They all gave him a welcome, and made him feel that they were glad to see him. There was no allusion made during the evening to what he had told them the day before. The bird of ill omen was treated as if he had been the harbinger of good news. Kenneth had been to many costly entertainments of various kinds, but he thought that the cosiness of that Cumberland tea eclipsed them all. The snow-white cloth, the bright, well-trimmed lamp, the early violets and snowdrops tastefully arranged on a pretty table-centre, the freshly baked scones, the girdle-cakes—a speciality of the Lake district—the crisp oat cake, the honey from the hive in the garden, the new-laid eggs from their own poultry yard—all these combined to make the meal an inviting one, and long afterwards, and when in far different surroundings, Kenneth Fortescue was wont to recall it with pleasure, and to wonder if he would ever again see a like picture of home comfort.
"You look sleepy, Phyllis," said Marjorie, as they sat down to tea. "You ought to have come with me to Seatoller; it was lovely out to-day."
"What's the good of going out when there's nowhere to go? Besides, I was reading. I wanted to finish that book Louis brought. I never can stop when I'm in the middle of a story."
Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Phyllis is afflicted with deafness at times, Captain Fortescue," she said; "if she is reading, she is stone-deaf the whole time."
Leila had joined them at the table, and little Carl, a pretty boy of three, with fair hair and blue eyes, was seated on a high chair by her side. She looked ill and depressed and spoke very little, but the child was full of life, and amused them all with his baby talk.
After tea they had games and music. Phyllis was very clever at the latter and sang well. She was not at all like her sister, very much prettier most people said, but it was beauty of feature rather than of expression. Kenneth thought she had rather a discontented face, and she moved wearily, when she was asked to do anything by her mother, as though every exertion, however small, cost her an effort.
It was Marjorie who was the life of the party, who saw at a glance what every one wanted, who was ready to run here and there for them all; it was Marjorie who carried Carl up to bed; who picked up her mother's ball of wool when it fell, and who kept her eyes open all the time to see what she could do for others, and how she could help them all. How they would miss her! What a blank there would be, if she left them! What a sad change would come over that bright little home when its chief sunbeam was removed from it!
The pleasant evening came to an end at last, and Kenneth rose to take leave. Then, for the first time, he mentioned the object of his visit to Rosthwaite. As he shook hands with Mrs. Douglas, and thanked her for her great kindness to him, he said in a low voice—
"I shall not forget my promise."
She pressed his hand affectionately as she whispered—
"God bless you!" And he knew the words came from her heart.
Then Marjorie ran for the lantern, for there was not a star in the sky, and she insisted on lighting him to the gate.
"Now it really is good-bye," he said; "the road has been cleared, and I am off early to-morrow—Miss Douglas—"
"Yes, Captain Fortescue."
"I have kept my promise to my poor old father as well as I could."
"You have indeed," she said.
"Now I want you to make me a promise."
"What is it?" she asked.
"I want you to let me know as soon as your plans are settled where you are going and what you are going to do. Will you?"
"Yes; I will."
"You won't forget your promise, I know. Good-bye."
History seemed to repeat itself, for, as on the night before, he heard her calling him when he had gone a few steps along the road.
"How can I let you know, when I don't know your address?" she said.
"Of course, I quite forgot I was leaving Sheffield."
He took out a card, and by the light of her lantern, he wrote on it the name and address of his father's lawyer.
"That will always find me," he said. "Once more good-bye."
Again he stood at the gate as she climbed the hill, and when once more, he watched her go into the lighted hall and close the door behind her, he thought that the night looked darker and more dreary than before.
A FINISHED CHAPTER
CAPTAIN FORTESCUE was up early the following morning, and set off in good time for the morning train.
On his way to Keswick, he passed Louis Verner in Borrowdale, and stopped the carriage to speak to him. Louis told him that he had tried to get through the valley the day before, but had found the road quite impassable. He said he was on his way to Fernbank to take Mrs. Douglas the "Standard."
The journey was a cold one, and the Captain was not sorry to reach Sheffield. He had wired the time of his arrival to Elkington, and he found a bright fire in the library, and drawing his chair near it, he opened the pile of letters which had arrived during his absence from home.
Most of these were bills of his father's, but he came to one in a lady's handwriting and with a coronet on the envelope. He opened it, and found that it was a very kind note from Lady Earlswood, telling him that she had seen in the "Times" the notice of his father's death, and that she wished to express her deep sympathy with him in his bereavement. She also wished to invite him to come to Grantley Castle on his way back to Aldershot. The house-party had broken up, but Evelyn was still at home, and they would all be delighted to see him for as long as it was possible for him to stay.
He sat down after dinner to write an answer to this letter, in which he thanked Lady Earlswood for her kindness, but at the same time politely declined her invitation.
He had finished this letter, and was putting it in the envelope which he had addressed, when he suddenly changed his mind, tore up what he had written, and wrote another letter. He would go to see them, and would explain his altered position; it would be better so, and if they chose to drop his acquaintance after they knew all, they could do so. Berington, he thought, would always remain his friend, at least he hoped so; but he was not so sure what Lady Earlswood's view of the subject might be. She was a thorough woman of the world, and might not care to have him at her house when she knew how greatly his prospects had altered.
In a week's time, Kenneth had wound up his father's affairs, as far as it was possible for him to do so, had dismissed the servants and taken an affectionate farewell of the old butler, and had started on his journey to Grantley Castle. As he stepped that afternoon into the brougham waiting for him at the station, he felt as if he were beginning to read the very last page of the first volume of his life.
A five miles' drive took him to the entrance to the Castle, which stood on the side of a hill several hundred feet above sea-level. He drove in at the great gates, which were opened by the lodge-keeper as the carriage was heard approaching. The drive was made through a beautiful avenue of beech trees, and led steeply uphill. The house stood on a plateau, from which was a glorious view of the valley below and the wooded hills beyond. The door was opened by a footman, and Kenneth entered a magnificent marble hall, filled with palms and other hothouse plants, tastefully grouped round the lovely statuary, which was of pure white marble like the portico in which it stood. A flight of marble steps led him to another door, where he was met by the butler and, conducted to the library.
Lady Earlswood welcomed him kindly, and Lady Violet, who was pouring out tea at a small table in the window, told him how delighted Evelyn was that he could come to see them. He had been obliged to make a distant call that afternoon, but would be home in a short time. Then the conversation turned on the Riviera and the happy month they had spent together there the year before, and Lady Violet went for her photo album, that she might show him the prints of the negatives which he had helped her to take. Captain Berington came in before they had looked through them all, and they talked together of the many places which the photos recalled, the different pleasant excursions during which they had been taken, and the various amusing incidents which had occurred whilst they were there. Kenneth himself appeared in several of them, and as he looked at these, he wished that he could feel once more the gay light-heartedness which he had then enjoyed.
Then it was time to dress for dinner, and he went to his room feeling as if he were in a dream, or rather, as if this were reality, and the past three weeks had been a distressing dream from which he had awaked.
He went down to the drawing-room, and found Lady Violet there before him. She looked very lovely in her pale-blue evening dress, and the magnificent diamond necklace which had been her mother's present to her when she came of age.
"I'm awfully glad you were able to come," she said in a low voice.
"Thank you, Lady Violet; I am glad too; I wanted to say good-bye to you all."
"Why good-bye?"
"May I tell you in the morning some time, if you and Lady Earlswood could spare me half an hour? I had rather not talk about it to-night, if you don't mind. I think I should like to tell you just before I go."
"But you're not going to-morrow; you must stay longer than that."
"Impossible, Lady Violet! My leave has been extended more than once, and I'm due in Aldershot to-morrow."
"Oh, what a pity! I thought—"
But what Lady Violet thought, she never told him, for at that moment her brother and sister came into the room together, and Lady Earlswood soon followed. And then dinner was announced.
The dinner-table was covered with the rarest hothouse flowers and ferns, amongst which were burning numbers of tiny electric lamps, the brightness of which was reflected in the shining silver and glass. As Kenneth Fortescue sat talking to Captain Berington after the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, he could not help wondering whether he would ever again sit down at such a table.
The evening passed pleasantly and all too quickly. Lady Earlswood had the happy gift of making all who came to her house feel at home and thoroughly at their ease, and she expressed great sorrow when Captain Fortescue announced that he must be back in Aldershot the following day.
She looked somewhat surprised when he asked her if he might speak to her on a personal matter before he started, and she glanced at Lady Violet, as if she wondered if the interview he had asked for had anything to do with her. If so, she was inclined to listen favourably to what he had to say, for Captain Fortescue was apparently the richest man of her acquaintance, and certainly the most aristocratic in appearance. He had no title, which was, of course, a serious drawback, and she would have to make full inquiry about his family and prospects before giving her consent. But if Violet was fond of him, and if all turned out satisfactory, now that he had inherited his father's money, an offer from him would, at any rate, have her serious consideration.
Thus Lady Earlswood looked forward with anything but dissatisfaction to the appointment that she had made with Kenneth Fortescue, to come to her morning-room after breakfast the following day.
"You would like to see me alone," she whispered, as they rose from the breakfast-table and were leaving the room.
"No, Lady Earlswood; if you do not mind, I should like all of you to hear what I have to say."
Lady Earlswood was surprised. Surely his private communication could not be what she had expected. However, she at once fell in with his suggestion, and soon the family party was gathered together in her pretty boudoir.
Then he told them all; he laid before them the story of his life; he spoke tenderly of his old father, dwelling on his self-denying love in bringing him up, and educating him regardless of expense, and in such a way as to make him (he was ashamed to own it now) even feel out of place in his own home, and out of touch with his own father. He said that he had often wished to tell them of this, but a feeling of loyalty to his father had held him back from doing so.
Then he went on to the cause of his father's death; he told them of the telegram, and of the terrible news it contained; and then he spoke of the consequence of that news to himself; he said that he was on the point of throwing up his commission, inasmuch as he could not possibly live upon his captain's pay; that he must now turn his attention to something which would be sufficient to provide for him in a quiet and simple way, and which might also enable him, by means of the greatest economy, to repay an obligation incurred by his father some years ago, and for which, as his son, he felt morally responsible.
They did not interrupt him as he was telling this story, but listened attentively. Lady Violet, with heightened colour, turned a little away from him as he was speaking, and as soon as he had finished, she rose and left the room.
image004
THEN HE TOLD THEM ALL; HE LAID BEFORE THEMTHE STORY OF HIS LIFE.
Lady Earlswood thanked him for speaking as frankly as he had done. Of course it was the only right thing to do, for, in their position of life, there were obligations which they owed to society, and her husband, the late Earl, being dead, these obligations of course devolved upon herself. She was very sorry that circumstances, over which of course he had no control, had occurred to terminate what had been a very pleasant acquaintanceship. She wished it could have been otherwise, but she felt sure he would see with her that she had no choice in the matter. At the same time she could only repeat that she was exceedingly sorry, and that she wished very much that it could have been otherwise.
It was just what Captain Fortescue had expected her to say, and he was therefore neither surprised nor disappointed. But he felt, with somewhat of a pang of regret, that he had come to the last paragraph of that last page of Volume I of his life, as he rose to take leave of her and Lady Maude.
Captain Berington, who had not spoken once during the interview, now told him that he was coming with him to the station, and would join him in a few minutes. As Kenneth passed through the inner hall on his way to the door where the carriage was waiting for him, Lady Violet was just crossing it. She was still very flushed, and he thought that she had been crying. He went up to her to say good-bye.
"I think you might have told us all this before," she said.
"I have only known it three weeks myself, Lady Violet."
"Oh! About the money—yes. But about your father—you knew that. You see, it has put us in a very unpleasant position."
"I think I explained to you why I did not tell you before; it was for my poor old father's sake."
"It makes it awfully hard for us."
"It shall not be harder than I can help, Lady Violet; you need not be afraid that I shall presume upon our former acquaintance. I know my altered position, and I shall never forget it, I hope. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Captain Fortescue."
She did not even shake hands with him as she said it, but ran swiftly upstairs, and Kenneth passed on through the marble hall to the carriage waiting at the door.
Captain Berington was most friendly during the drive, but did not allude to the conversation that had taken place in his mother's boudoir, until he was standing at the carriage door just before the train started. Then he grasped Kenneth's hand, and said—
"You and I can still be friends, Fortescue; of course the mater has to be particular for the girls' sake, and my brother, the Earl (you've never met him, I think), is more particular still; he's obliged to be, I suppose. But I'm only a younger son, so can do as I like. Good-bye."
The train moved off before Kenneth could answer, and as it left the station behind, he felt that, in spite of Captain Berington's friendly words, he had read the very last line of the last page of Volume I of his life-story, and had come to Finis.
But as the Captain journeyed on to Aldershot, and recalled Lady Violet's words, "It makes it awfully hard for us," he could not help contrasting them with other words, spoken by another voice, only ten days before, "Please don't think about us; it is quite hard enough for you."
And, as he thought of the difference between the two remarks, he mourned less than he would otherwise have done over the Finis which he had read at the bottom of that last page.
GOOD-BYE
WHEN Louis Verner arrived at Fernbank on the morning of Captain Fortescue's departure, Marjorie was looking out for him, and as soon as he took the "Standard" out of his pocket, she ran upstairs and carried it to her own room.
Spreading the paper out on the bed, she turned to the advertisement page, and looked down the column headed "SITUATIONS VACANT." She passed quickly over those at the top of the column, "Wanted, a Gentleman of Smart Habits," "Wanted a Salesman," "Wanted a Well-educated Youth," etc., and passed on to those advertisements which referred to women.
"'A Working Housekeeper wanted for a London Business House.'
"I should not do for that," she said.
"'Lady Cook wanted at once.'
"I should not like to be a lady cook, nor do I know enough about cooking.
"Oh! This is better. 'Mother's Help—Nice young girl.' I wonder if I am a nice young girl," she said, laughing. "'Three boys, ages 11, 5, and 2. Good reference. Write fully, Mrs. Burstall, 51, Lester Street, S.E.'
"Some registry office, I suppose. I don't like the sound of that 'nice young girl.'
"Oh! Here's another. 'Mother's help wanted, fond of children, must be thoroughly domesticated, comfortable home, one servant kept. Apply by letter, Mrs. Holtby, Daisy Bank, Staffordshire.'
"That sounds better! I am fond of children. I wonder if I am thoroughly domesticated! And Daisy Bank sounds inviting. I wonder if it is the name of the house or the place. I should like to go to a pretty place, if possible. Of course it does not matter really, only after Borrowdale—" And Marjorie looked lovingly at the beautiful view from her bedroom window.
"Mother," she called, as Mrs. Douglas passed the bedroom door, "come and look at these advertisements."
Mother and daughter sat down together and read them through, and Mrs. Douglas agreed with Marjorie that the Daisy Bank one appeared to be the most promising.
"But, oh, darling," she said, "how shall I ever get on without you?"
"Or I without you, mother?" said Marjorie. "But we must do something, and this seems the best, does it not?"
"I suppose so, dear."
"And I do think it will be good for Phyllis. She is so clever and capable, when she gives her mind to anything, and I am sure she will save you all she can, and she would never settle away from home, would she?"
"Oh no, that would never do!" said Mrs. Douglas. "I don't think poor little Phyllis is cut out to rough it at all."
So that day the letter was written, and Marjorie took it herself to the post-office, and, as she dropped it into the box, felt like Julius Cæsar when he crossed the Rubicon.
How impatiently she waited for the answer! It came two days afterwards in a man's handwriting.
"COLWYN HOUSE,"Daisy Bank."DEAR MISS DOUGLAS,"Mrs. Holtby being ill and unable to write to you herself, she has asked me to inform you that we have written to your referees, and if all proves satisfactory, she will be pleased to engage you at a salary of twenty-five pounds per annum. Your duties will be quite simple, and we shall treat you as one of the family. As you ask for a reference from me, I beg to give you the following:—"A. Crayshaw, Esq.,"The Laurels,"West Bromwich."Should you decide to come to us, we shall be pleased to receive you this day week."Yours truly,"LIONEL HOLTBY."
"What do you think of it, mother?"
"I think it sounds all right, dear, but of course we must write to this Mr. Crayshaw before deciding anything."
The letter from West Bromwich proved quite satisfactory, bearing witness to the respectability of the Holtby family, and therefore, after much thought and also much prayer, Mrs. Douglas consented to Marjorie's going to Daisy Bank.
"You can come home again if all is not right," she said. "Rather than you should be unhappy, we will forfeit anything."
That last week at home seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. There was so much to be done; their heads were so fully occupied in thinking of what was needed for Marjorie's outfit, as she called it, their hands were so busy in cutting out and making sundry pretty blouses and morning dresses, that there was little time to dwell upon the parting that was coming.
It was not until the last night, when her trunk was locked and strapped and taken downstairs, and when only the dress-basket, which was to be left open until the morning, remained in her room as evidence of her coming journey, it was only then that, for a little time, Marjorie's heart failed her. It was so hard to leave them all, but especially her mother. She could not help her tears falling fast as she thought of it. She was going out into the world alone. No, not alone, her best Friend would go with her; she would not forget that. And all this had come by His ordering; it was His will that was being done. She looked up and read a card which she had bought the last time she was in Keswick, and which was hanging over her bed. In the middle of this card, in gold letters, were these two words—
"YES, LORD,"
And underneath them was this verse—
"One great eternal Yes,To all my Lord shall say,To what I know, or yet shall know,In all the untried way."
And, as Marjorie knelt by her bed, the "Yes, Lord," was said.
When she went downstairs not a sign of trouble was left on her face. They would all feel rather dull that night, she said to herself, and she must try to cheer them.
"I wonder Marjorie can be so merry when she is going away for so long," said Phyllis that night, as she went into Leila's room to say good night to her sister.
"Marjorie never thinks of herself," was Leila's answer; "she only thinks of mother."
Phyllis stooped to kiss little Carl as he lay asleep in his cot, and as she did so, she said to herself that she would try, when Marjorie was gone, to follow in her footsteps.
The next morning was bright and frosty, and the sky was without a single cloud; the hills and dales were flooded with sunshine, which was unusually bright for the time of year. The snow had all gone, and the spring flowers were coming up fast in the garden. As Marjorie went away, she held in her hand a large bunch of violets and snowdrops, which Phyllis had gathered for her before breakfast. Her mother came with her to the gate, where Colonel Verner's dog-cart was waiting, for Louis had promised to drive her into Keswick.
It was hard work to say good-bye to her mother, but Marjorie tried to do it with a bright face; she did not want to make it harder for her mother at that moment. Then she got up beside Louis; and Phyllis, who was coming to see her off, jumped up behind.
Marjorie turned round as they drove over the bridge, and saw her mother and little Carl at the garden gate, still looking after her. She looked up at the house, and at old Dorcas, who had come to the door, and was waving her apron, and, higher still, she saw Leila, watching from the bedroom window, and she was afraid that she was crying.
Never did Borrowdale look more beautiful in Marjorie's eyes! She gazed long and lovingly at every mountain peak that came in sight; she longed to store away in her memory each bit of the loveliness, so that when she was far away she might refresh herself by the recollection of it all.
Louis was very angry that Marjorie was going from home; he would not believe that it was necessary, and he thought that when he came back for the Long Vacation, it would be a great nuisance to find her gone. He had quite come to the conclusion lately that he liked Marjorie better than Phyllis, and now she was going away from him. He wished heartily that Captain Fortescue had never come to Rosthwaite, upsetting all their plans, and making a break in the happy little party at Fernbank.
Louis Verner was good-natured and easy-going, but he had no power of taking a calm, sensible view of anything; he wanted life to go on smoothly and comfortably, and he could not see why it should not always do so.
"Louis," said Marjorie, as they drove along, "when I come home, the first question I shall ask you will be this: 'What are you going to be?' And I shall expect a satisfactory answer!"
"Oh yes. I'm sure to have decided by that time; but it's very difficult, isn't it?"
"Not if you give your mind to it, and find out what you're fit for."
"Oh yes! Well, I will try, Marjorie. It's an awful nuisance your going away; you might have helped me to settle."
"I? What nonsense, Louis! No one can do that but yourself. But you must do it. I can see Colonel Verner is very worried about it."
"Yes, I believe he is. Well, I will try. But don't let us talk about that now, Marjorie. You'll write to me, of course?"
"I will if I've time, Louis; but I don't know what my duties will be," she said, laughing.
"Oh! Never mind the duties. I shall expect to hear from you—don't forget, Marjorie."
"When do you go back to Oxford?"
"The beginning of next week; it is a grind! I feel as if I had only just come down."
They were early for the train, and walked up and down the platform till it came up. As they did so, Marjorie kept remembering many little things she wanted to say to Phyllis.
"Don't forget Leila's tea in the morning. You will get up, won't you?"
"Oh yes, Marjorie."
"And look after mother, and if she seems tired, get her to rest a little. And, Phyllis, do be careful that Carl doesn't go near the river; that garden gate ought always to be kept shut."
Then the engine came steaming into the station with the Cockermouth train behind it, and in a few minutes Marjorie was leaning out of the window and waving a last good-bye to Louis and Phyllis, who had run to the end of the platform to watch the train out of sight.
DAISY BANK
IT was quite dark that evening when Marjorie drew near her journey's end. She had to change at Wolverhampton and to go to another station, that she might travel by the Great Western line.
"What time do I get to Daisy Bank?" she asked the porter who put her box into the van.
"In ten minutes, miss; third station."
She was alone in the carriage, and she sat looking out of the window, and wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. She noticed a bright light in the sky, and after a minute or two she saw that it came from the furnaces of several large ironworks that she was passing. By their bright light she could see the men at work, their faces lighted up by the red glow. But all this time she was carefully counting the stations. One passed; two passed. She must get out at the next.
The train stopped. She could hear the porter shouting, "Dysy Bank, Dysy Bank," with true Staffordshire pronunciation. She got out of the carriage, wondering who would be there to meet her. At first she could see no one; but, as she walked along the platform to get her luggage out of the van, a girl of about twelve years came up to her.
"Are you Miss Douglas?"
"Yes, I am. Have you come to meet me?"
"Yes. You're to leave your box at the station, and father will send for it."
"Can't I get a cab?"
The girl laughed. "Cab!" she said. "I should think not! We've no cabs here."
They left the box in the care of the porter, and the girl led the way to a steep flight of stone steps leading to the road above. Then she went along a roughly made cinder-path, and Marjorie followed a little behind, at times plunging into great pools of water which she could not see in the dim light, and at other times almost falling on the slippery mud. Then they turned into a short street, if street it could be called. It was so irregular that it seemed to Marjorie as if houses of all kinds had been thrown down there, and left to find their own level and own position. They passed one or two squalid shops, which appeared to sell little besides shrivelled oranges and the commonest of cheap sweets.
As they went under the light of one of these, Marjorie glanced at her companion. She was a tall, thin girl, with sharp features and an utterly colourless face. Her hair, which lacked colour almost as much as her face, being of that light yellow ochre tint which has the appearance of having been soaked in soda and water to bleach it; it was untidily done, and hung loosely about her face. She was wearing a brown tam-o'-shanter and a long grey coat, two buttons of which were missing. There was a knowing, womanly look about her face, as if she had never been a child, but had begun life as a grown-up person.
As they walked on together, the street lamps became fewer, with long stretches of darkness between them, and at length the furnace lights formed the only illumination, and these every here and there revealed a scene of utter desolation.
"What a curious place!" Marjorie said to the girl at her side.
"I should just think it is," she answered. "I hate it, and mother does too!"
"Why do you live here, then?"
"Oh! Father is the manager at the works over there. We have to live here, I suppose; it's a hateful place!"
"What is your name?"
"Patty. Did you ever hear such an awful name? I detest it. I can't think how ever they brought themselves to give me a name like that. It's the name of father's aunt, worse luck, and she asked him to call me after her."
"How many are there of you?"
"Seven; isn't it a lot? I wish we weren't such a crowd."
"Are you all at home?"
"Yes. We go to school, of course."
"Then there is a school here."
"Oh yes, a big one. I'm very glad you've come, Miss Douglas."
"Thank you; it's nice to have a welcome."
"You see, we're all so upset since mother got so ill; she's almost always in bed now. She hasn't been up for five weeks at all, and we do get in a muddle. I do what I can, but I can't do much. I have to go to school, you see, and our girl is so slow. She's not a bad sort, but she can't hurry; some people can't. And the boys are so tiresome, and they won't do what I tell them."
"Where are we going now?" asked Marjorie, as they seemed to be leaving the road and turning into the darkness.
"Oh, it's a short cut over the mounds. Take hold of my arm; you can't see, and you'll be walking off into one of the pit-pools. The lakes we call them," she added, with a laugh. "You come from the Lakes, don't you?"
"Yes, from such a lovely place."
"Well, you won't like our lakes, I'm afraid. They're only rainwater that lies in the hollows between the mounds. There are plenty of them about here."
"Isn't it better to keep to the road such a dark night as this?"
"You can't," said Patty, "it's all deep mud; you'd stick fast if you tried."
At length they saw a light, which came from the windows of a square stone house with a small garden in front of it, and Patty took a latchkey from her pocket and opened the door. Immediately a rush was heard from an inner room, and six children of various ages ran out to see the newcomer.
"Shake hands properly, and don't stand staring," said Patty. "Tom and Walter, Miss Douglas; they come next to me. Then there are Nellie and Alice. Oh! Alice, what a dirty pinafore you have. Why didn't you get Bessie to put you a clean one on? And here are the two babies. Come and kiss Miss Douglas, Bob and Evie. They're very dirty; they almost always are dirty, but they're such darlings!"
"How old are they?" asked Marjorie, as she stooped to kiss the cleanest part of the dirty little cheeks.
"Just three; they're twins, you know. Now run away, children; Miss Douglas must come and see mother."
She spoke as though they were all many years younger than herself, and as if all the cares of the household rested on her shoulders. Marjorie followed her upstairs, and she led the way into a bedroom where Mrs. Holtby was lying in bed.
Marjorie thought it was one of the most untidy rooms she had ever seen. Dust lay upon everything, and the table, chest of drawers, bed and floor were covered with all manner of things, crowded together in hopeless confusion. Mrs. Holtby raised herself on her pillow as Marjorie came in.
"I'm glad to see you, Miss Douglas. Oh! What beautiful violets."
Marjorie at once took them out of her coat and gave them to her.
"Oh! How delicious; they remind me of home."
"Did you live in the country?"
"Yes, all my life, till I was married, Miss Douglas. I'm afraid you won't find things very comfortable, but I can't help it."
"No, of course you can't," said Marjorie, kindly.
"Patty has got your room ready, haven't you, Patty?"
"Yes, as well as I could," said the girl; "I'm afraid it isn't very nice."
"Never mind," said Marjorie, "we'll soon get all straight. May I take my things off?"
Patty led the way to a small back bedroom, rather scantily furnished, but, unlike the one she had just left, it was tidy and fairly clean. She was surprised to see a little bunch of ivy lying on the dressing-table.
"Who put this here?" she asked.
"I did," said Patty. "It isn't black; I washed it at the tap. I thought as you came from the country you'd like to see something green."
Marjorie turned round and gave her a kiss.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "I do like it very much."
But, in spite of this kindly thought on Patty's part, it was hard for Marjorie to resist the feeling of home-sickness which crept over her when she was left alone. How could she ever live in such surroundings, so utterly different from everything to which she had been accustomed? But she determined to be brave and hopeful, and went downstairs to find tea ready for her in the dining-room. The cloth was dirty and the food not tempting, but Patty, who poured out the tea, seemed so ashamed of it all, and so anxious that she should have what she wanted, that she felt obliged to eat as much as she could, lest she should be disappointed.
After tea Mr. Holtby came in, a tall silent man, with sandy hair and a most worried expression on his face.
"Glad to see you, Miss Douglas. I hope Patty has taken care of you. Patty, I want some stamps. Just put on your hat and get some."
Without a word Patty set out in the darkness, and soon returned with what he wanted.
"Patty, those boys are quarrelling in the next room; go and see what's the matter," said her father.
"I expect Patty is tired," said Marjorie; "I'll go."
The boys stopped quarrelling when Marjorie entered, and a packet of chocolates which she brought from her pocket soon restored harmony in the back sitting-room, as it was called. She then went up to Mrs. Holtby, that she might learn what she wanted her to do.
Marjorie found that Mrs. Holtby was superior in many ways to her husband, a gentle, kindhearted woman, but borne down by ill-health and the cares of her large family. Her father had been a land-agent, and she had lived in a lonely place in Shropshire, and had known far better days. Marjorie felt sorry for her and anxious to help her.
But it was late when she got to bed that night, and she felt almost as if life in that house would be more than she could bear. And then she remembered that she had come there willing to do God's will, whatever that might be, and she determined to make the best of the home to which she had come, and to do her utmost to brighten it.
The next morning Marjorie was awakened at six o'clock by the "bulls" in the different works calling the men to begin their labour for the day. She jumped up, wondering what the noise was and where she could be. Then she remembered to what a forlorn place she had come the night before, and she determined to make things a little more comfortable as soon as possible. She lighted the gas and dressed quickly, and as she was doing so, she heard Mr. Holtby knocking at the servant's door and telling her to get up.
Marjorie was downstairs long before the maid, and finding a little gas-stove in the back kitchen, she lighted it and boiled some water in a small kettle which was standing on the shelf. Mrs. Holtby was very much surprised when, as soon as her husband had gone downstairs, there came a knock at her door, and Marjorie entered with a cup of tea and a thin slice of bread and butter.
"Oh! How nice," she said. "I am so thirsty; I have had such a restless night. Whatever made you think of it?"
"I have an invalid sister at home," Marjorie said, "so you see, I know what invalids like. Now I will help Bessie to get breakfast ready, and then dress the babies."
The next hour and a half was a very busy time. It was like starting a regiment, to get all those children off to school. Everything that they wanted was lost, and the scampering up and downstairs after books, boots, hats, caps, and coats was a most wearying proceeding.
At last they were off, and the house was quiet; only the two babies were left behind, and they were busily playing on the floor with a large box of bricks. Then Marjorie went upstairs to take Mrs. Holtby's breakfast, and to see what she could do to make her comfortable. She felt that nothing short of a regular spring cleaning of the bedroom would make it really clean and as she longed to see it, but she did not like to propose that the first day. She must get Bessie to help her, if that was to be done, and Bessie could not be driven too fast. She had her own ideas, and these were conservative to the last degree.
So on this first morning, Marjorie contented herself with smaller measures of reform. She brought warm water and sponged the sick woman's face and hands, and then she went quietly about the room, tidying it and clearing away the piles of rubbish which it contained. The children's clothes she carried to their own room, the books and papers she dusted and took downstairs, and then, after shaking up the pillows and straightening the bed clothes, she went downstairs to see what Bessie was doing about dinner.
"What time do they come in, Bessie?"
"One o'clock, and the master a quarter past."
"What is there for dinner?"
"There's a piece of beef; I can cook that."
"That's right, Bessie. What about pudding?"
"Well, we haven't had many puddings lately, not since missus has been ill."
"Do you think I should make one, Bessie?"
"Yes, if you will. They won't half smile if you do."
This, Marjorie discovered, was the Daisy Bank way of expressing great satisfaction.
"Very well, Bessie; let me see what you have in the house."
Marjorie was a good cook, and soon made a large suet pudding with plenty of raisins in it for the children, and a dainty custard pudding for their mother. Then she laid the table for dinner, for which she found a clean table-cloth, washed and polished the electro-plated forks and spoons, made the dull and dirty tumblers shine brightly, by washing them first in hot and then in cold water, and afterwards rubbing them with a dry cloth, and managed to have the dinner cooked and all in readiness by the time that the boys and girls came in from school.
"You have made it nice, Miss Douglas," Patty said as she looked at the table; "I wish mother could see it."
"Will you help me to get mother's dinner ready, Patty?"
"Yes. What shall I do?"
"Find me a little tray; and, Patty, have you any serviettes?"
"Yes, there are some in a drawer upstairs; I'll get one."
Patty was only too delighted to help, and when Mrs. Holtby's dinner was ready, carried the tray with great glee up to the sick room.
Mr. Holtby looked round with satisfaction as he took his place at the head of the table, but he said nothing. He was a most silent man, and Marjorie found that his words of commendation were at all times few and far between.
That afternoon Mrs. Holtby insisted on Marjorie's going out for an hour or two, that she might get some fresh air after her hard work. She proposed taking the twins with her, but their mother said that the roads were too wet for their thin shoes, and that they would be quite happy playing in her room; so she set out alone, not sorry to feel free for a little time.
So far Marjorie had seen practically nothing of Daisy Bank, for it was too dark the night before for her to do more than see the dim outline of what she passed, and from the windows of Colwyn House there was merely a narrow view, shut in by houses on either side. She had not expected to see much to charm her during her walk, but she was hardly prepared for the scene of utter desolation that met her eyes as she went down the muddy lane leading from the house.
On one side of it were a few tumble-down cottages, damp and discoloured; on the other was an open waste, strewn with the remains of old furnace heaps. She looked across this wilderness to the huge pit mounds, rising in all directions, the very picture of gloom and dreariness.
Finding that the lane was still impassable from the depth of mud, she turned upon the waste common, parts of which were covered with thin, smoke-begrimed grass. Here there stood two old houses, even more wretched and forlorn than those she had already passed. The bedroom window of one was partly blocked with wood, and the room was given up to pigeons, which flew in and out at pleasure. The door of the other house was open, and she saw a cock and a hen and three fat ducks walking about as if the whole place belonged to them.
Further on she came upon two ragged women, down on their knees upon an old mound, raking over the muddy ashes, and picking out the wet and dirty cinders which were to be found amongst them, and then stowing them away in an old sack.
"What are you doing?" Marjorie asked.
"Getting cinders for the fire."
"Will they burn?" she asked in astonishment.
"Yes, with a little coal. It's better than no fire at all."
Marjorie walked on, sick at heart, as she thought of the kind of homes that those women must have. The cold, icy wind was blowing in her face, and she shivered as she thought of the apology for a fire which would be kindled with those lifeless cinders.
After this she passed more houses and more mounds; but nowhere in the whole place did she see a vestige of anything whatever that was pleasant to look upon. The houses were destitute of paint, the doors and window-frames were bare and unsightly, the numberless broken panes were filled in with rag or paper. More than one of the houses was in ruins—every window broken, and the walls ready to fall in. The mines below had caused these houses to sink; they had been pronounced unsafe, and had been left deserted, but no one had taken the trouble to clear away the ugly, dismal ruins. There they stood, blackened with furnace smoke, unsightly and melancholy objects.
Only two coal-pits were working, so a man told her, who was smoking a dirty clay pipe at his door. Some had stopped because of bad trade; some were worked out; some had filled with water, and were therefore abandoned. Yet at the mouth of each of these deserted pits, the heavy wooden frame and great wheel still remained—a gloomy memento of more prosperous days.
In every direction in which she looked, Marjorie saw unmistakable marks of squalid, cheerless poverty; the only prosperous-looking building being the public-house at the corner, which appeared to do a thriving trade. The whole country was honeycombed with mines, and, in consequence, many of the houses had sunk below the level of the others in the same row. Everything in Daisy Bank seemed crooked and out of shape. Other cottages were scattered amongst the furnace débris, were built anywhere and everywhere that a place could be found for them, on different levels and in sundry nooks and corners of the hilly waste.
Then she came to higher mounds still, and crossing these she saw deep, black pools in their hollows, stretches of dark, stagnant water, which never reflected anything that was pretty or bright except the moon in God's pure heaven above. Here and there some one, more thrifty than his neighbours, had made a little garden in the waste; but what could grow in such a smoky atmosphere and in such poor and barren soil? A few struggling plants of the most hardy kinds were all that the best garden in Daisy Bank could produce.
Marjorie was glad to get back even to the dismal house in which her lot was cast; it seemed almost cheerful to her after the unkempt hideousness of its depressing surroundings.
BLACK COUNTRY ROSES
THAT first day at Daisy Bank was a fair sample of many others which followed it. Bit by bit order was restored to the once untidy and comfortless house. Mrs. Holtby's room was made as sweet and cheerful as it was possible for any room in such a neighbourhood to be; the floor was washed, the carpet shaken, clean white curtains were hung in the window, and fresh hangings on the bed; whilst upon the table stood a vase, which was filled with spring flowers, a constant supply of which was sent regularly by Phyllis from the dear home garden.
Then Marjorie took another room in hand, and, with Bessie's and Patty's help, worked the same reformation there, and so by degrees the house looked more home-like and far less dreary. But it was a hard life to which she had come, and sometimes she felt inclined to despair.
Work as hard as she might, from early in the morning till late at night, she could never keep pace with the darning and patching, the clearing and dusting, which seemed always waiting to be done. Her feet were weary with running up and down stairs; her head ached with the noise of the children, and at times she longed terribly for a single day's holiday and rest; but of this she saw no prospect whatever. Beyond a daily run over the pit mounds, she never got out, and she saw no one in these walks to whom she could speak. Her thoughts were her only companions, and they were anxious ones at times.
The home letters sounded bright, as a rule, but now and again some sentence in her mother's made her feel how much she was missed there. Her own letters were as cheerful as she could make them, although she wrote a truthful account of the place to which she had come, for she had promised her mother that she would do so.
As Marjorie wandered over the wilderness of ashes day after day, she thought of them all and of her pretty home, and a terrible yearning came over her to see them again, and to look even for five minutes at the scenes she loved so well. And then her thoughts would wander to Captain Fortescue. She had kept her promise to him before leaving home; she had written to tell him where she was going, but she had never received an answer; sometimes she wondered whether her letter had ever reached him. What was he doing now? Had he left the army? Was he happy la the new life upon which she supposed he must have entered? She thought of his words to her mother,—
"I shall allow myself in no luxury until all is paid."
What a hard life that would mean, if he kept his word! And she believed that he would keep his word; she felt that he was a man to be trusted. Over and over again her busy thoughts returned to this subject, and in her prayers for those at home, his name was added. It could not be wrong to pray for him, surely.
One day when spring weather was beginning, and when even Daisy Bank looked a degree less dismal, Marjorie found a friend. As she passed one of the tumble-down cottages, she noticed an old man who was coming out of it with a rose-tree in his arms, and then she saw that a row of similar pots stood in the sunshine against the discoloured wall of the house. The roses were just coming into leaf, and she noticed that the old man was bending lovingly over them, loosening the soil near their stems, and giving each of them some water from a jug which was standing on the doorstep. Marjorie felt that at last she had found something in Daisy Bank at which it was pleasant to look. She went up to the old man and admired his roses, and he showed them to her with great pride, telling her the name and the colour of each.
"Would you like to see my garden, miss?" he asked.
He took her through the kitchen, which was quite clean, although bare of paint and whitewash, and led her to the back of his cottage. There he showed her his lawn, a tiny strip of green about three feet long and two feet broad, covered with grass. This he watered daily, to keep it from being blackened by the smoke-laden atmosphere, and kept it short by cutting it every evening with a pair of scissors. He was intensely proud of it, however, and of a row of hardy plants which were leading a struggling existence under the wall of the house. London Pride was, perhaps, the only one which did not appear to be depressed by its surroundings, and which might justly have changed its name to Daisy Bank Pride.
But the old man was proud of them all, and beamed with delight when Marjorie stooped to examine them. That tiny garden was the joy of his heart, as dear to him as the lovely home garden had been to her, and quite as beautiful in his eyes.
"It's a wonder that anything will grow here," she said.
"Ay, it's unlikely soil; but the Lord's plants do thrive sometimes in that."
"Yes," said Marjorie, for she did not quite see what he meant.
"There was old Dan'el in Babylon, and Obadiah, him as lived in Jezebel's time, and there was saints in Nero's household. They had bad soil, all of 'em, but they was faithful 'trees of the Lord's planting,' that He might be glorified."
And then Marjorie felt that she had found a friend. Old Enoch would have been stamped as an ignorant man by many, but he knew his Bible well, and could repeat much of it by heart. It was his daily study, and he was taught by the Spirit of God. Many and many a time, when things seemed darker than usual, Marjorie would run in to see him, and she always came away feeling brighter and better.
It was on the very day upon which she first made old Enoch's acquaintance that, as she was going back to Colwyn House, she had a great and most unexpected surprise. Coming along the lane to meet her, and picking his way amongst the pools which even the spring sunshine had not dried up, she saw a well-known figure, and her heart danced with joy at the sight, for it seemed to her like a bit of home put down amongst the dreariness of Daisy Bank.
It was Louis Verner!
"Oh, Louis, how nice to see you!" she cried. "It is lovely to see a home face!"
"I thought you would be pleased to see me, Marjorie. I'm on my way home, and I thought I could tell them about you."
"And you've come out of your way on purpose to see me! How awfully good of you, Louis!"
"Not at all good; I wanted to come. Marjorie, you're prettier than ever!"
"Don't talk such nonsense, Louis!" she said. "Tell me about yourself. How have you been getting on?"
"Oh, fairly well, I think. We've had an awfully jolly term; all sorts of things going on."
"And what are you going to be?"
"Now, Marjorie, that's too bad! You said you would ask me when you came home next."
"Very well, I won't scold you to-day, when you've been so good as to come and see me. How long can you stay?"
"Only an hour."
"Will you come in?"
"I'd rather not," said Louis; "we can't talk if all those people are there. Can't you come for a walk?"
"I'll ask Mrs. Holtby."
The permission was readily given; and Mrs. Holtby, who was sitting up in her room, crept to the window, and peeped through the blind with true feminine curiosity, to see who was the friend from home with whom her much-valued mother's help was so anxious to go out.
"A very particular friend, I should imagine," she said to herself with a smile, as the two disappeared together over the pit mounds.
"Marjorie," said Louis, as she joined him, "of all detestable and hateful places on the face of this earth, I do think Daisy Bank is the worst!"
"Don't be too hard on it, Louis! You should see it at night, when the sky is lit up by the furnace lights. We have constant illuminations here."
"I don't know what Mrs. Douglas will say when I tell her."
"Then you mustn't tell her, Louis. I shall be very angry if you make it out blacker than it is."
"I couldn't do that," said Louis, laughing, "if I were to try."
"Well, what does it matter, Louis? If I don't mind it, why should anybody else?"
They came now to one of the large dark pools.
"What a ghastly hole!" he said. "Just the place to tempt a fellow to commit suicide."
"Now, Louis! That is our best lake, the Derwentwater of these parts."
"Derwentwater, indeed!" said Louis, scornfully. "Look here, Marjorie! I don't like your being here at all."
"I assure you, Louis, there is no need to pity me."
Then Louis suddenly changed his tone.
"Marjorie."
"Yes, Louis."
"Why do you never write to me?"
"I haven't time, Louis; it's as much as I can do to write home."
"But I do think you might write to me, because I am—well, I really am awfully fond of you, Marjorie. Do you know I like you better than any girl I know? Upon my word I do."
"Thank you, Louis," said Marjorie, with a mock bow, "that's a very pretty compliment."
"It isn't a compliment, Marjorie; at least I mean it's quite a true one. Did you get the picture postcards I sent you?"
"Yes, thank you, Louis; I asked mother, if she was writing to you, to thank you for them."
"So she did; but I had rather have had a letter from you, Marjorie."
They were walking towards the railway station when the hour was over, and Louis's train was almost due, when he said suddenly—
"Marjorie, I'm going away, and you haven't said anything nice to me."
"Now that isn't a compliment!" she said, laughing again. "Look, Louis! The signal is down; we must hurry."
They ran down the steps, and he had barely time to get his ticket before the train came in.
As he jumped into the carriage, Marjorie could not help wishing that she was going with him, or at any rate that she was on her way to the same destination.
MOTHER HOTCHKISS
As time went on, in spite of her hard work, Marjorie began to feel not merely accustomed to the life at Colwyn House, but really fond of the people with whom she lived. Mrs. Holtby was very grateful for all that she had done for them, and was willing to fall in with any suggestion that she might make. Her health was gradually returning, and she was able to come downstairs, and to relieve Marjorie of several lighter duties.
As for Patty, she was Marjorie's firm ally and most willing helper, and Marjorie rejoiced when she saw the look of care departing from the child's face, as she realized that the burden of the family no longer rested upon her shoulders. The boys were at times exceedingly naughty and troublesome, but the little ones were devoted to "Miss Duggie" as they called her, and loved to sit on her knee listening to Bible stories, or to children's hymns which she sang to them. Their mother would often creep into the room and listen too; she told Marjorie that it made her think of her own mother, and of the lessons she had learnt long ago, but which, alas she feared that she had forgotten.
On Sunday Marjorie took the elder ones to the church, which stood on a hill overlooking the cindery waste, and which could be seen from any part of its forlorn parish. Mr. Holtby never went to any place of worship; both he and his wife had fallen into careless ways, and had become accustomed, after years of neglect, to regard Sunday as little more than an excuse for a better dinner than usual, and an opportunity for a certain amount of self-indulgence.
One day in the early summer, when the sun was shining as brightly in Daisy Bank as in more favoured spots, Marjorie was standing at old Enoch's door, once more admiring his roses. They were actually coming into bud, and the old man's excitement was great as he counted the coming blossoms.
"The very first that comes out shall be for you, Miss Douglas."
"Thank you, Enoch; I wonder which it will be."
"This Crimson Rambler, Miss, I believe. Look at it; you can just see the colour coming in the bud."
"So I can!"
"Miss Douglas," the old man went on, "do you ever go to see old Mother Hotchkiss?"
"What a name! No, I never heard of her."
"She lives in that old house down the lane; you must have noticed it, surely; two big square windows, almost like shop windows, and lots of nice plants in them."
"Oh yes, I know."
"Well, I wish you'd go and see her; I don't think she's long for this world, and she's as ignorant as a heathen in Africa."
"Poor old thing!"
"Ay! You may well say, 'Poor old thing!' Miss Douglas, she knows nothing. She can neither read nor write, and as for Scripture, why, a baby in yon schools over there knows more about it."
"I'll go and see her, Enoch. Who looks after her?"
"Nobody much; the neighbours go in a bit, and I do what I can."
"Has she no one belonging to her?"
"She has a daughter, but she's married and away—a pretty girl too. She went to this school, and she was a good hand at learning, so I believe; they made her a pupil teacher, and her mother wasn't half proud of her. But she went to be a teacher up in the North-country somewhere, and she got married there, and now I'm told that her and her husband have gone abroad—and except Carrie, I don't believe poor old Mother Hotchkiss has anybody else belonging to her."
"It's a funny name," said Marjorie.
"You're right there, Miss; it's a gipsy name. There are a lot of Hotchkisses about here; there's one street in Wolverhampton full of them. This old body has gipsy blood in her, if I'm not mistaken; she looks like it, anyhow."
The next day Marjorie fulfilled her promise to Enoch, and knocked at the door of the house in the lane. The old woman came to open it, with a red shawl over her head.
"Mrs. Hotchkiss," said Marjorie, "I've brought you a few flowers that came this morning from my home in the country."
"Are they for me?" said the old woman, stretching out her hand eagerly for the moss rosebuds and mignonette. "Come in, Miss. I've seen you pass; you're Holtby's girl, arn't you?"
"Yes," said Marjorie, smiling to herself at her new name, "and Enoch told me you were not well."
"I'm very ill, Miss—awful bad, getting worse every day, that's what I am."
Marjorie followed her through a large room with wooden beams across the ceiling, and entered an inner room, larger still.
"What a large house you have, Mrs. Hotchkiss!"
"Too large!" groaned the old woman. "It used to be a farm."
"A farm here!" exclaimed Marjorie.
"Yes, long ago, in the old time when they hadn't found the coal; it was all country here then."
"It looks like a very old house," said Marjorie, as she noticed the overhanging chimney-piece with its long, narrow shelf, on which stood a china tea-pot and various other treasures. On either side of it was a deep recess or chimney corner, in which were curious, ancient cupboards, only about two feet in height, and having dark oaken doors. Opening out of this large kitchen was a stone flight of steps, leading down to an underground dairy, with three wide shelves one above another. These, in the olden time, were kept spotlessly clean, and were covered with large flat bowls of milk and cream; but now they were thickly coated with dirt, and were piled with all manner of rubbish.
The old woman could not talk for some time, for the effort of going to the door had brought on a severe fit of coughing, so, whilst she recovered her breath, Marjorie had plenty of time to look round the room. It was frightfully untidy and dirty, but that did not surprise her, for old Mrs. Hotchkiss was too ill to do more than creep out of bed and come downstairs to the fire, where she sat in an old armchair with her feet on the fender.
"Have you been ill long?" she asked, when the old woman was able to speak.
"Ever since Carrie went away. Not so bad as this, though. I'm getting worse every day."
"May I come and see you sometimes?"
"Yes, my dear, do."
"Would you like me to read to you a little when I come?"
"Ay, do; I can't read. There was none of this schooling in my day, and it's lonesome sitting here and doing nothing."
"Then I'll come to-morrow. I always get out about this time, and I'll come as often as I can."
When Marjorie left old Mother Hotchkiss she looked at her watch, and saw that it was time that she was going home, as it was getting near teatime.
But, as soon as she opened the door of Colwyn House, Bessie, who was cleaning the kitchen, left her work and came to meet her. "There's a gentleman been here while you were gone, Miss. He didn't look half sorry when I said you was out. He said he would look if he could see you about anywheres."
"Who was he?"
"He didn't leave any name. He was an awful nice gentleman, too!"
"Bessie, could you see that Mrs. Holtby gets her tea, if I go to look for him?"
"Yes; I'll see to her."
Marjorie said to herself that Louis would be so disappointed if he missed her, after again coming so far out of his way to see her.
"Which way did he go, Bessie?"
"Well, I told him I thought you had gone Bradley way, so I should think you'd find him somewhere over there. He hasn't been gone long."
Marjorie hurried on over the muddy road, and then climbed one of the highest mounds, that she might be able to see in which direction Louis had gone. Yes, there he was, crossing the opposite one, and coming to meet her.
But no; it was not Louis! Her heart heat quickly as she saw who it was. It was Captain Fortescue!
"Miss Douglas! I've found you at last!"
"I am so sorry you have had such a hunt. Where have you come from, Captain Fortescue?"
"Not Captain Fortescue," he said. "I have dropped that title since I left the army. I am living in Birmingham now."
"Oh! So near as that? I mean I did not know you were anywhere in this neighbourhood," she explained.
"Yes; I have been in Birmingham a fortnight now. Thank you for keeping your promise, Miss Douglas."
"Oh! Then you did get my letter?"
"Yes, I did. I meant to answer it when I could tell you what I was going to do, and then I found that Birmingham was to be my headquarters, so I thought I would come and answer it by word of mouth."
"What are you doing in Birmingham?"
"I'm an agent for a large insurance company. I think I'm very fortunate to get anything to do so soon—it's a pretty good appointment, too. I hope each quarter to be able to send a small instalment to Rosthwaite, Miss Douglas."
"It is very good of you," she answered; "but I do hope you are not stinting yourself by doing so. It troubles me very much when I think that you are."
He gave her a pleased, grateful look as she said this.
"Now, Miss Douglas, you are never to trouble about me again. I have given up smoking, and one or two little things that I am all the better without, but, beyond that, I assure you I am not straitened in any way. How could I take a nice holiday like this, if I were short of money?"
"I'm afraid it is not a very pleasant place for you to come to for a holiday," she said, laughing.
"It doesn't quite come up to our last walk together."
"Where was that? Oh, I remember. Up to Seatoller and Honister. How far away it all seems!"
"How is old Mary? How does she get on without you?"
"Oh! Poor old thing. Mother goes to see her when she can. I've just found an old woman here, Captain Fortescue."
"Have you? Is she like old Mary?"
"Oh dear no! A poor dirty old woman, half a gipsy, I think; but I'm glad to have some one to go and see."
They were standing now beside one of the dismal ponds, in which a number of ragged boys were wading.