Read Online The Young Clementina by D. E. Stevenson - Free Book Online Page A

from Hinkleton. It was easier, really, to forget that such a place as Hinkleton existed, and to fill my days with the little incidents of Wentworth’s, the chatter of Mrs. Cope, and the companionship of books.
    And then, quite suddenly, Kitty came back into my life. I looked up from my desk at Wentworth’s, where I was engaged in listing books, and there was Kitty standing in the doorway. Her eyes were blinded by the sudden transition from the glare of the summer streets to the dimness of the shop. There was always that pause in the doorway when a stranger came to Wentworth’s, the sort of pause a diver makes before he takes the plunge.
    Mr. Wentworth hastened forward, he had an eye for a pretty woman and Kitty was indubitably that.
    â€œMiss Dean,” Kitty said with a little catch of her breath. “She—she works here, doesn’t she?”
    He bowed and motioned me forward. The shop was empty of customers at the time. I could see that Mr. Wentworth was intrigued by Kitty’s arrival, nobody had ever before come to Wentworth’s and asked for Miss Dean.
    â€œKitty, what is it?” I said.
    â€œOh, Charlotte, I’m in trouble!”
    â€œIn trouble?”
    â€œDreadful trouble. Where can I speak to you?”
    â€œI shall be free in another hour,” I told her.
    â€œI can’t wait,” she said. “I can’t wait—couldn’t you ask—couldn’t you come now?”
    She was trembling in every limb. I didn’t know what to do with her. Mr. Wentworth was hovering in the background; he sensed that something was wrong.
    â€œMiss Dean,” he said at last, “if you would care to take your friend into the office—I can see she is upset—a trifle faint, perhaps. The heat, the glare of the streets, I find it trying myself sometimes—or if you would rather go home—”
    He was fussing about solicitously.
    â€œOh, thank you!” Kitty cried. “If you would let her come—that would be the best way—it is important, very important.”
    I fetched my coat and hat; Kitty had a taxi waiting outside; I gave the man the address of my flat and we got in. It was years since I had driven in a taxi through the London streets, I would have enjoyed it if I had not been so anxious about Kitty. She sat forward on the seat twisting her gloves.
    â€œHow slowly he is going!” she exclaimed. “We shall never get there at this rate. They go slowly on purpose, these taxi-drivers, so as to get more money for their fare.”
    â€œWhat has happened, Kitty?” I asked her.
    â€œOh God! How can I bear it?”
    â€œWhat on earth has happened?”
    â€œWait,” she said. “I can’t tell you here.”
    The taxi drew up at the block of flats and we climbed out. Kitty searched in her bag for money to pay the man, it rolled into the gutter out of her nerveless hand. I took her by the elbow and helped her up the stairs.
    Mrs. Cope was still in the flat. She always came back in the afternoon to prepare my supper and leave it for me.
    â€œLor’, what a fright you give me!” she exclaimed, gazing at us as though we were apparitions from another world. Mrs. Cope was the type of woman who, at every deviation from the normal routine, is afflicted with “palpitations.” I was home early today, of course, more than an hour earlier than usual; I saw that the “palpitations” were imminent.
    Kitty sank into the basket chair. “Send her away, Charlotte, for God’s sake!” she exclaimed irritably.
    Mrs. Cope had followed us into the sitting room, she heard the careless words, was intended to hear them. Kitty never considered the feelings of servants; they existed only for the purpose of ministering to her needs. When she did not require them they ceased to exist. I saw that Mrs. Cope was hurt and offended—and I was sorry. I liked Mrs. Cope, she was a kindly woman and her