The Young Clementina

by D. E. Stevenson

  We sent a book to Violet Felstead and Clementina got a letter from her friend thanking her and asking her over to Oldgarden to tea.

  That summer was a happy time. Clementina and I did lessons together in the morning, and in the afternoon we rode or went for picnics. Sometimes we took the car and went down to the sea, thirty miles away, and bathed or paddled. Clementina and I became friends; she opened the door of her citadel and let me in. I saw that it was the life she had been leading which had made her so strange, so silent and withdrawn. The secrets in the house had weighed her down, the tension between her parents, the loss of her one friend, had all conspired to make her what she was. And Miss Milston had not helped matters. There was nobody near her to whom she could talk openly, nobody who understood her, nobody who really wanted her or valued her for herself. It was no wonder that the child had been difficult, no wonder that she had been strange. The resumption of her friendship with Violet Felstead was a great joy to Clementina; she went over to Oldgarden once a week to lunch or tea. Mrs. Felstead called upon me, but I was out, and she was out when I returned her call so I had not met her yet. I was anxious to meet the mother of Clementina’s friend, but she was still very much tied with her sick child. She went nowhere and saw nobody. Clementina told me that she scarcely ever left Violet for a moment.

  “Violet gets restless when she’s not there,” said Clementina. “I think it’s rather bad for Mrs. Felstead, but of course Violet has been awfully ill. They’re all so happy, now that Violet is going to get better. It must be nice to have people as fond of you as that.”

  “I would be very happy if you had been ill and were going to get better,” I told her, smiling.

  She blushed and looked down. “You always seem to know what I’m thinking,” she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bad News

  The summer passed, and in September came a message from Garth’s solicitor asking me to expect him to lunch. Clementina and I had been out cubbing since six o’clock; we got back about eleven and found the message waiting for us. Clementina picked it up and read it with a little frown.

  “What do you think he wants, Aunt Charlotte?”

  I was desperately afraid that he might have bad news of Garth for us, but I hid my feelings and replied casually, “Business, I expect. You know that Daddy left the management of the estate in Mr. Ponsonby’s hands.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said doubtfully, “but he has never been down here before—not since Daddy went away, I mean.”

  “All the more reason why he should come now,” I replied. “You had better hurry up and have your bath, my child. You are going over to lunch at Oldgarden, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps I had better not go.”

  “Nonsense, I’ll deal with Mr. Ponsonby.”

  I wanted her to go. I felt it would be better to have her out of the way. It might be business, of course (I tried to think that that was all it was), but somehow or other I was sure that he was bringing bad news of Garth.

  I hustled Clementina out of the house before Mr. Ponsonby’s arrival. The car was to take her to Oldgarden and pick up Mr. Ponsonby at the station on the way back.

  Mr. Ponsonby arrived before I was ready. I found him standing in front of the fire in the library warming himself and drinking sherry. I remembered that I had seen him in court, sitting next to Garth—a thin, dapper man, rather above medium height, with gray wavy hair and a single eyeglass.

  “Ah, Miss Dean,” he said, putting down his glass and shaking hands with me in a rather perfunctory manner, “You will wonder why I have come down to see you like this, without adequate notice. I am the bearer of sad news.”

  “Garth?” I said breathlessly. “Not Garth! Oh, it can’t be—it can’t be Garth.”

  I sat down in the nearest chair, and Mr. Ponsonby poured out a glass of sherry and made me drink it.

  “Is he—is he dead!” I asked in a dazed way.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Garth—dead?” I said incredulously. “Oh, it can’t be true! I can’t believe it—there must be some mistake.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Ponsonby said, “I’m afraid that I should have—should have prepared you for the news…I didn’t know—” He stopped suddenly.

  “You didn’t know I would mind,” I said in a choking voice.

  The room swayed around me and grew dark; Mr. Ponsonby’s voice seemed to come from a long way off…I clung to the table…it was the only solid thing in the universe. I thought—so this is what fainting is like…

  ***

  The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Nanny’s face; she was holding a glass to my lips and whispering to me to drink some. Barling was standing near with a tray in his hands.

  “Has he—gone?” I asked.

  “Who? Mr. Ponsonby? Yes, my dear, he’s having his lunch. What a fright you gave us!”

  Her arm was underneath my head as I lay on the sofa. I looked up into her face. I was remembering now, remembering…Garth was dead…Garth. He would never come back…I should never see him again. It was all over. He was dead. Kitty was dead…I had seen her lying in bed with flowers in her hands, but I should never see Garth…

  “You’d better drink some more brandy, Miss Char,” Nanny said.

  “No, I’m all right,” I told her. “Just leave me, Nanny. I shall be all right soon.”

  She stood up and looked at me. Her poor old face was quivering.

  “I never thought of this,” she said tremulously. “He was so strong, Mr. Garth was. Oh, why did we let him go?”

  I hid my face in the cushion and let the tears come—slow, bitter tears. Garth had gone, all that part of my life which had been bound up with him—all the best part of my life—had gone with him. I had loved him so; I had suffered so much through him and with him. I had agonized over the change in him. All this had bound me to him in some strange, mysterious way. Living in his house, and looking after his child had brought him nearer to me than he had ever been before. I thought of him as the old Garth. (That other Garth, the cynical, cruel Garth, was not really Garth at all. A sort of madness had taken possession of him, a madness begotten of his pain and shame.) It seemed so dreadful that I should never see him again to put things right between us; I should never know now what had gone wrong. If I could have him back—even for five minutes—I would fling myself at his feet and ask him why he had changed to me, why he took pleasure in hurting me. But the dead can never come back—not even for five minutes, so that the living may abase themselves.

  After a little while I sat up and tried to control my tears. Although I had wept for him I knew that I had not really accepted the fact that Garth was dead, nor visualized the frightful gap that his death would leave in my life. That would come later. For the moment I must try to gain some measure of composure so that I could speak to Mr. Ponsonby and learn the details of the tragedy. I must know what had happened to Garth—how he had died. Mr. Ponsonby could tell me. I got up and rang the bell, I felt better now—strangely empty and light-headed, but quite calm.

  Mr. Ponsonby came in looking rather frightened and remorseful. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to have broken the news so—so badly,” he began.

  “Don’t let’s talk about it,” I said. “I’m sorry I was silly—I’ve never fainted before and I don’t know why I did it.”

  “I should have prepared you.”

  “You see I have known him so long—I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. So it’s difficult to—to realize.”

  “I know,” he said, “I know.”

  “If you would just tell me the details—and then—go away,” I said, not very politely, I’m afraid.

  Fortunately he seemed to understand—he was really very kind—he took a slip of paper out of his pocket-book and handed it to me.

  “This is all I know,” he said. “It is a
wire from Mr. Fraser—the leader of the expedition of which Mr. Wisdon was a member—we shall hear further details of the accident when the letter arrives.”

  I took the slip of paper and read the message: “Grieved to inform you Garth Wisdon lost his life letter follows am forwarding effects, Fraser.”

  “Could there be any—any mistake?” I asked him as I handed it back.

  “I’m afraid not,” replied Mr. Ponsonby, looking down at the fire. “It would not be kind for me to encourage you to hope. Mr. Fraser would not have wired unless—Mr. Fraser is a most trustworthy, capable man. He would not have been chosen for such a post if he had been otherwise. It is really kinder to tell you this now.”

  “Yes,” I said, and then, “You will let me know when you get the letter.”

  “Of course. I shall come down later and bring the letter for you to see. There will be various matters to discuss—I have Mr. Wisdon’s will, he revised it before he sailed.”

  Mr. Ponsonby paused and looked at me expectantly.

  “Then he must have known,” I said, “known that he might not come back. I wondered if it was—dangerous.”

  “No, no, Miss Dean. The will had to be revised after the divorce. Circumstances had altered—it was a mere formality. Perhaps Mr. Wisdon consulted you about his will?”

  It was a question, couched in significant tones. I looked at the man in amazement. “Consulted me!” I echoed.

  “Why not? It would have been quite natural—at any rate you will be interested to hear it?”

  I did not answer. How could he expect me to take an interest in Garth’s will? I could scarcely believe yet that Garth was dead.

  “It is a very simple document,” continued Mr. Ponsonby. “We shall have no trouble over it.”

  I let him talk, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was bowed down by the sudden realization of the awful task before me—the task of breaking the news of her father’s death to Clementina.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Simple Documents

  It is an astonishing thing how one goes on from grief, passes through the sharpness of it and leaves it behind. Clementina and I passed through our grief together. We comforted each other and so comforted ourselves. The misery passed, but the sense of loss remained, the sense of emptiness, the sense of exposure. I felt as if the winds were blowing through the house; it was not so safe and comfortable as it had been in Garth’s lifetime. The world rocked upon its foundations, the house sat heavily upon my shoulders. It was the more strange because I had no idea that I depended upon Garth in any way. He had been gone nearly a year, and for most of that time I could not even write to him—I suppose that I had been depending upon the prospect of his return without being conscious of the fact.

  Clementina and I ate and drank, we went to bed at night and got up in the morning, we rode and studied and walked. Everything went on exactly the same and yet everything seemed different. The sun shone just the same as before, and the same view lay before our eyes when we looked out of the window. Nothing had happened at all, and yet everything had happened. The only visible sign of Garth’s death was in Clementina’s wardrobe. We went up to town in the car and bought her a gray frock with white collar and cuffs, and a gray winter coat and hat. Clementina wanted it. She had not been able to mourn visibly for her mother, but there was nothing to prevent her from mourning for her father. She could be proud of him, and she was proud.

  Mr. Ponsonby came to Hinkleton about a month later, with Mr. Fraser’s letter and Garth’s will. Clementina had lunch upstairs with Nanny, but after lunch she came down to the library, as we had arranged, to hear Mr. Ponsonby read the letter. He eyed her doubtfully as she came in, she looked very childish in the gray frock, with her hair drawn back from her delicate forehead and hanging down over her shoulders in two plaits; she looked very young and pathetic.

  “Do you intend Miss Clementina to hear the letter?” he asked. “It is rather painful—wouldn’t it be better—”

  “I think she has a right to hear it if she wishes to,” I replied.

  Clementina looked at me gratefully. “Please, Mr. Ponsonby,” she said in her light childish voice, “I want to know all about Daddy.”

  I could see Mr. Ponsonby did not approve of the arrangement; he probably thought me a peculiar guardian for the child, but I felt sure that I was doing the right thing. Clementina had suffered so much misery from being kept in ignorance of her parents’ affairs that I had made up my mind she should be kept in ignorance no longer. She should know all there was to know—all that I knew, and, what was more important still, she should know that there was no more to know. Knowledge is less hard to bear than ignorance if you possess an imagination like Clementina’s.

  Mr. Ponsonby opened the letter and cleared his throat. “This was written in the desert,” he said, “and sent to the nearest town with the same runner who dispatched the wire. Mr. Fraser has given us a very clear account of the whole affair.

  “‘The expedition has been moderately successful from my point of view. I have done what I set out to do and have mapped out sites for depots for an airline within the radius apportioned to me. Observations of a scientific nature have been made by the various experts who accompanied the expedition. Garth Wisdon joined us as an independent member, that is to say he paid his way, but was to all intents and purposes a member of the company. I suspect that he had an objective in joining us, but he was reticent about it. I was glad to accept him on his own terms, as he was an acquisition to any company; brave and cool in the face of danger, resourceful in trouble, and bearing with fortitude the discomforts and inconveniences of our daily life. He made copious notes during our journey, and embodied them in a diary. The diary was to form the foundation of a book. I am forwarding the diary with the rest of his effects and would suggest that it should be edited by some accredited person and published. It will, of course, be some months before Wisdon’s effects reach England.’”

  Mr. Ponsonby stopped for a moment and looked at me. “The diary of the expedition is yours, Miss Dean. It is especially mentioned in the will.”

  “I shall edit the diary,” I said huskily. “He asked me to do so if—if—”

  Mr. Ponsonby nodded. “I am glad,” he said. “It would be a pity if Mr. Wisdon’s diary were not to be published. His writings are worthwhile. I am glad we are to have the book. Let me urge you to do it soon—as soon as the diary arrives.”

  He took up the letter again and continued.

  “‘We had penetrated to the limit of our supplies. That is to say we had used half the quantity of provisions carried. I pointed this out to my companions and we agreed that it was time to return; Wisdon followed me to my tent and asked whether it would be possible for us to remain another week in the neighborhood. By reducing rations slightly it would have been possible to do so, but I did not feel justified in taking the risk. As it was, I had not allowed any margin for unexpected delays on our return journey. Wisdon was disappointed at my decision—I could see that—but he realized that I did not feel I could agree to his request, and accepted my decision without argument—he was under my orders as leader of the expedition and his sense of discipline was high. I told him that we would stay in camp two days longer and then start homeward. He thanked me and went away.

  “‘That night we were disturbed by lions. They came down quite near our camp and roared continuously. I was surprised, because we had seen no lions for some time; it is on the fringe of the desert that lions are found, not in the interior. It struck me that there must be an oasis fairly near (though our guides had no knowledge of one) as lions do not stray very far from water. In the morning it was discovered that one of the native porters had been carried off by the lions—this surprised me still more, for the real desert lion is not a man-eater. Wisdon asked my permission to go out after the lions. I agreed, but advised him to take his servant and one of the native hunters with him. I antici
pated no danger, for Wisdon was a very fine shot and the native hunter knew his job. “Don’t stay out after dark,” I said as he was going out of the tent. He looked back at me and laughed. “Don’t worry, I can look after myself, you old granny!” he said, and with that he dropped the tent flap and disappeared—I never saw him again. We were busy all day repacking the stores for our return journey. As the day wore on I became anxious. I sent out two search parties in the direction which I knew Wisdon had gone. Night fell and still there was no sign of him or his companions. We searched all night without success. The following day there was a bad sandstorm, the tents were nearly buried and two of the camels perished, suffocated to death before we could go to their assistance. Nobody could have lived through the storm without shelter. We realized that if Wisdon had not been carried off by the lions he must certainly have perished in the storm. We searched the surrounding country thoroughly for nearly a week without finding a trace of him. We could not delay our return any longer without undue risk to the remainder of the expedition and indeed it would have been no use to delay longer. A sandstorm buries everything; it changes the whole face of the desert. It was a very sad and dejected party that struck camp and turned its footsteps homeward. We all liked Wisdon; he was a brave man and a splendid comrade.

  “‘The expedition as a whole wishes to offer its sympathy to Mr. Wisdon’s family.’”

  Mr. Ponsonby laid the letter on the table and looked up. Neither Clementina nor I offered any comment. Indeed, there was nothing to say. Garth’s death was too dreadful to contemplate.

  “I shall, of course, see Mr. Fraser on his return,” said Mr. Ponsonby. “But it is doubtful whether he can tell us any more.”

  I thought it doubtful too. The account was short, but it was extraordinarily clear. It was obviously written by a man who was accustomed to condense much matter into few words.

  When we had recovered a little from the effects of Mr. Fraser’s letter Mr. Ponsonby produced the will.