Kingdom Lost

by Patricia Wentworth

  “‘All the time she was talking, the ship kept listing over more and more. It seemed likely that she would soon go down and take us with her. I waited a long time for the stewardess to come back. In the end I went to see if I could find her. Everything below was empty, I tried to get out on deck, but one door had jammed, and the other was up over my head with the tilt of the ship. Anyhow it would have been madness, with the gale that was blowing and the angle of the deck. I thought we were going down every moment.

  “‘I went back to the cabin, and heard you crying. Your poor mother was gone. I took you into another cabin and lay down in a berth to wait for the end. It seems incredible, but I went to sleep, and so did you. When I woke up, the ship was still afloat and the gale not so fierce. I found a tin of condensed milk, mixed some according to the directions, and gave you a few drops at a time.

  “‘On the third day we grounded on the island and stuck there as I have often told you. I buried your mother in the sea and read the service over her. I hope you won’t think I could have done anything else. I baptized you, as a layman has a right to do in an emergency, and I called you Valentine simply because I had been rather fond of little Valentine Ryven. She was a dear child with very pretty ways, and I hoped if you lived, that you would be like her.’”

  Valentine leaned forward—a light breathless movement. Her hand touched Timothy’s arm.

  “Oh, I am Valentine! I thought I wasn’t anything.”

  “Yes,” said Timothy. He went on reading:

  “‘I had no idea then of pretending that you were Valentine Ryven. That came later. You not only lived, you throve. You were a strong and healthy child, and I became very much attached to you. I always had a very strong feeling that you were not meant to live out your life upon the island. I used to feel sure that you would be rescued. But I never felt sure about myself. As time went on, I realized that even if I returned to England, I would find my place filled and my usefulness over. I should be hopelessly rusty, and might feel obliged to resign my fellowship, in which case I should be practically penniless.

  “‘I became more and more concerned about your future. I used to contrast your friendless condition with the warm welcome which had awaited the other little Valentine. Mrs. Ryven had shown me a letter which she had received from her sister-in-law just before she sailed, in which she spoke in the most affectionate terms of “the dear little baby” and the place that would be made for her and her child in the family circle.

  “‘It was when you were about four years old that I began to think seriously of calling you Valentine Ryven. I was teaching you all sorts of things, and you began to ask questions. I told you about fathers and mothers, and you asked about your own father and mother. I told you then that Maurice Ryven was your father, and Marion Ryven your mother. When you got older, I let you have her papers and her letters to read. I had brought everything I could from the ship, because at first I thought we should very soon be rescued, and it seemed right to save all the papers I could for the sake of surviving relatives.

  “‘Well, the rest you know. I hope you will never read this paper. If you ever do come to read it, I am afraid you may judge me harshly. I can only say that I slipped into the deception by degrees—I cannot recall any moment of sharp decision. I hope that you will be happy. And if you are not happy, I hope that you will bear unhappiness with courage and not let go of hope.

  EDWARD BOWDEN.’”

  Timothy laid down the last sheet, and found Valentine leaning back again, the breath coming quickly between her parted lips.

  “I am Valentine!” she said.

  Timothy looked at her doubtfully.

  “What an extraordinary story! I suppose he knew what he was talking about. He wasn’t—unhinged?”

  “It’s true,” said Valentine. “Why do you think it isn’t true?”

  “Do you want it to be true, Val?”

  He wondered whether she had begun to grasp the implications.

  “Yes—yes, I do!”

  Timothy hesitated.

  “Do you understand what it means?”

  She answered him at once with a beaming upward glance.

  “I shan’t have any money.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I haven’t any money—” The colour rose bright in the cheeks that had been so pale. “If I haven’t any money—I needn’t marry Eustace.”

  Timothy said, “You don’t want to marry Eustace?”

  “If the money isn’t mine, it’s his. He can pull down everything he likes. I needn’t marry him.” She spoke in a voice that seemed to quiver with happiness. Her colour, the sudden brilliance of her eyes, the dew on her lashes, her unsteady breath, gave Timothy a picture which he never forgot. It was just as if a sudden wind of joy had blown her into flame. He had to take tight hold of himself.

  Let her break her engagement to Eustace—let her only break it! Then he could speak. It didn’t matter whether it was twenty-four hours or half an hour before the wedding; she could break free. But she must do it herself. It wasn’t in Timothy’s code to come between Eustace and his bride. If Valentine wanted to be free, she must tell Eustace so herself. He had got to stand aside.

  He said, “Val—” and his voice sounded stern.

  “Why do you say it like that? Are you angry?”

  “No. Val, are you going to break your engagement?”

  Valentine said, “Yes—yes—yes!” And with the last “Yes” she gave a little happy laugh. “Oh, yes, Timothy.”

  “Then you must go back to Holt at once. And, Val—listen! You mustn’t say you came down here like this.”

  “Why mustn’t I?”

  Timothy ransacked his mind for a reason which would convince her.

  “You’d get me into trouble,” he said seriously.

  “Would I? Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.” (“And that’s true enough,” he added to himself.)

  “What shall I say then?”

  “I can’t tell you what to say.”

  “Shall I show Aunt Helena Edward’s letter?”

  “I think you ought to show it to Eustace. You needn’t show him the bit about opening it with your best friend.”

  “Why?”

  “If you say that, you’ll end by saying you came down here. That’s why.”

  “And you don’t want me to say that?”

  “No, Val.”

  “Then I won’t. But you don’t want me to marry Eustace?”

  Timothy put a great force on himself.

  “I want you to do what will make you happy.” He turned away and went to the window. You must go back. I’ll get the car.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  When Timothy came back, he found Valentine asleep, sitting just as he had left her, with her head against the tall back of the chair and her hands lying loosely in her lap. He was startled, because all her colour had gone again and she looked wan and piteous under the lamp. He touched her arm, then her hand. It felt cold.

  He said “Val—” and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She opened her eyes then. They were wide and blank. The lids hid them again almost at once.

  He put his arm round her waist and got her on to her feet, shaking her a little, and she roused enough to stumble as far as the door, when he picked her up and carried her to the car.

  He had to drive very carefully because he was obliged to hold her. He began to wonder how he was going to get her into the house without waking anyone. He wondered how she had got out. He dared not drive up in front of the house, but left the car screened from view by the great beech-trees at the top of the drive.

  He tried again to wake Valentine. This time he heard her murmur unintelligibly. He shook her.

  “Val—wake up! How did you get out? Val! Val!”

  He had switched off the lights of the car. The rustling darkness of the great beeches made a roof over their heads. The warm air moved softly.

  “Val—wake up!”

  She murmu
red again, then drew a deep breath.

  “Val—”

  She said “Timothy—” in a sleepy voice.

  “Val—wake up!” But he felt her head fall on his shoulder again.

  He propped her up in the car and got out. He had seen Lil sleep like this once as a child. There were fire-works, and they had tried to wake her so that she might see them. They had got her out of bed and at the window, and they had sponged her face with cold water; but they had not been able to wake her, and he had carried her back to bed again.

  He didn’t think it was the least use trying to wake Valentine. She looked as if she hadn’t slept properly for weeks. He raged inwardly at the thought. She hadn’t been sleeping; she had been strained to the breaking point, and at the sudden relief she had fallen into this deep sleep.

  He came out from under the trees, and saw the house like the shape of a black hill against the sky. The sky was black too, but its blackness was all pricked over with stars. The house had no star, no light. It stood like a cliff above him.

  If Valentine had climbed out of her window as she had done before, they were pretty well done in. He would just have to ring Bolton up and chance what Helena would say. Then he remembered the Ryven cousins, and blenched. He might have to try his hand at climbing in. He supposed he could climb in if Valentine had climbed out, but he would make sure of the ground floor windows first.

  He found the study window open, and was most devoutly grateful. He climbed in, put on the reading-lamp, and went back for Valentine. She had slipped down a little, her arm on the side of the car, and her head upon her arm. Her breathing was deep, gentle, regular. Her hands were warm and soft.

  Timothy picked her up, found her lighter than he had expected, and took his way back to the house. He was glad he had thought of putting on the light; it made things much easier, besides giving him his direction. Even if you know a place very well, it is not so easy to find your way in the dark if you cannot use your hands; there is a horrid feeling that you may at any moment run your head into a wall.

  Timothy reached over the study window-sill and lowered Valentine gently on to the floor. Then he got in himself, shut the window and drew the curtains across it.

  Valentine moved a little, curled herself up like a kitten, and slept on.

  Timothy remembered their first meeting in this room. He remembered a great many things. He wondered if he could have faced bringing Valentine back if she were still going to marry Eustace; and quite suddenly he knew that he wouldn’t have faced it. He came of a decent law-abiding stock, sober, honourable; but he knew that sooner than let Valentine go to Eustace with that broken, heartbroken look, he would have carried her off—yes, against her will if there had been no other way.

  He went to the study door and opened it. The hall was dark, pitch dark; it was like looking into a black cave. He went out and shut the door behind him to see whether he could find his way upstairs without a light, and as soon as the study door was shut, the small shaded light which burned all night at the stair-head sprang into view. He went up the stairs without making any sound. At the top Helena’s door faced him. Valentine’s room was away on the left. He went to it, opened the door, put on the reading-lamp by the bed, and then returned, leaving the door ajar.

  Timothy was nothing if not practical, but he hoped he would never have to be a burglar. This creeping about the house in the middle of the night business and wondering every moment whether Helena, or Laura, or Janet, or Emmeline would come popping out of their rooms, was fairly grim. It would be especially grim if it were Emmeline. Timothy liked Emmeline less well than Janet—and he disliked Janet quite a lot.

  He carried Valentine safely up the stairs and laid her on her bed. There was a blue eiderdown folded back at the foot of it. He covered her with it, tucking it round her. She gave a little comfortable sigh, and as his hand brushed her hand, her fingers closed on one of his in a soft clasp.

  Timothy stood looking down at her. She looked very young. The light from the reading-lamp came through a parchment shade painted with coloured fruits. It threw a golden light on the pillow and on Valentine’s hair; it gave her skin a warm look, as if she were standing in the sunshine. Her black lashes lay upon her cheek. The eye-lids were faintly shadowed with blue. Her tossed hair made her look most pitifully young. Her lips were just apart. She wore the pure, remote look of the sleeping child.

  Timothy drew his finger away very gently. He loved her so much that her youth, and her sleep, and those blue shadows under her eyes moved him to the very depths. He drew his finger away, and saw her hand relax.

  He had made up his mind what he must do. He couldn’t have the housemaid coming in in the morning to find Valentine asleep under the eiderdown in her red dress. The housemaid must find the door locked; and he, Timothy, had got to climb out of the window. He had a look at the rain-pipe, and thought he could manage it. He locked the door, turned out the light, and climbed out of the window.

  When he was half way home he remembered that he had left the studylight on, and burst out laughing. Bolton would scratch his head in the morning.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Valentine came slowly back out of the depths of sleep. She did not wake, but her sleep became lighter, less unconscious. She passed into a dream of the island. She thought she had just come up out of the cavern, because she was standing near the entrance. She had something in her closed hands, held tightly between palm and palm, but she did not know what it was. She thought she must have brought it up from the cavern, perhaps from the deep waters that were in the cavern. Her hands were wet. Then all at once she knew that her hands were wet because she had wept upon them; and in her dream a strange, happy thought pierced her heart like a warm sunbeam. She knew that she need not weep any more. And someone called her, and she woke up.

  She was not really quite awake. The light came through her lashes. Her hand closed on something soft. There was a sound of calling in her ears. Someone was calling her, someone was knocking. She opened her eyes and saw the room quite light, and her blue eiderdown pulled up to her chin. She threw it back, looked at her own arm in its dark red sleeve, and sat up.

  Someone was knocking at the door.

  “Miss Ryven! Miss Ryven!” It was Agnes with her tea.

  Valentine looked down at her red dress and remembered that she had put it on to go and see Timothy. She remembered going to Waterlow, and she remembered Edward’s letter; but she didn’t remember coming back to Holt. When she remembered Edward’s letter, she had the same sort of feeling that she had had in her dream, a piercing joy.

  The knocking became louder.

  She said, “Wait a minute, Agnes,” and then she pushed the eiderdown right back and got off the bed.

  She became aware that she didn’t want Agnes to know that she hadn’t undressed. It was only the work of a minute to take off the red dress and her shoes and stockings—How odd! She hadn’t even taken her shoes off!—and to pull down the bedclothes so that she could slip into bed as soon as she had opened the door.

  She came down to breakfast with colour in her cheeks and light in her eyes. Something sang in her heart. She felt as if she had been in a cage, and as if the door had opened so that she could walk out of it and be safe and free.

  Cousin Laura rallied her a little ponderously.

  “Aha, my dear! Somebody’s coming to-day! Isn’t he? Anyone would know that just by looking at you. Now mind you don’t go and cover all that pretty colour with powder, because it would be a sin and a shame. I was afraid you were going to be a pale bride, but now we know what was wanted.” She laughed good-naturedly. “You needn’t blush, my dear. Eustace is a very lucky fellow.” She dropped her voice. “Ssh! We mustn’t let your Aunt Helena hear that. No mother of an only son thinks any girl quite good enough for him—does she? I haven’t got one, or I’d have been as big a fool as the test of them, I daresay. And so will you, my dear, when your turn comes.”

  Janet and Emmeline disapproved a little more th
an usual. Their mother was being coarse. They disapproved of coarseness; they disapproved of a preference for sons. They looked down their noses at their toast and marmalade, and refused sugar in their tea. Laura Ryven took four lumps, and they disapproved again. Mother really had no consideration for her figure.

  Eustace arrived just before tea.

  Valentine had considered whether she would show Edward’s letter to Aunt Helena before he came. She decided that she wouldn’t. Timothy had told her that she ought to show it to Eustace. She remembered that. She remembered everything until Timothy went to fetch the car, and after that she didn’t remember anything at all. She had gone to sleep. Timothy must have taken her home. She couldn’t think how her door came to be locked on the inside. She didn’t worry about it, or about anything else. She waited in breathless, glowing excitement for the moment when she could tell Eustace that they needn’t get married, because she wasn’t Valentine Ryven after all.

  It made her laugh deep in her own thoughts to see everybody so busy getting ready for the wedding that was never going to be a wedding at all. Her wedding dress and veil were in the empty room next to hers—and she wasn’t going to wear them.

  “Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely!” she said to herself. She needn’t marry Eustace—she needn’t marry anyone. The dreadful aching at her heart had gone, and the frightened, frightened feeling. She felt as if she could fly, all light, and happy, and joyful.

  “Lovely!” she said to herself.

  She waited till tea was over. Then she came and stood in front of Eustace as he reached from the big armchair to put his cup down.

  “Eustace, can I speak to you?”

  Cousin Laura looked archly at them.

  “What is he to say? Can she? Now I wonder! What do you think, Helena? Is it allowed?”