A WALK THROUGH BORROWDALE
A FEW days later, and during the first week of the new year, Captain
Fortescue was once more to be seen at the large railway station in
Sheffield. He was doing what he had never done in the whole course of
his life before; he was taking a third-class ticket. He was a poor man
now, and he felt that he must act as one.
It was a new experience for him to be obliged to pull himself up at
every turn when he was on the point of spending little sums of money.
Instead of buying, as before, several books and papers at the stall, he
contented himself with a copy of one paper only; instead of ordering
a luncheon basket, he was carrying in his pocket a small packet of
sandwiches which old Elkington had carefully wrapped up for him that
morning; instead of coming to the station in a cab, he had made use of
a public conveyance.
All this was new and strange to him, and yet he did not mind it in
the least; he had endured the hard life in the war without a murmur,
and the cessation of these little luxuries was to him a very trivial
matter; but he did feel a pang of regret when he had to give the porter
a small coin instead of his former generous tip, and when he slipped a
penny into the box of the blind man at the station gate, instead of the
shilling which he had usually given him when he passed by. He must be
just before he was generous, he said to himself.
When the train started, Kenneth Fortescue was soon engrossed in his
newspaper; he was glad of anything to turn his thoughts from the errand
upon which he was going. For he was on his way into Cumberland to
fulfil his promise to his father, and to break the intelligence of her
heavy loss to poor Mrs. Douglas. He had had some difficulty in finding
her address; he remembered that he had been so filled with horror at
his father's disclosure that he had never asked him where she was now
living. He had hunted through the old man's papers in vain; he had
discovered her address in York, but his father had intimated that she
was not there at the present time, and he failed to find any recent
address.
However, the old butler, on being questioned, told him that he had
several times addressed letters for his master to Mrs. Douglas, and
that he could therefore quite distinctly remember her address. He
wrote it carefully on a piece of paper, and Captain Fortescue took it
from his waistcoat pocket and looked at it more than once during the
journey. In the old man's trembling handwriting, he read these words—
"Mrs. Douglas, Fernbank, Rosthwaite,
"nr. Keswick."
Kenneth, much as he wished to get this dreaded visit over, had
postponed it until after the new year. He knew that he was the bearer
of bad tidings, and, with his usual thoughtfulness for others, he
was unwilling that the evil news should come as a cloud across their
happiness at Christmas and the New Year.
He had thought once of writing to say that he was coming, but upon
second thoughts, he decided not to do so. He would keep his promise to
his father to the very letter; he had implored him not to write, and he
would therefore refrain from doing so, and would not even prepare them
in this way for the sad news which he was bringing to them. He could
easily find some place in which to stay the night, and would return to
Sheffield early the following morning.
The Captain was alone the first part of the way, but at Penrith a young
man jumped into the carriage and took the seat opposite to him. He was
short and rather thin, with dark hair, brown eyes, and a weak mouth.
There was nothing specially taking in his appearance, and yet he had
an extremely good-natured face, which made the Captain imagine that,
though his companion might not have a superabundance of brain power,
yet at the same time he was well stored with easy good-humour.
The newcomer put his bag on the rack, lighted a cigar, and turned
over the leaves of a magazine. But he did not seem much inclined for
reading, and soon closed his book and began to talk, opening the
conversation, as Englishmen always do, with a remark on the weather.
"Horrid cold day," he said, with a slight drawl, which, however, the
Captain soon discovered was a sign of company manners on his part, and
which he dropped entirely when they became better acquainted.
"Yes, I think it's the coldest day this winter," he answered; "it feels
to me like snow."
"Have some of my rug," said the newcomer. "It's only lying on the
ground."
"Thank you, I shall only be too glad; I forgot to bring mine, and the
foot-warmer is quite cold now."
"Have you come far?"
"Well, a good way—from Sheffield. I'm going to a little place somewhere
near Keswick. Do you know Keswick?"
"Of course I do; I'm going there myself."
"Oh! Then you're the very man I want. I have to get to a village called
Rosthwaite; do you know it?"
"Rather! Why, we live only about two miles from Rosthwaite—at Grange,
at the lake head."
"Derwentwater is that?"
"Yes, we're at the other end of it from Keswick; it's a pretty long way
from the station. Do you know Cumberland?"
"I never was there in my life. Shall I find an inn at Rosthwaite?"
"Oh yes, two of them; they are very comfortable, I believe. Are you
thinking of staying at Rosthwaite long?"
"No; I'm only going there on business. I want to find some people who
live there. I wonder if you have ever heard of them and can tell me
where they live."
"What's the name?"
"Douglas."
"Of course I know the Douglases! I've known them nearly all my life. I
spend most of my time there when I'm down—too much, my father says. You
see, he wants me to work; but it's an awful grind out of term time. I
do a little, of course, but not enough to please him, I'm afraid."
"Are you at Cambridge?"
"No, at Oxford—Magdalen."
"And what are you going to be?"
"Oh! I don't know; anything that's not too hard work. My father says I
ought to settle, but it's very hard. Every time I come down, he wants
to know if I've made up my mind. But there's time enough yet."
"Don't you think it's better to have an aim in view?"
"Yes, I suppose it is. Oh I shall think of something one of these days.
You were asking about the Douglases?"
"Yes; do you mind telling me what you know about them?"
"Not at all. They're jolly, all of them; you're sure to like them!"
"What does the family consist of?"
"Well, there's Mrs. Douglas; he's dead—was a parson, I believe, and had
a church in Sheffield—he's been dead years now; we never knew him."
"Is Mrs. Douglas an elderly lady?"
"Oh dear no! She isn't young, but she isn't what you would call
elderly; her hair isn't white. Have a cigar?"
"Thank you. And what family has she?"
"Three girls, awfully jolly girls, too; and then there's little Carl."
"I did not think she had any young child."
"No, she hasn't; Carl is Mrs. Douglas's grandchild. Leila is his
mother. You see she was only married a few months when she lost her
husband, and this little chap was born after his father died, and Leila
had to come back home because she was left so badly off."
"Then the girls will be quite grown-up, I suppose?"
"Yes; Phyllis is the youngest, and she's nineteen. Marjorie is my age,
our birthdays are on the same day; we shall come of age next month.
They're really awfully nice girls! I don't know which I like best,
Marjorie or Phyllis; sometimes I think I like one, sometimes the other."
"It's a case of 'How happy could I be with either,'" said Captain
Fortescue, laughing. "Fernbank, I think, they live?"
"Yes, it's up on the hill close to the bridge. They have a nice little
garden. Leila lies out on her couch in it in summer. She's an invalid
now, and has been for months, and they're afraid she'll never be very
strong."
"What's the matter with her?"
"Something wrong with her spine, I believe; she looks very ill
sometimes. We shall soon be at Keswick now. What do you think of our
Cumberland hills?"
"Beautiful!" said the Captain, as he looked out of the window. "Have
you had much snow this winter?"
"Yes, a good deal. It's done nothing but rain or snow ever since I came
down. Horrid nuisance, too!"
"I'm glad it's fine to-day," said the Captain.
"Yes, if it will only keep so. How are you going to get to Rosthwaite?"
"Are there coaches running there from Keswick?"
"Not in winter; there are plenty in summer."
"Then I must take a cab. How much do they charge?"
It was a new question for Captain Fortescue to have to ask.
"A good bit, I believe; it's a long way, you see. I can give you a lift
as far as Grange if you like; the pony trap will be there to meet me."
"It's very kind of you; I shall be most grateful. How far is Grange
from Rosthwaite?"
"Oh, a very little way, a short two miles, right through Borrowdale,
you know."
When they arrived at Keswick station, the Captain's new friend led
the way to the road outside, where they found a pony carriage and a
smart-looking groom waiting, and they were soon driving quickly through
the streets of the pretty little town.
Then the lake came in sight, beautiful even on that wintry afternoon. A
fringe of snow covered the top of Cat Bells and the higher hills on the
opposite side of the water, and Derwentwater was lighted up by the rays
of the red sun, which had not yet dipped behind their white summits.
Captain Fortescue thought he had never beheld a lovelier scene. The
wooded islands with which the lake is studded, the dark fir trees on
Friar's Crag, the rocks and trees on the margin of the lake reflected
in the still water, the high mountains of Borrowdale shutting out the
view before him, and Skiddaw standing in solitary grandeur behind him;
all these combined to form a glorious panorama of beauty, on which he
gazed with great admiration as he drove along.
His companion talked the whole way, pointing out the different mountain
peaks; stopping the carriage that he might hear the roar of Lodore, as
its waters, swollen by winter snows, dashed a hundred feet over the
precipice; and then, when the lake was left behind, showing him in the
distance the beautiful double bridge which crosses the rushing river as
it runs towards the lake.
"Do you see those houses," he said, "just in front of us? We are coming
to Grange now."
"That is where you live?"
"Yes; in that house on the other side of the river. You can just see
the chimneys amongst the trees."
"Then Rosthwaite is two miles further?"
"Not quite two miles; it's a glorious walk!"
"Is there any fear of my losing my way?"
"No; it's quite impossible. Keep straight along the road, and it will
take you there."
"Thank you very much. I am most grateful to you for the help you have
given me," said the Captain. "May I ask the name of my kind friend?"
"Verner—Louis Verner. My father, Colonel Verner, came to live here ten
years ago. And now perhaps you will tell me your name."
"Fortescue. I'm very glad we have met; it has made the last part of my
journey very pleasant. Do I get out here?"
"No; wait till we get to the bridge. Why, I do believe that's Marjorie
coming across now! Lucky for you if it is; she'll show you the way.
Hurry up, Stephens, and we'll catch her before she turns the corner!"
They drove quickly on, and Louis Verner called out to the girl who was
nearing the end of the long bridge—
"Marjorie! I say, Marjorie!"
She saw them coming, and waited at the corner, and Louis jumped out of
the carriage, followed by the Captain, and went to meet her.
She was wearing a navy blue motor-cap, a coat and skirt of the same
colour, and sable furs. She had the brightest, sunniest face, Kenneth
thought, that he had ever seen. Her hair was a lovely shade of brown,
her eyes were grey; she had a clear complexion, rosy cheeks, and a
somewhat Roman nose. All this he remarked afterwards; but at the first
glance, he noticed only this—that hers was a face which it did one
good to see; one of those thoroughly happy, contented faces which are
unfortunately so rare in this world of dissatisfaction and discontent.
It was a face which some would not have allowed to be even pretty, and
yet, although he could remember having seen faces far more beautiful
in feature—Lady Violet's, for instance—he could not recollect having
in his whole life seen a single face so lovely in its expression, so
vivacious, and so full of intelligence.
"Marjorie, look here! I want to introduce this gentleman to you. Mr.
Fortescue—Miss Douglas. He is going to Rosthwaite, and I think he wants
to call on Mrs. Douglas."
"Mr. Fortescue!" said Marjorie, in a surprised voice. "Why, I thought—"
"You thought Mr. Fortescue was not quite so young, Miss Douglas; was
that it?"
"Yes," she said, laughing. "Mother gets letters sometimes from Mr.
Fortescue, and I pictured him a very old man with white hair and
spectacles. Why, I don't know; but I always picture people to myself,
and often make mistakes."
"That was my father, Miss Douglas; he is dead now."
"Dead! Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I should not have said that if I
had known."
"Well, Marjorie, will you guide Mr. Fortescue?" said Louis Verner.
"Yes, Louis; I'm going home now, so we can walk together."
When the carriage had driven on, and the Captain found himself alone
with Miss Douglas, all the weight of the errand upon which he had come
returned upon him. He had tried to forget it for a time; he could not
forget it now. She was so bright and cheerful, so anxious to point out
to him all the beauties of the scenery through which they were passing,
and to make the walk as pleasant to him as she possibly could, that
he felt sick at heart when he remembered that his visit would bring a
heavy cloud over her life, and drive the sunshine from her face. Why
had his father asked him to do this thing?
They were passing through the narrowest part of Borrowdale, where the
steep hills confront each other closely in all their rugged beauty.
At the bottom of the gorge the river was rushing madly over its rocky
bed; overhead towered the mighty Castle Crag, guarding the narrow pass.
Every kind of beauty of rock and wood and river, of mossy bank and
fern-covered glade, seemed crowded together in that lovely spot.
"What do you think of it, Mr. Fortescue?"
"Glorious!" he said. "How delightful to live amongst it all!"
"Isn't it?" she said. "I don't think I could bear to live in a dirty,
smoky town after this. Do you see that great stone above us on the
hill—the Bowder Stone it is called. People always go and look at it;
but I don't know that there's much to see."
Kenneth did not answer her; the burden of his message was becoming more
than he could bear. A sudden thought crossed his mind. Should he tell
her why he had come? Perhaps, if he did so, she would help him to think
of the best way to tell her mother.
"Miss Douglas," he said, "I suppose you have been wondering why I am
going to see your mother?"
"Woman's curiosity, I expect you think! Well, you men are just as
curious sometimes. Yes, I did wonder rather what it was about," she
said, laughing.
"May I tell you," he answered, so gravely and seriously that her laugh
died away, and a look of anxiety came into her face.
"Yes, tell me," she said quietly. "Not bad news, I hope?"
"I'm afraid it is. I'm very much afraid you will think it very bad
news."
She waited for him to go on, which he did, speaking with difficulty,
for he was touched to see that her colour had faded in a moment. It was
a very white face which was turned to him now.
"My father managed a business matter for Mrs. Douglas," he went on.
"Your father, when he was dying, asked him to invest some money for
her."
"Yes, I know. Mother has often told me how kind he was in doing it for
her, and in seeing after it all these years."
"He put the money—your father's insurance money, I believe it was—in
India three and a half per cents."
"Yes; mother said it was there."
"It was there."
"Is it not there now?"
"No, not now. My father found what he thought was an exceedingly good
investment. He put all his own money into it. Miss Douglas, please
remember that—all his own money. And he wanted Mrs. Douglas to share in
the good interest that he was receiving, and so he took her money out
of the three and a half per cents. and put it in with his own."
"And you have come to tell us it is all lost," she said. She did not
say it angrily or bitterly, only very sorrowfully.
"All lost," he repeated. "It was in a mine; the mine is flooded, and
has been an utter failure; the shares are not worth a single halfpenny."
"Poor mother! Poor, poor mother!"
"Has she much besides?"
"Not much; there is a little, a very little; but, you see, there's
Leila now, and little Carl."
"They live with you?"
"Yes; and little Carl will have to be educated; there is nothing for
him whatever, only what mother can do. But how selfish I am!" she went
on. "I have been thinking of ourselves, and never thought of you. Won't
it make a great difference to you?"
"Yes; of course I shall have to leave the army."
"I didn't know you were a soldier."
"I have just got my captaincy."
"What will you do?"
"I have no idea yet. Go into business, I suppose; but it does not
matter about me, if only I could have spared you this awful shock."
"Oh! Please don't think of me," she said, smiling again, though there
were tears in her eyes. "I am young and strong and can easily find
something to do. Oh! Something is sure to turn up. It is only mother I
was thinking of; but I know she will be helped. Please don't trouble
about us; it is quite hard enough for you."
"Now, how shall I tell your mother, Miss Douglas?"
"Would it help you if I told her?"
"It would help me very much, but I'm afraid I can't let you do that;
you see, I promised my father on his death-bed that I would tell Mrs.
Douglas myself."
"Did you? Oh, then you ought to do it, of course."
"When do you think I had better come?"
"Do you mind coming after tea? Leila will have gone to bed then, and
I think it would be better for her not to be there. You see, she's a
great invalid; but she always goes to bed when little Carl does."
"Shall we say half-past seven, then?"
"Yes, that will do very well. No one will be there but ourselves. Louis
comes in most evenings, but he won't come to-night, as he is only just
home from Penrith. But won't you come to tea? I'm so sorry, I ought to
have asked you before."
"No, thank you. I would rather go straight to the hotel. There are two,
I believe; which do you recommend?"
She told him their respective merits, and they settled together to
which he should go. And then she talked of the village, and the church,
and pointed out the different mountains, and did all she could to put
him at his ease again; for she saw how deeply he had felt having to
tell her of the heavy loss of which his father had been the cause.
Then they came to a stone bridge which crossed the stream just at the
entrance of Rosthwaite. It was almost dark when they got there, but
she pointed out the chimneys of her home, standing amongst the trees
on the hillside, and then she said good-bye to him in a cheerful voice
and went over the bridge, whilst he walked on a few yards further, and
found the clean country inn at which he was to spend the night.