The Young Clementina

by D. E. Stevenson

  When the time came for me to go back to the hotel he asked me to stay with him. He could easily put me in the spare room for the night, he said, looking at me with his pathetic brown eyes. But I could not stay. I was worn out. I had given him all the sympathy I could and I felt empty. I must have time for my own sorrow.

  He walked back to the hotel with me and left me there. I stayed at Brighton until after the funeral and then went home.

  Chapter Ten

  Nanny’s Story

  It was late at night when I arrived at the Manor. Nanny met me in the hall and we went into the library together. I had wired the news to her, but she was anxious to hear the details of Kitty’s death. Nanny had ordered some Bengers for me, and I sat by the fire sipping it and telling her all that had happened.

  “I’m glad she was happy,” Nanny said. “Poor soul! She wasn’t happy here. I’ll be glad to think she had a happy time before she died. I liked that Mr. Hamilton—he was a wicked man, I suppose, but I liked him.”

  “Did he come here often?” I asked her.

  “Yes, quite a lot,” Nanny said. “At first he came when Mr. Garth was here, and afterward he came when Mr. Garth was away. Mr. Garth used to go away a lot. There was one time he came for the weekend with his aunt (she was a nice lady), and something happened. I’ll tell you about it, Miss Char. It doesn’t matter telling you. Clemmie came and woke me up in the middle of the night. She’d been to the dentist the day before and her tooth was aching. Mrs. Wisdon had a bottle of aspirin, and the dentist said Clemmie was to have one if her tooth was bad. Clemmie said she’d been down to her mother’s room to get the aspirin and her mother wasn’t there. Well, I didn’t think much about it, I thought perhaps Mrs. Wisdon had gone along to the bathroom or something. I got Clemmie back to bed and went down to get the aspirin myself. Mrs. Wisdon wasn’t in her room and she wasn’t in the bathroom neither. Well, I took the aspirin out of the cupboard and took it up to Clemmie and gave her one. ‘Where can Mummy be?’ she said to me, looking at me with her big eyes. ‘Don’t you worry, my lamb,’ I said, ‘Mummy couldn’t sleep and she went downstairs to get a book.’ It was a silly thing to say, because Mrs. Wisdon never was much of a reader, but it was the first thing that came into my head. I was upset and I couldn’t think what to say. I didn’t know where Mrs. Wisdon was, but I did have a kind of suspicion, and I wasn’t going to have Clemmie worrying. Well, I could see Clemmie didn’t believe that. She just looked at me, but she didn’t say nothing. She’s like that, Clemmie, if you tell her a thing, and she doesn’t believe you, she just doesn’t say another word, but you know well enough you haven’t put her off with your story.

  “Where was I? Oh yes, well I tucked Clemmie up, and then I thought I better see about Mrs. Wisdon. She might be ill or she might not. I went down again, and she wasn’t anywhere about. I couldn’t make up my mind what to do. I sat and waited a bit, and then I thought I’d go downstairs and see if she’d gone to sleep by the fire or something, but she wasn’t there neither. It was four o’clock by the drawing room clock and bitterly cold. So then I came upstairs again to the first floor, and I heard voices on the landing. It was quite dark on the stair where I was, but Mrs. Wisdon’s bedroom light was on and the door was open. I heard Mrs. Wisdon say, ‘But, George, I know I left the light on. I always leave it on. I hate coming back to my room in the dark.’ ‘You can’t have,’ he says. ‘If you left it on, it would have been on when we came back.’ ‘Unless somebody turned it off,’ Mrs. Wisdon says. They talked a bit longer about the light in a worried sort of way, she saying she’d left it on and he saying she couldn’t have. I couldn’t remember whether it had been on or off when I came down, I’d been in such a state. Well, then they both came to the door and kissed each other and he went away. And Mrs. Wisdon she went back into her room and shut the door. I was all of a tremble, not knowing whether I ought to say anything or not. I went back to bed—it was no good saying anything then. I couldn’t sleep a wink I was so upset.”

  “Did you tell Garth about it?” I asked her.

  “Not then, I didn’t,” she replied. “It was so awful, Miss Char. I couldn’t make up my mind to tell him. I couldn’t speak to a soul about it, and that made it worse. If I could have talked to somebody—but of course I couldn’t. Well, it went on and on in my head and I began to think I was going mad with the worry of it. I couldn’t sleep, and I kept forgetting things—it was more than I could bear. So at last I said to myself I’d go and tell him the whole thing—it seemed to me that things couldn’t be worse than what they were. Mr. Garth was never at home and when he was he never spoke to nobody. I thought, ‘Perhaps they’ll have a row and it’ll clear the air’—that’s what I thought. So I wrote him a letter and said I wanted to see him—he wasn’t at the Manor you see—and I got a letter back telling me to come to London to his flat that he’d taken. Well, I wrote out on a paper exactly what had happened and I went up to London for the day and saw him.

  “‘Well, Nanny,’ he said, ‘what do you want—more wages I suppose. You’re not worth it, you old fraud.’ That was his joke, Miss Char, because he knew I’d have stayed on at the Manor for nothing. He’d wanted to raise my wages some time before, but I wouldn’t have it. I was getting quite enough—you don’t want much when you get to my age—and I knew Mr. Garth would give me a pension when I wasn’t any more use, so what was the good of bothering? I was glad to see he could still make a bit of a joke—he looked awful, Miss Char, great black rings round his eyes as if he hadn’t had a wink of sleep for weeks—but I couldn’t joke—not if you’d paid me. My legs were trembling so I could hardly stand. He gave me some brandy and made me sit down, and I just took out the paper I’d written and gave it into his hand. I couldn’t speak or anything. Well, he read the paper all through twice and then he got up and walked about. His face was awful.

  “After a bit he began talking. He said, ‘It’s funny you coming today, Nanny. Why did you say nothing at the time and then suddenly make up your mind to tell me?’ I told him what I told you, that I was worried to death, and things couldn’t be worse. He laughed in a funny sort of way and said that’s what he’d been thinking, and he had been to a lawyer about a divorce. That scared me, and I tried to persuade him it wasn’t the right thing, but he talked me round. He said it was impossible to go on, and that I’d said myself things couldn’t be worse, and what about Clemmie—he said—did I think this sort of thing was good for a child? I couldn’t say it was. So then I said I supposed he could get a divorce with the paper I’d given him. He looked at me very quick and said, ‘You’d have to appear in court, Nanny.’ That frightened me. I thought perhaps if I just signed the paper with my name he could give it to the Judge or something. But he said no, they wouldn’t do that, I’d have to stand up an’ answer questions in court. It sounded awful, but I just set my teeth an’ I said, ‘I will if you want me to, Mr. Garth.’ After all he was my baby, I would do anything for him and I didn’t suppose the Judge would eat me.

  “So then he walked about a bit more and stood looking out of the window, and then he said, ‘No, I can’t do it, we’ll have to manage without.’ ‘I’ll do it,’ I said again. He turned round from the window and looked at me. ‘And what about Clem?’ he said. I saw what he meant of course. Clemmie was in it too, it was her that had gone down first and found her Mummy’s room empty. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ he said. ‘Better to lose the case—no, the thing is impossible.’ He meant he couldn’t have Clemmie in court to tell the story against her own mother. So I thought a bit and then I said, ‘We don’t need to have Clemmie in it at all. I needn’t say it was her that found the room empty. I needn’t say anything about Clemmie at all. Just that I went down myself.’ ‘They would ask what wakened you,’ he said. ‘I might have had the toothache myself,’ I said. ‘You might have, but you didn’t,’ he said, and he smiled at me quite like his old self. ‘How do you know I didn’t have toothache?’ I said. ‘No, Nanny,’ he sai
d. ‘It won’t do. I won’t have you telling lies for me.’ ‘It’s only a little one,’ I said. (And so it was. It didn’t affect nobody whether Clemmie had been down first or not.) ‘Not even a little one,’ he said. ‘There have been too many lies. The whole purpose of this horrible business is to clear up all the lies. I’ll have nothing but the truth,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of lies. No, Nanny, it won’t do. We’ll have to do the best we can without you.’

  “Well that’s about all, except that he thanked me for coming to him and said a lot of nonsense about how I was his only friend in all the world. And he took me to a grand restaurant and we had lunch together—just him and me. I was glad I’d put on my best hat and coat, but even then there’s not many gentlemen would have taken their old Nanny to lunch at a grand restaurant like that. And then he saw me into the Hinkleton train and I came home.”

  “Poor Nanny!” I said. “It was horrible for you.”

  “Yes, it was,” she agreed. “I was miserable; it made me quite ill not knowing what I ought to do or anything. I felt better when I’d told Mr. Garth all about it. The worst was having it all on my mind and not knowing whether to say anything or not. I was glad I didn’t have to go into court—I’d have done it if he’d wanted me to, but I wouldn’t have liked it.”

  We sat for a little longer, by the dying fire, talking about it. Nanny’s story had justified Garth completely in my mind. For Clementina’s sake he was bound to act. I had been a little dubious in my own mind about Garth’s behavior. It had seemed to me rather mean to trap Kitty with detectives. I saw now that there had been plenty of evidence in his hands; evidence which would have given him his divorce without the slightest trouble, but he had refrained from using it and had chosen the harder way. He could not have dragged Clementina into the case—I saw that—but he might quite easily have accepted Nanny’s offer and allowed her to tell the tale as she had suggested, without bringing Clementina into it at all. I don’t know how it strikes you, Clare, but it seemed to me that Garth might have accepted Nanny’s offer without any qualms of conscience; it seemed to me that Garth was ultra-fastidious to sacrifice such a valuable piece of evidence because the whole truth could not be revealed without bringing Clementina’s name into the affair. Perhaps my conscience is too elastic, but that was what I felt. And I felt, also, an added respect for Garth, such as we all must feel for a man who sacrifices his own interests for a principle. We may think such a man foolish, but we are bound to respect him, we are bound to recognize his nobility and his strength. Truth at all costs, Garth had said. It was a noble aim.

  There was just one more point I wanted to clear up, I felt I must know. It was a point which had worried me often and often.

  “Nanny,” I said, “do you think—was it—had it happened before—ever?”

  “I’m afraid it had, Miss Char,” Nanny replied. “That was what worried me so. I thought about it myself a lot, and I felt certain in my own mind it had happened before. You see when they came back and found the light turned off in Mrs. Wisdon’s bedroom she said to him, ‘I always leave it on. I hate coming back to my room in the dark.’ That’s what she said, Miss Char. You can’t make nothing else of that but that it had happened before, even if the way they behaved hadn’t showed as much.”

  “Yes,” I said sadly. I was answered.

  That was the first time Nanny and I discussed the matter and the last. It was all over now, Kitty was dead and Garth had disappeared into the wilds of Africa. The whole thing was over and done with, it was better not to talk of it, not even to think of it again.

  We went upstairs to bed very quietly, for it was late, and the whole house seemed asleep.

  “I suppose Clementina is asleep,” I whispered.

  “Long ago,” Nanny assured me.

  I decided to peep in at the child—I had missed her surprisingly during my three days’ absence. I would not waken her, of course. I would just have a quiet peep at her and come away.

  I saw when I opened the door that the room was full of bright moonlight. The windows were wide open and the curtains pulled back. The moon streamed in and lay on the carpet in a pool of light. Clementina turned over in bed and held out her arms.

  “Aunt Charlotte, you’ve come back,” she said eagerly. “I heard the car ages ago.”

  “My dear, I thought you were asleep. I’ve been talking to Nanny.”

  I sat down on the bed and she put her arms round my neck, I felt her hot cheek against mine.

  “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming back,” she said.

  I was too wise to say—would you have minded? She had shown me that she would have minded. Clementina could not give you love when you asked for it—I knew that now—she had given me love unasked and I was very happy. She lay back on the pillow and looked at me with bright, questioning eyes; she longed to know where I had been, but she was not going to ask.

  “Do you want me to tell you where I have been?” I asked her.

  “Yes.”

  I told her. She lay and listened quietly while I told her about her mother’s death.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I’m Glad They Aren’t Like the Other People”

  Clementina and I were out riding one day. There was a particularly beautiful ride through the woods and over the moor and we often went that way. We were cantering along on the springy turf when we saw a horseman approaching from the opposite direction.

  “It’s Mr. Felstead,” said Clementina, pulling up Black Knight. “Let’s turn and go the other way.”

  “We can’t, it’s too late,” I said quickly. “Besides Mr. Felstead was quite friendly.”

  Mr. Felstead reined up and raised his hat. We exchanged the usual remarks about the weather, and then he said, “I’m afraid you will think my wife very remiss. She fully intended to call upon you, Miss Dean, but she has been nowhere and seen nobody. We have had a very anxious time—I expect you have heard.”

  We had heard nothing. Clementina and I were as isolated from our kind as if we had been living on a desert island.

  “Our girl had a very serious accident last March,” he said. “She fell downstairs and injured her spine. It was such a strange thing to happen to a child like Violet who has ridden since she could walk—and taken innumerable spills without turning a hair—to fall downstairs in her own house. At first we were afraid that the injury was permanent—they said she would never walk—it was dreadful—but now the specialist gives us hope that she may be cured in time.”

  I told him I was very sorry indeed, and I was sorry. He was such a kind, friendly man, and he looked worn and sad, and years older.

  “Thank you,” he said, “I’m glad I met you. I wanted to explain why it was that my wife didn’t call. She has been so anxious, so terribly anxious about Violet—you will understand.”

  Clementina said nothing; she sat very still on Black Knight, looking straight ahead, with a queer, stony expression on her face.

  “And what about Wisdon?” continued Mr. Felstead. “No news yet?”

  “No news,” I told him. “But we don’t expect to hear anything of him until October or November.”

  “Let me know when you hear,” he said; “I shall be interested. I should like to go trekking off into the wilds myself but here I am tied by the leg—the City three times a week—it’s a dog’s life.”

  We talked a little more and then parted from him.

  Clementina was very silent all the way home. It did not surprise me, for she often took these silent turns—even now—and I had found it was best to leave her alone. It was not until she was going up to bed I discovered what had been troubling her. I was reading one of Mr. Wentworth’s books and I kissed her a trifle absently—I was voyaging in Mexico at the time.

  “Aunt Charlotte,” she said, “are you—are you busy?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Do you think I
could send Violet something—a book perhaps?”

  “Violet?” I said, still half dazed by my rapid journey from Mexico.

  “Violet Felstead.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. I think it would be nice to send her a book. We’ll get one and send it to her. What kind of books does she like?”

  She hesitated, looking out of the window. “She didn’t like any kind of books much, but perhaps she will like them now. It would be dreadful to be ill and not like books.”

  “Yes,” I encouraged.

  “We were friends,” she said slowly and thoughtfully. “We were friends before. And then Mummy and Mrs. Felstead quarreled. So we couldn’t be friends anymore. Mummy wouldn’t let me go to Oldgarden when they asked me, and she wouldn’t let me have Violet. So of course they left off asking me, you see.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “And I thought they were like all the other people and didn’t want to have anything to do with me—but it was because Violet was ill. I didn’t know she was ill.”

  “That was the reason,” I agreed.

  “I’m glad,” Clementina said. “I don’t mean I’m glad Violet’s ill, but I’m glad they aren’t like the other people. You see, I liked them all so much—all of them. You would like Violet, Aunt Charlotte, and Violet’s Mummy—she’s so nice and full of fun. Poor Violet—how ill do you think she is, Aunt Charlotte?”

  “I think she has been very ill, but she is getting better now, Mr. Felstead said so.”

  “Is she in bed all the time?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m afraid she will have to be in bed for months.”

  “Poor Violet,” said Clementina thoughtfully. “I would hate to be in bed all the time, but Violet will hate it even more.”