CHAPTER XVIII

WORDS TO BE REMEMBERED

MARJORIE did not speak whilst she was reading the whole of that long letter, and Kenneth Fortescue sat and watched her, just as before she had sat and watched him. He saw her face flush as she read on, and once he felt sure that he saw a tear drop on the page. When at last she handed him the letter, she said—

"How could he be so cruel? It was awfully heartless, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was most unnatural; but such things have been done before. Even a mother has been known to desert her own child."

"I wonder if he is alive."

"So do I. If only that word had been there!"

"Let us look at it carefully," Marjorie said; "perhaps we can make it out."

They bent together over the paper, as they held it in the light of the lamp.

"It must be a very long name," she said. "Can it all be one word? I think Lord is the first part of it. That looks to me like part of the loop of the L left above the blot."

"Yes, I think you are right. Even so, I think it is a long name—ten or twelve letters, I should say."

"Oh, I wish we knew!" said Marjorie.

"I wish it very much for one reason, Miss Douglas."

"What is that?"

"If I were to find my father, and if he were prepared to own me, or were compelled to do so, I could repay Mrs. Douglas in full."

"Oh, why are you always thinking of that? You must not do so," she said. "You are stinting yourself and making your life miserable, just for us. And it isn't right. Oh, it isn't right!"

She was crying now; she could not help it. The thought of his constant self-denial, the remembrance of the hardships that he was bearing for their sakes, even though the debt had never been his; the recollection of all this touched her so deeply that she found it impossible to keep back her tears.

"This letter alters everything," she said; "do think of that. Even if you felt yourself bound to repay us when you thought you were Mr. Fortescue's son, you cannot feel so now. He was never your father except in name. Do remember that, and do give up, once for all, the idea of giving us that money back. The loss of it had nothing to do with you, nor with any one at all belonging to you."

"I cannot look at it in that light, Miss Douglas," he said. "If he was merely my father in name, still he was, at the same time, the only father I have ever known. God helping me, that debt shall be paid."

"Captain Fortescue."

"Yes, Miss Douglas."

"I'm afraid that letter is not of much use, after all."

"It may be," he said. "Who can tell?"

She sat looking into the fire for some minutes without speaking, and then she said—

"I rather hope—" and then stopped.

"You rather hope what, Miss Douglas?"

"Oh, never mind. I did not mean to say it aloud. It was only a foolish thought which had no business to come into my mind."

"What was it?"

"Oh!" she said, laughing through her tears. "Such a silly thing! I was going to say that I rather hoped you were not a lord."

"Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know. I only thought we should not feel that you were quite so much our friend. It was very foolish, I know. Only you would seem so different to us then."

"Should I? I hope not," he said, gravely.

"And now I really must be going. What time is it, Captain Fortescue?"

He looked at, his watch, and they found it was getting late, so he got her coat, and she said good-bye to the old landlady, and they set out for New Street. Then he went for her ticket, and put her into the train, and just before it started, he stepped into the carriage and sat down beside her.

"Won't the train be off soon?" she asked. "Yes. I am coming with you."

"Coming with me? Why?"

"I'm not going to allow you to walk alone along that dark road from Deepfields Station at this time of night," he said.

"Oh, I shall be quite all right; you really mustn't come. You will be so tired, and it is not at all necessary. Please don't come."

But he would take no refusal. There would be plenty of time for him to catch the last train, he said, and Marjorie felt sure that, when he had once made up his mind about anything, there would be no possibility of moving him from it.

They talked of the letter most of the way from the station, and as they went through Daisy Bank she pointed out the dark cottage where the still form of the old woman was lying on the bed upstairs.

"How strange to think that my letter has been near you all this time!" he said.

Then they got to Colwyn House, and at the gate, he said good-bye. But before he left her he took her hand between both his own, and said in a whisper, as he held it for a moment—

"Thank you for all you have done for me to-day."

The next instant he was gone, and Marjorie let herself in with her latchkey. She found that Mr. and Mrs. Holtby were having supper. They wanted her to join them, but she said she was tired, and would rather go to bed.

She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, and she dreamt that his hands were still holding her own, and she thought that she could still feel their pressure as he said those words, which would ever remain in her memory as long as life should last.

"Thank you for all you have done for me to-day."