The Young Clementina (26 page)

“Why, yes, Miss. Half an hour ago. About the sherry, Miss—”

“Never mind the sherry. Have both ready,” I said, rushing upstairs to change my frock.

Nanny pursued me and hindered me with her excitement. It was after twelve when I was ready. “I wonder what Mr. Garth has been doing all this time without his clothes,” she said. “You didn't think to ask?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Was it in Africa the gentleman met Mr. Garth?”

“I suppose so. We shall soon know all about it.”

“You'll tell me, Miss Char.”

“Of course, Nanny—is that the car?”

It was the car. I fled downstairs and arrived, breathless at the front door. Barker got out and came up the steps.

“Oh, Barker, did you miss the gentleman? Hasn't he come?” I asked. I couldn't bear the thought that there should be any hitch.

“Yes, Miss,” replied Barker, “'e's come all right. 'E's walking over the 'ill through the woods. Said 'e would rather walk. Said the train was stuffy and 'e wanted some air.”

“Oh, Barker, does he know the way?”

“I told 'im, Miss,” Barker said.

I could not rest quietly in the house; I was strung up to concert pitch by this time and bursting with the hundred and one questions I wanted to ask. I decided to walk over the hill and meet my guest; it would show him how much I appreciated his kindness in coming to Hinkleton.

I ran out through the garden and climbed the hill. My rock garden was really beautiful now. The warm sun had encouraged the primroses and the polyanthi; they made a brave show. It was a lovely spring day. The trees were budding and the birds were singing. There were wild violets among the long tufty grass.

As I drew near the top of the hill I saw a man standing on the pile of boulders which had been such a favorite haunt of our childhood—Garth's and mine. He was standing very still admiring the view. He had taken off his hat and his smooth black hair shone with the rainbow colors of a raven's wing in the golden sunshine. What broad shoulders he had, and what long legs! His figure resembled Garth's, but this man was thinner than Garth, tougher looking. His clothes were rather shabby, and they did not fit him well, they looked as if they had been bought off the peg.

The man turned as I came out of the shelter of the trees and looked down at me—it was Garth.

“Garth!” I cried. “Oh, Garth, it isn't really you? Oh, Garth!”

He sprang down off the rocks and I ran forward and flung myself into his arms. I felt them tighten around me, tighten around me so that it hurt…

“Char!” he said in a queer, husky voice. “What a lovely welcome!”

“I know everything, Garth,” I told him, clinging to him, and sobbing a little from sheer happiness. “I know everything…all about the terrible mistake…I loved you all the time…only you…always.”

“And I you,” he said, kissing my hair.

“I know…I know!”

“Char, my dearest girl, my own darling, it isn't too late now, is it! It isn't too late to go back to the beginning and start again. We can put everything right, Char, say it isn't too late.”

“It may be too late for me to give you a son,” I told him, half laughing and half crying.

“Good God, what does that matter!” said Garth.

***

But it wasn't too late for that, either.

See how the story began with this excerpt from

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One fine summer's morning the sun peeped over the hills and looked down upon the valley of Silverstream. It was so early that there was really very little for him to see except the cows belonging to Twelve-Trees Farm in the meadows by the river. They were going slowly up to the farm to be milked. Their shadows were still quite black, weird, and ungainly, like pictures of prehistoric monsters moving over the lush grass. The farm stirred and a slow spiral of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.

In the village of Silverstream (which lay further down the valley) the bakery woke up first, for there were the breakfast rolls to be made and baked. Mrs. Goldsmith saw to the details of the bakery herself and prided herself upon the punctuality of her deliveries. She bustled round, wakening her daughters with small ceremony, kneading the dough for the rolls, directing the stoking of the ovens, and listening with one ear for the arrival of Tommy Hobday who delivered the rolls to Silverstream before he went to school.

Tommy had been late once or twice lately; she had informed his mother that if he were late again she would have to find another boy. She did not think Tommy would be late again, but, if he were, she must try and find another boy, it was so important for the rolls to be out early. Colonel Weatherhead (retired) was one of her best customers and he was an early breakfaster. He lived in a gray stone house down near the bridge—The Bridge House—just opposite to Mrs. Bold at Cozy Neuk. Mrs. Bold was a widow. She had nothing to drag her out of bed in the morning, and, therefore, like a sensible woman, she breakfasted late. It was inconvenient from the point of view of breakfast rolls that two such near neighbors should want their rolls at different hours. Then, at the other end of the village, there was the Vicar. Quite new, he was, and addicted to early services on the birthdays of Saints. Not only the usual Saints that everybody knew about, but all sorts of strange Saints that nobody in Silverstream had ever heard of before; so you never knew when the Vicarage would be early astir. In Mr. Dunn's time it used to slumber peacefully until its rolls arrived, but now, instead of being the last house on Tommy's list, it had to be moved up quite near the top. Very awkward it was, because that end of the village, where the old gray sixteenth-century church rested so peacefully among the tombstones, had been all late breakfasters and therefore safe to be left until the end of Tommy's round. Miss Buncle, at Tanglewood Cottage, for instance, had breakfast at nine o'clock, and old Mrs. Carter and the Bulmers were all late.

The hill was a problem too, for there were six houses on the hill and in them dwelt Mrs. Featherstone Hogg (there was a Mr. Featherstone Hogg too, of course, but he didn't count, nobody ever thought of him except as Mrs. Featherstone Hogg's husband) and Mrs. Greensleeves, and Mr. Snowdon and his two daughters, and two officers from the camp, Captain Sandeman and Major Shearer, and Mrs. Dick who took in gentlemen paying guests, all clamoring for their rolls early—except, of course, Mrs. Greensleeves, who breakfasted in bed about ten o'clock, if what Milly Spikes said could be believed.

Mrs. Goldsmith shoved her trays of neatly made rolls into the oven and turned down her sleeves thoughtfully. Now if only the Vicar lived on the hill, and Mrs. Greensleeves in the Vicarage, how much easier it would be! The whole of the hill would be early, and Church End would be all late. No need then to buy a bicycle for Tommy. As it was, something must be done, either a bicycle or an extra boy—and boys were such a nuisance.

Miss King and Miss Pretty dwelt in the High Street next door to Dr. Walker in an old house behind high stone walls. They had nine o'clock breakfast, of course, being ladies of leisure, but the rest of the High Street was early. Pursuing her previous thoughts, and slackening her activities a little, now that the rolls were safely in the oven, Mrs. Goldsmith moved the ladies into the Colonel's house by the bridge, and the gallant Colonel, with all his goods and chattels, was dumped into Durward Lodge next door to Dr. Walker.

These pleasant dreams were interrupted by the noisy entrance of Tommy and his baskets. No time for dreams now.

“Is this early enough for you?” he inquired. “Not ready yet? Dear me! I've been up for hours, I 'ave.”

“Less of your cheek, Tommy Hobday,” replied Mrs. Goldsmith firmly.

***

At this very moment an alarm clock started to vibrate furiously in Tanglewood Cottage. The clock was in the maid's bedroom, of course. Dorcas turned over sleepily and stretched out one hand to still its clamor. Drat the thing, she felt as if she had only just got into bed. How short the nights were! She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Her feet found a pair of ancient bedroom slippers—which had once belonged to Miss Buncle—and she was soon shuffling about the room and splashing her face in the small basin which stood in the corner in a three-corner-shaped washstand with a hole in the middle. Dorcas was so used to all this that she did it without properly waking up. In fact it was not until she had shuffled down to the kitchen, boiled the kettle over the gas ring, and made herself a pot of tea that she could be said to be properly awake. This was the best cup of the day and she lingered over it, feeling somewhat guilty at wasting the precious moments, but enjoying it all the more for that.

Dorcas had been at Tanglewood Cottage for more years than she cared to count; ever since Miss Buncle had been a small fat child in a basket-work pram. First of all she had been the small, fat child's nurse, and then her maid. Then Mrs. Buncle's parlor maid left and Dorcas had taken on the job; sometimes, in domestic upheavals, she had found herself in the role of cook. Time passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Buncle departed full of years to a better land and Dorcas—who was now practically one of the family—stayed on with Miss Buncle—no longer a fat child—as cook, maid, and parlor maid combined. She was now a small, wizened old woman with bright beady eyes, but in spite of her advancing years she was strong and able for more work than many a young girl in her teens.

“Lawks!” she exclaimed suddenly, looking up at the clock. “Look at the time, and the drawing-room to be done yet—I'm all behind, like a cow's tail.”

She whisked the tea things into the sink and bustled round the kitchen putting things to rights, then, seizing the broom and the dusters out of the housemaid's cupboards, she rushed into Miss Buncle's drawing-room like a small but extremely violent tornado.

Breakfast was all ready on the dining-room table when Miss Buncle came down at nine o'clock precisely. The rolls had come, and the postman was handing in the letters at the front door. Miss Buncle pounced upon the letters eagerly; most of them were circulars but there was one long thin envelope with a London postmark addressed to “John Smith, Esq.” Miss Buncle had been expecting a communication for John Smith for several weeks, but now that it had come she was almost afraid to open it. She turned it over in her hands waiting until Dorcas had finished fussing round the breakfast table.

Dorcas was interested in the letter, but she realized that Miss Buncle was waiting for her to depart, so at last she departed reluctantly. Miss Buncle tore it open and spread it out. Her hands were shaking so that she could scarcely read it.

ABBOTT & SPICER

Publishers

Brummel Street,

London EC4

—th July.

Dear Mr. Smith,

I have read
Chronicles of an English Village
and am interested in it. Could you call at my office on Wednesday morning at twelve o'clock? If this is not convenient to you I should be glad if you will suggest a suitable day.

Yours faithfully,

A. Abbott

“Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Buncle aloud. “They are going to take it.”

She rushed into the kitchen to tell Dorcas the amazing news.

Miss Buncle's story continues in

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We had better move,” said Mr. Abbott casually. Mrs. Abbott's hand was arrested in midair as it went toward the handle of the coffee pot. Her gray eyes widened, her mouth opened (displaying a set of exceptionally fine teeth) and remained open, but no sound came. The pleasant dining-room was very quiet, a fire burned briskly in the grate, the pale wintry sunshine flowed in at the window onto the red and blue Turkey carpet, the carved oak furniture and the motionless forms of Mr. and Mrs. Abbott sitting at the breakfast table. On the table the silver glittered and the china shone—as china does when it is well washed and polished by careful hands. It was a Sunday morning, as could easily be deduced from the lateness of the hour and the unnatural quiet outside as well as inside the Abbotts' small, but comfortable, house.

“I said we had better move,” Mr. Abbott repeated.

“Yes—I
thought
you said that,” declared Mrs. Abbott incredulously.

Mr. Abbott lowered his paper and looked at his wife over the top of his spectacles. It was a Sunday paper, of course, and Mr. Abbott had been glancing over the publishers' announcements. He was a publisher himself so the advertisements interested him very much, but did not deceive him. The news that Messrs. Faction
8c
Whiting were publishing the Greatest Novel of the Century, crammed with Adventure, scintillating with Brilliance, and bubbling with Humor merely roused in Mr. Abbott's bosom a faint kind of wonder as to what they paid their advertising agent. He put down the paper without regret, and looked at his wife, and, as he looked at her, he smiled because she was nice to look at, and because he loved her, and because she amused and interested him enormously. They had been married for nine months now, and sometimes he thought he knew her through and through, and sometimes he thought he didn't know the first thing about her—theirs was a most satisfactory marriage.

“Yes, I said ‘move,'” he repeated (in what Barbara Abbott secretly called “Arthur's
smiling
voice”). “Why not move, Barbara? It would solve all our difficulties at one blow. We could have a nice house, further out of town, with a nice garden—trees and things,” added Mr. Abbott, waving his hand vaguely, as if to conjure up the nice house before Barbara's eyes, and the queer thing was he succeeded. Barbara immediately beheld a nice house with a nice garden, further out of town. The whole thing rose before her eyes in a sort of vision—lawns and trees and flower beds with roses in them, and a nice house in the middle—all bathed in sunshine.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, “yes, why not? If you wouldn't mind leaving Sunnydene—there's no
reason,
I mean—”

“Exactly,” nodded her husband, “you
see.
There's no reason at all, and it would solve all our difficulties.”

They looked at each other and grinned a little self-consciously—their difficulties were so absurd. Had any two, apparently sane, people ever landed themselves in such a foolish, ridiculous mess?

The human mind is a marvelous organism. While Mr. Abbott was still grinning a trifle self-consciously at his wife, he returned through time and saw the events of the last twenty-four hours in a flash. He helped himself to more marmalade, and thought,
queer,
if I hadn't drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe's port (and why did I when I knew it would be rubbish—you can't trust port in a woman's house—I
knew
that and yet, like a fool, I drank it). If I hadn't drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe's port, I wouldn't have had a ghastly headache all yesterday, and if I hadn't had a ghastly headache all yesterday, I wouldn't be suggesting to Barbara that we should move. It
is
queer!

“What are you thinking about, Arthur?” Mrs. Abbott inquired.

“Yesterday,” replied her husband succinctly.

Yesterday morning, Mr. Abbott had risen with a dreadful headache. He rose late, bolted his breakfast, and rushed for the 8:57 train to town. It was imperative that he should catch the 8:57 because he had an important interview with Mr. Shillingsworth. If Mr. Abbott was not in the office when Mr. Shillingsworth arrived—there and waiting, all smiles and joviality—there would be trouble. It was all the more annoying because the day was Saturday, and Mr. Abbott usually took Saturdays off and played golf with John Hutson, who lived next door and had exactly the same handicap as his own. Mr. Abbott had had to put off John Hutson the night before and rush up to town, with a bad headache, at Mr. Shillingsworth's behest.

Mr. Shillingsworth was a well-known novelist, and Mr. Abbott was his publisher. Mr. Shillingsworth gave Messrs. Abbott & Spicer more trouble, and caused them more annoyance than all their other authors put together, but they hung on to him, and placated and soothed him because his books sold. (Personally Mr. Abbott was of the opinion that Shillingsworth's books were tripe, but they undoubtedly sold.) The new novel was frightful rubbish—they all thought so at the office—but they had decided to take it all the same, because, if they didn't take it, somebody else would, and somebody else would make a good deal of money over it, and Messrs. Abbott & Spicer would lose Shillingsworth forever.

Mr. Abbott thought of all this going up in the train, and it annoyed him intensely—he hated publishing rubbish—and what with his hurry, and his headache, and the loss of his morning's golf and his annoyance over Shillingsworth's rubbish, he arrived at the office in a most unenviable condition.

“What on earth's up with the boss?” demanded Mr. Abbott's private secretary, bursting out of Mr. Abbott's private room like a bomb. “I never saw him ‘so het up.' He threw the letters at me and told me to go back to school, because I made a slip and spelled omitted with two Ms.”

“Marriage, that's what,” said the head clerk, who was a bachelor. “Marriage. You mark my words, he'll never be the same again.”

Mr. Abbott was all honey to Mr. Shillingsworth (when he arrived fifty minutes late for his appointment). It was a frightful effort to be all honey, and it left Mr. Abbott with arrears of bad temper to work off on his next visitor. His head ached much worse by this time, and he was beginning to feel a little sick. So when Mr. Spicer, the junior partner of the firm, looked in for a chat, and sat on the edge of Mr. Abbott's desk, smoking his foul pipe and swinging one leg in a
dégagé
manner, Mr. Abbott did not welcome him as cordially as usual.

Mr. Spicer was quite oblivious of the thunderous atmosphere. He chatted cheerfully about various matters, and then, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing that had been said, he poked Mr. Abbott in the ribs and inquired slyly—“What about another John Smith—eh? Is there another John Smith coming along soon?”

“No,” said Mr. Abbott shortly.

“Oh come now, that's bad. That won't do at all,” Spicer complained, “you must stir up your wife. You mustn't let her slack off like this. We can do with another bestseller like
Disturber
of
the
Peace;
it went like hotcakes—you know that yourself—and
The
Pen
Is
Mightier—
is doing splendidly. I ordered the sixth edition today. We must have another book by John Smith—the time is ripe—you tell her to get to work on another of the same ilk.”

“No,” said Mr. Abbott again.

Mr. Spicer rushed upon his fate. “I'll tell you what to do,” he said cheerfully, “buy her a new pen—a nice fat one—and a big sheaf of nice white paper, and see what that does. If
that
doesn't do the trick—”

“You mind your own business,” snapped Mr. Abbott, “you leave my wife alone. There aren't going to be anymore John Smiths. My wife isn't going to write anymore—why should she?”

“But, land-sakes!” cried Spicer, in surprise and consternation, “John Smith is a bestseller. Surely you're not going to stop her writing. Think of the
waste
,” cried Spicer, almost wringing his hands, “think of the waste. Here are two books, the funniest—bar none—I've ever read—
real
satire—
and you say there aren't going to be anymore. She
must
go on writing—she's got a public. She's a genius—and you marry her, and shut her up in your kitchen, and tell her to get on with the cooking.”

This last was a joke, of course, but Mr. Abbott was in no mood for jokes. He beat on the table with his clenched fist.

“She's not cooking, you fool!” he cried, “she's enjoying herself—dinner parties, bridge—”

“My God!” said Mr. Spicer reverently. He got down off the table and went away.

Mr. Abbott mopped his brow—this is ghastly, he thought, this is ghastly. I never felt like this before—never. What on earth's the matter with me? It's all these damned dinners, and late nights. I'm too old to stand the racket. (Too old at forty-three—it was a sad thought, a frightful thought, really. It didn't comfort Mr. Abbott at all.)