The Young Clementina (25 page)

“Why? You knew him well, didn't you?”

“Almost too well,” I said slowly. “He's too near for me to see him properly. You know what I mean—when you are close up to a wood you can't see it. You can only see the individual trees.”

“Yes,” she said, “I've never done anythin' of that kind—writin', I mean—but I see the point. You want to stand back from a horse to see its paces.” She sat and thought for a few moments and then she said, “I liked Garth. He was a good sort. I could have talked to Garth, but he never gave anyone the chance of gettin' near him. He was a strange man, Miss Dean, a secret man.”

I did not answer that. I knew that Garth was a secret man, nobody knew better than I the load of secret trouble that he had carried for so many years.

“I'll tell you somethin' about Garth,” she said suddenly. “It's so typical of him, of the strangeness and secrecy of him. But you mustn't put me in the book.” She dropped the butt of her cigarette and extinguished it with her heel like a man. Then she looked up at me and smiled. “You mustn't put me in the book, Miss Dean. I've got my reputation to think of—the reputation of bein' as tough as leather and as hard as nails. ‘It's no use tryin' to get the better of Lady Vera,' people say, so they
don't
. If they thought I was soft—I'll tell you this, though, in strict confidence, I'm not as tough as I'd have them believe. Life's a bit of a battle at times.” She broke off and said, “Look at that blackbird lookin' for worms where you've been diggin'—I like blackbirds, they're so cocky and independent, so full of spunk. Where was I?”

“You're not so tough as you would have them believe,” I prompted her.

She threw back her head and laughed. “That's right,” she said. “But you keep that to yourself, young woman, or you'll find I'm tougher than you thought. Well, one day I was huntin' a mare that I'd sold to a man from Leicestershire. I'd only sold her that morning and I was a fool not to go straight home, but when I'm huntin' I get crazy, and I wanted to see the finish. We were crossin' a road, and I let her down, and broke her knees. My God, I was sick! It broke me all up when I saw her knees. I was sailin' pretty near the wind at the moment—things looked as black as hell for I'd banked on the mare to pay my rent and fodder bill. When I saw her knees I just burst out at the nearest person—burst out about all my troubles (it was yellow, but I couldn't help it, I was half-crazy). I'd have burst out at anybody, it was just chance that the nearest person happened to be Garth. ‘What were you gettin' for the mare?' Garth wanted to know, when I'd finished makin' a fool of myself. ‘Two hundred,' I told him, ‘and I'll be lucky if I get sixty now.' ‘I've always liked that mare. I'll give you three hundred for her,' he said, just casually like that.

“I thought at first he was jokin' and I told him I wasn't in the mood for it. ‘Don't be a fool,' he said, ‘I'll give you three hundred for the brute. When I say a thing I mean it,' and he did mean it. He sent a groom over next day with a check and a box and orders to bring the mare over. I told him I wouldn't take it, and he told me to go to hell. He got a vet down from town and they mended her up—you'd scarcely have known she'd been let down. That was Garth all over. People said he was hard-hearted and cynical—well, he wasn't full of soft sawder, I've heard him say pretty brutal things myself. You had to be down and out before you saw what he was like inside.”

I recognized Garth in the story; it was like him to do a generous thing, and to do it roughly, ungraciously. He hated gratitude, he hated softness and sentimentality. He tried, all the time, to be hard and cynical, but sometimes he couldn't manage it, and the true kindness and generosity of his nature showed through.

Lady Vera and I walked down to the stables together and fed the horses with apples. Sim was very respectful to my companion; he asked her advice about the gray's off-fore which was still causing trouble. She felt it with her thin, capable hands and discoursed gravely about the respective merits of cold compresses and hot fomentations. When she left I found, somewhat to my surprise, that I had promised to take Clementina over to Pollen Lodge in the holidays.

Clementina arrived the following afternoon. She was obviously very pleased to be home again. She hugged me tightly, and she hugged Nanny (who was delighted at the unwonted embrace) and then she ran off to the stables to hug Black Knight. We had tea together in the library, and I told her all my news—the County had called in force and the stable cat had had kittens.

“What a ghastly bore!” Clementina said, licking her fingers which were covered with butter, and helping herself to another muffin. “I don't mean the kittens, of course, I've seen them already. They're sweet aren't they? Especially the one with the white feet. Can I have it for my own, Aunt Charlotte?”

“Yes, of course,” I said—the kittens were all hers, but I didn't point that out to her, it was wiser not to.

“What's happened to Naseby?” she inquired. “I
was
surprised when I saw a new man arrive at Hill House with the car. Is Naseby having his holidays or something?”

“He's having 'flu,” I told her. “He's better, but don't go near the garage, like a dear. We don't want the holidays spoiled.”

“No fear!” exclaimed my niece.

I nearly laughed. It was natural, of course, that she should pick up the expressions of her contemporaries and use them, but the slang sounded very strange upon Clementina's lips, and I was glad Geoff Howard had sailed for Australia. He would have seen it as the beginning of the ruin which school was going to wreak upon his perfect child.

“How's Violet?” asked Clementina. “I'm longing to see Violet and tell her all about school.”

“You are to spend tomorrow with her,” I said. “They said you were to go over as early as possible and stay until bedtime. Violet is much better, she can ride now.”

“Right you are! I'd really rather have stayed at home tomorrow with you. There's such lots of things I want to do—but we've got lots of days, haven't we?”

“Thirty, isn't it?”

“Yes, thirty. Pity there's no hunting, Aunt Charlotte. By the by, Sim suggested putting up some jumps in the lower park. I said I'd ask you if we could.”

“I think it would be a splendid idea.”

“We may then? How lovely! Oh, it
is
lovely to be home!”

“But you quite like school?” I asked, rather anxiously.

“I don't mind it. It's rather fun in a way. You know I was awfully frightened of the girls at first—just scared stiff—but they're quite decent really, and Old Scales is a lamb.”

I laughed. “Is that how you talk of your headmistress?”

“Unless she's present,” answered Clementina smiling. “Then we say, ‘Yes, Miss Scales; No, Miss Scales; Oh Miss Scales,' like good little girls should. She takes us for arithmetic.”

“Poor woman!” I exclaimed feelingly.

“She thinks I'm half-witted,” Clementina admitted. “But the other mistresses assure her I'm sane. It's very funny.”

We talked a lot that evening; there seemed so much to tell each other. Clementina stayed up to dinner for a treat. She was a delightful companion, and I was sorry when Nanny came for her at nine o'clock.

“I suppose you're too big to be bathed now,” Nanny said.

“You can come and watch me,” said Clementina kindly. “I'm nearly as tall as you are now, but not so fat.”

“You've plenty of time for that,” said Nanny dryly.

Clementina put her arm round Nanny's neck and they went off together laughing.

I was pleased with the success of my experiment, pleased and relieved. It had been a risk to send the child to school; she was so different from other children, so mature for her age, but I saw that I had been right to take the risk. Clementina had not altered fundamentally, she was still the same thoughtful, serious person at heart, but she
had
altered superficially, and altered for the better. She was more human, more considerate for others, less moody and self-conscious. She was able to take a joke directed against herself and laugh it off, and, what was best of all, she appreciated her home far more, and the kindness and consideration of her friends. When I looked back and thought of what Clementina was like when I first came to Hinkleton—the prickly, self-conscious child, full of weird complexes and inhibitions—and compared her with the Clementina who had spent the evening with me and just gone upstairs to bed, I could hardly believe that it was the same being. I wished Garth could have been here to see the change. It seemed very sad that he would never see the new Clementina; she was a daughter that any man could be proud of.

***

Clementina went over to Oldgarden next morning. She had decided to ride over, in case Violet wanted to ride in the afternoon.

“It will be so lovely if she does,” Clementina said as Sim held out his hand and she sprang, as lightly as a fairy, on to Black Knight's back. “It will be just like old times. D'you think there's
really
any chance of it, Aunt Charlotte?”

“Every chance,” I told her. “Violet rides every day. Of course she doesn't go far.”

Barling came out onto the steps, where I was seeing Clementina off, and said I was wanted on the telephone. I waved to Clementina as she cantered off down the drive and followed Barling into the house.

“Who is it, Barling?”

“Mr. Ponsonby, Miss.”

I took up the receiver casually; it would be about the new bailiff I supposed. I had written to Mr. Ponsonby telling him that I did not like the man—nobody liked the man—he was too hard and businesslike to fill Garth's shoes; he had no sympathy, no tact. He could not differentiate between a shirking tenant and one who had had really bad luck. I had told Mr. Ponsonby that the man would have to be replaced.

“Hallo!” I said.

“Miss Dean?” inquired Mr. Ponsonby's voice.

“Yes, Mr. Ponsonby.”

“I have good news, Miss Dean.”

“Good news?”

“Yes, can you guess what it is?”

“Have you found another bailiff?”

“My good news is from abroad.”

“What
do
you mean?”

“I have just heard some good news from abroad—from Africa.”

“You can't mean—?”

“I have reason to believe Mr. Wisdon is not dead.”

“Garth—alive!”

“It is incredible, isn't it?”

“How did you hear? Where is he?”

“A gentleman has just called this morning at my office. He has news of Mr. Wisdon.”

“News that Garth is alive?”

“Yes. This gentleman was traveling. He was in Africa—”

“Did he
see
Garth?”

“Yes, he saw him.”

“Oh, heavens—he saw Garth, alive and well?”

“Alive and well. Mr. Wisdon was captured by a nomadic tribe. He suffered a considerable amount of hardship, but eventually escaped—it is a long story, a very long and exciting story.”

“Is he well? Is he coming home?”

“Yes, he is coming home as soon as certain formalities have been accomplished. There are certain formalities when a man's death has been presumed and his will executed.”

“I know, never mind that. When is he coming? You're quite sure it was really Garth—there's no mistake?”

“I am quite sure. This gentleman has given me ample proof that his story is true.”

“I can't believe it.”

“It is difficult to believe.”

“Don't you think we had better wait—I couldn't bear it if we believed it and then found there was some mistake?”

“There is no mistake, Miss Dean. I would not have told you unless I was convinced that there could be no mistake.”

“Could I—could I see the gentleman myself?” I asked.

“I think you should do so,” replied Mr. Ponsonby. “He could answer your questions far better than I can.”

“When can I see him? Shall I come up to town?”

“Wait a moment and I will ask him.”

Mr. Ponsonby went away for a few minutes and then returned. “He will come down to Hinkleton and see you, Miss Dean. Today if that would suit you.”

“Yes—oh, yes, please tell him to come.”

“Shall I tell him to take the train which arrives at Hinkleton station at 12:30—the train I usually come by?”

“Yes, I will send the car to the station. Please thank him very, very much.”

I put down the receiver and sat staring at it stupidly. The news I had just heard had stunned me, I could not take it in. It was too good, too wonderful to be true. Garth was alive, Garth was coming home. It couldn't be true—Garth was dead, his clothes had been sent home, his body was buried in the desert. And yet it must be true, for Mr. Ponsonby would never have accepted the news and handed it on without being certain of his ground. Garth was alive. In a few hours I should be talking to a man who had seen him quite recently, a man who knew all that had happened to Garth and could tell me what he had looked like, and whether he was well. Could tell me the details of his escape!

I tried to remember whether Mr. Ponsonby had said Garth was well. Yes, he had said “alive and well.” Garth was alive and well. Garth was coming home. What did this mean to me? I could not tell. I could not realize that it was true, far less what it meant to me. I pressed my fingers over my eyes and said aloud, “Garth is alive,” but the words were meaningless. I could not believe that Garth was coming home nor visualize his arrival.

Garth was coming back to Hinkleton Manor. The door would open and he would walk in, and immediately he would be at home, with all his own things round him; the atmosphere of the house that he loved so dearly would meet him on the threshold and enfold him in its peace. But I—what should I feel when Garth walked in? What would it be like to meet Garth? Why did my heart tremble at the thought of it? Was it because I had learned his secret from his diaries, had read the outpourings of his heart—wild words which he had imagined that nobody but himself would ever see? Was it because I knew his secret and was free, at last, to tell him mine—that I had never ceased to love him, that there had never been another man in my life, that even when he had scorned and rejected me my disobedient heart had remained faithful to its love? Could I tell him that? Could I look him in the face and tell him that I loved him? My face burned at the thought.

The mountain and the wood were between us no longer; all the barriers were swept aside. I had claimed the dead Garth for my own in the secrecy of my thoughts—he was mine in death I had said and had rejoiced to say it—but now he was alive, and on his way home, and I was not sure—how could I be sure—that he still loved me. It was all so long ago; he might have changed; it was years since we had been on terms that were even
friendly
: our last interview had been stormy and troubled; Garth had been cruel to me in that interview, brutal.

I shrank, too, from the man in Garth. I had had nothing to do with men in my life—in my inner life. Garth's maleness frightened me. I was shy of Garth. My heart trembled at the thought of Garth loving me, and trembled again at the thought that he might have ceased to love me. How could I meet Garth? I was dazed and dizzy with the turmoil of emotions which besieged me.

After a little I rose and pulled myself together. It was no use to sit here and think about it. Garth could not possibly be home for some time—days, perhaps weeks would elapse before I should see him—I should have time enough to look into my heart and set my house in order before Garth came. Meantime there was much to be done. I must put my feelings aside; I must thrust my personal emotions out of my mind. There was much to be done and I was wasting precious time.

First of all I must tell Nanny what I had learned, and the servants, and send a message down to Naseby, who was still in bed, and I must prepare for my visitor—the man who had actually seen Garth and was coming to tell me about it—Barling must open wine for the bringer of good tidings, and I must on no account forget to send the car to the station for him. I hesitated over Clementina and decided not to ring up Oldgarden—I would wait until later, until I knew more about it and could give her all the details—I think I was still just a little doubtful as to whether the news could possibly be true.

I carried out the program I had made in a kind of dream. Nanny was tearful with joy. Unlike me, she accepted the news at once and believed it. The mere fact of telling her made the news more real to me and, paradoxically, less alarming. Nanny's point of view was so matter of fact. She was not concerned with Garth's mind; she was merely rejoiced over the news that his body was safe and sound. She followed me about the house like a dog, but, unlike a dog, she was full of questions, questions that I could not answer.

“Where did the gentleman meet Mr. Garth?” she inquired.

“I don't know, Nanny, I never asked.”

“How long ago should you think it was, Miss Char?”

“I've no idea.”

“What is the gentleman's name—did he know Mr. Garth before? How did he know it really
was
Mr. Garth?”

“I don't know, Nanny.”

“Perhaps it was another gentleman pretending to be Mr. Garth.”

“Mr. Ponsonby said he had ample proofs,” I told her.

I wished, now, that I had thought of asking Mr. Ponsonby more. At the time I had been overcome by the astonishing news that Garth was alive. Nothing else seemed to matter in the least. But now my brain was busy with the subject, and I could not understand why I had been such a fool.

“Will the gentleman take sherry or a cocktail, Miss?” asked Barling.

“I don't know,” I said.

“You see, Miss, if he's a youngish gentleman he'll probably like a cocktail, and if he's an oldish gentleman he'll prefer sherry.”

“I don't know anything about him, Barling,” I said with some exasperation. “Did you tell Naseby—I mean Barker—to take the car to the station?”