And so they spent that Monday, so full of memories—though, of course, the Tuesday was the real anniversary of Mysie’s death—beneath cool, dull skies, over hill-sides half shrouded in mountain mists, heather and furze for roses and carnations, cloud for sunshine, wild lonely solitudes for homely quiet. They did not talk very much; but the day had none of the terror that Hugh had anticipated from it. Rather it had a kind of sorrowful peace.
In the afternoon the mist thickened into heavy rain; and, as they approached a small wayside public-house, Hugh suggested that they should take shelter; find out exactly where they were, and if there was any chance of a conveyance to Beddgelert, where they had ordered their luggage to meet them. They had been walking all day, and if their object had been to look at the scenery, instead of to find some monotonous occupation, would have been much disappointed.
Accordingly they turned into the little inn, and while Hugh went to enquire of an English-speaking host as to the possibility of reaching Beddgelert, Arthur, who had picked up a few words of Welsh, and generally contrived to make himself understood, was engaged in a lively pantomime with the tall, dark-eyed girl who waited on them, making her laugh and talk volubly and incomprehensibly, as he tried to indicate that he wanted something; hot to drink, and something substantial to eat. There was no guest-room but the low, spacious kitchen into which they had first entered, and he was standing before the smouldering peat fire and pointing with animated gestures first to the bottle and then to his flask when the house door was burst open, and a whole party of tourists, struggling with wind, water-proofs and umbrellas, ran hastily in. There were three ladies and two gentlemen, and they were too much occupied in shaking themselves free from their wraps to perceive Arthur, till Hugh came back, saying: “There’s nothing to be got here, Arthur,” when a young lady, letting her waterproof drop on the floor, sprang forward. “Why, it’s Mr Spencer Crichton! How d’ye do?—oh, how funny! Charlie, Charlie, here’s Mr Crichton!”
“Miss Tollemache!” exclaimed Hugh, in equal surprise, as Emily Tollemache, bright-haired, frank-faced, and smiling, stood confused, while her brother came forward with—
“Why, Crichton, who in the world would have thought of meeting you here?”
One or two letters had passed between Hugh and Mr Tollemache since their parting; but with no reference to the past, the restraint of which had caused each to be less inclined to seek out the other, and Arthur, as Hugh made a sort of introduction of his friends, could not fail to be struck by his look of embarrassment. Emily, however, was equal to the occasion.
“So, you see, Mr Crichton, we have come to England, and I do like it so much, quite as much as I expected. Mamma is in London, and we are travelling with my cousins, only it has rained every day since we came here.”
“Our climate certainly is variable,” said Hugh.
“I am afraid you must regret Italian sunshine, Miss Tollemache,” put in Arthur, as he tried to kick the peats into a blaze.
“Oh, no! not yet. But it seems quite natural to see Mr Crichton. And you know we went away and I have never seen Rosa or my dear Violante. I wonder what has become of them!”