Maud Florence Nellie; or, Don't care!
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himsome trifling service, and for the first time it struck Mr Cunninghamthat something more might be made out of his relations to Edgar andGeraldine than was the case at present. Surely they were unusuallystiff, and not shy, but distant with him.
He did not wish for any approach from Alwyn; but it was none the lesstrue that these feelings had come to him on Alwyn's return, becauseAlwyn was the only one of his three children that he had ever greatlyloved.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
AFTER EIGHT YEARS.
Life was certainly a much more peaceable thing in the Whittakerhousehold while Florence was undergoing the process of being "strokeddown" by Mrs Warren at Ashcroft, Ethel and Sybil were much lessperverse and saucy without her, and went their several ways likerational girls, Ethel looking forward to a clerkship in the post-office,and Sybil to an apprenticeship to a good dressmaker in Rapley. Theycontrived to walk about without staring or being stared at, and as theybehaved with ordinary common sense, the respectability of their superiorhome showed, and they were thought well of by their various teachers,and began to take the lead at their Sunday school in better things thanmischief. Miss Mordaunt found her Bible class comparatively harmless,and could not honestly feel that she regretted Florence Whittaker;while, at home, Mattie enjoyed unwonted peace and quiet.
She knew that she had not managed Florrie very well, but the relief offeeling no longer responsible for her was great. After a longishinterval, Florence had replied to the letter in which she had urged herto keep in mind the lesson of Harry's misconduct.
The girl could write rather a good letter, and her descriptions of herlife at Ashcroft were amusing. "I should like it very well if there wasanything but trees and live stock about," she said, "but I get on rightenough. Aunt Charlotte ain't made up her mind that I'm going to `harryher up,' as Aunt Stroud calls it. As for Harry, I remember him wellenough, and there's others that haven't forgotten him neither, and maybeI'm taking example more than you think."
Mattie could make nothing of this sentence, but it recalled Harry to hermind; and one evening, when George had come back from his work, shebegan to talk about him.
"It seems a bit heartless of us, George," she said, "to think so littleabout him. He might be in trouble and poverty, and we so comfortable."
"I expect we should have heard of him if he had been," said George. "Ofcourse, if he turned up, I should do the right thing by him--afterproper inquiries. But I don't suppose we should be much the better forhim."
"I wonder if father ever frets after him," said Mattie.
"I don't think he does," said George dryly; "he put him out of the waytoo much. But Aunt Stroud made a pet of him."
"I wish Aunt Lizzie wouldn't talk so mysterious!" said Mattieimpatiently. "She came down here to-day and talked about burstingclouds and Providence, till one would have thought she knew somethingparticular."
"She's a talker, worse than Florrie," said George. "I declare I'll beoff, Mattie--if there isn't Aunt Stroud again!"
George was a worthy and useful young man, and if trouble or poverty hadcome upon his sisters he would have done his part by them well. But heliked his life very well as it was, and he naturally thought that thescapegrace Harry, though he knew nothing of the jewel story, would comeinto it as a disturbing element. Even Mattie, who was much moretender-hearted, felt afraid of the idea of him, and would have welcomedhim from duty rather than from love. The father, too, was a good,conscientious, but rather selfish man, whose life consisted in theroutine of his duties. He had been much more comfortable without Harrythan with him. People cannot vanish for years, leaving trouble behindthem, and always find a spontaneous welcome on their return. NeitherAlwyn Cunningham nor Harry Whittaker had left to them in the world theone friend who would never have forgotten them. Their mothers weredead. Their places were filled up. Had poor Edgar been the gay youngofficer that Alwyn had pictured him, the place his brother held in hismemory would probably have been much smaller, and when Harry Whittakerwalked down the broad road in the middle of the cemetery, no dream hadgiven notice of his return, nobody had any special desire to see him.
And for himself, he had come home more for the sake of his child thanfor that of his family. He recalled them all with an effort, even as hewalked along counting the new tomb-stones that had appeared since hewent away. His Aunt Stroud had arranged to come to the Lodge a fewminutes before him, so as to prepare his family for his arrival.Suddenly, however, he perceived his father walking towards him by a sidepath, with his order-book under his arm, on his way from a meeting ofthe Board. A little greyer-haired, elderly middle-aged instead of youngmiddle-aged, but far less altered than Harry himself, at whom he lookedwithout any recognition. Harry had to choose between letting him passand making himself known; but, before he could resolve what to say, someagitation in his manner, a look that was not that of the ordinarypasser-by in his face, arrested Mr Whittaker's attention, and he pausedand looked at him.
"I think I'm speaking to Mr Whittaker?" said Harry, in his strongoutspoken voice, which nevertheless shook a little. Then he suddenlyput out his hand.
"Father, do you know me? I've come back to ask your forgiveness andfriendship, and to clear my character as to the past."
"My son Henry!" exclaimed Mr Whittaker. He faced him with a look ofgreat surprise and of uncertain welcome, and yet, perhaps, he had oftenenough wondered whether Henry would come back, not to feel the utterstrangeness of an event never looked forward to.
"It's your place to explain a little, Henry," he said, neither givingnor withholding a welcome.
"If you are willing to hear me," said Harry.
"Come with me," said Mr Whittaker.
He turned and led the way into the little office where business wastransacted, and where the relatives and friends sometimes waited forfunerals. In this not very cheerful spot Harry's papers and letters(including one from Mrs Warren) were once more produced, and, underpromise of secrecy for the present, he told his father of the search forthe jewels, and how he would willingly have held back till they werefound, but for his encounter with Florence.
"And," said Harry, "after what passed I was justified, I think, inholding aloof, while I was a vagabond and times were so hard. And afterI settled down comfortable and got on, thanks to Mr Alwyn's kindness,I'd made up my mind to forget the old country; but you see, father, Ithought, what if little Georgie, when he grows up, were to keep awayfrom me for eight years, and live _happy_? Why, let us have quarrelledas we would, it'd break my heart to think he could forget me so. Andso--and so, father--I hope you'll let me take him his grandfather'sblessing. Mother would have set great store by him if she'd lived tosee him, and he shall be taught to set store by you."
The father and son sat looking at each other for a moment or two insilence. For the big, half-grown, trouble-town of a boy the fathercould not say that his heart had broken; but the thought of the littlegrandchild brought back early days, when Harry's rosy face and sandycurls had been the mother's pride, and when his father's heart wouldhave nearly broken if he had died in that scarlet fever from which hehad barely recovered. Perhaps he had been too ready to think ill of thelad, and to cast him upon his own resources.
"If you were wronged about the jewels, Henry," he said, "it's you thathave the advantage of us."
"I'd acted so as to be easy wronged," said Harry, "but I'd be glad to goback with all fair behind me."
Mr Whittaker put out his hand with something like tears in his shrewdgrey eyes. After all, he had not quite forgotten Harry. Harry gave thehand a great squeeze and walked over to the window, from which hepresently turned round, saying:
"There's my aunt, father; she was coming to tell you."
Mr Whittaker went out to the door and beckoned Harry after him. Therestood Mrs Stroud, beaming; Mattie, flushed and eager; George by nomeans so well pleased; and all the four younger ones eager and excited.
Harry's coolness returned as soon as he had settled matters with hisfather, and he gre
eted them all as composedly as if he had returned froma short excursion abroad, and presently they all went in to sit down tosupper and take each other's measure as well as they could.
Mrs Stroud at once called for the photograph and Ethel and Sybilgiggled with delight at finding themselves possessed of a nephew, whileMattie began to think that some of the romance she was so fond of hadfound its way into real life.
"And how long do you mean to stay this side of the water, Harry?" askedhis aunt.
"Only till the matter of which I spoke to my father is concluded orgiven up. Mr Alwyn and myself could not both be away for longtogether, and I think he will not leave his brother again