Garth’s twenty-first birthday was the following May. He came down from Oxford with some friends and the old Manor woke to life. There was a cricket match on the village green and a garden party for the tenants and the villagers. It was a glorious day, warm and sunny and bright. I remember it as if it were yesterday, the marquee with the long tables of cakes and jellies, the crowd of excited children playing games in the big meadow.
***
After dinner there was a dance at the Manor for us. It was my first dance, I was eighteen. I had a new dress to wear for the occasion. The village dressmaker had made it for me. We had put our heads together over pictures and patterns and had evolved a masterpiece—or so we thought. It was a pale yellow net, full in the skirt, and reaching to my ankles. The bodice was of the cross-over pattern, like a fichu, and was softly draped to give fullness to my thin breast. An orange-colored rose nestled in the corsage. I thought it was beautiful, and indeed it was not a bad result for inexperience to achieve.
Mother came to my room when I was nearly ready, to help me, and give the finishing touches to my appearance. I saw surprise in her face as she stood in the doorway, leaning upon her stick which her rheumatism had made essential. “My dear,” she said softly, “you are quite beautiful!”
I was so touched at the unaccustomed praise that I took her in my arms. We kissed each other gravely. I shall always be glad to remember that.
I saw the same look of surprise and pleasure in Garth’s face as I came down the wide stairs of the Manor into the hall, where the introductions and gay chatter which precede a dance were in full swing. He sprang up the stairs to meet me, and took my hand, whispering urgently that I was to keep all the waltzes for him—“All of them, Char.”
“All of them,” I agreed gravely.
The evening was full of excitement and pleasure—it is like a dream of happiness when I look back—I danced with Garth’s Oxford friends and found an unexpected fount of conversation for them; I danced with Garth again and again. Mr. Wisdon took me in to supper, and I swept through the door like a ship in full sail.
It was the night of my life, Clare. I was so happy, so carefree. Nothing went wrong. My hair behaved beautifully, my dress was perfect, I was a success.
Garth walked home with me. I chose to walk, for the night was mild and dry, and I was too excited to feel tired or sleepy. There was no moon, but the path was familiar to our feet, we needed no light to find our way over that path. We strolled along together, and the red tip of Garth’s cigarette glowed like a little beacon in the dark. We did not speak; speech would have broken the spell of enchantment which had fallen upon us. We understood each other so well that there was no need for words.
He took my hand as we climbed the steep slope, where the little path went zigzag among the gray rocks, and I felt the pulse racing madly in the firm clasp of his fingers. I was quite sure that Garth loved me, and I knew that I loved Garth—this was the perfect flowering of our perfect friendship. It did not need his kiss to tell me what I had become to him—I had known it all the evening and the knowledge had lifted me up and glorified me—but the kiss was very sweet.
We lingered for a few moments on the top of the hill—our own beloved Prospect Hill—even then we did not speak. We were very innocent, very young, and this strange new feeling for each other had frightened us a little. It was the end of a beautiful chapter in our lives—a new chapter had begun, just as beautiful, more so perhaps, but the chapter of our childhood’s friendship was finished forever.
We went down the hill together hand in hand.
As we neared the Parsonage I saw the windows were lighted—the house, which should have been asleep at this hour, was wide awake—something must have happened. My heart leaped like a mad thing. While I had been enjoying myself at the Manor, something—something dreadful—had happened at home. Garth saw the lights too, he shared my fear. He drew my hand through his arm and we hastened down the slope and across the lawn. Martha must have been watching for my return, for the french window of the drawing room was flung open and her broad figure appeared at the top of the steps.
“What is it?” I cried, seizing her hand and gazing anxiously into her face, raddled with weeping. “What has happened? Oh, Martha, what has happened?”
She told me that my mother was dead.
Later, when Garth had gone, and I was alone with my father in the shabby old library I learned the few details of her death. We sat hand in hand watching the dawn come over the hill. “Her heart failed quite suddenly,” father said. “She was going up the stairs to bed. Martha and I carried her into her room and laid her on the bed. There was no time to fetch Dr. Gray. She lay for a few moments, breathing quickly, and then she whispered, ‘Don’t send for Charlotte. Let her enjoy—tonight. She doesn’t have much pleasure, poor child.’”
These were her last words; her last thoughts had been for me. I wished I had done more for her. I wished I had understood her better. I wept in father’s arms.