Clementina and I were out riding one day. There was a particularly beautiful ride through the woods and over the moor and we often went that way. We were cantering along on the springy turf when we saw a horseman approaching from the opposite direction.
“It’s Mr. Felstead,” said Clementina, pulling up Black Knight. “Let’s turn and go the other way.”
“We can’t, it’s too late,” I said quickly. “Besides Mr. Felstead was quite friendly.”
Mr. Felstead reined up and raised his hat. We exchanged the usual remarks about the weather, and then he said, “I’m afraid you will think my wife very remiss. She fully intended to call upon you, Miss Dean, but she has been nowhere and seen nobody. We have had a very anxious time—I expect you have heard.”
We had heard nothing. Clementina and I were as isolated from our kind as if we had been living on a desert island.
“Our girl had a very serious accident last March,” he said. “She fell downstairs and injured her spine. It was such a strange thing to happen to a child like Violet who has ridden since she could walk—and taken innumerable spills without turning a hair—to fall downstairs in her own house. At first we were afraid that the injury was permanent—they said she would never walk—it was dreadful—but now the specialist gives us hope that she may be cured in time.”
I told him I was very sorry indeed, and I was sorry. He was such a kind, friendly man, and he looked worn and sad, and years older.
“Thank you,” he said, “I’m glad I met you. I wanted to explain why it was that my wife didn’t call. She has been so anxious, so terribly anxious about Violet—you will understand.”
Clementina said nothing; she sat very still on Black Knight, looking straight ahead, with a queer, stony expression on her face.
“And what about Wisdon?” continued Mr. Felstead. “No news yet?”
“No news,” I told him. “But we don’t expect to hear anything of him until October or November.”
“Let me know when you hear,” he said; “I shall be interested. I should like to go trekking off into the wilds myself but here I am tied by the leg—the City three times a week—it’s a dog’s life.”
We talked a little more and then parted from him.
Clementina was very silent all the way home. It did not surprise me, for she often took these silent turns—even now—and I had found it was best to leave her alone. It was not until she was going up to bed I discovered what had been troubling her. I was reading one of Mr. Wentworth’s books and I kissed her a trifle absently—I was voyaging in Mexico at the time.
“Aunt Charlotte,” she said, “are you—are you busy?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you think I could send Violet something—a book perhaps?”
“Violet?” I said, still half dazed by my rapid journey from Mexico.
“Violet Felstead.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I think it would be nice to send her a book. We’ll get one and send it to her. What kind of books does she like?”
She hesitated, looking out of the window. “She didn’t like any kind of books much, but perhaps she will like them now. It would be dreadful to be ill and not like books.”
“Yes,” I encouraged.
“We were friends,” she said slowly and thoughtfully. “We were friends before. And then Mummy and Mrs. Felstead quarreled. So we couldn’t be friends anymore. Mummy wouldn’t let me go to Oldgarden when they asked me, and she wouldn’t let me have Violet. So of course they left off asking me, you see.”
“Yes, I see.”
“And I thought they were like all the other people and didn’t want to have anything to do with me—but it was because Violet was ill. I didn’t know she was ill.”
“That was the reason,” I agreed.
“I’m glad,” Clementina said. “I don’t mean I’m glad Violet’s ill, but I’m glad they aren’t like the other people. You see, I liked them all so much—all of them. You would like Violet, Aunt Charlotte, and Violet’s Mummy—she’s so nice and full of fun. Poor Violet—how ill do you think she is, Aunt Charlotte?”
“I think she has been very ill, but she is getting better now, Mr. Felstead said so.”
“Is she in bed all the time?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m afraid she will have to be in bed for months.”
“Poor Violet,” said Clementina thoughtfully. “I would hate to be in bed all the time, but Violet will hate it even more.”
We sent a book to Violet Felstead and Clementina got a letter from her friend thanking her and asking her over to Oldgarden to tea.
That summer was a happy time. Clementina and I did lessons together in the morning, and in the afternoon we rode or went for picnics. Sometimes we took the car and went down to the sea, thirty miles away, and bathed or paddled. Clementina and I became friends; she opened the door of her citadel and let me in. I saw that it was the life she had been leading which had made her so strange, so silent and withdrawn. The secrets in the house had weighed her down, the tension between her parents, the loss of her one friend, had all conspired to make her what she was. And Miss Milston had not helped matters. There was nobody near her to whom she could talk openly, nobody who understood her, nobody who really wanted her or valued her for herself. It was no wonder that the child had been difficult, no wonder that she had been strange. The resumption of her friendship with Violet Felstead was a great joy to Clementina; she went over to Oldgarden once a week to lunch or tea. Mrs. Felstead called upon me, but I was out, and she was out when I returned her call so I had not met her yet. I was anxious to meet the mother of Clementina’s friend, but she was still very much tied with her sick child. She went nowhere and saw nobody. Clementina told me that she scarcely ever left Violet for a moment.
“Violet gets restless when she’s not there,” said Clementina. “I think it’s rather bad for Mrs. Felstead, but of course Violet has been awfully ill. They’re all so happy, now that Violet is going to get better. It must be nice to have people as fond of you as that.”
“I would be very happy if you had been ill and were going to get better,” I told her, smiling.
She blushed and looked down. “You always seem to know what I’m thinking,” she said.