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Kingdom Lost
Patricia Wentworth
CHAPTER I
The cliff rose sheer from the blue, untroubled sea. Between sea and sky the sun made a shimmer of heat. The air was unstirred by the lightest breath.
Austin Muir looked down and saw the yacht below him. She looked small, like a toy; the sun dazzled on her, and dazzled on the water. It didn’t do to look down. He frowned, and looked up instead. The top of the cliff cut across the hot blue sky in a sort of jagged scribble. And between cliff and sky something moved.
Austin threw back his head and stared. Something moved, peered down at him; a pebble tinkled against the zig-zag outcrop of rock and skipped past him. He hung there on the rocky face of the cliff and stared at the moving thing a good twenty feet above his head.
It was a hen.
He saw the craned neck, the beady eyes, hard, shiny and inquisitive, the half open beak. It was, most unbelievably, most indubitably, a hen. The rock to which he was holding cut his hand, and as he shifted his grip and took an upward step, he heard above him a squawk and a kind of flapping scramble. The hen was gone. But he had seen it.
He began to climb again. The hen was unbelievable; but he had just seen the hen. If he went back and told Barclay that he had seen a hen, Barclay would laugh himself purple in the face. Uninhabited islands don’t grow hens. He would have to prove his hen or suppress it altogether. By the time he had reached the top of the cliff he had decided to suppress the hen.
The top of the cliff was not really the top at all—he knew that of course already; it was merely the edge of the crater. Seen from below from the yacht, the wall he had just climbed had appeared unclimbable; even if Barclay had not twisted his ankle he would never have got up it. Barclay would have to take off three or four stone before you could make a climber of him.
Well, the worst of the climbing was over now. The island was certainly volcanic—just the top of an old volcano stuck out of the bare blue water like Stromboli. The outer rim of the crater lay before him now; but inside the outer circle there was another wall, hiding the real cup of the crater.
Austin began to scramble down into the outer circle. He thought the island was a good deal like a Norman castle—first the wall, then this deep moat, and then the castle itself. Barclay’s great-grandfather—was it two greats or three?—had certainly climbed the wall; the description in the old diary was quite a good one. But where did the hen come in?
Not for the first time, the suspicion that Barclay had not told him everything presented itself to Austin’s mind. Barclay had never let him handle the diary. Why?—unless he was keeping something back. He had, of course, a perfect right to keep back anything he chose, the diary being his, to say nothing of the yacht. A man isn’t bound to tell his secretary everything—Austin Muir had always felt that there might be something more to tell. Hang it all, a man doesn’t go pelting off to look for an uninhabited island just to prove that his several times great-grandfather knew what he was talking about, and that the modern maps didn’t. On the other hand, Barclay was such a rum fellow. Barclay might do a thing just because it wasn’t the likely thing to do. Odd fellow Barclay.
He proceeded across the moat, thinking that it was hard luck on Barclay to have proved his ancestor right and then be done out of exploring the island he had found. It was like Barclay to keep the crew close to the ship and forbid them to land. He thought Barclay would have liked to forbid him to land too; he was as jealous over his island as if it was the sort of thing you could put under lock and key. He wondered again whether there was any secret about it.
So far, he had seen no water and no vegetation; they had sailed all round the island without seeing any; the unbroken, harsh volcanic cliff had confronted them. But the hen—a hen can’t live on grit and do without water. He had an idea that they drank a lot. Hens—his mother had kept them; he could remember having to carry water, lots of it, in a battered tin can.
It was when he had come to the foot of the second wall that he saw the hen again. Perched on a tumbled heap of lava, it fixed him with a glassy, fascinated eye, then once more squawked and fled. As he climbed the second wall, he heard a prolonged and agitated cackle that died away in the distance.
There is a moment when sound trembles on the edge of silence. Austin could not have said just when this moment came. He heard the faint echoes fade. But just as silence came, something stirred it; the silence moved and was troubled; a new sound came to his ears.
He had come to the top of the wall. The ascent was an easy one. He passed through a gap, and the new sound met him—not as sound, but as a voice—words:
The islands feel th’ enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.
Austin stood still in the most utter amazement he had ever known. The voice was a woman’s voice, speaking clearly and sweetly Matthew Arnold’s words. He had learnt them once, or he would scarcely have caught them now. The voice was clear and sweet, but it came from far away.
The sound ceased. He came through the mouth of the gap and looked down into a green hollow. The old crater was a garden. That was his first impression. The graceful feathered top of a cocoanut palm touched his foot. The place was a palm-grove. And somewhere in that green shade below him the voice took up another verse:
Oh, then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain—
Oh, might our marges meet again!
The descent before him was precipitous. He looked to his left and saw steps cut in the face of the cliff. The voice went on, but as he reached the steps and began to descend, it became a low wordless murmur. He heard above it the sound of his own feet on the gritty path, the movement of the palm leaves as he brushed past them and descended into a shade as grateful as any he had known.
The trees grew as if planted in rows. He walked between them, rather past wonder, but conscious of a half angry sense of anticipation. A hen, palm-trees, and Matthew Arnold! The thing passed the bounds of the permissible; it was the sort of thing that didn’t happen—a ridiculous thing.
Austin Muir had no affection for the ridiculous. He quickened his steps; but he was frowning as he came in sight of the clearing. The voice came from close at hand, speaking the last words of the poem with a certain musing beauty:
A God, a God that severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
Austin stood between the last two palm-trees and looked for the speaker.
Where the trees ended, the ground had been levelled. In the middle of the open space the sun shone on a wide, deep pool. On the farther side of the pool the rocks rose in a rough jumble; and ten feet up on an overhanging buttress sat a girl with bare brown legs and bare brown arms and a bare brown head; brown hands clasped her knee. She wore a brief, shift-like garment of old yellowish cotton. The brown head bore a mass of curling hair and a wreath of bright pink shells.
Austin stared. The face under the curls was brown too; but it was the brown of sunburn, not of pigment, and out of the brown there looked eyes as blue as seawater. He moved, and the eyes turned on him. Austin felt that half angry anticipation of his leap up into actual anger. He had the impression of some happening which he did not understand, something that antagonized and challenged. He saw the blue eyes sparkle and the vivid colour run to the roots of the brown hair. But behind these outward signs was that sense of clash, of
anger. He took a step forward, and the girl sprang up, standing on the edge of the overhanging rock with a light, sure balance that amazed him. She leaned forward above the water, and her voice came to him, trembling with something that made the words sound strangely:
“Who—are—you?”
He came nearer before he answered, and as he moved, she sprang back and he was reminded of the recoil of some wild thing.
He said, “My name is Austin Muir,” and she stood poised for another spring.
“Stay where you are!”
Voice, manner, accent spoke of culture, civilization, of a lettered, sheltered world, just as surely as her every look and movement betrayed the wild.
He said, “What are you afraid of?” and said it roughly because of that strange antagonism.
“How did you come here?” The blue eyes darkened as she spoke, her left hand touched the rocky wall.
Muir laughed.
“That was what I was going to ask you,” he said; and then, “What on earth are you afraid of? I shan’t hurt you.”
He saw her quiver.
“Edward said—”
“Oh—so there’s an Edward! Hadn’t I better talk to him?”
She relaxed mournfully, drooped let her hand fall from the rock.
“You can’t—he’s dead. I’m all alone.”
A little compunction came to him.
“I didn’t know—” (Of all the ridiculous things to say!) He stopped short.
“Edward said someone would come some day. He said to be careful. Do you drink gin?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Or whisky?”
“Sometimes.”
“Or rum?”
“Lord, no! I don’t drink, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Edward said I must be sure. How can I be sure?”
“I really don’t know.” (What a preposterous situation!)
She came a step nearer, brightening.
“Did you come in a ship?”
“In a yacht.”
“That’s a sort of ship, isn’t it?—a little one?”
“Yes.”
She brightened still more.
“Have you got a nice lady on your yacht?”
“No—I’m afraid we haven’t.”
“What a pity! Edward said—”
Austin felt inclined to say, “Damn Edward!” Instead, he mopped his brow. A nice lady! Good heavens! She might have been six years old. He tried to reconcile the nice lady with Matthew Arnold, failed, looked up, and found the bright blue eyes fixed on him with passionate interest.
“How red your face is! Edward said—”
“Look here,” said Austin, “who are you, and what are you doing here? “Then, abruptly, “Is that water salt or fresh? I’d just about give the world for a drink.”
“It’s quite nice and fresh,” said the girl; and with that he was on his knees scooping up the coldest water he had ever touched. He had the fleeting thought that it must come from very far below—some spring too deep to be warmed by all this dizzy heat.
He rose from his knees to repeat his question:
“Who on earth are you—and what are you doing here?”
The answer came at once in a most serious voice:
“I’m not doing anything—I’m just living. I’m Valentine Ryven.”
“How did you get here?”
“On a ship, like you did—only of course I don’t remember it.”
“You don’t remember it?”
“Because I was a baby. The ship was wrecked. It was called the Avronia. And nobody was saved except Edward and me.”
Austin found himself frowning.
“Are you telling me that you’ve lived on this island ever since you were a baby?”
“Of course I have.”
“For”—he sized her up—“eighteen or nineteen years?”
“Twenty years,” said Valentine mournfully.
Austin had a spasm of unbelief. The island; the hen; Matthew Arnold; and the palm-trees—he was hanged if he was going to be hypnotized into believing in a perfectly preposterous story just because it was pushed at him in this preposterous setting.
“Are you trying to pull my leg?” he said, and was aware of the words falling back as from a blank wall.
Valentine looked at him inquiringly.
“I didn’t understand that.” She seemed interested. “I expect there will be a great many things that I don’t understand.”
He mopped his brow again.
“Do you mean you’ve really been here all your life?”
“Of course I do.” She paused, and then suggested hospitably, “You may come a little nearer if you like. There’s a stone there that’s quite comfortable to sit on. You look so hot.”
“I am hot,” said Austin.
He made his way to the stone and saw the girl swing herself lightly down until she reached the water level. She sat clasping her knee and leaning forward. The pool was between them.
“Are you English? What is your name?”
“Scotch,” said Austin. “And my name is Muir—Austin Muir.”
“Edward said the Scotch were a very reliable people. Are you reliable?”
“I hope so.”
“Edward said I must be very careful.”
It is to Austin’s credit that he restrained himself.
“Who on earth is Edward?”
“I told you. He was on the ship. He saved me when I was a baby, and he brought me up. He was a Fellow.”
“A Fellow?”
“Of Trinity.” She spoke with innocent pride. Then she drooped and looked into the water. “He always said people would come some day. He wanted to go back so much. He—”
The hands that were clasped about her knee tightened; he saw the knuckles show white against the brown. Her voice did not shake; it just left off. She became as motionless as the stone.
Embarrassment kept Austin silent. Presently he saw her pose relax.
“It was three months ago,” she said.
He spoke then:
“Do you mean—you’ve been here alone for three months?”
“Yes—I counted very carefully. Edward always said that if anything happened to him, I must be very, very careful. He said if I wasn’t careful, when the ship came, there wouldn’t be any place for me in a modern civilization—and he said one of the most important things was not to lose count of time—so I counted very carefully.”
“A modern civilization.” The phrase called up a pedagogic shade. Austin began to believe the odd story, and then fell back into scepticism. The hen—what about the hen? He fired the creature point blank at Valentine.
“Look here, you’re having me on. What about the hen? Hens don’t grow on uninhabited islands, you know.”
He had said this to himself so often in the last half hour that it was an immense relief to say it out loud.
“A hen?”
“Yes, a hen.”
She nodded.
“Semiramis, I expect. She will get over the wall.”
Austin frowned portentously. She was having him on; he felt sure of it.
“Look here, why don’t you tell me the truth? Don’t you see that the hen puts the kibosh on this yarn of yours?”
He was prepared for anger, but not for glowing interest.
“Is that slang? Edward didn’t know any—or at least hardly any. Do say it again!”
Austin did not say it again. He looked angry and said stubbornly, “Hens don’t grow on uninhabited islands.”
Valentine nodded again.
“No, they don’t. And wouldn’t it have been dreadful if we hadn’t had the hens—and the cocoanuts? Edward often said—”
Austin interrupted her.
“What are you talking about?”
“About the cocoanuts and the hens. They were on the ship.”
“Oh—they were on the ship. And how did they get here?”
“Edward brought them. First he brough
t me, and then he brought the hens. He tried to bring a goat, but it fell into the sea. And then he brought the cocoanuts. Wasn’t it a mercy they grew?”
Austin stared. Was it possible?
“I thought you said the ship was wrecked.”
“Yes, it was—it struck on the rocks.” She pointed away to the right. “It’s all straight cliff now, but there were rocks then, and a sort of beach. The ship stuck there for two years, so Edward had plenty of time to get things away. I don’t remember about it—I don’t remember anything before I was three. The big storm was when I was two and a half. The ship went then. Edward thought the island was going too, and when the storm was over, it had sunk twenty feet, and the beach was gone, and you couldn’t see the rocks. If you’ve got a ship, you’d better be careful.”
“He brought things away from the ship?” said Austin. “Papers—and things like that? You mean you can prove all this?”
She looked at him rather reprovingly.
“Of course. Didn’t you believe what I was saying?”
“You can prove it?”
“I’ve got all my mother’s papers. Edward said I must keep them very carefully.”
Austin got up.
“Where are they?”
Valentine swung her foot and looked down into the water.
“Where are they?” he repeated.
He saw a little colour come into her face. Then her eyes lifted in a searching blue gaze. He was aware of being weighed in Edward’s balance. He met the gaze half angrily.
Valentine unclasped her hands and sprang up.
“I want to see your ship! Take me first of all to see your ship!” she cried.
CHAPTER II
Valentine, scrambling with him over the rough ground towards the edge of the cliff, became imperceptibly less guarded and on the alert. Scrambling is perhaps the wrong word; she was extraordinarily sure and light on her bare brown feet. She had breath enough to talk with too, and she talked more and more freely.
Austin found himself believing every word of the strange, naïve tale. Twenty years ago, in the early spring of 1908, Edward Bowden, Fellow of Trinity, author of England and the Renaissance, England and the Feudal System, and half a dozen other standard works, had been taking a prolonged and rambling holiday necessitated by overwork. He had found himself ultimately on the Avronia, bound from New Zealand to San Francisco.
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