Chapter XX: Cousin Becky Taken Into Confidence

ALL was bustle and confusion at the Rookery when Edgar was brought home, for the news of the accident had so frightened Mrs. Marsh that she had been utterly incapable of giving any instructions to the servants, and, at the sight of her son's unconscious form, she had become so completely unnerved that the doctor, seeing that he could not rely upon her for assistance, had requested her to remain downstairs until he had satisfied himself as to the extent of Edgar's injuries. At the present moment the unhappy mother, overcome with grief and suspense, was pacing up and down the hall, waiting for news of her boy—Edgar had been conveyed to his own bedroom—and bemoaning her inexperience of sickness and her lack of self-control.

"It terrified me to see his dear face looking so deathly," she wailed, when one of the servants ventured a word of consolation. "I could not help crying out. Who's that? There's someone at the front door."

As she spoke the front door opened, and Cousin Becky and Mr. Trent entered, their faces expressive of the greatest concern and sympathy. Cousin Becky had come to know if she could be of any assistance, "for I have seen much sickness and I am really a capital nurse," she explained as Mrs. Marsh regarded her more than a little doubtfully.

"How good of you to come!" Mrs. Marsh replied, much touched. "They have taken my poor boy upstairs, but the doctor will not allow me in his room because I cannot help crying—I fear I am very foolish. Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so thankful you are here."

Cousin Becky divested herself of her bonnet and cloak, and handed them to a servant; then she turned again to Mrs. Marsh, and said: "I am going upstairs at once to offer my services as a nurse. Your brother will remain with you, for I know he will not return to Princess Street until he has heard the doctor's report."

"I will show you Edgar's room," Mrs. Marsh said, and she preceded the old lady upstairs. On the first landing she pointed to a closed door, and whispered: "In there."

Cousin Becky nodded; and Mrs. Marsh watched her as she quietly opened the door and entered the sick room. The next moment the door was closed again; and, though the anxious mother listened attentively, no sound reached her ears; so, very sick at heart, she went downstairs and joined her brother. She was much calmer now, and able to discuss what had happened; she admitted that Edgar had been forbidden to visit the clay works.

"Roger was with him and witnessed the accident," Mr. Trent informed her. "It has been a great shock to him, as you may imagine. It appears he asked Edgar to accompany him to see a new shaft which had lately been opened; he did not know Edgar had been told not to go there. Oh, Janie, thank God your boy was not killed! He might have been, indeed it was marvellous he was not. Fortunately his fall was broken by a wide piece of timber which spanned the shaft, and a man who was standing on the timber at work caught him, or he would have rebounded and fallen to the bottom of the pit. I heard all about it from another man who was at work in the same shaft. Come, try not to cry any more, but pluck up your heart, for there is every reason to hope that Edgar is not very seriously hurt. He will have the best that human skill can do for him; and he is in God's care, dear Janie, don't forget that."

Mrs. Marsh's tears continued to flow, but her brother's words comforted her, and her face brightened as she remarked: "It was very good of Cousin Becky to come to us in our trouble."

"Cousin Becky is very good and kind," Mr. Trent answered. "Directly she heard of poor Edgar's accident she thought you would want help and suggested offering her services to you. You were wise to accept them, and I am sure she will be a great comfort to you."

Mrs. Marsh did indeed find Cousin Becky a great comfort to her in the anxious days which followed, for, though it proved that Edgar had not been dangerously injured, he had slight concussion of the brain and required careful nursing. And, with the best intentions in the world, his mother was very incapable in sickness, so that it was upon Cousin Becky that most of the nursing fell. Cousin Becky was so quiet and gentle in her ways, her voice was so soft and soothing that it did not worry an aching head, and she was so unfailingly cheerful, whilst her skirts never rustled, and her footsteps could scarcely be heard. In short, she was a perfect nurse.

It was several days after his accident before Edgar was in a fit condition to think of anything; but, with returning strength, he remembered many matters to worry about, and he became very troubled and unhappy. His father visited him every morning before he went to business; but he never mentioned anything he thought would distress his little son, so that no word had been said concerning Edgar's disobedience in going to the clay works, and there was still the mysterious disappearance of the Calais Noble to be explained. His mother, too, though she spent hours by his bedside daily now, would not permit him to talk on any unpleasant subject, and stopped him with a kiss when he began to say that he was sorry he had been disobedient and caused everyone so much anxiety and trouble.

"Don't talk about it, darling," she said tenderly. "You were no more to blame than Roger."

"It was not Roger's fault; mother," he told her earnestly, "I did not tell him I had been forbidden to go to the clay pits. Roger must not be blamed."

"Very well, dearie," Mrs. Marsh replied soothingly, "but don't think about what is past. We want you to make haste and get well."

During the first few days of his illness Edgar had progressed very favourably; but now the doctor was not so satisfied with him, and was puzzled to account for his restless, feverish condition. Cousin Becky, who was a very shrewd observer, thought the patient had something on his mind, and one afternoon, when she was left alone in charge of the little boy, instead of discouraging him when he showed an inclination to become confidential, she sat down on a chair by the bed where she could watch him, and allowed him to talk.

"Have you seen Roger lately, Cousin Becky?" he asked.

"Not since the night of your accident, my dear," she answered. "You know the holidays have commenced, and your cousins and your aunt and uncle have gone to Lynn."

"What, without you?" he cried in surprise.

"Of course," Cousin Becky replied with a soft laugh, "or I should not be here with you now."

"But I thought you intended going with them?"

"I hope to join them later on when you are better, my dear boy. I have promised your mother to remain at the Rookery till you are properly convalescent."

"Thank you so much," he said gratefully, "I—I really don't think I can do without you yet; that is, unless you want to go very particularly. Do you know there was a talk of my going to Lynn too? Mother and father wished it; but Roger didn't want me, and I don't suppose Polly did either."

"Why not, my dear?"

"Because—because—Roger said I was not to be trusted, and, it's true, I'm not. You don't know what a bad boy I've been, no one knows except Roger, I had to tell him."

He raised himself in bed as he spoke and looked at his companion with feverishly bright eyes. "You found the Calais Noble," he said with a slight sob, "so you know something about it, but not all. I took it from father's cabinet to show it to a boy at school, weeks ago, and I lost it; but I never told father, I was afraid to, because it's a valuable coin and very rare. Father thought Roger had stolen it, I heard him tell mother so, and—and I let him believe it. Oh, no wonder you look so surprised and shocked! Oh, dear, you'll never like me again!" And the little boy burst into a storm of tears.

Cousin Becky made no response; but she rose and put her arms around his quivering form, and her silent sympathy soothed and comforted him. He felt she understood his remorse and his wretchedness; and, by-and-by when he grew calmer, he told her the whole story of his cowardice, and, in her pity for his distress of mind, she volunteered to lay all the details before his parents.

"They will forgive you, I know, for you are so very dear to them both," she said earnestly; "but at the same time I am sure they will be very hurt to think that you allowed them to harbour a baseless suspicion of your cousin, simply to save yourself from blame. And Roger is so straightforward, too!"

"Yes!" sighed Edgar. "It has made me dreadfully miserable to know that father thought badly of him."

"And yet you had not the pluck to acknowledge the truth and clear his character in your father's eyes! Oh, child, why cannot you be straight like your cousin? Do you not wish to be honourable and truthful?"

"Oh yes! But—but it's so difficult."

"Do you pray for strength to overcome this moral weakness of yours?" Cousin Becky asked, her bright dark eyes watching him anxiously.

"No," he admitted. "I—I never thought of doing that."

"It's only by prayer and God's help that you can do it, my dear boy. You know what is right; and yet, to save yourself punishment and blame, you deliberately take a crooked path. It is the greatest thing in the world to be true, for only the truthful soul can ever be happy and fearless. 'Great is the truth, and it will prevail.' That is a proverb worth remembering. Do try to bear it in mind, and humbly ask your Father in Heaven to make you a better—a more truthful boy. God has been very merciful to you, my dear. Have you thought how very near you were to meeting a shocking death when you fell down that clay shaft? You had almost a miraculous escape. Have you thanked God for sparing your life?"

"No, but I will," Edgar responded earnestly. "Oh, Cousin Becky, I am so ashamed of myself altogether; you do believe that, don't you?"

"Yes, my dear, I do."

"And will, you try to make mother and father believe it also?"

"I will do my best. Now lie down and rest. I want you to get well and strong as soon as possible, and then I am going to ask your parents a favour."

"What is that?" Edgar inquired as he sank wearily back upon his pillows.

"I am going to ask them to let me take you with me to Lynn."

"Oh, Cousin Becky, after—after all you know about me?"

"Yes; because I believe you're going to turn over a new leaf and try to walk a straight path in the future—because I'm going to trust you," said Cousin Becky as she tucked the bed-clothes around him. She bent over him and kissed him affectionately; but he made no reply, he was too deeply touched. Then she withdrew to the window, where she stood looking thoughtfully out into the sunlit garden until she heard by the patient's regular breathing that he had fallen asleep.

That evening Miss Trent told Mr. and Mrs. Marsh the true story of the loss of the Calais Noble. It was a blow to both of them to learn how their son had behaved; but it came less as a surprise to Mrs. Marsh than to her husband, who reproached himself bitterly for his suspicion of Roger. Needless to say, Edgar was forgiven; but his parents were deeply grieved and mortified that he should have acted so deceptively and allowed his cousin to be blamed in his stead, and Mrs. Marsh was troubled by the remembrance of her last visit to Princess Street, when, in her surprise at hearing the Calais Noble had been found, she had spoken as though Roger was the culprit who had taken the coin.

At first Mr. Marsh absolutely refused his permission for Edgar to accompany Miss Trent to Norfolk when the project was broached to him. He thought, under the circumstances, that it would be pleasanter for his cousins to be without him, he said. However, Cousin Becky begged him to reconsider the matter and to let the boy go with her as a favour to herself, and, reflecting that they were under a great obligation to her, he felt he must give in to her wish.

"It shall be as you please," he said at length; "you have been very kind to us, and it is exceedingly good of you to burden yourself with the charge of our wayward boy. We are deeply indebted to you, indeed."

"You were in trouble and wanted me," said Cousin Becky simply. "I am very glad to have been of use."

The colour deepened in Mrs. Marsh's cheeks as, at that moment, she met the old lady's glance, for she could not help remembering that she had declined to have Cousin Becky beneath her roof as a guest only a few months ago, and she felt suddenly abashed. Perhaps memory was busy, with Cousin Becky, too; if so, her countenance did not show it, and there was nothing but kindness and goodwill in the expression of her bright, dark eyes, though there lurked a slight gleam of humour in their tranquil depths.