Hugh shook off the hand and shrank from him with a sort of horror.
“Don’t touch me—don’t speak to me!” he cried.
Arthur looked surprised and disappointed; and James, who had been hitherto utterly silenced by the horror of Hugh’s avowal, hastily drew him away, seeing that he could hardly bear up any longer. Hugh followed them up the garden and into the study, and then broke out into a torrent of self-reproach, so violent and so uncontrollable that Arthur vainly tried to silence it.
“I have broken your heart,” he cried. “There is no atonement I can make—none. My life can’t make it up to you. The sight of your grief will kill me! I have destroyed her, the beautiful, innocent creature. I was jealous of your happiness and of hers, and I have ruined it for ever!”
“Don’t, Hugh, don’t,” said Arthur, faintly; “don’t, I can’t bear it!”
“Bear it! Vent it all on me—tell me how you hate me.”
“Be quiet, Hugh,” interposed James, sternly, as he saw that Arthur grew whiter and whiter. “The least you can do is not to distress him now. This is too much;” as poor Arthur, after vainly attempting to speak, burst into tears. “Oh, mother,” as Mrs Crichton came hurriedly into the room, “Arthur must be quiet now.”
But Arthur turned as she went towards him, hardly seeing her son—of whose special interest in the matter she was quite unconscious—and threw his arms round her, and laid his head on her shoulder, letting his grief have free course at last, while she tenderly soothed him and drew him down by her on the sofa.
“Never mind, Jem,” she said; “leave him to me; this is the best thing that can happen. My poor boy!”
Hugh looked at them for a moment, then turned and went away by himself.