“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 the first time yesterday. I should not be waiting here if I had the use of my limbs like other people. As things are, I’ll beg you to open that letter and read it at once yourself.”
Edgar’s manner and face were alike defiant, and he was so indignant at the imputation cast on him that he never saw that his father’s lips were twitching and that his face was pale, nor took advantage of the moment of softening.
Mr Cunningham took up the packet, and turned round as if to open and read it, when his attention was caught by three figures coming up the road towards the house. They evidently saw him on the terrace, and after 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 turn of 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 against your wish. But your keepers have made a mistake, which perhaps you will explain 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 muttering a “Beg pardon, I’m sure, sir,” retreated in haste.
“It is right, sir, that I should explain myself,” said Alwyn, speaking with evident effort. “I had no intention of forcing myself on you. If you will have the goodness to read the letter I gave to my brother, I will go back to London and wait—”
“No, no, no!” interposed Edgar, struggling up on to his elbow. “I’d stand by your side if I could stand anywhere. At least I’ll claim the right to own you.”