Kingdom Lost (18 page)

Mrs. Fleming turned over all the bacon with a wump, and a loud sizzling arose from the pan.

Valentine was thrilled.

“Oh, do go on! What did he say?”

“Seein' as me name's Fleming, 'e said what 'e oughter say. ‘Maud,' 'e says, ‘wot are you gettin' at?' 'e says. An' I says, ‘George Fleming, I'm a-gettin' at
you
.' An' 'e says, ‘Me pore mother always said as you were'—which a more interferin' woman I never 'opes to see, not this side of the grave. An then I says, ‘You come along o' me, and we'll put up the banns an' you can sign the pledge at the same time. No more public 'ouses for me,' I says, ‘an' no more ginger-'aired Jezebels for you, George Fleming.' An' I 'ope to goodness that Mr. Ryven isn't going to be late, for bacon kep' is bacon spoiled.”

Valentine slipped down off the table and ran out of the room. She had heard what Mrs. Fleming had not heard, the opening and shutting of Eustace's door and the sound of his footsteps going in the direction of the dining-room.

Mrs. Fleming left the bacon and put her head round the kitchen door. She was in time to see Eustace Ryven's face of petrified astonishment. Then Valentine passed out of her sight round the corner. Mr. Ryven followed her. The dining-room door was shut. She began to dish up the bacon in a frantic hurry.

In the dining-room Eustace's surprise was becoming rapidly merged in annoyance.

“You left my mother?”

“In the train.”

“She doesn't know where you are?”

“Oh
yes
—I think she does.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because—” Her tone became a little guilty, and she looked at him between her eyelashes. He was so large, and of course she ought not to have dropped the receiver and run away when she heard Aunt Helena's voice.

“Well?” He sounded very impatient.

“Because—she telephoned.”

“Telephoned—here? When?”

“In the middle of the night.”

“Good heavens! She must have been frantic. Did you tell her you were here?”

Valentine backed a little away from him, as she had backed away from the telephone.

“No—I didn't.”

“But she must have heard your voice when you answered. Didn't she recognize it?”

“No—she didn't.”

“She didn't recognize your voice?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Good heavens! Why didn't you?”

Valentine made a little gesture with her hands as if she were throwing something away.

“I didn't—I dropped it.”

“You dropped the receiver?”

She nodded. A faint gleam showed under the dark lashes, mournful yet defiant.

“Why on earth?”

“I didn't want to talk to Aunt Helena.”

The handle turned, and the door burst open, propelled by Mrs. Fleming's knee. She had three smuts on her right cheek and a very large smudge on the left side of her nose. She held the bacon dish in one hand and the teapot in the other. “An' if hever I see a gentleman put hout, it was 'im. Frowning 'orrid 'e was, and she a-saying something about her h'arnt and looking at 'im as if butter wouldn't melt in 'er mouth. ‘H'arnt hindeed!' I says to myself, and I goes out a-leaving the door open. An' I give you my word, Mrs. Diggs, I 'adn't gone not 'alf a yard before I 'ears it slam.”

Eustace turned from the slammed door.

“What's the meaning of all this, Valentine?” he said severely.

“There's toast, and marmalade, and butter, and the milk, and the hot water still to come. I'd rather tell you after she's brought them.”

Even under the pressure of a great idea, it is difficult to propose marriage to a large scowling gentleman whilst a sharp-eyed “daily” brings in breakfast piece by piece.

Mrs. Fleming's next entrance found Mr. Ryven frowning on the hearth-rug. “An' she a-setting in a chair with 'er 'ands in 'er lap a-looking as if she were saying 'er catechism.”

“I don't hold with Church catechisms meself,” said Mrs. Diggs in her disconsolate voice. “We was brought up Chapel, and brought up strict, an' if my pore mother could ha' known—”

Mrs. Fleming was not in the least interested in Mrs. Diggs' mother.

“An' when I went in with the 'ot water, which I lef' to the last, they 'adn't moved—not a hinch they 'adn't.”

When Mrs. Fleming had gone away for the last time, Eustace broke the silence.

“I must go and telephone to my mother—she must be terribly anxious.”

Valentine continued to sit with her hands in her lap. Everything was being quite different to what she had thought it would be. Everything was being very depressing. The question now was, should she ask Eustace to marry her before he ate his bacon, or afterwards? Half cold bacon was another rather depressing thing. She did hope he wouldn't be very long telephoning.

He wasn't very long. But his return added no cheerfulness to the situation. He shut the door and said in a portentous voice,

“My mother is not at Holt—she did not return last night. And as you left the receiver off the telephone, she has, of course, been unable to communicate with me. Will you have some bacon?”

Valentine decided not to ask him to marry her till after breakfast. Without actually formulating her hope, she did trust that breakfast would prove a softening influence. She said,

“No, thank you, Eustace.”

“You must have some breakfast. You should never leave the receiver off the telephone.”

“I won't again. I've had two eggs and some strawberry jam. I hope you don't mind—I was so very hungry.”

Eustace ate all the bacon in a rapid, gloomy manner, and broke two pieces of toast into little bits, which he scattered on the table. He then swallowed a cup of tea and pushed back his chair.

Valentine had not moved. She felt a passionate desire to put off proposing to Eustace.

“Won't you have any marmalade, Eustace?”

“No!” said Eustace impatiently. “I want to know why you ran away from my mother.”

“Won't you have another cup of tea?”

“No! Why did you run away?”

“I wanted to come and see you.”

He was standing in front of the empty fireplace, yards high, and frightfully cross. Valentine shut her eyes and thought about the baby that never had enough to eat.

“I wanted to see you,” she repeated in a little voice.

“You had just seen me.”

“I wanted to see you alone.”

“You wanted to see me alone?” His tone was full of angry surprise.

Valentine kept her eyes screwed up and nodded.

“I had to.”

“Will you please explain?”

“I'm going to.”

She put her hands up to her face, not covering it, but, as it were, holding on to herself.

“Well?”

“I couldn't bear it.” The last word came with a gasp.

“What do you mean?”

“The houses,” said Valentine with a sob. She opened her eyes and looked at him earnestly. “The more I thought about them, the more I couldn't bear it. I want you to be able to pull them down.”

Eustace frowned in rather a different way.

“It's not your fault,” he said grudgingly.

“It would be my fault if I didn't do anything.”

“I'm afraid there's nothing you can do.”

“There is!” said Valentine. There was a rush of colour into her cheeks, and a rush of feeling into her voice. “Oh, there is! Only I can't do it without you.”

She had twisted sideways in her chair and was looking full at him, her eyes were dark, her hands framing her flushed face.

“I'm afraid—” said Eustace.

The great idea glowed suddenly into fervour. Valentine sprang up and ran to him.

“Don't you see? Oh, Eustace, how stupid you are! You can't stop helping all those poor people—you can't let them go on living in those dreadful houses!”

“I can't help it,” said Eustace rather bitterly. “You can't help it either.”

“But we can.” She took his arm and shook it. “We
can
help it! If we get married, you can go on pulling down houses just as if—”

The bell of the flat rang a loud, insistent peal. Valentine let go of Eustace's arm and looked involuntarily towards the door. Eustace began to say something, and stopped. They heard Mrs. Fleming pass through the hall, humming in a cracked, flat voice; and they heard the front door open. Next moment the dining-room door opened too. Mrs. Fleming appeared for a moment with a very dirty duster in her hand.

“Miss 'Ill,” she said, and stood aside with reluctance.

Katherine Hill came into the room.

CHAPTER XIX

To Katherine the little domestic scene looked like a picture painted on the air; it appeared to have no actuality. The two chairs pushed back from the breakfast table; Eustace and this very pretty girl standing together. She could not relate this in any way to the Eustace Ryven with whom she was familiar. The picture was related only to the voice that had answered her in the night—a girl's voice—this girl's voice.

She came forward quite composedly. No one, to look at her, would have guessed that the room and its inmates trembled before her eyes like a mirage that is shaken by the first breath of a storm.

Valentine looked at her and thought, “Why is she so unhappy?” And as the thought went through her mind, Katherine was speaking:

“I tried to get you on the telephone last night. You didn't sign Barrett's cheque. I thought it would save time if I brought it down. He's rather in a state about it as he's got some big cash payments to make to-day.”

Valentine slipped out of the room. Katherine affected her strangely; she felt attracted, repelled, and startled. The thing that startled her was the smouldering something which she had seen for an instant as Katherine's glance passed over her. It was not anger, dislike—hatred even; but a spark of fury ready to break into a blaze. She ran down the passage to the kitchen, and felt safer.

When she was gone and Eustace was bending his long back to sign the cheque, Katherine said abruptly,

“Who's that?”

He finished his signature, “Eustace Carrington Ryven,” and said without looking up,

“My cousin.”

“She answered the telephone last night?”

“I suppose so. There—that's all right. Only don't blot it—the ink's wet.”

Miss Hill took the cheque, folded it, and put it away, all in a series of jerks. The air about her still shook.

“Is she staying here?”

He moved away from the table impatiently.

“She ran away from my mother and came here last night when I was out. It's very awkward.”

“Very.” Her tone was cool and dry, her eyes just not aflame—waiting. “It will provide you with an excellent excuse for marrying her.”

Eustace turned a startled face on her—startled, and angry.

“Katherine!”

“Eustace—”

“Katherine!”

“Are you not going to marry her?” She said it because the pain at her heart was so intolerable. Now he would contradict her—
now
.

She waited in that shaken room. Two chairs—a man—and a girl—Eustace and the cousin who had robbed him—Eustace and the cousin he was going to marry. She hadn't really believed it; she had only been afraid of it. No—she had never known what fear was until this moment. She waited until fear had turned into a burning pain. There was no fire in the eyes that she turned to him; only the black, blank certainty of pain.

“You're going to marry her.”

“Perhaps—Katherine—I don't know.” The words came indistinctly. He wasn't looking at her. Then, in a louder voice, “I don't know. Why do you ask? I—” He broke off and turned away, leaning with his elbow on the mantelshelf and staring down at the empty grate.

Katherine picked up the bag which she had laid on the table. She went to the door and took hold of the handle. Then the impulse that had carried her there failed. There was a minute of silence. It seemed like a long time. Eustace spoke again:

“One can't always—think of oneself.”

“Oneself?” said Katherine Hill. Her voice was low and shaken; there was a protest, and a question in it—an anguished protest, and a hopeless question.

Eustace did not turn.

“Oneself—or one's—other self. Harden said last night—” His voice failed. Then he said very indistinctly, “One can buy happiness—too dear—at least I
think
so.”

Katherine set her back against the door and lifted her head. An open battle would never find her without courage. She spoke quite quietly, but with a hard, determined ring in her voice:

“I don't. There isn't any price that would be too great.”

“I think—there is.”

“You think so because you want to think so, or else because you've got all your values wrong. You're making money mean too much, and yourself too little. What is it going to profit you or anyone else—or
anyone else
—if you gain the whole world and lose your own soul?”

Eustace experienced a faint antagonism. If Katherine had wept, or if she had continued to look at him with miserable, stormy eyes, his heart would have softened to her, though his resolve would not have weakened; but at the hint of dictation he felt himself stiffening to fight her. And then all at once it came over him how strange it was that he and Katherine should find themselves in the midst of such a scene as this. They had worked together for four years, and in those four years of work and friendship not a word of love had ever passed between them. Not a word? Scarcely even a thought—or if a thought at all, one so near to being unconscious that it could only be realized in retrospect. Yet now they were talking as if they were lovers taking an agonized farewell. There was no tie to break; yet something was breaking as they looked at each other now.