The preacher ended with a verse from a poem, of which each member of the congregation was given a copy on leaving the church. Kenneth Fortescue kept that verse as one of his greatest treasures.
Oh, tarry and be strong;
Tell God in prayer
What is thy hidden grief,
Thy secret care.
Yet, if no answer come,
Pray on and wait:
God's time is always best;
Never too late.
Chapter 27
A Christmas Journey
CHRISTMAS was now drawing near, and the Birmingham streets were as busy as on that day, two years ago, when Captain Fortescue had seen Lady Violet at the door of the jeweller’s shop in the Arcade. He wondered whether she was now recovered from her accident, and if Marjorie Douglas had returned home to Rosthwaite in the Lakes.
He had saved fifty pounds during the year, and two days before Christmas he sent it to Mrs. Douglas with a short note in which he said that he hoped she and her daughters and grandson were well, and wished them all a happy Christmas. He put another sentence in the letter, asking if Miss Marjorie Douglas was at home for Christmas, but after he had written it he thought it had better not be inserted. He tore the letter up, and wrote another.
On Christmas Day an answer arrived. Mrs. Douglas thanked him warmly for the money he had sent. She said it was far too much for him to have saved in so short a time. She feared that he was denying himself comforts which he ought to have, and she would have liked to return the check. Not wanting to do this, lest he should think her ungrateful, she could only urge him most earnestly not to attempt to send her so large a sum the following year. She was glad to tell him that they were all at home, and quite well, and they united in wishing him every blessing and good wishes for Christmas and the New Year.
Kenneth was sitting in the old armchair by the small fire in his dreary room, reading this letter for about the tenth time, when Mrs. Hall came in to lay the table for dinner. She had insisted on his having "something decent to eat," -- as she expressed it -- on Christmas Day, and had cajoled him into the extravagance of allowing her to buy a chicken for his dinner. She had cooked it with great care, and now brought it in triumphantly and put it on the table.
"There's a beauty, sir, if ever there was one. And I've made some good bread sauce, and the greens are nice and fresh. I got them in the market yesterday, and there's some fine brown gravy."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hall, you take good care of me. I shall get spoiled if I stop here much longer."
"Bless you no, sir, you'll never be spoiled. Not while my name's Mary Ann Hall -- that you won't."
"Perhaps you are thinking of changing your name, Mrs. Hall?"
"Changing it? No, sir, catch me changing of it -- not if I knows it. I've had one husband, and that's enough for me."
Whether this was a compliment to the late Mr. Hall, Kenneth did not know. His landlady bustled out of the room, glad to think that her lodger would enjoy himself for once in his life. She had asked his permission to buy the chicken, but the plum pudding, which followed, she had ventured to make without having received leave beforehand. He would only have said, "No, Mrs. Hall, I really couldn't eat anything more, even if you were to make it."
Mrs. Hall carried it in with great delight: a brown, well-boiled Christmas pudding, bristling with numberless almond spikes, like a porcupine covered with quills.
"There, sir."
"Mrs. Hall, Mrs. Hall, what am I to do to you? You'll ruin me one of these days."
"Nonsense, sir. You'll never be ruined by a bit of Christmas pudding. Eat it while it's hot, sir. It's sickly-like when it's cold."
Kenneth had just finished this Christmas dinner when there came a loud ring at the bell. Mrs. Hall went to the door, and presently returned with a yellow envelope in her hand.
"A telegram, sir. It went to the Insurance Office, but the boy says he found it closed, and the caretaker sent him on here."
Kenneth took it from her and opened it without any feeling of surprise or curiosity. Telegrams often came to the office, and he had left word that in his absence they were to be sent on to his lodgings. But when he saw the words on the pink paper inside he turned so pale that Mrs. Hall, who was waiting at the door to see if he wished to send an answer, could not help noticing it.
"Not bad news, I hope, sir?" she said.
"I hardly know, Mrs. Hall. Ask the boy for a form. I must send an answer."
It was a short reply, soon written and quickly dispatched. coming immediately it said.
The telegram was addressed to, "Milroy, The Castle, Eagleton."
When the boy had been dismissed, Kenneth looked at the pink paper again.
the earl is ill -- wishes to see you as soon as possible.
He got out his Bradshaw railway timetable and found that being Christmas Day there was only one train by which he could go, as the trains were running as on Sunday. There was no time to lose, for he must be at New Street Station in three quarters of an hour.
He made his preparations forthwith, hastily packing his bag. He told Mrs. Hall that he had been summoned to a relative who was ill, and he managed to arrive on Platform 5 a few minutes before the train was due.
During the journey his thoughts were busy. What would he find on his arrival? Had the Earl's change of heart, for which he had been trying to wait patiently, at last arrived? He had trusted the matter to higher care than his own. Was that trust now to be rewarded?
It was late at night when he reached North Eaton. There was no horse-drawn omnibus or cab to meet the train. However, after he had walked a little way along the dark road he saw the lights of a carriage coming his way.
It stopped when it came up to him, and the coachman, bending down to speak to him, said, "Beg pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Fortescue?"
Kenneth having replied in the affirmative, the coachman said, "My lord gave orders that the carriage was to meet the last train. I'm sorry I'm late, sir."
Kenneth stepped into the carriage and felt as if he was acting it all in a dream. He heard the gates being opened by the lodge keeper, and then it grew darker as they drove beneath the overhanging branches of the oaks in the avenue. He knew when they were coming out into the open park when he could see the stars shining through the trees, and there was the moon rising behind the plantation on the other side of the lake. He was getting near now, and his heart beat quickly as he considered what reception he would have. What would he find when he entered the old Castle?
The carriage stopped before the great door. There was no need to ring. They were evidently expecting him, listening for the first sound of the carriage wheels, for the door was thrown open immediately. He was ushered into the library, the same magnificent room in which he had seen the Earl, the room in which the Earl's hand had rested on the head of the white collie.
The dog was there, lying before the fire. It got up and ran eagerly forward when the door was opened, but drew back disappointed when it saw a stranger enter, and threw itself despairingly on the tiger skin rug.
In a few moments Mr. Milroy, the secretary, came in. "I'm glad you've come, Mr. Fortescue. We have been longing for you to arrive."
"Would you mind telling me why you have sent for me? I have heard nothing as yet."
"The Earl is very ill, Mr. Fortescue. Dangerously ill, I may say. We have two doctors in the house now. One or other has been here night and day the whole of the last week. Tonight both are here."
"What is the matter with the Earl?"
"It is the heart. I suppose he has had heart disease for a long time, so the doctors say, and every now and then he has a most alarming attack. He had an awful attack the day after you were here last. We had to wire for Sir Lawrence Taylor at once, and he thought the Earl's condition then most critical. He fancied that the excitement caused by the fire had brought on the attack. However, they consider that he has been much worse this time."
"Does he want to see me?"
"Ye
s, indeed he does. In fact, he will give himself no rest at all until he has seen you."
"Do you know why?"
"I haven't the least idea. Perhaps you know, Mr. Fortescue."
"How should I know?"
"Did you not send the Earl a letter when you were here last? I remember writing an answer at his dictation. Now, whatever that letter of yours contained, I should imagine it would be the reason of his wishing to see you now."
At this moment Sir Lawrence Taylor the physician entered, and Mr. Milroy introduced Mr. Fortescue to him.
"The Earl wishes to see you at once, Mr. Fortescue. It was quite against my judgment that he should see anyone. Perfect quiet is essential for him, but I find that we shall have no hope of allaying the present alarming symptoms until he has had the interview on which he insists. Will you, therefore, be so good as to follow me to his room?"
They ascended the great staircase and went into a large bedroom, the mullioned windows of which looked out towards the front of the Castle. The bed was draped in costly Oriental silk hangings, and beneath these, propped up by so many pillows that he was sitting more than lying, Kenneth saw the Earl. Two nurses were in attendance, and a doctor was sitting beside him with his finger on his pulse.
The Earl looked up eagerly as the door was opened, and Kenneth went forward and stood by the bed.
"My lord, you sent for me," he said gently.
Lord Derwentwater motioned to Sir Lawrence Taylor to come near him. Then Kenneth heard him say in an agitated whisper, "I must be alone with him. Tell them all to go out."
"My lord, you must promise me not to exert yourself more than is actually necessary."
"I will promise anything, only leave us alone."
At a word from Sir Lawrence Taylor the nurses left the room at once, the two doctors followed them and closed the door behind them.
As soon as they were gone, the Earl held out his arms to Kenneth who was standing motionless by his bed.
"My son -- my dear boy, come to me. Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me for the way in which I have treated you?"
Kenneth came close to his father, and Lord Derwentwater put his arms round him and kissed him. The Earl had refused to kiss him when he was about to forsake him in South Africa, a poor, helpless, motherless babe; but now the kiss, so long withheld, was given, and the father's tears fell fast as Kenneth knelt down by his bed and took hold of his hand.
"Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me?" the Earl repeated feebly.
"Freely -- fully," said Kenneth, as he remembered the words with which he had that morning concluded his prayer in his church service for Christmas, "As we forgive them which trespass against us."
"I do not even know your name," said the Earl.
"Kenneth, my lord."
"Don't call me by that title," he said impatiently. "I loved your mother, Kenneth."
"Tell me about her, father."
"Her name was Mirabel. She was the only one I ever really loved. Her father's name was De Sainte Croix. He was of Huguenot descent, and was chaplain in Hyeres in France when I was there. We were married at Hyeres, Kenneth. I have written a statement, which will be quite sufficient, should I die, to put you in your rightful place. My lawyer was here yesterday. I made him read it through, and I signed it in his presence. The marriage certificate is with it, so there can be no difficulty about that."
"Thank you, father, for doing all this."
"Don't thank me," he said. "It's justice -- common justice. It's what ought to have been done long ago. I can never make up to you for what is past. Who saw that letter, Kenneth?"
"What letter?"
"The one old Tomkins, your foster-father, left in the safe. Someone must have got hold of that letter."
"How do you know that, father?"
"I know it because I have had threatening letters, anonymous ones at first, just vague hints of what might be done. But after several of these had come, I had a mysterious visitor. He waylaid me one evening when I was walking in the shrubbery. I could not see his face well. He wore a long coat, and his collar was turned up, and I feel sure that he was wearing a sham beard and moustache. He told me that he knew something in my past life, unknown to the world at large. He said that he had met a man whom he knew to be my son, born in South Africa not far from Kimberley. And then he informed me that if I did not give him a large sum of money he would at once disclose my desertion of that son, and cause my secret to be known to the world. Kenneth, I never knew till then that you were alive. You were such a small, sickly baby that I had no thought or expectation of your living more than a few months at most."
Kenneth sat quietly, waiting for his father to continue.
"The man waited for my answer, and I told him to come again to the same place at midnight. I went in to consider what I should do. The Countess was alive then, and I dare not let her know how I had been married before. Anyway, she would never have married me had she known that I had a son, for her great desire had been to have a child of her own to inherit my title and both our estates. But how could I, after all those years, let her know that I had deceived her? She was a hot-tempered woman, and there would have been an awful scene. So, like the coward that I was, I wrote the check, and gave it to him under the deep shadow of the great chestnut tree near the lake."
"Did you ever see him again, father?"
"Twice again, and each time he demanded a larger sum. At last I told him that I declined to give him another farthing until he revealed the source of his information, and brought some proof of the truth of his statements. From that day to this I have never seen or heard of him. Do you know who he is, Kenneth, and how he got to know?"
Kenneth gave his father the history of the housekeeper Watson, and of the disappearance of the letter from the safe, and then he told him what Marjorie had heard from old Mother Hotchkiss in whose house at Daisy Bank the letter had been found.
"That explains it all, Kenneth. Now that brings us to the time of the fire and your visit to the Castle. When you came into the library that day, I saw the strong likeness to myself at once. I knew you must be my son. At one moment I thought I would send Montague Jones away and tell you the truth; at the next my heart failed me. What would the county families round think of my behaviour? What a revelation of cowardice and injustice it would be to the servants and tenants. How it would lower me in the estimation of everyone I knew."
His father paused again, breathing deeply before continuing.
"Then your letter came, Kenneth, telling me facts which I knew to be true, leaving no room for speculation or doubt. You will wonder why my heart was not touched by it. I wonder at it myself. But I hardened my heart against you. I dared not lose the good opinion of my friends. Above all, I dared not tell Kenmore, my half-brother. He considers himself my heir. He prides himself on it. I have been told that he has already planned how to alter and improve the park and gardens when I am gone. He does not care for me, nor I for him, but I felt that I could not bear the storm which this revelation would raise. But since then -- that was in October, was it not?"
"Yes, father, the fourteenth of October."
"Since then I have been miserable, utterly wretched. I have felt sometimes as if Mirabel, my pretty little bride of my first marriage, came in my dreams to reproach me with the way I had treated her child. So I began to write the statement for my lawyer. It is here, Kenneth, in this large envelope under my pillow. Take it, my boy. We will have no tampering with this letter. Keep it under lock and key, and never let it go out of your possession. I wrote it, Kenneth, and then I thought I would leave it with my lawyer, to be opened after my death. Cowardly again, wasn't it? But then this heart attack came on, and something tells me that the next one will be my last. The doctors seem to be warding off the fatal consequences of this one, but another may seize me at any moment. When I knew that, and began to face death, and thought of standing before my Judge, my heart failed me. Of all the sins of my guilty life, I feel that this
desertion of my own child has been the worst. And so I sent for you, and you say you forgive me."
"I do, father, indeed I do."
"Thank you, Kenneth. It's more than I deserve. I wish I could know that I had Divine forgiveness too, but I'm afraid that is out of the question now. It is far too late for that."
"It is never too late, father. You forget how God longs and yearns to forgive us. He wants to forgive far more than we want to be forgiven. Why, He wants it so much that He sent His own Son to die for us, that He might be able to forgive us. You see, He couldn't have forgiven us otherwise, for it wouldn't have been just. He is obliged to punish sin."
"Go on, Kenneth. I know it all in a way, but I want to see it more clearly now."
"Well, you see, He let His Son be punished instead of us on the Cross, so that when we come to Him He can be just, and yet able to forgive us. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.'"
It was the same verse which Marjorie had repeated to old Mother Hotchkiss. And the simple words which comforted the heart of the poor old woman in Daisy Bank, who could neither read nor write, now brought peace and a sense of pardon to the highly cultured and refined nobleman. He grasped Kenneth's hand
"I will rest on those words, Kenneth. 'Faithful and just.' Now I am afraid you must call the nurses. Get some dinner, and rest, and come to me again in the morning."
His father grasped his hand warmly as he said goodnight, and Kenneth opened the door and admitted the doctor. He was leaving the room when his father called him back.
"Sir Lawrence Taylor, may I introduce my son to you -- the future Earl?"
Sir Lawrence looked in astonishment at Kenneth who was standing by the door. The nurses who had followed the doctor into the room also looked round in the utmost surprise.