But Hugh’s intense self-consciousness gave to everything the vivid and yet weird distinctness of objects seen in an electric light. Every sob that he heard, every token of affection, seemed to him a reproach. He was conscious of Arthur’s every movement, and of every anxious look which his mother and James cast at him; he realised far more intensely than his cousin how pitiful it was that the earth should fall on this bright young creature, and that her story should break off short in the early chapters. He realised this till the tears came to his eyes, and, though he was probably the only person present who cared whether his grief were noticed or not, everyone went home to say how vain his efforts at self-control had been.
The long day was over; they had parted with Mr Crofton, Arthur showing him the little attentions that Hugh wondered he could recollect at such a moment—the week which seemed to join on to no other weeks was over, and they must begin life again. Any change was welcome to Hugh’s restlessness; and to the others—Jem especially—the lightening of the outward signs of mourning, the resumption of ordinary habits, was a relief. But to Arthur it brought the first sense of irretrievable loss, the first necessity for any effort to put aside the grief which he had borne, indeed, without resistance, but under which he could not stand upright.
For the first time he shrank from them all, for the first time the sunlight seemed cruel, and kind words like blows; the Sunday bells brought memories that he could not bear, and he shut himself into his room, only begging to be left there in peace. Hugh went to church with the younger ones—what right had he to spare himself any pain?
The day turned chilly and gloomy, and they gathered in the drawing-room in the afternoon. George and Frederica went to church again for the sake of something to do; but they could not go to the Rectory afterwards, and came home to find their aunt, James, and Miss Venning gathered round a small, unaccustomed-looking fire, with some tea on the table, while Hugh sat at the far end of the long room by himself.
“How is Arthur?” asked Frederica.
“He has a bad headache,” replied James.
“Do you think he is going to be ill, Jem?”
“Oh, no; I hope not. I don’t think it’s likely.”
“Mother,” said Hugh, coming forward, “Arthur ought to go away somewhere at once.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Crichton, “I think he should. We all must as soon as we can manage it.”