The Young Clementina (2 page)

It is easy, now that I am doing it for you, to get on with this business of writing. I can tell you anything and everything. But everything is too big an order, so I must try to pick and choose, telling you a little here and a little there so that the woman who is me will emerge clearly from the pages—the real me, with all my faults, and all my mistakes. I must choose carefully, for I have not much time and my leisure for writing is stolen from my sleep.

From nine-thirty in the morning until six o'clock at night I work in a library, docketing the books, reading them through and recommending them to those people I think they will suit. The library is not one of those bright modern places where books, waiting to be bought, smile at you from tastefully arranged tables in gay paper jackets, but a musty dusty room on the ground floor of an ancient building, visited principally by old gentlemen with gold-rimmed spectacles and elderly ladies with woolen stockings—sometimes a little wrinkled about the ankles. You know the type, Clare. We have often laughed at them together, laughed at them quite kindly, even a little tenderly; they are so anxious and serious and polite, polite even to the library assistant at Wentworth's. Occasionally an author drifts into the library and peers round at the dusty shelves in dismay. “Oh—er—I was told that this was a geographical library,” he says. “Have you—er—up-to-date travel books here?” “Any book that adds to the geographical knowledge of the world,” he is informed. “A book about Borneo,” he says deprecatingly (or Canada or the Antarctic perhaps). “A book about Borneo—something not too—er—heavy. Just to give one an idea of the—er—country and its inhabitants. A little local color—perhaps you can advise—”

Perhaps I can, because I make a point of reading all the books that come into the library—or at least glancing through them—and because this is my job and I have been at it for twelve years. Twelve years is a long time to spend among books about Borneo and Canada and the Antarctic. “Ah, thank you,” he says, flipping over the leaves and examining the illustrations with studied carelessness. “This
does
seem the kind of thing—this seems exactly—”

Authors often leave their sentences unfinished like that—at least the kind who come to Wentworth's do—and they are always men. Women authors seem to bother less about local color, or perhaps they bother more. Perhaps they actually pack a couple of suitcases and trek off to Borneo or Canada or wherever it may be, before they send their hero there to hob-nob with head-hunters or to track moose.

Twelve years I have been there, with kind little Mr. Wentworth and his books. I was twenty-three when I went, and now I am thirty-five. The twelve best years of my womanhood have been given to Wentworth's. At first I rebelled against the imprisonment, and the monotony of my days. I watched the shafts of sunlight struggle through the dim windows and move slowly from shelf to shelf and across the wooden floor. The same golden sun was shining in the meadows at Hinkleton, glancing with dazzling sparkles upon the river; the flowers were growing under its warm touch, turning their faces, their small bright faces, toward their God; the trees were busy too, opening fat buds and spreading their tender green leaves to catch its rays. Birds were singing in the woods and the small woodland animals were throwing off their winter languor and hurrying about their summer ploys. Often and often the slow difficult tears formed upon my lids and were brushed hastily aside lest they should fall upon my ledger and leave immortal trace of my weakness and misery. But that has passed, and now I am resigned to the life; I even find pleasure in it. The books—I have always loved books and I love them better now—are my greatest solace. I can take a travel book in my hands and voyage across the world. China, Burma, Jamaica—the very sound of the words is an enchantment bringing me sights and sounds, and odors that my senses have never savored.

So the day passes, and it is six o'clock. Mr. Wentworth comes out from his dark, poky little office and closes the door.

“Time, Miss Dean,” he says, smiling at me pleasantly. “No more voyages tonight, except in dreams.”

I smile, too, because I like the little man, he is kind and considerate, he does not interfere with me, he lets me alone to do things in my own way—an admirable employer.

I take my coat down from the nail behind the office door and fare forth on the last voyage of the day, the voyage through London's streets with London's multitudes jostling at my elbows.

We will walk home together, Clare, for you are coming to tea with me today. We will take a bus to Hyde Park Corner—a crowded bus I'm afraid, for this is one of London's busiest hours—and walk across the park. It is autumn now, the leaves upon the trees are beginning to change color. Jack Frost has been here in the night and touched them lightly, so that here and there a patch of flame glows among the green. It is my birthday today, Clare, and I have bought a tiny cake. Perhaps you will think it rather a foolish thing for a woman of thirty-five to do—to buy a birthday cake and eat it all by herself with a dream companion, for her birthday tea; but I have missed so much in life that other women take as their due that you must forgive me my foolishness.

And now we have turned up France Street and reached the main door of No. 71. There is no lift here to take us up to the top floor which has been my home for twelve years. A tiny flat it is, high up among the chimney pots, two rooms and a tiny kitchen and a bathroom all my very own. I have tried to make it bright with distempered walls, and gaily colored chintz, but the smuts of London wage a continual war upon cleanliness and brightness, and I have neither the time nor the money to fight them with success. Mrs. Cope, my “daily woman,” comes in and does battle while I am at my work, but although she uses an incredible quantity of cleaning material—the sinews of her war—the result is indecisive, to say the least of it. There are some good pieces of furniture here, the grandfather's clock which blocks my tiny hall came from my old home at Hinkleton. Its large pale face is one of my earliest recollections, so too the melodious chime of its hours. It stood in the hall at the Parsonage, and served us faithfully for many years, the whole timetable of that large rambling understaffed old house depended upon its slowly moving hands. My father gave it to me when he died because he knew I loved it, because I had wound it for him when he became too frail to climb upon a chair and attend to it himself, and because I understood its idiosyncrasies. He always called it Jeremiah, for its chime was melancholy, set in a minor key. Everybody knew it as Jeremiah; even Mother, who thought the joke was unbecoming in a parson, had been heard to refer to it as Jeremiah in times of stress. “It's a quarter to one by Jeremiah, and Martha has not got the potatoes on!”

So Jeremiah came to me, in spite of the fact that Kitty wanted him, and that he would have looked well in Kitty's spacious mansion, and blocked the hall of my tiny flat. Kitty had so much, she had taken so much from me, that I felt I was justified in refusing her Jeremiah—she did not want Jeremiah as much as I did.

I took a few other things when the old home was broken up; things that Kitty didn't want; shabby things that had been in my life ever since I could remember—the old schoolroom chair, with its creaking basketwork frame and knobby cushions, the old schoolroom bureau, scored with the thoughtless kicks of childish feet—these were the things I wanted. They were familiar things, kind and friendly, I took them with me to cheer my loneliness and lighten my exile. It is curious, isn't it, that things you know well never look dirty and dilapidated—other people's old furniture looks shabby and moth-eaten. “I would never have that horrible old couch in my room,” you say. But your own old couch is every bit as bad and you are not disgusted with its appearance; it is your friend, you see, and you remember it when it was new and smart. Friends that you have known for a long time and love very dearly never seem to grow old.

I'm afraid my flat must look very shabby in your eyes, Clare, but I hope it looks comfortable and cozy. Mrs. Cope lighted the fire before she left, there is a nice red glow in its heart and the yellow flames shoot up cheerfully. Pull in your chair, my dear, and let us be comfortable. It is cozy, isn't it, Clare? Tonight, it seems to me more comfortable and cozy than it has ever done, because I may be leaving it. I may be leaving all these things which have been in my life for twelve years—I've got to decide whether I am leaving it or not and I haven't very long.

If this had happened ten years ago—even five years ago—I should not have needed anybody's help to decide what to do. I was a rebel then; I pined for freedom. I would have shaken the dust of Wentworth's from my feet at anybody's bidding and fared forth to any job which promised luxury and leisure and the right to walk out of doors when the sun shone. But now I am deeply sunk in a groove and I shrink from any change. I have led the life of a hermit in the heart of a city—you can, you know—and I find, somewhat to my surprise, that I don't want to leave my cell.

We must go back—right back to my childhood at Hinkleton Parsonage—I must try to make you see those days because the seeds which were sown then have grown into trees and are now bearing fruit. The seeds were sown, and the trees grew up, there was blossom, and then fruit—bitter fruit some of it.

I was born in the Parsonage at Hinkleton, a big old-fashioned rambling parsonage, with a huge garden—untended for the most part since father's stipend would not stretch itself to cover the wages of a competent gardener. It was a paradise for children, a paradise of old trees with low branches inviting the most timid climber to the perils of ascent; of wild flowers growing like weeds through feathery grasses; of moss-covered paths winding among dense shrubberies where one could play at brigands or big game hunting without fear of interruption. I was the eldest child, and, four years after, came Kitty. Mother nearly died when Kitty was born, she was warned that there must be no more babies, so the little son that Mother wanted so desperately could never be hers. She withdrew into herself after that—so father told me during those last four years that he and I spent alone together—she withdrew into herself, and, although she was a good wife and a kind mother, there was no life in her, no zest for enjoyment.

I remember the night when Kitty was born. My father had told me that God was going to send me a companion for my play—a little brother, or a little sister, whichever He thought best. I was pleased and excited at the idea and immeasurably disappointed at my first sight of the “companion.” Was this the best that God could do? I asked father. “She'll grow, my dear, she'll grow,” father replied smiling at me kindly. “In a year or two she'll be quite human. Have patience, Charlotte.”

She was christened Clementina after Mother, but we all called her Kitty. She was so like a kitten, soft and warm, with pleasing ways and tiny velvety hands that could scratch if she did not get what she wanted. Quite soon, just as father had predicted, she became human and lovable—if not a companion, at least an amusing and enchanting toy.

A child's world widens like rings made by a stone dropped into a pool. First the house became familiar to me, and then the garden. The church came next, its tall gray walls and slender columns springing upward to support its arching roof were a source of never-ending wonder to my mind. The music awoke in my body a strange excitement, especially when the organ played alone, and the vibration of harmony filled the church with invisible angels. I thought it a pity that the church garden was full of stones; it was not nearly such a pretty garden as ours. Did God like stones in His garden better than flowers, I wondered? The village was the next place to swim into my ken. I trotted round after Mother when she did her shopping or took soup to the sick and consolation to the sorrowing. I liked the village; it was a friendly place, full of smiling faces and pleasant words. Later still I added Hinkleton Manor to my world. It lay about a mile off across the park—an old gray house with polished floors and shining furniture which smelt agreeably of beeswax and turpentine. The Wisdons had dwelt at Hinkleton Manor for generations; they were Lords of the Manor in the old-fashioned way. The villagers regarded them with awe and affection, the County with respect.

I can't remember the first time I saw Garth Wisdon. However far back I peer into the past Garth is always there. He was a small, thin boy, nearly three years older than myself. He was quiet and gentle—much more so than I was. Mother said he was too quiet, healthy boys ought to be rough and noisy, but I don't think she would have been so fond of Garth if he had been wild and rough like an ordinary boy. Her own boy—the little son of her dreams—was a quiet, ghostly presence in her life. It is difficult to tell whether it was Garth's nature to be quiet, or whether the circumstances of his life made him so. Hinkleton Manor was a quiet house—spacious and leisurely. The only sounds that broke its stillness were the ticking of clocks, and the murmur of voices in the kitchen premises where the well-trained servants went about their business. Garth's mother died when he was born. He and his father lived together. He was, quite naturally, the apple of his father's eye, and the heir to the Manor and to all the traditions of the Wisdons. Over the carved oak fireplace in the hall, in old English lettering, was the coat-of-arms of the Wisdon family—“Valorous Men, Virtuous Women”—and above were the Lion and the Lily of the Wisdon crest, emblems of courage and purity. Pictures of Wisdon ancestors hung in the hall, and in the dining room, and on the walls of the wide staircase, Wisdons who had fought in England's battles or striven for her welfare in times of peace. The line was old and honored; it had always stood for truth and justice, for upright dealing, and for devotion to England's best interests. Garth did not talk much about the traditions of his family, but his pride in them was a living force.

There were very few houses of the better type within reasonable driving distance of Hinkleton, and those few were childless. Garth and I became inseparable companions. We played together in the Parsonage garden and in the woods surrounding the Manor; we sailed down the River Hinkle (which meandered lazily through the Manor grounds) in a little tub of a boat which had belonged to Garth's father when he was a boy. Marvelous adventures we had—some real and some imaginary. The woods were filled with the creatures of our play—lions and tigers, Red Indians and crocodiles, King Arthur's Knights and Robin Hood's Merry Men, brigands and pirates all had their turn. The woods of Hinkleton provided suitable backgrounds for every play that caught our fancy; we knew every path; we had discovered the best trees to climb. The whole place was a happy hunting ground for Garth and me.

Scarcely a day passed when we did not meet. The path linking the Parsonage and the Manor was well worn. It started from a small wooden gate in the hedge beyond the lawn and wound through fields and a wood of mixed trees, it climbed a wooded hill, where the local gray rock peeped out through the soil and descended into the grounds of the Manor on the other side. On the top of the hill there was a pile of rocks—big gray igneous boulders they were—and this was our favorite meeting place. How often I have sat there on the topmost boulder looking out over the treetops at the glorious spread of fields and woods and pasture land that lay below waiting for Garth to come! How often have I hurried up the hill to find Garth sitting in the same spot, waiting for me!

I suppose the hill must have had some local name—if so I never knew it—we called it “Prospect Hill” from the hill so named in
Swiss
Family
Robinson
, a book we both adored. We read and reread this amazing work until we almost knew it by heart and the characters became our friends.

Prospect Hill and the
Swiss
Family
Robinson
, how the names bring back the past! I can see Garth now—a small, thin figure in a Norfolk suit, with thick, black hair—sitting in a niche of rock on Prospect Hill bent double over our worn and dog-eared copy of the
Swiss
Family
Robinson
. He would sit like that for hours, reading solidly, while I—less sedentary by nature—climbed about the rocks or dabbled happily in the little spring which oozed out beneath a boulder. I did not mind his absorption, for he was always conscious of my presence however deeply buried he might be; sometimes he would lift his head and call out “Char, Char, where are you? Listen to this,” and would read out, in his shrill, boyish voice, some passage in the great work which especially appealed to him or which he thought might “do for a game.” The only time that Garth and I fell out was when Tommy Hatchett came to spend a month at the Parsonage. He was the son of an old college friend of father's and his parents were abroad, so father offered to have him and give him a little coaching in the holidays. Tommy was a complete contrast to Garth—a round-faced, snub-nosed schoolboy, very frank and jolly and full of mischief. He was the same age as Garth, but bigger and stronger. Tommy was quite ready to be friendly and to join in all our games, but Garth resented his advent. It was a clear case of two being company and three none. I was too young to realize that Garth was jealous of Tommy; I could not understand why Garth went off by himself and refused to join in the games. All I could see was that Garth had been a splendid playmate, and now he was not.

We had it out one morning when Tommy had been caught by father and incarcerated in the study to do some Latin prose.

“Why won't you play properly now?” I asked Garth, with the uncompromising directness of eight years old.

“You've got Tommy,” Garth said. “You don't want me now.”

“I want you too,” I replied. “It's not nearly so much fun without you.”

Garth's face lightened. “Come on then, Char,” he said. “We'll go and hide from Tommy—just you and me.”

“But, Garth, I can't,” I cried. “I promised to wait for Tommy—he won't be long—and then we can all go up to Prospect Hill and play at shooting bears in the Rocky Mountains.”

Garth swung round at me with blazing eyes. “All right, all right,” he said savagely, “you can go and play bears with Tommy, but you needn't think I'm coming. You can play with him all day and all night, I don't care.”

“Oh, Garth, let's all go together.”

“No,” he shouted. “No, you can play with me or Tommy—choose which of us you want.” He shook my arm. “Choose,” he cried, “choose which you want.”

I chose Garth, of course, he was my other self and I could not do without him, but my morning was ruined by the vision of a lonely Tommy wandering round the Parsonage garden looking for somebody to play with, and, more likely than not, being seized by Martha and deputed to pick the raspberries for jam.

The little incident impressed me very deeply because of Garth's unprecedented behavior. Garth was always so quiet and thoughtful, so gentle and considerate, and today he had been wild and rough, he had frightened me and hurt my arm.

Tommy went away quite soon after that, and Garth and I settled down into our old ways, and played contentedly at the old games. We had both forgotten Tommy in a week. I never saw him again, never thought of him until I saw his name among the killed in a casualty list in the war; and then, quite suddenly, his face appeared before my eyes, his frank, cheery, snub-nosed face, and the memory of his short visit to Hinkleton Parsonage came back to me as clearly as if it had happened last year.

I would not have mentioned his name, Clare, for he played such a tiny part in my life, but I felt I must tell you about the only quarrel that Garth and I ever had—as children—and Tommy was its cause. Except for that one month, there were no clouds between Garth and me. No, not even one the size of a man's hand.

Garth was in and out of the Parsonage every day, and sometimes we were bidden to tea at the Manor. Tea in the nursery with hot-buttered toast and iced cakes, with Nanny presiding over the big brown teapot, calm and serene in her blue linen dress and starched apron. She had taken Garth from his dying mother's arms and she is with him still.

As we grew older we were promoted to tea in the library with Garth's father; it was very grand and grown up, but not nearly so comfortable. Mr. Wisdon was old—a tall old man with thick, wavy, white hair—he had been a man of fashion in his day and he had the fine, courtly manners of an older generation. Even toward us he was ceremonious and polite, cold, austere, slightly withdrawn. I never saw Mr. Wisdon laugh, and rarely smile. It was said in the village that he had not laughed since his wife's death.

His manner was chilling and somewhat alarming. It was an ordeal to walk out of the room through a door held open for you by Mr. Wisdon. One would have needed silk petticoats and a sweeping train to accomplish the feat with equanimity, and I, a schoolgirl, with a blue serge skirt which always seemed to sag at the back, and black cashmere stockings which always seemed to have lumpy darns up the leg, could never accomplish the feat without feeling incredibly foolish. I was so conscious of the sagging skirt and the darns, not to speak of my long, gawky legs and red hands. Kitty was different, of course, she smiled at Mr. Wisdon, and went out with a hop, skip and a jump—but then Kitty's skirt never sagged.

A string of governesses and tutors came and went at the Manor during Garth's childhood. We children took it as a matter of course that they should come and go—father taught
us
, of course, but Garth was different. Looking back I wonder why none of them managed to stay, they can't all have been fools—fools or knaves was Mr. Wisdon's verdict upon them. They came and went—tall and short, fat and thin, hearty and lugubrious—we got quite a lot of fun out of them one way and another. The housekeepers changed too, and the servants, only Nanny stayed on through the changing years. The last time I was at Hinkleton Manor (I went down for a night about six years ago for old Mr. Wisdon's funeral) she was just the same. The same comfortable kindly creature, her plump bosom covered by the square white bib of her spotless apron, her black hair, innocent of a thread of gray, scraped back into a little knob at the back of her head. I flung myself into her arms and hugged her, for she brought back the past so vividly. It seemed to me that all had changed, only Nanny remained the same; she hugged me back, and said, with that astonishing lack of tact which had always characterized her, “Oh, Miss Char, my poor lamb, how old you look!”

***

Father was worried about Garth's education. He used to say that it took a man six months to learn his pupil and that then, and only then, could he get the best work from him. (It is an old-fashioned idea, but, like all father's ideas, there is something in it.) Father would shake his head sadly when he heard of another change of tutor at the Manor, shake his head and frown and purse his lips. He was very fond of Garth, and he thought that Garth's future was being jeopardized by the lack of continuity in discipline and study. I see now, looking back, that father tried to keep his hand on Garth's pulse. He would ask him into his study and talk to him, drawing him out and imparting useful advice as he knew so well how to do.