The summer passed, and in September came a message from Garth’s solicitor asking me to expect him to lunch. Clementina and I had been out cubbing since six o’clock; we got back about eleven and found the message waiting for us. Clementina picked it up and read it with a little frown.
“What do you think he wants, Aunt Charlotte?”
I was desperately afraid that he might have bad news of Garth for us, but I hid my feelings and replied casually, “Business, I expect. You know that Daddy left the management of the estate in Mr. Ponsonby’s hands.”
“Yes, I know,” she said doubtfully, “but he has never been down here before—not since Daddy went away, I mean.”
“All the more reason why he should come now,” I replied. “You had better hurry up and have your bath, my child. You are going over to lunch at Oldgarden, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps I had better not go.”
“Nonsense, I’ll deal with Mr. Ponsonby.”
I wanted her to go. I felt it would be better to have her out of the way. It might be business, of course (I tried to think that that was all it was), but somehow or other I was sure that he was bringing bad news of Garth.
I hustled Clementina out of the house before Mr. Ponsonby’s arrival. The car was to take her to Oldgarden and pick up Mr. Ponsonby at the station on the way back.
Mr. Ponsonby arrived before I was ready. I found him standing in front of the fire in the library warming himself and drinking sherry. I remembered that I had seen him in court, sitting next to Garth—a thin, dapper man, rather above medium height, with gray wavy hair and a single eyeglass.
“Ah, Miss Dean,” he said, putting down his glass and shaking hands with me in a rather perfunctory manner, “You will wonder why I have come down to see you like this, without adequate notice. I am the bearer of sad news.”
“Garth?” I said breathlessly. “Not Garth! Oh, it can’t be—it can’t be Garth.”
I sat down in the nearest chair, and Mr. Ponsonby poured out a glass of sherry and made me drink it.
“Is he—is he dead!” I asked in a dazed way.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Garth—dead?” I said incredulously. “Oh, it can’t be true! I can’t believe it—there must be some mistake.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Ponsonby said, “I’m afraid that I should have—should have prepared you for the news…I didn’t know—” He stopped suddenly.
“You didn’t know I would mind,” I said in a choking voice.
The room swayed around me and grew dark; Mr. Ponsonby’s voice seemed to come from a long way off…I clung to the table…it was the only solid thing in the universe. I thought—so this is what fainting is like…
***
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Nanny’s face; she was holding a glass to my lips and whispering to me to drink some. Barling was standing near with a tray in his hands.
“Has he—gone?” I asked.
“Who? Mr. Ponsonby? Yes, my dear, he’s having his lunch. What a fright you gave us!”
Her arm was underneath my head as I lay on the sofa. I looked up into her face. I was remembering now, remembering…Garth was dead…Garth. He would never come back…I should never see him again. It was all over. He was dead. Kitty was dead…I had seen her lying in bed with flowers in her hands, but I should never see Garth…
“You’d better drink some more brandy, Miss Char,” Nanny said.
“No, I’m all right,” I told her. “Just leave me, Nanny. I shall be all right soon.”
She stood up and looked at me. Her poor old face was quivering.
“I never thought of this,” she said tremulously. “He was so strong, Mr. Garth was. Oh, why did we let him go?”
I hid my face in the cushion and let the tears come—slow, bitter tears. Garth had gone, all that part of my life which had been bound up with him—all the best part of my life—had gone with him. I had loved him so; I had suffered so much through him and with him. I had agonized over the change in him. All this had bound me to him in some strange, mysterious way. Living in his house, and looking after his child had brought him nearer to me than he had ever been before. I thought of him as the old Garth. (That other Garth, the cynical, cruel Garth, was not really Garth at all. A sort of madness had taken possession of him, a madness begotten of his pain and shame.) It seemed so dreadful that I should never see him again to put things right between us; I should never know now what had gone wrong. If I could have him back—even for five minutes—I would fling myself at his feet and ask him why he had changed to me, why he took pleasure in hurting me. But the dead can never come back—not even for five minutes, so that the living may abase themselves.
After a little while I sat up and tried to control my tears. Although I had wept for him I knew that I had not really accepted the fact that Garth was dead, nor visualized the frightful gap that his death would leave in my life. That would come later. For the moment I must try to gain some measure of composure so that I could speak to Mr. Ponsonby and learn the details of the tragedy. I must know what had happened to Garth—how he had died. Mr. Ponsonby could tell me. I got up and rang the bell, I felt better now—strangely empty and light-headed, but quite calm.
Mr. Ponsonby came in looking rather frightened and remorseful. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to have broken the news so—so badly,” he began.
“Don’t let’s talk about it,” I said. “I’m sorry I was silly—I’ve never fainted before and I don’t know why I did it.”
“I should have prepared you.”
“You see I have known him so long—I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there. So it’s difficult to—to realize.”
“I know,” he said, “I know.”
“If you would just tell me the details—and then—go away,” I said, not very politely, I’m afraid.
Fortunately he seemed to understand—he was really very kind—he took a slip of paper out of his pocket-book and handed it to me.
“This is all I know,” he said. “It is a wire from Mr. Fraser—the leader of the expedition of which Mr. Wisdon was a member—we shall hear further details of the accident when the letter arrives.”
I took the slip of paper and read the message: “Grieved to inform you Garth Wisdon lost his life letter follows am forwarding effects, Fraser.”
“Could there be any—any mistake?” I asked him as I handed it back.
“I’m afraid not,” replied Mr. Ponsonby, looking down at the fire. “It would not be kind for me to encourage you to hope. Mr. Fraser would not have wired unless—Mr. Fraser is a most trustworthy, capable man. He would not have been chosen for such a post if he had been otherwise. It is really kinder to tell you this now.”
“Yes,” I said, and then, “You will let me know when you get the letter.”
“Of course. I shall come down later and bring the letter for you to see. There will be various matters to discuss—I have Mr. Wisdon’s will, he revised it before he sailed.”
Mr. Ponsonby paused and looked at me expectantly.
“Then he must have known,” I said, “known that he might not come back. I wondered if it was—dangerous.”
“No, no, Miss Dean. The will had to be revised after the divorce. Circumstances had altered—it was a mere formality. Perhaps Mr. Wisdon consulted you about his will?”
It was a question, couched in significant tones. I looked at the man in amazement. “Consulted me!” I echoed.
“Why not? It would have been quite natural—at any rate you will be interested to hear it?”
I did not answer. How could he expect me to take an interest in Garth’s will? I could scarcely believe yet that Garth was dead.
“It is a very simple document,” continued Mr. Ponsonby. “We shall have no trouble over it.”
I let him talk, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was bowed down by the sudden realization of the awful task before me—the task of breaking the news of her father’s death to Clementina.