CHAPTER XXVI

A CHRISTMAS JOURNEY

CHRISTMAS was now drawing near, and the Birmingham streets were as busy as on that day, two years before, when Captain Fortescue had seen Lady Violet at the door of the jeweller's shop in the Arcade. He wondered whether she was better, and if Marjorie Douglas had returned home.

He had saved fifty pounds during the year, and, two days before Christmas, he sent it to Mrs. Douglas with a short note, in which he said that he hoped they were well, and wished them all a very happy Christmas. He put another sentence in the letter, asking if Miss Douglas was at home for Christmas; but after he had written it, he thought it had better not be inserted. He tore the letter up, and wrote another.

On Christmas Day, an answer arrived. Mrs. Douglas thanked him very warmly for the money he had sent; it was far too much for him to have saved in so short a time. She feared that he was denying himself comforts which he ought to have, and had she not feared to grieve him by so doing, she should have returned the cheque. Not liking to do this, lest he should think her ungrateful, she could only urge him most earnestly not to attempt to send her so large a sum the following year. She was glad to tell him they were all at home, and quite well, and they united in wishing him every blessing and good wish for Christmas and the New Year.

Captain Fortescue was sitting in the old armchair by the fire in his room, reading this letter for about the tenth time, when Mrs. Hall came in to lay the table for dinner. She had insisted on his having "something decent to eat" (as she expressed it) on Christmas Day, and had cajoled him into the extravagance of allowing her to buy a chicken for his dinner. She had cooked it with great care, and now brought it in triumphantly and put it on the table.

"There's a beauty, sir, if ever there was one, and I've made some good bread sauce, and the greens are nice and fresh; I got them in the market yesterday, and there's some fine brown gravy."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hall; you take good care of me. I shall get spoilt if I stop here much longer!"

"Bless you no, sir! You'll never be spoilt, not, while my name's Mary Ann Hall—that you won't."

"Perhaps you are thinking of changing your name, Mrs. Hall?"

"Changing it! No, sir; catch me changing of it—not if I knows it. I've had one husband, and that's enough for me!"

Whether this was a compliment to the late Mr. Hall, Kenneth did not know. His landlady bustled out of the room, glad to think that her lodger would enjoy himself for once in his life. She had asked his permission to buy the chicken, but the plum pudding, which followed it, she had ventured to make without having received leave beforehand. He would only have said, "No, Mrs. Hall; I couldn't really eat anything more, even if you were to make it." Knowing that he would say this, Mrs. Hall had made her pudding without authority, and carried it in with great delight, a brown, well-boiled Christmas pudding, bristling with numberless almond spikes, like a porcupine covered with quills.

"There, sir!"

"Mrs. Hall! Mrs. Hall! What am I to do to you? You'll ruin me one of these days."

"Nonsense, sir. You'll never be ruined by a bit of Christmas pudding. Eat it while it's hot, sir. It's sickly-like when it's cold."

Kenneth had just finished this Christmas dinner, when there came a loud ring at the bell. Mrs. Hall went to the door, and presently returned with a yellow envelope in her hand.

"A telegram, sir! It went to the office, but the boy found it closed, and the caretaker sent him on here."

Kenneth took it from her, and opened it without any feeling of surprise or curiosity. Telegrams often came to the office, and he had left word that, in his absence, they were to be sent on to his lodgings. But when he saw the words on the pink paper inside, he started, and turned so pale that Mrs. Hall, who was waiting at the door to see if he wished to send an answer, could not help noticing it.

"Not bad news, I hope, sir?" she said.

"I hardly know, Mrs. Hall. Ask the boy for a form; I must send an answer."

It was a very short reply, soon written and quickly despatched—

"Coming immediately."

The telegram was addressed to, "Milroy, The Castle, Eagleton."

When the boy had been dismissed, Kenneth looked at the pink paper again. It simply contained these words—

"The Earl is ill—wishes to see you as soon as possible."

He got out his Bradshaw, and found that, being Christmas Day, there was only one train by which he could go, as the trains were running as on Sunday. There was no time to lose, for he must be in New Street in three quarters of an hour.

He made his preparations forthwith, hastily packing his hand-bag. He told Mrs. Hall that he had been summoned to a relative who was ill, and he managed to arrive on Platform 5 a few minutes before the train was due.

During the journey his thoughts were very busy. What would he find on his arrival? Had the Lord's leisure, for which he had been trying to wait patiently, at last arrived? He had trusted the matter to higher care than his own. Was that trust now to be rewarded?

It was late at night when he reached North Eaton. There was no 'bus to meet the train, and no cab could be obtained. However, after he had walked a little way along the dark road, he saw the lights of a carriage coming to meet him. It stopped when it came up to him, and the coachman, bending down to speak to him, said—

"Beg pardon, sir, but are you Mr. Fortescue?"

Kenneth having replied in the affirmative, he said:

"My lord gave orders that the carriage was to meet the last train. I'm sorry I'm late, sir."

Kenneth stepped into the carriage, and felt as if he were acting it all in a dream. He heard the gates opened by the lodge-keeper, then it grew darker as they drove beneath the overhanging branches of the oaks in the avenue. Now he knew that they were coming out into the open park; he could see the stars shining through the trees, and there was the moon rising behind the plantation on the other side of the lake. He knew that he was getting very near now, and his heart beat quickly at the thought. What reception would he have? What would he find when he entered the old Castle?

The carriage stopped before the great door; there was no need to ring. They were evidently expecting him, listening for the first sound of the carriage wheels, for the door was thrown open immediately. He was ushered into the library, the same magnificent room in which he had seen the Earl, the room in which the Earl's hand had rested on the head of the white collie.

The dog was there, lying before the fire. He got up and ran eagerly forward when the door was opened, but drew back disappointed when he saw a stranger enter, and threw himself despairingly on the tiger-skin rug.

In a few moments Mr. Milroy, the secretary, came in.

"I'm glad you've come, Mr. Fortescue; we have been longing for you to arrive."

"Would you mind telling me why you have sent for me? I have heard nothing as yet."

"The Earl is very ill, Mr. Fortescue, dangerously ill, I may say. We have two doctors in the house now; one or other has been here night and day the whole of the last week. To-night both are here."

"What is the matter with him?"

"It is the heart. I suppose he has had heart disease for a long time, so the doctors say, and every now and then he has a most alarming attack. He had an awful one the day after you were here last. We had to wire for Sir Lawrence Taylor at once, and he thought his condition then most critical. He fancied that the excitement caused by the fire had brought on the attack. However, they consider that he has been much worse this time."

"Does he want to see me?"

"Yes, indeed he does. In fact, he will give himself no rest at all until he has seen you."

"Do you know why?"

"I haven't the least idea. Perhaps you know, Mr. Fortescue."

"How should I know?"

"Did you not send the Earl a letter when you were here last? I remember writing an answer at his dictation. Now, whatever that letter of yours contained, I should imagine would be the reason of his wishing to see you now."

At this moment Sir Lawrence Taylor entered, and Mr. Milroy introduced Mr. Fortescue to him.

"The earl wishes to see you at once, Mr. Fortescue. It was quite against my judgment that he should see any one. Perfect quiet is essential for him, but I find that we shall have no hope of allaying the present alarming symptoms until he has had the interview upon which he insists. Will you, therefore, be so good as to follow me to his room?"

The doctor led the way, and Kenneth followed him.

They ascended the great staircase and went into a large bedroom, the mullioned windows of which looked out towards the front of the Castle. The bed was draped in costly Oriental silk hangings, and beneath these, and propped up by so many pillows that he was sitting more than lying, Kenneth saw the Earl. Two nurses were in attendance, and a doctor was sitting beside him with his finger on his pulse.

The Earl looked up eagerly as the door was opened, and Kenneth went forward and stood by the bed.

"My lord, you sent for me," he said, gently.

Lord Derwentwater motioned to Sir Lawrence Taylor to come near him. Then Kenneth heard him say in an agitated whisper—

"I must be alone with him. Tell them all to go out."

"My lord, you must promise me not to exert yourself more than is actually necessary."

"I will promise anything, only leave us alone."

At a word from Sir Lawrence Taylor, the nurses left the room at once, the two doctors followed them, and closed the door behind them.

As soon as they were gone, the Earl held out his arms to Kenneth, who was standing motionless by his bed.

"My son—my dear boy, come to me! Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me for the way in which I have treated you?"

Kenneth came close to his father, and the Earl put his arms round him and kissed him. He had refused to kiss him when he was about to forsake him, a poor, helpless, motherless babe; but now the kiss, so long withheld, was given, and the father's tears fell fast, as Kenneth knelt down by his bed and took hold of his hand.

"Will you forgive me? Can you ever forgive me?" the Earl repeated feebly.

"Freely—fully," said Kenneth, as he remembered the words with which he had that morning concluded his prayer, "'As we forgive them which trespass against us.'"

"I do not even know your name," said the Earl, piteously.

"Kenneth, my lord."

"Don't call me that," he said, impatiently. "I loved your mother, Kenneth."

"Tell me about her, father."

"Her name was Mirabel. She was the only one I ever really loved; her father's name was De Sainte Croix. He was of Huguenot descent, and was chaplain in Hyères when I was there. We were married at Hyères. Kenneth, I have written a statement, which will be quite sufficient, should I die, to put you in your right place. My lawyer was here yesterday. I made him read it through, and I signed it in his presence. The marriage certificate is with it, so there can be no difficulty about that."

"Thank you, father, for doing all this."

"Don't thank me," he said; "it's justice—common justice. It's what ought to have been done long ago. I can never make up to you for what is past. Who saw that letter, Kenneth?"

"What letter?"

"The one old Tomkins left in the safe. Some one must have got hold of that letter."

"How do you know that, father?"

"I know it because I have had threatening letters, anonymous ones at first, just vague hints of what might be done. But, after several of these had come, I had a mysterious visitor. He waylaid me one evening when I was walking in the shrubbery. I could not see his face well, he wore a long coat, and his collar was turned up, and feel sure that he was wearing a sham beard and moustache. He told me that he knew something in my past life, unknown to the world at large; he said that he had met a man whom he knew to be my son, born in South Africa, not far from Kimberley; and then he informed me that, if I did not give him a large sum of money, he would at once disclose my desertion of that son, and cause my secret to be known to the world.

"Kenneth, I never knew till then that you were alive. You were such a small, sickly child, that I had no thought or expectation of your living more than a few months at most. Then I did know, but not till then. The man waited for my answer, and I told him to come again to the same place at midnight. I went in to consider what I should do. The Countess was alive then, and I dare not let her know how I had deceived her. She would never have married me, had she known that I had a son; for her great desire had been to have a child to inherit my title and both our estates. But how could I, after all those years, let her know that I had deceived her? She was a hot-tempered woman, and there would have been an awful scene. So, like the coward that I was, I wrote the cheque, and gave it to him under the deep shadow of the great chestnut tree near the lake."

"Did you ever see him again, father?"

"Twice again, and each time he demanded a larger sum. At last I told him that I declined to give him another farthing, until he revealed the source of his information, and brought some proof of the truth of his statements; and from that day to this I have never seen or heard of him. Do you know who he is, Kenneth, and how he got to know?"

Kenneth gave his father the history of Watson, and of the disappearance of the letter from the safe, and then he told him what Marjorie had heard from the old woman in whose house at Daisy Bank the letter had been found.

"That explains it all, Kenneth. Now that brings us to the time of the fire and your visit to the Castle. When you came into the library that day, I saw the strong likeness to myself at once. I knew you must be my son. At one moment I thought I would send Montague Jones away, and would tell you the truth; at the next my heart failed me. What would the county families round think of my behaviour? What a revelation of cowardice and injustice it would be to the servants and tenants! How it would lower me in the estimation of every one I knew! Then your letter came, Kenneth, telling me facts which I knew to be true, leaving no room for speculation or doubt.

"You will wonder that my heart was not touched by it; I wonder at it myself. But I hardened my heart against you. I dared not lose the good opinion of my friends. Above all, I dared not tell Kenmore, my half-brother. He considers himself my heir; he prides himself upon it. I have been told that he has already planned how to alter and improve the park and gardens when I am gone. He does not care for me, nor I for him; but I felt that I could not bear the storm which this revelation would raise. But since then—that was in October, was it not?"

"Yes, father, the fourteenth of October."

"Since then I have been miserable, utterly wretched. I have felt sometimes as if Mirabel, my pretty little bride, came in my dreams to reproach me with the way I had treated her child. So I began to write the statement I have told you of; it is here, Kenneth, in this large envelope under my pillow. Take it, my boy; we will have no tampering with this letter. Keep it under lock and key, and never let it go out of your possession. I wrote it, Kenneth, and then I thought I would leave it with my lawyer, to be opened after my death. Cowardly again, wasn't it? But then this heart attack came on, and, Kenneth, something tells me that the next one will be my last. The doctors seem to be warding off the fatal consequences of this one, but another may seize me at any moment. And then, when I knew that, and began to face death, and thought of standing before my judge, my heart failed me. Of all the sins of my guilty life, I feel that this desertion of my own child has been the worst. And so I sent for you, and you say you forgive me."

"I do, father, indeed I do."

"Thank you, Kenneth; it's more than I deserve. I wish I could know that I had Divine forgiveness too, but I'm afraid that is out of the question now; it is too late for that."

"It is never too late, father; you forget how God longs and yearns to forgive us. He wants to forgive far more than we want to be forgiven. Why, He wants it so much that He sent His own Son to die for us, that He might be able to forgive us. You see He couldn't have forgiven us otherwise, for it wouldn't have been just. He is obliged to punish sin."

"Go on, Kenneth; I know it all in a way, but I want to see it clearly now."

"Well, you see, He let His Son be punished instead of us, so that when we come to Him He might be just, and yet able to forgive us. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un-righteousness.'"

It was the same verse which Marjorie had repeated to old Mrs. Hotchkiss, and the simple words, which comforted the heart of the poor ignorant old woman in Daisy Bank who could neither read nor write, now brought peace and a sense of pardon to the highly-cultured and refined nobleman. He grasped Kenneth's hand as he said—

"I will rest on those words, Kenneth, 'faithful and just.' Now I am afraid you must call the nurses. Get some dinner, and rest, and come to me again in the morning."

He grasped his hand warmly as he said goodnight, and Kenneth opened the door and admitted the doctor. He was leaving the room when his father called him back.

"Sir Lawrence Taylor, may I introduce my son to you—the future Earl?"

Sir Lawrence looked in astonishment at Kenneth, who was standing by the door; the nurses, who had followed the doctor into the room, also looked round in the utmost surprise.

"It is true, Sir Lawrence; this is my son. I have not seen him for twenty-five years, but before you all—" (he looked round at the nurses) "I own him as my lawful son and heir. I have sinned against him in the past, but from this day he shall take his proper and rightful place here. Good night, Kenneth; I must rest now."

Was the Earl wandering? Was the brain weakened as well as the heart? No, he was quite collected and calm. Moreover, they had only to glance at Kenneth standing by, with the signs of deep emotion on his face, and then to look from him to the Earl lying prostrate with exhaustion after the effort he had made; they had only to compare the two faces, to feel convinced that the words he had spoken were not the expression of some fancy of the wandering brain of delirium, but were, on the contrary, the sober words of truth and of justice.

A footman had been standing at the door with a tray in his hand, waiting to bring in beef-tea, which the nurses had ordered. He heard what was said by the Earl, and, needless to say, the news spread rapidly through the Castle. In the housekeeper's room, in the servants' hall, the strange tidings were eagerly discussed, and the stately butler, who came to the library soon afterwards, was the first to address Kenneth by the lawful title, of which he had been deprived during twenty-five years of his life.

"Dinner is served in the dining-room, my lord."