The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  Then I asked him, Ken, if I might know his name and address, in case I had anything to tell him about the baby. How could I let him know if it died or anything happened to it? But he said there was no need to let him know, and he did not intend to tell me his name. I had got my money, and what more did I want?

  Well, he got up to go, and I helped him to put on his coat, for it was raining when he came, and then I noticed for the first time that he had something the matter with his hand. The last joint of the little finger of the right hand was gone.

  After that he went away, and I've never seen him, Ken, from that day to this. I went to the Inn, and I found that there he had given the name of Vavasour, but I feel sure that was not his right name. He were far too clever for that.

  Some time after all this, I came across a man who had travelled out with him from England -- at least I think it must have been the same, from this man's description of him and his wife. He told me that these people he had met were going out to South Africa, and he wondered whether they had ever come to Kimberley.

  He told me that the man was a lord, and that someone on board ship, who had seen him before, said that he was the son of Lxxx Xxxxxxxxxxxx.

  Now, Ken, what I've got to tell you is this. That man was your father, and you are that deserted little boy. I've done my best for you, Ken. You know as I have. I had a hard time with you at first, for we started off for England when you was about two months old, and before we got halfway home my poor missus died, your ma as you have always called her. And there was I on board ship, left with no wife, and a tiny weakly baby.

  But I reared you, Ken, and you lived and grew strong, in spite of yon old doctor at Kimberley, and now you're a fine handsome young man, and I love you as if you was my own son. But I would like for you to have your rights, Ken. Find that man if you can, and tell him he's your father. If he has any conscience (he hasn't much, I'm afraid), he'll be obliged to own you when you show him this letter and tell him how you got it. And mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like. I mean to say you're like what your father was when I saw him. Now he will be a man over fifty, I should say.

  Follow this up, Ken, and don't rest till you're got your rights.

  Your loving father,

  Joseph Fortescue.

  P.S. I chose Fortescue because I thought as it sounded like the name of a gentleman.

  Chapter 19

  Words to be Remembered

  MARJORIE did not speak while she was reading the whole of that long letter, and Kenneth Fortescue sat and watched her, just as before she had sat and watched him. He saw her face flush as she read on, and once he felt sure that he saw a tear on her cheek.

  When at last she handed him the letter, she said, "How could that man be so cruel? It was awfully heartless, wasn't it?"

  "Yes, it was most unnatural, but such things have been done before. Even a mother has been known to desert her own child."

  "I wonder if he is alive."

  "So do I. If only that word had been there."

  "Let us look at it carefully," Marjorie said. "Perhaps we can make it out."

  They bent together over the paper, as they held it in the light of the lamp.

  "It must be a long name," she said. "Can it all be one word? I think Lord is the first part of it. That looks to me like part of the loop of the L above the blot."

  "Yes, I believe you are right. Even so, I think it is a long name -- ten or twelve letters, I should say."

  "Oh, I wish we knew," said Marjorie.

  "I wish it very much for one reason, Miss Douglas."

  "What is that?"

  "If I could find my father, and if he was prepared to own me, or was compelled to do so, I could repay your mother in full."

  "Oh, why are you always thinking of that?" she asked. "You must not do so. You are stinting yourself and making your life miserable, just for us. And it isn't right. Oh, it isn't right."

  She was crying now. She could not help it. The thought of his constant self-denial for their sakes, even though the debt had never been his; the recollection of all this touched her so deeply that she found it impossible to keep back her tears.

  "This letter changes everything," she said. "Do think of that. Even if you felt yourself bound to repay us when you thought you were Mr. Fortescue's son, you cannot feel so now. He never was your father, except in name. Do remember that, and do give up, once for all, the idea of giving us that money back. The loss of it had nothing to do with you, nor with anyone at all belonging to you."

  "I cannot look at it in that light, Miss Douglas," he said. "Even though I now know he was merely my father in name, he was the only father I have ever known. God helping me, that debt shall be paid."

  "Captain Fortescue."

  "Yes, Miss Douglas."

  "I'm afraid that letter is not of much use, after all."

  "It may be," he said. "Who can tell?"

  She sat looking into the fire for some minutes without speaking, and then she said, "I rather hope . . ." and then stopped.

  "You rather hope what, Miss Douglas?"

  "Oh, never mind. I did not mean to say it aloud. It was only a foolish thought which had no business to come into my mind."

  "What was it?"

  "Oh," she said, laughing through her tears, "such a silly thing. I was going to say that I rather hoped you were not a lord."

  "Why not?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I only thought we would not feel that you were quite so much our friend. It was foolish, I know. Only you would seem so different to us then."

  "Would I? I hope not," he said thoughtfully.

  "And now I really must be going. What time is it, Captain Fortescue?"

  He looked at his watch, and they found it was getting late, so he got her coat and she said goodbye to the old landlady, and they set out for New Street Station. Then he went for her ticket and put her into the train, and just before it started he stepped into the carriage and sat down beside her.

  "Won't the train be off soon?" she asked.

  "Yes. I am coming with you."

  "Coming with me? Why?"

  "I'm not going to allow you to walk alone along that dark road from Deepfields Station at this time of night," he told her.

  "Oh, I'll be quite all right. You really mustn't come. You will be so tired, and it is not at all necessary. Please don't come."

  But he would take no refusal. There would be plenty of time for him to catch the last train back to Birmingham, he said, and Marjorie felt sure that when he had once made up his mind about anything, there would be no possibility of moving him from it.

  They talked of the letter most of the way to Deepfields, and as they went through Daisy Bank, Marjorie pointed out the dark cottage where the still form of the old woman was lying on the bed upstairs.

  "How strange to think that my letter has been near you all this time," he said.

  Then they got to Colwyn House, and at the gate he said goodbye. But before he left her he took her hand between both his own, and said in a whisper, as he held it for a moment, "Thank you for all you have done for me today."

  The next instant he was gone, and Marjorie let herself in with her latchkey. She found that Mr. and Mrs. Holtby were having supper. They wanted her to join them, but she said she was tired and would rather go to bed.

  She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, and she dreamed that his hands were still holding her own, and she thought that she could still feel their pressure as he said those words, which would ever remain in her memory as long as life should last.

  "Thank you for all you have done for me today."

  Chapter 20

  Grantley Castle

  TWO MONTHS after her visit to Birmingham, Marjorie Douglas was standing on the platform at Daisy Bank, waiting for the Wolverhampton train, excited to be starting her well-earned holiday. She was going home to the Lakes for Christmas. She could hardly believe that it was only a year since she had seen her family,
and to have a whole month with them seemed almost too good to be true.

  Patty had come with her to the station, and was full of regret at her departure, full of promises to take her place in the holidays, and to do all she could to keep the house tidy and clean.

  As Marjorie looked at her, she could not help feeling that the last few months had made Patty quite a different girl. The brusqueness of her manner was gone; she was more happy and more contented, and in leaving her in charge of the children and her mother, Marjorie felt that she was leaving one who would tread, as far as possible, in her footsteps.

  Marjorie knew that as Patty would not have to go to school during the time of her absence, she would be able to keep all things as she had left them, and save her mother from having any extra work. Thus Marjorie was going home with a happy heart, prepared to thoroughly enjoy her well-earned holiday.

  Marjorie's thoughts were busy that cold wintry day. Not only was she full of anticipation, picturing to herself the joy of arriving home and seeing again the friends from whom she had so long been parted; but at times, as she travelled on, her thoughts, instead of flying northwards far ahead of the train, travelled southwards and found their way to a little back sitting-room in a dingy street in Birmingham.

  What was Kenneth Fortescue doing that day, she wondered? Was he still living in that poor, dismal neighbourhood? Was he still denying himself in countless different ways for their sakes, or had he discovered the missing word in the letter? Had he found the father who had cast him off as a child? Had he been owned and reinstated in his rightful position? Perhaps he had. Perhaps even now he was taking his place among the wealthy families of England, and they would hear of him no more.

  But no, in that case he would write to her mother, she was sure of that. If he was rich and was able to do so, that money would be repaid. She knew that he would never forget his promise, and that the revelation made to him in that letter would in no way alter his former determination. What if her mother had already heard from him? What if she was keeping the secret as a pleasant surprise for her on her return? So her busy thoughts wandered on, as the busy engine, puffing hard at times as they got into the hilly country of the North, bore her onwards towards Cumberland.

  Then, as she drew nearer home, her thoughts were all cantered on Keswick Station. Who would be there to meet her? Which of the home faces would she see first? She gazed eagerly out of the window long before the station came in sight. She scanned the platform as the train began to stop.

  Yes, there they were, her mother and Phyllis and Louis Verner. It seemed too good to be true. What a drive home that was, and how much they had to say to each other. How beautiful it all looked. She had never realized before that the mountains were so high, or the Lake so lovely, or Borrowdale so fine, or Castle Crag so magnificent. She had loved them all from her childhood, but she knew she had never fully appreciated them until this day.

  And then they reached home, so free from smoke and dirt and everything ugly or depressing. Little Carl was at the gate. He had grown since she saw him last. And Leila was at the door, looking much better and stronger, and old Dorcas came running out of the kitchen to welcome her. And now she was in the cheerful dining-room, and how charming it all was. The table seemed laden with good things. This was home, and that was best of all.

  The days flew quickly after that. There were so many friends to be seen, there was so much to be said and to be done, that the first ten days seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. Old Mary and the other old women in the village were overjoyed to see her again, and sometimes she felt as if she had never really been away. Daisy Bank appeared to her like a dream from which she had awakened.

  She went alone one day up the steep pass towards Honister Crag, and thought of the photo which she had seen over the mantelpiece at Birmingham. She wondered where Kenneth Fortescue had bought it, and why he had chosen it. Was it in remembrance of the walk that they had had there together? No, of course it could not have been that. It was a beautiful place, and anyone who had seen it would be glad to have a picture of it.

  Marjorie was charmed to find how well her younger sister Phyllis had taken her place in her absence. Phyllis had shaken off to a great extent the natural apathy of her nature, and had risen to the occasion in a way which Marjorie would hardly have thought possible. Her mother had been cared for and Leila had been waited on, doubtless as well as Marjorie had done it before she left home. She felt that she could go back to Daisy Bank with a happy heart, knowing that all was going on well in the home she had left.

  Louis Verner was, of course, a constant visitor at Fernbank, and was just the same easy, good-natured fellow as he had ever been. He was now in his third year at Oxford, and was still trying to discover his vocation. His father, however, declared that if Louis came to no decision during that vacation he should settle the matter for him. It was finally decided that Louis should try to get into the Consular Service, and must sit for an examination to be held the following year. Whether he would be able to succeed in this was, Marjorie thought, extremely doubtful, for Louis had no love for work, and went through life doing as little of it as he possibly could.

  Nevertheless, Louis was a most amusing companion and a good-hearted affectionate fellow -- too affectionate sometimes, Marjorie thought. But she made fun of all his appealing speeches, and treated him, as she always had done, with sisterly candour. He did not mind what she said to him, although she spoke plainly to him at times, and they were ever the best of friends.

  But when Marjorie had been at home about a fortnight, something happened which brought a great cloud over her happiness.

  "A letter for you, Marjorie," said Phyllis, who had gone to meet the postman at the gate, "and it has such a black border."

  Marjorie took it hastily from her. She knew the writing well: it was Patty Holtby's from Daisy Bank. Such terrible news the letter contained, that poor Patty had been almost broken-hearted as she wrote it. Her father had gone to the works the day before, apparently quite well, but a short time after he arrived there he had been seen to stagger and fall, and when they went to him they found that he was dead. It had been an awful shock to them all, and Patty said that she could hardly yet believe that it was true.

  Marjorie felt as if all the brightness of her holiday had passed away. She realized now how fond she had become of the people with whom she had lived for the last year, and she longed to be with them in their time of trouble. She wrote at once, offering to return immediately if it would be the least comfort to them. She would only be too glad to come to them.

  Marjorie waited anxiously for the answer. It came in poor Mrs. Holtby's writing. It would be an unspeakable help to have Marjorie there, she said, but their plans were so undecided now that she thought it would be better for her to wait for a few days. Her brother had come for the funeral, and he was helping her to arrange matters, and she would write again shortly.

  When Mrs. Holtby's next letter came, it was a sad one. She was grieved to have to say that it would be impossible for Marjorie to return. They were leaving Daisy Bank, and her brother, who was a widower, had invited them to come and live with him. Of course, now she would have to be careful of expense, and could no longer afford to have a mother's help. She added that she could never thank Miss Douglas enough for all she had done for them. She would miss her more than words could say, but she felt sure that she would rejoice to know that Patty had profited so much by the good training she had received from her, that she was becoming the greatest comfort and help to them all.

  She ended by saying that she could hardly bear to think that Marjorie was not coming back to them, and it was one of the most painful consequences of her heavy bereavement.

  So that chapter of Marjorie's life was ended. Daisy Bank was now nothing but a memory of the past. Never more would she climb the pit mounds, or watch old Enoch tending his roses, or walk among the heaps of furnace waste. 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 what was known as the Black Country.

  Now she must begin life again somewhere, and where would it be? She dreaded the thought of going once more among strangers, for 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 Jesus, 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 housebound 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 called 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 was Colonel Verner's cousin, and her name was Mrs. St. Hellier -- the Honourable Mrs. St. Hellier, she discovered afterwards. The lady was spending a few weeks with the Colonel 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 someone who would be willing to act as companion to her daughter, Lady Violet. 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 raise herself from her recumbent position.

  Young Lady Violet of course felt frustrated. The monotony of such an existence was a sad change for her, after the active life which she had been accustomed to lead, and Lady Earlswood, her mother, was therefore anxious to find someone 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 everything that was necessary in dressing and otherwise waiting upon her daughter. She simply wanted someone who would be a cheerful companion, and who would be ready to read to her, amuse her, and turn her thoughts as much as possible from her helpless condition.