VALENTINE.
She put the note under her pillow because she thought that was a better place than the pin-cushion. She didn’t want them to find it in the first minute they came into the room, but a little later when they weren’t quite so angry as they would be at first.
She packed her case and let it down out of the window by a long piece of string. There was heaps of string in the dressing-room, because parcels had been coming all day. When she had let down her case, she locked and bolted her bedroom door, and locked the door into the dressing-room. And then she put out the light and climbed out of the window.
CHAPTER XXXIII
Timothy came up to Holt at nine o’clock next morning. He put Bolton’s distracted air to the account of the wedding; but when Helena came into her sitting-room, his heart jumped. She looked grey, changed, old.
She shut the door and stood against it.
“Where is she? What have you done with her?”
Timothy was shocked.
“Good Lord, Helena, what’s the matter?”
She swallowed and put out her hand.
“Timothy, where is she?”
“Who?”
“Don’t you know? Valentine—where is she?”
“Helena! Isn’t she here?” Then, as she shook her head, “What’s happened?”
“Her door was locked,” said Helena Ryven. “Agnes couldn’t make her hear. I told her to leave her a little. Then I went. We had to break open the dressing-room door.”
She tried very hard for composure, but the waiting at that locked door had shaken her. In those few minutes the voice that she had silenced had spoken terrible things. It was not silent now.
Timothy was consumed with anxiety, but he found it in his heart to pity Helena when he felt her hand tremble on his arm—Helena’s strong, calm hand.
“Timothy, don’t you know where she is?”
“She isn’t in her room?”
“No. We broke in the door. She must have got out of the window.” She shuddered. It was she who had passed the frightened maids and looked down from the window, not knowing what she might see below. If she had deserved punishment, that moment rendered it.
“Where’s Eustace?” said Timothy.
“Telephoning. He rang you up, but you had started. He’s getting through to Ida—she may have gone there.”
“Yes. What about the station?”
“No, they haven’t seen her—she can’t have gone by train. Timothy—she didn’t go to you?”
“No.”
“On your word of honour?”
“I tell you she didn’t.”
He made a movement towards the door, and Helena cried out and held his arm.
“Where are you going?”
“To look for her.”
“Timothy—wait! Don’t be in such a hurry.”
Her hand shook, but she made a great effort at self-control. After all, nothing had happened. She had only run away as she had done before. They would find her. Nothing could have happened.
As they stood there close to the door, it opened. Bolton almost ran into them. He had Valentine’s note in his hand, a little folded sheet. After thirty years of service, Bolton entered a room in a hurry, and presented a note without waiting to put it on a salver.
“Agnes has just found this under the pillow, ma’am,” he stammered.
Helena took it, opened it, and clutched Timothy’s arm as she read. Then she drew a long breath.
“It’s all right.” And as Bolton withdrew, she let go of Timothy and sat down in the nearest chair. An extraordinary sense of relief swept over her. She repeated the words that had dismissed Bolton, “It’s all right.”
Timothy put out his hand.
“May I see?”
And as he took the note, Eustace came in, haggard and distressed.
“She isn’t at the Cobbs’. They’ll ring us up if they hear anything.”
Timothy handed him the note. He read it, frowning.
“We’ve been to blame—we’ve been horribly to blame, I suppose. But why couldn’t she say this instead of running away?”
Helena’s glance avoided him. It remained fixed on the note in his hand.
“She’s all right,” she said. Her voice was louder than usual. “She must be all right.”
“Yes—yes, of course. I’m glad she’s written. Of course she’s all right. But what are we going to do?” He put a hand behind him and shut the door. “Whom have you told?”
“All the servants know,” said Helena.
“The Ryvens?”
“No—not yet. At least I don’t know. I suppose everyone knows. Everyone will have to know.” She stood up in a sort of nervous haste. “We’ll have to tell people. But what are we going to say?”
She looked from Eustace to Timothy, and it was Timothy who answered her.
“What’s the matter with telling them the truth? If you want my advice I should say, just tell everyone what’s happened. If you don’t, they’ll ferret round until they find out a great many things that never happened at all.”
He went to the door, but Helena stopped him for the second time.
“What are you going to do?”
“I told you. I’m going to look for her. Do you mind if I see Agnes? I want to know what she’s got on.”
Agnes was not very helpful. She had been crying, and was still on the verge of being hysterical, as much from excitement as from anxiety. To be the first to discover that a bride has vanished on her wedding day is enough to excite the calmest housemaid who ever made a bed. To Timothy’s “Can you tell me what Miss Valentine was wearing?” she responded with a flurry of words punctuated only by a sniff or a hiccuping sob.
“And I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir, not to be certain, for there was a whole lot of things as come the day before yesterday, which she chose in London along with Miss Marjory, and she unpacked them herself—leastways I was there part of the time, only Mrs. Ryven called me, so I can’t say I took particular notice. But there was hats and dresses, and I consider there was a tweed coat, only I couldn’t swear to it, sir.”
“Well, is the tweed coat missing?”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Well, suppose you look.”
Agnes looked. Timothy looked too. There was no new tweed coat, and there was no dark red dress such as Valentine had worn on the night that she came to Waterlow.
“Can you tell if there’s a hat missing?”
“No, sir, I can’t.”
“Or a suit-case?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, think. Come along, Agnes, this is important! You just stop sniffing and think!”
Agnes began to sob.
“I was packing her suit-case last night, and I’m sure I never thought—”
“Where were you packing it?”
“In the dressing-room,” said Agnes with her apron to her face.
Timothy flung open the dressing-room door.
“Where? Show it to me!”
Agnes sniffed, between offence and sensibility.
“It’s gone, sir.”
“Sure?”
It was the first thing that Agnes had been sure about. She had left the half packed case on the chair by the window, and it was gone.
Timothy raced down the stairs and put his head in at the sitting-room door. The atmosphere was heavy with gloom. Helena and Eustace faced one another across the hearth-rug in solemn converse.
“I’m off,” said Timothy. “Buck up, Helena! She’s taken a suit-case.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
Valentine left the house behind her and entered the thick darkness of the drive. It was very still under the beeches; still, and warm, and so dark that at first she walked slowly and held her free hand stretched out before her. Down by the gate the trees were not so thick. She could just see the white gate-posts as she passed between them and came out on to the road.
Up to this moment she had not thought of where she
was going. Away from Holt—away from Eustace and Aunt Helena—as far away as possible But now that she had come out upon the road, she had at least to decide whether she would turn to the right or to the left. If she turned to the right, she would pass Waterlow; and if she turned to the left, she would come, after seven miles, to Renton.
She stood in the road and thought about going to Timothy. Timothy was her friend, and he was kind. But he was Aunt Helena’s brother. When she went to him before, he had taken her back to Holt. If she went to him now, and he said she must go back to Holt, she would be back in the cage again; and this time she would never, never get out any more. Her heart sank. Why hadn’t Timothy come near her all day? He had taken her back to Holt and he had left her; and he hadn’t come back. It wasn’t any use going to Timothy.
She began to walk in the direction of Waterlow, and when she had gone a dozen steps, she told herself that she wasn’t going to Waterlow, she was going to London. It wasn’t her fault if she had to pass Timothy’s house to get there. She began to wonder how long it would be before they found out that she was gone. It would take her three quarters of an hour to get as far as Waterlow. Even if she walked all night, she couldn’t get to London. And she wasn’t sure that she wanted to go to London. She thought of going to Marjory. But suppose Aunt Ida said that she must go back. No, she couldn’t go to London. She would take the road that turned off just beyond Waterlow, because it went down into deep woods where she could hide. She thought she could walk as far as the woods. Then she could climb into a tree, and when she was rested she could walk on again. She had three pounds in her purse, and she could go for quite a long time without food.
When she came to the old stone pillars that marked the entrance to Waterlow, she stopped. The house drew her. The panelled room that looked upon the garden and the river drew her. In her thought it was lighted, and the garden was not so dark but that you could see the flowers. It was very dark here between the pillars, and she was tired already, though she had only come three miles.
She took a step in the direction of the house, and then checked, turned, and ran out between the pillars and along the lonely road. She was frightened because she wanted so much to run down the drive and tap at Timothy’s window. She had to run away quickly to stop herself doing it. She ran on and on and stopped, panting, when her breath was gone.
It was whilst she was standing in the road with her suit-case at her feet, trying to get her breath and to stop feeling afraid, that she saw two bright starry lights far off where the road curved up over the hill. She stared at them, saw them disappear amongst the trees, and then shine out again. She began to hear the thrumming sound of a car coming nearer and nearer. The lights began to rush towards her, and the beam that they cast on the road slid before them, making black shadows in front of every pebble.
Valentine ran into the middle of the road and held up both her hands. The beam came rushing on. It touched her, enveloped her in a white blinding glare, and seemed to pierce her through and through. There was a grinding sound. The car came to a standstill, and a furious voice called out, “What the devil are you playing at?”
Valentine ran forward past the lights and caught at the side of the car. There was a man at the wheel. She blinked at him because she was still dazzled by the glare, and said,
“I’m so sorry.”
Mr. Sloan had had a fright. Carew had told him he wasn’t fit to drive the car, and he had told Carew to go to Jericho. And then to have a girl popping up out of the middle of the road! It made you wonder whether you were seeing things. He repeated his first remark in slightly unsteady tones:
“What the devil are you playing at?”
“I want a lift,” said Valentine firmly and added as an afterthought, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Old Mrs. Podbury always said, “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” when Aunt Helena offered her a lift. The proper answer was “Oh, no, not at all.” Valentine waited for the proper answer, and hoped that it would come quickly, because she wanted to fetch her suit-case from the side of the road, and get into the car and be whirled away from Holt at as many miles an hour as possible.
The proper answer didn’t come. Instead, Mr. Sloan switched on his dash-light and looked at her. He saw a very pretty girl with parted lips and appealing eyes, and all of a sudden his mood changed.
“Hop in!” he said, and extended a helping hand.
“Oh, but I’ve got a suit-case.”
“Righto!” said Mr. Sloan.
Valentine disappeared into the dark. Mr. Sloan stared at the place where she had been. He was muzzy, but he wasn’t binged. He couldn’t have imagined her—not a girl as pretty as that. Carew was a fool. If he hadn’t insisted on driving, he wouldn’t have met this pretty girl. Carew was a fool.
Valentine came running back, and in a moment she was kneeling on the seat pushing her suit-case into the back of the car. Then, with a quick turn, she slipped down beside him and said,
“Please go on.”
Mr. Sloan wasn’t sorry to move again. He was all right as long as he kept going. He didn’t care what Carew said, he was perfectly all right as long as he kept going. But he did feel a bit muzzy when he stopped. He stepped on the accelerator, and the car leapt forward with a bound. The dark trees on either side rushed past them and were gone. The long brilliant beam showed the empty road shut in by walls of night. Valentine watched the needle of the speedometer run up to fifty, and then creep on.
Mr. Sloan broke the silence with great suddenness. His voice was vague. He took his right hand off the wheel and wagged a finger at her reprovingly.
“And what I say is this—and don’t lemme have to tell you again—d’you hear?”
“What mustn’t I do?” said Valentine, astonished.
“Don’t lemme have to tell you again. That’s what I said. Popping up out of the middle of the road when I was doin’ sixty. And lucky for you I wasn’t doin’—more, ’relse—I mightn’t have been able”—he wagged a finger impressively—“to stop.”
Valentine thought him a very odd young man. She said, “You stopped beautifully. Which of those things do you pull to stop? How do you do it?”
“Like thish!” said Mr. Sloan.
He thrust at the brake-pedal with his foot and braced himself against the back of the seat. The car checked, skidded, and slid sideways in a sickening half-circle with a screech of protest from the brakes and the rasp of a locked rear wheel. Valentine was thrown violently against Mr. Sloan’s left arm, wrenching the wheel over. His foot slipped from the brake-pedal. The car straightened up and shot forward. The needle once more began to approach fifty.
Valentine disengaged herself from Mr. Sloan and sat up.
“Thash what comes of trying to stop in a hurry,” he said with a good deal of mournful reproach in his voice.
Valentine got as far as possible into the corner. They passed Holt like a flash, and the trees were over them. If she had wished to go fast, she certainly had her wish.
They began to go faster still. The wind which they made went by them with a zip. The black, unseen landscape was full of shadows that streamed past like rushing water. Valentine did not know how long it was before the pace slackened.
Mr. Sloan resumed his homily:
“And what I say is thish—don’t be in a hurry.”
“But I am in a hurry.”
“’Sa bad thing. You—take it from me. I say—I haven’t met you before, have I?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t forget such a pretty girl if I had. I say, you needn’t—sit so far away.”
Valentine would have sat farther away if it had been possible.
The pace dropped to a slow fifteen. Mr. Sloan began to sing in a manner rather reminiscent of his brakes:
“There ain’t no sense sitting upon a fence,
All by yourself in the moonlight—”
He stopped with a giggle. “Isn’t any moon, but whash a marrer with the dark?” He
burst once more into song:
“There ain’t no thrill by the water-mill,
All by yourself in the moonlight.
There ain’t no fun, sitting beneath the trees,
Giving yourself a hug, giving yourself a squeeze.
Love’s a farce, sitting on the grass,
All by yourself in the moonlight.”
He took a hand off the wheel and stretched it out towards Valentine.
“Come along and give us a kiss!”
Valentine turned the handle of the door.
“I don’t kiss people that I don’t know.”
Mr. Sloan caught her by the arm.
“Must pay your fare!” he said. “Travelling without ticket shtrickly prohibited.” He laughed, still holding her. “Thash a good word! If you can say—prohibited—you can say anything. Shall tell Carew that.”
The car was describing an extremely erratic course. Valentine opened the door, struck hard at Mr. Sloan’s hand, and twisted free. She got out on to the running-board and jumped for the grass at the side of the road. She fell sprawling, but she wasn’t hurt. As she picked herself up, the car came to a standstill a dozen yards ahead. She scrambled down into a shallow ditch, climbed the bank on the other side, and half pushed her way, half climbed through the hedge at the top of it. She could hear Mr. Sloan calling her:
“I say—where are you? I say—”
His feet came stumbling back along the road.
“Never was so inshulted in my life! Girl running away! Inshulting! Thash the word—inshulting! Dash difficult word to say.”
He was about to get into the car when he remembered the torch in the near pocket. He took it out and amused himself by throwing the beam hither and thither. On the left hand side of the road there was a ditch, and a hedge, and a wood. If that girl thought he was going ploughing about in a beastly wood looking for her, she was damn well mistaken. On the other side there was a rickety paling, one of those strung-out affairs; and water—quite a large sheet of water. The light dazzled on it. No—and he wasn’t going to swim to look for her either. She could just stay where she was and stew in her own juice.
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