Kingdom Lost (24 page)

“This is something you've signed,” said Timothy.

“Yes—Edward wrote it, and I signed it—oh, years ago.”

Timothy looked at the sheet and read:

I promise on my word of honour that I will not open the enclosure, or allow anyone else to open it, unless things are so bad that nothing can possibly make them any worse.

It was signed: “Valentine.” Beneath the signature there were a few lines in Edward Bowden's writing:

Remember that knowledge may be avoided, but can't be un-known. Stop and think. Unless any change may be one for the better, don't open the envelope or read the contents.

E. B.

Valentine put her hand on Timothy's arm.

“Open it!”

“What about ‘Stop and think'?”

“Open it!”

“Val—are you sure? Are things really so bad?”

Her hand dropped. She stood back.

She said “Yes.” Her voice seemed to shrink from the word.

For a moment Timothy's hand closed on the envelope, closed hard. Then he tore it open. There were some folded sheets of foolscap inside, yellow and crumpled. They had been folded for so long that the creases were like cuts. Timothy straightened them out.

“There's a lot of it, Val,” he said. “You'd better sit.”

She pulled out one of the straight chairs by the table and dropped on to it. Timothy took one too. They were so close to each other that if either of them leaned forward, knee or hand would touch. Timothy sat sideways to the table with the sheets in his hand.

“Do you want to lead them? Or shall I read them out?”

Her eyes widened. They were full of a troubled expectancy.

“You,” she said—just one word. Then she put her hands in her lap and waited.

Timothy began to read aloud what Edward Bowden had written. The light was over their heads, high up, a yellowish globe hanging from the black beam that crossed the room. The polished oak of the table reflected the yellow lamp. It was an old table that had borne the christening, wedding, and funeral baked meats of seven generations. The chairs were old too. Timothy's great-great-great-grandmother had sat as a bride where Valentine sat now. She had sat there in a radiance of happy love. Valentine's head touched the tall back of the chair which the bride's head had touched. Valentine's face was sorrowfully pale. Her eyes hoped, and were afraid. Her hands looked white against the lap of her dark red dress. Whenever there was silence, they could hear the flowing of the stream like the flowing of some deep under-current of the heart.

CHAPTER XXVII

Timothy began to read:

“‘Well, my dear, I have tried to play Providence, and if you ever get as far as reading this, I shall have made a bad failure. Now, just once more before you go on reading, I want to ask you to be sure that you want to go on. I suppose you will go on, if it's only out of curiosity. But remember you won't be able to go back. Your whole life will be changed. Is it now so hard that you would wish it to be changed in every relationship, every circumstance? Think a little before you decide.'”

Timothy looked up, his face very grave.

“There's no more on this page. He wanted you to stop and think before you read anything more.”

Valentine said, “Go on.”

“‘Every circumstance—every relationship.' That's pretty sweeping, Val. Do you want to scrap the lot?”

“Yes,” said Valentine.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

He took the sheet from which he had been reading and laid it on the table. As his eyes fell on the top of the next page, they became intent. He put out his right hand and laid it on Valentine's knee.

“Val—”

“What is it?”

“I must go on now—I've got to read it to you,” he said.

“What does he say?”

Timothy took his hand away.

“He says, ‘You are not Valentine Ryven.'”

The words came into Valentine's mind and stayed there, like drops of oil falling into water. They didn't mix with her own thoughts at all; they stayed there as words—cold, strange, heavy words. Then she heard Timothy speaking sharply:

“Val, don't look like that! Are you going to faint?”

People fainted in books. She moved her head and said,

“I don't think so—I don't know how.”

And right in the middle of all the strangeness, Timothy laughed.

“That's something to be thankful for anyhow! Valentine—”

She put her hands on the arm of the chair and leaned forward.

“But I'm not.”

“Not what?”

“Not Valentine. Edward said so.”

“Val—”

“Will you read it again? He did say so—didn't he?”

Timothy nodded.

“Yes, that's what he says—‘You are not Valentine Ryven.'”

“Then who am I?”

“I don't know, my dear. There wasn't any other child on board.”

“Go on reading—
please
.”

Timothy began to read again. He felt overwhelmed and bewildered. How was this going to affect Valentine—her marriage—all of them? The word
mortmain
came oddly into his mind—something in history—something legal—it meant “dead hand.” He thought irrelevantly of King John and Magna Charta, and of Edward Bowden stretching out a dead hand to turn all their affairs upside down. He read:

“‘You are not Valentine Ryven—and I can't tell you your real name because I don't know it. Your mother came on board the
Avronia
as Mrs. Brown, but that was not her name. I don't know what her real name was, but she was a very unhappy woman who had cut herself adrift from all ties. She came on board and kept her cabin. And on the second day of the great storm you were born.'”

Timothy looked up.

“So that's it! No one thought of that.”

Valentine was holding the arms of her chair. Her mind had begun to work. If she wasn't Valentine Ryven—if she wasn't—

She said, “Go on,” in a clear, steady voice.

Timothy went on:

“‘I've told you about the storm often enough. On the evening of the second day they launched the boats. The first boat overturned. Little Valentine Ryven and her mother were in it. I helped to get them into it myself, and I was flung down and nearly washed overboard, just as I told you. I decided that I would not go in any of the boats. I managed to get to the companion door and to get inside. I was going towards my cabin, when one of the stewardesses caught my arm. She said, “Mr. Bowden, there's a dying woman in this cabin, and I can't leave her. Will you help me to get her on deck?” Then she wrung her hands and said, “She'll die if we move her.” I went into the cabin, and I saw a woman lying on the lower berth with a new-born baby in her arm. She looked at me, and she said, “I want to stay here. I don't want to live, and I don't want my baby to live.” The stewardess caught my arm and whispered, “I'll try and find the doctor. God knows where he is, but I'll try and get him if you'll stay with her.” She ran out of the cabin, and I never saw her again. I don't know what happened to her. I never saw anyone again. The ship gave the most frightful lurch, and I found myself on my knees by the berth, clinging to it. I had to try and prevent the baby from falling out.

“‘After a bit the ship righted herself to some extent. I stayed where I was in case it happened again. Your mother talked to me—she was quite sensible. She kept begging me to leave her and save myself. She said she didn't want to live, and she didn't want her baby to live; but she didn't want to have anyone else's death on hex conscience. She told me she had no friends and no money. She said there was no place for her in the world, and no place for her child, or any human being who would pity it or care for it. I am not very easily moved, but it was very moving. She was not very old.

“‘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.

E
DWARD
B
OWDEN
.'”

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.”