When Mr. Corrieston had gone I went home slowly, thinking over all he had said. There was a big car standing outside the main door of my flat, and I wondered, as I passed up the stairs, whose car it could be. Big cars seldom find their way to France Street; the people in the flats below mine are all as poor and friendless as myself. As I reached the top floor, fumbling for my key, I saw that somebody was waiting for me on the landing—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a navy blue overcoat and a soft gray hat. He turned as I came up the last few steps and I saw that it was Garth.
“Garth!” I said in amazement.
“Yes, Garth,” he said, smiling rather sadly. “Garth come to trouble you further with his unfortunate affairs. May I come in for a few minutes, Char?”
I opened the door and we went in. He had never been in my flat before and I wondered what he was thinking of it. It took him all his time to squeeze past Jeremiah into the sitting room. Even there he looked immense, towering over everything, filling the whole place with his presence.
“Won’t you sit down?” I said.
He chose the old schoolroom chair which had come from the Parsonage.
“I feel quite at home in this chair,” he said, “although it seems to have grown a good deal smaller since the last time I sat in it.”
I laughed nervously and began to make the tea.
“I suppose you are very angry with me, Char,” he suggested, after a few moments’ silence.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know. I don’t understand why you did it—it was so horrible—but you didn’t come here to ask me that.”
“No, I didn’t,” he admitted. “I came to ask you—but you must let me do this in my own way, or it will be hopeless. I want to explain first of all why I had to do it, why I had to divorce Kitty.”
“I know you were within your rights,” I told him. “She behaved disgracefully, but so did you.”
“What do you mean, Char?”
“You weren’t kind to her,” I said. “If you had been kind she wouldn’t have wanted—other people. She was so young when you married her that I think you could have made something of her if you had tried. Couldn’t you have tried, Garth? Couldn’t you have helped her? You turned away from her—”
I stopped suddenly, for a lump had risen in my throat and I could not go on. I was still weak and foolish after my illness.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I turned away from her.”
There was silence for a few moments and a coal fell out of the fire which Mrs. Cope had lighted for me before she left. Garth leaned forward and put it back.
“I can’t forgive you easily for that,” I told him in a voice that was blurred with tears. “You are so much older than Kitty, so much wiser—and you had promised to love her and cherish her.”
“That’s true, Char,” he said gravely. “That’s quite true, and I can’t explain—anything. I’m sorry you feel it hard to forgive me because it makes it harder for me to ask you—what I have come to ask you.”
“What have you come to ask me?”
“A favor,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you about it soon—after we have had tea.”
I set the tea on the little table near the fire, Garth looked round the room and his eyes brightened. “I wondered where the old schoolroom bureau had gone,” he said. “It’s friendly to see the old thing again. I always liked that nice fat bulge in front—what a job you must have had getting it through the door!”
“It was an awful job,” I told him.
“Did you know Kitty is going to marry George Hamilton?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“I’m glad. Hamilton loves her and I think they will be happy.”
“Then you did it for her,” I said eagerly. “For her sake, so that she could be happy.”
“I did it for Clem’s sake,” he said sternly. “For Clem and nobody else at all. Kitty is not worth considering.” He moved uneasily in his chair. “I could have divorced her before—there was a fellow called Bridges, and—well—one or two others, but they were all cads—none of them would have married her—and I didn’t want to turn her loose. Kitty isn’t the sort of woman who can fend for herself.”
I was aghast. I could not speak.
“Don’t be so upset, Char,” said Garth, smiling sadly. “Just think of us both as being caught in a trap from which there is no escape—except this horrible business of divorce.”
“It was so—so dreadful,” I said, shuddering at the recollection.
“I had to do it, Char. You must believe me when I tell you that. The whole atmosphere was so bad for Clem—it was ruining Clem. I’m not sure that it hasn’t ruined her already. Clem is eleven now, and she is clever. I mean she sees things she shouldn’t see, understands things she shouldn’t understand. I’m sure we didn’t understand the affairs of our elders when we were Clem’s age. They would have passed over our heads. Children seem to be different nowadays; perhaps it is because they are so much with grown-up people. Grown-up people are interested in them, talk to them and bring them forward. When we were young we were just children—rather a nuisance to our elders, rather a bore. I felt that everything was all wrong for Clem and there was only one way out of the mess so I took it. I couldn’t let Kitty divorce me because I had to have Clem; she is my daughter—she is all I have left out of the wreck. I had to have Clem, and anyhow I was sick of lies. If I had let Kitty divorce me I should have had to trump up a whole lot of evidence and lie myself blue in the face. I couldn’t do it—besides I had to have Clem. You see that don’t you, Char?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, that brings me to my reason for coming here. Will you come to Hinkleton and look after Clem while I’m away? Please do, Char. I’ve promised to go with Fraser on this expedition of his to Africa—or rather he has promised to take me—it’s a great chance and I want to go, I must get away from everything—I must. I shall go mad if I don’t get away, right away from everything. The expedition is going to penetrate into the heart of the desert—it will be marvelous, intensely interesting. I was out there four years ago—you read my book? Well, now I want to go farther, to penetrate right into the interior. Fraser is going on business, prospecting for an airplane route, and several well-known scientists are going for their own purposes. Fraser knows me and says he’ll take me if I pay my way—it’s a wonderful chance!” He got up and moved about the tiny room like a caged beast. “Do think of it, Char,” he said. “It would be a rest for you, wouldn’t it? You look as if you needed a rest.”
“I couldn’t afford to lose my job.”
“You are taking on another job,” he said quickly. “It will be a business arrangement, of course. Don’t think about the money part of it—trust me to see to that. Afterward, when I come back we can find you something else—Wentworth would take you back if you wanted that, or we could look about for something better. Don’t think of that now.”
“I have to think of it.”
“No, you don’t have to think of it. You shan’t lose by doing me this service; surely you realize that I would not let you lose by it.”
“I see so many—difficulties,” I told him. He had swept me off my feet by his vehemence, and I was trying hard to find firm ground.
“What difficulties?”
“I am a hermit. I have not mixed with people for years.”
“You will find it quite easy to be a hermit at Hinkleton.”
“And another thing: I should find it very hard to come back to this, after Hinkleton. Hinkleton would spoil me for the life I have to lead.”
He looked at me as if he understood, and then he walked over to the window and stood there, fiddling with the blind.
“I see that,” he said in a queer, strained voice. “But I’m going on being selfish all the same. You see, I shall be away a year at least, perhaps longer, an
d I must have somebody I can trust at Hinkleton. Somebody to look after Clem. Nanny is there, of course, but she is getting old and she can’t control things—she doesn’t understand Clem. Clem is a difficult child to understand,” he sighed.
“How would Nanny like it?” I asked.
“It was Nanny’s idea. She thought you would come for Clem’s sake, because Clem is your god-child. She thought it would be good for you to have the rest.”
“I’ll think about it,” I told him doubtfully.
“Do. You wouldn’t find it dull, would you? There’s hunting, you know. Clem loves it and you could hunt too.”
I did not answer that. I couldn’t, without giving myself away completely. Dull! Dull to be at Hinkleton! No, Garth, it wouldn’t be dull. It might be too painful, though, too painful to find myself temporary mistress of Hinkleton Manor.
He went away after a little and I said I would write and tell him when I had decided what to do.
***
So now you know, Clare. Now you know the whole story and can help me to choose my path. Am I to leave my hermit’s cell and venture forth into the world, or am I to stay here and settle down comfortably into my old life? I love Hinkleton—but perhaps I love it too much, too much to go and live there for a year and then leave it. The last time I left Hinkleton it nearly killed me. It took me years to get used to my new life, years of misery, they were. But now the misery and the pain have passed, passed in long nights of tears, and I am resigned, almost contented with my lot. Am I to risk further misery and pain because Garth wants me to look after his child—Garth who took my heart and broke it, who left it dead and withered so that no other man could touch it, who took from me my womanhood, my wifehood, my motherhood—the best things in life. I owe nothing to Garth, he has ruined us both—Kitty and me.
Hinkleton will awaken memories that have slept for years. I shall see again the country lanes starred with flowers, the woods, the little stream, the wide green meadows. I shall live in a beautiful house surrounded by every luxury, with servants to wait upon me and anticipate my every need. All this I shall have if I accept Garth’s offer, all this and more. Can I bear to have it for a little while and then come back to this?
If I decide to do this thing and face the pain, it will be for Clementina’s sake. For the sake of a child I have not seen for six years. Garth said she was a difficult child; difficult to understand. He said that Nanny did not understand Clementina—is it likely that I should do better? The prospect terrifies me. If I face it I shall face it because of the vows I made when I held Clementina in my arms eleven years ago. It seems strange that those promises, which seemed so empty at the time, should weigh so heavily in the balance now.
Oh, Clare, tell me what I must do! I have been content in my life here, in my life of books and dreams, and I could be content again. I am used to it now, used to the loneliness and the discomforts. I could settle down into the old groove peacefully—almost happily. What shall I do?
Chapter Eight
The Road Is Chosen
I had written thus far. It had taken me many hours. I had written far into the night while the fire died down and the noises of London faded and grew dim. I had written thus far, and I put down my pen and wondered what you would say. Would you bid me go or stay? Would you choose for me the high road of adventure or the low road of safety? And then, quite suddenly, and naturally I heard your voice, Clare, and I saw your vivid face as you turned to look at me and held out your hand for the bunch of country flowers.
“Pain is worthwhile sometimes,” you said.
Part Three
Clementina’s Father
Chapter One
Altered Circumstances
Sixteen months have passed since I wrote the preceding pages, and much has happened. My life has completely changed in the interval, so much so that I sometimes think—like the old woman in the song—“This is none of I.” And yet, though my circumstances have altered, the essential part of me is the same as ever. The same Charlotte, who lived in a poky flat and spent her days working in the dim library, now dwells in a mansion and orders things as she pleases. The same Charlotte, who sat up at night to turn her old winter coat, and dyed her shabby hat to make it do for a few months longer, can now have a complete new outfit whenever she needs it. But for all that she is the same woman, the same thoughts play havoc with her sleep, the same history lies behind her, and the same lean face—slightly browner and healthier looking I must admit—still looks at her from the mirror when she does her hair.
Sixteen months have passed, and, once more, I am taking up my pen. I intend to write an account of all that has happened since my arrival at Hinkleton Manor—the good things and the bad. I want to get my thoughts straightened out before I embark upon the task which lies before me. There are no cross-roads this time, my way is clearly marked. I can look ahead and see my way spread before me—a lonely way, but useful. A way marked out for my feet by the dead.
My reason for writing is different this time, it is not your advice that I am asking for, Clare, it is your companionship, your sympathy. I want to feel you here beside me in the long lonely winter evenings when the sun has gone down and I cannot work in the garden any longer; when I am tired of reading and the big empty library of the Manor is full of shadows—full of ghosts. So once more I am sitting down, pen in hand, at the old schoolroom bureau—which has been brought down to the library from my bedroom where it has been standing for the last sixteen months—and once more I look up and see you sitting by the fire with your bright eyes full of interest and understanding.
Clare, I was afraid I should lose you when I came here, but I have not lost you. You have come here too; I have felt you near me often and often, helping me over innumerable difficulties which beset my inexperience, giving me your advice, standing beside me, giving me confidence to go forward in my new life. You have come here too, you and I and Jeremiah and the bureau and the old chair and a few other odds and ends of furniture that I wanted to keep. Garth was kind about the old furniture, he did not sneer at the shabbiness which shows up so sadly among the polished perfection of Hinkleton Manor. He sent a van for my belongings, and when I arrived they were waiting for me—Jeremiah in the hall where Kitty had always wanted him, and the other things in the beautiful bedroom which had been prepared for me upstairs. It was nice to see them there (although, as I said before, their shabbiness was very apparent in their new luxurious setting); they made me feel more at home. And when things became too difficult, and my heart failed me, it was comforting to sit down in the old basket chair, whose knobby cushions had grown into my form, and to feel that it was my very own—an old friend, who had seen me through countless vicissitudes and countless crises.
The other things in the flat I sold. It seemed foolish to keep them and pay storage on them—they were not worth it. But I did not see them go unmoved. I felt somehow as if I were a traitor to them—they had grown old in my service, they were worn and pathetic. I knew every scratch upon the sideboard, every tear in the upholstery of the couch. And now I was selling them for a handful of silver—and a small handful at that. Where would they go, poor silent companions of my life? What hovel, what sordid lodging would give them house-room? Who would eat their meals off the table which had served me so faithfully for twelve long years?
I see you looking at me, Clare, with a whimsical expression in your eyes. “How verbose the creature gets!” it seems to say. “Has she brought me here to listen to a memorial upon her old furniture? Get on with the job, Charlotte.”
Chapter Two
Arrival at Hinkleton
It was wet and mild when I arrived at Hinkleton. The trees, touched with autumn color, dripped slowly. The gray light from the gray sky turned their wet leaves to silver and copper. Garth had sent a car to meet me at the station, and I stood in the rain while the porter and the chauffeur strapped my luggage onto the grid and disposed of my various
bags and bundles in the car. I loved the rain, I loved the mild air with its smell of damp earth and dripping verdure, I loved the soft gray sky spread out like a canopy above my head. Even the station yard with its brown oily puddles pleased me—it was Hinkleton, and that was all that mattered.
I asked the chauffeur to stop at the church for a moment, and I went in and looked about me. Here everything was the same, dear and familiar. The old church did not change—generations might come and go but the old gray building did not alter. At first it seemed as if a thousand years had passed since I had stood within its portals, and then it seemed that I had been here but yesterday. Almost, as I gazed up the nave, I expected to see father come out of the vestry door and walk round the front of the pulpit and up the altar steps, pausing for a moment to bend his head reverently to his God. His spirit was very near me, his arms enfolded me. I kneeled down and hid my face. Prayer did not come easily to me for I always feel that prayer is a silent thing, an opening of the heart. To ask for earthly benefits, to reel out a list of requirements and expect them to be supplied is not prayer. It is putting God in the same category as an intelligent grocer. But that day in Hinkleton Church I felt that something was listening to the speaking of my heart. The spirit of my earthly father and the Spirit of my Heavenly Father blessed me in my new life. I was sure then that the road I had chosen was the right road, and I went on my way strengthened.
As I came out of the church I paused for a few moments at my parents’ grave—it was more for my conscience’ sake than from any emotional feeling about the small green plot of ground. They were not here (I had felt father’s nearness in the church—here I could feel nothing). I saw that the grave was well cared for; the edges were tidy and the turf smooth and free from weeds. I wondered who had seen to this, for it had never crossed my mind to make any arrangements about it.
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