The Lost Clue - Abridged Edition

by Mrs. O. F. Walton

  "She has a daughter called Carrie, but she's married and away -- a pretty girl too. Carrie went to school here in Daisy Bank and she was a good hand at learning, so I believe. They made her a pupil teacher, and her mother wasn't half proud of her. But she went to be a teacher up in the North country somewhere, and she got married there, and now I'm told that she and her husband have gone abroad. And except for Carrie, I don't believe poor old Mother Hotchkiss has anybody else belonging to her."

  The next day Marjorie fulfilled her promise to Enoch and knocked at the door of the house in the lane. The old woman came to open it, with a red shawl over her head.

  "Mrs. Hotchkiss," said Marjorie, "I've brought you a few flowers which came this morning from my home in the country."

  "Are they for me?" asked the old woman, stretching out her hand eagerly for the moss rosebuds and mignonette. "Come in, miss. I've seen you pass. You're Holtby's girl, aren't you?"

  "Yes," said Marjorie, smiling to herself at her new title, "and Enoch told me you were not well."

  "I'm very ill, miss. Awful bad. Getting worse every day, that's what I am."

  Marjorie followed the woman through a spacious room with wooden beams across the ceiling, and entered an inner room, more spacious still. "What a large house you have, Mrs. Hotchkiss."

  "Too large," groaned the old woman. "It used to be a farm."

  "A farm here?" exclaimed Marjorie.

  "Yes, long ago, in the old time when they hadn't found the coal. It was all country here then."

  "It looks like a very old house," said Marjorie, as she noticed the overhanging chimneypiece with its long, narrow shelf on which stood a china teapot and various other treasures. On either side of it was a deep recess or chimney corner in which were curious, ancient cupboards, only about two feet in height, with doors of dark oak.

  Opening out of this large kitchen was a stone flight of steps leading down to an underground dairy, with three wide shelves one above another. These, in the olden time, would surely have been kept spotlessly clean and covered with large flat bowls of milk and cream; but now they were thickly coated with dirt, and piled with all manner of rubbish.

  The old woman could not talk for some time, for the effort of going to the door had brought on a severe fit of coughing, so while she recovered her breath Marjorie had plenty of time to look round the room. It was appallingly untidy and dirty, but that did not surprise her, for old Mother Hotchkiss was too ill to do more than creep out of bed and come downstairs to the fire, where she sat in an old armchair with her feet on the fender.

  "Have you been ill long?" Marjorie asked, when the old woman was able to speak.

  "Ever since my daughter Carrie went away. Not so bad as this, though."

  "May I come and see you sometimes?"

  "Yes, my dear, do."

  "Would you like me to read to you a little when I come?"

  "Ay, do, for I can't read. There was none of this schooling in my day, and it's lonesome sitting here and doing nothing."

  "Then I'll come tomorrow. I always get out about this time, and I'll come as often as I can."

  When Marjorie left old Mother Hotchkiss she looked at her watch and saw that it was time that she was going home, as it was getting near teatime. But as soon as she opened the door of Colwyn House, Bessie who was cleaning the kitchen left her work and came to meet her.

  "There's a gentleman been here while you were gone, miss. He didn't look half sorry when I said you was out. He said he would look if he could see you about anywheres."

  "Who was he?"

  "He didn't leave any name. He was an awful nice gentleman, too."

  "Bessie, could you see that Mrs. Holtby gets her tea, if I go to look for him?"

  "Yes, miss, I'll see to her."

  Marjorie said to herself that Louis would be so disappointed if he missed her, after coming so far out of his way to see her again.

  "Which way did he go, Bessie?"

  "Well, I told him I thought you had gone Bradley way, so I should think you'd find him somewhere over there. He hasn't been gone long."

  Marjorie hurried on over the muddy road, and then climbed one of the highest mounds if coal waste and ashes to be able to see in which direction Louis had gone. Yes, there he was, crossing the opposite one, and coming to meet her.

  But no, it was not Louis. Her heart beat quickly as she saw who it was. It was Captain Fortescue.

  "Miss Douglas," he called, "I've found you at last."

  She hurried over to him. "I am so sorry you have had such a hunt. Where have you come from, Captain Fortescue?"

  "Not Captain Fortescue," he said, coming closer. "I have dropped that title since I left the army. I am living in Birmingham now."

  "Oh, so near as that? I mean, I did not know you were anywhere in this neighbourhood," she explained.

  "I have been in Birmingham a fortnight now. Thank you for keeping your promise, Miss Douglas."

  "Oh, then you did get my letter?"

  "Yes, I did. I meant to answer it when I could tell you what I was going to do, and then I found that Birmingham was to be my headquarters, so I thought I would come and answer it by word of mouth."

  "What are you doing in Birmingham?"

  "I'm an agent for a large insurance company. I think I'm fortunate to get anything to do so soon. It's a pretty good appointment, too. I hope each quarter to be able to send a small instalment to your mother in Rosthwaite, Miss Douglas."

  "It is good of you," she answered, "but I do hope you are not stinting yourself by doing so. It troubles me when I think that you are."

  He gave her a grateful look as she said this. "Now, Miss Douglas, you are never to trouble about me again. I have given up smoking, and one or two little things that I am all the better without, but beyond that I assure you I am not suffering hardship in any way. How could I take a nice excursion like this if I was short of money?"

  "I'm afraid it is not a pleasant place for you to come to for an excursion," she said, laughing.

  "It doesn't quite come up to our last walk together."

  "Where was that? Oh, I remember," she said. "Up to Seatoller and Honister. How far away it all seems."

  "How is old Mary? How does she get on without you?"

  "Oh, poor old thing. Mother goes to see her when she can. I've just found an old woman here, Captain Fortescue."

  "Have you? Is she like old Mary? "

  "Oh dear no. A poor, dirty old woman, but I'm glad to have someone to go and see. She likes me to read parts of the Bible to her, and even asks me to pray."

  They were standing now beside one of the dismal ponds in which a number of ragged boys were wading.

  "Miss Douglas," he said, "I am going to ask you a question, and I want a truthful answer. I know you will give me one."

  "How awfully solemn it sounds." she said, laughing. "Nothing very dreadful, I hope?"

  "No, not dreadful, but something I want to know. Are you happy here?"

  "Oh yes," Marjorie said quickly. "I think I can truthfully say that I am. Of course it is a busy life, but I'm getting fond of the people and it's far better than I expected it would be."

  "Thank you," he said. "Now, I wonder if you would mind doing something else for me."

  "I will if I can, Captain Fortescue."

  "Will you tell me exactly what your life here is? Take an ordinary day, yesterday for instance. Tell me what time you got up and went to bed, and give me a sketch of the day."

  She did as he asked her, in as lively and cheerful a way as she could, making the best of everything, and dwelling very little on the discomforts of her life, or on the hard work which she had to do.

  "Thank you," he said again, when she had finished. "I'm afraid you will think me awfully inquisitive, but I had a reason for wishing to know."

  "A reason did you say? What was it?"

  He hesitated a little before answering her.

  "Never mind," she said. "Don't tell me if you would rather not."

&n
bsp; "Oh, I don't mind your knowing, if you don't mind my telling you, Miss Douglas. You see, I sometimes -- I often think of you and wonder what you are doing -- and now I shall be able to picture it."

  They walked on without speaking for a minute or two after that, and then he looked at his watch and said he must catch the next train at Deepfields on the London and North-Western Railway line, as that was the best way to get back to Birmingham.

  "Please don't come any farther, as it is a long walk to the station."

  "Do let me come," she said. "It is only a mile and I so seldom have anyone to talk to."

  They spoke of many things after that, and the time seemed to fly all too quickly.

  "I have enjoyed my time here very much," he said, as they stood on the platform waiting for the train. "May I give you my card? That is my address in Birmingham. Now, you made me a promise when we said goodbye last, and I want you to make me another promise now."

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "It is this: that if you are in any difficulty or trouble, if things don't go happily in any way, you will write to me or come to me. Will you promise?"'

  "Yes," she said earnestly, "I will."

  "Thank you. Goodbye." He jumped into the train as he said this, and she stood watching on the platform till it was out of sight.

  Chapter 15

  The Old Oak Cupboard

  THE YEAR was passing on, with day after day, week after week, month after month following each other in quick succession. Marjorie was keeping a calendar, counting the days that must pass before Christmas came when she would be able to go home for her first holiday.

  Daisy Bank did not alter much with the changing seasons, for there was little to mark the progression of spring, summer and autumn. Barely a tree was in sight, and the few that were to be found were so stunted, blighted, and covered with smoke that the spring freshness of their leaves lasted but a few days. Upon the mounds grew a few coarse daisies -- at least, the children called them daisies. They were a kind of feverfew with a daisy-like flower. Nothing else would grow there, but these flowers were perhaps how the place got its name, a name which had at first appeared to Marjorie to be utterly unsuitable.

  During all the summer months and throughout the early autumn, her life had been most uneventful and monotonous. There was the daily routine of household duties, "the common round, the daily task," but nothing more. No one else came to see her, and from that day in June, when he had stepped into the Birmingham train, she had seen and heard nothing more of Captain Fortescue. She would always think of him by his old name, even though she knew that he had dropped the military title.

  The arrival of the home letters was the great event of Marjorie's week, and she read and re-read them until she almost knew them by heart. They made her homesick at times, but she fought bravely against the feeling, and looked on hopefully to Christmas.

  All this time old Mother Hotchkiss had been growing more and more feeble, and as autumn advanced she was quite unable to leave her bed. A ragged girl of sixteen called Anna Maria, who lived next door, waited on her, and Mother Hotchkiss seemed to have plenty of money to pay her, and she was never behindhand in her rent. How she lived, old Enoch said he did not know. He told Marjorie that Mother Hotchkiss used to be very badly off, and that he had often seen her scraping up the cinders on the ash heaps, but he fancied that her married daughter Carrie must be sending her money, as she seemed to have sufficient for all she wanted.

  Marjorie often took Mother Hotchkiss soup and milk puddings. Mrs. Holtby was pleased that Marjorie should make these for the old woman who was always grateful for them. Old Mother Hotchkiss much enjoyed hearing Marjorie read, and a feeble glimmer of light seemed to have penetrated to her poor dark soul as Marjorie tried to teach her how to pray.

  But one day, late in October, when Marjorie went to see her, she found old Mother Hotchkiss crying and evidently in great trouble. She wondered if there was a connection with the tears and a Bible reading and prayer she had shared with the old woman on her last visit.

  "What is it, Mrs. Hotchkiss?" she asked.

  "The doctor has been," she said, "and he says as how I won't be long now. I heard him telling it to Anna Maria when she let him out."

  "Well, don't cry," said Marjorie. "You know what I told you when I was here last."

  "Yes, I think of it all the time."

  "And have you said that little prayer?"

  "Yes, my dear, I have. 'O Lord, forgive me my sins, for Jesus Christ's sake.' I've said it scores of times, but I don't believe He will forgive me, all the same."

  "Why not?"

  "Oh, because . . . because. . . But I mustn't tell you. You see, I promised not to tell. But God will never forgive me, I know He won't."

  "But He says He will. There's that promise in the Bible: 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"

  "Yes, that's just it. That's just what I mean, my dear. If we confess our sins. But I haven't confessed my sin. See?"

  "But, dear Mother Hotchkiss, you must confess it," said Marjorie.

  "But I can't -- I can't -- you don't understand, my dear. It's something as I can't confess."

  Marjorie talked to her for some time longer, and the old woman cried and said again and again that she wanted to tell her, but she couldn't, no, she couldn't. At last Marjorie was obliged to leave. She felt sorry for Mother Hotchkiss, and when she knelt to pray before getting into bed, she prayed earnestly for the old woman who was so fast passing away, that she might find comfort and peace before the end came.

  Marjorie was tired that night, and soon fell asleep. She was dreaming that she was in Borrowdale, sitting on a stone by the river when suddenly a pebble hit the rock on which she was perched, and she looked up to see Louis's merry face on the bank above her. Then another pebble came, and she woke. No, she was not in Borrowdale, but in her little bedroom in Daisy Bank. What was that noise, then? Someone was throwing pebbles at her window. She was startled, but got out of bed and looked out. It was dark, and she could see no one.

  She opened her window a little way, and said, "Who is there?"

  "It's me, miss," said old Enoch's voice. "Poor Mother Hotchkiss is much worse, and she wouldn't give us any peace till we said we would fetch you. She says she must see you, and she can't die happy till she has."

  "Who is with her, Enoch? "

  "Peggy Jones, that's Anna Maria's mother, but I've been there the last hour. They fetched me. See?"

  "I'll come, Enoch."

  "I'll wait for you, miss, and take you across," he said.

  Marjorie dressed quickly, and knocking at Mr. and Mrs. Holtby's bedroom door she explained where she was going and why. Mr. Holtby got up and let her out. Then guided through the darkness by old Enoch, she made her way to the curious old house.

  Marjorie found Mother Hotchkiss far more ill than when she had left her that afternoon, but the frail woman raised herself in bed when Marjorie went in, and taking her hand she held it between both her own.

  "That's right, dear," she whispered. "I've been just longing for you to come. Send them out, and I'll tell you."

  "I think she has something she wants to say to me," said Marjorie to Enoch and Peggy Jones, who were standing by the window. "If you would like to rest for a little, I will take care of her."

  "Don't you mind being left, miss?" said Peggy.

  "Oh no, not at all," said Marjorie. "And I will call you if she is worse."

  "Rap on that wall," said Peggy. "My bed is just on the other side of it, and I'll be with you in a moment. Our house was once part of this one, you know."

  They left the room together and went down the steep stairs, and presently Marjorie heard them closing the outer door, and she knew that she was alone in the house with the dying woman.

  "Are they gone, my dear?" Mother Hotchkiss asked.

  "Yes, they are gone," said Marjorie.

  "Are we quite alone?"

  "Yes, quite alone."

&nb
sp; The old woman closed her eyes for a moment. "You know what you said about confessing?"

  "Yes. 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins.'"

  "I want to ask you something, dearie. Stoop your head down to me, for I want to whisper. If you was to make a promise to somebody, and if it was a wicked promise that you had no business to have made, ought you to keep it?"

  "Certainly not," said Marjorie. "It would be wrong to make a wicked promise, and it would also be wrong to keep it when you had made it."

  "Do you think so, my dear? Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely sure."

  "Then listen, dearie, and I'll tell you. I feel as if I can't die till I do. I feel as if I must tell somebody. See? You know who Carrie is?"

  "Yes, she's your daughter."

  "Ay, and I wasn't half proud of her. A clever girl too, and such a scholar. Well, Carrie married a man as she met up Sheffield way, and he was well-to-do and all that. I believe they had a comfortable home, but he was awful mean to Carrie. He never would let her send anything to her poor old mother. I was nigh starved, my dear, I was indeed. If I hadn't raked in the ash heaps there's many a day I wouldn't have had a fire. I only had parish pay, and not too much of that. But one day they came to see me."

  "Who did?"

  "Carrie and her husband. And he spoke very fair, and he said if I would do a little thing for him he'd allow me ten shillings a week as long as I lived. Well, my dear, I said I would do it if I could. He wouldn't tell me what it was till I had promised that I wouldn't tell anybody. And then he went to his bag and he brought out a tin box, like a small biscuit tin, and it had a bit of string tied tight round it. 'Now, mother,' he says, 'I want you to hide this 'ere tin in one of them little cupboards in the chimney corner till I send for it. I'm a going to Ameriky,' he says, 'and when we're settled there and have got a home of our own, I'll write you word where to send it."

  "'Can't you take it with you?' I says. 'It isn't big, and it won't take much room in your boxes.'

  "'No,' he says; 'I'd rather you sent it, mother, and I'll let you have the address. Old Enoch will direct it for you. You can tell him it's something as Carrie left behind her.'

  "Well, my dear, it seemed a stroke of good luck for me, didn't it now? And then he said they must go, but Carrie begged and prayed him to let her stay just one night with me, as she was going so far away, and might never see her old mother again."