I am now nearing the point where I want your advice, Clare. You will have been wondering why I have been so long in coming to the point, and why all this history—somewhat sordid in parts—should be necessary. I did not intend it to be so long when I started to write it. I thought a few pages would suffice to put the facts before you; but, as I wrote, I found that all that had happened in my life had a bearing on my choice of roads, and, to tell the truth, the task of writing it all down eased my mind and cleared my brain. Already I feel lightened, as if part of the burden of my loneliness and perplexity had fallen from my shoulders. I am doing what Mr. Corrieston deplored when he said of Kitty, “She does not bear her burdens on her own back; she unloads them onto the nearest person.” You are my nearest person, Clare, so I am unloading my burdens onto you, but you will not really have to bear them upon your back, my dear, for you will never read this history.
When Mr. Corrieston had gone I went home slowly, thinking over all he had said. There was a big car standing outside the main door of my flat, and I wondered, as I passed up the stairs, whose car it could be. Big cars seldom find their way to France Street; the people in the flats below mine are all as poor and friendless as myself. As I reached the top floor, fumbling for my key, I saw that somebody was waiting for me on the landing—a tall, broad-shouldered man in a navy blue overcoat and a soft gray hat. He turned as I came up the last few steps and I saw that it was Garth.
“Garth!” I said in amazement.
“Yes, Garth,” he said, smiling rather sadly. “Garth come to trouble you further with his unfortunate affairs. May I come in for a few minutes, Char?”
I opened the door and we went in. He had never been in my flat before and I wondered what he was thinking of it. It took him all his time to squeeze past Jeremiah into the sitting room. Even there he looked immense, towering over everything, filling the whole place with his presence.
“Won’t you sit down?” I said.
He chose the old schoolroom chair which had come from the Parsonage.
“I feel quite at home in this chair,” he said, “although it seems to have grown a good deal smaller since the last time I sat in it.”
I laughed nervously and began to make the tea.
“I suppose you are very angry with me, Char,” he suggested, after a few moments’ silence.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t know. I don’t understand why you did it—it was so horrible—but you didn’t come here to ask me that.”
“No, I didn’t,” he admitted. “I came to ask you—but you must let me do this in my own way, or it will be hopeless. I want to explain first of all why I had to do it, why I had to divorce Kitty.”
“I know you were within your rights,” I told him. “She behaved disgracefully, but so did you.”
“What do you mean, Char?”
“You weren’t kind to her,” I said. “If you had been kind she wouldn’t have wanted—other people. She was so young when you married her that I think you could have made something of her if you had tried. Couldn’t you have tried, Garth? Couldn’t you have helped her? You turned away from her—”
I stopped suddenly, for a lump had risen in my throat and I could not go on. I was still weak and foolish after my illness.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I turned away from her.”
There was silence for a few moments and a coal fell out of the fire which Mrs. Cope had lighted for me before she left. Garth leaned forward and put it back.
“I can’t forgive you easily for that,” I told him in a voice that was blurred with tears. “You are so much older than Kitty, so much wiser—and you had promised to love her and cherish her.”
“That’s true, Char,” he said gravely. “That’s quite true, and I can’t explain—anything. I’m sorry you feel it hard to forgive me because it makes it harder for me to ask you—what I have come to ask you.”
“What have you come to ask me?”
“A favor,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you about it soon—after we have had tea.”
I set the tea on the little table near the fire, Garth looked round the room and his eyes brightened. “I wondered where the old schoolroom bureau had gone,” he said. “It’s friendly to see the old thing again. I always liked that nice fat bulge in front—what a job you must have had getting it through the door!”
“It was an awful job,” I told him.
“Did you know Kitty is going to marry George Hamilton?”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“I’m glad. Hamilton loves her and I think they will be happy.”
“Then you did it for her,” I said eagerly. “For her sake, so that she could be happy.”
“I did it for Clem’s sake,” he said sternly. “For Clem and nobody else at all. Kitty is not worth considering.” He moved uneasily in his chair. “I could have divorced her before—there was a fellow called Bridges, and—well—one or two others, but they were all cads—none of them would have married her—and I didn’t want to turn her loose. Kitty isn’t the sort of woman who can fend for herself.”
I was aghast. I could not speak.
“Don’t be so upset, Char,” said Garth, smiling sadly. “Just think of us both as being caught in a trap from which there is no escape—except this horrible business of divorce.”
“It was so—so dreadful,” I said, shuddering at the recollection.
“I had to do it, Char. You must believe me when I tell you that. The whole atmosphere was so bad for Clem—it was ruining Clem. I’m not sure that it hasn’t ruined her already. Clem is eleven now, and she is clever. I mean she sees things she shouldn’t see, understands things she shouldn’t understand. I’m sure we didn’t understand the affairs of our elders when we were Clem’s age. They would have passed over our heads. Children seem to be different nowadays; perhaps it is because they are so much with grown-up people. Grown-up people are interested in them, talk to them and bring them forward. When we were young we were just children—rather a nuisance to our elders, rather a bore. I felt that everything was all wrong for Clem and there was only one way out of the mess so I took it. I couldn’t let Kitty divorce me because I had to have Clem; she is my daughter—she is all I have left out of the wreck. I had to have Clem, and anyhow I was sick of lies. If I had let Kitty divorce me I should have had to trump up a whole lot of evidence and lie myself blue in the face. I couldn’t do it—besides I had to have Clem. You see that don’t you, Char?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, that brings me to my reason for coming here. Will you come to Hinkleton and look after Clem while I’m away? Please do, Char. I’ve promised to go with Fraser on this expedition of his to Africa—or rather he has promised to take me—it’s a great chance and I want to go, I must get away from everything—I must. I shall go mad if I don’t get away, right away from everything. The expedition is going to penetrate into the heart of the desert—it will be marvelous, intensely interesting. I was out there four years ago—you read my book? Well, now I want to go farther, to penetrate right into the interior. Fraser is going on business, prospecting for an airplane route, and several well-known scientists are going for their own purposes. Fraser knows me and says he’ll take me if I pay my way—it’s a wonderful chance!” He got up and moved about the tiny room like a caged beast. “Do think of it, Char,” he said. “It would be a rest for you, wouldn’t it? You look as if you needed a rest.”
“I couldn’t afford to lose my job.”
“You are taking on another job,” he said quickly. “It will be a business arrangement, of course. Don’t think about the money part of it—trust me to see to that. Afterward, when I come back we can find you something else—Wentworth would take you back if you wanted that, or we could look about for something better. Don’t think of that now.”
“I have to think of it.”
“No, you don’t have to think of it. You shan’t lose by doing me this service; surely you realize that I would not let you lose by it.”
“I see so many—difficulties,” I told him. He had swept me off my feet by his vehemence, and I was trying hard to find firm ground.
“What difficulties?”
“I am a hermit. I have not mixed with people for years.”
“You will find it quite easy to be a hermit at Hinkleton.”
“And another thing: I should find it very hard to come back to this, after Hinkleton. Hinkleton would spoil me for the life I have to lead.”
He looked at me as if he understood, and then he walked over to the window and stood there, fiddling with the blind.
“I see that,” he said in a queer, strained voice. “But I’m going on being selfish all the same. You see, I shall be away a year at least, perhaps longer, and I must have somebody I can trust at Hinkleton. Somebody to look after Clem. Nanny is there, of course, but she is getting old and she can’t control things—she doesn’t understand Clem. Clem is a difficult child to understand,” he sighed.
“How would Nanny like it?” I asked.
“It was Nanny’s idea. She thought you would come for Clem’s sake, because Clem is your god-child. She thought it would be good for you to have the rest.”
“I’ll think about it,” I told him doubtfully.
“Do. You wouldn’t find it dull, would you? There’s hunting, you know. Clem loves it and you could hunt too.”
I did not answer that. I couldn’t, without giving myself away completely. Dull! Dull to be at Hinkleton! No, Garth, it wouldn’t be dull. It might be too painful, though, too painful to find myself temporary mistress of Hinkleton Manor.
He went away after a little and I said I would write and tell him when I had decided what to do.
***
So now you know, Clare. Now you know the whole story and can help me to choose my path. Am I to leave my hermit’s cell and venture forth into the world, or am I to stay here and settle down comfortably into my old life? I love Hinkleton—but perhaps I love it too much, too much to go and live there for a year and then leave it. The last time I left Hinkleton it nearly killed me. It took me years to get used to my new life, years of misery, they were. But now the misery and the pain have passed, passed in long nights of tears, and I am resigned, almost contented with my lot. Am I to risk further misery and pain because Garth wants me to look after his child—Garth who took my heart and broke it, who left it dead and withered so that no other man could touch it, who took from me my womanhood, my wifehood, my motherhood—the best things in life. I owe nothing to Garth, he has ruined us both—Kitty and me.
Hinkleton will awaken memories that have slept for years. I shall see again the country lanes starred with flowers, the woods, the little stream, the wide green meadows. I shall live in a beautiful house surrounded by every luxury, with servants to wait upon me and anticipate my every need. All this I shall have if I accept Garth’s offer, all this and more. Can I bear to have it for a little while and then come back to this?
If I decide to do this thing and face the pain, it will be for Clementina’s sake. For the sake of a child I have not seen for six years. Garth said she was a difficult child; difficult to understand. He said that Nanny did not understand Clementina—is it likely that I should do better? The prospect terrifies me. If I face it I shall face it because of the vows I made when I held Clementina in my arms eleven years ago. It seems strange that those promises, which seemed so empty at the time, should weigh so heavily in the balance now.
Oh, Clare, tell me what I must do! I have been content in my life here, in my life of books and dreams, and I could be content again. I am used to it now, used to the loneliness and the discomforts. I could settle down into the old groove peacefully—almost happily. What shall I do?