Kenneth Fortescue rang the bell which hung in front of the carved stone portico, and the door of the Castle was opened by a footman to whom he handed his card which bore his own name and the name of the insurance company of which he was the representative.
"The Earl is expecting me, I believe," he said.
He was shown into a room not far from the entrance hall, in which the Earl was accustomed to transact his business. Here he found a gentleman of about his own age, sitting at a writing table and hard at work, with a voluminous correspondence spread out before him. He bowed as Fortescue entered, asked him to be seated, and told him that Mr. Montague Jones would arrive shortly.
Kenneth supposed the man must be Lord Derwentwater's secretary, as he watched him sorting and filing the letters with which the writing table was covered. But who in the world could Mr. Montague Jones be?
After he had waited about a quarter of an hour, a stout man with reddish hair, a florid complexion, and gold eyeglasses made his appearance and introduced himself as Mr. Montague Jones. He informed Kenneth that he was my lord's agent, and that my lord had requested him to conduct Mr. Fortescue, as the representative of the insurance company, to the scene of the late fire.
Leaving the secretary to continue his labours, Kenneth followed Mr. Montague Jones up a wide flight of stairs to the upper floor of the Castle. So far he had seen no sign of the destruction wrought by the fire, but as they went down a long corridor towards the west wing of the building they came upon the room where the conflagration had begun. Everything was blackened by the smoke and drenched with water. The furniture was either destroyed or completely ruined. The handsome silk hangings of the windows were gone, and an unpleasant smell of burning and charred wood filled the whole place.
From thence they went into the other rooms in which the fire had raged, and as they entered each, Mr. Montague Jones handed him an inventory of the valuable articles which that room had contained: the pictures, china, statuary, pier glasses, and costly furniture with which it had been filled; and the carpet, curtains and elaborate draperies which had covered and adorned it. These rooms were totally wrecked, for the flames had spared nothing. The ruin was terrible and complete.
Then the agent led him on to the picture gallery, a long and wide corridor having windows overlooking the lake in front of the Castle, through which the light fell on the beautiful works of art which the gallery contained. The fire, however, had only reached one end of this corridor.
Some of the pictures were altogether unharmed, while others were merely discoloured by the smoke. At that end of the gallery, which lay nearest to the rooms in which the fire had broken out, several large pictures had been totally destroyed and many others had been hopelessly damaged.
"Portraits, all of them," said Mr. Montague Jones. "Of priceless value to the Earl. Family portraits that cannot be replaced. This one of the Earl himself, painted when he was a young man, has only just escaped."
Kenneth Fortescue gave a start as he looked up at that picture. The picture was that of a man of his own age, and the hair was his hair; the eyes were his eyes; the carriage of the head was his; the nose, the lips, the chin were the counterpart of those which he had seen in the looking glass that morning.
The portrait might have been his own portrait, painted that morning.
What did it all mean? Was it just a chance coincidence, or was it more? Was it the echo of the words he had read in that letter just a year before -- "Mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like"?
He wondered whether Mr. Montague Jones noticed the strange resemblance. No, he was a short-sighted man and he noticed nothing. He was busily engaged with his papers and with the notes he was making in his pocket book for the benefit of the Earl. Then he led the way on to another picture, one much damaged, and which was hanging in a bad light between the windows. Kenneth looked at it absently. He spoke about it, but spoke as if he was in a dream.
As they passed that other picture on their way back through the corridor, Kenneth stood and gazed at it again. The likeness seemed to him more striking than before.
"There is no need to look at that one," said the agent. "It isn't damaged at all."
They left the picture gallery and went down the wide staircase. Kenneth had no excuse for remaining any longer. He had obtained the information which he needed for the head office. He would be able to write to London, giving a full account of what he had seen. Why, then, could he linger? What reason could he give for doing so?
The agent was walking with him to the door, when the busy secretary came out of his den. "Mr. Jones," he said, "the Earl would like to speak to Mr. Fortescue."
Kenneth Fortescue was not naturally a nervous man, and he was not oppressed by the grandeur of the place in which he found himself. He had moved in such society, and was able to hold his own in whatever company he found himself. The presence of an earl was no more uncomfortable to him than the presence of that earl's footman. But at this moment he felt apprehensive.
Mr. Montague Jones had preceded him, and he heard himself announced. "Mr. Fortescue from the Insurance Office is here, my lord."
"Come in, Mr. Fortescue. I want to hear the result of your investigation. I want to know . . ."
What did Lord Derwentwater want to know? He seemed to have forgotten. He was looking at the representative of the insurance company with a strangely puzzled gaze. Only for a moment, though. In the next he recovered himself and began to give an account of the recent fire, and of the damage done by it, and his reasons for demanding such a large compensation from the company.
Kenneth Fortescue looked intently at the Earl as he spoke. He wondered, as he did so, if he was looking at his own likeness, not of today, but of a quarter of a century hence. The features bore the strongest resemblance, but the hair was white and the figure far less upright.
As the Earl spoke on, standing with his back to the fireplace, Kenneth stood facing him, apparently listening to his words, and yet in reality hearing nothing of what he was saying. He was looking for something -- looking intently and eagerly. Why did the Earl keep his hands behind him? Why did he stand in that position all the time he spoke? How could Kenneth ever discover that which he so much wanted to know?
But at that moment there came bounding into the room a beautiful collie dog, white as snow with long, silky hair. It ran to the Earl and looked up into his face. It was his favourite dog, his constant companion. He stooped to pat it as he spoke, and as Kenneth looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie he saw at last that for which he had been looking -- he saw that the little finger of the Earl's right hand had lost the last joint.
Then, in a moment, he knew 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.
Chapter 26
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. This was not the time to approach the subject on which his thoughts were cantered. If he spoke to the Earl, he must speak to him alone, not in the presence of Mr. Montague Jones. 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 on 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 firs. He climbed to the top and sat down on a fallen tree. There la
y the beautiful old Castle beneath him -- his home -- the home of which he now believed 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, while his own son was struggling on, obliged to be content with the bare necessities of life in Lime Street.
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 Jesus, the Son of God, 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 in private 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 insurance office that he was unavoidably detained at Eagleton. He would stay at the little village inn that night and dispatch 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 into the hands of a lawyer if his father was willing to own him? Why should their family affairs be brought to the attention of an outsider?
Kenneth returned to the village, sent off his telegram to his employers, 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 after giving birth to the little boy. He asked him to think of the tiny deserted infant left in the custody of a 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 miner who had done everything that in his position it 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 man to whom he had given the baby had faithfully kept the secret during his lifetime, according to his promise; but he told him that his foster-father 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 this day for the first time in his rightful home, and had beheld 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 the Earl 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 so they could talk together, so that the Earl could more closely observe that resemblance.
He ended his letter by saying that he was anxiously awaiting his reply at the Eagleton Arms, where he would remain until that reply reached him.
It was late in the evening when the letter was finished, but he found a messenger and dispatched him with it 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 for a single 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, and he was obliged to give up his watch. He went to bed, but not to sleep. All night he was lay restless, 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 someone 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 embossed 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 quickly 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 reason to remain at Eagleton. If the Earl flatly denied his claim, all that he could do now would be to put the matter 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 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 how he had noticed that the joint on the Earl's right hand was missing, just as his foster-father had seen and 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 about it, the more his legal mind saw great difficulties in the way of substantiating the 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 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 from 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 the Earl's 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.
The lawyer explained that by law a claim for inheritance could only be substantiated if the parents were legally married. Altogether it would be a most difficult case to bring forward, and undoubtedly further evidence would have to be obtained before taking matters any further.
So Kenneth Fortescue returned to Birmingham, feelin
g as if he had been on the threshold of triumph, 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. While matters continued as they were, he saw no prospect of having a home of his own, and therefore no hope of being able to make any attempt to win Marjorie Douglas's love. And Berington had every opportunity of seeing Marjorie now that she was assisting his sister Lady Violet, and he thought Marjorie a most charming girl!
Kenneth Fortescue was in low spirits during the 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 in Lime Street, 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 Birmingham. 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, and his voice was far from melodious. But he had got his message straight from his Master, and Kenneth realized he had been sent to receive that message.
The words of the text fell on his heart like the soothing touch of a cool, loving hand on the fevered brow.
The words came from the Prayer Book version of Psalm 27, verse 14. "O tarry thou the Lord's leisure; be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord."
Then followed the simple sermon, devoid of all oratory, free from any attempt at grandiloquent language, as the preacher 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, wait for the Lord's own timing. Then, doing that, we shall be strong and comforted.