The Young Clementina

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Garth!” I exclaimed.

  “It horrifies you,” he said, laughing unmirthfully, “that I should lay traps for a child.”

  “But why?”

  “Can’t you guess? I was looking for her mother in her, that’s all. I wanted to find out how much of Kitty had found its way into Clem. So I laid traps for her—it doesn’t sound very nice but I am not a very nice person, you see.”

  “You used to be—nice,” I said with difficulty.

  “Pshaw! That was long ago when I was young and ignorant. I thought the world was a marvelous place. I know better now, I know what hell life can be, and I know women. Women will always lie to gain their ends, they are made crooked.”

  “Not all,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, all,” he replied. “Thank God I shall be free from women for a year—you don’t find women in the desert. For a whole year I shall live with men, reasonable beings who say what they mean and tell the truth. I’m sick of women, of their lies and subterfuges. Women clog the wheels of life—they take an unfair advantage of their reputed weakness. There is little weakness about a woman when she has a purpose to gain.”

  “We are not all crooked, Garth,” I told him, in a low breathless voice—his violence frightened me. “You have just said that Clementina is straight, that you searched for deceit in her and found none.”

  “Clem is not a woman yet,” replied Garth. “She will learn it all in time.”

  I did not reply. His words had hurt me to the core. When had Garth found deceit in me, I wondered.

  There was a long silence; he drifted into thought, his brow furrowed, his teeth gripping firmly the stem of his pipe. Presently he sighed like a person wakening from sleep and sat down in the big leather chair at the other side of the fire and stretched out his long legs. “Africa has always fascinated me,” he said. “That is why I went out there four years ago. The big game hunting was merely an excuse—it doesn’t really amuse me to kill animals that have never harmed me—I wanted to meet Africa face to face. Of course I didn’t because there wasn’t time. I didn’t know enough about it beforehand. I had engaged porters for a definite period, and I had not sufficient provisions. We were just approaching the really interesting part when I had to turn back. The porters were nervous, they thought I was cutting things too fine, they knew what it meant to be short of food—it meant death. But although I had not enough time to do what I wanted I saw enough to make me greedy for more. It is so wonderful to push off into the unknown, to leave civilization behind. You leave your troubles behind; they seem small in that immensity. A plain is more awe-inspiring than a mountain, because it seems limitless. The silence is healing, the stars—their brightness—they seem so much larger—oh, it is impossible to give you any idea of the unearthly beauty of it all. It is not really flat, you know. There are huge waves of sand. They stretch as far as you can see on every side—but it’s no good. I can’t begin to make you see it, Char. Just before we turned back a strange thing happened. One night I was sitting by the door of my tent—I was just going to turn in—when I heard a great jabbering of porters. I called the head boy and he told me that they had found the body of a man. It was half buried in the sand. I went over to have a look at it. The man had not been dead long. I was surprised at his appearance. He did not belong to any of the African races—at least none that I knew of. I am rather interested in physiology and I have studied the subject a bit so I knew enough to be fairly certain of my ground. After a brief examination I felt sure that the man belonged to some hitherto unknown tribe, it would take too long to tell you my reasons for this conclusion, suffice it to say he appeared to be higher in the social scale than the usual run of African. He differed from the known tribes in the measurements of his skull, and in the fine silky texture of his hair. His features were aquiline, his skin soft and pale brown. He wore bracelets of gold wrought with symbols and sights of which neither I nor any of the porters knew the meaning.”

  “Did you bring the bracelets home?”

  “I wanted to, but the porters made a terrific fuss when they saw what I meant to do. They are superstitious about robbing the dead. The head boy explained to me that the dead man’s spirit would follow us and lead us astray and that we should all perish in the desert. I didn’t care for that, of course, but the porters would not have stayed with me if I had taken the bracelets, and I didn’t want to be left high and dry with no porters. That would have been the end of me, and not a pleasant end. I went back to my tent, meaning to try and get the bracelets later without being seen, I wanted them, not for their intrinsic worth, but for a proof that the man was real and not just a figment of my imagination. I knew that nobody would believe my story unless they saw the bracelets. The porters knew that I wanted the bracelets and they never gave me a chance to get them. In the morning the man had vanished, bracelets and all, vanished as mysteriously as he had come.”

  “How exciting!” I exclaimed.

  “You believe the story then,” he said, looking at me curiously. “It’s pretty far-fetched. Sometimes I hardly believe it myself.”

  “You never found out any more,” I said.

  “No, I could do nothing. Time was short and the stores were running low. We had to go back. But I made up my mind to return when I could manage it and try to find traces of the tribe to which the man belonged—it might be interesting. The man can’t have fallen from the skies—there must be some explanation of his presence there.”

  “How would you explain it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “I should like to think that he belonged to an ancient civilized tribe, isolated in some fertile valley, but the real explanation is probably much less romantic. He might be some highborn Indian strayed from a caravan.”

  “Oh no!” I cried. “I’m sure you’ll find the Bracelet Men.”

  “Good lord! Why do you call them that?” he said quickly. “That’s what I call them when I think about them.”

  I did not remind him that long ago we had been such close companions that our minds had constantly worked in unison—those days were dead. I could not speak of them. There were too many things about Garth that I did not understand; he was a man of mystery to me.

  “Do you still keep a diary, Char?” he asked suddenly.

  I said I did.

  “So do I! The habit is rooted in me. I would as soon go to bed without brushing my teeth as omit to jot down the day’s doings. It’s funny how the diary habit persists. My last book was written entirely from my diary. I merely edited it, and added a few explanatory notes. I propose to do the same thing on this trip. I shall keep a full record of everything that happens and edit it on my return. I’m telling you this of set purpose, Char.” He laughed lightly and added, “If I don’t return you can write my book for me.”

  “I hope there will be no question of that?”

  “Do you?” he said, smiling wryly. “I don’t much care. Life isn’t so damned wonderful.”

  Garth filled his pipe again and puffed at it for a few moments in silence. The air was filled with a blue haze.

  “Well, I think that’s all,” he said at last. “Perhaps you will excuse me, Char I’ve got some things to see to and I shall be off early in the morning. If there’s anything you want ask Ponsonby—you’ve got his address.” He rose and held out his hand. “Good-bye, Char. I’m sleeping tonight at the Parsonage. Rather funny, isn’t it? Me at the Parsonage and you here.”

  “At the Parsonage?” I exclaimed in amazement.

  “Yes, at the Parsonage. Mr. Frale is old and deaf and a crashing bore, and the bed will probably be damp and stuffed with bricks but I’m not taking any chances. I’ve been the butt of the County for years—every gossip-monger in the place makes free with my name. I prefer not to have it said that I inveigled you down to this house of ill fame and went to bed with you.”

  “Oh, Garth, don’t be so bitter
!”

  “House of ill fame is good,” he went on, with a sort of wild incoherence that was frightfully alarming. “That motto in the hall—so appropriate don’t you think—‘Valorous Men, Virtuous Women.’ I thought at one time of tearing it down and putting a picture in its place—some biblical subject you know—but there were so many to choose from I couldn’t make up my mind. I was deliberating whether to have David and Bathsheba, or Jezebel looking out of her window, when I suddenly saw the humor of it and decided to leave it as it was. It’s the very thing to decorate a brothel, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t torture yourself,” I said, or rather I tried to say it; he did not hear me or heed me.

  “These things sound worse in plain language,” he continued with a wild laugh. “I thought it was marvelous how they steered their way round all the nasty words in court; they referred to me as ‘the petitioner’—it sounds much better than the cuckold, doesn’t it? And respondent isn’t really so offensive as whore—”

  I felt as if I could not bear another word, it was cruel, cruel and disgusting. I think I hated Garth at that moment. I rose and made for the door without a word. He followed me and switched on the lights in the hall.

  “Good night, Char,” he said when I was halfway upstairs. I looked down over the banisters and saw him standing in the doorway of the library. He was smiling at me kindly, sadly. The harshness and bitterness had disappeared. “Good night Char, and good-bye,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  Brown Betty

  It was a long time before I could sleep, that night. Garth’s outburst had upset me, had frightened me—he was obviously not normal. I wondered whether it was right for him to go to Africa when he was in such a state. And yet what could I do? I could not see myself suggesting to Garth that he should stay at home and see a doctor—what doctor could help him? It was his mind, not his body, that was diseased. I tossed and turned upon the comfortable bed, I went over the conversation word for word. Gradually the anger which had filled my heart waned, and was replaced by a deep pity. I saw that the pain of his wounds had maddened him so that he was no more responsible for his wild words than a trapped animal that snaps at a friendly hand. It was no use saying that Garth should have been able to rise above his troubles; none of us are perfect, and Garth was peculiarly vulnerable to the trouble which had befallen him on account of his family pride, his pride of race. He had been wounded in his most vulnerable part, and the wound was festering.

  I remembered then what Garth had said about the peace of the desert, the healing silence. And how one’s troubles seemed trivial in that immensity of space. Perhaps Africa would heal Garth’s wounds. Perhaps he would leave his bitterness behind him and return, strong and well in mind and body, able once more to face life. The more I thought about it the more it seemed to me that it was the only chance for Garth—perhaps he, himself, knew this and was going to Africa in quest of his soul.

  I slept after this, a light disturbed sleep full of vague dreams and groundless alarms. The house awoke early. I heard the bustle of Garth’s departure and then silence. It was better not to see him again before he went, much better. We had settled everything and there was nothing more to discuss. I had found last night that it was impossible for us to talk to each other like ordinary people, we had been too near each other for that, and now we were too far apart. We had been close friends, we had loved each other with passion, and then Garth had hated me—after all that how could we go back and be ordinary friends again? There was too much between us that could never be spoken of, never be explained. I realized very clearly that the less we saw of each other in the future the better it would be for us both.

  When I had settled this in my mind I felt more peaceful. I was very tired, for there had been so much to arrange before leaving London, and the excitements and emotions of my arrival at Hinkleton had exhausted me. It was extraordinarily pleasant to lie in bed and have my breakfast brought to me on a tray. To glance through the papers at my leisure, and to know that I could stay in bed as long as I liked, and that when I chose to get up there was a bathroom—my very own bathroom—next door, complete with hot water, bath salts and towels hanging on hot rails awaiting my pleasure. Nobody can really appreciate luxury unless they have suffered long years of discomfort, I thought. I looked round the bright spacious room with its pretty chintz and polished furniture which was to be my home for at least a year. I should be ungrateful if I could not be happy here, ungrateful and foolish. I must make the most of my time, and look neither forward nor back. In the corner by the window stood the old schoolroom bureau which had come here to keep me company in my new life. Near the fireplace stood the old basket chair. They fitted into their new surroundings surprisingly well, in spite of their shabbiness; I hoped to fit into my new surroundings as easily.

  Later on I got up and went downstairs. It struck me that Clementina might need a little companionship after her father’s departure, and it was my duty to supply it. At first I could see no signs of the child; the house was full of soft sunshine. I went from room to room. It seemed strange that this house, which I had known and loved all my life, should now be mine to direct—even for a temporary period. I began to rearrange a bowl of flowers which stood on the hall table—big shaggy chrysanthemums from the hothouses—not so much because the flowers required attention, as because the mere fact that I was entitled to touch them gave me pleasure. I was still engaged upon my self-appointed task when the front door opened and Clementina came in. She looked as if she had been crying, and the sight of her small white face stirred my heart.

  “Daddy’s gone,” she said.

  I slipped my hand through her arm and pressed it gently. “I know,” I said. “It was best for him to go. He will enjoy it. You and I must get to know each other, to love each other.”

  She made no movement; it was like holding the arm of a wooden figure.

  “I don’t want to,” she said.

  “You don’t want to,” I echoed in surprise.

  She drew her arm away and stood looking out through the open door. “I don’t want to love anybody,” she explained. “Everybody that I love goes away. It’s better not to love people.”

  “Daddy will come back,” I told her, trying to speak lightly. My heart had sunk at her words, and it was difficult to hide my disappointment. How was I going to find the way to Clementina’s heart if it were already closed to me? I realized that it was better not to pursue the subject, so I kept my feelings to myself. She stood and watched me while I finished the flowers.

  “What are we going to do?” I said as I put the last shaggy head into its place and stepped back to admire the effect.

  “Daddy said I was to take you down to the stables if you got up in time,” she replied. “I’ve got some apples for the horses.”

  We walked down to the stables together. Clementina was polite but distant. I found it difficult to make conversation with her; she made me feel shy and awkward. I asked her questions about her games and her lessons and she answered me. It was hard work, and I felt all the time that I was estranging the child still further. She would think me inquisitive and interfering with all my questions, but we could not walk along in grim silence and I had no other conversation to offer her.

  The head groom came forward when he saw us approaching, and touched his cap respectfully.

  “This is Sim, Aunt Charlotte,” said Clementina in her precise little voice.

  I shook hands with Sim. He seemed a good type of man—quiet and capable. This was the one person on the estate whom I must not sack—I thought there was little chance that I should want to do so. I looked round the stables with interest and a strange pain. They were so familiar to me in the old happy days when I used to exercise Garth’s pony for him. I saw that everything was beautifully kept, the yard clean, the taps burnished, the straw edging to the stalls crisp and golden. Sim led us across the yard and opened the door of a loos
e-box. He said nothing, but there was a queer mixture of eagerness and anxiety in his air. I looked in and saw a brown mare with the strong quarters and beautiful lines of a well-bred hunter. She looked round at me and moved uneasily. I went in and patted her. What a beautiful coat she had, soft as silk!

  “She is a beauty, Sim,” I said. “Is she Mr. Wisdon’s hunter?”

  “No, Miss,” replied Sim, smiling at me in a friendly way. “Mr. Wisdon bought ’er for you. She’s a beautiful lady’s mount. Plenty of spirit and no vice—pleasure to ride she is.”

  “For me!” I exclaimed in amazement.

  “Yes, Miss. Mr. Wisdon sold ’is own two hunters. They weren’t suitable for a lady. Too big and heavy. Mr. Wisdon rides about twelve stone you see.”

  “He bought—he bought this mare for me?”

  “Yes, Miss, you will be huntin’ with Miss Clem, won’t you, Miss?”

  Clementina put an apple into my hand and I gave it to the lovely creature. It was pure joy to feel her soft velvety nose in my hand, nuzzling at the fruit. The years fell away and I was a girl again, young and carefree, full of life and hope. It was all so much the same—the smells of the stable, the feel of the velvet nose—and yet everything had changed; I had changed, and Garth—Garth had changed most of all.

  Sim came into the box and removed the cloths, he showed me the mare with pride, making her stand over and speaking to her with the strange mixture of affection and firmness which horses understand.

  “Brown Betty, ’er name is,” he said. “Mr. Wisdon kept the gray for me, and Miss Clem ’as ’er cob, Black Knight, so there we are, and we can ’ave two days a week easy.”

  “Can I ride today?” I asked Sim.

  “Why, of course, Miss,” he replied as pleased as Punch. “Why not? Brown Betty’s bin waiting for you. ’arf an hour in the afternoon—say three o’clock if that suits you.”