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HE TURNED ROUND AND SAW WATSON STANDING BEHIND HIM.
Yes, the will was there; he saw the large envelope on which was written, in clear legal copper-plate characters, "Last Will and Testament of Joseph Fortescue." But the will had little interest for him now. Of what avail to be told that so many thousands had been bequeathed to him, when he knew that those thousands did not exist, but had been swamped in the ruinous flooding of that distant mine? As his poor old father had said, the will was not worth the paper on which it was written. He took it up with beating heart, and looked underneath it.
Yes, there was the letter; he could see his father's crooked, illiterate writing upon it—he could read the words—
"For my son,To be opened after my death."
He was just slipping it into his pocket, when he heard a movement in the room. Was the dead man rising, to make a protest against his reading its contents?
He turned round and saw Watson standing behind him; how she had crept into the room without his hearing her he could not imagine.
"What do you want, Watson?"
"I was passing the door, sir, and saw a light, so came in to see that all was right. You've soon found your way to the safe, sir!"
Captain Fortescue took no notice of this insolent remark; he was not going to give vent to his feeling of anger in the chamber of death; he knew that he would have another opportunity of letting Watson know what he thought of her behaviour to him. So, without deigning to reply, he locked the safe, and taking the will and the keys in his hand he went out of the room.
Crossing the landing, he entered his own bedroom, and closed and locked the door. Now he was safe from intrusion and from Watson's prying gaze. He put his candle on the table, drew a chair near it, and sat down to open the letter. He wondered at himself that he could wait even to do this; but he had a nervous dread of the revelation he was about to receive, and, at the last moment, he actually feared to look upon that which before he had been so anxious to see.
He tore open the long envelope, which was securely fastened at one end, and drew out a sheet of foolscap paper.
He opened it and spread it before him; he turned over the page; he looked at the back of it.
Horror of horrors! Had sudden blindness fallen upon him? Was the loss of sight to be added to all his other losses? He could see nothing—not a single word appeared to be written on any one of the four pages. So far as he could see, it was simply a blank sheet, unused, unsoiled, utterly void of any information on any subject whatever. He held it up to the light; he tried to imagine that he saw secret marks in the tracing of the paper; he turned the pages over and over, but he could find nothing but emptiness—a plain, white surface which seemed to mock his scrutiny.
Surely he had brought the wrong envelope! But no, there was the address on the outside in his father's childish handwriting:
"For my son,To be opened after my death."
Could the old man have made a mistake, and have placed the wrong document in the cover?
He went back to the room of death, carefully locking the door this time, and he made a thorough investigation of the contents of the safe. But he found nothing whatever to repay his search, no other envelope, no other letter—nothing at all but old accounts and a few business papers.
He stood by the bed and looked at his dead father's face, and longed unutterably to ask him what he had done with the information which he had so much wished him to receive. But the lips were closed—the voice was still—and no message came from the other world to guide and direct him in his time of bewilderment and consternation. Fortescue went to his bedroom again, and once more examined the sheet of paper. Then a bright thought seized him. Could it be that his father, fearing lest the document should fall into other hands, had written it in invisible ink? Was it possible that, if he only knew how to deal with it, he might be able to fill those blank pages with words of weight and importance? He remembered, when he was a boy, having a bottle of ink of that kind, which made no mark upon the paper unless heat were brought to bear upon it. Perhaps his father had remembered it also, and, recollecting the fact that he had known the secret as a boy, he had adopted this means of making his letter even more private, and had thus considerably lessened the liability of its being deciphered by any eyes excepting those of his son.
Captain Fortescue therefore went into the library, and carefully held the foolscap sheet to the fire. But, beyond a slight mark of scorching upon one page, it remained unchanged and exactly as he had found it.
Then it crossed his mind that possibly there might be chemicals, which, if applied to paper which had been prepared in a certain way, would bring to light hidden writing and make it legible. He thought he had read of something of the kind being used in time of war, in the place of the ordinary cipher. Possibly this was the explanation which he was seeking. He rang the bell, and Elkington answered it.
"What time do the shops close, Elkington?"
"Eight o'clock, sir."
The captain looked at his watch. "A quarter past nine! Too late, then!"
"What am I thinking of?" said the old butler. "Of course, it's Saturday night. They won't close till ten, or eleven, maybe."
"That's right. Can you send for a cab for me, Elkington?"
"Is it anything I can do, sir?"
"No, Elkington, thank you. I'm afraid not."
"Do you want the cab at once, sir?"
"Yes, at once. The sooner the better."
The old man hurried off to do his young master's bidding, and Kenneth, after placing the precious sheet of paper carefully in the breast pocket of his coat, stood waiting in the hall until the cab arrived. He saw Watson come to the top of the stairs and look down, as if she were watching his movements. Then she came into the hall.
"Are you going out, sir? So late, too?" she added.
The cab drove up at this moment, so that he did not deem it necessary to answer, but he saw her craning her neck forward, that she might catch the direction that he gave to the cabman. Consequently, he altered what he had intended to say, merely naming the part of the town to which he wished to be driven.
The streets of Sheffield were brilliantly lighted as he drove through them; crowds of working people were thronging the main thoroughfares and filling the various shops. But the large chemist's, at which he told the cabman to stop, was practically empty, and the assistants were preparing to close for the night.
"Is Mr. Lofthouse here?" he inquired of one of them.
"He is in his private room, sir. I'll call him. You are only just in time to catch him!"
"Do you think I could speak to him for a few minutes on a private matter?"
"I'll ask him, sir."
In a few moments Kenneth found himself seated beside the old chemist, near the fast-dying embers of the fire in the room behind the shop. He brought the sheet of paper from his pocket and explained his errand. He told Mr. Lofthouse that this paper contained, at least so he believed, information of grave importance to him, and that, whilst it was impossible for him to read it at present, he suspected and hoped that the action of some chemical might be sufficient to bring the writing upon it to light.
The chemist looked carefully at his visitor. Was he a lunatic who was labouring under some strong delusion, or had he good reason for imagining that those blank pages really contained hidden writing? It struck him as a strange time for such a visit, and that made him inclined to be suspicious of the sanity of the man before him. But the Captain's calm, quiet manner impressed him favourably, and when he presently took Mr. Lofthouse into his confidence, by telling him that a relative of his who had lately died had informed him on his death-bed that this paper contained information which it was important for him to receive, he became at once interested and at the same time eager and ready to help.
He inquired whether Captain Fortescue would be willing to entrust the paper to his care, that he might be able to experiment upon it; but when he found that Kenneth did not like the idea of doing so, inasmuch as the information which he supposed the foolscap sheet to contain was of a private nature and intended only for his own perusal, Mr. Lofthouse at once dismissed his assistants, locked the shop door, took his visitor into the laboratory, and proceeded to try the effect of various chemicals upon the paper which he had brought.
For more than an hour the two men worked away on the mysterious pages, but at the end of that time the old chemist declared his firm conviction that the captain was in some way mistaken, for that nothing whatever had been written upon the sheet of foolscap. He could find no evidence of the paper having been chemically treated, and he felt sure that, in some way or other, that paper had been placed in the envelope in the place of the paper which Captain Fortescue had expected to find there.
It was late at night when Kenneth returned home; he was more tired than he realized, until he found himself in his own room, and he slept soundly for the first time since his arrival in Sheffield.
Then followed the long quiet Sunday, during which he sat in the darkened library, and thought of the changes that week had brought into his life, and of the uncertain and difficult future that lay ahead of him.
The funeral was fixed for Tuesday; there were no relations to summon, for he knew of none. He never in his life remembered seeing any one except his father who could claim any relationship to him, however distant. And now that only relation of his was gone, and he was left entirely alone in the world, so far as any natural tie was concerned.
Not only so, but he realized that that week he had lost all his former friends. The schoolfellows at Eton, the men he had known at Sandhurst, the friends he had made since he had entered the army, would now be parted from him by a social gulf which neither he nor they would be able to cross. He would have to sever his connection with them all; leaving the army, he would leave the link which bound him to them. He must begin life anew, and it must be, in future, the life of a man dependent upon his own exertions for his daily bread. How he was to enter upon this life, how that daily bread was to be obtained, he had no idea; what path he could cut out for himself in the hard rock of circumstances which blocked his way, he could not imagine. Nor did he know to whom to apply for advice; his friends were moving in such a totally different sphere that he did not see how they could help him. He felt utterly and entirely alone.
But, at that moment, there suddenly flashed across him four lines which he had learnt to love in brighter and happier days, but which now came back to him with fresh meaning, as they seemed to express the inmost feeling of his heart:
"I do not ask my cross to understand,My way to see:Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand,And follow Thee."
THE TWO ENVELOPES
CAPTAIN FORTESCUE followed his father to the grave, the chief and only mourner. No one else was present, except Mr. Fortescue's doctor and lawyer, who came in their official capacity. The extensive town cemetery looked the very picture of desolation and gloom. It lay in a narrow valley, the rising ground on either side and the stretch of lower ground between being densely covered with the resting-places of the dead.
In the quiet village churchyard, with its green mounds and neat flower-covered graves; its pure white marble crosses and the moss-covered headstones of earlier date; its neat well-kept paths, by the side of which are growing snowdrops and primroses planted by loving hands which are now, it may be, themselves lying in one of those newer mounds; the grave is robbed of some of its outward ghastliness and nakedness, and is clothed tenderly by the loving hand of mother earth.
But in this large town cemetery everything is unsightly and depressing, and the hosts of barren graves, which may be counted by their thousands, are marked only by blackened stones, upon which layer after layer of furnace smoke has settled, and is still settling as the years go by. No flowers will grow there, no trees will thrive; even the scanty grass is more black than green, whilst down in the hollow there lies, at the further end of the valley, a dismal pond, in which the body of a poor suicide was found not so long ago, and the memory of whom leaves an additional shadow upon that melancholy and dismal place.
"Earth to earth; dust to dust; ashes to ashes;" and so the poor earthly remains were left behind, and another leaf was added to the great heap of fallen leaves in the forest of mortal humanity.
When Captain Fortescue arrived home, and walked into the empty house which he would never again call home, he felt as if he were crossing the threshold of the life of hardship which lay in front of him. He determined, however, to face it bravely, and in higher strength than his own, and not to flinch from any duty, however unpleasant, which lay along its course.
In the strength of this resolution, he rang the bell, as soon as his solitary dinner was over, and requested all the servants to assemble in the library, as he had something which he wished to say to them.
He went in, carrying his father's will in his hand, and then he told them that he felt that it was only right they should know that their old master had remembered their faithful service, and had intended rewarding it by a handsome legacy, the amount of which was regulated by the length of time each had lived with him; but that it was his sad and painful duty to inform them that the whole of his father's invested money had been lost, and that therefore, he feared that these legacies existed merely in name.
"Do you mean to tell us, sir, that we shall get nothing?" inquired Watson.
"I fear not, Watson; time alone will show. My father's lawyer, Mr. Northcourt, who was here to-day, is winding up his affairs, of which I know practically nothing, and should there turn out to be money available, of course the legacies will be paid."
"It's very hard, sir, to be turned adrift after all these years!"
"It is hard, Watson; but you must remember I am a sufferer as well as you; it is very hard for me."
Watson gave a sniff of contempt. "You have your commission, sir, and your grand friends."
"Say had, Watson, not have; all that will be a thing of the past. I must leave the army."
"Dear, dear!" said the old butler. "Dear, dear! I do feel for you, sir."
"But surely," said Watson, "there will be something. Look at all this furniture, and the house and park; they haven't gone!"
"Yes, there may be something, Watson. I can't tell yet until I know what my father's obligations were. I fear that he was more than an ordinary shareholder in this mine, and that those who have lost by means of it may come upon his estate for such compensation as it may be able to yield. You may rest assured, however, that your legacies will be paid before I myself touch a single penny of my father's money."
"It's very good of you to say so," said the old butler; "but I'm sure none of us would like to rob you, sir."
"It would be no robbery, Elkington, only justice," said the Captain.
"Well, it's very hard!" said Watson. "Very hard; and what's to become of me, I'm sure I don't know. I can't take another situation at my time of life, and the old gentleman always promised he'd see I was provided for."
"Again I say, Watson, I am very sorry; I can't say more."
"And now there is something else I want to say to you," added the Captain, as he folded up the will; "and I would ask you to give very serious attention to what I am about to tell you. My father informed me, the day before he died, that he had addressed a letter to me, and had put it in the safe in his bedroom with his will. That letter I have never received. The envelope was there, addressed in my father's handwriting, but when I opened it, it contained nothing but a blank sheet of paper. Now I am convinced that that envelope has been tampered with by some one. I am certain that it has been opened, that the paper my father expected me to find there has been removed, and that the blank sheet has been inserted in its place, and I want you to help me to discover how and when this was done, and by whose hands. Elkington, do you know where my father kept the keys of his safe?"
"The old master always had them about him, sir, day and night, as you might say. He carried them in his pocket by day, and at night they were either under his pillow or on the table by his bed. Did you ever know him leave them about, or forget them?"
"Never, sir, never once. He were as careful of these keys, and kept them as well within his reach as a cat does a mouse she has caught; he seemed always to have an eye on them."
"Well, then, we come to the day of his sudden seizure when the telegram was brought in. Where were his keys then?"
"In his pocket, sir. I know he had them, for the post-bag was brought up from the lodge a few minutes before, and I took it to him, and he brought the keys out of his pocket to open it."
"And put them back again?"
"Oh yes, sir, he never forgot to do that."
"Well, then the doctor came, and what happened next?"
"He was carried upstairs, sir. Dr. Cholmondeley helped us, and then we got him into bed."
"Who did?"
"The doctor, and me, and Watson."
"Where were the keys then?"
"Left in the pocket of his coat, sir; but, as soon as ever he came round a bit and opened his eyes, he asked for them; it was almost the first thing he said."
"And where did you put them?"
"On the table where you saw them, sir, close to his bed. They were there, as far as I know, till you took them away."
"Just after the old master breathed his last," ejaculated Watson.
"Now," said Captain Fortescue, "it seems to me we are getting the question into a very small compass. My father was taken ill early in the morning; for a short time those keys were left in his pocket. How long, Elkington?"
"About an hour, sir, I should say."
"Well, either at that time, or some time during the following night, some one must have gone to the safe and taken out my letter."
"How dare you speak like that?" shrieked Watson, "suspecting and accusing your poor father's faithful servants. I suppose you mean I'm the thief, or Elkington?"
"I accuse nobody, Watson. I only ask for an explanation of what is so mysterious to me."
But Watson bounced out of the room, saying she was not going to stay there to be called a common thief; she should pack her box that very night, and get away from a house where she was so insulted.
The servants filed out of the room, but the old butler lingered behind.
"Sir," he said, "do you think that that woman has done it?"
"Elkington, I have no proof, and therefore I do not like to say that any one has done it. It may have been a mistake on my father's part."
"Not likely, sir, not likely; he was so slow and careful-like about things of that sort."
"Well, Elkington, I don't know what to think."
"I do know what to think," said the old butler to himself, as he went out of the room.
But the next day a solution of the mystery came to light. It was late in the evening, and when Elkington was waiting at dinner, that there was a loud ring at the front door. He went to open it, for, now Watson was gone, he was doing most of her work as well as his own. He came back with a card in his hand, which he said had been given to him by a gentleman who had just called, and who was now in the library.
"I told him you were at dinner, sir, but he said he would wait, as he particularly wished to see you to-night."
Captain Fortescue looked at the card. It was not a visiting card, but one evidently used as a tradesman's advertisement. It bore these words, printed in various styles of type—
"JOSIAH MAKEPEACE,Bookseller and Stationer,149, York Street,Sheffield."
"Do you know this man, Elkington?"
"What's his name, sir?"
"Makepeace; he is a bookseller in the town."
"I've heard of him, sir; his shop is in York Street, isn't it?"
"Yes; 149, York Street."
"I believe my master dealt there sometimes. I think I remember seeing his name on parcels that came. Paper and such-like, I think they were."
"He has probably brought his bill, then, and wants to make sure he is paid before others come in for the spoil. Tell him I will see him in a few minutes, Elkington."
When Fortescue entered the library the man was standing with his back to him, gazing at the portrait of Mrs. Fortescue, which hung over the chimney-piece. He was a tall thin man, with black hair, and, as he turned round on his entrance, the Captain could see that his face was sallow, that he had a short beard and small rat-like eyes, and that he was wearing spectacles.
"Good evening, sir. I hope you will excuse my intruding at this hour, but I come on a matter of importance."
Captain Fortescue motioned him to a chair, and said he supposed it was a business matter which had brought him there.
"Not exactly, sir. Your father did do business with me at times, and it is in connection with one of these times that I want to see you. The fact is that a letter, which Mr. Fortescue wrote to you last week, has, by some mistake, come into my hands."
Kenneth looked eagerly at the envelope which Makepeace drew out of the breast pocket of his coat. What revelation did it contain? And how unfortunate that that revelation should have fallen into the hands of a stranger!
The envelope was a foolscap one, he could see that; precisely similar to the one he had found in the safe.
He stretched out his hand for it eagerly.
"Wait a minute, sir," said the man. "Allow me, if you please, to explain to you how this letter came into my possession. Last week—it would be Wednesday, I think—your father came into my shop; it was the last time, I believe, that the old gentleman was out.
"'Makepeace,' he said, 'I want some foolscap paper.'
"My assistant brought some out and showed it to him. We have some blue and some white. He selected the white, sir, but when he looked at it, he declared that it was poorer in quality than what he had bought of me before. I told him that could not be the case, inasmuch as I had bought it all from the same firm and at the same time. Well, he seemed very much put out, and he shouted and stormed at me; it was a way he had, you know, sir, and he wanted to make out I was trying to impose on him by giving him different paper.
"I didn't want to offend the old gentleman, for he was a good customer, so I told him if he would send me a sheet of the foolscap which I had sold him before, I felt sure that I could match it exactly. I meant to give him what I had in stock, for I knew it was exactly the same, but I thought this would satisfy and pacify him. Well, he came round after that, and said he knew I always did the best I could for him, and he told me he would slip it into an envelope as soon as he got home and send it to me by post. On Thursday the letter arrived, but I was from home, and my wife was away too. I've only got a young assistant, and he did not like to open my letters, so there it remained on my desk until I got home to-day."
"And then you opened it?"
"Yes, and found inside, not the sheet of foolscap as I expected, but a letter evidently intended for you, sir. It begins, 'My dear Ken,' and it ends 'Your loving Father.' I haven't read it, sir, I assure you. I wouldn't do such a thing, and I've brought it at once to you. Do you think he can have put it in the wrong envelope? Have you found any other envelope containing a blank sheet of foolscap paper?"
"Yes, I have," said Captain Fortescue, "and have been extremely puzzled by it, for my father expressly told me that he had written a letter which he particularly wished me to receive."
"Then I am only too glad to restore it to you, sir," said Makepeace, as he handed the envelope to him. "And now, sir, I will bid you good evening."
Captain Fortescue thanked him for taking the trouble to come up at once to see him, and assured him that the information which he had given him was an intense relief to his mind.
As soon as he was alone, he unfolded the letter which had at last come into his possession. His hand trembled as he did so, and as he wondered what disclosure it would make to him.
Yes, there was his father's uneven writing. Some of the capitals were printed, others written in the ordinary way. He began at once to read it. It was dated Wednesday, December 18, and ran as follows:
"MY DEAR KEN,"I was glad to get your letter, and hope as this will find you well as it leaves me very middling, and Cholmondeley has given me a tonic, so hope soon to be better. There is something as I think you ought to be told, as it will come more easy to you if things goes wrong, as it seems likely they will. I have had a letter from Berkinshaw, a friend of mine in London, and he has found out that a certain concern, what I put my money in, is getting shaky and not likely to pay. So I'm going to sell out to-morrow, unless I hear better news from him by the morning post, and if I do sell out, I shan't be so flush of money by a long chalk, and that will mean I can't send you such a big allowance as you have been having. I thought it was better as I should tell you, in case you might be disappointed when I send your next cheque. Go easy then, and don't outrun the constable till you hear again from—"Your loving father,"JOSEPH FORTESCUE."
And that was all! There was not a word more! It all seemed such past history now. And moreover his father had told him a great deal more than this letter contained. Why, then, was he so anxious for him to receive it? What did he mean by saying that he hoped it would put him right, and that he was to follow it up? Could his father simply have meant that this letter would prove that, whatever roguery there might be in connection with the Brazil Mining Company, his son knew nothing at all about the concern, and could not therefore be held in any way responsible? Yet who would ever imagine, for a moment, that he was implicated in his father's business transactions, which were done when he was absent from home, and of which he could easily prove that he was in total ignorance?
Then again, it seemed strange that the letter had never been posted. Why had he not received it on the Thursday morning? He could quite understand that it was possible for his father, having addressed the two envelopes at the same time, to have put the wrong enclosure in each; thus sending the letter to his son to Makepeace, and at the same time forwarding to himself the blank sheet of foolscap intended for the bookseller. But supposing this to have been the case, why, then, were not both letters posted? Why was one sent and the other kept back? And why, being kept back, was the letter placed in the safe?
The Captain meditated for a long time over this difficult question, and then attempted to explain it to himself in this way. He supposed that, after the two letters were closed and ready for the post, they lay together on the library table, that after a time some one, probably his father himself, took up the one addressed to Makepeace and put it into the letter-bag; but that the other letter, addressed to himself, was inadvertently left behind and forgotten, being covered up at the time, perhaps, by something on the table.
That subsequently, late at night and after the post-bag had gone to the lodge, his father discovered that he had omitted to post it; and that then, inasmuch as the letter contained matter of a private nature, he did not care to leave it lying on the table, but had carried it up with him to bed, and in accordance with his usual caution and suspicion had placed it in the safe until the morning. That then, on the Thursday, before he had opportunity to post it, the telegram arrived and his sudden illness occurred; and that consequently the letter written the day before was left in the safe; that then he had appeared on the scene, and of course his father, having no longer any occasion to post the letter, had merely called his attention to it and told him where it had been placed.
The Captain went up to bed that night feeling considerably relieved that the communication in the letter was, after all, of so harmless a nature. He had evidently been making much ado about nothing; the so-called mystery had turned out to be most easy of solution and had nothing very mysterious about it.
But as he lay awake thinking of it all, and only half satisfied with the explanation that he had worked out with so much care, two unanswerable problems suggested themselves to him, and made him feel that, after all, he had by no means got to the bottom of the strange occurrence, and that there still remained much that was mysterious and suspicious.
For, in the first place, was it likely that his father, having written a letter to him on ordinary note-paper, would place it, when written, in a foolscap envelope? The very size of the sheet would prevent his making the mistake which he had thought it possible that he might have made.
And, moreover—and this latter problem he felt was by far the greater one—why was the letter to himself addressed in the way it was? Did it not say on the envelope, "For my son—to be opened after my death?" His father would never have addressed it in that way, had he intended to post it.
What did it all mean? His former theory was entirely upset by the remembrance of this fact. He felt that he had not worked out the solution correctly after all.
Kenneth Fortescue's brain felt in a whirl; the longer he puzzled over it, the more hopelessly bewildered he became. All night long he was struggling to find some possible explanation which might prove satisfactory in all points, but he utterly failed to discover one.
Tired in mind and body, he rose in the morning determined to lay the whole matter before his father's lawyer. He went to Mr. Northcourt's office, and took him entirely into his confidence; but neither he nor the lawyer were able to come to any conclusion as to what had happened with regard to the two letters.
The Captain suggested calling in a detective, but Mr. Northcourt dissuaded him from pursuing this course of action, at any rate, for the present, inasmuch as he failed to see proof that there had been foul play in the matter. For, if Makepeace had had any hand, directly or indirectly, in removing the letter from the safe, why was he so anxious and ready to restore it to its rightful owner? However, he promised the Captain that he would lose no opportunity of trying to discover a clue to the mystery, and told him that, if anything came to his knowledge at all bearing upon what had happened, he would not fail to communicate with him immediately.
A WALK THROUGH BORROWDALE
A FEW days later, and during the first week of the new year, Captain Fortescue was once more to be seen at the large railway station in Sheffield. He was doing what he had never done in the whole course of his life before; he was taking a third-class ticket. He was a poor man now, and he felt that he must act as one.
It was a new experience for him to be obliged to pull himself up at every turn when he was on the point of spending little sums of money. Instead of buying, as before, several books and papers at the stall, he contented himself with a copy of one paper only; instead of ordering a luncheon basket, he was carrying in his pocket a small packet of sandwiches which old Elkington had carefully wrapped up for him that morning; instead of coming to the station in a cab, he had made use of a public conveyance.
All this was new and strange to him, and yet he did not mind it in the least; he had endured the hard life in the war without a murmur, and the cessation of these little luxuries was to him a very trivial matter; but he did feel a pang of regret when he had to give the porter a small coin instead of his former generous tip, and when he slipped a penny into the box of the blind man at the station gate, instead of the shilling which he had usually given him when he passed by. He must be just before he was generous, he said to himself.
When the train started, Kenneth Fortescue was soon engrossed in his newspaper; he was glad of anything to turn his thoughts from the errand upon which he was going. For he was on his way into Cumberland to fulfil his promise to his father, and to break the intelligence of her heavy loss to poor Mrs. Douglas. He had had some difficulty in finding her address; he remembered that he had been so filled with horror at his father's disclosure that he had never asked him where she was now living. He had hunted through the old man's papers in vain; he had discovered her address in York, but his father had intimated that she was not there at the present time, and he failed to find any recent address.
However, the old butler, on being questioned, told him that he had several times addressed letters for his master to Mrs. Douglas, and that he could therefore quite distinctly remember her address. He wrote it carefully on a piece of paper, and Captain Fortescue took it from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it more than once during the journey. In the old man's trembling handwriting, he read these words—
"Mrs. Douglas, Fernbank, Rosthwaite,"nr. Keswick."
Kenneth, much as he wished to get this dreaded visit over, had postponed it until after the new year. He knew that he was the bearer of bad tidings, and, with his usual thoughtfulness for others, he was unwilling that the evil news should come as a cloud across their happiness at Christmas and the New Year.
He had thought once of writing to say that he was coming, but upon second thoughts, he decided not to do so. He would keep his promise to his father to the very letter; he had implored him not to write, and he would therefore refrain from doing so, and would not even prepare them in this way for the sad news which he was bringing to them. He could easily find some place in which to stay the night, and would return to Sheffield early the following morning.
The Captain was alone the first part of the way, but at Penrith a young man jumped into the carriage and took the seat opposite to him. He was short and rather thin, with dark hair, brown eyes, and a weak mouth. There was nothing specially taking in his appearance, and yet he had an extremely good-natured face, which made the Captain imagine that, though his companion might not have a superabundance of brain power, yet at the same time he was well stored with easy good-humour.
The newcomer put his bag on the rack, lighted a cigar, and turned over the leaves of a magazine. But he did not seem much inclined for reading, and soon closed his book and began to talk, opening the conversation, as Englishmen always do, with a remark on the weather.
"Horrid cold day," he said, with a slight drawl, which, however, the Captain soon discovered was a sign of company manners on his part, and which he dropped entirely when they became better acquainted.
"Yes, I think it's the coldest day this winter," he answered; "it feels to me like snow."
"Have some of my rug," said the newcomer. "It's only lying on the ground."
"Thank you, I shall only be too glad; I forgot to bring mine, and the foot-warmer is quite cold now."
"Have you come far?"
"Well, a good way—from Sheffield. I'm going to a little place somewhere near Keswick. Do you know Keswick?"
"Of course I do; I'm going there myself."
"Oh! Then you're the very man I want. I have to get to a village called Rosthwaite; do you know it?"
"Rather! Why, we live only about two miles from Rosthwaite—at Grange, at the lake head."
"Derwentwater is that?"
"Yes, we're at the other end of it from Keswick; it's a pretty long way from the station. Do you know Cumberland?"
"I never was there in my life. Shall I find an inn at Rosthwaite?"
"Oh yes, two of them; they are very comfortable, I believe. Are you thinking of staying at Rosthwaite long?"
"No; I'm only going there on business. I want to find some people who live there. I wonder if you have ever heard of them and can tell me where they live."
"What's the name?"
"Douglas."
"Of course I know the Douglases! I've known them nearly all my life. I spend most of my time there when I'm down—too much, my father says. You see, he wants me to work; but it's an awful grind out of term time. I do a little, of course, but not enough to please him, I'm afraid."
"Are you at Cambridge?"
"No, at Oxford—Magdalen."
"And what are you going to be?"
"Oh! I don't know; anything that's not too hard work. My father says I ought to settle, but it's very hard. Every time I come down, he wants to know if I've made up my mind. But there's time enough yet."
"Don't you think it's better to have an aim in view?"
"Yes, I suppose it is. Oh I shall think of something one of these days. You were asking about the Douglases?"
"Yes; do you mind telling me what you know about them?"
"Not at all. They're jolly, all of them; you're sure to like them!"
"What does the family consist of?"
"Well, there's Mrs. Douglas; he's dead—was a parson, I believe, and had a church in Sheffield—he's been dead years now; we never knew him."
"Is Mrs. Douglas an elderly lady?"
"Oh dear no! She isn't young, but she isn't what you would call elderly; her hair isn't white. Have a cigar?"
"Thank you. And what family has she?"
"Three girls, awfully jolly girls, too; and then there's little Carl."
"I did not think she had any young child."
"No, she hasn't; Carl is Mrs. Douglas's grandchild. Leila is his mother. You see she was only married a few months when she lost her husband, and this little chap was born after his father died, and Leila had to come back home because she was left so badly off."
"Then the girls will be quite grown-up, I suppose?"
"Yes; Phyllis is the youngest, and she's nineteen. Marjorie is my age, our birthdays are on the same day; we shall come of age next month. They're really awfully nice girls! I don't know which I like best, Marjorie or Phyllis; sometimes I think I like one, sometimes the other."
"It's a case of 'How happy could I be with either,'" said Captain Fortescue, laughing. "Fernbank, I think, they live?"
"Yes, it's up on the hill close to the bridge. They have a nice little garden. Leila lies out on her couch in it in summer. She's an invalid now, and has been for months, and they're afraid she'll never be very strong."
"What's the matter with her?"
"Something wrong with her spine, I believe; she looks very ill sometimes. We shall soon be at Keswick now. What do you think of our Cumberland hills?"
"Beautiful!" said the Captain, as he looked out of the window. "Have you had much snow this winter?"
"Yes, a good deal. It's done nothing but rain or snow ever since I came down. Horrid nuisance, too!"
"I'm glad it's fine to-day," said the Captain.
"Yes, if it will only keep so. How are you going to get to Rosthwaite?"
"Are there coaches running there from Keswick?"
"Not in winter; there are plenty in summer."
"Then I must take a cab. How much do they charge?"
It was a new question for Captain Fortescue to have to ask.
"A good bit, I believe; it's a long way, you see. I can give you a lift as far as Grange if you like; the pony trap will be there to meet me."
"It's very kind of you; I shall be most grateful. How far is Grange from Rosthwaite?"
"Oh, a very little way, a short two miles, right through Borrowdale, you know."
When they arrived at Keswick station, the Captain's new friend led the way to the road outside, where they found a pony carriage and a smart-looking groom waiting, and they were soon driving quickly through the streets of the pretty little town.
Then the lake came in sight, beautiful even on that wintry afternoon. A fringe of snow covered the top of Cat Bells and the higher hills on the opposite side of the water, and Derwentwater was lighted up by the rays of the red sun, which had not yet dipped behind their white summits.
Captain Fortescue thought he had never beheld a lovelier scene. The wooded islands with which the lake is studded, the dark fir trees on Friar's Crag, the rocks and trees on the margin of the lake reflected in the still water, the high mountains of Borrowdale shutting out the view before him, and Skiddaw standing in solitary grandeur behind him; all these combined to form a glorious panorama of beauty, on which he gazed with great admiration as he drove along.
His companion talked the whole way, pointing out the different mountain peaks; stopping the carriage that he might hear the roar of Lodore, as its waters, swollen by winter snows, dashed a hundred feet over the precipice; and then, when the lake was left behind, showing him in the distance the beautiful double bridge which crosses the rushing river as it runs towards the lake.
"Do you see those houses," he said, "just in front of us? We are coming to Grange now."
"That is where you live?"
"Yes; in that house on the other side of the river. You can just see the chimneys amongst the trees."
"Then Rosthwaite is two miles further?"
"Not quite two miles; it's a glorious walk!"
"Is there any fear of my losing my way?"
"No; it's quite impossible. Keep straight along the road, and it will take you there."
"Thank you very much. I am most grateful to you for the help you have given me," said the Captain. "May I ask the name of my kind friend?"
"Verner—Louis Verner. My father, Colonel Verner, came to live here ten years ago. And now perhaps you will tell me your name."
"Fortescue. I'm very glad we have met; it has made the last part of my journey very pleasant. Do I get out here?"
"No; wait till we get to the bridge. Why, I do believe that's Marjorie coming across now! Lucky for you if it is; she'll show you the way. Hurry up, Stephens, and we'll catch her before she turns the corner!"
They drove quickly on, and Louis Verner called out to the girl who was nearing the end of the long bridge—
"Marjorie! I say, Marjorie!"
She saw them coming, and waited at the corner, and Louis jumped out of the carriage, followed by the Captain, and went to meet her.
She was wearing a navy blue motor-cap, a coat and skirt of the same colour, and sable furs. She had the brightest, sunniest face, Kenneth thought, that he had ever seen. Her hair was a lovely shade of brown, her eyes were grey; she had a clear complexion, rosy cheeks, and a somewhat Roman nose. All this he remarked afterwards; but at the first glance, he noticed only this—that hers was a face which it did one good to see; one of those thoroughly happy, contented faces which are unfortunately so rare in this world of dissatisfaction and discontent. It was a face which some would not have allowed to be even pretty, and yet, although he could remember having seen faces far more beautiful in feature—Lady Violet's, for instance—he could not recollect having in his whole life seen a single face so lovely in its expression, so vivacious, and so full of intelligence.
"Marjorie, look here! I want to introduce this gentleman to you. Mr. Fortescue—Miss Douglas. He is going to Rosthwaite, and I think he wants to call on Mrs. Douglas."
"Mr. Fortescue!" said Marjorie, in a surprised voice. "Why, I thought—"
"You thought Mr. Fortescue was not quite so young, Miss Douglas; was that it?"
"Yes," she said, laughing. "Mother gets letters sometimes from Mr. Fortescue, and I pictured him a very old man with white hair and spectacles. Why, I don't know; but I always picture people to myself, and often make mistakes."
"That was my father, Miss Douglas; he is dead now."
"Dead! Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I should not have said that if I had known."
"Well, Marjorie, will you guide Mr. Fortescue?" said Louis Verner.
"Yes, Louis; I'm going home now, so we can walk together."
When the carriage had driven on, and the Captain found himself alone with Miss Douglas, all the weight of the errand upon which he had come returned upon him. He had tried to forget it for a time; he could not forget it now. She was so bright and cheerful, so anxious to point out to him all the beauties of the scenery through which they were passing, and to make the walk as pleasant to him as she possibly could, that he felt sick at heart when he remembered that his visit would bring a heavy cloud over her life, and drive the sunshine from her face. Why had his father asked him to do this thing?
They were passing through the narrowest part of Borrowdale, where the steep hills confront each other closely in all their rugged beauty. At the bottom of the gorge the river was rushing madly over its rocky bed; overhead towered the mighty Castle Crag, guarding the narrow pass. Every kind of beauty of rock and wood and river, of mossy bank and fern-covered glade, seemed crowded together in that lovely spot.
"What do you think of it, Mr. Fortescue?"
"Glorious!" he said. "How delightful to live amongst it all!"
"Isn't it?" she said. "I don't think I could bear to live in a dirty, smoky town after this. Do you see that great stone above us on the hill—the Bowder Stone it is called. People always go and look at it; but I don't know that there's much to see."
Kenneth did not answer her; the burden of his message was becoming more than he could bear. A sudden thought crossed his mind. Should he tell her why he had come? Perhaps, if he did so, she would help him to think of the best way to tell her mother.
"Miss Douglas," he said, "I suppose you have been wondering why I am going to see your mother?"
"Woman's curiosity, I expect you think! Well, you men are just as curious sometimes. Yes, I did wonder rather what it was about," she said, laughing.
"May I tell you," he answered, so gravely and seriously that her laugh died away, and a look of anxiety came into her face.
"Yes, tell me," she said quietly. "Not bad news, I hope?"
"I'm afraid it is. I'm very much afraid you will think it very bad news."
She waited for him to go on, which he did, speaking with difficulty, for he was touched to see that her colour had faded in a moment. It was a very white face which was turned to him now.
"My father managed a business matter for Mrs. Douglas," he went on. "Your father, when he was dying, asked him to invest some money for her."
"Yes, I know. Mother has often told me how kind he was in doing it for her, and in seeing after it all these years."
"He put the money—your father's insurance money, I believe it was—in India three and a half per cents."
"Yes; mother said it was there."
"It was there."
"Is it not there now?"
"No, not now. My father found what he thought was an exceedingly good investment. He put all his own money into it. Miss Douglas, please remember that—all his own money. And he wanted Mrs. Douglas to share in the good interest that he was receiving, and so he took her money out of the three and a half per cents. and put it in with his own."
"And you have come to tell us it is all lost," she said. She did not say it angrily or bitterly, only very sorrowfully.
"All lost," he repeated. "It was in a mine; the mine is flooded, and has been an utter failure; the shares are not worth a single halfpenny."
"Poor mother! Poor, poor mother!"
"Has she much besides?"
"Not much; there is a little, a very little; but, you see, there's Leila now, and little Carl."
"They live with you?"
"Yes; and little Carl will have to be educated; there is nothing for him whatever, only what mother can do. But how selfish I am!" she went on. "I have been thinking of ourselves, and never thought of you. Won't it make a great difference to you?"
"Yes; of course I shall have to leave the army."
"I didn't know you were a soldier."
"I have just got my captaincy."
"What will you do?"
"I have no idea yet. Go into business, I suppose; but it does not matter about me, if only I could have spared you this awful shock."
"Oh! Please don't think of me," she said, smiling again, though there were tears in her eyes. "I am young and strong and can easily find something to do. Oh! Something is sure to turn up. It is only mother I was thinking of; but I know she will be helped. Please don't trouble about us; it is quite hard enough for you."
"Now, how shall I tell your mother, Miss Douglas?"
"Would it help you if I told her?"
"It would help me very much, but I'm afraid I can't let you do that; you see, I promised my father on his death-bed that I would tell Mrs. Douglas myself."
"Did you? Oh, then you ought to do it, of course."
"When do you think I had better come?"
"Do you mind coming after tea? Leila will have gone to bed then, and I think it would be better for her not to be there. You see, she's a great invalid; but she always goes to bed when little Carl does."
"Shall we say half-past seven, then?"
"Yes, that will do very well. No one will be there but ourselves. Louis comes in most evenings, but he won't come to-night, as he is only just home from Penrith. But won't you come to tea? I'm so sorry, I ought to have asked you before."
"No, thank you. I would rather go straight to the hotel. There are two, I believe; which do you recommend?"
She told him their respective merits, and they settled together to which he should go. And then she talked of the village, and the church, and pointed out the different mountains, and did all she could to put him at his ease again; for she saw how deeply he had felt having to tell her of the heavy loss of which his father had been the cause.
Then they came to a stone bridge which crossed the stream just at the entrance of Rosthwaite. It was almost dark when they got there, but she pointed out the chimneys of her home, standing amongst the trees on the hillside, and then she said good-bye to him in a cheerful voice and went over the bridge, whilst he walked on a few yards further, and found the clean country inn at which he was to spend the night.
HONISTER CRAG
WHEN Captain Fortescue set out at half-past seven for Fernbank a fearful gale was blowing. The trees rocked and strained overhead, and so violent was the wind, as it came sweeping through the narrow gorge down which he had come that afternoon, that he could hardly fight his way against it, as he attempted to retrace his steps as far as the bridge.
It was a terribly cold night, the ground was as hard as iron, and the bridge was so slippery that he stumbled as he crossed it.
He followed the path beyond, which wound steeply up the hillside, and climbed towards the house, guided as he did so by the lights in the windows. He wondered whether she had told them that he was coming. Perhaps she had, and they were expecting him fearfully, trying to conjecture what news he had come to bring them. But no; on second thoughts, he felt sure that she would not tell them, lest they should ask her whether she knew what his errand was.
He found the garden gate with difficulty, for it was a very dark night, and began to ascend the steep path leading towards the front of the house. This path took him past a bow window, the blind of which was only partly drawn down.
He only glanced at this window for a single moment, turning his eyes away immediately, but in that one glance he had taken in the whole scene, and it remained imprinted on his memory.
A lady with a sweet, gentle face was sitting at the table, darning stockings by the light of the lamp. On the opposite side of the table, with her back to the window and busily engaged in the same occupation, was his companion of the afternoon, Marjorie Douglas; whilst leaning back in an armchair by the fire, with her feet on the fender and a book in her hand, was a pretty fair-haired girl whom he concluded was the younger sister.
Only one glance—and yet the picture of cosy home comfort impressed itself upon him. He even noticed the bricks and tin soldiers on the floor, left behind by the child who had gone to bed.
And now he had come to bring a blight upon their quiet happiness! Had it been possible, even at the last moment, he would have turned back. But it was not possible, for a promise made to the dead was surely too sacred to be disregarded. Whatever it cost him, that promise must be fulfilled.
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly servant to whom he handed his card, which she at once carried to her mistress.
"Come in, please, sir," she said, as she opened the door of the room into which he had looked.
All three ladies rose as he entered, and Mrs. Douglas said—
"Are you the son of my husband's old friend in Sheffield?"
He told her that he was, and then informed her of his father's death. When she had expressed her regret for this, he told her, as gently as he could, the sad news that he had to bring her, and gave her the message from the dying bed, telling her at the same time that all his poor father's money had been embarked in the same concern, and assuring her of the old man's deep sorrow at what had occurred. He also told her how he had made him promise to acquaint her of the loss by word of mouth, instead of sending the bad news in a letter.
She listened very quietly, and almost as if she were mentally stunned by the blow that had fallen upon her. For some minutes she did not speak, and then she asked—
"Are you sure there is no hope of recovering anything?"
"None, I'm afraid," said Captain Fortescue. "I wish I could give you any hope, but I fear I cannot. It is hard for you to hear, very, very hard, and oh! How hard for me to tell!"
"I'm sure it is," said Marjorie. "I think it is worse for you than for us."
"Mrs. Douglas, I am a poor man now. I cannot continue in my regiment, and so far no path in life has been opened to me; but I assure you of this—that I shall look upon the four thousand pounds you have lost as a debt binding upon me as long as I live, and that, if God prospers me in the future, every single penny of it shall be repaid. I will not wait, however, until I am able to restore the whole capital, for that I fear will be the work of a lifetime; but I will send you from time to time such money as I am able to save, and I will not allow myself in a single indulgence of any kind whatever until the full amount is in your hands."
"It is very good of you—very noble," she said; "but you must not make such a resolve. You are not to blame for our loss; you yourself have lost still more heavily. I cannot let you sacrifice yourself in that way."
"God helping me, Mrs. Douglas," he answered, as he rose to take leave, "my promise will be kept."
Mrs. Douglas pressed him to stay for supper, but he did not accept her invitation; he felt that they would want to be alone, that they might talk over what had happened. So he said good-bye, and Marjorie went to open the door for him. The wind rushed in with hurricane force as soon as it was opened.
"What an awful night, and how dark!" she said, closing the door again. "I will light the lantern, and go with you to the gate, or you will never find it in this darkness."
He begged her not to come, but she would not listen, and, catching up a shawl from the hall table, wrapped it round her, and went in front of him down the garden path with the lantern in her hand. At the gate she stopped.
"How can I thank you, Miss Douglas?"
"Don't try!" she said, laughing. "Can you find your way now, do you think?"
"Oh yes, quite well. Good-bye. I am off early to-morrow morning."
"Then we shall not see you again?"
"No," he said sadly, "perhaps never again. Birds of ill omen are never welcome—are they?"
"Oh! Don't call yourself that," she said. "Good-bye, Captain Fortescue."
He had left her, and was going towards the bridge, when he thought he heard her calling. He looked back, and saw that she was still standing at the gate with the lantern in her hand.
"Did you call, Miss Douglas?" he asked.
"Yes; I ought not to have brought you back, but I did want to thank you."
"I don't know why you should thank me."
"For being so good to mother," she said; and then she turned round and went up the hill, and he watched the light of her lantern until he saw it pass inside the door of the house.
What a wild night that was! Kenneth Fortescue slept very little, for the wind was howling in the chimneys of the old inn, rattling the badly fitting windows, sweeping down the narrow valley, and tearing with terrific force across the open country beyond. He lay listening to the wind, and thinking many troubled thoughts during the long hours of that wakeful night.
He had ordered a carriage to take him to Keswick in time for the early train, so he jumped out of bed as soon as he was called, and went to the window of his room to look out at the weather. The whole country was covered with deep snow. Mountains, rocks, woods, houses, fields, gardens, were alike arrayed in white robes, pure and spotless, and sparkling in the morning sunshine as if covered with countless diamonds.
When, a little later, he went down to the coffee-room, the landlord came to speak to him.
"I'm afraid, sir, you won't be able to go to-day. There's been a terrible snowstorm, and Borrowdale is blocked. It will be impossible to drive through it."
"Surely it is not so deep as that!"
"Not here, sir, nor for about a mile down the valley; but when you come to the turning in the road at the narrowest part of the valley the snow has drifted there to a fearful depth, and for about half a mile the snow is so deep it would be impossible to get through it. We are shut off from Keswick entirely."
"Won't they clear the road?"
"Well, sir, they'll try to make a way through, but it will be a long job. I'm afraid we shan't get through to-day."
"Then there is no help for it," said the Captain. "I must stay."
"Yes, sir; I'm very sorry you should be so inconvenienced, but I'll do my best to make you comfortable; and it's a beautiful country. If you haven't been here before, you might like to see a little of it, and it's good walking round here and on towards Honister, if you care to take a look round."
Yet Kenneth Fortescue was in no hurry to go out, or to leave the great fire in the large grate. He sat beside it with a paper in his hand, reading at times, and at other times gazing at the blue smoke curling up the chimney. And then, after a while, he stood at the window, gazing absently out into the village street. He had much on his mind that morning, and he felt that even the loveliest scenery failed to beguile him from pursuing the troubled train of thought which he felt impelled to follow. But presently he was recalled from the future to the present by seeing Marjorie Douglas pass the window with a covered basket in her hand. Her face looked to him as bright and cheerful as it had done before he had told her the sad news he had come to disclose; the clouds seemed to have dispersed, and the sunshine to have come back to it.
Kenneth wondered where she was going. He caught up his cap and ran after her, to ask how her mother was, and how she had borne the sad tidings he had brought her.
Marjorie heard him coming behind her, and turned round in the greatest surprise.
"Captain Fortescue, I thought you had gone!"
"No, Miss Douglas; I'm the bad penny, as well as the bird of ill omen," he said. "The fact is, there is a snowdrift in the valley, so I have to stay here till to-morrow."
"How tiresome for you!"
"Yes, it is rather; but I shall see a little more of the country—it looks beautiful this morning. Where are you going, Miss Douglas? Let me carry your basket for you."
"Not until you get your coat," she said. "It's far too cold to stand talking without it."
He ran back for it, and soon rejoined her.
"I am going to Seatoller," she said.
"Who is Toller?"
She laughed very much at this question, and told him that Seatoller was the name of the little hamlet where old Mary lived.
"Do you mind my coming with you, Miss Douglas? It's awfully slow going for a walk alone."
"Not at all. Only take care how you carry that basket, because old Mary's pudding and beef-tea are in it."
"Who is old Mary?"
"She's a dear old woman who lives in one of the cottages at Seatoller. Look across the valley, you can see the white houses of the little place. There are only about six, I think. They are just at the bottom of Honister Pass."
"Do you often go to see her?"
"Whenever I can. We have quite a number of old women here. I think it must be because it is so healthy. They all live to be very old, and they are all friends of mine, so they have to take their turn; but this is old Mary's day."
"How they must look forward to their turn!" he said.
"Yes, I think they do; but I'm afraid none of them will get a turn soon. I'm going away, Captain Fortescue."
"Going away?"
"Yes, from home. We settled that last night. You see, we had a little family council after you had gone, to talk things over. Mother wanted to send Dorcas away—that's our old servant—but I don't think that would do. She is very faithful to mother, and though I think I could do most of her work, still on the whole I think it would make more for mother to do. Dorcas does the washing so well, and she's so useful in every way, and we don't like to send her away, if we can possibly help it, poor old soul!"
"Then what do you mean to do?"
"Well, I don't quite know yet. Go as companion or mother's help, I suppose. I don't think I could get any teaching, because I've never passed any exams. Every one seems to require that now. Louis always brings us the 'Standard' when his father has read it, and we shall look in the advertisements."
"It will be awfully hard for you to go away."
"Oh, I don't know! Yes, I suppose it will rather. But I don't mind, if only they get on all right at home; but I think they ought to, if only Phyllis will take care of mother. I think she will. I believe she will; only, you see, she is the youngest, and I'm afraid we've spoilt her a little. But she's such a dear old girl, and I do think she will try."
"I'm terribly sorry that you should have to go."
"Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me," she said, laughing. "I'm not going to be sorry for myself. I dare say I shall be very happy soon, and if not—well, it really does not matter. It will be all the nicer when I get home for the holidays. Now here we are at old Mary's cottage. I must just run in with her things."
Marjorie took the basket from him and went into the house, and as Captain Fortescue watched her, he wondered what the old woman would do when she missed the bright face and cheerful voice of her friend.
When she came out, she took him up the steep pass, that he might see Honister Crag in the distance, standing out in all its majestic grandeur at the head of the pass. On their left-hand side was the mountain torrent, dashing madly over the rocks, coming down so fast that no frost could stay its course; on their right was moorland, the dead heather thickly covered with snow.
About a mile up the pass the snow became deeper, and they had to turn back, and, passing Seatoller again, they retraced their steps to Rosthwaite. Marjorie never alluded again to her going away, or to the loss of the money; she seemed anxious that he should forget everything painful, that he might be able to carry back with him a happy memory of her beautiful home.
When Kenneth left her at the garden gate, he went back to the inn feeling more hopeful about the future. If she was determined to face it so bravely and happily, surely he could do the same. Perhaps, after all, there were brighter days in store in that future which he had so much dreaded, and which had seemed such a long vista of darkness opening out before him.
After luncheon, he was sitting over the fire in the coffee-room, looking at a paper two days old, and wondering how he should get through the long solitary evening, when the waiter came in and handed him a letter. It was from Mrs. Douglas, inviting him to spend the evening at Fernbank, and assuring him that he would be conferring a favour upon them by doing so, as in winter they were so shut out front the world beyond the valley that they seldom had the pleasure of meeting any one outside their own little circle of friends in Borrowdale. The invitation was so gracefully worded, as if the obligation were entirely on his side, that the Captain felt he could only send an affirmative answer, nor, if the truth were told, did he desire to send any other.
So at five o'clock, he once more crossed the bridge and climbed the hill to Fernbank.
He was shown into a small drawing-room, plainly furnished, but bearing unmistakable marks of taste and care. A china bowl of fern-like moss stood on the table, in which were snowdrops arranged singly, as if they were growing in it. A flower-stand filled with hyacinths of various colours stood in the window; in one corner of the room ivy was growing in a large flower-pot, and was climbing over the chimney-piece, and hanging in graceful festoons from the over-mantle; whilst a vase filled with Pyrus japonica and yellow jessamine stood on the shelf below, and was reflected in the glass.