CHAPTER XXIV

THE PICTURE GALLERY

WHEN, some hours after his parting with Captain Berington, Kenneth Fortescue arrived at his destination, North Eaton Station, he got out of the train with rather a heavy heart, and made inquiry of the stationmaster as to the best way to Eagleton Castle. He found there was a 'bus running from thence to the village, which was three miles away, and that this 'bus would start in five minutes. When he went out of the station he saw it at a little distance along the road, waiting for passengers. He jumped up beside the driver, and soon the jolting vehicle was carrying him towards Lord Derwentwater's beautiful old mansion.

North-country men have always plenty to say, provided that they do not live too far North and across the Border. There, the Scotch caution causes the words of the Lowlanders to be few, and their opinion on any subject hard to obtain. "I canna tell," or, "I wouldna like to say," will be all the reply you will obtain to your inquiry upon any subject. But with the North-country Englishman, it is different; out of the abundance of his heart his mouth speaketh, and he loves nothing better than to tell you what he has seen or heard.

The fire at Eagleton Castle, although it had taken place some days before, was still the great topic of conversation on the village 'bus; and, finding that Captain Fortescue was a stranger, the driver and the passengers united in giving him a detailed account of it, each being particular to relate how he or she had first heard of the fire, and how he or she had felt when the news was received. When these various versions had come to an end, Kenneth asked a few questions about the place to which he was going.

"Is it a large estate?"

"Tremendous; t' Earl, he is t' grandest man in all t' country round."

"Has he any family?"

"Neither chick nor child, and never had any."

"Who is heir to the property, then?"

"Lord Kenmore, brother to t' Earl. He don't come here much, though. Earl and him don't seem to hit it, somehow. They are only half-brothers, you see; t' old Earl was married twice, and the little 'un was born when his elder brother were growed up. Twenty-five years atween them. That was a lot, wasn't it? They didn't seem a bit like brothers; did they now?"

"No; it was a great difference in age," Kenneth said, "one brother was old enough to be the father of the other."

"You're right there, sir," said an old woman on the seat behind, "and the old Earl's second lady were a Tartar—a Tartar, that's what she were!" she repeated, nodding her head to give emphasis to her words.

"Ay," said the driver, "and she did her best to get t' old Earl to leave his money (what wasn't tied up of it, you understand) to the little 'un. She couldn't get him the title nor yet the estate, but she got him all that she could."

"Ay she did that," said an old man; "she were a crafty one, were my lady."

"But I suppose she had to leave the Castle when the Earl died."

"Ay," said the old man, with a chuckle, "and we none of us shed a tear; we didn't, I assure you."

"Then the present Earl came here?" asked Kenneth.

"Yes; he'd been travelling in foreign parts, but he came home afore t' old Earl died, and he married a lady o' these parts too."

"Is she living?"

"No, she lies in t' churchyard over there; ye can see t' old church tower over them trees."

"Has she been dead long?"

"It'll be about a year now. Since my lady died, he has had a good few of his friends at the Castle; there was some of them there for the shooting; t' Castle was pretty full t' night of t' fire."

"Was Lord Kenmore there?"

"Not he; he don't come here if t' Earl can help it. He's got an estate down South somewhere; he got it from his mother's father, so I'm told. We don't want him here; do we, Betty?"

"No, we don't," said Betty, "chip of t' old block, that's what he is."

"Does the Earl live alone?"

"Well, so to speak, he is alone. There's the visitors, of course; but they come and they go, none of them stay more than a day or two. It's a pity he hasn't got a son or a daughter to keep him company; isn't it now?"

"You like him?" asked Fortescue.

"Yes, we like t' Earl well enough; he's a bit hard sometimes, so folks say."

"But we're mighty sorry for him," said the old man; "he looks that wretched sometimes, my Tom says. Tom is footman up t' Castle. Now, sir, you look ahead and you'll see t' Castle up on t' hill."

Captain Fortescue looked, and he saw before him the most beautiful old castle he had ever beheld. It was built of grey stone, which bore the marks of age, though not of decay. Its mullioned windows had looked out for centuries over the beautifully wooded park, for the Castle stood on such high ground that it commanded a view of all the surrounding country; and the trees in the avenue which led up to it were many of them even older than the Castle itself.

Through this avenue of quaint oak trees Captain Fortescue walked, when he had left the 'bus at the great entrance gates. He lost sight of the Castle as soon as he entered the avenue, but he gazed with the greatest admiration on the loveliness which met his eye at every turn. Now and again there was a break in the trees, and he looked down a peaceful glade where deer were feeding in the shade of the silver birch wood; or he stopped for a few moments to watch a busy little stream which ran by the side of the road, and then disappeared beneath a rustic bridge into the depths of the woodland beyond.

The trees were putting on their autumn garb; the squirrels were running up the trees, busy in secreting the nuts and corn for their winter store; rabbits were scampering across the road to their holes in the mossy bank; a cock pheasant in his plumage was strutting along the road before him; and the whole place was alive with birds, which were singing gaily in the oaks overhead.

Then, as he drew near the Castle, he came upon an extensive lake, dotted with islands and surrounded by a plantation of lovely shrubs and ornamental trees. On this lake the swans were swimming gracefully in the sunshine of that autumn afternoon; the fish were splashing in the water; a covey of wild ducks had taken wing and were flying over the avenue; a heron stood at the edge of the water and was hunting for frogs. There was life and movement everywhere.

He looked at the Castle, and he marvelled at its beauty. He had thought Grantley Castle a fine mansion, but that was far more modern, and would not bear comparison for a moment with the ancestral home of Lord Derwentwater.

When Kenneth Fortescue had rung the bell which hung in front of the carved stone portico the door of the Castle was opened by a footman, to whom he handed his card, which bore his name and the name of the insurance company of which he was the representative.

"The Earl is expecting me, I believe," he said.

He was shown into a room not far from the entrance hall, in which the Earl was accustomed to transact his business. Here he found a gentleman of about his own age, sitting at a writing-table, and hard at work, with a voluminous correspondence spread out before him. He bowed as Fortescue entered, asked him to be seated, and told him that Mr. Montague Jones would arrive shortly.

"This is Lord Derwentwater's secretary, I suppose," said Fortescue to himself, as he watched his companion sorting and filing the letters with which the writing-table was covered. "But who in the world can Mr. Montague Jones be?"

After he had waited about a quarter of an hour, a stout man, with reddish hair, a florid complexion, and gold eye-glasses, made his appearance, and introduced himself as Mr. Montague Jones. He informed Kenneth that he was my lord's agent, and that my lord had requested him to conduct Mr. Fortescue, as the representative of the insurance company, to the scene of the late fire.

Leaving the secretary to continue his labours, Kenneth followed Mr. Montague Jones, as he led the way up a wide flight of stairs to the upper floor of the Castle. So far he had seen no sign of the destruction wrought by the fire; but, as they went down a long corridor towards the west wing of the building, they came upon the room where the conflagration had begun. Everything was blackened by the smoke and drenched with water; the furniture was either destroyed or completely ruined; the handsome silk hangings of the windows were gone; and a horrible smell of burning and charred wood filled the whole place.

From thence they went into the other rooms in which the fire had raged, and as they entered each Mr. Montague Jones handed him an inventory of the valuable articles which that room had contained; the pictures, china, statuary, pier-glasses, and costly furniture with which it had been filled; the carpet, curtains and elaborate draperies which had covered and adorned it. These rooms were totally wrecked; the flames had spared nothing; the ruin was terrible and complete.

Then the agent led him on to the picture gallery, a long and wide corridor, having windows overlooking the lake in front of the Castle, through which the light fell upon the beautiful works of art which the gallery contained. The fire, however, had only reached one end of this corridor; some of the pictures were altogether unharmed, whilst others were merely discoloured by the smoke; but at that end of the gallery which lay nearest to the rooms in which the fire had broken out several large pictures had been totally destroyed, and many others had been hopelessly damaged.

"Portraits, all of them," said Mr. Montague Jones; "of priceless value to the Earl; family portraits that cannot be replaced. This one of the Earl himself, painted when he was a young man, has only just escaped."

What was it made Kenneth Fortescue start, as he looked up at that picture? What was it that made him deaf to the agent's voice, as he dilated on the Earl's loss?

The picture was that of a man of his own age, and the hair was his hair; the eyes were his eyes; the carriage of the head was his; the nose, the lips, the chin were the very counterpart of those which he had seen in the looking-glass that morning.

The portrait might have been his own portrait, painted yesterday.

What did it all mean? Was it just a chance coincidence? Or was it more? Was it the echo of the words he had read in that letter just a year before—"Mark this, Ken, you're as like your father as two peas are like?"

He wondered whether Mr. Montague Jones noticed the strange resemblance. No, he was a short-sighted man, and he noticed nothing. He was busily engaged with his papers, and with the notes he was making in his pocket-book for the benefit of the Earl. He saw nothing, he remarked nothing. He led Fortescue on to another picture, one much damaged, and which was hanging in a bad light between the windows. Kenneth looked at it absently. He spoke about it, but spoke as if he were in a dream.

As they passed that other picture on their way back through the corridor, Kenneth stood and gazed at it again. The likeness seemed to him more striking than before.

"There is no need to look at that one," said the agent; "it isn't damaged at all."

They left the picture gallery, and went down the wide staircase. Kenneth had no excuse for remaining longer. He had obtained the information which he needed for the head office; he would be able to write to London, giving a full account of what he had seen. Why, then, should he linger? What reason could he give for doing so?

The agent was walking with him to the door, when the busy secretary came out of his den.

"Mr. Jones," he said, "the Earl would like to speak to Mr. Fortescue."

Kenneth Fortescue was not naturally a nervous man, and he was not oppressed by the grandeur of the place in which he found himself. He had moved in good society, and he was able to hold his own in whatever company he found himself. The presence of an earl was no more embarrassing to him than the presence of that earl's footman. But if ever a man showed signs of nervousness—if ever a man hung back on the threshold of a room, as if he dare not face the revelation that the next step might bring, that man was Kenneth Fortescue.

But Mr. Montague Jones had preceded him, and he heard himself announced.

"Mr. Fortescue from the Insurance Office is here, my lord."

"Come in, Mr. Fortescue. I want to hear the result of your investigation. I want to know—"

What did Lord Derwentwater want to know? He seemed to have forgotten. He was looking at the representative of the insurance company with a strangely puzzled gaze. Only for a moment, though. In the next, he recovered himself, and began to give an account of the recent fire, and of the damage done by it, and his reasons for demanding so large compensation from the company.

Kenneth Fortescue looked intently at the Earl as he spoke. He wondered, as he did so, if he was looking at his own likeness, not of to-day, but of a quarter of a century hence. The features bore the strongest resemblance, but the hair was white, and the figure far less upright.

As the Earl spoke on, standing with his back to the fireplace, Kenneth stood facing him, apparently listening to his words, and yet in reality hearing nothing of what he was saying. He was looking for something—looking intently and eagerly. Why did the Earl keep his hands behind him? Why did he stand in that position all the time he spoke? How could Kenneth ever discover that which he so much wanted to know?

But at that moment there came bounding into the room a beautiful collie dog, white as snow and with long, silky hair. It ran to the Earl, and looked up into his face. It was his favourite dog, his constant companion. He stooped to pat it as he spoke, and, as Kenneth looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie, he saw at last that for which he had been looking—he saw that the little finger of the Earl's right hand had lost the last joint.

Then, in a moment, he knew what was the missing word in the letter found in the safe; he knew beyond all doubt that he was at that moment standing in the presence of his own father.