AN HIGH LOOK AND A PROUD HEART
Here is a note, gentlemen, on its way to a lady, I have set it out now,
that you may be wiser than she--by some twenty-four hours. Such as it
is, I like my lookers-on to see the best of the game.
_Rome,
14th November._
_MY DEAR VALERIE,_
_I observe from your letter that you have lost faith in the man you
love. Now, although I know him not, I trust him implicitly. I do not
care what has happened. Shall I tell you why? Because I know that you
would never have put your trust in him had he been unworthy._
_Love plays such queer tricks with its victims, making the fearless
timorous, the proud lowly, the trusting doubtful. Who was it coined
that mischievous phrase, "Too good to be true"? He has much to answer
for. Nothing is too good to be true. Not even the love of a man for a
maid, Valerie. You found it so good that you were thoroughly prepared
to find it false. And the moment you saw the clouds, you believed the
sun to be dead. That is heathenish and the way of the people who
imagine a vain thing._
_His explanation will shame you, of course; but take the lesson to
heart._
_Your affectionate uncle,
JOHN FOREST._
* * * * *
The Assize Court was crowded. Even upon the Bench there was little
room to spare; and when the High Sheriff disappeared to return a moment
later with two ladies, the Judge's clerk eyed the new-comers with
something of that impotent indignation with which a first-class
passenger regards the violation of his state by belated individuals
whose possession of first-class tickets is highly dubious.
The calendar contained no case of unusual interest, but the Red Judge
comes to Brooch but three times a year, and the old market-town makes
the most of its gaol deliveries.
At the moment of the ladies' entering, Mr. Albert Morgan was in charge
of the jury, and the twelve gentlemen were in course of hearkening to
evidence which suggested with painful clarity that the prisoner's sins
of commission included that of felony. That Mr. Morgan had been caught
red-handed had not prevented the rogue from pleading "Not guilty." He
had stood in docks before now. Besides, enough money had been found to
instruct a member of the Bar--if not a solicitor--to argue his impudent
case....
"Anthony Lyveden," said counsel for the Crown.
"Anthony Lyveden!" cried the constable-usher.
"Anthony Lyveden!" bawled his colleague, opening the door of the Court.
Anthony, who was pacing the hall, came quickly. A moment later he had
entered the box.
His footman's overcoat accentuated at once his height and his breeding.
It suited the figure admirably, but not the man. The handsome,
clean-cut face, the excellence of his speech--above all, the
personality of the witness--gave the lie to his garb. Moreover, he
displayed a quiet dignity of manner which was as different from that of
the most exquisite lackey as is sable from civet. From resting upon
him the eyes of the Court began to stare...
Lest their owners be thought unmannerly, it is fair to record that the
last witness, whilst swearing that he was a chauffeur, had resembled
one of the landed gentry of the Edwardian Age, and that the last but
one--to wit, the chauffeur's employer--had sworn that he was a retired
grocer, and looked exactly like one.
Anthony took the oath and glanced about him.
From the dock Mr. Morgan was regarding him with a malevolent glare.
Farther back sat George Alison, upon his face an expression of profound
resignation, which was plainly intended to indicate to his colleague
the unpleasant nature of his late ordeal. And there, between the High
Sheriff and Lady Touchstone, sat Miss Valerie French....
With narrowed eyes and a face impassive as a mask she met the footman's
look. By her side her aunt was smiling recognition, but Anthony never
saw that. Gazing upon the beauty of that face which he had once
transfigured, he found it frozen. That proud red bow of a mouth, that
had been his for the taking, might have been graven of precious stone.
Here was no vestige of Love. Tenderness was clean gone. Even as he
looked, the blue eyes shifted casually to wander around the Court....
The cold wind of Indifference made Anthony's heart shiver within him.
Small wonder that he replied to counsel's questions mechanically, like
a man in a dream.
He had, of course, known that he was out of favour.
One perfect Wednesday she had worshipped him to his face: upon the
following Sabbath he had been turned away from her doors. For this
mysterious fall from grace no reason had been vouchsafed. Moreover, so
high was the favour, so eminent the grace, that Anthony had been
desperately bruised. For a little he had been stunned. More than
once, as he had walked dazedly home, he had tripped and stumbled. And,
on reaching the house, he had done what he had never thought to
do--surreptitiously poured and swallowed a glass of his master's
brandy. As the days marched by, he had in some sort recovered--slowly,
if for no other reason because Grief should have air and not be clapped
under hatches. And now--here was the lady, pointing in person the
unpleasant truth that she had no further use for him....
Had they but told their love before his downfall, his course would have
been simple. In that case, to ask an explanation of his dismissal
would have been lawful enough. But things had not gone so far. It was
while they were yet upon the threshold of harmony that the end had
come. Of his honesty Anthony felt that he had no right to question
her. The lady had not engaged herself: she was still free to do as she
pleased. His cursed footmanhood was an additional embarrassment. To
speak vulgarly, it put the lid on. And now--why was she here?
Thus throughout his examination-in-chief the imps of Recollection and
Speculation spun and whirled in his brain-pan.
Why on earth was she there?
It is doubtful whether Miss French herself could have answered that
question.
You will please believe, gentlemen, that her heart had brought her. It
is the plain truth. Though Anthony did not know it, he had taken her
faith in his hands and torn it across and across. For all that, she
loved him still. She had a strange, pathetic longing to see him once
more, and the case of "The King against Morgan" had offered her the
chance. She had heard of the matter, and knew he must come to court to
give his evidence. In such a place she would be able to study him
undisturbed, and, most important of all, any speech between them would
be safely impossible. A note to the High Sheriff had arranged her
admission.... Incidentally, a burst tire on the way from Bell Hammer
had almost spoiled everything. As we have seen, however, the ladies
were just in time....
"Yes," purred counsel for the Crown. "And then?"
"Then the prisoner gave a cry and rushed into the drawing-room."
"What did you do?"
"I followed him and seized him. When assistance arrived, he was
secured, and in the morning he was handed over to the police."
With a nod, counsel resumed his seat.
Mr. Morgan's representative got upon his feet with a truculent air. As
he did so, somebody touched him upon the shoulder, and he turned to see
his client leaning out of the dock. With an apologetic smirk at his
lordship, the lawyer left his seat....
"What is it? What is it?" he whispered testily.
Mr. Morgan breathed into his ear.
"This is the swine," he said evilly. "Put it acrost 'im. Arsk 'im----"
"You shut yer face," said his adviser. "An' don' try an' teach me my
job, or I'll 'ave you in the box."
Before this threat Mr. Morgan subsided, muttering.
Impatiently counsel for the defence returned to his place. Once there,
he adjusted his gown, consulted a blank sheet of paper with some
acerbity, and then addressed himself to the witness.
"Why did you leave your last place?"
Anthony hesitated. Then--
"I was unable to get on with one member of the household," he said.
"Were you dismissed?"
"I was."
"Why?"
"As the result of a difference I had."
"Come, come, sir. That's no answer."
"The son of the house insulted me, and I knocked him down."
Such a sensational reply fairly took the wind out of counsel's sails.
Amid a stifled murmur of excitement he strove to collect himself.
"You--er--assaulted him?"
"I did."
"Rather hasty, aren't you?"
"I don't think so."
"We shall see. Now, upon the night in question--the night of the
burglary with which my client is charged--where had you been?"
"To a private house."
"From which you, a footman, return at four in the morning?"
"Yes," said Anthony.
"Did you have any drinks at the--er, private house?"
"I drank some wine."
"How many hours were you there?"
"About five."
"You can drink a good deal in five hours?"
"You can," said Anthony.
"How many drinks did you have?"
"I drank two or three glasses of wine."
"What sort of wine?"
"Champagne."
"In fact, you had a good evening?"
"I enjoyed myself very much."
"Exactly. And you returned--shall we say, 'happy'?"
"If you are suggesting that I was under the influence of drink----"
"Answer my question, sir."
The Judge interfered.
"Either, Mr. Blink, you are suggesting that the witness was under the
influence of drink, or I fail to see the point of your questions."
Hurriedly counsel agreed, announced magnanimously that he would not
pursue the matter, and plunged into a series of causeless and empty
inquiries in the hope of stumbling upon an answer with which he might
first of all hammer the witness and then erect a defence. His efforts
went unrewarded, and behind him in the dock Mr. Morgan ground his teeth
with vexation. That he was not getting his friends' money's worth was
obvious. He did not expect to get off, but if he could have seen
Lyveden discredited he would have taken his gruel with a grin.
Venomously he gnawed his fingers....
For the twentieth time counsel drew a bow at a venture.
"You're not under notice to leave your present place?"
"Yes," said Anthony, "I am."
Despite herself, Valerie French started, and the chauffeur at the back
of the court stared at the witness wide-eyed. The court, which had
almost lost interest, pricked up its ears. Hardly disguising his
relief, counsel proceeded to develop the impression in his own
time-honoured way. Turning his back upon the witness, he elevated his
eyebrows and then smiled very pleasantly upon a ventilator immediately
above the jury-box.
"Really?" he said. "This is most interesting. Under notice, are you?
Dear me.... Why?"
"I have given notice myself."
"Oh, indeed. Why?"
"For private reasons."
Counsel appeared to find this answer so highly diverting that after a
moment's hesitation the jury joined in his merriment. As the titter
subsided--
"I'm afraid," said Mr. Blink apologetically, "I'm afraid I can't take
that."
Anthony paled.
"I wish," he said, "to leave the neighbourhood."
"Why?"
Anthony hesitated, and the Judge laid down his pen.
"Mr. Blink, I don't wish in any way to embarrass you, but can this
affect your case?"
An expert in impudence, Mr. Blink was well aware of the amazing
possibilities of consummate audacity.
"My lord," he said solemnly, "my suggestion is that the witness knows
considerably more about this burglary than he is willing to admit."
The improvised shaft went home.
For a moment there was dead silence. Then some one gasped audibly, a
breeze of emotion rustled over the court, and the jury leaned
forward.... Only the Judge, before him a list of the prisoner's
previous convictions, sat like an image.
With a spiteful gleam in his eyes, Mr. Morgan moistened his lips. This
was more like it.
Counsel, now in his element, addressed the witness.
"Whence," he demanded dramatically, "whence this sudden desire to make
yourself scarce?"
Breathlessly the reply was awaited....
None came, however, and counsel took up the running with a dry laugh.
"Very good," he said. "I take your answer."
Anthony stepped down and joined the chauffeur without a word.
Ten minutes later Mr. Blink was fanning the flame of mistrust into a
conflagration. What, he asked, did the jury think? They were men of
the world. Candidly, had they ever seen such a chauffeur and footman
before? Did they look like servants? Of course they had Mr.
Bumble's--their master's--confidence. _But had they the jury's?_ He
did not wish to usurp the functions of the cinema or the stage, but it
was his duty to remind them that sometimes Truth was stranger than
Fiction.... Here were two servants, who were obviously not servants at
all, giving such overwhelming satisfaction that they were allowed
unheard-of liberty--liberty which afforded unrivalled opportunities....
"Out till four in the morning, gentlemen. A latch-key to let them in.
A motor-car at their disposal. And now--leaving this comfortable--this
perfect situation. Why? No answer. _Is it because the game is up,
gentlemen?_ ..."
His lordship, who in his time had seen many juries befooled, summed up
rather wearily, and at twenty-five minutes to one Mr. Morgan was found
"Not guilty."
That the latter should greet the verdict with a gesture of derision
verged, all things considered, upon indecency. It is good to think
that the warder who hustled him from the dock, and played full-back for
the prison, made this as clear as daylight.
* * * * *
Valerie left the court in some annoyance. She was annoyed that Anthony
had been lessened, and she was annoyed to find that she cared whether
he had been lessened or not. She would also have liked to know the
reason for his proposed departure. Undoubtedly it had to do with Anne
Alison. His very reticence proved it. Perhaps she was going, too....
Anne Alison.... At the very thought of the girl, Valerie's resentment
welled up anew. Jealousy knows no law. The reflection that it was at
her instance that Anthony had gone as footman to the house where Anne
was housemaid rode her with a harsh and merciless hand. Often enough,
sunk in most bitter contemplation of this fact, she got no further.
That she got no further to-day was due to a timely
interruption--nothing less, in fact, than a snort of an intensity too
clamorous to be ignored.
Valerie looked up.
"At last," said Lady Touchstone with some asperity. "That's the
fourth."
"The fourth what?" said Valerie.
"The fourth snort," said her aunt. "I don't know what's the matter
with you nowadays. To snort at all, I must be profoundly moved. You
know that as well as I do."
"What's the matter?" said Valerie.
Lady Touchstone stared at her.
"My dear," she said, "what you want is a change. You have just
witnessed what I hope is the most flagrant miscarriage of justice of
recent years, you have seen twelve fools bamboozled by a knave, you
have heard a friend of yours grossly insulted, and you ask me what's
the matter." The car swung round a corner, and Lady Touchstone, who
was unready, heeled over with a cry. "I wish Mason wouldn't do that,"
she added testily, dabbing at her _toque_. "So subversive of dignity.
What was I saying? Oh yes. A change. We'd better go to Nice."
Before Miss French could reply, a deafening report from beneath them
announced the dissolution of another tire.
Mason brought the car to the side of the road. Then he applied the
hand-brake and alighted heavily to inspect the damage.
With a resigned air, Lady Touchstone sat awaiting his report.
Valerie began to laugh.
"Shall I tell you what he's doing?" she said.
Her aunt regarded her.
"I presume he's staring at the wheel," she said shortly. "Though of
what interest a deflated tire can be to anybody passes my
comprehension."
"Not at all," said her niece. "Mason is trying to make up his mind to
tell you that we shall have to walk home. He only brought one spare
cover, and we've used that."
Lady Touchstone glanced at her watch.
"And the Billows," she said grimly, "are coming to lunch in twenty
minutes." She raised her voice. "All right, Mason. Miss Valerie's
broken it to me. Stop the first vehicle that approaches and ask them
to give us a lift."
"Very good, my lady."
"Supposing," said Valerie, "it's a milk-float."
"So much the better," replied her aunt. "I've always wanted to ride in
a milk-float. It's the survival of the Roman chariot." Placidly she
settled herself in her corner and closed her eyes. "Dear me. What a
relief it is not to be moving! If only the Billows weren't coming...."
Neither she nor Valerie heard the approach of the Rolls. Indeed, it
was not until George Alison, in response to Mason's signals, was
bringing the great blue car actually alongside that the ladies realized
that help was at hand.
The sight of Anthony Lyveden alighting to take his master's orders
chilled Valerie as the breath of a crypt. Her aunt, on the contrary,
was plainly as pleased as Punch at the encounter....
So soon as Mr. Bumble appreciated that it was the quality of Bell
Hammer who sought his assistance, he took appropriate action. Hat in
hand, he descended into the road and, speaking with grave civility, put
his car at the ladies' disposal. This being accepted, he handed them
out of their own and ushered them into the Rolls. Then he bowed very
pleasantly and closed the door.
Valerie started to her feet.
"But, Mr. Bumble," she cried, "of course you're coming. Aunt Harriet,
we can't...."
"Of course we can't," said Lady Touchstone. "Mr. Bumble, get in at
once."
Humbly their host shook his head.
"Bell 'Ammer is no distance, me lady, an' the car can come back. I
shouldden dream o' takin' advantage of an acciden', me lady."
Regretting very much that she had never noticed the ex-grocer before,
Lady Touchstone sought desperately to pull the position round.
"Mr. Bumble," she said, "we cannot use your car without you. That we
do not know one another is my fault. Please get in. I want to tell
you how very sorry we are about your case."
Again Mr. Bumble bowed.
"Your ladyship is most kind. If Mrs. Bumble was 'ere, it'd be
different.... But we're both of us proud, me lady, fer you to 'ave the
car. An'--an' please don' put yerself out, m'm. I'm in no 'urry."
The quiet determination of his tone was unmistakable. The little man
was clearly stoutly resolved not to improve an acquaintance which his
wife did not share. Wealth had not clouded his memory nor corrupted
his simple heart.
Lady Touchstone hauled down her flag.
"You're one of the old school, Mr. Bumble," she said, "so we won't
argue. Will you tell Mrs. Bumble that, if Thursday's quite convenient,
we shall call at The Shrubbery and ask her to give us some tea?"
And Valerie put out her hand.
"Good-bye for the present," she said. "Thank you so very much."
The next moment they were gone.
Hat still in hand, the ex-grocer looked after the car.
"Lady by name an' lady by nature," he said softly. Then he put on his
hat and turned to Mason. "'Ave a cigar, boy. I 'ate smokin' alone."
As they swept out of sight, Lady Touchstone picked up the speaking tube.
"George Alison!" she cried. Up went the chauffeur's head. "Stop the
car, please. Valerie and Major Lyveden will change places. We want to
discuss the trial."
George slowed up with a grin.
Jack opened the door for Jill, who descended with an airy nod of
greeting which hurt him more than the stoniest disregard. With her
head high, she stepped to the seat he had left. As he was closing the
high side door upon her, her fur coat intervened, and Jack set it
gently aside. Jill felt the touch, turned, glanced down and twitched
the garment away....
Anthony's eyes blazed. A short six inches away, Valerie's blazed
back....
On the opposite side of the car George and Lady Touchstone were hanging
out of their seats, raving concurrent invective against the Laws of
England.
For a moment eyes searched eyes steadily. Then, with a faint smile,
Anthony leaned forward and kissed the proud red lips. Then he shut the
door with infinite care....
Had Miss French's fur coat been less voluminous, the gulf which Error
had set between the lovers might have been bridged within the week.
But it was a fine wrap, and ample. In an instant the gulf had become a
sea of troubles, with the house that Jack had built upon one side, and
the castle which Jill had raised upon the other. And, as for a bridge,
their labour now was lost that sought to build one. It had become a
case for a causeway.
As the car slid forward--
"And why," said Lady Touchstone, "are you going away?"
Anthony laughed jerkily.
"Have a heart, Lady Touchstone," he cried. "I've already risked
imprisonment to save my secret."
Her ladyship looked about her.
"This," she said, "appears to be the interior of an expensive limousine
landaulette. Very different from a court-house. The seats are softer,
for one thing. Besides, from his adviser the client should conceal
nothing."
"Are you my adviser?"
"That," said Lady Touchstone, "is my role."
"But am I your client?"
"I advise you to be."
For a long moment Lyveden stared straight ahead. Upon the front seat
Miss French was chattering to George Alison with an unwonted
liveliness, punctuated with little bursts of merriment. All the while
she kept her head so turned that Anthony might miss not a jot of her
gaiety....
"I'm sorry," said Lyveden quietly. "You're very kind, Lady Touchstone,
and I'm properly grateful. But I can't tell you."
He was, of course, perfectly right. Intervention was not to be thought
of, much less encouraged. For one thing, to mutter that Valerie and he
were estranged would be to proclaim a previous intimacy. For another,
it was an affair, not of hearts only, but of deeps calling. Each
lifting up the other's heart, the twain had distilled a music that is
not of this world: it was unthinkable that an outsider should be shown
a single note of the score. Finally, Anthony wanted no peace-making.
What had he to do with peace?
The silver cord was loosed, but he had not loosed it. The golden bowl
was broken, but not at his hand. It was she--Valerie French--that had
wrought the havoc. That cord and bowl were the property as much of
Anthony as of her had not weighed with the lady. As if this were not
enough, he was to be used like a leper.... What had he to do with
peace?
The thought that he had been able to pick up the glove she had thrown
down with such a flourish elated him strangely. To kiss My Lady
Disdain upon the mouth--that was an answer. That would teach her to
draw upon an unarmed man. For she had thought him weaponless. What
footman carries a sword? And then, in the nick of time, Fate had
thrust a rapier into the flunkey's hand....
Lady Touchstone was speaking....
"Well, well," she said gently, "perhaps you're right. I'm sorry, you
know. I saw two lives smashed once by a clerical error on the part of
a florist's assistant. I knew them both, too, but neither would speak.
When it was just too late, Eleanor opened her mouth.... Unknown to
her, I went to the florist's shop and looked at their order-book. Sure
enough, there was the trouble. I never told her, of course. But it's
haunted me ever since. Two lives ... smashed.... And they say that
silence is golden.... When you do go, will you let me have your
address?"
"I can imagine nothing more worthless," said Anthony. "But I think
I've been rude enough. I promise to send it you."
For no apparent reason he laughed bitterly. His companion shuddered.
"Don't laugh like that, Major Lyveden. It's bad for my heart. Oh,
dear. How fast George is driving! We shall be at Bell Hammer before
we know where we are." Suddenly she leaned forward and caught at the
footman's sleeve. "Anthony Lyveden, I've shown you my hand. As you
love my niece, what is the trouble?"
Anthony set his teeth.
"Can't be done," he said, "Lady Touchstone. We've got to work it out
for ourselves."
"Curse your pride," said that lady. "There. Now I've sworn at you.
But it's your own fault. And how are you two goats going to work it
out for yourselves? With one of you bleating at Nice, and the
other--Heaven knows where--in England? D'you go to church, Anthony
Lyveden?"
"I used to."
"Then go again. Get to your knees and pray. Pray to be delivered from
blindness of heart, Anthony Lyveden. D'you hear? Blindness of heart.
From pride, vainglory and hypocrisy. Not that you're hypocritical, but
they go together, and it'll do no harm. And I shall make Valerie go,
and--and I shall pray for you both."
Anthony slid off his hat and put her hand to his lips....
As he did so, the car sped past a red lodge and into a curling drive.
Lady Touchstone sought for a pocket-handkerchief.
"There's a tear on my nose," she explained. "I can feel it. It's a
real compliment, Anthony Lyveden. You're the very first man that's
ever made Harriet Touchstone cry."
The car swept to the steps.
Anthony was down in a flash. Tenderly he handed her out....
By the time her aunt had alighted, Valerie was at the top of the steps.
Anthony walked up to her steadily. Then he took off his hat.
"I humbly apologize," he said. "It was unpardonable."
"You're right," said Valerie quietly. "That's just what it was."
As she spoke, a servant opened the door.
Valerie turned on her heel and walked into the house.
That same evening, when the others had gone to bed, Anthony called his
terrier and set him upon his knee.
"Patch," he said, "I've come back to the fold." As was his habit when
mystified, the terrier swallowed apologetically. "Is that too hard for
you, my fellow? Let me put it like this. Once there were just you and
I, weren't there? A fool and his dog. Caring for nobody, nobody
caring for them, but to each other--just everything." The Sealyham
licked his face. "Then one day she came ... She. A wonderful,
peerless creature, to dazzle the poor fool's eyes. And the fool just
fell down and worshipped her. He didn't forget his little dog, Patch.
He never did that. But--well, it wasn't the same. Of course not. You
must have felt it sometimes.... But you're a good little chap. And I
couldn't help it, Patch. She--seemed--so--very--sweet.... I risked
your life for her once. I did, really." He paused to stare into the
fire. Then he took a deep breath. "By Jove, if you'd gone... I
should have been left now, shouldn't I? Properly carted. Well, well,
old fellow, it's over now. Never again, Patch. The fool's learned his
lesson. You'd never let me down, would you? No. But she has. They
say it's a way women have. And I'm going to wash her right out of my
life, Patch. Right out. Now."
He set the dog down, stretched out his arms wearily, and got upon his
feet. The terrier leaped up and down as if he had been promised a walk.
Anthony laughed.
"So? You're pleased, are you? Ah, well..."
He turned out the gas, and the two passed upstairs.
Anthony was as good as his word.
You cannot kill Memory, but you can send the jade packing. That he did
faithfully. By sheer force of will he thrust all thoughts of Valerie
out of his head. They returned ceaselessly, to be as ceaselessly
rejected. Their rejection took the form of displacement. They were,
so to speak, crowded out. All day long he was for ever forcing his
attention upon some matter or other to the exclusion of the lady. A
thousand times she came tripping--always he fobbed her off.
Considering how much of late he had been content to drift with the
stream, the way in which his mind bent to the oars was amazing. His
output of mental energy was extraordinary. Will rode Brain with a
bloody spur. When night came, the man was worn out....
In the circumstances it was hard, though not surprising, that he should
have dreamed so persistently of the tall, dark girl. It suggests that
Nature is an unscrupulous opponent. Be that as it may, night after
night, while the man slept, the tares were sown. Sleep, whom he had
counted his ally, proved herself neutral. She was content to knit up
the sleeve of care. That her handmaidens as fast unravelled it was
none of her business. After a week of this devilry, Anthony groaned.
Then he set his teeth, and, pleading insomnia, obtained permission to
walk abroad after supper. With Patch at his heels, he covered mile
after mile. So, though the mental strain was prolonged, he became
physically played out. His determination had its reward. He came to
sleep like the dead.
With a sigh for his simplicity, Nature plucked another iron out of the
fire....
Anthony began to lose weight.
* * * * *
Thursday afternoon came and went, and with it Lady Touchstone and
Valerie. The Bumbles were duly overwhelmed, treating their visitors
with an embarrassing deference which nothing could induce them to
discard: out of pure courtesy Lady Touchstone ate enough for a
schoolboy; thereby doing much to atone for Valerie, who ate nothing at
all: the Alisons respectfully observed the saturnalia and solemnly
reduced Mason to a state of nervous disorder by entertaining him in the
servants' hall: Anthony kept out of the way.
Not so Patch, however, who must, of course, put his small foot into it
with a splash.
The visitors were in the act of emerging from the front door, Mrs.
Bumble was dropping the second of three tremulous curtsies, and Mr.
Bumble was offering the stirrup-cup of humble duty, when the terrier
emerged from some laurels and, recognizing Valerie, rushed delightedly
to her side. Before she was aware of his presence, he was leaping to
lick her face....
To disregard such unaffected benevolence would have been worse than
churlish, and Valerie stooped to the Sealyham and gave him her cheek.
Patch lay down on his back and put his legs in the air. His tail was
going, and there was a shy invitation in the bright brown eyes which
was irresistible. Valerie hesitated. Then, on a sudden impulse, she
picked up the little white dog and held him close.
"Good-bye, Patch," she whispered. "Good-bye."
She kissed the rough white head and put him down tenderly. Then she
stepped into the car with a quivering lip.
It was as the car was turning out of the drive that she burst into
tears....
Such consolation as Lady Touchstone sought to administer was gently but
firmly declined: and, since her niece would have none of it, neither,
gentlemen, shall you.
It was a few hours later--to be exact, at a quarter before ten
o'clock--that a gentleman of some distinction laid down _The Times_.
For a moment or two he sat still, looking into the fire. Then he
picked up a pile of depositions and drew a pencil-case from his pocket.
For a while the occasional flick of a page argued his awful attention
to the recital of crime: then the keen grey eyes slid back to the
glowing coals, and the longhand went by the board. It was evident that
there was some extraneous matter soliciting his lordship's regard, and
in some sort gaining the same because of its importunity.
Mr. Justice Molehill was all alone. He had sent his marshal to the
cinema, "lest the boy should grow dull," and, except for the servants,
somewhere below stairs, the great gaunt mansion used as the Judge's
Lodging, lodged for the nonce no other inmate.
The room in which the Judge sat was enormous. Indeed, the shaded lamp,
set upon a table close to his shoulder, did little more than insist
upon the depths of the chamber, which to illumine effectively you would
have needed a score of lamps slung from the ceiling. For all its size,
however, the room was sparsely furnished. At the far end a huge carved
writing-table loomed out of the shadows; six high-backed chairs reared
themselves here and there against the walls; between prodigious windows
a gigantic press lifted its massive head. Reckoning the little table
bearing the lamp, and a pair of easy-chairs, that is a ready inventory.
A heavy carpet and curtains of the same dull red certainly excluded the
draughts. For all that, it was not a chamber in which to sit apart
from the fire. The marshal hated the place openly, and, on being
rallied by the Judge, had confessed that it "got on his nerves." He
had even suggested that it was haunted. Mr. Justice Molehill had
laughed him to scorn.
His lordship, then, was gazing upon the fire. After, perhaps, about
two minutes of time, he crossed his knees suddenly and flung up his
hand in a little gesture of impatience.
"Anthony Lyveden," he muttered. "Where on earth have I heard that
name?"
The expression upon his face was that of a man absorbed in searching
his memory. He was, indeed, so much engrossed in this occupation that
the keen grey eyes went straying whither they listed.
Let us follow those eyes.
From the light of the fire in its cage to the toe of his lordship's
pump, up to the chiselled mantel and the cigarette-box--the
marshal's--perched on the narrow ledge, down to the heavy bell-pull by
the side of the hearth, on to a high-backed chair against the wall,
down again to the floor--all black here, for the light is too distant
to show the carpet's hue--on into the shadows, where something--the
table, of course--shows like a grim bas-relief hewn out of the
darkness, on to its ponderous top, where the candles...
It was upon the top of the table that the keen grey eyes came to
rest--idly. The next moment his lordship's frame stiffened with a
shock.
The radiance of two wax candles was illuminating the bitterness of
death upon a man's face. It was an old face, long, gaunt,
clean-shaven, and the ill-fitting wig that gaped about the shrunken
temples gave it the queer pinched look which tells of a starved belly.
Eyes red-rimmed and staring, a long thin nose, and an unearthly pallor
made it displeasing: the dropped jaw, showing the toothless gums, made
it repulsive.
The hair upon Mr. Justice Molehill's head began to rise.
For a moment the face stayed motionless. Then the grey lids flickered,
and a trembling hand stole up out of the darkness to twitch at the
lower lip. A paper upon the table appeared to claim the attention of
those horrible eyes.... But not for long. Indeed, they had subjected
the document to the very barest perusal, when, with a convulsive
movement, the creature clawed at the paper, tore it with ravening hands
and, clapping the fragments to its distorted mouth, bit and savaged it
like a demoniac....
Hardened as he was to the spectacle of Rage dominant his lordship paled
before this paroxysm of unearthly passion. All the agony of
disappointed avarice, all the torment of mortification in defeat, all
the frenzy of impotent fury, blazed in one hideous blend out of that
frightful countenance. Could he have moved, the Judge would have
crossed himself.
Then suddenly came a change. The passion ebbed out of the face, the
paper fluttered out of the loosened fingers, the red-rimmed eyes took
on another look. Snail-slow the trembling hand was travelling across
the table....
Immediately between the silver candle-sticks lay a horse-pistol. As
the fingers approached it, their trembling increased. Twice they
hesitated, craven flesh rebelling against a recreant will. They shook
so frightfully upon encountering the butt that it seemed as if to grasp
it were beyond their power. Once they had seized it, however, the
trembling left them and passed into the hand....
With the approach of the weapon, the horror upon the face became
unspeakable. The eyes were starting, the mouth working painfully.
Resolved to be rid of life, yet terrified to die, the wretch was
writhing. There never was seen so loathsome a paradox. Cowardice was
gone crusading.
The Judge's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.
With the assistance of the other hand, the pistol had been turned
about, but head and hands were all shaking so violently that the
introduction of the muzzle into the gaping mouth was hardly
accomplished. Twice cup missed lip, and the steel went jabbing against
the ashen cheek. The next moment gums drummed on the metal with a
hideous vibration.
With a shock his lordship recognized the sound as one which he and the
marshal had heard more than once at this hour, and, after discussion,
had attributed to an idiosyncrasy of water under the influence of heat.
That the supreme moment had arrived would have been patent from the
eyes alone. Riveted upon the trigger-finger, squinting until the
pupils were almost lost to view, they were the orbs of a fiend. Even
as the Judge gazed, the light of Insanity took flaming possession.
Hell, grown impatient, had sent a sheriff for the usurer's soul....
With a dull crash the fire fell in, and the Judge started to his feet
with an oath.
The candles were gone.
The first thing which Mr. Justice Molehill did was to wipe the sweat
from his face, and the second, to mix himself and consume the strongest
whisky and soda he had swallowed for years. Then, being a man of stout
heart, he picked up the lamp and walked to the writing-table at the end
of the room. Here all was in order, and the closest scrutiny failed to
reveal any trace of the vision. The chair was there, certainly, but
its seat was dusty, and upon the table itself there was nothing at all.
The curtain behind the chair, when disarranged, disclosed a window,
heavily shuttered as usual, but nothing more.
Now, his lordship disliked defeat as much as anybody, but if there was
one thing which he detested more than another, it was an inability to
prove an excellent case. Looking at it from his point of view, he had
here a personal experience at once as interesting and incredible as a
man could fairly be expected to relate. The reflection was most
provoking. So much so, indeed, that, after a moment's hesitation, the
Judge picked up the chair and placed it upon the table. Then he bent
down and, thrusting his hands beneath the edge of the carpet, lifted
this up from the floor. The fabric was heavy, but he hauled with a
will, and a moment later he was standing upon the boards he had
uncovered. Thereafter, at the cost of a good deal of exertion, he
managed to roll it back from the window as far as the table itself.
Holding it in place with his knee, his lordship reached for the lamp....
It was his intention to discover whether the boards did not afford some
real evidence of the crime, and it is a matter for regret that, upon
perceiving that the floor had been diligently stained all over with
some coffee-coloured preparation, for the second time in the evening
his lordship swore. He was, in fact, in some dudgeon about to replace
the lamp, when the torn edge of paper, showing between two boards,
caught his observant eye....
The fine handwriting was faded, but still quite legible.
_10th Jan., 1789._
_SIR,_
_Your letter leaves me no hope but that you have been most grossly
betrayed. Should you so desire, I will render you indisputable proofs
that the Marquess of Bedlington hath no need of funds, much less hath
delivered in any's favour a bond for the vast sum declared in your
letter. In a word, though the name subscribed to the bond be that of
Bedlington, it was not the Marquess' hand that set it there. Who hath
done you this injury, I know not, but Time hath shown that his
lordship's twin brother, Lord Stephen Rome, lately decd., with whom the
Marquess was justly at variance, more than once scrupled not to assume
his brother's person and title to compass his own ends...._
At the mention of the twin brother, Mr. Justice Molehill raised his
keen grey eyes to stare at the lamp.
"Rome," he said softly. "Rome. That's right. It was at the _Grand
Hotel_. And Anthony Lyveden was the name of the sole legatee. I knew
I'd heard it before."
* * * * *
Mrs. Bumble's parlourmaid was counting upon her pink fingers.
"Sunday twenty-eight, Monday twenty-nine, to-day thirty.... Yes.
To-morrow's the first of December."
George Alison regarded his wife.
"Let us hope," he said gloomily, "that it's a better month. In the
course of the last four weeks I've had seventeen punctures, I've
endured a miscarriage of justice which has undoubtedly shortened my
life, and I've lost as good a pal as ever I struck."
"To hear you speak," said Betty, "any one would think that Anne and I
had enjoyed ourselves. It's been just as bad for us."
The chauffeur shook his head.
"You rave," he said shortly. "In the first place, what have you to do
with tires?"
"If we haven't had the punctures," was the reply, "we've heard enough
about them."
"Yes," said Anne. "It's been almost as bad as golf. 'What I did at
the fourteenth hole.'"
"In the second place," said George, "women adore irregularity. I can
conceive nothing more delectable to the feminine appetite than the
spectacle of Justice derailed. The apotheosis of our esteemed friend
and late colleague, Mr. Albert Morgan, has afforded you two more
indirect gratification than anything I can remember."
"Gratification?" almost screamed the two girls.
"Gratification," said George. "If I'd come home and said he'd pleaded
guilty and been sent down for five years, you'd have been all
depressed. In the third place----"
"Monstrous," said Betty. "Don't laugh, Anne. As if the very thought
of that man walking about free didn't make my blood boil."
"It made it run cold last time," observed her husband. "Same principle
as a geyser, I suppose.... Well, as I was saying, in the third place,
what was Anthony to you?"
"One of the best," said Betty stoutly. "That's what he was."
Her husband wrinkled his nose.
"My point is that he was a man's pal. He was nice to you because he'd
been properly brought up, but..."
Mournfully he passed his cup to be refilled.
"Go on," said Betty silkily. "I wouldn't miss this for anything."
Suspiciously George regarded her.
"Well," he said defiantly, "he hadn't much use for women."
Mrs. Alison turned to her sister-in-law and nodded scornfully at her
husband.
"Our wiseacre," she said.
"All right," said the chauffeur. "Don't you believe me. He as good as
told me so the day before he left, but I suppose that doesn't count."
Gurgling with merriment, his sister rose from the table and, coming
behind the speaker, set her hands on his shoulders.
"And I suppose that's why he 'wished to leave the neighbourhood,'" she
said, laying her cheek against his. "Betty and I were too much for
him. Which reminds me, Bet, you and I ought to go to Bell Hammer and
take those books back."
Her brother screwed his head round and looked at her.
"You're not suggesting that Valerie----"
"Sent him away?" said Anne. "Heaven knows. But he's just crazy about
her, isn't he, Bet?"
The parlourmaid nodded.
"And she?" queried Alison.
"Loves him to distraction," said Anne.
"Which is why she lets him push off?" said George. "I see. And I
suppose, if they'd hated one another like poison, they'd have been
married by now. You know, this is too easy."
"Ah," said Betty, with a dazzling smile, "but then, you see, women
adore irregularity."
Her husband, who was in the act of drinking, choked with emotion.
That the household was once more without a footman was a hard fact.
Major Anthony Lyveden, D.S.O., was gone. His period of service at The
Shrubbery had come to an abrupt end upon the previous day. His notice
had not expired, but when he received an offer which was conditional
upon his immediate departure from Hawthorne, he had laid the facts
before Mr. Bumble and left two days later. All efforts to persuade him
to leave an address were unavailing. This was a pity, for, ten minutes
after he and Patch had left for the station, there had arrived for him
a letter from a firm of solicitors that numbered many distinguished
clients, and The Honourable Mr. Justice Molehill among them.
Since Anthony will never read that letter, neither will we. We will
leave it where it is now, where it will lie, I dare say, until the
crack of doom--behind the overmantel in the servants' parlour,
gentlemen, with its back to the wall.
Anthony, then, was gone, and Patch with him. The Judge had been gone
some time. Mr. Morgan also had left the neighbourhood, and was earning
good money in the West End by the simple expedient of wearing the Mons
medal, to which, never having seen "service," he was not entitled, and
perambulating the gutters of South Kensington with a child in his arms.
The child was heavy and cost him sixpence a day, but, as an incentive
to charity, it left the rendering of "Abide with Me," upon which Mr.
Morgan had previously relied, simply nowhere.
Lady Touchstone and Valerie were still at Bell Hammer. More than once
the latter had revived her suggestion of a visit to the South of
France. Each time Valerie had applauded the idea and then promptly
switched the conversation on to another topic.... Women understand
women, and with a sigh her aunt resigned herself to the prospect of a
winter in Hampshire. Return to Town she would not. London was not
what it had been, and the vanities of the metropolis fell dismally
short of the old pre-War standard. You were robbed, too, openly,
wherever you went. With tears in their eyes, shopkeepers offered you
stones instead of bread, and charged you for fishes. Besides,
unemployment was booming, routs were frequent, rioting was in the
air.... Lady Touchstone decided that, if she was not to snuff the
zephyrs of Nice, the smell of the woods of Bell Hammer was good enough
for her nostrils.
If Lyveden had lost weight, Miss French had gained none. The blow that
had fallen all but a month ago had hit her as hard as him. Yet, of the
two, her plight was less evil. Each of them had dropped in their
tracks, which is to say that, while Lyveden had fallen upon the rough
ground of bare existence. Miss French had fallen into the lap of
luxury.
I am prepared to be told that this should have made no difference--that
creature comforts cannot minister to a broken heart. But, sirs, the
flesh and the spirit are thicker than that. The iron must have entered
uncommon deep into the soul for the body no longer to care whether the
bath-water run hot or cold.
For all that, the girl was desperately unhappy. That she should have
been bracketed with Anne was bad enough; that they should have been
wooed in the same nest, to say the least, smacked more of business than
of love: that it was her nest, of which, of her love, she had made the
man free, was infamous. It was such treatment as she would not have
expected at the hands of a counter-jumper--a deserter--a satyr.
Possibly a satyr in a weak moment might have fallen so low. But
Anthony was not a satyr. And deserters are not, as a rule, recommended
for the D.S.O. To suggest that he was a counter-jumper was equally
ridiculous. He was a most attractive gallant gentleman. This made his
behaviour infinitely more discreditable. It was a sordid, demoralizing
business....
And that, gentlemen, is what a hot bath will do.
Now look on this picture.
Valerie lay as she had flung herself, face downward upon the bed. Save
that one satin slipper had fallen off, she was fully dressed. One bare
white arm pillowed her brow, covering her eyes--mercifully. Let us
touch that gleaming shoulder. See? It is cold as ice. That little
slipperless foot.... Cold as any stone. But then it is the month of
December, and she has lain so for two hours. Two hours of agony. She
can remember every look those steady grey eyes of Lyveden's have ever
given her, and in the last two hours she has remembered them all. Inch
by inch she has gone over the playground of their hearts: word by word
she has recited their conversations: she has gathered great posies of
dead blossoms, because they once smelled so sweet: she has trodden the
lanes of Memory to her most grievous wounding, because they are still
so dear....
Then there were other times, when Pride had her in a strait-jacket, and
the very thought of Anthony made her eyes blaze.
She had been walking herself out of one of these moods, and was
tramping rather wearily through the twilight and up the long drive,
when the cough of a motor-horn behind her made her start to one side.
The next moment a car flashed past....
It was the local doctor's Renault.
Valerie's heart stood still.
The next moment she was running like a deer....
The car beat her all ends up, and by the time she had reached the
steps, the front door was shut. She pealed the bell frantically....
To the footman who answered it--
"What's the matter?" she panted. "Who's ill?"
"Miss Alison, miss. I think it's a broken leg. She an' Mrs. Alison
'ad been to tea with 'er ladyship, an', as she was leavin', she----"
"Don't keep saying 'she,'" snapped Valerie. "Say 'Miss Alison.'
And--and bring me some fresh tea. In the library."
She swept past the bewildered servant and disappeared.
The mills of God were off.
* * * * *
Twenty-four hours had gone by.
All this time the mills had been grinding steadily, and the grain,
which had been awaiting their pleasure for exactly one calendar month,
was beginning to disappear. After a while Valerie had come to realize
that her pride was to be reduced to powder, and that there was nothing
for it but to submit to the process with the best grace she could. Not
every woman would have reasoned so wisely: few would have given to
their decision such faithful effect. You will please remember that any
reduction of her pride seemed to Valerie extraordinarily unjust. That
there was stuff other than pride in the grist never occurred to her.
It was the evening, then, of the day after the accident, and the two
girls were alone in the pleasant bedroom whither Anne had been carried
the day before, and where she was like to spend the next six weeks of
her existence. The patient was wearing one of Valerie's night-gowns
and looking very nice in it. She was also smoking one of Valerie's
cigarettes, and, so resilient is youth, chattering merrily between the
puffs.
"Lady Touchstone was wonderful. She knew my leg was broken before I
did. Almost before I knew where I was, she had my head in her lap and
was telling me to lie quite still and hang on to her hand for all I was
worth. 'You'll find it a great help,' she said. 'I know I did. And
if you know any bad words, say them.' For all the pain, I couldn't
help laughing. And then she told me how she'd broken her leg in the
hunting field, and the vicar was the first to get to her, and how she
hung on to him and made him feed her with bad language till help
arrived. And, when I tried to say I was sorry, she said the butler
deserved six months for not having the steps sanded, and asked me, if
you and she tried to make me comfortable while I was your guest, if I'd
try to forgive you...."
"That's the only possible way to look at it," said Valerie. "It's all
our servants' fault, and we're only too thankful to be able----"
"You're very sweet," said Anne wistfully. "But to be saddled with me
for six weeks----"
"Hush!" said Valerie, with a grave smile. "You promised not to talk
like that."
Anne Alison sighed.
"It is unfortunate, though," she said. "I can't think what they'll do
at The Shrubbery. If only Anthony hadn't just left.... You knew he'd
gone, didn't you?"
Valerie shook her head.
"I knew he was going," she said.
"He left on Monday," said Anne. "We're all heart-broken. He was
wonderful to work with, and nobody could help liking him. George is
desperate about it. Being a man, you see.... Besides, they were a lot
together. On the car, I mean. Off duty we never saw much of him. He
liked being alone. I think I'm the only one he went for a walk with
all the time he was there. And then Betty sent him. He'd never seen
the view from The Beacon, so I took him. He was bored stiff, and we
got soaked coming home, but he was very nice and polite about it. He
always was. And now, I suppose----"
"The Beacon?" said Valerie faintly. "Where--where's The Beacon?"
"I don't know what its real name is," said Anne. "We always call it
'The Beacon.' You must know it. That very high place in Red King Walk,
where the cliff goes sheer down...."
Valerie tried to speak, but no words would come. Something seemed to
be gripping her by the throat. The walls of the room, too, were
closing in, and there was a strange, roaring noise--like that of mills
working....
With a terrific effort she fought unconsciousness away....
_Her--their nest then, was, after all, inviolate. He had never taken
Anne there. Betty had sent him. And--he had--been bored--stiff...._
It was as if a mine had been sprung beneath the spot upon which had
been dumped her emotions of the last two months, blowing some to atoms,
bringing to light others that had lain buried. Out of the wrack, joy,
shame, fear fell at her feet--and a sentence out of a letter was
staring her in the face.
"_His explanation will shame you, of course, but take the lesson to
heart._"
"I wonder," she said shakily, "if you could give me Major Lyveden's
address."
"I would, like a shot," said Anne heartily, "but he wouldn't leave one."
Again the rumble of those labouring mills came swelling out of the
silence into a roar that was thunderous, brain-shaking.... For a
moment of time they pounded the understanding mercilessly.... Then,
all of a sudden, the machinery stopped.
The corn was ground.