CHAPTER XIX

GRANTLEY CASTLE

Two months after her visit to Birmingham, Marjorie was standing on the platform at Daisy Bank, waiting for the Wolverhampton train. How impatient she was to start!

How full of happiness was her face on that December morning! For she was going home for Christmas. She could hardly believe that it was only a year since she had seen the dear home faces, and to have a whole month with them all seemed almost too good to be true. Patty had come with her to the station, and was full of regret at her departure, full of promises to take her place in the holidays, and to do all she could to keep the house tidy and clean.

As Marjorie looked at her, she could not help feeling that the last few months had made Patty quite a different girl. The brusqueness of her manner was gone; she was more happy and more contented, and, in leaving her in charge of the children and her mother, Marjorie felt that she was leaving one who would tread, as far as possible, in her footsteps; and as Patty would not have to go to school during the time of her absence, she would be able to keep all things as Marjorie had left them, and to save her mother from having any extra work. Thus Marjorie was going home with a happy heart, prepared to thoroughly enjoy her well-earned holiday.

Perhaps our thoughts are never more busily occupied than when we are travelling. As our bodies are being rapidly carried over miles of distance, our thoughts wander further still. As our eyes gaze out of the carriage window upon the various scenes through which we are passing, the eyes of our mind are gazing at other scenes, it may be in far-distant lands. We see the views around us as if we saw them not, for the inner pictures are so vivid that they eclipse the outward ones. As we glance at our fellow-passengers, ensconced with newspaper or book in the corners of the carriage, we are looking, it may be, at other faces and hearing other voices, far away from us in bodily presence, but very near and constantly present to our inner sight.

Marjorie's thoughts were very busy that cold wintry day. Not only was she full of anticipation, picturing out to herself the joy of arriving at home and seeing again the friends from whom she had so long been parted; but at times, as she travelled on, her thoughts, instead of flying northwards far ahead of the train, travelled southwards, and found their way to a little back sitting-room in a dingy street in Birmingham.

What was Kenneth Fortescue doing that day? Was he still living in that poor dismal neighbourhood? Was he still denying himself in countless different ways for their sakes? Or had he discovered the missing word in the letter? Had he found the father who had cast him off as a child? Had he been owned and reinstated in his rightful position? Perhaps he had; perhaps now he was taking his place amongst the great ones of the earth, and they would hear of him no more.

But no; in that case he would write to her mother, she was sure of that. If he was rich and was able to do so, that money would be repaid. She knew that he would never forget his promise, and that the revelation made to him in that letter would in no way alter his former determination. What if her mother had already heard from him? What if she were keeping the secret as a pleasant surprise for her on her return? So her busy thoughts wandered on, as the busy engine, puffing hard at times as they got into the hilly country of the North, bore her onwards towards Cumberland.

Then, as she drew nearer home, her thoughts were all centred on Keswick station. Who would be there to meet her? Which of the home faces would she see first? How eagerly she gazed out of the window long before the station came in sight! How anxiously she scanned the platform as the train began to stop!

Yes, there they were, her mother and Phyllis and Louis Verner. It seemed too good to be true! What a drive home that was, and how much they had to say to each other! How beautiful it all looked! She had never thought that the mountains were so high, or the Lake so lovely, or Borrowdale so fine, or Castle Crag so magnificent. She had loved them all from her childhood; but she thought she had never fully appreciated them until that day.

And then they reached home, her dear cosy home, so free from smoke and dirt and everything ugly or depressing. Little Carl was at the gate. How he had grown since she saw him last! And Leila was at the door, looking much better and stronger, and old Dorcas came running out of the kitchen to welcome her. And now she was in the cheerful dining-room, how lovely it all was! The table seemed laden with good things. It was all so tasteful and pretty, and it was home, and that was best of all.

The days flew very quickly after that. There were so many friends to be seen, there was so much to be said and to be done, that the first ten days seemed to fly on the wings of the wind. Old Mary and her other old women were overjoyed to see her, and sometimes she felt as if she had never really been away. Daisy Bank appeared to her like a dream from which she had awakened.

She went alone one day up the steep pass towards Honister Crag, and thought of the photo which she had seen over the mantlepiece at Birmingham. She wondered where he had bought it, and why he had chosen it. Was it in remembrance of the walk they had had there together? Oh no, of course it could not have been that. It was a beautiful place, and any one who had seen it would be glad to have a picture of it.

Marjorie was charmed to find how well Phyllis had taken her place in her absence. She had shaken off to a great extent the natural indolence of her nature, and had risen to the occasion in a way which Marjorie would hardly have thought possible. Her mother had been cared for and Leila had been waited on, almost as well as Marjorie had done it before she left home, and she felt that she would go back to Daisy Bank with a happy heart, knowing that all was going on well in the home she had left.

Louis Verner was, of course, a constant visitor at Fernbank, and was just the same easy, good-natured fellow as he had ever been. He was now in his third year at Oxford, and was still trying to discover his vocation. His father, however, declared that if Louis came to no decision during that vacation, he should settle the matter for him. It was finally decided that Louis should try to get into the Consular Service, and should sit for an examination to be held the following year. Whether he would be able to succeed in this was, Marjorie thought, extremely doubtful, for Louis had no love for work, and went through life doing as little of it as he possibly could. His motto seemed to be that Irish one which advises you to 'Take it easy, and if you can't take it easy, take it as easy as you can;' and it needs one of life's hardest and sternest lessons, to make men like Louis Verner realize its importance, and shake themselves free from their natural inclination to slackness and inertion.

Nevertheless, Louis was a most amusing companion and a good-hearted affectionate fellow, too affectionate sometimes, Marjorie thought; but she made fun of all his pretty speeches, and treated him, as she always had done, with sisterly candour. He did not mind what she said to him, although she spoke very plainly to him at times, and they were ever the best of friends.

But when Marjorie had been at home about a fortnight, something happened which brought a great cloud over her happiness.

"A letter for you, Marjorie," said Phyllis, who had gone to meet the postman at the gate, "and it has such a black border."

Marjorie took it hastily from her; she knew the writing well; it was Patty Holtby's. Such terrible news the letter contained, poor Patty had been almost broken-hearted as she wrote it. Her father had gone to the works the day before, apparently quite well, but a short time after he arrived there, he had been seen to stagger and fall, and when they went to him, they found that he was dead. It had been an awful shock to them all, and Patty said that she could hardly yet believe that it was true.

Marjorie felt as if all the brightness of her holiday had passed away. She realized now how fond she had become of the people with whom she had lived for the last year, and she longed to be with them in their time of trouble. She wrote at once, offering to return immediately if it would be the least comfort to them; she would only be too glad to come to them.

Marjorie waited anxiously for the answer. It came in poor Mrs. Holtby's writing. It would be an unspeakable help to have her there, she said, but their plans were so undecided now that she thought it would be better for her to wait for a few days. Her brother had come for the funeral, and he was helping her to arrange matters, and she would write again shortly.

When Mrs. Holtby's next letter came, it was a very sad one. She was grieved to have to say that it would be impossible for Marjorie to return to them. They were leaving Daisy Bank, and her brother, who was now a widower, had invited them to come and live with him. Of course now she would have to be very careful of expense, and could no longer afford to have a mother's help. She added that she could never thank Miss Douglas enough for all she had done for them; she would miss her more than words could say; but she felt sure that she would rejoice to know that Patty had profited so much by the good training she had received from her, that she was becoming the greatest comfort and help to them all. She ended by saying that she could hardly bear to think that Marjorie was not coming back to them; it was one of the most painful consequences of her heavy bereavement.

So that chapter of Marjorie's life was ended. Daisy Bank was, as far as she was concerned, nothing but a memory of the past. Never more would she climb the pit mounds, or watch old Enoch tending his roses, or walk amongst the furnace débris. A year ago she would not have believed that she would have felt the parting so much as she did, nor that she would have so many pleasant remembrances of their Black Country.

Now she must begin life again somewhere, and where would it be? She dreaded the thought of going once more amongst strangers, and even Colwyn House had become a kind of second home to her. Well, she must not be faint-hearted; she had been guided so far, and she knew that her Guide would not forsake her.

But January passed away, and February came, and no opening had been found for her. Marjorie was beginning to feel anxious on the subject of the family finance, when one day, returning from a walk, she found Colonel Verner's carriage at the door.

Louis had long since returned to Oxford, and Mrs. Verner was an invalid and not able to call, so she was somewhat surprised to see the carriage, and wondered whom she should see when she went into the house.

She heard voices in their little drawing-room, and her mother came to the door and culled her in. Marjorie found Colonel Verner, and with him a lady whom she had never seen before. The Colonel introduced Marjorie, and she found that the lady's name was Mrs. St. Hellier, the Honourable Mrs. St. Hellier, she discovered afterwards. She was Colonel Verner's cousin, and she was spending a few weeks with him at Grange.

Mrs. St. Hellier seemed an exceedingly pleasant woman, and Marjorie felt much drawn to her. After a little conversation on general subjects, she told them that a friend of hers was most anxious to find some one who would be willing to act as companion to her daughter. This young lady had met with an accident in the hunting-field, and was confined to her room, or rather to her rooms, for she was wheeled on an invalid couch into an adjoining apartment where she lay during the day, unable to move or to raise herself from her recumbent position.

The poor girl of course felt the confinement; the monotony of such an existence was a sad change for her, after the active life which she had been accustomed to lead, and her mother was therefore anxious to find some one who would be willing to come to them as her daughter's companion. She would have no work of any kind to do; the lady's maid would undertake, as usual, all that was necessary in dressing and otherwise waiting upon her daughter. She simply wanted one who would be a cheerful companion, and who would be ready to read to her, to amuse her, and to turn her thoughts as much as possible from her helpless condition.

Then Mrs. St. Hellier went on to say that she had heard from Colonel Verner that Miss Douglas was looking for something of the kind, and she wanted to know whether she would like her to name her to Lady Earlswood. She thought she was at liberty to tell her that the remuneration would be a handsome one; fifty pounds a year was the amount mentioned by Lady Earlswood when she spoke to her on the subject.

Marjorie felt that this was indeed an answer to the prayers she had offered, and she gratefully accepted Mrs. St. Hellier's proposal that she should write to her friend without further delay.

In the course of the following week, Marjorie received a kind letter from Lady Earlswood, and in a very short time, all the preliminary arrangements were made, and she once more took leave of her home, and set off for Grantley Castle.

What a wonderful contrast she found on her arrival to her reception at Daisy Bank! A footman with a cockade on his hat came up to her on the platform, and told her that he would see after her luggage, and that the carriage was outside waiting for her. During the five miles' drive to the Castle, Marjorie leant back amongst the cushions of the luxuriously comfortable brougham, and wondered very much what was in store for her in the new home to which she was going.

When the carriage stopped, she was taken through the marble hall, and at the top of the long flight of steps, she found the housekeeper awaiting her.

"Lady Earlswood is out this afternoon, Miss Douglas," she said, "so she asked me to receive you. May I take you to your room? You will find a good fire, I think, and I will send you some tea in a few minutes. Lady Violet has had tea, so perhaps you would like to have it in your own room."

Marjorie thanked her, and followed her up the wide staircase into the bedroom which she was henceforth to call her own. It was not a large room, but it was most beautifully furnished. A pretty French bedstead, with dainty rosebud-covered hangings, a comfortable sofa covered with the same delicate chintz, an easy-chair by the bright fire, a writing-table, with inkstand, blotter and pens, at which she would be able to write her home letters—all these made Marjorie feel that she had come to a home where comfort and ease abounded.

Then she went to the window. It was not yet dark, and she could see hills and woods in every direction, whilst close to the house were three long terraces, one above another, from the various heights of which glorious views of the surrounding country could be obtained. What a strange contrast to the views from her bedroom window in Colwyn House!

Then there came a knock at the door, and a maid brought in a tray, on which was a small silver tea-pot and cream-jug, a china cup and saucer, and a plate of delicately cut bread and butter. It seemed strange to Marjorie to be thus waited upon, for she had been waiting upon others all her life, and as she sat in the armchair by the fire, pouring out the tea which had been placed on a small table beside her, she felt that, so far as she could see at present, the lines had indeed fallen for her in pleasant places.