The Grim House

Chapter Eleven.

Granville Square

It was to some extent a new phase of London life, even with my small experience of it, to which I was introduced at Granville Square. The Paynes were open, as Lady Bretton had said, to a mild charge of “old-fashionedness” perhaps. Of this, save for my time with my godmother, I might scarcely have been conscious, but as things were, it added a certain interest, almost charm, to my days with them.

From the first I felt thoroughly at home; the whole atmosphere was in many ways home-like to me. For, to begin with, there was no daughter of the house, and the two sons at home on my first arrival were, or at least seemed to me, decidedly my juniors. The younger of them was very distinctly so, for he was the baby of the family, still at a day-school in London, and Rupert, my old acquaintance, though literally about my own age, I looked upon as much younger. In those days I think the feeling was more marked than at present, of girls arriving at maturity more quickly than their young men contemporaries.

There was no other guest at dinner that first night, as my host had taken places at the theatre for Mrs Payne, Rupert and myself. It was part of the rôle in their kindly minds to give me all the entertainment possible, and I fully appreciated it, especially as I had not been often to the play while with the Brettons. The piece they had chosen, I need scarcely say, was unexceptionable in every way, something of a tragedy, as far as I remember, of good if not classical standing, and Mr Payne himself had selected it for my benefit. He was an elderly man, a good deal older than my father, in appearance and bearing at least, but I did not find him nearly as awe-inspiring as Mr Wynyard had seemed to me at first, very probably because in the present case my host was entirely without self-consciousness, or the touch of shyness which is almost inseparable from the kind of life which Isabel’s father had led for so many years.

“If I had to go to law about anything,” I remember thinking to myself, “which I devoutly hope will never be the case, Mr Payne is just the sort of man in whose hands I should feel perfectly safe!”

In his heart, I think Rupert was rather pleased than otherwise to be my only cavalier, though he impressed upon me dutifully, and no doubt sincerely, his regret that the elder brother, Clarence, of whom I could see that the whole family was immensely proud, had not been there to meet me.

“Is he out of London?” I asked, half carelessly, as we were sitting waiting for the curtain to rise, one of the unwritten laws of the Payne household being “always to be in good time at a theatre or a railway station” – or “is he only very busy?”

“He is very busy,” Rupert replied. “I believe he is getting on splendidly, but to-day he is actually in the country on some very pressing affairs. He will be back to-morrow, though; he doesn’t often stay away more than a night at a time; my father can’t spare him.”

“And how are you getting on yourself?” I was beginning; “how about – ” at that moment I was interrupted by the rising of the curtain; but when it fell again I repeated my question, and in the intervals I was able to talk to Rupert without seeming to neglect his mother, who was happily engaged on her other side by her neighbour there, proving to be a pleasant acquaintance.

“How about your novels? Have you got any more good plots on hand?”

The form of my question was partly affected by the nature of the drama before us, which foreshadowed, even in the first act, a mysterious secret, handed on through more than one generation of an ancient family.

Rupert coloured a little.

“Good plots!” he repeated. “I have just scores of them. It is not that part of it I am at a loss about. It is my style I am unhappy and dissatisfied with. There is something – I don’t know how to define it – stilted and priggish, I am afraid, that I am painfully conscious of and yet cannot throw off. I have often thought how it would help me to talk my work over with you, if it would not bore you dreadfully. Even to read some of my MS. Could you make up your mind to such a thing?”

I felt flattered, but a little surprised.

“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 vivâ 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.