Free Valerie French (1923) by Dornford Yates Page A

an amazing accident the clock had been put back, and André was being offered her 'time' over again. The question was, whether to accept it or no.
    André flung back her head and stared at the light.
    Richard ... Richard Winchester.... normal, was a most splendid being. She had been crazy about him— till she had met Lyveden. When he had asked her to marry him, it had been the proudest moment of her life....
    Harlequin-like, the scene flashed into her mind, gallant and glittering. The two were riding home after a hunt. It was a mild evening, and the rain, which had been falling, had slackened and died. With no wind to carry it, the smell of the soaking earth rose up sweet and lingering. On either side of them a beechwood gave back the jingle of bits and the hollow slap of hoofs. Far down the silent road an early light was whipping on the dusk.... Suddenly Richard had leaned forward and caught her bridle. 'Will you marry me, André?' 'I will.' Without a word he had lifted her out of her saddle and gathered her in his arms. Then he had kissed her mouth and set her upon his saddle-bow....
    André closed her eyes and drew in her breath.
    Of course he needed a job— a job which would give him a chance to use his amazing powers. Big-game hunting, for instance. If she had realized that twelve months ago, things might have been different. But she had not. She had resented the way in which he had courted occupation. All the time it had been the man's nature. She might as well have been jealous of his appetite.... If the clock had been put back, not so her experience. She had been shown most clearly what cards to play. Big-game hunting.... Well, she would love that. That was a job she could enter into heartily. And if Richard hadn't much money— why, she was rich....
    André began to appreciate that she was a most fortunate girl. She had come an unearthly cropper, and— the record had been expunged. Not a living soul was aware— yes. One was. Not that she mattered, still...
    Which brought her to Valerie French.
    A faint frown of vexation gathered on André's brow.
    "I am a fool," she said sharply. "A headstrong fool. I had no case at all. If I'd liked to show her my cards, it wasn't her fault. All the same..." She gnawed at her underlip. "I am a fool," she repeated. "I suppose she thinks I don't know any better. There, of all places.... I wish to Heaven I'd pulled myself together before— before she went. Of course she thinks I'm just rank. She, of all people— to think that of me." André flushed red with mortification. "With what I told her at Dinard and then what I did to-day— Oh, of course she thinks it. She must. So would anyone. It's just like shouting 'I'm rank. I'm the cheapest, rankest bounder you ever saw.' Hell! Why was I such a fool? Such a rotten fool?"
    She stepped to a box by her bed and took out a cigarette. When she had lighted this, she flung herself into a chair.
    "I shall have to see her," she said. "Somehow. Barley's probably got her address. Yes. That's the only thing to do. I can't leave things as they are— possibly."
    It was, of course, a question of self-respect. While Valerie did not respect her, André could not possibly respect herself. This was unbearable. That her own respect should depend on that of somebody else, was humiliating. That it should depend upon that of her idol's darling, made André writhe. In a mad moment she had pawned her dignity. Now, at whatever cost, this must be redeemed.
    That she was quite unrepentant must not be charged to her account. Fate had been rough with her. That she should have chosen Valerie to be her confidante was most outrageous fortune. What had resulted, if distressing, was natural enough. At two-fifteen that day Miss Strongi'th'arm had had no reason to believe that she was not upon dry ground. At two-fifteen and a half she had made the unpleasant discovery that the ground was not dry at all, but a particularly odious slough, in which she had for some eight