by L. T. Meade
never haveimagined him with such a look on his face as this. Edgar bore his owntroubles with the same defiant gaiety that had marked his brother--hehardly ever pitied himself, and he had never blinked the fact that Alwynwas not likely to have improved during his absence. He resented his ownignorance of what he believed his father to know, but, except on theoccasion of which he had spoken to his cousin, he had been willing tolet matters alone. It was the Cunningham way; his father went about hisbusiness, and thought as little as he could of his disgraced son, saw aslittle as he could of his sick one; his brother had gone off with alaugh and a bitter joke from his home and his heirship. Geraldine sangwhen she was kept indoors, and made rhymes of the lesson she was told tolearn for a punishment, and he himself prided himself on nevercomplaining, never giving in, and taking his sufferings as a matter ofcourse. The dream was accountable enough; Florence Whittaker's name andface had recalled old days to him; his cousin had stirred up histhoughts on the subject, but nothing had ever so roused his feelings asthe look on that dream-face. He got out the photograph, which in a raremoment of depression he had once shown to Wyn Warren. Yes--he had seenAlwyn; but Alwyn, as if with another soul. And then an awful thoughtcame into Edgar's mind, that in life Alwyn never could have looked athim so. Be that as it might, he took a sudden resolution, he wouldspeak again to his father, and he felt that this time he should get ahearing. His father always visited him in the morning, either in hisroom or on the terrace, asking him how he was--commented on the news inthe paper, or talked a little about local matters. The effort should bemade on the first opportunity. James Cunningham had been perfectlyright, and Edgar felt that only the passive languor of ill-health couldhave induced him to acquiesce so long in uncertainty.
It was very hard to begin when Mr Cunningham came in as usual, andtalked in dry, short sentences about the harvest and about a foreignbattle that had taken place, as if he had to think between his words ofsomething else to say to his son. Want of resolution, however, was nota Cunningham failing.
"Father," said Edgar presently, "will you be kind enough to shut thewindow for me? I want to speak to you--quite alone. I want to ask youto tell me exactly what you yourself know about Alwyn. It is a painfulsubject; but I think I ought to know."
Mr Cunningham came back and sat down opposite his son's couch.
"You're right," he said, "you should. I have been thinking so. A fewwords will do it. You recall, I dare say, that your brother and I wereon very bad terms. His conduct had been unprincipled, and his behaviourto me was unfeeling. He was perfectly hard and reckless. You know howthe scandalous practical joke at Ravenshurst was cut short by the terrorof Mrs Fletcher's little niece and the illness caused by it. When MrsFletcher came up to bed she missed such of her jewels as she had notworn at the ball; which she had carelessly left on her dressing-table.Some of the servants knew that Alwyn had had a confederate in HarryWhittaker, as another absurd figure was seen close to the ball-roomwindows. He was at once suspected, and the next morning Lilian Fletcherconfessed that she had hidden the jewels in the garden for fun, and hadintended to pretend that the ghost had stolen them, to heighten theexcitement. When she took her mother to the place--of course no jewels.She vowed that no one knew what she had done. Alwyn had declaredhimself when the child was frightened, and between him and Ned Warrenthey made out so good an _alibi_ for Whittaker that it was impossible tocommit him. The thing was investigated privately; but Mrs Fletcher wasill at the time, and very much afraid of her daughter's share in thebusiness being made public. Nothing was discovered. But you know allthis."
"Most of it," said Edgar. "But I do not know what you believe about thejewels."
"It is my belief that somehow Whittaker had them, after all! _I_ shouldhave committed him for trial. Alwyn took his part, violently swore Iinsulted him by having such an idea in connection with his companion.He chose to misinterpret what I said, and swore he would never come hometill the jewels were found or I had begged his pardon. He behaved as ifI had accused him of the theft himself."
"Father," said Edgar, "you have at least allowed other people to imaginethat you thought so."
"No, Alwyn left his home. I did not cast him off, nor cut him off witha shilling. I told him that I could not allow him to associate withyou--he said he wished to emigrate. I lodged a sum of money for him ina New York bank, and told him he could communicate with me through thebankers. He never did communicate with me; but he drew the money."
"And you don't know where he is now?"
"No. I never saw him after that night--Beresford did the business withhim in London. Whittaker went away with him. Now for what I supposeyou really want to know. You are my heir, and have been so, ever sincethat occurrence."
"Father," said Edgar again, "you must know that I am very unlikely tooutlive you."
"In that ease the estates will pass to your cousin James. I object tothe idea of marrying Geraldine for the sake of a master for Ashcroft,and she is amply provided for."
"Father," said Edgar, "I don't see that Alwyn has done anything toforfeit his heirship. As for his dissipations--I was quite ready tofollow his example had I had the chance. A practical joke, howeverimproper, is not cause sufficient. Will you take no steps to find him?"
"No," said Mr Cunningham, "it is in his power to find me if hechooses."
"It is right to tell you that, should I ever have the power, I shouldtry to find him."
"That would be as you please," said Mr Cunningham, "but the estate issecured to your cousin. He doesn't know it, though, and I don't wishhim to find it out."
It was an odd, hard scene. Edgar's manner was rather polite thanrespectful; his father showed no feeling whatever.
"I think," said Edgar with one last effort, "that the matter has beenmade to appear more disgraceful than it is."
"I never thought much of appearances," said Mr Cunningham. "But thereis no more I can tell you. If there is anything that you wish foryourself, you have only to name it. That night's business cost you muchas well as myself."
"Nothing but the fall kept me out of the scrape myself," said Edgar,"and Alwyn never knew that he startled me."
"I never understood your share in the matter," said Mr Cunningham.
"Alwyn tried to get some fun out of me, by refusing to tell me his plan.When I missed him from the dancing, I ran upstairs to find out; but theold monk's figure made me jump, and I fell backwards down the stairs. Ididn't know I was hurt, and guessed directly who it was. I was goingback to see the effect, when I turned so faint that I had to get awayinto my room instead."
As Mr Cunningham looked down at his son's prostrate figure it wasperhaps inevitable that the bitterness of his recollection shouldincrease rather than otherwise, especially as he knew that Edgar'sdetermined concealment of the extent of his injury for weeks afterwardshad destroyed his chance of recovery.
"I'll leave you to rest now," he said. "The past is beyond recall, andnothing is gained by dwelling on it."
Edgar lay still when his father left him, and reflected. He had hopedthat more had been known about his brother. His father's last words hadbeen the key of his own life. Was nothing to be gained by a recall ofthe past? The Cunninghams had been brought up to a correct performanceof such religious observances as were suitable to their position; but ofvital religion they knew little or nothing. They "set a proper example"in the village, but all Edgar's endurance and pluck had wanted the helpthat might have made it go so much deeper, and be so much more real. Hecould ignore his troubles, but he did not know what spiritual comfort orinward strength was. He held his tongue and disliked pity, even fromhimself. He was clear-headed and sensible, but neither a thinker nor areader. It was strange to him that the thought of Alwyn's death, whichhis dream had brought into his mind, impressed him so much. It wouldsimplify the family complication, and he never, most likely, would seehim again. Edgar had often faced his own probable early death as theloss of life here--he had never faced it as openin
g out a lifehereafter. He was glad to be roused from thoughts that troubled him byWyn's appearance, looking eager and happy as usual.
"Please, sir, if you're pretty well to-day, there's a part of the wood Iknow I can take Dobbles to. And please, sir, there's a pond andwater-lilies, and I believe, that odd sort of flowering rush as youwanted. And, sir, wouldn't you like to see it growing?"
"Well--I should, Wyn," said Edgar. "Bring Dobbles round directly afterlunch, and we'll make a long afternoon of it."
It was a lovely summer afternoon; the wood was green and cool, with longshafts of golden light penetrating
