The Young Clementina

by D. E. Stevenson

  “She is not at the Parsonage now,” I said.

  “Indeed,” he said. “She has left, has she? Of course, how stupid I am! Her father died and Mr. Frale is here in his place. I met Mr. Frale yesterday morning in the church so I ought to have realized that Miss Dean had left. Perhaps you could oblige me with her address.”

  I gave it to him calmly. My world was shaking, but I could feel nothing yet. I was perfectly calm, my hand was steady as I filled up Mr. Senture’s glass, my pulse beat normally. I have seen men mortally wounded carry on with what they were doing for a few seconds before realizing what had happened to them, before they fell down on the ground and died. It was like that with me. I glanced at Kitty and I saw that her face had gone quite gray…she had pushed her plate aside with the food upon it untouched…her hands were gripping the arms of her chair.

  “Kitty!” said father’s voice anxiously. “Kitty, you are feeling—unwell.”

  “I feel—queer,” Kitty said and tried to rise from her chair.

  “Garth!” cried father in alarm.

  I rose and took her arm and helped her out of the room. She leaned upon me heavily. I took her across the hall and into the library. She sank into a chair. Father brought her some brandy and then went back to his guest; we were alone.

  “So that is the man Char is going to marry!” I said quietly.

  “Garth, don’t look at me like that…you frighten me…Garth, for God’s sake…I thought she was. I swear I thought so. I didn’t know he was married…it was all true what I told you about Canterbury, and the hours they spent together in the church…How was I to know…? You said you didn’t mind…”

  Her voice died away, she lay there in the chair, whimpering.

  “You liar,” I said.

  I went upstairs and changed out of my dinner clothes into a tweed suit. I put a few odds and ends in my pocket—my comb, my toothbrush, my diary—and I walked out of the house. (I couldn’t stay in the house any longer, I had betrayed the house. I couldn’t stay near her, she had betrayed me.) I went out at the big gates and up the hill and away. It didn’t matter where I went; I didn’t know where I was going; my one idea was to get away as far as I could, to walk and walk until I could walk no longer.

  The night was fine, but very dark. The cool air blew against my cheeks and temples but it could not cool them. I was burning all over with an inward fire. I walked and walked. I passed through country I knew, and found myself in a strange land. The moon came up over the hills, pure and cold, turning the whole world into black and white like a dry point etching. I felt no fatigue. I walked on. Sometimes I found myself on country roads, and a belated car passed me with a glare of light and fled away to be swallowed up in the darkness. Sometimes I took a field path, and passed through farms and set the dogs barking. It clouded over about 3 a.m. and there was a flurry of snow. It melted as it fell. I sheltered from it in a shed and then went on my way. There were hills above me. I took a path leading upward and found myself on a moor. The low walls of a sheep-fold threw black shadows on the tussocky grass. All at once I was tired and cold, the fever had left me. I sat down under a low wall out of the cool stream of wind. I had been here before, hunting, and I knew that there was a little village in the hollow with a small inn. I had had tea there after the hunt. It was too early to approach the inn yet, scarcely five o’clock, but I could go no farther. My body was tired, but my brain was active, more active now that I had stopped walking.

  My thoughts were very bitter, Kitty had tricked me. I was married to a cheat. This was the woman I had taken into my house, whom I had chosen out of all the women in the world to be the mother of my son. A woman who could stoop to lie, and lie smiling, who had kissed me with a lie upon her lips. A woman who could live a lie, and only faltered when she was found out—this woman was to be the mother of my son. I flung myself upon my face. My rage against Kitty almost choked me, everything went black. I felt I could go to her and tear my child out of her body, she was not worthy to bear my child.

  At six o’clock I went down to the village through the fields. My feet left black marks on the rimy ground. The inn was open and a girl with her hair in curl-papers was shaking rugs at the door. She looked at me with amazement. I suppose I looked wild, my whole appearance must have been disordered and dirty. I told her I had walked a long way, had been walking all night, and I wanted a room to rest in, and some breakfast later.

  “You be the second gentleman lost on the moor this winter,” she said in a relieved voice.

  I let it go at that. I had been lost. She was quite kind. She took me upstairs and showed me into a pleasant, clean room. She brought me hot water to wash in. I felt better after I had washed, calmer and saner. I climbed onto the big four-poster bed and slept.

  I have spent all day at the inn. The food is clean and plain. I have the whole place to myself for nobody comes here in winter, it is too bleak. I went down to the bridge where a little stream flows beneath a gray stone arch and watched it for a long while. The monotony of the flowing water soothed me, its turbulence, and the splash and hurry of its course. I stayed there until some men came, and then I moved away, I could not speak to anybody yet, not even strangers. My thoughts were still colored by my anger, sometimes it rose like a red flood until it almost burst my brain, and sometimes it sank into a sort of misery, a sort of gnawing pain. I walked up the hill through the bare woods.

  Until now I had not thought of Char. I had pushed the thought of Char away from me. I had pushed all softness away from me. I had given rein to my anger. I had raged against Kitty for tricking me and against myself for my foolishness in allowing myself to be tricked. But now, in the woods, the thought of Char came to me and would not be denied. We had roamed the woods of Hinkleton together so often, in summer and in winter, accepting each season as it came and enjoying its beauty. These woods were very like the woods round Hinkleton; there was the same mixture of trees, the same damp yellow undergrowth. The pale winter afternoon sunshine filtered through the bare branches of the trees.

  I sat down on a log and rested my head in my hands—God, how my head ached! Char, what have I done to you, I thought. What had I done to her? I had failed Char, not Char me. If I had had faith in Char I would have gone to her and asked her if the story was true—if I had had a grain of faith! Instead of giving her a chance to defend herself I had believed at once that she was false. I had condemned her unheard. I had listened to a lying tale and believed it. I went over the whole affair painfully step by step. I remembered how she had tried to be friends with me when I returned from France, how she had gone out of her way to be friends with me. I remembered how I had repulsed her friendly advances—I would not be friends with her, it was all or nothing, and she had chosen another man. I would not be friends with Char. I had trampled on her feelings. I had hurt her deliberately—I knew exactly how to hurt her, for I knew her so well—I had crushed her, laughed at her, scorned her. Mad, crazy creature that I was! How she must hate me, how she must despise me!

  I wanted her so much now—that was the next phase. I wanted her desperately. I started up thinking that I would go to her, go to her now and tell her everything. I would go on my knees to Char and ask her forgiveness—and then what? No, I must not do that. I must think it out first. I must see where that path would take me before I set my feet upon it. Where would that path take me?

  I stayed in the woods until it was dark. Sometimes I sat on the log, and sometimes I strode about, crashing through the undergrowth like a madman. When it grew dark I came down to the inn. I shall stay here for a little, it is quiet here, and nobody speaks to me.

  ***

  January 16th. The King’s Head, Upper Pemblebury.

  I spent the day in much the same manner as yesterday, wandering about the village and the woods. I feel as if I had been here for a long time. The people here think me mad. I am sure of it by the way they stare at me and turn away the
ir heads when they see that I am looking at them. Perhaps they are right, perhaps I am mad, how can I tell?

  It would be easy to die up there in the woods. It would be easy. The landlord has a gun; it stands behind the door in the little parlor where they give me my meals. It would be so easy to take the gun and go up into the woods—but I can’t do it. I can’t take the coward’s way out of the mess. I am weak and incredibly foolish and easily tricked, but still I am a Wisdon. I can’t get out of the mess that way; it seems to me that there is no way out of the mess. The more I think about it the more hopeless it seems. I am trapped, just as surely and hopelessly trapped as the rabbit I saw in the woods this morning. It was caught by the upper part of its foreleg, poor creature; its leg was bleeding and broken where it had tried to tear itself out of the cruel, steel-toothed trap; its eyes were scared, scared and puzzled; it tried to wriggle out of my hands. I took it out of the trap and killed it—one sharp blow on the back of its neck and its troubles were finished—one moment it was frightened and struggling, and the next it was at peace—fortunate rabbit!

  It was then that the idea came to me, how easy to end life! I put the idea aside; I trampled it out of my mind, not that way for me, not the coward’s way. What way then? What other way is there out of the mess? What way can I take that will not ruin us all—Char, father, Kitty and myself?—I can see no way.

  ***

  January 17th. The King’s Head, Upper Pemblebury.

  I am calmer today. The rage has passed; the froth of my anger is gone, only the bitter dregs are left. I am cold and calm. I can think of Kitty without the choking feeling in my throat. She is not worth my anger. She is a despicable creature. There is only one thing to do, I see that clearly now. I can’t get out of the trap, so I must stay in it. I must go back to Hinkleton and live my life there as if nothing has happened. I must walk about and speak to people. I must pretend that everything is exactly the same. I owe it to father to behave as if nothing is wrong. To father and to myself, and to the Wisdons. I must speak to Kitty when people are there—there must be no scandal, no food for malicious gossip. I must school myself to see Kitty sitting at the end of the table, and in the chair opposite father at the fire. I need do no more than that, I need not touch her. This is the task I have set myself, a hard task; but I feel, now, that I can do it. A strange power, a strange calmness possesses me. My heart is very cold; it is like a lump of ice in my breast.

  As for Char, I must leave her alone. It is all I can do for Char. I must leave her to make her own life, not involve her in the shipwreck of mine. I must keep out of her way and let her continue to think me despicable, crazy, faithless. It is too dangerous to have any explanations with her, much too dangerous. She must continue to hate me. Strangely enough this is the hardest part of the task I have set myself. I have battled with myself for hours over this business. If I could clear myself with Char I could shoulder the rest of the burden with ease, but I must not clear myself with Char. I long for Char’s sympathy, I long to go to her and make a clean breast of the whole thing, to lay my head upon her shoulder.

  Too dangerous! I love her too much to risk meeting her in friendship. I have harmed her enough already. I must leave her alone. I must never be friendly with her in case she should forgive me and the way be opened—the way be opened to I know not what. This is the hardest of all—to bear Char’s hatred, Char’s scorn. To know that she will go through life despising me while I shall love her in secret until I die.

  ***

  January 18th. The King’s Head, Upper Pemblebury.

  My last day here. I have spent it arming myself.

  ***

  January 19th. Hinkleton Manor.

  I left Pemblebury in the morning and walked home. I got a lift in a baker’s van part of the way. I found the house in a turmoil, Kitty ill, and father beside himself with anxiety on my behalf. I explained very little; there was little I could explain. Father was too pleased to see me safe and sound to bother about explanations. I believe he thinks I lost my memory. I am sorry for the anxiety I caused him, it is the last time I shall cause him any anxiety. I have made up my mind to that. To Kitty I explained nothing, there was no need. From now on we are strangers. Kitty understands me, and, at last, I understand her. We start level for the first time.

  I saw Sim and told him I would hunt on Thursday. Lady Vera has sent over the hunter for me to try. A nice-looking beast but I am doubtful if he is up to my weight. Sim thinks he is. The Tudor tree is being sawn up for fuel.

  ***

  May 16th. Hinkleton Manor.

  Kitty gave birth to a daughter this morning. There is great excitement in the house over the event. Doctor Gray told me that both were doing well, and added that there was plenty of time for an heir. He evidently thinks my lack of enthusiasm is due to the child’s sex. I am glad the child is not a son, sons are said to take after their mothers. I am glad I am the last Wisdon, the line is enfeebled. I am a dead husk; there is no life left in me, no feeling for anything or anybody. Even Char has become shadowy to me, a pathetic ghost.

  ***

  July 3rd. Hinkleton Manor.

  Char arrived in time for dinner. The child is to be christened tomorrow. It was, I suppose, the obvious thing to invite Char to be the god-mother (she is our only female relation) but the whole thing seems a farce to me—a tragic farce. I have been dreading Char’s visit for days; to see Char again knowing what I know; to see her and to have to take her hand, coldly; to see her and speak to her as if she were nothing to me—this is the task I have set myself. No wonder I have been dreading her visit.

  Char arrived. She looks tired and unhappy and very shabby. The shabbiness hurts me as much as the unhappiness; it is my fault that she is shabby. I would so willingly give her all I possess, and I may not give her anything, not even a new dress. I have fought it out with myself and I know I must not. I am afraid she is having a hard time, a weary time—London in this weather, and Wentworth’s and, perhaps, not enough food! I don’t know how I am going to bear it. She was very quiet, she hardly spoke. I saw that Kitty was telling Char her troubles, complaining about me, most likely, and the servants, and the drought. Rather amusing, really, that Kitty should lay her troubles on Char’s shoulders. These things amuse me nowadays; they amuse some queer contrary devil that has taken up his abode in my empty heart.

  I forced myself to be gay and talkative. I saw Char looking at me wonderingly and my heart went out to her so that I could scarcely bear the pain. I knew what she was feeling when she looked at me like that; I knew she thought me changed from the boy she knew so well. I was suffering so acutely that it was easy to be cruel. Biting words rose to my lips and I uttered them. I saw her wilt under my sarcasm. There will be more pain tomorrow, more suffering. My heart that I thought was dead has recovered sufficiently to suffer.

  ***

  July 4th, 1920. Hinkleton Manor.

  The child’s christening today—what a farce the whole thing is! Char felt the same as I did. Her voice faltered as she made the promises for my child. She knew she would not be able to fulfill them, and she hates lies as I do. I went away into the woods when it was over and wrestled with my devil, and armed myself afresh. I find pleasure in cynicism, the habit is growing. Let it grow, it is a fine protection against the world…

  Chapter Eight

  Charlotte’s Tears

  I read until the light grew too dim to see anymore, and then I sat on, beside the little window, with the books piled round me. The light lingered for a while among the trees; the tops of them were still bright when there was nothing but darkness and shadow on the ground. Then the light faded swiftly, and only the sky was faintly gray.

  Nanny came up and found me sitting there.

  “Miss Char!” she said, coming over and touching me in the darkness. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, and then I remembered about the diaries. Miss Char, are you ill? You are a
ll wet, my dear!”

  “Tears, Nanny. Just tears.”

  “Oh, Miss Char! There have been too many tears in this house—it’s a sorrowful house—too much pain and tears—all the time I have been here…a lifetime…no happiness…all tears. I hoped so much that you would come here—long ago—and make us all happy. That night of the birthday dance I was sure you would come. And then the war came and everything went wrong, and I thought—when he comes back from the war he will bring her home. Oh, Miss Char, what was it that happened? I’ve often wondered…often and often. We would have been happier if it had been you, my dear. You understood him…it was always you…never Miss Kitty…you could have made him happy.”

  “I know, I know!”

  “What was it, Miss Char?”

  “It wasn’t…my fault, Nanny. I didn’t know what it was…that changed him…never until now. I know now. It was all a ghastly mistake.”

  “A mistake?”

  “You remember Mr. Senture, Nanny?”

  “Not the old gentleman, you don’t mean him?”

  “Yes. Garth thought—was told that I was going to marry him.”

  “He couldn’t have thought it. Mr. Senture was old—as old as Mr. Wisdon—and married too. How could he have thought it?”

  “He never saw Mr. Senture. He was told about it, told about how often I was with Mr. Senture, and about our expedition

  to Canterbury.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Nanny said.

  “It is difficult to believe,” I agreed. I could hardly believe it myself. It was incredible to me that Garth could have thought I would ever look twice at another man.