CHAPTER XV.

LOOKING OUT FOR EDINA.

In the bow-window of the shabby dining-room at Spring Lawn stood Major Raynor, his wife and children. They were on the tiptoe of expectation, waiting for Edina. A vehicle of some kind could be discerned at a distance; opinions differed as to whether it was a fly or not. The evening sunbeams fell athwart the green lawn and on the flowers, whose perfume mingled with that of the hay, lying in cocks in the adjoining field.

"I am sure it _is_ a fly," cried little Kate, shading her eyes that she might see the better.

"And I tell you it is not," retorted Alfred. "That thing, whatever it is, is coming at a snail's pace, like a waggon. Do you suppose Edina would come in a waggon, little stupid?"

"I don't think it is a waggon," said Major Raynor, who had the aid of an opera-glass. "It has two horses, at any rate. The driver is whipping them up, too: and see--it is coming along now at a smart pace. I should say it is a fly."

Every now and then the vehicle lost itself behind trees and hedges and turnings from the temporary glimpses they caught, it seemed to have something like a cart-load of luggage upon its roof. Which was extremely unlikely to belong to Edina.

On it came: its rumble could now be heard, though it was no longer visible. All ears were bent to it: and when it had reached the narrow avenue that led to the garden it was heard to turn off the road and rattle down.

"It is a fly," spoke Alice, triumphantly. "And it is bringing Edina."

Charles strolled out to the gate. Away tore the children after him, shouting Edina's name in every variety of voice. Major and Mrs. Raynor followed, and were just in time to witness the drawing-up of the vehicle.

It was not a fly. It was a large, lumbering, disreputable conveyance that plied daily between Bath and sundry villages, and was called Tuppin's van. Disreputable as compared with a genteel, exclusive Bath fly that carried gentlefolk. This was used only by the lower classes; people who knew nothing about "society."

Nevertheless, Edina was in it. Old Tuppin, throwing the reins across his horses, had left his box to go round to the door, which opened at the back like an omnibus. A sudden silence had fallen on the children. Edina got out. And Tuppin, touching his hat to Major and Mrs. Raynor, selected her trunk from the luggage on the roof, and placed it inside the gate. Three outside male passengers watched the proceedings.

Edina put a shilling into Tuppin's hand. He thanked her, ascended to his seat, touched his horses, turned them round, and drove up the avenue with a clatter. Edina was smothered with greetings and kisses on the lawn.

"But how could you come in that van, Edina?"

"There were very few carriages at the station, Charley. The only one I could see wanted to charge six shillings. This van--but I call it an omnibus--was waiting for a passenger, and I took advantage of it."

"It is Tuppin's van," persisted Charley. "No one ever travels by it, except servants."

"No one with a full pocket, perhaps," smiled Edina, with her imperturbable good-humour. "I paid a shilling only, and came very comfortably."

"There was an old woman inside as well as you, Edina," cried Alfred.

"Yes. It was she who came by the same train, and got out at the station. She is housekeeper, she told me, in some family near here."

Edina caught up little Bobby as she spoke, and the matter dropped. But an impression remained on the minds of the elder children that Edina was more stingy than ever, or she would never have travelled in Tuppin's van when there was a fly to be had for the hiring. Certainly Edina's were saving ways. Contrasted with their own reckless ones, they appeared "stingy." But the time was to come when they would learn how mistaken was the impression, and how they had misjudged her.

"And how are you getting on, Uncle Francis?" asked Edina.

"Going backwards, my dear. What with no money, so to say, coming in, and everything going out----"

The major stopped for want of adequate words to express the position. Edina resumed.

"But you have some money coming in, Uncle Francis. You have your income."

"But what is it, my dear, as compared with the expenses? Besides, to tell you the truth, it is always forestalled. There always seems to be such a lot to pay."

"How uneasy it must make you!"

"Not a bit of it," spoke the major, cheerily. "With Eagles' Nest in prospective, it does not matter at all, Talking of Eagles' Nest, Edina, have you heard anything of your aunt Ann lately?"

"We never do hear from her, Uncle Francis. Papa writes to her sometimes, and I write, but we never receive any answer."

"I fear she is on her last legs."

The major spoke solemnly, with quite a rueful expression of countenance. Badly though he wanted the money his sister's death would bring, and estranged from him though she was, he could not and did not think of it in any spirit but a sad one.

"I have heard from London two or three times lately, Edina, from my lawyer: John Street, you know. And in each letter he has given me a very poor account of Mrs. Atkinson. Her death, poor soul, must be very near."

It had been nearer than the major, or even his lawyer, anticipated. She was dead even then. At the very moment the major was talking of her she was lying dead at Eagles' Nest. Had been dead three or four hours.

The news reached them in the morning. A letter was delivered at Spring Lawn, and was carried up, as usual, to the major in bed. No one took any particular notice of the letter; as a rule, the major's letters were only applications from creditors, and could not be supposed to interest the household. Mrs. Raynor was seated at breakfast with her three elder children and Edina, when a sudden bumping on the floor above, and shouting in the major's voice, considerably startled them.

"Good gracious! he must have fallen out of bed!" cried poor Mrs. Raynor.

"And upset his coffee," said Charley, with a laugh.

But it was nothing of the sort. The major had jumped up to dress in hot haste, and was calling out to them between whiles. He had received news of the death of his sister, Mrs. Atkinson; and was going up forthwith to Eagles' Nest.

"Shall I go too, papa?" asked Charley.

"I don't mind, my boy. I suppose we can scrape up enough money for the tickets."

Of course the children were all in commotion. Alfred marched up to the nursery, and drew the blinds down.

"What is that for, Master Alfred?" demanded nurse, who was dressing Kate's doll; Kate herself standing by to watch the process.

"Ah, you don't know," replied Alfred, bursting with impatience to deliver his news, yet withholding it tantalizingly.

"No, I don't," said the nurse, who was often at war with Alfred. "You will have the goodness, sir, to draw the blinds up again, and leave them alone."

"I choose to have them down, nurse."

"You will choose to walk out of my nursery in a minute or two," retorted the nurse. "Wait till I've fixed this frock on. It would be a precious good thing if you were at school, Master Alfred!"

"But I am not going to school," cried Alfred, in irrepressible delight, the good news refusing to be kept down any longer. "I'm going somewhere else. Old Aunt Atkinson's dead, and papa has come into Eagles' Nest and a large fortune, Madam Nurse! And he is going up there so-day; and Charley's going; and we shall go directly. Eagles' Nest! Won't I have a pony to myself!--and a double-barrelled gun!--and a whole shopful of sweet-stuff!"

Vaulting over little Robert, who sat on the floor staring at him, he caught Kate in the exuberance of his anticipations, and whirled her round until she was giddy. Then, attempting a leap across the table, he caught his foot on the edge; and boy, table, and a heavy pincushion that was on it, called a "doctor," all came down together. The noise was something wonderful. It brought up Edina and Alice.

"Whatever is it, nurse?"

"Only one of Master Alfred's freaks, ma'am. He thought he would leap over the table."

Alfred was holding his handkerchief to his nose. He would not acknowledge that it bled.

"We thought the house was falling," said Alice. "It was worse than papa. He gave us the first fright."

"And all because he has come into some money, he says, Miss Raynor," put in the nurse, who was angrily picking up the table, "and the money is to buy him everything under the sun."

"Unseemly boasting, Alfred!" cried Edina. "Had you no thought for your poor aunt?"

"I don't see why I should have, Edina," returned the boy, boldly. "I never saw Aunt Atkinson in my life: why should I pretend to be sorry for her?"

"I never said you were to pretend anything, child. Sorrow is real enough, and perhaps, Alfred, you will find that it comes to you often enough in life, without assuming it. But there is a great difference between feigning sorrow, and being especially elated. As to the fortune, it may not make very much difference to you in any way."

"Oh, won't it though, Edina! Charley's not going to get it all."

"About the blinds, ma'am? Are they to be kept down?"

"I don't know, nurse. I will ask Mrs. Raynor.

"What an old croaker she is!" exclaimed Alfred, as Edina left the room.

"A bit of one," assented Alice.

"That she is not, Miss Alice," said the nurse. "If you were all only half as good as Miss Edina Raynor!"

When the sum necessary for the journey came to be ascertained, it was found that the major and all his household could not scrape it together: though it sounds like a ridiculous fact. Edina came forward with help; and so it was managed.

"I trust it will be all right, Uncle Francis," whispered Edina, earnestly, as she crossed the lawn with the major when he was departing.

"Right in what way, my dear?"

"That you will inherit Eagles' Nest."

"Oh, that _is_ all right," replied the major. "My letter tells me so. Everything is willed to me. Poor Ann! Good-bye, my dear: be sure you stay until we return. What a hot walk we shall have into Bath!" added the major, taking off his hat and rubbing his brow in anticipation. "But there's no help for it; no conveyance of any kind at hand. I should be glad even of Tuppin's van this morning."

Edina stood at the gate, and watched them up the avenue, Charley carrying the black portmanteau. In her steadfast eyes there lay a certain expression of _rest_. With her habit of looking forward to the dark side of things as well as to the bright, Edina had never felt quite assured upon the point of the major's inheritance: it was welcome, indeed, to hear that this was placed beyond doubt. What would that helpless, improvident family have done without it!

A hand stole itself within Edina's arm. She turned her soft dark eyes, to see Mrs. Raynor; who looked, as usual, very mild about the face, and very limp about the dress. The children had rushed indoors again, and were restlessly running from room to room in the excitement of their new prospects, discussing the wonders that would become theirs, now wealth and greatness had fallen upon them. Their minds were picturing the future residence at Eagles' Nest all gold, and glitter, and gladness: life was to be as one long Lord Mayor's day.

"It is a great strain removed, Edina!"

"What is, Mary?" For Edina had never called this young wife of her uncle's "Aunt." It had been "Mary" from the first. They were not so very many years removed from one another in age.

"All the distress and contriving about money. I have never said much to you, for where was the use; but you don't know what a strain it has been, what shifts we have been put to."

"I do," said Edina. "I can only too readily imagine it. For many years the same strain lay on me and papa: at Trennach, and before we went to Trennach. It is removed in a degree, for the necessity for saving does not exist as it did, but we are careful still. I learnt economy in my pinafores, Mary. Your children could not understand my coming here in Tuppin's van yesterday, when I might have hired a fly: but it saved five shillings. Papa urges economy upon me still, and practises it himself. I think he does so for my sake.

"Ah! what _could_ you do, Edina, if anything happened to your father, and you were left without the means to live?"

Edina laughed at the consternation expressed in Mrs. Raynor's voice. To this really helpless woman, the being left without means seemed the very greatest of all earthly calamities.

"I should have no fear for myself, Mary. I could go out as useful companion; or governess; or even as housekeeper. Few places where I could be practically useful would come amiss to me."

"I am sure of that," said Mrs. Raynor.

They were strolling across the grass-plat arm-in-arm, Mrs. Raynor stooping to pluck a flower here and there: a June rose; a pink; a sprig of syringa. Silence had supervened. Mrs. Raynor was puzzling her brains over the children's mourning: what would, and what would not be necessary, and how it would all get made.

"What are you going to do with Charles?" suddenly asked Edina.

"With Charles! I'm sure I don't know. Why, Edina?"

"It is so sad to see a fine young fellow, as he is, with all his wits and capabilities about him, spending his days in idleness. I had meant to talk to Uncle Francis about it to-day. I do think, Mary, it has been a great mistake."

"Well, dear, perhaps it has," replied the equable woman. "But you see, it takes so much money to bring young men on in life: and we had no money to spare."

"Then, where money is wanting, they should be 'brought on' in some way that does not need money," rejoined Edina. "Charles has been absolutely idle; and only for the want of proper direction. Even Frank saw the error. When he returned to us the last time from his short stay here, he said what a pity it was."

"Charles wanted to be a barrister, I fancy. But the major could not take any steps in it without money."

"Then I would place him in a lawyer's office as a temporary clerk, that he might be acquiring some knowledge of law while he waited."

"I declare we never thought of that," cried Mrs. Raynor. "Perhaps Charley would not have liked it, though."

"Perhaps not. I should have done it, for all that, had I been Uncle Francis. Nothing in the world is so bad to a young man as indulging in idle habits. Has Charles been reading law books?"

"No; only novels," said Mrs. Raynor. "Oh, it will all be right, Edina, now that he has Eagles' Nest to look forward to. Of course, he could look forward to it before; but there was always the doubt when we should come into it. Suppose Mrs. Atkinson had lived to be a hundred? Some people do. Where should we all have been then? or even to eighty or ninety?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Edina, smiling. "Suppose Uncle Francis should live to be a hundred, Mary? Where would Charley be in that case?"

"But, Edina, what would it matter? With a beautiful place like Eagles' Nest and means to keep it up, the children would always be sure of a home and of welcome there. It would be Charley's as much as ours----"

"Oh, mamma! What do you think? Papa has gone without his shaving-tackle, and without his boots!"

The salutation came from the children, who all came wildly rushing forth again. They had been visiting the major's dressing-room, and discovered that these indispensable articles had been left behind.

"They are his light summer boots, too; those with the long name," said Alice. "He cannot walk about much in any others."

"Dear, dear, dear!" lamented Mrs. Raynor. "He must have put on those tight, patched ones by mistake--and they always blister his heels. How will he manage to get to Bath?"

Eagles' Nest was not large, but it was one of the prettiest places in all Kent. A long, low, ancient house of grey stone, covered in places with ivy. Some of its old-fashioned mullioned casements had been replaced (many people said spoilt) by modern windows, opening to terraces, undulating lawns, and beds of brilliant flowers. Few old houses have so gay an appearance as this house had: perhaps owing to the new windows and to other alterations. The entrance-door was approached by three or four broad, low steps. Gothic casements of rich and blended colours threw their tints upon the tesselated hall. Rooms opened on either side: bright rooms, that had a very _home_ look about them, and in which one felt that it would be a privilege to pass a great portion of one's life. The estate had been well kept up by Mrs. Atkinson. It was worth about two thousand a-year; but was still capable of much improvement.

When Major Raynor and his son arrived in the course of the afternoon, they were received by Mr. Street, the solicitor to the late Mrs. Atkinson. He was brother to Mr. Edwin Street, the acting partner in the Atkinson bank. John Street was the elder of the brothers; a man of sixty now, well known in London as a quiet and most respectable practitioner. He was reserved in manner; not at all what could be called "genial," and rather severe than benevolent; strictly just, but perhaps not generous.

As the fly that brought the major and his son from the nearest station rattled up, Mr. Street appeared at the hall-door: a little man in spectacles, with cold light eyes and very scanty hair.

"I am glad you have come, Major Raynor."

"And I'm sure I'm glad to see that you have," returned the major, cordially holding out his hand. "I might have found myself in a fog without you. I had your letter this morning."

"We received news of Mrs. Atkinson's death yesterday afternoon; her coachman was sent up with the tidings, and I wrote to you at once," observed Mr. Street. "As you are sole inheritor, excepting a few trifling legacies, and also executor, I thought it well, as I stated in my letter, that you should be here."

"Just so," said the major. "When did you arrive yourself?"

"I came down this morning."

"And I and Charley started off in a hurry to catch the ten-o'clock train--and I came away in my wrong boots--and Charley has been laughing at me. You don't know him, Street--my eldest son and heir. Charley, come here, sir, and be introduced to Mr. Street."

Charles Raynor had been looking out from the open window. He had never seen so pretty a place before as this one, lying under the June sunshine. Hay was being made here, just as it had been in Somerset: and the sweet smell came wafted to him on the summer breeze. The lawns were beautifully kept, the flowers were perfect; shrubs clustered around, trees waved above. In the distance was stretched out a beautiful landscape, than which nothing could be more charming. Close by, curled the blue smoke from the little village of Grassmere, hidden by trees from the view of Eagles' Nest. Surely in this spot man could find all that his heart desired Charley sighed as he turned to the call: the lad had a strong love for the beauties of nature.

"Had this been left to others instead of to ourselves, how I should envy them, now that I have seen it!" said Charles to himself. And he was not thinking then of any pecuniary return.

Mr. Street looked keenly at him. He saw a tall, slender, good-looking young man; who, in manner at least, appeared somewhat indifferent, not to say haughty.

"A proud young dandy, who thinks the world was made for him," decided the lawyer in his own mind.

"In any profession, young sir?" asked Mr. Street.

"Not yet," replied Charles. "I shall have, I expect, to go to college before thinking of one. If I think of one at all."

"Better enter one," said Mr. Street, shortly. "The pleasantest life is the one that has its regular occupation; the most miserable a life of idleness."

"That's true," put in the major. "Since I left the service, I have been like a fish out of water. Sometimes, before the day has well begun I wish it was ended, not knowing what to do with myself."

"Not many weeks ago, Mrs. Atkinson was talking to me about that very thing, major. She fancied you would have done better not to sell out."

"Ay; I've often said so myself. Poor Ann! I should like to have seen more of her. But she had her crotchets, you know, Street. Did she suffer much at the last, I wonder?"

"No, she went off quite easily, as one who is worn out. She is lying in the red room: I have been up to see her. A good woman; but, as you observe, major, crotchety on some points."

"Why, would you believe it, Street, she once thought of disinheriting me."

"I know it," replied the lawyer. "It was the year following her husband's death. And perhaps," he added, with as much of a smile as ever came to his lips, "you owe it to me that she did not do so."

"Indeed! How was that?"

"I received a letter from her, calling me here for the purpose, she said, of altering her will. Away I came, bringing the will with me--for I held one copy of it, as you may remember, Major Raynor, and you the other. 'I want to disinherit my brother,' were the first words she said to me; 'I shall leave Eagles' Nest to George Atkinson: I always wished him to have it.' Of course I asked her the why and the wherefore. 'Francis has affronted me, and he shall not inherit it,' was all the explanation I could get from her. Well, major, I talked to her, and brought her into a more reasonable frame of mind: and the result was, that I carried the original will back to town with me, unaltered."

"Poor Ann! poor Ann!" re-echoed the major.

"About the arrangements?" resumed Mr. Street. "If I can be of any use to you, major----"

"Why, you can be of every use," interrupted the major. "I don't know how to manage anything."

Mr. Street had brought the will down with him to-day, and it was thought right to open it at once. Major Raynor found that the recollection he had retained of its general contents was pretty accurate, excepting on one point. Eagles' Nest was left to him as it stood, with all its contents and appurtenances; and he was made residuary legatee: therefore, whatever moneys might have accumulated or been invested in shares or stock, would become his, after all claims and legacies were paid. The one point on which his memory had not served him, regarded the bequest to Frank Raynor. Instead of its being "among the thousands," as he had confidently believed, and led Frank to believe, it was only among the hundreds. And not very advanced in them, either. Five hundred pounds, neither more nor less. The major looked at the amount ruefully.

"I'm sure I can't tell how I came to fancy that it was so much more, Charley," said he. "I am very sorry. It will be a disappointment for Frank."

"But can't you make it up to him, father?" suggested Charles. "There must be a great deal of accumulated money, as Mr. Street says: you might spare Frank a little of it."

"Why, to be sure I can," heartily returned the major, his eyes beaming. "It did not strike me. But I should have thought of it myself, Charley, later on."

"A great deal of accumulated money, regarded from a moderate point of view," spoke the lawyer, in confirmation. "Mr. Timothy Atkinson left a fair sum behind him, the interest upon which must have been accumulating until now. And his widow did not, I am sure, live up to anything like the revenues of this estate."

"What is it all invested in?--where is it lying?" asked the major.

"We must see to that."

"But don't you know?"

"No. Mrs. Atkinson managed her monetary affairs herself, without reference to me. My brother knows all about everything, I dare say; but he is, and always has been, as close as wax."

"Perhaps the money is deposited with him?"

"I think not," said the lawyer. "I know he once, close though he is, said something to me to the effect that it was not. The securities, bonds and vouchers, and so forth, are no doubt lying in his hands."

The funeral took place, Mr. Street again coming down for the ceremony. He was accompanied by his brother, Mr. Edwin Street. Dr. Raynor had declined the invitation sent him: he was not well enough to undertake the long journey; and Frank could not be spared.

Some conversation occurred between the brothers, on the way down, about the above-mentioned securities; but the banker at once said they were not deposited with him. In the after-part of the day, when the funeral was over, Lawyer Street mentioned this to Major Raynor, and said they were no doubt "somewhere in the house."

A thorough search ensued: old Mrs. Atkinson's maid, an elderly and confidential attendant of many years, taking part in it. She showed them every possible place of security, locked and unlocked, in which such deeds could be placed. But no deeds were found.

"I still think they must be in your strong boxes at the bank," observed the lawyer to his brother, when he and Major Raynor returned to the room where they had left Mr. Edwin Street and Charles.

"But I assure you they are not," replied the banker, who bore a striking resemblance to his brother, and had the same cold manner. "When Mrs. Atkinson made her will, she lodged with us certain bonds of India Stock, just about sufficient to pay the legacies she bequeathed in that will when the time should come--as it has come now. She told me that she intended the stock to be applied to that purpose. We hold the bonds still; and the interest, which we have regularly received for her, has been added to her current account with us: but we hold no other securities."

"What an odd thing!" cried the major. "Where can they be?"

"When our second partner, Mr. Timothy Atkinson, died," continued the banker, "he left a certain sum in the bank to his wife's account, upon which she was to receive substantial interest. But about a year afterwards she withdrew this sum, and invested it elsewhere."

"Where? What in?"

"I cannot tell. I never knew. I understood from her that it was invested; but I knew no more. We have never had any money of hers since--excepting of course the current account, paid in from the revenues of this estate. And we hold no securities of hers, besides these Indian bonds that I have spoken of."

"Was the sum she withdrew a large one?" asked the major.

"It was between fourteen and fifteen thousand pounds."

"And she must have added ever so much to that," observed the lawyer. "She has not lodged her superfluous income with you?" he added to his brother.

"No. I have said so. We hold nothing but her current account. That has been replenished by her when necessary; but we have had nothing more. It is certainly strange where the vouchers for her property can be. I suppose," added the banker, more slowly, "she did not invest the money in some bubble scheme, and lose it?"

"The very same thought was crossing my mind," spoke his brother.

"But you don't think that probable, do you, Street?" cried Major Raynor, turning rather hot.

A pause ensued. Lawyer Street was evidently thinking out the probabilities. They waited, and watched him.

"I must confess that circumstances look suspicious," he said at length. "Else why so much secrecy?"

"Secrecy?"

"Yes. If Mrs. Atkinson placed the money in any well-known safe investment, why was she not open about it: get me to act for her, and lodge the securities at the bank? She did neither: she acted for herself--as we must suppose--and kept the transaction to herself. The inference is, that it was some wild-goose venture that she did not care to speak about. Women are so credulous."

"What a gloomy look-out!" put in the major.

"Oh, well, we have only been glancing at possibilities, you know," observed Mr. Street. "I dare say the securities will be found--and the money also."

"Right, John," assented the banker. "Had Mrs. Atkinson found her money was being lost, she would assuredly have set you to work to recover it. I think we may safely assume that, Major Raynor!"