“Exactly,” said Hugh.
“But then, Hugh, you cannot be sure of that, and what would it matter, when—when my mind was made up?”
“If you know your own mind, Mysie.”
“I might not know it if I had only just met him. People often make mistakes then. But—but—”
“Well,” said Hugh, kindly, as she stammered and stopped, “what is it, Mysie? Don’t be afraid. I only want to know your thoughts exactly.”
“I think,” said poor Mysie, though with much confusion, “that I ought to say them, as you seem to think it is I who have the advantage. I could never give Arthur up, and there will be plenty of time for you to see, as he says he thinks that—that—there must be a year at least. I would promise to tell you if I did change, and I should not mind not being called engaged to him, though he wishes it. I hope you believe me, because I know it depends on that.”
“Yes, Mysie,” said Hugh, “I believe you. You mean to say nothing can change your love for Arthur, no one could over-persuade you, no one could frighten you; you are so sure of it and of him that you don’t care for any outward tie to bind you?”
“Yes,” said Mysie, rather appalled at the emphasis with which this speech was uttered, but holding bravely to her colours; “that is what I mean. For you see, Hugh, we know all about each other so well.”
“Then, Mysie, I shall not consider it necessary to make any opposition.”
Mysie got up and said: “Thank you, Hugh,” and slowly moved away. She thought Hugh would have congratulated her and kissed her, as he had done all her life on set occasions; but he let her go in silence, and, left alone, stood staring into the empty grate with bitter thoughts in his heart. Here was this girl had won her way by her own fearless confidence, her absolute trust in herself and her lover. How fortune smiled on the wishes of this pair! How sure might Arthur be of his happy future! He turned restlessly round and, looking out of the window, saw Mysie run down the garden-path with flying feet, saw Arthur spring up from the grass, meet her, and draw her away into the shrubbery; heard the low murmur of their voices, and the gay, careless laughter, called forth by the reaction from Mysie’s anxiety and suspense. It was but a fortnight since he, too, had laughed idly and carelessly over Violante’s flowers; but a fortnight since he, too, had thought himself happy in his love. But he had lost his faith in the poor child who was all unknown and unvouched for, and she had had no power to stand up for herself. The difference between this perfectly simple, straightforward engagement and the foolish, impossible dream from which he told himself that it was well to wake struck him forcibly. It was the contrast between good and ill fortune, between success and failure. There were times when Hugh felt utterly miserable, and when the profound silence in which his short, wild love-story was buried was intolerable to him—thankful as he was for it in cooler moments; times when he longed so to hear Violante’s name that he felt the wildest desire to tell his foolish secret. It is needless to say that he never did tell it, not being of a confiding nature; but concealment is nearly as fatal, in many cases, to the temper as to the complexion; and poor Hugh was unaccountably and unromantically cross. Why, when Arthur was teaching his Skye terrier to jump over a stick, did Hugh feel that if that little beast jumped over at exactly the same height once more he must wring its neck? Why, when his mother complained that the rabbits had eaten her carnations, did he positively assert that no mortal rabbit could possibly have come near them. And was it not unworthy of him to feel so exceedingly irritated when Arthur produced the corpse of the offender, having shot it from his bedroom window the next morning in the act of eating the one remaining shoot? Why should he oppose the Mayor of Oxley on the subject of gas and the Rector of Redhurst about the new schools? He advocated neither physical nor mental darkness, and when he became aware that he was resting his objections on the colour of the bricks proposed to be used in the building he pulled himself up and gave in with a good grace. But, surely, anyone with ordinary self-control would not allow these trifles to irritate him. Hugh sometimes felt a dim suspicion that, though he had a very good self on the whole, controlling it was not his strong point. Moreover, Mrs Crichton had made the engagement an occasion for a great deal of country summer gaiety, and Hugh was persecuted by croquet and archery-parties, picnics and dances. He was usually very particular in what he called “doing his duty to society;” but now these things were intolerable to him; and, worst of all, perhaps, was the sunshiny, peaceful mirth of the happy love-story that was working itself out beside him. Arthur shrewdly suspected that there was something amiss with his cousin; but they were not on terms for him to invite a confidence, and he contented himself with the idea of consulting Jem, and by taking on himself, with unobtrusive good-nature, all the trouble of the many small arrangements that devolve on the young men of a country house in times of unusual gaiety, even to entertaining the visitors when Hugh might have been free from business and when a stroll with Mysie would have been far preferable to himself.