Kingdom Lost (23 page)

“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 the 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.

“Oh, well,” he said, “I expect you've got no end of better friends than I am. I shouldn't like to butt in—I shouldn't really. You take my advice and either put the thing in the fire, or else open it with your
fiancé
. And now I've got to go, or James will be thinking I've smashed the car. Good-bye—and change the cigarette case for anything you like.”

Valentine looked at him for a moment. He wasn't her best friend—he wasn't her friend at all. She had wanted him to come so much that the day had been like a year whilst she waited for him; and now all of a sudden, she wanted him to go. She walked past him to the hearth and put the packet down on the mantelpiece.

“Good-bye,” said Austin at the door.

Without turning round, Valentine said,

“Good-bye.”

CHAPTER XXVI

After Austin had gone Valentine went back to the drawing-room. She had put the packet into one of the study drawers, because she did not want Aunt Helena to ask questions about it.

There were half a dozen people in the drawing-room. Some Ryven cousins; the Vicar and his wife; an old lady who had been Mrs. Ryven's governess. Not Timothy, who had been asked, but who had found an excuse. Eustace was not coming down till next day, so the Vicar was the only man of the party—kind, dull, prosy.

The cousins were Mrs. James Ryven and her two unmarried daughters. Mrs. James was cousin Laura, a round, good-natured, voluble lady with a passionate interest in bridge and dress. Her daughters disapproved of her—and of nearly everyone else. They were Janet and Emmeline. They disapproved very much of Valentine.

Nobody enjoyed the evening very much. Mrs. James missed her bridge. Helena Ryven was uneasy; Valentine had been out of the room for half an hour, and had come back looking like a ghost. Old Miss Verrey was disappointed at the absence of her adored Eustace. The Vicar was put out because he could see that Mrs. Ryven was not really listening to his long and interesting account of a walking tour in the Black Forest some forty years ago. And his wife was annoyed because he had told Mrs. Ryven the same story the last time they had dined at Holt. Janet and Emmeline Ryven never enjoyed anything. They talked to Valentine because it was their duty to talk to her; and they would have wondered why Eustace was marrying her, if they had not been certain that it was because of the money.

Valentine did not talk very much. She said “Yes” when Janet asked her if she liked reading, and she said “No” when Emmeline inquired whether she didn't think it a great waste of time to read novels.

A steadily weakening conversation lingered until eleven o'clock, when it finally expired. The Vicar and his wife took their leave; the Ryvens and Miss Verrey drifted to their rooms; and Helena Ryven kissed Valentine briskly on the forehead and told her to sleep well.

Valentine went up to her room and sat down on the edge of her bed in the dark. All through the evening she had been longing to be alone; but now that she was alone she was frightened. Austin had gone out of her world, and she didn't know what to do. It was eleven o'clock, and in an hour it would be twelve o'clock; and when it was twelve o'clock it would be Wednesday. And on Thursday she had got to marry Eustace. She felt cold through and through, and she felt stupid, as if she couldn't think or make any plans. Edward's packet was in the top left-hand drawer in the study. She wasn't to open it until things were so bad that they couldn't be worse, and she was only to open it in the presence of her best friend. How was she to open it if she hadn't got a best friend? If Timothy had been there, she could have asked him what she ought to do.

All at once something happened. It happened when she thought of Timothy. It was like waking up out of those horrid dreams in which you can't move or cry out. She woke up, and she knew what she was going to do. She was going to get the packet, and go down to Waterlow, and find Timothy and ask him what she ought to do.

She switched the light on and looked down at her white lace frock. That wouldn't do; she must put on something dark. She slipped it off and opened the wardrobe door. There were a lot of dresses hanging there. She chose the darkest.

The clock in the hall struck the half hour as she opened the bedroom door. She stood on the threshold, listening and looking out. A small light burned in the corridor and showed it empty—panelled walls; dull green carpet; a picture or two black with shadows; the newel-posts at the head of the stairs; and just that one little light. The house was as still as sleep.

She went back into her room and changed her shoes. She couldn't walk to Waterlow in white satin slippers.

Timothy had been sitting up late with his accounts. Things were not doing so badly. An old investment of his father's had turned up trumps. The fear of having to sell Waterlow was no longer before his eyes, and he had been able to give Lil a good send-off. It was all quite satisfactory—and he was quite unable to derive any satisfaction from it.

He put away the ledger and stretched himself. He did not feel in the least like bed. He had gone for a long tramp to tire himself, but he wasn't tired. He felt strung up and in violent protest against this marriage which Helena was pushing on. He couldn't get Valentine's face out of his thoughts; and every time it came, he remembered his first sight of her, her colour, her bloom, her anxious youngness.

And she had told him that she was happy.

He had been working in the dining-room. He went now to the long window that opened upon the garden, and stepped out on to the flagged path. The night was all clear and dark. The untroubled sky held a faint shimmer of stars. The Milky Way showed fainter still, like a dream of other worlds. It was so still that he could hear the flow of the scarcely moving stream. He went towards it down the path between the invisible flowers. But when he reached the river he turned sharply. He had heard something or—someone—a footstep. And then as he turned, someone passed before the lighted window and stood there, holding to the jamb and looking into the room.

Timothy came back up the flagged path with the feeling that fate had played a trick upon him. It was Valentine. And what was he to do with Valentine on the eve of her marriage to Eustace? What could she do to him except wring his heart? And what could he do with her except take her back to Holt? It was all pretty damnable.

She heard him coming, and said,

“Timothy!”

There was recognition, not question in her voice, and when she had said his name she stepped up into the dining-room and stood under the light, waiting for him to come in too. She was bareheaded, and she wore a dress that was the colour of dark red berries. Her eyes dwelt on him, and she held a small brown packet in both hands.

Timothy came in frowning.

“Hullo!” he said. “What is it?” and Valentine said “Timothy!” again.

“Well, what is it? What's brought you here at this hour?”

“Is it too late?” He thought she turned paler. “I thought—to-morrow—would be—too late.”

“Val—what is it? How did you come? Is anyone with you?”

“No. I walked. I thought—to-morrow—would be—too late.”

“You oughtn't to have come,” said Timothy very gravely. “I'll get the car and take you home.”

Valentine looked at him piteously.

“You won't—help me?”

“What sort of help can I give that won't hurt you, Val? I'm thinking about you. What sort of help do you want?”

She relaxed a very little and put out her hands with the shabby little packet in them.

“I don't know what I ought to do. Austin wouldn't do anything—he isn't my best friend at all—he wouldn't help me—he went away. But I sat on my bed and thought—I didn't know what to do. And then I thought about you, and I thought you would tell me what I ought to do. So I came.”

Whatever he had to pay for it, she had come to him. And what was he going to do? What did she want him to do?

He said that simply:

“What do you want me to do, Val?” And then, “Won't you sit down?”

She shook her head.

“Will you tell me what I ought to do, Timothy? It's about the packet. I couldn't find it after I came from the island. Austin had it. He brought a bag to carry my things to the yacht, and this must have stuck in the lining. He found it, and he brought it to me to-night. But he wouldn't open it with me, because he isn't my best friend. He doesn't want to be my friend at all. He went away.”

“Look here, you must sit down,” said Timothy. He pulled up a chair and put her into it. “Now!” he said, “What is this packet?”

Valentine told him in a tired little voice.

“Edward gave it to me—oh, a long time ago—years and years ago—I'd nearly forgotten about it. And he said I was only to open it if I was very unhappy—if things were so bad that they couldn't possibly be any worse—and then I was to open it with my best friend. And I thought Austin would be my best friend, because he found me on the island. But he isn't, so I don't know what to do.” She spoke almost as if she were saying a lesson. She drooped in her chair and rubbed at one of the green seals with a little brown finger.

Timothy looked down at her. If he went on looking at her, he would touch her. And if he touched her, he wouldn't be able to let her go. He turned with a jerk and went to the window.

“What's in the paper?”

“I don't know. I promised faithfully that I wouldn't open it ever unless—”

She stopped speaking, and a hurrying silence overtook them. It was like water coming down in flood, carrying you away. Timothy stemmed it with a great effort.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I promised,” said Valentine. “But I haven't got a best friend.”

“Will I do?” said Timothy gently.

Valentine sat up.

“Would you? I didn't think about that. I only thought perhaps you'd tell me what to do. Would you be my best friend?”

“If you want me to be. I'll be anything you want me to be.”

She got up and ran to him, thrusting the packet into his hands.

“Open it! Open it! Oh, open it quickly!”

“Wait a moment. You've no idea what's inside?”

“No, I haven't.”

“You're sure you want to open it?”

“Yes—yes—
yes
!”

“Then here goes!”

He broke the seals, burst the frail string, and unfolded the paper. It fell unregarded on the floor. The immediate contents were a large yellow envelope and a sheet of paper.