‘Quite a nest of my husband’s relations! My late husband, I should, of course, say. This is my son, as no doubt you can see by his expression. It’s no good looking daggers at me, darling. I must have a little gossip sometimes with people you don’t think you care for.’
‘Oh, but, mother!’ said the boy, scandalized, as well he might be, by this tactless and crude piece of thought-reading.
‘You are at school in Winchester, I believe?’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Tell me, do you go in for cross-country running?’
‘Oh, yes, sometimes.’
‘I think these games they play make them too thin,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard, with a bold disregard for the effects of heredity on her son. ‘Football, cricket, hare-and-hounds, or whatever they call it – why can’t they go fishing, like their fathers? I’m sure my poor Arthur doted upon the little trout and things he used to catch with his rod. And the Itchen is quite a nice river. Lord Grey of Falloden liked it, so why shouldn’t you?’ She addressed the last sentence to her son.
‘But I do like it, mother,’ said the boy. He turned to a waiter and ordered tea for three. ‘Please excuse me. I want to go out for an evening paper.’
He escaped. His mother gazed after him and sighed.
‘It isn’t easy for a widow to bring up a boy,’ she remarked. ‘He misses his friends. He wanted to go on a walking tour. Imagine! They are very clever boys at Winchester, and I think they overtax their brains. It was much better for Arthur to come here, just the two of us, for a rest, but you would scarcely believe the trouble I went through to persuade him. It’s really tiresome, the same trouble every year. Children are very selfish.’
‘I suppose he missed Connie Carmody at first,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘They were brought up together, I believe.’
‘I suppose he did miss her at first. But that was a long time ago. I should think he has forgotten her by now. Not a nice little girl. Very spiteful and rather bad-tempered. A nervous type, I suppose.’
‘Do they never meet?’
‘Oh, no. Priscilla doesn’t want it; and, as she took on Connie, I quite see what she means. Besides, I don’t know that it would be a good thing for us to see any more of Connie. It would bring back painful memories.’
‘To your son and Connie?’
‘I am afraid that, for once, I was thinking only of myself. You know who Connie is? Priscilla, no doubt, will have told you?’
‘You mean that Connie is your son’s half-sister?’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard. ‘My late husband’s conscience troubled him about the girl. He thought he ought to provide for her – a deed of gift, you know – before he died. But I thought – and said – that an illegitimate child has no right to steal from a legitimate one, and my son had to come first. It would have been very wrong to deplete Arthur’s inheritance by a deed of gift, even had his solicitors sanctioned it, which, as the estate is strictly entailed in the male line, I do not think they would have done. You will realize, naturally, that this infatuation – I refer to my late husband’s passion for Connie’s mother – was two years prior to our marriage. I should not like anyone to think—’
‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Bradley.
‘Arthur was a most devoted husband,’ Mrs Preece-Harvard went on. ‘Priscilla, I believe, expected that there would be something, but, as it happens, she is well enough paid.’
‘You mean by Connie’s companionship and affection, no doubt?’
‘I mean by the gift of a hundred a year, which comes from my late husband’s private fortune, and has nothing to do with the estate,’ said Mrs Preece-Harvard sharply. ‘And if anything happens to my son, I shall be left without even this wretched hundred a year for myself, and this Tidson man, whom I have never met, will inherit everything that is Arthur’s. This wretched Tidson, or his descendants (if he has any) are likely to inherit, anyway, for Arthur has told me that he has thought about his future and is going into the Church. He believes in the celibacy of the clergy, and will never marry. Such a very curious thought for a boy of his age!’
Mrs Bradley decided that it was, on the whole, and in the particular circumstances in which Arthur found himself, quite a natural thought for a boy of his age, but she did not say so. Tea arrived, Arthur returned, and the talk turned to other subjects. Mrs Bradley returned to the main theme, however, as soon as opportunity offered. This occurred when Mrs Preece-Harvard sent her son upstairs for her library book, which she wanted him to go out and change for her after tea.
‘I’d better go now,’ said Arthur, affecting a humorous resignation, but obviously not sorry to escape.
‘Very well, dear. Don’t be long. The girl has my list,’ said his mother, ‘but look inside the book first to make certain that it is quite clean.’
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
‘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
‘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.
