“Who does he mean by the old soldier?” asked Alice, very much frightened, after a silence.
“One of those d——d people who are plaguing me,” said Charles, who had returned to the window, and answered, still looking out.
“And what is his real name, darling?”
“I’m ashamed to say that Harry knows ten times as well as I all about my affairs. I pay interest through his hands, and he watches those people’s movements; he’s a rough diamond, but he has been very kind, and you see his note—where is it? Oh, thanks. I must be off in half an hour, to meet the coach at the ‘Pied Horse.’”
“Let me go up, darling, and help you to pack, I know where all your things are,” said poor little Alice, who looked as if she was going to faint.
“Thank you, darling, you are such a good little creature, and never think of yourself—never, never—half enough.”
His hands were on her shoulders, and he was looking in her face, with sad strange eyes, as he said this, slowly, like a man spelling out an inscription.
“I wish—I wish a thousand things. God knows how heavy my heart is. If you cared for yourself, Alice, like other women, or that I weren’t a fool—but—but you, poor little thing, it was such a venture, such a sea, such a crazy boat to sail in.”
“I would not give up my Ry, my darling, my husband, my handsome, clever, noble Ry—I’d lose a thousand lives if I had them, one by one, for you, Charlie; and oh, if you left me, I should die.”
“Poor little thing,” he said, drawing her to him with a trembling strain, and in his eyes, unseen by her, tears were standing.