“What do you mean, Eddy?”
“Well, I mean he’s a good sort of fellow if he weren’t such a fool;—and I could have thrown some light on his refusal, perhaps, if they had asked me.”
“Oh, why didn’t you, Eddy!—when his father was so vexed and so severe.”
“It was none of my business,” said the young man. “And Archie is not a fellow who likes to be interfered with. If I had suggested anything, he would probably have turned upon me.”
“And what was it?” said Rosamond; “what was the light you could have thrown?”
“Oh, I don’t mean to tell you,” cried Eddy; “you have nothing to do with it that I can see. And it is of no use telling his father, for he’s in a far deeper hole now. Poor old Archie—he is an ass, though, or he would never have got into such a mess as he is in now. He never can strike a blow in his own defence, and never will; but look here, Rose,” cried Eddy, “all this jawing will make it no better; I am going to-morrow, whatever you may choose to do. I can’t stop another night here.”
“You must have something to do with it. I am sure you have something on your conscience, Eddy. You have got a conscience somewhere, though you pretend not. It is you that has got Archie into trouble!—you have been tempting him and leading him away. That day in Glasgow! Ah, now I see!”
“What do you see?” cried Eddy, contemptuously; but his sallow face betrayed a sharp, sudden rising of colour. He did not look at her, but kicked away a footstool with some vehemence, on which a moment before he had rested his foot.
“Let’s hear!” he said, “what fine thing do you see?”
“You must have got—gambling, or something,” she said, feeling to her heart the inadequacy of the words to express the great terror and incoherent suggestion of evil that had come into her mind, she knew not how.