CHAPTER XV

156, LIME STREET

MARJORIE was wakened the next morning by hearing some one moving about in her room. She looked up and saw Patty standing near her bed, with a little tray in her hand.

"Miss Douglas, I've brought you your breakfast," she said. "Shall I draw up the blind?"

"Oh dear," said Marjorie, jumping up, "I had no idea it was so late; why did nobody wake me?"

"Mother wouldn't let us; she told us you had been up half the night."

"Yes, poor old Mrs. Hotchkiss sent for me."

"Miss Douglas, old Enoch has just been here, and he said we were to tell you she is dead. She went to sleep soon after you left her, and when Peggy Jones looked at her about an hour afterwards, she found that she was dead."

"Only just in time," said Marjorie to herself when Patty had gone, as she felt for the box which she had put under the bolster the night before. Yes, it was safe.

How she wondered what it contained! He must have it at once, without even a single day's delay; she would never be happy until it was safely in his hands. What if the old woman's son-in-law should return, and demand that what he considered to be his property should be given up to him? Perhaps, after all, he had never gone to America; perhaps he had deceived the old woman, in order that she might put the police off the scent, in case they came in search of him.

Marjorie was tired and depressed after her wakeful night, and fears of all kinds crowded into her mind. In her nervous haste she longed to run to the station at once, that she might catch the first train to Birmingham, and, carrying the precious box with her, find the address Kenneth had given her on his card, and at once rid herself of the heavy responsibility which she felt rested upon her, so long as that letter was in her charge.

But Marjorie could not go off thus hurriedly, without giving a sufficient reason to Mrs. Holtby, and she knew that the busy morning's work was already waiting for her.

She dressed quickly, therefore, and hurried downstairs. Never did she work so hard as on that morning; never did she try so earnestly to get ahead of time, or to cram the work of two hours into one. When dinner-time came, she had not only done the work of the morning, but she had finished the darning and the mending which she usually did on Friday afternoon, and had put by all the clean clothes from the weekly wash.

Mrs. Holtby came down just before dinner, and then Marjorie, with a beating heart, went to make her request. Would it be possible for her to be spared for half a day? There was a friend in Birmingham whom she particularly wished to see.

"But won't you be too tired to go to-day, Miss Douglas? You look very white, after your bad night."

"Oh no, I am not at all tired. I should like to go very much, if you can spare me. I have got on well this morning, and have done all the mending."

"You never neglect anything, dear."

It was the first time she had called her "dear," and the word had a home-like sound that went warm to Marjorie's heart.

Then Mrs. Holtby brought out the time-table, and looked out her train. There was one that left Deepfields at 2.30, and she told her to get her dinner at once, and not to wait till the others came in, so that she might be off in time to catch it.

"Don't hurry back, Miss Douglas," she said, when Marjorie looked in to say good-bye. "Stay as long as ever you like."

So, with the box wrapped in paper and tightly held in her hand, and with the card in which Captain Fortescue had given her slipped inside her glove, Marjorie set off for Deepfields.

It was a pouring wet day, and the mud was, if possible, worse than usual, but she hardly noticed it. She would have gone through a perfect flood without minding it, in her intense eagerness to get to her journey's end. How glad he would be to get that letter! How thankful he would feel that it was found at last!

But would he be glad and thankful? As she sat in the train a horrible fear crossed her mind. What if she were bringing him bad tidings? What if she were indeed what he had called himself—a bird of ill omen? She hoped not, she prayed not; but how could she tell?

Arrived at Birmingham, she found herself in all the bewilderment of New Street station at one of its most crowded moments. She took out the card, and looked at it once more—"156, Lime Street," that was the address. How should she find it? She asked a porter, who was wheeling a barrow of luggage, but he said he had never heard of it.

Then she went up the steps to the bridge, and felt in a perfect whirl as the busy crowds rushed past her. Hundreds of strange faces—all of them intent on their own business, and none of them having a moment to spare for hers: all these she saw as if she were in a dream. Which way should she turn at the top of the bridge? There seemed to be two exits to the station. Which should she take? She went to the one to which most people seemed to be going. It took her out into Corporation Street. All looked strange to her. She had no eyes for the beautiful shops; the Arcade failed to tempt her as she passed it. All she wanted was to get to her journey's end.

At last she met a policeman, and found from him that she was walking in the wrong direction. He sent her back almost to the station, and told her to take a turning to the left, and to walk on until she saw a large church, and then she must ask for further direction.

The rain was now coming down in torrents, and a strong wind was blowing in her face, but she struggled on bravely against it. She found the church at last, and went into a small shop to ask her way. Again she set forth, and walked on for another mile, and, after getting wrong once or twice, and stopping to inquire many times of the passers-by, she at last reached the street that she was seeking.

Lime Street was long and dismal-looking, with two rows of houses facing each other, all exactly alike, and all standing close to the pavement, with not even a pretence to a front garden. The street looked, if possible, more gloomy than usual that afternoon; in the merciless rain everything was wet, dirty, and uninviting.

Now for No. 156. It was at the other end of that long street, and she hurried on to find it. But as she got near, the thought of seeing him again, the doubt as to the news which she was bringing him, the strange feeling of responsibility which rested upon her in thus doing the bidding of one who had so lately passed away from earth—all these made her tremble and pause as she stood on the doorstep.

When she had steadied herself for a few moments she rang the bell, and a stout elderly woman came to the door.

"Is Captain Fortescue at home?" she asked. "Mr. Fortescue lodges here; he isn't a captain, Miss—but he's out just now."

"When will he be home?"

"Oh, not for long enough yet; he mostly comes in about six or half-past."

Marjorie looked at her watch; it was a quarter to four. Her heart died within her. Two hours and a quarter, or perhaps longer still. Where should she go, and what should she do till six o'clock? Where in those wet and dirty streets could she find a shelter?

The landlady was closing the door, but as she did so, she noticed the look of dismay on Marjorie's face.

"Have you come far, Miss?" she asked.

"Yes, a long way," said Marjorie, "from near Bilston, and I know nobody in Birmingham."

"Is it very particular?"

"Very; I must see Mr. Fortescue to-night."

"Come your ways in, then," said the woman, kindly; "there's a bit of fire in his sitting-room, if you would like to wait there."

Marjorie thanked her gratefully, and she led the way into a small room at the back of the house, and, after putting some coal on the fire, she told her to sit by it and warm herself after her cold, wet walk. Then, as she was going out, she noticed how drenched Marjorie's coat was, and made her take it off that she might dry it at her kitchen fire.

When the landlady was gone, Marjorie looked round the room. It was very plainly and even shabbily furnished. A worn horse-hair sofa stood against the wall, the deal table was covered with American cloth, the carpet was patched in several places.

Marjorie walked to the window and looked out. No wonder the room was dark! High buildings backed upon the house and shut out nearly all the light. Only a strip of cloudy sky could be seen above, whilst below was a small courtyard filled with clothes, which had evidently been put out to dry before the rain commenced, but which were now more soaked than they had been before, and hung dismally from the line stretched across from wall to wall of the small backyard.

How dull it all was! How poor, how depressing! She remembered his words to her mother, "I will not allow myself in a single indulgence of any kind, till the full amount is in your hands."

How faithfully he was keeping that promise! How bare of all luxury was the room to which he came home after his long tiring day!

But what was that over the chimney-piece,—a photo in a frame? It carried her miles away in thought as she looked at it, and a great feeling of home-sickness came over her.

It was a picture of Honister Crag.