Chapter Thirteen.
The Beginning of the End
I awoke the next morning with a certain feeling of relief. Clarence Payne, it is true, had given me no definite advice as yet, but it was a comfort to know that he, to a great extent, understood and certainly sympathised with my position. Then, too, I was thankful to have his assurance that Caryll Grey’s condition was not quite such a critical one as I had begun to fear; not improbably indeed, if any action were taken on the knowledge that had come to me, even if it affected the whole fortunes of the Grey family satisfactorily, it might have to be kept secret from the younger brother till he had progressed further towards the partial recovery which there now seemed some hope of. And in the meantime, I felt well content to rest on my oars for a little, knowing that I had done what I could for the best. There was something bracing and strengthening in Clarence’s simple belief that when one so acted, direction – guidance – call it what you will, would come.
I shall always remember that Sunday in Granville Square. Owing possibly, in part, to the sort of nervous tension I had worked myself up to, now succeeded by a reaction to comparative restfulness, it has left on my memory an association of peculiar peacefulness. To a country-bred person, in those days perhaps more than now, the quiet of the London streets on a Sunday struck me agreeably, and this quiet one I enjoyed to the full in my present quarters. The old-fashioned square was almost as silent as in the middle of the night, and indoors, though the Paynes were far from puritanical either in belief or practice, the first day of the week was observed somewhat strictly, in the sense, above all, of its being reposeful and calm for the whole household, servants as well as masters. Not that at my godmother’s the true spirit of the fourth commandment was set aside, but she was of a different nature, and seemed to belong to a different order of things, socially speaking.
It never occurred to my present host and hostess to attend any church but their legitimate parish one, whither we all dutifully bent our steps to the appointed places. There was no waiting in the aisle, no pushing or crowding, however decorously veiled. The service now-a-days, no doubt, would strike most people as dull, and by no means soul-stirring, and perhaps to a great extent so it was! But all things in this world have their two sides. There was something dignified and reverent about the whole proceedings, which I have always remembered with a certain admiration; appreciative of, and I hope grateful, though I am, for the more abundant life and light which have in such things come to us in the latter half of the present century. I don’t remember anything about the sermon, except that it was gentle and mildly instructive, the preacher giving one the impression of being a scholar and a gentleman of the old school. But whatever it was, it suited me that day. So did the whole course of things. The quiet little walk home across the square; the simple, though carefully served, cold luncheon; the afternoon in my own room, where, as the day was chilly, a nice little fire greeted me. Then the comfortable, somewhat “schoolroom-like” five o’clock tea, to which one or two intimate friends dropped in. Church again later, for those who felt equal to it, of which I was not one, and supper, followed by some favourite hymns, led by Mrs Payne’s sweet voice, and accompanied by Rupert on a chamber-organ installed for the purpose in the library.
I liked it all.
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 dénouement.
“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.