HONISTER CRAG
WHEN Captain Fortescue set out at half-past seven for Fernbank a
fearful gale was blowing. The trees rocked and strained overhead, and
so violent was the wind, as it came sweeping through the narrow gorge
down which he had come that afternoon, that he could hardly fight his
way against it, as he attempted to retrace his steps as far as the
bridge.
It was a terribly cold night, the ground was as hard as iron, and the
bridge was so slippery that he stumbled as he crossed it.
He followed the path beyond, which wound steeply up the hillside, and
climbed towards the house, guided as he did so by the lights in the
windows. He wondered whether she had told them that he was coming.
Perhaps she had, and they were expecting him fearfully, trying to
conjecture what news he had come to bring them. But no; on second
thoughts, he felt sure that she would not tell them, lest they should
ask her whether she knew what his errand was.
He found the garden gate with difficulty, for it was a very dark night,
and began to ascend the steep path leading towards the front of the
house. This path took him past a bow window, the blind of which was
only partly drawn down.
He only glanced at this window for a single moment, turning his eyes
away immediately, but in that one glance he had taken in the whole
scene, and it remained imprinted on his memory.
A lady with a sweet, gentle face was sitting at the table, darning
stockings by the light of the lamp. On the opposite side of the table,
with her back to the window and busily engaged in the same occupation,
was his companion of the afternoon, Marjorie Douglas; whilst leaning
back in an armchair by the fire, with her feet on the fender and a book
in her hand, was a pretty fair-haired girl whom he concluded was the
younger sister.
Only one glance—and yet the picture of cosy home comfort impressed
itself upon him. He even noticed the bricks and tin soldiers on the
floor, left behind by the child who had gone to bed.
And now he had come to bring a blight upon their quiet happiness! Had
it been possible, even at the last moment, he would have turned back.
But it was not possible, for a promise made to the dead was surely too
sacred to be disregarded. Whatever it cost him, that promise must be
fulfilled.
He rang the bell, and the door was opened by an elderly servant to whom
he handed his card, which she at once carried to her mistress.
"Come in, please, sir," she said, as she opened the door of the room
into which he had looked.
All three ladies rose as he entered, and Mrs. Douglas said—
"Are you the son of my husband's old friend in Sheffield?"
He told her that he was, and then informed her of his father's death.
When she had expressed her regret for this, he told her, as gently
as he could, the sad news that he had to bring her, and gave her the
message from the dying bed, telling her at the same time that all his
poor father's money had been embarked in the same concern, and assuring
her of the old man's deep sorrow at what had occurred. He also told
her how he had made him promise to acquaint her of the loss by word of
mouth, instead of sending the bad news in a letter.
She listened very quietly, and almost as if she were mentally stunned
by the blow that had fallen upon her. For some minutes she did not
speak, and then she asked—
"Are you sure there is no hope of recovering anything?"
"None, I'm afraid," said Captain Fortescue. "I wish I could give you
any hope, but I fear I cannot. It is hard for you to hear, very, very
hard, and oh! How hard for me to tell!"
"I'm sure it is," said Marjorie. "I think it is worse for you than for
us."
"Mrs. Douglas, I am a poor man now. I cannot continue in my regiment,
and so far no path in life has been opened to me; but I assure you of
this—that I shall look upon the four thousand pounds you have lost as
a debt binding upon me as long as I live, and that, if God prospers me
in the future, every single penny of it shall be repaid. I will not
wait, however, until I am able to restore the whole capital, for that I
fear will be the work of a lifetime; but I will send you from time to
time such money as I am able to save, and I will not allow myself in a
single indulgence of any kind whatever until the full amount is in your
hands."
"It is very good of you—very noble," she said; "but you must not make
such a resolve. You are not to blame for our loss; you yourself have
lost still more heavily. I cannot let you sacrifice yourself in that
way."
"God helping me, Mrs. Douglas," he answered, as he rose to take leave,
"my promise will be kept."
Mrs. Douglas pressed him to stay for supper, but he did not accept her
invitation; he felt that they would want to be alone, that they might
talk over what had happened. So he said good-bye, and Marjorie went to
open the door for him. The wind rushed in with hurricane force as soon
as it was opened.
"What an awful night, and how dark!" she said, closing the door again.
"I will light the lantern, and go with you to the gate, or you will
never find it in this darkness."
He begged her not to come, but she would not listen, and, catching up a
shawl from the hall table, wrapped it round her, and went in front of
him down the garden path with the lantern in her hand. At the gate she
stopped.
"How can I thank you, Miss Douglas?"
"Don't try!" she said, laughing. "Can you find your way now, do you
think?"
"Oh yes, quite well. Good-bye. I am off early to-morrow morning."
"Then we shall not see you again?"
"No," he said sadly, "perhaps never again. Birds of ill omen are never
welcome—are they?"
"Oh! Don't call yourself that," she said. "Good-bye, Captain Fortescue."
He had left her, and was going towards the bridge, when he thought he
heard her calling. He looked back, and saw that she was still standing
at the gate with the lantern in her hand.
"Did you call, Miss Douglas?" he asked.
"Yes; I ought not to have brought you back, but I did want to thank
you."
"I don't know why you should thank me."
"For being so good to mother," she said; and then she turned round and
went up the hill, and he watched the light of her lantern until he saw
it pass inside the door of the house.
What a wild night that was! Kenneth Fortescue slept very little, for
the wind was howling in the chimneys of the old inn, rattling the badly
fitting windows, sweeping down the narrow valley, and tearing with
terrific force across the open country beyond. He lay listening to the
wind, and thinking many troubled thoughts during the long hours of that
wakeful night.
He had ordered a carriage to take him to Keswick in time for the early
train, so he jumped out of bed as soon as he was called, and went to
the window of his room to look out at the weather. The whole country
was covered with deep snow. Mountains, rocks, woods, houses, fields,
gardens, were alike arrayed in white robes, pure and spotless, and
sparkling in the morning sunshine as if covered with countless diamonds.
When, a little later, he went down to the coffee-room, the landlord
came to speak to him.
"I'm afraid, sir, you won't be able to go to-day. There's been a
terrible snowstorm, and Borrowdale is blocked. It will be impossible to
drive through it."
"Surely it is not so deep as that!"
"Not here, sir, nor for about a mile down the valley; but when you come
to the turning in the road at the narrowest part of the valley the snow
has drifted there to a fearful depth, and for about half a mile the
snow is so deep it would be impossible to get through it. We are shut
off from Keswick entirely."
"Won't they clear the road?"
"Well, sir, they'll try to make a way through, but it will be a long
job. I'm afraid we shan't get through to-day."
"Then there is no help for it," said the Captain. "I must stay."
"Yes, sir; I'm very sorry you should be so inconvenienced, but I'll do
my best to make you comfortable; and it's a beautiful country. If you
haven't been here before, you might like to see a little of it, and
it's good walking round here and on towards Honister, if you care to
take a look round."
Yet Kenneth Fortescue was in no hurry to go out, or to leave the great
fire in the large grate. He sat beside it with a paper in his hand,
reading at times, and at other times gazing at the blue smoke curling
up the chimney. And then, after a while, he stood at the window, gazing
absently out into the village street. He had much on his mind that
morning, and he felt that even the loveliest scenery failed to beguile
him from pursuing the troubled train of thought which he felt impelled
to follow. But presently he was recalled from the future to the present
by seeing Marjorie Douglas pass the window with a covered basket in
her hand. Her face looked to him as bright and cheerful as it had done
before he had told her the sad news he had come to disclose; the clouds
seemed to have dispersed, and the sunshine to have come back to it.
Kenneth wondered where she was going. He caught up his cap and ran
after her, to ask how her mother was, and how she had borne the sad
tidings he had brought her.
Marjorie heard him coming behind her, and turned round in the greatest
surprise.
"Captain Fortescue, I thought you had gone!"
"No, Miss Douglas; I'm the bad penny, as well as the bird of ill omen,"
he said. "The fact is, there is a snowdrift in the valley, so I have to
stay here till to-morrow."
"How tiresome for you!"
"Yes, it is rather; but I shall see a little more of the country—it
looks beautiful this morning. Where are you going, Miss Douglas? Let me
carry your basket for you."
"Not until you get your coat," she said. "It's far too cold to stand
talking without it."
He ran back for it, and soon rejoined her.
"I am going to Seatoller," she said.
"Who is Toller?"
She laughed very much at this question, and told him that Seatoller was
the name of the little hamlet where old Mary lived.
"Do you mind my coming with you, Miss Douglas? It's awfully slow going
for a walk alone."
"Not at all. Only take care how you carry that basket, because old
Mary's pudding and beef-tea are in it."
"Who is old Mary?"
"She's a dear old woman who lives in one of the cottages at Seatoller.
Look across the valley, you can see the white houses of the little
place. There are only about six, I think. They are just at the bottom
of Honister Pass."
"Do you often go to see her?"
"Whenever I can. We have quite a number of old women here. I think it
must be because it is so healthy. They all live to be very old, and
they are all friends of mine, so they have to take their turn; but this
is old Mary's day."
"How they must look forward to their turn!" he said.
"Yes, I think they do; but I'm afraid none of them will get a turn
soon. I'm going away, Captain Fortescue."
"Going away?"
"Yes, from home. We settled that last night. You see, we had a little
family council after you had gone, to talk things over. Mother wanted
to send Dorcas away—that's our old servant—but I don't think that would
do. She is very faithful to mother, and though I think I could do most
of her work, still on the whole I think it would make more for mother
to do. Dorcas does the washing so well, and she's so useful in every
way, and we don't like to send her away, if we can possibly help it,
poor old soul!"
"Then what do you mean to do?"
"Well, I don't quite know yet. Go as companion or mother's help, I
suppose. I don't think I could get any teaching, because I've never
passed any exams. Every one seems to require that now. Louis always
brings us the 'Standard' when his father has read it, and we shall look
in the advertisements."
"It will be awfully hard for you to go away."
"Oh, I don't know! Yes, I suppose it will rather. But I don't mind, if
only they get on all right at home; but I think they ought to, if only
Phyllis will take care of mother. I think she will. I believe she will;
only, you see, she is the youngest, and I'm afraid we've spoilt her a
little. But she's such a dear old girl, and I do think she will try."
"I'm terribly sorry that you should have to go."
"Oh, you mustn't be sorry for me," she said, laughing. "I'm not going
to be sorry for myself. I dare say I shall be very happy soon, and if
not—well, it really does not matter. It will be all the nicer when I
get home for the holidays. Now here we are at old Mary's cottage. I
must just run in with her things."
Marjorie took the basket from him and went into the house, and as
Captain Fortescue watched her, he wondered what the old woman would do
when she missed the bright face and cheerful voice of her friend.
When she came out, she took him up the steep pass, that he might
see Honister Crag in the distance, standing out in all its majestic
grandeur at the head of the pass. On their left-hand side was the
mountain torrent, dashing madly over the rocks, coming down so fast
that no frost could stay its course; on their right was moorland, the
dead heather thickly covered with snow.
About a mile up the pass the snow became deeper, and they had to turn
back, and, passing Seatoller again, they retraced their steps to
Rosthwaite. Marjorie never alluded again to her going away, or to the
loss of the money; she seemed anxious that he should forget everything
painful, that he might be able to carry back with him a happy memory of
her beautiful home.
When Kenneth left her at the garden gate, he went back to the inn
feeling more hopeful about the future. If she was determined to face
it so bravely and happily, surely he could do the same. Perhaps, after
all, there were brighter days in store in that future which he had
so much dreaded, and which had seemed such a long vista of darkness
opening out before him.
After luncheon, he was sitting over the fire in the coffee-room,
looking at a paper two days old, and wondering how he should get
through the long solitary evening, when the waiter came in and handed
him a letter. It was from Mrs. Douglas, inviting him to spend the
evening at Fernbank, and assuring him that he would be conferring
a favour upon them by doing so, as in winter they were so shut out
front the world beyond the valley that they seldom had the pleasure
of meeting any one outside their own little circle of friends in
Borrowdale. The invitation was so gracefully worded, as if the
obligation were entirely on his side, that the Captain felt he could
only send an affirmative answer, nor, if the truth were told, did he
desire to send any other.
So at five o'clock, he once more crossed the bridge and climbed the
hill to Fernbank.
He was shown into a small drawing-room, plainly furnished, but bearing
unmistakable marks of taste and care. A china bowl of fern-like moss
stood on the table, in which were snowdrops arranged singly, as if they
were growing in it. A flower-stand filled with hyacinths of various
colours stood in the window; in one corner of the room ivy was growing
in a large flower-pot, and was climbing over the chimney-piece, and
hanging in graceful festoons from the over-mantle; whilst a vase filled
with Pyrus japonica and yellow jessamine stood on the shelf below, and
was reflected in the glass.
They all gave him a welcome, and made him feel that they were glad to
see him. There was no allusion made during the evening to what he had
told them the day before. The bird of ill omen was treated as if he
had been the harbinger of good news. Kenneth had been to many costly
entertainments of various kinds, but he thought that the cosiness
of that Cumberland tea eclipsed them all. The snow-white cloth, the
bright, well-trimmed lamp, the early violets and snowdrops tastefully
arranged on a pretty table-centre, the freshly baked scones, the
girdle-cakes—a speciality of the Lake district—the crisp oat cake,
the honey from the hive in the garden, the new-laid eggs from their
own poultry yard—all these combined to make the meal an inviting one,
and long afterwards, and when in far different surroundings, Kenneth
Fortescue was wont to recall it with pleasure, and to wonder if he
would ever again see a like picture of home comfort.
"You look sleepy, Phyllis," said Marjorie, as they sat down to tea.
"You ought to have come with me to Seatoller; it was lovely out to-day."
"What's the good of going out when there's nowhere to go? Besides, I
was reading. I wanted to finish that book Louis brought. I never can
stop when I'm in the middle of a story."
Mrs. Douglas laughed. "Phyllis is afflicted with deafness at times,
Captain Fortescue," she said; "if she is reading, she is stone-deaf the
whole time."
Leila had joined them at the table, and little Carl, a pretty boy of
three, with fair hair and blue eyes, was seated on a high chair by her
side. She looked ill and depressed and spoke very little, but the child
was full of life, and amused them all with his baby talk.
After tea they had games and music. Phyllis was very clever at the
latter and sang well. She was not at all like her sister, very much
prettier most people said, but it was beauty of feature rather than of
expression. Kenneth thought she had rather a discontented face, and
she moved wearily, when she was asked to do anything by her mother, as
though every exertion, however small, cost her an effort.
It was Marjorie who was the life of the party, who saw at a glance what
every one wanted, who was ready to run here and there for them all; it
was Marjorie who carried Carl up to bed; who picked up her mother's
ball of wool when it fell, and who kept her eyes open all the time to
see what she could do for others, and how she could help them all. How
they would miss her! What a blank there would be, if she left them!
What a sad change would come over that bright little home when its
chief sunbeam was removed from it!
The pleasant evening came to an end at last, and Kenneth rose to take
leave. Then, for the first time, he mentioned the object of his visit
to Rosthwaite. As he shook hands with Mrs. Douglas, and thanked her for
her great kindness to him, he said in a low voice—
"I shall not forget my promise."
She pressed his hand affectionately as she whispered—
"God bless you!" And he knew the words came from her heart.
Then Marjorie ran for the lantern, for there was not a star in the sky,
and she insisted on lighting him to the gate.
"Now it really is good-bye," he said; "the road has been cleared, and I
am off early to-morrow—Miss Douglas—"
"Yes, Captain Fortescue."
"I have kept my promise to my poor old father as well as I could."
"You have indeed," she said.
"Now I want you to make me a promise."
"What is it?" she asked.
"I want you to let me know as soon as your plans are settled where you
are going and what you are going to do. Will you?"
"Yes; I will."
"You won't forget your promise, I know. Good-bye."
History seemed to repeat itself, for, as on the night before, he heard
her calling him when he had gone a few steps along the road.
"How can I let you know, when I don't know your address?" she said.
"Of course, I quite forgot I was leaving Sheffield."
He took out a card, and by the light of her lantern, he wrote on it the
name and address of his father's lawyer.
"That will always find me," he said. "Once more good-bye."
Again he stood at the gate as she climbed the hill, and when once more,
he watched her go into the lighted hall and close the door behind her,
he thought that the night looked darker and more dreary than before.