"And I can't explain," Edgar replied; "if I did you'd understand the reason quick enough, and you'd hate and despise me."
This sounded very mysterious; but knowing how prone children are to exaggeration, Cousin Becky was not so impressed as might have been expected. Polly and Roger exchanged questioning glances, but they refrained from putting any questions. Edgar was outside the gate by this time, and he raised no further objections to joining in the walk. At first he appeared in a very depressed state of mind; but by-and-by he grew more cheerful, and began to enjoy the company of his cousins. His manner was so unusually subdued and humble that even Polly relented towards him after a while, and when, on their way homewards, they said good-bye to him at the Rookery gate, she remarked in a tone, which though condescending was not unkind:
"I think it's a great pity you're not always so nice as you've been to-night."
After that evening Edgar frequently joined his cousins in their walks, and the cloud which had overshadowed him certainly lifted a little. His conscience still continued to prick him when he was in Roger's society, but not so sorely as it had done; for he was growing more and more hopeful that his cousin would never find out the Calais Noble was lost, and his fear of being questioned by him about it was passing away.
Meanwhile, it was drawing near the end of the term, and there was much talk amongst the Grammar School boys about the coming holidays. Mr. Trent was to get a holiday of three weeks in August, too; but he had not suggested spending it away from Beaworthy, so that when, one evening, Cousin Becky asked him if he proposed going to the sea-side, he glanced at her in surprise as he answered promptly:
"Oh no! It's quite out of the question."
"But, Martin, you want a change badly," his wife reminded him. "Don't you think it would do him good if he would go away by himself for a fortnight," she continued, appealing to Cousin Becky, "to some place where he could get good boating and fishing?"
"No, I do not," Cousin Becky replied with a ring of decision in her voice. "I don't think he would enjoy a holiday without his wife and family. You ought all to go."
"I thought you realised the impossibility of such a plan," Mrs. Trent said, almost reproachfully, astonished that Cousin Becky, who had proved herself quick-witted on more than one occasion, should be so uncommonly dense now.
"But is it impossible?" Cousin Becky queried; "I don't think so. I know a charming village called Lynn on the coast of Norfolk, which would be the very place for you to go to, for it is most remarkably healthy and bracing. I stayed there myself with my dear brother on various occasions, at a house belonging to a lady—a great friend of ours. She—this lady—wants me to go there again this summer; but I am determined I will not unless you all accompany me. There is the house, furnished, and waiting for us to occupy it, and all we have to do is to pack up here and take possession of it."