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 me _there_; and _here_ he cares nothing. When I go
back I shall find a welcome home, and I may write to _her_."
"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 shall _never_ be 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 it _must_ be, 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."