"Miss Douglas," he said, "I am going to ask you a question, and I want a truthful answer. I know you will give me one."
"How awfully solemn it sounds!" she said, laughing. "Nothing very dreadful, I hope?"
"No, not dreadful, but something I want very much to know. Are you happy here?"
"Oh yes!" Marjorie said. "I think I can truthfully say that I am. Of course it is a very busy life; but I'm getting fond of the people, and it is far better than I expected it would be."
"Thank you," he said. "Now I wonder if you would mind doing something else for me?"
"I will if I can, Captain Fortescue."
"Will you tell me exactly what your life here is? Take an ordinary day, yesterday, for instance. Tell me what time you got up and went to bed, and give me a sketch of the day."
She did as he asked her, in as lively and cheerful a way as she could, making the best of everything, and dwelling very little on the discomforts of her life, or on the hard work which she had to do.
"Thank you," he said again, when she had finished. "I'm afraid you will think me awfully inquisitive, but I had a reason for wishing to know."
"A reason, did you say? What was it?"
He hesitated a little before answering her.
"Never mind," she said. "Don't tell me, if you had rather not."
"Oh, I don't mind your knowing, if you don't mind my telling you, Miss Douglas. You see, I sometimes—I often think of you, and wonder what you are doing—and now I shall be able to picture it out."
They walked on without speaking for a minute or two after that, and then he looked at his watch and said he must catch the next train at Deepfields, as that was the best way to get back to Birmingham, and as the station was some way off he would have to go in that direction.
"What a long way for you to go back!" he said suddenly. "Don't come any farther."
"Do let me come," she said. "I so seldom have any one to talk to."
They spoke of many things after that, and the time seemed to fly all too quickly.
"I have enjoyed my holiday very much," he said, as they stood on the platform waiting for the train. "May I give you my card? That is my address in Birmingham. Now, you made me a promise when we said good-bye last, and I want you to make me another promise now."
"What is it?" she asked.
"It is this; that if you are in any difficulty or trouble, if things don't go happily in any way, you will write to me or come to me. Will you promise?"
"Yes, I will."
"Thank you. Good-bye."
He jumped into the train as he said this, and she stood watching on the platform till it was out of sight.
THE OLD OAK CUPBOARD
THE year was passing on; day after day, week after week, month after month, following each other in quick succession, and Marjorie was keeping a private calendar of her own, and counting the days that must still pass before Christmas came, when she was to go home for her first holiday.
Daisy Bank did not alter much with the changing seasons: there was very little to mark the progression of spring, summer, and autumn. Barely a tree was in sight, and the few that were to be found were so stunted, blighted, and covered with smoke that the spring freshness of their leaves lasted but a few days. Upon the mounds grew a few coarse daisies—at least, the children called them daisies; they were a kind of feverfew with a daisy-like flower. Nothing else would grow there, which is perhaps why the place got its name, a name which had at first appeared to Marjorie to be utterly unsuitable.
During all the summer months and throughout the early autumn, her life had been most uneventful and monotonous. There was the daily routine of household duties, "the common round, the daily task," but nothing more. No one else came to see her, and from that day in June, when he had stepped into the Birmingham train, she had seen and heard nothing more of Captain Fortescue. She always thought of him by his old name, even though she knew that he had dropped the title.
The arrival of the home letters was the great event of Marjorie's week, and she read and re-read them until she almost knew them by heart. They made her home-sick at times, but she fought bravely against the feeling, and looked on hopefully to Christmas.
All this time, old Mrs. Hotchkiss had been growing more and more feeble, and as autumn advanced, she was quite unable to leave her bed. A rough girl of sixteen, who lived next door, waited upon her, and she seemed to have plenty of money to pay her, and she was never behind-hand in her rent. How she lived, Enoch did not know; he told Marjorie that she used to be very badly off, and that he had often seen her scraping up the cinders on the ash-heaps, but he fancied that now Carrie must be sending her money, as she seemed to have sufficient for all she wanted. Marjorie often took her soup, and milk puddings, which Mrs. Holtby was pleased that she should make for her, and she was always grateful for these. She much enjoyed hearing Marjorie read, and a feeble glimmer of light seemed to have penetrated to her poor dark soul.
But one day, late in October, when Marjorie went to see her, she found the old woman crying and evidently in great trouble.
"What is it, Mother Hotchkiss?"
"The doctor has been," she said, "and he says as how I won't be long now. I heard him tell Anna Maria when she let him out."
"Well, don't cry," said Marjorie; "you know what I told you when I was here last."
"Yes, I think of it all the time."
"And have you said that little prayer?"
"Yes, I have;
"'O Lord, forgive me my sins, for Jesus Christ's sake.'
"I've said it scores of times; but I don't believe He will forgive me, all the same."
"Why not?"
"Oh! Because—because! But I mustn't tell you. You see, I promised not to tell; but He'll never forgive me, I know He won't."
"But He says He will. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"
"Yes, that's just it; that's just what I mean, my dear. If we confess our sins; but I haven't confessed my sin. See?"
"But, dear Mother Hotchkiss, you must confess it," said Marjorie.
"But I can't—I can't—you don't understand, my dear. It's something as I can't confess."
Marjorie talked to her for some time longer, and the old woman cried very much, and said again and again that she wanted to tell her, but she couldn't, no, she couldn't. At last Marjorie was obliged to leave her; she felt very sorry for her, and when she knelt to pray before getting into bed, she prayed very earnestly for the poor ignorant old woman who was so fast passing away, that she might find comfort and peace before the end came.
Marjorie was tired that night, and soon fell asleep. She was dreaming that she was in Borrowdale, sitting on a stone by the river, when suddenly a pebble hit the rock on which she was perched, and she looked up to see Louis's merry face on the bank above her. Then another pebble came, and she woke. No, she was not in Borrowdale, but in her little bedroom in Daisy Bank. What was that noise, then? Some one was throwing pebbles at her window! She was very much startled, but got out of bed and looked out. It was quite dark, and she could see no one. She opened her window a little way and said, "Who is there?"
"It's me, Miss," said old Enoch's voice. "Poor Mother Hotchkiss is much worse, and she wouldn't give us any peace till we said we would fetch you. She says she must see you, and she can't die happy till she has."
"Who is with her, Enoch?"
"Peggy Jones, that's Anna Maria's mother; but I've been there the last hour. They fetched me. See?"
"I'll come, Enoch."
"I'll wait for you, Miss, and take you across," he said.
Marjorie dressed quickly, and knocking at Mr. and Mrs. Holtby's door, she explained where she was going and why. Mr. Holtby got up and let her out, and then, guided through the darkness by old Enoch, she made her way to the curious old house.
Marjorie found Mrs. Hotchkiss far more ill than when she had left her that afternoon, but she raised herself in bed when Marjorie went in, and taking her hand, she held it between both her own.
"That's right, dear!" she whispered. "I've been just longing for you to come. Send them out, and I'll tell you."
"I think she has something she wants to say to me," said Marjorie to Enoch and Peggie Jones, who were standing by the window; "if you would like to rest for a little, I will take care of her."
"Don't you mind being left, Miss?" said Peggy.
"Oh no, not at all; and I will call you if she is worse."
"Rap on that wall," said Peggy; "my bed is just on the other side of it, and I'll be with you in a moment. Our house joins this, you know."
They left the room together and went down the steep stairs, and presently Marjorie heard them closing the outer door, and she knew that she was alone in the house with the dying woman.
"Are they gone, my dear?" she asked.
"Yes, they are gone," said Marjorie.
"Are we quite alone?"
"Yes, quite alone."
"You know what you said about confessing?"
"Yes! 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"
"I want to ask you something, dearie. Stoop your head down to me; I want to whisper. If you was to make a promise to somebody, and if it was a wicked promise that you had no business to have made, ought you to keep it?"
"Certainly not," said Marjorie. "It would be wrong to make a wicked promise, and it would also be wrong to keep it when you had made it."
"Do you think so, my dear? Are you sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Then listen, dearie, and I'll tell you. I feel as if I can't die till I do. I feel as if I must tell somebody. See? You know who Carrie is?"
"Yes; your daughter."
"Ay, and I wasn't half proud of her; a clever girl too, and such a scholar! Well, Carrie married a man as she met up in the North somewhere; and he was well-to-do and all that. I believe they had a very comfortable home, but he was awful mean to Carrie. He never would let her send anything to her poor old mother. I was nigh starved, my dear, I was indeed. If I hadn't raked in the ash-heaps, there's many a day I wouldn't have had a fire. I only had parish pay, see? And not too much of that. But one day they came to see me."
"Who did?"
"Her and her husband. And he spoke very fair, and he said if I would do a little thing for him, he'd allow me ten shillings a week as long as I lived. Well, my dear, I said I would do it, if I could. He wouldn't tell me what it was till I had promised I wouldn't tell anybody. And then he went to his hand-bag, and he brought out a tin box. It was just a common sort of box, like a small biscuit-box, and it had a bit of string tied tight round it.
"'Now, mother,' he says, 'I want you to hide this 'ere box in one of them little cupboards in the chimney corner till I send for it. I'm a-going to Ameriky,' he says, 'and when we're settled there and have got a home of our own, I'll write you word where to send it.'
"'Can't you take it with you?' I says. 'It isn't big, and it won't take much room in your boxes.'
"'No,' he says; 'I'd rather you sent it, mother, and I'll let you have the address. Old Enoch will direct it for you. You can tell him it's something as Carrie left behind her.'
"Well, my dear, it seemed a stroke of good luck for me, didn't it now? And then he said they must go; but Carrie begged and prayed him to let her stay just one night with me, as she was going so far away, and might never see her old mother again."
"And did he let her?"
"He wouldn't at first; but Carrie cried, my dear. And at last he gave in, and said she was to follow him the next day. Well, we went to bed, Carrie and me, dearie, and when she was lying beside me that night, I told her I did not much like having charge of that tin box, because folks might rob an old woman like me. And I asked her did she think it was jewels, or what was it?"
"What did she say?"
"She said it was naught but paper—some letters, she said—and then she began to cry. So I asked her what was the matter, dear. And she said she didn't like it at all; but they wouldn't listen to what she said."
"Who wouldn't?"
"Him and his sister. They'd stole this 'ere letter from some one as his sister lived with. She stole it, I believe, and then he took it and raised money on it."
"How could he do that?"
"I don't know, my dear. I can't understand these things. She called it 'hush money,' or some such name. There was somebody as didn't want what was in that letter to be known. And Josiah—that's my daughter's husband, dearie—kept on threatening him that he would tell, and then making him pay money to get him to hold his tongue. Carrie said that some day Josiah would sell this man the letter, and get hundreds of pounds for it; but he wanted first to see how much he could get out of him by threatening him, without parting with the letter."
"I wonder what it was about," said Marjorie.
"I don't know, my dear. Carrie didn't know; he wouldn't let her read it. And I've never opened the box, and I couldn't read it if I did."
"Then your daughter did not like what her husband was doing?"
"No; she was frightened, my dear. Mr. Forty Screws was in a great way about losing the letter. See? And Josiah was afraid he would put the 'tectives on them, so that's why they was going out of the country. His sister was going with them, his half-sister she was; she was the one that stole it from Mr. Forty Screws, and they didn't want to take the letter with them, lest the 'tectives should search them, and find it in their boxes. When once they got over to Ameriky they thought they was safe. See? Carrie did cry about it, though, my dear, and she said if she had her way she would give it back to Mr. Forty Screws, and have done with it all."
"What a curious name! Are you sure that it was Forty Screws?"
"Well, something like it, my dear."
"Where is the box?"
"In the cupboard below; one of those little cupboards by the fire."
"Then they never sent for it?"
"Never, dearie, and I haven't heard a word from them since; it's more than six months now since they sailed. There was a ship went down in them parts soon after they went; at least Enoch told me so. He saw it in the papers; and sometimes I think they all went down in it. I'm sure Carrie would have written if she'd been alive. Now I've told you, my dear. Have I done right, do you think?"
"Quite right, Mother Hotchkiss, and I think you ought to do more; you ought to send that letter back to the man from whom it was stolen."
"I don't know where he lives nor nothing about him, my dear; and then it seems mean, after taking Josiah's money, to go and tell of him."
"How can Josiah be drowned if he still sends you the money?"
"He doesn't send it now, my dear. He left enough to last for a year with Tom Noakes at the public there, and he pays it to me reg'lar, Tom does. Then Josiah said that he would send more when the year was up. See?"
"That letter ought certainly to go back to the man to whom it belongs," said Marjorie, "I am sure of that."
"But how can I tell who it is?"
"May I look at the letter? Perhaps his address is on it."
"Yes, my dear, you may if you like. Will you go and get it?"
Marjorie took the candle and went down the rickety stairs. A cold wind blew up from the vault-like dairy as she passed the flight of stone steps leading down to it. She felt almost like a thief herself, as she crossed the kitchen and made her way to the ancient fireplace. There was the old oak cupboard, the door of which had often attracted her attention by its quaint appearance.
The small cupboard was locked, but the key was in it. She turned it in the lock, and the carved door flew open. She hunted amongst the rubbish with which it was filled, but she found no box. Odds and ends of all descriptions were there, but nowhere could she discover the one thing she had come to seek.
Perhaps the letter was in the other cupboard. There was no key in that; but she found that she could open it with the key she had found in the first one. She unlocked it; and at first she thought that this second cupboard was empty; she could see nothing whatever in it.
However, as she felt along the shelf, she discovered in one corner of it, tightly jammed into the wall, and well out of sight, a small tin box. It took her some minutes to get it out, and then, by the light of her candle, she looked at it. It was tied up tightly with string, and the string was sealed in several places. She carried it upstairs and put it in the old woman's hands.
"Is that it?" she said.
"Yes, my dear, that's it. Will you open it?"
"I hardly like to do it," said Marjorie, "and yet—Did you say the name was Forty Screws? Do you think it possible, Mother Hotchkiss, that it could have been Fortescue?"
"Very likely, my dear; I never can remember names, only I thought of the screws in a box my old man used to keep 'em in. They're there yet, dear. And then I thought of forty of them. See? And I remembered it that way. But maybe I didn't hear her quite right, my dear."
Again Marjorie hesitated. But if it should be—if it was possible that it could be something that he had lost and that he wanted—something that he would be glad to have once more in his hands. Yes, she would open it; it could not be wrong—it surely could not be wrong.
She broke the seals and unfastened the string. Then it was easy to take off the lid of the box. Inside was a sheet of foolscap paper, closely covered with writing.
She glanced at the beginning, "My dear Ken."
She looked at the end, "Your loving Father, Joseph Fortescue."
Yes, it was the same! Even the handwriting was familiar to her; she had often seen it before when old Mr. Fortescue had written with the cheques which he sent to her mother.
Hastily she put the letter back in the box, closed the lid, and tied the string tightly round it; not a word of it should be seen by any one. She was trembling with agitation as she did so, and the old woman noticed it.
"You know him, my dear?"
"Yes, I know him," she said; but her teeth chattered as she spoke.
"You're cold, my dear."
"No, not cold, only so glad."
"Has he wanted it, my dear?"
"I expect so; he hasn't told me, but it may be everything to him just now, if it's good news. I hope it is."
"Will you take it to him, dear?"
"Shall I?"
"Yes, do, dear; don't tell anybody else, will you?"
"No, I won't; no one else shall know."
"Promise you'll take it to him yourself!"
"I promise."
"Now, my dear, I can say my prayer. I think He'll forgive me now."
"Yes," said Marjorie, as her tears fell fast, "dear Mother Hotchkiss, I know He will. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.' He is faithful, because He has promised to forgive us, and so you see, He can't say no when we ask Him; and He is just, because the Lord Jesus has been punished instead of us, and so God cannot punish us too for the same sins. Do you see?"
"Yes, my dear, thank you; I shall die happy now."
Soon after this, steps were heard on the stairs, and the old woman signalled to her to hide the box, and Marjorie slipped it under her coat just as Peggy Jones came into the room.
"You'll let me come now, Miss," she said. "You must be so tired. You ought to go home and get a bit of sleep."
Marjorie stooped down and kissed the poor old face lying on the pillow, and then she crept downstairs and went out into the darkness. But she did not mind even that to-night; she felt as if she cared for nothing, so long as the box was safe. When she got to the house the door had been left on the latch, so she let herself in and crept up to bed, carrying the precious box with her.
156, LIME STREET
MARJORIE was wakened the next morning by hearing some one moving about in her room. She looked up and saw Patty standing near her bed, with a little tray in her hand.
"Miss Douglas, I've brought you your breakfast," she said. "Shall I draw up the blind?"
"Oh dear," said Marjorie, jumping up, "I had no idea it was so late; why did nobody wake me?"
"Mother wouldn't let us; she told us you had been up half the night."
"Yes, poor old Mrs. Hotchkiss sent for me."
"Miss Douglas, old Enoch has just been here, and he said we were to tell you she is dead. She went to sleep soon after you left her, and when Peggy Jones looked at her about an hour afterwards, she found that she was dead."
"Only just in time," said Marjorie to herself when Patty had gone, as she felt for the box which she had put under the bolster the night before. Yes, it was safe.
How she wondered what it contained! He must have it at once, without even a single day's delay; she would never be happy until it was safely in his hands. What if the old woman's son-in-law should return, and demand that what he considered to be his property should be given up to him? Perhaps, after all, he had never gone to America; perhaps he had deceived the old woman, in order that she might put the police off the scent, in case they came in search of him.
Marjorie was tired and depressed after her wakeful night, and fears of all kinds crowded into her mind. In her nervous haste she longed to run to the station at once, that she might catch the first train to Birmingham, and, carrying the precious box with her, find the address Kenneth had given her on his card, and at once rid herself of the heavy responsibility which she felt rested upon her, so long as that letter was in her charge.
But Marjorie could not go off thus hurriedly, without giving a sufficient reason to Mrs. Holtby, and she knew that the busy morning's work was already waiting for her.
She dressed quickly, therefore, and hurried downstairs. Never did she work so hard as on that morning; never did she try so earnestly to get ahead of time, or to cram the work of two hours into one. When dinner-time came, she had not only done the work of the morning, but she had finished the darning and the mending which she usually did on Friday afternoon, and had put by all the clean clothes from the weekly wash.
Mrs. Holtby came down just before dinner, and then Marjorie, with a beating heart, went to make her request. Would it be possible for her to be spared for half a day? There was a friend in Birmingham whom she particularly wished to see.
"But won't you be too tired to go to-day, Miss Douglas? You look very white, after your bad night."
"Oh no, I am not at all tired. I should like to go very much, if you can spare me. I have got on well this morning, and have done all the mending."
"You never neglect anything, dear."
It was the first time she had called her "dear," and the word had a home-like sound that went warm to Marjorie's heart.
Then Mrs. Holtby brought out the time-table, and looked out her train. There was one that left Deepfields at 2.30, and she told her to get her dinner at once, and not to wait till the others came in, so that she might be off in time to catch it.
"Don't hurry back, Miss Douglas," she said, when Marjorie looked in to say good-bye. "Stay as long as ever you like."
So, with the box wrapped in paper and tightly held in her hand, and with the card in which Captain Fortescue had given her slipped inside her glove, Marjorie set off for Deepfields.
It was a pouring wet day, and the mud was, if possible, worse than usual, but she hardly noticed it. She would have gone through a perfect flood without minding it, in her intense eagerness to get to her journey's end. How glad he would be to get that letter! How thankful he would feel that it was found at last!
But would he be glad and thankful? As she sat in the train a horrible fear crossed her mind. What if she were bringing him bad tidings? What if she were indeed what he had called himself—a bird of ill omen? She hoped not, she prayed not; but how could she tell?
Arrived at Birmingham, she found herself in all the bewilderment of New Street station at one of its most crowded moments. She took out the card, and looked at it once more—"156, Lime Street," that was the address. How should she find it? She asked a porter, who was wheeling a barrow of luggage, but he said he had never heard of it.
Then she went up the steps to the bridge, and felt in a perfect whirl as the busy crowds rushed past her. Hundreds of strange faces—all of them intent on their own business, and none of them having a moment to spare for hers: all these she saw as if she were in a dream. Which way should she turn at the top of the bridge? There seemed to be two exits to the station. Which should she take? She went to the one to which most people seemed to be going. It took her out into Corporation Street. All looked strange to her. She had no eyes for the beautiful shops; the Arcade failed to tempt her as she passed it. All she wanted was to get to her journey's end.
At last she met a policeman, and found from him that she was walking in the wrong direction. He sent her back almost to the station, and told her to take a turning to the left, and to walk on until she saw a large church, and then she must ask for further direction.
The rain was now coming down in torrents, and a strong wind was blowing in her face, but she struggled on bravely against it. She found the church at last, and went into a small shop to ask her way. Again she set forth, and walked on for another mile, and, after getting wrong once or twice, and stopping to inquire many times of the passers-by, she at last reached the street that she was seeking.
Lime Street was long and dismal-looking, with two rows of houses facing each other, all exactly alike, and all standing close to the pavement, with not even a pretence to a front garden. The street looked, if possible, more gloomy than usual that afternoon; in the merciless rain everything was wet, dirty, and uninviting.
Now for No. 156. It was at the other end of that long street, and she hurried on to find it. But as she got near, the thought of seeing him again, the doubt as to the news which she was bringing him, the strange feeling of responsibility which rested upon her in thus doing the bidding of one who had so lately passed away from earth—all these made her tremble and pause as she stood on the doorstep.
When she had steadied herself for a few moments she rang the bell, and a stout elderly woman came to the door.
"Is Captain Fortescue at home?" she asked. "Mr. Fortescue lodges here; he isn't a captain, Miss—but he's out just now."
"When will he be home?"
"Oh, not for long enough yet; he mostly comes in about six or half-past."
Marjorie looked at her watch; it was a quarter to four. Her heart died within her. Two hours and a quarter, or perhaps longer still. Where should she go, and what should she do till six o'clock? Where in those wet and dirty streets could she find a shelter?
The landlady was closing the door, but as she did so, she noticed the look of dismay on Marjorie's face.
"Have you come far, Miss?" she asked.
"Yes, a long way," said Marjorie, "from near Bilston, and I know nobody in Birmingham."
"Is it very particular?"
"Very; I must see Mr. Fortescue to-night."
"Come your ways in, then," said the woman, kindly; "there's a bit of fire in his sitting-room, if you would like to wait there."
Marjorie thanked her gratefully, and she led the way into a small room at the back of the house, and, after putting some coal on the fire, she told her to sit by it and warm herself after her cold, wet walk. Then, as she was going out, she noticed how drenched Marjorie's coat was, and made her take it off that she might dry it at her kitchen fire.
When the landlady was gone, Marjorie looked round the room. It was very plainly and even shabbily furnished. A worn horse-hair sofa stood against the wall, the deal table was covered with American cloth, the carpet was patched in several places.
Marjorie walked to the window and looked out. No wonder the room was dark! High buildings backed upon the house and shut out nearly all the light. Only a strip of cloudy sky could be seen above, whilst below was a small courtyard filled with clothes, which had evidently been put out to dry before the rain commenced, but which were now more soaked than they had been before, and hung dismally from the line stretched across from wall to wall of the small backyard.
How dull it all was! How poor, how depressing! She remembered his words to her mother, "I will not allow myself in a single indulgence of any kind, till the full amount is in your hands."
How faithfully he was keeping that promise! How bare of all luxury was the room to which he came home after his long tiring day!
But what was that over the chimney-piece,—a photo in a frame? It carried her miles away in thought as she looked at it, and a great feeling of home-sickness came over her.
It was a picture of Honister Crag.
THE BLOTTED WORD
HOW long the waiting-time seemed to Marjorie as she sat in the dingy back parlour on that wet afternoon! she felt sometimes as if six o'clock would never come. As it grew darker, the stout landlady came in and lighted the gas; there was only one burner, and it gave but a dim light. Then, later still, she came again to lay the cloth for tea. Such a poor scanty meal, the loaf and a small pat of butter—that was all. There were no flowers on the table, there was nothing to relieve the bareness and austere simplicity of it all. Marjorie's heart ached for him as she looked at it. What an utter contrast to the luxury in which she knew that he had lived before!
Mrs. Hall, the landlady, lingered when she had laid the table, and seemed inclined to talk.
"You'll excuse me, Miss," she said, "but are you Mr. Fortescue's sister?"
"No, not his sister."
"Well," she said, "I'm sorry you're not, because if he has a sister, I should like to have a bit of a talk with her. Somebody ought to come and look after him."
"Is he ill?" asked Marjorie, quickly.
"Well, no, not what you can call ill; but he soon will be, if he goes on as he's going on now."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he doesn't get enough to eat; at least he has plenty to eat of a kind, but it isn't what a man like him, as is working hard all day, ought to have. Look at his tea now! It don't look as it ought, do it now? And his dinner! He has it out some days, and what he gets then I can't say; not much, I'll be bound; but some days, he comes home for it, and I assure you I'm fair shamed to get him the dinners he orders. One day it will be, 'Mrs. Hall, I'm very fond of herrings; do you think you could get me a couple of nice ones for my dinner?' Another day he'll say, 'Mrs. Hall, you make awfully good soup, I should like that better than anything to-day.'
"'And what to follow, sir?' I says. 'Oh, one of your nice rice puddings; that will be just the kind of dinner I like.' Another day it's sausage, or a bit of bacon, or bread and cheese, and not too much of any of them either. Why, my last lodger would clear off in one meal double what he eats in a day! And such a nice gentleman, too—always so pleasant, and thanks you for all you do for him just as if you didn't get paid for doing it. And so hard as he works, too! Why, if you'll believe me, he's at them books and accounts, and them business letters of his, long after I've gone to bed. I hear him come upstairs, and I know he's tired by his step, and well he may be, for he's tramping about most of his time."
Mrs. Hall loved a chat, and would have gone on for much longer enlarging on the many good qualities of her lodger, if she had not at that moment heard the sound of a key being put into the latch of the door.
"Why, there he is at last!" she said. "I'll go and make the tea."
Marjorie's heart was beating very quickly now. She heard the door open and Mrs. Hall's voice outside.
"Why, you're not half wet, sir. Let me take your coat."
Then the well-known voice: "Thank you, Mrs. Hall, it will be all the better for a dry by your fire."
"There's a lady waiting to see you, sir, in the parlour there; she's been here the best part of the afternoon."
"A lady for me!"
He stopped to ask no question, but came quickly into the room.
"Miss Douglas, you here!"
He had been thinking of her as he came up the street; he had been wondering how she was getting on in her hard life at Daisy Bank; and now here she was, in the very last place in which he would ever have dreamt of seeing her, sitting in the old armchair by the fire in his dismal little room. She rose to meet him, and at once held out the precious parcel.
"Captain Fortescue, I have come to bring you that. It is something which I think—I hope—you will be very glad to get."
He took the box in his hand but did not open it.
"What is it?" he asked. "Do sit down, Miss Douglas."
He noticed how agitated she was, and he wondered what had caused her to be so.
"Have you not lost something?" she asked.
"Only an umbrella," he said, laughing. "I lost one last week; but that can't be in here."
"No," she said, "it was much longer ago. Think, Captain Fortescue; did you never lose a letter that you wanted very much to find? Was a letter never stolen from you by some one? And have you not tried in all ways to find that letter, but in vain?"
He understood now: all the colour had faded from his face. Was it possible, could it be that his father's letter had been found—and by her?
"Is it in this box?" he asked.
"Yes; I do hope it is the right one. Will you open it and see?"
He cut the string which she had knotted tightly round it: he drew out the paper; he saw his father's well-known irregular handwriting.
Yes, it was evidently the letter which he ought to have found in that envelope in the safe, the envelope of which was still in his possession, and which was addressed, "For my son, To be opened after my death."
"Is it the right one?"
"Yes, it is, Miss Douglas. How can I thank you?"
"May I tell you how I found it? And then I must go."
She knew how he was longing to read the letter, and she thought that he would want to read it alone. Her one desire was to tell him how it had come into her possession, and then to leave him. But he would not hear of her doing this; he made her sit down again, and, before she could stop him, he rang the bell for Mrs. Hall, and told her to bring another cup, that she might have some tea before she left.
Then Marjorie told him her story as shortly as she could. She spoke of old Mrs. Hotchkiss's unhappiness during her illness; she told him of her midnight call to the old house, and of the secret that had then been told her. She described the place in which she had discovered the box; she confessed that she had broken the seals and opened it, that she might see the name at the end of the letter, and might know whether Mr. Forty Screws and Mr. Fortescue were the same. And now she said, as she got up from her chair again, she was thankful, very glad and thankful that it was safely in his hands, and she must go; she really must go. She knew how he was longing to read it, and she would not keep him another moment.
"Miss Douglas," said Captain Fortescue, "I am not going to allow you to leave until you've had some tea, and then I am going with you to the station. But if you are sure you do not mind, I will just read the letter, and then I shall be able to tell you what it is about, and for what I have to thank you."
When she saw that it was of no use to protest any further, she sat down again by the fire, and he took a chair to the table, and by the dim light of the solitary gas-burner sat down to read the letter. She glanced at him from time to time as he bent over it, wondering as she did so what its contents might be, looking anxiously to see the effect upon him as he read. Every vestige of colour had faded out of his face, but he read on intently, and without once looking up. Marjorie could hear the clock in the passage ticking loudly, but no other sound disturbed the stillness of the room. He did not speak a word, nor utter a sound, till he turned to the last page, and then he gave a loud exclamation of dismay.
"Is it bad news?" she asked fearfully.
"No, not bad news; it is good news, very good news," he said, "but those rascals have tampered with the letter."
He held it up to her, and she saw that one word, a long word too, had been completely blotted out.
"It has evidently been done on purpose," he said, "lest this letter should by any means fall into my hands."
"Is the word of much importance?"
"Of every importance; in fact, it is the most important word in the whole letter. Miss Douglas, we will have some tea, and then I want you, if you do not mind, to read the letter you have brought."
"May I? But are you sure you would like me to read it?"
"I am quite sure; indeed, so far from minding it, I am most anxious that you should read it."
He put the armchair near the table for her, and began to pour out the tea, but his hand trembled so much with strong emotion that she asked him if she might do it for him. He told her that, if she did not mind doing it, he should like to remember it, after she had gone; it would be something to think of when he was alone.
"It's rather different to the last tea we had together," he said; "that cosy tea in Fernbank. If I had known you were coming, I would have had some cake!"
But at that moment Mrs. Hall came into the room with a hot tea-cake in her hand.
"I've just baked 'em, sir, and they're nice and light, and I thought, as the lady was here, perhaps you would accept of one."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hall; it looks delicious!" They did not talk much during tea; his mind was on the letter he had just read, and he asked her from time to time to give him further details of the history which she had heard from Mrs. Hotchkiss. He had no doubt whatever that Makepeace was the man who had married Carrie Hotchkiss, and he remembered hearing that Watson had a half-brother living in Sheffield. Evidently, then, he had been right in his former suspicion; Watson had undoubtedly been the thief. She must have been listening at the bedroom door when his father told him to look under the will in the safe for the important letter which he wished him to receive.
Then, when she found herself alone with the old man for the night, she must have taken the keys from the table whilst he was asleep, unlocked the safe, and taken out the letter, replacing it, either then or afterwards, by a blank sheet of foolscap paper. Then, when she had satisfied her curiosity, and had also discovered the importance of its contents, she had evidently carried the letter to Makepeace, and the brother and sister must have plotted together that they would keep it back, in the hope that they might be able to make it a kind of gold mine, were they fortunate enough to discover the father who had deserted his infant child.
They could not help being aware that the information in the letter was of such a nature that it would be of the utmost importance to that man to have it suppressed.
Then, after that, Watson must have found that other letter, the one Makepeace had brought him, lying unposted on the table, and then either she or her brother must have invented the plausible story which Makepeace had told him, in order to prevent any suspicion from falling upon Watson.
All this probable explanation of the strange mystery flashed through Kenneth Fortescue's mind more quickly than it can be told here, and Marjorie could see that from time to time his thoughts were far away, although he always seemed to notice in a moment if she wanted anything, and he was not content until she had done justice to Mrs. Hall's tea-cake. He ate very little himself, and, as soon as she had finished, he drew her chair nearer to the fire and handed her the letter.
"Are you quite sure you want me to read it?" she asked again. "Do say if you would rather I did not."
"It will be a comfort to me if you do not mind reading it, Miss Douglas."
She could not refuse after that. She unfolded the large sheet and began to read.
A STRANGE LETTER
THE letter which Marjorie held in her hand was badly written and spelt, but she was able to decipher most of it. And this is what she read—
"MY DEAR KEN,"I feel as if I might not live for many years longer, so I am writing this, that you may be able to read it when I am dead and gone. I feel as if I ought to let you know; and yet I promised him to keep his secret as long as I lived, all the days of my life, them was the words as he made me say. But I didn't promise not to tell when the days of my life was over, Ken, and they will be over when you get this 'ere letter."Well, Ken, I'm a-going to tell you something that happened to me about twenty-five years ago. I heard as there was good luck to be had out in South Africa; so me and your ma talked it over, and we settled we would go out there and make our fortunes. We had saved a bit of money, and we paid our passage, and we went out, and we got on pretty fair. The work was good, and so was the pay, but things was a lot dearer out there than at home."I worked on, Ken, first in one place and then in another, and at last we settled down near some mines not far from Kimberley. There were a lot of miners there, a rough set most of them, and the life was a pretty hard one. I made good money there, though I spent it pretty nigh as fast as I made it. We got a decent sort of a house, and your ma took a pride in it, and I bought some furniture of a man who was going to England, and we fed on the fat of the land. It was when we was there that I got a man, who had been a painter afore he left England, to paint a big picture of my missus, and I paid him well for doing it. That's it as hangs in the library, Ken. Well, it was while we was living there in a ramshackle sort of town, that one night, after dark, Jack McDougall, him as kept the Inn there, came to our house."'Joe,' he says, 'here's a nice job we're in for at our house. Here's a gent, as is travelling on to Kimberley, and he came to our house with a lady last night, and now there's the lady ill in bed, and a little baby born in the night. And doctor, him from over yonder, has just been here, and he says she's very bad and going to die.'"'That's a bad job, Jack!' I says."'Yes, Joe,' he says, 'and my missus is that scared she don't know what to do, and there's nobody else about but old Nurse Grindle, and she's half drunk. So I came across to see if your missus would come over and help us a bit.'"Well, your ma went; she were that handy when folks were ill, and she did what she could for the poor lady; but it weren't of no use, and the next day she died. My missus was fair cut up when she had passed away; she said she had the prettiest face and the loveliest hair she had ever seen, and she looked so young too! Your ma brought the baby over to our house, such a poor little thing it was! Doctor said he didn't think it had a chance to live. Well, we said we would keep it till after the funeral, but that night, when I was just a-going to bed, I heard some one at the door."I went down, and there was a fine-looking gentleman, the handsomest man I've ever seen excepting one, and that's yourself, Ken! I guessed it was the baby's father, and I asked him if he would come in. I thought he had come to fetch his child, and I told him my missus had taken it up to bed, but I would tell her he had come for it. He said, 'No, he hadn't come for the baby; but he had come to talk to me.' So I asked him in, and we sat over the fire together."He did not speak at first, and then he said, 'How would I like to be a very rich man?' I said as how I would like it very much, nothing better. And then he said he could put me in the way of being one if I liked; he could make a gentleman of me, and I would never have to work any more. You can think I opened my ears then, Ken, and I asked him how he was going to manage it, and what he wanted me to do. He didn't answer for a bit, and then he said he would tell me. He wanted me and my missus to take charge of the baby."'For how long?' I asked."'For always,' he said. 'I want it to stop with you altogether, if so be that it lives, which it won't do; the doctor gives it three months at most. Still, there's just the chance it may! So I want you to adopt it, in fact,' he says."I thought it was awfully queer of him, Ken, to want to get rid of his own child; it seemed to me unnatural-like, so I asked him why he did it. He told me he was in a bit of a difficulty, and this would help him out of it. I said I wouldn't do it unless he told me what the bother was. So then he went so far as to say his father had written him a letter, and that letter obliged him to do it. But I wasn't satisfied, Ken; I said I must know what the letter was about, and then it all came out."'His father, he said, was a very wealthy man in England, who had married an American lady with a big fortune of her own. His father had a grand estate somewhere, and of course he was the heir to it; his mother was dead, and all her money, having been settled on herself, had come to him; but of course it was nothing to what he would get when his father died. However, his father had married again about a year ago, and this second wife had a child, also a boy."Then he went on to tell me that his father had for a long time set his heart on his marrying a lady who owned the next estate. She had one of the biggest rent-rolls in England, and if he married her, they would own the whole county between them. She was older than he was, but he had no objection to marrying her now, in fact, he thought it was the best thing he could do; but of course she would never dream of having him, if she had any idea that he had been married before, or had a child living who would be heir to his title and estates. I asked him why he had objected to marrying this lady before, and he said it was because he liked some one else better,—this wife of his who had just died."He had been married abroad, and his father knew nothing about her. She was the daughter of a Chaplain at one of the places he had stopped at. I told him if he was so fond of his wife, he ought to be fond of her child; but he said the child had cost her her life, and how could he bear to look at it? He felt as if he never wanted to see it again. Besides, it was no use talking about the child. If he was to take it back to England (and how could he possibly travel with so young a baby?) what would his father say? He had had a letter from his father, in which he told him that, if he didn't do as he wanted him about marrying this girl (or this woman, whatever she was) that lived near them, he would leave all his money to the little boy—the child of his second wife. He couldn't leave him the title or the estate; they had to go to the eldest son; but he could leave his money to whoever he liked."Well, Ken, he talked and he argued half the night, and at last I called my missus, and told her to get up and come downstairs. She didn't like the thought of it at first; it seemed like cheating the poor child, she said, and keeping him out of his rights. But he offered us a big sum of money, a fortune, Ken, half of what he'd got from his mother, that rich American lady, if I would only say I would keep the child, and at last me and my missus came round. She told him he was a heartless man, and she didn't like doing it; but you see the money was a big temptation, Ken. Never to have to work any more and to live like grand folks, seemed almost more than we could put aside. And then we had no children of our own, and the missus had always wanted one, and she were kind of wrapped up in this little baby."Well, the end of the matter was, that we said we would consent, and then he made me take a solemn promise that I wouldn't ever tell anybody that it wasn't my own child, but that I would keep his secret all the days of my life."He asked me then what my name was, and I said Tomkins, and he laughed and said, 'Give the poor little beggar a better-sounding name than that. Change your name, Tomkins,' he says, 'to something that sounds a bit more aristocratic than that.'"'What shall it be, sir?' I says. 'I'm not going to tell you, Tomkins, nor do I want to know,' he says. 'Get a pen and I'll write you out a cheque; but no, that won't do!' he says. Then he sits and thinks a bit. You see, Ken, he didn't want me to know his name nor who he was, and the cheque would have told me. 'I know,' he says at last, 'I'll cash the cheque myself, and bring you the money; they can easily wire to my English bankers from the Kimberley Bank, and they'll find it's all right.'"So a day or two after that he brings the money, Ken,—a great roll of notes it was, and each note was for £100. He counted it all out, what he'd agreed to give me; and then he said he was going to give me £5000 extra, for the poor little beggar, in case he lived. He would like him to be educated as a gentleman, he said. I think his conscience had smote him, Ken."Well, I promised that I would do the best I could for the baby, and then my missus said should she fetch it, that he might give it a kiss, but he said No, he thought he had rather not see it. He was a heartless man,—very."Then I asked him, Ken, if I might know his name and address, in case I had anything to tell him about the baby. How could I let him know if it died or anything happened to it? But he said there was no need to let him know, and he did not intend to tell me his name. I had got my money, and what more did I want?"Well, he got up to go, and I helped him to put on his coat, for it was raining when he came, and then I noticed for the first time that he had something the matter with his hand; the last joint of the little finger of the right hand was gone. After that he went away, and I've never seen him, Ken, from that day to this. I went to the Inn, and I found that there he had given the name of Vavasour, but I feel sure that was not his right name; he was far too clever for that."However, some time after, I came across a man who had travelled out with him from England—at least I think it must have been the same, from this man's description of him and his wife. He told me that these people he had met were going out to South Africa, and he wondered whether they had ever come to Kimberley. He told me that the man was a lord, and that some one on board ship, who had seen him before, said that he was the son of—"
Here came the word or words which had been so carefully blotted out.
"Now, Ken, what I've got to tell you is this. That man was your father, and you are that poor little deserted boy. I've done my best for you, Ken; you know as I have. I had a hard time with you at first, for we started off for England when you was about two months old, and before we got halfway home, my poor missus died, your ma as you have always called her; and there was I on board ship, left with a tiny weakly baby."But I reared you, Ken, and you lived and grew strong, in spite of yon old doctor at Kimberley, and now you're a fine handsome young man, and I love you as if you was my own son. But I would like for you to have your rights, Ken. Find that man if you can, and tell him he's your father. If he has any conscience, (he hasn't much, I'm afraid), he'll be obliged to own you, when you show him this letter, and tell him how you got it. And mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like. I mean to say you're like what your father was when I saw him. Now he will be a man over fifty, I should say."Follow this up, Ken, and don't rest till you're got your rights."Your loving father,"JOSEPH FORTESCUE."P.S.—I chose Fortescue because I thought as it sounded like the name of a gentleman."
WORDS TO BE REMEMBERED
MARJORIE did not speak whilst she was reading the whole of that long letter, and Kenneth Fortescue sat and watched her, just as before she had sat and watched him. He saw her face flush as she read on, and once he felt sure that he saw a tear drop on the page. When at last she handed him the letter, she said—
"How could he be so cruel? It was awfully heartless, wasn't it?"
"Yes, it was most unnatural; but such things have been done before. Even a mother has been known to desert her own child."
"I wonder if he is alive."
"So do I. If only that word had been there!"
"Let us look at it carefully," Marjorie said; "perhaps we can make it out."
They bent together over the paper, as they held it in the light of the lamp.
"It must be a very long name," she said. "Can it all be one word? I think Lord is the first part of it. That looks to me like part of the loop of the L left above the blot."
"Yes, I think you are right. Even so, I think it is a long name—ten or twelve letters, I should say."
"Oh, I wish we knew!" said Marjorie.
"I wish it very much for one reason, Miss Douglas."
"What is that?"
"If I were to find my father, and if he were prepared to own me, or were compelled to do so, I could repay Mrs. Douglas in full."
"Oh, why are you always thinking of that? You must not do so," she said. "You are stinting yourself and making your life miserable, just for us. And it isn't right. Oh, it isn't right!"
She was crying now; she could not help it. The thought of his constant self-denial, the remembrance of the hardships that he was bearing for their sakes, even though the debt had never been his; the recollection of all this touched her so deeply that she found it impossible to keep back her tears.
"This letter alters everything," she said; "do think of that. Even if you felt yourself bound to repay us when you thought you were Mr. Fortescue's son, you cannot feel so now. He was never your father except in name. Do remember that, and do give up, once for all, the idea of giving us that money back. The loss of it had nothing to do with you, nor with any one at all belonging to you."
"I cannot look at it in that light, Miss Douglas," he said. "If he was merely my father in name, still he was, at the same time, the only father I have ever known. God helping me, that debt shall be paid."
"Captain Fortescue."
"Yes, Miss Douglas."
"I'm afraid that letter is not of much use, after all."
"It may be," he said. "Who can tell?"
She sat looking into the fire for some minutes without speaking, and then she said—
"I rather hope—" and then stopped.
"You rather hope what, Miss Douglas?"
"Oh, never mind. I did not mean to say it aloud. It was only a foolish thought which had no business to come into my mind."
"What was it?"
"Oh!" she said, laughing through her tears. "Such a silly thing! I was going to say that I rather hoped you were not a lord."
"Why not?"
"Oh, I don't know. I only thought we should not feel that you were quite so much our friend. It was very foolish, I know. Only you would seem so different to us then."
"Should I? I hope not," he said, gravely.
"And now I really must be going. What time is it, Captain Fortescue?"
He looked at, his watch, and they found it was getting late, so he got her coat, and she said good-bye to the old landlady, and they set out for New Street. Then he went for her ticket, and put her into the train, and just before it started, he stepped into the carriage and sat down beside her.
"Won't the train be off soon?" she asked. "Yes. I am coming with you."
"Coming with me? Why?"
"I'm not going to allow you to walk alone along that dark road from Deepfields Station at this time of night," he said.
"Oh, I shall be quite all right; you really mustn't come. You will be so tired, and it is not at all necessary. Please don't come."
But he would take no refusal. There would be plenty of time for him to catch the last train, he said, and Marjorie felt sure that, when he had once made up his mind about anything, there would be no possibility of moving him from it.
They talked of the letter most of the way from the station, and as they went through Daisy Bank she pointed out the dark cottage where the still form of the old woman was lying on the bed upstairs.
"How strange to think that my letter has been near you all this time!" he said.
Then they got to Colwyn House, and at the gate, he said good-bye. But before he left her he took her hand between both his own, and said in a whisper, as he held it for a moment—
"Thank you for all you have done for me to-day."
The next instant he was gone, and Marjorie let herself in with her latchkey. She found that Mr. and Mrs. Holtby were having supper. They wanted her to join them, but she said she was tired, and would rather go to bed.
She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, and she dreamt that his hands were still holding her own, and she thought that she could still feel their pressure as he said those words, which would ever remain in her memory as long as life should last.
"Thank you for all you have done for me to-day."
GRANTLEY CASTLE
Two months after her visit to Birmingham, Marjorie was standing on the platform at Daisy Bank, waiting for the Wolverhampton train. How impatient she was to start!
How full of happiness was her face on that December morning! For she was going home for Christmas. She could hardly believe that it was only a year since she had seen the dear home faces, and to have a whole month with them all seemed almost too good to be true. Patty had come with her to the station, and was full of regret at her departure, full of promises to take her place in the holidays, and to do all she could to keep the house tidy and clean.
As Marjorie looked at her, she could not help feeling that the last few months had made Patty quite a different girl. The brusqueness of her manner was gone; she was more happy and more contented, and, in leaving her in charge of the children and her mother, Marjorie felt that she was leaving one who would tread, as far as possible, in her footsteps; and as Patty would not have to go to school during the time of her absence, she would be able to keep all things as Marjorie had left them, and to save her mother from having any extra work. Thus Marjorie was going home with a happy heart, prepared to thoroughly enjoy her well-earned holiday.
Perhaps our thoughts are never more busily occupied than when we are travelling. As our bodies are being rapidly carried over miles of distance, our thoughts wander further still. As our eyes gaze out of the carriage window upon the various scenes through which we are passing, the eyes of our mind are gazing at other scenes, it may be in far-distant lands. We see the views around us as if we saw them not, for the inner pictures are so vivid that they eclipse the outward ones. As we glance at our fellow-passengers, ensconced with newspaper or book in the corners of the carriage, we are looking, it may be, at other faces and hearing other voices, far away from us in bodily presence, but very near and constantly present to our inner sight.
Marjorie's thoughts were very busy that cold wintry day. Not only was she full of anticipation, picturing out to herself the joy of arriving at home and seeing again the friends from whom she had so long been parted; but at times, as she travelled on, her thoughts, instead of flying northwards far ahead of the train, travelled southwards, and found their way to a little back sitting-room in a dingy street in Birmingham.
What was Kenneth Fortescue doing that day? Was he still living in that poor dismal neighbourhood? Was he still denying himself in countless different ways for their sakes? Or had he discovered the missing word in the letter? Had he found the father who had cast him off as a child? Had he been owned and reinstated in his rightful position? Perhaps he had; perhaps now he was taking his place amongst the great ones of the earth, and they would hear of him no more.
But no; in that case he would write to her mother, she was sure of that. If he was rich and was able to do so, that money would be repaid. She knew that he would never forget his promise, and that the revelation made to him in that letter would in no way alter his former determination. What if her mother had already heard from him? What if she were keeping the secret as a pleasant surprise for her on her return? So her busy thoughts wandered on, as the busy engine, puffing hard at times as they got into the hilly country of the North, bore her onwards towards Cumberland.
Then, as she drew nearer home, her thoughts were all centred on Keswick station. Who would be there to meet her? Which of the home faces would she see first? How eagerly she gazed out of the window long before the station came in sight! How anxiously she scanned the platform as the train began to stop!
Yes, there they were, her mother and Phyllis and Louis Verner. It seemed too good to be true! What a drive home that was, and how much they had to say to each other! How beautiful it all looked! She had never thought that the mountains were so high, or the Lake so lovely, or Borrowdale so fine, or Castle Crag so magnificent. She had loved them all from her childhood; but she thought she had never fully appreciated them until that day.
And then they reached home, her dear cosy home, so free from smoke and dirt and everything ugly or depressing. Little Carl was at the gate. How he had grown since she saw him last! And Leila was at the door, looking much better and stronger, and old Dorcas came running out of the kitchen to welcome her. And now she was in the cheerful dining-room, how lovely it all was! The table seemed laden with good things. It was all so tasteful and pretty, and it was home, and that was best of all.
The days flew very quickly after that. There were so many friends to be seen, there was so much to be said and to be done, that the first ten days seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. Old Mary and her other old women were overjoyed to see her, and sometimes she felt as if she had never really been away. Daisy Bank appeared to her like a dream from which she had awakened.
She went alone one day up the steep pass towards Honister Crag, and thought of the photo which she had seen over the mantlepiece at Birmingham. She wondered where he had bought it, and why he had chosen it. Was it in remembrance of the walk they had had there together? Oh no, of course it could not have been that. It was a beautiful place, and any one who had seen it would be glad to have a picture of it.
Marjorie was charmed to find how well Phyllis had taken her place in her absence. She had shaken off to a great extent the natural indolence of her nature, and had risen to the occasion in a way which Marjorie would hardly have thought possible. Her mother had been cared for and Leila had been waited on, almost as well as Marjorie had done it before she left home, and she felt that she would go back to Daisy Bank with a happy heart, knowing that all was going on well in the home she had left.
Louis Verner was, of course, a constant visitor at Fernbank, and was just the same easy, good-natured fellow as he had ever been. He was now in his third year at Oxford, and was still trying to discover his vocation. His father, however, declared that if Louis came to no decision during that vacation, he should settle the matter for him. It was finally decided that Louis should try to get into the Consular Service, and should sit for an examination to be held the following year. Whether he would be able to succeed in this was, Marjorie thought, extremely doubtful, for Louis had no love for work, and went through life doing as little of it as he possibly could. His motto seemed to be that Irish one which advises you to 'Take it easy, and if you can't take it easy, take it as easy as you can;' and it needs one of life's hardest and sternest lessons, to make men like Louis Verner realize its importance, and shake themselves free from their natural inclination to slackness and inertion.
Nevertheless, Louis was a most amusing companion and a good-hearted affectionate fellow, too affectionate sometimes, Marjorie thought; but she made fun of all his pretty speeches, and treated him, as she always had done, with sisterly candour. He did not mind what she said to him, although she spoke very plainly to him at times, and they were ever the best of friends.
But when Marjorie had been at home about a fortnight, something happened which brought a great cloud over her happiness.
"A letter for you, Marjorie," said Phyllis, who had gone to meet the postman at the gate, "and it has such a black border."
Marjorie took it hastily from her; she knew the writing well; it was Patty Holtby's. Such terrible news the letter contained, poor Patty had been almost broken-hearted as she wrote it. Her father had gone to the works the day before, apparently quite well, but a short time after he arrived there, he had been seen to stagger and fall, and when they went to him, they found that he was dead. It had been an awful shock to them all, and Patty said that she could hardly yet believe that it was true.
Marjorie felt as if all the brightness of her holiday had passed away. She realized now how fond she had become of the people with whom she had lived for the last year, and she longed to be with them in their time of trouble. She wrote at once, offering to return immediately if it would be the least comfort to them; she would only be too glad to come to them.
Marjorie waited anxiously for the answer. It came in poor Mrs. Holtby's writing. It would be an unspeakable help to have her there, she said, but their plans were so undecided now that she thought it would be better for her to wait for a few days. Her brother had come for the funeral, and he was helping her to arrange matters, and she would write again shortly.
When Mrs. Holtby's next letter came, it was a very sad one. She was grieved to have to say that it would be impossible for Marjorie to return to them. They were leaving Daisy Bank, and her brother, who was now a widower, had invited them to come and live with him. Of course now she would have to be very careful of expense, and could no longer afford to have a mother's help. She added that she could never thank Miss Douglas enough for all she had done for them; she would miss her more than words could say; but she felt sure that she would rejoice to know that Patty had profited so much by the good training she had received from her, that she was becoming the greatest comfort and help to them all. She ended by saying that she could hardly bear to think that Marjorie was not coming back to them; it was one of the most painful consequences of her heavy bereavement.