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. You _are_ different."
"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 should _have_ `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 like _them_
about," 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.