by L. T. Meade
to her old selfat all. Her head had been filled with wider, other ideas than her ownlittle follies, faults, and pleasures. The mystery of the lost jewels,the excitement of the strangers in the wood, the old grandmother, theCunningham family--the trees, even the birds and beasts--were all apartfrom her own little selfish narrow interests, and were a greatimprovement on Carrie's new hat, Ada's new acquaintance, and her ownnewest scrape. Moreover, Mrs Warren's quiet refinement had a subduinginfluence; Wyn was a thoroughly well-behaved little boy. Nobody naggedat the keeper's lodge, and nobody quarrelled. To be saucy at Sundayschool to gentle old Mrs Murray, who taught the girls with all theassured ease of long custom, was so out of keeping with the place thatshe never dreamed of it. Besides, she was usually occupied with thepleasure of sitting beside Miss Geraldine, who, when Mrs Murray wasthere, took her place in the class with the others. All theseinfluences were doing Florence a great deal of good; and an odd sort ofpartisanship for the lost Harry was stirring up all sorts of new ideasin her mind.
It did not begin very worthily: chiefly consisting of the notion that hewas probably much nicer than George, and wondering whether he would havebeen down upon herself for her tricks; but the thought of him, and of"Miss Geraldine's brother," filled Ravenshurst with interest. Besides,"dressing up to frighten people," if they were so silly as to befrightened, was a proceeding with which Florrie had far too muchsympathy.
"Florrie, my dear," said Mrs Warren gently as they waited, "it's a gooddeal that I'm undertaking for you. You've all to learn, remember, andthe nurse must tell you if you make mistakes; don't think to answer herback. Remember she's your better, and set over you. And when you'retrusted with the little lady and gentleman you'll be a careful girl, andnever let them hear a word from you that isn't fitting. Put it in yourprayers, my dear, that you may do your duty by them. I'm not one totalk, Florrie, but there's nothing _but_ praying can help us throughlife."
"I'll try, Aunt Charlotte," said Florrie, colouring Mrs Warren'sgentleness always subdued her, and when the summons came she followedher aunt, and made a sort of imitation of Mrs Warren's country curtseyat the drawing-room door, as a proof that she meant to mind her manners.
Lady Carleton was very young and very pretty. Her manner was lively asshe asked a few questions about previous experience, and said that hernurse preferred a girl who had not been out before.
"So you have only to attend to her directions. What is your name?"
"Her name is Florence Whittaker, my lady," said Mrs Warren. "Myhusband wished me to name that at once. But she has been brought upvery careful, and her brother George is a clerk on the railway and mostrespectable."
Lady Carleton coloured up, and a curious look came into her face.
"I should like to do something for Florence _Whittaker_," she said witha slight emphasis. "We will consider it settled, Mrs Warren, that yourniece comes on trial."
"Your ladyship is very good. Florence will do her best, I am sure,"said Mrs Warren.
Accordingly, in the course of an hour or so Florence found herself inLady Carleton's nursery, under the orders of a well-mannered superiornurse, making friends with Lily and Malcolm, and admiring the baby.
"Things are not so tidy as they should be, Florence," said the nurse,"for our last girl began with the mumps, and was sent off in a hurry.Before you undress Miss Lily, please to straighten out her walkingthings and put her toys to rights. I couldn't see properly to themyesterday or to-day."
Lily Carleton was quite ready to make friends with the new nursemaid,and Florence, who was good-natured with children, had soon told her thenames of her little sisters, and was hearing in return about the woodand the squirrels, and the pretty puff-balls, and all the delights of aLondon child in the country.
"What's this, Miss Lily?" said Florence, putting her hand into thepocket of the little jacket which she was folding. "Have you beenputting a puff-ball in your pocket?"
"No," said Lily, "that's a letter from the fairies. I found it in thewood; I told mother that I'd found a fairy letter, but she was too busyto look and see."
Florence straightened out the crushed ball of damp paper, which, incompany with bits of moss and lichen-covered stick, filled Lily's littlepocket.
"Why, Miss Lily," she began, "this ain't a fairy letter," when shesuddenly stopped, catching sight of her own name in the short, clearlywritten note: "Whittaker." "Whittaker has come with me. Remember I amstill your brother.--Alwyn Cunningham."
Florence would not have taken a letter off the table and read it; but inthe case of this mysterious paper no such scruple occurred to her. Shesaw that it began, "Dear Edgar"--that it stated that the writer hadreturned, had satisfactory explanations to give, and asked for a meetingat the old ash-tree on the following day. Two things flashed at onceinto Florence's mind: one that this was the letter Wyn had lost; theother that the man who had spoken to herself and Miss Geraldine was MrAlwyn.
"Miss Lily, where did you find the letter? When was it you got it?"
"I found it down under the ferns," said Lily. "It wasn't yesterday--mother took us out yesterday. It was Friday."
Florence stared at the letter. Wyn's poacher with the red beard--thatmust have been Harry himself! And, oh! she and Wyn had set the keepersto look out for him.
Florence turned quite pale. She had derived vague and awful notions ofMr Cunningham's power from the way in which everything at Ashcroft wasreferred to his pleasure. She did not know what he would do to a"poacher"--also a vague character to the town-bred girl.
"You had better undress Miss Lily," said the nurse, fearing that her newunderling was a dawdle.
"Read me what the fairies say," said Lily.
"Not to-night," said Florence, stuffing the letter in her pocket. "Youtell Florrie about the fairies to-morrow."
She bustled about and did her work, till, Lily's toilet being complete,she knelt up in her bed in her little nightgown, and said her prayers.She went through the usual baby prayers, which were pretty much all thatFlorence herself had to say, since she had never felt the need of anyothers; but when she had finished she still knelt with her two littlehands clasped together, and said in a clear, parrot-like little voice:
"Please, God, make all wrongs right, and bring travellers safe home, forJesus' sake."
"Miss Lily--who's a traveller?" said Florence, startled.
"I don't know; mother told me to say that prayer always," she said asshe curled herself up in her little white bed and shut her eyes.
Florence stood by the window looking out over the garden into the massof trees that bounded it, under which the level evening light waspouring. If she could only get that letter back to Wyn! only tell himto stop the keepers from minding her foolish talk! With the letter inher pocket, she really did feel a sense of great responsibility; shereally did try to think what it would be right to do. She had neverfelt so serious in her life. Come what come might, she must get at Wyn.She must run home across the forest. Lose her place for it! Perhapsshe would; but, if she had lost one place to amuse herself, she couldlose another to prevent such dreadful mischief.
"I don't care," said Florence, as she had said once before. There wasgood in her motive now, but it was the old daring, heedless Florencethat never stopped to think. She slipped out of the bedroom by an outerdoor that did not lead through the nursery, downstairs along thepassage, out at a side door, open to the summer evening, across thegrass of the garden, and right into the wood. She ran on through theband of fir trees that divided Ravenshurst from Ashcroft, and, crossingthe stile between the two properties, found herself, though she did notknow it, close to the place where the letter had been picked up, and notfar from the ash-tree named in it.
Then she began to grow puzzled about the way. The long yellow lines oflight faded, the tall trees rustled overhead, the heavy whir and flap ofa startled pheasant sounded close at hand. Deadly fear seized onFlorence. If she had been frightened in the sunny morning, she wasdoubly frightened now in the twilight.
Besides, it would really getdark soon, and then what would become of her? She had said "I don'tcare!" but where was the use of saying "don't care" to darkness andsilence and confusion as to the right way? Should she go back? she knewthe way back.
"No," said Florence to herself, "I may have been a silly to come; butI'll get that there letter to Wyn if I walk all night. And I'll not beafraid of the wood. Miss Geraldine ain't--but oh, dear, I wish I had togo down the broad path in the cemetery at home, all nice and straight,instead. If I go on I'll have to get somewhere at last!"
Florence knew quite well that she had done a very serious thing, forwhich she would have to answer, and in the midst of her fear of thesolitude came an involuntary fear of the scolding that would meet herarrival anywhere. She had rather enjoyed scolding when she knew she waswrong: why did she dread it when she thought she was right? The wooddid grow darker, much darker than Florence had expected, judging by thelight that she knew was outside it; and the poor girl's knees trembledas she hurried along. It was a perfectly formless terror that seized onher; she had had too utterly matter-of-fact a training to fill the woodwith any imaginary inhabitants, and she was too old and had too muchsense to people it with wolves or bears. It did occur to her that thekeepers she had herself stirred up might shoot her through the bushes,and her cheeks tingled at the thought of being seen and recognised bythem; while, if she met her Uncle Warren--
"I'll go through with it--rather than bring my own brother to thegallows," she thought with a vividness worthy of her Aunt Stroud. Butwhich _was_ the way? what _should_ she do? Florence was so accustomedto trust to her own wits that where her wits were perfectly useless shefelt like another person. She did not know the way, she could not getat Wyn, she could not undo the mischief! There was no one to help her!Suddenly there struck into her mind a new thought:
"God."
Now Florence had never _thought_ about God in her life. She knew aboutHim: on the very last Sunday before she left Rapley she had answeredMiss Mordaunt's questions about His nature with a glib tongue, butwithout a trace of reverence in her manner or of awe in her heart. Hewas everywhere; He could see her in the dark and in the light; He knewher thoughts; He could hear her prayers. Such awful truths had beentaught to her, and had been just as much a lesson as the multiplicationtable. But now, in the greatest need she had ever known, it didsuddenly strike Florence that perhaps God would help her if she askedHim. She looked up--up through the dark trees to the pale clear skyabove them, and associating praying with nothing but with "saying herprayers," she began to repeat the childish formulary which she was inthe habit of scurrying over every night, and with a sudden thought addedthe words which little Lily had been taught to say: "Set wrongs right,bring travellers home."
"Oh, God," whispered Florence, clasping her hands, "bring _me_--there!Save _them_ somehow." Something seemed let loose within her, and forthe first time in her life she really prayed. And "Oh say not, dreamnot," that those unrealised lessons, that formal habit of prayer, hadbeen hitherto all in vain. How could she have heard without a teacher?There was the knowledge, there was the instinct, so soon as the naughty,graceless girl felt the need.
As she looked round, with a somewhat calmer inspection of the variousfootpaths, suddenly, in the stillness of the summer evening, she heardthe tramp of a foot, and in a moment, round the great tree by which shestood, came the tall broad figure of a man with a long beard--surely the"character" who had given Wyn the letter.
"Hullo, my girl," he said, stopping with a start at sight of a hatlessmaiden in a white apron, "what's the matter? Have you lost your way?"
"Oh!" cried Florence, precipitating herself towards him, "I've got yourletter--but--but, if you're my brother Harry that's come home--thekeepers are going to seize you for a poacher!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
FATHER AND SON.
Edgar Cunningham got somewhat the better of his headache as the day wenton, and late in the afternoon insisted on getting out into the fresh airon the terrace, in the hope that Wyn might make some excuse for comingup to speak to him. He was hardly fit even for this exertion; but theopen air was always the one thing he cared for, and the suspense wasmore endurable so than when he was shut up in the house.
When his cushions were raised he could see across the flower garden,over the low wall that bounded it, to the road that led from the woodand the village, up to the stables, and to the back of the house; and ashis bright eyes were keen and long-sighted, he often amused himself withwatching the comers and goers, noticing all that went on, as only thosepeople do who are confined to one place.
To-day, however, as he lay almost flat on his back, he could not see theroad, and it was with a start of surprise that he looked up and saw hisfather standing by him.
"I hope, as you are out of doors, that you are better, Edgar?" he said.
"Oh yes, thanks, almost well," said Edgar.
"Your boy, little Warren, has been getting into trouble. He has letdown the young bay horse and broken his knees."
"Wyn! Has he? What had he to do with the horse?" said Edgar, very muchstartled as he thought of what Wyn should have been doing.
"He had been driving his mother and her niece to Ravenshurst as Iunderstand, and went to fetch his sister from the station. He let downthe horse in Coombe Lane. That is what I am _told_," said MrCunningham with emphasis, and using all the advantage his position gavehim to look straight down into Edgar's face.
"Was he hurt?" said Edgar, looking straight up in return.
Mr Cunningham was very angry with his son, and little disposed to bemerciful to him, though he had not meant to enter on the subject of theletter if Edgar had been more manifestly unequal to a discussion.
"He broke his head; I believe nothing serious. He had a letter for you,which I undertook to deliver myself," and Mr Cunningham laid Alwyn'sunopened packet in Edgar's hand.
Edgar caught his breath, but his face never flinched as his father wenton:
"I was not aware, when you spoke to me the other morning, that you werealready in communication with your brother."
"I dare say you think it possible that I might have so deceived you,"said Edgar bitterly. "But my brother made himself known to me for thefirst time yesterday. I should not be waiting here if I had the use ofmy limbs like other people. As things are, I'll beg you to open thatletter and read it at once yourself."
Edgar's manner and face were alike defiant, and he was so indignant atthe imputation cast on him that he never saw that his father's lips weretwitching and that his face was pale, nor took advantage of the momentof softening.
Mr Cunningham took up the packet, and turned round as if to open andread it, when his attention was caught by three figures coming up theroad towards the house. They evidently saw him on the terrace, andafter a pause and a word or two came through the gate up the garden.
"What is it? Who is there, father?" cried Edgar, expectant of any turnof events.
"It is--your brother!" said Mr Cunningham, laying his hand on the wall,with pale lips, and his eyes fixed on the first figure approaching him.
Alwyn stood still at the top of the steps and took off his hat.
"I see you know me, sir," he said; "I did not mean to come here againstyour wish. But your keepers have made a mistake, which perhaps you willexplain to them."
"That will do, blockheads; don't you know a gentleman when you see one?"said Mr Cunningham, as the two men, greatly crestfallen, and mutteringa "Beg pardon, I'm sure, sir," retreated in haste.
"It is right, sir, that I should explain myself," said Alwyn, speakingwith evident effort. "I had no intention of forcing myself on you. Ifyou will have the goodness to read the letter I gave to my brother, Iwill go back to London and wait--"
"No, no, no!" interposed Edgar, struggling up on to his elbow. "I'dstand by your side if I could stand anywhere. At least I'll claim theright to own you."
Alwyn had not meant to make any advance to Edgar which might beconst
rued as a defiance, but he now crossed over to the couch and tookthe offered hand gently in both his own.
"My father will understand," he said, "that I should not have made anyapproach to you if I had known of the fatal mischief for which I amresponsible. Dear Edgar, lie still; no one could have done more for methan you have."
There was a pause. Mr Cunningham moved and sat down in a chairopposite his sons. Edgar lay back, but with eyes still fronting hisfather, while he still held Alwyn's hand. Alwyn himself hardly knewwhat next to do. There was, however, something about him so unlike thewild youth from whom the father had parted, so unlike what MrCunningham had imagined as his probable condition, that all previousideas were upset.
"Your reappearance," said Mr Cunningham at length, "is very suddenafter so complete a silence. What is your reason for coming here?"
Alwyn hesitated, his mouth quivered, and he pointed to the letter whichstill lay on Edgar's knee. Then he dropped his brother's hand and madea step or two forward.
"Father," he said, "I--I beg your pardon. That first, nothing else. Ihave made a position for myself, as you will see. I came partly becauseI hope to set Whittaker's character right with his friends here and toleave no