The servants began to gather round them. “Oh, Mr Cheriton, it’s some comfort to see you back, sir!” said the butler; and—“Thank heaven, sir, you’re come to help your poor grandmother!” cried the old housekeeper; while Nettie, flying downstairs, threw herself into Cheriton’s arms, as if they were a refuge from the agony of new and most forlorn sorrow, while he held her fast with long speechless kisses.
Alvar stood still. In that instinctive mutual clinging in the first shock of their common grief he had no share, and for the moment he stood as much a stranger among them as when, more than a year before, he had come into the midst of their Christmas merry-making, and had silenced their laughter by his unwelcome presence.
Jack was the first to awaken to a sense of present necessity.
“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.”