You went splendidly,” I said to Clementina, as we rode home together through the muddy lanes with Sim behind, walking his horse.
“You didn’t do so badly yourself, Aunt Charlotte.”
I looked at Clementina and saw that she was smiling at me. I was absurdly elated at the child’s praise. It was the first gleam of friendliness that I had seen. Something warned me not to notice the difference, not to force the small opening that had appeared in her armor. It was difficult to hide my pleasure and to maintain a detached air, for I had been trying to make friends with Clementina for weeks and had failed lamentably. Here at last was a faint sign of recognition—I must not misuse it.
“I used to ride a lot at one time,” I said quite casually. “When your father was at school I always exercised his pony. And once or twice, when I could get hold of a mount, we hunted together. But of course I haven’t ridden for a long time—years and years.”
“Why didn’t you come and stay when Mummy was here?” she asked.
I was silent for a few moments wondering how to reply. I did not want to push her back into herself, but it was a difficult question to answer.
“Lizzie says you didn’t like Mummy,” she added.
“That isn’t true,” I said hastily, “and Lizzie had no business to say so. It is not wise to discuss that kind of thing with servants, Clementina.”
“Well, I shan’t be able to talk to Lizzie much longer—she told me you were sending her away.”
“Don’t discuss things with any of them,” I said quite gently.
“I only do it when I can’t find out things from other people,” she replied in an indifferent tone.
“Don’t do it anymore. If you want to know anything, ask me. I will tell you.”
“Tell me that then,” she said quickly. “Why didn’t you come?”
“Because I love Hinkleton so much, Clementina. It was my home, you see. And I found it so hard to go back again to my poky little flat in London among all the smuts and the dirt and the noise. It made me discontented to come here.”
I saw that she understood. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes and we trotted on in silence. The winter afternoon was closing in, but there was a queer ghostly light in the sky which shone upon the snow-sprinkled fields and hedges so that the land seemed brighter than the sky—it was almost as if what light there was emanated from the snow. I was meditating upon the strange effect, and had almost forgotten our conversation when Clementina spoke again.
“I thought you did not come because Mummy had wronged you,” she said suddenly.
“Wronged me?”
“Yes, Daddy said she had wronged you, and I wondered what it meant. He said to Mummy one day, ‘Of course you hate Charlotte. People always hate those they have wronged.’” She quoted the words carefully in her precise little voice.
“Mummy didn’t wrong me,” I said, startled and dismayed. “You can’t have understood the words properly. When grown-up people talk to each other it is difficult for you to understand—you shouldn’t listen.”
“I was there, and I couldn’t help hearing. And I understood the words all right, although I didn’t know what they meant. Of course I knew you didn’t really mean it when you said I was to ask you anything I liked, and you would tell me.”
“I did mean it, Clementina,” I replied quickly. “But I don’t understand the words myself so I can’t tell you what they mean. Can I?”
“Honor bright?” she asked.
“Honor bright,” I replied solemnly.
She dropped the subject without another word. She never pestered you with questions like some children do.
“I like being called Clementina,” she said.
“It is a pretty name,” I agreed.
“Nobody calls me by it except you. Daddy calls me Clem, so everybody else does.”
“Daddy would call you Clementina if he knew you liked it better,” I replied gravely. “If you asked him.”
“It’s not worthwhile,” she replied listlessly. “I should know he was doing it because I had asked him to, and laughing at me in his mind all the time.”
There seemed to be no reply to that; at least I could find none. We relapsed into silence. My brain was busy with the words that Clementina had overheard. Hard, bitter words. No wonder that Garth and Kitty had drifted apart if that was the way they spoke to each other. I did not know what the words could mean if Clementina had really heard them aright, and the way she had quoted them had impressed me with their correctness. “People always hate those they have wronged.” Did Kitty hate me? Had she wronged me? I could find no answer to the questions. Kitty had married Garth, but he was lost to me before that. He was lost to me when he came home from the war. Kitty had not taken him from me any more than any other woman who might have married him. I had always felt—perhaps not unreasonably—that Kitty was in the place which really belonged to me, but it was not Kitty’s fault. If it was anybody’s fault it was Garth’s. He could scarcely accuse Kitty of wronging me on that account.
I tried to think of some other matter to which the words might have referred, but I could think of nothing. Father had left no money, so it could not have been anything of that kind. Of course Kitty had had the lion’s share of the furniture, but that was only because I had no use for it, and I preferred her to take what she wanted rather than have it sold. There was no explanation to be found for the strange words.
I puzzled over the problem for days, and eventually gave it up.