Kenneth Fortescue went up to bed that night feeling considerably relieved that the communication in the letter was, after all, of so harmless a nature. He had evidently been making much ado about nothing. The so-called mystery had turned out to be most easy of solution and had nothing mysterious about it.
But as he lay awake thinking of it all, and only half satisfied with the explanation that he had worked out with so much care, an unanswerable problem suggested itself to him, and made him feel that, after all, he had by no means got to the bottom of the strange occurrence, and that there still remained much that was mysterious and suspicious.
Why was the letter to himself addressed in the way it was? Did it not say on the envelope, For my son. To be opened after my death? His father would never have addressed it in that way if he had intended to post it.
What did it all mean? The former theory was entirely upset by the remembrance of this fact. He felt that he had not worked out the solution correctly after all.
His brain was in a whirl. The longer he puzzled over it, the more hopelessly bewildered he became. All night long he was struggling to find some possible explanation which might prove satisfactory in all points, but he utterly failed to discover one.
Tired in mind and body, he rose in the morning determined to lay the whole matter before his father's lawyer. He went to Mr. Northcourt's office in Sheffield and took him entirely into his confidence, but neither he nor the lawyer were able to come to any conclusion as to what had happened with regard to the two letters.
The captain suggested calling in a detective, but Mr. Northcourt dissuaded him from pursuing this course of action, at any rate for the present, because he failed to see any real indication that there had been foul play in the matter. Surely, he said, if the bookseller and printer Josiah Makepeace had had any hand, directly or indirectly, in removing the letter from the safe, why was he so anxious and ready to restore it to its rightful owner? However, Northcourt promised the captain that he would lose no opportunity in trying to discover a clue to the mystery, and told him that if anything came to his knowledge at all bearing on what had happened, he would not fail to communicate with him immediately.
Chapter 7
A Walk Through Borrowdale
A FEW DAYS later, during the first week of the New Year, Kenneth Fortescue was once more at the large railway station in Sheffield. He was doing what he had never done in the whole course of his life before: he was a poor man now and was obliged to take a third-class ticket.
It was a new experience for him to stop himself at every turn when he was on the point of spending small sums of money. Instead of buying, as before, several books and papers at the stall, he contented himself with a copy of one newspaper only. Instead of ordering a luncheon, he carried in his pocket a small packet of sandwiches which old Elkington had carefully wrapped up for him that morning. Instead of coming to the station in a cab, he had made use of a public conveyance.
Although all this was new and strange to him, he had endured the hard life in the war without a murmur, and the cessation of these little luxuries was to him a trivial matter. But he did feel a pang of regret when he had to give the porter a small coin instead of his former generous tip, and another pang when he slipped a penny into the box of the blind man at the station gate instead of the shilling which he had usually given him when he passed by.
When the train started, Kenneth Fortescue was soon engrossed in his newspaper. He was glad of anything to turn his thoughts from the errand on which he was going. For he was on his way north to Cumberland to fulfil his promise to his father to break the news to poor Mrs. Douglas, the parson's widow, of her heavy loss. He had experienced some difficulty in finding her address. He remembered that he had been so filled with horror at his father's disclosure that he had never asked him where she was now living.
He had hunted through the old man's papers in vain. He had discovered her address in York, but his father had said that she was no longer there, and he failed to find any recent address. However, the old butler Elkington, on being questioned, told him that he had several times addressed letters for his master to Mrs. Douglas, and that he could therefore quite distinctly remember her address. He wrote it carefully on a piece of paper, and Captain Fortescue took it from his waistcoat pocket now and looked at it more than once during the journey. In the old man's trembling handwriting he read these words:
Mrs. Douglas, Fernbank,
Rosthwaite, near Keswick.
Kenneth, much as he wished to get this dreaded visit over, had postponed it until after the New Year. He knew that he was the bearer of bad tidings, and he was unwilling that the evil news should come as a cloud across their happiness at Christmas time.
He had thought once of writing to say that he was coming, but on second thoughts he decided not to do so. He would keep his promise to his father. His father had implored him not to write, and he would therefore refrain from doing so, and would not even prepare Mrs. Douglas and her family in this way for the sad news which he was bringing. He could easily find some place in which to stay the night, and would return to Sheffield early the following morning.
Kenneth Fortescue was alone the first part of the way, but at Penrith a young man jumped into the carriage and took the seat opposite. He was short and rather thin, with dark hair and brown eyes.
The newcomer put his bag on the rack, lit a cigar, and turned over the leaves of a magazine. But he did not seem much inclined for reading, and soon closed his book and began to talk, opening the conversation, as Englishmen always do, with a remark on the weather.
"Horrid cold day," he said.
"Yes, I think it's the coldest day this winter," Kenneth answered. "It feels to me like snow."
"Have some of my rug," said the newcomer.
Kenneth smiled. "Thank you, I shall only be too glad. I forgot to bring mine, and the foot-warmer is quite cold now."
They exchanged names, although Kenneth Fortescue omitted his title of captain, and the newcomer introduced himself as Louis Verner.
"Have you come far?" Louis Verner asked.
"Well, a good way -- from Sheffield. I'm going to a little place somewhere near Keswick. Do you know Keswick?"
"I certainly do. I'm going there myself."
"Oh, then you're the very man I want. I have to get to a village called Rosthwaite. Do you know it?"
"Rather. Why, we live only about two miles from Rosthwaite. At Grange, at the lake head."
"Derwentwater, is that?"
"Yes, we're at the other end of it from Keswick. It's a pretty long way from the station. Do you know Cumberland?"
"I never was there in my life. Is there an inn at Rosthwaite?"
"Oh yes, two of them, and they're both comfortable, I believe. Are you thinking of staying at Rosthwaite long?"
The captain shook his head. "I'm only going there on business. I want to find some people who live there. I wonder if you have ever heard of them and can tell me where they live."
"What's the name?"
"Douglas."
"Of course I know the Douglases. I've known them nearly all my life. I spend most of my time there when I'm down from university. Too much time, my father says. You see, he wants me to work, but it's an awful grind out of term time. I do a little, of course, but not enough to please him, I'm afraid."
"Are you at Cambridge?"
"No, Oxford -- Magdalen."
"And what are you going to be? "
"Oh, I don't know. Anything that's not too hard work. My father says I ought to settle, but it's difficult. Every time I come down he wants to know if I've made up my mind. But there's time enough yet."
"Don't you think it's better to have an aim in view?"
The young man drew in a long breath through his cigar. "I suppose it is. Oh, I shall think of something one of these days. You were asking about the Douglases?"
"Yes. Do you mind telling me what you know about them?"
"They're jolly, all of them.
You're sure to like them."
"What does the family consist of?"
"Well, there's Mrs. Douglas. He's dead. Was a parson, I believe, and had a church in Sheffield. He's been dead years now. We never knew him."
"Is Mrs. Douglas an elderly lady?"
"Oh dear no. She isn't young, but she isn't what you would call elderly. Her hair isn't white."
"And what family has she?"
"Three girls. Awfully jolly girls, too. And then there's little Carl."
"I didn't think she had a young child."
"No, she hasn't. Carl is Mrs. Douglas's grandchild. Leila is his mother. Leila is Mrs. Douglas's oldest daughter. She was only married a few months when she lost her husband, and this little chap was born after his father died. So Leila had to come back home because she was left so badly off."
"Then the girls will be quite grown up, I suppose?"
"Indeed yes. Phyllis is the youngest, and she's nineteen. Marjorie is my age. Our birthdays are on the same day. We shall both come of age next month. They're really awfully nice girls. I don't know which I like best, Marjorie or Phyllis. Sometimes I think I like one, sometimes the other."
"It's a case of 'How happy could I be with either,'" said Kenneth Fortescue, laughing as he recalled the words from The Beggar's Opera. "Fernbank, I think, they live?"
"Yes, it's up on the hill close to the bridge. They have a nice little garden. Leila lies out on her couch in it in summer. She's an invalid now, and has been for months, and they're afraid she'll never be strong."
"What's the matter with her?"
"Something to do with her spine, I believe. She looks very ill sometimes. We shall soon be at Keswick. What do you think of our Cumberland hills?"
"Beautiful," said the captain, as he looked out of the window. "Have you had much snow this winter?"
"A good deal. It's done nothing but rain or snow for the past two weeks. Horrid nuisance, too."
"I'm glad it's fine today," said the captain.
"Yes, if it will only keep so. How are you going to get to Rosthwaite?"
"Are there public conveyances running there from Keswick?"
Louis Verner shook his head. "Not in winter, but there are plenty in summer."
"Then I must take a cab. How much do they charge?" It was a new question for Kenneth Fortescue to have to ask.
"A good bit, I believe. It's a long way, you see. I can give you a lift as far as Grange if you like. The pony trap will be there to meet me."
"It's kind of you. I shall be most grateful. How far is Grange from Rosthwaite?"
"Oh, a very little way. A short two miles, right through Borrowdale."
When they arrived at Keswick Station, the captain's new friend led the way to the road outside where they found a pony carriage and a smart-looking groom waiting, and they were soon going quickly through the streets of the pretty little town.
Then the lake came in sight, beautiful even on that wintry afternoon. A fringe of snow covered the top of Cat Bells and the higher hills on the opposite side of the water, and Derwentwater was lit up by the rays of the red sun which had not yet dipped behind their white summits.
Captain Fortescue thought he had never beheld a lovelier scene. The wooded islands with which the lake was studded; the dark fir trees on Friar's Crag; the rocks and trees on the margin of the lake reflected in the still water; the high mountains of Borrowdale shutting out the view before him; and Skiddaw standing in solitary grandeur behind him. All these combined to form a glorious panorama of beauty on which he gazed with great admiration.
Louis Verner talked the whole way, pointing out the different mountain peaks; stopping the carriage so he that could hear the roar of Lodore as its waters, swollen by winter snows, dashed a hundred feet over the precipice; and then, when the lake was left behind, showing him in the distance the beautiful double bridge crossing the rushing river as it ran towards the lake.
"Do you see those houses," he said, "just in front of us? We are coming to Grange now."
"That is where you live?"
"Yes, in that house on the other side of the river. You can just see the chimneys among the trees."
"Then Rosthwaite is two miles further?"
"Not quite two miles. It's a glorious walk."
"Is there any fear of my losing my way?"
"No, it's quite impossible. Keep straight along the road and it will take you there."
"I am most grateful to you for the help you have given me," said the captain. "How long have you lived here?"
"My father, Colonel Verner, came to live here ten years ago."
"I'm glad we have met," the captain said. "It has made the last part of my journey pleasant. Do I get out here?"
"No, wait till we get to the bridge. Why, I do believe that's Marjorie Douglas coming across now. Lucky for you if it is. She'll show you the way. Hurry up, Stephens, and we'll catch her before she turns the corner."
They drove quickly on, and Louis Verner called out to the girl who was nearing the end of the long bridge, "Marjorie! I say, Marjorie!"
She saw them coming and waited at the corner, and Louis jumped out of the carriage followed by the captain, and went to meet her.
She was wearing a navy blue motor-cap, a coat and skirt of the same color, and sable furs. She had the brightest, sunniest face Kenneth thought that he had ever seen. Her hair was a lovely shade of brown, and she had a clear complexion and rosy cheeks. Although he could remember having seen faces far more beautiful in feature -- Lady Violet's, for instance -- he could not recollect having in his whole life seen a single face so lovely in its expression, so vivacious, and so full of intelligence.
"Marjorie, look here. I want to introduce this gentleman to you. Mr. Fortescue -- Miss Douglas. He is going to Rosthwaite, and I think he wants to call on your mother."
"Mr. Fortescue?" said Marjorie, in a surprised voice. "Why, I thought . . ."
Kenneth laughed. "You thought Mr. Fortescue was not quite so young, Miss Douglas. Was that it?"
"Well, yes," she said, laughing in return. "Mother gets letters sometimes from you, and I pictured you a very old man with white hair and spectacles. Why, I don't know, but I always picture people to myself, and often make mistakes."
"That was my father, Miss Douglas. He is dead now."
"Dead. Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I would not have said that if I had known."
The captain merely smiled in reassurance.
"Well, Marjorie, will you guide Mr. Fortescue to your home?" said Louis Verner.
"Yes, Louis, I'm going home now, so we can walk together."
When the carriage had driven on, and the captain found himself alone with Miss Douglas, all the weight of the errand on which he had come returned. He had tried to forget it for a time. He could not forget it now. Marjorie Douglas was so bright and cheerful, so anxious to point out to him all the beauties of the scenery through which they were passing, making the walk as pleasant to him as she possibly could. He felt sick at heart when he remembered that his visit would bring a heavy cloud over her life, and drive the sunshine from her face. Why had his father asked him to do this thing?
They were now passing through the narrowest part of Borrowdale, where the steep hills confronted each other closely in all their rugged beauty. At the bottom of the gorge the river was rushing madly over its rocky bed, while overhead towered the mighty Castle Crag, guarding the narrow pass. Every kind of beauty of rock and wood and river, of mossy bank and fern-covered glade, seemed crowded together in this lovely spot.
"What do you think of it, Mr. Fortescue?"
"Glorious," he said. "How delightful to live among it all."
"I don't think I could bear to live in a dirty, smoky town after this," she said. "Do you see that great stone above us on the hill -- the Bowder Stone. People always go and look at it, but there isn't really much to see."
Kenneth did not answer her. The burden of his message was becoming more than he could bear. A sudden thought crosse
d his mind. Should he tell Mrs. Douglas's daughter why he had come? Perhaps, if he did so, Marjorie would help him to think of the best way to tell her mother.
"Miss Douglas," he said, "I suppose you have been wondering why I am going to see your mother?"
"Woman's curiosity, I expect you think. Well, you men are just as inquisitive sometimes. Yes, I did wonder rather what it was about," she said, laughing.
"May I tell you?" he answered, so gravely and seriously that her laugh died away and a look of anxiety came into her face.
"Yes, tell me," she said quietly. "Not bad news, I hope?"
"I'm afraid it is. I'm much afraid you will think it very bad news."
She waited for him to go on, which he did, speaking with difficulty, for he was touched to see that her color had faded in a moment. It was a white face which was turned to him now.
"My father managed a business matter for your mother," he continued. "Your father was my father's parson in Sheffield. When your father was dying, he asked my father to invest some money for her."
"Yes, I know. Mother has often told me how kind he was in doing it for her, and in looking after it all these years."
"He put the money -- your father's insurance money, I believe it was -- in India three and a half percent."
"Yes, mother said it is there."
"It was there."
"Is it not there now?"
"No, not now. My father found what he thought was an exceedingly good investment. He put all his own money into it. Miss Douglas, please remember that -- all his own money. And he wanted your mother to share in the good interest that he was receiving. So he took her money out of the three and a half percent, and put it in with his own."
"And you have come to tell us it is all lost," Marjorie Douglas said. She did not say it angrily or bitterly, only very sorrowfully.
"All lost," he repeated. "It was invested in a mine. The mine is flooded, and has been an utter failure. The shares are not worth a single halfpenny."
"Poor mother. Poor, poor mother."
"Has she much besides?"
"Not much. There is a little, a very little; but, you see, there's my older sister Leila now and little Carl."
"They live with you, I believe."