Maud Florence Nellie: or, Don't care!

“What proof can be needed?” said Edgar, warmly.

Alwyn smiled.

“I never thought there would be – for you,” he said. “But it’s a very long story. I think I must write it for you. There are some things I must ask. Shall we be interrupted? How can I see you again alone? My father – is he well – is he altered?”

“He is pretty well,” said Edgar, “and – not altered. Wyn Warren will be back directly, I think I must tell him. You see I can’t get anywhere alone. I couldn’t even post a letter for myself. And my father, you know, unlocks the post-bag. I hardly ever get letters.”

Edgar spoke merely as if considering the difficulties of the case – quite cheerfully; but to Alwyn the words sounded most pitiful.

“Then try not to trouble about me,” he said; “you have given me a welcome. I must manage for myself. Of course I am only keeping quiet till I can get one or two things in train. I am staying in London. You mustn’t have to bear the brunt of any discovery.”

“I don’t care a straw for that,” said Edgar. “I’ll answer for little Wyn. He shall bring me here again to-morrow, if possible; in any case he shall come himself. When I understand dearly I can tell my father that I’ve seen you, and everything else you think proper.”

“No, no,” said Alwyn, almost laughing at the coolness with which this fragile, helpless brother proposed to face the difficulty for him. “You were always a plucky fellow, but when the time comes I’ll make my own confession. I’ll go now.”

But he still lingered.

“Ought you to be alone?” he said. “Do you want anything? You will not be the worse for the fright I gave you?”

“No. I’m quite jolly. If you’ll just put this cushion lower for me, that’s all, so that I can lie down.”

“I am too rough to touch you. There – is that right, dear boy?” said Alwyn, anxiously.

“Oh yes, you are very clever!” said Edgar.

He spoke lightly; but suddenly tears filled the keen eyes at the touch that was more tender than all the skilled attention at his command.

“I’m glad you’re found, Val; it’s been rather lonely,” he said.

“If I had guessed!” said Alwyn hoarsely; but at this moment a tremendous rush was heard, and Wyn’s voice in loud tones of dismay broke in on them.

“What are you about – you? Here I am, Mr Edgar. Father ain’t far off.”

Alwyn, who had been bending over his brother, started up, and Edgar began to laugh.

“All right, Wyn,” he said, “stop that row. This gentleman isn’t smothering me, nor stealing my watch; look at him – you’ll see him again. You’d better ask his pardon for losing his letter.”

Wyn’s mouth and eyes opened wider and wider.

“Please, sir,” he stammered, “he ain’t the one that gave me the letter; and please, sir, I’ve lighted on the envelope, and someone has took the letter out.”

Alwyn and Edgar looked at each other in dismay.

“There is my address,” said Alwyn, after a moment; “if anything unexpected turns up, send a telegram to me. But I shall be here to-morrow, and then you shall know all. Here, boy, Mr Edgar will tell you what you’re to do. Be sure you are very careful of him. Can you lead the pony safely?” Edgar laughed again at Wyn’s indignant stare, first at the speaker, and then at the half-sovereign dropped into his palm.

“All right, Wyn,” he said, “he has every right to order you; yes, and give you a tip too. Put it in your pocket, and come along.”

Wyn unfastened Dobbles, and turned him round, a light slowly breaking in on him as his master put both hands into the stranger’s, and a few rapid whispers were exchanged between them. Then Edgar made a sign to him to go on, and Wyn, with one shrewd glance at the face and figure of the object of his suspicions, drew a long breath and said:

“Sir – sir – that’s Mr Alwyn!”

Chapter Twelve

Aunt Stroud’s Surprise

That same evening, while Alwyn Cunningham at his hotel in London was writing the story of his life to his brother, hardly able to fix his thoughts on anything but the interview of the afternoon, Harry Whittaker was walking through the streets of Rapley. Nobody noticed him there, or wondered to see a stout, good-looking man, with a long beard, and rather a rough coat, among the passers-by. Certainly no one identified him with the saucy errand-boy who had idled at street corners and engaged in a free fight, with parcels and bandboxes for missiles and weapons, eight years or so before. He walked on till he came to the small but respectable-looking ironmonger’s shop, over the door of which was painted the name of Stroud. He walked in, glanced round, and a well-dressed woman came forward.

“What can I show you, sir?”

Harry asked for a clasp knife, looked at her keenly for a moment, then said:

“That’s an American mowing machine, I think, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir, the newest patent, very light and handy. Anything in the way of garden tools, sir?”

Harry Whittaker was Harry Whittaker still; he appreciated the exquisite joke of being ceremoniously treated by his Aunt Stroud. But he could not afford to indulge it. He looked at her, smiled a little, and said:

“No, thank you, my farm’s across the water in State. It’d hardly pay to take over machinery from the old country.”

Mrs Stroud gave a start, and, as she afterwards expressed it, “nearly sunk down upon the rakes.”

“Could I have a word in private?” said Harry.

“Step this way – sir,” she said, still in a state of doubt, and leading him into the comfortable parlour behind the shop.

“Aunt Eliza,” said Harry, as the door closed behind them, “I felt sure that you would know me at once.”

Mrs Stroud did sink down into an arm-chair exclaiming:

“Bless us and save us, it’s Harry!”

“Yes, aunt,” said Harry, “it is; and I’ve come first to you, knowing your influence with father, and that you could be trusted with an important secret; to ask you to give me a welcome, and to overlook my past undutiful behaviour.”

“Oh, my! And I’d imagined you a convict, or drowned dead!”

“Not at all,” said Harry, “I never was drowned, and I haven’t yet been hanged. On the contrary, finding myself well-to-do in the world, and happily settled in life, I felt that it was time to endeavour to undo the past.”

Harry spoke quite earnestly, but with a boldness of manner, and confidence of look, that established his identity at once. He put out his hand; but Mrs Stroud, bursting into tears, launched herself on his neck.

“You were always my favourite, Harry, and if you’ve done well for yourself I’m most glad to see you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Eliza, you’re very good, I’m sure; it’s more than I deserve. My father, my sisters and brothers?”

“Your father’s very hearty, and your brothers and sisters doing well, except Florrie, who gives a deal of trouble, as you did yourself. But what’ll you take, Henry? Sit down and tell me where you’ve been living. What will you have?”

“A cup of tea, aunt, if it’s your tea-time; I’m a teetotaller,” said Harry, unable to help a twinkle of fun at his aunt’s astonished rapture at this evidence of virtue.

As she got the tea he began to tell his story much as Alwyn had already related it to Edgar; but at greater length, and with many interruptions from his aunt.