mystery about my own. But I have nothing to say for myself--asto the past. I was inexcusable all through."
"Give me your letter," said Mr Cunningham. "I will read it; I make nopromises. I--I am glad; it is a satisfaction to me to hear that youhave done well. But personal intercourse is another question, to whichyou 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 tomake. Without your desire I shall not come here again. Indeed, ofcourse, I cannot."
"I never felt till now," burst out Edgar passionately, "what it is to behelpless. I'll not ask you to stay without a welcome. But what myfather told me is not with my goodwill. I would blot out the past Imust say--wait--oh! I cannot even speak for you," as his breath came inpanting gasps and his voice failed him.
"Hush, hush! I understand," said Alwyn, much distressed; "there is noneed 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 ahasty call. Robertson came out of the house, and Alwyn could do nothingbut help to carry his brother into his room. He could not go till Edgarrevived, which was not for some time, and then it was hardly to fullconsciousness, certainly not to his ordinary self-control, for he clungto 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'tcome to the wood to-day."
"Can you say nothing to quiet him, sir?" whispered Robertson. "He hasno strength for such excitement. His heart is very weak."
"I shall stay," said Alwyn; "don't fret, my dear boy; indeed, I won'tleave 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 Edgarwas saying. "Never mind it now. There, that's better. Hush! we willtalk by-and-by."
Edgar grew quieter at last, and Alwyn, as he sat beside him, began alittle to realise the situation. His father had retired as soon as thefirst alarm was over, and no word came from him.
Presently some soup was brought for Edgar, and Robertson deferentiallyoffered 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'ssake he must accept the situation in full. It was a long strange night.Edgar was restless and feverish, only soothed by Alwyn's voice andtouch; but towards morning he fell asleep quietly, and Alwyn, as thesweet summer morning dawned, looked round about him, and recognised thatthe room in which he sat had been the old "study"--full of how manymemories! All the furniture was changed to suit Edgar's requirements,but the lines of the window, the panels on the wall, had a strangefamiliarity. When Edgar, half waking, looked at him, and murmuredsomething about a dream, Alwyn felt that either this night, or all thepast eight years, were as a dream to him. He heard the sounds of therousing 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 servedat nine in the dining-room. Will you let this man show you a room? Ithink my young master will be quite easy now."
"I don't like to leave him while he is asleep, he might wake and missme.--What, Edgar, awake? I am going to get some breakfast; I shall beback soon."
He spoke in as matter-of-course a voice as possible, and Edgar onlysmiled a little and assented.
Alwyn went out into the new old house. The servants, who came to himalso with a curious new old deference, unknown across the water, werestrange to him; but he almost laughed to see how, evidently, theyaccepted him, and noticed that the man who had been attending on him didnot offer, when he came out, to show him the way to the dining-room; hewatched him as he turned naturally towards it. The room was empty.
"Mr Cunningham begged you to take some breakfast, sir, and to come tohim afterwards in his library."
Alwyn sat down and silently accepted the breakfast. He recognised thegold-edged, deep-coloured china, the plate, even the special variety ofhot cakes which was offered to him. He was too much absorbed to beembarrassed, and was just deciding that it would be better to get theinterview with his father over before he saw Edgar again, when a quickstep sounded in the hall, and Geraldine stood before him, her tallfigure upright as a dart, and her dark eyes recalling Edgar's youth sovividly, that she seemed more familiar to Alwyn than poor Edgar's ownaltered countenance.
He rose, colouring, and hardly knowing what to do; but Geraldine walkedstraight 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 comehome. I'll be friends with you anyhow."
Her bold, defiant voice sounded to Alwyn like an echo of his own oldself, and it struck him how ready both his father's children were toside against him.
Geraldine came close to him and offered to kiss him, and he kissed hertenderly 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 tomy father. I must not talk to you now."
"I told Miss Hardman that I _would_ come and speak to you," saidGeraldine. "I shall write to you if you go away again. I won't beprevented." Alwyn said nothing, and she looked at length a little awedby his silence and gravity. He moved away towards the door, then cameback and kissed her again, this time in a warm hasty fashion thatbrought the tears to her eyes, then went across the hall and knocked atthe door of his father's library.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
HARRY AGAIN.
Harry Whittaker, when suddenly claimed by Florrie as her long-lostbrother, felt an immediate sense of recognition of the fair, fat,bouncing-ball of a seven years child, whom he remembered in the equallybouncing and fully proportioned damsel of fifteen.
"If you're my little sister Florrie," he said, taking hold of her hands,"how do you come to be out here by yourself at this time in theevening?"
"'Twas I went and chattered to the keepers and set 'em upon you. Andwhen little Miss Lily found this here letter, I knew as how it was youand Miss Geraldine's brother, and I run away to tell Wyn to stop 'em."
"Run away from the Warrens?"
"No--from Ravenshurst; I was to help the nurse there."
"Run away from your situation!"
"Well," said Florrie with more spirit, "it was a deal better to run awaythan have you put in prison. I ain't so set on situations, either."
"Well, Florence, you're a plucky girl I see, and I'm greatly obliged toyou; but now I must just take you back to the keeper's lodge, that theymay be able to say to the lady that your own brother brought you homeagain."
He gave a little squeeze to the hand he held, which brought a curiousthrill to Florence's heart. "But--but won't they take you up?" shesaid.
"No; I shan't play hide-and-seek any longer. Anyway, if you came out totake care of me I'm bound to take care of you. So come along."
"I ain't afraid to go back to Ravenshurst and face it out," saidFlorrie.
"No; you shall go back with a good account to give of yourselfto-morrow, and now you do as I tell you."
Harry was so uneasy as to what had become of Mr Alwyn that he was notsorry for any chance of finding out.
Florence walked along by his side more subdued than she had ever been inher life. She answered all the various questions which Harry asked herabout home and their father quite meekly and as they neared the keeper'slodge, to which he knew the way much better than she did, he heard alittle sniffle.
"Don't be afraid, I'll stand by you," said Harry good-naturedly, andFlorence for once did not reply that she never was afraid in her life.
&nb
sp; There was a light still burning in the lodge, and Harry went boldly upand knocked at the door. It was opened by Charles Warren himself, wholooked the tall burly figure up and down.
"If you're Henry Whittaker," he said, "walk in, and we'll hear whatyou've got to say."
"I thank you kindly," said Harry; "I shouldn't have intruded, but I'vebrought back my sister, who--"
"Mercy on us, Florrie!" exclaimed Mrs Warren, coming forward, whileWyn, looking very pale and red-eyed, with a large patch of brown paperon his nose,