WAITING FOR THE ANSWER
"WELL, I do not think we need detain Mr. Fortescue any longer. I want
to speak to you for a few moments on another subject, Mr. Montague
Jones."
It was the Earl who spoke, and his words roused Kenneth from a feeling
almost of faintness which had crept over him, as he looked at the hand
laid on the head of the collie. He bowed to the Earl, and at once took
his departure. That was not the time to approach the subject on which
his thoughts were centred. If he spoke to the Earl, he must speak
to him alone, and not in the presence of Mr. Montague Jones; and,
moreover, in his present tumult of feeling, he did not feel capable of
speaking at all. He required time for thought and reflection.
He walked down the avenue, seeing and hearing nothing. The beautiful
scenery was completely lost upon him. He passed through the great
gates, hardly noticing the lodge-keeper, who opened them for him.
He went on, not knowing or caring where he was going, having not the
least idea what course of action he should take. He wanted to be alone
to think.
He found himself at last on a hill covered with Scotch fir trees. He
climbed to the top of it, and sat down on a fallen tree. There lay the
beautiful old Castle beneath him—his home—the home of which he had
been cruelly deprived by the man he had just seen—a man who had no
right to the name of father. A great feeling of anger rose up in his
heart against this man, who was living in luxury and splendour, whilst
his own son was struggling on, obliged to be content with the bare
necessaries of life.
How could he ever pardon such heartless conduct? How could he ever
forgive his father for his base desertion of him, when he was a
helpless infant? His whole nature rose in revolt against such behaviour.
"'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against
us.'"
Yes, he must forgive even this, if he would be the follower of Him who
prayed for those who hung Him on the cross. He pleaded for help from
above to enable him to do this, and as he prayed, he grew calmer.
Still he sat on, trying to plan what his next step should be. Should he
go to Sheffield and see Mr. Northcourt? Or should he call at the Castle
and ask for an interview with the Earl? Yet what if this interview was
refused? What if the Earl had noticed the likeness, and, not wishing to
own him, would henceforth be on his guard against seeing him again?
At length he determined not to go to the Castle, but to write. He would
telegraph to the office that he was unavoidably detained at Eagleton;
he would stay at the little village inn that night; he would despatch
as soon as possible a letter to the Castle, and would await the Earl's
reply. What would be the use of putting the matter in the hands of a
lawyer, if his father were willing to own him? Why should their family
affairs be brought under the notice of an outsider?
Kenneth returned to the village, sent off his telegram, and went to the
Eagleton Arms. Then, after much thought and prayer, he wrote his letter.
He began by recalling to the Earl's memory events which had taken place
twenty-five years ago. He reminded him of his early marriage to the
girl he loved, of her death in the mining district in South Africa, and
of the little boy she had left behind her. He asked him to think of the
tiny deserted child, left in the custody of a common miner, with no
evidence of his father's care save the money for his education. He then
drew a sketch of the life of that child, at Eton and then at Sandhurst;
brought up as far as his education was concerned in his proper
position, but having as his only reputed relative the poor old miner,
who had done all that in his ignorance was possible for him to do, to
be a father to him. Then he described the death of that foster-father,
and told of the letter that he had left in the safe.
Kenneth was careful to remind the Earl that the old man had faithfully
kept the secret during his lifetime, according to his promise; but he
told him that he had felt that, in making such a promise, he had done a
great injury to the child left in his care; and that, therefore, he had
written an account of what had happened in South Africa, and had left
it with his will, to be opened and read after his death. Then Kenneth
went on to tell the Earl that he was that deserted child, and to inform
him that he had stood that day for the first time in his rightful home,
and had beheld that day for the first time his own true father. He
appealed to the Earl by all the love that he had had for his mother, by
all the humanity of his heart, by all his sense of justice and right,
to investigate the truth of his claim. He implored him to notice the
remarkable resemblance between himself and the picture of the Earl
painted when he was a young man, and he entreated him to allow him to
come to the Castle again, that they might talk together, and that the
Earl might more closely observe that resemblance. He ended his letter
by saying that he was anxiously awaiting his reply at the Eagleton
Arms, where he should remain until that reply reached him.
It was late in the evening when the letter was finished, but he at once
found a messenger and despatched him to the Castle. No sooner did he
know that it was in the Earl's hands, than he began restlessly to await
the answer. He felt as if he could not sit still a moment. He went
outside and paced on the road; he reasoned with himself that no reply
could possibly come that night; yet he still looked out for it.
But at length the Eagleton Arms was closing for the night, and he was
obliged to give up his watch. He went to bed, but not to sleep. All
night he was tossing about, wondering what the morrow would bring.
Then, with daybreak, he was up and out; he stood at the great gates,
and looked at the morning light streaming down the avenue. What was
that in the distance? Was it some one bringing the expected letter?
No, it was only a gamekeeper early at work, shooting the rabbits which
were nibbling the short grass at the edge of the road. He went back to
the inn and tried to eat some breakfast; but he felt as if he could not
swallow it.
Then he watched again, and at last, at ten o'clock, a messenger came
riding along the road from the Castle. He pulled up his horse at the
Eagleton Arms.
Yes, he had brought a letter; the coronet was on the envelope.
The landlord was standing at the door. He took the letter and handed it
to Kenneth.
"From the Earl," he said, "for you, sir."
Kenneth took the letter to his own room and opened it with trembling
fingers. Then he read as follows:
"EAGLETON CASTLE,
"October 15.
"DEAR SIR,
"The Earl of Derwentwater requests me to state that he has no
knowledge whatever of the subject matter of your letter. There will
therefore be no necessity for you to call at the Castle. He regrets
that you have been so grossly misinformed.
"Yours truly,
"HAROLD MILROY,
"Secretary."
Kenneth Fortescue felt as if he had received a heavy blow. What should
be his next step? There seemed no object in remaining at Eagleton any
longer. If the Earl flatly denied his claim, all that he could do would
be to put the matter at once into Mr. Northcourt's hands.
Accordingly when he reached the railway station, he took a ticket for
Sheffield, and arriving there some hours later, he was just in time to
catch the old lawyer before he left the office for the night.
They were closeted together for a long time in Mr. Northcourt's
private room, and Kenneth gave an account of his visit to the Castle.
He told the lawyer of the picture he had seen in the corridor, of his
interview with the Earl, and of the convincing proof which he had
obtained during that interview, that the Earl was the man mentioned in
old Mr. Fortescue's letter, inasmuch as he had noticed that the joint
on his right hand was missing, just as Mr. Fortescue had seen and had
described.
Then he told Mr. Northcourt how he had written to the Earl, and he
showed him the downright denial which the Earl had given in the answer
which he had received that morning.
Mr. Northcourt meditated for some time on the case of his client;
but the longer he thought of it, the more his legal mind saw great
difficulties in the way of substantiating his claim.
There were several questions which would immediately be raised by
the other side; questions which, if unanswered, or if answered in an
unsatisfactory manner, would most certainly render Mr. Fortescue's
claim invalid. Who was his mother—Lord Derwentwater's first wife? They
did not even know her name. Where were they married? They had no idea.
Were they married at all? They had no proof whatever of the marriage,
except the declaration of an old man who was now dead, and who had only
stated it on hearsay.
If the marriage had taken place in the neighbourhood of Kimberley,
search might have been made for the marriage register; but apparently,
according to the letter found in the safe (to which Mr. Northcourt
again referred, spreading it out on the table before him), the
marriage, if marriage there had been, had taken place before reaching
Africa in some place or other where his maternal grandfather had been
chaplain; but what that place was, there was nothing in the letter
to show, nor probably had old Mr. Fortescue ever known. Altogether
it would be a most difficult case to bring forward, and undoubtedly
further evidence would have to be obtained before the claim could be
satisfactorily substantiated.
So Kenneth Fortescue returned to Birmingham, feeling as if he had been
on the very threshold of Elysium, and then had been relentlessly drawn
back into a land of toil, anxiety, and privation. It was hard to settle
down again to the weary routine of his daily duties; the little back
parlour had never seemed so dismal before. He was as far as ever from
gaining his proper position in the world, and, whilst matters continued
as they were, he saw no prospect of having a home of his own, and
therefore no hope of being able to win Marjorie Douglas's love. And
Captain Berington had every opportunity of seeing her, and he thought
her a most charming girl.
Kenneth Fortescue was in very low spirits during those dark November
days that followed. Heavy smoke-laden fogs rested on the city; the
gloomy skies were not calculated to cheer him, and he had made no
friends in Birmingham to whom he could turn to relieve the monotony of
his life.
One Sunday evening he was walking through the muddy streets, which,
with their closed shop windows, looked even more dismal than usual,
when he heard the sound of a church bell. It was not the great church
near his lodgings, and which he usually attended on Sunday. He had
walked into a part of the city where he had not been before. It was
a small church begrimed outside with smoke, and possessing no beauty
within, a plain, unadorned building in a poor part of the city. He
thought he would obey the call of the bell and go to the service.
Perhaps there would be some word for him there that evening.
The clergyman was a tall thin man with stooping shoulders, not
attractive in appearance, and his voice was certainly not melodious.
But he had got his message straight from his Master, and Kenneth
Fortescue had been sent to receive that message.
The words of the text fell upon his heart like the soothing touch of a
cool, loving hand upon the fevered brow.
"'O tarry thou the Lord's leisure: be strong, and He shall comfort
thine heart; and put thou thy trust in the Lord.'" (Psalm xxvii. 14,
Prayer-book version.)
Then came the simple sermon, devoid of all oratory, free from any
attempt at grandiloquent language, as he urged his hearers to take the
text as their watchword during the coming week. Each had his secret
care; let him turn that care into earnest prayer. Then, having done
that, let him wait patiently. God was sure to answer; but the answer
must come in God's own time. Prayer cannot be lost; but we must not try
to hasten God's hand; we must tarry the Lord's leisure. Then, doing
that, we shall be strong and comforted.
The preacher ended with a verse, of which each member of the
congregation was given a copy on leaving the church. That verse was
always kept by Kenneth Fortescue as one of his greatest treasures:—
"Oh, tarry and be strong;
Tell God in prayer
What is thy hidden grief,
Thy secret care.
Yet, if no answer come,
Pray on and wait:
God's time is always best;
Never too late."