“I won’t forget,” she said as she rose and reached for her coat—and she didn’t forget. The restaurant proprietor had made a friend, and so had Paula. We were escorted to the car with royal honors.
Paula drove me to Mr. Ponsonby’s office and left me there. She had an appointment with her hairdresser and we decided to meet at five and drive home together.
I had to wait for a few minutes in the dingy office, for Mr. Ponsonby was engaged. It was a dull, dreary room, furnished with heavy mahogany furniture of the Victorian period. The walls were lined with shelves upon which stood black tin boxes painted with white names. Bereft of Paula my mood changed to one of black despondency. Garth was gone, the future was drab. I had probably at least thirty years of life before me, thirty years of loneliness and frustration. There was nothing for me to look forward to except loneliness; there was nothing for me to look back upon except loneliness. I had lost the hardly gained content which I had won during my years at Wentworth’s; I was no longer resigned to a hermit’s lot—I wanted more now. I wanted all the things that other women had—a husband, children, a full and useful life. Hinkleton had awakened my dormant desires. Paula had shown me how full and useful a normal woman’s life could be.
I was deep in the slough of despond when Mr. Ponsonby appeared. He was full of apologies for keeping me waiting and inquired eagerly after the progress of the book. I pulled myself together and replied that I was getting on with it, and found it very interesting work.
“Good!” he said rubbing his hands. “That is excellent news. I have spoken to a publisher—Mr. Falks, of Messrs. Falks and Lamb—they handled Mr. Wisdon’s other books and are very anxious to have this one also. They suggest that the new book should be prefaced by a biography of Mr. Wisdon—the man and his work—I said I would speak to you about it.”
“You mean me to write it?” I asked doubtfully.
“Who else? You knew him so well. It need not be long nor detailed, just a simple biography comprising his childhood, his life at Oxford, his war career and a short criticism of his books.”
“It sounds rather ambitious—I have never done anything of that kind,” I told him.
“Please try, Miss Dean. Mr. Falks was exceedingly anxious for something of the sort to be attempted. He pointed out that Mr. Wisdon’s writings have not received the notice they merited. Mr. Wisdon was feeling his way toward the expression of his individualism. If he had lived he would have been a great writer—so Mr. Falks says, and I believe in his judgment in such matters; he has had wide experience, very wide experience.”
I had been considering the matter while he spoke and had begun to think I might do it. I saw vaguely how it might be done. The biography took nebulous shape before my eyes.
“I will think it over,” I told him cautiously.
“Don’t put it off too long,” said Mr. Ponsonby. “Mr. Falks is anxious to have the book as soon as possible. We don’t want to hurry you, that would be a fatal mistake, but Mr. Wisdon is in the public eye. The book should come out if possible before the public has forgotten him.”
“Their memories are short,” I said. “You are asking me to hurry and yet not to hurry.”
He laughed. “You are always condensing me, or putting words into my mouth, Miss Dean. I must remember my P’s and Q’s when you are about.”
There were several other matters to settle, business connected with the estate. Mr. Ponsonby had engaged a bailiff and he was to take up his duties almost immediately. All sorts of papers required my signature and it was getting on for five when I left the office.
Paula was waiting for me. “You look dazed,” she said.
“I feel dazed,” I replied. “Legal papers are dazing to an ordinary woman like myself. And I’ve been let in for something rather—rather big.”
I told her about the biography—all that Mr. Ponsonby had said and Mr. Falks as reported by Mr. Ponsonby.
“You must do it,” she told me earnestly. “I feel you could do it well, and it would be worth doing. We need biographies of men like Mr. Wisdon. Men who stand for the old ideals of truth and justice. Make it the biography of an Englishman—he was that before everything. He was the product of generations of Englishmen—his feet were planted deep in English soil. I always used to feel that there was something strong and deep about Mr. Wisdon—there was weakness too, but that weakness was merely the offshoot of his strength. He hated anything shoddy or mean; he hated deceit. These things found his weak point, his Achilles heel. He was truth and generosity personified, but he veiled his virtues with cynicism.”
“I think you had better write the biography,” I told her with gentle sarcasm.
Her mood changed swiftly from deep earnestness to raillery. “I could do it beautifully,” she agreed, “if I had time. D’you know, Char, I once heard a woman say that to Mr. Walpole. It was at a dull dinner, a dreadfully dull dinner. ‘I admire your books so much,’ she told him gushingly, ‘I could write too if only I had time. I’ve always wanted to write, you know, but I have such a busy life that I scarcely have time to write my letters. I have five dogs, you see, and really I never have a moment to myself.’ ‘The dogs are more fortunate than we,’ he replied gravely. I thought it was a lovely answer.”
“It was, but how does it affect me?”
“I was only illustrating my meaning. If I hadn’t five dogs I could write the biography for you, Char. But let’s be serious.”
“I thought we were serious.”
“No, but we will be. Are you just going to do it out of your head or have you any data to help you? However well you know a person, it must be difficult to write a biography without anything to go on. There must be spaces in his life that you know nothing about.”
I had not thought of that, but now I saw that what Paula said was true. I had imagined that I knew Garth well, and yet for twelve years I had scarcely set eyes on him.
“Perhaps there are old letters, or something,” Paula suggested. “He was away from home so much, he must have written to his wife when he was away, or to Clem.”
“There are diaries,” I told her, “he always kept a diary, he told me so himself.”
“Splendid.”
“But I can’t pry into his diaries, Paula.”
“That’s nonsense!” she said firmly. “Of course you must read them.”
“I couldn’t.”
“What will you do with them then?” she asked.
It was a reasonable question, but I had no answer for it. What should I do with Garth’s diaries? They must be somewhere in the Manor—Nanny would probably know where.
“You would never burn them,” Paula continued. “You might burn something valuable. The man was a born writer, he had greatness, he had wonderful ideas. He had not reached his zenith, of course, his two books are merely a promise of better things to come—it is sad to think that the promise can never be fulfilled. You must read the diaries, Char, and put extracts into the biography.”
I saw that what she said was true. If the biography were to be more than a mere outline of Garth’s life, and an incomplete outline at that, I must read the diaries. I shrank from the task. It would be painful to pry into Garth’s life. The diary of the expedition had been written with a view to publication, it had been left to me to do with it as I thought best. The earlier diaries were quite a different matter; they were the private expressions of Garth’s soul. Could I violate that privacy?
“You must, Char dear,” said Paula answering my thoughts. “Think it over quietly and you will see that you can’t do otherwise.”
Chapter Five
Bluebeard’s Chamber
I could not work that evening, the thought of the old diaries haunted me, came between me and the page that I was trying to write. I found myself sitting idle, staring in front of me with unseeing eyes. I had not thought about the old diaries before, but now that my attent
ion had been directed to them they drew me in a strange fashion. Had Garth meant me to have the old diaries as well as the diary of the expedition? “Also to the aforesaid Charlotte Mary Dean I bequeath my diaries”—did that mean all his diaries or merely the diary upon which the book was to be based? I tried to look at it calmly and without prejudice, and it really seemed to mean all his diaries. He could so easily have worded it more explicitly if he had intended it to mean the diary of the expedition only. In law the diaries were mine—that was clear—but what was Garth’s intention?
If I read the diaries I should be able to make a real biography of Garth. I could put extracts from the diaries into the biography to show the trend of his thoughts; to show how he grew from childhood to manhood; to show his aim and the clean shining light of his ambition, and how he moved toward it from the childish games of make-believe-travel to the reality of exploration. I wanted to do this, I wanted to write Garth’s story from the inside. It was a fascinating prospect.
I had ascertained from Nanny that the old diaries were in a chest in the front attic. She had given me the key of the chest—the key of Bluebeard’s Chamber. The key lay on the bureau beside me, a small shiny key with a strange ward.
I could not sleep that night. The moonlight, strong and white, poured through the open window and lay upon the floor of my room in a bright swathe. The owls hooted mournfully as they wheeled round the old house. I heard a mouse scraping industriously in the wainscot. I tossed and turned upon my bed, I lay and stared at the ceiling—should I read the diaries or not? Did Garth mean me to have them? Should I burn them?
The moon sank behind the trees and left me in darkness.
***
I was busy all the morning in the rock garden, but after lunch I took the key and went upstairs. The attic was full of lumber; mirrors and chairs and pictures which had been discarded by various generations of Wisdons stood about, dirty and forlorn, or leaned disconsolately against the walls. The sun streamed in through a small round window showing up the thick fine dust that lay over everything and floated suspended in the air. It seemed to me, as I looked about me, that there was valuable stuff here. Someday I would go over it all carefully and pick out what was good. I would refurnish the drawing room, discarding Kitty’s modern trash, and transform it into the beautiful room it was intended to be. That old spinet should have an honored place, and so should the Chippendale table with the beautiful inlaid front. I visualized the drawing room (denuded of its gilt mirrors and purple carpet) papered with cream, and with a few Persian rugs on its polished floor. It should be a restful room; I would give it back its soul.
The big, carved wooden chest stood beneath the round window just as Nanny had described. The key turned easily in the lock, I flung the lid back and there were the diaries—piles of them, with the dates written upon little labels gummed onto their shiny covers—Garth’s diaries!
I took some of them out and looked at them without opening them—it was extraordinary how strong the feeling was that held me back from opening those diaries. The Unwritten Law of childhood warred with my reason. The Unwritten Law that our diaries were sacred, not to be pried into by alien eyes. This was one thing that held me back, but there was another feeling, equally strong—it was fear. I was afraid of what I might find in the diaries. I might find something dreadful, something that would force me to take Garth from his pedestal of Valiance and Virtue.
There was something in Garth’s life which had changed him in a few months from a gentle-natured boy into a cynical, disillusioned man. I had told myself that the war had done it, but I did not really believe it was the war. I believed that there was something else, something more personal than the war, and I feared to know what it was. The diaries would tell me Garth’s secret—I was sure of that. They would resurrect the past which had been buried for so long; they would open old wounds; they might change the whole tenor of my thoughts toward their author. Could I bear it?
I sat down and argued with myself. There were two courses open to me, I must either read the diaries or burn them. It was balking my fence to keep them where they were, unread. If anything were to happen to me they would fall into other hands—Clementina’s most likely—they would be read by other eyes than mine, less interested, less understanding. I must either read them or burn them…and I couldn’t burn them. They were Garth, the essence of him, all that remained of his personality…I couldn’t burn them.
I picked up a book at random and began to read. I read a bit here and a bit there, passing over weeks or years, dipping into Garth’s past—and my own past too. Sometimes the tears rained down my cheeks so that I had to stop and wipe them away before I could see the words. I forgot, very soon, the purpose of my reading—to gather material for the biography—that could wait. I could do that afterward (go back and gather up the threads of Garth’s life, sifting, weighing, putting in a passage that showed his development, leaving out another because it was too intimate, too poignant, too passionate. Garth would have hated his soul laid bare to the public eye; he was fastidious, he hated to show his feelings, he hated sentiment. I should have to apply the touchstone of Garth’s fastidious mind to all I wrote. There was much that was beautiful here, much that I could gather for my book, but that was for afterward; today I was concerned only with Garth and myself, with our relationship to each other; with the part I had played in his life, and the part he had played in mine.
Chapter Six
Garth’s Diary: “Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things”
January 1st, 1919. Lines of Communication.
Very busy today. There is more work than ever for the “A” branch and we are all stale and longing to get home. I saw Carruthers and Staines and pointed out the mistakes in the returns. They were pretty fed up and I don’t wonder…had only one hour in the middle of the day for my ride. I must have that or my brain goes absolutely dead. (I am never in bed before midnight and it is more often 2 a.m.) I took my favorite route to the top of the hill. The place reminds me of the hill at home, the hill that Char and I christened Prospect Hill because of the glorious view. It was there I kissed her, my darling girl. How I long to get back to her out of all this muddle and worry. My brain is so tired. I have vowed not to go to Char till the muddle is clear and I am free. Then we shall be happy together with no troubles to mar the perfection of our love. Hinkleton and Char—that is all I want—to stay quietly at home and watch the seasons pass. Later on we shall travel together, for she loves traveling as I do. I remember saying to her once long ago, “What a pity you are not a man, Char, we could go off together and explore the world,” or words to that effect. It seems curious now that I should ever have wished for such a thing—for Char to be a man. And yet it is beautiful that the foundations of our love were laid in such a perfect friendship. She has had a dreary time of it, my poor Char, but I will make it up to her. She shall be happy all her life if I can accomplish it—dear Char, wonderful Char, the woman I love, the only woman in the world for me, the woman I want for the mother of my son.
I think a lot about my son, these days. The war has made me think. We must build a sure peace so that our sons may live. I think a lot about the Wisdons. I am only a link in the chain of Wisdons stretching far back into England’s history and, please God, as far forward. I am only a link in the chain, but I am the only link for this generation, and I am glad the war has spared me to carry on. Wisdons have helped to hold England against her enemies in the past—there will be no more enemies. (This war is to end war for all time; we must believe that or lose our sanity.) But although there be no more enemies England will still need faithful sons and daughters—Wisdons, Valiant Men and Virtuous Women, to build up her prosperity, to guard her ideals, to serve her in peace if not in war. Char’s son and mine—a true Wisdon, he must be, staunch as steel and tempered to sword strength. He will love the old house as I love it, every stone in its gray, weathered walls. He will guard the traditions of our race—my son and
Char’s, another link in the Wisdon chain.
I think a lot about the beautiful old house, I see it more clearly during this compulsory exile than I did when I was living in it and was part of its life. Exile seems to sharpen the inner eye for the beauties of home. (The greatest poems of our land have been written by exiled sons.) I have only to shut my eyes to see Hinkleton Manor set like a gray gem in the green country of home—the wide, sloping lawns, the woods with their delicate green leaves in spring or their fine tracery of black branches in winter. I can sense the inner peace of the house that flows through me like a cool stream as I cross the threshold—there is peace and safety here, there is something strong and enduring, something which speaks to me from the past, from the people who have lived here, loved it as I love it, and died for its traditions. I am theirs and they are mine, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, their blood flows through my veins. I am a link in the chain, I, too, will pass on, but part of me will go on down the years in Wisdon bodies. I shall pass on the warm living traditions to my son.
These things are needed today more than ever, these links with the past. Old houses with England in their bones. The war has torn up many roots, torn down age-old beautiful ideas. This passion of destruction which has fallen upon the world is a dangerous thing—so it seems to me—it is a madness that cannot be cured all in a minute with treaties written on a piece of paper and signed by diplomats. England’s soul must be kept safe till she needs it again and the devil let loose by the war is chained up.
What a lot of nonsense I have written tonight! I have got it off my chest now and perhaps I shall sleep the better for it.
***
January 4th. Lines of Communication. France.
The Young Clementina Page 24