CHAPTER XXII

MR. NORTHCOURT'S OPINION

WHEN Kenneth Fortescue had left Marjorie at the door of Colwyn House, he blamed himself very much that, for even a single moment, he had allowed his feelings to be seen by her. Perhaps she had not noticed; he hoped not. For what right had he, a practically homeless and penniless man, to allow any girl to see that he loved her, or to attempt, in however small a degree, to win her love in return? It was cruel, utterly heartless and unworthy of a man, he said to himself.

For what hope of future happiness could such love ever bring? As long as he was so heavily in debt to her mother (for he refused to allow that the letter she had found had in any way cancelled that obligation) every penny of his salary, beyond what he actually required for food and clothing and the other small necessaries of life, must be sent to Rosthwaite. He intended to send it in future at the end of each year, and as his salary was a fairly good one, he hoped to be able to remit a substantial sum the following Christmas. But four thousand pounds was a considerable amount to reach, and he realized that it would take years before he could return it all, if indeed his life were spared long enough for him to do so. Meanwhile the thought of a home of his own was one of the many things denied to him, one of the indulgences which he had told Mrs. Douglas that he should renounce.

Moreover, as he travelled back to Birmingham, whilst he could not help a feeling of satisfaction that his origin was not so humble as he had imagined, yet at the same time, he reflected that his own father, whether he were a lord or not, was by no means a father of whom he could be proud. His foster-father, poor common miner though he was, had shown far more feeling than his real father, and had behaved in a manner which was vastly superior to that of the heartless man who had deserted his own helpless child, and had left him to the care of complete strangers. Still, if only that word had not been blotted out of the letter, he might have been able to prove his claim on that father's consideration, and might have compelled him to reinstate him in the position which was his by birth.

As it was, he knew not what steps to take. He decided at length to go to Sheffield, that he might see Mr. Northcourt, his father's lawyer, and take his advice in the matter.

Accordingly, the following week, Captain Fortescue travelled northward, and reaching Sheffield went at once to Mr. Northcourt's office.

The lawyer was much interested in the information laid before him. He read and re-read the letter several times; he took a magnifying glass and tried to discover the word covered by the ink; but at last he was obliged to confess that it was hopeless to attempt to decipher it. He was, however, strongly of opinion that the missing word or words had undoubtedly been the correct name. Watson and Makepeace would not have made that name illegible, had they not known beyond all doubt that it was the name of his lost father. What use they had made of that knowledge Mr. Northcourt said it was impossible to tell.

Probably the story that Miss Douglas had heard from the old woman in the cottage at Daisy Bank, and which Captain Fortescue had just told him, was perfectly true. They had found this name mentioned in the letter as the possible name of Captain Fortescue's father; they had then sought out and discovered the man named, and, by threatening to disclose what they knew of his past history, they had extracted large sums of money from him, money which they were now spending abroad, or which, quite possibly, lay buried with them at the bottom of the Atlantic.

Mr. Northcourt asked Captain Fortescue to leave the letter in his charge, as it would prove most valuable evidence, should the case ever come to trial, and he promised meanwhile to make all inquiries that were possible. At the same time he was obliged to tell Captain Fortescue that he much feared that no solution of the mystery would be forthcoming; the two guilty persons had evidently made good their escape, and he was therefore sorry to say that, in his opinion, they had not yet found the clue which would lead them to the discovery of Captain Fortescue's family.

After his interview with the lawyer Kenneth came away feeling rather downcast and disappointed. He was walking towards the station, hoping to be in time to catch the Birmingham express, for he wanted to get back that night, as he had work that must be done the following day, when he heard a well-known voice behind him.

"Captain Fortescue, sir!"

He looked round, and saw old Elkington, panting with the exertion of hurrying after him.

"Excuse me, sir, for stopping you, but I was so pleased to see you again."

"How are you, Elkington?"

"Fairly well, sir; I'm living with my daughter now; I'm too old to take another situation. Have you found it, sir?"

"Found what, Elkington?"

"The letter you lost, sir."

"Yes, I found it three days ago; at least a friend of mine found it, in the cottage of an old woman not far from Birmingham."

"Then it wasn't Watson who took it, sir?"

"Yes, it was Watson; she and that bookseller between them. He was her half-brother, Elkington."

"Was he, indeed, sir? Well, I never knew that! I always suspected her, sir."

"I knew you did, Elkington."

"She didn't like you, sir; she thought you kept her in her place."

"She wanted it, Elkington."

"She did, sir; but she didn't like it for all that. It was a bit of revenge, I should say, sir."

"Partly, Elkington, perhaps; but she and her brother raised money on it, too."

He then told Elkington a little of what he had heard, in which the old man was deeply interested.

"Was the letter what you wanted, sir? I mean was it worth having?"

"To a certain extent, Elkington, but those two rogues had blotted out the most important word, lest I should ever see it."

"The rascals!" old Elkington exclaimed. "Well, well; I'm not surprised at anything that woman did."

The old man insisted on going with the Captain, as he called him, to the station, and stood respectfully on the platform with his hat in his hand as the train moved off.

Kenneth Fortescue did not see that he could do anything further in the matter at present, nor indeed had he either time or opportunity to make any other attempt to solve the mystery of his birth.

He was now at the head of a large and important branch of a great fire insurance company, and had much business to transact. How could he neglect his only means of livelihood, in order to attempt to investigate a matter which baffled the legal mind of so clever a man as Mr. Northcourt?

Therefore, as the months went by, and brought with them a continuous stream of business engagements that filled up the moments of a busy life, there was left little time for thought or for brooding over the past. It was only when he had returned to his dull little sitting-room, and was resting by the fire for a short time before beginning his evening's work, that his thoughts would wander, in spite of himself, to Daisy Bank.

One evening, his eye fell on the photograph of Honister Crag, which was hanging over his mantlepiece. He looked back upon that walk with such happy remembrance. How much he had enjoyed it, and how far away it seemed now! He seemed to have lived a lifetime since then. He wondered how Marjorie was getting on. Was the hard work telling upon her? Could she keep her bright cheery spirit after so long a time spent in such dreary surroundings? It was six months since he had seen her. Was it really only six months? It seemed much longer.

Surely there would be no harm in his running over to Daisy Bank for an hour, the next time that he had a spare afternoon. He would be careful—very careful. Not a word or a look should reveal his secret. He would simply see her and come away, content if she were happy, and thoroughly satisfied if he knew no trouble was hanging over her.

At last the spare afternoon came, and he felt a great throb of pleasurable excitement as he got out on the Deepfields platform. Perhaps he should meet her on the road; it was the time when she usually took her walk.

But no, she was not there to-day. He walked on over the pit mounds to Daisy Bank. How long the way seemed! He passed the old cottage where his lost letter had lain so long; it was shut up and deserted. He hurried on now. Colwyn House was only a little further down the lane; he would soon be there, and would see her again.

He was going up to the door when he drew back in dismay. The windows were covered with dirt; several of the panes were broken; the steps were a mass of mud; the small garden was overgrown with weeds; the house which Marjorie had brightened by her presence was left untenanted and utterly desolate.

He stood looking at it for some moments in Hopeless bewilderment. A lad, who had come from his work in the pit, was standing near, leaning against a broken-down wall.

"How long has this house been empty?" asked Captain Fortescue.

"Six months, or maybe more," said the boy. "Have they moved to another house here?"

"No; they're gone."

"Gone where?"

"I don't know. Right away somewhere; down South."

"Why did they go?"

"The master fell down dead; soon after New Year it were."

"Do you know if Miss Douglas went with them?"

"Who did you say?"

"Miss Douglas."

"Never heard of Miss Douglas. They've all gone, so I suppose she did."

That being all the information he could extract from the boy, Captain Fortescue returned to the station, feeling much depressed by the result of his expedition. What had become of Marjorie Douglas? Would he ever be able to discover? He thought once of writing to Rosthwaite to inquire, but on second thoughts, he dismissed the idea promptly. What right had he to make such an inquiry? None whatever; nor did he see any prospect that such a right would ever be his.

So he went back to his hard work and his lonely life as contentedly as he could, and tried to banish the restless thoughts that came to disturb his peace of mind. He determined to take day by day as each came, doing the day's duty, bearing the day's care, and not allowing himself to indulge in daydreams of the future, which were never likely to become more than dreams.