The Young Clementina (5 page)

The day passed. I saw no more of Garth until suppertime. We sat round the table eating, and talking like strangers talk—Mr. Wisdon, Garth, Kitty, and myself. I felt again that a shadow lay upon the house; I saw the shadow in Garth's eyes as he looked at Kitty across the table. I saw it in Kitty's face as she glanced nervously at Garth. Mr. Wisdon looked from one to the other and was silent, crumbling his bread. Garth's laugh rang false, he laughed too often and too loudly. What trouble could it be? What shadow lay upon them all? It must be my imagination, the shadow must be in my own heart, it was my heart that saw ghosts in its own darkness.

My own heart—how it ached over Garth! How it ached over the change in him, over the lines upon his face, the cynicism of his tongue! It was dreadful to me to see the boy I loved in the man he had become, dreadful. When I looked at him I saw the same dark sweep of hair from brow to nape, the same fine features, the same mobile mouth, but a different spirit now occupied the body I had loved—a bitter spirit, a disillusioned spirit that believed good of nobody, that seized upon innocent words and twisted them out of shape and threw them in your face.

I came back to town early on the Monday morning to be in time for my work; I came back from the beautiful spacious rooms and found my flat poky and dark and inconvenient; I came back from the trained servants and well-cooked meals and struggled with Mrs. Cope and was revolted by her hopeless efforts in the culinary line; I came back from broad lawns and shady trees to glaring streets and chimney pots. It took me weeks to regain the small modicum of resignation with my lot which I had previously achieved. I resolved not to go to Hinkleton again if I could help it—what use was it? I only made myself miserable. Hinkleton Manor was not for me.

It was five years before I went to Hinkleton again, and again it was an invitation which I could not refuse. I went down for old Mr. Wisdon's funeral. He had been failing for some time, but, at the last, his death was sudden. On this occasion I only stayed one night and had little chance of speaking to Kitty or Garth. They were busy with their sad tasks, and the house was full of people coming and going all the time. My god-daughter was brought down to the drawing room to see me—or rather for me to see her. She was five years old, a strange, silent child with old-fashioned manners and large, sad eyes. Her hair was pale brown and very straight and soft, it hung down on either side of her face like a curtain. We could find nothing to say to each other (for I had no experience of children) and very soon Kitty sent her back to the nursery.

I still felt a shadow on the house, but it was natural—wasn't it—that the house should be shadowed when the body of its master lay upstairs. Sadness is a shadow; it was the shadow of sadness that lay upon Hinkleton Manor. Soon it would pass—for Mr. Wisdon was old, and it is natural for the old to die—and Garth and Kitty would be happy again. This is what I told myself and what I wanted to believe. I wanted them to be happy.

I did not go to Hinkleton again, but I saw Kitty occasionally in town. Sometimes she made use of me to find her a maid. I liked that. It was pleasant to feel that I was of some use in the world. We met once or twice and had tea together. She told me what my god-daughter had been saying and complained that Garth spoiled her. She told me her servant troubles; they seemed to bulk largely in her life. Garth began to travel, as he had always intended, and wrote a book about his adventures. When I spoke to Kitty about the book she tossed her head: “He's always writing,” she said, “or else hunting, or else he's away from home traveling in some God-forsaken country. I don't see what use it is being married at all,” and then she would change the subject and talk about the latest play. These were the things Kitty talked about when I met her—and I listened. She never wanted to know about my life—and why should she? My life was so monotonous that I would have found it difficult to discuss it with her if she had ever shown any desire to know what I did with myself. There was nothing to interest Kitty in my life. We were miles apart when we met and there was no bridge to throw across the gully. Kitty was a gay, vivacious creature, her golden hair was bright and wavy, her complexion was smooth and creamy, she was dressed, always, in the height of the fashion. I felt the difference between us acutely, I could never be like Kitty even if I had the money to spend upon myself that she had. We were different in every way. No wonder that Garth had chosen Kitty to be the mistress of Hinkleton Manor; she was a credit to it as I could never have been.

“Oh dear!” Kitty would say, picking up her bag and preparing to depart. “How I wish I lived in town!”

“How I wish I lived in the country!” I would reply.

“You wouldn't if you were in my shoes,” she would cry, tossing her pretty head. “Not if you had to live with Garth.”

Garth's first book was published in 1929. It was the account of a big game expedition in Central Africa. It had found its way to Wentworth's and I had read it there, and enjoyed it. The old Garth and the new Garth were both in the book, curiously distinct I thought. The imagination of the old Garth was there, and that wonderful power of seeing vividly and recording the vision in a few unusual words. The cynicism of the new Garth was there, that strange contrary twist, that ruthlessness, that tearing of beautiful things in pieces. I found the book moving, disquieting, but I saw that there was life in it; I saw that it was a book which would be read when contemporary books had long passed into oblivion.

So the years passed. I became a hermit in the city and found content.

Part Two
Kitty's Husband

One blustery evening last March I heard the doorbell ring. I was sitting over my fire reading a book about Japan which had just been published. It was part of my job, and an interesting part, to read the books as they came to Wentworth's. Many of the books in Wentworth's were old and dry, mere treatises upon the lands with which they dealt; but some were new and interesting, some had atmosphere, caught you up out of the grayness of London, warmed you, fed your hunger for beauty and strangeness and adventure.

The book about Japan had carried me to the land of cherry blossom; I came back to the land of wind and rain with a sigh of regret. I heard the wind howling round the chimney pots, the rain clattering on the window. The doorbell rang again, clamorously, urgently, and I got up to answer it.

I found Kitty standing on the mat, she was wearing a beautiful soft coat of caracal, and a small brown hat was perched coquettishly upon her fair wavy hair. Her eyes were shining, and she was breathing quickly as though she had run up the stairs.

“Kitty!” I said in amazement.

“I was afraid you had gone to bed.”

“I was reading,” I told her, opening the door wider.

Kitty came in; I smelt the strong scent she used as she squeezed past me in the narrow hall.

“Jeremiah takes up too much room,” she said laughing. “You should let me have him you know, I would pay you for him—”

“I like Jeremiah,” I said quickly. It was so like Kitty to offer to pay for something she wanted. (Silly of me to be annoyed, of course.)

Kitty went over to the window and pulled the blind aside. She peered out. “What a dreadful night!” she said, shivering a little.

“Are you staying in town?” I asked her.

“Needs must,” she replied. “I've lost the last train. The service to Hinkleton is absolutely rotten. I wondered if you could put me up, Charlotte. I've had a ghastly day chasing after an under-housemaid. You would think, with all this unemployment that they talk about, that it would be easy to find one.”

“Surely there must be plenty!” I exclaimed.

“I can't find one,” she said. “And my head aches.”

I was surprised that she had come to me. She had not been inside the flat for years, I knew she thought it poky, and shabby, and inconvenient. Why hadn't she gone to a hotel, she would have been much more comfortable in a hotel, and Kitty liked comfort. But, since she had come to me, I could not refuse to put her up. I did not really want to refuse. It was a break in the monotony of my life and I welcomed it. I told her that I would give her my bed and sleep on the couch in the sitting room. She demurred at this but only halfheartedly, and I saw that it was what she had expected.

I busied myself looking out clean sheets and pillow cases. The old Parsonage linen had come to me. It was getting thin now but it was beautifully fine and soft. Mother had prided herself upon her linen.

“May I telephone to Garth?” Kitty asked, taking up the receiver without waiting for an answer.

“Of course,” I said.

She got the connection quickly and I heard her speaking to him as I made the bed and found my best nightdress for her to wear.

“A dreadful day…Yes, of course, I have lost it…I couldn't help it; I was chasing a wretched housemaid…No good at all…Well, I wish you would take on the job yourself…I'm here with Charlotte…Yes, in Charlotte's flat. I'm spending the night here…Yes…No, she doesn't mind the trouble. Charlotte will speak to you herself…Charlotte!”

She called me over to the telephone and put the receiver into my hand. I had no wish to speak to Garth, but there was something compelling about Kitty. She was determined that I should speak to him—I could see that. It was not till long afterward that I saw why she had wanted me to speak to him.

I stood there, feeling rather foolish, with the receiver in my hand. I had nothing to say to Garth, nothing. He was not Garth to me anymore; he had not been for years: he was Kitty's husband.

“This is Charlotte,” I told him, “Kitty missed her train.”

“That was a pity,” the voice sounded a trifle dry.

“I shall like having her.”

“Good of you,” Kitty's husband said. “I'm afraid it will be a trouble.”

“No trouble,” I assured him.

Kitty was peering out of the window again; she dropped the blind as I finished speaking and came back to the fire. I looked at her and saw that her cheeks were very pink, and her hand, which she had laid upon the edge of the mantelpiece, was trembling.

“Are you—is anything the matter?” I asked her anxiously.

“I have such a wretched headache,” she said. “Garth is so inconsiderate, he makes me mad. As if I
wanted
to miss the ghastly train.”

I filled a hot-water bottle and slipped it into the bed. It was all ready now, smooth, and white, and tempting. I prided myself on the smooth perfection of my bed-making.

“It looks nice,” Kitty said. “And what a pretty nightie! Don't wake me early, Char.”

I told her that I breakfasted at eight and must be out of the flat by nine.

“That's all right,” she said. “Just leave me to sleep and I can get up later when you've gone. I don't know how on earth you can get up at that unearthly hour—I should be a wreck.”

“I have to,” I replied shortly.

“Rather you than me. It upsets me for the whole day if I have to get up early. Anyhow there is no need for you to wake me tomorrow.”

“I'll bring you your breakfast in bed,” I suggested.

“No, no—just let me sleep.” She laughed. “I was always a sleepy-head, wasn't I, Char?”

“You won't know where anything is.”

“I'll find out. It will be rather fun. I'll get up later—perhaps about eleven—and make myself a cup of tea.” She yawned. “Gracious, how tired I am! I could sleep for a week.”

“You don't look tired,” I told her.

“Well, I am,” she said. “Dead dog tired.”

We kissed each other good night, and I left her to go to bed.

I was tired myself, and the couch was more comfortable than I had expected. I slept well. The time had passed when I could not sleep, when I had turned and twisted, suffering in mind and body, and longing for the dawn. I had passed through all that and had attained resignation and peace within.

The morning came all too soon; I rose at my usual hour and prepared my breakfast on the little table by the fire. I was very quiet as I went about my task, careful not to clatter the plates, nor to rattle the kettle when I put it on the stove. The walls of the flat were thin and Kitty must not be disturbed. I finished my breakfast and left it as usual for Mrs. Cope to clear. I put aside some milk for Kitty's tea, and I managed to unearth a lemon from the recesses of my modest larder—Kitty always used to take lemon in her morning cup of tea, I remembered. Anyhow it was there and she could have whichever she liked. It was lucky about the lemon. I saw that there was enough butter in the dish and I put out the loaf with the knife beside it, and a pot of marmalade. Mrs. Cope would be finished by ten—she had another flat to “do” at 10:30—so she would probably have left before Kitty was ready for her breakfast. Kitty would manage now with everything put out conveniently; there would be no need for her to poke in my cupboard for what she wanted.

Mrs. Cope was coming up the stairs as I went down. We were so regular in our hours, she and I, that we usually met on the stairs or in the street. I told her about Kitty and warned her to be quiet. “Mrs. Wisdon had a bad headache,” I said.

“Pore soul!” said Mrs. Cope easily. “I'll maike 'er a cup o' tea laiter, shall I, Miss?”

The idea seemed good. I had not told Kitty of Mrs. Cope's daily advent, but that didn't matter. I would save Kitty the trouble of making tea for herself. Mrs. Cope could easily stay a little longer and make Kitty some tea—say about eleven. We arranged the matter like that, and I ran on to catch my bus.”

The days passed. I heard no word from Kitty—I had not expected to hear—sometimes months passed without my hearing from Hinkleton. It was easier, really, to forget that such a place as Hinkleton existed, and to fill my days with the little incidents of Wentworth's, the chatter of Mrs. Cope, and the companionship of books.

And then, quite suddenly, Kitty came back into my life. I looked up from my desk at Wentworth's, where I was engaged in listing books, and there was Kitty standing in the doorway. Her eyes were blinded by the sudden transition from the glare of the summer streets to the dimness of the shop. There was always that pause in the doorway when a stranger came to Wentworth's, the sort of pause a diver makes before he takes the plunge.

Mr. Wentworth hastened forward, he had an eye for a pretty woman and Kitty was indubitably that.

“Miss Dean,” Kitty said with a little catch of her breath. “She—she works here, doesn't she?”

He bowed and motioned me forward. The shop was empty of customers at the time. I could see that Mr. Wentworth was intrigued by Kitty's arrival, nobody had ever before come to Wentworth's and asked for Miss Dean.

“Kitty, what is it?” I said.

“Oh, Charlotte, I'm in trouble!”

“In trouble?”

“Dreadful trouble. Where can I speak to you?”

“I shall be free in another hour,” I told her.

“I can't wait,” she said. “I can't wait—couldn't you ask—couldn't you come now?”

She was trembling in every limb. I didn't know what to do with her. Mr. Wentworth was hovering in the background; he sensed that something was wrong.

“Miss Dean,” he said at last, “if you would care to take your friend into the office—I can see she is upset—a trifle faint, perhaps. The heat, the glare of the streets, I find it trying myself sometimes—or if you would rather go home—”

He was fussing about solicitously.

“Oh, thank you!” Kitty cried. “If you would let her come—that would be the best way—it is important, very important.”

I fetched my coat and hat; Kitty had a taxi waiting outside; I gave the man the address of my flat and we got in. It was years since I had driven in a taxi through the London streets, I would have enjoyed it if I had not been so anxious about Kitty. She sat forward on the seat twisting her gloves.

“How slowly he is going!” she exclaimed. “We shall never get there at this rate. They go slowly on purpose, these taxi-drivers, so as to get more money for their fare.”

“What has happened, Kitty?” I asked her.

“Oh God! How can I bear it?”

“What on earth has happened?”

“Wait,” she said. “I can't tell you here.”

The taxi drew up at the block of flats and we climbed out. Kitty searched in her bag for money to pay the man, it rolled into the gutter out of her nerveless hand. I took her by the elbow and helped her up the stairs.

Mrs. Cope was still in the flat. She always came back in the afternoon to prepare my supper and leave it for me.

“Lor', what a fright you give me!” she exclaimed, gazing at us as though we were apparitions from another world. Mrs. Cope was the type of woman who, at every deviation from the normal routine, is afflicted with “palpitations.” I was home early today, of course, more than an hour earlier than usual; I saw that the “palpitations” were imminent.

Kitty sank into the basket chair. “Send her away, Charlotte, for God's sake!” she exclaimed irritably.

Mrs. Cope had followed us into the sitting room, she heard the careless words, was intended to hear them. Kitty never considered the feelings of servants; they existed only for the purpose of ministering to her needs. When she did not require them they ceased to exist. I saw that Mrs. Cope was hurt and offended—and I was sorry. I liked Mrs. Cope, she was a kindly woman and her chatter was amusing. She was a human being to me.

“Mrs. Wisdon is tired,” I said gently. “Don't bother about tea, Mrs. Cope. I will get it myself.”

“Ho!” said Mrs. Cope. “So Mrs. Wisdon is tired, is she?” She looked at Kitty with a curious expression upon her small determined face.

“Yes,” I told her. “Mrs. Wisdon has had a tiring day.”

“Ho! She's 'ad a tiring d'y, 'as she? Fancy that now!”

“You will be glad to get home a little earlier,” I insinuated.

She took off her apron and folded it up and fetched her battered old straw hat which hung on a peg behind the kitchen door.

“I knows when I'm not wanted,” she said in surly tones.

“What a frightful woman!” exclaimed Kitty, before the door had shut behind Mrs. Cope's retreating figure. “How on earth do you bear her, Charlotte? It would kill me to have a woman like that in my house.”

I asked her if she would like some tea.

“Haven't you got anything else?” she inquired. “Brandy or something—anything—I'm all in, Charlotte. Absolutely dead to the world.”

I gave her some brandy that I kept for medicinal purposes—it was all I had—and made some tea for myself. Kitty sipped the brandy slowly and with some distaste.

“I suppose it
is
brandy,” she said. “It isn't the least like the brandy Garth has.”

“I never thought it was like Garth's brandy,” I replied a trifle bitterly. “Garth can afford to pay for the best—I can't.”

“Don't be cross, Char,” she said. “You're all I've got now. Garth has gone mad—stark staring mad.”

I paused and looked at her with the teapot in my hand.

“I should never have married Garth,” she continued. “He changed—you know—changed utterly. He wasn't like the same man. We never got on, never from the first. He was always sneering at me, sneering at my friends. Oh, Charlotte, it's been ghastly! What a life I've had! What a life! Never any fun, never any amusement with him.”

“But you went about—to theaters,” I said in a dazed way. Kitty had never spoken like this before. I had realized vaguely that she and Garth did not get on well together, but not that things were serious.

“Theaters!” cried Kitty. “
Garth
never took me. I went with—with other people. Why shouldn't I? If he chose to live like a hermit, writing all day when he was at home, or starting off at a moment's notice for some outlandish place that nobody ever heard of, was I to sacrifice everything to him? Was I to sit at home waiting for him to come back to me when he chose? I knew he hated my friends and despised them, but I didn't care. They amused me.
He
never bothered to amuse me. I had to find my own amusement. And now—now this.”

“Now what?” I asked her. “What has happened?”

She took a long envelope from her bag and showed it to me—there were papers in it, typewritten papers, I drew them out of the envelope and gazed at them incredulously. The words upon them swam before my eyes—“In the High Court of Justice…Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division…In the Matter of the Petition of Mr. Garth Wisdon…”

“Kitty, what does it mean?”

“They're Divorce Papers. Garth is trying to get a divorce from me,” she cried wildly. “That's what it means. It has come to that…Do you hear, Char? He's trying to divorce me—
me
.”

“But why?” I asked, stupidly.

“Why? Because I've been out to lunch with other men, and to a play occasionally. He's so dull. He wants me to be dull too. He wants to spoil my whole life and make me old and dull like himself. He must be mad…you see that, don't you? He must be mad.”

“But he can't divorce you for that—for going out to lunch—”

“No, he can't, he can't do a thing. He's got no proof…I shall fight it…he'll see…he shan't drag me through the mud…he'll find I have something to say about it. He can't prove anything wrong—not a thing—he's mad. Garth is mad…I shall tell everyone he is mad…don't look at me like that, Charlotte. What are you thinking about?”

“I'm just thinking how glad I am that father is dead.”

“Char! Oh, Char, don't be a brute! It isn't my fault; how could I help Garth going mad? There never was anything wrong, it's all made up. He's got to prove it and he can't. You'll see, Char, Garth will be the laughingstock of the—Char, speak to me, tell me it will be all right.”

“How can I, when I know nothing about it?” I asked her in a dazed way. “I don't understand—anything.”

“Say it will be all right,” she cried, seizing my hand. “Comfort me, Char. You must comfort me and say everything will be all right. I've had a ghastly day—simply ghastly. I didn't know what to do—my head is bursting—you might be nice to me, Char.”

“Tell me more about it,” I said helplessly.

“I've
told
you all about it,” she replied. “I've told you the whole thing is made up—a tissue of lies—what more is there to tell you? Char, you must go and see Garth and tell him to withdraw it—or whatever it is they do—tell him he can't divorce me. I can't stand it; I shall go mad—tell him that. You
must
, Charlotte, I've got nobody else, you
must
help me.”

“Where is Garth?” I asked her.

“In Wales. He has been away for weeks, climbing mountains or something. He goes off and enjoys himself, he never thinks of me; he's utterly selfish, utterly selfish. My God, he shall pay for this—this insult.”

She talked on wildly for a long time, wringing her hands and walking about the room. I could make no sense of what she said and I scarcely knew what questions to ask her to clarify matters, the whole thing was so unexpected, so bewildering, so absolutely incredible to me. The only coherent idea in Kitty's head was that I should see Garth, that I should start off at once, for the outlandishly named Welsh village where he was staying, and persuade him to withdraw the petition.

“He'd do it if you asked him to,” she said confidently.

“I'm quite sure he wouldn't.”

“He would, I know he would.”

“Why on earth should he?” I asked.

“Oh, you have always been friends,” she said, looking at me strangely. “That's why I came to you. If you ask Garth to withdraw it, he will. It's not much to ask—I think you might do that much for me—for your only sister.”

“My dear Kitty, you are quite mistaken. Garth and I…haven't been friends for years. He doesn't even like me now. Besides, we don't know, it might be a foolish move. We ought to consult a solicitor first.”

“A solicitor,” cried Kitty. “Of course, I must go to a solicitor. I've been half mad with the worry of it or I would have thought of it before. Ring up and order a taxi at once.”

She took out a comb and began to tidy her hair in front of the little mirror in my sitting room, and to rouge her lips.

My idea was to take Kitty to father's solicitors—an old-established firm—but Kitty declared they would be no use at all. She knew of somebody else, somebody I had never heard of.

“He's clever,” she said. “I must have somebody with his head screwed on properly. These old-fashioned firms are no use at all. Mr. Corrieston is the very man. We met him out at a dinner at the Eltons'—Garth couldn't bear him—Garth doesn't like people who are clever and amusing. Mr. Corrieston's the very man—you needn't come, Charlotte.”

“Wouldn't you like me to come?” I inquired in surprise.

“No,” she said. “It will be better for me to see him alone first. I know him, you see, so it will be quite all right. And I can explain better—there's absolutely no need for you to come. I'll go and see Mr. Corrieston now, this very minute—I can't rest till I've seen him.”

She went.

I didn't know the man's name then, but I came to know it only too well in the weeks that followed. Kitty came up from Hinkleton constantly and had interminable interviews with him. She quoted what he said. “Mr. Corrieston said so,” was the last word in any discussion. Mr. Corrieston said I was not to go and see Garth; it would be a confession of weakness. Mr. Corrieston said that Garth's neglect of Kitty must on no account be mentioned in court, it would create a wrong impression. Mr. Corrieston said it would be all right if Kitty said this, and that, and forbore to say the other.

I confess the whole affair was beyond my comprehension. I never felt that I understood it. I never got to the bottom of the matter. It was hopeless to question Kitty; she contradicted herself flatly again and again. I tried to find out what her feelings were. Deep down beneath the rage against Garth, which bubbled continually upon the surface, she must surely have some feelings about him. I tried to question her—did she still love him?

“Love him!” she cried. “How could I possibly love him? He was unbearable. He was always sneering at me in that horrid way—you know that sneering way he looks at you as if you were the greatest fool God ever made. (I
was
, of course, when I married him.) George was sorry for me; he used to take me to shows. I met him sometimes in town for lunch. I knew Garth was jealous of George Hamilton but I didn't care. And then I found that I was being followed.”

“Followed?”

“Yes, followed by a detective—
Garth
had
me
followed
. Did you ever hear of such a beastly thing? He was a horrible little man in a bowler, he followed me when I went to town and met George. He followed me to your flat the night I stayed with you—that's why I was so upset. It was so dreadful for George—the whole thing is dreadful for George. I wish you could meet him, Charlotte, but Mr. Corrieston says it will be better if you don't meet him, better if you don't know him at all. George is so quiet and—and good-natured, he wouldn't hurt a fly. He's amusing too; he's not a dull, dreary creature like Garth.”