Kingdom Lost

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Eustace,” said Miss Egerton succinctly.

  When Lil sailed it wanted only a week to Valentine’s wedding day. Timothy could not decently stay away any longer, neither would it be possible for him to escape the wedding. He presented his offering, and had the opportunity of seeing for himself that Valentine looked like someone in a dream, a very sorrowful dream. All her pretty colour was gone, there were dark smudges under her eyes, and she looked frightened.

  He followed Helena to the window where she was marking off acceptances on the long list of wedding guests.

  “What’s the matter with her?” he said abruptly.

  Mrs. Ryven raised her eyebrows.

  “With whom?”

  “Valentine.” He had not known that it would be so hard to say her name.

  “My dear Timothy, what should be the matter? What do you mean?”

  “Look at her!” said Timothy.

  Mrs. Ryven looked.

  “She’s rather pale. Weddings are hard work for the bride, you know. There were fifteen presents yesterday, and twenty to-day. And of course she hasn’t had much practice in writing notes.”

  “Notes!” said Timothy. There was a tone of subdued anger in his voice.

  His sister stiffened.

  “I hope Lil is having a good voyage,” she said.

  “I was talking about Valentine,” said Timothy. Then, after a pause, with a sort of muffled violence, “Helena—she looks damned unhappy.”

  That night Valentine went to sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. It was like going down into deep water, slipping down into it and falling, falling, falling.

  After a long time the dream began. She always dreamt about the island now. Sometimes she was bathing in the pool, and sometimes she was fishing, and sometimes she was stringing shells. To-night she came slowly up out of the dark water and opened her eyes with a little sigh. She was in the cavern, standing on the fine white sand at the water’s edge. And someone had just called to her, for she was listening. She didn’t know why she was listening or who had called, but it wasn’t Edward. She was quite sure that it wasn’t Edward.

  She began to climb up out of the cavern, and then all at once she was under the palm-trees and the sun was shining very fierce and hot. And Edward was there, and he said, “Remember, you’ve given your word of honour.” And then she woke up; and just as she woke up, someone called her again, and it wasn’t Edward.

  She sat up in bed with her eyes wide open, looking into the dark. It was so dark that she couldn’t see where the windows were. There was only a soft black wall like the soft black waters of sleep.

  She sat up very straight, looking into the dark and thinking about the dream. She had always been alone on the island. It was her island, her kingdom—her lost kingdom. It had been really hers, but she had lost it, and now she could only go back to it in a dream. But there had never been anyone there before except Edward. But it wasn’t Edward who had called her—no, it wasn’t Edward. She did not know who it was, but it wasn’t Edward.

  She began to think about Edward. She was glad that he had been there in her dream. What was it that he said? … “Remember, you’ve given your word of honour.” That was funny, because he had really said that to her once when she had signed the paper and he had put it away, and tied it up, and sealed it, and made her promise that she would never open it unless—She put up a hand to her throat quickly. Just what had she promised? It was five years ago. Just what had she signed? She had almost forgotten. But it was coming back. “Never to break the seals—never to open the packet or to let anyone else open it unless—” Yes—unless what? What was it exactly?—“Unless things are so bad that they can’t be any worse, so bad that nothing can make them any worse.” And Edward had said, “Remember, Valentine, you’ve given your word of honour.” That was five years ago, and she hadn’t thought about it for years, and might never have thought of it again if she had not heard Edward say those words in her dream.

  She began to wonder what had happened to the packet. Austin had helped her pack as much as possible into her mother’s old trunk, and when that wouldn’t hold everything, he had fetched a canvas kit-bag and they had put a lot of papers and books into that. But everything had come to Holt. Barclay had bought her a new box at Honolulu, and the things that were in the kit-bag had been put into it and she had unpacked them all at Holt. But she hadn’t seen the packet. She was quite sure she would have remembered it if she had seen it. It was about eight or nine inches long and four or five inches wide, and it was done up in brown paper tied with string and sealed with big blobs of green sealing wax that had come out of Edward’s dispatch-box. She had brought the dispatch-box to Holt; it was in her dressing-room now.

  She jumped up, put on the light, and opened the connecting door. She would just look and see, but she was sure the packet wasn’t in the dispatch-box. She put her hand up to the switch, hesitated for a moment, and then pressed it down.

  The light shone on the old battered case that Edward had taken out of the wrecked Avronia. She knew that it was nearly empty; she knew that the packet wasn’t there; but she threw back the lid and lifted out the trays. There was no sealed packet. There was nothing—only, in the topmost tray, a little end of dark green sealing wax.

  Valentine shut down the lid and put out the light.

  It was three days later that Austin Muir rang up. Valentine was called to the telephone.

  “Mr. Muir would like to speak to you, miss.”

  Valentine flushed with pleasure, and her heart began to beat. Aunt Helena, and Eustace, and her wedding, and her wedding presents seemed to have been closing in upon her day by day; they kept coming nearer and shutting her in, and shutting everyone else out. When Bolton said, “Mr. Muir would like to speak to you, miss,” it was just as if a window had opened somewhere. It wasn’t a door—she couldn’t get out, she knew she couldn’t get out; but it was a window, and you can look out of a window.

  The telephone was in a little room all by itself. There was a table and a chair, and the telephone, and on the table the London directory and the local one.

  Valentine came running into the room. She pulled the door to behind her, ran to the telephone, and said “Oh!” rather breathlessly.

  Austin Muir said, “Hullo! Can I speak to Miss Ryven? Is that Miss Ryven?” and she gave a little unsteady laugh and said,

  “No—it’s Valentine.” And then, “Oh, Austin—how nice it is to hear your voice again!”

  Austin said “Oh—” in rather a taken aback sort of way. She knew just how he looked when he said “Oh—” like that—a little bit frowning, as if he wasn’t pleased, as if it wasn’t quite the proper thing for her to say “How nice!” She didn’t care, and she said it again,

  “Oh, Austin—how nice!”

  Austin Muir cleared his throat.

  “I rang you up—by the way, are you married yet? I haven’t seen it in the paper, but you said, ‘Not Miss Ryven.’”

  “But I’m not—I’m Valentine—if I was married a hundred times, I’d be Valentine.”

  “Arc you married?” said Austin a little blankly.

  “No—no.” She spoke as if she were pushing something away with all her might.

  “But you’re going to be?”

  There was a pause before she said, “Yes.” It was no use pushing things away.

  “Well, I rang you up because I’ve got something of yours. I found it by accident the other day.”

  “What is it? How did you find it?”

  “Well—a cousin of mine borrowed my kit-bag to take with him into camp. I turned it inside out to shake the dust out of it, and I found there was a slit in the lining and something had stuck there. It was a sealed packet addressed to you. You remember we used the bag to cart your things down the cliff?”

  “Yes,” said Valentine. “Yes.”

  Her heart was beating so hard that when she said “Yes,” it sounded as if someone else was saying it a long way off. She didn’
t know why she should suddenly feel giddy with excitement. She sat down on the chair, and she heard herself say in a different voice, slow and distinct,

  “Is it a little packet in brown paper—and is it sealed with green sealing wax?”

  And she heard Austin Muir say, “Yes.”

  Valentine held the receiver very tight. Austin was saying something, but she wasn’t really hearing what he said. She was listening to Edward. Five years ago, and Edward was saying very solemnly, “Only if things are so bad that nothing can possibly make them any worse. Remember, Valentine, you’ve given your word of honour.”

  Valentine was remembering.

  Austin Muir’s voice came to her, speaking with some impatience:

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t get any reply—I thought we were cut off.”

  “No.”

  “Will this evening suit you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Then we were cut off. I was saying that as I shall be passing within a mile or two of Holt to-night I could bring you the packet—it would perhaps be better than posting it. I’m bringing my cousin’s car up to town for him. Will that be all right?”

  Valentine didn’t speak for a moment. She wanted to say “Yes, yes, yes, yes!” all very loud and joyful, but she couldn’t.

  “Will that do? Hullo! Are you there? Will that be all right?”

  Valentine said “Yes.”

  CHAPTER XXV

  The day was unbelievably long. For the last month the hours had been slipping away with a terrible, smooth, unhasting, unresting flow. She had felt them carrying her on like a river that would presently fall in thunder over some black precipice. Now, instead of flowing, the tide stood still; there was no movement, or so small a movement that it seemed like none. The day seemed to stay at noon. She would look at the clock, and go away and do things for a long time, and try to think about what she was doing, and come back to look at the clock again; and the hands seemed hardly to have moved.

  Austin had not said what time he would come; but the day would have to be over sometime, because even the sort of day that seems to stop the clocks does in the end come to its evening. Austin would come, and he would bring her packet, which she had promised not to open unless things were so bad that nothing could make them any worse. And they would open it together, because nothing could be any worse than being just on the very edge of that black precipice. This was Tuesday, and on Thursday she was going to marry Eustace. Nothing could possibly be any worse than that. She did not see how the packet could help, but a faint, faint, unreasoning hope flickered in her mind when she thought about it.

  She opened wedding presents, and she wrote notes until lunch; and after lunch she tried on her wedding dress, and Felton, Aunt Helena’s maid, hung it up in a big empty wardrobe with a white sheet all round it. Then she tried on the veil and the orange blossoms; and Aunt Helena wanted her to have little bunches over her ears, but Felton wanted her to have a wreath. Valentine stood between them in a white ninon petticoat and saw her own white face and troubled eyes under the white veil in the old-fashioned glass. Felton had been with Aunt Helena for twenty years; so she didn’t mind having her own opinion and holding to it.

  Valentine was cold and tired. She did not say a single word, and presently they took off the veil and went away, Felton standing aside to let Aunt Helena pass.

  Valentine waited for the door to shut; but instead Felton came back with her arms full of old lace and orange-blossoms.

  “You have a good lay-down, miss,” she said, and hovered and seemed about to say something; only just then Aunt Helena called her and she went away without speaking.

  The day was like a whole week of days.

  Austin Muir did not come until nine o’clock. Valentine had not told anyone that he was coming. If she had said, “Austin is coming,” they would have wanted to know why, and she couldn’t tell them why.

  They were sitting in the drawing-room, when Bolton came in and said,

  “Mr. Muir would like to speak to you, miss.”

  It was just what he had said in the morning, and when Valentine got up and ran out of the room, Helena had no other thought but that she had been called to the telephone.

  Valentine shut the door, ran across the hall, and waited for Bolton to come to her before she said, “Where is he?”

  Mr. Muir was in the study. Bolton considered it would be best to show him into the study. Bolton was left explaining his reasons; for almost before he had finished saying the word study Miss Valentine was off like a flash.

  Austin Muir was standing in the middle of the room, as a man stands when he has just looked in and has no time to stay. He advanced a step and put out his hand conventionally as Valentine whirled into the room. She caught the hand in both of hers and said “Austin!” eagerly, quickly, and the colour came up into her cheeks for a moment. Austin disengaged his hand. He was really a good deal shocked at Valentine’s appearance; it made him feel uncomfortable. He began to wish that he had not come. He had, of course, quite got over his fancy for her, and he had expected to see a happy, radiant bride. What on earth was the matter with her? And even as the question rose in his mind, he told himself quickly that he had no desire to know the answer, which was certainly no affair of his. He stepped back and took a small parcel from the corner of the table.

  Valentine felt chilled. She had come in expecting something, she didn’t quite know what. The moment that showed her Austin standing there, handsome, upright, sunburnt, was a moment of pure pleasure; it was like coming in sight of the house where a friend was waiting for you. But then—where was her friend?

  Austin took his hand away. He looked past her. Then he picked up a little parcel and held it out.

  “I’ve brought my wedding present with me,” he said, not exactly awkwardly, but with a firm determination not to be awkward.

  The parcel was too small. There were no seals. There ought to have been green seals. Valentine said so in a voice touched with bewilderment:

  “There were green seals on it. I remember them quite well.”

  Austin untied the string, took off the paper, and put a white cardboard box into her hand.

  “This is a wedding present. I hadn’t time to have your initials put on it, but you can get it done later on.”

  Valentine lifted the lid. Her mind was so set on Edward’s packet that her fingers moved mechanically. There was white cotton wool, a visiting card with Austin’s name on it:

  Mr. Austin Muir

  She looked at it helplessly.

  Austin, impatient, burrowed into the wool, fished out a small silver cigarette case, and laid it on the card.

  “There!” he said.

  Valentine looked at the cigarette case. It had little stripes on it, a dull stripe and a bright stripe, a dull stripe and a bright stripe, all the way across. Then she lifted her eyes and looked at Austin. He still wore a slightly impatient air. When you give a present, you expect to have some notice taken of it, you expect to be thanked.

  Instead, Valentine said,

  “Is it for Eustace?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t know him. It’s for you.”

  The bewilderment deepened in Valentine’s eyes. “I don’t smoke.” Then, with a little stab of warmth, “You know I don’t.”

  “Most girls do. I thought you’d have learnt by now.”

  “No—I think it’s horrid.” Then, with a belated recollection of many polite notes, “Thank you very much. It is very kind of you.”

  If Austin had loved her, the little polite, weary speech would have struck him to the heart. He did not love her. He thought her frightfully gone off. He was offended at the way in which his present had been received, and he wanted to be on the road again with the least possible delay.

  “Perhaps you’d like to change it for something else,” he said stiffly. “The name is on the box. And here “—he dived into his coat pocket—“here’s th
e packet that I telephoned about.”

  Valentine put out both her hands to take it; they were quite steady. She felt cold and tense. Now she had it—a packet about eight inches long, wrapped in rubbed brown paper and fastened with string. There was a big blob of green sealing wax in the middle, and one on either side; and above the sealing wax was her name in pencil—“Valentine.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I must be going,” said Austin. “Good-bye.”

  Valentine took a step back, and then another.

  “But I haven’t opened it yet,” she said in a surprised sort of way.

  He had no idea what she meant, and she began to explain.

  “You don’t know—I forgot. I mustn’t open it by myself—Edward said so. It’s something very important, because he made me promise on my word of honour—”

  “What did he make you promise?”

  Valentine stepped back again and stood leaning against the door.

  “Not to open it unless—” No, she couldn’t say that to Austin; something stopped her.

  He moved impatiently. He was becoming more and more anxious to be gone, to avoid being involved.

  “What did you promise?”

  “I wasn’t to open it alone—I was to open it when my best friend was there. He made me promise that, as well as other things.”

  Austin gave an embarrassed laugh.

  “Well, that’s easy, I should say. Your fiancé’s your best friend, I take it.”

  Valentine leaned against the door. She was glad it was there. She held the packet against the bosom of her white lace frock; she held it very tight. Austin wished she would get away from the door. There was something up, and it wasn’t his business.

  “You open it with Ryven,” he said. “And I’m afraid I really must be going.”

  Valentine did not move. She looked down at the packet. Then she said,

  “No.”

  “How do you mean—no?”

  “I can’t open it with Eustace. I promised—it has to be my best friend—I thought you were my best friend.”

  Austin stiffened. He had a most ingrained horror of scenes; and something told him there was going to be a scene if he wasn’t careful. He put out his hand again.