Hugh hung down his head; he knew that to seek his own happiness was the only right thing left.
“Utterly undeserved,” he murmured.
“As to that,” said Arthur, with much feeling, “who could deserve love like—like theirs? I felt that, thoughtless fellow as I was, always. I had done nothing. I was nothing much, you know. I said so once to Mysie, and she thought it over, and that last Sunday afternoon I remember she said as we walked back together, that she had been considering what I said—I’m afraid I had never thought of it again—and that she did not think anyone need trouble about not deserving the love that was given them; for did not undeserved love lie at the very foundation of the Christian religion, yet the love of God made people happy, and we made each other happy by our love? Wasn’t it a wonderful, wise thing for a girl to say? And it’s true; when I think of her love, I can better bear the want of herself.”
How well Hugh recognised the sweet, well-expressed wisdom of Mysie’s little sayings! It struck home with an application far deeper than Arthur guessed. Had not his whole history during the past year been one long attempt to expiate his own sin, to atone himself for his errors, to absolve his own conscience from its remorse?
He looked up, with his eyes swimming in tears, at Arthur.
“I shall go, then,” was all he said.
“That’s right; let’s get on, then, and you can have a look at Bradshaw.”
Hugh laughed at this practical suggestion, and presently remembered that, as Miss Venning’s holidays had begun, Violante would not be in Oxley.
“Well, you could find out her uncle’s address—Jem knows it.”
“Oh, I know where he lives,” said Hugh, declining to encounter Jem. “Come what may, I shall come back to you at once,” he said.