It was a long time before I could sleep, that night. Garth’s outburst had upset me, had frightened me—he was obviously not normal. I wondered whether it was right for him to go to Africa when he was in such a state. And yet what could I do? I could not see myself suggesting to Garth that he should stay at home and see a doctor—what doctor could help him? It was his mind, not his body, that was diseased. I tossed and turned upon the comfortable bed, I went over the conversation word for word. Gradually the anger which had filled my heart waned, and was replaced by a deep pity. I saw that the pain of his wounds had maddened him so that he was no more responsible for his wild words than a trapped animal that snaps at a friendly hand. It was no use saying that Garth should have been able to rise above his troubles; none of us are perfect, and Garth was peculiarly vulnerable to the trouble which had befallen him on account of his family pride, his pride of race. He had been wounded in his most vulnerable part, and the wound was festering.
I remembered then what Garth had said about the peace of the desert, the healing silence. And how one’s troubles seemed trivial in that immensity of space. Perhaps Africa would heal Garth’s wounds. Perhaps he would leave his bitterness behind him and return, strong and well in mind and body, able once more to face life. The more I thought about it the more it seemed to me that it was the only chance for Garth—perhaps he, himself, knew this and was going to Africa in quest of his soul.
I slept after this, a light disturbed sleep full of vague dreams and groundless alarms. The house awoke early. I heard the bustle of Garth’s departure and then silence. It was better not to see him again before he went, much better. We had settled everything and there was nothing more to discuss. I had found last night that it was impossible for us to talk to each other like ordinary people, we had been too near each other for that, and now we were too far apart. We had been close friends, we had loved each other with passion, and then Garth had hated me—after all that how could we go back and be ordinary friends again? There was too much between us that could never be spoken of, never be explained. I realized very clearly that the less we saw of each other in the future the better it would be for us both.
When I had settled this in my mind I felt more peaceful. I was very tired, for there had been so much to arrange before leaving London, and the excitements and emotions of my arrival at Hinkleton had exhausted me. It was extraordinarily pleasant to lie in bed and have my breakfast brought to me on a tray. To glance through the papers at my leisure, and to know that I could stay in bed as long as I liked, and that when I chose to get up there was a bathroom—my very own bathroom—next door, complete with hot water, bath salts and towels hanging on hot rails awaiting my pleasure. Nobody can really appreciate luxury unless they have suffered long years of discomfort, I thought. I looked round the bright spacious room with its pretty chintz and polished furniture which was to be my home for at least a year. I should be ungrateful if I could not be happy here, ungrateful and foolish. I must make the most of my time, and look neither forward nor back. In the corner by the window stood the old schoolroom bureau which had come here to keep me company in my new life. Near the fireplace stood the old basket chair. They fitted into their new surroundings surprisingly well, in spite of their shabbiness; I hoped to fit into my new surroundings as easily.
Later on I got up and went downstairs. It struck me that Clementina might need a little companionship after her father’s departure, and it was my duty to supply it. At first I could see no signs of the child; the house was full of soft sunshine. I went from room to room. It seemed strange that this house, which I had known and loved all my life, should now be mine to direct—even for a temporary period. I began to rearrange a bowl of flowers which stood on the hall table—big shaggy chrysanthemums from the hothouses—not so much because the flowers required attention, as because the mere fact that I was entitled to touch them gave me pleasure. I was still engaged upon my self-appointed task when the front door opened and Clementina came in. She looked as if she had been crying, and the sight of her small white face stirred my heart.
“Daddy’s gone,” she said.
I slipped my hand through her arm and pressed it gently. “I know,” I said. “It was best for him to go. He will enjoy it. You and I must get to know each other, to love each other.”
She made no movement; it was like holding the arm of a wooden figure.
“I don’t want to,” she said.
“You don’t want to,” I echoed in surprise.
She drew her arm away and stood looking out through the open door. “I don’t want to love anybody,” she explained. “Everybody that I love goes away. It’s better not to love people.”
“Daddy will come back,” I told her, trying to speak lightly. My heart had sunk at her words, and it was difficult to hide my disappointment. How was I going to find the way to Clementina’s heart if it were already closed to me? I realized that it was better not to pursue the subject, so I kept my feelings to myself. She stood and watched me while I finished the flowers.
“What are we going to do?” I said as I put the last shaggy head into its place and stepped back to admire the effect.
“Daddy said I was to take you down to the stables if you got up in time,” she replied. “I’ve got some apples for the horses.”
We walked down to the stables together. Clementina was polite but distant. I found it difficult to make conversation with her; she made me feel shy and awkward. I asked her questions about her games and her lessons and she answered me. It was hard work, and I felt all the time that I was estranging the child still further. She would think me inquisitive and interfering with all my questions, but we could not walk along in grim silence and I had no other conversation to offer her.
The head groom came forward when he saw us approaching, and touched his cap respectfully.
“This is Sim, Aunt Charlotte,” said Clementina in her precise little voice.
I shook hands with Sim. He seemed a good type of man—quiet and capable. This was the one person on the estate whom I must not sack—I thought there was little chance that I should want to do so. I looked round the stables with interest and a strange pain. They were so familiar to me in the old happy days when I used to exercise Garth’s pony for him. I saw that everything was beautifully kept, the yard clean, the taps burnished, the straw edging to the stalls crisp and golden. Sim led us across the yard and opened the door of a loose-box. He said nothing, but there was a queer mixture of eagerness and anxiety in his air. I looked in and saw a brown mare with the strong quarters and beautiful lines of a well-bred hunter. She looked round at me and moved uneasily. I went in and patted her. What a beautiful coat she had, soft as silk!
“She is a beauty, Sim,” I said. “Is she Mr. Wisdon’s hunter?”
“No, Miss,” replied Sim, smiling at me in a friendly way. “Mr. Wisdon bought ’er for you. She’s a beautiful lady’s mount. Plenty of spirit and no vice—pleasure to ride she is.”
“For me!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Yes, Miss. Mr. Wisdon sold ’is own two hunters. They weren’t suitable for a lady. Too big and heavy. Mr. Wisdon rides about twelve stone you see.”
“He bought—he bought this mare for me?”
“Yes, Miss, you will be huntin’ with Miss Clem, won’t you, Miss?”
Clementina put an apple into my hand and I gave it to the lovely creature. It was pure joy to feel her soft velvety nose in my hand, nuzzling at the fruit. The years fell away and I was a girl again, young and carefree, full of life and hope. It was all so much the same—the smells of the stable, the feel of the velvet nose—and yet everything had changed; I had changed, and Garth—Garth had changed most of all.
Sim came into the box and removed the cloths, he showed me the mare with pride, making her stand over and speaking to her with the strange mixture of affection and firmness which horses understand.
“Brown Betty, ’er name is,” he said. “Mr. Wisdon kept the gray for me, and Miss Clem ’as ’er cob, Black Knight, so there we are, and we can ’ave two days a week easy.”
“Can I ride today?” I asked Sim.
“Why, of course, Miss,” he replied as pleased as Punch. “Why not? Brown Betty’s bin waiting for you. ’arf an hour in the afternoon—say three o’clock if that suits you.”
“Half an hour—is that all?” I exclaimed.
“Mr. Wisdon said you was to start easy,” said Sim gravely. “He said you ’adn’t ridden for some time, ‘Don’t you let Miss Dean start too sudden,’ he says to me. ‘She’ll be keen as mustard,’ he says, ‘but I trust you to see she doesn’t overdo it.’ So you see, Miss, I got to be careful.”
I felt the tears pricking my eyes—what a strange creature Garth was! He seemed to me to be two different men, the one kind and thoughtful and incredibly generous. The other cynical, coarse, and unbelievably cruel.
“Three o’clock then,” I said to Sim (I could not trust myself to say any more), and I came out of the dim stable into the white glare of the yard.