CHAPTER XVI

THE BLOTTED WORD

HOW long the waiting-time seemed to Marjorie as she sat in the dingy back parlour on that wet afternoon! she felt sometimes as if six o'clock would never come. As it grew darker, the stout landlady came in and lighted the gas; there was only one burner, and it gave but a dim light. Then, later still, she came again to lay the cloth for tea. Such a poor scanty meal, the loaf and a small pat of butter—that was all. There were no flowers on the table, there was nothing to relieve the bareness and austere simplicity of it all. Marjorie's heart ached for him as she looked at it. What an utter contrast to the luxury in which she knew that he had lived before!

Mrs. Hall, the landlady, lingered when she had laid the table, and seemed inclined to talk.

"You'll excuse me, Miss," she said, "but are you Mr. Fortescue's sister?"

"No, not his sister."

"Well," she said, "I'm sorry you're not, because if he has a sister, I should like to have a bit of a talk with her. Somebody ought to come and look after him."

"Is he ill?" asked Marjorie, quickly.

"Well, no, not what you can call ill; but he soon will be, if he goes on as he's going on now."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, he doesn't get enough to eat; at least he has plenty to eat of a kind, but it isn't what a man like him, as is working hard all day, ought to have. Look at his tea now! It don't look as it ought, do it now? And his dinner! He has it out some days, and what he gets then I can't say; not much, I'll be bound; but some days, he comes home for it, and I assure you I'm fair shamed to get him the dinners he orders. One day it will be, 'Mrs. Hall, I'm very fond of herrings; do you think you could get me a couple of nice ones for my dinner?' Another day he'll say, 'Mrs. Hall, you make awfully good soup, I should like that better than anything to-day.'

"'And what to follow, sir?' I says. 'Oh, one of your nice rice puddings; that will be just the kind of dinner I like.' Another day it's sausage, or a bit of bacon, or bread and cheese, and not too much of any of them either. Why, my last lodger would clear off in one meal double what he eats in a day! And such a nice gentleman, too—always so pleasant, and thanks you for all you do for him just as if you didn't get paid for doing it. And so hard as he works, too! Why, if you'll believe me, he's at them books and accounts, and them business letters of his, long after I've gone to bed. I hear him come upstairs, and I know he's tired by his step, and well he may be, for he's tramping about most of his time."

Mrs. Hall loved a chat, and would have gone on for much longer enlarging on the many good qualities of her lodger, if she had not at that moment heard the sound of a key being put into the latch of the door.

"Why, there he is at last!" she said. "I'll go and make the tea."

Marjorie's heart was beating very quickly now. She heard the door open and Mrs. Hall's voice outside.

"Why, you're not half wet, sir. Let me take your coat."

Then the well-known voice: "Thank you, Mrs. Hall, it will be all the better for a dry by your fire."

"There's a lady waiting to see you, sir, in the parlour there; she's been here the best part of the afternoon."

"A lady for me!"

He stopped to ask no question, but came quickly into the room.

"Miss Douglas, you here!"

He had been thinking of her as he came up the street; he had been wondering how she was getting on in her hard life at Daisy Bank; and now here she was, in the very last place in which he would ever have dreamt of seeing her, sitting in the old armchair by the fire in his dismal little room. She rose to meet him, and at once held out the precious parcel.

"Captain Fortescue, I have come to bring you that. It is something which I think—I hope—you will be very glad to get."

He took the box in his hand but did not open it.

"What is it?" he asked. "Do sit down, Miss Douglas."

He noticed how agitated she was, and he wondered what had caused her to be so.

"Have you not lost something?" she asked.

"Only an umbrella," he said, laughing. "I lost one last week; but that can't be in here."

"No," she said, "it was much longer ago. Think, Captain Fortescue; did you never lose a letter that you wanted very much to find? Was a letter never stolen from you by some one? And have you not tried in all ways to find that letter, but in vain?"

He understood now: all the colour had faded from his face. Was it possible, could it be that his father's letter had been found—and by her?

"Is it in this box?" he asked.

"Yes; I do hope it is the right one. Will you open it and see?"

He cut the string which she had knotted tightly round it: he drew out the paper; he saw his father's well-known irregular handwriting.

Yes, it was evidently the letter which he ought to have found in that envelope in the safe, the envelope of which was still in his possession, and which was addressed, "For my son, To be opened after my death."

"Is it the right one?"

"Yes, it is, Miss Douglas. How can I thank you?"

"May I tell you how I found it? And then I must go."

She knew how he was longing to read the letter, and she thought that he would want to read it alone. Her one desire was to tell him how it had come into her possession, and then to leave him. But he would not hear of her doing this; he made her sit down again, and, before she could stop him, he rang the bell for Mrs. Hall, and told her to bring another cup, that she might have some tea before she left.

Then Marjorie told him her story as shortly as she could. She spoke of old Mrs. Hotchkiss's unhappiness during her illness; she told him of her midnight call to the old house, and of the secret that had then been told her. She described the place in which she had discovered the box; she confessed that she had broken the seals and opened it, that she might see the name at the end of the letter, and might know whether Mr. Forty Screws and Mr. Fortescue were the same. And now she said, as she got up from her chair again, she was thankful, very glad and thankful that it was safely in his hands, and she must go; she really must go. She knew how he was longing to read it, and she would not keep him another moment.

"Miss Douglas," said Captain Fortescue, "I am not going to allow you to leave until you've had some tea, and then I am going with you to the station. But if you are sure you do not mind, I will just read the letter, and then I shall be able to tell you what it is about, and for what I have to thank you."

When she saw that it was of no use to protest any further, she sat down again by the fire, and he took a chair to the table, and by the dim light of the solitary gas-burner sat down to read the letter. She glanced at him from time to time as he bent over it, wondering as she did so what its contents might be, looking anxiously to see the effect upon him as he read. Every vestige of colour had faded out of his face, but he read on intently, and without once looking up. Marjorie could hear the clock in the passage ticking loudly, but no other sound disturbed the stillness of the room. He did not speak a word, nor utter a sound, till he turned to the last page, and then he gave a loud exclamation of dismay.

"Is it bad news?" she asked fearfully.

"No, not bad news; it is good news, very good news," he said, "but those rascals have tampered with the letter."

He held it up to her, and she saw that one word, a long word too, had been completely blotted out.

"It has evidently been done on purpose," he said, "lest this letter should by any means fall into my hands."

"Is the word of much importance?"

"Of every importance; in fact, it is the most important word in the whole letter. Miss Douglas, we will have some tea, and then I want you, if you do not mind, to read the letter you have brought."

"May I? But are you sure you would like me to read it?"

"I am quite sure; indeed, so far from minding it, I am most anxious that you should read it."

He put the armchair near the table for her, and began to pour out the tea, but his hand trembled so much with strong emotion that she asked him if she might do it for him. He told her that, if she did not mind doing it, he should like to remember it, after she had gone; it would be something to think of when he was alone.

"It's rather different to the last tea we had together," he said; "that cosy tea in Fernbank. If I had known you were coming, I would have had some cake!"

But at that moment Mrs. Hall came into the room with a hot tea-cake in her hand.

"I've just baked 'em, sir, and they're nice and light, and I thought, as the lady was here, perhaps you would accept of one."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hall; it looks delicious!" They did not talk much during tea; his mind was on the letter he had just read, and he asked her from time to time to give him further details of the history which she had heard from Mrs. Hotchkiss. He had no doubt whatever that Makepeace was the man who had married Carrie Hotchkiss, and he remembered hearing that Watson had a half-brother living in Sheffield. Evidently, then, he had been right in his former suspicion; Watson had undoubtedly been the thief. She must have been listening at the bedroom door when his father told him to look under the will in the safe for the important letter which he wished him to receive.

Then, when she found herself alone with the old man for the night, she must have taken the keys from the table whilst he was asleep, unlocked the safe, and taken out the letter, replacing it, either then or afterwards, by a blank sheet of foolscap paper. Then, when she had satisfied her curiosity, and had also discovered the importance of its contents, she had evidently carried the letter to Makepeace, and the brother and sister must have plotted together that they would keep it back, in the hope that they might be able to make it a kind of gold mine, were they fortunate enough to discover the father who had deserted his infant child.

They could not help being aware that the information in the letter was of such a nature that it would be of the utmost importance to that man to have it suppressed.

Then, after that, Watson must have found that other letter, the one Makepeace had brought him, lying unposted on the table, and then either she or her brother must have invented the plausible story which Makepeace had told him, in order to prevent any suspicion from falling upon Watson.

All this probable explanation of the strange mystery flashed through Kenneth Fortescue's mind more quickly than it can be told here, and Marjorie could see that from time to time his thoughts were far away, although he always seemed to notice in a moment if she wanted anything, and he was not content until she had done justice to Mrs. Hall's tea-cake. He ate very little himself, and, as soon as she had finished, he drew her chair nearer to the fire and handed her the letter.

"Are you quite sure you want me to read it?" she asked again. "Do say if you would rather I did not."

"It will be a comfort to me if you do not mind reading it, Miss Douglas."

She could not refuse after that. She unfolded the large sheet and began to read.