Charlie was past eighteen. He had some time since thrown his handkerchief on Lucy Murray, and regularly engrossed her society; by no means to her own satisfaction at first, but she had become accustomed to it. He had wounded her feelings now. He saw it himself, and was maliciously pleased. I saw it as she wandered along the terrace towards the water-side, and could almost have thrown him over the wall in spite of our brotherhood.
“What is the matter?” said I. “Quarrel with Hew or me as you like, Charlie, but what has Lucy done?”
Charlie twisted the graceful curl by the side of his cap, and swung round on his heel to follow Lucy without answering me. He was very handsome, and had a frank manliness in every look and gesture which disarmed one’s reproofs. At present, too, the conscious smile of power was on his face—he felt himself so sure of immediate forgiveness—so perfectly able to restore the smiles of Lucy Murray.
Hew and I stood watching him, as he went along the terrace after her. Our eyes met—we exclaimed in chorus, “He does not mean anything—Charlie would not hurt any one’s feelings for the world.”
“It was Lucy’s own fault, talking so much of Dick Fendie,” said Hew. “Mamma’s good boy has come home, Adam—have you seen him yet? And Lucy would defend him; but I suppose it’s all over now. By the by, Adam, how does it come about that you and I never quarrel with Lucy?”
“You and I—why, is she not your sister, Hew? and almost mine, too—Charlie you know—Charlie is different.”
Hew became thoughtful for a moment, and ended with a laugh. “Ay, that’s because Mrs Mense at Mossgray says they were made for each other. But I say, Adam, do Lilie Johnstone and you battle at each other like these two?”
I blushed a tremulous blush—it was desecration to name this sacred name so lightly. The two things were altogether different—how or wherefore I did not stay to analyse—but my reverent boyish adoration, and Charlie’s bold demands upon the constant patience and sole regard of Lucy Murray, had no resemblance to each other. I shrank back—I would have had Lilias Johnstone distinguished by the reverent respect of all men, and to hear her name thus profanely conjoined with mine!
“Are you nearly ready, Hew?” I asked hastily, “and when are we to start?”
The starting time was decided on that night, and shortly after we set out, the whole rejoicing band of us, upon a bracing frosty morning, late in October, on the top of the coach for Edinburgh. Maxwell managed to get up a few tears for his mother’s especial benefit. I had nearly joined him myself, I recollect, when I saw her pale anxious face lifted up so tenderly to the high perch where we were crowded together. Never human face had worn that look for me, and my heart warmed the more to the son of this sad mother, even while I almost envied him.