"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?"