CHAPTER XXV

WAITING FOR THE ANSWER

"WELL, I do not think we need detain Mr. Fortescue any longer. I want to speak to you for a few moments on another subject, Mr. Montague Jones."

It was the Earl who spoke, and his words roused Kenneth from a feeling almost of faintness which had crept over him, as he looked at the hand laid on the head of the collie. He bowed to the Earl, and at once took his departure. That was not the time to approach the subject on which his thoughts were centred. If he spoke to the Earl, he must speak to him alone, and not in the presence of Mr. Montague Jones; and, moreover, in his present tumult of feeling, he did not feel capable of speaking at all. He required time for thought and reflection.

He walked down the avenue, seeing and hearing nothing. The beautiful scenery was completely lost upon him. He passed through the great gates, hardly noticing the lodge-keeper, who opened them for him.

He went on, not knowing or caring where he was going, having not the least idea what course of action he should take. He wanted to be alone to think.

He found himself at last on a hill covered with Scotch fir trees. He climbed to the top of it, and sat down on a fallen tree. There lay the beautiful old Castle beneath him—his home—the home of which he had been cruelly deprived by the man he had just seen—a man who had no right to the name of father. A great feeling of anger rose up in his heart against this man, who was living in luxury and splendour, whilst his own son was struggling on, obliged to be content with the bare necessaries of life.

How could he ever pardon such heartless conduct? How could he ever forgive his father for his base desertion of him, when he was a helpless infant? His whole nature rose in revolt against such behaviour.

"'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'"

Yes, he must forgive even this, if he would be the follower of Him who prayed for those who hung Him on the cross. He pleaded for help from above to enable him to do this, and as he prayed, he grew calmer.

Still he sat on, trying to plan what his next step should be. Should he go to Sheffield and see Mr. Northcourt? Or should he call at the Castle and ask for an interview with the Earl? Yet what if this interview was refused? What if the Earl had noticed the likeness, and, not wishing to own him, would henceforth be on his guard against seeing him again?

At length he determined not to go to the Castle, but to write. He would telegraph to the office that he was unavoidably detained at Eagleton; he would stay at the little village inn that night; he would despatch as soon as possible a letter to the Castle, and would await the Earl's reply. What would be the use of putting the matter in the hands of a lawyer, if his father were willing to own him? Why should their family affairs be brought under the notice of an outsider?

Kenneth returned to the village, sent off his telegram, and went to the Eagleton Arms. Then, after much thought and prayer, he wrote his letter.

He began by recalling to the Earl's memory events which had taken place twenty-five years ago. He reminded him of his early marriage to the girl he loved, of her death in the mining district in South Africa, and of the little boy she had left behind her. He asked him to think of the tiny deserted child, left in the custody of a common miner, with no evidence of his father's care save the money for his education. He then drew a sketch of the life of that child, at Eton and then at Sandhurst; brought up as far as his education was concerned in his proper position, but having as his only reputed relative the poor old miner, who had done all that in his ignorance was possible for him to do, to be a father to him. Then he described the death of that foster-father, and told of the letter that he had left in the safe.

Kenneth was careful to remind the Earl that the old man had faithfully kept the secret during his lifetime, according to his promise; but he told him that he had felt that, in making such a promise, he had done a great injury to the child left in his care; and that, therefore, he had written an account of what had happened in South Africa, and had left it with his will, to be opened and read after his death. Then Kenneth went on to tell the Earl that he was that deserted child, and to inform him that he had stood that day for the first time in his rightful home, and had beheld that day for the first time his own true father. He appealed to the Earl by all the love that he had had for his mother, by all the humanity of his heart, by all his sense of justice and right, to investigate the truth of his claim. He implored him to notice the remarkable resemblance between himself and the picture of the Earl painted when he was a young man, and he entreated him to allow him to come to the Castle again, that they might talk together, and that the Earl might more closely observe that resemblance. He ended his letter by saying that he was anxiously awaiting his reply at the Eagleton Arms, where he should remain until that reply reached him.

It was late in the evening when the letter was finished, but he at once found a messenger and despatched him to the Castle. No sooner did he know that it was in the Earl's hands, than he began restlessly to await the answer. He felt as if he could not sit still a moment. He went outside and paced on the road; he reasoned with himself that no reply could possibly come that night; yet he still looked out for it.

But at length the Eagleton Arms was closing for the night, and he was obliged to give up his watch. He went to bed, but not to sleep. All night he was tossing about, wondering what the morrow would bring.

Then, with daybreak, he was up and out; he stood at the great gates, and looked at the morning light streaming down the avenue. What was that in the distance? Was it some one bringing the expected letter?

No, it was only a gamekeeper early at work, shooting the rabbits which were nibbling the short grass at the edge of the road. He went back to the inn and tried to eat some breakfast; but he felt as if he could not swallow it.

Then he watched again, and at last, at ten o'clock, a messenger came riding along the road from the Castle. He pulled up his horse at the Eagleton Arms.

Yes, he had brought a letter; the coronet was on the envelope.

The landlord was standing at the door. He took the letter and handed it to Kenneth.

"From the Earl," he said, "for you, sir."

Kenneth took the letter to his own room and opened it with trembling fingers. Then he read as follows:

"EAGLETON CASTLE,

"October 15.

"DEAR SIR,

"The Earl of Derwentwater requests me to state that he has no knowledge whatever of the subject matter of your letter. There will therefore be no necessity for you to call at the Castle. He regrets that you have been so grossly misinformed.

"Yours truly,

"HAROLD MILROY,

"Secretary."

Kenneth Fortescue felt as if he had received a heavy blow. What should be his next step? There seemed no object in remaining at Eagleton any longer. If the Earl flatly denied his claim, all that he could do would be to put the matter at once into Mr. Northcourt's hands.

Accordingly when he reached the railway station, he took a ticket for Sheffield, and arriving there some hours later, he was just in time to catch the old lawyer before he left the office for the night.

They were closeted together for a long time in Mr. Northcourt's private room, and Kenneth gave an account of his visit to the Castle. He told the lawyer of the picture he had seen in the corridor, of his interview with the Earl, and of the convincing proof which he had obtained during that interview, that the Earl was the man mentioned in old Mr. Fortescue's letter, inasmuch as he had noticed that the joint on his right hand was missing, just as Mr. Fortescue had seen and had described.

Then he told Mr. Northcourt how he had written to the Earl, and he showed him the downright denial which the Earl had given in the answer which he had received that morning.

Mr. Northcourt meditated for some time on the case of his client; but the longer he thought of it, the more his legal mind saw great difficulties in the way of substantiating his claim.

There were several questions which would immediately be raised by the other side; questions which, if unanswered, or if answered in an unsatisfactory manner, would most certainly render Mr. Fortescue's claim invalid. Who was his mother—Lord Derwentwater's first wife? They did not even know her name. Where were they married? They had no idea. Were they married at all? They had no proof whatever of the marriage, except the declaration of an old man who was now dead, and who had only stated it on hearsay.

If the marriage had taken place in the neighbourhood of Kimberley, search might have been made for the marriage register; but apparently, according to the letter found in the safe (to which Mr. Northcourt again referred, spreading it out on the table before him), the marriage, if marriage there had been, had taken place before reaching Africa in some place or other where his maternal grandfather had been chaplain; but what that place was, there was nothing in the letter to show, nor probably had old Mr. Fortescue ever known. Altogether it would be a most difficult case to bring forward, and undoubtedly further evidence would have to be obtained before the claim could be satisfactorily substantiated.

So Kenneth Fortescue returned to Birmingham, feeling as if he had been on the very threshold of Elysium, and then had been relentlessly drawn back into a land of toil, anxiety, and privation. It was hard to settle down again to the weary routine of his daily duties; the little back parlour had never seemed so dismal before. He was as far as ever from gaining his proper position in the world, and, whilst matters continued as they were, he saw no prospect of having a home of his own, and therefore no hope of being able to win Marjorie Douglas's love. And Captain Berington had every opportunity of seeing her, and he thought her a most charming girl.

Kenneth Fortescue was in very low spirits during those dark November days that followed. Heavy smoke-laden fogs rested on the city; the gloomy skies were not calculated to cheer him, and he had made no friends in Birmingham to whom he could turn to relieve the monotony of his life.

One Sunday evening he was walking through the muddy streets, which, with their closed shop windows, looked even more dismal than usual, when he heard the sound of a church bell. It was not the great church near his lodgings, and which he usually attended on Sunday. He had walked into a part of the city where he had not been before. It was a small church begrimed outside with smoke, and possessing no beauty within, a plain, unadorned building in a poor part of the city. He thought he would obey the call of the bell and go to the service. Perhaps there would be some word for him there that evening.

The clergyman was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, not attractive in appearance, and his voice was certainly not melodious. But he had got his message straight from his Master, and Kenneth Fortescue had been sent to receive that message.

The words of the text fell upon his heart like the soothing touch of a cool, loving hand upon the fevered brow.

"'O tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be strong, and He shall comfort thine heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord.'" (Psalm xxvii. 14, Prayer-book version.)

Then came the simple sermon, devoid of all oratory, free from any attempt at grandiloquent language, as he urged his hearers to take the text as their watchword during the coming week. Each had his secret care; let him turn that care into earnest prayer. Then, having done that, let him wait patiently. God was sure to answer; but the answer must come in God's own time. Prayer cannot be lost; but we must not try to hasten God's hand; we must tarry the Lord's leisure. Then, doing that, we shall be strong and comforted.

The preacher ended with a verse, of which each member of the congregation was given a copy on leaving the church. That verse was always kept by Kenneth Fortescue as one of his greatest treasures:—

"Oh, tarry and be strong; Tell God in prayer What is thy hidden grief, Thy secret care. Yet, if no answer come, Pray on and wait: God's time is always best; Never too late."