As we approached the house, Charley crept up the other side of Clara’s horse, and laid his hand on his mane. When he spoke Clara started, for she was looking the other way and had not observed his approach.
‘Miss Clara,’ he said, ‘I am very sorry I was so rude. Will you forgive me?’
Instead of being hard to reconcile, as I had feared from her outburst of indignation, she leaned forward and laid her hand on his. He looked up in her face, his own suffused with a colour I had never seen in it before. His great blue eyes lightened with thankfulness, and began to fill with tears. How she looked, I could not see. She withdrew her hand, and Charley dropped behind again. In a little while he came up to my side, and began talking. He soon got quite merry, but Clara in her turn was silent.
I doubt if anything would be worth telling but for what comes after. History itself would be worthless but for what it cannot tell, namely, its own future. Upon this ground my reader must excuse the apparent triviality of the things I am now relating.
When we were alone in our room that night—for ever since Charley’s illness we two had had a room to ourselves—Charley said,
‘I behaved like a brute this morning, Wilfrid.’
‘No, Charley; you were only a little rude from being over-eager. If she had been seriously advocating dishonesty, you would have been quite right to take it up so; and you thought she was.’
‘Yes; but it was very silly of me. I dare say it was because I had been so dishonest myself just before. How dreadful it is that I am always taking my own side, even when I do what I am ashamed of in another! I suppose I think I have got my horse by the head, and the other has not.’
‘I don’t know. That may be it,’ I answered. ‘I’m afraid I can’t think about it to-night, for I don’t feel well. What if it should be your turn to nurse me now, Charley?’
He turned quite pale, his eyes opened wide, and he looked at me anxiously.