CHAPTER XX

THE PHOTO OF A FRIEND

WHEN Marjorie first saw Lady Violet, she thought that hers was the most beautiful face that she had ever seen; yet she was very pale, and had a weary look in her eyes which told of pain and weakness. She held out her hand as Marjorie entered.

"Miss Douglas, I am glad to see you."

Marjorie took the low chair by Lady Violet's side, and told her that she hoped she would tell her exactly what she would like her to do, and that she would let her help her in any way that she could.

"Oh! I don't want you to do anything," she said, "only to amuse me. I'm so sick of seeing nobody but Collins; my mother and sister come up as often as they can, but we have so many visitors, and they have so many calls to make, and there is so much going on of one kind and another, that they are obliged to leave me hours alone sometimes. This is my worst time; I get so tired in the evening, and awfully cramped with lying so long in one position. You mustn't mind if I am cross sometimes; I often am."

Marjorie laughed, and told her she did not think that was possible.

"Oh, but it is. I worry poor Collins to death. Now I am tired and can't talk; will you talk to me?"

Marjorie found it very difficult to know what to say. It is one thing to join in a conversation, and quite another thing to talk to a silent person without having anything particular to say. She could not imagine how to begin, and then a bright thought struck her.

"Shall I tell you about my home, Lady Violet?"

"Yes, do; it will be just like a story."

So Marjorie began by describing Borrowdale and their pretty house on the hill; she told her about her mother, Leila, Phyllis, and little Carl; she spoke of the garden with its spring flowers, of the walk through the woods to Watendlath, at the top of the hill, of the quiet village church, of her old women and the quaint cottages in which they lived, of her life at home and of how she spent her days;—all this she told her, in her own bright, pleasant way, until the poor girl beside her was soothed and interested, and forgot her pain and weariness whilst she listened.

"Thank you," she said, when Marjorie stopped. "I can see it all as if I had been there. May I have another chapter to-morrow evening, and will you call Collins now to help me into bed? And do you mind telling me your Christian name?? I should like to call you by it if I may; Miss Douglas sounds so formal."

"Please do; my name is Marjorie. I shall feel I am at home, Lady Violet, if I hear you say it."

As the weeks went on, Marjorie soon became accustomed to her new life in the Castle. Beyond going for a walk daily in the lovely park and gardens, she spent all her time with Lady Violet. They had meals together in the pretty sitting-room, and Marjorie saw very little of the other members of the family. When they came to see Lady Violet, she generally went into her bedroom to write her letters, or strolled along one of the grassy terraces, or gathered primroses and moss in the copse wood to adorn Lady Violet's room.

By degrees, very slow degrees at first, Lady Violet let her companion know a little of what her thoughts and feelings were. She had been most reserved at first, and at one time Marjorie had felt as if she would never really know her. But one evening, when Marjorie had been at Grantley Castle about a month, the ice was broken for the first time. Lady Violet had been very restless and impatient all day; nothing was right that was done for her; she found fault with every one, and Marjorie herself experienced some difficulty in keeping bright and cheerful when all her efforts to cheer the patient seemed such an utter failure.

But after dinner, when Marjorie was sitting beside her with her work in her hand, Lady Violet suddenly said—

"Marjorie, I've been horrid all day; why don't you tell me so?"

Marjorie laughed. "Do you want a scolding?" she said.

"I don't mind one from you; but I do think it's a shame, a horrible shame."

"What is a shame?" asked Marjorie.

"My being laid on my back like this. Do you know, Marjorie, I was to have been married in May?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Marjorie. "I had not heard about it."

"Oh, didn't you know? We were going to London to get my trousseau the very week that this accident happened. We were making all the plans about the wedding, and actually had patterns in the house for choosing the bridesmaids' dresses; and now here I am, lying helpless on my back, and my wedding put off indefinitely. It is an awful shame!"

"Don't say that, Lady Violet," said Marjorie, "because God has sent the trouble; hasn't He?"

"Then I think God is very cruel! What pleasure can it be to Him to punish me like this?"

"He doesn't like to see you suffer, Lady Violet. Oh, don't ever think that! It is because He loves you He has let this trouble come."

"I don't see much love in it! I suppose you mean that God thinks I need punishing; but I've never done anything to deserve it, and I do think it's a horrid shame!"

"Oh, don't say that!" said Marjorie. "Dear Lady Violet, don't say that!"

"But I must say it," she answered impatiently, "because I feel it, and it does me good to come out with it."

Marjorie did not speak for a few minutes, and Lady Violet said—

"Talk to me, Marjorie, scold me, if you like, only don't sit quiet like that. Tell me what you were thinking about."

"I was thinking about the eagle's nest, and that you were like one of the eaglets."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know how the eagle makes her nest on the ledge of some high rock, building it of sticks and briars, and then lining it with moss, and hay, and wool, and soft feathers out of her own breast."

"Well," said Lady Violet, as Marjorie stopped, "go on."

"And then she lays her eggs, and the eaglets are hatched, and they lie down in the soft nest, and are so cosy that they never want to leave it. But, as they grow older, the mother-bird wants them to learn to fly, that they may be able to soar up with her towards the sun. So she hovers over them and tries to persuade them to stretch their wings; but the nest is far too cosy and snug for them to want to leave it, and they nestle down again in the moss and hay. But the mother knows all they will lose if they do not learn to fly, so she rakes out the wool and feathers with her strong beak, and makes the thorns and briars come to the top. Then, when all the soft lining is gone, the young birds shuffle about uncomfortably. The nest is not such a nice place after all, and by degrees they creep to the edge of it and sit there very miserably. And now the mother-bird again tries to get them to fly, and they spread their small wings, and she puts her great strong wing underneath them, so that they may not fall, and soon they are soaring with her into the glory above."

"Yes, go on," said Lady Violet.

"Do you remember that God says He is like that eagle? And so He rakes up the comfortable home nest, and lets us feel the prickles of pain and sorrow, not because He is cruel, not because He wants to punish us, but because He wants us to rise to something brighter and better, to the City of Sunshine. Now, Lady Violet, I'm afraid I've been preaching quite a sermon, and it is very good of you to listen; but don't you think this illness is one of the sharp thorns in the nest, to bring you to the edge, and make you care for something better?"

"Perhaps. I don't know, I'm sure."

They were silent for some time after this, and then Lady Violet said suddenly—

"It seems a pity now that I was ever engaged."

"Why?"

"Oh, it's such a nuisance for him, you see."

"Do you mean for the gentleman you are going to marry?"

"Yes. You see, he wanted me to marry him a long time ago, but I refused him; at least, I didn't actually refuse him, but there were reasons why I couldn't marry him then, one reason especially. But all that is over now, and I had just accepted him, and all was nicely settled, when this happened."

"But the doctor hopes you will be all right soon; doesn't he?"

"Oh yes, in time. But it's an awful nuisance for him having to wait; he wants to get settled. You see, he has only just come into his property; it's a nice little place, and he has a fair amount of money. It belonged to his mother's father; but some day he will come into a much grander estate, and be awfully rich. His brother owns it now, but he is getting an old man, and has no children. It's really a very good match for me, but it's a long time to wait, and I think he's getting rather impatient, and I did so want to have next season in town."

"Has he been to see you?"

"Oh yes, once or twice. Just before you came, he was here; but he lives a long way off, and I don't really want him to come too often—it's so tiring seeing people when you're ill."

Marjorie rather wondered at this remark. Surely if Lady Violet were very fond of her fiancé, she would not find his company tiring, although she was ill. However, she made no remark, but went on quietly with her work.

"Marjorie," said Lady Violet, presently, "you've never seen my photographs. I have two large albums full. Would you like to look at them?"

"Very much indeed. May I get them?"

"Yes, do. They're on the bottom shelf of that bookcase in the corner. Switch on more light, and sit in that armchair; you will see them better there."

Marjorie brought the albums, and sat down to look through the hundreds of photos with which they were filled—views of the park and the woods, of the church and the village, groups of various friends who had stayed at the Castle, photos of Lady Violet's horse and of the two St. Bernard dogs, river scenes and lake scenes, photos taken at all seasons of the year, some with the trees in full leaf, others with bare and naked branches, some showing the broad shadows of a hot summer's day, others taken in snow, with every tree and shrub looking as if it were growing in fairyland.

"They are lovely, Lady Violet," she said, as she laid down the first volume, and took up the one lying on the table.

[Illustration: SHE GAZED A LONG TIME AT THIS PICTURE.]

"Oh! Those are foreign views. I don't know whether you will care for them so much. They are in the Riviera chiefly. We were there for a month about two years ago, and had an awfully jolly time."

Marjorie was turning over the leaves of the album, and had just been admiring a beautiful view of Monaco, when she suddenly came to one which brought all the blood rushing into her face. It was a photo of Lady Violet sitting on a rock near the sea, and close by her side and looking over the same book with her was Captain Fortescue.

Marjorie would have known him anywhere; but she had never seen him look quite as he looked then. There was not a vestige of care on his face; he was evidently enjoying life to the full. She gazed a long time at this picture, and Lady Violet, glancing round, noticed how she coloured when she looked at it, and then how all the colour faded out of her face.

"Oh! That is a very great friend of mine," she said. "He helped me to take nearly all those Riviera photos. Evelyn took several of us together, and they came out very well. What is the matter, Marjorie?"

"Oh! Nothing; only it reminded me of some one I know."

"Did it? Isn't it awfully funny how one sees likenesses sometimes! Turn over; there are some more of him in that book. Isn't he good-looking?"

Marjorie did not answer; her heart was beating too quickly.

So he knew Lady Violet—yes, and admired her too; she could see that by his face in several of the photos where they were taken together. And what a handsome pair they made! They were just suited to each other. And now he was a lord; she had no doubt of it from that letter she had read. Had he discovered his parentage? Had he, in those long months since she had heard of him, found his father, and claimed his fortune? Could it be that he was the one whom Lady Violet was about to marry, the one who had admired her long ago, but whom she had refused because of some reason which stood in the way? Could that reason have been the loss of his money, and his being compelled to leave the army?

If so, Marjorie could quite understand that now this difficulty was probably removed. If he had found his father, if he had inherited a title, if he was heir to a large property, then surely no objection to their engagement could be urged.

Now, of course, she could see the reason of his long silence. It was now the end of March, and she had never seen him or heard of him since that October night when he had brought her home from Birmingham. Why had she expected to see him or to hear from him? How blind and foolish she had been!

Lady Violet seemed impatient that she should close the book, and Marjorie put it back in its place on the shelf. She wanted to ask her if Captain Fortescue was the one to whom she was engaged, but she felt that she could not bring herself to do so. She was so strongly convinced in her own mind that she was right in her conclusion, that she felt as if she could not steady her voice sufficiently to frame the question. Not for worlds would she have Lady Violet know what she had felt when she saw that photograph. How silly she had been! How foolish it was to have dwelt on what was merely a passing feeling of gratitude for a little service which she had rendered him! No one should know; no one should ever guess what she had sometimes thought and hoped. Least of all should Lady Violet know or guess.

So Marjorie talked to her on all manner of subjects, and was apparently never in better spirits, until at last the long evening wore away, and alone in her own room she could sit by her fire, and gazing into its red blaze she could pull down stone after stone of her fragile castle in the air, and then, when it was all laid in ruins, could pray for contentment and for peace. Surely she ought to be glad to hope that his troubles were over. Surely she should rejoice, if the desire of his heart had been granted unto him.