Alwyn and his father were a long while away. Edgar had been taken indoors while they were out, and, weak as he was, had grown weary of waiting before Alwyn came in, much too late to send his half-written letter by that day’s post.
“Edgar,” he said in a low voice, “it is all right. My father shall not, if I can help, repent it.”
“Tell me,” said Edgar eagerly.
“We didn’t get on much with settling about the farms,” said Alwyn, half laughing. “As we walked down he said that he begged me to spare him conversation on the subject. I was to understand that my place was ready for me. And then, when brooks came up about the farms, he referred him to me in a sort of matter-of-course way that I could have laughed at. A fine notion Brooks must have formed of my knowledge of the subject! We met Sir Philip Carleton, and when he said that the search in the wood seemed hopeless, my father answered that, for Lady Carleton’s sake, he was sorry. It did not, of course, particularly concern himself. Then he walked round by the stables and made me say which of his young horses should be sold. I could only say I would come to-morrow and look more particularly. I couldn’t have told a racer from a cab-horse then. But, Edgar, the best of it was that I—I knew that he liked it, that he felt it good to have me to ask and to care. And at last he said something about ‘my friends in America.’ I don’t think he liked the notion much, but he ended by saying that he would write to Mr Dallas, and that he should be glad to make the young lady’s acquaintance at no distant date.”
“Yes,” said Edgar. “Alwyn, you ought to go and fetch her—you will one day—and bring her to see Ashcroft. But—”
“Some day, perhaps,” said Alwyn. “Just now I’m going to take care of you, and do what I can to please my father. He was very good.”
“I couldn’t let you go,” said Edgar. “It used to come across me what it would be like to die alone. I was afraid of getting worse always, though I wouldn’t own it to myself. Afraid of having to lie here shut up from the air and the light, and just the things that made life bearable—with never any change. But now that I have you—”
“I have had much that I don’t deserve,” said Alwyn very low; “but of all these mercies, the one I am most glad, most thankful for, is that I can help you, my dear, dear boy! Thank God for that!”
“I am glad,” said Edgar; “oh, how glad! But I am afraid I don’t know much about being thankful, Val; you must teach me.”