The Young Clementina (20 page)

“These are much more beautiful,” she said.

“I like country flowers best,” I replied.

“So you really do remember?”

“Every word. I've often wondered about the woman who lived in a basement.”

“She doesn't live in a basement now,” Paula Felstead said. “We put her into our lodge at Oldgarden with her three children—she's a widow. It was rather pathetic to see her joy at returning to the country. She could talk of nothing but the greenness of everything—she almost went mad.”

I could understand that very easily. It was the living green of the country that had amazed me when I returned.

“She must have been grateful,” I suggested.

“Far too grateful,” Paula said, smiling a little. “I couldn't go near the lodge for months—gratitude is such an uncomfortable thing—don't you think so, Charlotte? It takes God to receive gratitude graciously.”

After she had gone I thought about her, and all she had said. I realized that a new pleasure had come into my life, the pleasure of having a real friend. I had always longed for a woman friend of my own age, and now I had one. A real one at last. We saw each other often after that first day, and had many talks, and, gradually she superseded the shadowy Clare who had been with me so long. The two merged into one, and I could never really separate them in my mind.

Garth's luggage arrived. The men carried it up to his room and put it down softly. The cases, the trunks—all the paraphernalia which had been arranged in the hall the day that I came to Hinkleton Manor—had returned, without their master, quite safely. Only he had failed to return.

Naseby, who had superintended the operations, lingered after the other men had gone.

“I never thought when I carried it down—” he said huskily.

“None of us thought,” I told him.

“Perhaps you'd like me to undo the straps, Miss.”

“Please, Naseby.”

He knelt and loosed the straps rather clumsily; his big hands were not so steady as usual. Then he got up and stood for a moment, looking at the pile and fingering his cap.

“He was a good master,” said Naseby. “Stern at times, and he wouldn't stand no nonsense, but you didn't mind that because you knew he'd be fair—that's what counts, every time.”

He went away.

I stood for a few minutes looking at the things—the battered trunks, the cases, the packages done up in sacking. Garth's camp-bed, his rubber bath, his tent, everything except the cases which had contained his guns—the guns had vanished with their owner; they were buried in the desert, beneath the sand.

All these things, and especially the camp-bed and the rubber bath, were so much a part of Garth's daily life that they brought him very near, they made him very real. I could scarcely believe that Garth himself had gone, it seemed incredible. The luggage lying there in his room seemed to promise his return. I felt that the door would open and Garth would walk in. It was foolishness, of course, because I knew, beyond any doubt, that Garth was dead.

I looked at the trunks and wondered which of them contained the diary. It seemed wrong to open them—what right had I to open Garth's trunks? But that was a foolish idea, I
must
open the trunks; I had been waiting for them to arrive; I had been waiting for months.

I began to unpack. Nanny came down and helped me. She hung his suits in the wardrobe and smoothed out his ties and folded them away in the drawers of his dressing chest. The soiled linen she put aside for the laundry. It was almost as if she were expecting him to come home…

“Oh, Miss Char!” she said suddenly, and I saw that the tears were running down her face unchecked. “Oh, Miss Char, how often I've unpacked for him! I know where he likes all his things kept, you see. He liked things just so, and he used to say nobody did his unpacking as well as me. I'd been with him always, since he was a tiny baby, so I ought to have known how he liked things. I never thought he'd be the first to go—so strong he was, so full of life, and me an old woman! Oh dear! Oh dear!”

I couldn't say anything to comfort her, I needed comfort myself. My own cheeks were wet.

“Look at these socks, Miss Char! All holes. I don't suppose he had anybody with him to mend them for him. I always mended his socks—such awful holes he always made—look, Miss Char, this one's got no heel left.”

“You take them and mend them,” I suggested.

“Yes, I must mend them,” Nanny said. She stopped suddenly and looked at me with a sock over her hand, “You're not going to give his things away, are you?”

“Not yet,” I said quickly. “We needn't do anything yet.” I could not bear the thought of giving away Garth's clothes—they were all that was left of Garth—all that was left. A white riding glove was lying on the floor, I took it up and slipped it onto my hand, and the glove was so shaped that it was Garth's hand I saw—no, I couldn't give away his clothes.

“Not yet,” Nanny agreed, with a sigh of relief. “I couldn't bear to think of anybody wearing them.”

I had found what I was looking for, now, a pile of fat shiny copy-books in the bottom of the trunk. The books were the same as those I always used, the same as those father had given us, so long ago. I left Nanny to finish unpacking, it was her due. She could unpack Garth's things for the last time, and mend his torn clothes and put them all away tidily in the drawers. It was the last personal service she could perform for Garth. She, who had spent the best years of her life in his service, had the right to do this. It was quite useless, of course, because he was far beyond our ken, he did not require earthly service anymore; but, sometimes, it is comforting to do useless things for those we love. I understood that. I understood Nanny. My last duty to Garth was different; I collected the books containing the diary and went downstairs.

The mere fact that the diary was written in the same kind of books that I always used for my diary brought Garth closer. It was a bond between us—a secret bond. I turned over the pages with interest and excitement. I saw very soon that the diary required very little editing—I saw that Garth had written with a view to publication. Here and there a piece of the real Garth peeped through; here and there a few lines seemed too intimate for the public eye. There was good stuff here. I saw that, and rejoiced. This book would not be the least of Garth's works. There were wonderful descriptions of the country couched in language so vivid that the scenery seemed to spread itself before my eyes. There were descriptions of the game encountered, interspersed with racy anecdotes about the porters and the native hunters. One native hunter, especially, had excited Garth's interest. “He's a thorough gentleman,” Garth had written. “Intrepid to the point of lunacy—a man after my own heart.” It was this man—so we heard later from Mr. Fraser—that had gone with Garth to track the lions.

The whole diary was colored with Garth's personality; the turn of a phrase brought him back to me vividly. I could hear him speaking as I read. Was it my imagination that the
tone
of the whole narrative changed gradually but perceptibly as the days went by—that the cynicism disappeared, and was replaced by a healthier, more natural spirit? I turned backward and forward eagerly. No, it was not, it could not be imagination. The desert was healing him. The peace of the desert had sunk into his soul. I had hoped for this to happen, and, after I had heard that he was dead, I had longed to believe that it had happened. His last laughing words to Mr. Fraser had seemed to show a happier, saner Garth—I had pinned my faith to these joking words and tried to believe that I was justified in doing so. It was still too early to be certain; I should have to study the diary carefully, to read and reread every page a dozen times before I could be sure of my ground, but I saw that there was room for hope, and my heart lightened. I wanted, so
terribly
, to believe that Garth had died a whole man.

I spent the evening poring over the books. Quite apart from my own special interest in the narrative—my interest in its author—it was an enthralling tale. Travel books were my specialty and this was a good specimen of its kind. I came across an interesting description of a tribe of Bedouins, their dirt and squalor and their fierce, wild faces. A thumbnail sketch of a hooded face with a hooked nose was appended, and beneath it were the words “Drawn for me by Stewart. I wish I could draw. This sketch would lend itself well as a design for the jacket of my book. The man allowed me to measure his head and take other particulars. (This was difficult to achieve on account of their weird superstitions, but they understand money here as well as in other more civilized parts of the world—I made the man rich, and he allowed me to measure his head. It does not take much to make a Bedouin rich.) I was anxious to secure the measurements to compare with those of the Bracelet Man. They are totally different, just as I hoped and expected. The Bracelet Man is in no way related to Bedouin.”

The following day there was another entry about the Bedouin. “The Bedouin returned and requested me through our Arab interpreter to give him back the magic which I had taken out of his head. He had brought back most of the money I had given him—all except some he had lost in gambling the night before—I told the interpreter to ask why he wanted it back. ‘His head feels funny,' replied the man gravely, ‘He thinks he will die soon if he does not have the magic back.' I gave him the paper upon which I had written the measurements and took the money from him—he was a fine, strong, wild creature, I did not want his death upon my hands. He pressed the paper to his forehead and went on his way rejoicing.”

I came upon a passage which read strangely in view of what happened later. The expedition was on the fringe of the desert. “This place is infested with lions,” Garth had written. “The lion is not a noble animal—none of the cat tribe is noble—nobility does not slink upon its belly, does not spring in the dark, does not eat carrion. The lions have not harmed us and I have no desire to harm
them
.” I put down the book and turned to the last, the unfinished one. Garth had made a scribbled entry before he set forth on that last expedition, the expedition which was to cost him his life. “Lions roaring all night,” he had written, “and one of the porters has just come to my tent to tell me that his brother has been carried off. There is a trail of blood on the sand. These porters have their feelings, like other people—the poor creature was weeping. I promised him that I would go after the lion, and his eyes gleamed with pleasure at the news. I have no hope of finding the poor wretch alive, but revenge is sweet, and, if I bag the lion, the victim's brother shall have the skin.” I turned back and read the entry of the previous night. “We are to turn back. Fraser is right, of course, he cannot take unnecessary risks, but it is a sore blow to me. It looks as if the Bracelet Man had fallen from the skies—I have seen no signs of his tribe. The desert is so vast, it has convinced me of the hopelessness of my quest. And yet, in spite of my failure, I do not feel downhearted, I feel strengthened, healed, rejuvenated. I shall return to life with courage. The desert sun has burned the poison out of my brain; the desert wind has blown away the evil humors. I was mad, I think, possessed by some evil djin. The people here believe in such things and such beliefs are infectious. Tonight, in spite of my disappointment—and it is not a light one—I feel free and clean. I can even forgive Kitty. My God, I had never thought to write such words! There may yet be beauty in life for me, if it is not too late.”

***

Day followed day and I scarcely noticed how they passed. I was enthralled by the task of editing Garth's book. I went with him step by step upon his journey, I shared his vigils, shared his discomforts, shared his keen enjoyment of the beauties which had encompassed him. I grew to know his companions through Garth's eyes: the silent, able Fraser, who always seemed to know what to do in every emergency, a king among men; the light-hearted Stewart, who wielded a pencil so ably and had a joke—not always printable—for every occasion; the garrulous Clinton who wanted everyone to share his enthusiasm for his geological specimens—they were all alive and vivid—Garth had limned them in a few words.

I used the blue pencil as little as possible; it was easier than I had expected. I scored out only what was intimate or trivial, and, here and there, where I thought it necessary, I elaborated a little or altered the wording to read smoother. The trivialities which I eliminated were mostly in the first part of the expedition—Garth had written, “A letter from Char today. (This is the last I shall get before we plunge into the unknown.) She is pleased with Brown Betty—ridiculously pleased. Could I do less than provide a decent mount for Char? She says very little about Clem—merely that the child is well—what does that mean I wonder. Does it mean that things are going smoothly, or that she does not want to worry me with her troubles? I should like to be able to peep in at the Manor and see how they are getting on.”

I was glad he had not been able to peep in at the Manor
then
, he would have seen little to reassure him. Those first few months at Hinkleton were like a nightmare to me when I looked back at them. My struggle to understand Clementina and find the way to her heart; my troubles with the maids, my sordid quarrels with the odious Miss Milston—these were not the things I liked to remember, I should not like Garth to know of these things. But later, when all the difficulties had been solved and the tangles straightened out, I should have liked Garth to peep in, and I should have liked him to see the rock garden, which was shaping so satisfactorily, just as he had planned it.

Geoff Howard rang up to tell me he was sailing for Australia at the end of the month and to offer to come to lunch at Hinkleton and say good-bye. I told him he could come to lunch if he liked, but I hated good-byes.

“It's your own fault,” he said. “
You
are sending me to Australia and nobody else. I shall come and weep upon your shoulder.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” I replied.

“What d'you mean?”

“Just that I shall wear my mackintosh,” I told him.

Geoff arrived early. I was working in the garden and I showed him a hand covered with earth.

“What's a little mud between friends?” he asked, shaking it warmly.

“I see you are determined to keep on the right side of the dragon,” I replied.

“It's my only hope. I suppose I can write to you, if I can't write to Clementina?”

“Yes, you can write to me.”

“Generous woman!” he exclaimed.

We walked up to the house together, sparring a little in our usual manner. I felt quite a different person when I was with Geoff. He brought out a certain quality in me which I had never known I possessed. His light-hearted impudence provoked a light-hearted return. I was young and gay in his company and full of repartee.

“We're going to the hunt point-to-point this afternoon,” he said. “Did you know?”

“Who are you going with?”

“With you, of course.”

“No, Geoff.”

“Yes, Charlotte.”

“I'm far too busy. I write in the afternoons.”

“Not today you don't. I'm determined to take you, so just make up your mind to it and accept the invitation gracefully. You're working too hard at that book—it will be as dull as ditchwater—you know what all work and no play made of Jack.”

“Seriously, Geoff, I'm not coming,” I said. “It isn't only the book, it's partly because I don't want to meet people. Yes, I know. I meet them out hunting, but that's different; I feel safer on a horse, and people don't snub you in the field, they're too busy.”

“You won't get snubbed,” he replied. “I'll take care of you. We needn't go into the enclosure if you'd rather not. We can go up onto the hill and see the whole thing. It's a lovely day. You
must
come, Charlotte. I want to go and I've nobody to go with—I want to back Red Star for the Ladies' Cup, it's a snip.”

“I don't know about that, with Sweet Molly running.”

“Good, you'll come.”

“I never said so.”

“Of course you did. You said you wanted to back Sweet Molly for the Ladies' Cup.”

“Oh, Geoff!” I said.

“Be a sport, Charlotte! You won't see me again for four years—you won't be bothered with me all that time. You'll be sorry when you think of me toiling and moiling in Australia among a lot of woolly headed blacks living in a tin shanty and eating dampers—or whatever they're called—and drinking tea. Australians live on dampers and tea, I know that from the war.”

He persuaded me to go—I could hardly refuse, for he was a wheedling man—and after lunch I found myself in his two-seater Fiat on my way to the race meeting which I had determined to avoid at all costs.

We left the car in a field near some buses and walked up onto the hill. It was a real March day—a cold wind blew from the east but the sun was hot and golden. A few white cotton-woolly clouds moved across the pale blue heavens with the dignity of galleons, and their pale gray shadows followed them slowly over the sunlit land. The country was very beautiful—the meadowland a radiant green, and the plough a dusty brown. The hills rolled softly to the horizon, broken by the uneven line of woods, black woods touched by a faint haze of green. Spring was coming, coming slowly but sweetly despite the cold dry winds of March; they could stay her progress but could not stop it, for there was warmth in the sun, and the earth was turning her face toward its beams.

Two partridges rose from our feet with frightened cries and swirled away with a flutter of brown wings across the field.

“God, how I love this country!” Geoff said. “I used to think about it when I was in Canada with a kind of pain. And now I'm pushing off again to the ends of the earth—life
is
hell!”

We reached the top of the hill and looked down. Below us in the shallow valley was an orderly line of cars, winking and glittering in the bright sunlight, and beyond them, straggling up the farther slope was a scattered line of tents. The enclosures and the surrounding fields were black with people. They swarmed like ants and, like ants, seemed to be hurrying busily in all directions. Groups formed and divided and reformed endlessly, aimlessly; it was a curious sight. The noise of the crowd and the raucous voices of the bookies shouting the odds for the first race drifted up to our ears.

“We'll watch the first race from here, shall we,” said Geoff, “and then I'll go down and put my shirt on Red Star. It is funny how few people come up here. You can see the whole course—or very nearly.”

There were half a dozen people on the hill besides ourselves—a couple of bus drivers, a farmer with a rubicund countenance, two tweed-clad women, and a horsy-looking man in a bowler hat with field glasses glued to his eyes.

“Yes, it is queer,” I agreed. “They start from the tents I suppose. Where is the first jump?”

Geoff tried to explain the course, which was mapped out in the usual way with white and red flags, but he was a little hazy about it, and the horsy-looking man came to the rescue. He pointed out the water-jump and explained that they had to make a circle of the hill upon which we were standing and go over the shoulder of a neighboring hill behind a clump of trees. He seemed to know all about it and to be quite glad to share his knowledge with the bus drivers and ourselves. I seemed to remember the man's face and concluded that I must have seen him out hunting. “The water-jump is the worst of the lot,” he told us, “and that tall fence comin' off the plough is a bit nasty, but there's nothin' in it really. It's a stayer you want for this course.”

It was true, I saw that. The jumps were not so serious as I had expected, and I half regretted that I had not entered Brown Betty for the lightweights. Sim had tried to persuade me to do so, and to get somebody to ride her, but I was so afraid of something happening to her, and I disliked the idea of a stranger riding her. If Sim could have ridden her I would have consented at once, but she was not up to Sim's weight for a grueling race like this, so I had dismissed the idea from my mind.

“They're off!” exclaimed Geoff.

They streamed across the meadow—a dozen little toy horses with toy men on their backs, gay in pink or workmanlike in black. They took the first jump in a bunch—it was a low wall—and turned toward us across the plough. The dry earth rolled away from beneath their hooves like smoke. Another jump—a hedge this time—and they were breasting the hill. A pink coat on a bright chestnut was leading, and, two lengths behind, came a group of five. The rest had strung out, they were already outpaced. They approached quite near us, so that we could hear the thud of hooves on the dry turf and see the strained faces of the riders as they leaned forward a little to ease the horses up the hill. They rose easily over a turfed wall and fled away toward the woods, where a hunt servant in a pink coat stood like a colored statue against the deep blue of the sky.

“That first feller is going well,” Geoff remarked.

“Gay Day,” said the horsy-looking man. “He has the race in his pocket.”

“It certainly looks like it,” agreed Geoff.

They were approaching the water-jump now. Gay Day had increased his lead and was going easily. I thought the race was safe to him and was already regretting, in the time-honored manner of race-goers, that I had not backed the horse. He was obviously in a different class from his rivals.

“By gad!” exclaimed the horsy man.

Gay Day had refused the water-jump—he had swerved to the left, nearly unseating his rider, and the others had swept past. We watched with some excitement. Gay Day's rider was by no means beaten yet; he tugged at his horse's mouth and forced him over the stream. Away he went up the hill after the others. He was still fresh and had plenty of stamina—I felt he might do it yet. They swung round the corner of the wood and disappeared for a few moments. When next they came into view, Gay Day was making up on them with every stride. They took a fence in fine style and went down the hill toward the enclosure at a rattling pace. Gay Day had almost caught them. As they swung into the straight piece of meadow that led to the winning post, he came into the bunch and forged through it. The sound of shouting increased.

I was tense with excitement. He was a splendid horse, and I wanted him to win. I felt he would do it. I was sure he would do it. There was only the black in front of him now, and he was overtaking the black with every stride. His nose was creeping along the black's side as they raced for the post but the black made a spurt and held him. It was too late for Gay Day; he was beaten by a neck.

“As foine a race as ever I did see,” exclaimed the farmer.

“And as fine a horse,” added Geoff.

“He is, sir,” said the horsy man, shutting his field glasses with a snap. “Gay Day is a fine horse. I've ridden him all the winter so I should know his points. The devil only knows why he refused the water. I've never known him refuse anythin'.”

“A hunter doesn't understand racing,” Geoff said. “Give a hunter hounds to follow and he'll take you over the moon.”

“You're right, sir,” replied the other eagerly. “By Jove, you're right—it's what I've always said. Huntin' for hunters and racin' for racers. I didn't want to race Gay Day, but my boy persuaded me. He wanted to ride him, so there you are.”

He put his field glasses into their case, and set off down the hill with the rolling gait of a riding man. I looked at my race-card and found—somewhat to my surprise—that Gay Day's owner was Lord Bournesworth.

“Did you know it was Lord Bournesworth?” I asked Geoff.

“No, and I don't much care. He was a decent little cuss. Come on, Charlotte, are you coming to back Sweet Molly or shall I do it for you?”

“I'll come,” I said. “We needn't go near the members' enclosure.”

We followed Lord Bournesworth down the hill, crossed the brook and skirted a bit of plough. As we approached the enclosures, the noise of the shouting increased; it became a roar. Geoff pushed through the crowd which surrounded the bookies' stands.

“Take a good look at them, Charlotte,” he said. “They're a dying race. The Tote's killing them off slowly but surely. In another four years, when I come back from Australia to marry Clementina, the last bookie will be exhibited in a glass case. You'll probably have to pay sixpence to look at him and another sixpence to hear him shout.”

“I'd rather pay sixpence not to hear him shout,” I replied breathlessly. The bookies looked anything but dying to my inexperienced eyes. Their faces were red and shiny, their voices were deafening. One of them was standing on a couple of packing-cases signaling wildly to a friend in the members' enclosure.

“I always choose the fattest, they can't run so fast,” Geoff explained, pushing his way toward an enormous man with a walrus mustache to lay his bet. I followed him and put a pound on Sweet Molly at eight to one. She belonged to Mr. Felstead and although she was not much of a jumper she had plenty of stamina and I knew she could stay the course. Geoff only got three to one for Red Star, he was the favorite.

As I was turning away, I felt a touch on my arm and found a small, fat woman in gray tweeds standing beside me.

“Miss Dean isn't it?” she inquired. “I am Lady Bournesworth.”

“Oh yes,” I said, slightly dazed with surprise.

“Yes,” she said perkily—she was rather like a fat, perky little bird. “I used to know your father, Miss Dean, a very fine man. The parish has never been the same since he died. Mr. Frale is too much of a recluse. Very clever, of course, but not human. The human touch is missing. I should like to call.”

I was not altogether pleased at these sudden overtures. For one thing I could not understand them, and for another, Hinkleton Manor had been shunned by the County for so long that I had grown used to the solitude of my life. My work and the garden were enough for me. I did not want to be invaded. Last, but not least, I was angry with the neighborhood for ostracizing Garth and his daughter, angry and sore. I had resolved that they could go their own way and Clementina and I would go ours—we could do without them very easily. And now, all of a sudden, for no reason that I could see, we were to be received into the fold—I did not want to be received. But, before I had answered Lady Bournesworth ungraciously, I had changed my mind—what sort of a guardian was I to dream of refusing to be friendly with Clementina's neighbors? I had grieved because she had no young people to play about with, and here was the opportunity to supply the want. I must pocket my pride—Garth's pride it was, really—and meet the advances as amiably as I could.

Lady Bournesworth had been watching my face—she was no fool.

“I hope you will allow me to call,” she said graciously. “I should have done it long ago, but I am the world's worst caller. We want your niece to come over to Bourne in the summer for tennis. There are so few young people about. My grandchildren come to me for the holidays and—”

“Don't call,” I said. “Come and have tea instead—perhaps one day next week?”

“Yes, that would be delightful…so good of you…Wednesday? No, Wednesday is the Unionist Meeting. We shall have to rope you in to some of our activities, Miss Dean—Thursday would suit me admirably.”

She called to Lord Bournesworth, who was backing a horse, and introduced him to me.