So that chapter of Marjorie's life was ended. Daisy Bank was, as far as she was concerned, nothing but a memory of the past. Never more would she climb the pit mounds, or watch old Enoch tending his roses, or walk amongst the furnace débris. A year ago she would not have believed that she would have felt the parting so much as she did, nor that she would have so many pleasant remembrances of their Black Country.
Now she must begin life again somewhere, and where would it be? She dreaded the thought of going once more amongst strangers, and even Colwyn House had become a kind of second home to her. Well, she must not be faint-hearted; she had been guided so far, and she knew that her Guide would not forsake her.
But January passed away, and February came, and no opening had been found for her. Marjorie was beginning to feel anxious on the subject of the family finance, when one day, returning from a walk, she found Colonel Verner's carriage at the door.
Louis had long since returned to Oxford, and Mrs. Verner was an invalid and not able to call, so she was somewhat surprised to see the carriage, and wondered whom she should see when she went into the house.
She heard voices in their little drawing-room, and her mother came to the door and culled her in. Marjorie found Colonel Verner, and with him a lady whom she had never seen before. The Colonel introduced Marjorie, and she found that the lady's name was Mrs. St. Hellier, the Honourable Mrs. St. Hellier, she discovered afterwards. She was Colonel Verner's cousin, and she was spending a few weeks with him at Grange.
Mrs. St. Hellier seemed an exceedingly pleasant woman, and Marjorie felt much drawn to her. After a little conversation on general subjects, she told them that a friend of hers was most anxious to find some one who would be willing to act as companion to her daughter. This young lady had met with an accident in the hunting-field, and was confined to her room, or rather to her rooms, for she was wheeled on an invalid couch into an adjoining apartment where she lay during the day, unable to move or to raise herself from her recumbent position.
The poor girl of course felt the confinement; the monotony of such an existence was a sad change for her, after the active life which she had been accustomed to lead, and her mother was therefore anxious to find some one who would be willing to come to them as her daughter's companion. She would have no work of any kind to do; the lady's maid would undertake, as usual, all that was necessary in dressing and otherwise waiting upon her daughter. She simply wanted one who would be a cheerful companion, and who would be ready to read to her, to amuse her, and to turn her thoughts as much as possible from her helpless condition.
Then Mrs. St. Hellier went on to say that she had heard from Colonel Verner that Miss Douglas was looking for something of the kind, and she wanted to know whether she would like her to name her to Lady Earlswood. She thought she was at liberty to tell her that the remuneration would be a handsome one; fifty pounds a year was the amount mentioned by Lady Earlswood when she spoke to her on the subject.
Marjorie felt that this was indeed an answer to the prayers she had offered, and she gratefully accepted Mrs. St. Hellier's proposal that she should write to her friend without further delay.
In the course of the following week, Marjorie received a kind letter from Lady Earlswood, and in a very short time, all the preliminary arrangements were made, and she once more took leave of her home, and set off for Grantley Castle.
What a wonderful contrast she found on her arrival to her reception at Daisy Bank! A footman with a cockade on his hat came up to her on the platform, and told her that he would see after her luggage, and that the carriage was outside waiting for her. During the five miles' drive to the Castle, Marjorie leant back amongst the cushions of the luxuriously comfortable brougham, and wondered very much what was in store for her in the new home to which she was going.
When the carriage stopped, she was taken through the marble hall, and at the top of the long flight of steps, she found the housekeeper awaiting her.
"Lady Earlswood is out this afternoon, Miss Douglas," she said, "so she asked me to receive you. May I take you to your room? You will find a good fire, I think, and I will send you some tea in a few minutes. Lady Violet has had tea, so perhaps you would like to have it in your own room."
Marjorie thanked her, and followed her up the wide staircase into the bedroom which she was henceforth to call her own. It was not a large room, but it was most beautifully furnished. A pretty French bedstead, with dainty rosebud-covered hangings, a comfortable sofa covered with the same delicate chintz, an easy-chair by the bright fire, a writing-table, with inkstand, blotter and pens, at which she would be able to write her home letters—all these made Marjorie feel that she had come to a home where comfort and ease abounded.
Then she went to the window. It was not yet dark, and she could see hills and woods in every direction, whilst close to the house were three long terraces, one above another, from the various heights of which glorious views of the surrounding country could be obtained. What a strange contrast to the views from her bedroom window in Colwyn House!
Then there came a knock at the door, and a maid brought in a tray, on which was a small silver tea-pot and cream-jug, a china cup and saucer, and a plate of delicately cut bread and butter. It seemed strange to Marjorie to be thus waited upon, for she had been waiting upon others all her life, and as she sat in the armchair by the fire, pouring out the tea which had been placed on a small table beside her, she felt that, so far as she could see at present, the lines had indeed fallen for her in pleasant places.
THE PHOTO OF A FRIEND
WHEN Marjorie first saw Lady Violet, she thought that hers was the most beautiful face that she had ever seen; yet she was very pale, and had a weary look in her eyes which told of pain and weakness. She held out her hand as Marjorie entered.
"Miss Douglas, I am glad to see you."
Marjorie took the low chair by Lady Violet's side, and told her that she hoped she would tell her exactly what she would like her to do, and that she would let her help her in any way that she could.
"Oh! I don't want you to do anything," she said, "only to amuse me. I'm so sick of seeing nobody but Collins; my mother and sister come up as often as they can, but we have so many visitors, and they have so many calls to make, and there is so much going on of one kind and another, that they are obliged to leave me hours alone sometimes. This is my worst time; I get so tired in the evening, and awfully cramped with lying so long in one position. You mustn't mind if I am cross sometimes; I often am."
Marjorie laughed, and told her she did not think that was possible.
"Oh, but it is. I worry poor Collins to death. Now I am tired and can't talk; will you talk to me?"
Marjorie found it very difficult to know what to say. It is one thing to join in a conversation, and quite another thing to talk to a silent person without having anything particular to say. She could not imagine how to begin, and then a bright thought struck her.
"Shall I tell you about my home, Lady Violet?"
"Yes, do; it will be just like a story."
So Marjorie began by describing Borrowdale and their pretty house on the hill; she told her about her mother, Leila, Phyllis, and little Carl; she spoke of the garden with its spring flowers, of the walk through the woods to Watendlath, at the top of the hill, of the quiet village church, of her old women and the quaint cottages in which they lived, of her life at home and of how she spent her days;—all this she told her, in her own bright, pleasant way, until the poor girl beside her was soothed and interested, and forgot her pain and weariness whilst she listened.
"Thank you," she said, when Marjorie stopped. "I can see it all as if I had been there. May I have another chapter to-morrow evening, and will you call Collins now to help me into bed? And do you mind telling me your Christian name?? I should like to call you by it if I may; Miss Douglas sounds so formal."
"Please do; my name is Marjorie. I shall feel I am at home, Lady Violet, if I hear you say it."
As the weeks went on, Marjorie soon became accustomed to her new life in the Castle. Beyond going for a walk daily in the lovely park and gardens, she spent all her time with Lady Violet. They had meals together in the pretty sitting-room, and Marjorie saw very little of the other members of the family. When they came to see Lady Violet, she generally went into her bedroom to write her letters, or strolled along one of the grassy terraces, or gathered primroses and moss in the copse wood to adorn Lady Violet's room.
By degrees, very slow degrees at first, Lady Violet let her companion know a little of what her thoughts and feelings were. She had been most reserved at first, and at one time Marjorie had felt as if she would never really know her. But one evening, when Marjorie had been at Grantley Castle about a month, the ice was broken for the first time. Lady Violet had been very restless and impatient all day; nothing was right that was done for her; she found fault with every one, and Marjorie herself experienced some difficulty in keeping bright and cheerful when all her efforts to cheer the patient seemed such an utter failure.
But after dinner, when Marjorie was sitting beside her with her work in her hand, Lady Violet suddenly said—
"Marjorie, I've been horrid all day; why don't you tell me so?"
Marjorie laughed. "Do you want a scolding?" she said.
"I don't mind one from you; but I do think it's a shame, a horrible shame."
"What is a shame?" asked Marjorie.
"My being laid on my back like this. Do you know, Marjorie, I was to have been married in May?"
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Marjorie. "I had not heard about it."
"Oh, didn't you know? We were going to London to get my trousseau the very week that this accident happened. We were making all the plans about the wedding, and actually had patterns in the house for choosing the bridesmaids' dresses; and now here I am, lying helpless on my back, and my wedding put off indefinitely. It is an awful shame!"
"Don't say that, Lady Violet," said Marjorie, "because God has sent the trouble; hasn't He?"
"Then I think God is very cruel! What pleasure can it be to Him to punish me like this?"
"He doesn't like to see you suffer, Lady Violet. Oh, don't ever think that! It is because He loves you He has let this trouble come."
"I don't see much love in it! I suppose you mean that God thinks I need punishing; but I've never done anything to deserve it, and I do think it's a horrid shame!"
"Oh, don't say that!" said Marjorie. "Dear Lady Violet, don't say that!"
"But I must say it," she answered impatiently, "because I feel it, and it does me good to come out with it."
Marjorie did not speak for a few minutes, and Lady Violet said—
"Talk to me, Marjorie, scold me, if you like, only don't sit quiet like that. Tell me what you were thinking about."
"I was thinking about the eagle's nest, and that you were like one of the eaglets."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You know how the eagle makes her nest on the ledge of some high rock, building it of sticks and briars, and then lining it with moss, and hay, and wool, and soft feathers out of her own breast."
"Well," said Lady Violet, as Marjorie stopped, "go on."
"And then she lays her eggs, and the eaglets are hatched, and they lie down in the soft nest, and are so cosy that they never want to leave it. But, as they grow older, the mother-bird wants them to learn to fly, that they may be able to soar up with her towards the sun. So she hovers over them and tries to persuade them to stretch their wings; but the nest is far too cosy and snug for them to want to leave it, and they nestle down again in the moss and hay. But the mother knows all they will lose if they do not learn to fly, so she rakes out the wool and feathers with her strong beak, and makes the thorns and briars come to the top. Then, when all the soft lining is gone, the young birds shuffle about uncomfortably. The nest is not such a nice place after all, and by degrees they creep to the edge of it and sit there very miserably. And now the mother-bird again tries to get them to fly, and they spread their small wings, and she puts her great strong wing underneath them, so that they may not fall, and soon they are soaring with her into the glory above."
"Yes, go on," said Lady Violet.
"Do you remember that God says He is like that eagle? And so He rakes up the comfortable home nest, and lets us feel the prickles of pain and sorrow, not because He is cruel, not because He wants to punish us, but because He wants us to rise to something brighter and better, to the City of Sunshine. Now, Lady Violet, I'm afraid I've been preaching quite a sermon, and it is very good of you to listen; but don't you think this illness is one of the sharp thorns in the nest, to bring you to the edge, and make you care for something better?"
"Perhaps. I don't know, I'm sure."
They were silent for some time after this, and then Lady Violet said suddenly—
"It seems a pity now that I was ever engaged."
"Why?"
"Oh, it's such a nuisance for him, you see."
"Do you mean for the gentleman you are going to marry?"
"Yes. You see, he wanted me to marry him a long time ago, but I refused him; at least, I didn't actually refuse him, but there were reasons why I couldn't marry him then, one reason especially. But all that is over now, and I had just accepted him, and all was nicely settled, when this happened."
"But the doctor hopes you will be all right soon; doesn't he?"
"Oh yes, in time. But it's an awful nuisance for him having to wait; he wants to get settled. You see, he has only just come into his property; it's a nice little place, and he has a fair amount of money. It belonged to his mother's father; but some day he will come into a much grander estate, and be awfully rich. His brother owns it now, but he is getting an old man, and has no children. It's really a very good match for me, but it's a long time to wait, and I think he's getting rather impatient, and I did so want to have next season in town."
"Has he been to see you?"
"Oh yes, once or twice. Just before you came, he was here; but he lives a long way off, and I don't really want him to come too often—it's so tiring seeing people when you're ill."
Marjorie rather wondered at this remark. Surely if Lady Violet were very fond of her fiancé, she would not find his company tiring, although she was ill. However, she made no remark, but went on quietly with her work.
"Marjorie," said Lady Violet, presently, "you've never seen my photographs. I have two large albums full. Would you like to look at them?"
"Very much indeed. May I get them?"
"Yes, do. They're on the bottom shelf of that bookcase in the corner. Switch on more light, and sit in that armchair; you will see them better there."
Marjorie brought the albums, and sat down to look through the hundreds of photos with which they were filled—views of the park and the woods, of the church and the village, groups of various friends who had stayed at the Castle, photos of Lady Violet's horse and of the two St. Bernard dogs, river scenes and lake scenes, photos taken at all seasons of the year, some with the trees in full leaf, others with bare and naked branches, some showing the broad shadows of a hot summer's day, others taken in snow, with every tree and shrub looking as if it were growing in fairyland.
"They are lovely, Lady Violet," she said, as she laid down the first volume, and took up the one lying on the table.
image005
SHE GAZED A LONG TIME AT THIS PICTURE.
"Oh! Those are foreign views. I don't know whether you will care for them so much. They are in the Riviera chiefly. We were there for a month about two years ago, and had an awfully jolly time."
Marjorie was turning over the leaves of the album, and had just been admiring a beautiful view of Monaco, when she suddenly came to one which brought all the blood rushing into her face. It was a photo of Lady Violet sitting on a rock near the sea, and close by her side and looking over the same book with her was Captain Fortescue.
Marjorie would have known him anywhere; but she had never seen him look quite as he looked then. There was not a vestige of care on his face; he was evidently enjoying life to the full. She gazed a long time at this picture, and Lady Violet, glancing round, noticed how she coloured when she looked at it, and then how all the colour faded out of her face.
"Oh! That is a very great friend of mine," she said. "He helped me to take nearly all those Riviera photos. Evelyn took several of us together, and they came out very well. What is the matter, Marjorie?"
"Oh! Nothing; only it reminded me of some one I know."
"Did it? Isn't it awfully funny how one sees likenesses sometimes! Turn over; there are some more of him in that book. Isn't he good-looking?"
Marjorie did not answer; her heart was beating too quickly.
So he knew Lady Violet—yes, and admired her too; she could see that by his face in several of the photos where they were taken together. And what a handsome pair they made! They were just suited to each other. And now he was a lord; she had no doubt of it from that letter she had read. Had he discovered his parentage? Had he, in those long months since she had heard of him, found his father, and claimed his fortune? Could it be that he was the one whom Lady Violet was about to marry, the one who had admired her long ago, but whom she had refused because of some reason which stood in the way? Could that reason have been the loss of his money, and his being compelled to leave the army?
If so, Marjorie could quite understand that now this difficulty was probably removed. If he had found his father, if he had inherited a title, if he was heir to a large property, then surely no objection to their engagement could be urged.
Now, of course, she could see the reason of his long silence. It was now the end of March, and she had never seen him or heard of him since that October night when he had brought her home from Birmingham. Why had she expected to see him or to hear from him? How blind and foolish she had been!
Lady Violet seemed impatient that she should close the book, and Marjorie put it back in its place on the shelf. She wanted to ask her if Captain Fortescue was the one to whom she was engaged, but she felt that she could not bring herself to do so. She was so strongly convinced in her own mind that she was right in her conclusion, that she felt as if she could not steady her voice sufficiently to frame the question. Not for worlds would she have Lady Violet know what she had felt when she saw that photograph. How silly she had been! How foolish it was to have dwelt on what was merely a passing feeling of gratitude for a little service which she had rendered him! No one should know; no one should ever guess what she had sometimes thought and hoped. Least of all should Lady Violet know or guess.
So Marjorie talked to her on all manner of subjects, and was apparently never in better spirits, until at last the long evening wore away, and alone in her own room she could sit by her fire, and gazing into its red blaze she could pull down stone after stone of her fragile castle in the air, and then, when it was all laid in ruins, could pray for contentment and for peace. Surely she ought to be glad to hope that his troubles were over. Surely she should rejoice, if the desire of his heart had been granted unto him.
LORD KENMORE
THE spring ran its course, and the beautiful days of early summer began, and Marjorie sometimes felt as if she had lived at Grantley Castle all her life. It was a most restful time for her after the hard work of the year before, and she felt that she had much for which to be thankful. Lady Violet was still obliged to lie still, although her health and spirits were daily returning, and she was far less easily tired than she had been when Marjorie first came.
The house was now full of company, and Lady Earlswood, whose time was much occupied, was the more gratified that Lady Violet was so charmed with her companion, and that the arrangement she had made had thus turned out so satisfactorily. She was always very gracious to Marjorie, and Lady Maude thanked her several times for cheering up "poor dear Vi," as she called her. Lady Maude was full of life and spirits, and was certainly not cut out for a sick room. Her energy knew no bounds; she delighted in golf, motoring, and bicycling, and though she was fond of her sister and very sorry for her, she was of too restless a nature to stay long in the sick room, and was therefore very glad to feel that Marjorie's presence there enabled her to go to her various amusements with a clear conscience.
"Vi likes Miss Douglas," Lady Maude would say to her friends, "they get on wonderfully well together, and she keeps her in a far better temper than I can do."
So Marjorie had very few difficulties to contend with in her new position; even Collins the maid was glad that she had come and was able to relieve her from constant attendance on her young mistress, and from the fretful fault-finding to which she had been obliged to submit before Miss Douglas arrived.
Marjorie was very thankful for all this, and for the letters from home, which were very cheering. Leila was becoming quite strong again, and the money Marjorie was earning, and which she had been able to send home at the end of her first three months at Grantley Castle, had enabled her mother to buy many much-needed things for the household, and had considerably relieved the strain consequent upon the loss of the insurance money.
Marjorie searched the home letters carefully for any mention of Captain Fortescue, as she still called him to herself, but there was no allusion whatever to him. They had evidently heard nothing of him or from him.
Lady Violet did not speak to her again about her fiancé. She knew that she often had letters from him, and she wrote to him in pencil from her couch, but this was in the afternoon after luncheon, when Marjorie had gone out for her daily walk and when Collins was in attendance, and the letter had been carried down to the post-bag before her return.
But one wet day in the beginning of June, when Collins was lying down in her room, with a swollen face, Lady Violet said—
"Marjorie, will you get me my writing-case? I want to write to Lord Kenmore."
That was his name, then—Lord Kenmore. She would have thought that the missing word in the letter was a longer word than that; but she remembered that old Mr. Fortescue's writing was most uncertain and irregular, and he would probably spread out this name more than the rest of his writing, in order to make it clearer and more distinct.
Lord Kenmore. Could she ever think of him by that name? It all seemed so strange, so difficult to understand! But why was she letting these thoughts come into her mind? She had resolved never to think of him in that way again, never to recall that walk from Deepfields to Daisy Bank, or the grasp of his hand when he had said good-bye to her. She had been a foolish girl in the past; she would be a wise one in the future.
Lady Violet Kenmore. What a pretty name it would be! "Thank you for all you have done for me to-day." Of course he was thinking of Lady Violet when he said those words. He knew that she had not been able to accept him because of the loss of his money; but all that time, he had loved her, even though it had appeared hopeless. But now that the letter was found, which might enable him to prove his noble birth, and to find the clue which might lead him to recover his rightful possessions, he would feel that Lady Violet might still be his.
No wonder, then, that he had said so earnestly, "Thank you for all you have done for me to-day." No wonder that he had pressed her hand in gratitude, when she had been the means of bringing him hope. She saw it all now, and she marvelled at her former folly.
But all that was over now, and she took the letter from Lady Violet, when it was finished—the letter to him,—and carried it down to the bag.
"LORD KENMORE,"Rockcliffe Castle."
That, then, was his address. She saw that, but she saw no more. What right had she to look at the letter to see his address? She would put it in the letter-box at once. It was nothing to her where he lived.
It was about a week after this, that one morning, as Marjorie was going out, Lady Earlswood asked her to go into the village to take five shillings, which she had promised to an old man, living in a cottage near the church, and who had once been a gardener at the Castle. She called at the cottage, had a chat with old Hill, and then went through the lodge gates, and began to climb the long ascent to the Castle.
The beech trees looked very lovely that morning in their pale spring dress, the moss by the side of the road being covered by the pale brown covering of the buds, which had fallen off as the leaves opened. The colouring was perfect, and Marjorie was thoroughly enjoying her walk.
But suddenly, as she turned a corner of the long avenue, far ahead of her, about a hundred yards or more, she saw something which took all the brightness out of her face. She saw Captain Fortescue walking rapidly towards the Castle. Yes, she was sure it was he. She could not see his face of course, but he was the same height, he had the same figure and hair, and he walked in the same erect way. All the feelings which she had been repressing and keeping down for so long rushed back into her heart.
It was hard work to walk steadily on towards the house. She felt dizzy and faint for a few minutes, and turned off the road and sat down upon the gnarled roots of a giant beech tree. But she prayed for strength and courage, and soon walked on again to the Castle. The road was empty now; she could see the great pillars of the portico and the closed door between them; he had evidently gone inside.
Once a wild hope darted across her mind that after all she had jumped to a wrong conclusion. Perhaps Captain Fortescue and Lord Kenmore were after all not the same; and if so, could it be that he had found out where she was, and had come to see whether she was happy at Grantley Castle, just as once before he had come to Daisy Bank?
But this faint hope was dispelled as she went upstairs, for Collins met her as she was going to her room, and said—
"Miss Douglas, perhaps you had better not go to my lady just now. Lord Kenmore has come to see her unexpectedly. His motor broke down just outside the village, and he had to walk the last part of the way."
Marjorie went on into her room, determined to be very busy and to give herself no time to think. She hoped, fervently hoped, that she would not see him. Perhaps he would not be able to stay long, and he would probably go downstairs for luncheon, and then afterwards she would go out in the garden or take a long walk on the hills. Meanwhile she would tidy her drawers, change her dress, and write home.
Marjorie found, however, that the writing was an impossibility; her thoughts would wander to the next room. How well she could picture him sitting in her usual place by Lady Violet's couch! How good he would be to her; how much he would feel for her in her suffering! What a comfort his sympathy and tender care would be to her!
And so more than an hour went by, and then came the sound of a bell, the bell of Lady Violet's sitting-room. This bell rang upstairs in Collins' room, so that her mistress could summon her whenever she required her. She heard Collins come down and go into the next room, and soon afterwards there came a knock at her bedroom door.
"Come in, Collins."
"If you please, Miss Douglas, my lady would like you to go to her."
Marjorie's heart died within her. He was still there, and now she would have to meet him. She wondered whether he knew that she was at Grantley Castle, or would he be surprised to see her there? Probably Lady Violet had told him, and, hearing that he knew her, had sent for her to come and see him.
With a prayer in her heart for help, Marjorie crossed the landing and went into the next room.
"Marjorie," said Lady Violet, "come here; I want to introduce Lord Kenmore to you."
Fearfully, almost tremblingly, Marjorie went forward, but, to her utter astonishment, a perfect stranger stood before her. His face was as unlike that of Captain Fortescue as it was possible for two faces to be. The figure, the build, and the colour of the hair were exactly similar, so that Marjorie was not surprised that, as he walked before her in the drive, she had imagined that he was Captain Fortescue; but the features, the eyes, and, above all, the expression of his face, were totally different.
Lord Kenmore was an exceedingly plain man, with the palest of blue eyes, which seemed wholly devoid of expression, with thin lips, a pallid, unhealthy-looking face, and a most cynical and unpleasant expression. How could she think for a moment that this was Captain Fortescue? He bowed stiffly when Lady Violet introduced him to her companion, and sat down again in the low chair beside the couch.
"Marjorie, I have been telling Lord Kenmore about the kind of paper I print my photos on; he is a photographer too. Would you mind getting those books you looked through the other day?"
Marjorie brought the albums from their place on the shelf, and handed them to Lord Kenmore. She was going to leave the room when Lady Violet called her back.
"Don't run away, Marjorie. Lord Kenmore is going down to lunch in a few minutes, and I shall want you then."
So she took her work-bag from the table, and sat down in the window, busy with a table-centre which she was working for her mother. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her heart; she had never realized how crushing the weight had been, until she felt the relief she experienced now that it had gone. Captain Fortescue was not Lord Kenmore! It seemed too good to be true, and he had not been thinking of Lady Violet when he said good-bye to her at Daisy Bank.
Meanwhile Lord Kenmore was turning over the photos, commenting on them as he did so. He was opening the Riviera book now.
"These are pretty!" she heard him say.
"Yes; we had a lovely time there two years ago."
"Hullo! Who's this?"
He had come to the very photo which had made Marjorie's face flush as she looked at it.
"Oh, that's a friend of Evelyn; they were at Sandhurst together, and we met him out there."
"I can't think who he reminds me of," said Lord Kenmore; "he's like some one. Dear me, who is it?"
"That is just what Marjorie said when she looked at that photo," said Lady Violet, laughing; "he is just like some friend of hers; he seems to be like a good many people."
"What's his name?"
"Captain Fortescue; perhaps you knew him at Sandhurst."
"No, I was at Woolwich; I can't think whom he reminds me of."
"There's another of him on the next page."
"Yes," he said, turning over the leaves, "he seems to have been fond of being taken with you, Vi."
"Yes, you see we saw a good deal of him there. He is very good-looking, isn't he?"
"Well, yes, I suppose he is. I don't care for that kind of face, though; he looks like a fellow in a cheap music-hall."
Marjorie was not half satisfied with Lady Violet's answer.
"Oh no, he isn't like that at all."
"Why, there he is again! A conceited sort of fellow, I should think."
Was he jealous? Marjorie wondered.
"No, he wasn't at all conceited," Lady Violet replied. "You would have liked him, I'm sure."
"Have you seen him lately?"
"No, not for ages; he has lost all his money, poor fellow, and is as poor as a church mouse. I don't know what has become of him."
Lord Kenmore seemed relieved to hear this, and there followed a long discussion on the relative merits of Ziga and Paget printing-papers, which lasted until the gong summoned Lord Kenmore to the dining-room.
"Will you put these books by, Marjorie?" said Lady Violet. "It was too bad of him to run down poor Captain Fortescue."
Marjorie saw no more of Lord Kenmore, for he had gone when she returned from her afternoon walk. Lady Violet seemed tired and out of spirits, she thought; perhaps she had felt the parting with him, it was only natural that she should; and Marjorie devoted herself to her more than ever that evening, and was determined to do all that she could to cheer her. She had such a light heart herself that it was not a difficult task to be bright and cheerful.
MR. NORTHCOURT'S OPINION
WHEN Kenneth Fortescue had left Marjorie at the door of Colwyn House, he blamed himself very much that, for even a single moment, he had allowed his feelings to be seen by her. Perhaps she had not noticed; he hoped not. For what right had he, a practically homeless and penniless man, to allow any girl to see that he loved her, or to attempt, in however small a degree, to win her love in return? It was cruel, utterly heartless and unworthy of a man, he said to himself.
For what hope of future happiness could such love ever bring? As long as he was so heavily in debt to her mother (for he refused to allow that the letter she had found had in any way cancelled that obligation) every penny of his salary, beyond what he actually required for food and clothing and the other small necessaries of life, must be sent to Rosthwaite. He intended to send it in future at the end of each year, and as his salary was a fairly good one, he hoped to be able to remit a substantial sum the following Christmas. But four thousand pounds was a considerable amount to reach, and he realized that it would take years before he could return it all, if indeed his life were spared long enough for him to do so. Meanwhile the thought of a home of his own was one of the many things denied to him, one of the indulgences which he had told Mrs. Douglas that he should renounce.
Moreover, as he travelled back to Birmingham, whilst he could not help a feeling of satisfaction that his origin was not so humble as he had imagined, yet at the same time, he reflected that his own father, whether he were a lord or not, was by no means a father of whom he could be proud. His foster-father, poor common miner though he was, had shown far more feeling than his real father, and had behaved in a manner which was vastly superior to that of the heartless man who had deserted his own helpless child, and had left him to the care of complete strangers. Still, if only that word had not been blotted out of the letter, he might have been able to prove his claim on that father's consideration, and might have compelled him to reinstate him in the position which was his by birth.
As it was, he knew not what steps to take. He decided at length to go to Sheffield, that he might see Mr. Northcourt, his father's lawyer, and take his advice in the matter.
Accordingly, the following week, Captain Fortescue travelled northward, and reaching Sheffield went at once to Mr. Northcourt's office.
The lawyer was much interested in the information laid before him. He read and re-read the letter several times; he took a magnifying glass and tried to discover the word covered by the ink; but at last he was obliged to confess that it was hopeless to attempt to decipher it. He was, however, strongly of opinion that the missing word or words had undoubtedly been the correct name. Watson and Makepeace would not have made that name illegible, had they not known beyond all doubt that it was the name of his lost father. What use they had made of that knowledge Mr. Northcourt said it was impossible to tell.
Probably the story that Miss Douglas had heard from the old woman in the cottage at Daisy Bank, and which Captain Fortescue had just told him, was perfectly true. They had found this name mentioned in the letter as the possible name of Captain Fortescue's father; they had then sought out and discovered the man named, and, by threatening to disclose what they knew of his past history, they had extracted large sums of money from him, money which they were now spending abroad, or which, quite possibly, lay buried with them at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Mr. Northcourt asked Captain Fortescue to leave the letter in his charge, as it would prove most valuable evidence, should the case ever come to trial, and he promised meanwhile to make all inquiries that were possible. At the same time he was obliged to tell Captain Fortescue that he much feared that no solution of the mystery would be forthcoming; the two guilty persons had evidently made good their escape, and he was therefore sorry to say that, in his opinion, they had not yet found the clue which would lead them to the discovery of Captain Fortescue's family.
After his interview with the lawyer Kenneth came away feeling rather downcast and disappointed. He was walking towards the station, hoping to be in time to catch the Birmingham express, for he wanted to get back that night, as he had work that must be done the following day, when he heard a well-known voice behind him.
"Captain Fortescue, sir!"
He looked round, and saw old Elkington, panting with the exertion of hurrying after him.
"Excuse me, sir, for stopping you, but I was so pleased to see you again."
"How are you, Elkington?"
"Fairly well, sir; I'm living with my daughter now; I'm too old to take another situation. Have you found it, sir?"
"Found what, Elkington?"
"The letter you lost, sir."
"Yes, I found it three days ago; at least a friend of mine found it, in the cottage of an old woman not far from Birmingham."
"Then it wasn't Watson who took it, sir?"
"Yes, it was Watson; she and that bookseller between them. He was her half-brother, Elkington."
"Was he, indeed, sir? Well, I never knew that! I always suspected her, sir."
"I knew you did, Elkington."
"She didn't like you, sir; she thought you kept her in her place."
"She wanted it, Elkington."
"She did, sir; but she didn't like it for all that. It was a bit of revenge, I should say, sir."
"Partly, Elkington, perhaps; but she and her brother raised money on it, too."
He then told Elkington a little of what he had heard, in which the old man was deeply interested.
"Was the letter what you wanted, sir? I mean was it worth having?"
"To a certain extent, Elkington, but those two rogues had blotted out the most important word, lest I should ever see it."
"The rascals!" old Elkington exclaimed. "Well, well; I'm not surprised at anything that woman did."
The old man insisted on going with the Captain, as he called him, to the station, and stood respectfully on the platform with his hat in his hand as the train moved off.
Kenneth Fortescue did not see that he could do anything further in the matter at present, nor indeed had he either time or opportunity to make any other attempt to solve the mystery of his birth.
He was now at the head of a large and important branch of a great fire insurance company, and had much business to transact. How could he neglect his only means of livelihood, in order to attempt to investigate a matter which baffled the legal mind of so clever a man as Mr. Northcourt?
Therefore, as the months went by, and brought with them a continuous stream of business engagements that filled up the moments of a busy life, there was left little time for thought or for brooding over the past. It was only when he had returned to his dull little sitting-room, and was resting by the fire for a short time before beginning his evening's work, that his thoughts would wander, in spite of himself, to Daisy Bank.
One evening, his eye fell on the photograph of Honister Crag, which was hanging over his mantlepiece. He looked back upon that walk with such happy remembrance. How much he had enjoyed it, and how far away it seemed now! He seemed to have lived a lifetime since then. He wondered how Marjorie was getting on. Was the hard work telling upon her? Could she keep her bright cheery spirit after so long a time spent in such dreary surroundings? It was six months since he had seen her. Was it really only six months? It seemed much longer.
Surely there would be no harm in his running over to Daisy Bank for an hour, the next time that he had a spare afternoon. He would be careful—very careful. Not a word or a look should reveal his secret. He would simply see her and come away, content if she were happy, and thoroughly satisfied if he knew no trouble was hanging over her.
At last the spare afternoon came, and he felt a great throb of pleasurable excitement as he got out on the Deepfields platform. Perhaps he should meet her on the road; it was the time when she usually took her walk.
But no, she was not there to-day. He walked on over the pit mounds to Daisy Bank. How long the way seemed! He passed the old cottage where his lost letter had lain so long; it was shut up and deserted. He hurried on now. Colwyn House was only a little further down the lane; he would soon be there, and would see her again.
He was going up to the door when he drew back in dismay. The windows were covered with dirt; several of the panes were broken; the steps were a mass of mud; the small garden was overgrown with weeds; the house which Marjorie had brightened by her presence was left untenanted and utterly desolate.
He stood looking at it for some moments in Hopeless bewilderment. A lad, who had come from his work in the pit, was standing near, leaning against a broken-down wall.
"How long has this house been empty?" asked Captain Fortescue.
"Six months, or maybe more," said the boy. "Have they moved to another house here?"
"No; they're gone."
"Gone where?"
"I don't know. Right away somewhere; down South."
"Why did they go?"
"The master fell down dead; soon after New Year it were."
"Do you know if Miss Douglas went with them?"
"Who did you say?"
"Miss Douglas."
"Never heard of Miss Douglas. They've all gone, so I suppose she did."
That being all the information he could extract from the boy, Captain Fortescue returned to the station, feeling much depressed by the result of his expedition. What had become of Marjorie Douglas? Would he ever be able to discover? He thought once of writing to Rosthwaite to inquire, but on second thoughts, he dismissed the idea promptly. What right had he to make such an inquiry? None whatever; nor did he see any prospect that such a right would ever be his.
So he went back to his hard work and his lonely life as contentedly as he could, and tried to banish the restless thoughts that came to disturb his peace of mind. He determined to take day by day as each came, doing the day's duty, bearing the day's care, and not allowing himself to indulge in daydreams of the future, which were never likely to become more than dreams.
A MOST CHARMING GIRL
WHEN the autumn came round again, it found little change in Kenneth Fortescue's life, save that he had risen very rapidly in the esteem and confidence of his employers, and had been entrusted with the supervision of their agents in a still larger district.
Nothing, however, took place of a personal interest until the fourteenth of October. It happened to be the anniversary of the day on which Marjorie had come to him the year before, and which would ever be a red-letter day in his life, when he was requested by the head office to travel northwards, that he might investigate the amount of damage caused by a great fire that had taken place in a nobleman's castle, which was very heavily insured in his company.
Eagleton Castle was a most ancient building, filled with countless heirlooms of olden times. The picture gallery was hung with paintings by the famous artists of many successive generations; the grand staircase was of carved oak; several of the palatial rooms were wainscoted; whilst the great fireplaces were surrounded by exquisite carvings, the work of some forgotten genius, long since dead, who had left behind him these beautiful trophies of his skill.
These old mansions are exceedingly picturesque, and lend themselves to the work of the artist and the photographer, providing them with subjects for some of their best and most taking pictures, but they are oftentimes extremely unsafe. The builders of olden time, in spite of the roaring fires which in those days blazed nightly on the hearth, built the wide chimneys with little regard to the necessity for care in the matter of fire.
An old beam, in the near neighbourhood of one of the chimneys in Eagleton Castle, had become ignited; the fire had smouldered on for hours, completely hidden from sight, and unperceived by the large household of the castle. But in the middle of the night, a gale arising and blowing down the wide chimney shaft, had caused the smouldering fire to burst into a blaze; the floor of an adjoining room had been caught by it, and when the Earl and his household were at length aroused the fire was becoming serious.
Fire engines were at once summoned by telephone, and were soon on the spot; the servants were soon hard at work clearing the rooms in the vicinity of the fire; the numerous guests, headed by the Earl himself, carried out armful after armful of valuable heirlooms and piled them on the lawn in front of the castle; the firemen worked on manfully, but several hours passed before the flames were extinguished.
The damage done to the building was great; several ancient rooms were destroyed; but the most serious loss, in the Earl's estimation, was that of many of the works of art in the picture gallery. Some of these were family portraits, dating back for many centuries, and the loss of which could never be replaced. No amount of money could bring the dead earls out of their graves to be painted afresh; no compensation from the insurance company could ever restore to the Earl of Derwentwater those much-prized and valuable mementos of his long line of ancestors.
Still, whatever compensation could be afforded, in addition to the cost of those articles which it was possible to replace, would have to be supplied by the company in which the Earl had insured for many years; and the head office, knowing the capability and thorough trustworthiness of Mr. Fortescue, had requested him to personally visit Eagleton Castle, that he might report to headquarters as to what would be the probable extent of their liability.
It was for the purpose of making these investigations, that Kenneth Fortescue stood on one of the platforms at New Street waiting for the northern express. As he was looking at the signals and watching the line, he suddenly felt a hand on his arm.
"Fortescue, you here! I'm delighted to see you again; I thought I could not be mistaken." It was Captain Berington.
Kenneth was pleased to receive so friendly a recognition from an old acquaintance, whom he had never met since the day he had left Grantley Castle, after telling them the story of his life, so far as that story was then known to him. He knew more about his early life now; but he was not at all anxious to let his former friends hear what had come to his knowledge, and moreover, he felt that he was in one sense worse off than he had been before. Then he had a name which he thought he could call his own; now he was nameless.
However, he was glad to see Captain Berington again; doubly glad that Captain Berington seemed pleased to see him.
"Here's the train, Fortescue; let's get a carriage to ourselves, and then we can talk."
"I've a third-class ticket, unfortunately."
"Never mind; we can settle up with the ticket-collector. Here's an empty compartment. Get in."
"Where are you going, Berington?"
"Home. I'm awfully glad I met you. Now tell me all about yourself."
Captain Fortescue told him what he was doing, and mentioned that he was on his way to Eagleton Castle.
"What a terrible fire that was!" said Captain Berington. "It does seem an awful shame when old places like that are burnt. Vi was very worried over it. You see, Lord Derwentwater is Kenmore's half-brother, and Kenmore is heir to Eagleton."
"Who is Kenmore?"
"Oh! Don't you know? Vi is engaged to him. In fact, they were to have been married last year if it hadn't been for that nasty accident of hers."
"What was that?"
"Oh! Haven't you heard? She was thrown from her horse in the hunting-field. Came down on her back, poor girl. It was an awful thing. We were afraid she would not get over it at first, and then, when she seemed to have taken a turn, the doctors discovered that the spine was injured, and said she would have to lie on her back for months. It's been a terrible time for her."
"It must, indeed. How long is it since her accident?"
"Oh, nine months or more. She is a great deal better now. She gets out on the terrace, and is beginning to walk a little. They talk of having the wedding next May if she is well enough, so that it will just have been postponed a year. Poor girl, it has been awfully hard lines for her; but the doctor hopes she may be quite strong by that time. By-the-by, I've got a photo of her lying on the couch on the terrace. I'm just taking her a print of it; she hasn't seen one yet. I was at home a fortnight ago, and took it then."
"Then you are still keen on photography?"
"Yes, and I think this is a very good one. It was a nice clear September day, and I got a capital negative."
He was hunting amongst some papers in his pocket-book as he said this, and at last found the photo in question, and handed it to his friend for inspection. Captain Fortescue could not refrain from an exclamation of surprise as he looked at it. "You are astonished to see her so altered," said Captain Berington. "Yes, she is thinner, much thinner; still, she's wonderfully better than she was."
But it was not Lady Violet's altered appearance which had caused Captain Fortescue's exclamation of astonishment. He was not even looking at her; he was gazing with the greatest attention at something else in the picture. For on a low chair by the side of Lady Violet's couch, with her hat lying on the grass beside her, and with her lap covered with roses, which she was arranging in a china bowl standing on a garden table near her, was Marjorie Douglas!
He could hardly believe his eyes. For a whole year he had heard nothing of her; he seemed to have completely lost sight of her; and now at last he had found her, and in that unexpected place.
Captain Berington saw how earnestly Fortescue looked at the photograph; he thought that he noticed something more than mere attention in his gaze. Our eyes cannot always keep our secrets so well as our lips do, and there was a look in Kenneth Fortescue's eyes which told his friend a story about which his lips were sealed. But he interpreted that look wrongly.
"Poor Fortescue! I remember he was rather smitten with Vi once upon a time," he said to himself. "I ought not to have shown him that photo."
He put out his hand for it, that he might replace it in his pocket-book; but at first Kenneth did not seem to see.
"It's a beautiful photo, Berington! I suppose you haven't one to spare."
"Well, I am afraid not. I have another here, but I promised it to Miss Douglas; she wants to send it to her mother."
"Is she—"
Kenneth paused. He was going to say, "Is she well?" But that might have let out that secret of his, which his lips must guard with care. Captain Berington noticed his hesitation, but put it down to quite a different cause.
"She's an awfully jolly girl; she's a kind of companion to Violet—quite a lady though! It has made all the difference in the world to Vi having her."
Kenneth did not answer. He handed the photo back, though he would much have liked to have slipped it into his pocket.
"You've no idea what a nice girl Miss Douglas is! She is always good-tempered and cheerful, and never gets put out when poor Vi is cross. I'm sure we were awfully lucky to get her. She really is a most charming girl."
Kenneth Fortescue did not speak; perhaps because the words had moved him too deeply. And when, soon after this, his friend left the train, and he saw the carriage and pair waiting to convey him to Grantley Castle, a great feeling of loneliness crept over him as he leant back in the corner of the carriage.
Captain Berington was going to see her, to talk to her, and to give her the photo. And he thought her a most charming girl.
Kenneth wondered what Marjorie thought of him. Well, he must be glad that she was in a comfortable home, and was no longer toiling away amongst the pit mounds and coal dust of Daisy Bank.
THE PICTURE GALLERY
WHEN, some hours after his parting with Captain Berington, Kenneth Fortescue arrived at his destination, North Eaton Station, he got out of the train with rather a heavy heart, and made inquiry of the stationmaster as to the best way to Eagleton Castle. He found there was a 'bus running from thence to the village, which was three miles away, and that this 'bus would start in five minutes. When he went out of the station he saw it at a little distance along the road, waiting for passengers. He jumped up beside the driver, and soon the jolting vehicle was carrying him towards Lord Derwentwater's beautiful old mansion.
North-country men have always plenty to say, provided that they do not live too far North and across the Border. There, the Scotch caution causes the words of the Lowlanders to be few, and their opinion on any subject hard to obtain. "I canna tell," or, "I wouldna like to say," will be all the reply you will obtain to your inquiry upon any subject. But with the North-country Englishman, it is different; out of the abundance of his heart his mouth speaketh, and he loves nothing better than to tell you what he has seen or heard.
The fire at Eagleton Castle, although it had taken place some days before, was still the great topic of conversation on the village 'bus; and, finding that Captain Fortescue was a stranger, the driver and the passengers united in giving him a detailed account of it, each being particular to relate how he or she had first heard of the fire, and how he or she had felt when the news was received. When these various versions had come to an end, Kenneth asked a few questions about the place to which he was going.
"Is it a large estate?"
"Tremendous; t' Earl, he is t' grandest man in all t' country round."
"Has he any family?"
"Neither chick nor child, and never had any."
"Who is heir to the property, then?"
"Lord Kenmore, brother to t' Earl. He don't come here much, though. Earl and him don't seem to hit it, somehow. They are only half-brothers, you see; t' old Earl was married twice, and the little 'un was born when his elder brother were growed up. Twenty-five years atween them. That was a lot, wasn't it? They didn't seem a bit like brothers; did they now?"
"No; it was a great difference in age," Kenneth said, "one brother was old enough to be the father of the other."
"You're right there, sir," said an old woman on the seat behind, "and the old Earl's second lady were a Tartar—a Tartar, that's what she were!" she repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her words.
"Ay," said the driver, "and she did her best to get t' old Earl to leave his money (what wasn't tied up of it, you understand) to the little 'un. She couldn't get him the title nor yet the estate, but she got him all that she could."
"Ay she did that," said an old man; "she were a crafty one, were my lady."
"But I suppose she had to leave the Castle when the Earl died."
"Ay," said the old man, with a chuckle, "and we none of us shed a tear; we didn't, I assure you."
"Then the present Earl came here?" asked Kenneth.
"Yes; he'd been travelling in foreign parts, but he came home afore t' old Earl died, and he married a lady o' these parts too."
"Is she living?"
"No, she lies in t' churchyard over there; ye can see t' old church tower over them trees."
"Has she been dead long?"
"It'll be about a year now. Since my lady died, he has had a good few of his friends at the Castle; there was some of them there for the shooting; t' Castle was pretty full t' night of t' fire."
"Was Lord Kenmore there?"
"Not he; he don't come here if t' Earl can help it. He's got an estate down South somewhere; he got it from his mother's father, so I'm told. We don't want him here; do we, Betty?"
"No, we don't," said Betty, "chip of t' old block, that's what he is."
"Does the Earl live alone?"
"Well, so to speak, he is alone. There's the visitors, of course; but they come and they go, none of them stay more than a day or two. It's a pity he hasn't got a son or a daughter to keep him company; isn't it now?"
"You like him?" asked Fortescue.
"Yes, we like t' Earl well enough; he's a bit hard sometimes, so folks say."
"But we're mighty sorry for him," said the old man; "he looks that wretched sometimes, my Tom says. Tom is footman up t' Castle. Now, sir, you look ahead and you'll see t' Castle up on t' hill."
Captain Fortescue looked, and he saw before him the most beautiful old castle he had ever beheld. It was built of grey stone, which bore the marks of age, though not of decay. Its mullioned windows had looked out for centuries over the beautifully wooded park, for the Castle stood on such high ground that it commanded a view of all the surrounding country; and the trees in the avenue which led up to it were many of them even older than the Castle itself.
Through this avenue of quaint oak trees Captain Fortescue walked, when he had left the 'bus at the great entrance gates. He lost sight of the Castle as soon as he entered the avenue, but he gazed with the greatest admiration on the loveliness which met his eye at every turn. Now and again there was a break in the trees, and he looked down a peaceful glade where deer were feeding in the shade of the silver birch wood; or he stopped for a few moments to watch a busy little stream which ran by the side of the road, and then disappeared beneath a rustic bridge into the depths of the woodland beyond.
The trees were putting on their autumn garb; the squirrels were running up the trees, busy in secreting the nuts and corn for their winter store; rabbits were scampering across the road to their holes in the mossy bank; a cock pheasant in his plumage was strutting along the road before him; and the whole place was alive with birds, which were singing gaily in the oaks overhead.
Then, as he drew near the Castle, he came upon an extensive lake, dotted with islands and surrounded by a plantation of lovely shrubs and ornamental trees. On this lake the swans were swimming gracefully in the sunshine of that autumn afternoon; the fish were splashing in the water; a covey of wild ducks had taken wing and were flying over the avenue; a heron stood at the edge of the water and was hunting for frogs. There was life and movement everywhere.
He looked at the Castle, and he marvelled at its beauty. He had thought Grantley Castle a fine mansion, but that was far more modern, and would not bear comparison for a moment with the ancestral home of Lord Derwentwater.
When Kenneth Fortescue had rung the bell which hung in front of the carved stone portico the door of the Castle was opened by a footman, to whom he handed his card, which bore his name and the name of the insurance company of which he was the representative.
"The Earl is expecting me, I believe," he said.
He was shown into a room not far from the entrance hall, in which the Earl was accustomed to transact his business. Here he found a gentleman of about his own age, sitting at a writing-table, and hard at work, with a voluminous correspondence spread out before him. He bowed as Fortescue entered, asked him to be seated, and told him that Mr. Montague Jones would arrive shortly.
"This is Lord Derwentwater's secretary, I suppose," said Fortescue to himself, as he watched his companion sorting and filing the letters with which the writing-table was covered. "But who in the world can Mr. Montague Jones be?"
After he had waited about a quarter of an hour, a stout man, with reddish hair, a florid complexion, and gold eye-glasses, made his appearance, and introduced himself as Mr. Montague Jones. He informed Kenneth that he was my lord's agent, and that my lord had requested him to conduct Mr. Fortescue, as the representative of the insurance company, to the scene of the late fire.
Leaving the secretary to continue his labours, Kenneth followed Mr. Montague Jones, as he led the way up a wide flight of stairs to the upper floor of the Castle. So far he had seen no sign of the destruction wrought by the fire; but, as they went down a long corridor towards the west wing of the building, they came upon the room where the conflagration had begun. Everything was blackened by the smoke and drenched with water; the furniture was either destroyed or completely ruined; the handsome silk hangings of the windows were gone; and a horrible smell of burning and charred wood filled the whole place.
From thence they went into the other rooms in which the fire had raged, and as they entered each Mr. Montague Jones handed him an inventory of the valuable articles which that room had contained; the pictures, china, statuary, pier-glasses, and costly furniture with which it had been filled; the carpet, curtains and elaborate draperies which had covered and adorned it. These rooms were totally wrecked; the flames had spared nothing; the ruin was terrible and complete.
Then the agent led him on to the picture gallery, a long and wide corridor, having windows overlooking the lake in front of the Castle, through which the light fell upon the beautiful works of art which the gallery contained. The fire, however, had only reached one end of this corridor; some of the pictures were altogether unharmed, whilst others were merely discoloured by the smoke; but at that end of the gallery which lay nearest to the rooms in which the fire had broken out several large pictures had been totally destroyed, and many others had been hopelessly damaged.
"Portraits, all of them," said Mr. Montague Jones; "of priceless value to the Earl; family portraits that cannot be replaced. This one of the Earl himself, painted when he was a young man, has only just escaped."
What was it made Kenneth Fortescue start, as he looked up at that picture? What was it that made him deaf to the agent's voice, as he dilated on the Earl's loss?
The picture was that of a man of his own age, and the hair was his hair; the eyes were his eyes; the carriage of the head was his; the nose, the lips, the chin were the very counterpart of those which he had seen in the looking-glass that morning.
The portrait might have been his own portrait, painted yesterday.
What did it all mean? Was it just a chance coincidence? Or was it more? Was it the echo of the words he had read in that letter just a year before—"Mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like?"
He wondered whether Mr. Montague Jones noticed the strange resemblance. No, he was a short-sighted man, and he noticed nothing. He was busily engaged with his papers, and with the notes he was making in his pocket-book for the benefit of the Earl. He saw nothing, he remarked nothing. He led Fortescue on to another picture, one much damaged, and which was hanging in a bad light between the windows. Kenneth looked at it absently. He spoke about it, but spoke as if he were in a dream.
As they passed that other picture on their way back through the corridor, Kenneth stood and gazed at it again. The likeness seemed to him more striking than before.
"There is no need to look at that one," said the agent; "it isn't damaged at all."
They left the picture gallery, and went down the wide staircase. Kenneth had no excuse for remaining longer. He had obtained the information which he needed for the head office; he would be able to write to London, giving a full account of what he had seen. Why, then, should he linger? What reason could he give for doing so?
The agent was walking with him to the door, when the busy secretary came out of his den.
"Mr. Jones," he said, "the Earl would like to speak to Mr. Fortescue."
Kenneth Fortescue was not naturally a nervous man, and he was not oppressed by the grandeur of the place in which he found himself. He had moved in good society, and he was able to hold his own in whatever company he found himself. The presence of an earl was no more embarrassing to him than the presence of that earl's footman. But if ever a man showed signs of nervousness—if ever a man hung back on the threshold of a room, as if he dare not face the revelation that the next step might bring, that man was Kenneth Fortescue.
But Mr. Montague Jones had preceded him, and he heard himself announced.
"Mr. Fortescue from the Insurance Office is here, my lord."
"Come in, Mr. Fortescue. I want to hear the result of your investigation. I want to know—"
What did Lord Derwentwater want to know? He seemed to have forgotten. He was looking at the representative of the insurance company with a strangely puzzled gaze. Only for a moment, though. In the next, he recovered himself, and began to give an account of the recent fire, and of the damage done by it, and his reasons for demanding so large compensation from the company.
Kenneth Fortescue looked intently at the Earl as he spoke. He wondered, as he did so, if he was looking at his own likeness, not of to-day, but of a quarter of a century hence. The features bore the strongest resemblance, but the hair was white, and the figure far less upright.
As the Earl spoke on, standing with his back to the fireplace, Kenneth stood facing him, apparently listening to his words, and yet in reality hearing nothing of what he was saying. He was looking for something—looking intently and eagerly. Why did the Earl keep his hands behind him? Why did he stand in that position all the time he spoke? How could Kenneth ever discover that which he so much wanted to know?
But at that moment there came bounding into the room a beautiful collie dog, white as snow and with long, silky hair. It ran to the Earl, and looked up into his face. It was his favourite dog, his constant companion. He stooped to pat it as he spoke, and, as Kenneth looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie, he saw at last that for which he had been looking—he saw that the little finger of the Earl's right hand had lost the last joint.