Kitabı oku: «Maud Florence Nellie: or, Don't care!», sayfa 10
Chapter Nineteen
After Eight Years
Life was certainly a much more peaceable thing in the Whittaker household while Florence was undergoing the process of being “stroked down” by Mrs Warren at Ashcroft, Ethel and Sybil were much less perverse and saucy without her, and went their several ways like rational girls, Ethel looking forward to a clerkship in the post-office, and Sybil to an apprenticeship to a good dressmaker in Rapley. They contrived to walk about without staring or being stared at, and as they behaved with ordinary common sense, the respectability of their superior home showed, and they were thought well of by their various teachers, and began to take the lead at their Sunday school in better things than mischief. Miss Mordaunt found her Bible class comparatively harmless, and could not honestly feel that she regretted Florence Whittaker; while, at home, Mattie enjoyed unwonted peace and quiet.
She knew that she had not managed Florrie very well, but the relief of feeling no longer responsible for her was great. After a longish interval, Florence had replied to the letter in which she had urged her to keep in mind the lesson of Harry’s misconduct.
The girl could write rather a good letter, and her descriptions of her life at Ashcroft were amusing. “I should like it very well if there was anything but trees and live stock about,” she said, “but I get on right enough. Aunt Charlotte ain’t made up her mind that I’m going to ‘harry her up,’ as Aunt Stroud calls it. As for Harry, I remember him well enough, and there’s others that haven’t forgotten him neither, and maybe I’m taking example more than you think.”
Mattie could make nothing of this sentence, but it recalled Harry to her mind; and one evening, when George had come back from his work, she began to talk about him.
“It seems a bit heartless of us, George,” she said, “to think so little about him. He might be in trouble and poverty, and we so comfortable.”
“I expect we should have heard of him if he had been,” said George. “Of course, if he turned up, I should do the right thing by him – after proper inquiries. But I don’t suppose we should be much the better for him.”
“I wonder if father ever frets after him,” said Mattie.
“I don’t think he does,” said George dryly; “he put him out of the way too much. But Aunt Stroud made a pet of him.”
“I wish Aunt Lizzie wouldn’t talk so mysterious!” said Mattie impatiently. “She came down here to-day and talked about bursting clouds and Providence, till one would have thought she knew something particular.”
“She’s a talker, worse than Florrie,” said George. “I declare I’ll be off, Mattie – if there isn’t Aunt Stroud again!”
George was a worthy and useful young man, and if trouble or poverty had come upon his sisters he would have done his part by them well. But he liked his life very well as it was, and he naturally thought that the scapegrace Harry, though he knew nothing of the jewel story, would come into it as a disturbing element. Even Mattie, who was much more tender-hearted, felt afraid of the idea of him, and would have welcomed him from duty rather than from love. The father, too, was a good, conscientious, but rather selfish man, whose life consisted in the routine of his duties. He had been much more comfortable without Harry than with him. People cannot vanish for years, leaving trouble behind them, and always find a spontaneous welcome on their return. Neither Alwyn Cunningham nor Harry Whittaker had left to them in the world the one friend who would never have forgotten them. Their mothers were dead. Their places were filled up. Had poor Edgar been the gay young officer that Alwyn had pictured him, the place his brother held in his memory would probably have been much smaller, and when Harry Whittaker walked down the broad road in the middle of the cemetery, no dream had given notice of his return, nobody had any special desire to see him.
And for himself, he had come home more for the sake of his child than for that of his family. He recalled them all with an effort, even as he walked along counting the new tomb-stones that had appeared since he went away. His Aunt Stroud had arranged to come to the Lodge a few minutes before him, so as to prepare his family for his arrival. Suddenly, however, he perceived his father walking towards him by a side path, with his order-book under his arm, on his way from a meeting of the Board. A little greyer-haired, elderly middle-aged instead of young middle-aged, but far less altered than Harry himself, at whom he looked without any recognition. Harry had to choose between letting him pass and making himself known; but, before he could resolve what to say, some agitation in his manner, a look that was not that of the ordinary passer-by in his face, arrested Mr Whittaker’s attention, and he paused and looked at him.
“I think I’m speaking to Mr Whittaker?” said Harry, in his strong outspoken voice, which nevertheless shook a little. Then he suddenly put out his hand.
“Father, do you know me? I’ve come back to ask your forgiveness and friendship, and to clear my character as to the past.”
“My son Henry!” exclaimed Mr Whittaker. He faced him with a look of great surprise and of uncertain welcome, and yet, perhaps, he had often enough wondered whether Henry would come back, not to feel the utter strangeness of an event never looked forward to.
“It’s your place to explain a little, Henry,” he said, neither giving nor withholding a welcome.
“If you are willing to hear me,” said Harry.
“Come with me,” said Mr Whittaker.
He turned and led the way into the little office where business was transacted, and where the relatives and friends sometimes waited for funerals. In this not very cheerful spot Harry’s papers and letters (including one from Mrs Warren) were once more produced, and, under promise of secrecy for the present, he told his father of the search for the jewels, and how he would willingly have held back till they were found, but for his encounter with Florence.
“And,” said Harry, “after what passed I was justified, I think, in holding aloof, while I was a vagabond and times were so hard. And after I settled down comfortable and got on, thanks to Mr Alwyn’s kindness, I’d made up my mind to forget the old country; but you see, father, I thought, what if little Georgie, when he grows up, were to keep away from me for eight years, and live happy? Why, let us have quarrelled as we would, it’d break my heart to think he could forget me so. And so – and so, father – I hope you’ll let me take him his grandfather’s blessing. Mother would have set great store by him if she’d lived to see him, and he shall be taught to set store by you.”
The father and son sat looking at each other for a moment or two in silence. For the big, half-grown, trouble-town of a boy the father could not say that his heart had broken; but the thought of the little grandchild brought back early days, when Harry’s rosy face and sandy curls had been the mother’s pride, and when his father’s heart would have nearly broken if he had died in that scarlet fever from which he had barely recovered. Perhaps he had been too ready to think ill of the lad, and to cast him upon his own resources.
“If you were wronged about the jewels, Henry,” he said, “it’s you that have the advantage of us.”
“I’d acted so as to be easy wronged,” said Harry, “but I’d be glad to go back with all fair behind me.”
Mr Whittaker put out his hand with something like tears in his shrewd grey eyes. After all, he had not quite forgotten Harry. Harry gave the hand a great squeeze and walked over to the window, from which he presently turned round, saying:
“There’s my aunt, father; she was coming to tell you.”
Mr Whittaker went out to the door and beckoned Harry after him. There stood Mrs Stroud, beaming; Mattie, flushed and eager; George by no means so well pleased; and all the four younger ones eager and excited.
Harry’s coolness returned as soon as he had settled matters with his father, and he greeted them all as composedly as if he had returned from a short excursion abroad, and presently they all went in to sit down to supper and take each other’s measure as well as they could.
Mrs Stroud at once called for the photograph and Ethel and Sybil giggled with delight at finding themselves possessed of a nephew, while Mattie began to think that some of the romance she was so fond of had found its way into real life.
“And how long do you mean to stay this side of the water, Harry?” asked his aunt.
“Only till the matter of which I spoke to my father is concluded or given up. Mr Alwyn and myself could not both be away for long together, and I think he will not leave his brother again so quickly. Alberta would be very glad to make your acquaintances. Will you come back with me and pay us a visit, Mattie?”
“No, Henery,” said Mrs Stroud; “if Mattie knows which side her bread’s buttered she’ll stay on this side of the ocean. But if you want to do a brother’s part by your own family, you’ll take Florrie off their hands. For there’s no room for that girl – not in the High Street of Rapley. Perhaps there might be in Ameriky.”
“Aunt Eliza!” said Mattie indignantly, “Harry only meant so as to make acquaintance.”
“Well, well,” said Harry, “we’ll talk it all over. But Florence did her best to get me out of a scrape – ”
“Which I make no doubt she got you into,” said Mrs Stroud.
Harry’s eyes twinkled a little, but he did not betray Florence, and the suggestion dropped into his mind. He would be glad to do something for one member of his family, and he rather inclined to the unpopular Florence, though, of course, he remembered Mattie much better, and felt pleased when at last she shyly came up to him and said that she was glad he had come home. But it was all uncomfortable and full of effort, and Harry felt glad when the time came to say “Good night,” and he went off to catch the last train for London. But, as he walked along at full speed to the station, the feeling of his father’s hand-shake lingered on his palm, and he felt that he could think of his child with peace and satisfaction.
Chapter Twenty
Glad and Thankful
There now set in at Ashcroft a period trying to the feelings of all concerned. No trace of the lost jewels was discovered. The number of hollow trees in the forest was limited, and so were their hollows, which were searched as thoroughly as was possible, and in vain. One or two old trees had been previously cut down and sawn up; the lost treasure could not be in them. Alwyn began to wish that the jewels had all been disposed of in America, and that this search, the folly of which seemed to throw a sort of doubt on the whole story, had never been undertaken. Lady Carleton was most anxious and eager over the matter, and as the search could hardly be kept quite secret, its cause came to the ears of Florence, who, when she was out with little Lily, spent her time in poking her fingers into the smallest knot or rent in perfectly sound trees, and started a theory that the jewels were probably in some of the jackdaws’ nests about the chimneys of Ravenshurst, having been carried there after the manner of the various thimbles, rings, etc, which had been so disposed of in the story books with which she was acquainted. Florence was behaving wonderfully well, and little Lily was very fond of her; and she perhaps owed some popularity with the other servants to the fact that she was the sister of the Henry Whittaker whose name was in every one’s mouth. Harry was very anxious to get home again. He took a room at Ashcroft, and visited his family sometimes; but he was often at a loss what to do with himself. The Warrens were very kind to him, and all the heads of departments at the great house took up the cue and showed him civility; Alwyn always treated him with the same friendly consideration, and was often glad of a chat with him on matters familiar to them both.
Alwyn had, however, much else to take up his time and thoughts. The neighbourhood accepted him and paid him attentions; which, as it soon became apparent, his father was anxious that he should accept. The Carletons especially came forward in a marked manner, and all this gradually changed and undermined Mr Cunningham’s feelings about him. He saw that it was impossible to treat such a son as in disgrace, and perhaps his continued stiffness was more shyness than displeasure. James Cunningham behaved admirably, and invited Alwyn to visit him in London, and he went, though very unwillingly, for all this while poor Edgar was growing more and more dependent on him, and though he eagerly urged the acceptance of his cousin’s invitation, he could not conceal his delight when Alwyn came back again. Alwyn was touched beyond measure at the affection that Edgar showed him, and repaid it with the tenderest devotion.
Poor little Wyn was always hoping that his master would be well enough to come into the wood; but the drives in the pony chaise had been very short of late, and often Edgar was only fit to lie quite still on the terrace, looking at the sky and the trees, still enjoying the sense of “out of doors,” which was like life to him.
One splendid afternoon, early in September, when the sky was one glorious sheet of blue, and the red creepers and purple clematis were covering the side of the old house with colour, Wyn came up the garden with a carefully constructed basket of lichens and wild flowers in his hand. He had brought it up to show it to Mr Edgar; and, by good luck, there lay Mr Edgar, alone on his couch, for once without Mr Alwyn by his side, to take up his attention.
“Ha, Wyn!” he said; “what have you there? What splendid affair is that?”
“Please, sir, Lady Carleton has offered a prize for the best wild-flower collection at the flower show to-morrow, and this is mine. There are grasses and lichens too, sir.”
“Yes. Capital! How well you have arranged it! All the three sorts of heath too!”
“Yes, sir. Please, sir, last year we went right through the wood to see the heather in bloom.”
“Ah, yes; but, you see, just lately the pony chair seems to shake me, so I have to lie still.”
“When you’re better, sir, there’s a new bit of clearing that’s very pretty. There’ll be plenty of anemones there in the spring.”
“Yes, in the spring! We’ve had some very good times out with Dobbles, Wyn, haven’t we? You must bring him up for me to look at some day, if I can’t go out. Now tell me about all the creatures.”
Wyn began a long list of the various birds and beasts under his charge, as had often been his custom; but there was something in the intent way in which his young master looked at him that made it difficult for Wyn to go on. Edgar lay so still, and made so little comment.
“Thank you,” he said, when Wyn paused, which was not at all his usual way of receiving the reports, as he used to call them. “Alwyn, is that you at last?” he said, as a step sounded.
“Yes; did you wonder where I was?” said Alwyn, standing over him. His colour was high and his look quite radiant. He held some letters in his hand. Edgar’s attention was caught at once.
“Your basket is first-rate, Wyn,” he said; “I wish I could have helped you to get the flowers. Are you going to take it in now?”
“Yes, sir, and to take some flowers to little Miss Lily, who wants to send up a bunch, ‘not for competition,’ she says, sir, because she can’t get them all herself.”
“Well, you must come and tell me about the show. – What is it, Alwyn?” he added eagerly, as Wyn went his way.
“It is the best of good new’s. Mr Dallas writes the kindest letter! My letter from here and one from Sir Philip Carleton have fully satisfied him that all is clear as to the past. For the future, he says, he can trust me there; and here he cares nothing. When I go back I shall find a welcome home, and I may write to her.”
“That’s right,” said Edgar.
He looked up bravely, but Alwyn felt the congratulating hand tighten close upon his own. Edgar’s nerves were too weak now for him to be allowed to dwell on any agitating topic, and Alwyn just added a word or two of detail, and then said: “Now I shall read to you; you’ll hear enough about it all in time, no doubt.”
“No,” said Edgar, “go and write your letter. I see father coming; he will tell me the news. Just lift me up a little bit and give me some drink. Yes, so – I am quite comfortable.”
Alwyn was naturally very eager to write his letter, and went into the house, grateful to Edgar for understanding his hurry.
But he did not know that Edgar had wound up all the remains of his resolute spirit to an effort he was determined to make. Poor fellow! ‘Don’t care’ was no easy saying to him now. His heart beat fast, and he could scarcely conquer the dread of making matters worse by speaking. “Father,” he began, after Mr Cunningham had said a few ordinary words about the weather, “I can’t say very much now; you’ll forgive me for being short and sudden. You know, father – I shall never be your heir – never. You will not let any one think that you wait for the chance of finding those jewels before you set Alwyn in his right place. What can a man do but repent? I know it must come right finally; but, father, will you give me the happiness of seeing it?”
“The jewels are neither here nor there,” said Mr Cunningham.
“But, if they are found, it will look as if Alwyn needed that to reinstate him. Don’t you see how scrupulous he is – that he will hardly pick a flower or ask a question? He puts off all his own happiness for me; he stays because I need him so much. But that won’t be for so very long. Oh, father, make it right for him to stay here; make it right for yourself. I know that you know how it must be, as things have turned out. But say so, father, say so. Things get clear when one is forced to think. I know now that you really missed him; he feels how much cause for anger you had. Father, I care so very much that you should really take him back and forgive him!”
“You distress yourself needlessly,” said Mr Cunningham, stiffly still, but not unkindly. “I was justified, I think, in taking time to consider. I greatly regret Alwyn’s American connections. But you are quite right in feeling that I should not now be justified in diverting the property from the direct line. That will I spoke of has been destroyed for some weeks.”
“I did not mean to distrust you, father,” said Edgar. “I knew that you would see it so, but you will let people know that it is so.”
“Did your brother know that you meant to speak to me?”
“No, oh no! We have never touched on the subject.”
“Don’t distress yourself,” said Mr Cunningham; “I will take opportunities. Here is Alwyn coming.”
Perhaps Alwyn thought the echo of the voices through the window a little too eager, for he came out with an anxious look at Edgar, making an excuse of pushing the couch more into the shade.
“Alwyn,” said Mr Cunningham, “my agent has been making a proposal to pull down the cottages and farm-buildings on Ashurst Farm, and throw it into one concern with Croppings. What do you think?”
“I – really, sir – I cannot judge,” said Alwyn, turning round and considerably startled at this appeal.
“I shouldn’t wish to do it if you disliked the notion. Perhaps, if Edgar does not want you, you would walk down with me and look at the place.”
“Go – go,” whispered Edgar. “Go with him at once.”
Alwyn and his father were a long while away. Edgar had been taken indoors while they were out, and, weak as he was, had grown weary of waiting before Alwyn came in, much too late to send his half-written letter by that day’s post.
“Edgar,” he said in a low voice, “it is all right. My father shall not, if I can help, repent it.”
“Tell me,” said Edgar eagerly.
“We didn’t get on much with settling about the farms,” said Alwyn, half laughing. “As we walked down he said that he begged me to spare him conversation on the subject. I was to understand that my place was ready for me. And then, when brooks came up about the farms, he referred him to me in a sort of matter-of-course way that I could have laughed at. A fine notion Brooks must have formed of my knowledge of the subject! We met Sir Philip Carleton, and when he said that the search in the wood seemed hopeless, my father answered that, for Lady Carleton’s sake, he was sorry. It did not, of course, particularly concern himself. Then he walked round by the stables and made me say which of his young horses should be sold. I could only say I would come to-morrow and look more particularly. I couldn’t have told a racer from a cab-horse then. But, Edgar, the best of it was that I – I knew that he liked it, that he felt it good to have me to ask and to care. And at last he said something about ‘my friends in America.’ I don’t think he liked the notion much, but he ended by saying that he would write to Mr Dallas, and that he should be glad to make the young lady’s acquaintance at no distant date.”
“Yes,” said Edgar. “Alwyn, you ought to go and fetch her – you will one day – and bring her to see Ashcroft. But – ”
“Some day, perhaps,” said Alwyn. “Just now I’m going to take care of you, and do what I can to please my father. He was very good.”
“I couldn’t let you go,” said Edgar. “It used to come across me what it would be like to die alone. I was afraid of getting worse always, though I wouldn’t own it to myself. Afraid of having to lie here shut up from the air and the light, and just the things that made life bearable – with never any change. But now that I have you – ”
“I have had much that I don’t deserve,” said Alwyn very low; “but of all these mercies, the one I am most glad, most thankful for, is that I can help you, my dear, dear boy! Thank God for that!”
“I am glad,” said Edgar; “oh, how glad! But I am afraid I don’t know much about being thankful, Val; you must teach me.”
