from the spot where that last shot had been fired. He repeated over to
himself those words exchanged between himself and Arthur; he saw the
rabbit lying dead on the ground. "It's the first I've hit to-day," he
thought. A moment's hastiness, a moment's want of thought, and _this_
is the result! Oh, it is cruel! Then such an anguish of horror at the
desolation that he had caused came over him that it was with a start of
something like satisfaction that he caught sight of Arthur's gun where
it had been thrown aside on the grass. He took it up, but it had been
discharged; and he remembered that Arthur had not reloaded it after his
last shot. "There is always the canal," thought Hugh. "My life was
blank enough and hard enough before; but now--" It was at this point in
his meditations that George had encountered him, and that the boy's
inquiry for Arthur had so maddened him that he had rushed off, unheeding
where he went; maddened not only--not so much at the thought that Mysie
had died a frightful death and that Arthur's life was ruined, as that he
himself had been the cause of it all. Filled with a wild, exaggerated
sense of blood-guiltiness, he counted up every aggravating circumstance,
his old jealousy of his cousins' happiness--his impatience of their
laughter and their love, the fact that he was Mysie's guardian, and so
responsible for her lot, and that he had been hardly willing to trust
her happiness to Arthur's care. He made out the case against himself as
no one else would have made it out against him; and then, with a not
uncommon inconsistency, ascribed to a cruel chance the wretched result,
and felt that he was the sport of circumstances. The deeps of
faithless, bitter rebellion rose up to overwhelm him, and he did not cry
out of them for help. But the image of Violante came before him, fair
and sweet, yet full of reproach for his harsh judgment and hasty
desertion. He pushed the thought away from him--was not he one who
could never indulge in such thoughts again? Yet he stopped in his wild
wrath, and threw himself down on the heath, and, in the midst of a
remorse and despair that threatened to drive him mad, he wept for his
lost love. They were terrible hours, so terrible as to blot out to Hugh
the thought of all the other sufferers; so absorbing that he never
paused to wonder what was passing at Redhurst; and they were succeeded
by a sort of passive exhaustion, in which the acute pain was dulled, and
from which he roused himself with a start and sat upright. It was quite
dark, clouds had come up over the sunny sky, and neither moon nor stars
lighted up the wild waste of moorland. The night was still and
absolutely silent. Hugh did not know where he was as his outer life
came back upon him with a strange incongruous sense of the necessity of
Mr Spencer Crichton's presence on the scene of action; and, chilled and
over-excited as he was, a consciousness of physical discomfort that made
him get to his feet and look about him. No, he could not kill himself,
nor even lie there to die; all Oxley would be wondering what had become
of him--an odd consideration at such a moment; but it brought the
further thought of all the painful business to be got through; and who
but himself to do it? Somehow, the habit of being forced to consider
such necessities did more to bring Hugh to his senses than anything
else, and he made up his mind to go home. What right had he to shirk
the sight of Arthur's misery? It was part of his punishment. He was,
however, so much exhausted as to be hardly able to support himself, and,
moreover, where was he? He looked about, and saw far off a red light,
which he knew must shine from Fordham Station. He must make for that.
With fatigue and weariness such as he had never known before he stumbled
over the heather, and came at last into Fordham village as the church
clock struck half-past eleven. He knew that he could not get home
without rest, and went into the inn, making some slight excuse of having
lost his way--an excuse which he knew would be scattered to the winds
to-morrow. However, the hostess knew him, and gave him supper--which he
scarcely touched--and a fire; and he lay down for a little, meaning to
start as soon as it was light. All sorts of other schemes passed
through his mind; of disappearance, of never going home any more or
inflicting the sight of himself on his friends; but, somehow, custom and
common-sense turned his steps the next morning in the direction of
Redhurst, dragging more and more as he drew near, dreading to come up to
the house or to show himself; till James rushed out, to his utter
surprise, with a cry of relief.
"Thank Heaven, you're here at last! Where have you been? We were so
anxious!"
"I came back because I supposed there would be things to attend to,"
said Hugh, in an odd unnatural voice.
"Yes, of course. We must try to get poor Arthur through it."
"Don't let him see me."
"Hugh, I can't understand this. He _must_ see you--he doesn't take it
so," said James, much frightened at his brother's wild, haggard look.
Hugh stood looking down at the gravel. Presently he said: "I'll go and
change my things. Let me have some breakfast. Where is it, and when?"
"At the Red Lion, at eleven."
"I will attend to it."
They were such commonplace words, and in one way Hugh seemed so entirely
himself, that James was all the more confused and puzzled. Hugh went
upstairs, made his toilet, and, after eating a few mouthfuls, went off
to the village, without asking for his mother, who--fortunately, had not
been aware of his absence--and, indeed, without speaking to anyone.
Arthur came out at James's summons. The dreamy look was gone, and he
was evidently concentrating all his strength on the effort to bear up
through the coming trial. He did not try to speak till they reached the
inn, where, as they sat down in the quietest corner, he whispered:
"Don't be afraid. I shall manage."
Hugh was being talked to, before the proceedings began, by the coroner
and one or two others; but made, it seemed to James, hardly any answer
to them.
The scene was first described by Mr Dickenson and by Wood, who could
only take up the story after Mysie's fall, of which Alice had been the
only witness on the spot.
The poor little girl, sobbing and trembling, had answered that she had
seen Miss Crofton fall, and then--
"Can you give any reason for it?"
"It was the gun, sir."
"What gun?"
"If you please, sir, I don't know."
Then Hugh stood up.
"I do. It was mine. Will you have the goodness to take my evidence
next, and I think you will see that there is no occasion to trouble
anyone else."
The coroner assented, and Hugh, having been sworn, went on in a hard,
cold voice:
"My cousin and I were shooting in the copse. I was put out of temper
because I missed aim twice. My cousin saw her--Miss Crofton--standing
by the lock; so did I. He said the gates were dangerous, and I
contradicted him, and was irritated by what I thought foolish anxiety.
A rabbit got up and I raised my gun. My cousin said: `Don't fire,
you'll startle her--'" Hugh could not get out the name. "I said,
`Nonsense, it is too far off;' and I fired, and she _was_ startled, and
she fell off and was drowned. Those are the facts; it is my doing
entirely."
There was a pause of shocked attention, which was broken by Arthur, who
came forward and stood by Hugh.
"I wish to say something."
"Certainly, Mr Spencer. It is my duty to ask you if Mr Spencer
Crichton has stated the facts correctly."
"Yes," said Arthur. "Those are the facts; but my cousin has given you a
wrong impression. He did not, I am sure, see where she was when he
fired, and--and--we _were_ at some distance. He could not know, as I
do, how easily she is startled."
"I did know it, Arthur," said Hugh passionately. "I did know where she
was!"
"It might have happened to me," said Arthur, earnestly. "Indeed, there
is no blame."
"You thought so then," cried Hugh, losing all sense of the listeners.
"You pushed me back; you would not let me touch her! What wonder if you
cursed the day I was born!"
"Hugh, hush!" interposed Arthur. "That can do no good."
"Yes, Mr Crichton," said the coroner, "it would be better to control
yourself. Mr Spencer's language is generous in the extreme. Of
course, no one could doubt for a moment that this unhappy event was
entirely accidental; but it is never safe to disregard a warning as to
fire-arms, however apparently superfluous. Of course, we can feel and
express nothing but the profoundest sympathy for yourself and for all
those for whom the neighbourhood entertains such high respect."
There was no hesitation as to the verdict; and when it was over, and
those engaged began to disperse, Arthur went up to Hugh and laid his
hand on his arm and said:
"Come, Hugh, let us get home--that will be best for us."
Hugh shook off the hand and shrank from him with a sort of horror.
"Don't touch me--don't speak to me!" he cried.
Arthur looked surprised and disappointed; and James, who had been
hitherto utterly silenced by the horror of Hugh's avowal, hastily drew
him away, seeing that he could hardly bear up any longer. Hugh followed
them up the garden and into the study, and then broke out into a torrent
of self-reproach, so violent and so uncontrollable that Arthur vainly
tried to silence it.
"I have broken your heart," he cried. "There is no atonement I can
make--none. My life can't make it up to you. The sight of your grief
will kill me! I have destroyed her, the beautiful, innocent creature.
I was jealous of your happiness and of hers, and I have ruined it for
ever!"
"Don't, Hugh, don't," said Arthur, faintly; "don't, I can't bear it!"
"Bear it! Vent it all on me--tell me how you hate me."
"Be quiet, Hugh," interposed James, sternly, as he saw that Arthur grew
whiter and whiter. "The least you can do is not to distress him now.
This is too much;" as poor Arthur, after vainly attempting to speak,
burst into tears. "Oh, mother," as Mrs Crichton came hurriedly into
the room, "Arthur must be quiet now."
But Arthur turned as she went towards him, hardly seeing her son--of
whose special interest in the matter she was quite unconscious--and
threw his arms round her, and laid his head on her shoulder, letting his
grief have free course at last, while she tenderly soothed him and drew
him down by her on the sofa.
"Never mind, Jem," she said; "leave him to me; this is the best thing
that can happen. My poor boy!"
Hugh looked at them for a moment, then turned and went away by himself.
PART THREE, CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
DARK DAYS.
"Then he sat down, sad and speechless,
At the feet of Minnehaha--
At the feet of Laughing Water--
At those willing feet that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
Then they buried Minnehaha."
There was very little to be done at Redhurst during the few sad days
that followed. Mysie's fortune was inherited by a second cousin on her
father's side--a middle-aged clergyman, who had never seen her, and who
was the father of a large young family, and the letter to announce her
death to him was almost the only one of any imperative consequence as a
matter of business, while it was a very simple statement of a flairs
which Hugh must hand over to him when he came to the funeral, which was
fixed for the Saturday morning. A heavier cloud could hardly have
descended on any household; but Mrs Spencer Crichton was a person of
strong nerves; and, deep and sincere as was her sorrow, it was not quite
the desolation that it must have been had Mysie been her own child. She
was able to stay with Arthur till his first agony had a little subsided,
and he murmured something about "Hugh."
"Do you want him, my dear?"
"No; but he will want you."
"Oh yes, presently. Don't you trouble yourself, Arty. You can tell us
by-and-by if there is anything you wish. But I will go if you like to
be alone. Shall I tell Hugh anything?"
Arthur felt quite incapable of any explanation; it was an effort even to
think of Hugh; his grief was utterly crushing and overwhelming.
"Give him my love," he said.
His aunt thought it rather an odd message; but she did not wish to tease
Arthur with talking, and she knew that it was quite useless to attempt
to comfort him, and so left him alone. She encountered James hanging
about the hall, looking forlorn and frightened.
"Oh, mamma," he said, "I don't know what is to be done."
"He is better now," said Mrs Crichton, "and I think it is best to leave
him quiet."
"I'm not thinking about him. It's Hugh."
"Hugh?"
"Don't you know, mother, how it was?" And James, as well as he could,
repeated the substance of what had passed at the inquest.
"My dear," said Mrs Crichton, with energy, "I should never allow such a
thing to be repeated. Don't say a word about it, and it will die out of
their minds. I shouldn't think of regarding it from that point of view.
Why, it's enough to drive them both mad."
"But it's true, mother," said Jem, gloomily. "True? Not at all; those
things rest on the turn of a hair, and Hugh must not be allowed to dwell
on it. Where is he?"
Even in the midst of his misery James could hardly help smiling at his
mother's view.
"He shut himself into his room," he said.
"Of course, he might work himself up into thinking anything his fault.
It was _not_ his fault. It is a matter which entirely depends on the
way in which you regard it; I could not think why he was on Arthur's
mind--he sent him his love."
"Did he? Oh, he is very--generous," said James, much affected. "Oh,
mother, mother, to think of his life yesterday and _now_! No wonder
Hugh is half mad."
Mrs Crichton cried irrepressibly for a few minutes. "Jem, she was the
sunshine of the place. My dear little girl! But I can't allow Hugh to
take it in the way you speak of, and I beg you never to put it in such a
point of view."
Mrs Crichton rose as she spoke, and went upstairs to her son's room.
Jem followed, totally unable to understand her conduct. He forgot that
his confused half-hinted story was not the same thing as the actual
scene, or as Hugh's brief, bitter narration of it, and could not make
the same impression. Mrs Crichton knocked, but hardly waited for an
answer. Hugh stood facing them.
"Am I wanted?" he said.
"Why yes, my dear, of course. Who else can settle things but you. Poor
Arthur can think of nothing."
"He must not be troubled," said Hugh, "I will come at once."
"That is right. I was perfectly certain that you would not give way to
any such foolish morbid notions as Jem suggests; they can only cause far
more distress to Arthur and to us all. He sent you his love--"
"He need not have done _that_," said Hugh, in a hard, cold voice, though
he trembled so much that he was obliged to sit down. "Mother, you are
mistaken; I, and only I, am to blame. All this wretchedness has been
caused by my temper and presumption. Just a moment's ill-temper," he
added, with intense bitterness.
"That is exactly what I say, my dear. You make matters worse by
exaggerating. No one would think of such a thing but yourself. Turn
your back at once on the thought. There is quite enough to break all
our hearts without that."
It is not always wise to ignore passionate feeling, even when it is
supposed to be unreasonable. Hugh felt keenly that his mother gave him
no sympathy in the trial which he believed to be more bitter than that
of Arthur, whom he had seen her soothe and caress. He had neither the
tact to conceive nor the unselfishness to carry out the idea that, as
the miserable truth _did_ greatly add to the pain of all concerned, it
would be better to bury it and his remorse in his own breast. Rather
would he do penance for it in every way that he could.
"There is enough to break hearts," he said, "and it is through my means
they are broken. But don't fear that I shall shrink from anything that
has to be done. There is no need that Arthur should see me."
"Arthur must rest, and you too, Hugh," interposed James. "There is
nothing very pressing. Go to bed, you were up all night--do, now,
there's a good fellow."
"Thank you, I want no rest," said Hugh. "If mother likes I will come
and write letters and settle matters now."
"Yes, my dear, that will be best," said Mrs Crichton, "and will help
you to recover your balance better."
Hugh thought his mother unfeeling; Arthur clung to her as his kindest
comforter. She thoroughly understood and acknowledged the one grief,
and it was such that no one could turn their backs on it; but Mrs
Crichton was a person whom nature had gifted with an almost over-amount
of that rare quality, a tendency to make the best of things. It was her
nature to ignore grief where it was possible, to smoothe it over and
hide it, to seize on its most tolerable side; and she could not
understand Hugh's impulse to drink the cup to the dregs. Her mind went
on, even in these first sad days, to plans for a little lightening the
cloud that covered them; and she was not a person who could sympathise
with an unhappiness of which she did not thoroughly admit the necessity,
or the duration of which she thought extreme. Moreover, there was some
sense in the view that least said was soonest mended, as far as Hugh was
concerned, and that the unhappy words which had accompanied the fatal
shot were best forgotten. Here James agreed with her. He had more
power of realising the feelings of those around him; but the black
oppression was very trying to his kindly nature, and, in the intervals
of being as kind and helpful as he knew how, would creep out into the
shrubbery with a book or his pipe, or get a little taste of the outside
world by answering enquiries or undertaking commissions. Hugh did
everything that was necessary, and did not renew the discussion; but he
avoided Arthur entirely, and looked so worn out with misery as to excite
the pity of everyone who saw him. He pictured to himself the dread that
Arthur must have of meeting him, till his own dread grew so intense that
nothing but his sense that he deserved any and every punishment could
have induced him to face the hour when they must stand side by side at
Mysie's grave.
The truth was that Arthur had hardly thought about him at all, had
scarcely noticed that when he occasionally came downstairs or sat on the
terrace Hugh was not there. His own future life had not yet come before
him; the causes that had so changed it were all swallowed up in the
great fact of the change. It was of Mysie that he thought hour after
hour, of her face and her voice and her sweet eyes, and of every word
and look they had exchanged during their brief and sweet betrothal. He
was very gentle and grateful for the kindness shown him, and his
habitual unselfishness made him considerate of all the rest; but, though
there was a sort of surface readiness to be comforted about him, nothing
really touched him much. They were all very kind, but he loved none of
them with the intense and personal love which only could have gone to
his heart then. He made no effort to hide or deny his sorrow, admitting
it simply; but he did not talk much about Mysie, and not at all about
himself. He did not seem conscious of any want of occupation, though he
did little or nothing, and suffered less physically than might have been
expected after such a shock. But that awful scene which seemed to have
burnt itself in on Hugh's eyeballs as yet scarcely haunted Arthur--
partly because he had acted in it, not seen it; but more entirely
because he was so much absorbed in his sorrow that he had not begun to
think of how it had come about. They said he bore it beautifully,
because he uttered no outcries against fate and could smile when people
were kind to him; but, in truth, his spirit was too much crushed for
rebellion; even his own loneliness and changed life had hardly yet come
before him. At night, or when he had been long alone, his first sense
of unreality would again recur to him and the truth come upon him in its
first freshness as he met the sad faces of the others, or as he looked
on the face, not sad, but still and fair, of his lost love. On that
face Hugh never looked; but it was as Arthur knelt beside her that he
saw Mr Harcourt again. The old rector laid his hands on his head, and
once more repeated the blessing he had given him so short a time before.
"She will have fifty happy years, my boy," he said.
"But I--but I--" and poor Arthur hurried away, utterly overpowered,
though afterwards he tried to say something to James about "Mr
Harcourt's kindness, and there was one thing he wished."
"Anything you wish, Arthur. What is it?"
"That Sunday," said Arthur--as if, poor fellow, it had been some day
last year--"they sang a hymn, and she spoke of it. If, to-morrow--"
"I remember," said Jem. "Yes, we'll have it. Mr Crofton has come," he
added.
"Has he? I think I ought to come down and see him."
"Hugh is there," said James.
"Oh, yes, but I shouldn't leave it all to him," said Arthur, as he
prepared to come down, evidently caring little either way for Hugh's
presence, and less for his own heavy eyes and white face. He did not
heed who saw the tokens of a grief that could surprise no one. He
wanted to show respect to Mysie's cousin. Mr Crofton was a kind,
sensible-looking clergyman, and when James said nervously: "This is my
cousin Arthur, Mr Crofton," he could hardly utter a commonplace
greeting as he pressed the hand Arthur held out to him.
Hugh set his mouth hard and sat quite still in his corner. Arthur said
simply: "I am glad to see you, Mr Crofton," and sat down by Hugh on the
sofa, but without giving him any special greeting; and then asked some
little question about Mr Crofton's journey.
Mr Crofton had two or three sons, and as many daughters. He held a
small living, and he had never seen the little cousin whose fortune he
had inherited; but as he heard Arthur's gentle, courteous voice, and saw
his young face with its heavy shadows, he felt as if the inevitable
sense of relief that had come to him at the first had been a deadly sin.
He hardly knew to whom to address himself, but before Arthur's arrival
he had managed to make them understand that all Mysie's personal
property, all her ornaments, every relic of herself, must still belong
to those who had loved and lost her; and Mrs Crichton now spoke a
little of how much she had been loved, and how many tokens of grief had
been shown both by rich and poor.
"There will be crowds to-morrow," she said.
"That can be put a stop to," said Hugh, suddenly.
"My dear Hugh! Surely not!"
"I should not have thought you would have wished to gratify idle
curiosity. Under the circumstances we cannot keep it too much to
ourselves," said Hugh, unable to bear the thought of meeting the eyes of
all the village.
"I should like everyone to come who wishes it," said Arthur.
"It was for your sake I spoke," said Hugh.
"I? I shall not mind! There are so many who--who--I am sure Mr
Crofton will excuse me now," he added abruptly, as he got up and went
away.
"You forget," said Hugh, "how public all this has become. We shall have
newspaper reporters and all the tag-rag of Oxley."
"It cannot be helped," said his mother, "and you should not put it into
Arthur's head to mind it."
"He will not care," said Hugh; "why should he? He will have plenty of
sympathy from them all."
"He will not care, indeed," said James, indignantly.
James was wrong. When Arthur saw lane and churchyard and church itself
filled with those who had loved Mysie the sense of sympathy struck no
discordant note, just as the blue unclouded sky and the happy sunlight
did not mock his sorrow, but seemed only a fitting tribute to her happy
life. Arthur felt a sense of friendly fellow-feeling, as if the love
and the flowers and the sunlight were part of the brightness he could
hardly feel to be gone for ever; but he could not have described
afterwards one tearful face, one flowery wreath--perhaps he hardly
distinguished one word in the solemn service, which yet he felt to be
right and fitting, and which did soothe him with a sense of union with
Mysie, and of the existence of a support of which he might one day take
hold.
But Hugh's intense self-consciousness gave to everything the vivid and
yet weird distinctness of objects seen in an electric light. Every sob
that he heard, every token of affection, seemed to him a reproach. He
was conscious of Arthur's every movement, and of every anxious look
which his mother and James cast at him; he realised far more intensely
than his cousin how pitiful it was that the earth should fall on this
bright young creature, and that her story should break off short in the
early chapters. He realised this till the tears came to his eyes, and,
though he was probably the only person present who cared whether his
grief were noticed or not, everyone went home to say how vain his
efforts at self-control had been.
The long day was over; they had parted with Mr Crofton, Arthur showing
him the little attentions that Hugh wondered he could recollect at such
a moment--the week which seemed to join on to no other weeks was over,
and they must begin life again. Any change was welcome to Hugh's
restlessness; and to the others--Jem especially--the lightening of the
outward signs of mourning, the resumption of ordinary habits, was a
relief. But to Arthur it brought the first sense of irretrievable loss,
the first necessity for any effort to put aside the grief which he had
borne, indeed, without resistance, but under which he could not stand
upright.
For the first time he shrank from them all, for the first time the
sunlight seemed cruel, and kind words like blows; the Sunday bells
brought memories that he could not bear, and he shut himself into his
room, only begging to be left there in peace. Hugh went to church with
the younger ones--what right had he to spare himself any pain?
The day turned chilly and gloomy, and they gathered in the drawing-room
in the afternoon. George and Frederica went to church again for the
sake of something to do; but they could not go to the Rectory
afterwards, and came home to find their aunt, James, and Miss Venning
gathered round a small, unaccustomed-looking fire, with some tea on the
table, while Hugh sat at the far end of the long room by himself.
"How is Arthur?" asked Frederica.
"He has a bad headache," replied James.
"Do you think he is going to be ill, Jem?"
"Oh, no; I hope not. I don't think it's likely."
"Mother," said Hugh, coming forward, "Arthur ought to go away somewhere
at once."
"Yes," said Mrs Crichton, "I think he should. We all must as soon as
we can manage it."
"Yes," said Hugh, with a sudden sense of relief, "and I would go to the
Bank house and stay there."
"I don't see any need for that. Miss Venning and I have been talking.
I thought we might all go to the sea till the holidays were over. Miss
Venning kindly promises to come with us, and then she would take Freddie
back as a boarder for the next term--poor child, it is too sad for her
here."
"Oh, auntie, I had much rather be sad," interposed Frederica, with a
burst of tears.
"No, darling--nonsense. I could not have that. Jem, I suppose, must go
back to town."
"On Thursday," said Jem.
"But I am sure the rest of us had better keep together."
"I shall be much too busy to leave home," said Hugh, with an emphasis
that made Jem smile. "I shall do very well by myself."
Mrs Crichton began to discuss the rival merits of Hastings and
Brighton, while Hugh went back to his place, and James and Miss Venning
exchanged a few words as to how far the arrangement would be good for
Arthur, when, rather to their surprise, Arthur himself came in.
He sat down on the sofa by his aunt, and she asked him tenderly if his
head was better.
"Oh, yes, thank you. How cold it is--the lire looks pleasant."
"You must have some tea--Freddie!" But Freddie's tears choked her and
upset her aunt too; while Miss Venning hastily interposed and poured out
the tea. Arthur got up and handed it, and tried to make a little talk,
seconded by Jem, till Mrs Crichton said:
"My dear boy, we have been talking about going away. It will be good
for you to have a change."
"I don't want to go away," said Arthur, languidly.
"My dear, it would never do for you to stay here. We all want the
break."