The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  A. Crayshaw, Esq.,

  The Laurels,

  West Bromwich.

  Should you decide to come to us, we shall be pleased to receive you this day week.

  Yours truly,

  Lionel Holtby.

  "What do you think of it, mother?"

  "I think it sounds all right, dear, but of course we must write to this Mr. Crayshaw before deciding anything."

  The letter from West Bromwich proved satisfactory, bearing witness to the respectability of the Holtby family, and therefore, after much thought and also much prayer, Mrs. Douglas consented to Marjorie's going to Daisy Bank.

  "You can come home again if all is not right," she said. "Rather than you should be unhappy, we will forfeit anything."

  That last week at home seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. There was so much to be done. Their heads were so fully occupied in thinking of what was needed for Marjorie's outfit, as she called it, their hands were so busy in cutting out and making sundry blouses and morning dresses, that there was little time to dwell on the parting that was coming.

  It was not until the last night, when her trunk was locked and strapped and taken downstairs, and when only the dress-basket, which was to be left open until the morning, remained in her room as evidence of her coming journey, it was only then that for a little time Marjorie's heart failed her. It was so hard to leave them all, but especially her mother. She could not help her tears falling fast as she thought of it.

  She was going out into the world alone. No, not alone. Jesus, her best Friend, would go with her. She would not forget that. She looked up and read a card which she had bought the last time she was in Keswick, and which was hanging over her bed. In the middle of this card, in gold letters, were these two words --

  Yes, Lord

  Underneath them was this verse --

  One great Eternal yes

  To all my Lord shall say;

  To all I know or yet shall know

  Of all the untried way.

  As Marjorie knelt by her bed, the Yes, Lord was said, and when she went downstairs not a sign of trouble was left on her face. They would all feel rather gloomy that night, she said to herself, and she must try to cheer them.

  "I wonder Marjorie can be so merry when she is going away for so long," said Phyllis that night, as she went into Leila's room to say good night to her widowed sister.

  "Marjorie never thinks of herself," was Leila's answer. "She only thinks of mother."

  Phyllis stooped to kiss little Carl as he lay asleep in his cot, and as she did so she said to herself that she would try, when Marjorie was gone, to follow in her footsteps.

  The next morning was bright and frosty, and the sky was without a single cloud. The hills and dales were flooded with sunshine, which was unusually bright for the time of year. The snow had all gone, and the spring flowers were coming up fast in the garden. As Marjorie went away, she held in her hand a large bunch of violets and snowdrops which Phyllis had gathered for her before breakfast. Her mother came with her to the gate, where Colonel Verner's pony trap was waiting, for Louis had promised to drive her into Keswick.

  It was hard work to say goodbye to her mother, but Marjorie tried to do it with a bright face. She did not want to make it harder for her mother at that moment. Then she got up beside Louis; and Phyllis, who was coming to see her off, jumped up behind.

  Marjorie turned round as they drove over the bridge, and saw her mother and little Carl at the garden gate still looking after her. She looked up at the house and at old Dorcas who had come to the door and was waving her apron, and higher still she saw Leila watching from the bedroom window, and she was afraid that Leila was crying.

  Never did Borrowdale look more beautiful in Marjorie's eyes. She gazed fondly at every mountain peak that came in sight. She longed to store away in her memory each bit of the loveliness, so that when she was far away she could refresh herself by the recollection of it all.

  Louis was angry that Marjorie was going from home. He would not believe that it was necessary, and he thought that when he came back from Oxford for the Long Vacation it would be a great nuisance to find her gone. He had quite come to the conclusion lately that he liked Marjorie better than Phyllis, and now she was going away from him. He wished heartily that Captain Fortescue had never come to Rosthwaite, upsetting all their plans and making a break in the happy little party at Fernbank. He wanted life to go on smoothly and comfortably, and could not see why it should not always do so.

  "Louis," said Marjorie, as they drove along, "when I come home, the first question I shall ask you will be this: 'What are you going to be when you leave University?' And I shall expect a satisfactory answer!"

  "Oh yes, I'm sure to have decided by that time; but it's difficult, isn't it?"

  "Not if you give your mind to it and find out what you're fit for."

  "Oh yes, I will try, Marjorie. It's an awful nuisance your going away. You might have helped me to settle."

  "I? What nonsense, Louis. No one can do that but yourself. But you must do it. I can see that your father Colonel Verner is worried about it."

  "I believe he is. Well, I will try, but don't let us talk about that now, Marjorie. You'll write to me, of course."

  "I will if I have time, Louis, but I don't know what my duties will be," she said, laughing.

  "Oh, never mind the duties. I shall expect to hear from you. Don't forget, Marjorie."

  "When do you go back to Oxford?"

  "The beginning of next week. It is a grind. I feel as if I had only just come down."

  They were early for the train, and walked up and down the platform till it came. As they did so, Marjorie kept remembering many little things she wanted to say to her younger sister.

  "Don't forget Leila's tea in the morning, Phyllis. You will get up, won't you?"

  "Oh yes, Marjorie."

  "And look after mother. And if she seems tired, get her to rest a little. And, Phyllis, do be careful that Carl doesn't go near the river. That garden gate ought always to be kept shut."

  Then the locomotive came steaming into the station pulling the Cockermouth train, and in a few minutes Marjorie was leaning out of the window and waving a last goodbye to Louis and Phyllis who had run to the end of the platform to watch the train out of sight.

  Chapter 11

  Daisy Bank

  IT WAS DARK that evening when Marjorie drew near her journey's end. She had to change at Wolverhampton and go to another station, so she could travel by the Great Western line.

  "What time do I get to Daisy Bank?" she asked the porter who put her box into the van.

  "In ten minutes, miss. Third station."

  She was alone in the carriage, and she sat looking out of the window wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. She noticed a bright light in the sky, and after a minute or two she saw that it came from the furnaces of several large ironworks that she was passing.

  By their bright light she could see men at work, their faces lit up by the red glow. But all this time she was carefully counting the stations. One passed; two passed. She must get out at the next.

  The train stopped. She could hear the porter shouting, "Dysy Bank, Dysy Bank," with true Staffordshire pronunciation. She got out of the carriage, wondering who would be there to meet her. At first she could see no one, but as she walked along the platform to get her luggage out of the van, a girl of about twelve years came up to her.

  "Are you Miss Douglas?"

  "Yes, I am. Have you come to meet me?"

  "Yes. You're to leave your box at the station, and father will send for it."

  "Can't I get a cab?"

  The girl laughed. "Cab?" she said. "I should think not. We've no cabs here!"

  They left the box in the care of the porter, and the girl led the way to a steep flight of stone steps leading to the road above. Then she went along a roughly made cinder path, and Marjorie followed a little behind, at times stepping into great pools
of water which she could not see in the dim light, and at other times almost falling on the slippery mud.

  Then they turned into a short street, if street it could be called. It was so irregular that it seemed to Marjorie as if houses of all kinds had been thrown down, and left to find their own level and own position. They passed one or two grimy shops, which appeared to sell little besides shrivelled oranges and cheap sweets.

  As they went under the light of one of these, Marjorie glanced at her companion. She was a tall, thin girl, with sharp features and an utterly colourless face. Her hair, which also lacked color was untidily done, and hung loosely about her face. She was wearing a brown tam-o'shanter and a long grey coat, two buttons of which were missing. There was an older, womanly look about her face, as if she had never been a child but had begun life as a grownup person.

  As they walked on together, the street lamps became fewer, with long stretches of darkness between them. At length, the furnace lights formed the only illumination, and these every here and there revealed a scene of utter desolation.

  "What a curious place," Marjorie said to the girl at her side.

  "I should just think it is," she answered. "I hate it, and mother does too."

  "Why do you live here, then?"

  "Oh, father is the manager at the works over there. We have to live here, I suppose. It's a hateful place."

  "What is your name?"

  "Patty. It's the name of father's aunt, worse luck, and she asked him to call me after her."

  "How many are there of you?"

  "Seven. Isn't it a lot? I wish we weren't such a crowd."

  "Are you all at home?"

  "Yes. We go to school, of course."

  "Then there is a school here."

  "Oh yes, a big one. I'm glad you've come, Miss Douglas."

  Marjorie smiled a warm smile. "Thank you, it's nice to have a welcome."

  "You see, we're all so upset since mother got so ill. She's almost always in bed now. She hasn't been up for five weeks at all, and we do get in a muddle. I do what I can, but I can't do much. I have to go to school, you see, and our young maid Bessie is so slow. She's not a bad sort, but she can't hurry. Some people can't. And my brothers are so tiresome, and they won't do what I tell them."

  "Where are we going now?" asked Marjorie, as they seemed to be leaving the road and turning into the darkness.

  "Oh, it's a short cut over the mounds."

  "Mounds?" queried Marjorie.

  "Oh, there are coal pits and furnaces all round here. The mounds are where they tip the waste. Take hold of my arm. You can't see, and you'll be walking off into one of the pit pools. The lakes we call them." Then she added, with a laugh, "You come from the Lakes, don't you?"

  "Yes, from such a lovely place."

  "Well, you won't like our lakes, I'm afraid. They're only rainwater that lies in the hollows between the mounds. There are plenty of them about here."

  "Isn't it better to keep to the road such a dark night as this?"

  "You can't," said Patty. "It's all deep mud. You'd stick fast if you tried."

  At length they saw a light coming from the windows of a square stone house with a small garden in front of it. Patty took a latchkey from her pocket and opened the door. Marjorie heard a rush from an inner room, and six children of various ages ran out to see the newcomer.

  "Shake hands properly, and don't stand staring," said Patty. "Tom and Walter, Miss Douglas; they come next to me. Then there are Nellie and Alice. Oh, Alice, what a dirty pinafore you have. Why didn't you get Bessie to put you a clean one on? And here are the two little ones. Come and kiss Miss Douglas, Bob and Evie." She turned to Marjorie. "They're very dirty. They almost always are dirty, but they're such darlings."

  "How old are they?" asked Marjorie, as she stooped to kiss the cleanest part of the dirty little cheeks.

  "Just three. They're twins, you know. Now run away, children. Miss Douglas must come upstairs and see mother."

  Patty spoke as though they were all many years younger than herself, and as if all the cares of the household rested on her shoulders. Marjorie followed her up the narrow stairs, and she led the way into a bedroom where Mrs. Holtby was lying in bed.

  Marjorie thought it was one of the most untidy rooms she had ever seen. Dust lay on everything, and the table, chest of drawers, bed, and floor were covered with all manner of things, crowded together in hopeless confusion. Mrs. Holtby raised herself on her pillow as Marjorie came in.

  Marjorie at once took the flowers that her sister Phyllis had given her out of her coat and gave them to Mrs. Holtby.

  "I'm glad to see you, Miss Douglas. Oh, what beautiful violets. They remind me of home."

  "Did you live in the country?"

  "Yes, all my life, till I was married. I'm afraid you won't find things very comfortable, Miss Douglas, but I can't help it."

  "No, of course you can't," said Marjorie, kindly.

  "Patty has got your room ready, haven't you, Patty?"

  "Yes, as well as I could," said the girl. "I'm afraid it isn't very nice."

  "Never mind," said Marjorie. "We'll soon get everything straight. May I take my coat off?"

  Patty led the way to a small back bedroom, rather scantily furnished, but unlike the one she had just left it was tidy and fairly clean. She was surprised to see a little bunch of ivy lying on the dressing table.

  "Who was kind enough to put this here?" she asked.

  "I did," said Patty. "It isn't black. I washed it at the tap. I thought as you came from the country you'd like to see something green."

  Marjorie turned round and gave her a kiss. "Thank you, dear," she said. "I do like it very much."

  But in spite of this kindly thought on Patty's part, it was hard for Marjorie to resist the feeling of homesickness which crept over her when she was left alone. How could she ever live in such surroundings, so utterly different from everything to which she had been accustomed?

  She determined to be brave and hopeful, and went downstairs to find tea ready for her in the dining-room. The cloth was dirty and the food not tempting, but Patty, who poured out the tea, seemed so ashamed of it all, and so anxious that she should have what she wanted, that Marjorie felt obliged to eat as much as she could, lest she should be disappointed.

  After tea Mr. Holtby came in, a tall silent man with sandy hair and a most worried expression on his face.

  "Glad to see you, Miss Douglas," he said. "I hope Patty has taken care of you. Patty, I want some stamps. Just put on your hat and get some."

  Without a word Patty set out in the darkness, and soon returned with what he wanted.

  "Patty, those boys are quarrelling in the next room. Go and see what the matter is," said her father.

  "I expect Patty is tired," said Marjorie. "I'll go."

  The boys stopped quarrelling when Marjorie entered, and a packet of chocolates which she brought from her pocket soon restored harmony in the back sitting-room, as it was called. She then went up to Mrs. Holtby, to learn what she wanted her to do.

  Marjorie found that Mrs. Holtby was a gentle, kind-hearted woman, but worn down by ill health and the cares of her large family. She said that her father had been a land-agent, and she had lived in a lonely place in Shropshire, and had known far better days. Marjorie felt sorry for her and anxious to help her, but it was late when she got to bed that night, and she felt almost as if life in that house would be more than she could bear. But when she knelt in prayer, she remembered that she had come there willing to do God's will, whatever that might be, and she determined to make the best of the home to which she had come, and do her utmost to brighten it.

  The next morning Marjorie was awakened at six o'clock by the sirens and horns in the different works calling the men to begin their labour for the day. She jumped up, wondering what the noise was and where she could be. Then she remembered to what a forlorn place she had come the night before, and she determined to make things a little more comfortable as soon as possi
ble. She lit the gas and dressed quickly, and as she was doing so she heard Mr. Holtby knocking at the maid Bessie's door and telling her to get up.

  Marjorie was downstairs long before the maid, and finding a little gas stove in the back kitchen she lit it and boiled some water in a small kettle which was standing on the shelf. Mrs. Holtby was surprised when as soon as her husband had gone downstairs, there came a knock at her door and Marjorie entered with a cup of tea and a thin slice of bread and butter.

  "Oh, how nice," she said. "I am so thirsty. I have had such a restless night. Whatever made you think of it?"

  "I have a sister in poor health at home," Marjorie said, "so I know what it is like. Now I will help Bessie to get breakfast ready, and then dress the twins."

  The next hour and a half was a busy time. It was like starting a regiment, to get all those children off to school. Everything that they wanted was lost, and the scampering up and downstairs after books, boots, hats, caps and coats was a most wearying proceeding.

  At last they were off, and the house was quiet. Only the twins were left behind, and they were busily playing on the floor with a large box of bricks. Marjorie went upstairs to take Mrs. Holtby's breakfast, and see what she could do to make her comfortable.

  She felt that nothing short of a regular spring cleaning of the bedroom would make it really clean, and she longed to do it, but she did not like to propose that the first day. She must get Bessie to help her, but the maid could not be driven too fast. She had her own ideas, and these were slow to the last degree.

  So on this first morning Marjorie contented herself with smaller measures of reform. She brought warm water and sponged the sick woman's face and hands, and then she went quietly about the room, tidying it and clearing away the piles of rubbish which it contained. The children's clothes she carried to their own room, the books and papers she dusted and took downstairs, and then after shaking up the pillows and straightening the bedclothes she went downstairs to see what the maid was doing about dinner.

  "What time do the children come in, Bessie?"

  "One o'clock, and the master a quarter-past, miss," Bessie said.

  "What is there for dinner?"

  "There's a piece of beef. I can cook that."

  "That's a good idea, Bessie. What about pudding?"