Towards evening, Alvar, who had scarcely stirred all day, was sent downstairs by Mr Adamson to get some food, and as he came into the dining-room, where the customary Sunday tea was laid on the table, he was greeted with a start of alarm. The two poor boys, tired, hungry, and frightened, had arrived but a few minutes before, and were standing about silent and awestruck.
Jack leant on the mantelpiece, with his lips shut as if they would never unclose again; Bob was staring out of the window; Nettie sat forlorn on one of a long row of chairs. Not one of them made an attempt to comfort or to speak to the others; they were almost as inaccessible in the sullen intensity of their grief as the two dogs, who, poor things! shared it, as they sat staring at Nettie, as dogs will when they do not comprehend the situation.
Alvar, with his olive face and grave dark eyes, looked, after all his fatigue, less changed than Jack, who was deadly pale, and hardly able to control his trembling.
“Ah! Jack,” said Alvar, in his soft, slow tones, “he will be glad to hear that you are come!”
Jack did not speak at first, and Alvar, as silent as the rest, went up to the table and poured out some claret and took some bread.
“It’s quite hopeless, I suppose?” said Jack, suddenly.
“No, do not say so!” said Alvar, half fiercely. “It is not so; but, oh, we fear it!” he added, in a voice of inexpressible melancholy.
Jack could not utter another word—he was half choking; but Nettie, unable to restrain herself any longer, began to cry piteously.
“Don’t Nettie,” said Bob, savagely.
“Ah!” said Alvar, “poor child, she is breaking her heart!” he went over to her, and took her in his arms and kissed her. “Poor little sister!” he said. “Ah! how we love him!”