The Young Clementina

by D. E. Stevenson

“I was only teasing you, Miss Dean,” she replied smiling. “No, I simply can’t call you ‘Miss Dean.’”

  “Charlotte would be much nicer.”

  “Charlotte—a lovely, old-fashioned name! I’m Paula. Is this too rapid for you?”

  “We have known each other a long time,” I told her. I tried to call her Paula, but I couldn’t. It took me a little while to get used to her as Paula, she had always been Clare to me. Long afterward she told me that I had called her Clare that first day—it must have slipped out when I was not looking—and that she had wondered why I called her Clare. She had thought, perhaps, that it was the name of a friend, and that I had called her Clare by mistake; she told me that she had always liked the name.

  “How does Clementina like school?” she asked. “Not much, I’m afraid. She’s too much of an individualist. I think you were right to send her.”

  “I hope so. I felt it was right. Clementina hated the idea.”

  “It will do her good to mix with other girls. (Isn’t it funny how different children are? Violet would love to go to school.) Don’t worry about her not liking it at first. Things we dislike are often very good for us—horrid that it should be so.”

  “Horrid,” I agreed. “But fortunately Clementina does not seem to hate it as much as she thought she would. Her letters are fairly happy. It is I who am to be pitied.”

  “You feel at a loose end? But you will be busy when the diary comes. Bob told me about Mr. Wisdon’s diary—that you are going to write the book.”

  We talked about the book until Barling came and cleared away the tea-things, and then, somehow or other, the conversation veered back to the girls.

  “They are so good for each other, those two,” she said. “They seem to bring out the best in each other—you know how some people do that?”

  I nodded.

  “You will let Clem come over often in the holidays, won’t you? It is not all selfishness for Violet; she is as good for Clem as Clem is for her. I’m sure of that.”

  “As often as you like. I want Clementina to have a real friend of her own age—I want it as much as you do.”

  Paula Felstead hesitated for a few moments and then she said, “I was sorry when—when Mrs. Wisdon stopped Clem coming to Oldgarden—it was really my fault, in a way. Do you mind if we talk about the whole thing quite frankly? I didn’t mean to, yet; but then I didn’t know what old friends we were.”

  “No, of course, I don’t mind. I would rather,” I told her quickly.

  “I knew Mrs. Wisdon fairly well,” she said slowly, choosing her words. “She was not the sort of person you could ever know very well, but I saw quite a lot of her. The children were great friends, and were constantly together—either here or at Oldgarden. Then a certain amount of talk started in the neighborhood and it came to my ears—I mean talk about Mrs. Wisdon. This all happened long before there was anything—anything definite…I’m telling this very badly, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s all right, I understand.”

  “Well, I was worried. It was horrid talk and I was sure everything was all right. I was rather sorry for her being left alone so much when her husband was away. Anybody would get talked about under the circumstances—I made up my mind to speak to Mrs. Wisdon. (It was foolish of me, of course, but I like people to be straight with me and I resolved to be straight with her.) I came over and saw her and warned her about it. I told her that people were talking about her and Mr. Hamilton—there was nothing in it, of course, I said, but there it was, and she knew how people talked. I thought, myself, quite honestly, that there was nothing in it; I thought it was just carelessness on her part. She is a pleasure-loving woman. She didn’t hunt—what else was there for her to do but entertain her friends?”

  “Kitty was angry?”

  “Very angry indeed. She told me to mind my own business. The County could say what it liked. It could go to the devil for all she cared—she raved on and I came away. I was sorry I had offended her, of course, but the thing I minded most was the children’s friendship being spoiled. I swallowed a certain amount of pride and wrote to her quite pleasantly, saying that I was sorry, and asking her to allow the children to continue to meet. She never answered.”

  “Kitty was—was like that,” I said difficultly. “She never considered other people’s feelings. Only her own, always.”

  “You talk as if she were dead!”

  “She is dead,” I said.

  I told her about Kitty’s death, and she listened silently, and sympathetically.

  “You must have felt very sad about all that happened,” she said. “There must have been so many happy things shared by you both, long ago, when you were children together. That is such a sad thing—to lose the child you played with when you were a child.”

  “I had lost that child before.”

  “That is sadder still. Death is not the saddest way to lose somebody you love.”

  Before she left I took her into the conservatory to see the camellias. They were very fine—perfect waxen blooms, growing back to back among their dark green shiny foliage.

  “How beautiful!” she said. “They remind me of a Victorian beauty dressed for a ball.”

  “There is something old-fashioned about camellias,” I agreed.

  I cut some for her and she smiled as I gave them to her. Somehow I knew that she was thinking of our first meeting, and the country flowers.

  “These are much more beautiful,” she said.

  “I like country flowers best,” I replied.

  “So you really do remember?”

  “Every word. I’ve often wondered about the woman who lived in a basement.”

  “She doesn’t live in a basement now,” Paula Felstead said. “We put her into our lodge at Oldgarden with her three children—she’s a widow. It was rather pathetic to see her joy at returning to the country. She could talk of nothing but the greenness of everything—she almost went mad.”

  I could understand that very easily. It was the living green of the country that had amazed me when I returned.

  “She must have been grateful,” I suggested.

  “Far too grateful,” Paula said, smiling a little. “I couldn’t go near the lodge for months—gratitude is such an uncomfortable thing—don’t you think so, Charlotte? It takes God to receive gratitude graciously.”

  After she had gone I thought about her, and all she had said. I realized that a new pleasure had come into my life, the pleasure of having a real friend. I had always longed for a woman friend of my own age, and now I had one. A real one at last. We saw each other often after that first day, and had many talks, and, gradually she superseded the shadowy Clare who had been with me so long. The two merged into one, and I could never really separate them in my mind.

  Chapter Two

  Garth’s Diary: “The Desert Wind”

  Garth’s luggage arrived. The men carried it up to his room and put it down softly. The cases, the trunks—all the paraphernalia which had been arranged in the hall the day that I came to Hinkleton Manor—had returned, without their master, quite safely. Only he had failed to return.

  Naseby, who had superintended the operations, lingered after the other men had gone.

  “I never thought when I carried it down—” he said huskily.

  “None of us thought,” I told him.

  “Perhaps you’d like me to undo the straps, Miss.”

  “Please, Naseby.”

  He knelt and loosed the straps rather clumsily; his big hands were not so steady as usual. Then he got up and stood for a moment, looking at the pile and fingering his cap.

  “He was a good master,” said Naseby. “Stern at times, and he wouldn’t stand no nonsense, but you didn’t mind that because you knew he’d be fair—that’s what counts, every time.”

  He went away.

  I stood
for a few minutes looking at the things—the battered trunks, the cases, the packages done up in sacking. Garth’s camp-bed, his rubber bath, his tent, everything except the cases which had contained his guns—the guns had vanished with their owner; they were buried in the desert, beneath the sand.

  All these things, and especially the camp-bed and the rubber bath, were so much a part of Garth’s daily life that they brought him very near, they made him very real. I could scarcely believe that Garth himself had gone, it seemed incredible. The luggage lying there in his room seemed to promise his return. I felt that the door would open and Garth would walk in. It was foolishness, of course, because I knew, beyond any doubt, that Garth was dead.

  I looked at the trunks and wondered which of them contained the diary. It seemed wrong to open them—what right had I to open Garth’s trunks? But that was a foolish idea, I must open the trunks; I had been waiting for them to arrive; I had been waiting for months.

  I began to unpack. Nanny came down and helped me. She hung his suits in the wardrobe and smoothed out his ties and folded them away in the drawers of his dressing chest. The soiled linen she put aside for the laundry. It was almost as if she were expecting him to come home…

  “Oh, Miss Char!” she said suddenly, and I saw that the tears were running down her face unchecked. “Oh, Miss Char, how often I’ve unpacked for him! I know where he likes all his things kept, you see. He liked things just so, and he used to say nobody did his unpacking as well as me. I’d been with him always, since he was a tiny baby, so I ought to have known how he liked things. I never thought he’d be the first to go—so strong he was, so full of life, and me an old woman! Oh dear! Oh dear!”

  I couldn’t say anything to comfort her, I needed comfort myself. My own cheeks were wet.

  “Look at these socks, Miss Char! All holes. I don’t suppose he had anybody with him to mend them for him. I always mended his socks—such awful holes he always made—look, Miss Char, this one’s got no heel left.”

  “You take them and mend them,” I suggested.

  “Yes, I must mend them,” Nanny said. She stopped suddenly and looked at me with a sock over her hand, “You’re not going to give his things away, are you?”

  “Not yet,” I said quickly. “We needn’t do anything yet.” I could not bear the thought of giving away Garth’s clothes—they were all that was left of Garth—all that was left. A white riding glove was lying on the floor, I took it up and slipped it onto my hand, and the glove was so shaped that it was Garth’s hand I saw—no, I couldn’t give away his clothes.

  “Not yet,” Nanny agreed, with a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t bear to think of anybody wearing them.”

  I had found what I was looking for, now, a pile of fat shiny copy-books in the bottom of the trunk. The books were the same as those I always used, the same as those father had given us, so long ago. I left Nanny to finish unpacking, it was her due. She could unpack Garth’s things for the last time, and mend his torn clothes and put them all away tidily in the drawers. It was the last personal service she could perform for Garth. She, who had spent the best years of her life in his service, had the right to do this. It was quite useless, of course, because he was far beyond our ken, he did not require earthly service anymore; but, sometimes, it is comforting to do useless things for those we love. I understood that. I understood Nanny. My last duty to Garth was different; I collected the books containing the diary and went downstairs.

  The mere fact that the diary was written in the same kind of books that I always used for my diary brought Garth closer. It was a bond between us—a secret bond. I turned over the pages with interest and excitement. I saw very soon that the diary required very little editing—I saw that Garth had written with a view to publication. Here and there a piece of the real Garth peeped through; here and there a few lines seemed too intimate for the public eye. There was good stuff here. I saw that, and rejoiced. This book would not be the least of Garth’s works. There were wonderful descriptions of the country couched in language so vivid that the scenery seemed to spread itself before my eyes. There were descriptions of the game encountered, interspersed with racy anecdotes about the porters and the native hunters. One native hunter, especially, had excited Garth’s interest. “He’s a thorough gentleman,” Garth had written. “Intrepid to the point of lunacy—a man after my own heart.” It was this man—so we heard later from Mr. Fraser—that had gone with Garth to track the lions.

  The whole diary was colored with Garth’s personality; the turn of a phrase brought him back to me vividly. I could hear him speaking as I read. Was it my imagination that the tone of the whole narrative changed gradually but perceptibly as the days went by—that the cynicism disappeared, and was replaced by a healthier, more natural spirit? I turned backward and forward eagerly. No, it was not, it could not be imagination. The desert was healing him. The peace of the desert had sunk into his soul. I had hoped for this to happen, and, after I had heard that he was dead, I had longed to believe that it had happened. His last laughing words to Mr. Fraser had seemed to show a happier, saner Garth—I had pinned my faith to these joking words and tried to believe that I was justified in doing so. It was still too early to be certain; I should have to study the diary carefully, to read and reread every page a dozen times before I could be sure of my ground, but I saw that there was room for hope, and my heart lightened. I wanted, so terribly, to believe that Garth had died a whole man.

  I spent the evening poring over the books. Quite apart from my own special interest in the narrative—my interest in its author—it was an enthralling tale. Travel books were my specialty and this was a good specimen of its kind. I came across an interesting description of a tribe of Bedouins, their dirt and squalor and their fierce, wild faces. A thumbnail sketch of a hooded face with a hooked nose was appended, and beneath it were the words “Drawn for me by Stewart. I wish I could draw. This sketch would lend itself well as a design for the jacket of my book. The man allowed me to measure his head and take other particulars. (This was difficult to achieve on account of their weird superstitions, but they understand money here as well as in other more civilized parts of the world—I made the man rich, and he allowed me to measure his head. It does not take much to make a Bedouin rich.) I was anxious to secure the measurements to compare with those of the Bracelet Man. They are totally different, just as I hoped and expected. The Bracelet Man is in no way related to Bedouin.”

  The following day there was another entry about the Bedouin. “The Bedouin returned and requested me through our Arab interpreter to give him back the magic which I had taken out of his head. He had brought back most of the money I had given him—all except some he had lost in gambling the night before—I told the interpreter to ask why he wanted it back. ‘His head feels funny,’ replied the man gravely, ‘He thinks he will die soon if he does not have the magic back.’ I gave him the paper upon which I had written the measurements and took the money from him—he was a fine, strong, wild creature, I did not want his death upon my hands. He pressed the paper to his forehead and went on his way rejoicing.”

  I came upon a passage which read strangely in view of what happened later. The expedition was on the fringe of the desert. “This place is infested with lions,” Garth had written. “The lion is not a noble animal—none of the cat tribe is noble—nobility does not slink upon its belly, does not spring in the dark, does not eat carrion. The lions have not harmed us and I have no desire to harm them.” I put down the book and turned to the last, the unfinished one. Garth had made a scribbled entry before he set forth on that last expedition, the expedition which was to cost him his life. “Lions roaring all night,” he had written, “and one of the porters has just come to my tent to tell me that his brother has been carried off. There is a trail of blood on the sand. These porters have their feelings, like other people—the poor creature was weeping. I promised him that I would go after the lion, and his eyes gle
amed with pleasure at the news. I have no hope of finding the poor wretch alive, but revenge is sweet, and, if I bag the lion, the victim’s brother shall have the skin.” I turned back and read the entry of the previous night. “We are to turn back. Fraser is right, of course, he cannot take unnecessary risks, but it is a sore blow to me. It looks as if the Bracelet Man had fallen from the skies—I have seen no signs of his tribe. The desert is so vast, it has convinced me of the hopelessness of my quest. And yet, in spite of my failure, I do not feel downhearted, I feel strengthened, healed, rejuvenated. I shall return to life with courage. The desert sun has burned the poison out of my brain; the desert wind has blown away the evil humors. I was mad, I think, possessed by some evil djin. The people here believe in such things and such beliefs are infectious. Tonight, in spite of my disappointment—and it is not a light one—I feel free and clean. I can even forgive Kitty. My God, I had never thought to write such words! There may yet be beauty in life for me, if it is not too late.”

  ***

  Day followed day and I scarcely noticed how they passed. I was enthralled by the task of editing Garth’s book. I went with him step by step upon his journey, I shared his vigils, shared his discomforts, shared his keen enjoyment of the beauties which had encompassed him. I grew to know his companions through Garth’s eyes: the silent, able Fraser, who always seemed to know what to do in every emergency, a king among men; the light-hearted Stewart, who wielded a pencil so ably and had a joke—not always printable—for every occasion; the garrulous Clinton who wanted everyone to share his enthusiasm for his geological specimens—they were all alive and vivid—Garth had limned them in a few words.

  I used the blue pencil as little as possible; it was easier than I had expected. I scored out only what was intimate or trivial, and, here and there, where I thought it necessary, I elaborated a little or altered the wording to read smoother. The trivialities which I eliminated were mostly in the first part of the expedition—Garth had written, “A letter from Char today. (This is the last I shall get before we plunge into the unknown.) She is pleased with Brown Betty—ridiculously pleased. Could I do less than provide a decent mount for Char? She says very little about Clem—merely that the child is well—what does that mean I wonder. Does it mean that things are going smoothly, or that she does not want to worry me with her troubles? I should like to be able to peep in at the Manor and see how they are getting on.”