Arthur consented to do this, and took himself off. Mrs Bradley gazed after his tall, thin figure, and then said abruptly:
‘It must have been hard on Connie to know the truth.’
‘The truth about what?’
‘Her birth. Her illegitimacy.’
‘Oh, but she doesn’t know a thing about that!’ exclaimed Mrs Preece-Harvard in genuine consternation. ‘Surely no one would be so unkind! I mean, I didn’t like Connie, and she was always a thorn in my flesh, but there was never any question of anyone telling her about herself, you know.’
‘Miss Carmody?’
‘Most certainly not! Priscilla has far too much nice feeling. What good would it do to tell Connie? She knew she was not my daughter, and Arthur never told her that he was her father. Of that I am perfectly certain. He said to me just before he died: “I suppose you will have to tell Connie. Keep it dark as long as you can, and, when you tell her, take care you let her down lightly. It isn’t the fault of the child.” An idea, of course, which I share with all sensible people,’ Mrs Preece-Harvard concluded.
Mrs Bradley bowed her head.
‘And there was no way in which Connie could have found out by accident?’ she asked.
‘That she was my husband’s daughter? Oh, dear, no!’
‘How many people knew she was illegitimate?’
‘Well, apart from our tiny circle, hardly anyone knew, I imagine. This Tidson person had to know, of course. His lawyers wrote to our solicitors. Not that it made any difference to his position, detestable little man!’
‘Oh, do you know Mr Tidson?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘No. I have never met him, but I know I should not like him if I did.’
‘“Nothing can clear Mr Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn,”’said Mrs Bradley under her breath.
‘Oh, you mustn’t think that!’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard at once. ‘There is certainly no guilt about it! I am not as prejudiced as that! But one hears things, and I have always been glad that the Canary Islands are quite a long way off. Didn’t he marry a native girl or something?’
‘No. His wife is of Greek extraction, and a very beautiful woman,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘So far as you know, then, this Mr Tidson is the only person outside your immediate circle (who are all pledged to silence on the subject) to be aware of the fact that Connie is your late husband’s daughter?’
‘Certainly. Connie was always known as Carmody, even before Priscilla took her on. That was Priscilla’s idea, and a very convenient one for us. But really—!’
‘You are wondering why I am interested,’ said Mrs Bradley, interpreting Mrs Preece-Harvard’s obvious thought. ‘The fact is that Miss Carmody has reason to think (from Connie’s peculiar behaviour) that someone has told the girl the truth.’
‘Then it must be that Tidson person, or his wife. Most likely the wife. These people have no sense of decency,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard at once. ‘I am sorry if that has happened. The girl will feel that she has no claim on Priscilla. Connie was always independent and rather proud. I never liked her, but I never bore her any ill-will. A thing like that is a shock to a child. I think it a very great shame!’
Mrs Bradley felt herself warming towards Mrs Preece-Harvard. Besides, she had found out from her all that she wanted to know. The depths of Mr Tidson’s villainy, she felt, were completely unmasked. She was contemplating these depths when Arthur Preece-Harvard came back with a library book.
‘Thank you, darling. And now I shall need my glasses,’ said his mother.
‘There is just one point, though,’ said Mrs Bradley, as soon as Arthur had gone. ‘Connie would have been two years old at your marriage. Would she retain any memories of those two years which might lead her to discover the truth for herself, do you think?’
‘Oh, she lived with Priscilla until my marriage,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard. ‘That is why Priscilla was ready to have her back. She is very fond of Connie. She always has been.’
When tea was cleared, Mrs Bradley suggested that the mother and son might care for a drive in her car before she returned to Winchester. Mrs Preece-Harvard, who had taken an enormous, although, on the whole, an irrational fancy to Mrs Bradley (since she liked and admired her for just those qualities which Mrs Bradley did not possess, but with which she had, with some histrionic ability, endowed herself for the afternoon), accepted on behalf of her son, but excused herself from the outing on the plea of a necessary rest before she dressed for dinner.
Arthur had thawed at the prospect of inspecting the car, and seemed pleased, in a reserved fashion, to go for a drive. He himself selected the route from George’s maps, and they drove alongside the River Stour to Blandford St Mary and then to Puddleton, and came back through Bere Regis to Bournemouth.
Arthur sat beside Mrs Bradley for the outward journey, and by George on the return one. He was a well-informed boy, and conversation did not flag. By the time they reached the furthest outward point, and left the car whilst they explored Puddletown, the Weatherbury of Thomas Hardy, and went into the church to look at the Norman font, Mrs Bradley and the boy were on terms of considerable mutual confidence.
It was when they came out of the church that he mentioned Connie Carmody, and asked how she was.
‘She is pretty well, I think,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Is she – does she – has she forgiven us yet?’ asked the boy, with a sidelong glance. He kicked a stone out of his path in an attempt to give a lightness to the question which, it was easy to tell, it did not hold for him.
‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Bradley answered. ‘What should you do if you met her suddenly?’
‘I don’t know. We used to have pretty good times together when we were small. Of course, that was some time ago.’
‘Yes, so I understand,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘When you do cross-country running, are you always alone?’
‘Oh, no, I’m never alone. And, in any case, Connie isn’t likely to be about in the winter, is she? Anyway, I don’t do much running, you know, except perhaps on a remedy. I mug pretty hard. One can’t do everything in toy-time, so I don’t have time for thoking, although, of course, I play games.’*
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bradley. She asked no more questions, and Arthur, at her suggestion, with which he seemed eager to comply, sat beside George in front on the homeward run.
‘What do you make of him, George?’ she asked, as George put the rug over her knees preparatory to beginning the journey back to Winchester.
‘I could not say, madam. He seems a pleasant enough young gentleman, but I couldn’t quite make him out.’
‘No. I feel like that myself. Poor boy! I do not envy him his mother, his riches, his relatives, or his vocation.’
‘He goes to a very fine school, madam.’
‘Yes. We will envy him his school, then.’
‘Straight back to Winchester, madam?’
‘Please, and as quickly as we can.’
‘I say,’ said Laura, when Mrs Bradley had concluded a very late dinner, ‘what do you think of Alice’s eye? Take a deck.’
‘What am I supposed to think of it?’ enquired Mrs Bradley, examining a slight, purplish bruise just above Alice’s left cheekbone.
‘I chucked the soap at her,’ went on Laura, ‘and that’s the result. We wondered how it compared with the Tidson and Carmody bruises, that’s all. Remember? You told us about your piece of soap and young Connie Carmody and the ghost.’
‘I remember. But bruises prove very little.’
Laura looked disappointed.
‘I thought it might be a jolly good clue,’ she argued. ‘Not that I meant to hurt her. I suppose it wasn’t Connie you hit with the soap that night, by the way?’