I had no private talk with Clarence that day, and when I came down to
breakfast on the Monday morning, though I had intended to be very early,
I found he had already gone. I felt a little disappointed, but that was
all. There was something about him which gave one a feeling of security
and stability. I felt certain he would not forget a syllable of what
had passed between us--that he was not the kind of character to do so,
even if his own keen interest and sympathy had not been involved in the
matter, as I knew that they so thoroughly were.
That evening there was a little dinner-party in my honour. I was to
leave the next morning, and Mrs Payne had exerted herself to get
together a few friends whom she knew intimately enough to invite at
short notice. There was one remarkably pretty girl, the daughter or
niece of the senior partner in the Payne firm, whose death, a year or so
ago, Rupert had told me of. She was something of an heiress, the same
informant told me; in _his_ opinion the man she was just going to be
married to was not "half good enough for her."
"Had it been _Clarence_ now," he proceeded to say, with the funny little
half-patronising air, which, in conjunction somehow with his literary
aspirations, was so amusing, "one would not have wondered."
"But she looks exceedingly happy," I ventured to remark.
"That's just it," said Rupert irritably. "If it had been Clarence now,
one could understand her looking as if nobody had ever been going to be
married before."
As he spoke, the last-named person crossed the room to us.
"What's the matter, Rupert?" he said. "You look rather at war with the
world. I fancy I caught the sound of my own name--have I done anything
to ruffle his feathers, Miss Fitzmaurice?"
I smiled; indeed I was on the point of laughing outright, Rupert looked
so cross.
"No," I said, "not that I know of, except--the being yourself, and not
somebody else, or rather not being in somebody else's shoes at the
present time."
I am afraid my raillery was far from being oil on the waters of Rupert's
irritation. It was getting late; some of the guests had already left.
Rupert got up with some murmured excuse and joined his mother at the
other side of the room, whereupon Clarence took his place, so matters
had fallen out luckily for me, though I had had no intention of driving
Rupert away.
"Is he really annoyed at anything?" asked the elder brother.
"Oh, no!" I replied, "nothing of the slightest consequence. But I
think he would like to be wire-puller to living puppets as well as to
those of his own creation, sometimes."
"I suppose there's a touch of that about us all," said Clarence, and
though he spoke lightly, I think we both felt that the remark was rather
curiously appropriate at the present juncture of the drama, of which we
were longing to see the denouement.
"Just at present," I said half ruefully, "I am longing, as you know, to
be told whether I should pull wires at all or not."
"Yes, yes," he said quickly, "I know. Don't think I am forgetting about
it. I am expecting letters to-morrow even. May I write to you? I am
sorry to hear you are leaving us so soon. Will you tell me your
address?"
I did so, understanding that he did not wish to apply to his mother for
it.
"Write to me?" I repeated. "Yes, indeed, I hope you will. Come to see
me if necessary; indeed I almost think it's sure to be so."
I was feeling less philosophical about the whole business than I had
done. Fully as my sympathy was enlisted, there were times when the fact
of being in the least mixed up in the unhappy affair weighed on me so
uncomfortably, that I felt inclined to throw it off altogether, and the
knowledge that I had brought it upon myself by no means diminished this
discomfort; such knowledge never does, which truth I wish our
well-intentioned friends would sometimes lay to heart!
But Clarence's next words had again a calming effect.
"I don't know how it is," he said. "I can give neither rhyme nor reason
for it, but I have a strong persuasion, as I think I said before, that
events are working up in that direction, to clear the ground. We must
just be a little patient."
And he was right, as the conclusion of my little history will show. The
feeling, the inward persuasion to which he alluded may seem fantastic,
but I have noticed in life that such premonitions are by no means
limited to superstitious or highly imaginative people. They come
sometimes, or are sent, to the best-balanced minds among us, and in such
cases of course with double force, bringing with them strenuous demand
on our respect and attention. I thanked Clarence, for I felt it a
compliment that he should thus trust me--he, an acute and practical
man--with the avowal of what many would have set aside as too fanciful
to be worthy of any consideration.
And from that time--I must again use a rather trite expression--"the
plot began to thicken"--palpably so; though, as when the clouds gather
together for a final burst, the thickening, as before long we were
thankful to feel able to hope, was preliminary to a dispersion of the
long, long heavy gloom hanging over an innocent group, with whom
circumstances had led to several, unconnected with its members by any
natural ties, feeling deep sympathy for, myself among them.
I returned to Lady Bretton's the next morning. I felt sorry to leave my
new friends, though the regret was mitigated by their heartily-expressed
hopes that we should meet again--hopes which I was sure would be
realised, as I could so thoroughly respond to them, and I knew that I
had but to say a word to secure my kind parents' co-operation in any
plan for continuing the intercourse.
My godmother was pleased, unfeignedly and rather specially so, it seemed
to me, to have me with her again. She cross-questioned me a little more
than was usual with her as to the Granville Square people, and was not
_quite_ as cordial about them as I could have wished, which somewhat
perplexed me.
"Very nice! oh yes, I have no doubt they are very nice, excellent
people," she said, "and it will do you no harm, Reggie, dear," for she
sometimes condescended to use my brother's pet name. It had rather
taken her fancy, and then, too, she being my name-mother as well as
godmother, the abbreviation diminished confusion--"no harm to see
something of other kinds of society. There are so many _shades_ of it
in London, even among the well-bred, unexceptionable people."
Still I felt that her tone was not thoroughly cordial, especially when
she added consideringly--
"I thought the young fellow, the one who wants to write novels, was the
eldest son?"
"Oh, no!" I replied. "Clarence Payne is some years older, and I--" but
I stopped short. I had been on the point of adding, "I have met him
before," but under the circumstances of that meeting, I quickly
remembered that it was better not to do so.
I think it was the next day but one that I received a letter from my
father. The sight of his handwriting gave me a little start, for it was
very rarely indeed that he was one of my correspondents when I was away
from home, as he left all letter-writing, as far as I was concerned, to
my mother, who had rather an old-fashioned love of it, in consequence of
which, what she wrote was always interesting.
"I hope mamma is not ill," I thought, as I opened the envelope;
fortunately I was alone at the time, for the contents of the sheet
before me were indeed surprising. I have it still, so I think I will
here transcribe at least some part of it.
To begin with, it was headed, "Private and confidential," which, had I
been less disinterestedly engrossed at once by the nature of the
communication, would have filled me with no little pride, for my father,
though in his heart he had a high respect for sensible women, was rather
chary of allowing that many such existed.
"My dear child," it went on, "after some consideration, I have made up
my mind to confide to you--I may almost say consult you about--a rather
strange occurrence. Do you remember some little time before you left
home asking me if I knew anything of a certain `Ernest Fitzmaurice,'
whom you had heard casually referred to? You did not even know if he
were a member of our own family or not; you gave me no special reason
for the inquiry, and after telling you the little I remembered about the
man in question (always supposing that it was the same individual), I
thought no more of the matter, and probably never should have done so
again, but for what I have to tell you. I received yesterday a letter
written to dictation, but signed by the owner of the name, _i.e._ Ernest
Fitzmaurice himself. Its contents are in a sense private, though the
writer in no way debars me from acting upon them--in fact, that I should
do so, and that without delay, is the motive of his communication. The
letter is dated from an hotel at Liverpool, where he has recently
arrived, and where he is delayed by serious, indeed he hints probably
fatal illness. He has been in bad health for some time, but in no
anticipation of anything sudden, so came over from Australia to
prosecute certain inquiries leading to the reparation of a terrible
wrong which he committed many years ago in this country. Of this wrong
he gives me a rough idea, but reserves details till we meet, or at least
till he receives a reply to his letter. It may seem strange that he has
picked me out, distant relation as I am, for his confidence, but this he
explains satisfactorily enough, his own immediate family having to a
great extent died out, and such as remain very difficult to trace,
whereas we, from our long residence in the same spot, and my county
position, were easily found. The man is not poor--rather, I should
infer, very rich. He has a wife and family in the colonies, known and
respected there, as he has been himself, but under a different name,
which he does not tell me. His narrative, slightly as he gives it,
fills me with horror and indignation, though this attempt at reparation,
tardy as it is, should, I suppose, make us pity him. What a burden he
must have carried about all these years of outward success and
prosperity! Now, my dear Regina, if there is anything you can tell me,
I depend upon your doing so. I may be mistaken in hoping that the
coincidence of your naming this man will lead to anything, but, on the
other hand, I have a strange persuasion that it may do so. Let me know
at once if my conjecture is correct."
When I had read all this, I sat still for a few minutes with my brain in
a whirl. Clarence had been right. My father's intuition, my own, were
right; the whole thing was more than extraordinary! But it was no time
for reflecting in this way; not a moment must be lost, considering the
critical state this man was in, and the enormous consequence to the
family at Millflowers of what he had to disclose. No reasonable person
could doubt that the stories were one and the same; that the Ernest
Fitzmaurice whose name I had overheard was this very man. I sat still,
thinking earnestly what should be my first step, and by degrees things
grew a little clearer.
"I must write to father, and get his leave to consult the Paynes," I
thought, "and I shall strongly advise him, without asking my grounds for
so doing as yet, to go down to Liverpool, and at least hear everything
fully, and if necessary, get a `deposition,' or whatever they call it,
from his cousin--how I hate calling him so!--which would be effectual or
valid in case of his death before anything more can be done. And the
moment my letter is written and posted, I must arrange to see Clarence,
to have him prepared and ready for the necessary action. My own path is
no longer doubtful; I shall not require to betray anything, only to help
others in the right direction."
I set to work at once to write to my father, and having done so, I felt
a little more at leisure in my mind, and other details began to take
shape.
Yes, it seemed all happening very curiously, all to fit in, to prevent
complication or confusion.
Ten to one "Grey" was not the real name of the family. How then, with
all the goodwill in the world to help forward this tardy reparation,
could my father have done anything effectual, except by public
advertisement or some step of the kind which would have been horror for
the principals in the affair? How, again, could the Paynes, father or
son, even suspecting what they already did, have used their influence in
any practical way had Mr Grey continued to refuse to give the name of
the traitor he had so long concealed, but for my assurance that they
were on the right track? Indeed the ins and outs of the possibilities
and contingencies were too bewildering and useless to dwell upon. What
_I_ had to do was simple enough. I calculated that if my father replied
at once, as I felt sure he would--it was before the days of telegrams
being privately employed to any appreciable extent--I should receive a
letter the day after to-morrow by the first post, immediately upon which
I must try to arrange to see Clarence, and probably his father.
So I wrote that same day to the former, telling him that I hoped he
would be able to call on Thursday morning, on the chance, approaching a
certainty, of my having something of great importance to talk over with
him.
"It is better to write this to him," I reflected.
"It will prevent his pondering unnecessarily over what I have asked him
to decide, and it will make his coming to see me much more likely."
This second letter written and sent, I gave a sigh of relief. I had
done all I could for the present, and though still conscious of a good
deal of nervous anxiety, or rather, perhaps, excitement, I felt more at
rest, and freer to enjoy my kind godmother's plans for the day. The
"season" was advancing now, and as the time for my return home was close
at hand, these plans of hers for my amusement were multiplying hourly,
so determined was she that the last part of my visit to her should in no
way fall flat.
"I want you to want to come back again," she said to me that afternoon,
as we drove off in her charming carriage to some pleasant party--what or
where, I forget--and as she said it she glanced at me scrutinisingly.
"I have just one fault to find with you," she continued, "tomboy though
your mother called you, and as you called yourself, if I am not
mistaken, before now--I am afraid there is some danger of your growing
too sedate. That would never do, and to tell you the truth, the danger
of it has struck me since your return from those good folk in Granville
Square. I hope they have not put it into your wise little head, Reggie,
that your godmother is too frivolous or fashionable, or any nonsense of
that kind?"
"Oh _dear_, no," I replied emphatically and truthfully, though
nevertheless something in her inquiry made me blush a little--not with
any consciousness of a word, or the shadow of a word, having been said
by the Paynes of the kind she alluded to, but because I knew I _had_
secret cause for "sedateness," as Lady Bretton called it;
"preoccupation" would have been a more appropriate word. And also
because I still felt the charm of the quiet, somewhat more serious tone
of the peaceful and dignified home-life of my new friends, and in my
heart hoped that my next visit to my godmother might mean one to them
too. "Oh _dear_, no," I repeated, "they are not at all that kind of
family. They seem to have nice feelings to and about everybody, as far
as I can judge. Indeed, dearest godmother, I can't tell you how much I
shall look forward to another visit to you. You have been so very,
_very_ kind."
"That's all right, then," she replied. "And next time there must be no
interruptions. I won't have you going off to Granville Square or
anywhere. You won't care to do so. It isn't as if there were daughters
in the family," and here there was a touch of inquiry in her tone; "that
reminds me, by the way, that before you come again, I want to hunt up a
few--even one or two--girl friends for you. You see I could scarcely do
so before, till I knew you a little better and could judge what your
tastes were, and so on."
"And the sort of girl friends you thought I needed! Evidently they will
not be of the ultra-serious order," I reflected, with a little secret
amusement. But aloud I just laughed, and begged my godmother to believe
that no girl friends she could possibly hunt up or down for me would
suit me half or a quarter as well as her own charming young-hearted
self. "I have Isabel Wynyard now," I said, "and I do feel that she has
made me much more like other people--other girls, I mean."
Lady Bretton glanced at me with affectionate approval.
"I don't think, dear," she said, "that in my eyes there would ever have
been much room for improvement or alteration for the better, though I am
sure--I knew her mother a little, you know--that Isabel must be a
thoroughly nice companion for you. I only hope that some day--"
But here she stopped and hesitated.
"What?" I said, my curiosity aroused. "Do go on, dear godmother. I
could never mind anything you would say."
She laughed, but there was a little constraint in her manner.
"I was only going to--to express a hope," she resumed, "that some day
you may meet somebody as desirable for a different kind of companion as
Isabel Wynyard is in _her_ way. A commonplace thing to say, and
certainly in your case there is time enough! Don't be in a hurry about
it, my dear."
It was not for a moment or two that I took in the drift of her remark,
and she laughed again, this time more heartily, at my perplexed
expression. I think she was pleased to see my entire absence of
self-consciousness. But when her meaning became clear to me, and I
turned it over in my mind after we got home, I felt a little surprised.
What could she have got into her head to cause any allusion of the kind?
I could not make it out.
The next day brought some enlightenment, and not of a pleasant kind.
Certainly, if the Fates had destined me to interference for good in the
affairs of the Grey family, it was not to be without annoyance and
discomfort to myself!
In answer to my letter to him, I heard from Clarence Payne that he had
arranged to call to see me on Thursday morning. It was of course
necessary to mention this to my hostess, but in my real interest, and
engrossment to a certain extent, in the matter, I made the little
communication with perfect freedom from embarrassment, and I was really
startled at my godmother's unmistakable surprise and disapproval.
"My dear child," she exclaimed, "what are you thinking of, or what is
this young man thinking of? It is an extraordinary thing to do!"
I stood silent for a moment, realising that on the face of it the
proceeding _was_ somewhat unconventional. But it would not be fair to
let any blame for this rest on Clarence Payne.
"I am very sorry," I said, my colour rising, "but it is not anybody's
fault but my own, if fault there is. I wrote to ask Mr Payne to come.
It is entirely a matter of business--I would like to tell you all about
it, but I don't think I can. It depends on a letter I have had from
father, and I am expecting another to-morrow morning, which I hope I
shall be able to show you at least part of, in explanation of what I
have done."
But Lady Bretton, good as she was, was not perfect. She was irritated
at the whole episode, and therefore not quite reasonable.
"I can scarcely think," she said, "that your father can have realised
what he was putting upon you. If so, he should have written to me
direct. Why, the very servants will gossip about it, and no wonder, as
of course, from what you say, _I_ am not to make a third at the
interview."
It was all I could do not to begin to cry, but I controlled myself as a
new and, I thought, happy idea struck me.
"I have been very thoughtless, I'm afraid," I said penitently, "but if
you understood the whole thing, and before long I hope I may be able to
tell you about it, I _don't_ think you would be vexed with me." I
stopped short, forgetting that I had not introduced my new project.
"What is to be done?" said my godmother, still rather coldly.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "I was just going to tell you what I think I can do.
I will write to Clar--to the younger Mr Payne, I mean, and ask him to
beg his father to come with him. _That_ would put it all right, would
it not?"
"It would certainly give the interview its proper character," she
allowed, "that of a purely business one. But in taking all this upon
you, my dear child," and I was glad to hear her more natural tone again,
"are you quite sure that you know what you are about?"
"Yes," I replied, decidedly, and I meant it. "Sooner or later," I said
to myself, "Mr Payne must be told everything. And if father's letter
is what I am sure it must be, `sooner' will be pretty surely better than
`later.'"
My dreams, I well remember, were not of a very tranquil nature that
night. I felt distressed at having managed for the first time, during
my stay with her, to annoy my kind godmother, and I felt miserable and
mortified at the bare shadow of a suggestion that my writing to Clarence
Payne, asking him to call, as I had done, was, to say the least,
unconventional, if not unladylike. For remember, I am writing of fully
thirty or forty years ago, when the position of young girls of our class
was very different from what it now is--though I cannot quite allow that
in every way the alteration seems to me for the better.
My correspondent had not, it is true, in the faintest degree appeared to
think I had done anything unusual, but then I felt that he was a man of
peculiarly chivalrous temperament. _Had_ he thought so he would have
done his best to prevent my finding it out.
"Perhaps," I said to myself, "he looks upon me as very childish and
inexperienced, and makes allowance on this account." This idea was not
a pleasant one either, but my common-sense dismissed it. "No," I
thought, "he does not think me silly, or he would not have talked to me
about all this as he has done."
But I felt very glad that I had written to ask the elder Mr Payne to
come too, though my latest waking reflection was a hearty longing that I
had never mixed myself up for good or bad in the Millflowers mystery.
And a strange thing happened, as if to reprove me for the mingling of
selfishness in this wish.
I dreamt that as I was sitting alone in my godmother's drawing-room
waiting for my expected visitors, the door opened silently, and in
came--walking slowly and with evident effort--Caryll Grey, or--a shiver
went through me even in my sleep--his ghost. I saw him distinctly--more
distinctly than I had ever done in my waking hours. His poor face
looked very drawn and white, the gentle eyes unnaturally large and
wistful.
"Miss Fitzmaurice," I thought he said, "regret nothing. Go through with
it, I beseech you, and oh! for Heaven's sake, make him tell."
Then the vision disappeared, and I seemed to be again alone in the
room--waiting.
Whom did he mean by "him"? His brother, or the already
praying-to-confess traitor? I could not say, but it did not matter. I
threw my misgivings and regrets aside, resolved to do my best. And when
I awoke in the morning, the impression of my dream had in no way grown
fainter.