Wickham had taken his brother home with him.
“But you’re married now,” Charles had protested. “Perhaps your wife—”
“She’ll be glad to see you,” Wickham had answered.
He had not felt at all sure of that, but one thing he did know—whether Madeline was glad or sorry to see Charles, she would receive him kindly and graciously.
“I can always count on her,” Wickham had thought.
That was the best thing in his life, the feeling he had about Madeline. It was not the thing people usually speak of as “being in love.” In his early youth he had known what that was. He had been in love, miserably, bitterly, hotly in love, and he had come out of it, not unscarred; but this, his feeling for Madeline, was different. This was a love of dignity and utter trust. He honored her above all women on earth, and he profoundly admired her reserved beauty. He gave her everything freely, and put his very soul into her keeping.
He never told her things like that. In the course of his first disastrous love affair he had done plenty of talking, and he wished never to use those words again. He had proved to Madeline, in their five years of life together, what he thought of her, how he valued her, and of course she would understand.
She had been quite as kind and gracious to Charley as her husband had expected. She had looked after the poor fellow’s comfort, had made him feel at ease and happy. It had been good to see him so happy.
“And now,” thought Wickham, “his troubles are pretty well over. He’ll be all right.” Aloud he said: “Yes, I have news for you, Charley. I’ve—”
“Hold on a minute!” said Charles Hackett. “I have some news myself, Wick. Wait! Where is it? Here!”