I did not see Lucy Murray again before Charlie himself arrived. He reached Mossgray on the afternoon of another brilliant May-day. He was very full of his prospects, and considerably elated with the successful beginning. He even told me the particulars of this first case, I recollect, in natural excitement and exultation, and very humdrum as they were, they interested me too, for his sake.
He had been nearly an hour in the house. Mrs Mense, the housekeeper, was preparing a magnificent dinner in honour of Mr Charlie, the great advocate; and there he sat, lounging half out of the open window, talking himself out of breath. I am nervous when I have any cause of anxiety. I began to change my position, to walk about the room, to take up and throw down everything within my reach. Charlie made no sign—he lounged and talked and laughed; he discussed the things which he would do, and which I should. I could bear it no longer.
“Charlie,” said I, “you intend to go to Murrayshaugh I suppose before dinner. You should set out at once, and make haste, for Mrs Mense will not forgive you if you spoil her trout to-day.”
“Trout!” said Charlie, “are we to have trout to-day? Mrs Mense is a sensible woman, Adam. I would not endanger Fendie trout for the world.”
“You are illogical, Charlie,” said I, “you forget that the governing clause in my sentence concerned Murrayshaugh, and not the fish.”
“Pooh—Murrayshaugh’s a bore,” said Charlie, hastily. “Do you angle yet, Adam, yourself? you lucky fellow, who have nothing to do, and can choose your own solacements!”
“But, Charlie,” said I, anxiously; “of course you intend to go some time this evening. I will undertake to make your peace with Nancy. There now, away with you, like a good fellow.”
“It’s ill talking between a fou man and a fasting,” said Charlie, with a forced laugh. “Come, Adam, let’s have dinner first—you forget my journey.”
He went off to his own room immediately, and I could say no more. I trembled for him. I feared to see the glorious tissue rent, as Lucy Murray said, and some other alien spirit appear below, which was not my friend and brother—which was not the true and generous Charlie Graeme.
We dined alone, and there was a certain constraint upon our conversation. Charlie, it is true, still spoke much, but he seemed, as I fancied, to speak against time. How he lingered at table—how he spun out his stories, and deliberated over every little change, and laboured to fasten arguments upon me, as though endeavouring to shut my eyes to the progress of those slowly darkening hours. I bore it as long as I could, and I bore it in intense pain—I had never known so great a trial.