The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  "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. Goodnight, 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 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 was 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."

  Chapter 28

  Another Chapter Closed

  KENNETH'S first fortnight in the home of his ancestors was an exceedingly stormy one. Lord Kenmore, on receipt of a letter from the Earl informing him of the existence of his son, immediately 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 Violet's engagement. The estate which he had inherited through his mother was not a small one, but the income 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 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 implausible. 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. Whatever was written, there was no way he would meekly submit to being disinherited.

  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 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 the so-called son, 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 were surely his lawful rights.

  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 first 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. "I feel 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 meeting the nephew who had taken his place.

  He wrote many angry letters after his return home, but after taking legal advice he was at last compelled to accept, sorely against his will, that nothing could be done to reverse the ill luck which had fallen on 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 said she would never have consented to the engagement. However, it was now too late to draw back, and she must hope to find a better settlement for her younger daughter, Maude.

  Perhaps this newly-discovered son of Lord Derwentwater might be eligible. He was a young man by all accounts, and she gathered from Kenmore's letter that he was unmarried. She had no idea who he was, but Lord Kenmore told her that he had been born in South Africa, and that he thought he had turned up from some place abroad. Never for a moment did Lady Earlswood or her daughters connect him with the son of the miner whom they had discarded two years ago, and whom they now supposed to be earning his living somehow or other in a humble manner. Her son Berington had not mentioned his meeting with Kenneth, and they had heard nothing of him since the day that he left Grantley Castle.

  All the love which had been denied Kenneth for twenty-five years seemed to have accumulated, and Kenneth devoted himself to his true 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 Savoir of sinners, and that he was resting all his hopes on the finished work of Christ.

  The Earl recovered from his severe illness to a great extent, and was able to be moved daily onto a couch in his own room; but on the fourteenth of March another heart attack occurred, more violent than any of those which had preceded it, and holding Kenneth's hand, his last words had been those which had first brought him comfort and peace: "Faithful and just to forgive us our sins."

  Lord Kenmore would not even come to his half-brother's funeral, and uncle and nephew had therefore never met.

  Kenneth returned once more to the little back parlour of Mrs. Hall's house in Lime Street. He had come to Birmingham to pack up his belongings, and finally close his connection with the insurance company. He had been unable to leave Eagleton Castle before, for his father had been reluctant to spare him even for a day.

  Mrs. Hall was sorry to lose her lodger, and told him that she would never have another like him. He paid her in full for the time he had been away, and delighted her heart by the present of a new carpet and some fine furniture to adorn her little room.

  "Well, now, to be sure, if ever there was a gentleman, he's one," she said to her friends.

  Kenneth sat at the table in the window of the lodging he was leaving, writing a letter to Mrs. Douglas.

  156, Lime Street,

  Birmingham,

  April 3.

  Dear Mrs. Douglas,

  I am hoping to have the pleasure of calling on 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 wr
itten it. He had purposely addressed it from his old lodging in Birmingham, and carefully concealed his present position. He was mindful of the words Marjorie had once said: "I rather hoped you were not a lord. Only you would seem so different to us then."

  Why, then, should he tell her? He would go unattended, as the impoverished man he had been when she saw him last in Daisy Field. Then Marjorie would feel that no wide social gulf had come between them. He had no fear that she had discovered 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 Kenneth felt sure that his secret was safe, and he hoped that therefore he would not seem so different to the Douglas family, and consequently 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 pleased to see him again in Borrowdale.

  Kenneth hoped from this letter that he might find them all at home. He had received a letter from Berington at Christmas, in which he told him that his sister Violet was quite well again, and that he was sorry to say that Miss Douglas was leaving. Kenneth 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 pay me for 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."

  He would travel to the Lake District by train today, and stay overnight in the little inn. And in the morning he would walk to Fernbank to meet the Douglases, a walk which he was looking forward to with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

  Chapter 29

  Watendlath Forget-Me-Not

  MARJORIE DOUGLAS began to climb the hill behind Fern Bank to 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 day 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 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 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, she knew 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 on 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 nestling in a hollow among the hills. A more picturesque place could scarcely be found. The few white farmhouses and small thatched cottages stood by the side of a quiet mountain tarn, reflected in its still waters. The little village seemed completely shut off from the world by the mountains which surrounded it.

  Old Sarah Grisedale lived in a cottage a little distance from the lake. She was a tall, thin woman, active in spite of her great age, and still able to walk over the mountain to church, and climb the steep hill again without even the help of a stick.

  Marjorie had a long chat with her old friend who was 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 Sarah, and went on to an ancient farmhouse standing just above the tarn to buy some eggs which her mother had asked her to get. 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 had stood in the secluded spot for many hundreds of years, and its low ceilings, oak panelling, heavy wooden beams, deep chimney corners, and carved cupboards were 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. As she did so, she noticed growing by the edge of the water a quantity of large blue forget-me-nots. She climbed down the bank to the water and gathered the flowers, and then sat down on the grass 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 something bouncing 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 your mother 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 blue 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 shyly.

  "I expect you thought I had forgotten you," he said. "But there is no need to give me the forget-me-not, 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.

  He smiled. "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 the family had 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, at Grantley Castle. I was companion to Lady Violet."

  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 photographed 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. 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 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 Lady Violet's brother, Berington?"

  "We were at Sandhurst together."

  Marjorie stopped, as if she did not like to say more.

  "Please go on, Miss Douglas. What about 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 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 awkward. 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."