Valerie French (1923)

by Dornford Yates

  For a while she fully believed that she was being kept waiting, but when twenty minutes had passed and she was still unsummoned, she rang the bell and inquired if Mr. Sleeseman was aware of her presence....

  Upon learning the awful truth, the unfortunate lady's first impulse was to withdraw; but, realizing that, if in her present nervous condition she emerged into the smiling streets, she would never have the fortitude to re-enter the house that morning, she sank into a chair and began to pluck at the pages of a periodical upon which the blessed gift of immortality had been apparently conferred.

  Ten frightful minutes had slunk by, and Lady Touchstone, who had the room to herself, was half-way to nervous prostration— starting at every footfall, finding cause for nameless suspicion in every unfamiliar sound— when a bell was pealed with great violence and a blow upon the front door shook the house to its foundations.

  After one tremendous bound the poor lady's heart stood still....

  A moment later came a rush of steps, the front door was opened, and an uproar of furious quarrelling was launched into the hall.

  "Summon me, then," roared Sir Andrew, "you slanderous thief! You know who I am. Go into Court and swear that I've broken your springs. A-a-ah, you blackmailing villain!"

  The door was slammed with the shock of an explosion, tremendous footsteps pounded along the passage, and an instant later Sir Andrew was ushered into the room.

  More dead than alive, Lady Touchstone, who had risen to her feet and stumbled towards the window, regarded his entrance with a palpitating indignation which knew no law.

  The giant flounced into a chair and closed his eyes....

  "You brute," said Lady Touchstone, deliberately.

  At the third attempt Sir Andrew recovered his voice.

  "Were you addressing me?"

  "I was," said Lady Touchstone.

  Sir Andrew rose to his feet.

  "Madam," he said, "how dare you?"

  "If you don't like it," said Lady Touchstone, who was feeling much better, "you can leave the room. You're a brute."

  "A brute?" said Sir Andrew, taking a step forward.

  "A brute," said Lady Touchstone. "And don't talk about 'daring' to me. You ought to be on your knees, suing for pardon. This isn't a bull-ring. It's— it's a confessional."

  "It's a public— "

  "No, it isn't," was the disconcerting reply. "I've no doubt you'd feel more at home if it were. It's a place of mental affliction for patients who have a sense of their duty towards their neighbours. I suppose you're here with the object of receiving attention: apparently the idea exhilarates you. That alone is indecent. But when you flaunt such monstrous emotion under the noses of more reasonably-minded beings, it's— it's worse than brawling."

  Sir Andrew Plague gasped. His eyes began to protrude.

  "Brawling?" he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. "Brawling, madam? What do you mean— 'brawling'?"

  "Brawling," said Lady Touchstone, "is the offence of quarrelling in a noisy and indecent manner upon holy ground. They used to do it at that very high church near the Cromwell Road. I say advisedly that your behaviour is still more abominable. At least, they had the excuse of religious fervour."

  "Madam," said Sir Andrew, in a shaking voice, "you presume upon the privilege of your sex. I am not in the habit of having my conduct criticized, still less of hearing it condemned."

  "The more's the pity," flashed Lady Touchstone, bristling. "If those unfortunate enough to be associated with you occasionally corrected your failings, you would be less of a menace to society."

  "Goats and monkeys!" yelled Plague.

  Lady Touchstone stifled a scream.

  "How dare you shout at me?" she demanded. "How dare you?"

  With a frightful effort the lawyer mastered his voice.

  "Madam," he said thickly, "you have spoken of bull-rings and brawling. Twice you have used the word 'indecent' in a context and with a meaning which admitted no possibility of misconstruction. Finally you have thought proper to style me 'a menace to society.' Madam, this may not be slander, but it is vulgar abuse, and while the Law will take no— "

  "You will please," said Lady Touchstone, "withdraw that expression. I believe it to be a purely legal term, but it offends me."

  For a long minute the two eyed one another across the mahogany table.

  Then—

  "I beg your pardon," said Plague uncertainly.

  Lady Touchstone inclined her head.

  "I regret," she said, "that I cannot return the compliment. Your conduct has been outrageous. Regardless of the feelings of others who, cast in a less— er— vigorous mould than yourself, may be awaiting in agony the attention to which you apparently look forward— "

  "I don't. I loathe it. And my conduct's not been outrageous. You've no right to— "

  "I have every right. You might have shattered my nerves. Because you have been annoyed, why should I suffer? Why should you vent your vile wrath— "

  "Madam," cried Plague, trembling, "you go too far. If you have been inconvenienced by overhearing such protest as I thought fit to lodge against a scandalous attempt at blackmail, that is regrettable. It confers upon you no authority to insult a complete stranger, whose rights to the quiet enjoyment of this chamber are co-equal with yours, and— "

  "When you speak," said Lady Touchstone, "of 'the quiet enjoyment of this chamber,' you make me feel faint. So please don't do it again. I say you've behaved disgracefully. What did you knock for?"

  Sir Andrew swallowed.

  "To gain admittance," he said.

  "Then why did you ring?"

  "I refuse— "

  "Why did you ring?"

  "For the same purpose."

  "Did you really think that your usage of the bell could be misconstrued?"

  "I was particularly anxious," blurted Sir Andrew Plague, "not to be kept waiting."

  "Rot," said Lady Touchstone. "You were particularly anxious to vent your wrath— vile wrath. Why did you shout at the potman?"

  "It wasn't a potman. It was— "

  "Cabdriver, then. Was he deaf?"

  "He was da— extremely insolent."

  "Was he deaf?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Of course he wasn't," said Lady Touchstone. "Why did you slam the door?"

  "Damn it, madam, I— "

  "Don't swear at me. Why did you irrupt into this room?"

  "I didn't," cried Plague, writhing.

  "Don't be absurd," said his tormentor. "Your entrance was barbarous. You knocked, you slammed the door, you raved at the potman and irrupted into this room— all by way of indulging your horrible wrath. It's as plain as a pikestaff."

  "It isn't at all. And it wasn't a— "

  "Don't contradict me," snapped Lady Touchstone, "because I won't have it." Sir Andrew choked. "Besides, you've been rude enough. You haven't a leg to stand on. And if I've done anything to show you the error of your ways, this encounter, however distasteful, will not have been endured in vain."

  With that, she picked up a paper, shook it into position, and took her seat upon a settle as if it had been a throne.

  "It wasn't a potman," said Sir Andrew doggedly. "It was a cabdriver."

  My lady replied with a look of unutterable contempt....

  Then the door was opened and the servant appeared.

  Head in air, Lady Touchstone swept from the room....

  For a minute the giant stood as she had left him. Then he picked up his hat and stole out of the house.

  THAT SIR ANDREW PLAGUE swore by his new secretary was common knowledge. A good many others, who had to do with the knight, also swore by his secretary— the tall, good-looking fellow with the fine grey eyes, who stood them in so good stead. Indeed, though it was not yet one month since Jonathan Wood, Gentleman, had entered the K.C.'s service, between him and his testy patron there was existing an understanding which was almost too good to be true. Sir Andrew Plague, who despised most men and reg
arded none, actually respected Jonathan. The latter was, of course, a squire in a million— faithful, patient, swift-brained, ridiculously honest.... What turned the squire into the compeer— an office no man had ever hitherto filled— was his strength of character. He would stake his job— which is to say, his livelihood— upon a point of principle. He did so stake it a dozen times in the day. The giant in his wrath gave him an unjust order: respectfully enough, Jonathan quietly declined to carry it out.... After a little the storms had become less frightful, and twice in the last week Sir Andrew had laughed. (This the steward, who had been told by the butler, flatly refused to credit. But then he was a sceptical fellow, and had served Sir Andrew Plague for twenty years.) There was no doubt about it. Beneath his secretary's influence the leopard was changing his spots. He was, moreover, lying down, not with a kid, but with a blood-horse. Between the two of them a little white dog with a black patch made himself thoroughly at home....

  From the very first day Hamlet had taken for granted Sir Andrew's goodwill and had proceeded to bask in it. That there was no goodwill to bask in did not occur to him. He basked contentedly— and presently had his reward. The goodwill was induced.

  On the morning after his arrival he had, visited the K.C. in his bedroom and had removed one of his slippers at the moment at which the knight, who was at his worst before breakfast, was proposing to insert his foot. Sir Andrew, whom the intrusion had rendered speechless, watched the asportation as a man in a dream. Then he let out a squeal of fury and launched his remaining slipper at Hamlet with the might of a maniac. The terrier sprang upon it in ecstasy and, after shaking it as if it were a rat, placed one paw upon it and sought to detach the tongue with his teeth.... For movement and uproar, the pursuit of a native by a rogue-elephant upon enclosed premises must pale beside the racket of the next five minutes. The household, unable to conceive what was happening, and terrified to go and see, huddled together downstairs: Jonathan, splashing in a distant bathroom, heard nothing at all: and Hamlet, as full of beans as an egg is of meat, decided that as an exponent of horseplay Sir Andrew more nearly approached perfection than anyone he had ever seen. Indeed, after leaving the ravening knight jammed between his bedstead and the floor, and conveying one of the slippers to the library, there to dismember it undisturbed, he determined to repeat so highly successful a visit the following day. Since Sir Andrew slept with his door open, he was able to do this— and did it, with the acme of ease...

  At the end of a week the horseplay had been suspended and a compromise reached. Thereafter between seven and eight every morning the Sealyham slept luxuriously upon Sir Andrew's bed. By the time a fortnight had passed, the knight reviled Hamlet if the latter was late....

  Of such was life in Kensington Palace Gardens. From being a nightmare, it had become a cheerful masque. The old situations cropped up— frequently, but they were always saved.

  It was upon the evening of the day upon which he had broken his bell that Sir Andrew laid down the paper and stared into the dusk.

  Dinner was over, and the knight was reclining, as was his wont, upon a mighty sofa eminently adapted and, in fact, specially constructed to accommodate his tremendous frame. From behind him a table lamp threw a convenient light directly into his lap. On the floor by his side reposed a silver ash-tray and a cup of cold tea. Opposite, writing at a great table, sat Jonathan Wood. A second table lamp illumined at once his labours and the bowl of his pipe and, when he bent lower than usual, threw his clean-cut profile into sharp relief. For the rest, the room was in darkness. Without an open French window a small white sentinel sat peering down into the garden, motionless, vigilant. Hamlet loved the terrace. It added cubits to his stature....

  Suddenly the secretary looked up.

  "I quite forgot to ask, sir, how you got on at the dentist's."

  Sir Andrew's stare slid into a scowl.

  "I didn't," he said.

  "But didn't you— "

  "I never saw the brute," said Sir Andrew savagely. "He— he was engaged."

  Jonathan frowned.

  "I was afraid he might be," he said. "You must let me ring up next time and make an appointment."

  For a moment the other said nothing.

  Then—

  "Telephone to-morrow morning," he said shortly, regarding the end of his cigar.

  "I will," said Jonathan. "When would you like to go?"

  "It's not a question of going," replied Sir Andrew. "I want a name and address. A woman preceded me— probably took my turn, the graceless shrew. Find out who she is."

  Jonathan thought very fast.

  "I hope..." he said tentatively.

  "Then don't," snapped Sir Andrew. "Do as you're told instead."

  "Very good, sir."

  There was nothing else to be said, but Jonathan was far from easy. He scented trouble. That the lady had crossed Sir Andrew was perfectly clear. Probably there had been a scene. What worried him was that the knight's curiosity was never idle. He had some reason for wanting to know her name. Jonathan hoped very much that he was not contemplating a renewal of hostilities....

  The terrace growing chill beneath him, Hamlet rose to his feet and entered the room. For a moment he stood as if uncertain: then, with an apologetic look at his governors, he selected the deepest chair, leaped into its arms, and lay as still as death. The strained look in his eyes betrayed his concern lest he should be commanded to seek less luxurious quarters, and when he perceived that Sir Andrew was frowning in his direction, he gave himself up for lost and, laying back velvety ears, started to wag his tail in the hope of charming aside the dreaded sentence.

  His fears were groundless.

  "Has it ever occurred to you," said Sir Andrew Plague, "that if that dog could speak he could tell you who you are?"

  Jonathan sat back in his chair and laid down his pen.

  "No, sir," he said. "It hasn't. Why should he? I only found him by chance."

  "You found him beside you when— when you recovered consciousness."

  "I know. But he had no connection— "

  "He was your dog."

  Jonathan started.

  "I never thought of that," he said slowly.

  "That," said Sir Andrew explosively, "is because you don't use your brain. Because you deliberately reduce yourself to the level of the congenital idiot. Ugh.... You were in evil case, and so was he. You were dying of hunger, and so was he. You were foul and beastly, so was he. He was your dog."

  Jonathan crossed to the chair, picked up Hamlet, sat down and set the terrier upon his knee.

  "I wonder," he said, "that never occurred to me." Sir Andrew snorted. "Of course you're right ... of course. There's not a shadow of doubt." He looked into the bright brown eyes. "You know— everything." The Sealyham licked his nose. "You know what happened to me ... how I came to be starving ... how— " He broke off and turned to Sir Andrew. "Think of the way he stuck to me," he said suddenly. "I had to carry him that night. He couldn't walk. He must have— "

  "Of course he did," said the knight. "You'd fed him before: he expected you to feed him again— the gluttonous brute. And don't go and get maudlin about it, or you can leave the room."

  Jonathan laughed.

  "You hear?" he said, pulling the terrier's ears. "You're not faithful at all. You're just a gluttonous brute."

  "And a damned ugly one," added Sir Andrew.

  "In fact," said Jonathan, smiling, "I can't imagine why we let you sleep on our beds."

  Sir Andrew turned a rich plum colour. Then he picked up his cup and drank deep and violently....

  As he replaced the vessel—

  "How long," he demanded, "are you going on like this?"

  "Like what, sir?" said Jonathan.

  "Masquerading."

  Jonathan raised his eyebrows.

  "I'm very happy," he said.

  "That," rejoined Sir Andrew, "is beside the point. You can't go through life in a domino."

  "I see no reason— "

&n
bsp; "Well, I do," snapped the other. "You're guilty of suggestio falsi, and I'm abetting you. Not that I care about that," he added fiercely. "My back's broad enough— and to spare. But it's— it's out of order."

  "So long as you don't mind, sir, I’d rather stay as I am."

  "Under an assumed name?"

  Jonathan shrugged his shoulders.

  "If I knew who I was," he said, "and deliberately concealed my identity, that would be one thing. But I'm doing nothing of the kind. I'm hiding nothing. I've nothing to hide. I don't know who I am, and I don't care."

  "Others may," said his patron. "Supposing you're married?"

  "I've thought of that," said his secretary, "and, frankly, the idea frightens me to death."

  "I dare say it does," said Sir Andrew. "But what of that?"

  "Well, sir, you see..."

  Jonathan hesitated.

  "Proceed," said Sir Andrew mercilessly.

  Jonathan set down the Sealyham and crossed his legs.

  "I don't think I can be married," he said desperately.

  "Why?"

  "I know so little of women."

  "That's no argument."

  Jonathan laughed.

  "Well," he said, "if I am, surely it's better that I should stick to my domino until my memory returns."

  "Why?"

  "Well, sir, supposing a girl was suddenly produced to you, and you were bluntly informed that she was your wife...."