CHAPTER V.

I leaned my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed, and syne it brake, And sae did my true love to me.--OLD SONG.

Our three students, Charlie, Walter, and Edward, at length completed their studies, and entered upon the duties of their respective professions. Charlie got his first brief from an old friend of the family, and there actually was a report of his speech on the case, by no means an important one, but greatly interesting and very momentous to us, in one of the Edinburgh papers. It was something about a quarry, I think, though what about it, I cannot very well remember. I hurried up to Murrayshaugh with the paper. It was a bright day of early summer, and Charlie himself was to be with us in a week; a visit to which we had long looked forward, and of which Lucy and I had more than once spoken.

I found Lucy in her own little parlour, at the low window which opened to the terrace. The willows were sweeping their long branches over the sighing water, and in spite of the May sunshine over all, and the universal joy without, there was a look of sadness here. I involuntarily restrained my quick step as I reached the window, and Lucy looked up from her habitual work with her usual kindly and gentle smile.

“Look here, Lucy! I have brought you news,” said I, “news worth seeing. Come, don’t read them in a dull room this May-day. Come out into the sunshine and read them here.”

Lucy rose eagerly.

“What is it? is it about Hew, Adam, or--” She paused; a wavering painful colour came upon her cheek, and her fingers played nervously with the work she had laid down.

“Lucy, you do not think I could bring you anything but good news to-day. Come out and read Charlie’s first speech. His pleadings on his first brief, you know--you heard all about that.”

I fancied I saw a slight shiver of her frame. She had not heard it! but in a moment after Lucy stept out upon the terrace and took the paper and read. I thought her figure seemed taller and more distinct against the shadowy background of willows, as she stood there before me with the paper in her hand. There was something in it of firm pride and endurance which struck me as new--some greater emotion than I had ever known.

“Did Charlie send you this, Adam?” she asked, as she gave it back to me.

“Yes, Lucy,” said I humbly, feeling myself guilty of giving her great pain when I had expected to bring her pleasure; “it came last night.”

There was a slight, almost imperceptible shiver again, and a wandering of the fingers towards each other, as though they would fain be clasped together in the instinctive gesture of grief.

“Wait for me a moment, Adam,” said Lucy; “I have something to say to you.”

I waited upon the terrace while she went in. What could this portend? I believed, and so did all the countryside, that their marriage was delayed only until Charlie had a prospect of success in his profession. He had told me so himself; it was an understood thing; yet Lucy had not been told of his first brief.

She joined me almost immediately, having only gone in, as it appeared, to throw the light plaid she usually wore, over her shoulders and head, and I waited in anxious silence for her first words.

We had reached the water-side, and paused there together, the long willow-boughs sweeping over us sadly, before she spoke,--

“Adam,” she said then, “have you had any conversation with my father lately? Has he ever spoken to you about--about his own affairs?”

“No, Lucy,” said I.

“Adam, I may speak to you,” said Lucy. “There is some new calamity hanging over us. I have seen my father receive letters of late--letters that I could perceive were from lawyers--which have brought to his face that white look of despair which you never saw. I mentioned Walter Johnstone’s name to him once--when you told us he had gone into partnership with some one in Edinburgh--because he was Hew’s companion, and--and yours--and my father broke out into a curse upon him, immediately adding, however,--‘Not him--why should I swear at a packman’s son? but my own miserable fortune, that am doomed to be tortured to death by these hired hounds of lawyers!’ I dared ask nothing then, but I have been ready to catch at every word since; and my father has vaguely intimated to me some intention that we should go to France--at least,” said Lucy, hastily, with an indignant blush burning on her face, and a painful heaving of her breast, “that he would go--and, of course, I will not leave him.”

“But the cause, Lucy?” said I. “He can have no cause.”

“Alas, Adam, I cannot tell!” said Lucy, sadly, “for he never has taken me into his confidence; but I think it must be some responsibility--some--Adam, I do not need to hesitate--you know well that we have always been poor.”

I did not know how to answer her; I leaned upon the old mossy wall by Lucy’s side, eager to speak of herself--of Charlie, and yet afraid.

“Is there anything that I can do!” I said. “You can trust me, Lucy; is there anything that I can do?”

“No, no, Adam! I do not mean that; no one must interfere with my father or his purposes, you know; but I only desired to tell you that you might understand as much as I do of why we went, if we do go away, and--I only wished to tell you, Adam.”

Lucy turned her head away; one or two tears, so large that one could see by what bitter force they had been restrained, fell softly on the moss of the wall, but she thought I did not see them.

“Lucy, Lucy, this must not be!” said I; “tell me what I can do; I will venture anything rather than that this should come upon us! If Hew were only here--if you would but plead for me, Lucy, that your father may remember that what I have is yours--yours with my whole heart.”

I saw her shake and tremble in the strong effort to restrain herself, but it would not do. She pressed her hand across her eyes, and again the tears fell singly upon the moss--a few large bitter tears, as if they had been gathered long--an essence of intense pain too powerful to spend itself in much weeping--deliberate drops wrung from her very heart.

“I thank you, Adam,” she said at last, “and yet I do not need to say, I thank you--you know that--but this cannot be; you must do nothing; none of us can do anything except submit. It was only a selfish desire to pain you, I am afraid, which made me tell you this; for it will indeed be very hard to leave Murrayshaugh!”

I could say nothing in return. Alas! there are harder trials than even bidding farewell to one’s home. All was not well in this beautiful world; there were other things among us than those I had dreamed of, and my heart sickened as I tried to reassure myself.

By and by, Lucy turned along a quiet sheltered way, close by the water-side, and I went with her--perhaps I should have left her there, but I followed in spite of myself. We began to speak of Hew.

“Do you think we shall ever meet all together again, Adam?” said Lucy.

“Surely--I hope so,” said I, hastily. “We are all young, Lucy; we may be changed externally perhaps, but that will be all.”

“If we are ever together again, we shall be changed in every way, Adam.”

“Nay, nay, Lucy,” said I, “I cannot let you take up that gloomy notion. Why should we change? We know each other far too well to alter our old likings. We will be the same, Lucy, when we are grey-headed.”

“Will _you_, Adam?--will all of us?--or are we indeed what we think we are?--are we not clothing ourselves and others with some ideal of our own, which hides the natural spirit from us?”

“Lucy!”

“Suppose one had done that,” said Lucy, hurriedly, turning her head away, and speaking more, as I thought, to herself than to me. “Suppose one had clothed another in an ideal so beautiful, so noble, that one almost trembled at one’s own wondrous gladness beholding it; and suppose that suddenly a blast came, and rent the glorious tissue here and there, and revealed a hidden thing of clay below; and one came to know that this noble spirit had never _been_ at all, save in the fancy that created it. I dreamt of such a thing the other night; and dreams come true sometimes. Adam, we all change--not one, but all of us.”

I could not speak then, nor did I try to answer her. What could I say? it was the first check put upon my joyous confidence in all whom I called friends.

“Has your father told Hew, Lucy, that he thinks of leaving Murrayshaugh?” I inquired at last, eager to change the subject.

“I think not. I hope it is only _possible_, Adam; I know nothing more than that; my father does not trust me; but we must know soon.”

I left Murrayshaugh sadly that day. When I had nearly reached Mossgray, I met Lilias with some of her companions, driving her father’s little four-wheeled equipage. They paused a moment to receive my eager bashful salutations, and then drove on. The sunshine of that young face dispersed the cloud of doubt and unhappiness that hung about me; for anything false, anything sad, could not come near Lilias--

“I trow that countenance cannot lie Whose thoughts are legible in the eie,”

I said to myself joyously as I went on. I repented me of my suspicions of Charlie. Lucy must be mistaken. His conduct could be explained. The bright mist fell again over the world, and I forgot my fears and anxieties; they all fled before the smile of Lilias.

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.

“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.

“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.”

He left the room, and, in a few minutes, the house, and I saw him go down the water whistling a merry tune, and pausing now and then to look round upon those peaceful home scenes, which his presence now desecrated to me. Murrayshaugh was in the opposite direction. I hurried along towards it under the trees, with an instinctive desire to see Lucy, and, unseen myself, to carry at least one sympathetic heart to her vicinity. It was a superstition of its kind. I had no thought of that--it was an instinct with me.

And there she certainly was upon the terrace, with her soft light plaid about her head, and her figure gliding strangely through shadows of the trees, and of the quaint, fantastic gables of the house, which the light of a young moon threw faintly on the ground at her feet. I saw her threading the maze of these, as she moved like a spirit upon the mossy garden path, and I began to fancy in the bitterness of my heart that it was thus with us all; that those shadowy unreal forms of ours were but wandering blindly through a shadowy world of pains and sorrows, which if it were not all false, was yet involved in a miserable twilight, where one knew not what was false and what was true.

The old decaying house, with its marks of gradual downfal and lingering sorrowful pride, and the one faint light in the window of the library where sat its aged possessor struggling with a young man’s strength of haughty resistance against the slow ruin that was gliding upon him like a thundercloud. The low cadence of those rustling willows, wooing the answering murmur of the water--the silence of the waning evening, made sadder and more spirit-like by the wan young moon, which gave to its dimness a spectral light and shadow--and Lucy Murray in her early youth, with not one heart that could or dared stand by her in her need, wandering among those shades, with the dark sky above, in the dim world, alone! I hurried away again. I could not look upon her.