The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  Then Mrs. St. Hellier went on to say that she had heard from Colonel Verner that Miss Douglas was looking for something of the kind, and she wanted to know whether she would like her to name her to Lady Earlswood. She thought she was at liberty to tell her that the remuneration would be a handsome one. Fifty pounds a year was the amount mentioned by Lady Earlswood when she spoke to her on the subject.

  Marjorie felt that this was indeed an answer to the prayers she had offered, and she gratefully accepted Mrs. St. Hellier's proposal that she should write to Lady Earlswood without further delay.

  In the course of the following week Marjorie received a kind letter from Lady Earlswood, and in a short time all the preliminary arrangements were made, and she once more took leave of her home, setting off for Grantley Castle.

  What a contrast she found on her arrival compared to her reception at Daisy Bank. A footman with a cockade on his hat came up to her on the platform and told her that he would attend to her luggage, and the carriage was outside waiting for her. During the five miles' drive to the Castle, Marjorie leaned back among the cushions of the luxuriously comfortable brougham, and wondered what was in store for her in the new home to which she was going.

  When the carriage stopped, she was taken through the marble hall, and at the top of the long flight of steps she found the housekeeper awaiting her.

  "Lady Earlswood is out this afternoon, Miss Douglas," she said, "so she asked me to receive you. May I take you to your room? You will find a good fire, I think, and I will send you some tea in a few minutes. Lady Violet has had tea, so perhaps you would like to have it in your own room."

  Marjorie thanked her, and followed her up the wide staircase into the bedroom which she was henceforth to call her own. It was not a large room, but it was most beautifully furnished. A pretty French bedstead with dainty rosebud-covered hangings, a comfortable sofa covered with the same delicate chintz, an armchair by the bright fire, a writing table with inkstand, blotter and pens, at which she would be able to write her letters -- all these made her feel that she had come to a home where comfort and ease abounded.

  Then she went to the window. It was not yet dark, and she could see hills and woods in every direction, while close to the house were three long terraces, one above another, from the various heights of which glorious views of the surrounding country could be obtained. What a strange contrast to the views from her bedroom window in Daisy Bank!

  Then there came a knock at the door, and a maid brought in a tray with a small silver teapot and cream jug, a china cup and saucer, and a plate of delicately cut bread and butter. It seemed strange to Marjorie to be waited on, for she had been waiting on others all her life.

  As she sat in the armchair by the fire, pouring out the tea which had been placed on a small table beside her, she felt that, so far as she could see at present, the lines had indeed fallen for her in pleasant places.

  Chapter 21

  The Photo of a Friend

  WHEN MARJORIE first saw Lady Violet, she thought that hers was the most beautiful young face that she had ever seen; yet she was pale, and had a weary look in her young eyes which told of pain and weakness. She held out her hand as Marjorie entered.

  "Miss Douglas, I am glad to see you."

  Marjorie took the low chair by Lady Violet's side, and told her that she hoped she would tell her exactly what she would like her to do, and that she would let her help her in any way that she could.

  "Oh, I don't want you to do anything," she said, "except to amuse me. I'm so sick of seeing nobody but Collins my maid. My mother and sister come up as often as they can, but we have so many visitors, and they have so many calls to make, and there is so much going on of one kind and another, that they are obliged to leave me hours alone sometimes. This is my worst time. I get so tired in the evening, and awfully cramped with lying so long in one position. You mustn't mind if I am cross on occasions. I often am."

  Marjorie laughed, and told her she did not think that was possible.

  "Oh, but it is. I worry poor Collins to death. Now I am tired and do not feel inclined to talk. Will you talk to me?"

  Marjorie found it difficult to know what to say, even though Lady Violet was about her age. It was one thing to join in a conversation, and quite another thing to talk to a silent person without having anything particular to say. She could not imagine how to begin, and then a bright thought struck her.

  "Shall I tell you about my home, Lady Violet?"

  "Yes, do. It will be just like a story."

  So Marjorie began by describing Borrowdale and their house on the hill. She told her about her mother, Leila, Phyllis and little Carl. She spoke of the garden with its spring flowers; of the walk through the woods to Watendlath at the top of the hill; of the quiet village church; of her old women and the quaint cottages in which they lived, and of her life at home and of how she had spent her days. All this she told in her own bright way, until the poor girl beside her was soothed and interested, and forgot her pain and weariness while she listened.

  "Thank you," she said, when Marjorie stopped. "I can see it all as if I had been there. May I have another chapter tomorrow evening, and will you call Collins now to help me into bed? And do you mind telling me your Christian name? I should like to call you by it if I may. Miss Douglas sounds so formal."

  "Please do. My name is Marjorie. I shall feel I am at home, Lady Violet, if I hear you say it."

  As the days went on, Marjorie soon became accustomed to her new life in Grantley Castle. Beyond going for a walk daily in the lovely park and gardens, she spent all her time with Lady Violet. They had meals together in the sitting-room, and Marjorie saw little of the other members of the family. When they came to see Lady Violet, she generally went into her bedroom to write her letters, or strolled along one of the grassy terraces, or gathered primroses and moss in the copse wood to adorn Lady Violet's room.

  By degrees, very slow degrees at first, Lady Violet let her companion know a little of what her thoughts and feelings were. She had been most reserved at first, and at one time Marjorie had felt as if she would never really know her. But one evening, when Marjorie had been at Grantley Castle about a month, the ice was broken for the first time.

  Lady Violet had been restless and impatient all day. Nothing was right that was done for her. She found fault with everyone, and Marjorie herself experienced some difficulty in keeping bright and cheerful when all her efforts to cheer the patient seemed such an utter failure.

  But after dinner, when Marjorie was sitting beside her with her work in her hand, Lady Violet suddenly said, "Marjorie, I've been horrid all day. Why don't you tell me so?"

  Marjorie laughed. "Do you want a scolding?" she asked.

  "I don't mind one from you. But I do think it's a shame, a horrible shame."

  "What is a shame?" asked Marjorie.

  "My being laid on my back like this. Do you know, Marjorie, I was to have been married in May?"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry," said Marjorie. "I had not heard about it."

  "Oh, didn't you know? We were going to London to get my trousseau the very week that this accident happened. We were making all the plans about the wedding, and actually had patterns in the house for choosing the bridesmaids' dresses. And now here I am, lying helpless on my back, and my wedding put off indefinitely. It is an awful shame."

  "Don't say that, Lady Violet," said Marjorie, "because God has allowed the trouble, hasn't He?"

  "Has He? Then I think God is very cruel. What pleasure can it be to Him to punish me like this?"

  "He doesn't like to see you suffer, Lady Violet. Oh, don't ever think that. It is because He loves you He has let this trouble come."

  "I don't see much love in it. I suppose you mean that God thinks I need punishing, but I've never done anything to deserve it, and I do think it's a horrid shame."

  "Oh, don't say that," repeated Marjorie. "Dear Lady Violet, don't say that."

  "But I must say it," she answered impatie
ntly, "because I feel it, and it does me good to come out with it."

  Marjorie did not speak for a few minutes, and Lady Violet said, "Talk to me, Marjorie. Scold me if you like, only don't sit quiet like that. Tell me what you were thinking about."

  "I was thinking about the eagle's nest, and that you were like one of the eaglets."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "You know how the eagle makes her nest on the ledge of some high rock, building it of sticks and briars and then lining it with moss, and hay, and wool, and soft feathers out of her own breast."

  "Well," said Lady Violet, as Marjorie stopped, "go on."

  "And then she lays her eggs, and the eaglets are hatched, and they lie down in the soft nest. They are so comfortable that they never want to leave it. But as they grow older the mother bird wants them to learn to fly, that they may be able to soar up with her towards the sun. So she hovers over them and tries to persuade them to stretch their wings. But the nest is far too comfortable and snug for them to want to leave it, and they nestle down again in the moss and hay.

  "The mother knows what they will lose if they do not learn to fly, so she rakes out the wool and feathers with her strong beak, and makes the thorns and briars come to the top. Then, when all the soft lining is gone, the young birds shuffle about uncomfortably. The nest is not such a nice place after all, and by degrees they creep to the edge of it and sit there miserably. And now the mother bird again tries to get them to fly, and they spread their small wings, and she puts her great strong wing underneath them, so that they won't fall, and soon they are soaring with her into the glory above."

  "Yes, go on," said Lady Violet impatiently.

  "Do you remember that God says He is like that eagle? And so He rakes up the comfortable home nest, and lets us feel the prickles of pain and sorrow, not because He is cruel, not because He wants to punish us, but because He wants us to rise to something brighter and better. Now, Lady Violet, I'm afraid I've been preaching quite a sermon, and it is good of you to listen; but don't you think this illness is one of the sharp thorns in the nest, to bring you to the edge and make you care for something better?"

  "Perhaps. I don't know, I'm sure."

  They were silent for some time after this, and then Lady Violet said suddenly, "It seems a pity now that I was ever engaged."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Oh, it's such a nuisance for him, you see."

  "Do you mean for the gentleman you are going to marry?"

  "He wanted me to marry him a long time ago, but I refused him. At least, I didn't actually refuse him, but there were reasons why I couldn't marry him then, one reason especially. But all that is over now. I had just accepted him, and all was nicely settled, when this happened."

  "But the doctor hopes you will be all right soon, doesn't he?"

  "Oh yes, in time. But it's an awful nuisance for him having to wait. He has only just come into his property. It's a nice little place, and he has a fair amount of money. It belonged to his mother's father, but some day he will come into a much grander estate and be awfully rich. His step-brother owns it now, but he is getting an old man and has no children. It's really a good match for me, but it's a long time to wait, and I think he's getting rather impatient. And I did so want to have next season in town."

  "Has he been to see you?"

  "Oh yes, once or twice. Just before you came he was here. But he lives a long way off, and I don't really want him to come too often -- it's so tiring seeing people when you're ill."

  Marjorie rather wondered at this remark. Surely if Lady Violet was fond of her fiancé she would not find his company tiring, although she was ill. However, she made no remark, but went on quietly with her work.

  "Marjorie," said Lady Violet, presently, "you've never seen my photographs. I have two large albums full. Would you like to look at them?"

  "Very much indeed. May I get them?"

  "Yes, do. They're on the bottom shelf of that bookcase in the corner. Switch on more light, and sit in that armchair. You will see them better there."

  Marjorie brought the albums, and sat down to look through the hundreds of photos with which they were filled. There were views of the park and the woods, of the church and the village, groups of various friends who had stayed at Grantley Castle, photos of Lady Violet's horse and of the two St. Bernard dogs. There were river scenes and lake scenes, photos taken at all seasons of the year, some with the trees in full leaf, others with bare branches, some showing the broad shadows of a hot summer's day, others taken in snow with every tree and shrub looking as if it were growing in fairyland.

  "They are lovely, Lady Violet," Marjorie said, as she laid down the first volume, and took up the one lying on the table.

  "Oh, those are foreign views. I don't know whether you will care for them so much. They are in the Riviera chiefly. We were there for a month about two years ago, and had an awfully jolly time."

  Marjorie was turning over the leaves of the album, and had just been admiring a beautiful view of Monaco, when she suddenly came to one which brought all the blood rushing into her face. It was a photo of Lady Violet sitting on a rock near the sea, and close by her side and looking over the same book with her was Captain Fortescue.

  Marjorie would have known him anywhere, but she had never seen him look quite as he looked then. There was not a vestige of care on his face, and he was evidently enjoying life to the full. She gazed a long time at this picture, and Lady Violet, glancing up, noticed how she colored when she looked at it, and then how all the color faded out of her face.

  "Oh, that is a great friend of mine," she said. "He helped me to take nearly all those Riviera photos. My brother Berington took several of us together, and they came out well. What is the matter, Marjorie?"

  "Oh, nothing. Only it reminded me of someone I know."

  "Did it? Isn't it awfully funny how one sees likenesses sometimes. Turn over, there are some more of him in that book. Isn't he good-looking?"

  Marjorie did not answer. Her heart was beating too quickly. So Captain Fortescue knew Lady Violet -- yes, and admired her too. She could see that by his face in several of the photos where they were taken together. And what a handsome pair they made. They were just suited to each other. Had he discovered his parentage? Had he, in those long months since she had heard of him, found his father and claimed his fortune? Could it be that he was the one whom Lady Violet was about to marry, the one who had admired her long ago, but whom she had refused because of some reason which stood in the way? Could that reason have been the loss of his money, and his being compelled to leave the army? If so, Marjorie could quite understand that this difficulty was probably removed. If he had found his father, if he had inherited a title, if he was heir to a large property, then surely no objection to their engagement could be urged.

  Now, of course, she could see the reason for his long silence. It was already the end of March, and she had never seen Captain Fortescue or heard from him since that October night when he had brought her home from Birmingham. Why had she expected to see him or to hear from him again? How blind and foolish she had been.

  Lady Violet seemed impatient to close the book, so Marjorie put it back in its place on the shelf. She wanted to ask her if Captain Fortescue was the one to whom she was engaged, but she felt that she could not bring herself to do so. She was so strongly convinced in her own mind that she was right in her conclusion, that she felt as if she could not steady her voice sufficiently to frame the question.

  Not for worlds would she have Lady Violet know what she had felt when she saw that photograph. How silly she had been. How foolish it was to have dwelt on what was merely a passing feeling of gratitude for a little service which she had rendered the captain. No one must know; no one must ever guess what she had sometimes thought and hoped for. Least of all must Lady Violet know or guess.

  So Marjorie talked to her on all manner of subjects, and was apparently never in better spirits, until at last the long even
ing wore away. Alone in her own room, she sat by her fire. Gazing into its red blaze she began to pull down stone after stone of her fragile castle in the air, and then, when it was all laid in ruins, she prayed for contentment and for peace. Surely she ought to be glad to hope that Kenneth Fortescue's troubles were over. Surely she should rejoice, if the desire of his heart had been granted to him.

  Chapter 22

  Lord Kenmore

  THE SPRING ran its course and the beautiful days of early summer began, and Marjorie sometimes felt as if she had lived at Grantley Castle all her life. It was a most restful time for her after the hard work of the year before at Daisy Bank, and she knew that she had much for which to be thankful. Lady Violet was still obliged to lie down, although her health and spirits were daily returning, and she was far less easily tired than she had been when Marjorie first came.

  The house was now full of company, and Lady Earlswood, whose time was much occupied, was the more gratified that her daughter Lady Violet was so charmed with her companion, and that the arrangement she had made had thus turned out so satisfactorily. She was always gracious to Marjorie; and Lady Violet's younger sister, Lady Maude, thanked her several times for cheering up "poor dear Vi," as she called her.

  Lady Maude was full of life and spirits, and her energy knew no bounds. She delighted in golf, motoring and bicycling, and though she was fond of her sister and sorry for her, she was of too restless a nature to stay long in the sick room, and was therefore glad to feel that Marjorie's presence there enabled her to go to her various amusements with a clear conscience.

  "Vi likes Miss Douglas," Lady Maude would say to her friends. "They get on wonderfully well together, and she keeps her in a far better temper than I can do."

  So Marjorie had few difficulties to contend with in her new position. Even Collins the maid was glad that she had come and was able to relieve her from constant attendance on her young mistress, and from the fretful fault-finding to which she had been obliged to submit before Miss Douglas arrived.