Charley Vining took the letter with trembling hand from the silver
salver upon which it lay, glancing the while at the superscription,
written in an awkward scrawly character, as if the sender had been
possessed of a wild unbroken colt of a pen, which would shy and buck and
dart about as it should not; but as well as if some one had been present
to whisper to him that that letter contained trouble, its recipient knew
it, and hesitated to tear open the envelope. He gazed at the address
once more, then at the bent figure of his father, and took a step
forward to speak--but no, he could not. He felt half unmanned, and that
his words would be choked in their utterance; and turning hastily round,
he hurried from the room, his last glance showing him Sir Philip with
his face still covered by his hands; and Charley's heart smote him as he
thought of the pain he had inflicted upon that noble heart.
Unintentionally, upon hurrying out of the house, Charley made his way to
the part of the grounds where stood the rose-tree from which he had
plucked that blossom--the spot where he had told his love, believing
that it fell only upon the ears he wished, but all the same in the
presence of three witnesses--the false and the true. But the roses were
gone--only a few brown withered petals yet clung to the branches; and
recalling how Ella had fled from him, he once more threw himself into
the garden seat, and with an effort tore open the letter.
And then he could not read it; for the characters swam before his eyes,
till savagely calling himself "girl!"
"Idiot!" and setting his teeth firmly upon his nether lip, he read as
follows:
"My Own Dearest Charley Vining,--This is not a love letter, though I
do indede love you very much indede (and those are both spelt wrong;
only if I smudge them over and alter them, they will be so hard to
read). I do love you very much indede, though not in that way, you
know, but as I should love brother Max if he wasn't such a donkey.
I've been wanting to speek to you so _verry, verry, verry_ bad, but
Laury has watched me and Miss Bedford just like two mice (I mean like
a cat, only my eyes are so swelled up with crying that I don't hardly
know what I'm saying or doing), and I have such a lot to tell you,
enough to brake your hart, and I'm speling this worse and wors, though
Dear Miss Bedford took such pains with me, and it's all about her I
want to talk to you, only I won't say what, in case you don't see this
yourself. So you must please come and meet me to-night in Gorse Wood,
and it won't be rong, for I'm only a girl and a child; yet sometimes
though I can't help feeling womanish, and feeling half and half too.
But you always did play with and pet me, Charley, and i know you love
somebody else verry much, and so do I, so that it won't be wrong, only
candlestine. Mind and come at 7, whilst they're at dinner, and I
shall tell Milly and Do that I'm going to get some pairs. So plees to
fill both of your pockets verry full of those early ones, same as you
gave me last year. And plees excuse all mistakes, for i write in a
great hurry, and don't forget to come, for I've got to tell you all
about some one you gave the rose to when you thought No one was
looking.
"Mamma and Papa desire their best compliments, and with best love, i
am, deer Charley Vining,
"Youre afectionate friend,
"Nelly Sophia Bray.
"P.S. That's all nonsense about Ma and Pa sending their complements,
only it sliped in, and if I smudge it out, the letter looks so bad;
and it don't mater, does it? for I haven't got time to write another
letter, only don't forget to come."
Charley Vining was too troubled at heart to smile at poor Nelly's
letter, as, doubling it back into its former folds, he sat wondering
what news the girl could have for him. He did not like the idea of
obeying her wishes, but he felt that he must go: the hints the letter
contained were too strong to be resisted. If they were seen, what would
it matter after all? for Nelly was but a child, he told himself--the
great tomboy whom he had romped and played with again and again. There
was something about it, though, that he did not like, but a re-perusal
of the letter decided him; and more for a means of passing the time than
for any other purpose he went round to the stables, and mounting his
favourite, rode slowly away, heedless that, looking ten years older, Sir
Philip Vining was watching him from the study window.
Volume 2, Chapter III.