“You have been travelling all night,” he said. “Come and sit down – you must be tired out.”
“We had some breakfast at Hazelby, while we waited for the carriage,” said Alvar; and Cherry, as Nettie released her hold, unfastened his wraps, and moved over to the hall fire, sitting down in the great chair, as they began to exchange question and answer.
“What happened – how was it?”
“Didn’t you get my telegram?” said Jack.
“No; only granny’s. Where is she?”
“Asleep, I hope. The meet was at Ashrigg, and old Rob fell in taking the brook, just by Fletcher’s farm. And so – so he was thrown, and it was an injury to the spine; but he was quite conscious, and sent that telegram to Alvar. After that he didn’t often know us – till – till last night. And it was over before eleven. We did not think you could possibly get here till to-night, and we had no news of you, so I telegraphed again as soon as I got home; but I suppose you missed the message.”
“We wrote and telegraphed from Madrid,” said Alvar; “it is quite possible that there should be delay there; and in Paris and London we had hardly a moment to catch the trains. Cherry has been too anxious to feel the fatigue, but he must rest now.”
“There must be a great many things to attend to,” said Cheriton, standing up, and passing his hand over his eyes as if he were rousing himself out of an unnatural dream.
“Not yet,” said Jack, “it is so early. Mr Ellesmere will come back by-and-by.”
Cherry looked round. He noticed that a pair of antlers had been removed from one of the panels, and an impulse came to him to ask why, and then the oddest sense of the incongruity of the remark. He rather knew than felt the truth of the blow that had fallen on them, and all the different aspects of this great change, even to remote particulars, passed over his mind, as over the mind of a drowning man, but as thoughts, not as realities. Suddenly there was a bark and a scutter, and Buffer, in an ecstasy of incongruous joy, rushed into the hall, jumped upon him, yelping, licking, dancing, and writhing with rapture. He was followed by Rolla, who came slowly in, and laid his great tawny head on his master’s knee, looking sorrowfully up in his face as much as to say that he knew well enough that this was like no other home-coming.
Cheriton started up and pushed them all aside. He walked away to the window and stared out at the park, into the library and looked round it, evidently hardly knowing what he was about. Alvar, who had been standing pale and silent, roused himself too, and followed him, putting his arm over his shoulder.
“Come,” he said; “come upstairs. Jack, where is there a fire?”
Cheriton yielded instinctively to Alvar’s hand and voice, and Jack led them upstairs, saying that granny had insisted on their rooms being kept ready for them. Nettie withheld Buffer from following them, and crouched down on the rug by the hall fire till Jack returned to her.
“They have both gone to bed for a little while,” he said; “even Alvar is tired out. Nettie, you had better go to granny, as soon as she is awake, and tell her that they are here, and that Cherry is pretty well.”
“I suppose Cherry will tell us what to do,” said Nettie, as she stood up.
Discipline and absence from home had improved Nettie; she was less childish and more considerate, remembering to tell Jack that he had had no breakfast, and to order some to be ready when the travellers should want it.
Bob, who had been sent for a day or two before, now joined them. He had grown as tall as Jack, but grief and awe gave him a heavy, sullen look, and indeed they said very little to each other. Jack wrote a few necessary letters, and sent them off by one of the grooms, and telegraphed to Judge Cheriton, who was coming that same evening, the news of what he would find. But their father had been so completely manager and master, that Jack felt as if giving an order himself were unjustifiable, and as soon as he dared, he went to see if Cherry were able to talk to him.
“Come, Jack,” said Cherry, as the boy came up to him; “come now, and tell me everything.”
Jack leaned against the foot of the bed, and in the half-darkened room told all the details of the last few days. There had not been much suffering, nor long intervals of consciousness, so far as they knew. Cherry could have done no good till last night. Granny had done all the nursing. “I never thought,” said Jack, “she loved any one so much.” Mr Ellesmere had been everything to them, and had written letters and told them what to do. “But last night father came more to himself, and sent for Mr Ellesmere, and presently he fetched me, and father took hold of my hand, and said to me quite clearly, ‘Remember, your eldest brother will stand in my place; let there be no divisions among you.’ And then – then he told me to try and keep Bob straight, and that I had been a good lad. But oh, Cherry, if he had but known about Gipsy! But I couldn’t say one word then. And then Mr Ellesmere said, ‘Shall Jack say anything to Cherry for you?’ And he smiled, and said, ‘My love and blessing, for he has been the light of my eyes.’ And then he sent for Bob and Nettie, and sent messages to old Wilson and some of the servants. And he said that he had tried to do his duty in life by his children and neighbours, but that he had often failed, especially in one respect, and also he had not ruled his temper as a Christian man should; and he asked every one to forgive him, and specially the vicar, if he had overstepped the bounds his position gave him; Mr Ellesmere said something of ‘thanks for years of kindness.’ And then – we had the communion. And after a bit he said very low, ‘If my boy should live, I know he will keep things together.’ Then I think he murmured something about – about your coming – and the cold weather – and – and – you were not to fret – it was only waiting a little longer. And then quite quite loud he said, ‘Fear God, and keep His commandments,’ and then just whispered, ‘Fanny.’ That was the last word; but he lived till eleven. And poor granny, she broke down into dreadful crying, and said, ‘The light of my eyes – the light of my eyes is darkened.’ Nettie was very good with her; but at last we all got to bed – and – oh, Cherry, it isn’t quite so bad now we have you!” and Jack pressed up to his side.
Cheriton had listened to all this long, faltering tale leaning on his elbow, his wide-open eyes fixed on his brother, without interrupting him by a word. Jack cried, and he put his arm round his neck, and said, “Poor boy!” but no tears came to him.
“I never thought – ” said Jack, whose natural reserve was dispelled by stress of feeling, “I never thought what a good man he was, and how much he cared.”
“Yes, he loved goodness,” said Cherry, with a heavy sigh.
It was true. With some prejudices and many weaknesses, Gerald Lester had set his duty first; he had lived such a life that those around him were the better for his existence, he had left a place empty and a work to be done. Who would fill the place – how would the work be done?
Through all the crush of personal grief, his two sons could not but ask themselves this question; but they could not bring themselves to speak of it to each other; and after a few minutes Cheriton said, “I think I will get up now. We must talk things over together; and I want to see granny.”
“If you have rested.”
“Oh, yes, as much as is possible. I am quite well, indeed. Go down, my boy. I will come directly.”
Jack went with a lightened heart. If Cherry were well and able to take the lead among them, everything could be borne. When Cheriton came into the library he found that Alvar had already appeared, and was eating some breakfast, for it was still only twelve o’clock, while Mr Ellesmere was standing by the fire. The vicar greeted him kindly and quietly, and Alvar poured out some coffee for him; and then Mr Ellesmere began to explain some of the arrangements he had been obliged to make, and that he had sent to their father’s solicitor, Mr Malcolm, to come in the afternoon. Cheriton thanked him, and asked a few questions; but Alvar did not seem to take the conversation to himself, till the butler, having taken away the breakfast things, paused, and after looking first at Cheriton, turned to Alvar, and said rather awkwardly, – “Do you expect the judge by the five o’clock train, sir, and shall the carriage be sent to Hazelby to meet him?”
There was a moment’s silence, the three younger brothers coloured to their very hair roots, and Cheriton made a half step away from Alvar’s side. The sudden pang that shot through him by its very sharpness brought its own remedy. He put his hand on Alvar’s arm as if to call his attention.
“The train comes in at five – we had better send, hadn’t we?” he said.
“Oh, yes!” said Alvar.
He had grown a little pale, and he turned his large black eyes on Cheriton with a look half-proud, half-appealing, and so sad as to drown all Cheriton’s momentary shrinking in self-reproach.
“Alvar,” said Mr Ellesmere, “if you will come with me, I have a message for you from your father.”
He led the way into Mr Lester’s study, and Alvar followed him to the room, of which his last vivid recollection was of the painful dispute after the breach of his engagement. He stood by the fire in silence, and the vicar said, —
“Alvar, your father desired me to tell you that, of all the actions of his life he most regretted the neglect which for so many years he showed you. He bid me say that on his death-bed he desired his son’s forgiveness.”
“My father made me every amends in his power,” said Alvar, in a low voice.
“He commended your grandmother and your sister to your protection and kindness; your brothers also, and thought thankfully of all that you and Cherry have become to each other.”
Alvar was much agitated, for some moments he was unable to speak, then he said vehemently, —
“This is my inheritance, as it was my father’s; but to my brothers I seem an interloper. This is the wrong my father did to me, he made me a stranger in my own place.”
“It was a wrong of which he deeply repented.”
“It does not become me to speak of it,” said Alvar proudly.
“You must not exaggerate,” said Mr Ellesmere. “It would be hard for Cheriton to see any one in his father’s place; but you have won from him, at any rate, a brother’s love.”
“I am his dear friend,” said Alvar; “but it is different with Jack.”
“Don’t draw these fine distinctions. Be a worthy successor to your father; live here among your people, as he did, in the fear of God, and doing your duty as an English gentleman, and be, as you have ever been, patient and kind to your brothers. Doubtless it seems a hard task to you, but I earnestly believe that by God’s blessing you may be all to them that even Cheriton might be in your place. Nay, the very differences between you may be, – nay have been – the means of good.”
“You are very kind to me, sir, and I thank you,” said Alvar courteously; but Mr Ellesmere felt as if his words had fallen a little flat. He felt sorry for Alvar, but he could not look forward to the future without uneasiness. He saw that the wrong was neither forgotten nor forgiven, and that there was in the young Spaniard’s nature a background of immovable pride that promised ill for accommodating himself to unfamiliar duties, and a want of moral insight that would be slow in recognising them.
It seemed rather inconsistent when Alvar said meekly, “Cheriton will tell me in all things what I should do,” and led the way back to the library.
Here they found the others gathered in a group by the fire; Nettie sitting on a stool at Cheriton’s feet, Jack leaning over the back of his chair, and Bob close at hand. How much alike they looked, with their similar colouring and outline, and faces set in the same sorrowful stillness and softened by the same feelings! Alvar paused and looked at them for a moment, but Cheriton, seeing him, rose and came forward.
“We have been waiting for you, Alvar,” he said. “I have been to see grandmamma, but I did not stay – she could not bear it; but now – will you come upstairs with us?” He gave a look of invitation to Mr Ellesmere also, and he followed them silently into the chamber of death.
There lay their father, all the irritable marks of human frailty smoothed away, and the grand outline and long beard giving him a likeness to some kingly monument. The twins held by each other, their grief almost overpowered by shrinking awe. Jack frowned and set his mouth hard, and wrung Cherry’s hand in his stress of feeling till he almost crushed it, while Cheriton stood quite still and calm by Alvar’s side.
“Let us pray,” said Mr Ellesmere; and as they all knelt down he repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and such other words as came to him.
When they rose up again Cheriton bent down and kissed his father’s brow, and one by one the younger ones followed his example. Only Alvar stood still, till Cheriton turned to him, and taking his hand, with a look that Mr Ellesmere never forgot, drew him forward.
Alvar obeyed him, but as his lips touched his father’s face the thought suddenly struck Cheriton that it must have been for the first time – that never, even in babyhood, had a caress passed between the father and son; and then, in contrast, he thought of himself, and the grief, hitherto unrealised, broke forth at last. He hid his face in his hands, and hurried out of the room into his own, away from them all.
Part IV
“A lord of fat prize oxen and of sheep,
A raiser of huge melons and of pines,
A patron of some thirty charities,
A quarter-sessions chairman.”
Chapter One.
The Funeral
“Wild March wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?”
It was on a wild March morning, when sudden gleams of radiant sunlight contended with heavy storm-clouds, that Mr Lester of Oakby was buried. There was no rain, but the violent wind carried the sound of the knell in fitful gusts over the mourning village, through the well-cared-for fields and plantations of Oakby, away to Ashrigg and Elderthwaite, bringing all the countryside in a great concourse to the funeral. For it was a real mourning, a real loss. Long years ago, Fanny Lester, with her bright smile, and clear, upward-looking eyes, had said to her husband, “We have a piece of work in the world given to us, Gerald; let us try and do it.” And under her strong influence the dutiful and honourable traditions of conduct to which Gerald Lester was born, widened and were drawn higher; the various offices he held were exercised with conscientious effort for the benefit of his neighbours; and his tenantry, mind, soul and body, were the better for his life among them. They could trust him, and if he sometimes made mistakes from which the wise Fanny might have saved him, her death had consecrated for him every simple duty that she had pointed out. Now, while “the old Squire” still meant his father, while he was still in the strength of his manhood, he was gone; and at the head of his grave there stood, not the son they knew, with his father’s fair face and his mother’s fair soul, but the dark, stately stranger, who – among all those north-country gentlemen, farmers, and labourers who crowded round, those “neighbours” all so well known to each other – looked so strangely out of place.
So thought another stranger who, when he had travelled northwards, had little thought to find himself present at such a scene.
The Stanforths had long since returned to London, and Gipsy found herself once more in the midst of as pleasant a home-circle as ever a girl grew up in, while her attention was claimed by numerous interests, social, intellectual, and domestic. Her mother shook her head over the story of Jack’s proposal; but she said very little about the matter, secretly hoping that Gipsy would cease to think of it on returning to another atmosphere. All the advances, she said to her husband, must now come from the other side, and she could not but regard the future as doubtful, and was slightly incredulous of the charms of the travelling companions whom she had not herself seen. But Jack, while he was at Oxford, wrote to Mr Stanforth, about once a fortnight, rather formal and sententious epistles, which did not contain one word about Gipsy, but which in their regularity and simplicity impressed her mother favourably. One long, pleasant letter arrived from Cheriton during his last weeks at Seville, and of this Gipsy enjoyed the perusal. She did not show any symptoms of low spirits, and being a girl of some resolution of character, held her tongue and bided her time. Perhaps a bright and fairly certain expectation was all she as yet wanted or was ready for. She was young in feeling, even for her eighteen years, and in truth they were “beginning at the beginning.”
Still she wished ardently that her father should accede to a request from Sir John Hubbard, that he should come down to Ashrigg Hall, and paint a companion picture of his wife to the one that he had taken of himself long ago. Lady Hubbard was infirm and could not come to London, or Sir John would not have made such a demand on Mr Stanforth’s time, now, of course, even more fully occupied than it had been ten years before.
Mr Stanforth hesitated; he did not like the notion of any possible meeting with Mr Lester, while Jack’s views remained a secret from him; but Sir John had shown him a good deal of kindness, and he felt curious to hear something of his young friends in their own neighbourhood. So the first week in March found him at Ashrigg, in the midst of a large family party, for the eldest son and his wife were staying there, and there were several daughters at home.
“We had hoped to give a few of our friends the pleasure of meeting you, Mr Stanforth,” said Sir John, after dinner, when the wine was on the table, “but our neighbourhood has sustained a great loss in the death of a valued friend of ours, Mr Lester, of Oakby.”
“Mr Lester of Oakby! You don’t say so! Surely that is very sudden,” said Mr Stanforth, infinitely shocked. “I saw a great deal of his sons in the south of Spain,” he added in explanation.
“Indeed! They are at home now, poor fellows. They were just too late. I had this note from Jack – that’s the second son – no, the third – this afternoon.”
“I know Jack, too,” said Mr Stanforth, as he took the note. It was a very brief one, merely announcing his father’s death, and adding, —
“My brothers returned from Spain this morning. We hope that the journey has done Cheriton no harm.”
“Ah, poor Cheriton!” said Mr Stanforth. “I fear he must have run a great risk. It will be a terrible blow to him. We formed something more than a travelling acquaintance.”
“Poor Mr Lester was here only a fortnight ago, speaking with delight of Cheriton’s entire recovery,” said Lady Hubbard.
“Yes, he was much better,” said Mr Stanforth, a little doubtfully, “and full of enjoyment. But this will be indeed a startling change.”
“Yes,” said Sir John; “one does not know how to think of Alvar in his father’s shoes. It was a sadly mismanaged business altogether.”
“There is a great deal to like in Alvar Lester,” said Mr Stanforth; “but of course the circumstances are very peculiar.”
“Yes. You see while the elder brother, Robert, was alive, no one thought much of Gerald, and when this Spanish marriage came out, it was a great shock. And he was too ready to listen to all the excuses about the boy’s health. If he had come home and been sent to school in England he might have grown up like the rest, and black eyes instead of blue ones would have been all the difference.”
“I have always thought his long absence inexplicable.”
“Well, Lester hated the thought of his boyish marriage, and these other boys came, and Cherry was his darling. His wife did make an effort once, and Alvar was brought to France when he was about seven years old; but they said he was ill, and took him back again. Then when old Mrs Lester came into power she opposed his coming, and things slipped on. I don’t think he was expected to live at first, and, poor fellow! no one wished that he should.”
“The second Mrs Lester must have been a very remarkable person,” said Mr Stanforth.
“She was,” said Lady Hubbard warmly. “She was a person to raise the tone of a whole neighbourhood. She made another man of her husband, and he worshipped her. She was no beauty, and very small, but with the brightest of smiles, and eyes that seemed to look straight up into heaven. No one could forget Fanny Lester. She influenced every one.”
There was much more talk, and many side lights were cast on Mr Stanforth’s mind when he heard of Alvar’s broken engagement to Virginia Seyton, and of her pretty cousin Ruth’s recent marriage to Captain Lester, “though at one time every one thought that there was something between her and Cheriton.” He could not but think most of how his own daughter’s future might be affected by this sudden freeing of her young lover from parental control; but he was full of sympathy for them all, and the note that he wrote to Cheriton was answered by a request that he would accompany Sir John Hubbard to the funeral: “They could never forget all his kindness in another time of trouble.”
It was a striking group of mourners. Alvar stood in the midst, dignified and impassive, and by his side a tall, girlish figure, with bright hair gleaming through her crape veil, the three other brothers together, looking chiefly as if they were trying to preserve an unmoved demeanour; Rupert’s face behind them, like enough to suggest kindred, and Judge Cheriton’s keen cultivated face; Mr Seyton, pale, worn, and white-haired, and his brother’s tanned, weather-beaten countenance, ruddy and solemn, above his clerical dress. Many a fine, powerful form and handsome outline showed among the men, whose fathers had served Mr Lester’s; and behind, crowds of women, children, and old people filled the churchyard and the lanes beyond.
As the service proceeded the heavy clouds parted, and a sudden gleam of sunlight fell, lighting up the violet pall and the white wreaths laid on it, the surplices of the choristers, and the bent heads of the mourners. Cheriton looked up at last away from the open grave, through the break in the clouds, but with a face strangely white and sad in the momentary sunlight. Jack, as they turned away, caught sight of Mr Stanforth, and the sudden involuntary look of pleasure that lightened the poor boy’s miserable face was touching to see. When all was over, and, in common with most of those from a distance, Mr Stanforth had accompanied Sir John Hubbard up to the house, Jack sought him out, hardly having a word to say; but evidently finding satisfaction in his presence.
“Oh, we have nothing picturesque at home, but still I should like to show you Oakby,” Cheriton had said, as they walked together in the beautiful streets of Seville; but the long table in the old oak dining-room, covered with family plate, the sombre, faded richness of colouring that told of years of settled dignified life, were not altogether commonplace, any more than the pair of brothers who occupied the two ends of the table. It was not till there was a general move that Cheriton came up and put his hand into his friend’s.
“We all like to think that you have been here,” he said. “You will come again while you are at Ashrigg?”
“I will, indeed. And you, – these cold winds do not hurt you?”
“No, I think not. My uncle wishes Sir John Hubbard to hear some of our arrangements; you will not mind waiting for a little.”
He spoke very quietly, but as if there were a great weight upon him, while his attention was claimed by some parting guest.
“Well, Cheriton, good-bye; this is a sorrowful day for many. You must try and teach your poor brother to fill your father’s place. We are all ready to welcome him among us, and we hope he will take an interest in everything here.”
“You are very land, Mr Sutton,” said Cheriton, rather as if he thought the kindness too outspoken.
Then a much older face and voice took a turn.
“Good-bye, my lad. Your grandfather and I were friends always, and I little thought to see this day. Keep things going, Cherry, for the old name’s sake.”
“I shall be in London soon,” said Cherry ungraciously, for the echoes of his own forebodings were very hard to bear. Then Rupert came up with a warm hand-shake.
“Good-bye, my dear fellow. I hope we shall see you in London. Don’t catch another bad cold. I hope you’ll all get along together.”
“I dare say we shall. But thank you, it was very good of you to come just now.”
“Just off your wedding trip, as I understand?” said the old gentleman.
“Yes; we came back from Paris a few days ago, and I must get back to town to-night,” said Rupert, as Cheriton moved away to join his uncle for a sort of explanation of the state of affairs to the younger ones, and for the reading of the will, though, its chief provisions were well known to him.
Alvar, as his father had done before him, inherited the estate free from debt or mortgage, with such an income as sounded to his Spanish notions magnificent; but which those better versed in English expenditure knew would find ample employment in all the calls of such a place as Oakby. It was quite sufficient for the position, but no more. The estate, of course, still remained chargeable with old Mrs Lester’s jointure. Mr Lester had enjoyed the interest of his wife’s fortune during her life, the bulk of which had come to her from an aunt, and was secured to her daughter; her three sons succeeding to five thousand pounds apiece, and for this money Judge Cheriton, and a certain General Fleming, a relation of the Cheritons, were joint trustees. So the will, made almost as soon as Mr Lester inherited the property, had stood, and indeed most of its provisions had been made by his father. Since his illness, however, a codicil had been added, stating that Mr Lester had intended to leave the small amount of ready money at his disposal equally among his three younger sons, but that now he decided to leave the whole to Cheriton, “whose health might involve him in more expenses, and prevent him from using the same exertions as his brothers.” He also joined his two elder sons, with their uncle, Judge Cheriton, in the personal guardianship of John, Robert, and Annette. There were a few gifts and legacies to servants and dependants, and that was all.
“Nothing,” remarked Judge Cheriton, after a pause, “could be more proper than this decision with regard to Cheriton, though we hope its necessity has passed away; but under the very peculiar circumstances every one has felt that it would have been well if a somewhat larger proportion of his mother’s fortune could have come to him.”
“Of course,” said Jack, “it is all right.”
“But my father might have trusted him to me,” said Alvar.
“Such things should always be in black and white,” said the judge. “Your father has shown marked confidence both in you and in Cheriton by giving you a share in the charge of the younger ones, and this desire will, of course, naturally affect our arrangements for them. Annette’s home at least must be fixed by her grandmother’s.”
“But my grandmother will stay here,” said Alvar, in a tone of surprise. “Why should she change? It will be all the same. And the boys too, and my sister, and Cheriton – of course – we must be together.”
He spoke warmly, and crossing over to Cheriton, took his hand as he spoke.
“This is your home, my brother, always.”
“You are very good to us, Alvar, thank you,” said Cheriton, hardly able to speak.
“Most kind,” said the judge; “whatever may be decided on, your offer is suggested by a most proper feeling, of which I hope all are sensible.”
“Alvar is very kind,” said Jack shyly.
“Would you not expect that Cheriton should be ‘kind’ to you? Then why not I, as well?” said Alvar.
“Such an arrangement,” said the judge, “would not be binding on Cheriton even in your place. I am rejoiced to see so good an understanding between you. Alvar has a great deal of business before him, and it would be a pity to make any changes at present. But as for you, Cheriton, is it wise to remain here so early in the year?”
“No,” said Alvar; “I think we should go to the south for a little.”
“I think the calls upon your time – ” began the judge, but Cheriton interposed.
“I don’t think I am any the worse for the weather,” he said, “and I should not like to go away now. We shall all have a great deal to do.”
Sir John Hubbard spoke a few friendly words and offered any assistance or advice to Alvar in his power, and then took his leave, as did Mr Malcolm. Alvar and Jack, with the judge, accompanied them into the hall; and no sooner had the door of the study closed than Nettie, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, suddenly burst out, – “I don’t care! I will say it! It may be very kind of Alvar, but it is horrible, horrible to think he is master and may do what he pleases with us. I hate to stay here if he is to give us leave.”
“I told you, Nettie,” said Bob, with masculine prudence, “that no one ought to say those things.”
“Nor feel them, I hope,” said Cherry. “Nettie, my dear child, you must not make it worse for us all. We feel our great loss; but you know the future will not be easy for Alvar himself.”
“I know,” sobbed Nettie, with increasing vehemence, “that he will not be like – like papa. I can’t bear to think that the dear place all belongs to him, and the things, and the animals even, and the horses. He doesn’t love them, nor the place, and ice do!”
“Be silent, Nettie,” said Cheriton, with unusual sternness; “I will never listen to one word like this. There is nothing wrong about it. Think of all that Alvar has done for me, and then say if such words are justifiable.”
The severity of the tone silenced Nettie – it was meant to silence poor Cheriton’s own heart. He was stern to his sister because he felt severely towards himself; but Nettie thought him unjust, and only moved by partiality for Alvar. He saw complications far beyond her childish jealousy, and yet he shared it. And above all was the anguish of a personal loss, a heavy grief that filled up all the intervals of perplexing anticipations and business cares.