“Anything you wish, Arthur. What is it?”
“That Sunday,” said Arthur—as if, poor fellow, it had been some day last year—“they sang a hymn, and she spoke of it. If, to-morrow—”
“I remember,” said Jem. “Yes, we’ll have it. Mr Crofton has come,” he added.
“Has he? I think I ought to come down and see him.”
“Hugh is there,” said James.
“Oh, yes, but I shouldn’t leave it all to him,” said Arthur, as he prepared to come down, evidently caring little either way for Hugh’s presence, and less for his own heavy eyes and white face. He did not heed who saw the tokens of a grief that could surprise no one. He wanted to show respect to Mysie’s cousin. Mr Crofton was a kind, sensible-looking clergyman, and when James said nervously: “This is my cousin Arthur, Mr Crofton,” he could hardly utter a commonplace greeting as he pressed the hand Arthur held out to him.
Hugh set his mouth hard and sat quite still in his corner. Arthur said simply: “I am glad to see you, Mr Crofton,” and sat down by Hugh on the sofa, but without giving him any special greeting; and then asked some little question about Mr Crofton’s journey.
Mr Crofton had two or three sons, and as many daughters. He held a small living, and he had never seen the little cousin whose fortune he had inherited; but as he heard Arthur’s gentle, courteous voice, and saw his young face with its heavy shadows, he felt as if the inevitable sense of relief that had come to him at the first had been a deadly sin. He hardly knew to whom to address himself, but before Arthur’s arrival he had managed to make them understand that all Mysie’s personal property, all her ornaments, every relic of herself, must still belong to those who had loved and lost her; and Mrs Crichton now spoke a little of how much she had been loved, and how many tokens of grief had been shown both by rich and poor.
“There will be crowds to-morrow,” she said.
“That can be put a stop to,” said Hugh, suddenly.