The Young Clementina Read Online Free

eight years old.
    â€œYou’ve got Tommy,” Garth said. “You don’t want me now.”
    â€œI want you too,” I replied. “It’s not nearly so much fun without you.”
    Garth’s face lightened. “Come on then, Char,” he said. “We’ll go and hide from Tommy—just you and me.”
    â€œBut, Garth, I can’t,” I cried. “I promised to wait for Tommy—he won’t be long—and then we can all go up to Prospect Hill and play at shooting bears in the Rocky Mountains.”
    Garth swung round at me with blazing eyes. “All right, all right,” he said savagely, “you can go and play bears with Tommy, but you needn’t think I’m coming. You can play with him all day and all night, I don’t care.”
    â€œOh, Garth, let’s all go together.”
    â€œNo,” he shouted. “No, you can play with me or Tommy—choose which of us you want.” He shook my arm. “Choose,” he cried, “choose which you want.”
    I chose Garth, of course, he was my other self and I could not do without him, but my morning was ruined by the vision of a lonely Tommy wandering round the Parsonage garden looking for somebody to play with, and, more likely than not, being seized by Martha and deputed to pick the raspberries for jam.
    The little incident impressed me very deeply because of Garth’s unprecedented behavior. Garth was always so quiet and thoughtful, so gentle and considerate, and today he had been wild and rough, he had frightened me and hurt my arm.
    Tommy went away quite soon after that, and Garth and I settled down into our old ways, and played contentedly at the old games. We had both forgotten Tommy in a week. I never saw him again, never thought of him until I saw his name among the killed in a casualty list in the war; and then, quite suddenly, his face appeared before my eyes, his frank, cheery, snub-nosed face, and the memory of his short visit to Hinkleton Parsonage came back to me as clearly as if it had happened last year.
    I would not have mentioned his name, Clare, for he played such a tiny part in my life, but I felt I must tell you about the only quarrel that Garth and I ever had—as children—and Tommy was its cause. Except for that one month, there were no clouds between Garth and me. No, not even one the size of a man’s hand.
    Garth was in and out of the Parsonage every day, and sometimes we were bidden to tea at the Manor. Tea in the nursery with hot-buttered toast and iced cakes, with Nanny presiding over the big brown teapot, calm and serene in her blue linen dress and starched apron. She had taken Garth from his dying mother’s arms and she is with him still.
    As we grew older we were promoted to tea in the library with Garth’s father; it was very grand and grown up, but not nearly so comfortable. Mr. Wisdon was old—a tall old man with thick, wavy, white hair—he had been a man of fashion in his day and he had the fine, courtly manners of an older generation. Even toward us he was ceremonious and polite, cold, austere, slightly withdrawn. I never saw Mr. Wisdon laugh, and rarely smile. It was said in the village that he had not laughed since his wife’s death.
    His manner was chilling and somewhat alarming. It was an ordeal to walk out of the room through a door held open for you by Mr. Wisdon. One would have needed silk petticoats and a sweeping train to accomplish the feat with equanimity, and I, a schoolgirl, with a blue serge skirt which always seemed to sag at the back, and black cashmere stockings which always seemed to have lumpy darns up the leg, could never accomplish the feat without feeling incredibly foolish. I was so conscious of the sagging skirt and the darns, not to speak of my long, gawky legs and red hands. Kitty was different, of course, she smiled at Mr. Wisdon, and went out with a hop, skip and a jump—but then Kitty’s