Wyn saw Mr Edgar many times after the day of the flower show, though he
never took him out again with Dobbles. The weather continued fine and
bright, and Edgar, in every interval of pain and faintness, insisted on
getting on to the terrace or near the window, saying that the feeling of
the air and the sight of the sky and the trees kept the life in him.
Then Wyn would bring him a flower or two or tell him some anecdote about
his pets, and it was very seldom that Edgar did not smile and brighten
at these reminders of his old solaces.
It seemed as if with the jewels some spirit of kindliness and affection
had also been released from long imprisonment. The Cunninghams drew
nearer to each other, and it was not so much that Alwyn's presence made
the house more cheerful or might fill up the gap that Edgar would leave,
as that the melting of the hardness of displeasure made them all more
able to feel a common grief. Mr Cunningham was gentler to Edgar, and
spoke of him tenderly; Geraldine softened down and began to have
thoughts of making herself her father's companion as time went on. They
remembered, and seemed to feel for the first time, how faithful the love
of old Granny Warren had been for them all and to know the value of such
lifelong love. The master himself, and Geraldine, to say nothing of
Alwyn, went to give her accounts of Edgar, and once she was taken down
to see him, and to look at her two dear boys together again.
All the village had a feeling of sympathy with the trouble at the great
house which was much warmer than the old respect. Mr Murray found that
his squire could give him more than courtesy and the necessary
subscriptions. He visited Edgar frequently, and when Geraldine
Cunningham, Florence Whittaker, and Alwyn Warren were put under
instruction for an approaching confirmation, it was for all of them
something more than a piece of ordinary propriety, an occasion for dress
and companionship, or a mere act of obedience, as it might have been
once. But on poor Edgar himself the shadow of the valley of death fell
heavily. He had indemnified himself for the long years of physical
dependence, so peculiarly trying to one of his temper, by the
unconquerable self-reliance of his spirit. He had doffed aside his
suffering and given it the go-by with unfailing courage. And now, with
his bodily strength, the strong nerves failed too; every trifle startled
and fretted him. All his gay indifference was gone.
He could not meet the thought of death now as he might perhaps have done
once, with unrealising boldness. He was brave still, and in moments of
suffering would often whisper the old formula "I don't care--it will
soon be better;" but the time came when he answered Alwyn's words of
comfort with an altogether new look in his eyes, and with the faltering
confession, "I am afraid."
"Of what, my boy?" said Alwyn, pressing the clinging fingers tenderly.
"Of Death," whispered Edgar; "when I must let you go."
He listened dutifully to Mr Murray, and without any mental dissent, but
his words did not seem to make much impression. In fact, it was
difficult to know what to say to him; for the difficulty was hardly in a
region where words could reach.
"If I am afraid I'll face it," he said once.
But at last the intense conviction that had been sent into Alwyn's soul,
and which had power to change his whole self--how, it was hard to say--
by words or looks or tender hand-clasp, slid also into Edgar's heart.
Alwyn never thought himself that it was anything that he said or did
that brought peace to Edgar at last.
But there came a morning bright and blue, when the ash trees were
touched with gold, and the smooth turf was thick with dew, and the clear
autumn air blew through the open window--when Edgar lay in his brother's
arms with the life ebbing fast away from him.
Then he opened his eyes once more and looked up into Alwyn's face:
"I don't care, Val," he said, "for He careth for me."
Those were his last conscious words, and with the daylight that he loved
on his face, and, by great mercy, the day spring in his heart, Edgar
Cunningham died.
Late on that same afternoon Alwyn was sitting alone on the terrace. He
was very tired with the long strain of watching, and so sad at heart
that he could scarcely turn with comfort to the thought of the love and
the life that awaited him in future; he could only feel the want of the
hand that had clung to his so constantly, could only think of the
pitifulness of Edgar's story.
He looked up, and there stood Wyn Warren with his eyes red with crying,
and with a great wreath of wild flowers in his hand.
"Please, sir, he liked these best. And there's a bit of everything
here."
Alwyn looked at the wreath, which was constructed with great skill and
of an infinite variety of leaves, berries, and blossoms. Every summer
flower lingering in shady corners of the wood had been brought together.
There were bits of every different kind of tree--autumn berries,
curious seed vessels, grasses and rushes, heather and ferns, moss and
lichen--all the woodland world was represented. It could not be a gay
wreath with its infinite mixture of tints and forms, but there was the
very spirit of the wood in its sober colouring and fresh woody smell.
"It is very beautiful," said Alwyn. "Yes, he would have liked it very
much."
"He liked the wild things," said Wyn, "and the creatures; it's the birds
and beasts that ought to follow him."
"Come," said Alwyn, "you helped him to all his pleasure in them; come
and give him the wreath yourself."
He took Wyn's hand and led him, through the sitting-room window, into
the room where his young master lay, calm and still, with the bright
eyes closed for ever. But the window was uncurtained, and the sun and
the sky looked through.
Wyn trembled as he looked. The little carefully-reared boy had never
seen death before, and the awe of the sight choked back his tears.
Alwyn helped him to lay the wreath on Edgar's breast, above the white
cross already placed there, and then took him out again on to the
terrace. Wyn touched his cap and went away; but Alwyn's silent grief
was more comfort to him than any words of consolation would have been,
and perhaps Alwyn too was soothed by the sense of fellow-feeling. He
was glad to think that the great family vault under the floor of the
church, where so many Cunninghams had been laid, could not be opened
now, and that Edgar would lie under the turf in the churchyard, with the
sky over his head, and the great trees of the wood near at hand.
All the servants and most of the villagers were at that funeral. Wyn
Warren was set to walk by Robertson's side, next after the friends and
the family, in which position he felt, in all his trouble, a sort of
childish pride. The day was bright, and there was a fresh wind blowing
such as Edgar was wont to love, and over the grave, instead of the
ordinary hymn, the choir sang some verses about the Heavenly Jerusalem,
which seemed to Wyn to picture just the sort of "happy home" where he
could fancy that his dear Mr Edgar would dwell.
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green;
There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow;
Upon whose banks on every side
The Wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring;
There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.
"Ah," thought Wyn, "Mr Edgar would like that sort of Paradise."
Later in the day Alwyn asked Harry Whittaker to meet him in the park and
walk with him through the wood. He had several matters, he told him, to
talk about.
But when they met he put his arm through his old comrade's, and walked
on for a long time in silence. At last Harry said:
"Things have been different from what we looked for, sir, haven't they?
But there's comfort waiting at home for us. At least, it seems like
home over there now to me."
"Ah, yes," said Alwyn. "I have gained more than I ever thought for.
But I don't seem able to think of anything now but my poor boy and the
lonely years that I might have made brighter for him if I had not held
out so long."
"You came when he most wanted you," said Harry.
"Yes, thank God for that! But he _had_ been lonely, though he was such
a plucky fellow that he hardly knew it. And I miss--"
Alwyn's voice faltered, and he brushed his hand across his eyes.
"That was not what I wanted to talk of," he said, rousing himself.
"What are your plans, Harry? I must not hurry away from my father; but
I shall soon be going back now--for a time, at least."
"I am ready to go back at once," said Harry. "I've heard from my wife,
and she's willing to have my sister Florence out to live with us."
"Your sister who found the jewels?"
"Yes. Lady Carleton's very good to her; but she told me--for I went to
speak to her ladyship about it--that the girl don't exactly fit in for
service. There's no one to look after her at home, specially if, as
seems likely, my eldest sister settles in life. And I declare, sir, the
way the young girls at Rapley run about together is worse for her than
any rough company she might see out our way. She gets into mischief for
want of something bigger to do. And mischief for girls--well, it is the
mischief indeed!"
"So you mean to take her out?"
"No, not with me. They want to have her home a bit first; and she'd be
better to wait for this Confirmation. She's set her heart on being
confirmed with Miss Geraldine."
"Oh, yes, I heard my sister speak of it. But how shall you get her out
to you?"
"Markham's mother and sister are coming out in the spring, and would
bring her. You see, sir, Alberta must have some one--we can't get girls
out our way. There'll be plenty for Florrie to do, and I make no doubt
she'll be happy, and what my aunt calls work off her bouncing."
Alwyn laughed. "It seems a very good place," he said; "and certainly
she did us a good turn. What--what are the Warrens thinking about for
little Wyn? I wish we could give him an opening."
"I don't think his parents would part with him," said Harry. "He's a
nice little chap, but it is a bit difficult to say what next for him.
He's too small and not the sort for a gamekeeper, and, as his father
says, he'd never have the heart to kill the vermin. Then he thought of
getting him taken into the garden under Mr Elton; but I'm afraid he'd
fret and not be much good here."
"Edgar asked me to take care of him," said Alwyn. "He said that perhaps
he had spoiled him for other work. But he was very fond of him."
"Ah, sir, he'll be none the worse for having thought of some one before
himself. You know they had had a notion, as he was so handy and quiet,
to let him be put under a butler for a time and then be trained up to
wait on invalid gentlemen. But--"
"Well?" said Alwyn.
"Well, his sister Bessie said something to him, but he hid his face and
said, `They'd _all_ die. Robertson says _five_ have.'"
"Poor little chap," said Alwyn. "It's too soon to tease him about it.
But I must talk to his father, and think what can be done."
The matter was not settled very easily. Mr Cunningham's ideas were
bounded by giving Wyn a sovereign, and letting him run about the place
in any capacity that might turn up.
Bessie, thinking this very undesirable, wanted him to come and board
with her, and be apprenticed to the schoolmaster as pupil-teacher. Wyn
said that he hated teaching, and couldn't bear to be shut up indoors.
Alwyn hardly knew enough of English life to judge what would be best,
but he could not bear the notion that Edgar's favourite should be left
to run to waste, or to a life in which he would not be happy, and at
last Sir Philip Carleton made a suggestion.
If the boy really had a turn for plants and flowers, and they wanted to
get him into a superior line, why should not an appointment be got for
him when a little older at Kew or some other great public garden? If he
was clever and took to the work, there were all sorts of openings. And
in the meantime, as his education by all accounts consisted chiefly of
the names of mosses and lichens, and the habits of birds, field-mice,
and other wild creatures of the woods, send him to school--to the great
Church public school at Ardingly for boys of his standing--where he
would meet other sons of gentlemen's servants, besides boys of a
superior class. He could learn Latin and science, it would be a
complete change for him, and the tutors there would soon find out what
he was fit for.
Alwyn liked the idea very much. He thought that Wyn had capabilities,
and there was an affectionate simplicity about the little fellow that
was very engaging. So, as Mr and Mrs Warren gave their grateful
consent, it was at once settled that he should go to Ardingly after the
Christmas holidays, about the same time as Florence's passage was taken
for New York.