"Yes, and little Carl will have to be educated. There is nothing for him whatever, only what mother can do. But how selfish I am," she went on. "I have been thinking of ourselves, and never thought of you. Won't it make a great difference to you?"
"Yes, of course I shall have to leave the army."
"I thought you had the look of a soldier."
"I have recently got my captaincy."
"What will you do?"
"I have no idea yet. Go into business, I suppose. But it does not matter about me, if only I could have spared you this awful shock."
"Oh, please don't think of me," she said, smiling again, though there were tears in her eyes. "I am young and strong and can easily find something to do. Oh, something is sure to turn up. It is only mother I was thinking of, but I know she will be helped. Please don't trouble about us. It is quite hard enough for you."
"Now, how shall I tell your mother, Miss Douglas?"
"Would it help you if I told her?"
"It would help me very much, but I'm afraid I cannot let you do that. You see, I promised my father that I would tell your mother myself."
"Did you? Oh, then you ought to do it, of course."
"When do you think I had better come?"
"Do you mind coming after tea? Leila will have gone to bed then, and I think it would be better for her not to be there. You see, she's a great invalid, and she always goes to bed when little Carl does."
"Shall we say half-past seven, then?"
"Yes, that will do well. No one will be there but ourselves. Louis Verner comes in most evenings, but he won't come tonight, as he is only just home from Penrith. But won't you come to tea? I'm so sorry, I ought to have asked you before."
"No, thank you, I would rather go straight to find an inn for the night. There are two, I believe. Which do you recommend?"
She told him their respective merits, and they settled together to which he should go. Then she talked of the village and the church, and pointed out the different mountains, and did all she could to put him at his ease again. It was obvious that she saw how deeply he had felt having to tell her of the heavy loss of which his father had been the cause.
Then they came to a stone bridge which crossed the stream just at the entrance of Rosthwaite. It was almost dark when they got there, but she pointed out the chimneys of her home, standing among the trees on the hillside, and she said goodbye to him in a cheerful voice. She continued on over the bridge, while he walked on a few yards further and found the clean country inn at which he was to spend the night.
Chapter 8
Honister Crag
WHEN Captain Fortescue set out that evening at half-past seven for Fernbank, a fearful gale was blowing. The trees rocked and strained overhead, and so violent was the wind as it came sweeping through the narrow gorge down which he had come that afternoon, that he could hardly fight his way against it as he attempted to retrace his steps as far as the bridge.
It was a terribly cold night, the ground was as hard as iron, and the bridge was so slippery that he stumbled as he crossed it.
He followed the path beyond, which wound steeply up the hillside and climbed towards the house, guided as he did so by the lights in the windows. He wondered whether Marjorie Douglas had told them that he was coming. Perhaps she had, and they were expecting him anxiously, trying to conjecture what news he had come to bring them. But no, on second thoughts he felt sure that she would not tell them, lest they should ask her whether she knew what his errand was.
He found the garden gate with difficulty, for it was a dark night, and began to climb the steep path leading towards the front of the house. This path took him past a bow window, the blind of which was only partly drawn down.
He only glanced at this window for a single moment, turning his eyes away immediately, but in that one glance he had taken in the whole scene, and it remained imprinted on his memory.
A lady was sitting at the table, darning stockings by the light of the lamp. On the opposite side of the table, with her back to the window and busily engaged in the same occupation, was his companion of the afternoon, Marjorie Douglas; while leaning back in an armchair by the fire, with her feet on the fender and a book in her hand, was a pretty fair-haired girl whom he concluded was the younger sister, Phyllis.
Only one glance -- and yet the picture of homely comfort impressed itself on him. He even noticed the bricks and tin soldiers on the floor, left behind by the young boy who had gone to bed.
And now he had come to bring a blight on their quiet happiness. Had it been possible, even at the last moment, he would have turned back. But it was not possible, for a promise made to the dead was surely too sacred to be disregarded. Whatever it cost him, that promise must be fulfilled.
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly servant to whom he handed his card, which she at once carried to her mistress.
"Come in, please, sir," she said, as she opened the door of the room into which he had looked.
All three ladies rose as he entered, and Mrs. Douglas said, "Are you the son of my husband's old friend in Sheffield?"
He told her that he was, and then informed her of his father's death. When she had expressed her regret for this, he told her, as gently as he could, the heartbreaking news that he had to bring her, telling her at the same time that all his father's money had been invested in the same mine, and assuring her of the old man's deep sorrow at what had occurred. He also told her how his father had made him promise to acquaint her of the loss by word of mouth, instead of sending the bad news in a letter.
She listened quietly, as if she was mentally stunned by the blow that had fallen on her. For some minutes she did not speak, and then she asked, "Are you sure there is no hope of recovering anything?"
"None, I'm afraid," said Captain Fortescue. "I wish I could give you any hope, but I fear I cannot. It is hard for you to hear, very hard, and it is hard for me to tell."
"I'm sure it is," said Marjorie. "I think it is worse for you than for us."
"Mrs. Douglas," he said, "I am a poor man now. I cannot continue in my regiment, and so far no path in life has been opened to me. But I assure you of this, that I shall look on the four thousand pounds you have lost as a debt binding on me as long as I live, and that, if God prospers me in the future, every single penny of it shall be repaid. I will not wait, however, until I am able to restore the whole capital, for that I fear will be the work of a lifetime. But I will send you from time to time such money as I am able to save, and I will not allow myself a single indulgence of any kind until the full amount is in your hands."
"It is good of you -- very noble," she said, "but you must not make such a resolve. You are not to blame for our loss. You yourself have lost still more heavily. I cannot let you sacrifice yourself in that way."
"God helping me, Mrs. Douglas," he answered, as he rose to leave, "my promise will be kept."
"Is there any hope that there will be money from your father's estate for you?"
"None at all, Mrs. Douglas. Everything has to be sold to pay the creditors. If only . . ."
"If only what, Captain Fortescue?" Marjorie asked when he hesitated.
He forced a smile. "A letter of great importance to me from my father was stolen from the safe in his bedroom," he said. "It might have affected the whole matter of his money."
"Is there no possibility of recovering this letter?" Marjorie Douglas asked.
"Very little, I fear. But please forgive me for even mentioning it, Miss Douglas, for I have no wish to burden you further with bad news." He spoke so firmly that the matter was immediately dropped.
Mrs. Douglas pressed him to stay for supper, but he did not accept her invitation. He felt that Mrs. Douglas and her daughters would want to be alone, to talk over what had happened. So he said goodbye, and Marjorie went to open the door for him. The wind rushed in with hurricane force as soon as it was opened.
"What an awful night, and how dark," she said, closin
g the door again. "I will light the lantern and go with you to the gate, or you will never find it in this darkness."
He begged her not to come, but she would not listen. Catching up a shawl from the hall table, she wrapped it round her and went in front of him down the garden path with the lantern in her hand. At the gate she stopped.
"How can I thank you, Miss Douglas?" he asked.
"Don't try," she said, laughing. "Can you find your way now, do you think?"
"Oh yes, quite well. Goodbye. I am returning to Sheffield early tomorrow morning."
"Then we shall not see you again?"
"No," he said sadly, "perhaps never again. Birds of ill omen are never welcome, are they?"
"Oh, don't call yourself a bird of ill omen," she said. "Goodbye, Captain Fortescue."
He had left her, and was going towards the bridge when he thought he heard her calling. He turned round and saw that she was still standing at the gate with the lantern in her hand.
"Did you call, Miss Douglas?" he asked when he had hurried back.
"I ought not to have brought you back, but I did want to thank you."
"I don't know why you should thank me."
"For being so good to mother," she said, and then she turned round quickly and went up the hill. He watched the light of her lantern until he saw it pass inside the door of the house.
What a wild night it was. He slept very little, for the wind was howling in the chimneys of the old inn, rattling the badly fitting windows, sweeping down the narrow valley, and tearing with terrific force across the open country beyond. He lay listening to the wind, and thinking many troubled thoughts during the long hours of that wakeful night.
He had ordered a carriage to take him to Keswick in time for the early train, so he jumped out of bed as soon as he was called and went to the window of his room to look out at the weather. The whole country was covered with deep snow. Mountains, rocks, woods, houses, fields, gardens, were alike arrayed in white robes, pure and spotless, sparkling in the morning sunshine as if covered with countless diamonds.
When a little later he went down to the coffee room, the landlord came to speak to him.
"I'm afraid, sir, you won't be able to go today. There's been a terrible snowstorm, and Borrowdale is blocked."
The captain pointed out of the window. "Surely it is not so deep as that."
"Not here, sir, nor for about a mile down the road. But when you come to the turning at the narrowest part of the valley, the snow has drifted there to a fearful depth. For about half a mile the snow is so deep it would be impossible to get through it. We are shut off from Keswick entirely."
"Won't they clear the road?"
"Well, sir, they'll try to make a way through, but it will be a long job. I'm afraid we shan't get through today."
"Then there is no help for it," said the captain. "I must stay."
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry you should be so inconvenienced, but I'll do my best to make you comfortable. And it's a beautiful country. If you haven't been here before, you might like to see a little of it, and it's good walking round here and on towards Honister, if you care to take a look round."
Yet Kenneth Fortescue felt he was in no hurry to go out, or to leave the great fire in the large grate. He sat beside it with a copy of yesterday's newspaper in his hand, reading at times, and at other times gazing at the blue smoke curling up the chimney. And then, after a while he stood at the window, gazing absently out into the village street.
He had much on his mind that morning, and he felt that even the loveliest scenery failed to beguile him from pursuing the troubled train of thought which he felt impelled to follow. But presently he was recalled from the future to the present by seeing Marjorie Douglas pass the window with a covered basket in her hand. Her face looked as bright and cheerful as it had done before he had told her the sad news. The clouds seemed to have dispersed, and the sunshine to have come back to it.
Kenneth wondered where she was going. He caught up his cap and ran after her, intending to ask how her mother was, and how she had borne the sad tidings he had brought her. Marjorie Douglas heard him coming behind her, and turned round in the greatest surprise.
"Captain Fortescue, I thought you had gone."
"No, Miss Douglas, I'm the bad penny as well as the bird of ill omen," he said. "The fact is, there is a snowdrift in the valley, so I have to stay here till tomorrow."
"How tiresome for you."
"Yes, it is rather, but I shall see a little more of the country. It looks beautiful this morning. Where are you going, Miss Douglas? Let me carry your basket for you."
"Not until you get your coat," she said. "It's far too cold to stand talking without it."
He ran back for it, and soon rejoined her.
"I am going to Seatoller," she said.
"Who is Toller?"
She laughed at this question, and told him that Seatoller was the name of the little hamlet where old Mary lived.
"Do you mind my coming with you, Miss Douglas? It's awfully tedious going for a walk alone."
"Not at all. Only take care how you carry that basket, because old Mary's pudding and beef tea are in it."
"Who is old Mary?"
"She's a dear old woman who lives in one of the cottages at Seatoller. Look across the valley, you can see the white houses of the little place. There are only about six, I think. They are just at the bottom of Honister Pass."
"Do you often go to see her?"
"Whenever I can. We have quite a number of elderly women here. I think the air must be so healthy, because they all live to be so old. They are all friends of mine, and they have to take their turn. This is old Mary's day."
"How they must look forward to their turn," he said.
"Yes, I think they do, but I'm afraid none of them will get a turn soon. I'm going away, Captain Fortescue."
"Going away?"
"Yes, from home. We settled it last night. You see, we had a little family council after you had gone, to talk things over. Mother wanted to send Dorcas away -- that's our old maid -- but I don't think that would do. She is very faithful to mother, and though I think I could do most of her work, still on the whole I think it would leave more for mother to do. Dorcas does the washing so well, and she's so useful in every way, and we don't like to send her away if we can possibly help it, poor old soul."
"Then what do you mean to do?"
"Well, I don't quite know yet. Go as companion or mother's help, I suppose. I don't think I could get any teaching, because I've never passed any exams. Everyone seems to require that now. Louis always brings us the Standard when his father has read it, and we shall look in the advertisements."
"It will be awfully hard for you to go away."
"Oh, I don't know. Yes, I suppose it will rather, but I don't mind, if only they get on all right at home. I think they ought to, if only my sister Phyllis will take care of mother. I think she will. Only, you see, she's the youngest, and I'm afraid we've spoiled her a little. But she's such a dear girl, and I do think she will try."
"I'm terribly sorry that you should have to go."
"Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me," Marjorie Douglas said, laughing. "I'm not going to be sorry for myself. I dare say I shall be happy soon, and if not -- well, it really doesn't matter. It will be all the nicer when I get home for the holidays. Now here we are at old Mary's cottage. I must just run in with her things."
Marjorie took the basket from him and went into the house, and as Kenneth Fortescue watched her he wondered what the old woman would do when she missed the bright face and cheerful voice of her friend.
When Marjorie came out she took him up the steep pass to see Honister Crag in the distance, standing out in all its majestic grandeur at the head of the pass. On their left-hand side was the mountain torrent, dashing noisily over the rocks, coming down so fast that no frost could stay its course. On their right was moorland, the dead heather thickly covered with snow.
About a mile up t
he pass the snow became deeper and they had to turn back. Passing Seatoller again, they retraced their steps to Rosthwaite. Marjorie never alluded again to her going away, or to the loss of the money. She seemed anxious that he should forget everything painful, that he would be able to carry back with him a happy memory of her beautiful home.
When Kenneth left Marjorie Douglas at the garden gate he went back to the inn feeling more hopeful about the future. If she was determined to face it so bravely and happily, surely he could do the same.
After luncheon he was sitting over the fire in the coffee room, looking at a paper two days old, and wondering how he should get through the long solitary evening, when the waiter came in and handed him a letter. It was from Mrs. Douglas, inviting him to spend the evening at Fernbank, and assuring him that he would be conferring a favour on them by doing so. She wrote that in winter they were so shut out from the world beyond the valley, that they seldom had the pleasure of meeting anyone outside their own little circle of friends in Borrowdale.
The invitation was so gracefully worded, as if the obligation was entirely on his side, that the captain felt he could only send an affirmative answer, nor if the truth was told, did he desire to send any other.
So at five o'clock he once more crossed the bridge and climbed the hill to Fernbank.
He was shown into a small drawing-room, plainly furnished but bearing unmistakable marks of taste and care. A china bowl of fern-like moss stood on the table, in which snowdrops were arranged singly, as if they were growing in it. A flower stand filled with hyacinths of various colors stood in the window. In one corner of the room ivy was growing in a large flowerpot, climbing over the chimney-piece and hanging in graceful festoons from the over mantel, while a vase filled with Pyrus japonica and yellow Jessamine stood on the shelf below, and was reflected in the glass.
They all gave him a welcome and made him feel that they were glad to see him. There was no allusion made during the evening to what he had told them the day before. The bird of ill omen was treated as if he had been the harbinger of good news. Kenneth had been to many costly entertainments of various kinds, but he thought that the homeliness of that Cumberland tea eclipsed them all.
The snow-white cloth, the bright, well-trimmed lamp, the early violets and snowdrops tastefully arranged on the table centre, the freshly baked scones, the girdle cakes -- a specialty of the Lake district -- the crisp oatcake, the honey from the hive in the garden, the new-laid eggs from their own poultry yard -- all these combined to make the meal an inviting one. Long afterwards, Kenneth Fortescue could recall it with pleasure, and wonder if he would ever again see a like picture of home comfort.