“Charlie,” said I at last, “how we waste our time here. Come, I will walk up with you to Murrayshaugh.”
Charlie muttered something between his teeth. I only heard “Murrayshaugh,” but there was a syllable before which I blushed to guess at. “Ah, don’t weary me out,” he said aloud. “You don’t think I am made of cast-iron like your Herculean rustics. It’s too late now, Adam.”
I turned round and looked at him earnestly. He started to his feet with the quick anger of one who knows himself in the wrong.
“Well, what do you mean, Adam?”
“What do I mean, Charlie? It is I who should ask that question. You mean something by this—what is it?”
“By what?—come, come, Adam, this won’t do. Don’t assume the head of the family, I beg. I can manage my own affairs without any interference from you.”
I thought of Lucy Murray standing alone upon yon mossy terrace, without one in the world who could know, or could lighten her grief, aware that he was here, and looking for his coming in vain, and in the warmth of my youthful feelings I was overcome.
“Charlie,” said I, “you will grieve Lucy sadly if you do not go till to-morrow. Lucy is alone.”
“Well, I will save her the infliction,” said Charlie, with affected boldness. “It is well I had arranged it so before. I return to Edinburgh to-morrow.”
“Do you want to break her heart?” I exclaimed.