Sixteen months have passed since I wrote the preceding pages, and much has happened. My life has completely changed in the interval, so much so that I sometimes think—like the old woman in the song—“This is none of I.” And yet, though my circumstances have altered, the essential part of me is the same as ever. The same Charlotte, who lived in a poky flat and spent her days working in the dim library, now dwells in a mansion and orders things as she pleases. The same Charlotte, who sat up at night to turn her old winter coat, and dyed her shabby hat to make it do for a few months longer, can now have a complete new outfit whenever she needs it. But for all that she is the same woman, the same thoughts play havoc with her sleep, the same history lies behind her, and the same lean face—slightly browner and healthier looking I must admit—still looks at her from the mirror when she does her hair.
Sixteen months have passed, and, once more, I am taking up my pen. I intend to write an account of all that has happened since my arrival at Hinkleton Manor—the good things and the bad. I want to get my thoughts straightened out before I embark upon the task which lies before me. There are no cross-roads this time, my way is clearly marked. I can look ahead and see my way spread before me—a lonely way, but useful. A way marked out for my feet by the dead.
My reason for writing is different this time, it is not your advice that I am asking for, Clare, it is your companionship, your sympathy. I want to feel you here beside me in the long lonely winter evenings when the sun has gone down and I cannot work in the garden any longer; when I am tired of reading and the big empty library of the Manor is full of shadows—full of ghosts. So once more I am sitting down, pen in hand, at the old schoolroom bureau—which has been brought down to the library from my bedroom where it has been standing for the last sixteen months—and once more I look up and see you sitting by the fire with your bright eyes full of interest and understanding.
Clare, I was afraid I should lose you when I came here, but I have not lost you. You have come here too; I have felt you near me often and often, helping me over innumerable difficulties which beset my inexperience, giving me your advice, standing beside me, giving me confidence to go forward in my new life. You have come here too, you and I and Jeremiah and the bureau and the old chair and a few other odds and ends of furniture that I wanted to keep. Garth was kind about the old furniture, he did not sneer at the shabbiness which shows up so sadly among the polished perfection of Hinkleton Manor. He sent a van for my belongings, and when I arrived they were waiting for me—Jeremiah in the hall where Kitty had always wanted him, and the other things in the beautiful bedroom which had been prepared for me upstairs. It was nice to see them there (although, as I said before, their shabbiness was very apparent in their new luxurious setting); they made me feel more at home. And when things became too difficult, and my heart failed me, it was comforting to sit down in the old basket chair, whose knobby cushions had grown into my form, and to feel that it was my very own—an old friend, who had seen me through countless vicissitudes and countless crises.
The other things in the flat I sold. It seemed foolish to keep them and pay storage on them—they were not worth it. But I did not see them go unmoved. I felt somehow as if I were a traitor to them—they had grown old in my service, they were worn and pathetic. I knew every scratch upon the sideboard, every tear in the upholstery of the couch. And now I was selling them for a handful of silver—and a small handful at that. Where would they go, poor silent companions of my life? What hovel, what sordid lodging would give them house-room? Who would eat their meals off the table which had served me so faithfully for twelve long years?
I see you looking at me, Clare, with a whimsical expression in your eyes. “How verbose the creature gets!” it seems to say. “Has she brought me here to listen to a memorial upon her old furniture? Get on with the job, Charlotte.”