But, strangely, more than the actual Stephen did he miss the imaginary
future Stephen at school, hero of a thousand games, winner of a thousand
prizes, the Stephen grown up, famous already at so young an age, loved by
men and women, handsome, good.... Oh! the folly of it! No human being could
carry all the glories that Peter had designed for his son--no human being,
then how much less a Westcott. It might be best after all, young Stephen
had been spared. Until every stone of Scaw House was level with the ground
no Westcott could be termed safe--perhaps not then.
Now he realised how huge a place in his heart the boy had filled dimly,
because as yet he refused to bring it to the open light he was conscious
that, during these past two years he had been save for Stephen, a very
lonely man. It was odd that Stephen the elder and Stephen the younger
should have been the only two persons in his life to find the real inside
of him--they, too, and perhaps Norah Monogue. But, otherwise, not Bobby,
nor Cards, nor Alice Galleon, nor Mr. Zanti--nor Clare.
Not Clare. He faced the fact with a sudden shudder. Now that Stephen was
gone he and Clare were face to face--face to face as they had never been
since that first happy year of their marriage. That first year of their
marriage--and now!
With an instant clenching of his teeth he pulled down the blinds upon that
desolating view.
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