NEW Street Station, Birmingham, is an exceedingly busy place at all times of the day; but at certain hours, when many trains are due, the bustle, hurry, and rush, in every part of it, are beyond description. Two great lines, the London and North-Western and the Midland, run through it; and although, to the initiated, there is nothing more easy than to locate the part of the station in which the various trains will arrive or from which they will depart, yet to a stranger in Birmingham, especially to one who has come from the quiet of some remote country place, the six different platforms, the numerous booking offices, and the busy stream of human life crossing and re-crossing the great bridge which spans the station from side to side, are both bewildering and perplexing.

It was at the busiest time of the ever-busy New Street day, that the London express came thundering into the station. It had rushed on like some great monster of the deep, flying through air instead of water, puffing, snorting, panting, but never once stopping after leaving Euston, until it came running triumphantly into Birmingham, having accomplished its journey of over a hundred and twelve miles in the short space of two hours.

As it steamed in, a long line of expectant porters awaited its arrival, and, as it began to slacken its speed, they kept their eyes fixed on the line of first-class carriages, for that way lay "tips." There was a dining-saloon on the train, and the first-class part of it was well filled. Most of the passengers were, however, going on further; but one gentleman, with a long kit-bag in his hand, came to the carriage door and prepared to alight from the train.

The porters made a rush in his direction, all eager to relieve him from his burden, and thereby to secure the bakhshish which English porters, as well as Arab ones, are seldom backward in scenting from afar.

The gentleman selected one of the group and handed him the bag, whilst the others retired discomforted.

"Where for, sir?"

"The Midland train north. Which platform will it be?"

"Number 5, sir. Any luggage in the van?"

"No, none. Let me see; it starts at 5.30. An hour to wait, I believe."

"Not quite, sir; you're late a bit. It isn't often the express loses a minute, but she's five minutes late to-day."

The traveller took out his watch to compare it with the great station-clock, and then followed the porter up the steps to the bridge. Arrived at No. 5, he dismissed the man, who departed with a beaming countenance, as he pocketed double the sum which he had expected to receive.

For some minutes the young man, for he was not more than twenty-five, paced the platform restlessly. He was impatient of the delay, and the noise and racket of the station jarred upon his nerves. The shriek of an approaching train, the rattle of a departing one, the rumble of the porters' trucks, the shouting of the newspaper boys, the ceaseless rush of people in all directions, tired him that day, he hardly knew why. He had not come from the country, and he was accustomed to London streets and London stations; he did not mind noise at other times, but to-day he felt as if he could not stand the discordant sounds for another hour. He resolved to leave the station, and to take a walk in the city until it was time for his train.

He left his bag at the Midland Luggage Office, climbed the long flight of steps in the midst of a continuous stream of people, passed with them a similar stream pouring downwards into the station, and then made his way to the street beyond.

As he did so, more than one person turned to look at him. He was a man who, even in a crowd, attracted attention. Tall and well built, he was every inch a soldier; his profession was patent to all who saw him; but it was not that which caused the passers-by to notice him, and to look after him as he walked on. It was not so much his upright manly figure, as his extremely handsome face, with its refined features, which made him a marked man. His dark hair, hazel eyes, long eyelashes, aquiline nose, and short upper lip, gave him a decidedly aristocratic appearance, which could not fail to strike the most casual observer.

"One of the upper ten, I should say!" remarked one man to another, as he crossed the station yard and turned into Corporation Street.

The shop windows were all lighted up, for it was December, and quite dark at half-past four. The street was crowded, for it was close upon Christmas, and multitudes of people, men, women, and children, were doing their Christmas shopping, or gazing idly into the brilliantly illuminated windows. But in spite of the crowds, he was glad he had come, for there were none of the discordant sounds of the station, and the keen air was refreshing to him after its close atmosphere.

A row of flower-sellers stood in the road at the edge of the pavement, and he stopped to buy a bunch of violets from a girl who looked tired and cold. He did not want the violets, but he was touched by her face, and he gave her three times the price that she asked for them.

Then he turned into the Arcade, which was a blaze of electric light. All the shops were displaying choice and attractive articles suitable for Christmas presents. In a niche in the wall, near one of the toy-shops, there stood on a pedestal an old man. He was dressed in red cloth, trimmed with swansdown, with long white hair and beard, and with a cocked hat on his head. He was supposed to represent Father Christmas, and he, too, looked cold and tired as he stood, motionless as a waxwork figure, taking no notice of the busy scene around him. A group of children had gathered at the foot of the pedestal, and were looking up in his face with admiring glances, hoping to beguile him to fill their stockings on Christmas Eve with all the pretty things their hearts desired.

On the right hand side of the Arcade were several jewellers' shops, a glittering mass of beauty. Tiny electric lamps illuminated the countless sparkling and costly articles exposed for sale, and made them even more bewitching and tempting than they had appeared by daylight. The door of one of these shops opened just as he passed it, and a young lady, stylishly dressed, and wearing beautiful ermine furs, came out of it. She caught sight of him immediately, and put out her hand as she exclaimed, in a surprised voice—

"Captain Fortescue! You here?"

"Yes, Lady Violet, and I never dreamt of seeing you. What are you doing in Birmingham?"

"We're staying with the De Courcys, only six miles out, and we've come in to do a little Christmas shopping, as we shan't have much time after we get home. Isn't it strange we should meet? Why, we haven't seen you since that jolly time in the Riviera! Come and speak to mother; she is in this shop buying Maude a bracelet. She promised her one for Christmas, and she thought Maude had better choose it herself; but she can't make up her mind, and I was coming outside to look at one we saw in the window. Come in, and give us your advice."

Captain Fortescue followed her into the jeweller's and saw the two ladies standing at the counter and bending over it. It was covered with bracelets of every variety, all of them sparkling with jewels and exceedingly beautiful and costly.

"Mother, whom do you think I found in the Arcade? Look here!"

The elder lady turned round. "Captain Fortescue! Is it possible? I'm delighted to see you again; we haven't seen you for months. Where are you stationed now?"

"I'm at Aldershot at present, but we're likely to be moved soon. I wrote to Evelyn, but he hasn't answered my letter."

"Naughty boy! He's a shockingly bad letter writer; he always was. But what are you doing in Birmingham?"

"I'm only passing through," said the Captain, looking at his watch. "I'm going on by the five-thirty, Lady Earlswood."

"How lucky we just met you! Now you must come and see us soon. We're having a large house-party for Christmas. Can't you join us? Evelyn will be at home."

"Yes, do come," said Lady Violet. "It will be like having those dear old days in the Riviera back again, and I want you to see the photos I took then. They have come out splendidly."

"I should like to come very much, but I'm afraid it is impossible."

"Is it really quite impossible?" said Lady Earlswood. "Do try to arrange it."

"I'm afraid I shall not be able to do so. You see, my poor old father has not been very well lately—in fact, I am going there now. What is the matter I don't quite know yet. I had a letter from him yesterday morning, written apparently in good spirits, and then to-day I had a wire begging me to go at once. If he is ill and needs me, of course whatever leave I get, I must spend with him."

"Yes, of course; but it may not be that. He may want to see you for some other reason. If so, do let me know. Just send me a line or a wire with the one word 'Coming.' That will be quite enough."

"Thank you, Lady Earlswood, I shall certainly not forget. Now I must leave Lady Maude to choose her bracelet and hurry back to New Street."

"Must you really? Can't you have tea with us at Fletcher's? We are going there in a minute or two."

"I'm afraid not. I shall miss my train if I do."

He said good-bye to them, and walked quickly down the Arcade, but Lady Violet came to the door again to look at another bracelet in the window—at least, so she said; but her eyes, when she got outside, were certainly not turned in the direction of the brightly-lighted shop window.

"How little they know," he said to himself, as he went down the crowded steps to Platform No. 5. "I sometimes think I ought to tell them that I am not one of themselves."

[CHAPTER II]

A DIFFICULT POSITION

CAPTAIN FORTESCUE was in good time for his train, and secured a corner seat in the carriage. He bought a book at the stall and opened it when the train started, but he read only a few pages. He was wondering why his father had sent for him, and what explanation of the telegram he would receive on his arrival.

When he was last at home, he had thought his father was aged and altered, and therefore he had suspected that illness was the reason of his summons. Yet, from the letter received the day before, he had evidently been out as usual, and it contained no hint of his feeling indisposed at the time of writing it. Was there any other cause which had led to this unexpected and sudden call to return home at once?

Between Captain Fortescue and his father there was nothing whatever in common. Their ideas, their way of looking at things, their habits of life were totally and diametrically opposed. His father was a wealthy man, but not even his son could stretch his filial affection sufficiently far to call him a gentleman.

Mr. Fortescue was a man who had risen, people were accustomed to say, when they spoke of him. And yet he had not risen. His position in life was altered; instead of being a miner, obliged to work hard for his daily bread, he had become a landed proprietor. How this had been accomplished, his son had not the remotest idea; but he had never risen. He was exactly the same uneducated, vulgar man that he had been in his days of hard work and poverty. He could barely read or write, both were done in his own fashion, and he never made the slightest effort to improve in either. He cared for little but eating and drinking: he domineered over his servants and dependants at one moment, and spoilt them the next: he was lavish in his expenditure at times, and at other times would haggle over a halfpenny: he had not even learnt to speak King's English; his talk was the talk of the mine; even his groom could speak more grammatically, and could express himself with a less provincial accent.

No one realized all this more than Mr. Fortescue's own son; and yet it gave him a pang even to harbour the thought of it for a moment. For he had been a good father to him in many ways. He had shouted at him and blustered at him from his youth up, but he had never grudged him anything. He had lavished money in the most prodigal way on his son's education. He had sent him to the most expensive preparatory school that could be found, when he was only seven years old. From thence, the boy had gone to Eton, and in due course had passed into Sandhurst. No nobleman's son had ever had more spent upon him. The best coaching that London could produce had been his; he had been given every opportunity, every possible advantage.

Fortescue had been gazetted to a cavalry regiment, and his pay consequently was far from adequate for his expenses; but no money that he needed was withheld from him. A handsome allowance was supplemented by numerous cheques, to supply the wherewithal for various outgoings in the way of travelling or pleasure. The Honourable Evelyn Berington, Lady Earlswood's younger son, who had been his friend throughout the whole of his Sandhurst course, had far less money to spend than he had. And all this made Fortescue feel that, whatever his father might be, and however much his lack of refinement might jar upon him, it was his bounden duty to give him the affection and respect due from a loyal and grateful son. Besides which, Kenneth Fortescue was a man of honest religious belief. He knew the requirements of the Fifth Commandment. He know that, so far as it was possible for him to honour his father, that honour must be readily and cheerfully given.

And yet, at times, the incongruity of his position was keenly realized by him. He felt it very strongly on this particular December night, when he was being carried away swiftly into the darkness north of Birmingham. That was the real reason which prevented him from reading as he journeyed on; he was too busy doing battle with himself; he was fighting against his natural repugnance to all that was common or vulgar, his innate shrinking from the home where refinement of feeling or expression found no place. He was deeply grateful to his father for all that he had done for him in the past; and yet, that night, he was inclined to think that it had been a terrible mistake. He had been educated out of his proper position; his friends and acquaintances were all men moving in an utterly different circle; his sympathies and interests and attractions were in a sphere which he could never have any right to enter. If Lady Earlswood had seen his father, she would never have dreamt for a moment of inviting him to her Christmas house-party or of reckoning him amongst her friends.

Captain Fortescue was a most honourable man, and he felt sometimes as if he were a walking impostor. There had been times when he had suddenly felt it incumbent on him to tell them the truth, and had even been on the very verge of doing so. As they had walked together by the sea, under the blue Italian sky, he had, more than once, been on the point of blurting out the fact that he was the son of a man who had once been a common miner.

He had, however, at the last moment, withheld from making this disclosure; not so much because he was afraid of what they might think of him, or of how they might treat him, but because he had felt that it would be hardly treating his father fairly, were he to reveal what that father had told him in the strictest confidence. If he, by his honest toil, had earned the money to place himself in a position of affluence, and moreover to give his son the education of a gentleman, was it right that that son should publish his father's humble origin to the world?

Thus time had drifted on, and he had moved in the highest circles, and had been received into the best society, and no one knew anything of his father beyond the fact that he lived at Ashcliffe Towers, near Sheffield, had a large estate, and was evidently a very wealthy man.

When, two hours later, the train ran into the large Sheffield station, his thoughts were still pursuing the same unpleasant and difficult course. He called a hansom and was soon driving rapidly through the busy streets and out towards the country beyond. As he went, he wondered again what he should find at his journey's end, and whether his father would come out as usual to welcome him on his arrival. After about half an hour's drive, the cab turned in at a lodge gate, and he could see, through the fir trees in the avenue, the lights in the windows of his home.

An old butler came to the door in answer to the cabman's ring. He had lived with his father for years, and had known him from a boy. Mr. Fortescue objected to keeping many servants; they were only a trouble, he said, and he did not care to have a young jackanapes of a footman to stand and watch him when he ate. Elkington had white hair, and his hand trembled as he took the bag from the driver. He did not speak until the man had driven off, and then he said:

"I'm glad you've come, sir!"

"What's the matter, Elkington? Is my father ill?"

"Very ill, sir," said the old man. "Come into the library, sir; the doctor's upstairs now."

"That bag's too heavy for you, Elkington! It makes you pant: let me take it."

"No, no, sir; I can manage all right. I'm getting a bit short of wind, that's all."

"I heard from my father yesterday; he seemed quite well then."

"Yes, sir; and he was all right yesterday, and when he got up this morning. He came down to breakfast as usual; he always will have it at eight, you know. Well, he'd just sat down and was beginning, when there come a big ring at the front door bell. It's Watson's duty to go to the door when I'm waiting, but she never came down, and just as I was getting the master his bacon, the bell rings again. Well, he shouted and he stormed—beg your pardon, sir; you know how he carries on; you'll forgive me saying it."

"I know, Elkington; go on."

"So I put the bacon down, sir, and I went myself to see who was there. It was a boy with a telegram; he held out the yellow envelope to me, and he stood waiting while I took it in to the master.

"'What have you got there, Elkington?' he said. And when he saw what it was, he turned the colour of the table-cloth—that ghastly and white.

"'Take it out of the envelope, Elkington,' he says, 'my hand trembles so.'

"So I took it out and handed it to him, and he just looked at it one minute, and then he fell back in his chair in a dead faint, and the telegram slipped down on the floor under the table. I was that frightened, sir, I didn't know what to do. And then Watson came running in to know what was the matter. She do give herself airs, that woman, sir! Well, if you'll believe me, she swept me aside, and she took the master in her charge, and no one should touch him or do anything for him but herself. I said I would go for the doctor, and she said, 'No, I shouldn't, and he would be all right presently.'

"By-and-by the telegraph boy comes out of the hall and asks, 'Is he wanted, and is there any answer?' So I went out and sent him off; and I ran in the front and told Roger, the garden-boy, to fly off for Dr. Cholmondeley. Even Watson was glad when he came, for we thought he was dead, but the doctor brought him round; it was weakness of the heart, he said, and he was to be kept very quiet."

"I'm glad you sent for me, Elkington."

"It was the master did that, sir. I went in his room to take some hot water, and I heard him say to Watson: 'Send for the Captain,' he says. 'No, sir, you keep quiet,' she says; 'you don't want the Captain here; you're all right now.' You'd never believe, sir, how that woman lords it over him! Why, none of the rest of us dares to contradict the old gentleman; but, ever since she came here, she's been worming herself into his favour, and making herself that useful to him he thinks he can't get on without her. But this time she was not going to get her own way. I heard what she said, and I went up to the bed and said: 'Shall I wire for the Captain, sir?' and the old gentleman nodded his head, and Watson looked as if she would kill me. She doesn't like you, doesn't Watson, sir."

"I know she doesn't, and I don't like her."

"So I sent off the wire, and I'm glad you've come, sir; you weren't long getting off."

"No, Elkington, but I only just caught the express. Is that the doctor coming down?"

"I believe so, sir; I'll bring him in here."

The next minute the doctor entered. He was a middle-aged man, with a quiet, dignified manner which inspired confidence in his patients.

"Captain Fortescue, I believe."

"Yes, doctor; I am very anxious to hear what you think of my father."

"It's a case of shock," said the doctor. "He received some bad news, I gather, this morning, and that is a great strain upon a man of his age. The action of the heart is weak—in fact, it had nearly ceased altogether. He has pulled round a little now, but there may be a relapse at any time."

"Perhaps I had better not see him to-night."

"Under ordinary circumstances I should most certainly have agreed with you, but he is most anxious to see you. He heard the cab stop, and he asked if you had come. Watson advised him to wait a little. Good faithful soul that Watson, I should imagine!"

Captain Fortescue did not answer.

"You don't like her?"

"No, I don't, but I really can hardly tell you why. Then you think I had better go up?"

"Yes, if he insists upon seeing you. Did it ever occur to you that he might have some special reason for wishing to see you, something that he wanted particularly to say to you or to ask you?"

"No. Has he, do you think?"

"I fancy so. I may be wrong, mind you, but I've a great idea that it is something more than mere affection that has made him so anxious for you to arrive. I have been in several times to-day, and each time he has asked if the Captain has come, and whether I thought he would be able to speak to the Captain when he did come."

"Well, I shall see when I go up," said Captain Fortescue. "I don't know in the least what it could be."

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come in," said the Captain.

A middle-aged woman entered. She was short in stature, with sharp features and a receding chin, and was heavily marked by smallpox.

"Has my father sent for me, Watson?"

"No, sir, he does not feel well enough to see you now; he will see you after dinner."

With these words, she left the room.

"Better so," said the doctor, as he took leave; "better for you and better for him."

[CHAPTER III]

CAPTAIN FORTESCUE'S PROMISE

WHEN Dr. Cholmondeley had gone, and whilst the old butler was laying the cloth in the dining-room, the Captain sat in an armchair by the fire in the library. How well he knew that room, and how the handsome vulgarity of its furniture had appalled him in days gone by! The gaudy amber-coloured carpet with its huge floral pattern; the table-cloth of velvet plush, but of a different red from that of the carpet; the massive bookcase with its rows of books, chosen because of their gilded binding, but in total disregard of their contents; the pictures on the walls, selected for the splendour of their frames, but possessing nothing in themselves to charm the artistic eye; the great mirror in its elaborate gilt setting; the massive coal-box with its startling pictorial design; the bright blue curtains in the window embellished with a golden pattern; the very ornaments standing on the mantleshelf,—one and all, were costly and magnificent indeed, but at the same time utterly lacking in the very elements of taste or beauty. These, however, he passed over to-day, without even bestowing upon them a single sigh of regret, as he thought of the large sums of money which had been wasted upon them.

But one object in the room he did look at and sigh over, and that was a large picture, hung in a gorgeous gilt frame on the wall, just opposite the chair in which he was sitting. It was the full-length portrait of a woman of about forty, with dark hair, high cheek-bones, and a very red face. She was arrayed in gaudy colours, which harmonized as little with each other as did the colours of the room. It was a heavy, stupid face, with hardly a gleam of intelligence in it.

Captain Fortescue gazed at it, and a pained expression came into his face as he did so. It was the picture of his mother! He had never seen his mother; she had died when he was a few months old, and he often wished that he had never seen her picture. He could have drawn her so differently with the pen of imagination. He could have painted her in such subdued and beautiful colours. He would have made her tall and fair and lovely, with a sweet, gentle face, a graceful figure, and with eyes which had a world of tenderness in them. But here was her picture drawn from life, and she was his mother, and he must try to think as dutifully of her as he could.

Again he said to himself that his father's generosity to him had been a mistake; it had caused him to have feelings and ideals out of keeping with his position; it had made him even dissatisfied with his own mother.

"Dinner is ready, sir," said Elkington's voice behind him.

"Elkington."

"Yes, sir."

"What became of that telegram?"

"It's here, sir, somewhere on the writing-table; I put it there myself. Oh, here it is under this letter-weight. I'm afraid it's bad news, sir; you'll excuse my having read it, but it was lying open on the floor."

Captain Fortescue took the pink paper, opened it, and held it to the light.

It contained these words:

"Mine flooded—all lost—utter ruin."

"What does that mean, Elkington? My father never told me any of his business affairs. Had he money in a mining company?"

"I believe so, sir; I'm afraid so. I think he must have lost heavily, and I think, too, he must have feared bad news this morning, he turned so white when I brought the telegram in."

The Captain did not eat much dinner, and was glad when the last course had been cleared away. "Now, Elkington, see if I can go to my father."

The old man soon returned with the message that his master would like to see the Captain at once. He therefore went up the wide staircase, and crossed the landing to his father's room. The door was open, and he could see Watson standing by the bed and giving him something from an invalid cup.

"Father, I'm sorry to find you in bed," he said, as he went forward.

"Yes, Ken, I've had a bad turn this time. I'm glad you've come. Watson, you can go and get your supper; do you hear? And don't come till I ring for you."

Watson put down the cup with a bang, as if she resented being dismissed, and stalked out of the room.

"Has she gone, Ken?"

"Yes, father."

"See if she's shut the door."

No, the door was ajar, but the Captain closed it, and turned the key in the lock.

"I'm very ill, my boy."

"Dr. Cholmondeley hopes you may feel better soon; I've been talking to him downstairs."

"Look 'ere, Ken, I don't believe in doctors; they say what they think folks will like. I know better."

"Don't tire yourself, father."

"I must tire myself, Ken; I've got something as I want to say to you. I'm not a-going to put it off, or it may be too late. I got a telegram to-day."

"Yes, I saw it downstairs. What does it mean?"

"It means I'm ruined, Ken; that's what it means!"

"How ruined? In what way?"

"Why, all my money was in that there mine, every farthing of it!"

"Surely not all!"

"It was, Ken; they paid five, ten and twelve per cent. sometimes, but it was all a humbugging affair, as it turns out. I got a letter only yesterday from a man as I know, who has shares in it, too, and he told me as how he was a-going to sell out, and I meant to do the same. I should have done it to-day; but it's too late now; that there wire was from him."

"How terrible!" said the Captain.

"Terrible! I should just think it is, Ken; and all your money was there, too."

"My money?"

"Well, yes; money as I had to spend for you; but it's gone along of the rest. I've given you a good eddication, Ken; no one can say as I haven't. I've not stinted you, have I?"

"Never, father, never."

"I've done my best for you, ever since you was a little lad—a little motherless lad, Ken."

"You have, father, you have."

"And if this mine hadn't gone smash, I should have left you a rich man."

"Never mind about me, father; I'm very sorry for you."

"Well, I'm not long for this world, Ken, so it matters little for me; but I'm glad you've come. I wanted to see you and put matters straight for you. When I'm gone—"

"Don't talk like that, dad—" his old name for his father in his boyish days—"I hope you'll soon be much better."

"Perhaps so, Ken, but perhaps not. Now, listen! When I'm gone, you take this 'ere key, you see it on this bunch, it's the one with a bit of pink string tied round it."

"What key is it?"

"It's the key of the safe over there, in the corner of my room, just by the cupboard door there. Open the safe, and you'll see my will; it's not worth the paper it's written on now. Well, underneath the will you'll see an envelope addressed to you."

"To me, father?"

"Yes, Ken; you take that there envelope, and inside of it you'll find some information as you ought to have. Follow it up, Ken, and I hope as it will put you all right."

"What is it about, father? Let me get the paper now."

"No, no; I won't have it opened till I'm gone; time enough then—time enough then."

"Shall I take the key?"

"No, no; leave it on the table beside me. I'll have no one meddling with my keys whilst I'm here to look after them. Put the bunch where I can see it as I lie here. Get me a drink, Ken. I feel a bit faint."

Captain Fortescue held the cup to his lips.

"There, there, that's better, lad; raise me a little."

"Won't you be quiet now, father? You've talked enough; let me call Watson."

"No, no; I haven't told you yet what I want to say. Who's that at the door?"

There was a low knock.

It was Watson.

"The master mustn't talk any more," she said. "Dr. Cholmondeley would be very much displeased."

"You mind your own business," said her master.

"Let me give you some milk, sir."

"I've had some. Go away, Watson; I want to speak to my son. Don't you come till I send for you!"

Watson bounced out of the room and slammed the door after her, and once more father and son were left alone.

"Ken, keep that woman out till I've told you what I want to tell you. Is the door shut?"

"Quite shut, father."

"Well, you remember a man of the name of Douglas?"

"No, I don't."

"Oh no, of course you don't. He was parson of the church here when you were away at boarding school; he was only here a few months. I was churchwarden then, and so I saw a good bit of the parson. Well, he preached one Sunday in the church, and the next day I heard as how he was dying. He'd broke a blood-vessel or something o' that sort. He sent across to know, would I go and see him, and when I gets there he says to me:

"'Now, Fortescue,' he says, 'you've handled a lot o' money in your day, and you know what to do with it, and I want you to be so good as to help my wife when I'm gone.' She were there, sobbing away by his bed, a fine-looking woman too! 'I haven't much to leave her and the children,' he says. 'She has a little bit o' money of her own, but all as I've saved I've paid away for insurance, in case anything should happen to me. Now, what I want you to do,' he says, 'is this: to help her to get that money invested in something as will bring her in a good interest, and yet be a safe concern. Now I've never had much to do with money,' he says, 'I've had so little of it; but you've made a big pile, and you do know, and so I want you to help the wife when I'm gone.'

"Well, I promised him, Ken, and that night the poor fellow died. She got her insurance money, and I took charge of it for her and said as how I would invest it and send her the interest. I put it into India three and a half per cents., and forwarded her the dividends reg'lar, just as they came to me. Then this gold mine in Brazil was started, and I put all my own money in it, and I got rattling good returns, and thinks I, why shouldn't poor Mrs. Douglas have a slice of good luck along of me?

"So I put her money in it too. I ought to have asked her leave, Ken, but I didn't. You see, we'd had a bit of a tiff just at that time. She lived in York then, and I used often to run over when her interest was due and take it with me instead of writing; it seemed friendly-like. And I took a great fancy to her, and I wanted her to come and be your ma; but she wouldn't hear of it, and drew herself up, and looked at me in such a way it fair scared me. So I didn't want to go and see her, and I'm a bad hand at letters. I just sent her the money and said I was glad the interest was better, and Ken, she believes to-day that it's still in the India three and a half per cents.!"

"Do you mean to say, father, that all Mrs. Douglas's money is lost?"

"Every farthing of it, worse luck!"

"And are they badly off?"

"I'm afraid they are, Ken. I'm very much afraid they are. I'm awfully sorry about it."

There was silence for some minutes, and then the old man said feebly—

"Ken, I've been a good father to you."

"Yes, indeed you have."

"Now, I want you to make me a promise."

"What is it, father?"

"I want you to promise that you'll go and see Mrs. Douglas when I'm dead, and tell her about it."

"Can't I write to her?"

"No; I want you to see her, and break it gentle-like to her, and tell her I was sorry. Be sure and tell her that, Ken."

"I could write all that, father?"

The old man's natural impatience returned. "Can't you do what I tell you?" he said.

"It won't be pleasant to tell her, father—most unpleasant, I should say."

"Never mind, I've done lots of unpleasant things for you, as you'll know some day. Promise, Ken."

"Well, father, if it will be any comfort to you, I'll promise, but I would much rather not go on such an errand."

But old Mr. Fortescue had got the promise that he wanted, and he knew that the Captain was a man whose word could be depended upon.

"Ring for Watson now, Ken."

She came in, and began to bustle about the room, putting things straight for the night.

"Are you going to sit up, Watson?"

"Yes, of course," she said shortly; "the master can't be left."

The Captain noticed that she omitted the usual "sir" in speaking to him; but Watson's bad temper was well-known to him, and he was not surprised.

"Call me, Watson, if I can be of any use."

But Watson pretended not to hear, and began putting coal on the fire, and noisily rattling the fire-irons as she did so. The old man had closed his eyes, and was apparently fast asleep. So the Captain crept out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.

On the landing outside, he found the old butler.

"How is the master, sir?"

"No worse, I think, Elkington; he seems to be sleeping now. My old room, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; your bag is there."

"Good night, Elkington."

"Good night, sir. I hope you'll find all comfortable."

[CHAPTER IV]

A TROUBLED NIGHT

IT was not, however, a good night, as far as Kenneth Fortescue was concerned, for he found it utterly impossible to sleep. Was it surprising that this should be the case, after the agitating day that had gone before it? The startling telegram from home, the suspense during the journey, the unexpected meeting with his friends in Birmingham, the sad news on arriving home of his father's illness—the remembrance of all these kept sleep far away from him.

And then there was the cause of that illness—the ruin which had befallen all his hopes and prospects. How could he continue in the army, if his father were correct in saying that all his money was lost? It would be impossible! He was not an extravagant man; but he knew that, with the greatest care and economy, he could not live upon his captain's pay. What, then, could he do? What would become of him? What future could possibly be in front of him?

Then his thoughts travelled to the mysterious envelope which lay in the safe in the next room. What would he find when he opened it? What revelation for him did it contain?

His father had said something about money belonging to himself, which had been lost with the rest; he had never known that he possessed any. Could it be money settled on his mother, which reverted to him at her death? If so, why was he never told of this? Why was it not handed over to him when he came of age? Could there be wrongdoing on his father's part of which he as yet knew nothing?

Then more troubled thoughts still distracted him and kept him long awake. He thought of poor Mrs. Douglas—a widow with a family dependent upon her—and then of the awful news which he had to break to her—news which made him ashamed of his own father. What business had he to put trust money—for surely that insurance money was that in reality—into such a risky concern as a South American gold mine? How could his father have been so foolish—he had almost said so wicked; but, inasmuch as all the old man's own money was invested in the same concern, he gladly altered the adjective to foolish. How should he ever tell her? How could he possibly soften down so hard and terrible a blow? What could he say to let her know how much he felt for her? He would always look upon that four thousand pounds as a debt that he owed to her and to her family. If not legally bound to repay her, he felt that morally he was responsible. Yet how could he possibly do it? He knew not how to provide for his own wants in the future, much less how to be able to save so large a sum.

Then he thought of the poor old man, dying in the next room; that he was dying, he had very little doubt. There was a look in his face which he had never seen there before, and he knew what that look meant—the soul was striving to escape from the poor worn-out body. And where was that soul going? Was his father ready for the great change so close upon him?

It was only lately that Captain Fortescue had felt the all-importance of knowing that the soul is safe for Eternity. But his regiment had been ordered out to the war, and, on the eve of a great battle, he was resting in his tent when three officers rode past it. They pulled up close to where he was, and stood still looking at the sunset, which was a very glorious one that evening. One of them—the eldest of the three—said as he looked across the valley at the long lines of the enemy—

"I wonder where we three will be when the sun sets to-morrow evening?"

The man next him laughed, and said lightly, "Who cares? A short life and a merry one for me!"

"What do you say?" asked the senior officer, turning to the young lieutenant, who was riding on the other side of him.

As Fortescue lay in his tent, with the door open to the west, he could see the young officer, whom he had known at Sandhurst, looking steadfastly at the fast-setting sun; and he could hear him say softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself—

"Peace, perfect peace; my future all unknown.
Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."

The next evening came, and the sunset was as fine as the night before, but the golden rays were streaming down upon a bloody battlefield covered with the dead and dying. The Major who had asked that question of his companions was riding across the valley, but he was riding alone; for his two friends were lying amongst the dead, cold and still. Fortescue saw him, and he knew that he alone of the three was left to see the sun go down. And, as he looked, he envied the young lieutenant who had met death with such calm confidence. Perhaps the next battlefield might be his own last resting-place. Who knew? And as he knelt in his tent that night to say his prayers he had asked that that perfect peace might be his also; and now he, too, could say—

"Jesus I know, and He is on the Throne."

But could his poor old father say that? He was afraid not. He felt that he ought to speak to him, but it would be very difficult.

The Captain was naturally a very reserved man; he would have found it extremely difficult to speak to any one on such a subject, but to say anything of the kind to his old father seemed to him a task which he dared not undertake. Perhaps he could persuade him to see a clergyman to-morrow; he could, at any rate, venture to suggest that he should do so.

And so at last morning dawned, and, thoroughly wearied by the many troubled thoughts of the night, Captain Fortescue got up and dressed. But before he went downstairs, he crept into his father's room and stood by his bed. Watson had gone to the kitchen for something she wanted, and he found no one in the room. The old man's eyes were closed, and he thought he was asleep. But he opened his eyes after a time, and looked at his son.

"Kenneth," he said.

"Yes, father. I came to see how you are."

"Remember your promise."

"I won't forget."

"I'm very ill, Kenneth."

"I'm afraid you are, father. Won't you let me send for the clergyman to come and see you?"

"No, Kenneth—no. I don't know him. He's only just come here. He did call once, but I was out."

There were a few minutes' silence after this, and then he said:

"Couldn't you talk to me a bit, Ken? You know more of these things than I do. I want—I want—"

"You want to know where you are going, father; that's it, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's it, Ken. It's all dark-like, and I've not been what I ought to ha' been."

"We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have left undone what we ought to have done, and have done that which we ought not to have done, and there is no health in us."

"That's it, Ken," said the old man; "that's just it!"

"But the Lord Jesus came to save the lost sheep, father. He will save you, if you ask Him. He died for sinners, you know."

"Yes, Kenneth, yes; but I don't know how to ask Him. What shall I say?"

"Say this, father—

"'Just as I am without one plea,
But that Thy Blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come.'"

The old man repeated the words after his son, and many and many a time during the day, as Captain Fortescue sat beside him, he heard him saying softly—

"O Lamb of God, I come."

Kenneth Fortescue never went to bed that night, he sat holding his dying father's hand.

Watson did her best to get rid of him, but in vain; he insisted upon remaining where he was. The old butler also crept into the room, and sat watching his master from the foot of the bed.

And, just as the first morning light came streaming through the window, the Captain heard the old man say for the last time—

"O Lamb of God, I come."

And the next minute all was still, and their long watch was ended.

[CHAPTER V]

THE SAFE OPENED

BEFORE Captain Fortescue left his father's room that morning, he took up the bunch of keys on which the old man's eyes had rested with such anxious care, and which were still lying on a small table near his bed. He slipped them at once into his pocket, for he did not know who might come into that room, and he wished to feel assured that the safe would not be tampered with.

But, eager though he was to discover what secret the letter addressed to him contained, it was not until late in the day that he went into the room of death, that he might open the safe, and find the envelope which his father had described to him. He had been much moved by his father's death; and, in his intense refinement of feeling, he shrank from too quickly bringing to light that which might possibly reveal to him something in his father's past life, which would bring discredit on his memory, and might cause him to think less kindly and tenderly of the dead.

It was the old man's intense anxiety that the paper should not be read in his lifetime, which led Captain Fortescue to surmise that the contents were in some way not creditable to him.

But in the evening, when all arrangements for the funeral were made, and the servants were below at their supper, he crept with a candle in his hand into the room of death. He felt almost as if he were a thief, as he crossed the floor, and passed the silent form on the bed.

His father had never allowed any one to open that safe. In the days of his childhood he had been accustomed to look at it with awe and wonder, as he speculated on the mysteries it might contain. Now—he was going to open it, and the hand that had so carefully guarded its contents was lying cold and lifeless on the bed. He felt almost as if he would hear his father's protesting voice, as he fitted the key in the lock. He even glanced back at the bed, as if to assure himself that there was no movement there.

The lost clue

THE LOST CLUE

[CHAPTER I]

[CHAPTER II]

[CHAPTER III]

[CHAPTER IV]

[CHAPTER V]