“Cherry,” said Jack, turning his back, and hunting in a bookshelf, “I know all about it.”
“Do you, Jack?”
“Yes. You ought to go away; but do you mind going alone with Alvar? Let me come.”
“Well, Jack,” said Cheriton, after a pause, “if you know, I can tell you how it is. I’ve had a hard time, and I think I should like to be quiet. But it is right to give oneself a chance, and as for Alvar, I am not at all afraid of going alone with him. You know what a good nurse he is. If I want you, you will come to me.”
“Yes,” muttered Jack.
“But I don’t want father to guess at what the doctors call ‘mental anxiety,’ nor to talk hopelessly to him. You must comfort him. I’m afraid a great deal will be thrown on you, my boy.”
Jack did not answer; and Cheriton, divining his feelings, made an effort, and said cheerfully,—
“Of course, one is no judge oneself in such cases. I am quite willing to go now, and I shall look forward to seeing you at Christmas. You must write and give me your impressions of Oxford.”
“Oh yes,” said Jack, consoled; “and perhaps Alvar will pick up a Spanish lady, and then we should be all right again.” Cherry smiled and shook his head, feeling that he could not wish to dispose of Alvar in so unceremonious a fashion. He was angry with him now, and felt how wide a gulf lay between their points of view; yet he had grown to be very dependent on him, and was keenly conscious of all his unselfish devotion. He saw, too, that it would not do to talk freely even to Jack, since it frightened him and made him miserable, and resolved to keep all his confusing feelings to himself—feelings that seemed to tear him to pieces while he was utterly weary of them all.
He was afraid that he had been hard on Alvar, and still more afraid of how his father would take the revelation; but he had long to wait before the study door was flung open, and Alvar walked in, with his head up, and his face crimson. He was passing through without heeding his brothers, but Cherry’s call checked him, and he came up to the window.