affectionhad also been released from long imprisonment. The Cunninghams drewnearer to each other, and it was not so much that Alwyn's presence madethe house more cheerful or might fill up the gap that Edgar would leave,as that the melting of the hardness of displeasure made them all moreable to feel a common grief. Mr Cunningham was gentler to Edgar, andspoke of him tenderly; Geraldine softened down and began to havethoughts of making herself her father's companion as time went on. Theyremembered, and seemed to feel for the first time, how faithful the loveof old Granny Warren had been for them all and to know the value of suchlifelong love. The master himself, and Geraldine, to say nothing ofAlwyn, went to give her accounts of Edgar, and once she was taken downto see him, and to look at her two dear boys together again.
All the village had a feeling of sympathy with the trouble at the greathouse which was much warmer than the old respect. Mr Murray found thathis squire could give him more than courtesy and the necessarysubscriptions. He visited Edgar frequently, and when GeraldineCunningham, Florence Whittaker, and Alwyn Warren were put underinstruction for an approaching confirmation, it was for all of themsomething more than a piece of ordinary propriety, an occasion for dressand companionship, or a mere act of obedience, as it might have beenonce. But on poor Edgar himself the shadow of the valley of death fellheavily. He had indemnified himself for the long years of physicaldependence, so peculiarly trying to one of his temper, by theunconquerable self-reliance of his spirit. He had doffed aside hissuffering and given it the go-by with unfailing courage. And now, withhis bodily strength, the strong nerves failed too; every trifle startledand fretted him. All his gay indifference was gone.
He could not meet the thought of death now as he might perhaps have doneonce, with unrealising boldness. He was brave still, and in moments ofsuffering would often whisper the old formula "I don't care--it willsoon be better;" but the time came when he answered Alwyn's words ofcomfort with an altogether new look in his eyes, and with the falteringconfession, "I am afraid."
"Of what, my boy?" said Alwyn, pressing the clinging fingers tenderly.
"Of Death," whispered Edgar; "when I must let you go."
He listened dutifully to Mr Murray, and without any mental dissent, buthis words did not seem to make much impression. In fact, it wasdifficult to know what to say to him; for the difficulty was hardly in aregion where words could reach.
"If I am afraid I'll face it," he said once.
But at last the intense conviction that had been sent into Alwyn's soul,and which had power to change his whole self--how, it was hard to say--by words or looks or tender hand-clasp, slid also into Edgar's heart.Alwyn never thought himself that it was anything that he said or didthat brought peace to Edgar at last.
But there came a morning bright and blue, when the ash trees weretouched with gold, and the smooth turf was thick with dew, and the clearautumn air blew through the open window--when Edgar lay in his brother'sarms with the life ebbing fast away from him.
Then he opened his eyes once more and looked up into Alwyn's face:
"I don't care, Val," he said, "for He careth for me."
Those were his last conscious words, and with the daylight that he lovedon his face, and, by great mercy, the day spring in his heart, EdgarCunningham died.
Late on that same afternoon Alwyn was sitting alone on the terrace. Hewas very tired with the long strain of watching, and so sad at heartthat he could scarcely turn with comfort to the thought of the love andthe life that awaited him in future; he could only feel the want of thehand that had clung to his so constantly, could only think of thepitifulness of Edgar's story.
He looked up, and there stood Wyn Warren with his eyes red with crying,and with a great wreath of wild flowers in his hand.
"Please, sir, he liked these best. And there's a bit of everythinghere."
Alwyn looked at the wreath, which was constructed with great skill andof an infinite variety of leaves, berries, and blossoms. Every summerflower lingering in shady corners of the wood had been brought together.There were bits of every different kind of tree--autumn berries,curious seed vessels, grasses and rushes, heather and ferns, moss andlichen--all the woodland world was represented. It could not be a gaywreath with its infinite mixture of tints and forms, but there was thevery spirit of the wood in its sober colouring and fresh woody smell.
"It is very beautiful," said Alwyn. "Yes, he would have liked it verymuch."
"He liked the wild things," said Wyn, "and the creatures; it's the birdsand beasts that ought to follow him."
"Come," said Alwyn, "you helped him to all his pleasure in them; comeand give him the wreath yourself."
He took Wyn's hand and led him, through the sitting-room window, intothe room where his young master lay, calm and still, with the brighteyes closed for ever. But the window was uncurtained, and the sun andthe sky looked through.
Wyn trembled as he looked. The little carefully-reared boy had neverseen death before, and the awe of the sight choked back his tears.Alwyn helped him to lay the wreath on Edgar's breast, above the whitecross already placed there, and then took him out again on to theterrace. Wyn touched his cap and went away; but Alwyn's silent griefwas more comfort to him than any words of consolation would have been,and perhaps Alwyn too was soothed by the sense of fellow-feeling. Hewas glad to think that the great family vault under the floor of thechurch, where so many Cunninghams had been laid, could not be openednow, and that Edgar would lie under the turf in the churchyard, with thesky over his head, and the great trees of the wood near at hand.
All the servants and most of the villagers were at that funeral. WynWarren was set to walk by Robertson's side, next after the friends andthe family, in which position he felt, in all his trouble, a sort ofchildish pride. The day was bright, and there was a fresh wind blowingsuch as Edgar was wont to love, and over the grave, instead of theordinary hymn, the choir sang some verses about the Heavenly Jerusalem,which seemed to Wyn to picture just the sort of "happy home" where hecould fancy that his dear Mr Edgar would dwell.
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound, The flood of Life doth flow; Upon whose banks on every side The Wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit, And evermore do spring; There evermore the angels sit, And evermore do sing.
"Ah," thought Wyn, "Mr Edgar would like that sort of Paradise."
Later in the day Alwyn asked Harry Whittaker to meet him in the park andwalk with him through the wood. He had several matters, he told him, totalk about.
But when they met he put his arm through his old comrade's, and walkedon for a long time in silence. At last Harry said:
"Things have been different from what we looked for, sir, haven't they?But there's comfort waiting at home for us. At least, it seems likehome over there now to me."
"Ah, yes," said Alwyn. "I have gained more than I ever thought for.But I don't seem able to think of anything now but my poor boy and thelonely years that I might have made brighter for him if I had not heldout so long."
"You came when he most wanted you," said Harry.
"Yes, thank God for that! But he _had_ been lonely, though he was sucha plucky fellow that he hardly knew it. And I miss--"
Alwyn's voice faltered, and he brushed his hand across his eyes.
"That was not what I wanted to talk of," he said, rousing himself."What are your plans, Harry? I must not hurry away from my father; butI shall soon be going back now--for a time, at least."
"I am ready to go back at once," said Harry. "I've heard from my wife,and she's willing to have my sister Florence out to live with us."
"Your sister who found the jewels?"
"Yes. Lady Carleton's very good to her; but she told me--for I went tospeak to her ladyship about it--that the girl don't exactly fit in forservice. There's no
one to look after her at home, specially if, asseems likely, my eldest sister settles in life. And I declare, sir, theway the young girls at Rapley run about together is worse for her thanany rough company she might see out our way. She gets into mischief forwant of something bigger to do. And mischief for girls--well, it is themischief indeed!"
"So you mean to take her out?"
"No, not with me. They want to have her home a bit first; and she'd bebetter to wait for this Confirmation. She's set her heart on beingconfirmed with Miss Geraldine."
"Oh, yes, I heard my sister speak of it. But how shall you get her outto you?"
"Markham's mother and sister are coming out in the