156, LIME STREET
MARJORIE was wakened the next morning by hearing some one moving about
in her room. She looked up and saw Patty standing near her bed, with a
little tray in her hand.
"Miss Douglas, I've brought you your breakfast," she said. "Shall I
draw up the blind?"
"Oh dear," said Marjorie, jumping up, "I had no idea it was so late;
why did nobody wake me?"
"Mother wouldn't let us; she told us you had been up half the night."
"Yes, poor old Mrs. Hotchkiss sent for me."
"Miss Douglas, old Enoch has just been here, and he said we were to
tell you she is dead. She went to sleep soon after you left her, and
when Peggy Jones looked at her about an hour afterwards, she found that
she was dead."
"Only just in time," said Marjorie to herself when Patty had gone, as
she felt for the box which she had put under the bolster the night
before. Yes, it was safe.
How she wondered what it contained! He must have it at once, without
even a single day's delay; she would never be happy until it was safely
in his hands. What if the old woman's son-in-law should return, and
demand that what he considered to be his property should be given up to
him? Perhaps, after all, he had never gone to America; perhaps he had
deceived the old woman, in order that she might put the police off the
scent, in case they came in search of him.
Marjorie was tired and depressed after her wakeful night, and fears of
all kinds crowded into her mind. In her nervous haste she longed to
run to the station at once, that she might catch the first train to
Birmingham, and, carrying the precious box with her, find the address
Kenneth had given her on his card, and at once rid herself of the heavy
responsibility which she felt rested upon her, so long as that letter
was in her charge.
But Marjorie could not go off thus hurriedly, without giving a
sufficient reason to Mrs. Holtby, and she knew that the busy morning's
work was already waiting for her.
She dressed quickly, therefore, and hurried downstairs. Never did she
work so hard as on that morning; never did she try so earnestly to
get ahead of time, or to cram the work of two hours into one. When
dinner-time came, she had not only done the work of the morning, but
she had finished the darning and the mending which she usually did on
Friday afternoon, and had put by all the clean clothes from the weekly
wash.
Mrs. Holtby came down just before dinner, and then Marjorie, with a
beating heart, went to make her request. Would it be possible for her
to be spared for half a day? There was a friend in Birmingham whom she
particularly wished to see.
"But won't you be too tired to go to-day, Miss Douglas? You look very
white, after your bad night."
"Oh no, I am not at all tired. I should like to go very much, if you
can spare me. I have got on well this morning, and have done all the
mending."
"You never neglect anything, dear."
It was the first time she had called her "dear," and the word had a
home-like sound that went warm to Marjorie's heart.
Then Mrs. Holtby brought out the time-table, and looked out her train.
There was one that left Deepfields at 2.30, and she told her to get her
dinner at once, and not to wait till the others came in, so that she
might be off in time to catch it.
"Don't hurry back, Miss Douglas," she said, when Marjorie looked in to
say good-bye. "Stay as long as ever you like."
So, with the box wrapped in paper and tightly held in her hand, and
with the card in which Captain Fortescue had given her slipped inside
her glove, Marjorie set off for Deepfields.
It was a pouring wet day, and the mud was, if possible, worse than
usual, but she hardly noticed it. She would have gone through a perfect
flood without minding it, in her intense eagerness to get to her
journey's end. How glad he would be to get that letter! How thankful he
would feel that it was found at last!
But would he be glad and thankful? As she sat in the train a horrible
fear crossed her mind. What if she were bringing him bad tidings? What
if she were indeed what he had called himself—a bird of ill omen? She
hoped not, she prayed not; but how could she tell?
Arrived at Birmingham, she found herself in all the bewilderment of
New Street station at one of its most crowded moments. She took out
the card, and looked at it once more—"156, Lime Street," that was the
address. How should she find it? She asked a porter, who was wheeling a
barrow of luggage, but he said he had never heard of it.
Then she went up the steps to the bridge, and felt in a perfect whirl
as the busy crowds rushed past her. Hundreds of strange faces—all of
them intent on their own business, and none of them having a moment
to spare for hers: all these she saw as if she were in a dream. Which
way should she turn at the top of the bridge? There seemed to be two
exits to the station. Which should she take? She went to the one to
which most people seemed to be going. It took her out into Corporation
Street. All looked strange to her. She had no eyes for the beautiful
shops; the Arcade failed to tempt her as she passed it. All she wanted
was to get to her journey's end.
At last she met a policeman, and found from him that she was walking in
the wrong direction. He sent her back almost to the station, and told
her to take a turning to the left, and to walk on until she saw a large
church, and then she must ask for further direction.
The rain was now coming down in torrents, and a strong wind was blowing
in her face, but she struggled on bravely against it. She found the
church at last, and went into a small shop to ask her way. Again she
set forth, and walked on for another mile, and, after getting wrong
once or twice, and stopping to inquire many times of the passers-by,
she at last reached the street that she was seeking.
Lime Street was long and dismal-looking, with two rows of houses facing
each other, all exactly alike, and all standing close to the pavement,
with not even a pretence to a front garden. The street looked, if
possible, more gloomy than usual that afternoon; in the merciless rain
everything was wet, dirty, and uninviting.
Now for No. 156. It was at the other end of that long street, and she
hurried on to find it. But as she got near, the thought of seeing him
again, the doubt as to the news which she was bringing him, the strange
feeling of responsibility which rested upon her in thus doing the
bidding of one who had so lately passed away from earth—all these made
her tremble and pause as she stood on the doorstep.
When she had steadied herself for a few moments she rang the bell, and
a stout elderly woman came to the door.
"Is Captain Fortescue at home?" she asked. "Mr. Fortescue lodges here;
he isn't a captain, Miss—but he's out just now."
"When will he be home?"
"Oh, not for long enough yet; he mostly comes in about six or
half-past."
Marjorie looked at her watch; it was a quarter to four. Her heart died
within her. Two hours and a quarter, or perhaps longer still. Where
should she go, and what should she do till six o'clock? Where in those
wet and dirty streets could she find a shelter?
The landlady was closing the door, but as she did so, she noticed the
look of dismay on Marjorie's face.
"Have you come far, Miss?" she asked.
"Yes, a long way," said Marjorie, "from near Bilston, and I know nobody
in Birmingham."
"Is it very particular?"
"Very; I must see Mr. Fortescue to-night."
"Come your ways in, then," said the woman, kindly; "there's a bit of
fire in his sitting-room, if you would like to wait there."
Marjorie thanked her gratefully, and she led the way into a small room
at the back of the house, and, after putting some coal on the fire, she
told her to sit by it and warm herself after her cold, wet walk. Then,
as she was going out, she noticed how drenched Marjorie's coat was, and
made her take it off that she might dry it at her kitchen fire.
When the landlady was gone, Marjorie looked round the room. It was
very plainly and even shabbily furnished. A worn horse-hair sofa stood
against the wall, the deal table was covered with American cloth, the
carpet was patched in several places.
Marjorie walked to the window and looked out. No wonder the room was
dark! High buildings backed upon the house and shut out nearly all the
light. Only a strip of cloudy sky could be seen above, whilst below was
a small courtyard filled with clothes, which had evidently been put out
to dry before the rain commenced, but which were now more soaked than
they had been before, and hung dismally from the line stretched across
from wall to wall of the small backyard.
How dull it all was! How poor, how depressing! She remembered his words
to her mother, "I will not allow myself in a single indulgence of any
kind, till the full amount is in your hands."
How faithfully he was keeping that promise! How bare of all luxury was
the room to which he came home after his long tiring day!
But what was that over the chimney-piece,—a photo in a frame? It
carried her miles away in thought as she looked at it, and a great
feeling of home-sickness came over her.
It was a picture of Honister Crag.