Kingdom Lost (25 page)

“Shall I show Aunt Helena Edward's letter?”

“I think you ought to show it to Eustace. You needn't show him the bit about opening it with your best friend.”

“Why?”

“If you say that, you'll end by saying you came down here. That's why.”

“And you don't want me to say that?”

“No, Val.”

“Then I won't. But you don't want me to marry Eustace?”

Timothy put a great force on himself.

“I want you to do what will make you happy.” He turned away and went to the window. You must go back. I'll get the car.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

When Timothy came back, he found Valentine asleep, sitting just as he had left her, with her head against the tall back of the chair and her hands lying loosely in her lap. He was startled, because all her colour had gone again and she looked wan and piteous under the lamp. He touched her arm, then her hand. It felt cold.

He said “Val—” and laid a hand on her shoulder.

She opened her eyes then. They were wide and blank. The lids hid them again almost at once.

He put his arm round her waist and got her on to her feet, shaking her a little, and she roused enough to stumble as far as the door, when he picked her up and carried her to the car.

He had to drive very carefully because he was obliged to hold her. He began to wonder how he was going to get her into the house without waking anyone. He wondered how she had got out. He dared not drive up in front of the house, but left the car screened from view by the great beech-trees at the top of the drive.

He tried again to wake Valentine. This time he heard her murmur unintelligibly. He shook her.

“Val—wake up! How did you get out? Val! Val!”

He had switched off the lights of the car. The rustling darkness of the great beeches made a roof over their heads. The warm air moved softly.

“Val—wake up!”

She murmured again, then drew a deep breath.

“Val—”

She said “Timothy—” in a sleepy voice.

“Val—wake up!” But he felt her head fall on his shoulder again.

He propped her up in the car and got out. He had seen Lil sleep like this once as a child. There were fire-works, and they had tried to wake her so that she might see them. They had got her out of bed and at the window, and they had sponged her face with cold water; but they had not been able to wake her, and he had carried her back to bed again.

He didn't think it was the least use trying to wake Valentine. She looked as if she hadn't slept properly for weeks. He raged inwardly at the thought. She hadn't been sleeping; she had been strained to the breaking point, and at the sudden relief she had fallen into this deep sleep.

He came out from under the trees, and saw the house like the shape of a black hill against the sky. The sky was black too, but its blackness was all pricked over with stars. The house had no star, no light. It stood like a cliff above him.

If Valentine had climbed out of her window as she had done before, they were pretty well done in. He would just have to ring Bolton up and chance what Helena would say. Then he remembered the Ryven cousins, and blenched. He might have to try his hand at climbing in. He supposed he could climb in if Valentine had climbed out, but he would make sure of the ground floor windows first.

He found the study window open, and was most devoutly grateful. He climbed in, put on the reading-lamp, and went back for Valentine. She had slipped down a little, her arm on the side of the car, and her head upon her arm. Her breathing was deep, gentle, regular. Her hands were warm and soft.

Timothy picked her up, found her lighter than he had expected, and took his way back to the house. He was glad he had thought of putting on the light; it made things much easier, besides giving him his direction. Even if you know a place very well, it is not so easy to find your way in the dark if you cannot use your hands; there is a horrid feeling that you may at any moment run your head into a wall.

Timothy reached over the study window-sill and lowered Valentine gently on to the floor. Then he got in himself, shut the window and drew the curtains across it.

Valentine moved a little, curled herself up like a kitten, and slept on.

Timothy remembered their first meeting in this room. He remembered a great many things. He wondered if he could have faced bringing Valentine back if she were still going to marry Eustace; and quite suddenly he knew that he wouldn't have faced it. He came of a decent law-abiding stock, sober, honourable; but he knew that sooner than let Valentine go to Eustace with that broken, heartbroken look, he would have carried her off—yes, against her will if there had been no other way.

He went to the study door and opened it. The hall was dark, pitch dark; it was like looking into a black cave. He went out and shut the door behind him to see whether he could find his way upstairs without a light, and as soon as the study door was shut, the small shaded light which burned all night at the stair-head sprang into view. He went up the stairs without making any sound. At the top Helena's door faced him. Valentine's room was away on the left. He went to it, opened the door, put on the reading-lamp by the bed, and then returned, leaving the door ajar.

Timothy was nothing if not practical, but he hoped he would never have to be a burglar. This creeping about the house in the middle of the night business and wondering every moment whether Helena, or Laura, or Janet, or Emmeline would come popping out of their rooms, was fairly grim. It would be especially grim if it were Emmeline. Timothy liked Emmeline less well than Janet—and he disliked Janet quite a lot.

He carried Valentine safely up the stairs and laid her on her bed. There was a blue eiderdown folded back at the foot of it. He covered her with it, tucking it round her. She gave a little comfortable sigh, and as his hand brushed her hand, her fingers closed on one of his in a soft clasp.

Timothy stood looking down at her. She looked very young. The light from the reading-lamp came through a parchment shade painted with coloured fruits. It threw a golden light on the pillow and on Valentine's hair; it gave her skin a warm look, as if she were standing in the sunshine. Her black lashes lay upon her cheek. The eye-lids were faintly shadowed with blue. Her tossed hair made her look most pitifully young. Her lips were just apart. She wore the pure, remote look of the sleeping child.

Timothy drew his finger away very gently. He loved her so much that her youth, and her sleep, and those blue shadows under her eyes moved him to the very depths. He drew his finger away, and saw her hand relax.

He had made up his mind what he must do. He couldn't have the housemaid coming in in the morning to find Valentine asleep under the eiderdown in her red dress. The housemaid must find the door locked; and he, Timothy, had got to climb out of the window. He had a look at the rain-pipe, and thought he could manage it. He locked the door, turned out the light, and climbed out of the window.

When he was half way home he remembered that he had left the studylight on, and burst out laughing. Bolton would scratch his head in the morning.

CHAPTER XXIX

Valentine came slowly back out of the depths of sleep. She did not wake, but her sleep became lighter, less unconscious. She passed into a dream of the island. She thought she had just come up out of the cavern, because she was standing near the entrance. She had something in her closed hands, held tightly between palm and palm, but she did not know what it was. She thought she must have brought it up from the cavern, perhaps from the deep waters that were in the cavern. Her hands were wet. Then all at once she knew that her hands were wet because she had wept upon them; and in her dream a strange, happy thought pierced her heart like a warm sunbeam. She knew that she need not weep any more. And someone called her, and she woke up.

She was not really quite awake. The light came through her lashes. Her hand closed on something soft. There was a sound of calling in her ears. Someone was calling her, someone was knocking. She opened her eyes and saw the room quite light, and her blue eiderdown pulled up to her chin. She threw it back, looked at her own arm in its dark red sleeve, and sat up.

Someone was knocking at the door.

“Miss Ryven! Miss Ryven!” It was Agnes with her tea.

Valentine looked down at her red dress and remembered that she had put it on to go and see Timothy. She remembered going to Waterlow, and she remembered Edward's letter; but she didn't remember coming back to Holt. When she remembered Edward's letter, she had the same sort of feeling that she had had in her dream, a piercing joy.

The knocking became louder.

She said, “Wait a minute, Agnes,” and then she pushed the eiderdown right back and got off the bed.

She became aware that she didn't want Agnes to know that she hadn't undressed. It was only the work of a minute to take off the red dress and her shoes and stockings—How odd! She hadn't even taken her shoes off!—and to pull down the bedclothes so that she could slip into bed as soon as she had opened the door.

She came down to breakfast with colour in her cheeks and light in her eyes. Something sang in her heart. She felt as if she had been in a cage, and as if the door had opened so that she could walk out of it and be safe and free.

Cousin Laura rallied her a little ponderously.

“Aha, my dear! Somebody's coming to-day! Isn't he? Anyone would know that just by looking at you. Now mind you don't go and cover all that pretty colour with powder, because it would be a sin and a shame. I was afraid you were going to be a pale bride, but now we know what was wanted.” She laughed good-naturedly. “You needn't blush, my dear. Eustace is a very lucky fellow.” She dropped her voice. “Ssh! We mustn't let your Aunt Helena hear that. No mother of an only son thinks any girl quite good enough for him—does she? I haven't got one, or I'd have been as big a fool as the test of them, I daresay. And so will you, my dear, when your turn comes.”

Janet and Emmeline disapproved a little more than usual. Their mother was being coarse. They disapproved of coarseness; they disapproved of a preference for sons. They looked down their noses at their toast and marmalade, and refused sugar in their tea. Laura Ryven took four lumps, and they disapproved again. Mother really had no consideration for her figure.

Eustace arrived just before tea.

Valentine had considered whether she would show Edward's letter to Aunt Helena before he came. She decided that she wouldn't. Timothy had told her that she ought to show it to Eustace. She remembered that. She remembered everything until Timothy went to fetch the car, and after that she didn't remember anything at all. She had gone to sleep. Timothy must have taken her home. She couldn't think how her door came to be locked on the inside. She didn't worry about it, or about anything else. She waited in breathless, glowing excitement for the moment when she could tell Eustace that they needn't get married, because she wasn't Valentine Ryven after all.

It made her laugh deep in her own thoughts to see everybody so busy getting ready for the wedding that was never going to be a wedding at all. Her wedding dress and veil were in the empty room next to hers—and she wasn't going to wear them.

“Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely!” she said to herself. She needn't marry Eustace—she needn't marry anyone. The dreadful aching at her heart had gone, and the frightened,
frightened
feeling. She felt as if she could fly, all light, and happy, and joyful.

“
Lovely!
” she said to herself.

She waited till tea was over. Then she came and stood in front of Eustace as he reached from the big armchair to put his cup down.

“Eustace, can I speak to you?”

Cousin Laura looked archly at them.

“What is he to say? Can she? Now I wonder! What do you think, Helena? Is it allowed?”

Eustace rose to his feet, blankly courteous.

“Certainly. Shall we come into the study?”

They crossed the hall. The study door opened and shut again. Valentine looked at the window and saw the sun dazzle on the geraniums in the bed outside. A bird went past like a flash, with the light on his wing. There were butterflies, and bees. There were such a lot of happy, free creatures. And there was the sun, and the wind, and the trees, and clouds, and flowers. She didn't want the island any more. She had only wanted the island so that she could get away from Eustace; and she hadn't got to marry Eustace after all.

Eustace saw that she had a brocaded bag in her hand. She opened it, took out some folded sheets of foolscap, and beamed at him.

“Eustace, we needn't! Eustace, I've had a letter from Edward!”

“From Edward! What Edward?”

“From
Edward
. I thought I'd lost it. I had it on the island. It was all sealed, and it got stuck in the lining of Austin's bag. And Austin brought it to me yesterday. And we needn't get married.”

Eustace was standing by the writing-table. He looked very tall, he looked very grave, he looked as if he had not been sleeping. If he had been a less formidable person, he might have been described as cross. He said, in a displeased voice,

“If this is a joke, it is in very bad taste. What are you talking about?”

“About Edward's letter.” Her face had fallen. There was something about Eustace that always made you feel as if you didn't know how to behave. She repeated, “I told you it was Edward's letter, and I thought you'd be pleased.”

“Why?”

When Eustace said “Why?” his eyebrows went up and he looked just like Aunt Helena. It was rather damping.

Valentine felt puzzled. He ought to be glad because he hadn't got to marry her. He ought to have a joyful feeling too, and he wasn't being a bit joyful.

“Why am I to be pleased?”

It occurred to her that she hadn't really told him why. She began to tell him; but there was such a lot, and the wrong bits kept coming first, like when you have packed a box too full and you keep finding stockings when you want your night-gown.