“But, Arthur, it’s such a dreary errand for you just now,” said James. “If Seton should be worse when you meet him—or you yourself—”
“I shall not be ill, if that is what you mean. And, Jem, it would be some object. What could I do with myself at Bournemouth?”
“No, that’s true,” said James. “I feel that. But, my dear boy, I don’t like your going away alone to meet no one knows what, when you want looking after so much yourself.”
“No one can help me,” said Arthur. “What can my life be to me? You’re all so good, but the light has gone down for me. Let me go; it will be change—something to look forward to. And I am quite well. I can eat and sleep. I could walk any distance. I must go.”
“Well, I suppose you must, but mother will hate the notion.”
“Will you talk her over? Somehow, I can’t bear to be talked to about myself.” James found his task very difficult. Mrs Crichton naturally entertained a thousand fears for Arthur’s health and spirits, but he was reinforced by Hugh.
“Let him go; of course, if he wishes it. If he can care for any fresh object it will be the best cure. Let him do exactly as he likes now and henceforward. I daresay the change will distract his mind and do him good.”
They were kind words, but there was something hard and sarcastic in the tone in which they were uttered.
“I wish you could have a change too,” said Jem, looking at him.
“Changes don’t make much difference to me,” said Hugh; “perhaps they may to Arthur.”