It was a strange visit. I thought Kitty changed, she was very silent when Garth was present, she almost seemed—was it my imagination—frightened of Garth. When we were alone together she was fretful and complaining, she complained of the servants, she complained of the nurse, Garth was inconsiderate and the garden needed rain. I put it down to her physical condition, she was still weak and apt to be tearful on the slightest provocation, I thought she would be happier when her strength returned—how could she fail to be happy when she had so much? Garth, on the other hand, was much more talkative than usual; he had developed an entirely new manner, a dry, sarcastic tone that jarred upon my nerves. That first night at dinner he was very gay—I thought his gaiety hollow, but I may have been mistaken. It is difficult to judge the merriment of others when one carries a sad heart in one’s breast, and my heart was very sad that night. I had not realized how painful it would be to return to Hinkleton after a year’s absence; everything hurt me, even the sunshine as it fell in golden rays upon the broad green lawns. Hinkleton Manor was so beautiful, more beautiful than ever, more spacious and leisurely than I remembered it. The whole place was like a glimpse of paradise after my mean flat in London and the baking streets.
Surely these people, living in such glorious surroundings, must be happy; it was my imagination that they were not. It was I who had changed, not they. The pain of seeing my beloved Hinkleton after all these months had warped my outlook and made my judgment faulty. What could be wrong with Garth and Kitty? They had everything that they desired, and, now, a little daughter to crown their love.
Garth and Kitty had decided that their son should be christened “Charles Dean” after his two grandfathers but, as neither he nor Kitty had expected—nor wanted—a daughter, no girls’ names had been discussed.
“Rose Marie” was Kitty’s choice.
“Nonsense!” said Garth. “You had better call the infant ‘Plain Jane.’ She’s plain enough in all conscience.”
“Oh Garth!” murmured Kitty. “Nanny says she’s a beautiful little baby.”
“What about Clementina?” asked Mr. Wisdon in quiet tones. “It was your mother’s name, Kitty, and you were christened Clementina—if I remember rightly—so this little creature would be the third member of your family to bear the name. If you want to please me you can give her the name of her other grandmother as well and call her Clementina Mary.”
“Yes, of course, Father,” agreed Garth. (I was glad to see that he looked a little ashamed of himself.)
The christening took place on Sunday afternoon. The old church was full of light; it streamed through the colored windows in jeweled shafts. Dear old church, how I loved it! God’s peace seemed to dwell here, and nowhere else in all the world. My heart turned over in my breast as I took the light bundle in my arms and made the old promises for Clementina. She was so tiny and helpless, and I knew that the promises on my part were empty and false. I could have no part nor lot in the upbringing of Garth’s child. She stared up at me with big gray eyes, serious wondering eyes—could such a frail creature ever grow up and become a woman?
The day passed. I saw no more of Garth until suppertime. We sat round the table eating, and talking like strangers talk—Mr. Wisdon, Garth, Kitty, and myself. I felt again that a shadow lay upon the house; I saw the shadow in Garth’s eyes as he looked at Kitty across the table. I saw it in Kitty’s face as she glanced nervously at Garth. Mr. Wisdon looked from one to the other and was silent, crumbling his bread. Garth’s laugh rang false, he laughed too often and too loudly. What trouble could it be? What shadow lay upon them all? It must be my imagination, the shadow must be in my own heart, it was my heart that saw ghosts in its own darkness.
My own heart—how it ached over Garth! How it ached over the change in him, over the lines upon his face, the cynicism of his tongue! It was dreadful to me to see the boy I loved in the man he had become, dreadful. When I looked at him I saw the same dark sweep of hair from brow to nape, the same fine features, the same mobile mouth, but a different spirit now occupied the body I had loved—a bitter spirit, a disillusioned spirit that believed good of nobody, that seized upon innocent words and twisted them out of shape and threw them in your face.
I came back to town early on the Monday morning to be in time for my work; I came back from the beautiful spacious rooms and found my flat poky and dark and inconvenient; I came back from the trained servants and well-cooked meals and struggled with Mrs. Cope and was revolted by her hopeless efforts in the culinary line; I came back from broad lawns and shady trees to glaring streets and chimney pots. It took me weeks to regain the small modicum of resignation with my lot which I had previously achieved. I resolved not to go to Hinkleton again if I could help it—what use was it? I only made myself miserable. Hinkleton Manor was not for me.
It was five years before I went to Hinkleton again, and again it was an invitation which I could not refuse. I went down for old Mr. Wisdon’s funeral. He had been failing for some time, but, at the last, his death was sudden. On this occasion I only stayed one night and had little chance of speaking to Kitty or Garth. They were busy with their sad tasks, and the house was full of people coming and going all the time. My god-daughter was brought down to the drawing room to see me—or rather for me to see her. She was five years old, a strange, silent child with old-fashioned manners and large, sad eyes. Her hair was pale brown and very straight and soft, it hung down on either side of her face like a curtain. We could find nothing to say to each other (for I had no experience of children) and very soon Kitty sent her back to the nursery.
I still felt a shadow on the house, but it was natural—wasn’t it—that the house should be shadowed when the body of its master lay upstairs. Sadness is a shadow; it was the shadow of sadness that lay upon Hinkleton Manor. Soon it would pass—for Mr. Wisdon was old, and it is natural for the old to die—and Garth and Kitty would be happy again. This is what I told myself and what I wanted to believe. I wanted them to be happy.
I did not go to Hinkleton again, but I saw Kitty occasionally in town. Sometimes she made use of me to find her a maid. I liked that. It was pleasant to feel that I was of some use in the world. We met once or twice and had tea together. She told me what my god-daughter had been saying and complained that Garth spoiled her. She told me her servant troubles; they seemed to bulk largely in her life. Garth began to travel, as he had always intended, and wrote a book about his adventures. When I spoke to Kitty about the book she tossed her head: “He’s always writing,” she said, “or else hunting, or else he’s away from home traveling in some God-forsaken country. I don’t see what use it is being married at all,” and then she would change the subject and talk about the latest play. These were the things Kitty talked about when I met her—and I listened. She never wanted to know about my life—and why should she? My life was so monotonous that I would have found it difficult to discuss it with her if she had ever shown any desire to know what I did with myself. There was nothing to interest Kitty in my life. We were miles apart when we met and there was no bridge to throw across the gully. Kitty was a gay, vivacious creature, her golden hair was bright and wavy, her complexion was smooth and creamy, she was dressed, always, in the height of the fashion. I felt the difference between us acutely, I could never be like Kitty even if I had the money to spend upon myself that she had. We were different in every way. No wonder that Garth had chosen Kitty to be the mistress of Hinkleton Manor; she was a credit to it as I could never have been.
“Oh dear!” Kitty would say, picking up her bag and preparing to depart. “How I wish I lived in town!”
“How I wish I lived in the country!” I would reply.
“You wouldn’t if you were in my shoes,” she would cry, tossing her pretty head. “Not if you had to live with Garth.”
Garth’s first book was published in 1929. It was the account of a big game expedition in Central Africa. It had found its way to Wentworth’s
and I had read it there, and enjoyed it. The old Garth and the new Garth were both in the book, curiously distinct I thought. The imagination of the old Garth was there, and that wonderful power of seeing vividly and recording the vision in a few unusual words. The cynicism of the new Garth was there, that strange contrary twist, that ruthlessness, that tearing of beautiful things in pieces. I found the book moving, disquieting, but I saw that there was life in it; I saw that it was a book which would be read when contemporary books had long passed into oblivion.
So the years passed. I became a hermit in the city and found content.
Part Two
Kitty’s Husband
Chapter One
An Unexpected Visitor
One blustery evening last March I heard the doorbell ring. I was sitting over my fire reading a book about Japan which had just been published. It was part of my job, and an interesting part, to read the books as they came to Wentworth’s. Many of the books in Wentworth’s were old and dry, mere treatises upon the lands with which they dealt; but some were new and interesting, some had atmosphere, caught you up out of the grayness of London, warmed you, fed your hunger for beauty and strangeness and adventure.
The book about Japan had carried me to the land of cherry blossom; I came back to the land of wind and rain with a sigh of regret. I heard the wind howling round the chimney pots, the rain clattering on the window. The doorbell rang again, clamorously, urgently, and I got up to answer it.
I found Kitty standing on the mat, she was wearing a beautiful soft coat of caracal, and a small brown hat was perched coquettishly upon her fair wavy hair. Her eyes were shining, and she was breathing quickly as though she had run up the stairs.
“Kitty!” I said in amazement.
“I was afraid you had gone to bed.”
“I was reading,” I told her, opening the door wider.
Kitty came in; I smelt the strong scent she used as she squeezed past me in the narrow hall.
“Jeremiah takes up too much room,” she said laughing. “You should let me have him you know, I would pay you for him—”
“I like Jeremiah,” I said quickly. It was so like Kitty to offer to pay for something she wanted. (Silly of me to be annoyed, of course.)
Kitty went over to the window and pulled the blind aside. She peered out. “What a dreadful night!” she said, shivering a little.
“Are you staying in town?” I asked her.
“Needs must,” she replied. “I’ve lost the last train. The service to Hinkleton is absolutely rotten. I wondered if you could put me up, Charlotte. I’ve had a ghastly day chasing after an under-housemaid. You would think, with all this unemployment that they talk about, that it would be easy to find one.”
“Surely there must be plenty!” I exclaimed.
“I can’t find one,” she said. “And my head aches.”
I was surprised that she had come to me. She had not been inside the flat for years, I knew she thought it poky, and shabby, and inconvenient. Why hadn’t she gone to a hotel, she would have been much more comfortable in a hotel, and Kitty liked comfort. But, since she had come to me, I could not refuse to put her up. I did not really want to refuse. It was a break in the monotony of my life and I welcomed it. I told her that I would give her my bed and sleep on the couch in the sitting room. She demurred at this but only halfheartedly, and I saw that it was what she had expected.
I busied myself looking out clean sheets and pillow cases. The old Parsonage linen had come to me. It was getting thin now but it was beautifully fine and soft. Mother had prided herself upon her linen.
“May I telephone to Garth?” Kitty asked, taking up the receiver without waiting for an answer.
“Of course,” I said.
She got the connection quickly and I heard her speaking to him as I made the bed and found my best nightdress for her to wear.
“A dreadful day…Yes, of course, I have lost it…I couldn’t help it; I was chasing a wretched housemaid…No good at all…Well, I wish you would take on the job yourself…I’m here with Charlotte…Yes, in Charlotte’s flat. I’m spending the night here…Yes…No, she doesn’t mind the trouble. Charlotte will speak to you herself…Charlotte!”
She called me over to the telephone and put the receiver into my hand. I had no wish to speak to Garth, but there was something compelling about Kitty. She was determined that I should speak to him—I could see that. It was not till long afterward that I saw why she had wanted me to speak to him.
I stood there, feeling rather foolish, with the receiver in my hand. I had nothing to say to Garth, nothing. He was not Garth to me anymore; he had not been for years: he was Kitty’s husband.
“This is Charlotte,” I told him, “Kitty missed her train.”
“That was a pity,” the voice sounded a trifle dry.
“I shall like having her.”
“Good of you,” Kitty’s husband said. “I’m afraid it will be a trouble.”
“No trouble,” I assured him.
Kitty was peering out of the window again; she dropped the blind as I finished speaking and came back to the fire. I looked at her and saw that her cheeks were very pink, and her hand, which she had laid upon the edge of the mantelpiece, was trembling.
“Are you—is anything the matter?” I asked her anxiously.
“I have such a wretched headache,” she said. “Garth is so inconsiderate, he makes me mad. As if I wanted to miss the ghastly train.”
I filled a hot-water bottle and slipped it into the bed. It was all ready now, smooth, and white, and tempting. I prided myself on the smooth perfection of my bed-making.
“It looks nice,” Kitty said. “And what a pretty nightie! Don’t wake me early, Char.”
I told her that I breakfasted at eight and must be out of the flat by nine.
“That’s all right,” she said. “Just leave me to sleep and I can get up later when you’ve gone. I don’t know how on earth you can get up at that unearthly hour—I should be a wreck.”
“I have to,” I replied shortly.
“Rather you than me. It upsets me for the whole day if I have to get up early. Anyhow there is no need for you to wake me tomorrow.”
“I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed,” I suggested.
“No, no—just let me sleep.” She laughed. “I was always a sleepy-head, wasn’t I, Char?”
“You won’t know where anything is.”
“I’ll find out. It will be rather fun. I’ll get up later—perhaps about eleven—and make myself a cup of tea.” She yawned. “Gracious, how tired I am! I could sleep for a week.”
“You don’t look tired,” I told her.
“Well, I am,” she said. “Dead dog tired.”
We kissed each other good night, and I left her to go to bed.
I was tired myself, and the couch was more comfortable than I had expected. I slept well. The time had passed when I could not sleep, when I had turned and twisted, suffering in mind and body, and longing for the dawn. I had passed through all that and had attained resignation and peace within.
The morning came all too soon; I rose at my usual hour and prepared my breakfast on the little table by the fire. I was very quiet as I went about my task, careful not to clatter the plates, nor to rattle the kettle when I put it on the stove. The walls of the flat were thin and Kitty must not be disturbed. I finished my breakfast and left it as usual for Mrs. Cope to clear. I put aside some milk for Kitty’s tea, and I managed to unearth a lemon from the recesses of my modest larder—Kitty always used to take lemon in her morning cup of tea, I remembered. Anyhow it was there and she could have whichever she liked. It was lucky about the lemon. I saw that there was enough butter in the dish and I put out the loaf with the knife beside it, and a pot of marmalade. Mrs. Cope would be finished by ten—she had another flat to “do” at 10:30—so she would probably ha
ve left before Kitty was ready for her breakfast. Kitty would manage now with everything put out conveniently; there would be no need for her to poke in my cupboard for what she wanted.
Mrs. Cope was coming up the stairs as I went down. We were so regular in our hours, she and I, that we usually met on the stairs or in the street. I told her about Kitty and warned her to be quiet. “Mrs. Wisdon had a bad headache,” I said.
“Pore soul!” said Mrs. Cope easily. “I’ll maike ’er a cup o’ tea laiter, shall I, Miss?”
The idea seemed good. I had not told Kitty of Mrs. Cope’s daily advent, but that didn’t matter. I would save Kitty the trouble of making tea for herself. Mrs. Cope could easily stay a little longer and make Kitty some tea—say about eleven. We arranged the matter like that, and I ran on to catch my bus.”
Chapter Two
“Garth Is Mad”
The days passed. I heard no word from Kitty—I had not expected to hear—sometimes months passed without my hearing from Hinkleton. It was easier, really, to forget that such a place as Hinkleton existed, and to fill my days with the little incidents of Wentworth’s, the chatter of Mrs. Cope, and the companionship of books.
And then, quite suddenly, Kitty came back into my life. I looked up from my desk at Wentworth’s, where I was engaged in listing books, and there was Kitty standing in the doorway. Her eyes were blinded by the sudden transition from the glare of the summer streets to the dimness of the shop. There was always that pause in the doorway when a stranger came to Wentworth’s, the sort of pause a diver makes before he takes the plunge.
Mr. Wentworth hastened forward, he had an eye for a pretty woman and Kitty was indubitably that.
The Young Clementina Page 5