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.