Valentine waited until he had finished blowing his nose. Then she said, even more earnestly than before,
“Can’t I give it back to him?”
“Certainly not, my dear—quite impossible.”
“Can’t I give any of it back?”
Colonel Gray shook his head.
“You can’t touch it, my dear. You can’t touch a penny of it without my consent and—er—Waterson’s.”
“I want to give him half,” said Valentine. “I think that would be quite fair.”
Colonel Gray rubbed his nose furiously with the green and purple bandanna.
“We couldn’t hear of your giving him a penny—legally, you know, my dear, legally. We couldn’t possibly do it.”
He wished that she would take those very clear dark eyes off his face. Fine eyes—dashed fine eyes—pretty girl—not a bit like Maurice—must take after the mother—nice feeling—does her credit. He could see her wrinkling her forehead.
“Isn’t there any way I can do it?”
“Not unless you get married,” said Colonel Gray.
“What happens if I get married?”
“Well, in the case of female heirs, it’s the old ‘come of age or marry’ clause—dashed stupid clause too—direct invitation to fortune-hunters, to my mind. But there it is—if you get married, you get control of your property at once. So if you want to give half of it away to Eustace Ryven—there you are. Only I fancy your husband would have a word or two to say in the matter.” He laughed heartily, a good deal pleased at having reached firmer ground. “And now, my dear, let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t you go worrying yourself about Master Eustace, because this is about the best thing that could have happened. He’s got some bee in his bonnet about the London property, and he’s been so busy trying to get rid of it that if you had turned up a year or two later, there mightn’t have been much left. Anyhow, you don’t need to worry about him. He’s got a good two thousand a year of his own. Luckily for him he can’t touch the capital, or he wouldn’t have it for long.”
Two thousand pounds seemed a very large sum to Valentine. Money was something you did sums with, turning pence into pounds, and pounds into francs, and marks, and dollars. When Mrs. Ryven took her shopping later on, she found herself being told how much things cost.
“You’ll have to learn to manage money, Valentine. It would be a good plan if you had an account book and wrote down just what you are spending. I think we had better get one.”
They bought a blue one with red edges, and a bright green pencil. The book was ruled, and the pencil had a tin protector with an india-rubber in it.
Valentine was immensely pleased. She wrote down everything they bought, and when they got home she added up the three columns and was very much surprised to find how much they came to.
After dinner she sat with Helena Ryven in the drawing-room and listened whilst Helena talked. Already the visionary Aunt Helena, the Aunt Helena who had stood for home and love and welcome, had become a faint, fading image. The real Aunt Helena was not in the least like the picture. She was kind, practical, efficient; she was different. Valentine did not want to touch her or be touched by her; she did not even want to talk to her.
Mrs. Ryven wore a handsome dress of wine-coloured brocade. She sat in the sofa-corner and knitted until the coffee came, and as soon as she had drunk her coffee she began to knit again. She was going to teach Valentine to knit. She was going to teach her how to sew properly. She was going to teach her how to keep house. She was going to teach her how to write and answer invitations. She was going to teach her her catechism.
“You have a great deal to learn, Valentine,” she said; and Valentine felt unaccountably depressed.
Mrs. Ryven went on to speak of the responsibilities of wealth.
“The Ryvens have always taken their responsibilities seriously. Eustace—” She paused and bit her lip; it vexed her that it should have trembled. She could not quite bring herself to speak to Valentine of Eustace’s great plans, which Valentine herself was bringing to wreck. “Your great-grandmother, Henrietta Ryven—she was Henrietta Marchmont—was one of the first women of her class to interest herself in the political status of women, and one of her daughters was amongst the first half-dozen women graduates.”
Valentine wished she had gone on speaking about Eustace; she was more interested in Eustace than in her great-grandmother Henrietta.
“There is a miniature of her on the mantelpiece. She was a very remarkable woman.”
Valentine stood by the little warm fire and looked at Henrietta Ryven’s pale, bony features. She had a high pale nose, long pale cheeks, a thin pale mouth, and very, very neatly braided hair. She made Valentine feel cold in spite of the fire.
“Great possessions mean great responsibilities,” Mrs. Ryven was saying; and all of a sudden Valentine flashed round with her hands out and her eyes shining.
“Oh, Aunt Helena—I don’t want it! I don’t want any of it! I don’t really! I don’t want to take it away from you and Eustace.”
Mrs. Ryven put down her stocking. What a stupid, undisciplined scene! She spoke in her restrained voice:
“I think it is a pity to talk like that. Sensible people make the best of an awkward position—they don’t talk about it, because talking about it only makes it more awkward for everybody. If you will think for a moment, you will see this for yourself.”
Valentine sat down on the hearth-rug. She felt that she wanted to stay near the fire.
“Edward said it was better to talk things out.” Her voice shook a little with eagerness. “He said it was a mistake for people to be afraid to say things.”
“I don’t think there is any question of people being afraid.”
“Yes, there is. I want to say things. But I’m afraid—you make me afraid. But I want to say them. I want to give the money back. I want to give half of it back to Eustace, and Colonel Gray says I can’t until I’m twenty-five.”
“My dear Valentine—”
(“Why does she say ‘dear’ when she hates me?”)
“Really, my dear Valentine!”
“He says I can’t unless I get married—and he says perhaps my husband wouldn’t let me. But I think Austin would.”
Mrs. Ryven was startled into a quick natural exclamation:
“Austin?”
Valentine was flushed and earnest.
“He didn’t want to marry me because of my having a lot of money, so perhaps if I was going to give it back—”
“What are you talking about?”
“About Austin Muir. He was on the yacht.”
“Who is he? What does he do?”
“He was Barclay’s secretary. But he’s going to be secretary to his cousin, whose name is McGlashan, and who is a member of parliament for Glasgow.”
“Good heavens!” said Mrs. Ryven.
“Austin says he is a very rising man.”
Mrs. Ryven gazed at her.
“Has this young man made love to you?”
“He kissed me,” said Valentine with unchanged colour and pellucid eyes.
“Any young man will kiss a girl if she lets him.” Mrs. Ryven’s voice was severe.
“Timothy didn’t,” said Valentine dreamily. “But he’s rather old, and a sort of uncle. And Eustace didn’t—did he? And Austin only kissed the back of my head.”
“Did he ask you to marry him?”
“Oh, no, he didn’t. He said he wouldn’t because of the money. And I said I didn’t want to either, because I don’t think I want to marry anyone for a long time. I don’t know anything about babies—and Edward said they were terribly difficult to bring up—he said he had a dreadful time bringing me up with tins and goats. So I really don’t want to get married yet—and Barclay said he thought I had much better not.”
A black fur rug lay before the fire. Valentine, in a pale green frock, sat back on her heels surrounded by the soft black fur. Her brown curls shone in the firelight which glowed
behind her. The evening light came in through the long windows, the light of a fair, clear day that would pass presently through sapphire dusk to a moonlit night.
As Valentine talked, her face had no changes. It was a child’s face, serious, interested, and unembarrassed.
“I think,” said Helena Ryven, “that Mr. Barclay was very wise.”
“But if I don’t marry someone, Aunt Helena, I can’t give the money back to Eustace.”
Mrs. Ryven lifted her eyebrows.
“I think you don’t quite understand, but it is really better not to say things like that. Eustace—” She considered her words carefully. “Eustace would dislike it very much indeed.”
Valentine’s little quick movement and her “Would he?” came together.
“Of course he would. It doesn’t do to talk about money like that. Eustace has, I hope, done his duty at Holt—he has, I think, done something more than his duty. He has taken his responsibilities very seriously. Well, it seems that they are no longer his responsibilities—they are yours. You can no more give them away—” She paused, then went on again with a little more colour in her voice: “You can’t give them away—but you can fit yourself to carry them.”
Valentine looked back at her with a trace of bewilderment.
“I don’t know how.”
“You can learn.”
“Will Eustace teach me?”
Mrs. Ryven laid her knitting on her knee; her hand was not quite steady. She did not answer at once. Then she said,
“You can ask him.”
CHAPTER XIII
Valentine wrote nest day to Austin Muir. She wrote on the new paper she had bought. It was straw coloured, and it had her initial in one corner. She wrote:
DEAR AUSTIN,
I have never written a letter to anyone before—not a real one—only what Edward made me write so that I should know how. When are you going to come and see me? I want to see you very much.
She looked at this sentence for some time with a frown, then wrote on:
I want to see Barclay too. This is a very big house, but it does not feel as if I would ever get used to it. But Edward said one could get used to anything. I have got a trustee. His name is Colonel Gray. He says I have a great deal of money, and I would like to give it back to my cousin Eustace—or I think I might keep some of it. But I would rather Eustace had the rest, because he is used to it, and Aunt Helena says he has taken his responsibilities very seriously. He has pulled down a lot of old houses that belonged to us in London because they were too old and dirty for people to live in, and Aunt Helena says twenty people slept in one room. She says the only reason Eustace would mind about the money is because he can’t go on pulling down houses. I would go on doing it if I knew how. But Colonel Gray says I can’t do anything at all until I am twenty-five unless I marry someone. If I get married, I can give the money back to Eustace, so I have been thinking perhaps it would be a good thing if I got married. Perhaps you would like to marry me if I haven’t got any money, or only a little, because I suppose I would have to have some money because things add up so when you buy them. I went shopping yesterday with Aunt Helena, and I wrote everything down in an account-book and it came to eighty-seven pounds three and two pence half-penny, so I had better keep some of the money and let Eustace pull down houses with the rest. There is a great deal.
It took Valentine a long time to write this. She sat very upright and wrote very carefully and neatly in a clear, unformed hand. She wrote in pencil because, so far, her efforts to use pen and ink had resulted in a mess which she regarded with distaste. She was sure that it would have shocked Eustace very much.
When she had finished her letter she read it through, and when she had read it through, she tore it up. She did not know that she was going to tear it up, but quite suddenly her cheeks were hot and her fingers were tearing the paper.
Later on she wrote another letter, quite a short one:
DEAR AUSTIN,
When will you come and see me? I want to see you very much, and I want to see Barclay. Aunt Helena would like to meet you both.
She got as far as this, and considered the signature. You said “Yours sincerely,” and “Yours very sincerely” to your acquaintances. Edward’s instructions had been clear and practical. And you said “Yours affectionately” to your relations and friends. And if you loved someone very much, you could put “Your loving Valentine”; and she had planned to put “Your loving Valentine” if she even wrote to Aunt Helena, but that was long ago. She wondered about Austin Muir. She was not sure whether he was a “Yours affectionately,” or whether she would put “Your loving Valentine.” She hadn’t ever been at all loving to him, because they had always quarrelled; only when he said he was going to go right away and never see her any more, she had felt as if she couldn’t bear it.
She couldn’t make up her mind about the signature. In the end she wrote:
I don’t know the right way to finish this.
VALENTINE.
She went out into the garden after that. The long herbaceous borders fascinated her, but she wanted to know what all the flowers were called, and there wasn’t anyone to tell her. Flat pink and yellow rosettes growing up a tall spike; blue things like little hoods; round indigo-blue balls stuck full of spikes; and sheets of rose and lemon and flame-coloured flowers which made funny faces and opened their mouths when you squeezed them.
She was on her knees smelling a rose, when Timothy came through the door in the red brick wall. She was so pleased to see him that he would have been flattered if she had not immediately explained the reason.
“Now you can tell me the names of all these flowers! I did so want someone to come. Aunt Helena’s gone to London. Don’t you think it stupid not to know the names of things? I have to say ‘the round ted thing,’ or ‘the yellow one’—and they’ve all got names, haven’t they?”
When she had learnt the names of a dozen flowers she sat down on the step of the sun-dial where four borders met. Grass walks ran between them, and an old rose-red wall covered with pear, greengage, plum, and nectarine kept the winds away.
“I came to see Helena, and I ought to be getting back,” said Timothy.
He was squatting on the grass with his arms about his knees. The sun shone very pleasantly. The garden smelled of lavender, and thyme, and southernwood, and damask roses.
Valentine did not speak, but her eyes said, “Don’t go”; they looked soft, imploring, and a little shy, as if she were a child, and he a playfellow just found.
“When will Helena be back?” said Timothy.
“I don’t know.”
The sun-dial was made of grey stone. It had a slender shaft. One shallow step led up to it. Valentine sat on the step with her lap full of flowers. She wore a thin green dress that was just the colour of willow leaves. She had on new shoes and stockings. Her hair was beautifully brushed, and her hands were beautifully clean. Timothy remembered a bare-legged, muddy gipsy with a wild tangle of curls and a smudged face. He was a good deal tickled.
She was counting over the names of the flowers—snapdragon, hollyhock, viola—Then suddenly she sat up very straight.
“Oh, I wonder if my letter has gone, because if it hasn’t you could tell me how to finish it.”
“What do you want to know?”
“It’s to Austin, and I don’t know what to put at the end.”
Timothy controlled an inclination to grin.
“Well—that depends.”
“Yes, of course it does. But I don’t know what I ought to put.”
“Depends on how well you know him.”
“I don’t think I know him very well—he isn’t the sort of person who lets you know things. I know Barclay, but I don’t know Austin. Austin doesn’t let you look when he’s thinking.”
Timothy was entertained.
“And Barclay does?”
“Oh, yes—he lets you look all the time. I always knew when he was cross, and when he was pleased, and
when he was fond of me.”
“Well,” said Timothy, “how would you write to Barclay?”
Valentine smiled. Her lips were very soft and red, and when she smiled, the upper one lifted a little and showed how white her teeth were.
“I haven’t ever written to Barclay—I haven’t ever written a letter to anyone before. That’s why I wanted to know.”
“But if you did write to Barclay?”
She smiled a little more.
“I think I should say, ‘Darling Barclay,’ and I think I should finish up, ‘Your loving friend, Valentine—’ I love Barclay,” she added seriously.
“And do you love Austin?”
To his horror, she blushed scarlet.
“Oh, I say—I was only ragging. I’m most awfully sorry—I really am.”
“How funny!” said Valentine. She put up a slim brown finger and touched her glowing cheek. “I don’t know why.” She looked at him in a puzzled sort of way, “Is my face red? It feels all funny and hot.”
“It’s pink,” said Timothy.
She touched her cheek again.
“It’s going away now. You haven’t told me what I ought to put to Austin.”
“I don’t see how I can tell you.”
“I did think about ‘Yours sincerely.’ And then I thought about ‘Your loving Valentine.’” She put both hands to her face. “Oh, it keeps on doing it! I wish it wouldn’t!”
Timothy felt himself unable to share the wish; she blushed delightfully, the natural rose deepening to carnation. He thought Austin Muir ought to feel very much flattered.
“I wouldn’t bother about it,” he said. “You look ripping when you blush. Lots of girls get red in the wrong places, you know.”
“Don’t I?”
He shook his head.
“Now—about this letter. How did you sign it, if it’s not rude to ask?”
“I just put ‘Valentine.’ Is that all right? Because you see—” She stopped and took a long breath.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“He said”—she wasn’t looking at him any longer—“he said he couldn’t—he didn’t want to. Oh—”
Kingdom Lost Page 9
