Chapter Seventeen
To Set Wrongs Right
The abrupt disappearance of the new nursemaid had naturally caused considerable excitement at Ravenshurst, and Lily’s story, when she was asked to repeat what the new girl had said to her, did not throw much light on the subject. It seemed, however, to be clear that the child had really picked up a letter in the forest, and that, on its being shown to Florence, the girl had at once decamped. When Mrs Warren’s note came, promising an explanation, Sir Philip Carleton hummed and hawed, but told his wife that, as Cunningham’s keeper’s wife seemed so respectable a person, she had better hear the explanation. As to taking the girl back, that was another thing altogether.
Lady Carleton had no idea what the explanation was to be, and when Mrs Warren appeared at the door of her morning-room with Florence behind, hanging her head, her reception was not encouraging.
“I hope, Mrs Warren, that you have some reason to give for your niece’s extraordinary conduct. She has behaved in a most unheard-of manner.”
“She has, my lady, and I am going to trouble your ladyship with the excuse for it. Some strangers were seen in the wood, and Florence here and my little boy took it into their heads, which was none of their business, to warn the keepers about them. Then, my lady, when Florence was putting Miss Lily to bed, the little lady showed her a letter which she said she had found in the wood.”
“Yes,” said Lady Carleton; “Miss Lily told me something about that letter, but I had no time to attend to her. Well?”
“My lady, she saw in that letter the name of her own brother, Harry Whittaker, and perceived it was written by Mr Alwyn Cunningham, whose story, my lady, she had heard, it seems, from my Wyn. And Florence put two and two together, and saw that ’twas her own brother and Mr Alwyn that she had set the keepers upon, and off she ran, without another thought to send Wyn to warn them. And indeed, my lady, I hardly know whether it was her place or not; certain sure she ought to have mentioned that she was going; but her brother met her and brought her home; and if your ladyship can overlook her behaviour, she’ll be a good girl for the future, I do think.”
“But, Mrs Warren,” exclaimed Lady Carleton, to whom Florence’s conduct was the least part of the matter, “do you mean to say that Mr Alwyn Cunningham has returned?”
“Yes, my lady, he has, and Henry Whittaker too; and I may say, your ladyship, that Henry appears to be a reformed character, and well-to-do also. And very remarkable things he had to tell us. But those it is not my business to trouble your ladyship with.”
Mrs Warren said no word about the confession and the jewels; that, she thought, was not her business. And now that Mr Alwyn was once more in his proper place, she had no call to discuss his character.
“Of course, my lady,” she said, “if your ladyship feels that you cannot overlook such a breach of propriety, I will take Florence back at once.”
Lady Carleton looked at the girl for a moment.
“I should like Florence to stay,” she said. “Will you please leave her with me now, Mrs Warren? I see that the case was exceptional.” Mrs Warren thanked her ladyship, and with a discreet hope that Florence would be grateful and obedient, withdrew at once.
“Come here, Florence,” said Lady Carleton in the softest voice Florence had ever heard. “It was a very serious thing to do, you know, to run away without leave. It is because I think that you are a good steady girl in general that I overlook it, as you had a reason.”
“I ain’t a good girl, Lady Carleton,” said Florence. “I ain’t steady, but I wasn’t after nothing wrong last night.”
“What do you mean by saying you are not steady?” said Lady Carleton, somewhat taken aback by Florence’s town-bred use of her name and by her queer manner.
“I was always the one to lead the rest,” said Florence, “and I’ve always liked a bit of fun. But I had to go and try to step them from taking Harry up for a poacher, and – and he says it ain’t no manner of use to say ‘Don’t care,’ and I’m very sorry.”
“If you were able to stop the harm you had begun to do, that is a thing to be very thankful for – to thank God for!” said Lady Carleton with some emotion in her tone.
Florence looked up with a certain solemnity in her round eyes never seen there before.
“I did say my prayers in the wood,” she said, “when I lost my way, and then Harry came.”
“Tell me about it,” said Lady Carleton kindly. Thus encouraged, Florence volubly, according to her nature, but with a friendliness of manner which was really the nearest approach to respect that she had ever exhibited, told her tale.
“And my heart was in my mouth, ma’am, the trees were that black and that awful. I’d have run back, for I wouldn’t have cared if nurse had given me ever so much of the rough side of her tongue. But there, I couldn’t have it on my mind that I’d set the keepers on my brother and dear Miss Geraldine’s too. But I didn’t know one path from another no more than if there hadn’t been none. And then I thought of little Miss Lily’s prayer about setting wrongs right and travellers, and I said it, Lady Carleton; and there was Harry.”
“Did you, Florence? Oh, thank God for it!” said Lady Carleton tearfully.
“And he took me right back, and he said this morning that the best thing I could do was to come back here and be trained a bit. And so I’ve come, please, ma’am – my lady. Please, aunt said I was to say ‘my lady,’ and I will, but I forgot; and I’ll be a good girl, and not gossip on the sly, nor answer nurse back, nor make the other girls saucy. And I’ll trim up my hat quiet, if you like, my lady. I – I want to be good.”
Florence cried as she finished speaking, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose noisily. Perhaps, but for the circumstances that appealed so strongly to her sympathy, Lady Carleton would never have recognised how real this confused desire “to be good” was in this extraordinary girl, so unlike any well-trained maiden whom she had ever encountered.
“Well,” she said, “you shall try. You had better talk as little about the matter as possible, and I trust you never will ‘gossip on the sly,’ or do anything of the kind, for I couldn’t have a girl who was not nice and modest near my little ones. I will speak to nurse.”
“Thank you – my lady.”
But as Lady Carleton rose to take her back to the nursery, Florence’s round face suddenly beamed all over, and she said sympathetically: “They’ve found out who stole the jewels, my lady, and it was not Harry nor Mr Alwyn. They were as innocent as lambs.”
“I think we had better not talk about that just now,” said Lady Carleton; and then, with a sudden inspiration and effort, she added: “Florence, perhaps you don’t know that it was partly my fault that those jewels were lost, that I helped to put some one in the way of temptation. It was because I was so silly, that I only thought of what you call ‘a bit of fun.’ That is why I was so glad you were able to prevent the mischief you started, and why I taught Miss Lily to say those prayers. The good God has heard them. You see, I shall be very glad if you are good.”
Lady Carleton had a very simple manner, but Florence looked up at her with the first sense of real respect – she had begun to have real likings – that she had ever known.
“I will try,” she said softly, with her bold eyes cast down; and Lady Carleton took her by the hand and led her up to the nursery.
An hour or two later, when Florence, whose reception by the nurse had not been particularly cordial, was sitting demurely in the nursery window, putting her best needlework, such as it was, into Miss Lily’s new pinafore, a note was brought to Lady Carleton. “The gentleman was waiting.” Lady Carleton had thought of nothing but the half-heard story of the returned travellers, of the hint about the jewels, and of the hope that the consequences of her girlish folly might be undone at last.
The note ran thus: —
“Ashcroft: August 5th.
“Dear Lady, Carleton, – My eldest son has returned from abroad. He asks your permission for a short interview, either with yourself or with Sir Philip Carleton, concerning the circumstances under which he left England.
“I remain sincerely yours, —
“George Cunningham.”
Lady Carleton handed the note to her husband, to whom she had already related Florence’s story.
“You will see him?” said Sir Philip. “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”
It was a very uncomfortable moment both for Lady Carleton and for Alwyn Cunningham, who had been boy and girl together, and now hardly knew how to meet; but Sir Philip carried it off by ordinary greetings as to the son of a neighbour, whose acquaintance he was ready to make, and Alwyn hardly waited a moment before he entered on the matter in hand.
He took out the jewel that he had shown to Edgar in the wood and laid it on the table.
“I can at least return to you this piece of your family property, Lady Carleton,” he said.
“My mother’s jewel, the ruby bird!” faltered Lady Carleton, hardly knowing what this implied.
“And,” said Alwyn, “I will ask Sir Philip Carleton to be good enough to read these papers.”
These contained the confession of Lennox, already alluded to by Harry Whittaker to his aunt, and the attestations of it, of which he had shown copies to the Warrens.
“That Lennox stole the jewels, and returned one of them on his death-bed to me, Whittaker has told some of his relations,” said Alwyn, “but the main fact of the matter has only been confided to my father, as you will see that it would not do to make it public. This Is the substance of what he told me as nearly as possible in his own words:
”‘I put the jewels for safety in a hollow tree near the entrance to Ravenshurst. I thought they were safer there than in my keeping. I kept one back to take it up to London, and see if I could dispose of it, but before I could do so the alarm was given. I was afraid to come back without a reason, and I went off with my new master, leaving the jewels in the tree, and thinking they’d either be found (I have never been in England since), or I should get a chance of coming back for them. But I put it off and I put it off. I took service with Mr Alwyn Cunningham because I thought I could find out how things had gone; and I hope he will go home and find the jewels.’”
“This is a most extraordinary story,” said Sir Philip.
“It is,” said Alwyn. “Of course it rests finally on the unsupported words of myself and Whittaker, who alone heard it. These other papers and letters may show what worth is attached to our words in our own neighbourhood, but that is all.”
“Then do you mean to say,” ejaculated Sir Philip, “that these missing jewels are – are in an old tree trunk in Ashcroft Wood?”
“Well,” said Alwyn, “all I can say is that Lennox said that he put them in one.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Sir Philip.
“But, of course,” Alwyn continued, “some one may have lighted on them during these eight years and carried them off, to say nothing of the difficulty of finding them. For he had done it, he said, in the dark, and though he could have found the tree himself, he could not tell me anything about it, except that it was near Ravenshurst. You see he was dying fast, and spoke with great difficulty.”
“Do you remember the man, Lily?” asked Sir Philip.
“I think I remember something about a servant who went to America. Oh, Philip, you will have every place searched – you will help Mr Cunningham? If the jewels could be found! But I don’t mind so much after all about that if no one is accused falsely.”
“As to that,” said Sir Philip, “I know Mr Dallas, of Boston, and the Bishop of. I knew them when I was once in the States, the year before I married. What they say here is quite sufficient to establish the worth of Mr Alwyn Cunningham’s testimony and the character of his foreman, who is more concerned in the matter. You will allow me to call on you, Mr Cunningham, and to express my pleasure at your return.”
“Thank you,” said Alwyn, a little stiffly, for the situation sorely tried his pride. “I am much obliged to you,” he added, after a moment.
“And, Alwyn,” said Lady Carleton, with tears in her eyes, “can you ever forgive me for my silly trick, and for being too frightened to tell of it at once? Oh, I have never – never forgiven myself.”
“I don’t think it is easy for any of us to forgive ourselves, Lady Carleton,” said Alwyn, “for that night’s work. But your share was a very small one.”
“The fact is,” said Sir Philip, “the thing was never properly investigated. Mr Fletcher was afraid that the silly trick would come to my ears – too soon. I needn’t say – since you know my wife – that I at once heard of it from her. The chance was lost. But what is to be done now? You yourself believe this story?”
“Oh yes,” said Alwyn, “I do. There was no object in deceiving me. No; I am sure Lennox had not sold the jewels, and made up the story of the old tree.”
“We cannot let it get about that the wood is full of diamonds,” said Sir Philip.
“No,” returned Alwyn with a laugh; “neither Whittaker nor myself could resist a little bird’s-nesting, but it was, of course, unwise. That was partly why I wished to make myself known first to my brother. I did not know then that part of our misfortunes.”
“Ah! poor fellow,” said Sir Philip, “he is sadly helpless. But your return will be a capital thing for him. His life must be rather solitary.”
“Yes, I fear so,” said Alwyn. “I will go back to him now, with many thanks for a most kind reception.”
“Lily,” said Sir Philip, when their guest was gone, “I believe young Cunningham told the truth and the whole truth, to-day. But I didn’t.”
“What in the world do you mean, Philip?”
“Why, only yesterday I got a letter from old Dallas, giving a wonderful account of him and his high character out there, but wanting naturally to know how Mr Cunningham’s eldest son came to be there at all. I was wondering what I could say, for it was very evident that he had a reason for asking – there’s a lady in question, I imagine – when to-day he turns up.”
“Oh, Philip, we must find the jewels!”
“We must; but it passes me to know how to set about it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sunday at Home
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.