“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.