Read Online Valerie French (1923) by Dornford Yates - Free Book Online
Authors: Dornford Yates
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finger-post. The truth is, the girl was overwhelmed. She had hoped so hard that Anthony might lie in a pleasant place: she had never dared to dream that he was buried in a King's Corner.
The Abbey Church of Girdle stands a mile from the village in a most lovely yard. Its day is over, of course. The town it was built to serve has disappeared. Each Sunday a handful of worshippers plod resolutely to Matins, stare for an hour uncomfortably about their heritage, and go their way. Occasionally strangers appear, to glory in the flying buttresses, marvel at the fan-tracery above the choir, and swear the altar-screen an anthem wrung out of stone. For the rest, the great church sleeps, stately and exquisite, amid its whispering elms. As for its ancient retinue, with one superb exception, this is clean gone. Only the footings are left, to turn the shadowy plot into a close. One gentle spokesman of another age remains. There by the south-east corner three lovely arches tell where the cloisters ran. With these the afternoon sun will print three matchless windows upon a little greensward. There is only one grave there yet. And that lies under the silver birch— a low, green barrow, seamed across and across....
After a long half-hour Valerie rose to her feet and sought the sexton. Ten minutes later she rang the Vicarage bell.
Here we are upon the edge of three several interviews, all of which were painful and are relevant. Two, as you shall see, may be swallowed whole; but the third must be chewed. Bear with me, sirs. He who would gather grapes of thorns must at least pick over the brambles.
The first interview— between Miss French and the Vicar of Girdle— took place at a quarter to one. It was distressing, as was the second, because the Reverend Simon Barley was not a lady's man. Moreover, he suffered, poor fellow, from St. Vitus's Dance and was acutely conscious of his infirmity. Both parties were very thankful when it was over.
The second— between Miss Strongi'th'arm and the Vicar of Girdle— took place at two o'clock. This ended abruptly with the slam of a door and left the unfortunate priest a nervous wreck.
The third— between Miss French and Miss Strongi'th'arm— took place at two-fifteen.
Valerie had lunched at Girdle and had returned on foot to the churchyard. Thither her car was to follow at half-past three.
The poor girl was almost cheerful. She had won sanctuary. Sitting on the turf of the cloister, marking the bulwarks of the grey old church, she found an ease of spirit she had not known for months. The old steady look began to steal into her eyes. The atmosphere of the place was ministering to her mind. Viewed from this belvedere, the scenery of Life became less desolate. Far in the distance stood peaks, which the sun was touching....
Valerie took off her hat and, leaning her back against its delicate trunk, stared at the hanging garden which the silver birch made.
A footfall made her look down.
" You? "
Framed in one of the archways, Miss Strongi'th'arm was regarding her with burning eyes.
" You? " blazed André again. "What are you doing here?"
For a moment Valerie gravely returned her gaze. Then she rose and came forward.
"Of course you live near here," she said quietly. "I'd quite forgotten." With that, she put out her hand.
The other stared at this, biting her lip. Then she took it uncertainly.
"I'm sorry," she said jerkily. "You'll— you'll think I'm not safe to be about. The first time we meet I behave like an idiot child: and now, like— like a maniac." She laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose you know where you are ... whose grave that is?"
"Yes," said Valerie.
André shot her a long and searching glance. Then she fixed her eyes upon an adjacent headstone.
When she spoke again, her voice was strained and low.
"It was my earnest desire to put up a memorial.... I went to see the Vicar ten minutes ago.... He tells me he's given permission to somebody else— some other woman." She paused. "I
The Abbey Church of Girdle stands a mile from the village in a most lovely yard. Its day is over, of course. The town it was built to serve has disappeared. Each Sunday a handful of worshippers plod resolutely to Matins, stare for an hour uncomfortably about their heritage, and go their way. Occasionally strangers appear, to glory in the flying buttresses, marvel at the fan-tracery above the choir, and swear the altar-screen an anthem wrung out of stone. For the rest, the great church sleeps, stately and exquisite, amid its whispering elms. As for its ancient retinue, with one superb exception, this is clean gone. Only the footings are left, to turn the shadowy plot into a close. One gentle spokesman of another age remains. There by the south-east corner three lovely arches tell where the cloisters ran. With these the afternoon sun will print three matchless windows upon a little greensward. There is only one grave there yet. And that lies under the silver birch— a low, green barrow, seamed across and across....
After a long half-hour Valerie rose to her feet and sought the sexton. Ten minutes later she rang the Vicarage bell.
Here we are upon the edge of three several interviews, all of which were painful and are relevant. Two, as you shall see, may be swallowed whole; but the third must be chewed. Bear with me, sirs. He who would gather grapes of thorns must at least pick over the brambles.
The first interview— between Miss French and the Vicar of Girdle— took place at a quarter to one. It was distressing, as was the second, because the Reverend Simon Barley was not a lady's man. Moreover, he suffered, poor fellow, from St. Vitus's Dance and was acutely conscious of his infirmity. Both parties were very thankful when it was over.
The second— between Miss Strongi'th'arm and the Vicar of Girdle— took place at two o'clock. This ended abruptly with the slam of a door and left the unfortunate priest a nervous wreck.
The third— between Miss French and Miss Strongi'th'arm— took place at two-fifteen.
Valerie had lunched at Girdle and had returned on foot to the churchyard. Thither her car was to follow at half-past three.
The poor girl was almost cheerful. She had won sanctuary. Sitting on the turf of the cloister, marking the bulwarks of the grey old church, she found an ease of spirit she had not known for months. The old steady look began to steal into her eyes. The atmosphere of the place was ministering to her mind. Viewed from this belvedere, the scenery of Life became less desolate. Far in the distance stood peaks, which the sun was touching....
Valerie took off her hat and, leaning her back against its delicate trunk, stared at the hanging garden which the silver birch made.
A footfall made her look down.
" You? "
Framed in one of the archways, Miss Strongi'th'arm was regarding her with burning eyes.
" You? " blazed André again. "What are you doing here?"
For a moment Valerie gravely returned her gaze. Then she rose and came forward.
"Of course you live near here," she said quietly. "I'd quite forgotten." With that, she put out her hand.
The other stared at this, biting her lip. Then she took it uncertainly.
"I'm sorry," she said jerkily. "You'll— you'll think I'm not safe to be about. The first time we meet I behave like an idiot child: and now, like— like a maniac." She laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose you know where you are ... whose grave that is?"
"Yes," said Valerie.
André shot her a long and searching glance. Then she fixed her eyes upon an adjacent headstone.
When she spoke again, her voice was strained and low.
"It was my earnest desire to put up a memorial.... I went to see the Vicar ten minutes ago.... He tells me he's given permission to somebody else— some other woman." She paused. "I
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