Kingdom Lost (11 page)

Valentine looked up with a faint, fleeting gleam in her eyes.

“He said, ‘How do you do, Valentine?' and he shook hands with me. And directly after Timothy had gone he said ‘Good-night, Valentine,' and he shook hands again. He has a very large hand to shake—hasn't he? And then he got into his car and went back to London.”

“And left you all alone with Mrs. Ryven? Goodness! How frightful!”

Valentine stood up.

“She was very kind. She told me stories about the house.”

She came down to breakfast with a neat shining head, curls disposed in an orderly fashion, eyes and cheeks very bright above an old brown jumper of Lil's. She wore shoes and stockings, and an air of being very clean and on her best behaviour.

The dining-room was small and rather dark because the old panelling drank up the light and the ceiling was low and crossed by three black beams. There were two little windows with diamond panes, and Timothy's grandfather had cut through the wall to make a rather incongruous French window which opened on the garden. All through the summer this window stood wide open to a path paved in the middle and edged with cobble stones. On either side of the path was a wide border ablaze with flowers, and the path, with its brilliant borders, ran down a gentle slope to the river's edge.

Valentine ate brown bread and honey, slice after slice, and talked about the island. She told them how Edward had planted maize and rice, and how hard it was at first to get them to grow.

“Was that all you had to live on?” It was Lil who asked the questions.

“At first—oh, at first there were the things on the ship. And afterwards there were cocoanuts—and of course we had the hens—and we caught fish.”

“How did you have cocoanuts when you were coming from New Zealand?”

Valentine sucked a sticky finger.

“Everyone asks that. They were on the ship. Edward said they came from Honolulu. The ship touched there and came to New Zealand, and she was going back again. And there were still some cocoanuts left, so Edward planted them, and they grew.”

Lil continued to look at her with an interest that sharpened her features and gave her an air of being rather hungry.

“What
did
you do all that time you were alone on the island? I'm sure I should have gone out of my mind. Three months and nobody to speak to. It must have been too awful! Wasn't it?”

Timothy saw the colour go out of Valentine's face. She looked out of the window at the bright flowers. She seemed to have become in one moment too remote to reach. He scowled at Lil, kicked her under the table, and said the first thing that came into his head.

“Lil can't imagine anyone being able to go for half an hour without talking.”

He wanted to change the subject, but he could not think of anything to say.

Valentine turned her head slowly. Her eyes were dark and mournful. She spoke to him, not to Lil.

“I don't like to talk about being alone.” Her lip quivered. “Why does she ask me about it? Everyone does. But why do they? If it had happened to them, they wouldn't want to talk about it.” There was no anger in her voice; it was just slow and sad.

“You shan't talk about anything you don't want to,” said Timothy. “Shall she, Lil?”

He kicked her again, and she coloured high but did not speak.

A little wavering smile curved Valentine's mouth. She drew a long sighing breath.

“I do wish I could eat more honey—but I can't.”

Timothy burst out laughing; it came so suddenly, and was said with so much earnestness.

“I've got to take you home.”

“Can't I stay here?”

“Not to-day. Colonel Gray is coming to see you.”

“Who is Colonel Gray?”

“He's your trustee. He has charge of your money, you know.”

“Have I got money?”

“Yes—a great deal.” He found her eyes fixed on him with a hesitating question in them. He went on quickly, “Colonel Gray will explain it all to you. That's why he wants to see you.”

Valentine sprang up and ran to the open window. The air was full of warmth and light. There was a scent of lavender in it, and a scent of roses. The borders were full of flowers whose names she did not know. She would have liked to walk in the garden and learn the names of all the flowers. She turned back regretfully.

“I like your house much better than Holt,” she said.

CHAPTER XII

Colonel Gray could not have said what he expected Maurice Ryven's daughter to be like; but vague alarming visions came and went in the recesses of his mind, whilst isolated words such as squaw, wigwam, tomahawk, and other equally irrelevant expressions rose occasionally to the surface like bubbles rising through muddy water.

When he saw Valentine he experienced such a shock of relief that he became almost effusive. Maurice's daughter! Well—well. Dashed pretty girl! Not like Maurice—not in the least like Maurice—not like any of the Ryvens. But when Mrs. Ryven presently made the same remark, he discovered a likeness to old James Ryven. He was so pleased with his discovery that he talked about it at some length.

“And now, my dear—I beg your pardon, but I ought to have known you when you were a child, and it slipped out. I knew your father when he was a child, anyhow. Well, what I was going to say was this. We've got to have a little talk—a business talk, you know. Dry stuff business, but we can't get on without it, and I think we'd better just come along into the library and get it over.”

Valentine regarded the library with awe. It had never occurred to her that there could possibly be so many books in one room. They went up to the ceiling, and down to the floor, and all round the walls, except just above the grim black marble mantelpiece, where an ancestor in armour looked down on them with a stern, unseeing stare. He was William de Ruyven, and he had come over with William of Orange. He looked as if he would have had very little patience with his descendants.

Valentine sat with her back to him. Colonel Gray was rather frightening to look at, but not nearly so bad as the ancestor. He had a long bony nose, a red weather-beaten face, and a stiff white moustache; but his little grey eyes looked quite kindly at her, and she liked his fluffy hair. She could not imagine the ancestor looking kindly at anyone, so she kept her back to him whilst Colonel Gray explained to her that he and Mr. Waterson were her trustees, and what a lot of money she had.

He explained very carefully what a trustee was, and he spoke very loud as if she were deaf.

“Now my dear, do you know what coming of age means?”

“Oh, yes—Edward told me all that sort of thing. You come of age when you're twenty-one.”

“Ah!” said Colonel Gray very briskly and smartly. “Ah, now! There we are! That's just what I want to explain to you. The fact is, you do not come of age when you are twenty-one—at least not so far as your money is concerned.”

“Edward said—”

Colonel Gray tapped the table.

“I said as regards your money. Let me explain. In the ordinary sense you come of age when you are twenty-one, but the whole of your property remains in the hands of your trustees until you are twenty-five. Your great-grandmother brought a lot of very valuable London property into the family, and it's a good thing for you, my dear, that your cousin, Eustace Ryven, only came into it four years ago instead of nine, or there would have been precious little of it left. What with pulling down and rebuilding, and buying up neighbouring properties and pulling
them
down, he's run a pretty rig already.”

Valentine lifted her dark blue eyes to his face.

“Did Eustace have my money?”

Colonel Gray went on explaining, very loud:

“When your father died in New Zealand, the property devolved upon you—and when you were supposed to have been drowned, it passed to Eustace. Mr. Waterson and I will now take the legal steps to put you in your proper position.”

Valentine went on looking at him.

“Am I taking the money away from Aunt Helena and Eustace?”

“Not from Mrs. Ryven.” Colonel Gray coughed.

“From Eustace?”

He coughed again.

“You must understand that it never really belonged to Eustace Ryven.”

“I don't want to take anything away,” said Valentine earnestly.

Colonel Gray drew out a violent-coloured bandanna and blew his nose. He always blew his nose when he was embarrassed. He didn't like Eustace Ryven. But undoubtedly the situation was a difficult one. He was willing to concede that it pressed rather hardly on Eustace.

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.”