Kitabı oku: «Maud Florence Nellie: or, Don't care!», sayfa 8
Chapter Fifteen
Father and Son
Edgar Cunningham got somewhat the better of his headache as the day went on, and late in the afternoon insisted on getting out into the fresh air on the terrace, in the hope that Wyn might make some excuse for coming up to speak to him. He was hardly fit even for this exertion; but the open air was always the one thing he cared for, and the suspense was more endurable so than when he was shut up in the house.
When his cushions were raised he could see across the flower garden, over the low wall that bounded it, to the road that led from the wood and the village, up to the stables, and to the back of the house; and as his bright eyes were keen and long-sighted, he often amused himself with watching the comers and goers, noticing all that went on, as only those people do who are confined to one place.
To-day, however, as he lay almost flat on his back, he could not see the road, and it was with a start of surprise that he looked up and saw his father standing by him.
“I hope, as you are out of doors, that you are better, Edgar?” he said.
“Oh yes, thanks, almost well,” said Edgar.
“Your boy, little Warren, has been getting into trouble. He has let down the young bay horse and broken his knees.”
“Wyn! Has he? What had he to do with the horse?” said Edgar, very much startled as he thought of what Wyn should have been doing.
“He had been driving his mother and her niece to Ravenshurst as I understand, and went to fetch his sister from the station. He let down the horse in Coombe Lane. That is what I am told,” said Mr Cunningham with emphasis, and using all the advantage his position gave him to look straight down into Edgar’s face.
“Was he hurt?” said Edgar, looking straight up in return.
Mr Cunningham was very angry with his son, and little disposed to be merciful to him, though he had not meant to enter on the subject of the letter if Edgar had been more manifestly unequal to a discussion.
“He broke his head; I believe nothing serious. He had a letter for you, which I undertook to deliver myself,” and Mr Cunningham laid Alwyn’s unopened packet in Edgar’s hand.
Edgar caught his breath, but his face never flinched as his father went on:
“I was not aware, when you spoke to me the other morning, that you were already in communication with your brother.”
“I dare say you think it possible that I might have so deceived you,” said Edgar bitterly. “But my brother made himself known to me for the first time yesterday. I should not be waiting here if I had the use of my limbs like other people. As things are, I’ll beg you to open that letter and read it at once yourself.”
Edgar’s manner and face were alike defiant, and he was so indignant at the imputation cast on him that he never saw that his father’s lips were twitching and that his face was pale, nor took advantage of the moment of softening.
Mr Cunningham took up the packet, and turned round as if to open and read it, when his attention was caught by three figures coming up the road towards the house. They evidently saw him on the terrace, and after a pause and a word or two came through the gate up the garden.
“What is it? Who is there, father?” cried Edgar, expectant of any turn of events.
“It is – your brother!” said Mr Cunningham, laying his hand on the wall, with pale lips, and his eyes fixed on the first figure approaching him.
Alwyn stood still at the top of the steps and took off his hat.
“I see you know me, sir,” he said; “I did not mean to come here against your wish. But your keepers have made a mistake, which perhaps you will explain to them.”
“That will do, blockheads; don’t you know a gentleman when you see one?” said Mr Cunningham, as the two men, greatly crestfallen, and muttering a “Beg pardon, I’m sure, sir,” retreated in haste.
“It is right, sir, that I should explain myself,” said Alwyn, speaking with evident effort. “I had no intention of forcing myself on you. If you will have the goodness to read the letter I gave to my brother, I will go back to London and wait – ”
“No, no, no!” interposed Edgar, struggling up on to his elbow. “I’d stand by your side if I could stand anywhere. At least I’ll claim the right to own you.”
Alwyn had not meant to make any advance to Edgar which might be construed as a defiance, but he now crossed over to the couch and took the offered hand gently in both his own.
“My father will understand,” he said, “that I should not have made any approach to you if I had known of the fatal mischief for which I am responsible. Dear Edgar, lie still; no one could have done more for me than you have.”
There was a pause. Mr Cunningham moved and sat down in a chair opposite his sons. Edgar lay back, but with eyes still fronting his father, while he still held Alwyn’s hand. Alwyn himself hardly knew what next to do. There was, however, something about him so unlike the wild youth from whom the father had parted, so unlike what Mr Cunningham had imagined as his probable condition, that all previous ideas were upset.
“Your reappearance,” said Mr Cunningham at length, “is very sudden after so complete a silence. What is your reason for coming here?”
Alwyn hesitated, his mouth quivered, and he pointed to the letter which still lay on Edgar’s knee. Then he dropped his brother’s hand and made a step or two forward.
“Father,” he said, “I – I beg your pardon. That first, nothing else. I have made a position for myself, as you will see. I came partly because I hope to set Whittaker’s character right with his friends here and to leave no mystery about my own. But I have nothing to say for myself – as to the past. I was inexcusable all through.”
“Give me your letter,” said Mr Cunningham. “I will read it; I make no promises. I – I am glad; it is a satisfaction to me to hear that you have done well. But personal intercourse is another question, to which you once attached conditions to which I am not likely to see my way.”
“The conditions, sir,” said Alwyn, “are, I know now, entirely for you to make. Without your desire I shall not come here again. Indeed, of course, I cannot.”
“I never felt till now,” burst out Edgar passionately, “what it is to be helpless. I’ll not ask you to stay without a welcome. But what my father told me is not with my goodwill. I would blot out the past I must say – wait – oh! I cannot even speak for you,” as his breath came in panting gasps and his voice failed him.
“Hush, hush! I understand,” said Alwyn, much distressed; “there is no need to tell me. Hush!”
“Don’t linger here for me,” gasped Edgar, resolute still. “It is – all – nothing.”
But the last word died away in deadly faintness. Mr Cunningham gave a hasty call. Robertson came out of the house, and Alwyn could do nothing but help to carry his brother into his room. He could not go till Edgar revived, which was not for some time, and then it was hardly to full consciousness, certainly not to his ordinary self-control, for he clung to Alwyn’s hand, entreating him not to leave him.
“Don’t go, Alwyn, don’t! You know I can’t come to you – you know I can’t come to the wood to-day.”
“Can you say nothing to quiet him, sir?” whispered Robertson. “He has no strength for such excitement. His heart is very weak.”
“I shall stay,” said Alwyn; “don’t fret, my dear boy; indeed, I won’t leave you now.”
“You know that I’ll never take your place; even if I live I will not!” said Edgar vehemently.
“No, no,” said Alwyn, without much perception of the sense of what Edgar was saying. “Never mind it now. There, that’s better. Hush! we will talk by-and-by.”
Edgar grew quieter at last, and Alwyn, as he sat beside him, began a little to realise the situation. His father had retired as soon as the first alarm was over, and no word came from him.
Presently some soup was brought for Edgar, and Robertson deferentially offered Alwyn a tray with sandwiches and some claret.
“You will need it, sir, if you remain with Mr Edgar,” he said.
Alwyn hesitated, but he had had nothing since morning, and for Edgar’s sake he must accept the situation in full. It was a long strange night. Edgar was restless and feverish, only soothed by Alwyn’s voice and touch; but towards morning he fell asleep quietly, and Alwyn, as the sweet summer morning dawned, looked round about him, and recognised that the room in which he sat had been the old “study” – full of how many memories! All the furniture was changed to suit Edgar’s requirements, but the lines of the window, the panels on the wall, had a strange familiarity. When Edgar, half waking, looked at him, and murmured something about a dream, Alwyn felt that either this night, or all the past eight years, were as a dream to him. He heard the sounds of the rousing household, familiar as no other sounds in the world could be, and presently Robertson, who had gone to lie down in the outer room, where he usually slept, came back and said:
“Mr Cunningham has sent word, sir, to say that breakfast will be served at nine in the dining-room. Will you let this man show you a room? I think my young master will be quite easy now.”
“I don’t like to leave him while he is asleep, he might wake and miss me. – What, Edgar, awake? I am going to get some breakfast; I shall be back soon.”
He spoke in as matter-of-course a voice as possible, and Edgar only smiled a little and assented.
Alwyn went out into the new old house. The servants, who came to him also with a curious new old deference, unknown across the water, were strange to him; but he almost laughed to see how, evidently, they accepted him, and noticed that the man who had been attending on him did not offer, when he came out, to show him the way to the dining-room; he watched him as he turned naturally towards it. The room was empty.
“Mr Cunningham begged you to take some breakfast, sir, and to come to him afterwards in his library.”
Alwyn sat down and silently accepted the breakfast. He recognised the gold-edged, deep-coloured china, the plate, even the special variety of hot cakes which was offered to him. He was too much absorbed to be embarrassed, and was just deciding that it would be better to get the interview with his father over before he saw Edgar again, when a quick step sounded in the hall, and Geraldine stood before him, her tall figure upright as a dart, and her dark eyes recalling Edgar’s youth so vividly, that she seemed more familiar to Alwyn than poor Edgar’s own altered countenance.
He rose, colouring, and hardly knowing what to do; but Geraldine walked straight up to him.
“Are you my brother Alwyn?” she said in her clear outspoken voice.
“Yes – you are Geraldine?” said Alwyn.
“Why didn’t you tell me so in the wood? I am very glad you are come home. I’ll be friends with you anyhow.”
Her bold, defiant voice sounded to Alwyn like an echo of his own old self, and it struck him how ready both his father’s children were to side against him.
Geraldine came close to him and offered to kiss him, and he kissed her tenderly but very quietly, and looked at her as if learning her face.
“I am very glad I have seen my sister,” he said. “But now I must go to my father. I must not talk to you now.”
“I told Miss Hardman that I would come and speak to you,” said Geraldine. “I shall write to you if you go away again. I won’t be prevented.” Alwyn said nothing, and she looked at length a little awed by his silence and gravity. He moved away towards the door, then came back and kissed her again, this time in a warm hasty fashion that brought the tears to her eyes, then went across the hall and knocked at the door of his father’s library.
Chapter Sixteen
Harry Again
Harry Whittaker, when suddenly claimed by Florrie as her long-lost brother, felt an immediate sense of recognition of the fair, fat, bouncing-ball of a seven years child, whom he remembered in the equally bouncing and fully proportioned damsel of fifteen.
“If you’re my little sister Florrie,” he said, taking hold of her hands, “how do you come to be out here by yourself at this time in the evening?”
“’Twas I went and chattered to the keepers and set ’em upon you. And when little Miss Lily found this here letter, I knew as how it was you and Miss Geraldine’s brother, and I run away to tell Wyn to stop ’em.”
“Run away from the Warrens?”
“No – from Ravenshurst; I was to help the nurse there.”
“Run away from your situation!”
“Well,” said Florrie with more spirit, “it was a deal better to run away than have you put in prison. I ain’t so set on situations, either.”
“Well, Florence, you’re a plucky girl I see, and I’m greatly obliged to you; but now I must just take you back to the keeper’s lodge, that they may be able to say to the lady that your own brother brought you home again.”
He gave a little squeeze to the hand he held, which brought a curious thrill to Florence’s heart. “But – but won’t they take you up?” she said.
“No; I shan’t play hide-and-seek any longer. Anyway, if you came out to take care of me I’m bound to take care of you. So come along.”
“I ain’t afraid to go back to Ravenshurst and face it out,” said Florrie.
“No; you shall go back with a good account to give of yourself to-morrow, and now you do as I tell you.”
Harry was so uneasy as to what had become of Mr Alwyn that he was not sorry for any chance of finding out.
Florence walked along by his side more subdued than she had ever been in her life. She answered all the various questions which Harry asked her about home and their father quite meekly and as they neared the keeper’s lodge, to which he knew the way much better than she did, he heard a little sniffle.
“Don’t be afraid, I’ll stand by you,” said Harry good-naturedly, and Florence for once did not reply that she never was afraid in her life.
There was a light still burning in the lodge, and Harry went boldly up and knocked at the door. It was opened by Charles Warren himself, who looked the tall burly figure up and down.
“If you’re Henry Whittaker,” he said, “walk in, and we’ll hear what you’ve got to say.”
“I thank you kindly,” said Harry; “I shouldn’t have intruded, but I’ve brought back my sister, who – ”
“Mercy on us, Florrie!” exclaimed Mrs Warren, coming forward, while Wyn, looking very pale and red-eyed, with a large patch of brown paper on his nose, almost fell upon Florence.
“Oh, Florrie I have they sent you home in disgrace, for – for thinking Mr Alwyn was a poacher? It’s all over now, and we’ve been the ruin of everything, and Mr Edgar’s heart will be broke, and all through me.”
“It ain’t ruined at all,” said Florence, “and I’ve found the letter for you, and here it is.”
“That’s nothing near so bad as the other letter what master’s got!” said poor Wyn.
“Now shut up, Wyn,” said his father. “Mr Alwyn’s at the house, and the matter’s out of your hands, which never ought to have been mixed up in it. Get you to bed at once. And what has brought Florence back again?”
“I went and carried on with Jim Blake and young Benson, and I set ’em on thinking the men in the wood were poachers, and when I found the letter in Miss Lily’s pocket, and saw it was Mr Alwyn and my brother, I thought I’d better run away than have their deaths on my shoulders. But I was settling down, Aunt Charlotte, I was indeed, and folding up the clothes quite regular.”
“Could a note be sent to tell the lady what is become of her?” said Harry. “I’ll go myself if that’s all; but it’s late, perhaps, to disturb them with a long story.”
“I’ll take the note,” said Ned Warren, who had been standing in the background, “if Bessie ’ll write it.”
Bessie accordingly indited a note in her mother’s name, in which she begged to inform her ladyship that Florence Whittaker had come home, but that circumstances had occurred in part to excuse her and that she (Mrs Warren) would wait on her ladyship the next morning with a full explanation.
This note despatched, Bessie good-naturedly went upstairs to bathe Wyn’s face and to hear Florence’s story, and to leave the elders free to come to an explanation with the returned stranger. “Would you be good enough,” said Harry, “to tell me what has occurred as to Mr Cunningham?”
“It’s just this,” said Charles Warren. “Strangers are scarce in these parts, and my boy and the girl took it into their heads as they must be after mischief, and chattered about what was none of their business to the two young fellows that Ned and I have got in to help us. So when they saw a stranger, as they expressed it, ferreting in a tree, they clapped him on the shoulder and asked him his business. He looked them in the face, as they put it, as cool as you please, and asked them if they thought he was looking for pheasants’ eggs in a hollow tree in August? Which they took for cheek, which it sounded like, and told him they’d walk him up here to me. So he says, says they, ‘I’m glad you mind your business so thoroughly. Just walk up to the house with me, and I’ll explain matters to Mr Cunningham myself.’ So they walked him up, and Jim Blake, who has the most gumption of the two, says he did begin to feel uncommon uncomfortable, and when they came to the garden side, there was the master on the terrace. So says their man, ‘There’s your master, alone, I think. We’ll go and speak to him at once.’ And he unlatched the gate, quite natural-like, and walks up to the terrace. And there they saw Mr Edgar lying, and he gave a start and held out his hands, and the master sent them off with a flea in the ear. And they come straight to me, full of misgivings; they’re new in these parts, but, of course, I knew who it must be at once.”
“It did sound like Mr Alwyn all over,” said Mrs Warren.
“Then back comes Wyn, and hears the story, and begins to cry, and bursts out about the letter that Mr Alwyn had given him and the master took.”
“And is Mr Alwyn at the house now?” asked Harry.
“Yes,” said Warren, “he is. But now, perhaps, you’ll tell us where you come from, and what’s brought you here, and why in the wood?”
“That last,” said Harry, “came about unfortunate. Mr Alwyn and I came down here straight from London, knowing nothing of any one. And, thinking I was least likely to be recognised, he sent me with the letter to his brother, asking him to meet him in the wood, or come to London to see him, and to tell him how the land lay before he made himself known to his father. I gave the letter to Wyn, who dropped it: here it is. Mr Alwyn met Mr Edgar by chance, and was so knocked down by the state in which he found him, that he couldn’t tell what to do next. He was afraid, you see, of his brother having to bear the brunt of a discovery, and he not there. That made him delay.”
“But, why hollow trees, which seem to have occurred in everybody’s story?” said Warren.
“Oh!” said Harry, “to pass the time,” repeating much of what he had told Mrs Stroud, omitting, however, Alwyn’s experiences, but showing the copies of the certificates and attestations of Lennox’s confession, giving proofs by letters and documents of his respectable position in the States, and expressing with the frankness which, while it was like his old daring, had yet a different note in it, how, being a father himself, he had repented of his hardness and neglect towards his home. “But,” he concluded, “if people don’t believe us, there’s no more to be said about it at present.”
Warren was a shrewd man; he had never thought it at all likely that Harry had stolen the jewels, and he saw plainly that there was no reason to induce him to return to his native country unless the story was true.
“I take it,” he said, “that the gentlemen before whom these affidavits were made believed in the story.”
“Why, certainly,” said Harry, “which they are prepared to say in writing. Mr Warren,” he added, standing up, “there’s a deal in the past I have to ask your pardon for. I was a young scamp that cared neither for man nor God, and I was downright ungrateful for all your kindness. But I’m clear from that theft, and if you and my father can say you think so, you’ll clear away a trouble from me which not all my good fortune has made me forget.”
“Well, Harry,” said Warren, “I see nothing against your story, and I’m prepared to help you to make it out.”
After this Bessie came down, and the conversation took an easier turn, the exhibition of the family photograph, with the well-dressed wife and comfortable baby, having its due effect on Mrs Warren. A shakedown was offered to Harry in the kitchen, and at a late hour they all went to bed, if not to sleep, after the day’s excitement.
The next morning, as Wyn, though he was still rather sick and headachy, and anything but presentable, was preparing to go about his work and to inquire for Mr Edgar, and as Mrs Warren was making Florence tidy, in Bessie’s hat, to accompany her on a penitential errand to Ravenshurst, there was a tap at the open door, and there stood Alwyn Cunningham himself, as Mrs Warren said afterwards, for all the world as if he had come to give his orders for a day’s shooting.
“I heard you were here, Harry,” he said, grasping his comrade’s hand. “Warren, I hope you’ll give me a welcome also.”
“Indeed I will, sir, and glad to see you. Hope you’ll overlook the young fellow’s mistake yesterday.”
Alwyn laughed a little.
“They were quite in the right of it,” he said. “Hullo, Wyn, you have punished yourself as well as the horse.”
“Please, sir, if I hadn’t been stupid-like with my nose bleeding, I’d never have give up the letter. I’d have eaten it first!” burst out Wyn miserably.
“It was all for the best,” said Alwyn, “and you’re a faithful little fellow.”
He paused a moment, then went on, aside to Harry:
“My father wishes me to remain here for the present, and he will give facilities for the search in the wood which we wished to make. What are your plans, Harry?”
“Well, sir, since things are settled here, I think I ought to go to Rapley.”
“Can you go to London as well, and give orders for my things to be sent here? I could telegraph, but they are all in confusion. I don’t wish to leave my brother to-day. And you know I must not delay in going to Ravenshurst.”
“Is Mr Edgar better, sir?” asked Wyn timidly. “Not much, I’m afraid, as yet. He must be very quiet for the present.”
“Is all right, Mr Alwyn?” said Harry, as he followed him out of doors.
“As right as may be. My father acknowledges me, and asks me to stay with him. Friendliness and forgiveness are another matter. He read and heard all I had to say, and I believe he thinks your character cleared. Perhaps the sudden meeting was as well for him as any other, but poor Edgar fainted; all plans and scruples had to give way. It has been a terrible shock for him, and he is quite worn out, only wanting to keep me in sight I’ll go back to him. I can’t think of anything else just now.”
He turned off with a hasty “Good morning.”
“He’s as grave as his father,” said Mrs Warren, “only the master never spoke so gentle. Well, I’d like to have seen Mr Alwyn’s merry face again.”
“When folks have to right themselves after they’ve gone as wrong as Mr Alwyn and I did,” said Harry, “there ain’t so much merry-making left in them. Not but what a light heart, thank God, is very persevering. And Mr Alwyn’s got a twinkle in him yet. But coming home’s bitter hard to him, and everybody ain’t as forgiving as you, Cousin Charlotte, nor as comfortable to ask pardon of.”
