CHAPTER III
CAPTAIN FORTESCUE'S PROMISE
WHEN Dr. Cholmondeley had gone, and whilst the old butler was laying the cloth in the dining-room, the Captain sat in an armchair by the fire in the library. How well he knew that room, and how the handsome vulgarity of its furniture had appalled him in days gone by! The gaudy amber-coloured carpet with its huge floral pattern; the table-cloth of velvet plush, but of a different red from that of the carpet; the massive bookcase with its rows of books, chosen because of their gilded binding, but in total disregard of their contents; the pictures on the walls, selected for the splendour of their frames, but possessing nothing in themselves to charm the artistic eye; the great mirror in its elaborate gilt setting; the massive coal-box with its startling pictorial design; the bright blue curtains in the window embellished with a golden pattern; the very ornaments standing on the mantleshelf,—one and all, were costly and magnificent indeed, but at the same time utterly lacking in the very elements of taste or beauty. These, however, he passed over to-day, without even bestowing upon them a single sigh of regret, as he thought of the large sums of money which had been wasted upon them.
But one object in the room he did look at and sigh over, and that was a large picture, hung in a gorgeous gilt frame on the wall, just opposite the chair in which he was sitting. It was the full-length portrait of a woman of about forty, with dark hair, high cheek-bones, and a very red face. She was arrayed in gaudy colours, which harmonized as little with each other as did the colours of the room. It was a heavy, stupid face, with hardly a gleam of intelligence in it.
Captain Fortescue gazed at it, and a pained expression came into his face as he did so. It was the picture of his mother! He had never seen his mother; she had died when he was a few months old, and he often wished that he had never seen her picture. He could have drawn her so differently with the pen of imagination. He could have painted her in such subdued and beautiful colours. He would have made her tall and fair and lovely, with a sweet, gentle face, a graceful figure, and with eyes which had a world of tenderness in them. But here was her picture drawn from life, and she was his mother, and he must try to think as dutifully of her as he could.
Again he said to himself that his father's generosity to him had been a mistake; it had caused him to have feelings and ideals out of keeping with his position; it had made him even dissatisfied with his own mother.
"Dinner is ready, sir," said Elkington's voice behind him.
"Elkington."
"Yes, sir."
"What became of that telegram?"
"It's here, sir, somewhere on the writing-table; I put it there myself. Oh, here it is under this letter-weight. I'm afraid it's bad news, sir; you'll excuse my having read it, but it was lying open on the floor."
Captain Fortescue took the pink paper, opened it, and held it to the light.
It contained these words:
"Mine flooded—all lost—utter ruin."
"What does that mean, Elkington? My father never told me any of his business affairs. Had he money in a mining company?"
"I believe so, sir; I'm afraid so. I think he must have lost heavily, and I think, too, he must have feared bad news this morning, he turned so white when I brought the telegram in."
The Captain did not eat much dinner, and was glad when the last course had been cleared away. "Now, Elkington, see if I can go to my father."
The old man soon returned with the message that his master would like to see the Captain at once. He therefore went up the wide staircase, and crossed the landing to his father's room. The door was open, and he could see Watson standing by the bed and giving him something from an invalid cup.
"Father, I'm sorry to find you in bed," he said, as he went forward.
"Yes, Ken, I've had a bad turn this time. I'm glad you've come. Watson, you can go and get your supper; do you hear? And don't come till I ring for you."
Watson put down the cup with a bang, as if she resented being dismissed, and stalked out of the room.
"Has she gone, Ken?"
"Yes, father."
"See if she's shut the door."
No, the door was ajar, but the Captain closed it, and turned the key in the lock.
"I'm very ill, my boy."
"Dr. Cholmondeley hopes you may feel better soon; I've been talking to him downstairs."
"Look 'ere, Ken, I don't believe in doctors; they say what they think folks will like. I know better."
"Don't tire yourself, father."
"I must tire myself, Ken; I've got something as I want to say to you. I'm not a-going to put it off, or it may be too late. I got a telegram to-day."
"Yes, I saw it downstairs. What does it mean?"
"It means I'm ruined, Ken; that's what it means!"
"How ruined? In what way?"
"Why, all my money was in that there mine, every farthing of it!"
"Surely not all!"
"It was, Ken; they paid five, ten and twelve per cent. sometimes, but it was all a humbugging affair, as it turns out. I got a letter only yesterday from a man as I know, who has shares in it, too, and he told me as how he was a-going to sell out, and I meant to do the same. I should have done it to-day; but it's too late now; that there wire was from him."
"How terrible!" said the Captain.
"Terrible! I should just think it is, Ken; and all your money was there, too."
"My money?"
"Well, yes; money as I had to spend for you; but it's gone along of the rest. I've given you a good eddication, Ken; no one can say as I haven't. I've not stinted you, have I?"
"Never, father, never."
"I've done my best for you, ever since you was a little lad—a little motherless lad, Ken."
"You have, father, you have."
"And if this mine hadn't gone smash, I should have left you a rich man."
"Never mind about me, father; I'm very sorry for you."
"Well, I'm not long for this world, Ken, so it matters little for me; but I'm glad you've come. I wanted to see you and put matters straight for you. When I'm gone—"
"Don't talk like that, dad—" his old name for his father in his boyish days—"I hope you'll soon be much better."
"Perhaps so, Ken, but perhaps not. Now, listen! When I'm gone, you take this 'ere key, you see it on this bunch, it's the one with a bit of pink string tied round it."
"What key is it?"
"It's the key of the safe over there, in the corner of my room, just by the cupboard door there. Open the safe, and you'll see my will; it's not worth the paper it's written on now. Well, underneath the will you'll see an envelope addressed to you."
"To me, father?"
"Yes, Ken; you take that there envelope, and inside of it you'll find some information as you ought to have. Follow it up, Ken, and I hope as it will put you all right."
"What is it about, father? Let me get the paper now."
"No, no; I won't have it opened till I'm gone; time enough then—time enough then."
"Shall I take the key?"
"No, no; leave it on the table beside me. I'll have no one meddling with my keys whilst I'm here to look after them. Put the bunch where I can see it as I lie here. Get me a drink, Ken. I feel a bit faint."
Captain Fortescue held the cup to his lips.
"There, there, that's better, lad; raise me a little."
"Won't you be quiet now, father? You've talked enough; let me call Watson."
"No, no; I haven't told you yet what I want to say. Who's that at the door?"
There was a low knock.
It was Watson.
"The master mustn't talk any more," she said. "Dr. Cholmondeley would be very much displeased."
"You mind your own business," said her master.
"Let me give you some milk, sir."
"I've had some. Go away, Watson; I want to speak to my son. Don't you come till I send for you!"
Watson bounced out of the room and slammed the door after her, and once more father and son were left alone.
"Ken, keep that woman out till I've told you what I want to tell you. Is the door shut?"
"Quite shut, father."
"Well, you remember a man of the name of Douglas?"
"No, I don't."
"Oh no, of course you don't. He was parson of the church here when you were away at boarding school; he was only here a few months. I was churchwarden then, and so I saw a good bit of the parson. Well, he preached one Sunday in the church, and the next day I heard as how he was dying. He'd broke a blood-vessel or something o' that sort. He sent across to know, would I go and see him, and when I gets there he says to me:
"'Now, Fortescue,' he says, 'you've handled a lot o' money in your day, and you know what to do with it, and I want you to be so good as to help my wife when I'm gone.' She were there, sobbing away by his bed, a fine-looking woman too! 'I haven't much to leave her and the children,' he says. 'She has a little bit o' money of her own, but all as I've saved I've paid away for insurance, in case anything should happen to me. Now, what I want you to do,' he says, 'is this: to help her to get that money invested in something as will bring her in a good interest, and yet be a safe concern. Now I've never had much to do with money,' he says, 'I've had so little of it; but you've made a big pile, and you do know, and so I want you to help the wife when I'm gone.'
"Well, I promised him, Ken, and that night the poor fellow died. She got her insurance money, and I took charge of it for her and said as how I would invest it and send her the interest. I put it into India three and a half per cents., and forwarded her the dividends reg'lar, just as they came to me. Then this gold mine in Brazil was started, and I put all my own money in it, and I got rattling good returns, and thinks I, why shouldn't poor Mrs. Douglas have a slice of good luck along of me?
"So I put her money in it too. I ought to have asked her leave, Ken, but I didn't. You see, we'd had a bit of a tiff just at that time. She lived in York then, and I used often to run over when her interest was due and take it with me instead of writing; it seemed friendly-like. And I took a great fancy to her, and I wanted her to come and be your ma; but she wouldn't hear of it, and drew herself up, and looked at me in such a way it fair scared me. So I didn't want to go and see her, and I'm a bad hand at letters. I just sent her the money and said I was glad the interest was better, and Ken, she believes to-day that it's still in the India three and a half per cents.!"
"Do you mean to say, father, that all Mrs. Douglas's money is lost?"
"Every farthing of it, worse luck!"
"And are they badly off?"
"I'm afraid they are, Ken. I'm very much afraid they are. I'm awfully sorry about it."
There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man said feebly—
"Ken, I've been a good father to you."
"Yes, indeed you have."
"Now, I want you to make me a promise."
"What is it, father?"
"I want you to promise that you'll go and see Mrs. Douglas when I'm dead, and tell her about it."
"Can't I write to her?"
"No; I want you to see her, and break it gentle-like to her, and tell her I was sorry. Be sure and tell her that, Ken."
"I could write all that, father?"
The old man's natural impatience returned. "Can't you do what I tell you?" he said.
"It won't be pleasant to tell her, father—most unpleasant, I should say."
"Never mind, I've done lots of unpleasant things for you, as you'll know some day. Promise, Ken."
"Well, father, if it will be any comfort to you, I'll promise, but I would much rather not go on such an errand."
But old Mr. Fortescue had got the promise that he wanted, and he knew that the Captain was a man whose word could be depended upon.
"Ring for Watson now, Ken."
She came in, and began to bustle about the room, putting things straight for the night.
"Are you going to sit up, Watson?"
"Yes, of course," she said shortly; "the master can't be left."
The Captain noticed that she omitted the usual "sir" in speaking to him; but Watson's bad temper was well-known to him, and he was not surprised.
"Call me, Watson, if I can be of any use."
But Watson pretended not to hear, and began putting coal on the fire, and noisily rattling the fire-irons as she did so. The old man had closed his eyes, and was apparently fast asleep. So the Captain crept out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.
On the landing outside, he found the old butler.
"How is the master, sir?"
"No worse, I think, Elkington; he seems to be sleeping now. My old room, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir; your bag is there."
"Good night, Elkington."
"Good night, sir. I hope you'll find all comfortable."