“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—