Valerie French (1923) Page 8

  She had officially renounced the late Anthony Lyveden. She had resigned all claim to the deceased in favour of Valerie French. Also she had resumed her engagement with Richard Winchester. Renunciation, resignation and resumption had all worked together very well. They were, of course, jointly and severally founded upon Anthony Lyveden's death. And now, without any warning, the rock had crumbled away. Anthony Lyveden was alive and in London. He had been seen that morning.

  These were the hard facts. Now for the little ironies.

  It was Richard Winchester who had seen Lyveden: it was she who had arranged for Richard and Valerie to meet: it was at this meeting that Richard, in all ignorance, had announced his amazing news. More. What I am sure would have pleased Sophocles was that Richard was at this moment most capably assisting Valerie to find his rival....

  Pell-mell the three had repaired to the Temple, where Anthony had been seen. There Richard had posted each of the girls at a point commanding two exits. Himself he had sworn delightedly to answer for the rest, while a transfigured Valerie had thanked him with a smile out of heaven itself.... So soon as he was out of sight, André had made her escape and had returned to her hotel. The limit had been reached— passed. Labouring under a delusion, she had conveyed her freehold: she could not bring herself to subscribe to the livery of seisin. To be pressed enthusiastically into such monstrous service was more than André's flesh and blood could endure.... She could not know that two minutes after she had deserted her post Anthony Lyveden had followed her out of the Temple.

  André stared at the sunshine decking the havoc it had wrought.

  What should she do? Was she to lie in the bed which she had made? Or should she declare her position, demolish her existing couch, and set herself forthwith to make another? The idea of setting to work without telling Richard and Valerie never occurred to her. André was honest to a fault. She would not have deceived a dog. She could strike, and that without pity, but she could never feint. Craft of any sort she abhorred utterly. It was as much this very abhorrence as anything else which, though she did not know it, had compelled her to leave the Temple two hours before....

  Supposing she made a new bed, what would it be like?

  First, Richard must be sent packing. The stage had to be cleared. Then Valerie must be told that she— André— was out for Anthony Lyveden. Finally, for the bed to be anything other than the planks of misery, Lyveden, when found, had to be made to love her.

  There is nothing like looking the future full in the face ... André observed that, viewed from this standpoint, its features left much to be desired.

  For one thing, if Richard were dismissed, he would never re-enter her service. That was as clear as daylight. It was hardly likely that the clock would be put back a second time. André disliked the proverb which sets the poulterer's shelf above the butts. She found it unsporting. All the same, the saw edged its way into her mind and sat there, looking very wise and unpleasantly worthy.

  What was less certain, but very possible, was that Anthony Lyveden would not come up to the scratch. Once before he had failed signally. Besides, he was Valerie French's affianced husband.... Thackeray's tremendous dictum bundled into her mind. 'A woman with fair opportunities, and without an absolute hump, may marry whom she likes.' Yes, but Thackeray left himself a tremendous loophole. 'Fair opportunities.' Noun and adjective alike were extremely flexible. And her opportunities were not fair. In fact, she had none. Like the prospective bed, they had to be made.

  Indeed, the one and only thing to be said for such an attempt was that the bed, successfully contrived, would knock her existing couch into a cocked hat. The deal, if compassed, would make the audacious speculator unearthly rich ... if compassed....

  Always the flame of speculation was flickering in André's heart. She was so built. Her daring in the hunting-field was a byword. Only her love of horses restrained her at all. But for that, she would have been killed years ago.

  And so, madness as it may seem, before the radiance of the prize André almost went down. Inspired by some false god, almost she determined 'to put it to the touch to gain or lose it all.' Blinded by the glory of a phantom success, she could not see failure. So it was not the certainty of failure which stopped her dead. Neither— to her discredit— was it the thought of Richard, that splendid, honourable giant, which brought her up all standing. It was a pair of violet eyes, very beautiful and very, very tired, but smiling gently and easily for all their weariness....

  Success meant that Valerie French, her rival, would be broken, body and soul, upon the wheel.

  As I have hinted, André was not of the kind that waste their pity. If others went to the wall on her account, that was their own look-out. They should have shoved harder. But here was a difference. Twice she had done Valerie most grievous wrong. She knew it. The fact could not be blinked. That the injuries were now repaired was beside the point. She had not repaired them. She owed the girl something. She had kicked her when she was down. Now she was on her feet, it was out of the question that she should administer the coup de grâce. Anthony or no, it could not possibly be done....

  Of course, if Anthony saw her— preferred her to Valerie— made the running himself, that would be different. As it was, she could not move in the matter ... could not, possibly....

  Noblesse oblige.

  Where reason, decency, common sense— even the instinct of self-preservation had gone for nothing, magnanimity of all emotions had done the trick. And this was no daw in peacock's feathers, but the real thing. André honestly considered that she was standing aside, letting Valerie French go in and win.

  That same evening André visited Valerie and told her in very plain terms why she had deserted her post. She added that, if Valerie would allow it, she would henceforth do her utmost to help her find Anthony Lyveden.

  Valerie laughed gaily.

  "I should think you ride pretty straight," she said simply. "And now it's my turn. I very nearly kissed your Richard this afternoon. I had to drag him away, or he’d 've been there still. Not that I wanted to go, but Rome wasn't built in an eight-hour day. I know that Anthony's alive and here— in London. The rest will follow. I'm sure of it. Colonel Winchester was kindness itself— and efficiency. He went home swearing that Anthony should be found and that he’d find him. I asked him why he was so good. He simply stared. 'But you're a friend of André's,' he said. 'Aren't you?'"

  "I hope you said 'Yes,'" said André Strongi'th'arm.

  Valerie nodded.

  WHEN COLONEL Richard Winchester affirmed that he had seen Anthony Lyveden alive and walking, exactly twenty-eight days after the remains of Anthony Lyveden had been reverently interred at Girdle, it will be seen that he was making a statement which might easily have been questioned. That it was accepted wholly by his hearers was due in some measure to the fact that, while both of them had seen the grave, neither of them had seen its contents, but, mainly, to Winchester himself. The man's personality simply compelled belief....

  And so, though the days went by, and Lyveden was neither seen again nor heard of, Valerie found no fault in her portion. Indeed, she held herself blessed. True, she was not yet in Paradise, but she had escaped out of that Pit which hath no exit. Her dead had been raised. The 'great gulf fixed' no longer mattered: Anthony and she were both upon the same side. Paradise could wait....

  Not that she and her councillors wasted their time. The most exhaustive inquiries were set on foot: advertisements appeared: Winchester himself conducted a house-to-house investigation of the Temple. Indeed, short of setting a price upon Anthony Lyveden's head, everything possible was done to locate the gentleman. With it all, the latter obstinately defied detection.

  And there, of course, was the rub— the riddle which no one could read.

  If Lyveden was alive and up and doing, why did he make himself scarce?

  I have not discussed it because it was not discussed: Valerie never referred to it, nor did the others: it did not depress her, becau
se an eccentric lion is so much better than a dead one. But...

  Speculation, wrote Lady Touchstone, is idle— nothing worth. Anthony holds the answer in his fine, grey eyes. When we find him we shall know— instantly. Personally, I am convinced that there is nothing seriously amiss. He is not mad. That ghost was laid when Gramarye was burned. Probably he thinks he is not wanted. Once before he thought so, and with good reason. And now his mind has thrown back.... Meanwhile we wait— triumphantly. We know that it is only a matter of time. Such confidence would be ridiculous, if it were not sublime. (I am trying to write coherently, but there is a distracting buzzing noise which I cannot locate.) Talking of eyes, if ever veiled pity looked out of anyone's orbs, it looks out of the lawyers'. Need I say that they are wholly sceptical of our discovery? They do not believe a word of it. Not that they say so. Oh, no. They listen attentively to what we say, fall in with our plans, respectfully endorse our enthusiasm. They 'hope very much that we shall find Major Lyveden very soon.' But they know that we shan't. They simply cannot get over the death certificate. That Somerset House should be harbouring an impostor is to them incomprehensible— a heathenish suggestion. Anthony is legally dead. I had it out with Forsyth the other day. "Why," I said, "are you so hide-bound?" "Ma'am," says he, "there is a faith which can remove mountains. I have always coveted it." "So have I," said I. "But I don't covet common sense, because I've got some." Forsyth spread out his hands. "Pity the weaker vessel," he said. "Pity the legal mind," said I, "that places black and white before flesh and blood. I'll dance at their wedding yet— but not with a lawyer." "No, don't," says he. "They'll trip you up every time." I could afford to laugh. (I wish this mysterious noise would stop. I cannot think what it is. It sounds so indignant.) If you could see Valerie, John, your heart would leap. Her radiance, her eagerness, her joie de vivre make me feel that I must paw the ground. I actually do so sometimes, under the table. Her beauty takes away my breath. Her eyes alone.... I tell you, people stop still in the street and stare after her. And I see them and try not to burst into tears. The very gods must be amazed at the effects of their gift. Her confidence would frighten me to death, if I did not share it. But, as I have said, it is sublime, not of this world. We have no doubt— this time. Anthony will be found, if not to-day, to-morrow. It is inevitable. We are a singular quartette— Valerie, André Strongi'th'arm, Colonel Winchester and I, and should, I think, go very well in a revue. Valerie contributes the life, Winchester the drive, André the dash, and I the low comedy, as a sort of confidential groom-of-the-chambers, fat, forgetful, superfluous and spending half my life asking people to 'spell it' over the telephone. Which reminds me, I've left the receiver off....

  SIR ANDREW Plague was in Chambers.

  That the Temple was empty and the Law Courts closed did not matter to him. The man was above custom. He went as he pleased.

  A desultory fire of snorts and grunts of indignation, audible in the clerks' room and greatly relished by the two 'juniors,' suggested that their master was perusing Case Law, while the occasional crash of a volume declared the K.C.'s contempt for a dictum which should not have been printed and might have been left unsaid.

  After a while the objections suddenly ceased, and from the succeeding silence a listener might have assumed that Sir Andrew was asleep. The clerks knew better, and fell to whispering or, if they had occasion to move, did so a-tiptoe. Sir Andrew was not asleep: he was using his brain.

  By dint of supreme concentration he was at once shaping, ordering, compressing and expressing his conclusions regarding a question of law, and doing it about thirty times as swiftly and twice as skilfully as could anyone else alive.

  There was nothing traditional about his pose. His huge arms folded upon the table, his massive head bowed, his great red face buried in his sleeve, the man might have been dead. From a tray by his side a cigar sent up a slender, swaying column of smoke. Before him an old chronometer measured the moments with the deliberate dignity of a forgotten age....

  Presently the thinker lifted up his head. For a moment he stared at the chronometer. Then he sat back in his chair and blew through his nose. His work was done.

  Sir Andrew stretched out his hand and smote with great violence the hand-bell upon his table. The instrument, which had survived outrageous treatment for nearly two months, followed the example of its predecessors and broke. With an oath, Sir Andrew flung it into a corner.

  "'Streuf," said one of the 'juniors' in the adjoining room. "If 'e ain't done in that bell. An' the place where I got it, they said I could stan' on it."

  "Yes, but they didn't say 'e could," snapped his superior, hurrying out of the office.

  A moment later he stood before his master.

  "Destroy that bell," said Sir Andrew, jerking his head at the corner. "And sack the fool who bought it. Oh, and return that brief, and tell 'em that Lincoln's Inn 's the other side of the street."

  Mr. Junket swallowed.

  "I did remark, sir," he said, "that it was a point of Chancery law, but they said they knew that, and they’d rather 'ave your opinion than any in Lincoln's Inn."

  "Lying hounds," replied Sir Andrew. "What they mean is, every one else is away."

  "I don't think it's that, sir," cautiously ventured the clerk. "There's plenty the other side would give an opinion. But Mr. Firmer 's attendin' to this 'imself, an' you know what 'e thinks of you, sir," he added proudly.

  "I don't!" shouted Sir Andrew. "I haven't the faintest idea. Send me the shorthand clerk. If they like to waste their money, that's their look-out."

  "Very good, sir."

  Mr. Junket retired precipitately, and a moment later the shorthand writer appeared. As he closed the door, Sir Andrew began to dictate....

  "My opinion is valueless. I know little of Chancery doctrines, and, happily, nothing of those appointed to administer them. It is a principle of law that ... (here followed a masterly 'opinion,' dealing root and branch with the matter and setting intricacy by the ears) ... In these circumstances, provided that the Court before which the case would ordinarily come has discretion sufficient to enable it to distinguish right from wrong, your client will not be permitted to proceed with the development of his property, so long as the lord of the manor, however base his motive, requests that such permission may be denied. That's all. Send Junket."

  The senior clerk reappeared.

  "I told you to destroy that bell," said Sir Andrew. "Why the devil don't you do it?" Junket made a rush for the corner. "I'm leaving in five minutes. Produce it to me destroyed before I go."

  "Very good, sir." Arrived at the door, the clerk hesitated. "There's— there's rather an urgent case, sir," he said uneasily, peering at a pile of papers upon his master's table. "A case to advise— from Mincing's. They've been pressing me now, sir, for over a week. An' another from— "

  "D'you want to kill me?" demanded Sir Andrew. "This is the Long Vacation. If they don't want to wait, they can take their matters elsewhere. I won't do another stroke until to-morrow. Destroy that bell."

  "Very good, sir."

  The next moment Junket was in the clerks' room.

  "'Ere, George," he said, handing the bell to his subordinate. "Take that out an' break it. Look sharp."

  "'Break it'?" said George, staring at the battered instrument. "But it's broke already."

  "Never mind about that," cried Junket, thrusting the bell into his hand. "'E wants it 'destroyed.' 'E's got to see it 'destroyed' before 'e goes. An' 'e's goin' in four minutes. For gauze sake, be quick. You know what 'e is." He turned to the shorthand writer, who was transcribing the 'opinion.' "Do the las' paragraph, Jim, 's quick as you can. So 's I can get 'im to sign it before 'e goes."

  "But look 'ere," protested George, "I ain't a blecksmith. 'Ow can I—"

  "Look 'ere," rejoined his senior, taking out his watch. "D'you want the bird? 'Cause, if 'e asks for that bell before it's ruined, you can 'ave it in one. Take the blighter out," he added fiercely, "an' keep on chuckin' it down on th
e flegstones till—"

  A sudden bellow from Sir Andrew's room threw the three clerks into a panic.

  George rushed out of the Chambers: Jim drove his pen like a madman; while the unfortunate Junket wiped his brow and, nervously adjusting his collar, prepared to answer the summons.

  Beyond, however, that Sir Andrew observed darkly that the bell was due to be demolished in three minutes' time, Mr. Junket was merely ordered to send four 'cases to advise' to his master's private house.

  The clerk withdrew relievedly.

  George, meanwhile, was working feverishly.

  After four violent collisions with the flags, the condition of the bell seemed rather improved than anything else, and, what was worse, upon being tested, it rang smartly.

  George broke into a sweat.

  Indeed, but for the sight of a dray standing in Middle Temple Lane, he would, I think, have retired at once from the Temple and the unequal contest...

  Necessity knows no law.

  A moment later the bell was in position beneath the off hind wheel, and George was backing the horses like an Artillery driver under fire....

  Sir Andrew surveyed the fragments with grim satisfaction. Then he signed his 'opinion' and called for his hat....

  As he stepped on to the Embankment, a ragged fellow passed him, with misery in his eyes.

  The K.C. called him back. He came uncertainly.

  "What's the matter with you?"

  The wretched eyes avoided Sir Andrew's look.

  "I'm— I'm 'ungry," faltered their owner, and turned away.

  Sir Andrew counted ten shillings and put them into his hand.

  "That's for food," he said shortly. "Not drink."

  He turned to wave his stick at a passing cab....

  A moment later he was being carried westward at an unlawful pace.

  Here let me say that Lady Touchstone's courage was of a high order. Danger, for instance, merely sharpened her wits. I do not think that she knew any physical fear. Yet, as she frankly admitted, each visit she paid her dentist undoubtedly shortened her life. To point the paradox, her anticipation of the ordeal was always far worse than the encounter. Compared with that of the waiting-room, the atmosphere of the condemned hold seemed to her almost jovial. Indeed, she so much abhorred the former that she was always most careful to arrive late, with the result that her detention in the ante-chamber of horrors was seldom more than a matter of sixty seconds. How, in the teeth of such provision, upon this particular morning she came to make such a mistake is incomprehensible, but it is a hard fact that she alighted in Brook Street precisely at four minutes past eleven, in painless ignorance that her vivisection had been fixed for a quarter to twelve.