Kingdom Lost (19 page)

Katherine said, “
Eustace,
” and the dominant tone angered him again.

“I've no right to think of myself,” he said.

“You're letting yourself be obsessed by the money.” Her hand tightened on the door-knob. “Money's like that—it hypnotizes people, and they think that nothing can be done without it. But the greatest things in the world—all the really great things—have been done by people who had no money.” She paused, and said with a sort of desperate force, “That's true, Eustace.”

He looked at her, frowning.

“Talking won't rebuild a slum.”

“There is a faith that moves mountains.”

“I haven't got it,” said Eustace wearily.

“We might find it together. I'm going to say what I think, because if I don't, I shall feel a coward all my life—and I'd rather be dead. I believe there's no limit to what two people could do together if they were one and—happy—and willing to give their happiness.”

Eustace looked away.

“My dear, that's talk. I want to pull down Parkin Row. Talk won't do it.” There was a tired finality in his voice.

The passion went out of Katherine. She could have fought anger, but not this weary conviction. Her battle was lost, but she lacked the strength to go. Going would hurt so much. She had no strength left to endure it.

CHAPTER XX

In the kitchen Valentine sat on the dresser and watched Mrs. Fleming wash the floor. She slopped nearly a pailful of water over it, and then splashed in it with the dirtiest cloth that Valentine had ever seen. She called it a rubber, but she didn't rub with it; she just splashed. Valentine was glad that her feet were well above the mess.

“Lor! It's 'ot!” said Mrs. Fleming, pushing back her hair with her wet hand. “But I'm never one that skimps me work, 'owever 'ot it may be.”

“Mrs. Fleming,” said Valentine, “did you love your husband very much when you married him?”

Mrs. Fleming sat back on her heels. She had a sharp pointed nose, red where the bone showed through, a sharp pointed chin, and pale determined lips; her eyes were pale too, and her mouse-coloured hair was extraordinarily wispy.

“Love?” she said. Then she repeated the word in a higher key, “Love? I'm a respectable woman I am.”

“Yes,” said Valentine, “of course you are. But didn't you love him very much—I mean when you tried to get him away from the ginger-haired girl—didn't you love him then?”

Mrs. Fleming was plainly scandalized.

“I wanted to do 'er down, and do 'er down I did—
proper
. Wished she'd never been born, I should say, by the time she'd 'eard what I'd got to say about 'ussies that tries to come between a pore soft'eaded chap and his lawful young lady. I put it across 'er straight, I did. But as for a lot of fancy rubbidge about
love
—why, I don't 'old with it. An' if you'll take my advice, miss, you'll put all such nonsense out of your 'ead.”

“Do you think it's nonsense?”

Mrs. Fleming turned the pail upside down with a clatter.

“Empty-'eaded rubbidge is what I should call it. When a girl's looking for a 'usband, what she wants is a steady young man that's taking good money an' that'll bring it 'ome to '
er
of a Saturday night. She don't want one of the matey sort, because that sort's just naturally bound to 'ave a drink with every pal 'e meets. What she wants is someone who'll do as she tells 'im. 'E may kick at first but it's my belief as a woman that gives 'er mind to it—”

The front door bell rang very loudly, and Mrs. Fleming jumped.

“Oh, lor! An' me with me 'ands like this! I s'pose, miss, you wouldn't go to the door for me?”

Valentine jumped down on to a chair, made a spring for a dry patch near the door, and ran down the passage.

The bell pealed again as she reached the hall, and as if it had summoned her, Katherine Hill came out of the dining-room. She was alone. She held her head very high, her face colourless, her eyes burned out. She looked at Valentine, and Valentine looked at her. Then Katherine went to the door and opened it.

Mrs. Ryven was just lifting her hand to ring for the third time. Katherine walked past her as if she had never seen her before, and Helena took a step forward and saw Valentine.

She said, “Thank God!” and came in, shutting the door behind her.

The relief was overwhelming. The last few hours had been really dreadful ones. They had taken the smooth colour from her cheeks and set dragging lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She looked travel-worn, and her hat was a little crooked.

Valentine was struck to the heart. She said, “Oh, Aunt Helena!” and then, “I didn't think you'd mind.”

“Not mind? Are you quite a fool? Where have you been?” She spoke roughly, shaken out of her well-bred calm. Now that the strain was over, she was trembling with anger. “Where's Eustace?” she said, and went towards the dining-room.

Valentine felt a dreadful sense of guilt. Aunt Helena was all dusty, and her hat was crooked, and she had a smut on her cheek. And she was angry—she was certainly very, very angry. It was dreadful.

“I had to come—” She faltered. “I had to come and see Eustace.”

Mrs. Ryven stopped with her hand on the door.

“And why, pray?”

“I had to. I didn't feel I could wait. I had to find out if he would marry me.”

Helena Ryven was not often taken aback; but she was at a disadvantage. She gasped.

“Eustace! You!”

And then, unbelievably, she felt the sharpest stab of triumph.

“What do you mean, Valentine?” she said in a controlled voice.

Valentine's eyes were wet.

“If we get married, I can give it back, and he needn't stop pulling down houses.”

Mrs. Ryven spoke lower.

“You said that to him?”

“Yes, Aunt Helena.”

Lower still, because she could not keep her breath steady: “What did he say?”

“He didn't say anything.
She
came.”

“Kathetine Hill?”

The door was opened from the inside. Eustace stood there, tall, pale, and severe. Mrs. Ryven passed into the room and shut the door.

Valentine did not know what to do. She didn't want to go back to the kitchen. There was a chair on the other side of the hall. She went over to it and sat down.

She could hear Mrs. Ryven and Eustace talking in the dining-room, first one voice and then the other, but no words. There was something odd about hearing people's voices when you couldn't see them; it made you feel lonely. Yet on the island she had not really been lonely. She had been alone. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely.

She found herself thinking about Katherine Hill. When Katherine passed her in the hall, it was like a cloud of unhappiness going by. She went on thinking about Katherine.

Presently Eustace came out of the dining-room. He went down the passage towards the kitchen, spoke to Mrs. Fleming, and came back again. Valentine got up, and he shook hands with her politely, and said, “Good-bye—I'm afraid I've got to go out. Mrs. Fleming will look after you and my mother.” Then he went away. Valentine watched the door shut behind him.

Helena Ryven took her back to Holt after she had had a rest and a bath. She told her that she was too tired for conversation, and she let Valentine see how entirely she was to blame for her fatigue.

After they arrived at Holt Mrs. Ryven went to her own room. The feeling of being in disgrace got stronger and stronger.

After tea Mrs. Ryven reappeared. She was now sufficiently restored to point out to Valentine how badly she had behaved and how much trouble she had given. Valentine said she was very sorry. She was wondering very much about Eustace. Most of the time that Aunt Helena was talking, she could not help wondering about Eustace. He had shaken hands with her and gone away. He had never said whether he was going to marry her or not. It was very difficult to attend to what Aunt Helena was saying. But of course she was sorry. She said so. Then she said,

“Am I going to marry Eustace? He didn't say.”

Mrs. Ryven made an impatient movement. Really the girl was too impossible.

“My dear Valentine, you mustn't say things like that.”

“But I want to know. I asked him, and he didn't say.”

“Valentine,” said Helena Ryven, “I want to ask you very seriously not to talk like that. It is not fair to yourself, and it is certainly not fair to Eustace, who would be horrified. Marriage is a serious thing. Girls don't ask men to marry them, my dear. Don't you know that?”

Valentine coloured a little, as a child colours when it is found fault with. They were in the drawing-room, with the windows open to the sunny evening air, Helena upright in a chintz-covered armchair, Valentine on the window-seat with the sun on her curls and on her bare brown neck. She had changed the green dress for a rose-coloured one.

“Don't they ever?”

“Nice girls don't,” said Mrs. Ryven. She still looked tired, but she had recovered her air of superior calm.

“
But,
” said Valentine, “
but
, Aunt Helena—Eustace didn't come to Holt. And if he didn't come, he couldn't ask me to marry him—could he?”

“I think, my dear, we won't talk about that. In fact, I want you to promise me that you won't talk about it to anyone.” She paused and added, “Eustace is coming down to-morrow for the week-end.” Her voice was quite smooth, but her heart was full of triumph. Eustace was coming back to Holt. The week-end was merely a symbol. She looked at Valentine almost kindly.

Valentine meanwhile was considering. If Eustace was coming for the week-end, perhaps he would tell her whether they were going to be married. She felt that she would like to know. It would be nice if he came and they were all friends. And if she was engaged, she would have an engagement ring. And when she was married, she would have a wedding dress, and a veil, and orange-blossoms. It was very exciting. A soft, pleased colour replaced the flush that Helena Ryven's rebuke had brought to her cheeks. She fixed an interested look on Helena's face.

“When you were married, did you have orange-blossoms?”

Mrs. Ryven lifted her eyebrows.

“Yes—it was the fashion.”

“Isn't it the fashion now?”

“I believe so.”

After a pause Valentine began again.

“Did you love Uncle Edmund very much when you were married?”

“People don't ask that sort of question, Valentine.”

“Don't they? I asked Mrs. Fleming, and she said she was a respectable woman. Isn't love respectable?”

“I don't think it's very nice to talk about it.”

“Mrs. Fleming said she didn't hold with love. Don't you hold with it either?”

“My dear! What an expression! You shouldn't talk to women like that.”

Valentine moved a little, following the shifting sun.

“In books people who are going to be married love each other very much. But Mrs. Fleming said that all a girl wanted was a steady young man who didn't go into public houses. Eustace wouldn't go into a public house—would he? Is he steady?”

Mrs. Ryven got up.

“My dear, you really must not quote the charwoman to me. When Eustace marries, his wife will be a very lucky woman.”

CHAPTER XXI

Eustace came down next day, and stayed for a week, during which Mrs. Ryven kept the house full of people. There were people to lunch and people to tennis, and there were two rather stately dinner parties.

Helena saw to it that Valentine wore her prettiest frocks. She praised her with a sort of cool candour, and was pleased to find the neighbourhood favourably impressed. When all is said and done, a pretty girl with a romantic story can hardly fail to make a good impression.

Kind Lady Needham declared herself charmed with “poor Maurice's daughter.” “And surely, my dear Helena, Eustace is, may I say—I'm sure I'm such a very old friend—attracted. What an excellent thing it would be!”

The blunt Miss Bulger—Agneta Bulger, the golfer—wrung Mrs. Ryven's hand and said in hearty tones, “Good for you, Helena, my dear! I always said you were a sport. Are we to congratulate Eustace?”

Mrs. Ryven allowed herself to say, “Not yet.” But she smiled.

Even Mrs. Wendle's sharp tongue had nothing worse to say than, “Well, I congratulate you on
la belle sauvage
. Is it your doing? Or did she reach you civilized?”

“Valentine is very well educated,” said Mrs. Ryven. “I believe Mr. Bowden was a very distinguished man.”

“Edward Bowden? Oh, yes—I believe he was. My brother James knew him—a distinguished crank. Well, I'll say this for the girl, she doesn't look like a blue-stocking. Are she and Eustace going to make a match of it? Or is that too obvious?”

This time Mrs. Ryven did not smile. She said Valentine was a dear girl, and she allowed her glance to rest upon her affectionately.

Valentine only saw Timothy once all the week and then only for a few minutes. He came in to say that he and Lil were going up to town to stay with his mother's people. There had been a letter from Jack Harding, and Lil was to go out as soon as she could get ready.

“Is she pleased?” asked Valentine.

Timothy nodded.

“Harding's a good chap—he'll make her a good husband.”

“Is he steady?”

Timothy laughed; the question came so primly.

“Very.”

“That's what matters most,” said Valentine earnestly.

“It's not a bad thing.”

“It matters more than being in love. Being in love is only in books—isn't it?”

“
Valentine
—” said Mrs. Ryven in a warning voice; she had caught a word or two. She got up and joined them.

“Aunt Helena doesn't want me to talk about love,” said Valentine.