Free Valerie French (1923) by Dornford Yates

with his radiance, dragging her heart with him in his dying leap. Pondering the truth of this simile, André found him ethereal, made of the silver stuff of dreams, a prince passing. The man began to change into a memory— a most important transition.
    Out of the highway of Life there runs a sable lane whose name is Mourning. Down this we, that are quick, walk with our blessed dead. Sooner or later, sirs, the lane will bend— sooner or later. And there at the turn, the dead enter in at the gate which is that of Memory, but we, that are quick, pass on, and lo! an instant later, we are back upon the old highway.
    When Anthony became a memory, André came out of mourning. The prince had passed.
    After all, our emotions are nothing more than a set of hooks on which we hang things. And Lyveden had been transferred from the hook of passionate love to that of affectionate remembrance. Of this the direct result was that the hook of passionate love was now unoccupied. Nature abhors a vacuum. Miss Strongi'th'arm's nature went further. Her hook of passionate love had to be filled. Never in all her life had it gone spare. Dolls had hung there. So had horses, often. Dogs, dancing, Donegal, men— one after another, these had been tenants at will— a very uncertain will. But that is beside the point, which is, as I have hinted, that the hook was now empty....
    André switched on the light and slid off the bed. Then she crossed to her table and opened a drawer.
    Here lay a letter which had arrived that morning.
    Sitting upon the edge of the table, she re-read it carefully.

    My Dear André,
    They tell me you know that I am well, but that, after all you have been through, you do not feel able to see me just yet. I am not surprised. (Remember, I can only take their words literally, without trying to read something which may or may not be written, between the lines.) I neither know nor desire to know the circumstances of my loss of reason— I am told that it was caused by overwork at that place which was recently burned, Gramarye— but, however it came about, the shock to you must have been awful.
    You see, my dear girl, I know that, when my mind was taken, you and I were engaged.
    That my love for you should have survived my illness, is not surprising. I was, in a sense, less affected than anyone else. But I want you to know, André, that it has survived, and that I can think of no one else.
    Whether you love me still, is another matter. You may. If you do not, I can most perfectly understand. Possibly you may not know whether you do or not.
    In any event, write to me candidly: and what you wish, my lady, that I will do. If you think it better, I will keep away— for a while, or for ever. If you would like to see me, I will come— as a friend. If...
    André, my darling, I have tried, to write dispassionately. In return, don't let me down. Tell me the absolute truth, however harsh it may be. It's far kinder.
    Always,
    Richard Winchester.

    Now, André believed firmly in going whither the winds of Fate were minded to carry her. How little she practised this faith she was sublimely unconscious. She was fully persuaded and often averred with conviction that she had done so all her life. As a matter of hard fact, she went where she listed: and the winds of Fate had usually to work themselves into a hurricane before she became aware that any suggestion was being made. In the present case a whole gale had been driving for over twelve hours.
    Only two people knew that her engagement with Richard had been broken off. Of these, one— Anthony— was dead, while the other— Richard himself— had forgotten. 'When my mind was taken, you and I were engaged.' Probably they were. That night when she had flung down her ring he was already mad— obviously.
    Of her affair with Anthony, of course, he knew nothing at all. As likely as not, he did not remember Lyveden. 'That place which was recently burned.' That place ...
    There was no doubt about it. By