“I am not answerable to any one for what I intend to do,” said Charlie, sullenly.
“Yes, Charlie,” said I, “you are answerable—to one higher than we—to Hew had he been here—even to me. What is this, Charlie? You do not mean it—it is some passing quarrel which a few words will set right.”
“So!” said Charlie, with a sneer, “Miss Lucy has been complaining to you!”
My mood changed in a moment; from the utmost sorrow it became the most passionate anger. I had been labouring to prevent this inevitable rupture—now I was only eager that it should be completed.
“No,” I exclaimed, “you have never known Lucy Murray. I, who have been with you so long, only begin to know you now. You—you will never know Lucy—it is well you feel yourself unworthy of her—it is fit indeed that her true heart should not be wasted upon you.”
My own heart ached as I turned away from him. I had lost my friend. I began to grope in a world of shadows where truth was not; and not even the smile of Lilias could have woven again those fair ideal garments about Charlie Graeme.
We were mutually silent and sullen after that. Charlie was the first to speak.
“Adam,” he said, “I don’t want to quarrel with you, but I will answer to no man for my conduct; my motives and purposes are my own—and there has been quite enough of this. Walter Johnstone came out with me from Edinburgh to-day. Will you go over with me to Greenshaw to see him?”
I shrank from him—that he, unveiled and disenchanted as he was, should breathe the air which Lilias made holy—that her smile should fall upon him! I could hardly restrain myself, but for my old affection’s sake, and for Lucy’s sake, I did.
“I will follow you,” I answered, “at present I cannot go.”