Edgar Cunningham got somewhat the better of his headache as the day went
on, and late in the afternoon insisted on getting out into the fresh air
on the terrace, in the hope that Wyn might make some excuse for coming
up to speak to him. He was hardly fit even for this exertion; but the
open air was always the one thing he cared for, and the suspense was
more endurable so than when he was shut up in the house.
When his cushions were raised he could see across the flower garden,
over the low wall that bounded it, to the road that led from the wood
and the village, up to the stables, and to the back of the house; and as
his bright eyes were keen and long-sighted, he often amused himself with
watching the comers and goers, noticing all that went on, as only those
people do who are confined to one place.
To-day, however, as he lay almost flat on his back, he could not see the
road, and it was with a start of surprise that he looked up and saw his
father standing by him.
"I hope, as you are out of doors, that you are better, Edgar?" he said.
"Oh yes, thanks, almost well," said Edgar.
"Your boy, little Warren, has been getting into trouble. He has let
down the young bay horse and broken his knees."
"Wyn! Has he? What had he to do with the horse?" said Edgar, very much
startled as he thought of what Wyn should have been doing.
"He had been driving his mother and her niece to Ravenshurst as I
understand, and went to fetch his sister from the station. He let down
the horse in Coombe Lane. That is what I am _told_," said Mr
Cunningham with emphasis, and using all the advantage his position gave
him to look straight down into Edgar's face.
"Was he hurt?" said Edgar, looking straight up in return.
Mr Cunningham was very angry with his son, and little disposed to be
merciful to him, though he had not meant to enter on the subject of the
letter if Edgar had been more manifestly unequal to a discussion.
"He broke his head; I believe nothing serious. He had a letter for you,
which I undertook to deliver myself," and Mr Cunningham laid Alwyn's
unopened packet in Edgar's hand.
Edgar caught his breath, but his face never flinched as his father went
on:
"I was not aware, when you spoke to me the other morning, that you were
already in communication with your brother."
"I dare say you think it possible that I might have so deceived you,"
said Edgar bitterly. "But my brother made himself known to me for the
first time yesterday. I should not be waiting here if I had the use of
my limbs like other people. As things are, I'll beg you to open that
letter and read it at once yourself."
Edgar's manner and face were alike defiant, and he was so indignant at
the imputation cast on him that he never saw that his father's lips were
twitching and that his face was pale, nor took advantage of the moment
of softening.
Mr Cunningham took up the packet, and turned round as if to open and
read it, when his attention was caught by three figures coming up the
road towards the house. They evidently saw him on the terrace, and
after a pause and a word or two came through the gate up the garden.
"What is it? Who is there, father?" cried Edgar, expectant of any turn
of events.
"It is--your brother!" said Mr Cunningham, laying his hand on the wall,
with pale lips, and his eyes fixed on the first figure approaching him.
Alwyn stood still at the top of the steps and took off his hat.
"I see you know me, sir," he said; "I did not mean to come here against
your wish. But your keepers have made a mistake, which perhaps you will
explain to them."
"That will do, blockheads; don't you know a gentleman when you see one?"
said Mr Cunningham, as the two men, greatly crestfallen, and muttering
a "Beg pardon, I'm sure, sir," retreated in haste.
"It is right, sir, that I should explain myself," said Alwyn, speaking
with evident effort. "I had no intention of forcing myself on you. If
you will have the goodness to read the letter I gave to my brother, I
will go back to London and wait--"
"No, no, no!" interposed Edgar, struggling up on to his elbow. "I'd
stand by your side if I could stand anywhere. At least I'll claim the
right to own you."
Alwyn had not meant to make any advance to Edgar which might be
construed as a defiance, but he now crossed over to the couch and took
the offered hand gently in both his own.
"My father will understand," he said, "that I should not have made any
approach to you if I had known of the fatal mischief for which I am
responsible. Dear Edgar, lie still; no one could have done more for me
than you have."
There was a pause. Mr Cunningham moved and sat down in a chair
opposite his sons. Edgar lay back, but with eyes still fronting his
father, while he still held Alwyn's hand. Alwyn himself hardly knew
what next to do. There was, however, something about him so unlike the
wild youth from whom the father had parted, so unlike what Mr
Cunningham had imagined as his probable condition, that all previous
ideas were upset.
"Your reappearance," said Mr Cunningham at length, "is very sudden
after so complete a silence. What is your reason for coming here?"
Alwyn hesitated, his mouth quivered, and he pointed to the letter which
still lay on Edgar's knee. Then he dropped his brother's hand and made
a step or two forward.
"Father," he said, "I--I beg your pardon. That first, nothing else. I
have made a position for myself, as you will see. I came partly because
I hope to set Whittaker's character right with his friends here and to
leave no mystery about my own. But I have nothing to say for myself--as
to the past. I was inexcusable all through."
"Give me your letter," said Mr Cunningham. "I will read it; I make no
promises. I--I am glad; it is a satisfaction to me to hear that you
have done well. But personal intercourse is another question, to which
you once attached conditions to which I am not likely to see my way."
"The conditions, sir," said Alwyn, "are, I know now, entirely for you to
make. Without your desire I shall not come here again. Indeed, of
course, I cannot."
"I never felt till now," burst out Edgar passionately, "what it is to be
helpless. I'll not ask you to stay without a welcome. But what my
father told me is not with my goodwill. I would blot out the past I
must say--wait--oh! I cannot even speak for you," as his breath came in
panting gasps and his voice failed him.
"Hush, hush! I understand," said Alwyn, much distressed; "there is no
need to tell me. Hush!"
"Don't linger here for me," gasped Edgar, resolute still. "It is--all--
nothing."
But the last word died away in deadly faintness. Mr Cunningham gave a
hasty call. Robertson came out of the house, and Alwyn could do nothing
but help to carry his brother into his room. He could not go till Edgar
revived, which was not for some time, and then it was hardly to full
consciousness, certainly not to his ordinary self-control, for he clung
to Alwyn's hand, entreating him not to leave him.
"Don't go, Alwyn, don't! You know I can't come to you--you know I can't
come to the wood to-day."
"Can you say nothing to quiet him, sir?" whispered Robertson. "He has
no strength for such excitement. His heart is very weak."
"I shall stay," said Alwyn; "don't fret, my dear boy; indeed, I won't
leave you now."
"You know that I'll never take your place; even if I live I will not!"
said Edgar vehemently.
"No, no," said Alwyn, without much perception of the sense of what Edgar
was saying. "Never mind it now. There, that's better. Hush! we will
talk by-and-by."
Edgar grew quieter at last, and Alwyn, as he sat beside him, began a
little to realise the situation. His father had retired as soon as the
first alarm was over, and no word came from him.
Presently some soup was brought for Edgar, and Robertson deferentially
offered Alwyn a tray with sandwiches and some claret.
"You will need it, sir, if you remain with Mr Edgar," he said.
Alwyn hesitated, but he had had nothing since morning, and for Edgar's
sake he must accept the situation in full. It was a long strange night.
Edgar was restless and feverish, only soothed by Alwyn's voice and
touch; but towards morning he fell asleep quietly, and Alwyn, as the
sweet summer morning dawned, looked round about him, and recognised that
the room in which he sat had been the old "study"--full of how many
memories! All the furniture was changed to suit Edgar's requirements,
but the lines of the window, the panels on the wall, had a strange
familiarity. When Edgar, half waking, looked at him, and murmured
something about a dream, Alwyn felt that either this night, or all the
past eight years, were as a dream to him. He heard the sounds of the
rousing household, familiar as no other sounds in the world could be,
and presently Robertson, who had gone to lie down in the outer room,
where he usually slept, came back and said:
"Mr Cunningham has sent word, sir, to say that breakfast will be served
at nine in the dining-room. Will you let this man show you a room? I
think my young master will be quite easy now."
"I don't like to leave him while he is asleep, he might wake and miss
me.--What, Edgar, awake? I am going to get some breakfast; I shall be
back soon."
He spoke in as matter-of-course a voice as possible, and Edgar only
smiled a little and assented.
Alwyn went out into the new old house. The servants, who came to him
also with a curious new old deference, unknown across the water, were
strange to him; but he almost laughed to see how, evidently, they
accepted him, and noticed that the man who had been attending on him did
not offer, when he came out, to show him the way to the dining-room; he
watched him as he turned naturally towards it. The room was empty.
"Mr Cunningham begged you to take some breakfast, sir, and to come to
him afterwards in his library."
Alwyn sat down and silently accepted the breakfast. He recognised the
gold-edged, deep-coloured china, the plate, even the special variety of
hot cakes which was offered to him. He was too much absorbed to be
embarrassed, and was just deciding that it would be better to get the
interview with his father over before he saw Edgar again, when a quick
step sounded in the hall, and Geraldine stood before him, her tall
figure upright as a dart, and her dark eyes recalling Edgar's youth so
vividly, that she seemed more familiar to Alwyn than poor Edgar's own
altered countenance.
He rose, colouring, and hardly knowing what to do; but Geraldine walked
straight up to him.
"Are you my brother Alwyn?" she said in her clear outspoken voice.
"Yes--you are Geraldine?" said Alwyn.
"Why didn't you tell me so in the wood? I am very glad you are come
home. I'll be friends with you anyhow."
Her bold, defiant voice sounded to Alwyn like an echo of his own old
self, and it struck him how ready both his father's children were to
side against him.
Geraldine came close to him and offered to kiss him, and he kissed her
tenderly but very quietly, and looked at her as if learning her face.
"I am very glad I have seen my sister," he said. "But now I must go to
my father. I must not talk to you now."
"I told Miss Hardman that I _would_ come and speak to you," said
Geraldine. "I shall write to you if you go away again. I won't be
prevented." Alwyn said nothing, and she looked at length a little awed
by his silence and gravity. He moved away towards the door, then came
back and kissed her again, this time in a warm hasty fashion that
brought the tears to her eyes, then went across the hall and knocked at
the door of his father's library.