He took the letter from his pocket: the letter brought back to him by Isaac Hastings, and which he had assured Maria had not contained bad news: opened it, and handed it to Charlotte for her perusal. Better, possibly, for Mr. George Godolphin that he had made a bosom friend of his wife than of Charlotte Pain! Better for gentlemen in general, it may be, that they should tell their secrets to their wives than to their wives’ would-be rivals—however comprehensive the fascinations of these latter ladies may be. George, however, had made his own bed, as we all do; and George would have to lie upon it.
“What am I to do, Charlotte?”
Charlotte sat bending over the note, and pressing her forehead. Her look was one of perplexity; perplexity great as George’s.
“It is a dangerous position,” she said at length. “If not averted——”
She came to a dead pause, and their eyes met.
“Ay!” he repeated—”if not averted! Nothing would remain for me but——”
“Hush, George,” said she, laying her hand upon his lips, and then letting it fall upon his fingers, where it remained.
There they sat, it is hard to say how long, their heads together, talking earnestly. Charlotte was in his full confidence. Whatever may have been the nature, the depth of his perplexities, she fathomed them. At length George sprang up with a start.
“I am forgetting everything. I forgot those people were still at home, waiting for me. Charlotte, I must go.”
She rose, put her arm within his, and took a step with him, as if she would herself let him out. Perhaps she was in the habit of letting him out.