Hugh Crichton's Romance

by Christabel R. Coleridge

Part 3, Chapter XIX.

Sunday and Monday.

“There is no time like spring,
Like spring that passes by;
There is no life like spring-life born to die.”

Hugh Crichton was at this time in the sort of humour which, dignified by the name of misanthropy, would have admirably suited, one of those interesting and uncomfortable heroes who stalk through the pages of romance with masks over their faces, under a vow to speak to no one; or who, like Lara, cloaked and with folded arms, look on at life from an altitude of melancholy and disenchantment. The world seems to have watched such vagaries in former days with much patience; but times are changed, and Hugh had far too much to do to fold his arms, and was forced to put on a frock-coat and white waistcoat on Sunday morning as usual. But an invisible and impalpable mask may be as stifling as one made of black velvet; and the mysterious silence which everyone respected was scarcely a greater effort than the silence of which no one was to suspect the necessity, or the words that seemed so trivial or so foolish. In truth, it was as much to avoid Arthur’s constant companionship as for any other reason that Hugh had so persistently refused to allow him to begin his work at the Bank. He could not stand Arthur’s bright, shrewd eyes upon him as they went to and fro, or endure his notice of the fits of idleness which alternated with the hard work to which he thus condemned himself. For after his long absence he had more on hand than usual; and Arthur, who was brisk and business-like and just then full of an energy that would have made stone-breaking light and interesting work, might have been very helpful to him. Hugh did not, perhaps, dislike the notion of being overworked; but the fact that he was so did not tend to smooth his temper or to raise his spirits. For, of course, the life of a man of business, with all the calls and occupations of a country gentleman added to it, was an exceedingly laborious one; but it was Hugh’s pride that he had never shirked any of the work to which his father had been born, and that he made the squire give way to the banker where the two clashed.

James, on growing up, had so decidedly declared in favour of a London life that all notion of his coming into the business had been abandoned; but there was more since his father’s death than Hugh could properly manage; and so his determination that no pressure should be put on Arthur if his success at Oxford induced him to wish for a more ambitious career had been a real act of kind and liberal judgment. His refusal to accept at once Arthur’s decision in his favour sprang partly from a foolish and unworthy pride, which refused to be the better for anyone’s sense or good behaviour, and, partly, as has been said, from a sort of personal distaste to his bright young cousin—a feeling which Arthur had done nothing to deserve. Nor was his brother’s presence any satisfaction to Hugh. Now that the danger was past, James was quite ready to forget all the annoyance with which he had regarded the matter, and to find the recollection of so romantic an incident rather pleasant than otherwise. “What is it to him?” thought Hugh bitterly; but it was quite true that, even had James been himself concerned and had sincerely felt the disappointment, he would have taken a certain pleasure in recalling the picturesque aspects of the affair; could have laughed at himself with a smile on his lip and a tear in his eye have made full allowance for Violante’s difficulties, and even speculated a little about her future lot, honestly wishing it to be a prosperous one. He found room for kindly sentiment in his flirtations, and would have derived amusement from the externals even of a real passion. But Hugh’s equal judgment fell before the force of personal feeling; and as he had thought of nothing at the time but Violante herself his brother’s view of the matter seemed to him utterly heartless and frivolous.

Sunday was a pleasant day to the young people of Redhurst. Mr Harcourt, the Rector, was a very old man, who had christened their mother, and to whom “Mr Spencer, of Oxley Bank,” meant their grandfather. He was still fully capable of managing his little country parish; and though they had heard his sermons very often, and had not had the satisfaction of assisting at many improvements in his church—since the work had been well done for them in a former generation, when Mr Harcourt, now so cautious, had been regarded as a dangerous innovator—they were very fond of him and of his wife; and had any one of them, in a foreign country or in future years, recalled the Sundays of their youth it would have been the unaltered and seemingly unalterable services of Redhurst Church and its white-haired Rector that would have risen before their eyes. Not but that they liked a walk to Oxley and an evening service at the new Saint Michael’s considerably better than an afternoon one at Redhurst; but, whether they deserted his second sermon or not, they rarely failed to present themselves at the Rectory after it was over for a cup of tea and a chat. Indeed, it was almost a second home to Mysie, who had grown up to be the young lady of the village—all the Miss Harcourts having married almost before she was born. Hugh was a very useful and conscientious squire; his mother, by nature and position, a Lady Bountiful: so Redhurst was a favoured spot.

“So you come and eat my apricots, young people, and run away from my sermons?” said Mr Harcourt, as he picked out a specially-perfect specimen of the fruit in question and offered it to Mysie, who, with her smiling face peeping out from a sky-blue bonnet, looked much like a bright-eyed forget-me-not.

“I’ve been to church and to school, too, this afternoon,” said Mysie, with a deprecating look.

“Ah, you are always a good girl. Why didn’t you bring Arthur with you?”