Then, in a moment, he knew what was the missing word in the letter found in the safe; he knew beyond all doubt that he was at that moment standing in the presence of his own father.
WAITING FOR THE ANSWER
"WELL, I do not think we need detain Mr. Fortescue any longer. I want to speak to you for a few moments on another subject, Mr. Montague Jones."
It was the Earl who spoke, and his words roused Kenneth from a feeling almost of faintness which had crept over him, as he looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie. He bowed to the Earl, and at once took his departure. That was not the time to approach the subject on which his thoughts were centred. If he spoke to the Earl, he must speak to him alone, and not in the presence of Mr. Montague Jones; and, moreover, in his present tumult of feeling, he did not feel capable of speaking at all. He required time for thought and reflection.
He walked down the avenue, seeing and hearing nothing. The beautiful scenery was completely lost upon him. He passed through the great gates, hardly noticing the lodge-keeper, who opened them for him.
He went on, not knowing or caring where he was going, having not the least idea what course of action he should take. He wanted to be alone to think.
He found himself at last on a hill covered with Scotch fir trees. He climbed to the top of it, and sat down on a fallen tree. There lay the beautiful old Castle beneath him—his home—the home of which he had been cruelly deprived by the man he had just seen—a man who had no right to the name of father. A great feeling of anger rose up in his heart against this man, who was living in luxury and splendour, whilst his own son was struggling on, obliged to be content with the bare necessaries of life.
How could he ever pardon such heartless conduct? How could he ever forgive his father for his base desertion of him, when he was a helpless infant? His whole nature rose in revolt against such behaviour.
"'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"
Yes, he must forgive even this, if he would be the follower of Him who prayed for those who hung Him on the cross. He pleaded for help from above to enable him to do this, and as he prayed, he grew calmer.
Still he sat on, trying to plan what his next step should be. Should he go to Sheffield and see Mr. Northcourt? Or should he call at the Castle and ask for an interview with the Earl? Yet what if this interview was refused? What if the Earl had noticed the likeness, and, not wishing to own him, would henceforth be on his guard against seeing him again?
At length he determined not to go to the Castle, but to write. He would telegraph to the office that he was unavoidably detained at Eagleton; he would stay at the little village inn that night; he would despatch as soon as possible a letter to the Castle, and would await the Earl's reply. What would be the use of putting the matter in the hands of a lawyer, if his father were willing to own him? Why should their family affairs be brought under the notice of an outsider?
Kenneth returned to the village, sent off his telegram, and went to the Eagleton Arms. Then, after much thought and prayer, he wrote his letter.
He began by recalling to the Earl's memory events which had taken place twenty-five years ago. He reminded him of his early marriage to the girl he loved, of her death in the mining district in South Africa, and of the little boy she had left behind her. He asked him to think of the tiny deserted child, left in the custody of a common miner, with no evidence of his father's care save the money for his education. He then drew a sketch of the life of that child, at Eton and then at Sandhurst; brought up as far as his education was concerned in his proper position, but having as his only reputed relative the poor old miner, who had done all that in his ignorance was possible for him to do, to be a father to him. Then he described the death of that foster-father, and told of the letter that he had left in the safe.
Kenneth was careful to remind the Earl that the old man had faithfully kept the secret during his lifetime, according to his promise; but he told him that he had felt that, in making such a promise, he had done a great injury to the child left in his care; and that, therefore, he had written an account of what had happened in South Africa, and had left it with his will, to be opened and read after his death. Then Kenneth went on to tell the Earl that he was that deserted child, and to inform him that he had stood that day for the first time in his rightful home, and had beheld that day for the first time his own true father. He appealed to the Earl by all the love that he had had for his mother, by all the humanity of his heart, by all his sense of justice and right, to investigate the truth of his claim. He implored him to notice the remarkable resemblance between himself and the picture of the Earl painted when he was a young man, and he entreated him to allow him to come to the Castle again, that they might talk together, and that the Earl might more closely observe that resemblance. He ended his letter by saying that he was anxiously awaiting his reply at the Eagleton Arms, where he should remain until that reply reached him.
It was late in the evening when the letter was finished, but he at once found a messenger and despatched him to the Castle. No sooner did he know that it was in the Earl's hands, than he began restlessly to await the answer. He felt as if he could not sit still a moment. He went outside and paced on the road; he reasoned with himself that no reply could possibly come that night; yet he still looked out for it.
But at length the Eagleton Arms was closing for the night, and he was obliged to give up his watch. He went to bed, but not to sleep. All night he was tossing about, wondering what the morrow would bring.
Then, with daybreak, he was up and out; he stood at the great gates, and looked at the morning light streaming down the avenue. What was that in the distance? Was it some one bringing the expected letter?
No, it was only a gamekeeper early at work, shooting the rabbits which were nibbling the short grass at the edge of the road. He went back to the inn and tried to eat some breakfast; but he felt as if he could not swallow it.
Then he watched again, and at last, at ten o'clock, a messenger came riding along the road from the Castle. He pulled up his horse at the Eagleton Arms.
Yes, he had brought a letter; the coronet was on the envelope.
The landlord was standing at the door. He took the letter and handed it to Kenneth.
"From the Earl," he said, "for you, sir."
Kenneth took the letter to his own room and opened it with trembling fingers. Then he read as follows:
"EAGLETON CASTLE,"October 15."DEAR SIR,"The Earl of Derwentwater requests me to state that he has no knowledge whatever of the subject matter of your letter. There will therefore be no necessity for you to call at the Castle. He regrets that you have been so grossly misinformed."Yours truly,"HAROLD MILROY,"Secretary."
Kenneth Fortescue felt as if he had received a heavy blow. What should be his next step? There seemed no object in remaining at Eagleton any longer. If the Earl flatly denied his claim, all that he could do would be to put the matter at once into Mr. Northcourt's hands.
Accordingly when he reached the railway station, he took a ticket for Sheffield, and arriving there some hours later, he was just in time to catch the old lawyer before he left the office for the night.
They were closeted together for a long time in Mr. Northcourt's private room, and Kenneth gave an account of his visit to the Castle. He told the lawyer of the picture he had seen in the corridor, of his interview with the Earl, and of the convincing proof which he had obtained during that interview, that the Earl was the man mentioned in old Mr. Fortescue's letter, inasmuch as he had noticed that the joint on his right hand was missing, just as Mr. Fortescue had seen and had described.
Then he told Mr. Northcourt how he had written to the Earl, and he showed him the downright denial which the Earl had given in the answer which he had received that morning.
Mr. Northcourt meditated for some time on the case of his client; but the longer he thought of it, the more his legal mind saw great difficulties in the way of substantiating his claim.
There were several questions which would immediately be raised by the other side; questions which, if unanswered, or if answered in an unsatisfactory manner, would most certainly render Mr. Fortescue's claim invalid. Who was his mother—Lord Derwentwater's first wife? They did not even know her name. Where were they married? They had no idea. Were they married at all? They had no proof whatever of the marriage, except the declaration of an old man who was now dead, and who had only stated it on hearsay.
If the marriage had taken place in the neighbourhood of Kimberley, search might have been made for the marriage register; but apparently, according to the letter found in the safe (to which Mr. Northcourt again referred, spreading it out on the table before him), the marriage, if marriage there had been, had taken place before reaching Africa in some place or other where his maternal grandfather had been chaplain; but what that place was, there was nothing in the letter to show, nor probably had old Mr. Fortescue ever known. Altogether it would be a most difficult case to bring forward, and undoubtedly further evidence would have to be obtained before the claim could be satisfactorily substantiated.
So Kenneth Fortescue returned to Birmingham, feeling as if he had been on the very threshold of Elysium, and then had been relentlessly drawn back into a land of toil, anxiety, and privation. It was hard to settle down again to the weary routine of his daily duties; the little back parlour had never seemed so dismal before. He was as far as ever from gaining his proper position in the world, and, whilst matters continued as they were, he saw no prospect of having a home of his own, and therefore no hope of being able to win Marjorie Douglas's love. And Captain Berington had every opportunity of seeing her, and he thought her a most charming girl.
Kenneth Fortescue was in very low spirits during those dark November days that followed. Heavy smoke-laden fogs rested on the city; the gloomy skies were not calculated to cheer him, and he had made no friends in Birmingham to whom he could turn to relieve the monotony of his life.
One Sunday evening he was walking through the muddy streets, which, with their closed shop windows, looked even more dismal than usual, when he heard the sound of a church bell. It was not the great church near his lodgings, and which he usually attended on Sunday. He had walked into a part of the city where he had not been before. It was a small church begrimed outside with smoke, and possessing no beauty within, a plain, unadorned building in a poor part of the city. He thought he would obey the call of the bell and go to the service. Perhaps there would be some word for him there that evening.
The clergyman was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, not attractive in appearance, and his voice was certainly not melodious. But he had got his message straight from his Master, and Kenneth Fortescue had been sent to receive that message.
The words of the text fell upon his heart like the soothing touch of a cool, loving hand upon the fevered brow.
"'O tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord.'" (Psalm xxvii. 14, Prayer-book version.)
Then came the simple sermon, devoid of all oratory, free from any attempt at grandiloquent language, as he urged his hearers to take the text as their watchword during the coming week. Each had his secret care; let him turn that care into earnest prayer. Then, having done that, let him wait patiently. God was sure to answer; but the answer must come in God's own time. Prayer cannot be lost; but we must not try to hasten God's hand; we must tarry the Lord's leisure. Then, doing that, we shall be strong and comforted.
The preacher ended with a verse, of which each member of the congregation was given a copy on leaving the church. That verse was always kept by Kenneth Fortescue as one of his greatest treasures:—
"Oh, tarry and be strong;Tell God in prayerWhat is thy hidden grief,Thy secret care.Yet, if no answer come,Pray on and wait:God's time is always best;Never too late."
A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY
CHRISTMAS was now drawing near, and the Birmingham streets were as busy as on that day, two years before, when Captain Fortescue had seen Lady Violet at the door of the jeweller's shop in the Arcade. He wondered whether she was better, and if Marjorie Douglas had returned home.
He had saved fifty pounds during the year, and, two days before Christmas, he sent it to Mrs. Douglas with a short note, in which he said that he hoped they were well, and wished them all a very happy Christmas. He put another sentence in the letter, asking if Miss Douglas was at home for Christmas; but after he had written it, he thought it had better not be inserted. He tore the letter up, and wrote another.
On Christmas Day, an answer arrived. Mrs. Douglas thanked him very warmly for the money he had sent; it was far too much for him to have saved in so short a time. She feared that he was denying himself comforts which he ought to have, and had she not feared to grieve him by so doing, she should have returned the cheque. Not liking to do this, lest he should think her ungrateful, she could only urge him most earnestly not to attempt to send her so large a sum the following year. She was glad to tell him they were all at home, and quite well, and they united in wishing him every blessing and good wish for Christmas and the New Year.
Captain Fortescue was sitting in the old armchair by the fire in his room, reading this letter for about the tenth time, when Mrs. Hall came in to lay the table for dinner. She had insisted on his having "something decent to eat" (as she expressed it) on Christmas Day, and had cajoled him into the extravagance of allowing her to buy a chicken for his dinner. She had cooked it with great care, and now brought it in triumphantly and put it on the table.
"There's a beauty, sir, if ever there was one, and I've made some good bread sauce, and the greens are nice and fresh; I got them in the market yesterday, and there's some fine brown gravy."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hall; you take good care of me. I shall get spoilt if I stop here much longer!"
"Bless you no, sir! You'll never be spoilt, not, while my name's Mary Ann Hall—that you won't."
"Perhaps you are thinking of changing your name, Mrs. Hall?"
"Changing it! No, sir; catch me changing of it—not if I knows it. I've had one husband, and that's enough for me!"
Whether this was a compliment to the late Mr. Hall, Kenneth did not know. His landlady bustled out of the room, glad to think that her lodger would enjoy himself for once in his life. She had asked his permission to buy the chicken, but the plum pudding, which followed it, she had ventured to make without having received leave beforehand. He would only have said, "No, Mrs. Hall; I couldn't really eat anything more, even if you were to make it." Knowing that he would say this, Mrs. Hall had made her pudding without authority, and carried it in with great delight, a brown, well-boiled Christmas pudding, bristling with numberless almond spikes, like a porcupine covered with quills.
"There, sir!"
"Mrs. Hall! Mrs. Hall! What am I to do to you? You'll ruin me one of these days."
"Nonsense, sir. You'll never be ruined by a bit of Christmas pudding. Eat it while it's hot, sir. It's sickly-like when it's cold."
Kenneth had just finished this Christmas dinner, when there came a loud ring at the bell. Mrs. Hall went to the door, and presently returned with a yellow envelope in her hand.
"A telegram, sir! It went to the office, but the boy found it closed, and the caretaker sent him on here."
Kenneth took it from her, and opened it without any feeling of surprise or curiosity. Telegrams often came to the office, and he had left word that, in his absence, they were to be sent on to his lodgings. But when he saw the words on the pink paper inside, he started, and turned so pale that Mrs. Hall, who was waiting at the door to see if he wished to send an answer, could not help noticing it.
"Not bad news, I hope, sir?" she said.
"I hardly know, Mrs. Hall. Ask the boy for a form; I must send an answer."
It was a very short reply, soon written and quickly despatched—
"Coming immediately."
The telegram was addressed to, "Milroy, The Castle, Eagleton."
When the boy had been dismissed, Kenneth looked at the pink paper again. It simply contained these words—
"The Earl is ill—wishes to see you as soon as possible."
He got out his Bradshaw, and found that, being Christmas Day, there was only one train by which he could go, as the trains were running as on Sunday. There was no time to lose, for he must be in New Street in three quarters of an hour.
He made his preparations forthwith, hastily packing his hand-bag. He told Mrs. Hall that he had been summoned to a relative who was ill, and he managed to arrive on Platform 5 a few minutes before the train was due.
During the journey his thoughts were very busy. What would he find on his arrival? Had the Lord's leisure, for which he had been trying to wait patiently, at last arrived? He had trusted the matter to higher care than his own. Was that trust now to be rewarded?
It was late at night when he reached North Eaton. There was no 'bus to meet the train, and no cab could be obtained. However, after he had walked a little way along the dark road, he saw the lights of a carriage coming to meet him. It stopped when it came up to him, and the coachman, bending down to speak to him, said—
"Beg pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Fortescue?"
Kenneth having replied in the affirmative, he said:
"My lord gave orders that the carriage was to meet the last train. I'm sorry I'm late, sir."
Kenneth stepped into the carriage, and felt as if he were acting it all in a dream. He heard the gates opened by the lodge-keeper, then it grew darker as they drove beneath the overhanging branches of the oaks in the avenue. Now he knew that they were coming out into the open park; he could see the stars shining through the trees, and there was the moon rising behind the plantation on the other side of the lake. He knew that he was getting very near now, and his heart beat quickly at the thought. What reception would he have? What would he find when he entered the old Castle?
The carriage stopped before the great door; there was no need to ring. They were evidently expecting him, listening for the first sound of the carriage wheels, for the door was thrown open immediately. He was ushered into the library, the same magnificent room in which he had seen the Earl, the room in which the Earl's hand had rested on the head of the white collie.
The dog was there, lying before the fire. He got up and ran eagerly forward when the door was opened, but drew back disappointed when he saw a stranger enter, and threw himself despairingly on the tiger-skin rug.
In a few moments Mr. Milroy, the secretary, came in.
"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Fortescue; we have been longing for you to arrive."
"Would you mind telling me why you have sent for me? I have heard nothing as yet."
"The Earl is very ill, Mr. Fortescue, dangerously ill, I may say. We have two doctors in the house now; one or other has been here night and day the whole of the last week. To-night both are here."
"What is the matter with him?"
"It is the heart. I suppose he has had heart disease for a long time, so the doctors say, and every now and then he has a most alarming attack. He had an awful one the day after you were here last. We had to wire for Sir Lawrence Taylor at once, and he thought his condition then most critical. He fancied that the excitement caused by the fire had brought on the attack. However, they consider that he has been much worse this time."
"Does he want to see me?"
"Yes, indeed he does. In fact, he will give himself no rest at all until he has seen you."
"Do you know why?"
"I haven't the least idea. Perhaps you know, Mr. Fortescue."
"How should I know?"
"Did you not send the Earl a letter when you were here last? I remember writing an answer at his dictation. Now, whatever that letter of yours contained, I should imagine would be the reason of his wishing to see you now."
At this moment Sir Lawrence Taylor entered, and Mr. Milroy introduced Mr. Fortescue to him.
"The earl wishes to see you at once, Mr. Fortescue. It was quite against my judgment that he should see any one. Perfect quiet is essential for him, but I find that we shall have no hope of allaying the present alarming symptoms until he has had the interview upon which he insists. Will you, therefore, be so good as to follow me to his room?"
The doctor led the way, and Kenneth followed him.
They ascended the great staircase and went into a large bedroom, the mullioned windows of which looked out towards the front of the Castle. The bed was draped in costly Oriental silk hangings, and beneath these, and propped up by so many pillows that he was sitting more than lying, Kenneth saw the Earl. Two nurses were in attendance, and a doctor was sitting beside him with his finger on his pulse.
The Earl looked up eagerly as the door was opened, and Kenneth went forward and stood by the bed.
"My lord, you sent for me," he said, gently.
Lord Derwentwater motioned to Sir Lawrence Taylor to come near him. Then Kenneth heard him say in an agitated whisper—
"I must be alone with him. Tell them all to go out."
"My lord, you must promise me not to exert yourself more than is actually necessary."
"I will promise anything, only leave us alone."
At a word from Sir Lawrence Taylor, the nurses left the room at once, the two doctors followed them, and closed the door behind them.
As soon as they were gone, the Earl held out his arms to Kenneth, who was standing motionless by his bed.
"My son—my dear boy, come to me! Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me for the way in which I have treated you?"
Kenneth came close to his father, and the Earl put his arms round him and kissed him. He had refused to kiss him when he was about to forsake him, a poor, helpless, motherless babe; but now the kiss, so long withheld, was given, and the father's tears fell fast, as Kenneth knelt down by his bed and took hold of his hand.
"Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me?" the Earl repeated feebly.
"Freely—fully," said Kenneth, as he remembered the words with which he had that morning concluded his prayer, "'As we forgive them which trespass against us.'"
"I do not even know your name," said the Earl, piteously.
"Kenneth, my lord."
"Don't call me that," he said, impatiently. "I loved your mother, Kenneth."
"Tell me about her, father."
"Her name was Mirabel. She was the only one I ever really loved; her father's name was De Sainte Croix. He was of Huguenot descent, and was chaplain in Hyères when I was there. We were married at Hyères. Kenneth, I have written a statement, which will be quite sufficient, should I die, to put you in your right place. My lawyer was here yesterday. I made him read it through, and I signed it in his presence. The marriage certificate is with it, so there can be no difficulty about that."
"Thank you, father, for doing all this."
"Don't thank me," he said; "it's justice—common justice. It's what ought to have been done long ago. I can never make up to you for what is past. Who saw that letter, Kenneth?"
"What letter?"
"The one old Tomkins left in the safe. Some one must have got hold of that letter."
"How do you know that, father?"
"I know it because I have had threatening letters, anonymous ones at first, just vague hints of what might be done. But, after several of these had come, I had a mysterious visitor. He waylaid me one evening when I was walking in the shrubbery. I could not see his face well, he wore a long coat, and his collar was turned up, and feel sure that he was wearing a sham beard and moustache. He told me that he knew something in my past life, unknown to the world at large; he said that he had met a man whom he knew to be my son, born in South Africa, not far from Kimberley; and then he informed me that, if I did not give him a large sum of money, he would at once disclose my desertion of that son, and cause my secret to be known to the world.
"Kenneth, I never knew till then that you were alive. You were such a small, sickly child, that I had no thought or expectation of your living more than a few months at most. Then I did know, but not till then. The man waited for my answer, and I told him to come again to the same place at midnight. I went in to consider what I should do. The Countess was alive then, and I dare not let her know how I had deceived her. She would never have married me, had she known that I had a son; for her great desire had been to have a child to inherit my title and both our estates. But how could I, after all those years, let her know that I had deceived her? She was a hot-tempered woman, and there would have been an awful scene. So, like the coward that I was, I wrote the cheque, and gave it to him under the deep shadow of the great chestnut tree near the lake."
"Did you ever see him again, father?"
"Twice again, and each time he demanded a larger sum. At last I told him that I declined to give him another farthing, until he revealed the source of his information, and brought some proof of the truth of his statements; and from that day to this I have never seen or heard of him. Do you know who he is, Kenneth, and how he got to know?"
Kenneth gave his father the history of Watson, and of the disappearance of the letter from the safe, and then he told him what Marjorie had heard from the old woman in whose house at Daisy Bank the letter had been found.
"That explains it all, Kenneth. Now that brings us to the time of the fire and your visit to the Castle. When you came into the library that day, I saw the strong likeness to myself at once. I knew you must be my son. At one moment I thought I would send Montague Jones away, and would tell you the truth; at the next my heart failed me. What would the county families round think of my behaviour? What a revelation of cowardice and injustice it would be to the servants and tenants! How it would lower me in the estimation of every one I knew! Then your letter came, Kenneth, telling me facts which I knew to be true, leaving no room for speculation or doubt.
"You will wonder that my heart was not touched by it; I wonder at it myself. But I hardened my heart against you. I dared not lose the good opinion of my friends. Above all, I dared not tell Kenmore, my half-brother. He considers himself my heir; he prides himself upon it. I have been told that he has already planned how to alter and improve the park and gardens when I am gone. He does not care for me, nor I for him; but I felt that I could not bear the storm which this revelation would raise. But since then—that was in October, was it not?"
"Yes, father, the fourteenth of October."
"Since then I have been miserable, utterly wretched. I have felt sometimes as if Mirabel, my pretty little bride, came in my dreams to reproach me with the way I had treated her child. So I began to write the statement I have told you of; it is here, Kenneth, in this large envelope under my pillow. Take it, my boy; we will have no tampering with this letter. Keep it under lock and key, and never let it go out of your possession. I wrote it, Kenneth, and then I thought I would leave it with my lawyer, to be opened after my death. Cowardly again, wasn't it? But then this heart attack came on, and, Kenneth, something tells me that the next one will be my last. The doctors seem to be warding off the fatal consequences of this one, but another may seize me at any moment. And then, when I knew that, and began to face death, and thought of standing before my judge, my heart failed me. Of all the sins of my guilty life, I feel that this desertion of my own child has been the worst. And so I sent for you, and you say you forgive me."
"I do, father, indeed I do."
"Thank you, Kenneth; it's more than I deserve. I wish I could know that I had Divine forgiveness too, but I'm afraid that is out of the question now; it is too late for that."
"It is never too late, father; you forget how God longs and yearns to forgive us. He wants to forgive far more than we want to be forgiven. Why, He wants it so much that He sent His own Son to die for us, that He might be able to forgive us. You see He couldn't have forgiven us otherwise, for it wouldn't have been just. He is obliged to punish sin."
"Go on, Kenneth; I know it all in a way, but I want to see it clearly now."
"Well, you see, He let His Son be punished instead of us, so that when we come to Him He might be just, and yet able to forgive us. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un-righteousness.'"
It was the same verse which Marjorie had repeated to old Mrs. Hotchkiss, and the simple words, which comforted the heart of the poor ignorant old woman in Daisy Bank who could neither read nor write, now brought peace and a sense of pardon to the highly-cultured and refined nobleman. He grasped Kenneth's hand as he said—
"I will rest on those words, Kenneth, 'faithful and just.' Now I am afraid you must call the nurses. Get some dinner, and rest, and come to me again in the morning."
He grasped his hand warmly as he said goodnight, and Kenneth opened the door and admitted the doctor. He was leaving the room when his father called him back.
"Sir Lawrence Taylor, may I introduce my son to you—the future Earl?"
Sir Lawrence looked in astonishment at Kenneth, who was standing by the door; the nurses, who had followed the doctor into the room, also looked round in the utmost surprise.
"It is true, Sir Lawrence; this is my son. I have not seen him for twenty-five years, but before you all—" (he looked round at the nurses) "I own him as my lawful son and heir. I have sinned against him in the past, but from this day he shall take his proper and rightful place here. Good night, Kenneth; I must rest now."
Was the Earl wandering? Was the brain weakened as well as the heart? No, he was quite collected and calm. Moreover, they had only to glance at Kenneth standing by, with the signs of deep emotion on his face, and then to look from him to the Earl lying prostrate with exhaustion after the effort he had made; they had only to compare the two faces, to feel convinced that the words he had spoken were not the expression of some fancy of the wandering brain of delirium, but were, on the contrary, the sober words of truth and of justice.
A footman had been standing at the door with a tray in his hand, waiting to bring in beef-tea, which the nurses had ordered. He heard what was said by the Earl, and, needless to say, the news spread rapidly through the Castle. In the housekeeper's room, in the servants' hall, the strange tidings were eagerly discussed, and the stately butler, who came to the library soon afterwards, was the first to address Kenneth by the lawful title, of which he had been deprived during twenty-five years of his life.
"Dinner is served in the dining-room, my lord."
ANOTHER CHAPTER CLOSED
SEVERAL months had gone by since that Christmas night on which Lord Derwentwater had acknowledged his son and heir, and Kenneth was now sitting once more in the little back parlour of Mrs. Hall's house, 156, Lime Street, Birmingham.
Those months had been most eventful ones, and he could hardly believe that the time he had been away had not been longer. Now, he had come to Birmingham to pack up his belongings, and to finally close his connection with the insurance company. He had been unable to leave Eagleton Castle before; his father had been loth to spare him even for a day. All the love which had been denied him for twenty-five years seemed to have accumulated, and was poured out upon him during the short time which they spent together. The Earl could hardly bear to lose sight of him even for an hour, and Kenneth devoted himself to his father, and was an unspeakable comfort and help to him in countless different ways.
Kenneth had the joy of knowing that the Earl was clinging with childlike faith to the Saviour of sinners, and that he was resting all his hopes on the finished work of Christ. He had passed away from earth, holding Kenneth's hand, only three weeks ago, and his very last words had been those which had first brought him comfort and peace: "'Faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"
But Kenneth's first fortnight in the home of his ancestors had been an exceedingly stormy one. Lord Kenmore, on receipt of a letter from the Earl informing him of the existence of his son, had appeared on the scenes extremely indignant, and determined to vigorously contest Kenneth's claim. All his life he had believed himself to be the heir to the Derwentwater title and estates. His elder brother was married, certainly, but he had no family, and he therefore saw no prospect whatever of anything occurring to militate against his succession. He had told Lady Earlswood what his prospects were, and, on the strength of them, she had given her consent to her daughter's engagement. The estate which he had inherited through his mother was comparatively a small one, the rent-roll was a mere bagatelle, when compared with that of Eagleton.
And now, just when Lady Violet was recovering from her accident, when the date of their wedding was once more fixed, when all their arrangements were made, and when everything seemed going well, this letter from the Earl had arrived, informing him that a son of his, ignored and disowned for twenty-five years, had turned up, had been received and welcomed, and was now to inherit his title and estates.
The story appeared to Lord Kenmore to be simply incredible; he could not bring himself to believe that it was founded on fact; he would not, even for a moment, accept such a ridiculous statement, even though he had it in the Earl's own handwriting. His brother's repeated heart attacks, which rendered his life so uncertain, had made him, not unnaturally, calculate upon a speedy succession to the glories of Eagleton Castle. Was it likely then that he would meekly submit to being disinherited, or would allow without a hard struggle that those glories would never be his own?
Thus Lord Kenmore drove up to the Castle in a towering passion, marched past the footman and butler, walked imperiously upstairs, and demanded an interview with the Earl immediately.
When the doctors told him that this was impossible until the next day, as the Earl was extremely weak that evening and must be kept perfectly quiet, he was more angry still; and when he discovered, from the servants, that the impostor, as he called him, was at that very time sitting in the Earl's bedroom, to which he was admitted at all hours of the day and night, his indignation knew no bounds. He utterly declined to take the slightest notice of Kenneth or even to see him. He ordered dinner to be served in his own room, as he did not choose to sit down with the man who had supplanted him, and he went to bed that night determined to fight to the last for what he chose to call his lawful rights.
But the following day, Lord Kenmore was admitted to the Earl's presence, and going into the room he found the family lawyer sitting by the bedside. On a table before him lay the indisputable proofs of the marriage and of the child's birth, and bit by bit the lawyer, who was the spokesman on the occasion, showed Lord Kenmore that, if he attempted to establish his claim in a court of law, he would simply incur great and needless expense, for he would be perfectly certain to lose his case.
"I'm sorry, very sorry, Kenmore, that you have been kept in ignorance of this so long," said the Earl, "and I feel very much for you in your disappointment; but I must do justice to my own son."
Thus the interview ended, and Lord Kenmore, still only half convinced, ordered the carriage, and drove away from the Castle, without having even met the nephew who had taken his place.
He wrote many angry letters after his return home, but after taking further legal advice, he was at last compelled to own, sorely against his will, that nothing could be done to reverse the ill-luck which had fallen upon him.
There was great consternation at Grantley Castle when the news arrived there. Lady Earlswood felt that Lady Violet's prospects were now far below her expectations. Had she known that Lord Kenmore was a comparatively poor man, she would never have consented to the engagement. However, now it was too late to draw back, and she must hope to find a better settlement for her younger daughter. Perhaps this son of Lord Derwentwater might be eligible; he was a young man, and she gathered from Kenmore's letter that he was unmarried. She had no idea who he was. Lord Kenmore told her that he had been born in Africa, and that he thought he had turned up from some place abroad. Never for a moment did either she or her daughters connect him with the son of the rich miner whom they had discarded two years ago, and whom they now supposed to be earning his living somehow or other in a very humble manner. Captain Berington had not mentioned his meeting with Kenneth, and they had heard nothing of him since the day that he left Grantley Castle.
When, some time after, the news of the death of Earl Derwentwater reached her, Lady Earlswood at once determined to cultivate the new Earl's acquaintance. He must most certainly be invited to the wedding. He was Kenmore's nearest relative, and, although she knew that her future son-in-law was angry with him at present, he must be made to see the importance of a reconciliation with his brother before the grand event took place. Lady Maude was still an unappropriated blessing, and who could tell whether she might not have a chance of gaining the title which her sister had unfortunately lost?
During the latter part of the Earl's life, he and his son had been left in peaceful enjoyment of each other's society. He recovered from his severe illness to a great extent, and was able to be moved daily on to a couch in his own room; but on the fourteenth of March another heart attack had occurred, more violent than any of those which had preceded it, and in the space of a few hours he had passed away.
Lord Kenmore would not even come to his brother's funeral, and uncle and nephew had therefore never met.
Now Kenneth had at last been able to leave the Castle, and had come to Birmingham to wind up his affairs there, and was therefore sitting to write his letters in his old place in Mrs. Hall's dismal little room. She was very sorry to lose her lodger, and told him that she would never have another like him. He had paid her in full for all the time he had been away, and had delighted her heart by the present of a new carpet and some pretty furniture to adorn her little room.
"Well, now, to be sure, if ever there was a gentleman, he's one!" she would say to her friends.
Kenneth, as he sat at the table in the window, was writing a letter to Mrs. Douglas. If we had looked over his shoulder, we should have seen that it ran thus:
"156, Lime Street, Birmingham,"April 3."DEAR MRS. DOUGLAS,"I am hoping to have the pleasure of calling upon you some time next week. I was so charmed with the peep I had of Borrowdale two years ago, that I am planning a little holiday in your beautiful neighbourhood, and I think of making the comfortable inn at Rosthwaite my headquarters during the time I am in Cumberland."I am glad to be able to tell you that I am receiving more money this year, and therefore hope that my next remittance will be a somewhat larger one."With kind regards,"Yours sincerely,"KENNETH FORTESCUE."
He read this letter through several times after he had written it. He had purposely addressed it from his old lodging in Birmingham. He had carefully concealed his present position. Had she not said, "I rather hope you are not a lord; you would seem so much less our friend."
Why, then, should he tell her? He would go unattended, as the poor man he had been when she saw him last; then she would feel that no wide social gulf had come between them. He had no fear of her discovering otherwise who he was; even Kenmore would never connect him with the Captain Fortescue of whom he might possibly have heard at Grantley Castle. In the Earl's statement, his foster-father had been called by his proper name, Tomkins; the name Fortescue had not even been mentioned. So that Kenneth felt sure that his secret was safe, and he hoped that therefore he would not seem "so much less their friend."
He had to spend two days in Birmingham winding up his accounts, and at the end of them, he received Mrs. Douglas's answer. She told him that she was glad to get his letter, and that they would all be very pleased to see him again in Borrowdale.
Kenneth hoped from this letter that he might find them all at home. He had had a letter from Captain Berington at Christmas, in which he told him that Violet was quite well again, and that he was sorry to say that Miss Douglas was leaving. He wondered whether Marjorie had by this time undertaken any other work. He could not help hoping that she was included in the all in her mother's letter.
When at last his packing was finished, Mrs. Hall took an affectionate farewell of her lodger. He told her that he would like to hear now and again how she got on, and he would therefore give her his future address. He handed her his card, and when she had glanced at it she turned quite pale.
"Who's this, sir?" she said. "This isn't your name!"
"It is, Mrs. Hall—my very own."
"But you're not an earl, surely!"
"Yes, I am, Mrs. Hall."
"Deary me! And I've waited on you and scolded you when you wouldn't get better dinners. I'm fair scared, sir!"
Kenneth laughed at her dismay.
"Never mind, Mrs. Hall," he said, shaking hands with her at parting. "You've been a good friend to me, and I shall never forget your kindness."
"To think of that!" Mrs. Hall would say to her friends. "I've waited on a real live earl! I'm not half proud!"
WATENDLATH FORGET-ME-NOT
BORROWDALE is beautiful at every season of the year. The summer sunshine lights up its purple, heather-covered heights; the autumn tints make the wood in its hollows ablaze with orange and red; and the winter snows give it a grand and Alpine appearance.
But the hand of spring, after all, lavishes most loveliness upon Borrowdale. It covers it with a carpet of primroses, it draws through its woods a pale-blue lining of wild hyacinths, it makes its fields into cloth of gold with buttercups; whilst the fresh green of the silver birch, the bursting buds of the chestnuts, the countless signs in every flower, bush, and tree of awakening resurrection life, combine to make the whole valley a perfect fairyland.
So Marjorie Douglas thought, as she set out that spring morning, and began to climb the hill behind Fern Bank, in order that she might pay her weekly visit to one of her favourite old women. Her heart was as full of brightness as the spring day, for was not this the week in which Captain Fortescue had said he was coming to Rosthwaite? She had not seen him for a year and a half, and had heard nothing of him, save those two short notes which he had written to her mother. Evidently he had never yet discovered the missing word in the letter, for he was still living in Birmingham, in that dismal little house in Lime Street.
She was glad that he was going to have a little holiday from his hard work. She was pleased to think that Borrowdale would look its very loveliest when he arrived, and she knew that her mother would be glad to see him and to have a talk with him again.
As for herself—well, perhaps, she would be glad too.
The path led her through a copse wood where the primroses were a sight to see, and then, as she went higher still, she came upon a rough mountain road. She followed this for some way, and, after a stiff climb over the moorland, she came to the little hamlet of Watendlath, which nestles in a hollow amongst the hills. A more picturesque place could scarcely be found; the few white farmhouses and small thatched cottages stand by the side of a quiet mountain tarn, and are reflected in its still waters; the little village seems completely shut off from the world by the mountains which surround it.
Old Sarah Grisedale lived in a cottage at a little distance from the lake. She was a tall, thin old woman, active, in spite of her great age, and still able to walk over the mountain to church, and to climb the steep hill again without even the help of a stick.
Marjorie had a long chat with her old friend, sitting in her usual place on a three-legged wooden stool in front of the peat fire, and then she emptied her basket of the good things she had brought for her, and went on to an ancient farmhouse standing just above the tarn, that she might buy some eggs which her mother had asked her to get there. Several dogs ran out barking when she drew near; but they knew Marjorie well, and were quiet as soon as she spoke to them.
The old farmhouse has stood in this secluded spot for many hundreds of years, and its low ceilings, oak panelling, heavy wooden beams, deep chimney corners, and carved cupboards are all relics of the days of long ago.
When Marjorie left the farm, she crossed the little bridge over the stream running into the mountain tarn, and as she did so, she noticed that growing by the edge of the water was a quantity of large blue forget-me-not. She climbed down the bank to the water and gathered the blue flowers, and then sat down on the grass to pull off the wet roots which had come up as she plucked it, and to arrange the flowers in her basket above the eggs.
As she did so, sitting by the side of the rushing brook and hearing nothing but its noisy babbling, she was startled by feeling something bounce against her arm. It was a large white collie, which had come bounding down the steep bank, and which now lay down beside her, putting its paws on her knees.
"O you beauty, you lovely fellow!" said Marjorie, as she stroked the dog's head. "Where have you come from, and whose dog are you?"
She was not left long in doubt on this point, for the dog's master was close at hand. She heard a voice behind her, a voice she knew well.
"Miss Douglas, I've found you at last."
"Captain Fortescue! How did you know I was here?"
"I called at Fernbank, and Mrs. Douglas told me you had come up the hill, so Laddie and I came in search of you."
He climbed down the bank and took her hand in his.
A piece of forget-me-not fell at his feet as Marjorie got up to speak to him. He picked it up and asked, "Is it for me?"
"If you like," she said in a low voice.
"I expect you thought I had forgotten you," he said; "but there is no need to give me the little blue flower, I assure you, Miss Douglas. I have never forgotten you. I never could forget what you did for me the last time I saw you."
"And yet it was all of no use," she said sadly.
"Don't say that. Who can tell? That letter may yet prove to be a most important link in the chain. What a lovely place this is! Shall we sit here and talk a little? It is so quiet and beautiful."
They sat down on the rocky bank, and the collie laid his chin on Marjorie's arm and gazed up into her face.
"Tell me what you have been doing the last eighteen months, Miss Douglas."
She told him of Mr. Holtby's death, and how they had all left Daisy Bank.
"Yes," he said, "I went there one day to see you, and found you gone."
"Did you? I wish I had known!"
"Why? Oh, I see. You thought I had forgotten. Well, where did you go next?"
"I went to some friends of yours, very great friends, I believe. I was companion to Lady Violet Berington."
She glanced doubtfully at him as she said this, as though she wondered whether the mention of the name would give him pain, but she was reassured by his face. There was no trace of anything in it but great interest in her story.
"I wonder how you found out that I knew them."
"I saw your photograph in Lady Violet's book."
"Yes, in the Riviera. I remember I was taken with her a great many times."
"And I thought—"
"What did you think?"
"You will laugh when I tell you! I thought you were Lord Kenmore."
"Kenmore, of all people on earth! Why did you think that?"
"I knew that Lady Violet was engaged to Lord Kenmore, and I thought that perhaps Kenmore was the missing word which we tried to read in the letter."
"I see. And you thought Lady Violet and I seemed very much together in the photos? I understand now. Have you seen Lord Kenmore?"
"Yes, once; he came to see Lady Violet, and I went into the room expecting to see you. I had followed him up the avenue, and he looked exactly like you in the distance. Have you ever met him, Captain Fortescue?"
"Never."
"His figure is really very like yours, and his hair and the way he walks—really very much alike; but his face is quite different."
"Were you glad or sorry when you found that I was not Lord Kenmore?"
Marjorie did not answer, and he repeated the question; but she was busily throwing the forget-me-not flowers on the water, and watching them float under the bridge, and still she did not speak.
"How long were you at Grantley Castle, Miss Douglas?"
"I left at Christmas. Lady Violet was quite well then."
"Were you sorry to leave?"
"Yes, in some ways; it's a lovely place, and they were really very good to me, all of them. I think, I am sure Lady Violet would have liked me to stay a few months longer, to help her in the preparations for her wedding; but—"
"But what?"
"Well, I fancy Lady Earlswood was anxious that I should not stop longer. Captain Fortescue, do you know Captain Berington?"
"Yes, of course I do; we were at Sandhurst together."
Marjorie stopped, as if she did not like to say more.
"Please go on, Miss Douglas. What about Captain Berington?"
"Well," she said, "perhaps I ought not to say it, especially as you know him, but I rather think it was on his account that Lady Earlswood wanted me to leave."
"Why on his account?"
"Well, he was very kind to me, and when I went for my afternoon walk in the park, he often happened to be going in the same direction. I couldn't help it, could I? But I think Lady Earlswood thought I could; and it was rather uncomfortable, you see, so I was glad to get away."
"Really glad?"
"Yes, really glad. It was so very awkward. I did not want him to come, but he always seemed to turn up wherever I went, and I did not know what to do."
"So you came home at Christmas?"
"Yes, on Christmas Eve."
"Have you heard from any of them since?"
"Only once. I had a letter from Lady Violet a few weeks after I left, saying there was some disturbance about Lord Kenmore's property, or rather the property which he expected to get at his brother's death, and she was afraid he would be robbed of what rightfully belonged to him; but she did not say what the trouble was, nor who wanted to rob him. That was in January, and I have never heard since."
"Not from any of them?"
"Oh no. Now, will you tell me what you have been doing?"
"Well, things have brightened a bit for me. As I told Mrs. Douglas in my letter, I am better off than I was. I am leaving Mrs. Hall."
"Poor Mrs. Hall!"
"Yes, she seems sorry to lose me, good old soul!"
"Where are you going to live? At the other end of Birmingham?"
"No, quite out in the country."
"Not the Daisy Bank way?" she said, laughing.
"No, north of Birmingham."
"I'm so glad you will be in the country! I love the country, and it will be so restful for you after your hard work in the city."
"Yes, I hope it will; I feel sure it will."
"What is the name of the place?"
"North Eaton."
"Have you got nice lodgings there?"
"No, I am not going into lodgings again. I am going to start housekeeping."
"Housekeeping! Have you got a house?"
"Yes, I have got a house. I have had one for a few weeks now."
"Is there a garden?"
"A very nice garden; and the house is—well, rather a nice house, I think. It only wants one thing. Marjorie dear, can you not guess what that one thing is?"
She was bending over Laddie, so that he could not see her face.
"Can you guess, Marjorie?"
She shook her head.
"You can't guess?" he whispered, as he took hold of the hand which was stroking Laddie's head. "Then I shall be obliged to tell you; Marjorie darling, it wants you!"
THE MISSING WORD FOUND
IT was a lovely morning in June, and the little village of Rosthwaite was all astir, and filled with pleasurable excitement. Some were standing at their doors; others were looking out of their windows; from many a farm on the hillside, from many a lonely cottage, people were coming in little groups towards the church; the whole place, so quiet at other times, was filled with life and movement. Work was laid aside, every one was in holiday attire, for it was Marjorie Douglas's wedding-day.
Every one loved her; she had grown-up amongst them from childhood; she had gone in and out amongst them as a friend, and they were loth to part with her. But on her wedding-day, they must not think of that; she must see none but bright faces. Old Mary had hobbled on her stick all the way from Seatoller; Sarah Grisedale had come down from the mountains, and had waited an hour in the churchyard before the time of the wedding; and many another whom Marjorie had cheered and comforted was to be found in the little church, to pray for a blessing on the fair young bride.
The wedding was by licence; and the Vicar, at the bridegroom's dictation, had filled up the required information in the register before the arrival of the bridal party. Only two people knew what name was written there, above the name of Marjorie Douglas. The clergyman knew, of course, for he had written the words; and Mrs. Douglas knew. Kenneth had told her the night before. Marjorie herself had no idea, as yet, of the future that lay before her, or of the name which would that day become hers.
It was a very pretty though quiet wedding; and as Mrs. Douglas heard Kenneth's manly voice saying, in tones of deepest feeling:
"I, Kenneth, take thee, Marjorie, to my wedded wife," she felt that she was giving her child to one whom she could fully trust, one who was not only a kind and honourable man, but who was, above all things, a true servant of the Lord Jesus Christ.
Then came the signing of the names in the marriage registers. Mrs. Douglas was talking to Marjorie whilst Kenneth signed both books, and then the clergyman called her to write her name below. He had placed the blotting-paper over the upper line on which Kenneth's name stood.
"Do you mind leaving it there, Marjorie?" he said. "I am very particular about the neatness of my registers, and the lace on your sleeve may blot it."
Marjorie laughed, and wrote her name without removing the blotting-paper which covered the entry above. Then the books were closed, and the bridal party drove to Fernbank, amidst the cheers and good wishes of the villagers.
About an hour afterwards, Colonel Verner's carriage stood at the gate, waiting to convey the bride and bridegroom to Keswick station, and Kenneth and Marjorie came down the pretty garden, followed by the whole family, including good old Dorcas. Then the last good-byes were said, and they drove off; but at the bridge Kenneth stopped the carriage; he had forgotten his stick, he said.
He soon returned with it; but Marjorie did not know that he had purposely left it behind, in order that he might be able to slip a small envelope into her mother's hand. And when Mrs. Douglas opened it, after the carriage had driven away, she found that it contained a cheque for four thousand pounds.
The honeymoon was not to be a long one; only a fortnight in Scotland amidst the beauties of the Northern Highlands. Kenneth was anxious to get back to Eagleton, for he had much to arrange there, and Marjorie was eager to see her new home.
She asked many questions about it during their wedding tour.
For example: "Would all be ready when they arrived?"
"Oh yes; the servants were there."
"Servants! Would they be able to afford to keep two? Would it not be too extravagant?"
He could not help smiling when she said this, and had nearly let his secret out.
"Wait till you get home, Marjorie," he said, "and if you then think it is too many, we can send one away."
At another time she wanted to know how many rooms there were in the house, and what it was like. He told her that he was a bad hand at describing places; she would see when she got there.
"Is it a large house?"
"Larger than Mrs. Hall's."
"As big as Fernbank?"
"Yes, he thought it was quite as big as Fernbank."
And so the happy fortnight passed away, and the day arrived on which they were to return home.
"First-class tickets again. How extravagant you are, Kenneth!" she said, as they got into the train.
"One isn't married every day, Marjorie, and this is our honeymoon, remember."
"We are getting near North Eaton, Marjorie," said Kenneth, some hours after. "I think it is the next station."
Marjorie looked eagerly out of the window. "What lovely country!" she said. "I am so glad it is such a pretty place."
"The train is slowing down now, Marjorie."
"Oh, Kenneth, there is such a beautiful carriage waiting at the station, with a pair of lovely cream-coloured horses!"
"Very likely. There are several large estates in the neighbourhood."
A footman was standing on the platform, and came to the carriage door touching his hat. Kenneth got out and spoke to him, and walked with him a little way down the platform. Then he came back to where Marjorie was standing.
"Now, Marjorie, we will go to the carriage. Charles will see after the luggage."
"What carriage?"
"The one you saw standing on the road outside."
"Whose is it?"
"Lord Derwentwater's; it is going to drive us home."
"Do you know Lord Derwentwater, Kenneth?"
"Yes, very well."
"How very kind of him to send his carriage for us! Isn't it, Kenneth?"
They got in, and were soon driving rapidly along the road to Eagleton.
"Shall we soon be home?" she asked presently.
"Yes, very soon now. It is about two miles, I think."
Marjorie was too excited even to talk now. She was longing to see her new home, of which she knew so little.
"Kenneth," she said, about ten minutes later, "where are we going? They are stopping before a lodge, and they are opening the great gates. They must have made some mistake."
"No mistake at all, dearest; it is quite right."
"But look at this lovely avenue! We seem to be getting near some very grand house. Are you sure it is all right, Kenneth?"
"Quite right, darling. Look out; you will see the house in a few minutes."
They came out of the shade of the avenue into the bright evening sunshine beyond, and there before them, in all its magnificence, stood Eagleton Castle.
"Marjorie, do you like your home?"
"Kenneth," she said, in a half-frightened whisper, "I can't understand it. What does it all mean?"
"It means, my dear little woman, that I have found out the missing word in the letter, and that you are Lady Derwentwater."
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.