Hugh Crichton's Romance

by Christabel R. Coleridge

“You seem to know all about me,” said Arthur; but not as if the comprehension hurt him.

“Yes, I believe I do,” said Hugh, looking away from him; but with a curious sense of a fresh spring in his heart. Was all that bitter involuntary watching, that keen, morbid analysis of Arthur’s feelings, which had cost him so much pain, to bear fruit at last? Had the sympathetic suffering which he had looked on as expiation been no fruitless penance, but a training that might enable him to make some poor amends? Was it possible that he, who had caused and shared the sorrow, could be the one to comfort and help?

“I think I do understand,” he said. “It will be best for you to stay here quietly, and join when you can in what goes on, or pass it by without any comment being made. Only, you must promise to tell me if you feel that it is getting too much for you—that is, if you will,” he added, with a little return to his self-distrust.

“Oh, yes, I’ll tell you, if you don’t find out,” said Arthur, with some of his natural liveliness; then added, earnestly and affectionately: “You have done me a great deal of good.”

Hugh had never felt so nearly happy since he had come back to England as at those words. If Arthur could feel so he should never want for comfort again. The first effort at really helping him for his own sake had broken through his self-conscious shrinking; and Hugh felt that, with so ready a response, he could comfort Arthur and find his own consolation in doing it.

There was no doubt of the response. Arthur never theorised about what he could or could not do and feel, and he turned instantly to Hugh’s offered comprehension and sympathy. Indeed, he was so easily cheered for the moment, and almost always so bright in manner, that it was difficult to believe how completely he had been thrown off his balance, and how much the strain was telling upon him. It was by his irresolution and changeableness and excitable vehemence, ending in utter indifference, rather than by absolute low spirits that his grief told. Sometimes he could not decide on the merest trifle, such as a walk versus a ride; and, again, he would involve himself in some undertaking, just because he was asked to do so, and then a voice, a look, the name of a place or a person—anything that jarred his nerves with a sudden recollection—would make the act impossible to him. In the same way, though he rarely had even a headache to complain of, he was often utterly unequal to an exertion which another day would be easy to him.

It was just the state for which change of scene seemed most desirable; but to which by itself it would do little good; and it was well, indeed, for Arthur that fate, or his own judgment, had placed him where all this irresolution and want of ballast was likely to result in nothing worse than idleness and uselessness. Had he been thrown in the way of temptation at this critical period neither his own principles nor the memory of Mysie might have supplied an adequate resisting force, while he would probably have broken down under solitude altogether.

That conversation was like the lifting of a veil. Hugh had always known where Arthur’s shoe pinched him; he only needed to act on his knowledge to be the very help that was wanted, and he had not won Arthur’s glance of thanks and relief twice before he began to look for it as his own greatest pleasure. Like many severe people when once softened, he was almost over-tender, and could not bear to see his cousin struggle with himself. He would not, therefore, allow the expedition to H— to be urged upon him; so Jem, Mrs Crichton, Frederica, and Flossy set off on the day appointed.

Hugh found time, in spite of this new interest, to display what the Vicar of Oxley called “a very proper feeling on the part of one of the chief laymen of the parish,” by attending the Confirmation. He had meditated much on the scene of the olive-leaves; but, in the new light thrown on Arthur’s mind, it had lost much of its sting. Not so with Flossy. She had never dreamt that her unselfish love could be marred by such foolish, miserable jealousy. Did silent devotion mean that she was to be wretched whenever he spoke to another woman? Her thoughts wandered, her mind was disturbed, she wondered as to Violante’s past history, it was an effort to think of the scene before her.

Hugh watched Violante from a distance, and perceived that she was not aware of his presence. The impressionable Italian nature was lifted into enthusiasm by the first religious ceremony in which she had ever taken part. Her eyes were bright and tearful, her cheeks flushed. This epoch in her life did not present itself to her as a moral crisis, as a new resolve to fulfil difficult duties, a strain after a recollectedness and gravity respected but hardly attained to. It came to her as a new happiness, a new love and a new sense of protection. She was not conscious that she felt differently from her companions; and Flossy watched this beautiful fervour with a sort of awe, even while she half-distrusted it as a lasting motive of action.