Copyright © 2013 by the Estate of D. E. Stevenson
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First published in 1938. Most recently published in 1979 simultaneously in the United States of America and Canada by Ace Books, a division of Charter Communications Inc., a Grosset and Dunlap Company, by arrangement with Holt, Rinehart, and Winston.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily)
The Young Clementina / D. E. Stevenson.
pages cm
(pbk. : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PR6037.T458Y68 2013
823’.912—dc23
2013010787
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Part One: Charlotte’s Friend
Chapter One: A Bunch of Country Flowers
Chapter Two: The Hermit in the City
Chapter Three: Days of Friendship
Chapter Four: The Birthday Dance
Chapter Five: Years of Waiting
Chapter Six: “It Is Odd How One’s Tastes Change”
Part Two: Kitty’s Husband
Chapter One: An Unexpected Visitor
Chapter Two: “Garth Is Mad”
Chapter Three: Fog in Court
Chapter Four: Mrs. Lily Cope
Chapter Five: “She Asked Me Not to Disturb Her”
Chapter Six: Mr. Corrieston Explains
Chapter Seven: The Cross-Roads
Chapter Eight: The Road Is Chosen
Part Three: Clementina’s Father
Chapter One: Altered Circumstances
Chapter Two: Arrival at Hinkleton
Chapter Three: The Bracelet Men
Chapter Four: Brown Betty
Chapter Five: “You’re a Stranger, Aren’t You?”
Chapter Six: A Sentence Overheard
Chapter Seven: “The Young Diana”
Chapter Eight: Settling Down
Chapter Nine: “She Was Beautiful”
Chapter Ten: Nanny’s Story
Chapter Eleven: “I’m Glad They Aren’t Like the Other People”
Chapter Twelve: Bad News
Chapter Thirteen: Simple Documents
Chapter Fourteen: “I Shall Never Be Like Other Girls”
Chapter Fifteen: The Rock Garden
Chapter Sixteen: Waiting and Looking Back
Part Four: Charlotte’s Dream
Chapter One: Clare
Chapter Two: Garth’s Diary: “The Desert Wind”
Chapter Three: The Steeplechase
Chapter Four: “The Good Companion”
Chapter Five: Bluebeard’s Chamber
Chapter Six: Garth’s Diary: “Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things”
Chapter Seven: Garth’s Diary: “Battles Long Ago”
Chapter Eight: Charlotte’s Tears
Chapter Nine: The County Calls
Chapter Ten: Prospect Hill
Excerpt from Miss Buncle’s Book
Excerpt from Miss Buncle’s Married
About the Author
Back Cover
Part One
Charlotte’s Friend
Chapter One
A Bunch of Country Flowers
I wonder how a hermit would feel if he had spent twelve years in his cell and were called back to the world to take up the burden of life with its griefs and worries and fears; if he had passed through the fire of rebellion and achieved resignation; if his flesh had been purged by sleepless nights and his mind had found the anodyne of regular daily work. Would he feel afraid of the world, afraid of the pain awaiting him, afraid of his own inadequacy to deal with his fellow men after his long, long years of solitude? Would he refuse to listen when the world called, when his conscience whispered that his duty lay outside his cell, or would he gird up his loins and go forth, somewhat reluctantly, into the world which had turned its back upon him for twelve years?
My mythical hermit is standing at the parting of the ways, and so am I. Two roads are open to me, one lonely but well known, peaceful and uneventful; the other full of dangers and difficulties which I cannot foresee. Do what I like I cannot determine which road to take. There is a fog in my brain which clogs its working and prevents me from weighing the points at issue. I have tried to think out my problem for days—and nights—without getting any nearer a solution of my difficulties. Let me try to write it out for a change.
The idea of writing down one’s difficulties and perplexities is not a new one. Great men have found it valuable in clearing their minds and helping them to wise and deliberate judgment—why shouldn’t I, in my smaller way, find a solution to my difficulties in the same manner? My mind needs clearing, God knows, and if pen and paper will help me to clear it, I shall not grudge the time or the labor involved.
***
Having got thus far I sat down at my bureau and reached for my pen. Where should I begin? The roots of the matter lay buried thirty years deep—or very nearly so. Should I start in the present and go backward, digging up pieces of the past as I required them, or should I start in the time-honored manner with my birth in Hinkleton Parsonage on a cold, wet, windy night in the autumn of 1895? The first method seemed full of pitfalls, and the second a weariness of the flesh. My soul turned from the labor of writing with sick disgust.
And then, quite suddenly, I saw the way to do it—an idea came to me which simplified everything and made the labor of writing a pleasure; and, just as a duster, with a dash of methylated spirit, clears a dusty window, so my view was clarified. One moment the window was obscured and I could not see through it, and the next moment it was crystal clear and I was looking out at the winding paths of my life.
The idea which came to me was this, that I should write my whole story for you, and then, since you will never read it, I should read it with your eyes, and give myself your advice. I knew that it would be a pleasure to write for you. I have often wanted to pour my troubles into your sympathetic ear, and here was the opportunity, here was the excuse. The words would flow out of my pen easily, confidently, I need not hesitate to wonder whether you would understand, nor to change a sentence lest you should read it amiss, for you are one of the understanding ones, my dear, and the milk of human kindness is in your heart.
You do not remember me, of course—how could you remember—since the only time I ever saw you was three years ago, riding down Piccadilly on the top of a bus. What was there for you to remember—a tall, gawky woman, a woman with long limbs and a lean
, tired face? A woman neither young nor old, with gray eyes and crinkly brown hair. She was dressed in a shabby black coat and skirt and a dark red hat of the coal-heaver type, which happened to have just gone out of fashion at the time. Did you see this woman? You looked at her, of course, you smiled at her, you even spoke to her in a curiously deep voice. You thanked the shabby stranger for rescuing a bunch of wild flowers which had fallen under the seat and you said, somewhat apologetically, “I am taking them to a country woman who lives in a basement. She likes country flowers best, you see.”
There was meadow-sweet in the bunch, and dog-roses, and ox-eye daisies, and a host of other flowers which country children pick in the meadows and the hedges about their homes—country children with rosy faces and tangled hair.
I realized at once that you understand things; you were of the understanding kind. You were prosperous, that was obvious from the clothes you wore. (Your coat and skirt of navy blue flannel was plain but well cut, your black hat was perfect in its crisp line, your shoes and stockings, your gloves, your bag, the orange silk scarf twisted carelessly round your neck were all good, carefully chosen, the best of their kind. I noticed the soft wave of your dark hair and the smooth, well-tended texture of your slightly tanned skin). You were prosperous and comfortable, your life was a life of ease, but you still understood the feelings of those less fortunate than yourself, you still cared to understand.
How much easier it would have been for you to buy flowers in London for that woman you were going to see—how much easier than picking them yourself in the fields and meadows which lay about your pleasant country home and carrying them up to town in the train and the bus! You didn’t do the easier thing; you did the thing that would give the more pleasure. All this flashed through my mind in a moment. Almost before you had finished speaking I saw you in the fields, picking those flowers to take to town for the country woman who lived in a basement. I had settled you in the country in a beautiful house, I had given you a park full of old trees casting grateful shadows on the thick grass, I had given you a rose garden with a sundial, I had given you a husband, horses, cars, dogs.
I buried my face in the sweetness of the country flowers before I handed them back to you.
“She will love them,” I said.
“You don’t think they will make her homesick?” you asked, raising your dark eyebrows a trifle, and looking at me anxiously out of your night-blue eyes.
“They may,” I told you. “They have made me homesick, you see. But it was worth it.”
“Pain is worthwhile sometimes,” you said.
We looked at each other gravely (I wonder if you remember), I knew that we could become friends—we were friends already, I knew that we could talk to each other about things that mattered, not always agreeing perhaps, but always understanding and appreciating each other’s views. I knew that we could be silent together without discomfort, sitting over the fire and dreaming, letting a few words fall and then lapsing into more dreams. I knew—from that little quiver at the corner of your mouth—that we would see the same jokes, the tiny droll incidents which defy you to put them into words so delicate and evanescent they are.
Could I ask you your name, or tell you mine? Would you think me mad, a woman you had met for a few moments on the top of a bus, with whom you had exchanged a dozen words? I couldn’t do it, of course. I was too shy, too bound by the conventions of the civilized world (were you too shy, or didn’t you care?). I was too shy to ask you your name, and so I let you go. You smiled at me as you went. I never saw you again.
I never saw you again—what made me write those words? False words they are, false and misleading. You have been with me every day, you have shared all my jokes, you have read with me in the evenings and exchanged thoughts and criticisms. You have walked with me in the park, and had tea with me in my tiny sitting room. We have sat over the fire together talking of the past and surmising about the future. You are my only real friend, you see, the only woman friend I have ever had. I had always longed for a friend, a woman friend of my own generation, wise and witty and tender.
Of course I know that you have forgotten me long ago, you are not lonely like I am. You have a husband to share your life, a house to care for, a garden to enjoy, perhaps you have children. You would think it crazy that a woman you met three years ago for ten minutes should think of you as her greatest friend, but you would not grudge me the consolation of your shadowy presence if you knew what it meant to me.
Just one thing more before I begin my story—I have always called you Clare. I never knew anybody called Clare, but I love the name and it seemed to suit you. I had to have a name to call you when I needed you. “Clare!” and there you are, sitting in my shabby old chair, smiling at me and waiting for me to begin.
Chapter Two
The Hermit in the City
It is easy, now that I am doing it for you, to get on with this business of writing. I can tell you anything and everything. But everything is too big an order, so I must try to pick and choose, telling you a little here and a little there so that the woman who is me will emerge clearly from the pages—the real me, with all my faults, and all my mistakes. I must choose carefully, for I have not much time and my leisure for writing is stolen from my sleep.
From nine-thirty in the morning until six o’clock at night I work in a library, docketing the books, reading them through and recommending them to those people I think they will suit. The library is not one of those bright modern places where books, waiting to be bought, smile at you from tastefully arranged tables in gay paper jackets, but a musty dusty room on the ground floor of an ancient building, visited principally by old gentlemen with gold-rimmed spectacles and elderly ladies with woolen stockings—sometimes a little wrinkled about the ankles. You know the type, Clare. We have often laughed at them together, laughed at them quite kindly, even a little tenderly; they are so anxious and serious and polite, polite even to the library assistant at Wentworth’s. Occasionally an author drifts into the library and peers round at the dusty shelves in dismay. “Oh—er—I was told that this was a geographical library,” he says. “Have you—er—up-to-date travel books here?” “Any book that adds to the geographical knowledge of the world,” he is informed. “A book about Borneo,” he says deprecatingly (or Canada or the Antarctic perhaps). “A book about Borneo—something not too—er—heavy. Just to give one an idea of the—er—country and its inhabitants. A little local color—perhaps you can advise—”
Perhaps I can, because I make a point of reading all the books that come into the library—or at least glancing through them—and because this is my job and I have been at it for twelve years. Twelve years is a long time to spend among books about Borneo and Canada and the Antarctic. “Ah, thank you,” he says, flipping over the leaves and examining the illustrations with studied carelessness. “This does seem the kind of thing—this seems exactly—”
Authors often leave their sentences unfinished like that—at least the kind who come to Wentworth’s do—and they are always men. Women authors seem to bother less about local color, or perhaps they bother more. Perhaps they actually pack a couple of suitcases and trek off to Borneo or Canada or wherever it may be, before they send their hero there to hob-nob with head-hunters or to track moose.
Twelve years I have been there, with kind little Mr. Wentworth and his books. I was twenty-three when I went, and now I am thirty-five. The twelve best years of my womanhood have been given to Wentworth’s. At first I rebelled against the imprisonment, and the monotony of my days. I watched the shafts of sunlight struggle through the dim windows and move slowly from shelf to shelf and across the wooden floor. The same golden sun was shining in the meadows at Hinkleton, glancing with dazzling sparkles upon the river; the flowers were growing under its warm touch, turning their faces, their small bright faces, toward their God; the trees were busy too, opening fat buds and spreading their tender green leaves to c
atch its rays. Birds were singing in the woods and the small woodland animals were throwing off their winter languor and hurrying about their summer ploys. Often and often the slow difficult tears formed upon my lids and were brushed hastily aside lest they should fall upon my ledger and leave immortal trace of my weakness and misery. But that has passed, and now I am resigned to the life; I even find pleasure in it. The books—I have always loved books and I love them better now—are my greatest solace. I can take a travel book in my hands and voyage across the world. China, Burma, Jamaica—the very sound of the words is an enchantment bringing me sights and sounds, and odors that my senses have never savored.
So the day passes, and it is six o’clock. Mr. Wentworth comes out from his dark, poky little office and closes the door.
“Time, Miss Dean,” he says, smiling at me pleasantly. “No more voyages tonight, except in dreams.”
I smile, too, because I like the little man, he is kind and considerate, he does not interfere with me, he lets me alone to do things in my own way—an admirable employer.
I take my coat down from the nail behind the office door and fare forth on the last voyage of the day, the voyage through London’s streets with London’s multitudes jostling at my elbows.
We will walk home together, Clare, for you are coming to tea with me today. We will take a bus to Hyde Park Corner—a crowded bus I’m afraid, for this is one of London’s busiest hours—and walk across the park. It is autumn now, the leaves upon the trees are beginning to change color. Jack Frost has been here in the night and touched them lightly, so that here and there a patch of flame glows among the green. It is my birthday today, Clare, and I have bought a tiny cake. Perhaps you will think it rather a foolish thing for a woman of thirty-five to do—to buy a birthday cake and eat it all by herself with a dream companion, for her birthday tea; but I have missed so much in life that other women take as their due that you must forgive me my foolishness.
And now we have turned up France Street and reached the main door of No. 71. There is no lift here to take us up to the top floor which has been my home for twelve years. A tiny flat it is, high up among the chimney pots, two rooms and a tiny kitchen and a bathroom all my very own. I have tried to make it bright with distempered walls, and gaily colored chintz, but the smuts of London wage a continual war upon cleanliness and brightness, and I have neither the time nor the money to fight them with success. Mrs. Cope, my “daily woman,” comes in and does battle while I am at my work, but although she uses an incredible quantity of cleaning material—the sinews of her war—the result is indecisive, to say the least of it. There are some good pieces of furniture here, the grandfather’s clock which blocks my tiny hall came from my old home at Hinkleton. Its large pale face is one of my earliest recollections, so too the melodious chime of its hours. It stood in the hall at the Parsonage, and served us faithfully for many years, the whole timetable of that large rambling understaffed old house depended upon its slowly moving hands. My father gave it to me when he died because he knew I loved it, because I had wound it for him when he became too frail to climb upon a chair and attend to it himself, and because I understood its idiosyncrasies. He always called it Jeremiah, for its chime was melancholy, set in a minor key. Everybody knew it as Jeremiah; even Mother, who thought the joke was unbecoming in a parson, had been heard to refer to it as Jeremiah in times of stress. “It’s a quarter to one by Jeremiah, and Martha has not got the potatoes on!”
The Young Clementina Page 1
