“Give him my love,” he said.
His aunt thought it rather an odd message; but she did not wish to tease Arthur with talking, and she knew that it was quite useless to attempt to comfort him, and so left him alone. She encountered James hanging about the hall, looking forlorn and frightened.
“Oh, mamma,” he said, “I don’t know what is to be done.”
“He is better now,” said Mrs Crichton, “and I think it is best to leave him quiet.”
“I’m not thinking about him. It’s Hugh.”
“Hugh?”
“Don’t you know, mother, how it was?” And James, as well as he could, repeated the substance of what had passed at the inquest.
“My dear,” said Mrs Crichton, with energy, “I should never allow such a thing to be repeated. Don’t say a word about it, and it will die out of their minds. I shouldn’t think of regarding it from that point of view. Why, it’s enough to drive them both mad.”
“But it’s true, mother,” said Jem, gloomily. “True? Not at all; those things rest on the turn of a hair, and Hugh must not be allowed to dwell on it. Where is he?”
Even in the midst of his misery James could hardly help smiling at his mother’s view.