Kingdom Lost

by Patricia Wentworth

  Valentine sat in the train opposite to Helena Ryven and wondered how she could read when there were so many exciting things to look at, and wondered what London was going to be like, and whether Eustace was going to like her a little, and what the day was going to give her to remember.

  Mrs. Ryven held up a book between herself and Valentine. She read a paragraph, and by the time she came to the end of it, something was saying in a just perceptible undertone, “It’s not fair.” After which she had to stop reading and reiterate her excellent reasons for taking Valentine to see her own property, the property from which so large a part of her income was to be derived. No one should own property and remain ignorant of its condition. If owners were forced by law to inspect all properties held by them at least once a year, slum property would rapidly disappear. Most of it belonged to quite well-intentioned, kind-hearted people who would be horrified at the conditions for which they were responsible.

  This line of thought having induced a calm consciousness of virtue, Mrs. Ryven resumed her book. By the time that she had read another paragraph, the faint voice once more disturbed it with the same accusing whisper, “It’s not fair.”

  Helena was not accustomed to contradiction. The voice angered her. She argued it down, bringing up so many moral and religious reinforcements that anything less tenacious than a conscience would have been beaten off the field. The voice became so faint that she no longer heard it; but she could not quite reach the conviction that it was silenced. It had retreated to the extreme limits of consciousness. To keep it there taxed and over-taxed her will.

  Valentine spent a rapturous morning. The things that she remembered afterwards stood out from the general sea of happiness like islands—some big, some small. No one can tell what another person’s unforgettable things are going to be. Valentine’s were the towers of Westminster Abbey; the Quadriga against the sky, cloud-grey against the blue, racing as clouds race, high up, wonderful, rejoicing; a baby in a pram with yellow curls all over its head and a black woolly monkey cuddled in its arms; a scarlet bus plunging along full of people; sparrows, grey-brown and dusty, impudent, full of gaiety, flirting their tails, chasing one another, fighting, pecking, running almost under people’s feet. These—and the shops.

  Helena took her into a great jeweller’s. She left some pearls to be restrung, and the man behind the counter brought out wonderful sparkling stones set in wonderful shapes of flowers and stars, and showed them to Miss Ryven who was a great heiress and whose romantic story had begun to reach the public. He looked at her with a great deal of interest, both personal and professional, and for half an hour he laid beautiful things on a velvet cushion and talked to her about them. Helena looked on. She was doing nothing; it was being done for her.

  Later on they were looking at brocades. Mrs. Ryven had made a purchase, but she did not seem to be in any hurry. She let Valentine stand entranced before a rainbow cataract of shimmering silk and tinsel. One piece was all pink and blue and green and gold like the waves of the sea under the sunrise. She had seen those blue and rose and golden waves when dawn came up over the island. This lovely stuff was like a picture of all those island dawns.

  “Do you like that?” said Helena Ryven.

  Valentine looked at her with remembering eyes.

  “Edward said it was a sea of glass mingled with fire,” she said. “It’s in the Bible. He said—”

  Mrs. Ryven was sharply shocked. She was one of the people who think it the height of irreverence to quote from the Bible, except on Sundays and on solemn occasions. With the desire to check any further remarks of the sort, she said quickly,

  “I asked you if you liked this brocade. Would you like to buy a length for an evening coat? You can, if you like.” She paused and added with intention, “You can buy anything you like. Have you realized that, I wonder?”

  Valentine was silent. Helena had made her feel as if she had missed a step somewhere and come down with a jerk.

  “Well?” said Mrs. Ryven. “Would you like to buy it?”

  The distressed look that had touched Valentine’s eyes fleeted again. She said an odd thing, a thing that pricked Helena Ryven rather sharply, though she could not have said why. She said,

  “No—I don’t think so. I can remember it. I would rather remember it.”

  “Why?”

  “If you remember things, you have them always.”

  Ten minutes later, in the fur department, she was an excited child again, slipping on one soft coat after another and whisking round in front of a big mirror in an attempt to see front and back at the same time. Helena was reminded of a kitten chasing its tail. Pleasure, excitement, and the warmth of the fur had brought the brightest carnation to Valentine’s cheeks. Her eyes shone, and she kept up a flow of happy, laughing talk. It lasted all the way to the Cobbs.

  Mrs. Cobb kissed her very kindly. Marjory touched her cheek with her own pale, smooth one. When Reggie held out his hand, Valentine put up her face quite simply, and it was Reggie who blushed a little as he kissed her, though his eyes twinkled in enjoyment of his Aunt Helena’s obvious annoyance. If Helena had not been annoyed Ida Cobb would have allowed herself to be a trifle shocked.

  Valentine enjoyed her lunch-party very much. She had had a lovely, lovely morning; she had bought the most beautiful furry coat; and now she was having lunch with Aunt Ida, who was kind, and with Reggie and Marjory, who had kissed her as if she belonged to them. She told them about her fur coat, and Marjy was very, very much interested, and Reggie said all sorts of silly amusing, teasing sorts of things; and after lunch Marjy took her up to her room and showed her all her clothes. It was lovely. She thought what a lot she would have to tell Timothy when she got back.

  And she never told Timothy at all, because the afternoon took all the happiness and the lovely dancing feeling that she had had in her heart, and made her feel ashamed of them, so that she could never speak about them, or be pleased, or tell Timothy.

  They called for Eustace, and they went down into the places where Eustace worked. They were all places that belonged to the Ryvens. They belonged to her. Dirty houses and dirty narrow streets. Dirty men and women. Dirty children and dirty babies. And everywhere the horrible smell of dirt. The afternoon had its unforgettable things as well as the morning. They were quite different things.

  Helena Ryven had wished to provide an object-lesson and to point a contrast, but she had only a vague and insensitive notion of what the effect of this object-lesson would be. Valentine had the child’s mind, sensitive as the unexposed photographic plate is sensitive, and as ready to hold impressions; but she had also the more alert brain, the stronger reasoning power, and the quickened emotions that belong to the woman.

  She received impressions which she could never forget.

  They went from Lentham Court to Basing Buildings, and from Basing Buildings to Parkin Row. Echoes and snatches of what she said to Eustace, and of what Eustace said to her, kept repeating themselves in Valentine’s mind:

  “Why does that baby look like that?”

  “Because it has never had enough to eat.”

  “Why?”

  “The man’s out of work—he drinks.”

  “Oh, why does he? Edward said—”

  “If I lived where he has to live, I should probably drink too. Two families in one small room—ten people. The public house is decency and comfort compared with it.”

  Up a stair, slippery with grime, foul to the smell. Rooms worse than the stair. A new-born baby wailing. Down again and on.

  Mrs. Ryven in her quiet usual voice: “You were going to do this street next, weren’t you, Eustace? Were you able to cancel the contracts?”

  “Yes—everyone’s been very decent about it.”

  “What was he going to do?” said Valentine in a whisper.

  “He’ll show you.” Mrs. Ryven looked at her hard. “What’s the matter? Are you not well?”

  All the carnation colour was gone.

  “I thin
k I’m going to be sick,” said Valentine in a trembling voice.

  Mrs. Ryven dealt with this firmly.

  “Nonsense! Pull yourself together! I didn’t think you’d be so foolish.” She spoke to Eustace in an undertone. “Eustace is going to show us the last block of re-built tenements. You’ll find those pleasanter.”

  The sick feeling passed a little, became less of a physical sensation. The re-built tenements were clean and airy.

  “Eustace—can’t you possibly go on pulling those dirty houses down?”

  “They’re not mine,” said Eustace Ryven with a groan in his voice.

  “You were going to.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you can’t—because of me?”

  He said, “It’s not your fault.” He did say that.

  Valentine felt a passionate gratitude.

  “If I begged and begged Colonel Gray?”

  Eustace shook his head.

  “It’s no use—he can’t do anything. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t—and he doesn’t want to. What exists is good enough for him. He’s the type that thinks change of any sort is the worst of all evils. You can’t do anything with that frame of mind—it’s completely impervious to any new idea. But in five years’ time you’ll be independent of him—you can pull down Parkin Row then. The trouble is you won’t.”

  “I will.” The earnest voice made the words sound like a vow.

  Eustace Ryven shook his head.

  “Five years is a long time. You’ll have learnt how to spend money by then, and you’ll have got accustomed to spending it. Besides, you’ll probably marry.”

  Her face flamed just for a moment.

  “But if I get married, I can give it back.”

  Eustace actually laughed.

  “I can see your husband letting you!” he said.

  “Wouldn’t he?”

  He shook his head again.

  Helena Ryven interposed with a question about the hot water supply.

  They drove back to the station. Valentine no longer saw the streets or the people; she saw only Parkin Row and the baby who had never had enough to eat. What she saw caused her the most dreadful suffering; and the suffering was weighted and fastened down upon her heart by a crushing sense of responsibility. To the island-bred child, the dirt, the crowding, and the noisome air of Parkin Row were a great deal more dreadful than they would have been to the ordinary girl—and to the ordinary girl they would have been bad enough. She had never seen dirt, foulness, poverty, or disease before. She saw them now as things for which, in some dreadful unescapable way, she was responsible. If she hadn’t come back from the island, the houses would have been pulled down and the people would have had clean places to live in. It was her fault.

  She sat up a little straighter in the taxi beside Helena Ryven. If a thing is your fault, you are bound to do something about it—Edward always said that. She had got to do something, and there was only one thing that would make it possible for Eustace to go on pulling down those dreadful houses and building new, clean ones in their place. He couldn’t go on unless he had the money; and she couldn’t give him the money unless she married someone. She saw the whole thing quite plainly. The only thing she didn’t see was whom she was going to marry. She had planned to marry Austin, and Austin wouldn’t. Barclay had said he would always be there if she wanted him. But Barclay had gone to America; and she had got to marry someone at once so that Eustace needn’t stop pulling down houses and building them up again. Besides, Eustace said that perhaps her husband wouldn’t let her give the money back. It would be dreadful to marry someone just for nothing at all; because she didn’t, didn’t want to get married for a long, long time.

  The taxi stopped, and they got out. All the time that they were crossing the crowded station, Valentine’s thoughts went on.

  They passed the barrier and got into the train. Mrs. Ryven bought a couple of papers and arranged herself comfortably in a corner seat. Valentine sat opposite to her. And as Helena unfolded a rustling sheet between them, the great idea came into her head.

  A preliminary quiver ran through the train; the engine shrieked. A late passenger ran panting down the platform, wrenched the door open, and plumped into a seat. Mrs. Ryven glanced at her, wondering why people did not allow themselves time to catch a train. Then her eyes were back to her paper and she became plunged in a cause célèbre.

  Half an hour later the train slowed down preparatory to stopping at Durnham. Helena put down her paper and looked up. Valentine’s place was empty, and the door into the corridor half open. She leant forward and looked down the narrow passage. Valentine’s green dress was in sight. Mrs. Ryven was rather short-sighted, but she saw the green dress, and the girl’s figure turned away from her at the end of the corridor. And then the train stopped and people began to pour into it. An elderly man came into the carriage and sat down opposite Mrs. Ryven.

  “I beg your pardon—this is my niece’s place,” she said, and he apologized and moved up, leaving the corner free.

  Helena began to feel more than a little vexed. Valentine ought to come back and keep her seat whilst the train was in the station.

  Presently they moved again. Mrs. Ryven read for a little longer, and then got up and looked out into the corridor. There was no one there.

  Ten minutes later she was in a state of very considerable alarm. Valentine was not on the train at all, and at least three people had noticed a girl in a green dress leaving it at Durnham.

  Helena looked at her watch. It was seven o’clock. They would stop again in twenty minutes. She took out her time-table and consulted it. She could not get back to Durnham before nine. If she were to telephone for the car, it would hardly save any time at all. She decided to wait for the train.

  It was actually a quarter past nine when she got to Durnham, and it took her nearly half an hour to find anyone who remembered a young lady in a bright green dress who had got out of the London train two hours before. It was a porter who remembered, and he was quite positive that the young lady had crossed the platform and got into the Lexington train, which was waiting there.

  Helena took a ticket to Lexington, with bewilderment and anxiety struggling for the upper hand. The anxiety came uppermost. The girl had had a shock. She, Helena, had deliberately subjected her to this shock. Suppose it had unbalanced her. Such things happened. She began to recall with horror that Valentine had not spoken a single word after they got into the taxi together.

  Lexington is a large junction. Trying to trace a green dress seemed to be a pretty hopeless business. This time it was the waiting-room attendant who remembered it.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am—set here for half an hour she did, and told me she was expecting a gentleman to meet her. And he met her, and they went off together.… No, I couldn’t describe him, because I can’t rightly say I saw him.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Not to say see. She was setting here and asking me if I knew Liverpool—because that’s where she was going—when all of a sudden the door opened and she says, ‘There he is!’ and off she runs.”

  “But you didn’t see him?”

  “No more than a bowler’ at and an ’and.”

  The journey to Liverpool was a nightmare. Helena, tired, remorseful, and thoroughly alarmed, arrived there at midnight. At the third hotel she visited, her urgency produced a waiter who remembered serving a lady in a green dress; she had arrived with a gentleman at ten o’clock and they had had coffee in the lounge; he thought they were staying in the hotel.

  Reference to the register showed the last entry as Mr. and Mrs. Trotter. For a moment Helena Ryven saw it through a thick mist. Then she had herself in hand again. She asked questions.

  “Had the lady a wedding ring?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “Was she in the hotel?”

  The waiter didn’t think so. They were talking over their coffee and he could not help hearing what they said. Also they had aske
d him whether they could come in late. He thought they were going out to visit friends. They might have returned or they might not.

  Helena found herself addressing the night porter.

  The night porter could only say that he had not seen them come in; and on the top of his saying so the swing-door opened, and into the rather dimly lighted hall came a dark young man in glasses and a girl in a green dress. She was of about Valentine’s height and of about Valentine’s figure. But she wasn’t Valentine.

  CHAPTER XVII

  It was not Valentine who had left the train at Durnham. Valentine had never reached Durnham. When the great idea entered her mind, it took command of it to such an extent that she acted exactly as if everything that she had to do had been carefully planned. She got up out of her seat, passed through the half open door into the corridor, opened the outer door, and jumped out just as the train began to move. She was not seen, because everyone who might have seen her was looking in the opposite direction. On the other platform a woman was running to catch the train; she was panting and wrenching at the door of Mrs. Ryven’s compartment at the moment when Valentine shut the door behind her and began to walk quickly towards the barrier.

  The train throbbed, clanked, and gathered speed. Valentine did not even turn her head to look in it. She had her ticket, because Helena, in an educational mood, had made her take it herself. The little snipped square was in her hand. She presented it at the barrier, and the man said,