“He shut himself into his room,” he said.
“Of course, he might work himself up into thinking anything his fault. It was not his fault. It is a matter which entirely depends on the way in which you regard it; I could not think why he was on Arthur’s mind—he sent him his love.”
“Did he? Oh, he is very—generous,” said James, much affected. “Oh, mother, mother, to think of his life yesterday and now! No wonder Hugh is half mad.”
Mrs Crichton cried irrepressibly for a few minutes. “Jem, she was the sunshine of the place. My dear little girl! But I can’t allow Hugh to take it in the way you speak of, and I beg you never to put it in such a point of view.”
Mrs Crichton rose as she spoke, and went upstairs to her son’s room. Jem followed, totally unable to understand her conduct. He forgot that his confused half-hinted story was not the same thing as the actual scene, or as Hugh’s brief, bitter narration of it, and could not make the same impression. Mrs Crichton knocked, but hardly waited for an answer. Hugh stood facing them.
“Am I wanted?” he said.
“Why yes, my dear, of course. Who else can settle things but you. Poor Arthur can think of nothing.”
“He must not be troubled,” said Hugh, “I will come at once.”
“That is right. I was perfectly certain that you would not give way to any such foolish morbid notions as Jem suggests; they can only cause far more distress to Arthur and to us all. He sent you his love—”
“He need not have done that,” said Hugh, in a hard, cold voice, though he trembled so much that he was obliged to sit down. “Mother, you are mistaken; I, and only I, am to blame. All this wretchedness has been caused by my temper and presumption. Just a moment’s ill-temper,” he added, with intense bitterness.