“Yes,” said Charley, with quite a hiss.
“I thought you would like me to say anything, when you wouldn’t hear it from any one else. Do you know, Charley, you mustn’t be miserable about Miss B—any more? and if I wasn’t going to have Hugh Lingon when I get big—I mean old enough—I should ask you to let me love you, and try and comfort you, and make you happy. I do love you very much now, you know, but I mean the other way.”
She was silent for a few moments, while he went on turning over the pictures.
“Charley,” she then said earnestly, “I don’t think she has done right; but whether she’s been persuaded, or somebody’s told stories about you. Max goes to see her very often—nearly every day now—and she writes to him lots of letters. O Charley, dear Charley!” she half sobbed, “what have I done? Pray!—please don’t look like that! I thought telling you would make you leave off looking miserable, and ready to be happy again when you knew you couldn’t have her. But pray—pray don’t look like that!”
For the young man’s ghastly face had frightened her, as he stood gazing full in her eyes, crushing the while one of the drawings in his hand.
“How do you know that?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I heard Max tell Laury; and one day, when I went with her to his rooms, there was a whole heap of little narrow envelopes directed to him, and they were all in her handwriting. But please try and not fret, or I shall be so—so unhappy.”
Charley drew a deep long breath, and for the space of a good minute he stood there supporting himself by, and gazing blankly down at, the table, for a sharp pang had shot through him, and he felt giddy; but the next minute it passed off, as he muttered to himself:
“Not yet, not yet. I must have farther proof!”
Then, by an effort, he recovered himself, and leading Nelly to the piano, he sat by her while she sang. A few minutes after, he was by Laura’s side, talking to her quietly and gently, as he would have talked to any other lady.