Kingdom Lost (15 page)

Mrs. Ryven began to discuss prayer-book reform in a quiet well-bred voice.

After dinner she asked Lil to sing. Something indefinable in her manner conveyed the impression that she preferred Lil's music to Lil's conversation as being the lesser of two evils. Miss Egerton, in reply, jerked the piano open, drew off two much disapproved of bangles, which she put down with the largest amount of jingle, and banged out her preliminary chords in a way that made Timothy frown.

Valentine had never heard anyone sing before. She wasn't quite sure that she liked it; it gave her a curious shaken feeling; the air round her seemed to be shaking too, quivering as the hot air used to quiver when the sun beat on the island.

Lil had a good untrained voice, fresh and perfectly in tune. She sang
Billy Boy
, and
Green Broom
, and the pretty country variant of
The Keys of Heaven
called
My Man John:

“Oh, madam, I will give to you the keys of my heart,

To lock it up for ever, that we never more may part.

If you will be my bride, my joy, and my dear,

And you will take a walk with me anywhere.

“Oh, sir, I will accept of you the keys of your heart,

To lock it up for ever, and we never more shall part.

And I will be your bride, your joy, and your dear,

And I will take a walk with you anywhere.”

When she had finished singing, she stayed at the piano, playing any scraps of tune that came into her head. She had stopped thumping. She loved the piano at Holt far too much to go on thumping it. She thought, as she always did, “I should like to steal it,” and went on playing because she couldn't make up her mind to stop.

Mrs. Ryven crossed the room and began to look for something in the drawers of a walnut tallboy. She proceeded to sort through a tangled mass of wool. Maggie Brown's stockings were finished, and she wished to make certain whether she had enough of that particular wool to make her another pair.

Valentine got up out of her chair and knelt on the hearth-rug close to Timothy. There was a little fire, and she wanted to get near it. She also wanted to talk to Timothy, because she simply had to tell someone about Austin's letter. That was the funny thing; she had lived for twenty years on the island with Edward, and she hadn't ever wanted to tell him anything. It wasn't that nothing ever happened, because things did happen—very exciting things happened. It was very exciting when Sophronisba hatched out thirteen chickens; but she hadn't wanted to go and tell Edward about it. It had been rather fun waiting to see when he would notice the chickens for himself—Edward wasn't at all a noticing person. But now she wanted someone to tell things to. Perhaps it was because she had always planned to tell things to Aunt Helena—only you couldn't, you simply couldn't.

She knelt beside Timothy and said in a little shy voice,

“I wrote to Austin.”

Timothy looked kindly at her. She had on a blush pink frock with frills. She was looking pale; she had hardly spoken; he had been wondering what was wrong. He looked at her kindly and wondered whether it was Austin's name or the firelight which made her seem less pale all at once.

He said, “Did you?” and she nodded.

“Yes—I wrote to him, and he wrote to me.” She paused, and added, with a drop in her voice, “It's the first letter I've ever had.”

“Was it a nice one?” said Timothy, very much as he would have said it to a child.

“No.” Then, after a pause, “It wasn't nice—not at all.”

“Wasn't it? I'm so sorry.”

“
He
isn't sorry,” said Valentine.” He said Barclay had gone to America. And he says he won't come down and see me, though he really promised he would.” She blinked vigorously. “
He did
. He promised he'd come—and now he says he won't. He says he had much better not come—he says it is better that we should not meet—and he says we are not likely to come across each other again.”

Timothy felt an unregenerate desire for five minutes' conversation with Mr. Austin Muir. He felt that he could say quite a lot of things in five minutes that would help to relieve that young gentleman of the good opinion which he obviously had of himself.

“Look here, Val,” he said, “I shouldn't worry about him.”

“I'm not worrying. But it hurts—here.” She pressed a hand against her pale pink bodice. “There isn't anything to worry about, because it's all settled. He won't ever come and see me now, though he
did
promise.” She fixed her eyes on Timothy. They were round, and dark, and solemn. “I know why he won't come.”

“Why?”

“It's because of the money. He said so on the yacht—he said I'd be too rich. That was when he kissed me.” Timothy felt unaccountably angry. What a blighter! “He wouldn't have kissed me if he hadn't been fond of me, Timothy—would he?”

“Well—” said Timothy. He had on more than one occasion kissed damsels for whom he had no very special affection. This did not, of course, interfere with his conviction that Austin Muir was a low hound.

“It was the back of my head he kissed, really,” said Valentine, still gazing at him anxiously.

In addition to being a low hound, Timothy now considered Austin Muir to be a damned fool.

“Perhaps that makes a difference,” said Valentine.

“Perhaps it does,” said Timothy with a gravity that did him credit.

Valentine shook her head.

“I don't think so really. I think he was fond of me, but he wouldn't let himself be because of the money. I think he thinks too much about money—I told him he did. Having a lot of money doesn't stop you wanting to be happy, and it doesn't stop you wanting people to be fond of you. Aren't people ever fond of a girl who has a lot of money?”

Timothy looked at her. His eyes twinkled and said something, but she didn't quite know what it was. It was a kind thing. She thought Timothy was kind. His eyes twinkled, but he said in quite a solemn voice,

“I don't think you need worry about that.”

“Perhaps I'm not the sort of person that people are fond of.” This was a dreadful thought, but it had occurred to her more than once lately.

“Perhaps you are,” said Timothy.

“Do you think I am?”

“I shouldn't wonder.” Then, just as Helena came back with her arms full of wool, he bent forward and whispered, “Don't be a goose!”

CHAPTER XVI

Next day Valentine went up to London with Mrs. Ryven. They went by train because Helena considered driving a waste of time. Valentine would have liked to go in the car; the train was exciting too, but she had the wonderfully keen sense of smell that wild things have, and the smoke from the engine offended it.

The day was clear and fine. The smoke which smelt so nasty was blown across a cool blue sky that was blurred by no other cloud. The wind came lightly out of the east and brought a sparkle of cold to meet the warmth of the sun. Valentine wished the roof off the train so that she might see the bold, clear arch of the sky. She wanted to feel quite close to the blue, and the wind, and the sun.

The day was going to be one of those days that you never forget, even when you are quite, quite old. Sometimes they come suddenly, and sometimes you know about them beforehand—and it is much, much nicer when you know about them beforehand. The day that Austin came to the island was one of the sudden days, and the day that Edward—fell. They begin like other days, and you don't know that anything is going to happen until it happens; and then you know that you aren't going to forget it any more, even if you live to be as old as the very oldest people in the Bible. The other sort of day, the sort that you know about beforehand, is a much better sort; you keep on getting happier and happier, and more and more excited—only sometimes the thing isn't as nice as you think it is going to be. Coming to Holt had been like that—and getting her first letter.

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.