“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.”