Arthur hesitated, then went up rather eagerly, and shook hands with her.
“How d’ye do—you have been away?” he said.
“Yes, sir, at my aunt’s, learning dressmaking. I—I hope you are pretty well, Mr Arthur,” she added, faltering.
Arthur seemed unable to say more; he turned away from her, and she hurried on, crying as she went.
The two young men stood still, each of them overpowered by the sight of her. Then Hugh saw that Arthur shivered, and was very pale. He turned towards a tree-trunk near, and sat there with hidden face, trying to recover himself, while all Hugh’s agony of remorse once more came over him.
“God knows, Arthur, I wish the stroke had fallen on me!” he said. “It is from me you should shrink. How can you bear the sight of me!”
Arthur did not answer, but he looked up after a few minutes, and said simply:
“I am very sorry. I wish I could get over these things.”
“This was not a thing to be got over.”
“No. But, Hugh, the canal—the meadows—it’s like a nightmare—I can’t forget them. I have trial to go there—to conquer it, but I never could. Yet I have dreamt over and over again of it.”