“Don’t linger here for me,” gasped Edgar, resolute still. “It is—all—nothing.”
But the last word died away in deadly faintness. Mr Cunningham gave a hasty call. Robertson came out of the house, and Alwyn could do nothing but help to carry his brother into his room. He could not go till Edgar revived, which was not for some time, and then it was hardly to full consciousness, certainly not to his ordinary self-control, for he clung to Alwyn’s hand, entreating him not to leave him.
“Don’t go, Alwyn, don’t! You know I can’t come to you—you know I can’t come to the wood to-day.”
“Can you say nothing to quiet him, sir?” whispered Robertson. “He has no strength for such excitement. His heart is very weak.”
“I shall stay,” said Alwyn; “don’t fret, my dear boy; indeed, I won’t leave you now.”
“You know that I’ll never take your place; even if I live I will not!” said Edgar vehemently.
“No, no,” said Alwyn, without much perception of the sense of what Edgar was saying. “Never mind it now. There, that’s better. Hush! we will talk by-and-by.”
Edgar grew quieter at last, and Alwyn, as he sat beside him, began a little to realise the situation. His father had retired as soon as the first alarm was over, and no word came from him.
Presently some soup was brought for Edgar, and Robertson deferentially offered Alwyn a tray with sandwiches and some claret.
“You will need it, sir, if you remain with Mr Edgar,” he said.