When he came back that afternoon his mother called him into the drawing-room. “Hugh,” she said, eagerly, “here is a letter from Arthur, which greatly concerns you.”
With the curious sense of reluctance with which he always received anything connected with his cousin, Hugh took the letter, and read—
“Rome, January 28, 18—
“My dear Aunt Lily,—I am glad to hear you are at home again; I did not like to think of the place being empty. This is a wonderful city, and it is impossible even to mention all the objects of interest it contains. I wish Jem was near to enjoy them. If I tried to describe them it would be like copying a guide-book, and I would rather tell you something of what I have seen when me meet; and I hope that will be soon, for, my dear aunt, I think I have led this wandering life long enough. I have been thinking over things of late, and I wish, if you and Hugh consent, to come home again, and take my place in the Bank, as was originally proposed, and try and do as well as I can. I am very tired of travelling; and, as for choosing any other profession, I don’t feel that I can turn my mind to anything fresh, and something I must settle upon. Give my love to Hugh, and tell him I hope I shall be able to make myself useful to him. I shall be very glad to see you all again; and, though life is for ever changed to me, all that is left to me is at Redhurst with you and my sister and my brother—my brothers, I should say, for so Hugh and Jem have been and must be. I hope and pray not to be idle or useless for her sake.
“Ever your loving nephew,—
“Arthur Spencer.”
Hugh read the letter through, and it touched him to the heart—the exceeding sadness that the writer could hardly disguise, the unwonted profession of affection for himself, and yet the coupling of his name with Jem’s, as if to hide that there was any reason for such profession. He saw how conscientiously Arthur was endeavouring to act, and yet the proposal was terrible to him.
“Well, Hugh,” said his mother, after a long pause, “it is the best thing for the poor boy, isn’t it?”
“Of course, mother,” said Hugh, slowly. “Arthur must do exactly as he pleases, have everything as he wishes it; but—but—I think he is mistaken.”
“Mistaken, how?”
“I think he is trying to do what he will not be equal to. How can he bear this place?” said Hugh, in a passionate undertone. “Every day would be an agony to him. It is—it would be to me!”
“Of course,” said Mrs Crichton, “there will be much that is painful at first; but he will get over it, and he cannot be banished for ever. Depend upon it, Hugh, the truest kindness will be to let everything be as much a matter of course as possible. The world could not go on if everyone shrank from the scenes of their misfortunes. Arthur is perfectly right, and I am sure he will be much happier in having something to do; and you’ll find his natural cheerfulness will help him through. We must make it as pleasant and easy as possible.”
Hugh rose and gave the letter back to his mother. “Tell him it shall be as he wishes,” he said; “but tell him also that if ever he changes his mind I will not hold him to his word;” and, without waiting for an answer, he went hurriedly away to his own room. How should he bear Arthur’s presence, how endure the sight of his sorrow? Could he ride into Oxley with him every day, when every weary look and dispirited tone would be like the thrust of a dagger. The more generous and unselfish Arthur was, the bitterer seemed the reproach. The idea of constant association was so terrible to him that, just in judgment as Hugh was, it almost seemed to him as if a choice so unlike his own must be dictated by feelings less intense and a memory less keen. “How can he bear the sight of me?” he thought. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth sooner than come back. If he has any feeling he will not be able to endure it! However, it doesn’t matter what it is to me!”