"NOT JOCELYN."
It is a great comfort in life to have to do with people whose attitude
of mind, whose action even, one can predicate with an amount of
probability almost amounting to certainty; whom, in other words, one can
"count upon" in unforeseen circumstances or complications. And when
this species of confidence, of mutual trust, founded upon mutual
knowledge, exists between members of the same family, it is a great
link; in some ways even a stronger one than the bond of mutual
affection. This I realised fully when I received my father's letter.
It was just what I had hoped for. He said frankly that he wished I
could have told him more, but cordially approved of and authorised my
consulting the Paynes. Furthermore, he announced his intention of
setting off for Liverpool at once, giving me an address there, at which
to communicate with him.
So as I sat in the drawing-room, waiting, as in my dream, I felt fully
prepared for the coming interview.
Yes, it was curiously like my dream; when the door at last opened, I
would scarcely have felt surprised had it been to admit the pathetic
figure of Caryll Grey. But no! the visionary picture was reversed.
There entered the much more substantial person of Mr Payne the elder,
followed by his son. Had I felt less intent on the business in hand, I
would almost have been amused at the combination of "professionalness"
and friendliness in the bearing of the former as he greeted me. He was
evidently brimful of curiosity and interest, which sentiments,
nevertheless, were to some extent tempered by his difficulty in
believing that a young girl like myself could have much of importance to
communicate, and as to how far his son had thought it well to take him
into his confidence I was of course in the dark.
"You wish to see me, my dear young lady?" Mr Payne, senior, began,
after we had shaken hands, "and I made a point of attending to your
behest at once."
There was a kind of "remember my time is valuable," in the words and
manner, which I was quick to recognise.
"Yes," I said. "It is very good of you to have trusted me by doing so,
and I will not lose a moment. I think the best way of coming to the
point is by showing you the letter I received from my father an hour
ago, and after you have read it--it contains, so to say, my
credentials--I will show you his former one."
I handed him the envelope, which he received in silence, at once drawing
out the sheet it contained, which he read with the greatest attention.
In _this_ letter, curiously enough, the name of Ernest Fitzmaurice was
not mentioned, my father only alluding to his relative as "that unhappy
man." So a certain perplexity naturally mingled with Mr Payne's
expression of close interest and expectation, and when he had finished
reading it, he held out his hand, without speaking, for the second, that
is to say for the _first_ letter, which I had already unfolded in
readiness for his perusal.
And now indeed the dramatic interest of the situation rose visibly. As
his eyes fell on the words, "Ernest Fitzmaurice," I saw the colour
plainly spread over his face, though he was no longer a young, and
certainly not an emotional man.
Then there came a sound like a gasp, the colour receding as quickly as
it had come, leaving him almost pallid.
"Ernest Fitzmaurice!" The words, though scarcely above a murmur, caught
my ears at once. "Good God! the last man, the last human being one
could have suspected. Can it be?"
I, though no lawyer, nor gifted with special instinct of the detective
kind, had not lost any shadow of the expressions following each other on
his face, nor of the words of his almost involuntary exclamations, and
of course I was much better prepared than my companions for the probable
incidents of the interview, and therefore to some extent at an
advantage. So I waited for a moment or two while Mr Payne handed the
letters to his son, and, still without addressing me, sat motionless,
save for a slightly nervous tapping of his fingers on the table, his
eyes fixed before him, till Clarence, with a gleam of something almost
approaching triumph, laid the papers down in front of his father, with
the two words only, into which, however, his tone infused a big amount
of meaning--
"Well, sir?"
Then the father turned to me.
"I am so amazed," he said, and his voice shook a little in spite of his
professional self-control, "so amazed, as to what all this points to, as
to feel almost stunned for the moment. May I ask you, Miss Fitzmaurice,
as to what the knowledge was which, so far, I gather by these," and he
tapped the letters as he spoke, "you have had the courage and resolution
to keep to yourself? And still further, how did you come by it?"
I shook my head. I had anticipated some such inquiry as the first
result of his reading the letters, and I was prepared for it.
"Mr Payne," I said earnestly, "I have thought it well out. I do not
see that it is necessary for me to tell even you what you have just
asked. You see I have withheld it from my own father, and he does not
press it. The whole thing is, or may be, now well in train. You and
he--my father, I mean--with the benefit of your advice and experience,
can follow it out to the end, without my having to tell what I should be
thankful to keep silent about. The information, or the knowledge, came
to me accidentally. I was never intended to hear or to know what I did
hear and do know. What, in point of fact, you now know yourself. If I
have been able, as I think I have been, to start things, or rather to
help things on in the right direction, by doing away with the difficulty
that this man, Ernest Fitzmaurice, might have had in tracing--well, you
know whom--I shall feel thankful and grateful for the rest of my life."
"As to that," was Mr Payne's reply, "there can be no manner of doubt;
whereas, but for your intervention, time of the most precious might have
been lost. The whole _eclaircissement_, in short, delayed till, in the
eyes of those chiefly concerned, it had lost its greatest value for
them! But, excuse me, I still feel almost stupefied. It will take a
little time for this extraordinary aspect of things to get into focus
with me."
"Yes," I replied, "I can understand that."
I said no more, hoping--for of course I cannot pretend that I felt no
curiosity, no legitimate interest rather, in the further unfolding of
the mystery--hoping that I was going to hear more. But such for the
moment was not to be, though Mr Payne seemed by instinct to guess that
I might be expecting him to volunteer some explanation, for his next
words were in deprecation, almost in apology, for his not offering
anything of the kind.
"I wish," he said, "that I could talk the whole thing out with you.
That is not yet in my power. And," with a resumption of his friendly,
less professional manner, "if I may say so, you have shown yourself such
a sensible girl that I am sure you will understand the delay, though
eventually it will be only due to you to hear the whole sad history."
At this juncture, for the first time almost, Clarence spoke.
"If you have no objection, father," he said, "it may be as well for Miss
Fitzmaurice to understand that it is only of recent date that we have
again been drawn into personal relations with the--Grey family. And I
myself," and he turned to me, "have only made their acquaintance within
the last year or so."
"I thought so," was my reply, "for however carefully they have hedged
themselves round, there could not but be gossip about the Grim House.
The neighbours were quite aware of your first visit there!"
Mr Payne, senior, pricked up his ears at what I said.
"Indeed!" he remarked drily. But then his tone altered again. "I think
I may tell you a little more, which, if you have not already suspected
it, you are sure to hear through your father; that is, that `Grey' is
not the real name of the family."
I bent my head in agreement; I _had_ thought so. "And," resumed
Clarence, "the business which has taken us down, I more frequently than
my father, has no connection with the old affair." He glanced at Mr
Payne, as if for acquiescence in his continuing. "Not very long ago,
they--the elder brother--came into possession of a large estate, which
we manage for him. Not that for many, many years past, twenty-five or
thirty, I suppose--"
"Fully twenty-five," interposed the elder Mr Payne.
"--They have been at all poor," continued Clarence. "And now they are
really very wealthy."
"I am glad to hear it," I said simply. "Then, that poor Caryll can have
_everything_ that money can do to make him well, or at least to soften
his suffering?"
"Yes," Clarence replied, with emphasis on the words, "everything that
money can do, but even money cannot always buy peace of mind."
He said no more, for at that moment his father took out his watch and
consulted it with a business-like air.
"Miss Fitzmaurice will excuse us, I am sure," he said, "if we discuss
practical matters in her presence." I half rose from my seat.
"Shall I leave you?" I said; but this they at once both negatived.
"On the contrary," said Clarence. "We shall be very much indebted to
you if you will stay while we settle what is best to be done."
"And I should very much like to hear it," I said, seating myself again.
"The first thing, it seems to me," the younger man continued, "is for
one of us to go down to Liverpool, and at once to see Mr Fitzmaurice--
your father, of course, I mean. Shall I do so, father?"
Mr Payne considered.
"You, I think, Clarence," he said after a moment, "can do as well as, or
better than I. Can you get off this afternoon?"
"Certainly," answered his son. "I can reach Liverpool a little before
midnight I think, and if in the meantime you, Miss Fitzmaurice, will
write to your father, it will help on matters greatly. Please say I
will go to the same hotel that he is at, so that I shall be ready for a
talk with him as early as he likes to-morrow morning. And if," now
addressing Mr Payne, "I find, as I quite expect, that things are
already satisfactorily in train--" He glanced at me as he spoke, and I
replied to the tacit inquiry.
"Yes," I said, "I am sure you will find them so. My father is not one
to let the grass grow under his feet in a case like this; he is too
Irish!" and I smiled. "Very likely you will find that he has had the
deposition--is that the word?--formally taken, and that what will fall
to your share more directly will be deciding how to act towards the
other side."
"I," said Mr Payne, "will hold myself in readiness to go down to
Millflowers at a moment's notice from you, Clarence. Perhaps it would
be best for us to meet there?"
"Just what I was going to say," replied his son. "Poor Caryll, it is to
be hoped, is not in quite such a critical state as--as the new actor in
the scene, but still I own to feeling desperately anxious, most
unprofessionally excited," and he smiled, "to see the thing through for
the `Grim House' people!"
"Is that what you call the place?" said his father. "Humph! Not a bad
idea!"
"It did not originate with me," said Clarence.
"And certainly not with me," I said half-laughingly. "It seems to have
been the local name of the place for ever so long."
Mr Payne glanced at me. I could feel that he was--I beg pardon of his
kind memory even now, dear good man, for my disrespect--I could feel
that he was dying of curiosity to learn how much I know of Millflowers
and its neighbourhood, and I had a slightly mischievous satisfaction in
keeping him in the dark. It was a sort of tit-for-tat; for after all,
my own eagerness to hear the whole story could not but be greater than
his, already in possession as he was of the main facts. And as I
surreptitiously peeped from behind the drawing-room curtains at the
father and son, as they walked down the street together, talking
eagerly, I did wish I could hear what they were saying to each other!
But I had no time to spare for any useless conjectures of this kind.
There was my father to write to, and my letter must be careful and well
considered; and this done, there was my godmother's still somewhat
ruffled plumage to smoothe down, for she was not yet _quite_ her most
approving and delightful self to me. And I began to realise for almost
the first time in my life that I was feeling very tired--overstrained, I
think, and suffering from a sort of reaction from the too great
consciousness of responsibility of the last few days.
My godmother's instincts were as quick as her sympathy was sure. She
met me as I was carrying my letter downstairs, to ask her if I might
have it posted at once. I had a babyish feeling that it would be a
relief to know it in the safe possession of her Majesty's post-office,
till it should reach its destination the next morning.
"Certainly," was Lady Bretton's reply, as she took it from me. "It
shall be sent off at once."
"It is to father," I explained. "There is no hurry, I know. He is at
Liverpool."
"At Liverpool?" she repeated, in a tone of surprise.
"Yes," I said, "he is there on this business that I can't tell you
about, and the younger Mr Payne is to join him there to-night."
I was glad to be able to tell her this, and I think it thoroughly
satisfied her. The kindly caressing look and tone returned to her eyes
and voice.
"You're looking tired, dear," she said, almost tenderly, "and, dear me,
yes!--you leave me the day after to-morrow. I wish this annoying
business had not cropped up just at the end of your visit--you were so
blooming last week, before you set off to that Granville Square."
"I am a little tired," I said, "but I shall be all right again now. The
business is out of my hands."
"You quaint little person," said Lady Bretton. "You and business! It
seems too absurd! Now go and lie down till luncheon-time; you know I
never coddle, but there are exceptions to all rules."
I was not sorry to do as she told me; I rather suspect I fell asleep. I
know that I felt quite myself again by the afternoon, and when I said
good-bye to my dear hostess on Saturday, she expressed her satisfaction
at seeing me looking so well.
"So they will trust you to me again, and that before very long, I hope,"
were her last words.
No letters had reached me on these intervening days; none at least,
except one from mother, in which, to my great delight, she said there
were good hopes of father's return home late on that same day.
"If so," I thought to myself, "I shall soon hear all," and in my heart I
know that, though I was by no means devoid of curiosity--curiosity, too,
naturally intensified by the events of the last week or two--my deepest
feeling was an earnest desire to learn that the victims of a bad man's
treachery were now in the way, so far as was still possible, of having
the terrible cloud removed from their lives.
"That poor Caryll," I said, over and over again. "I can never forget
his face as I saw it in my dream."
My home-coming was very pleasant. Mother was so delighted to have me
with her again, and I to be with her.
"It seems all to have been so successful," she said. "Regina Bretton is
really a godmother worth having. You are looking so well, and your
dress is so pretty." It was one of those chosen for me in London, and I
felt pleased at mother's approval.
"I am sure you will like all I have got," I said. "Lady Bretton has
such good taste, and knows so exactly where to go for everything, and
just what to get."
There was only one little damper on the satisfaction of my return, and
that but a passing one. Father was not expected till very late that
night, too late for me to see him. For we were old-fashioned enough in
those days to think that a railway journey, of even a few hours'
duration, must be tiring, and mother made me go to bed at least an hour
sooner than my usual reasonable time. And I fell asleep almost at once.
I awoke suddenly. I had, in fact, been awakened, though I did not know
it, by the sound of the carriage returning from the station, whither it
had gone to fetch father, and the sound of the clock striking twelve
fell on my ear a minute or two later. Then, for, as I think I have
said, my hearing was very quick, I heard a little bustle in the hall,
and the sort of rustle and flutter through the house which tell of an
arrival. Then father's voice, and a murmur of welcome which must have
been from mother, followed by a quick run up the stairs--father had the
agile movements of a much younger man--and the cheery sound of voices
down the corridor. _Voices_, whose were they? Father's of course I
distinguished at once, but whose was the second? Certainly not our
immaculate butler or either of his subordinates, who would never have
ventured to laugh in the august presence of their master! But I was too
sleepy to trouble myself farther.
"One of the boys must have come unexpectedly," I thought as I composed
myself again. "Perhaps Dad sent for Jocelyn to help him at Liverpool,
after all; he may have needed him."
My long night's rest left me quite ready to get up at my usual hour, and
I ran down to the dining-room, anxious to learn all I could about
father's return. This would have to be gleaned in the first place from
the servants no doubt, for mother was sure to be tired, and not
improbably too much so to appear at breakfast. But punctual as I was,
some one was there before me, standing in the window, looking out at our
pretty garden, never prettier than in the spring, above all with the
early morning light. A tall, well-knit figure familiar to me somehow.
"Jocelyn!" I exclaimed, my eldest brother's personality being the first
that occurred to me, "so it was you after all! Did father send for
you?"
He turned; no, it was not Jocelyn? "I am so sorry," he said, though the
regret expressed was tempered by a smile, "I am so sorry to disappoint
you, but I can't help it! You see I am only myself--not `Jocelyn'?"
Though I did not say so, I cannot but confess that the disappointment
was scarcely worthy of the name, for the unexpected guest was Clarence
Payne!
"Oh, how delightful!" was my first thought; "now I am going to hear all!
And things must have gone rightly--he looks in such good spirits--Dad
and he must have taken to each other."
But even while these ideas rushed across my mind, I was conscious,
simultaneously, as it were, of extreme surprise, and this, I suppose,
must have been the prominent expression of my face, for the newcomer
looked just a shade crestfallen.
"I am so sorry," he began again, and this pulled me together.
"Please don't say that," I exclaimed; "you make me feel so rude, and
indeed I don't mean to be so. I was only, well, very surprised. But I
am very pleased, for ever so many reasons. To begin with, I feel sure
things went well at Liverpool, otherwise you would not be here, and--
and--what about the poor Greys, and did you and father travel here
together? and--oh I have such a lot of questions to ask. I feel
half-choking with them," and I sat down, really feeling almost
overwhelmed with the rush of thoughts and "wonderings" in my brain.
"You shall ask what you please, and I scarcely think, that there will be
anything which we--or I--will not be able to answer," he said kindly.
"Indeed, it was partly, greatly, to satisfy your most natural wish--
right--to hear more, that I have come here."