Chapter Six.
Mr Edgar.
On the morning after Florence’s arrival at Ashcroft little Wyn Warren stood on the terrace of a pretty piece of walled garden on the south side of the great house, with the wrigglesome puppy in his arms, waiting for his master to come out and give him his orders for the day. Wyn was devoted to Mr Edgar, and to all the birds and beasts and flowers, which were the chief diversion of a very dull life. Edgar Cunningham was not naturally given to intellectual pursuits. He had been fond of sport and athletic exercises of all kinds, and there was a good deal of unconscious courage in the way in which he amused himself as much as possible, especially as there was no one but Wyn to care much about his various hobbies. Winter was a bad time for the poor young fellow, but in the summer, he was often well enough to get about in his pony chair, and visit the water-fowl or the farm, or hunt about in the woods for lichens, ferns, and mosses; sometimes, if he was able to sit up against his cushions, stopping to sketch a little, not very successfully in any eyes but Wyn’s perhaps, but greatly to his own pleasure. Wyn managed to lead that pony into very wonderful places, and he and his master liked best to take these expeditions by themselves; for when the grave and careful Mr Robertson, who waited on Mr Edgar, went with them, they were obliged to keep to smooth ground, as he did not approve of Mr Edgar being tired and shaken, and when they had once got stuck in a bog it was difficult to say whether master or boy felt the most in disgrace for such imprudence. But Wyn secretly thought that an occasional jolt—and really he was so careful that it very seldom happened—was not half so bad for Mr Edgar as lying all alone on his sofa, with no one to speak to but the grave father, who always looked at him as if his helpless state was such a dreadful disappointment and trouble that he could not bear to see more of him than could be helped. Mr Edgar’s tastes opened a good deal of desultory information to Wyn, and though the young gentleman was not of the sort to think much about teaching and educating the boy, the study of botany and natural history seemed to come naturally, books of travels interested them both, and Wyn got more knowledge than he was aware of. Edgar was scrupulously careful not to interfere with the boy’s church-going and Sunday school, so that he did well enough, and had a very happy life into the bargain. The garden in which he stood was arranged according to Mr Edgar’s special fancies, and contained many more or less successful attempts to domesticate wild flowers, and Wyn was noticing the not very flourishing condition of a purple vetch when Mr Edgar came out from the open window of his sitting-room, and, leaning on his servant’s arm, walked slowly to a long folding-chair at the end of the terrace, on which he lay down, then, spying Wyn, called him up at once.
“Ha, Wyn, so you’ve got the puppy? Miss Geraldine will be out directly. What a jolly little chap he is! Put him down on my knee. No—no, sir, you don’t eat the newspaper! Anything else new, Wyn?”
“Yes, sir, the wild duck’s eggs are hatched, and there are seven of them on the lower pond. Should you like to go and see them, sir?”
“Yes, I should. Get the pony round in half an hour. It’s a lovely day.”
As he spoke a tall girl of about fourteen, in a blue linen frock made sailor fashion and a sailor hat stuck on the back of her long dark hair, came running up the broad walk in the middle of the garden, sprang up the shallow steps that led to the terrace with one bound, and pounced on the puppy.
“Oh! what a little darling! What a perfect pet! Oh, how jolly of you to get him for me, Edgar! I’ll teach him to walk on his hind legs and to die—and to bark when I ask him if he loves me—”
“Have you got Miss Hardman’s leave to keep him?” said her brother.
“No, not yet. I thought I’d put him in the cupboard in my room, and introduce him gradually.”
“He’ll howl continually, Miss Geraldine, if you shut him up,” said Wyn.
“Nonsense,” said Edgar; “go and ask her if you may have him as a present from me.”
“Oh, must I? It would be such fun to have him in a secret chamber, and visit him at night and save the schoolroom tea for him as if he was a Jacobite,” said Geraldine.
“More fun for you than for the puppy, I should say,” said Edgar.
“Well, I think a secret prisoner would be delightful—like the ‘Pigeon Pie.’ Edgar, didn’t you ever read the ‘Pigeon Pie’?”
“No,” said Edgar, “I haven’t had that pleasure.”
“Please, ma’am,” said Wyn with a smile, “I have. My sister Bessie brought it me out of her school library.”
“I’m sure,” said Geraldine, “it’s a very nice book for you to read, Wyn. But what shall I call the puppy?”
“Please, ma’am, we calls them Wriggle and Wruggle.”
“Rigoletto?” suggested Edgar.
“No,” said Geraldine, “it ought to be Star or Sunshine, or something like that, for I’m sure he’ll be a light in a dark place. I know—Apollo. I shall call him Apollo. Well, I’ll take him and fall on my knees to Miss Hardman, and beg her and pray her. And oh, Edgar! it’s holidays—mayn’t I come back and go with you to see the creatures?”
Edgar nodded, and Geraldine flew off, but was stopped in her career by her cousin James, who came out of the house as she passed, and detained her to shake hands and look at the puppy. He came up to Edgar’s chair as Wyn went off to fetch the pony.
“Good morning, Edgar,” he said; “pretty well to-day? I see you are teaching Geraldine to be as fond of pets as you are yourself.”
“Poor little girl! she has a dull life,” said Edgar. “I wish she had more companions.”
“She is beginning to grow up.”
“She is. She ought soon to be brought more forward, I suppose. But we never see anyone, or do anything. I don’t see much of Geraldine—often—and she is kept very tight at her lessons.”
“It’s dull for you, too,” said his cousin compassionately.
“Oh, I don’t care when I get out and about a bit.”
“My uncle doesn’t look well, I think?”
“Doesn’t he?” said Edgar quickly. “Ah, I haven’t much opportunity of judging.”
There was a touch of bitterness in his voice, and a look that was not quite pleasant in the bright hazel eyes, that were usually wonderfully cheery, considering how much their owner had to suffer, and keen as a hawk’s into the bargain.
“I say, Edgar,” said James Cunningham, sitting down on the wall near him, and speaking low, “people do get into the way of going on and taking things for granted. It’s a long time since the subject was mentioned, but do you really think my uncle doesn’t know where poor Alwyn is?”
“I don’t know,” said Edgar, flushing. “I’ve no reason to think he does.”
“It has always seemed to me,” said James, with some hesitation, “that if not, some one ought to find out.”
“Do you think I should rest without knowing if I could help it?” said Edgar, starting up so suddenly, that the pain of the movement forced him to drop back again on his cushions and go on speaking with difficulty. “I did ask my father once, and he forbade me to mention him again. Don’t talk of him.”
James Cunningham was silenced. The situation was an awkward one. The estate had always gone in the male line, and he would have liked to know what had become of the next heir, after whom only a life as fragile as Edgar’s stood between himself and the great estates of Ashcroft. He did not even know how deep in the eyes of father and brother was the disgrace that rested on the exile. But Edgar did not look approachable, and any attempt at further conversation was checked by the appearance of Mr Cunningham himself, a tall, pale, grey-haired gentleman, with dark eyes and long features, like his son and daughter.
He spoke to Edgar, rather distantly, but with a careful inquiry after his health, and Edgar answered shortly, and with a manner that was remarkably repellent of any sympathy his father might be inclined to offer. Geraldine came rushing back with Apollo clasped tenderly in her arms, but she stopped and walked demurely down the terrace at sight of her father.
“Miss Hardman says I may have him, Edgar,” she said, “if I don’t let him distract my attention at lesson-time.”
“That’s all right then,” said Edgar, “and here is Wyn with the pony, so we had better come and see the wild duck.”
The servant came out, Edgar was helped into the pony chair, on which rather pitiful process Mr Cunningham turned his back and walked away, discussing the morning news with his nephew; and presently they started off, Wyn leading the pony along the broad walk with Geraldine and Apollo frisking beside it. They turned down a shrubbery, stopping at intervals to admire the gold and silver pheasants, the doves and pigeons, and rare varieties of foreign poultry, which all had their separate establishments in what Geraldine called the Zoological Gardens. Wyn hunted them into sight, fed them, and discussed their growth, plumage, and general well-being; while Geraldine smothered the puppy in the carriage rug to keep him from frightening them with his barking and yapping.
Then they came out into an open space, where the pea-hens had their nursery—several of the ordinary coloured sort, and one rarer white one, whose two little white chicks were watched with much anxiety; while, to Geraldine’s delight, the great white peacock himself appeared with his wide tail, with its faintly marked eyes like shadows in the whiteness, spread in the sun.
Then round towards the back of the farm-buildings, where, in a little square court, lived a yellow French fox, tied up with a long chain—a savage and unhappy little beast, which “might as well have been back in France for all the pleasure he gave himself or anyone else,” as Geraldine said.
“Who’s to take him?” said Edgar. “He was funny when he was a little cub. Being tied up isn’t soothing to the temper.”
A family of hedgehogs, fenced round into their own little domain, amused Geraldine mightily, as she watched the smallest curl himself up into a ball at the approach of Apollo, who thought him a delightful plaything till the prickles touched his tender tan nose, and he fled howling.
There was no time to-day to visit all the varieties of poultry, and the horses were in another direction, and formed another object for Edgar’s drives; for though he could never mount one of them, the love of horseflesh was in his nature, and he liked to have them led out for his inspection, and had always plenty to say about their condition and management. To-day the little party crossed over the open turf of the park to a large pond, where Edgar cultivated varieties of aquatic birds. He was very proud of the black swans and the beautiful Muscovy ducks, the teal and the widgeon, which he had induced to breed among the reeds, rushes, and tangled grass that clothed its banks. Geraldine stood at the pony’s head, while Wyn plunged into the rushes, waded and scrambled till he had driven the little flock of tiny dark ducklings into his master’s range of vision.
Edgar was pleased; but his attention was less free than usual, and presently he said abruptly to Wyn:
“So you’ve got a cousin come to stay with you?”
“Yes, sir. Mother’s got her to see what she’s made of, and get her suited with a place.”
“What’s her name? Where does she come from?”
“Florence Whittaker—leastways, she says it’s Maud Florence Nellie, which is a many names, sir, for one girl, don’t you think?”
“Will she come to the Sunday school?” asked Geraldine.
“I don’t know, ma’am. Shall I say as you desire her to come, Miss Geraldine?”
“Yes, do. There are never any new girls in Ashcroft. She isn’t too old, is she?”
“She’s only going in her fifteen, ma’am, but she’s very big.”
“Oh, well, Bessie Lee and Grace Elton are sixteen, quite. Yes, tell her to come.”
“Thank you, ma’am, I will,” said Wyn. “Do you want to go home, sir?”
“Yes, I’m tired this morning. Go straight back. I don’t want to go round the wood.”
He fell into silence. Geraldine played with her puppy, and Wyn trudged cheerily at the pony’s head, thinking of an expedition he wanted to propose some day when Mr Edgar was very well and fresh, and there was no one to interfere with them. Mr Edgar had been so weak all the spring, and had had so many headaches and fits of palpitation—once he had even fainted after an attempt to walk a few steps farther than usual—so that he and Wyn had not been trusted to make long excursions alone together.
But now that he was better again, and the weather was so fine, Wyn longed to take Dobbles to a certain spot recently laid open to his approach. He had been thoroughly imbued with his young master’s tastes, knew the haunts of every bird and beast in the wood, every hollow in the old ash-trees where owls or squirrels could nest and haunt. He watched the growth of all the wild flowers, and at the autumn cottage show intended to win the first prize for a collection of them—a new idea in Ashcroft which had been recently suggested by a lady whose husband, Sir Philip Carleton, had just taken Ravenshurst for the shooting.