CHAPTER XIII

MOTHER HOTCHKISS

As time went on, in spite of her hard work, Marjorie began to feel not merely accustomed to the life at Colwyn House, but really fond of the people with whom she lived. Mrs. Holtby was very grateful for all that she had done for them, and was willing to fall in with any suggestion that she might make. Her health was gradually returning, and she was able to come downstairs, and to relieve Marjorie of several lighter duties.

As for Patty, she was Marjorie's firm ally and most willing helper, and Marjorie rejoiced when she saw the look of care departing from the child's face, as she realized that the burden of the family no longer rested upon her shoulders. The boys were at times exceedingly naughty and troublesome, but the little ones were devoted to "Miss Duggie" as they called her, and loved to sit on her knee listening to Bible stories, or to children's hymns which she sang to them. Their mother would often creep into the room and listen too; she told Marjorie that it made her think of her own mother, and of the lessons she had learnt long ago, but which, alas she feared that she had forgotten.

On Sunday Marjorie took the elder ones to the church, which stood on a hill overlooking the cindery waste, and which could be seen from any part of its forlorn parish. Mr. Holtby never went to any place of worship; both he and his wife had fallen into careless ways, and had become accustomed, after years of neglect, to regard Sunday as little more than an excuse for a better dinner than usual, and an opportunity for a certain amount of self-indulgence.

One day in the early summer, when the sun was shining as brightly in Daisy Bank as in more favoured spots, Marjorie was standing at old Enoch's door, once more admiring his roses. They were actually coming into bud, and the old man's excitement was great as he counted the coming blossoms.

"The very first that comes out shall be for you, Miss Douglas."

"Thank you, Enoch; I wonder which it will be."

"This Crimson Rambler, Miss, I believe. Look at it; you can just see the colour coming in the bud."

"So I can!"

"Miss Douglas," the old man went on, "do you ever go to see old Mother Hotchkiss?"

"What a name! No, I never heard of her."

"She lives in that old house down the lane; you must have noticed it, surely; two big square windows, almost like shop windows, and lots of nice plants in them."

"Oh yes, I know."

"Well, I wish you'd go and see her; I don't think she's long for this world, and she's as ignorant as a heathen in Africa."

"Poor old thing!"

"Ay! You may well say, 'Poor old thing!' Miss Douglas, she knows nothing. She can neither read nor write, and as for Scripture, why, a baby in yon schools over there knows more about it."

"I'll go and see her, Enoch. Who looks after her?"

"Nobody much; the neighbours go in a bit, and I do what I can."

"Has she no one belonging to her?"

"She has a daughter, but she's married and away—a pretty girl too. She went to this school, and she was a good hand at learning, so I believe; they made her a pupil teacher, and her mother wasn't half proud of her. But she went to be a teacher up in the North-country somewhere, and she got married there, and now I'm told that her and her husband have gone abroad—and except Carrie, I don't believe poor old Mother Hotchkiss has anybody else belonging to her."

"It's a funny name," said Marjorie.

"You're right there, Miss; it's a gipsy name. There are a lot of Hotchkisses about here; there's one street in Wolverhampton full of them. This old body has gipsy blood in her, if I'm not mistaken; she looks like it, anyhow."

The next day Marjorie fulfilled her promise to Enoch, and knocked at the door of the house in the lane. The old woman came to open it, with a red shawl over her head.

"Mrs. Hotchkiss," said Marjorie, "I've brought you a few flowers that came this morning from my home in the country."

"Are they for me?" said the old woman, stretching out her hand eagerly for the moss rosebuds and mignonette. "Come in, Miss. I've seen you pass; you're Holtby's girl, arn't you?"

"Yes," said Marjorie, smiling to herself at her new name, "and Enoch told me you were not well."

"I'm very ill, Miss—awful bad, getting worse every day, that's what I am."

Marjorie followed her through a large room with wooden beams across the ceiling, and entered an inner room, larger still.

"What a large house you have, Mrs. Hotchkiss!"

"Too large!" groaned the old woman. "It used to be a farm."

"A farm here!" exclaimed Marjorie.

"Yes, long ago, in the old time when they hadn't found the coal; it was all country here then."

"It looks like a very old house," said Marjorie, as she noticed the overhanging chimney-piece with its long, narrow shelf, on which stood a china tea-pot and various other treasures. On either side of it was a deep recess or chimney corner, in which were curious, ancient cupboards, only about two feet in height, and having dark oaken doors. Opening out of this large kitchen was a stone flight of steps, leading down to an underground dairy, with three wide shelves one above another. These, in the olden time, were kept spotlessly clean, and were covered with large flat bowls of milk and cream; but now they were thickly coated with dirt, and were piled with all manner of rubbish.

The old woman could not talk for some time, for the effort of going to the door had brought on a severe fit of coughing, so, whilst she recovered her breath, Marjorie had plenty of time to look round the room. It was frightfully untidy and dirty, but that did not surprise her, for old Mrs. Hotchkiss was too ill to do more than creep out of bed and come downstairs to the fire, where she sat in an old armchair with her feet on the fender.

"Have you been ill long?" she asked, when the old woman was able to speak.

"Ever since Carrie went away. Not so bad as this, though. I'm getting worse every day."

"May I come and see you sometimes?"

"Yes, my dear, do."

"Would you like me to read to you a little when I come?"

"Ay, do; I can't read. There was none of this schooling in my day, and it's lonesome sitting here and doing nothing."

"Then I'll come to-morrow. I always get out about this time, and I'll come as often as I can."

When Marjorie left old Mother Hotchkiss she looked at her watch, and saw that it was time that she was going home, as it was getting near teatime.

But, as soon as she opened the door of Colwyn House, Bessie, who was cleaning the kitchen, left her work and came to meet her. "There's a gentleman been here while you were gone, Miss. He didn't look half sorry when I said you was out. He said he would look if he could see you about anywheres."

"Who was he?"

"He didn't leave any name. He was an awful nice gentleman, too!"

"Bessie, could you see that Mrs. Holtby gets her tea, if I go to look for him?"

"Yes; I'll see to her."

Marjorie said to herself that Louis would be so disappointed if he missed her, after again coming so far out of his way to see her.

"Which way did he go, Bessie?"

"Well, I told him I thought you had gone Bradley way, so I should think you'd find him somewhere over there. He hasn't been gone long."

Marjorie hurried on over the muddy road, and then climbed one of the highest mounds, that she might be able to see in which direction Louis had gone. Yes, there he was, crossing the opposite one, and coming to meet her.

But no; it was not Louis! Her heart heat quickly as she saw who it was. It was Captain Fortescue!

"Miss Douglas! I've found you at last!"

"I am so sorry you have had such a hunt. Where have you come from, Captain Fortescue?"

"Not Captain Fortescue," he said. "I have dropped that title since I left the army. I am living in Birmingham now."

"Oh! So near as that? I mean I did not know you were anywhere in this neighbourhood," she explained.

"Yes; I have been in Birmingham a fortnight now. Thank you for keeping your promise, Miss Douglas."

"Oh! Then you did get my letter?"

"Yes, I did. I meant to answer it when I could tell you what I was going to do, and then I found that Birmingham was to be my headquarters, so I thought I would come and answer it by word of mouth."

"What are you doing in Birmingham?"

"I'm an agent for a large insurance company. I think I'm very fortunate to get anything to do so soon—it's a pretty good appointment, too. I hope each quarter to be able to send a small instalment to Rosthwaite, Miss Douglas."

"It is very good of you," she answered; "but I do hope you are not stinting yourself by doing so. It troubles me very much when I think that you are."

He gave her a pleased, grateful look as she said this.

"Now, Miss Douglas, you are never to trouble about me again. I have given up smoking, and one or two little things that I am all the better without, but, beyond that, I assure you I am not straitened in any way. How could I take a nice holiday like this, if I were short of money?"

"I'm afraid it is not a very pleasant place for you to come to for a holiday," she said, laughing.

"It doesn't quite come up to our last walk together."

"Where was that? Oh, I remember. Up to Seatoller and Honister. How far away it all seems!"

"How is old Mary? How does she get on without you?"

"Oh! Poor old thing. Mother goes to see her when she can. I've just found an old woman here, Captain Fortescue."

"Have you? Is she like old Mary?"

"Oh dear no! A poor dirty old woman, half a gipsy, I think; but I'm glad to have some one to go and see."

They were standing now beside one of the dismal ponds, in which a number of ragged boys were wading.

"Miss Douglas," he said, "I am going to ask you a question, and I want a truthful answer. I know you will give me one."

"How awfully solemn it sounds!" she said, laughing. "Nothing very dreadful, I hope?"

"No, not dreadful, but something I want very much to know. Are you happy here?"

"Oh yes!" Marjorie said. "I think I can truthfully say that I am. Of course it is a very busy life; but I'm getting fond of the people, and it is far better than I expected it would be."

"Thank you," he said. "Now I wonder if you would mind doing something else for me?"

"I will if I can, Captain Fortescue."

"Will you tell me exactly what your life here is? Take an ordinary day, yesterday, for instance. Tell me what time you got up and went to bed, and give me a sketch of the day."

She did as he asked her, in as lively and cheerful a way as she could, making the best of everything, and dwelling very little on the discomforts of her life, or on the hard work which she had to do.

"Thank you," he said again, when she had finished. "I'm afraid you will think me awfully inquisitive, but I had a reason for wishing to know."

"A reason, did you say? What was it?"

He hesitated a little before answering her.

"Never mind," she said. "Don't tell me, if you had rather not."

"Oh, I don't mind your knowing, if you don't mind my telling you, Miss Douglas. You see, I sometimes—I often think of you, and wonder what you are doing—and now I shall be able to picture it out."

They walked on without speaking for a minute or two after that, and then he looked at his watch and said he must catch the next train at Deepfields, as that was the best way to get back to Birmingham, and as the station was some way off he would have to go in that direction.

"What a long way for you to go back!" he said suddenly. "Don't come any farther."

"Do let me come," she said. "I so seldom have any one to talk to."

They spoke of many things after that, and the time seemed to fly all too quickly.

"I have enjoyed my holiday very much," he said, as they stood on the platform waiting for the train. "May I give you my card? That is my address in Birmingham. Now, you made me a promise when we said good-bye last, and I want you to make me another promise now."

"What is it?" she asked.

"It is this; that if you are in any difficulty or trouble, if things don't go happily in any way, you will write to me or come to me. Will you promise?"

"Yes, I will."

"Thank you. Good-bye."

He jumped into the train as he said this, and she stood watching on the platform till it was out of sight.