

I haven't the heart to write very much to-night.

I've lost heavily to-day. I never realized at the time how much I was standing to lose. I only saw the fortune I stood to win. And I didn't win, and I've lost a lot of ground. We're farther apart, he and I, than we have been for weeks. The gulf that is fixed between us, was losing its formidable look. It seemed to be shrinking a little in width and depth. Sweet-smelling flowers—
new memories
— were blooming about its sides, and little, tender leaves were masking its grim, raw edges.... This morning I tore the blossoms and leaves away. I showed him the gulf, stark and gaping and black. I forced him to face its harshness. I rammed its threat down his throat— the threat that it will never be bridged....

November 14th.
— A man told me once that the first time he saw the Sphinx was by moonlight and that he had much ado not to burst into tears. Perhaps because of this introduction, I found the Sphinx less impressive than other things. But now it is growing familiar, and familiarity is breeding regard. Its steady, imperturbable stare is beginning to attract my attention— stick in my mind. It has stared like that, always. When the War came and Europe was bubbling like a pot, the Sphinx stared just as peacefully as ever. Whilst Anthony and I were hanging over that cliff, with Death whispering in our ears and the birds screaming below, the Sphinx was here, staring steadily into the distance. While men were hauling the Wooden Horse into Troy, the Sphinx was staring placidly across the ages. It will stare like that upon the Day of Judgment. At what is it staring so fixedly? What has it seen, so fascinating, that holds its eyes for ever? Eternity, perhaps. Thousands of years ago, it saw eternity coming, and it has never shifted its gaze.... I am coming to like the Sphinx. It is not fenced with awe, like its companions. Venerable as it is, it doesn't make me feel small. I think, if it could talk, it would be very civil. I am not sure that it has not a sense of humour.

Anthony certainly has. But, then, my husband is a wonderful man. To-day, by sheer force of will, he has won back for us both all the ground that I lost yesterday morning. He made me race my pony against his: he told me stories of Andrew Plague and Patch: he pictured the dismay of the Magicians in Ordinary upon finding that the enchantment for making lice was not in their books. With it all, he never grated. "The art of life, Valerie, is to bear up. We'll lunch in Cairo and drink such a cup as Jamshyd never dreamed of. Afterwards, we'll go and be stung in the Muski. We'll give a thief-treat. You know. Apparently aged rugs. There's nothing like spending money to buck you up. Hang it, we've much to be thankful for. There's you and there's me, and there mightn't be either. And what about Hamlet Patch? Supposing my name had been 'Buggins.' ... You just couldn't 've married me. To become 'Mrs. Albert Buggins' would have been too thick. And people would have said, 'There go the Bugginses.'' I had to laugh.... The tambourine was rolling: he kept it rolling, magically. We tore back to Mena in the evening, along that long straight road, chattering like two children...."

After dinner, we visited the Sphinx. I am beginning to perceive its mystery. Standing before it, you feel that you are in a presence— the presence of something immeasurably wiser than you. I know it is only a graven image, but I cannot help that. The feeling is not to be denied. And, though the Something is wiser, it is not less human. I am sure the Sphinx would be very decent.

I wonder what it cost him to do what he did to-day. I wonder what it cost Daphnis to laugh and dance and sing, with a heavy heart. A week or two more of this, and the boy will disappear. I shall have broken his heart. Only the tired soldier will be left.... A time must come when the pit-pony dreams no more of the green meadows and the kiss of the cool grass upon his aching heels. What happens to people who rob a pit-pony of his dreams? Surely, 'it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck....'
I am afraid
. My God, I am afraid to go in— in case that happy look shall have disappeared. And this boy, whose happy heart I am breaking, is
my beloved
. The little one I am offending is
my darling Anthony
.... How hideously Irony can grin— how
maddeningly
! And with a word I can dash the grin from its face ... with a word and a look. I've only to call the squire and set the crown on his head. And why shouldn't I? I love him. I'm mad about him. Why shouldn't I make him king? My God.... There are two reasons why. First, though I can crown him, I can't make him king. Then, if he were crowned, he’d play the king— and I ... I couldn't bear that.... Irony's grin would be replaced by a leer.

I cannot sleep. How can any murderess? I am going to dress and go out ... to see the Sphinx.

November 15th.
— A strange thing happened last night. I went out alone, about eleven o'clock, and walked to the Sphinx. Its stare had faded into a dreaming gaze, and it looked extraordinarily majestic. The fanatics who tried to spoil it, lost their labour. All they did was to give it a chance of demonstrating that it is above battery. You cannot disfigure personality. I found it almost impossible to remember that it was only an image. The impression of humanity was ridiculously strong. I found myself wishing idiotically that it could speak. I don't know why. I had no questions to ask. But I felt intuitively that, if it spoke, its words would be worth hearing. All of a sudden, it occurred to me that
the man who lay buried at Girdle was Peter Every
. Girdle was miles from my thoughts. For no reason whatever, the idea just burst into my brain: and, the moment it occurred to me, I knew it was true. Its truth was manifest— glaring. Peter was last seen at Girdle. He had been at Gramarye for me. The world had been scoured for news of him in vain. More. Everybody would have
known
that the body was his, if every one hadn't been certain that it was Anthony's. As it was ... Poor, poor Peter. Somehow— in some shocking way, he had met his death
in my service
. Instantly, the thought flashed that
it wasn't my fault
. I fobbed it off. It returned forcibly. I
knew
that I wasn't to blame. I
knew
... I felt that, for some mysterious reason, Peter was not to be mourned ... that he had been devoted— dedicate....

I went back to my hotel in a dream, turning my secret over and wondering whence it came. Was it coincidence? Or had the Sphinx twitched the scales from my eyes. Perhaps, they just fell. Still, I imagine, if you sit at the feet of Wisdom...

This morning the Sphinx was staring as fixedly as ever.

I have said nothing to Anthony, but I am going again to-night ... to sit at its feet. I am so impatient to get there that I am going now.

THERE. We have looked over Beauty's shoulder long enough, down past the bloom on her cheek and her sweet-smelling hair. Besides, my lady must change her slippers for something less exquisite: she cannot go walking the desert in those little dancing-shoes. Satin and sand will not agree together. She must choose a coat, too, out of her wardrobe, for the breath of Winter is stealing into the almanac, emerging like a grey wolf, after the great Sun has run his course. And though I should like to squire her with all my heart, I cannot afford the time. Besides, it is not my place. Wherefore, come with me, sirs, into her lord's chamber and see how he is faring, while Valerie puts off her slippers and chooses a coat.

LEANING AGAINST a jamb of his bedroom window, Lyveden looked out into the night. This was luminous. The moon was not up, but the brilliant stars were issuing a definite radiance, which lightened the darkness mystically. It would have been strange if the clusters with which the heaven was laden, had not asserted themselves. By some trick of atmosphere, they seemed monstrously low and lambent, ten times as innumerably numerous as ever before. Indeed, in places, the violet dome, from which they appeared to depend, was almost blotted out— there, to the right, a thousand million acres of the firmament were lacquered with a sea of silver-gilded worlds, all fretting and shimmering and rolling to Eternity's will.

For a while, the man stood, smoking, contemplating his lot.

He was, of course, immensely proud of his wife. To be known for the lord of such a dazzling creature, was a delicious vanity. So often as he considered that they were man and wife, his heart glowed. When he saw her coming to him in a public place, the cynosure of eyes, the thought that she was his lady, that that glorious smile was for him, that he had the right to rise and declare their relation, exhilarated him wildly. When chance acquaintances commended her by word or deed, he flushed with delight. He was also as deep in love as a man may be. He found her kind as she was fair, most loving and, most of all, natural. The easy, unconscious friendliness of a child, the quiet, steady understanding of a twin, the fresh, eager
bien être
of a wild creature—
tria juncto in uno
, made her most worshipful. Here was a wise head, of singular beauty, upon shoulders which were not only young, but white, shapely, supple, fit for the back of Artemis. Valerie could run like a deer. She could also enter a restaurant and stand waiting for a table to fall vacant with as much pleasing unconcern as most people use in church during the singing of a psalm. She could so decline a proposal, that the man who had made it felt idiotically rich. With it all, the pride of her turned everything she touched to gold. Swains, servants, strangers— every one was conscious of her dignity, except herself.