CHAPTER I

A PILLAR OF SALT

The fire was still raging.

For thirty-six hours, now, it had burned steadily, a firm east wind
directing the work of destruction with the lightning precision of an
overseer who knows his job. Of the five thousand acres of woodland,
once so luxuriant, barely a tenth part was left.

For week after blazing week the proud estate had gone thirsty. No rain
falling, the wind had made hay, literally, while the sun shone.
Springs had dwindled and died: empty beds showed where the brooks had
run: pools had disappeared. Even the lake itself, no longer fed, had
shrunk to a dull pond, a widening belt of mud, seamed with innumerable
cracks, about its sides. As for the trees, the source of sap failing,
they were hard put to it to live. Without, at any rate, trunks, twigs
and branches were dry as any bone.

Everything, then, was in train….

Whose hand it was that touched off the piece will never be known, but
word that Gramarye was on fire came to _The Rose_ at Girdle by ten of a
handsome morning in the last week of July.

The news spread but slowly. Nobody cared. The park was deserted: its
owner lay in a madhouse: the house was tumbling. If the tidings were
greeted at all, they were greeted with approval. The host of _The
Rose_ himself made no secret of his persuasion.

“Bes’ thing as could ‘appen. No manner o’ good to man nor beas’, that
place was. They’re payin’ fourpence a bucket at Beauty Cross, but if
this ‘ere drort ‘s put ‘paid’ to Gramarye…”

He sighed dramatically, raising his eyes to heaven, and, after a decent
interval, his tankard to his lips.

“Wot’s the place done?” said the Cockney, who was taking a car to Wales.

“Done?” said his host. “Well, it’s sent three men mad to my knowledge,
and that’s the gospel. Livin’ an’ workin’ there, as lanskip-gardeners.
Got ‘old o’ their brains it did, an’ who’s to wonder? Lanskip!” he
added contemptuously. “‘Owlin’ wilderness. Nothin’ but woods an’
woods. Miles of ’em. An’ never nor beas’ nor bird in all them acres.”

“Go on,” said the Cockney, staring.

The lord of _The Rose_ did not appear to hear him. He continued
absently.

“An’ now she’s burnin’…. Well, well…. Maybe it’ll lif’ the curse.
Valuable buildin’ land it’ll be … one day….”

That evening some children had straggled up Gallowstree Hill, to see
what they could. This was nothing at all, for the fire was below and
beyond a tremendous shoulder. They returned querulously to Girdle and
declared the report untrue. Keepers of neighbouring property knew
better, and kept an eye on the wind: Sir Barnaby Linchpin, whose land
lay to leeward of Gramarye, held fifty beaters at hand for twenty-four
hours: an evening paper announced that Sherwood Forest was in flames,
and gave a _résumé_ of the career of Robin Hood.

But that was all. And now thirty-six hours had gone by, and the fire
was still raging.

From an odd chain of road, cut like a shelf upon a spur of the Cotswold
Hills, a man looked down upon the holocaust.

From where he stood, this was indeed a stupendous spectacle. Distance
and Night lent it a supernatural majesty. The one robbed the flames of
their sting; the other gave them their proper setting. The man found
the sight fascinating. He did not, of course, care. Gramarye was
nothing to him.

He must have stood gazing for half an hour, before a wandering breath
of cool night air brought him to earth. With a shiver he turned away,
making as though to button his coat about him. In the midst of the
gesture he stopped and stared at his forearms. _He had no coat to
button_.

The discovery clearly surprised him. After a moment he lifted his head
and frowned into the starlight. Then he fell to inspecting his
apparel, as well as he could. He had a shirt, certainly, and the wreck
of a pair of trousers about his thighs, and there were shoes on his
feet. The shirt was in tatters, the trousers ragged and foul. So much
his fingers told him. The report his nose rendered was worse still.
Both garments stank to glory.

The man exclaimed disgustedly, and his hands flew to his belt. It was
in his mind, I fancy, to strip then and there. Reason, however,
suggested that he must first find a change: he could not go naked.
Again he raised his head and blinked into the night. Mechanically he
put up a hand to finger his chin….

As he touched the bristles, he started violently. Till then he had had
no idea he was wearing a beard. As in a dream he felt all over his
head. He found it unkempt, beastly. His face, he noticed, was gaunt,
the cheek-bones staring…. Here his stomach got in a hungry word.
For the first time the man realized that he was starving….

Instantly the craving for food overwhelmed all other inclinations.
This was, of course, common sense. Filth and odours could wait: hunger
such as this was in Death’s service–a running footman, in fact. The
man knew in a moment the dreadful livery.

At once he started to walk along the road, squaring his shoulders to
cheat the sense which told him his strength was failing, and hoping
hard for a signpost to point him the nearest way–_whither_?

The query occurring to him, the man stopped still.

He had no idea where he was. If it came to that, he had no idea,
either, how he came to be in such a plight. His thoughts flew back
desperately. He had met with an accident, of course. That went
without saying. Foul play, perhaps. Hence his condition. The last
thing he remembered was–was—-

For the third time he frowned into the night, racking his brain.

This he did to no purpose at all.

For him there was no ‘last thing.’

He could remember nothing.

* * * * *

When it dawned upon Lyveden that he had lost his memory, he became
profoundly interested. So much so, that he forgot his hunger and sat
himself down on a bank by the side of the road. After some meditation,
he recited the Alphabet aloud. Pleased with this effort, he announced
that London was the capital of England, and enumerated as many counties
as he could think of. He was proceeding to another such exercise, when
something touched him upon the calf of the leg.

Sitting at his feet was a small rough-haired dog. His eyes were dull,
and he was very thin. His coat appeared to be grey, and there was a
definite black patch upon his back. For a long moment the two regarded
each other in silence. Then the dog rolled over and put his paws in
the air.

Lyveden patted him kindly.

“Where have you come from?” he said. Then: “By Jove, poor fellow,
you’re thin. Which reminds me…” He got upon his feet. With a
manifest effort, the dog followed his example. “It’s obvious I must
… have … food.” He looked up the ghostly road, pursing his lips.
“It must lead somewhere,” he muttered, and started off….

The first fifty paces bared an unpleasant truth–that to walk exhausted
more quickly than to stay still. That Lyveden was heading for succour
was practically certain. That every step brought him nearer the end of
his tether was painfully evident. Which of these halts would come
first, he had no idea. Lyveden set his teeth and hoped for the best….

It was only ten minutes later that he remembered the dog.

Peering back into the darkness, he saw no sign of him. He whistled and
stood waiting, without result. After a little hesitation, he began to
retrace his steps….

What those two furlongs cost him I dare not think. Perhaps Sir Philip
Sidney walked at his elbow.

He found him at last, sitting miserably in the middle of the road. The
poor little vagabond could go no farther. Lyveden picked him up gently
and put him under his arm.

“Buck up, old fellow,” he said. “It won’t be long now–one way or the
other.”

The scrap put up its nose and licked his face.

* * * * *

Private Albert Rogers, of the R.A.S.C.(M.T.), was bored stiff.

When he had been given his itinerary and told that he was to take ‘The
Swine’ to Hounslow, he had at once protested that she would never get
there. The wording of the sergeant-major’s reply may be imagined, but
must not be here set out. Suffice it that that authority had lamented
the fact that there was no Rolls-Royce available, had criminally
libelled Private Rogers’s forebears and had prophesied, first, no good
concerning Private Rogers, but evil, and, secondly, that ‘The Swine’
_would_ get there, even if Private Rogers had to push her the whole of
the way.

With burning ears and a full heart, Private Albert Rogers had proceeded
to pack his kit-bag….

Quite early he had lost his itinerary, and somewhere about noon he had
lost his way. It was when he was hopelessly confounded, that ‘The
Swine,’ who had lived well up to her sobriquet ever since she had
started, had played her trump card. In a word, with a diabolical
scream she had spilled the contents of her gear-box upon the King’s
highway.

Private Albert Rogers had coaxed the lorry to the side of the road,
shaken the sweat out of his eyes, and prayed for death….

His comrade-in-arms, Private Hoskin, was less dejected. Gifted with an
invulnerable sense of humour, he had found the journey diverting, and
had sung most of the way. He had not, of course, been driving. As the
stertorous breathing of ‘The Swine’s’ engine subsided, he laid a hand
upon his heart and commenced a tender rendering of ‘Where, my caravan
‘as rested.’

This was too much for Private Rogers.

As his comrade’s superior officer, he issued two orders. The first was
that Private Hoskin should “for gauze sake give over.” The second,
that he should get upon his flat feet, fare to the nearest village, and
report ‘progress.’ The first command was disregarded: the second was
obeyed after much argument and a delay of more than two hours.

It proved subsequently to be just six miles to the village of
Broad-i’-the-Beam, and as Private Hoskin did not march four miles to
the hour, but rather two, by the time he arrived the Post Office was
closed. Not so _The Black Goat_…. After his third ‘bitter,’ Private
Hoskin decided that to return to the lorry that night would be the act
of a fool.

All things, then, considered, it is not at all surprising that Private
Albert Rogers was bored stiff. The lorry was empty: the two kit-bags
offered a miserable couch: he had run out of cigarettes….

For the hundredth time he was polishing the apostrophe with which he
would welcome his subordinate, when somebody rapped with his knuckles
upon the side of the cab.

Rogers got upon his knees and thrust out his head. A figure was
leaning against the lorry’s side, breathing distressfully.

“I say,” said a voice faintly, “I’m–I’m rather done…. Could–could
you spare me something to eat?”

Private Rogers stepped on to the footboard and sprang down into the
road. Then he lugged a lamp from its bracket and held it to illumine
the speaker.

The white, pinched face, the sagging knees, told their own tale.

“‘Strewth!” said Rogers, and slid a sinewy arm round Anthony Lyveden’s
back…. It was a near thing.

Bully beef and warm water are simple fare, but Private Albert Rogers
had a head upon his shoulders. So soon as Lyveden was settled by the
side of the road, his craving for food yielded to a frantic desire for
sleep. This the soldier would not hear of. He fairly forced Lyveden
to eat, feeding him with his fingers. He decanted the contents of the
tin on to a newspaper, picked out the jelly with his knife, and watched
his patient masticate every dram. When the latter had eaten perhaps a
tablespoonful, he gave him water. Then he wrapped a greatcoat about
him, and set a kit-bag under his head.

“Now you kin sleep, mate,” he said, “for ‘alf an hour. Then you’ll
‘ave to wake up an’ ‘ave some more grub.”

Thankfully Lyveden closed his eyes.

The next moment he was propped on an elbow.

“The dog!” he cried. “I forgot. There was a dog with me.”

“Now you lay down, mate,” said Rogers. “The dorg’s orright. ‘E’s
‘avin’ ‘is whack now. ‘Elp,” he added, staring. “‘E’s pouched the
lot. Never mind. There’s more where that come from. But you didn’t
ought ter eat so fas’, Toby; nor yet so much, neither.” The dog wagged
his tail and licked his lips. His host shook his head reprovingly.
“Don’t want to burst yerself,” he added. “Now you wait there while I
get my mug. Then you kin ‘ave some water.”

He turned to glance at Lyveden. He was asleep.

The soldier’s idea of nursing was rough and ready, but it was very
sound. Faithfully, three times in the night Anthony was awakened and
given nourishment, and when Private Hoskin arrived at nine o’clock, he
was sent pelting back to the village for eggs and milk. To give the
rogue his due, he went gladly. He had a good heart.

By half-past two o’clock that same afternoon man and dog alike were
changed beings. They were shaky enough, certainly, but they were not
feeble. Beneath the care of Privates Rogers and Hoskin they put off
their corruption.

Lyveden was assisted to remove his beard, and his hair was rudely cut
with a pair of nail-scissors. The kit-bags were opened, and, after a
heated discussion, a shirt, a cardigan, socks and an aged pair of
slacks were selected and assigned to his use. Then a bucket was
produced, and ‘The Swine’s’ radiator used as a cistern. Anthony washed
and was washed. The dog was cleansed also.

By the time assistance arrived, Lyveden was enjoying a cigarette….

Even the two soldiers were surprised at the result of their handiwork.
Out of their vile chrysales had emerged two thoroughbreds. There was
no doubt about it. Thin as rails though they were, the thing stood
out. Lyveden’s fine, clean-cut face, his quiet air of dignity, his
pleasant voice alone were evidence and to spare. As for the Sealyham,
he was an attractive fellow. His pert tail was up, and there was a
light in his eyes. He rested a lot, certainly, but when he was on his
feet his carriage was bold, and he held his head high.

At last Relief came panting out of the distance…. When ‘The Swine’
had been made fast to the new-comer, Rogers approached his patient and
offered to take him as far as Broad-i’-the-Beam.

“You ain’t fit, sir, for duty, an’ there’s a pub there, Ted says, where
they’ll look after you. If you git there, you kin write ‘ome an’ say
where you are, like.”

Gentlemen both, neither of his two hosts had asked questions.

“You’re awfully kind,” said Lyveden, rising and picking up the dog. “I
suppose you realize that you’ve saved my life.”

Private Rogers grinned.

“You was a bit queer las’ night, sir,” he said clumsily. “Firs’ good
turn the ole Swine’s ever done, I reckon.”

Half an hour later they stopped before _The Black Goat_.

Preceded by Hoskin, Lyveden and Rogers made their way into the inn.
The landlord received them with a nod.

“This ‘ere’s the gent,” said Hoskin, “as I was tellin’ you of.” The
landlord bowed. “‘E ain’t quite ‘isself yet, ‘e ain’t, but I said as
‘ow you’d give ‘im a bed to-night, so’s ‘e kin write to ‘is friends.”

“‘Appy, I’m sure,” said the landlord. “Sit down, sir. You’ve—-“

“One minute,” said Lyveden. “I have no friends to write to: I haven’t
a penny piece: and these two gentlemen here are the only beings I know.”

The three stared at him.

Then–

“But you’re a toff!” cried Hoskin. “A proper toff. Them trousers was
dandy once.”

“S-sh!” said the landlord. “I know a gent when I sees one. Look ‘ere,
sir, you’ve ‘ad a tumble or somethin’, an’ if you’ll give me your
name—-“

Anthony Lyveden started and clapped a hand to his head.

The three watched him curiously.

At last he looked round and smiled.

“Can’t be done,” he said quietly. “Not even that. You see, my
memory’s gone.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the snuffs and blowings of the
Sealyham, who was exploring the parlour and drawing the sweet sawdust
into his nose.

“Well,” said the landlord at length, “well, that’s all–all right, sir.
You … you…”

“If you’ll give me shelter,” said Lyveden, “just for a day or two, I’ll
pay you back. As soon as I can earn money, I’ll—-“

The host of the inn cut short his promises.

“‘Ave what you like, sir,” he said, “an’ settle the bill when you
please.”

“You’re very good,” said Lyveden, and called for drinks.

It was before these were finished that Rogers excused himself to
Anthony and, promising indeed to return, haled his subordinate outside.
After a minute or two they both reappeared–sheepishly…. Then
Lyveden asked for paper and wrote down their names. When the time of
parting came he walked with them to ‘The Swine.’

“You know how it is with me,” he said, “so I’ve little to say. If my
memory ever comes back, you’ll be the first to hear. One doesn’t
forget one’s pals.”

He shook hands with them, and they climbed confusedly on to the
footboard.

A moment later ‘The Swine’ was under way.

Anthony watched it lurch round a corner.

Then came the sound of steps, and Rogers, red in the face, came running
back.

“Quite forgot,” he said jerkily. “Found this ‘ere in your trousers,
sir. In the ‘ip-pocket. I ‘ope perhaps the wordin’ ‘ll ‘elp your
memory.”

He thrust a slip of paper into the other’s hand, took two paces
backward, saluted, turned round and ran like mad.

As Lyveden unfolded the paper, there fell out two ten-shilling notes.

* * * * *

When Anthony Lyveden realized fully the state he was in–got, so to
speak, the hang of his situation–he found it extremely good.

That he did not esteem it at once is not surprising. For one thing,
the man was a wreck: for another, his loss was peculiar enough to
bewilder a sage. It was not, in fact, until the fourth day of resting
in and about _The Black Goat_, that the excellence of his lot presented
itself to his mind in all its glory. Many minds would have seen no
excellence, nor glory either. _Quot homines, tot sententiæ_. But
Lyveden was a philosopher: also his sense of humour was fine and
sturdily grown. It was, indeed, thanks to this sterling equipment that
he had determined to make the best of a bad business, and, whistling an
air, whose extraction he could not remember, climbed cheerfully into
bed. He had his reward. Waking at seven o’clock of a fragrant
morning, and lazily planning, while he lay, the execution of his recent
resolve, Lyveden suddenly saw that his task was already done. He
found, in a word, that the business, which he was to better, was not
bad at all.

Anthony sat up in bed, his brain whirling.

Here was a man, he judged, some thirty years old, intelligent, healthy,
and soon to be very strong, without a care in the world … without a
care…. Actually in the prime of life, he had been miraculously
flicked back to the threshold. He had been given that for which Piety
and Wit knew that it was idle to ask. The Moving Finger had been lured
back to cancel thirty pages.

Sirs, let us take this fortunate point of view, and, doing what Lyveden
cannot do for himself, set it under a microscope. Two things stand out
at once–a curious egoism, for one, a sense of relief, for another.
Philosophy never wrought these. That relatives might be frantic,
because he was out of their ken, never occurs to the man. Why? The
bare idea of security has made him throw up his hat. Why? The reasons
are plain. Lyveden’s experience is at work–_behind the veil_. Again
let us do as he cannot, and raise that veil. There is the truth,
gentlemen, as clear as crystal. An orphan from birth, Anthony has no
relations and next to no friends. As for his cares, he has of late
been opposing a very sea of troubles….

I have no wish, sirs, to labour this matter, but we are dealing with a
man’s mind now–always stuff of importance, but in this tale the very
headstone of the corner. Here, once for all, if you will, let us
examine its state, and then–the lesson over–pass out of the latticed
chamber to look at the bowling-green. Brains are all very well, but
the turf at the back of the inn is a very masterpiece. But then Nature
has slaved at this diaper for more than three hundred years.

That Lyveden had lost his memory is a loose statement. He had lost
part of it only. For him, his personal past was blotted out. He could
remember nothing that he had ever done or ever suffered. He could
remember no acquaintance, local or personal, animate or inanimate,
which he had ever had. With these important exceptions, his memory was
pretty sound. What general knowledge he had possessed was, more or
less, at his disposal. Names that were household words he well
remembered, and their associations also: only–from those associations
were excluded himself and all his works. Oxford, for instance, he knew
for a seat of learning. He could name most of its colleges. He
recalled the look of the place–hazily. Whether he had been schooled
within its grey walls he had no idea. The fact that he could name but
five of the colleges of Cambridge, and could not picture the town,
suggested that he had favoured Oxford, but that was all. Again, he was
clear that there had been a great war–most recently. Its cause,
progress, and result, he perfectly remembered–particularly its
progress. He dared not swear that he had soldiered. Later, his
detailed recollection of the fighting _suggested_ that he had served
with the guns on more than one front, but that was all. He could not
remember that he had ever dressed for dinner, but he knew that this
thing was done….

Here we are coming to Instinct. Lyveden’s instinct was as sound as a
bell. As such, it was a buckler worth having, for while a baby’s
instinct is above rubies, that of a man of thirty, who knows his world,
cannot well be appraised. Moreover, between Experience and Instinct
there is a positive liaison….

The moment that Anthony Lyveden found his necessity virtuous, he became
almost debonair. Curiosity would have been inconvenient–spoiled
everything. But he was not curious. He had no desire to remember. If
it was so ordained, he was quite ready to remember. Indeed, he was
eager to see whether the faculty of recognition had gone the way of his
memory. Until he recognized something, this question would remain
unanswered. It occurred to him that he might be recognized …
accosted. Then he would learn about himself. Without doubt, a rare
entertainment awaited him…. Anthony began to like his reincarnation
better than ever.

It was later upon that same morning that he addressed the Sealyham.
The two were seated beside that elegant green, waiting for the church
clock to give the word for their departure. A shabby haversack had
been packed, farewells had been taken, compliments exchanged.
Refreshed and grateful, man and dog were going to seek their fortune.

“It is clear, my fellow,” said Lyveden, “that we cannot remain
anonymous.” The terrier moistened his lips. “Quite so. You see, it’s
not only unfashionable–it’s inconvenient. That we have names already
is a charming but futile reflection. Whatever they happen to be,
they’ve served their turn. You see, I’m a brand-new broom, and you
know what new brooms do…. Well, I don’t know about dogs, but I have
a sort of idea that a man may not be his own godfather. The cryptic
phrase ‘deed-poll’ seems to stick out of the mud at the back of my
brain. Still, we must chance that. I propose to give names to us
both–nice new names.” The dog rolled over upon his back, and Lyveden
patted him abstractedly. “The devil of it is, what to choose. They
must be slap-up names. We shan’t ever get such a chance again, you
know, so we may as well do ourselves proud. Let’s see…” For a
moment he sat, knitting his brows, and stroking the dog’s rough coat.
Then his face lighted up. “‘Hamlet’!” he cried suddenly. “There’s a
name for a dog. ‘Hamlet.’ My son, you’re lucky. That was a blinkin’
brain-wave, that was. Good name to shout and everything. ‘Hamlet.’
Well, that’s that. Now it’s my turn. I think,” he continued slowly,
“I think I must be called ‘Jonathan.’ I like ‘Jonathan.’ I’ve always
liked ‘Jonathan.’ At least, I suppose I have. At any rate, I like it
now, and—-“

Here the church clock began to strike nine leisurely….

Two minutes later Hamlet and Jonathan emerged from the kindly shelter
of _The Black Goat_ and, passing through Broad-i’-the-Beam, set their
faces in the direction of the Oxford road.

* * * * *

Sitting in a very French room, overlooking an orchard, Lady Touchstone
read through the letter which she had written.

_Villa Narcisse,
Dinard.
29th July_.

_DEAR JOHN,_

_Letters from you suggest that we have been corresponding. I am glad
to know it. The truth is that for the last six weeks I have done what
I have done in a dream._

_When Tragedy leaps from behind a curtain on to shoulders as old as
mine–I feel four hundred–the effort requisite to deal at all
reasonably with the event empties the brain. One’s old wits fail. I
cannot remember what I have said or done, or–worse still–whether I
have said or done it. (I bought our tickets twice over–the same
afternoon.) For the first time in my life I have a sound sympathy with
those poor old people who, whenever you see them, tell you the same
anecdotes. It is not their fault. Some effort has emptied their
brains._

_Poor Anthony Lyveden’s body was found a fortnight ago–in a terrible
state. The hot weather, of course. The clothes were gone. They say
the left leg was broken…. We had him buried at Girdle. It seemed
the best thing to do._

_I notice I say ‘we.’ I should have said ‘I.’ The moment the news
came, Valerie threw down her cards. I tell you, it was like Bridge.
Up to that moment she and I had been partners, and she’d been the one
that mattered. Suddenly she became ‘Dummy,’ and I had to play the
game. She’s been ‘Dummy’ ever since. Wonderfully sweet and gentle,
unnaturally calm, apparently perfectly content. But no initiative–no
energy of mind–nothing. Every plan I make is ‘admirable’: every
suggestion ‘splendid.’ She ‘can’t imagine how I think of it all.’ But
ask her opinion, and she’ll smile and shrug her shoulders. She just
doesn’t care about anything, John. The frocks her maid puts out for
her Valerie puts on. If she put out odd stockings, on to her feet
they’d go._

_I brought her here to get her out of herself._

_To tell you the truth, I hoped and believed she’ld kick. Do you
understand? I wanted a sign of life. This agreeable apathy is
frightening. A raging Valerie makes me tremulous, but Valerie meek and
mild is shortening my life. I tell you I feel aged…._

_Well, from that point of view, Dinard was such a failure that I was
quite thankful I hadn’t suggested Pekin. We should have had to go.
This terrible approval of one’s choice is far more compelling than any
criticism._

_I heard of a villa somehow, and here we are._

_I have a good_ maître d’hôtel, _who does everything. I think he is
lining his pockets for years to come, but I would not part with him for
a thousand pounds._

_We eat, sleep, and are driven about the Department. We watch tennis;
we hear music; we attend the Casino. We discuss–more or less
cheerfully–the small things in Life. The world sees a silly old fool
with a devoted niece. I tell you, John, the girl is sweetness itself.
Her affection brings tears to my eyes. But she is just ‘Dummy.’ Her
character has gone._

_Pray for her. Pray for us both, because, for the moment I am, I
think, indispensable._

_Affectionately,
HARRIET TOUCHSTONE._

_P.S.–If only they had been married instead of betrothed…. I shall
always say that wedlock would have been proof against that influence.
Valerie’s arms would have won. Of course you’ll shake your head. You
must pretend disapproval, because you’re a priest. But you won’t
groan. I’ll bet you don’t groan._

_H.T._

Lady Touchstone addressed the letter with a sigh.

It was right that John Forest should know what was going on. She had
told him, therefore, what she was telling herself. She did not tell
him the fear which knocked at her heart daily, insistently. This was
that Valerie French, that glorious, dazzling creature, had gone the way
of Lot’s wife.

‘She became a pillar of salt.’

A tall, graceful pillar–stricken, yet tearless–heedless of pain or
pleasure as the pitiful dead, Valerie was warranting the comparison.
Desire had failed.

Let us see for ourselves.

Upstairs, in a lavender wrap, hairbrush in hand, Valerie sat in her
chair and stared at her glass.

An Eve stared back.

A painter once said of Miss French that she had never been born. He
was meaning, I fancy, that she had sprung, like Cytheræa, out of the
loins of Nature. Indeed, she did not look a daughter of men: and if
Cytheræa rose from the foam of the sea, Valerie French came stepping
out of the heart of a forest one sweet September morning, twenty-six
years ago.

Nature’s treasuries had been ransacked to make her lovely. The cool of
the dawn lay in her fingertips; the breath of the mountains hung in her
nostrils. Violets, dew, and stars went to the making of those
wonderful eyes. Her skin was snowy, save where the great sun had
kissed her–on either cheek; her mouth was a red, red flower. Her
voice was bird’s music; her dark hair, a cloud; her carriage, that of a
deer. As for her form, straight, clean-limbed, lithe, its beauty was
old as the hills. In a word, Valerie French threw back to Eden.

Valerie gazed and gazed….

After a long while–

“Not a grey hair,” she said slowly. “Not one. By rights, my hair
should be white. By rights, my eyes should be staring…. They’re not
even strained. I ought to be thin, pale as a ghost, with great rings
under my eyes…. I looked a million times worse before–before it
happened…. And now, when nothing matters, when everything’s
gone–smashed–finished, I look my best…. I suppose it’s because I
can’t care … the power of caring is gone. I’ld give my life to cry,
but it can’t be done.” Her gaze fell to the table. “First, the golden
bowl; then the cord–that beautiful, silver cord; then the pitcher of
life; and now the wheel at the cistern…. Yes. The wheel’s broken.
I can’t draw up any tears.” She fell to brushing her hair absently.
“We should have been married now, and he ‘ld ‘ve been dressing, too.
The door ‘ld ‘ve been open, and he ‘ld ‘ve come walking in. Perhaps he
‘ld ‘ve played with my hair…. bent back my head and kissed me …
laid his cheek against mine…. Instead, he’s lying at Girdle, under
the ground. No one was there to hold his head at the last … to give
him water … tell him it wouldn’t be long. Perhaps the dog was with
him … whining … licking his face. I wonder what Patch did
when–when it was all over…. I’ll bet he cared, poor scrap. But I,
his queen … no. I’m not allowed. The wheel’s broken.”

* * * * *

Three slow-treading hours had gone by since Valerie looked at herself,
and now Lady Touchstone and she were listening to an admirable
orchestra rendering the duet from _Cavalleria Rusticana_ with real
emotion.

A silence had fallen upon the frivolous crowd. Beneath the music’s
spell the hubbub of mirth and chatter had sunk to a murmur of talk; in
turn the murmur had died; only one voice had survived, nasal and
drawling…. For a moment it seared the music…. Then some one
touched its owner upon the shoulder. The drawl snapped off short.

Step by step the air climbed to the pinnacles of Glistering Grief,
trailing its audience behind. The exquisite atmosphere became rarer,
more difficult to endure. A merciless fellowship of wizards, the band
slaved at its charm, sobering vanity, finding souls in the soulless,
plucking out hearts right and left and clapping them upon sleeves.
Lips began to tremble, hands to be clenched; eyes stared upon the floor.

Lady Touchstone blinked back her tears.

Valerie sat still, watching a moth that was busy about a lantern, and
wondering where they would go when they left Dinard.

Suddenly, six feet away, a girl broke down.

Her chin on her fists, her elbows propped on a table, blowing furiously
at a cigarette, she strove to carry it off. All the time tears coursed
down her cheeks. The man beside her bent forward…. She shook him
away fiercely. Her gleaming shoulders began to shake convulsively. A
quivering sob fought its way out….

The girl flung down her cigarette, buried her face in her hands, and
bowed before the storm.

Perhaps five hundred eyes saw Valerie step to her side, put an arm
about her, and lead her away. She went like a lamb. Lady Touchstone
followed, snivelling and praising God. The gallant came last, feeling
his position and savaging a young moustache….

As they came to the doors–

“We’ll take her home, Aunt Harriet. She says that she’ld like to come.”

The car was sent for.

As the girl took her seat–

“Don’t you come,” she jerked out, addressing her squire. “Tell th’
others I met some friends.”

The youth uncovered relievedly. The last thing he wanted to do was to
enter that car.

Then the door slammed, and he was left standing, headgear in hand.

He stared at his hat before replacing it.

“André!” he said. “André of all women!…” He sighed profoundly. “My
word, what a show!” He clapped his hat on his head and sought for a
drink.

So far as that search was concerned, his lady beat him. While he was
still wobbling between a vermouth, which he disliked, and a whiskey,
which he mistrusted, she was seated in a salon of the Villa Narcisse,
sipping a brandy-and-soda of a very fair strength.

The liquor steadied her nerves. After a minute or two she accepted a
cigarette.

Once she began to stammer some gratitude.

Valerie checked her at once.

“We’ll talk when you’re better,” she said.

Then she turned her back and picked up a book….

André Strongi’th’arm was English and an attractive lady. Tears, of
course, will make havoc of any countenance. They could not hide,
however, her exquisite complexion, nor could they alter the shape of
her maddening mouth. Pearls looked dull against the white of her
throat, while her auburn hair alone made her remarkable. Enough and to
spare for two women was crowning her pretty head. The lights that
flashed from this glory beggar description. Her fine green frock
became her mightily. This was none too long, but the shape of the slim
silk stockings and little shining feet turned the shortcoming into a
virtue.

Perhaps five minutes slipped by.

Then–

“You must think me a fool,” faltered André. “A soppy, half-bred fool.”

The other closed her book and rose to her feet, smiling.

“I don’t at all,” she said quickly, turning about. “As a matter of
fact, I should think you could stand more than most people.”

“I can,” came the reply. “You’re perfectly right. That music to-night
caught me bending. I’d been thinking all day … thinking … letting
myself remember … sticking a knife in my heart. Then that duet came
along and drove it home.” She snuffed out a sob with a laugh. “Serves
me right,” she added, “for being a fool.”

“I wish,” said Valerie French, “you’ld teach me to cry.”

The other stared at her.

“What on earth for?” She gave a hard laugh. “‘Teach you to cry?’ My
dear, you wait…. Yes, and thank your stars. When your hour comes,
you won’t want any teaching.”

“It’s come,” said Valerie. “It came a fortnight ago.”

Miss Strongi’th’arm shook her bright head.

“No, it hasn’t,” she said. “Don’t think I mean to be rude, but I know
what I’m talking about. You think it has, but it hasn’t. I know the
symptoms too well.”

“And I haven’t got them?” smiled Valerie. “I know. That’s just my
trouble…. Supposing you’re deadly ill, with a temperature of a
hundred and four. All the time you look perfectly well, and the
thermometer says ‘normal.’ Yet the fever’s there–raging. Raging all
the more because it’s suppressed….”

“You’ld die,” said André.

“I don’t,” said Valerie. “I wish I could. But that’s where the body’s
so much better off than the mind. Symptoms or none, it can take to its
bed and die. The mind can’t. It just carries on and on.” She sat on
the arm of a chair and crossed her knees. “Death and tears are denied
me. What’s worse, I can’t even care.”

“Then why on earth worry?” said André bitterly. “My God, I wish I
couldn’t!”

“I don’t worry,” said Valerie, taking a cigarette. “I tell you I
can’t. But you forget the fever … the raging fever … raging to be
expressed. You see, the tears are there. They must be. I can’t get
them out.”

André Strongi’th’arm stared at this strange, quiet girl who talked of
death and tears as though they were pens and ink. She began to realize
that she was in the presence of one whose acquaintance with Grief was
rather more intimate than she had believed.

At length–

“You ask me,” she said slowly, “to teach you to cry. Well, I’ll tell
you a tale. If that doesn’t make you weep, I shouldn’t think anything
would.”

“Do,” said Valerie French.

The other leaned back in her chair and covered her eyes.

“I was engaged,” she said, “to a king among men. He looked like a god.
He could have married anyone, and–he chose me. The trouble was, Life
wasn’t big enough for him. He wanted worlds to conquer, and there
weren’t any worlds going. He was like Warwick the King-maker. If the
earl was alive to-day, I imagine he’d be out of a job. So was Richard.
Then some relative died, and he inherited. Hardly any money, but an
estate–a cursed horror of woodland down in the Cotswold Hills.”
Valerie started violently. Her face went very white. The voice
proceeded jerkily. “A place called Gramarye. Only about forty minutes
from where I live…. Well, the estate was a wreck. A park had been
made once–cut out of a forest. Then it had been let go, and the
forest had gradually swallowed it up again. It was a pity, of course,
but the damage was done. Any idea of restoration was fantastic … out
of the question. Very good. So was any idea of building the
Pyramids….

“I said Richard wanted a world. Well, here was one for him to conquer.
He set himself to restore this dreadful estate. It gave his ambition
scope, his wonderful ‘drive’ a field, his tremendous physical energy
something to spend itself on. But the place was accursed. Soon it got
into his blood. He could think of nothing else. Our marriage was
postponed … postponed … postponed…. I hung on and hung on,
watching Gramarye squeeze me out of his life and worm her way into his
brain….

“Then … some one else came along–more splendid than Richard. His
name was Anthony….”

The girl stifled a sob and bowed her head, pressing her pointed fingers
against her temples till the blood ran back from the nails. Valerie
French sat as though carved out of stone–or salt.

“He–was–the–most–perfect–thing…. I told you Richard was a king
and looked like a god. Well, Anthony was a god and looked like a king.
He was the handsomest man in mind and body anyone ever saw. Of course
I went under at once–right under. I flung myself at his head. So
would you. I dare say you think you wouldn’t, but I tell you you
would. I never even stopped to think–I’ll tell you why. _This
wonderful creature was sitting at Richard’s feet … working at
Gramarye, too …. wrapping her ghastly toils about his brain_. If I
hadn’t lost my head, I might have saved him. He might have listened to
me if only I’d held myself in. I went to see him one night, determined
to open his eyes. I opened them wider than I meant–and finished
everything. I meant him to turn down Gramarye. I only strengthened
her case and got turned down myself….

“Well, Richard went mad. I knew he would. He’s in an asylum now.
And, after a little, Anthony went mad, too. Where he is, I don’t know.”

There was a long silence. Presently André’s hands slid into her lap.

“I think that’s enough to bear,” she continued dully, “but there’s some
more to come–a sort of aftermath. You see, my people don’t know …
that there was somebody else. They know I’m half off my head–all my
friends do. _But they think it’s because of Richard_. They’re sweet
and land and gentle. They do all they can. Their interest’s amazing,
their understanding marvellous. But all the time _they’re bathing the
wrong leg_. Bathing and rubbing and bandaging till I could scream.”
She smote upon the arm of her chair. “I don’t care a damn about
Richard. He’s nothing to me. They tell me the doctors’ reports–break
the bad ones gently, and wave the good ones about as if they were
flags. All the time I don’t care … I don’t care. I’m thankful he’s
out of my life. I’ve not a scrap of compunction. I never meant
anything to him. He was too big…. When I say I don’t care–as I
do–they think it’s a phase of my grief. When I say he means nothing,
they soothe me and change the subject. They’ve not the faintest idea
that there’s anyone else….”

She broke off and shrugged her white shoulders.

“Well, there you are. You’re not crying, I see, but then it’s not your
affair. Besides, I’ve told it badly. But if you could have seen that
glorious specimen of manhood–that great-hearted, clean-handed
gentleman, quietly working out his own damnation with an eager,
grateful heart … if you’d had a chance of stopping this hideous rot,
and chucked it away … if he’d shown you out of his cottage as he’ld
show out a wanton–so firmly, so sadly, so handsomely–with the kindest
look that ever a man gave woman—-“

André stopped short, and a finger flew to her lip.

The other’s eyes were swimming …

A moment later Valerie French was weeping passionately.

* * * * *

Twelve more hours had gone by, and André Strongi’th’arm was packing her
trunk.

A sudden knock at her door preceded a page, bearing a telegram.

André ripped it open casually enough.

_Most splendid news darling come home at once Gramarye caught fire and
is burned out apparently as direct result of this Richard completely
recovered wire where and when you arrive Mother._

The girl stared at the words.

These slid to and fro, making absurd combinations. Presently they
became ridiculously minute.

The sheet slipped from her fingers, but she continued to stare blindly.

Behind her, the page, who was waiting to hear if she had any answer to
send, began to fidget. After a little, he stood upon one leg….