The Young Clementina

by D. E. Stevenson

  Christmas Leave! I have not dared to think of it, and here it is, only ten days late. I must have one peep of Hinkleton, and see Char—just one peep, that’s all. I dare not have more or I should feel it impossible to return here and carry on. I must finish this job first—it can’t be long now. Staines is grumbling, he says three days’ leave is not worth having, but he is preparing to take it “toute même.” How strange to think that I shall be in London tomorrow night! The Eltons have asked me to stay with them, and I have decided to do that. I shall not sleep at Hinkleton until I am free to stay there and soak myself in its peace. I shall run down to Hinkleton the day after tomorrow and surprise father, and Char. Then back here to finish the job. I hope the job won’t take too long to finish for the strain is telling upon me now. Sometimes my brain goes dead, and sometimes it is too active. I can’t sleep properly.

  ***

  January 5th. London.

  I have no heart to write tonight, and yet I must write, for I can’t sleep. Char is lost to me. Char is lost to me. I can’t believe the words are true. They have no meaning. They are like the ravings of a madman. Kitty is staying here with the Eltons—we are a big party—the child is “almost grown up now”—her own words. At dinner there were veiled allusions to Char and her refusal to come and spend a few days in London while I was here on leave. There was some laughter about “the superior attraction at Hinkleton.” I could not understand what it all meant. After dinner I got hold of Kitty—the others were playing billiards—and asked her what it meant. She was loath to tell me at first, but I got it out of her. Char is engaged to a man called Senture, an archaeologist as far as I can make out. He has been staying at the Hinkleton Arms all winter and they are together every day. She is helping him with a book about Hinkleton Church—they spend hours in the church—and they go for expeditions together all over the country. One day they went to Canterbury and did not get home till after midnight. Kitty was very sweet to me, I think she knew that her news had knocked me out badly, though I tried to hide my feelings as best I could. I asked her if Char were very much in love with the man (I had to know). She looked down and twisted her little hands and replied in a low voice, “She can talk of nothing else.” I asked her if Char knew that I was to be at the Eltons’ when she refused their invitation. Kitty looked away and said nothing. “She knew, Kitty?” I asked again. “Oh, Garth, I hate hurting you,” she said. “Don’t worry,” I told her, “there are other women in the world.” So there are but there is only one woman for me. There has never been anyone except Char, never will be. I shall marry, of course, because Hinkleton must have an heir, but my heart is dead. My heart feels numb and cold. “You don’t really mind, then?” Kitty was saying. I laughed at that, or tried to laugh; it was a sorry exhibition I’m afraid. “Why should I mind?” I inquired. “It’s nothing to me.” Nobody should see my pain. I would not give them the satisfaction of knowing that my heart was broken. Gerald Elton came up and wanted to know what the joke was. I was too upset to turn the question aside, but Kitty came to the rescue with some nonsense or other. She is a kind little soul. It was a strange feeling to laugh and talk and feel all the time that my heart was broken. Now I have come up to bed and am writing my diary. I am so tired, so dreadfully tired, yet I know I shall not sleep. It is a nightmare to me to think of any man touching Char, holding her hand, kissing her. Oh God, how can I bear that thought! To think that Char could be unfaithful, to think that she could let some other man steal her from me (for she was mine, I know that. She was all mine that night I kissed her on the top of Prospect Hill).

  I shall not go to Hinkleton tomorrow—what is the use? I could not bear to see Char, nor the man she loves. The man that Char has chosen. I must have time to recover from the blow before I can face that. It seems to me that I shall never be able to bear it—and why should I? Why should I have to bear it? I shall stay in France until she has married and left Hinkleton; I shall never see Char again. Kitty has asked me to go with her to a concert tomorrow—it is kind of the child to try to comfort me.

  ***

  January 6th. London.

  Why did I come on leave? It has been a ghastly day. Thank God I am going back to France tomorrow. The work will take my mind off my troubles. Oh, Char, how could you! Didn’t you know what I meant when I said I was coming back to you? You said “Come back safely”—didn’t that mean you would wait for me until my work was done? Faithless Char, you knew it all; you knew you were mine and I was yours. Staines is right: there is not a woman in the world worth a tear, not one.

  ***

  January 8th. Lines of Communication. France.

  Back in the midst of work again with arrears to make up. No time to think, save at night when I tumble into bed, worn out. Then my mind flies off and I can’t stop it—Oh, God, this is hell! Why can’t I sleep? My dreams have fallen into ruins. If we had not been so near each other I would not have minded so much; if we had not understood each other so well I would not have felt so bitter. I pinned my faith to Char. She was my friend before she was my beloved. I thought I knew her through and through. I thought I could depend upon her though all else failed.

  ***

  May 2nd. Hinkleton Manor.

  Home, what a mockery the word is! I have been here for a week now but have found no peace. I suppose Hinkleton is the same, and it is I who has changed! Tonight I dined at the Parsonage. The poor old man is very feeble; it is tragic to see him. He is a travesty of himself. Char is still here, she is not married yet. I could hardly bear to look at her. She tried to speak to me as if we were friends—how can we be friends? She has given her love to another man and I do not want her friendship. What good is her friendship to me when I love her with all my being? Yes, in spite of everything, I still love Char. That is the dreadful part of it: I have tried to tear her out of my heart, and I can’t do it—I can’t. She wore the yellow dress, she flaunted it before my eyes—how could she be so cruel, so heartless? It is strange that those we love have the power to hurt us so desperately. I would not let her see that I cared, even when she belittled the dress and said it was old-fashioned and she had put it on for a joke. She shall not have the satisfaction of knowing how deeply her faithlessness has wounded me. Kitty warned me not to speak of Mr. Senture before Mr. Dean; he does not like the idea of Char getting married and leaving him. It is strange how selfish people get when they grow old. Mr. Dean was the most unselfish man alive, and the most clear-headed. This poor old man is not Mr. Dean at all. There are other subjects besides Char’s marriage which are taboo when he is present. To speak of the war sends him into a frenzy—Char warned me of that.

  I had no intention of mentioning Senture but Char brought up his name at dinner and boasted of the fact that she had spent hours with him in the church helping him with his book, and had gone to Canterbury with him to spend the day. She offered to show me the leper window which he has discovered, but I told her the idea of a leper window disgusted me—so it does. Char has changed utterly.

  ***

  June 2nd, 1919. Hinkleton Manor.

  I have been at home for a month but I am still restless and unhappy. Father spoke to me last night. We had a long serious talk. Now that the war is over and I am free he wants me to take the management of the property into my own hands (there are three farms on the estate so I should find plenty to do) and he wants me to marry and settle down. The traditions of the Wisdon family are important to him. For nearly three hundred years the property has been handed down from father to son in an unbroken sequence and he wants to see the line assured. The desire of his heart is to hold a grandson in his arms before he dies. He spoke of Charlotte and seemed surprised when I told him she was engaged to be married to another man. Then he sighed and said, “There are other women, Garth.”

  I did not answer. There are no other women for me.

  All the same I can see the advantages…

  ***

  Ju
ne 20th, 1919. Hinkleton Manor.

  So much has happened since I wrote the above entry in my diary that it seems more like two months than two weeks. I must write down the whole story: it began with domestic troubles—the troubles which afflict a house like Hinkleton Manor which has no mistress (two men living alone are at the mercy of their staff). Father has been ill and depressed. He spoke to me again of his desire for a grandson to inherit our family traditions and the estate.

  I had been for a long walk over the hills and returned home tired and dispirited…and I found Kitty Dean in the flower room.

  Kitty turned to me and smiled a little shyly. She said, “Oh Garth, the roses were withered so I threw them away and cut fresh ones. I can’t bear to see withered flowers in this lovely old house—and you have nobody to do them for you.”

  It was then that I saw the answer to all our problems and asked Kitty to be my wife. “Oh Garth, do you mean it?” she asked. I told her I meant it and took her in my arms and kissed her. She was kind and sweet. She had been like a little sister. I had seen her grow from a tiresome child into a charming girl—so she was no stranger. I knew that father would be delighted to welcome Kitty as a daughter. He had always been fond of her.

  We are all very happy tonight.

  ***

  July 16th, 1919. Hinkleton Manor.

  Kitty and I are to be married tomorrow (there seemed little sense in a long engagement) but already I have begun to wonder if we are suited to each other. Kitty is sweet and pretty but there is no depth in her; she will never be a real companion, a friend to share my thoughts. It is strange that sisters can be so dissimilar. They have the same blood in their veins, the same heredity, the same upbringing. Did I hope subconsciously that beneath her skin Kitty would resemble Char? They are utterly different. Char has depth and serenity and strength of character; Kitty lives upon the surface of life, she lives for the hour. But it is too late now to indulge in vain regrets. I have determined to be a good husband to Kitty. I must be patient and gentle; I must remember how young she is and give her time to mature. If she is unable to share my interests I must do my best to share hers. Somehow or other we must find common ground and make a success of our life together.

  This would be easier if it were not for her friends (her friends can never be mine). The Eltons think me a dull dog. Perhaps I am! I cannot laugh at their jokes. Their jokes are often unkind or in bad taste. Their talk is wild and reckless, they dress extravagantly. They amuse Kitty but their influence is bad for her. I can only hope that once we are married she will settle down and be content to play her part as chatelaine of Hinkleton Manor.

  ***

  January 12th, 1920. Hinkleton Manor.

  Kitty is to have a child! It is almost too good to be true! Our son is to be called Charles Dean after his two grandfathers. God grant that he will resemble them in strength of character and integrity. I ask nothing better. Kitty is weak and shallow (I see that more clearly every day) but I am not blind to my own faults. I, too, am weak for I have allowed myself to brood over my troubles. Char’s faithlessness broke something inside me—some vital spring. I was war-weary, of course, but that is a coward’s excuse. I should have stood up to the blow and borne it like the attack of an enemy. Now, however, I shall have something to live for—I shall live for my children and seek fulfillment in their lives.

  We have lost another tree: one of the old chestnuts—planted in the reign of Mary Tudor—came down last night in the storm. It always saddens me when we lose a tree. I am planting trees now for my children and my children’s children. They will be green and growing long after I am dust.

  ***

  January 14th. Hinkleton.

  Father is overjoyed at Kitty’s news. He and Kitty get on very well together. He has always liked Kitty. Father has the old-fashioned way of treating a pretty woman like a pretty toy—something brittle and valuable, something to look at and admire. He does not want friendship from women, so Kitty satisfies him. He is charmed by her playfulness.

  I saw Banks about the tree and told him to get it sawn up, then I walked down to the village. Mr. Frale was coming out of the church when I passed and I stopped to speak to him. He is a poor substitute for Mr. Dean. He told me that Mr. Senture has returned to Hinkleton—he had some long story about the man’s book on Hinkleton Church. I didn’t listen. I hope I shall not see the man while he is here.

  Chapter Seven

  Garth’s Diary: “Battles Long Ago”

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

  I could not write last night. My whole life fell to pieces. In a few moments of quiet conversation I saw an abyss open before my feet. Nothing happened and yet everything happened. I have lost everything that made life possible—all comfort in the present, all hope for the future.

  This is raving. I must write sense. I must write the whole thing down in black and white and decide what to do. How am I to go on with life when it means nothing, when there is no use in anything anymore? How am I to believe in anybody when I have been sold, tricked, deceived? I left the Manor last night, after dinner—no, this is not the way to start. I must go back to the beginning and follow every step, and watch how my world tottered and crashed about my ears; how the awful suspicion that I had been tricked was born, and grew into a certainty.

  I must be strong now. I need all my strength to bear this. I must be calm. Writing calms me.

  How did it begin? It began that afternoon, the afternoon of the fifteenth—yesterday? (Good God, it feels a hundred years ago.) Father told us at teatime that he had invited Mr. Senture to dinner. “He’s an interesting man,” father said. Kitty’s face changed at the news. (I put it down to anxiety on my behalf. She knew it would be awkward for me to meet the man.) “I wish you hadn’t asked him,” Kitty said petulantly, “I don’t feel like meeting strangers just now…” Father was all concern; he reviled himself for his thoughtlessness and suggested that Kitty should dine upstairs. “Oh, I must just bear it, I suppose,” Kitty said. “He won’t stay late, I hope.” “You must go to bed when you feel tired, my dear,” father told her. “Mr. Senture won’t mind. He is coming to speak to me about the church—he wants some further information for his book. Don’t trouble about the man, my dear. Just go off to bed.”

  There was more talk on the subject; Kitty fretful, and father apologetic. She wanted father to put off Mr. Senture’s visit, but father did not feel he could do that. “The man will have told them at the Hinkleton Arms,” said father reasonably. “I really think it would be very inconvenient for him. Why not have dinner in your room?”

  I let them argue and said nothing. I wondered if I should make an excuse to absent myself, but I decided that I would not run away. I would stay and see the man who had usurped my place, the man whom Char loved. Kitty came to me and suggested that I should go up to town. “You don’t want to meet the man,” she said. I wavered, and then something inside me decided the matter. “I think I do want to meet him,” I told her. She put her cheek against mine. “Let’s go up to town together, just you and me. It’s ages since we had a jaunt together.” “No, you’re tired,” I told her. “You must take care of yourself, my dear, go to bed early and have a good sleep.” She did all she could to persuade me to go, but the more she persuaded me, the more I determined to remain and meet the man.

  He came early. I found him talking to father in the library. He rose and bowed to me…a funny little old man…as old as father…rather frail…with little white whiskers and a fringe of white crinkly hair round his bald crown…rather a pathetic little man.

  “Mr. Senture?” I asked incredulously.

  He bowed again.

  The suspicion was born then. It was a puny child. There was some mistake, of course, this was not Char’s Mr. Senture, the man with whom she had gone to Canterbury, the man who had spent hours with her alone, the man who had lured her away from me. This must be th
e father of Char’s man.

  Kitty appeared, and we went in to dinner. Mr. Senture talked a great deal, he never ceased talking. Perhaps it was as well, for the rest of us were silent that night. Father never talked much; I was occupied with my thoughts; Kitty was—what was Kitty feeling? I would have given a lot to know what Kitty was feeling. She was silent and pale, her eyes avoided mine…

  Mr. Senture talked about the church, and then he talked about his wife. He told us that she was delicate, had been delicate for years. He told us her symptoms, which specialists she had seen, and all that they had said and done. His voice trembled as he described the sufferings of his wife, and his poor old hands trembled so that he spilled his wine upon the table.

  “You have a son?” I asked him.

  No, he had no son, no children. His wife had always been delicate…the risk was too great…

  “Perhaps you have a nephew?”

  Yes, Mr. Senture had a nephew—his sister’s boy. The lad was out in China…had been out there for years…was expected home almost immediately.

  “Your book,” I said. “You are bringing out a book, I hear.”

  Ah, that got him! His eyes glistened, he was only too ready to talk of his book, he talked about it interminably. I saw at last that unless I mentioned Char’s name it would not be mentioned. I felt I must get to the bottom of the mystery. I was very near the bottom of it already, but I must clear it up completely. There had been enough mistakes, enough misunderstandings through lack of plain speech.

  “I believe Miss Dean helped you with your book,” I said.

  “Miss Dean?” he asked in a bewildered voice—I had pulled him up in the middle of his story about the leper window, and it took him a moment to adjust his mind to my question. “Oh yes, the parson’s daughter. She was most kind, most helpful. I am glad you spoke of her, for it has reminded me that I must send her a copy of my book when it is published—I must really. Her patience was inexhaustible.” He took a notebook out of his pocket and continued, “Please excuse me if I make a note of it. My memory is deplorable, and Miss Dean was really so very kind. I must write it down at once or I shall forget, and Miss Dean will think me ungrateful—a copy of book to Miss Dean, The Parsonage, Hinkleton—there, I shall not forget her now.”