He felt deeply grateful to his father for all that he had done for him in the past, and yet now he was inclined to think that it had been a terrible mistake. He had been educated out of his proper position in life. His friends and acquaintances were all men moving in an utterly different circle to that of his father. His sympathies and interests and attractions were in a sphere which he could never have any right to enter. He knew that if Lady Earlswood saw his father, she would never have dreamed for a moment of inviting him to her Christmas house party, or of reckoning him among her friends.
Captain Fortescue felt like a walking impostor. There had been times when he felt it his duty to tell his friend Lady Violet and her mother Lady Earlswood the truth, and had once been on the verge of doing so. As they had walked together in the Riviera, under the blue Mediterranean sky, he had more than once been on the point of blurting out the fact that he was not of noble birth, but was the son of a man who had once been a working miner.
He had, however, at the last moment withheld from making this disclosure; not so much because he was afraid of what they might think of him, or of how they might treat him, but was it right to publish his father's humble origin to the world?
Thus time had drifted on, and he had moved in the highest circles and had been received into the best society, and no one knew anything of his father beyond the fact that he lived at Ashcliffe Towers, near Sheffield, had a large estate, and was evidently a very wealthy man.
When, two hours later, the train entered the large Sheffield Station, he called a hansom cab and was soon going rapidly through the busy streets and out towards the country beyond. As he went he wondered again what he would find at his journey's end, and whether his father would come out as usual to welcome him on his arrival.
After about half an hour's drive, the cab turned in at the lodge gate, and he could see, through the fir trees in the avenue, the lights in the windows of his home.
The old butler came to the door in answer to the cabman's ring. Elkington had lived with his father for years. Mr. Fortescue objected to keeping many servants. They were only a trouble, he said, and he did not care to have a young jackanapes of a footman to stand and watch him when he ate. Elkington had white hair, and his hand trembled as he took the bag from the driver. He did not speak until the man had driven off, and then he said, "I'm glad you've come, sir."
"What's the matter, Elkington? Is my father ill?"
"Very ill, sir," said the old man. "Come into the library, sir. The doctor is upstairs now."
"That bag's too heavy for you, Elkington. Let me take it."
"No, no, sir, I can manage all right. I'm getting a bit short of breath, that's all."
Captain Fortescue insisted on taking the bag himself. "My father has summoned me urgently. I heard from him yesterday. He seemed quite well then."
"Yes, sir, and he was all right yesterday, and when he got up this morning. He came down to breakfast as usual. He always will have it at eight, you know. Well, he'd just sat down when there come a ring at the front door bell. It's Watson's duty to go to the door when I'm waiting, but she never came down, and just as I was getting the master his bacon the bell rings again. Well, your father shouted and he stormed . . . Beg your pardon, sir, you know how he carries on. You'll forgive me saying it."
"I know, Elkington. Go on."
"So I put the bacon down, sir, and I went myself to see who was there. It was a boy with a telegram. He held out the yellow envelope to me, and he stood waiting while I took it in to the master.
"'What have you got there, Elkington?' he said, and when he saw what it was he turned as white as the tablecloth. 'Take it out of the envelope, Elkington,' he says, 'my hand trembles so.' So I took it out and handed it to him, and he just looked at it one minute, and then he fell back in his chair in a dead faint. The telegram slipped down on the floor under the table. I was that frightened, sir, I didn't know what to do. And then Watson came running in to know what was the matter. She do give herself airs, that housekeeper, sir."
Kenneth Fortescue nodded. He knew exactly what Elkington meant.
"Well, if you'll believe me, sir," the old butler continued, "she swept me aside and she took the master in her charge, and said no one should touch him or do anything for him but herself. I said I would go for the doctor, and she said, no, I shouldn't, and he would be all right presently. By-and-by the telegraph boy comes out of the hall and asks if he's wanted, and is there any answer? So I went out and sent him off, and I ran in the front and told Roger, the garden boy, to fly off for Dr. Cholmondeley."
"And what did Watson say to that?" the captain asked.
"She was glad, sir, for by then we thought your father was dead But the doctor brought him round. It was weakness of the heart, he said, and he was to be kept quiet."
"I'm glad you sent for me, Elkington," Kenneth said.
"It was the master did that, sir. I went in his room to take some hot water, and I heard him say to Watson; 'Send for the captain,' he says. 'No, sir, you keep quiet,' she says. 'You don't want the captain here. You're all right now.' You'd never believe, sir, how that woman lords it over him. Why, none of the rest of us dares to contradict the old gentleman, but ever since she came here she's been worming herself into his favour, and making herself that useful to him he thinks he can't get on without her. But this time she was not going to get her own way. I heard what she said, and I went up to the bed and said, 'Shall I wire for the captain, sir?' and the old gentleman nodded his head, and Watson looked as if she would kill me. She doesn't like you, doesn't Watson, sir."
"I know she doesn't, and I don't like her."
"So I sent off the wire, and I'm glad you've come, sir. You weren't long getting here."
"No, Elkington, but I only just caught the express. Is that the doctor coming down?"
"I believe so, sir. I'll bring him in here."
The next minute the doctor entered. He was a middle-aged man with a quiet, dignified manner which inspired confidence in his patients. "Captain Fortescue, I believe."
"Yes, doctor. I am anxious to hear what you think of my father."
"It's a case of shock," explained the doctor. "Your father received some very bad news, I gather, this morning, and that is a great strain upon a man of his age. The action of the heart is weak -- in fact, it had nearly ceased altogether. He has pulled round a little now, but there may be a relapse at any time."
"Perhaps I had better not see him tonight."
"Under ordinary circumstances I should most certainly have agreed with you, but he is most anxious to see you. He heard the cab stop, and he asked if you had come. Watson advised him to wait a little. Good faithful soul that Watson, I should imagine."
Captain Fortescue did not answer.
"You don't like her?"
"No, I don't, but I really can hardly tell you why. Then you think I had better go up?"
"Yes, if your father insists on seeing you. Did it ever occur to you that he might have some special reason for wishing to see you, something that he wanted particularly to say to you or to ask you?"
"Has he, do you think?"
"I fancy so. I may be wrong, mind you, but I've a good idea that it is something more than mere affection that has made him so anxious for you to arrive. I have been in several times today, and each time your father has asked if the captain has come, and whether I thought he would be able to speak to you when you did come."
"Well, I shall see when I go up," said Captain Fortescue. "I don't know in the least what it could be."
A knock at the door interrupted them.
"Come in," said the captain.
A middle-aged woman entered. The housekeeper was short in stature, with sharp features and a receding chin, and was heavily marked by smallpox.
"Has my father sent for me, Watson?" Kenneth Fortescue asked.
Watson shook her head. "No, sir, he does not feel well enough to see you now. He will see you after dinner."
With these words she
left the room.
"Better so," said the doctor, as he took leave. "Better for you and better for him."
Chapter 3
Captain Fortescue's Promise
WHEN Dr. Cholmondeley had gone, and while the old butler Elkington was laying the cloth in the dining-room, the captain sat in an armchair by the fire in the library.
How well he knew that room, and how the furniture had appalled him in days gone by. The gaudy amber colored carpet with its huge floral pattern; the tablecloth of velvet plush, but of a different red from that of the carpet; the massive bookcase with its rows of books chosen because of their gilded binding, but with total disregard of their contents; the pictures on the walls selected for the splendour of their frames, but possessing nothing in themselves to charm the artistic eye.
The great mirror in its elaborate gilt setting; the massive coal box with its startling pictorial design; the bright blue curtains in the window embellished with a golden pattern; the ornaments standing on the mantelshelf -- one and all were costly and magnificent indeed, but at the same time utterly lacking in the elements of taste or beauty. These, however, he passed over today, without even giving a single sigh of regret over the large sums of money which had been wasted on them.
But one object in the room he did look at and sigh over, and that was a large picture in a gorgeous gilt frame on the wall, just opposite the chair in which he was sitting. It was the full-length portrait of a woman of about forty, with dark hair, high cheekbones and a red face. She was arrayed in gaudy colors, which harmonized as little with each other as did the colors of the room. It was a heavy face, with no hint of alertness in it.
Captain Fortescue gazed at it. It was the picture of his mother. She had died when he was a few months old, and he often wished that he had never seen her picture. He would have drawn her so differently with the pen of imagination. He would have painted her in such subdued and beautiful colors. He would have made her tall and fair and lovely, with a sweet, gentle face, a graceful figure, and eyes which had a world of tenderness in them. But here was her picture drawn from life. She was his mother, and he must try to think as dutifully of her as he could.
Again he said to himself that his father's generosity to him had been a mistake. It had caused him to have feelings and ideals out of keeping with his position; it had made him even dissatisfied with his own mother.
"Dinner is ready, sir," said Elkington's voice behind him.
"Elkington."
"Yes, sir."
"What became of that telegram?"
"It's here, sir, on the writing table. I put it there myself. I'm afraid it's bad news, sir. You'll excuse my having read it, but it was lying open on the floor."
Captain Fortescue took the pink paper, opened it, and held it close to the light. It contained these words, mine flooded -- all lost -- utter ruin.
He looked up in surprise. "What does that mean, Elkington? My father never told me any of his business affairs. Had he money in a mining company?"
"I believe so, sir. I'm afraid so. I think he must have lost heavily, and I think, too, he must have already feared bad news this morning. He turned so white as I brought the telegram in."
Kenneth Fortescue did not eat much dinner, and was glad when the last course had been cleared away. "Now, Elkington, see if I can go to my father."
The old butler soon returned with the message that his master would like to see the captain at once. He therefore went up the wide staircase and crossed the landing to his father's room. The door was open, and he could see Watson standing by the bed giving him something from an invalid cup.
"Father, I'm sorry to find you in bed," he said, as he went forward.
"Yes, Ken, I've had a bad turn this time. I'm glad you've come. Watson, you can go and get your supper. Do you hear? And don't come till I ring for you."
Watson put down the cup with a bang, as if she resented being dismissed, and stalked out of the room.
"Has she gone, Ken?"
"Yes, father."
"See if she's shut the door."
No, the door was ajar, but the captain closed it and turned the key in the lock.
"I'm very ill, my boy."
"Dr. Cholmondeley hopes you may feel better soon. I've been talking to him downstairs."
"Look 'ere, Ken, I don't believe in doctors. They only say what they think folks will like to hear. I know better."
"Don't tire yourself, father."
"I must tire myself, Ken. I've got something as I want to say to you. I'm not a-going to put it off, or it may be too late. I got a telegram today."
"Yes, I saw it downstairs. What does it mean?"
"It means I'm ruined, Ken. That's what it means."
"How ruined? In what way?"
"Why, all of my money was in that there mine. Every small farthing of it."
"Surely not all."
"It was, Ken. They paid five, ten and even twelve percent sometimes, but it was all a humbugging affair as it turns out. I got a letter only yesterday from a man as I know who has shares in it too, and he told me as how he was a-going to sell out, and I meant to do the same. I should have done it today, but it's too late now. That there wire was from him."
"That is terrible," said the captain.
"Terrible? I should just think it is, Ken. And all your money was there, too."
"My money?"
"Well, yes; money as I had to spend for you. But it's gone along of the rest. I've given you a good eddication, Ken. No one can say as I haven't. I've not stinted you, have I?"
"Never, father, never."
"I've done my best for you, ever since you was a little lad -- a little motherless lad, Ken."
"You have, father, you have."
"And if this mine hadn't gone smash, I should have left you a rich man."
"Never mind about me, father. I'm very sorry for you."
"Well, I'm not long for this world, Ken, so it matters little for me; but I'm glad you've come. I wanted to see you and put matters straight for you for when I'm gone."
"Don't talk like that, Dad" He found himself using his old name for his father from his younger days. "I hope you'll soon be much better."
"Perhaps so, Ken, but perhaps not. Now, listen. When I'm gone, you take this 'ere key, you see it on this bunch, it's the one with a bit of pink string tied round it."
"What key is it for?"
"It's the key of the safe over there, in the corner of my room, just by the cupboard door. Open the safe and you'll see my will. It's not worth the paper it's written on now. Well, underneath the will you'll see an envelope addressed to you."
"To me, father?"
"Yes, Ken. You take that there envelope, and inside of it you'll find some information as you ought to have. Follow it up, Ken, and I hope as it will put you all right."
"What is it about, father? Let me get the paper now."
"No, no, I won't have it opened till I'm gone. Time enough then. Time enough then."
"Shall I take the key?"
"No, no, leave it on the table beside me. I'll have no one meddling with my keys while I'm here to look after them. Put the bunch where I can see it as I lie here. Pass me the drink, Ken, I feel a bit faint."
Captain Fortescue held the cup to his father's lips.
"There, there, that's better, lad. Raise me a little."
"Won't you be quiet now, father? You've talked enough. Let me call Watson."
"No, no, I haven't told you yet what I want to say."
There was a low knock. Kenneth Fortescue unlocked the door. It was Watson. "The master mustn't talk anymore," she said sharply. "Dr. Cholmondeley would be very displeased."
"You mind your own business," said her master.
"Let me give you some milk, sir."
"I've had some. Go away, Watson, I want to speak to my son. Don't you come till I send for you."
Watson bounced out of the room and slammed the door after her, and once more father and son were left alone.
> "Ken, keep that woman out till I've told you what I want to tell you. Is the door shut?"
"It's shut, father."
"Well, you remember a man of the name of Douglas?"
"No, I don't."
"Oh no, of course you don't. The Reverend Douglas was parson of the church here when you was away at boarding school. He was only here a few months. I was churchwarden then, and so I saw a good bit of him. Well, he preached one Sunday in the church, and the next day I heard as how he was dying. He'd broke a blood vessel or something of that sort. He sent across to know, would I go and see him. When I gets there he says to me, 'Now, Fortescue,' he says, 'you've handled a lot of money in your day, and you know what to do with it. And I want you to be so good as to help my wife when I'm gone.'"
Kenneth Fortescue shifted uneasily as he listened to this story. His father noticed.
"I wanted to help her, Ken," he said. "She were there, sobbing away by his bed, a fine looking woman too. 'I haven't much to leave her and the children,' Parson Douglas says. 'She has a little bit of money of her own, but all as I've saved I've paid away for insurance, in case anything should happen to me. Now, what I want you to do,' he says, 'is this. Help her to get that money invested in something as will bring her in a good interest, and yet be a safe concern. I've never had much to do with money,' he says. 'I've had so little of it, but you've made a big pile, and you do know. So I want you to help the wife when I'm gone.' Well, I promised him, Ken, and that night the poor fellow died."
The son looked at his father. This was the first time he had heard the story. "And she got the insurance money, I suppose."
"Oh yes, Ken, she got her money, and I took charge of it for her. I said as how I would invest it and send her the interest. I put it into India three and a half percent, and forwarded her the dividends reg'lar, just as they came to me. Then this goldmine in Brazil was started, and I put all my own money in it, and I got rattling good returns. So I thinks why shouldn't poor Mrs. Douglas have a slice of good luck along of me? So I put her money in it too. I ought to have asked her say-so, but I didn't. You see, we'd had a bit of a tiff just at that time. She lived up in York then, but she's moved now. I used often to run over when her interest was due and take it with me instead of writing. It seemed more friendly-like. And I took a great fancy to her, and I wanted her to come and be your ma. But she wouldn't hear of it, and drew herself up and looked at me in such a way it fair scared me. So I didn't want to go and see her, and I'm a bad hand at letters. I just sent her the money and said I was glad the interest was better. And, Ken, she believes today that it's still in the India three and a half percent."