Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Seventeen.To Set Wrongs Right.The abrupt disappearance of the new nursemaid had naturally caused considerable excitement at Ravenshurst, and Lily’s story, when she was asked to repeat what the new girl had said to her, did not throw much light on the subject. It seemed, however, to be clear that the child had really picked up a letter in the forest, and that, on its being shown to Florence, the girl had at once decamped. When Mrs Warren’s note came, promising an explanation, Sir Philip Carleton hummed and hawed, but told his wife that, as Cunningham’s keeper’s wife seemed so respectable a person, she had better hear the explanation. As to taking the girl back, that was another thing altogether.Lady Carleton had no idea what the explanation was to be, and when Mrs Warren appeared at the door of her morning-room with Florence behind, hanging her head, her reception was not encouraging.“I hope, Mrs Warren, that you have some reason to give for your niece’s extraordinary conduct. She has behaved in a most unheard-of manner.”“She has, my lady, and I am going to trouble your ladyship with the excuse for it. Some strangers were seen in the wood, and Florence here and my little boy took it into their heads, which was none of their business, to warn the keepers about them. Then, my lady, when Florence was putting Miss Lily to bed, the little lady showed her a letter which she said she had found in the wood.”“Yes,” said Lady Carleton; “Miss Lily told me something about that letter, but I had no time to attend to her. Well?”“My lady, she saw in that letter the name of her own brother, Harry Whittaker, and perceived it was written by Mr Alwyn Cunningham, whose story, my lady, she had heard, it seems, from my Wyn. And Florence put two and two together, and saw that ’twas her own brother and Mr Alwyn that she had set the keepers upon, and off she ran, without another thought to send Wyn to warn them. And indeed, my lady, I hardly know whether it was her place or not; certain sure she ought to have mentioned that she was going; but her brother met her and brought her home; and if your ladyship can overlook her behaviour, she’ll be a good girl for the future, I do think.”“But, Mrs Warren,” exclaimed Lady Carleton, to whom Florence’s conduct was the least part of the matter, “do you mean to say that Mr Alwyn Cunningham has returned?”“Yes, my lady, he has, and Henry Whittaker too; and I may say, your ladyship, that Henry appears to be a reformed character, and well-to-do also. And very remarkable things he had to tell us. But those it is not my business to trouble your ladyship with.”Mrs Warren said no word about the confession and the jewels; that, she thought, was not her business. And now that Mr Alwyn was once more in his proper place, she had no call to discuss his character.“Of course, my lady,” she said, “if your ladyship feels that you cannot overlook such a breach of propriety, I will take Florence back at once.”Lady Carleton looked at the girl for a moment.“I should like Florence to stay,” she said. “Will you please leave her with me now, Mrs Warren? I see that the case was exceptional.” Mrs Warren thanked her ladyship, and with a discreet hope that Florence would be grateful and obedient, withdrew at once.“Come here, Florence,” said Lady Carleton in the softest voice Florence had ever heard. “It was a very serious thing to do, you know, to run away without leave. It is because I think that you are a good steady girl in general that I overlook it, as you had a reason.”“I ain’t a good girl, Lady Carleton,” said Florence. “I ain’t steady, but I wasn’t after nothing wrong last night.”“What do you mean by saying you are not steady?” said Lady Carleton, somewhat taken aback by Florence’s town-bred use of her name and by her queer manner.“I was always the one to lead the rest,” said Florence, “and I’ve always liked a bit of fun. But I had to go and try to step them from taking Harry up for a poacher, and—and he says it ain’t no manner of use to say ‘Don’t care,’ and I’m very sorry.”“If you were able to stop the harm you had begun to do, that is a thing to be very thankful for—to thank God for!” said Lady Carleton with some emotion in her tone.Florence looked up with a certain solemnity in her round eyes never seen there before.“I did say my prayers in the wood,” she said, “when I lost my way, and then Harry came.”“Tell me about it,” said Lady Carleton kindly. Thus encouraged, Florence volubly, according to her nature, but with a friendliness of manner which was really the nearest approach to respect that she had ever exhibited, told her tale.“And my heart was in my mouth, ma’am, the trees were that black and that awful. I’d have run back, for I wouldn’t have cared if nurse had given me ever so much of the rough side of her tongue. But there, I couldn’t have it on my mind that I’d set the keepers on my brother and dear Miss Geraldine’s too. But I didn’t know one path from another no more than if there hadn’t been none. And then I thought of little Miss Lily’s prayer about setting wrongs right and travellers, and I said it, Lady Carleton; and there was Harry.”“Did you, Florence? Oh, thank God for it!” said Lady Carleton tearfully.“And he took me right back, and he said this morning that the best thing I could do was to come back here and be trained a bit. And so I’ve come, please, ma’am—my lady. Please, aunt said I was to say ‘my lady,’ and I will, but I forgot; and I’ll be a good girl, and not gossip on the sly, nor answer nurse back, nor make the other girls saucy. And I’ll trim up my hat quiet, if you like, my lady. I—I want to be good.”Florence cried as she finished speaking, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose noisily. Perhaps, but for the circumstances that appealed so strongly to her sympathy, Lady Carleton would never have recognised how real this confused desire “to be good” was in this extraordinary girl, so unlike any well-trained maiden whom she had ever encountered.“Well,” she said, “you shall try. You had better talk as little about the matter as possible, and I trust you never will ‘gossip on the sly,’ or do anything of the kind, for I couldn’t have a girl who was not nice and modest near my little ones. I will speak to nurse.”“Thank you—my lady.”But as Lady Carleton rose to take her back to the nursery, Florence’s round face suddenly beamed all over, and she said sympathetically: “They’ve found out who stole the jewels, my lady, and it was not Harry nor Mr Alwyn. They were as innocent as lambs.”“I think we had better not talk about that just now,” said Lady Carleton; and then, with a sudden inspiration and effort, she added: “Florence, perhaps you don’t know that it was partly my fault that those jewels were lost, that I helped to put some one in the way of temptation. It was because I was so silly, that I only thought of what you call ‘a bit of fun.’ That is why I was so glad you were able to prevent the mischief you started, and why I taught Miss Lily to say those prayers. The good God has heard them. You see, I shall be very glad if youaregood.”Lady Carleton had a very simple manner, but Florence looked up at her with the first sense of real respect—she had begun to have real likings—that she had ever known.“Iwilltry,” she said softly, with her bold eyes cast down; and Lady Carleton took her by the hand and led her up to the nursery.An hour or two later, when Florence, whose reception by the nurse had not been particularly cordial, was sitting demurely in the nursery window, putting her best needlework, such as it was, into Miss Lily’s new pinafore, a note was brought to Lady Carleton. “The gentleman was waiting.” Lady Carleton had thought of nothing but the half-heard story of the returned travellers, of the hint about the jewels, and of the hope that the consequences of her girlish folly might be undone at last.The note ran thus:—“Ashcroft: August 5th.“Dear Lady, Carleton,—My eldest son has returned from abroad. He asks your permission for a short interview, either with yourself or with Sir Philip Carleton, concerning the circumstances under which he left England.“I remain sincerely yours,—“George Cunningham.”Lady Carleton handed the note to her husband, to whom she had already related Florence’s story.“You will see him?” said Sir Philip. “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”It was a very uncomfortable moment both for Lady Carleton and for Alwyn Cunningham, who had been boy and girl together, and now hardly knew how to meet; but Sir Philip carried it off by ordinary greetings as to the son of a neighbour, whose acquaintance he was ready to make, and Alwyn hardly waited a moment before he entered on the matter in hand.He took out the jewel that he had shown to Edgar in the wood and laid it on the table.“I can at least return to you this piece of your family property, Lady Carleton,” he said.“My mother’s jewel, the ruby bird!” faltered Lady Carleton, hardly knowing what this implied.“And,” said Alwyn, “I will ask Sir Philip Carleton to be good enough to read these papers.”These contained the confession of Lennox, already alluded to by Harry Whittaker to his aunt, and the attestations of it, of which he had shown copies to the Warrens.“That Lennox stole the jewels, and returned one of them on his death-bed to me, Whittaker has told some of his relations,” said Alwyn, “but the main fact of the matter has only been confided to my father, as you will see that it would not do to make it public. This Is the substance of what he told me as nearly as possible in his own words:”‘I put the jewels for safety in a hollow tree near the entrance to Ravenshurst. I thought they were safer there than in my keeping. I kept one back to take it up to London, and see if I could dispose of it, but before I could do so the alarm was given. I was afraid to come back without a reason, and I went off with my new master, leaving the jewels in the tree, and thinking they’d either be found (I have never been in England since), or I should get a chance of coming back for them. But I put it off and I put it off. I took service with Mr Alwyn Cunningham because I thought I could find out how things had gone; and I hope he will go home and find the jewels.’”“This is a most extraordinary story,” said Sir Philip.“It is,” said Alwyn. “Of course it rests finally on the unsupported words of myself and Whittaker, who alone heard it. These other papers and letters may show what worth is attached to our words in our own neighbourhood, but that is all.”“Then do you mean to say,” ejaculated Sir Philip, “that these missing jewels are—are in an old tree trunk in Ashcroft Wood?”“Well,” said Alwyn, “all I can say is that Lennox said that he put them in one.”“Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Philip.“But, of course,” Alwyn continued, “some onemayhave lighted on them during these eight years and carried them off, to say nothing of the difficulty of finding them. For he had done it, he said, in the dark, and though he could have found the tree himself, he could not tell me anything about it, except that it was near Ravenshurst. You see he was dying fast, and spoke with great difficulty.”“Do you remember the man, Lily?” asked Sir Philip.“I think I remember something about a servant who went to America. Oh, Philip, you will have every place searched—you will help Mr Cunningham? If the jewels could be found! But I don’t mind so much after all about that if no one is accused falsely.”“As to that,” said Sir Philip, “I know Mr Dallas, of Boston, and the Bishop of. I knew them when I was once in the States, the year before I married. What they say here is quite sufficient to establish the worth of Mr Alwyn Cunningham’s testimony and the character of his foreman, who is more concerned in the matter. You will allow me to call on you, Mr Cunningham, and to express my pleasure at your return.”“Thank you,” said Alwyn, a little stiffly, for the situation sorely tried his pride. “I am much obliged to you,” he added, after a moment.“And, Alwyn,” said Lady Carleton, with tears in her eyes, “can you ever forgive me for my silly trick, and for being too frightened to tell of it at once? Oh, I have never—never forgiven myself.”“I don’t think it is easy for any of us to forgive ourselves, Lady Carleton,” said Alwyn, “for that night’s work. But your share was a very small one.”“The fact is,” said Sir Philip, “the thing was never properly investigated. Mr Fletcher was afraid that the silly trick would come to my ears—too soon. I needn’t say—since you know my wife—that I at once heard of it from her. The chance was lost. But what is to be done now? You yourself believe this story?”“Oh yes,” said Alwyn, “I do. There was no object in deceiving me. No; I am sure Lennox had not sold the jewels, and made up the story of the old tree.”“We cannot let it get about that the wood is full of diamonds,” said Sir Philip.“No,” returned Alwyn with a laugh; “neither Whittaker nor myself could resist a little bird’s-nesting, but it was, of course, unwise. That was partly why I wished to make myself known first to my brother. I did not know then that part of our misfortunes.”“Ah! poor fellow,” said Sir Philip, “he is sadly helpless. But your return will be a capital thing for him. His life must be rather solitary.”“Yes, I fear so,” said Alwyn. “I will go back to him now, with many thanks for a most kind reception.”“Lily,” said Sir Philip, when their guest was gone, “I believe young Cunningham told the truth and the whole truth, to-day. But I didn’t.”“What in the world do you mean, Philip?”“Why, only yesterday I got a letter from old Dallas, giving a wonderful account of him and his high character out there, but wanting naturally to know how Mr Cunningham’s eldest son came to be there at all. I was wondering what I could say, for it was very evident that he had a reason for asking—there’s a lady in question, I imagine—when to-day he turns up.”“Oh, Philip, wemustfind the jewels!”“We must; but it passes me to know how to set about it.”

The abrupt disappearance of the new nursemaid had naturally caused considerable excitement at Ravenshurst, and Lily’s story, when she was asked to repeat what the new girl had said to her, did not throw much light on the subject. It seemed, however, to be clear that the child had really picked up a letter in the forest, and that, on its being shown to Florence, the girl had at once decamped. When Mrs Warren’s note came, promising an explanation, Sir Philip Carleton hummed and hawed, but told his wife that, as Cunningham’s keeper’s wife seemed so respectable a person, she had better hear the explanation. As to taking the girl back, that was another thing altogether.

Lady Carleton had no idea what the explanation was to be, and when Mrs Warren appeared at the door of her morning-room with Florence behind, hanging her head, her reception was not encouraging.

“I hope, Mrs Warren, that you have some reason to give for your niece’s extraordinary conduct. She has behaved in a most unheard-of manner.”

“She has, my lady, and I am going to trouble your ladyship with the excuse for it. Some strangers were seen in the wood, and Florence here and my little boy took it into their heads, which was none of their business, to warn the keepers about them. Then, my lady, when Florence was putting Miss Lily to bed, the little lady showed her a letter which she said she had found in the wood.”

“Yes,” said Lady Carleton; “Miss Lily told me something about that letter, but I had no time to attend to her. Well?”

“My lady, she saw in that letter the name of her own brother, Harry Whittaker, and perceived it was written by Mr Alwyn Cunningham, whose story, my lady, she had heard, it seems, from my Wyn. And Florence put two and two together, and saw that ’twas her own brother and Mr Alwyn that she had set the keepers upon, and off she ran, without another thought to send Wyn to warn them. And indeed, my lady, I hardly know whether it was her place or not; certain sure she ought to have mentioned that she was going; but her brother met her and brought her home; and if your ladyship can overlook her behaviour, she’ll be a good girl for the future, I do think.”

“But, Mrs Warren,” exclaimed Lady Carleton, to whom Florence’s conduct was the least part of the matter, “do you mean to say that Mr Alwyn Cunningham has returned?”

“Yes, my lady, he has, and Henry Whittaker too; and I may say, your ladyship, that Henry appears to be a reformed character, and well-to-do also. And very remarkable things he had to tell us. But those it is not my business to trouble your ladyship with.”

Mrs Warren said no word about the confession and the jewels; that, she thought, was not her business. And now that Mr Alwyn was once more in his proper place, she had no call to discuss his character.

“Of course, my lady,” she said, “if your ladyship feels that you cannot overlook such a breach of propriety, I will take Florence back at once.”

Lady Carleton looked at the girl for a moment.

“I should like Florence to stay,” she said. “Will you please leave her with me now, Mrs Warren? I see that the case was exceptional.” Mrs Warren thanked her ladyship, and with a discreet hope that Florence would be grateful and obedient, withdrew at once.

“Come here, Florence,” said Lady Carleton in the softest voice Florence had ever heard. “It was a very serious thing to do, you know, to run away without leave. It is because I think that you are a good steady girl in general that I overlook it, as you had a reason.”

“I ain’t a good girl, Lady Carleton,” said Florence. “I ain’t steady, but I wasn’t after nothing wrong last night.”

“What do you mean by saying you are not steady?” said Lady Carleton, somewhat taken aback by Florence’s town-bred use of her name and by her queer manner.

“I was always the one to lead the rest,” said Florence, “and I’ve always liked a bit of fun. But I had to go and try to step them from taking Harry up for a poacher, and—and he says it ain’t no manner of use to say ‘Don’t care,’ and I’m very sorry.”

“If you were able to stop the harm you had begun to do, that is a thing to be very thankful for—to thank God for!” said Lady Carleton with some emotion in her tone.

Florence looked up with a certain solemnity in her round eyes never seen there before.

“I did say my prayers in the wood,” she said, “when I lost my way, and then Harry came.”

“Tell me about it,” said Lady Carleton kindly. Thus encouraged, Florence volubly, according to her nature, but with a friendliness of manner which was really the nearest approach to respect that she had ever exhibited, told her tale.

“And my heart was in my mouth, ma’am, the trees were that black and that awful. I’d have run back, for I wouldn’t have cared if nurse had given me ever so much of the rough side of her tongue. But there, I couldn’t have it on my mind that I’d set the keepers on my brother and dear Miss Geraldine’s too. But I didn’t know one path from another no more than if there hadn’t been none. And then I thought of little Miss Lily’s prayer about setting wrongs right and travellers, and I said it, Lady Carleton; and there was Harry.”

“Did you, Florence? Oh, thank God for it!” said Lady Carleton tearfully.

“And he took me right back, and he said this morning that the best thing I could do was to come back here and be trained a bit. And so I’ve come, please, ma’am—my lady. Please, aunt said I was to say ‘my lady,’ and I will, but I forgot; and I’ll be a good girl, and not gossip on the sly, nor answer nurse back, nor make the other girls saucy. And I’ll trim up my hat quiet, if you like, my lady. I—I want to be good.”

Florence cried as she finished speaking, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose noisily. Perhaps, but for the circumstances that appealed so strongly to her sympathy, Lady Carleton would never have recognised how real this confused desire “to be good” was in this extraordinary girl, so unlike any well-trained maiden whom she had ever encountered.

“Well,” she said, “you shall try. You had better talk as little about the matter as possible, and I trust you never will ‘gossip on the sly,’ or do anything of the kind, for I couldn’t have a girl who was not nice and modest near my little ones. I will speak to nurse.”

“Thank you—my lady.”

But as Lady Carleton rose to take her back to the nursery, Florence’s round face suddenly beamed all over, and she said sympathetically: “They’ve found out who stole the jewels, my lady, and it was not Harry nor Mr Alwyn. They were as innocent as lambs.”

“I think we had better not talk about that just now,” said Lady Carleton; and then, with a sudden inspiration and effort, she added: “Florence, perhaps you don’t know that it was partly my fault that those jewels were lost, that I helped to put some one in the way of temptation. It was because I was so silly, that I only thought of what you call ‘a bit of fun.’ That is why I was so glad you were able to prevent the mischief you started, and why I taught Miss Lily to say those prayers. The good God has heard them. You see, I shall be very glad if youaregood.”

Lady Carleton had a very simple manner, but Florence looked up at her with the first sense of real respect—she had begun to have real likings—that she had ever known.

“Iwilltry,” she said softly, with her bold eyes cast down; and Lady Carleton took her by the hand and led her up to the nursery.

An hour or two later, when Florence, whose reception by the nurse had not been particularly cordial, was sitting demurely in the nursery window, putting her best needlework, such as it was, into Miss Lily’s new pinafore, a note was brought to Lady Carleton. “The gentleman was waiting.” Lady Carleton had thought of nothing but the half-heard story of the returned travellers, of the hint about the jewels, and of the hope that the consequences of her girlish folly might be undone at last.

The note ran thus:—

“Ashcroft: August 5th.

“Dear Lady, Carleton,—My eldest son has returned from abroad. He asks your permission for a short interview, either with yourself or with Sir Philip Carleton, concerning the circumstances under which he left England.

“I remain sincerely yours,—

“George Cunningham.”

Lady Carleton handed the note to her husband, to whom she had already related Florence’s story.

“You will see him?” said Sir Philip. “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”

It was a very uncomfortable moment both for Lady Carleton and for Alwyn Cunningham, who had been boy and girl together, and now hardly knew how to meet; but Sir Philip carried it off by ordinary greetings as to the son of a neighbour, whose acquaintance he was ready to make, and Alwyn hardly waited a moment before he entered on the matter in hand.

He took out the jewel that he had shown to Edgar in the wood and laid it on the table.

“I can at least return to you this piece of your family property, Lady Carleton,” he said.

“My mother’s jewel, the ruby bird!” faltered Lady Carleton, hardly knowing what this implied.

“And,” said Alwyn, “I will ask Sir Philip Carleton to be good enough to read these papers.”

These contained the confession of Lennox, already alluded to by Harry Whittaker to his aunt, and the attestations of it, of which he had shown copies to the Warrens.

“That Lennox stole the jewels, and returned one of them on his death-bed to me, Whittaker has told some of his relations,” said Alwyn, “but the main fact of the matter has only been confided to my father, as you will see that it would not do to make it public. This Is the substance of what he told me as nearly as possible in his own words:

”‘I put the jewels for safety in a hollow tree near the entrance to Ravenshurst. I thought they were safer there than in my keeping. I kept one back to take it up to London, and see if I could dispose of it, but before I could do so the alarm was given. I was afraid to come back without a reason, and I went off with my new master, leaving the jewels in the tree, and thinking they’d either be found (I have never been in England since), or I should get a chance of coming back for them. But I put it off and I put it off. I took service with Mr Alwyn Cunningham because I thought I could find out how things had gone; and I hope he will go home and find the jewels.’”

“This is a most extraordinary story,” said Sir Philip.

“It is,” said Alwyn. “Of course it rests finally on the unsupported words of myself and Whittaker, who alone heard it. These other papers and letters may show what worth is attached to our words in our own neighbourhood, but that is all.”

“Then do you mean to say,” ejaculated Sir Philip, “that these missing jewels are—are in an old tree trunk in Ashcroft Wood?”

“Well,” said Alwyn, “all I can say is that Lennox said that he put them in one.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“But, of course,” Alwyn continued, “some onemayhave lighted on them during these eight years and carried them off, to say nothing of the difficulty of finding them. For he had done it, he said, in the dark, and though he could have found the tree himself, he could not tell me anything about it, except that it was near Ravenshurst. You see he was dying fast, and spoke with great difficulty.”

“Do you remember the man, Lily?” asked Sir Philip.

“I think I remember something about a servant who went to America. Oh, Philip, you will have every place searched—you will help Mr Cunningham? If the jewels could be found! But I don’t mind so much after all about that if no one is accused falsely.”

“As to that,” said Sir Philip, “I know Mr Dallas, of Boston, and the Bishop of. I knew them when I was once in the States, the year before I married. What they say here is quite sufficient to establish the worth of Mr Alwyn Cunningham’s testimony and the character of his foreman, who is more concerned in the matter. You will allow me to call on you, Mr Cunningham, and to express my pleasure at your return.”

“Thank you,” said Alwyn, a little stiffly, for the situation sorely tried his pride. “I am much obliged to you,” he added, after a moment.

“And, Alwyn,” said Lady Carleton, with tears in her eyes, “can you ever forgive me for my silly trick, and for being too frightened to tell of it at once? Oh, I have never—never forgiven myself.”

“I don’t think it is easy for any of us to forgive ourselves, Lady Carleton,” said Alwyn, “for that night’s work. But your share was a very small one.”

“The fact is,” said Sir Philip, “the thing was never properly investigated. Mr Fletcher was afraid that the silly trick would come to my ears—too soon. I needn’t say—since you know my wife—that I at once heard of it from her. The chance was lost. But what is to be done now? You yourself believe this story?”

“Oh yes,” said Alwyn, “I do. There was no object in deceiving me. No; I am sure Lennox had not sold the jewels, and made up the story of the old tree.”

“We cannot let it get about that the wood is full of diamonds,” said Sir Philip.

“No,” returned Alwyn with a laugh; “neither Whittaker nor myself could resist a little bird’s-nesting, but it was, of course, unwise. That was partly why I wished to make myself known first to my brother. I did not know then that part of our misfortunes.”

“Ah! poor fellow,” said Sir Philip, “he is sadly helpless. But your return will be a capital thing for him. His life must be rather solitary.”

“Yes, I fear so,” said Alwyn. “I will go back to him now, with many thanks for a most kind reception.”

“Lily,” said Sir Philip, when their guest was gone, “I believe young Cunningham told the truth and the whole truth, to-day. But I didn’t.”

“What in the world do you mean, Philip?”

“Why, only yesterday I got a letter from old Dallas, giving a wonderful account of him and his high character out there, but wanting naturally to know how Mr Cunningham’s eldest son came to be there at all. I was wondering what I could say, for it was very evident that he had a reason for asking—there’s a lady in question, I imagine—when to-day he turns up.”

“Oh, Philip, wemustfind the jewels!”

“We must; but it passes me to know how to set about it.”

Chapter Eighteen.Sunday at Home.On the next Sunday morning the bells of Ashcroft Church were ringing for an early celebration of the Holy Communion. Many eyes were turned on Alwyn Cunningham as he walked down the village in the fresh sweetness of the summer morning. Such early church-going was not according to Mr Cunningham’s habits, and probably Alwyn was the last person that any one expected to see practise it, for the formal confirmation of a careless public schoolboy had never been followed up, and in old days he had never been a communicant. The change from former habits was so marked that the conservative villagers of Ashcroft looked at him very distrustfully, as if they wondered why he came.Perhaps Alwyn had forgotten what it was to be the observed of all observers; perhaps he had learnt that only thus would he obtain the help he needed in a most painful position. His father had accepted his statements as to Lennox’s confession, and had allowed such a search for the jewels as could be made without publicity to be commenced at once. He also acknowledged in a more indirect way that his son had become a respectable member of society, fit to visit at his house; but he did not open his heart to him, nor forgive him, except in a formal manner. Alwyn felt that his father did not trust him, he knew that his engagement to an American lady would not tell in his favour, and he guessed that the marked and complete change of attitude as to religious matters, the account of which, indeed, had been intended for Edgar only, would be viewed with suspicion. Mr Cunningham, after reading the letter, had touched on no point but the lost jewels, and Alwyn had accepted his silence and the situation, and talked diligently when they met, and at meal times, of general topics.But when old Mr Murray saw him this morning he wondered if the inaccessible Cunninghams, who had always been so polite, and on such stiff term with him since his coming to Ashcroft, would approached by the unlikely channel of the returned exile.Certainty anything less like the irreverent, light-minded youth whom he had heard described than Alwyn’s serious face could hardly be imagined, and Bessie Warren could not help wondering what he was thinking of, as she saw him look round before he turned away, as if noting the once familiar scene.Edgar had been so weak and so much shaken by all that had passed that he had been content to take his brother’s presence for granted, and when Alwyn realised how very solitary such hours of languor and suffering must usually have been, he cared little what his presence there cost himself, if the sight of him made Edgar’s eye brighten and gave him any pleasure, however small.To-day, however, Edgar was better, and his interest and curiosity began to revive. He had been lifted on to his couch by the open window, and had sent a message to Wyn to bring his black eyes to be looked at, and after a little space of the eager watching of the outdoor world that was always so much to him, he said to Alwyn:“Where is that letter that you wrote for me? I could read it now, and I’m as much in the dark as the first day I saw you.”“Here it is,” said Alwyn; “shall I read it to you or tell you about it? Is your head well enough to read it?”“Oh yes; I can stop if I’m tired. I had rather have it.”Alwyn gave him the letter, and went on with the one that he was himself writing, while Edgar studied the long document for some time in silence.Presently Edgar talked a little about the jewels and the chances of their discovery, observing that whoever poked about in the dark or on the quiet, hunting for them, would certainly get shot by the zealous keepers who had laid hands on Alwyn.“There’s nothing for it but setting the forest on fire,” he said.“No, no,” said Alwyn, “the jewels are not worth a tree of it.”Edgar gave him one of his keen glances, under which the colour mounted to Alwyn’s brow.“My father has given Warren orders to be thorough over it,” he said.Edgar said nothing, and returned to the letter.“Are—are you writing to Miss Dallas?” he said presently, with a rather shy intonation.“No; I have not that privilege. To her brother.”“Tell me about her. What’s her name?” said Edgar.Alwyn was nothing loath.“Corinne is her name,” he said; “they use it in America.” And then he went on and told Edgar a great deal, for which there is no space in this story, and as he talked his face grew happy and eager, and Edgar listened a little wistfully.“Now it will be all right for you?” he said.“I think so—I hope so. Mr Dallas only wished to be certain that no complications could occur in the future. He does trust me, and is satisfied with my position there. My father has said all that is needful.”“And when shall you go back, Val?” said Edgar.The bright eyes were still resolute and clear and the voice steady, though with a little strain in it.Alwyn looked at the white fragile face, and could not find voice for a moment to answer.“You mustn’t stay too long and spoil me,” said Edgar, “unless you come back again very quickly.”Alwyn came nearer and sat down by his side.“My boy,” he said, “you know I did not come home only to clear my way for my great hopes. I did come to seek for pardon and to try to undo a little of the past. There’s a long time to make up for; there is no hurry. You need not think about parting yet; that is, if my father—”Alwyn broke off, and Edgar lay still, twisting his long weak fingers round the hand he was holding.“I think you might promise to stay—as long as I want you,” he said. “I shall let you go—soon.”“I promise,” said Alwyn gently, and again Edgar was silent, till he said in a different tone:“Well, that’s all as it may be. One must take what comes.”“What is sent,” said Alwyn.“Val,” said Edgar after another silence, “it was very curious. Just before you came back I dreamed about you. I saw you. I knew you directly. But I saw that you were changed; your face was like it is now—not as it used to be. Youaredifferent.”“Yes,” said Alwyn, “I am different.”“Tell me,” said Edgar.Perhaps Alwyn had never found anything so hard as to enter on an account of what some people would call his “experiences” to his brother, but he said quietly:“When I grew to love Corinne I found out what I had made of myself by my life. Beforehand, I thought since I had pulled myself together and all my offences had been before I was twenty that all was right. But I can’t tell how, through loving her, my sin against my father, and the bad example I set you, came back upon me. I felt how hard and selfish and callous I had been all along. Whether she cared for me or not, I wasn’t worthy to know she existed.”“Go on,” said Edgar, as Alwyn paused, conscious that Edgar was not exactly a comprehending listener.“Well,” said Alwyn, “as for religion, you know I never had thought about it. I don’t believe as a family, we’re given to thinking, and, apart Corinne, young Dallas was a new idea to me. Of course his ways and words put much into my head. But it was the earthly love that was granted to me that showed me what that Higher love might be. And when I had once said to my Heavenly Father, ‘I have sinned,’ there was nothing for it but to come and say the same to my earthly one, even—even if he is less merciful.”Edgar listened with great surprise, but with no doubt whatever of the absolute sincerity of the speaker.“Well,” he said, “as for me, I’ve had something to make up my mind to. I was determined no one should say I was beaten. I had to give up the army and to know I could never walk, but I’ve got along and put a good face on it. ‘Never say die’ is not a bad motto. Well now, you see, I’ve known for some time that I shouldhave‘to say die,’ sooner rather than later—very soon, I fancy. When I was last laid up, I made old Hartford tell me the truth, and I’ve faced that out too. What must be, must.”“It would have taken less pluck, my boy, to face the enemy, if you had gone into the army, than to face your life here,” said Alwyn tenderly. “I thank God, who made you of that sort of stuff.”Edgar looked somewhat struck by this remark.“One got through things by saying, ‘I don’t care how they go,’” he said. “And so, Alwyn, it’s been great good luck to have seen you, and you mustn’t stay here if things are not smooth. I shall pull along—so remember you haven’t made any rash promises. Corinne mustn’t think you’re not in a mortal hurry to get back to her.”“Corinne will understand,” said Alwyn with a smile. “Come, I mustn’t let you over-talk yourself. There’s Wyn on the terrace.”“I say,” exclaimed Edgar, “he has made a spectacle of his little red phiz. Here, Wyn! Are you ready to take me out again?”“Yes, sir; oh yes, sir. Are you ready to come?”“Very soon, I hope. And how are all the creatures? Has the fox been behaving himself?”“Yes, sir, but one of the little hedgehogs has got away, and the moor-fowl, sir, I’m sorry to say they constantly diminish. Father thinks there’s rats about—or a cat, sir.”“Whew! That’s a bad look-out. Alwyn, you haven’t seen the Zoological Gardens?”“Please, sir, should I bring anything up for you and Mr Alwyn to look at?”“Let’s have the little Scotch terriers. I’m thinking, Wyn, of taking up those beetles that live in decayed wood—in old trees. You’ll have to hunt ’em up for me.”“Very well, sir, but I don’t know as even Granny would likethemabout,” said Wyn, as he went after the dogs.“Granny? You have seen old Bunny, Val?”“Oh yes. That was a real welcome. But, Edgar, surely it could be managed for her to come and see you; she wishes it so much.”“I should like to see her again,” said Edgar. “I missed her when she was crippled, too, poor old dear!”As he spoke, Geraldine, having come back from church and let out Apollo, joined them, and presently Mr Cunningham, walking home by himself, paused a moment in front of the terrace, as a sound, unheard for many a year, fell on his ears—the clear ringing laugh of his first-born son. So had Alwyn laughed in days before they quarrelled, so had he laughed when his mother had been alive to hear him, and when Mr Cunningham, if a rather cold father, had been at least a proud one.The three puppies, Apollo, a young fox terrier, and a little rough Skye, were sitting up on their hind legs in a row, under the tuition of Wyn, who squatted on the ground opposite them. Geraldine was looking on, holding her breath with delight, while Alwyn, leaning against the window by Edgar’s side, was laughing heartily and teasing Geraldine about her pet.“Three to one on the little ruffian! Apollo’s nowhere. His back’s too long, and the fox terrier’s too frisky. Bravo, Wyn! You ought to keep a circus; they’re steady yet.”“I should like to, sir, uncommon, and train the performing dogs, sir,” said Wyn.“You look as if you had been practising for the clown,” said Edgar, as his father came forward on to the terrace.Down tumbled the puppies and up jumped Wyn, retreating hastily. Alwyn grew stiff and grave in a moment, offering his father a chair, and Geraldine looked, as she felt, disappointed at the interruption.Mr Cunningham sat down. It was the first time that the family had been thus all together, the first time he had seen his three children side by side for more than eight years. He noticed them. He observed that Geraldine was growing a tall, stately girl, with the promise of distinction if not of beauty. He noticed the hopeless delicacy of Edgar’s look, the son whom he had made his heir; and he looked at the handsome, grave, strong face of the son he had disinherited, and for the first time he confessed to himself that he looked fit, at any rate, to be the master of Ashcroft.And why were they all so grave in his presence? That Alwyn should be reserved was right enough, but the others? He had heard them laughing and at case together. He saw Edgar turn naturally to Alwyn to do him some trifling service, and for the first time it struck Mr Cunningham that something more might be made out of his relations to Edgar and Geraldine than was the case at present. Surely they were unusually stiff, and not shy, but distant with him.He did not wish for any approach from Alwyn; but it was none the less true that these feelings had come to him on Alwyn’s return, because Alwyn was the only one of his three children that he had ever greatly loved.

On the next Sunday morning the bells of Ashcroft Church were ringing for an early celebration of the Holy Communion. Many eyes were turned on Alwyn Cunningham as he walked down the village in the fresh sweetness of the summer morning. Such early church-going was not according to Mr Cunningham’s habits, and probably Alwyn was the last person that any one expected to see practise it, for the formal confirmation of a careless public schoolboy had never been followed up, and in old days he had never been a communicant. The change from former habits was so marked that the conservative villagers of Ashcroft looked at him very distrustfully, as if they wondered why he came.

Perhaps Alwyn had forgotten what it was to be the observed of all observers; perhaps he had learnt that only thus would he obtain the help he needed in a most painful position. His father had accepted his statements as to Lennox’s confession, and had allowed such a search for the jewels as could be made without publicity to be commenced at once. He also acknowledged in a more indirect way that his son had become a respectable member of society, fit to visit at his house; but he did not open his heart to him, nor forgive him, except in a formal manner. Alwyn felt that his father did not trust him, he knew that his engagement to an American lady would not tell in his favour, and he guessed that the marked and complete change of attitude as to religious matters, the account of which, indeed, had been intended for Edgar only, would be viewed with suspicion. Mr Cunningham, after reading the letter, had touched on no point but the lost jewels, and Alwyn had accepted his silence and the situation, and talked diligently when they met, and at meal times, of general topics.

But when old Mr Murray saw him this morning he wondered if the inaccessible Cunninghams, who had always been so polite, and on such stiff term with him since his coming to Ashcroft, would approached by the unlikely channel of the returned exile.

Certainty anything less like the irreverent, light-minded youth whom he had heard described than Alwyn’s serious face could hardly be imagined, and Bessie Warren could not help wondering what he was thinking of, as she saw him look round before he turned away, as if noting the once familiar scene.

Edgar had been so weak and so much shaken by all that had passed that he had been content to take his brother’s presence for granted, and when Alwyn realised how very solitary such hours of languor and suffering must usually have been, he cared little what his presence there cost himself, if the sight of him made Edgar’s eye brighten and gave him any pleasure, however small.

To-day, however, Edgar was better, and his interest and curiosity began to revive. He had been lifted on to his couch by the open window, and had sent a message to Wyn to bring his black eyes to be looked at, and after a little space of the eager watching of the outdoor world that was always so much to him, he said to Alwyn:

“Where is that letter that you wrote for me? I could read it now, and I’m as much in the dark as the first day I saw you.”

“Here it is,” said Alwyn; “shall I read it to you or tell you about it? Is your head well enough to read it?”

“Oh yes; I can stop if I’m tired. I had rather have it.”

Alwyn gave him the letter, and went on with the one that he was himself writing, while Edgar studied the long document for some time in silence.

Presently Edgar talked a little about the jewels and the chances of their discovery, observing that whoever poked about in the dark or on the quiet, hunting for them, would certainly get shot by the zealous keepers who had laid hands on Alwyn.

“There’s nothing for it but setting the forest on fire,” he said.

“No, no,” said Alwyn, “the jewels are not worth a tree of it.”

Edgar gave him one of his keen glances, under which the colour mounted to Alwyn’s brow.

“My father has given Warren orders to be thorough over it,” he said.

Edgar said nothing, and returned to the letter.

“Are—are you writing to Miss Dallas?” he said presently, with a rather shy intonation.

“No; I have not that privilege. To her brother.”

“Tell me about her. What’s her name?” said Edgar.

Alwyn was nothing loath.

“Corinne is her name,” he said; “they use it in America.” And then he went on and told Edgar a great deal, for which there is no space in this story, and as he talked his face grew happy and eager, and Edgar listened a little wistfully.

“Now it will be all right for you?” he said.

“I think so—I hope so. Mr Dallas only wished to be certain that no complications could occur in the future. He does trust me, and is satisfied with my position there. My father has said all that is needful.”

“And when shall you go back, Val?” said Edgar.

The bright eyes were still resolute and clear and the voice steady, though with a little strain in it.

Alwyn looked at the white fragile face, and could not find voice for a moment to answer.

“You mustn’t stay too long and spoil me,” said Edgar, “unless you come back again very quickly.”

Alwyn came nearer and sat down by his side.

“My boy,” he said, “you know I did not come home only to clear my way for my great hopes. I did come to seek for pardon and to try to undo a little of the past. There’s a long time to make up for; there is no hurry. You need not think about parting yet; that is, if my father—”

Alwyn broke off, and Edgar lay still, twisting his long weak fingers round the hand he was holding.

“I think you might promise to stay—as long as I want you,” he said. “I shall let you go—soon.”

“I promise,” said Alwyn gently, and again Edgar was silent, till he said in a different tone:

“Well, that’s all as it may be. One must take what comes.”

“What is sent,” said Alwyn.

“Val,” said Edgar after another silence, “it was very curious. Just before you came back I dreamed about you. I saw you. I knew you directly. But I saw that you were changed; your face was like it is now—not as it used to be. Youaredifferent.”

“Yes,” said Alwyn, “I am different.”

“Tell me,” said Edgar.

Perhaps Alwyn had never found anything so hard as to enter on an account of what some people would call his “experiences” to his brother, but he said quietly:

“When I grew to love Corinne I found out what I had made of myself by my life. Beforehand, I thought since I had pulled myself together and all my offences had been before I was twenty that all was right. But I can’t tell how, through loving her, my sin against my father, and the bad example I set you, came back upon me. I felt how hard and selfish and callous I had been all along. Whether she cared for me or not, I wasn’t worthy to know she existed.”

“Go on,” said Edgar, as Alwyn paused, conscious that Edgar was not exactly a comprehending listener.

“Well,” said Alwyn, “as for religion, you know I never had thought about it. I don’t believe as a family, we’re given to thinking, and, apart Corinne, young Dallas was a new idea to me. Of course his ways and words put much into my head. But it was the earthly love that was granted to me that showed me what that Higher love might be. And when I had once said to my Heavenly Father, ‘I have sinned,’ there was nothing for it but to come and say the same to my earthly one, even—even if he is less merciful.”

Edgar listened with great surprise, but with no doubt whatever of the absolute sincerity of the speaker.

“Well,” he said, “as for me, I’ve had something to make up my mind to. I was determined no one should say I was beaten. I had to give up the army and to know I could never walk, but I’ve got along and put a good face on it. ‘Never say die’ is not a bad motto. Well now, you see, I’ve known for some time that I shouldhave‘to say die,’ sooner rather than later—very soon, I fancy. When I was last laid up, I made old Hartford tell me the truth, and I’ve faced that out too. What must be, must.”

“It would have taken less pluck, my boy, to face the enemy, if you had gone into the army, than to face your life here,” said Alwyn tenderly. “I thank God, who made you of that sort of stuff.”

Edgar looked somewhat struck by this remark.

“One got through things by saying, ‘I don’t care how they go,’” he said. “And so, Alwyn, it’s been great good luck to have seen you, and you mustn’t stay here if things are not smooth. I shall pull along—so remember you haven’t made any rash promises. Corinne mustn’t think you’re not in a mortal hurry to get back to her.”

“Corinne will understand,” said Alwyn with a smile. “Come, I mustn’t let you over-talk yourself. There’s Wyn on the terrace.”

“I say,” exclaimed Edgar, “he has made a spectacle of his little red phiz. Here, Wyn! Are you ready to take me out again?”

“Yes, sir; oh yes, sir. Are you ready to come?”

“Very soon, I hope. And how are all the creatures? Has the fox been behaving himself?”

“Yes, sir, but one of the little hedgehogs has got away, and the moor-fowl, sir, I’m sorry to say they constantly diminish. Father thinks there’s rats about—or a cat, sir.”

“Whew! That’s a bad look-out. Alwyn, you haven’t seen the Zoological Gardens?”

“Please, sir, should I bring anything up for you and Mr Alwyn to look at?”

“Let’s have the little Scotch terriers. I’m thinking, Wyn, of taking up those beetles that live in decayed wood—in old trees. You’ll have to hunt ’em up for me.”

“Very well, sir, but I don’t know as even Granny would likethemabout,” said Wyn, as he went after the dogs.

“Granny? You have seen old Bunny, Val?”

“Oh yes. That was a real welcome. But, Edgar, surely it could be managed for her to come and see you; she wishes it so much.”

“I should like to see her again,” said Edgar. “I missed her when she was crippled, too, poor old dear!”

As he spoke, Geraldine, having come back from church and let out Apollo, joined them, and presently Mr Cunningham, walking home by himself, paused a moment in front of the terrace, as a sound, unheard for many a year, fell on his ears—the clear ringing laugh of his first-born son. So had Alwyn laughed in days before they quarrelled, so had he laughed when his mother had been alive to hear him, and when Mr Cunningham, if a rather cold father, had been at least a proud one.

The three puppies, Apollo, a young fox terrier, and a little rough Skye, were sitting up on their hind legs in a row, under the tuition of Wyn, who squatted on the ground opposite them. Geraldine was looking on, holding her breath with delight, while Alwyn, leaning against the window by Edgar’s side, was laughing heartily and teasing Geraldine about her pet.

“Three to one on the little ruffian! Apollo’s nowhere. His back’s too long, and the fox terrier’s too frisky. Bravo, Wyn! You ought to keep a circus; they’re steady yet.”

“I should like to, sir, uncommon, and train the performing dogs, sir,” said Wyn.

“You look as if you had been practising for the clown,” said Edgar, as his father came forward on to the terrace.

Down tumbled the puppies and up jumped Wyn, retreating hastily. Alwyn grew stiff and grave in a moment, offering his father a chair, and Geraldine looked, as she felt, disappointed at the interruption.

Mr Cunningham sat down. It was the first time that the family had been thus all together, the first time he had seen his three children side by side for more than eight years. He noticed them. He observed that Geraldine was growing a tall, stately girl, with the promise of distinction if not of beauty. He noticed the hopeless delicacy of Edgar’s look, the son whom he had made his heir; and he looked at the handsome, grave, strong face of the son he had disinherited, and for the first time he confessed to himself that he looked fit, at any rate, to be the master of Ashcroft.

And why were they all so grave in his presence? That Alwyn should be reserved was right enough, but the others? He had heard them laughing and at case together. He saw Edgar turn naturally to Alwyn to do him some trifling service, and for the first time it struck Mr Cunningham that something more might be made out of his relations to Edgar and Geraldine than was the case at present. Surely they were unusually stiff, and not shy, but distant with him.

He did not wish for any approach from Alwyn; but it was none the less true that these feelings had come to him on Alwyn’s return, because Alwyn was the only one of his three children that he had ever greatly loved.

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 livehappy? 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.

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 livehappy? 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 methere; andherehe cares nothing. When I go back I shall find a welcome home, and I may write toher.”“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 shallneverbe 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 itmustbe, 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.”

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 methere; andherehe cares nothing. When I go back I shall find a welcome home, and I may write toher.”

“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 shallneverbe 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 itmustbe, 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.”

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