"How hard your brother must work," I said, as I settled myself in the
roomy chair.
"Yes," Rupert replied--by this time he was arranging a sheaf or two of
papers on the small table--"yes, he does, lately especially, for
father's partner died some months ago, which has given Clarence more to
do, but better position too, of course."
"Oh, indeed," I replied, while I added to myself, "No doubt, then, he
_now_ knows the Grey affairs and secrets, so far as Mr Grey allows them
to be known. For I remember Rupert telling me that _two_ were in the
mysterious family's confidence, and that in time to come it might fall
to his share to be one of the two."
"He has some variety in his work, though," I went on. "At least he
seems to travel a good deal."
"Now and then it happens so," said Rupert. "This winter he has had some
long journeys--some old clients of ours--not able to travel up to town.
And I fancy he is rather worried--a member of the family is very ill
just now."
My heart went down. "It must be that poor Caryll," I thought, with
melancholy misgiving.
"Why, it seems nearly as bad as being a doctor," I said, with assumed
carelessness.
"Worse," replied Rupert impressively. "You see, in nine cases out of
ten a doctor doesn't come in for family secrets as a lawyer does. That
is why I shall feel it so tantalising to get hold of materials for such
_lovely_ plots."
I could scarcely help smiling at the boyish emphasis he laid on the
adjective.
"Well," I replied, "you must do your best. Can't you take a bit here
and a bit there, and weave them together in such a way that nobody could
possibly recognise the individuals or circumstances that had suggested
the story?"
"Yes," said Rupert doubtfully. "I suppose that is the sort of thing one
has to do, though my instinct would rather go with idealising, so to
say, or dramatising some history in its entirety." He stopped, and
seemed to be thinking, and I knew by intuition that the subject of his
meditations was the Grim House, and the tragedy or tragedies connected
with it. But I felt that it would be unjustifiable to lead him on to
say more, and after all, I had already found out as much as I had really
expected. Clarence Payne had been at Millflowers again, and fresh or
additional trouble was brewing there--to himself alone would it be right
to apply for details as to this. And gradually my vague plans as to how
to set to work concentrated themselves into simplicity. I determined to
ask Clarence, without beating about the bush, if or what he could tell
me more. And then I must judge for myself--possibly even appeal to him
himself to decide for me, if, on my side, I had any right to reveal or
even hint at any part of the secret having come into my possession as it
had done?
For the moment, courtesy and good-nature demanded that I should put my
own preoccupations on one side, and give my best attention to Rupert and
his literary ambitions, and I think I succeeded in gratifying him. I
dare say it was better for myself not to go on planning and considering
over this matter, which seemed to have seized my thoughts and
imaginations in an almost inexplicable way from the very first mention
of it by Isabel Wynyard at Weissbad.
So the morning passed pleasantly enough. There was nothing in any of
Rupert's stories or sketches to recall the mystery I had come to feel so
strangely connected with; I imagine that he kept off any approach to
this special subject for his skill on purpose. And between us we worked
up one or two slighter things, _not_, as the event proved,
unsuccessfully. Rupert's first triumph in the literary world was the
acceptance by one of the then few serials of good standing of a story we
gave our best attention to that morning. Poor boy! how grateful he was,
and how delighted when he was able to write to tell me of this, some
weeks later!
The day turned out beautifully fine and mild, which I was glad of. For
if it had been rainy, Mrs Payne's project for the afternoon would
probably have been given up, or at least would scarcely have helped my
private arrangement in the direction I was hoping for.
"We might as well sit in the stiff old drawing-room all the afternoon as
in a stuffy tent at a flower show," I thought to myself, "so far as any
opportunity for saying a word that everybody wouldn't hear is
concerned."
My hostess told me that luncheon would be half-an-hour later than usual,
to suit her husband and son's convenience.
"I am so glad," she went on, "that it is such a lovely day, quite bright
and sunny," and as she spoke, she drew down a blind with housewifely
consideration for the rich old velvet carpet in the drawing-room where I
had been writing since released by Rupert. "It will show off some of
your pretty things to advantage, my dear, though you must take care to
have something in the way of a wrap with you too, as one never knows how
the weather may change at this time of year."
And to tell the truth, my reflections when she joined me had been on
similar lines--what should I wear that would be becoming and suitable,
and light enough and warm enough all in one? For my apprenticeship to
society, under Lady Bretton's judicious superintendence, had not been
thrown away. Nor was I indifferent to the effect I might personally
have on Clarence Payne.
"I don't want him to think me an unfinished school-girl," I said to
myself. "And he has never really seen me in the daytime. Both times he
met me at Millflowers it was dusk, and all the better, as I was muffled
up like an old woman."
The result of my cogitations proved satisfactory, as far as my hostess
was concerned.
"What a pretty dress!" she exclaimed admiringly, as I came downstairs
all ready attired, a few minutes before luncheon-time. "That shade of
blue is charming and very uncommon too, and the hat goes so well with it
I suppose you always get your things from London even for the country?"
Whereupon a little clothes talk followed, in the middle of which the
front door opened, and Clarence let himself in with his latch-key.
I looked at him with interest--men, as well as women, sometimes impress
one very differently according to even trivial circumstances--such as
time of day, different dress, or so on.
Yes, there could be no doubt as to his good looks. Being dark myself,
except for the blue Irish eyes, which I own to being a little proud of,
I have naturally always had a predilection for fairness in others.
Clarence Payne was scarcely perhaps to be described as "fair." To begin
with, notwithstanding his office life, he managed to have a pleasant
touch of sunburn, always desirable to my mind in a man. He had bright,
rather keen, hazel eyes, and bright hair, one may almost say, to match.
The colour of the hair is now a thing of the past, but the keen yet
kindly eyes are still unchanged.
Luncheon was not a very long affair that day. We soon found ourselves
bowling along, though at a sober pace, in the big landau, somewhat
old-fashioned but eminently comfortable, like everything belonging to
the Payne household. We were a party of four, my host and hostess,
Clarence and myself. But it was not dull. Mr Payne had a real gift
for interesting and sympathetic conversation, and, like his elder son, a
very decided touch of humour, somewhat wanting, I am afraid, in Rupert,
and dear Mrs Payne had an almost equally happy gift or knack--that of
never being in the way, for what she perhaps lacked in intellectual
power was more than recompensed for by her never-failing fund of
intuitive sympathy.
"It is really a pleasure," said Mr Payne, as we were approaching our
destination, "to get thoroughly out of the city by daylight, if but once
a week."
"Yes," said Clarence, "every evil has its good. We shouldn't enjoy it
as much if we had more of it--of this sort of thing, I mean. But you
are luckier than I, father, in some ways," and turning to me he went on,
"My father has such a wonderful capacity for throwing things off. I
don't think business matters trouble you one bit, sir, once you have
left papers and letters behind you," he continued, to Mr Payne.
The elder man laughed. He evidently looked upon this as a great
compliment.
"It has been acquired, my dear boy," he said; "I have trained myself to
it, and so will you in process of time. It doesn't come easy just at
first."
I noted these remarks, feeling that they might nerve me in good purpose
for what I had in view, and when, after a few minutes spent together in
admiring the great central trophy of spring flowers, supposed to be the
special object of the exhibition, we separated naturally enough, and I
found myself practically speaking, alone with Clarence, it did not seem
"forced" for me to revert to it.
[Illustration: "I found myself speaking alone with Clarence."]
"Don't you think," I began, "that if one has anything on one's mind it
seems very much worse when one is physically tired?"
The words were commonplace and trite, but they did not seem to strike my
companion in that light.
"Yes," he said, "I do think so certainly, but it is rather curious that
you should say it just now, for the same thought was passing through my
own mind. I have been worried and anxious lately, and feeling rather
envious of my father's more placid temperament, but I dare say a great
deal of it is simple over-fatigue. I have had a lot of railway
travelling this week."
And in those days there was more ground than at present for what he
said. People were less inured to trains, and many of the present
inventions for lessening the jar and friction were still wanting.
"Had you a long journey yesterday?" I inquired, tentatively.