Free Kingdom Lost by Patricia Wentworth

over. But no one should pity them, not even this kind old man, who had known her since her wedding day. No one should pity Eustace.
    She spoke conventionally.
    â€œYou’ve had a wretchedly wet journey. Do come to the fire.”
    Ida of course must needs come forward too.
    â€œBut, Mr. Waterson, what have you done with her? Where is she?”
    â€œHow do you do, Mrs. Cobb? No, thank you—no, thank you—I’d rather keep away from the fire. Well, Eustace, I’m glad to see you. Very glad you were able to get down—very glad indeed.”
    â€œBut where is she?” Ida Cobb repeated.
    â€œIn the study. How do you do, Brand? Yes, I just asked Bolton to let me take her into the study. I thought, you know, that I’d better see you and run through the papers before you meet her.”
    Mrs. Ryven turned to her sister.
    â€œIf she’s alone—I don’t think she ought to be alone—Ida—”
    Mrs. Cobb very distinctly jibbed. How like Helena to try and get her out of the room just when things were getting interesting!
    â€œOh, I don’t think that would do,” she said.
    â€œYou, Timothy, then. I don’t think she ought to be alone—it looks—”
    â€œOh, I say!” said Timothy.
    Mr. Waterson smiled.
    â€œYou needn’t be alarmed.”
    Ida Cobb broke in again:
    â€œOh, do tell us what she’s like! Is she at all civilized? I mean of course a South Sea island—a desert island—I mean of course—they don’t really wear clothes, do they?”
    â€œDon’t talk nonsense, Ida!” Mrs. Ryven spoke with some asperity.
    â€œYes, but has she any clothes?”
    â€œCharming clothes,” said Mr. Waterson. “Go along and talk to her, Brand.”
    Timothy went with reluctance. He had no desire at all to assist at a family council; but he blenched a good deal at making the acquaintance of a young female savage. On the other hand, Helena was right—you couldn’t leave the poor girl alone in a strange house. A strange house? A strange world. If it was rough on them, it was rough on the girl too. Beastly for her to feel she wasn’t wanted.
    Timothy opened the study door and went in.
    Valentine had been up since six o’clock. For nearly twelve hours she had been coming nearer and nearer to this moment—England—her own people—her father’s house—Aunt Helena—Eustace.
    She had said good-bye to Barclay with a child’s careless affection, and to Austin Muir with clinging hands, wet eyes, and scarlet cheeks.
    â€œYou will write to me, Austin. You will come and see me. Oh, promise, promise, promise! Oh, you have promised—haven’t you? I won’t go unless you do—I won’t! Oh, make him promise!”
    All this under the eyes of Mr. Waterson, Barclay, and the crew of the yacht, her hands fast on the lapel of his coat. Small wonder that Austin in a rapid undertone promised anything that would end the scene.
    â€œYes, yes—I’ll write. Yes, yes—of course.”
    The emotion of saying good-bye ebbed as she drove with the kind old man who had come to meet her. She borrowed his handkerchief to dry her eyes, and found so many new and exciting things to look at that she did not want to cry any more. Austin would write to her. There wasn’t anything to cry about. He would come and see her. And to-day—to-day, she was going to sec Aunt Helena.
    For the first half hour she asked innumerable questions, then fell into a deep silence, sitting straight up in the car and looking through silvery veils of wind-driven rain at the roads, the woods, the villages, the open spaces green with bending bracken. This was England—the rain; the greenness; the grey skies; the sweet, wet scent of the pines. This was England. This was her own country. Presently she would come to her people, her own home.
    As they turned in at the Holt gate, Mr. Waterson spoke