"_Bore_ me; it certainly would not," I replied. "But I am not the very
least in the world a literary person."
"No," said Rupert eagerly, quite unconscious of anything uncomplimentary
in what he was saying. "I know you are not, and that is just what I
like. Your feeling--your intuitive perception is so fresh and natural!"
I could scarcely suppress a smile; the dear fellow's way of expressing
himself _viva voce_, though he was quite unconscious of it, certainly
laid him open to some extent to the charge of "stiltedness"--"priggish"
I could not bear to call him, he was so genuine and really modest; the
adjective "quaint" seemed to me to suit him better than any other.
"I should like very much to read some of your stories or sketches," I
said, "or better still, you might read them to me, and then we could
discuss them a little as we go on."
Then, for the time being, our conversation stopped but by the end of the
next act--there were only three in all, as far as I remember--my
interest in Rupert's confidences had been increased by that of the drama
before us.
"By-the-bye," I said, almost before the curtain had fallen, "some parts
of this play remind me a little of a story in real life you told me
something of. And you half promised to tell me more some day."
I spoke and felt eagerly, for a strange idea had struck me--curiously
enough as it may seem to any one unaccustomed to meditate on the
vagaries of our brains and memories--for the first time. Was there not
a certain amount of resemblance not only between the plot gradually
unfolding before us, but between Rupert's _real_ story, little though I
had heard of it, and the _real_ mystery with which I had come in
contact, though of the facts connected with it I knew scarcely more?
My companion was flattered by my recollection of his confidences. But
yet I saw that he looked a little uncomfortable.
"I know what you are referring to," he replied. "But--I haven't
anything more to tell you, and I am afraid I can never hope to work up
what I know so as to make any practical use of it. They are thinking
after all," he went on a little shamefacedly, "now that I am so much
stronger, of my going into my father's firm--under Clarence of course--
and the mere fact of my being in it would bar the way to my benefiting
as a writer by any of the strange complications lawyers come across in
their work."
I understood and appreciated his reticence, though it by no means
tended--rather the other way indeed--to make an end of the idea that had
suggested itself to me.
"It really does seem," I reflected, as I turned my attention again to
the stage, "as if the Grim House business was fated to haunt me! This
very play, and the coming across Rupert again, which has recalled his
story!--no! it is no use my trying to put it away for good, I wonder how
that poor Mr Caryll Grey is?" for, as I said, I had heard nothing more
from Isabel on the subject since I had been in London.
Notwithstanding these preoccupations of mind, I thoroughly enjoyed my
evening, which Rupert and his mother were pleased and gratified to hear.
"Now," said Mrs Payne, as we alighted at their own door, "you must get
to bed as quickly as possible, my dear! I know it is not very late, but
I don't want you to go back to Lady Bretton looking any less well for
your two or three days with us. In the first place, however, come into
the dining-room, where we shall find sandwiches or something of the
kind," and she led the way thither, I following.
To my surprise, as she entered, she gave a little cry, not of alarm, but
of astonishment and pleasure.
"My dear boy," she exclaimed, "so you have got back to-night after all!
Miss Fitzmaurice," and she turned to me, "this is my eldest son,
Clarence; we did not expect him home till to-morrow."
I came forward with no very great sensation of interest or curiosity,
feeling, indeed, just a little bored at having to talk polite nothings
to another stranger, when I was conscious of being rather sleepy and a
little dazzled by the sudden light, after the pleasant darkness during
the drive home. But no sooner had I caught a glimpse of the man who had
risen from his seat on our entrance and was on the point of approaching
me with outstretched hand in response to his mother's introduction, than
all my wits and perceptions awoke to their keenest. I could scarcely
repress an exclamation of amazement, for there stood before me the
unknown whom Moore and I, and indeed Isabel herself, in the first place,
had dubbed with so many designations--"the mysterious stranger"--"the
man of the pocket-book"--"our good Samaritan," and so on!
And although Clarence Payne was in some respects more at a disadvantage
than I, never having seen me except with a hat on, and, as far as I
remember, a veil as well, it was instantly evident that he too
recognised me!
"Miss--" he exclaimed, and his mother, thinking he had not caught my
name, interrupted him before he had time to repeat it.
"Fitzmaurice," she interpolated.
"Miss Fitzmaurice," he resumed, "I am--" then stopped short.
We looked at each other, on both sides waiting for a cue, the young man
evidently quite in the dark as to whether I would wish him to appear to
recognise me or not, and I, for my part, feeling something of the same
nature as regarded him. But we were both too naturally, I think I may
say, ingenuous, too _young_ perhaps, to act a part without distinct
reason. We gazed at each other for less time by far than it has taken
me to describe the little scene, then--and after all I think it was the
best ending of it--we both burst out laughing, the half-nervousness
which had so culminated melting into real amusement as we caught sight
of Mrs Payne's amazed face.
"My dearest Clarence!" she was beginning.
"What--what in the world--"--"is there to laugh at?" she was doubtless
going to have continued, had her son not interrupted her, before even I
had time to do so.
"We have met before!" he exclaimed, "though neither of us knew the
other's name;" whereupon Mrs Payne's expression changed from amazement
to perplexity.
"Met before?" she repeated. "How? Where? At some party perhaps?"
He glanced at me as if leaving the unavoidable explanation to me, both
as to extent and character.
"No," I said, replying for him, "it was not at a party," and then, as
there flashed across my mind the extreme probability of Moore and
Clarence Payne meeting each other in the future, I felt that candour, up
to a certain point, was the wisest and best for all concerned.
"It was when I was staying in the country," I went on, "not very long
ago. My brother slipped and sprained his ankle, and your son, who was
passing about the time, very kindly picked us up and took us safely
home. It was not at my own home--there it wouldn't have mattered so
much. We have always felt so grateful to you," I resumed, turning to
"the man of the pocket-book."
Mrs Payne's mingled feelings were now gathered together in extreme
interest, with a strong dash of satisfaction.
"Dear Clarence is always so anxious to help," she said, "and he always
keeps his presence of mind."
"You make too much of it, Miss Fitzmaurice," he replied to me. "You
have done so all through. The little service I rendered you was
literally nothing, though indirectly I hope it may have been of use by
obviating delay as to the doctor's seeing the injury--"
"Very _directly_, I should say;" and then for no special reason; I do
not think my remark was particularly funny; we both laughed again.
By this time I, at least, was feeling quite at my ease, and so I think
was my companion.
"So the doctor did come quickly?" he inquired, "and your brother is all
right again by this time, I hope?" drawing forward a chair for me to the
table, while his mother busied herself with the sandwiches and other
things prepared for us, though listening the while with all her ears to
these interesting reminiscences of ours.
"Oh dear, yes! It was not a bad affair after all. He was able to go
back to school fairly soon, and his ankle seems quite strong now," I
answered, as I helped myself to a biscuit.
"Was it your brother Moore?" Rupert inquired, and by his tone I
perceived that he was not altogether pleased at this unexpected
discovery of his senior's previous acquaintance with me.
"Yes," I answered. "Did _your_ brother--the one at school with him, I
mean--never mention the accident?"
"I think not," said Rupert, at once responding to my little overture.
"I should have been sure to remember it, though perhaps it was before
Leo's going to Minchester."
"Of course it was," I replied. "I was forgetting how time goes. That
is a sign of getting old, isn't it?" I added lightly, though in point
of fact I was not sorry to hear of Moore's reticence as to the adventure
which, except for his agreement with me, he would doubtless have found a
highly spiced experience to relate and be listened to by his companions.
"I don't know," said Rupert rather gloomily. "We are all getting very
old, I suppose. I often feel as if I were ninety, and I don't think I
should much care if I were. Life is not so very entrancing, that I can
see."
His brother glanced at him half-mischievously.
"Speak for yourself, if you please, my dear boy," he said. "Miss
Fitzmaurice does not feel very antique and decrepit, I am quite sure.
Nor do I. _I_ think life `grows upon one,' and becomes more and more
interesting every new year one has of it."
"So do I," I exclaimed eagerly. "I used to dread getting big--I mean
leaving off being a child"--and I felt that I blushed a little, as if I
were talking egotistically--"but I think being grown-up is very nice
after all."
"Yet there are plenty of sad things too," said Clarence gently.
"Sometimes one feels as if it were scarcely fair that one should have so
much and others so terribly little," and I _fancied_ he sighed a little.
"Dear Clarence," said his mother, "that is so like you," and she patted
his head.
He was a very good son. I _felt_ that her remarks and manner irritated
him a little, but he never showed it, so as to chill or hurt her in the
least.
"He is so deeply interested in the poor," she continued, turning to me,
"and in all the wonderful plans on foot now-a-days for improving their
condition."
At this it seemed to me that Clarence Payne got rather red.
"My dear mother," he said, "you give me credit for far more virtues than
I possess. But perhaps Miss Fitzmaurice knows already that all your
home-farm poultry turn to swans, whatever they were to start with. I am
afraid philanthropic schemes and I haven't had much to say to each other
of late. And after all," here he spoke more slowly, and I knew that his
words were tacitly addressed to me, "I doubt if my greatest sympathy is
with the poor. It sounds hard-hearted perhaps, but there are, there
must be, miseries which they could not feel in the same way as those of
our own classes do," and again it seemed to me that I caught an almost
inaudible sigh. And by one of those "brain-waves," as I believe it is
now the fashion to call them, from that moment I felt convinced that he
had been down at the Grim House again, and that troubles were thickening
there.
There came another murmur of maternal admiration from Mrs Payne, but
her son's last words had saddened me, and a moment or two later I owned
to being tired and sleepy, and we bade each other good-night.
My first waking thoughts the next morning were that something strange
and unexpected had happened. For a moment or two the unfamiliar room,
with its handsome but heavy furniture, very different from the light
chintz-hung quarters, with their pretty little adornments, which my
godmother had prepared for me, added to my confusion of mind. Then, bit
by bit, the events of the day before unrolled themselves in my memory.
"What can be the matter," I thought, "with the Greys? For I am
perfectly certain that something new or worse _is_ the matter. And how
can I find out? And what could I do to help them if I knew? Would it,
could it ever be right and honourable to tell what I heard--that name?"
My heart beat faster at the very idea. I felt as if I _must_ confide my
perplexities to some one; yet to do so to Clarence Payne would, I knew,
be manifestly unfair, unless I could tell him the whole. Still, might
there not be a sort of compromise? Under the circumstances, the very
strange circumstances, of our both knowing what we did, though he little
suspected the _possibly_ vital information I possessed--under the
circumstances, surely there would be no breach of etiquette or even of
good taste in my asking him if he had been there, and if my intuitions
as to some new cause of distress were correct? For before I could even
battle out the question with myself thoroughly as to whether anything
would justify me in betraying my secret, I must know if the new
complications I suspected lay in that direction. And Clarence was my
only possible source of information. Isabel knew nothing, I felt sure,
and it was not the least use applying to her.
So by the time I was dressed I had arrived at a kind of decision. I
would lead the conversation round to our former meeting, on the first
possible chance that offered itself of talking privately with the
younger Mr Payne; a word from him would be enough to show me my ground.
If he at once appeared determined to ignore all reference to the Greys
and their affairs, I should, I feared, feel compelled to give up all
hope of being of use. But this I did not anticipate. The covert
allusions in his remarks the night before, which had at once struck me
as more or less _intended_, made me instinctively certain that no
expression of interest in his unfortunate clients on my part would be
resented; nay more, that so long as I only mentioned them to himself
alone, something of the kind would seem but natural and called for.
Then again, perhaps the new trouble, whose existence I so strongly
suspected, might be something quite open and unmysterious, concerning
the health of the cripple brother or of some other of the family
perhaps, which even their confidential lawyers--and such it was
impossible to doubt was the Paynes' relation to them--might allude to,
to any one who knew the Grimsthorpe people even by name only.
"It is clear that _they_ are the originals of Rupert's mysterious
family," I said to myself, "but I will not come within a mile of
allusion to them to _him_. It would not be fair. I don't believe, to
begin with, that he knows anything, and I rather suspect from his manner
yesterday that he is frightened at having told me the little he did.
No; I can only try my ground with Clarence, no one else," and my spirits
rose as the idea took form in my imagination of my old dreams perhaps
coming true--of my acting the good fairy towards these poor people, for
nearly a quarter of a century immured in their gloomy dwelling, owing to
the evil machinations of--I started at the thought--a member of my own
family!
"But if it be so," I went on, "the more grounds for my trying to help if
I can;" and I went down to breakfast feeling quite strung up and
prepared to act upon my resolution as quickly as possible, even while
realising fully that it might call for some diplomacy, as unless I saw
that my motives were likely to be sympathised in by Clarence Payne, I
would say and do nothing, in _that_ direction at least.
I was met by disappointment. There was no one in the dining-room but
Mrs Payne, who added to her other model qualities that of punctuality
and early rising. I was, I suppose, a little late, but she greeted me
most cordially.
"We have to be very regular," she said, "as Mr Payne and my eldest son
go off pointedly, though I did want Clarence to give himself a little
latitude this morning after his long journey. And Felix, our baby, is
due at school at nine o'clock, though he has not very far to go. And
Rupert--" she was continuing, but I am afraid I cut her short.
"I am so sorry," I said. "I could easily have hurried a little if I had
known." And I really _was_ feeling sorry, though not from any sense of
penitence, as Mrs Payne evidently supposed.
"Oh! Rupert is not down yet," she said. "I am afraid he has got into
rather lazy ways;" and she went on talking about the improvement in his
health, their plans for his future, etc, without discovering that I was
not giving my full attention, for my whole mind was running on the
chances of a talk with Clarence, and how it was to be managed without
letting him himself suspect that anything of the kind was premeditated
on my part. I had not realised the difference between town and country
life, between busy, and so to say, idle people. At home, or on any
country visit, nothing would have been easier, but here I foresaw all
sorts of difficulties, and my spirits flagged.
"You're tired, my dear, I am afraid," said my kind hostess, but, luckily
perhaps, at that moment Rupert made his appearance. He glanced round
the room, and I could not help a slight feeling of amusement at the
gratification I detected in his face when he saw that his mother and I
were alone.
"I may lay my account," I thought, "to a good morning of literary
confidences and aspirations, not to speak of criticism. But after all,
I may turn it to some purpose. I don't want to involve the boy in any
way, but I dare say I am adroit enough to find out something from him
which may help to guide me a little," and my greeting of the young
fellow was probably proportionally hearty, for his face lightened up
still more, and half-way through our meal--for his mother's breakfast
was a thing of the past--he begged her to leave the care of me in his
hands.
"I'm sure Miss Fitzmaurice won't mind," he said affably. "Will you?" he
added, turning to me, to which I replied by a smile, as he expected.
"Mother is fidgeting to see the housekeeper; I know her little ways so
well, especially as it is Saturday, and father and Clarence, not to
speak of Felix, will probably all come home to luncheon, and dinner is
pretty sure to be unusually early or unusually late."
Mrs Payne laughed, but evidently he had hit the mark, for with a word
of excuse to me she left us, and Rupert busied himself with pouring out
a second cup of coffee for me, and attending scrupulously to all my
wants.