"I know her too well; but I will ask her directly."

Hinton was silent.

After a short pause, Mrs. Home broke out pa.s.sionately,--

"How dare you insinuate doubts of so n.o.ble a creature?"

"I could only believe facts."

"Has a letter never gone astray? Has a letter never failed to reach the hands it was meant for? Mr. Hinton, I am ashamed of you."

"If you can prove that she never got it?"

"I know she never got it. She is changed; her heart is half broken. But I will prove it. I will go to her at once. Are you still going to Scotland?"

"I need not go until I hear from you. You have astonished me greatly."

"Then drive to my house. Ah! you do not know our new address; it is ----; wait for me there, I will be with you in an hour or so."

CHAPTER LVII.

JOHN.

Hinton went to Mrs. Home's house. The children were out, Mr. Home was not visible. Anne, now converted into a neat parlor-maid, received him with broad grins of pleasure. She ushered him into the pretty, newly-furnished drawing-room, and asked him to wait for her mistress.

"Missis 'ull be back afore long," she said, lingering a little to readjust the blinds, and half hoping, half expecting, Hinton to make some surprised and approving remark on the changed circ.u.mstances of the Homes' surroundings.

He made none, however; and Anne, with a slight sigh, left him alone.

When she did so he rose to his feet and began to pace quickly up and down the room. After a time, half an hour or so, he pulled out his watch. Yes, he had already lost that express to the north. A good piece of business would probably be also lost. But what matter! beyond ascertaining the fact that he had missed his train, he did not give the affair another thought. To tell the truth, his mind was agitated, his heart was full; hope once more peeped upon the horizon of his being. A month ago--for it was quite a month ago now--he had received as sharp and cruel a shock as falls on most men. Fortune, love, and trust had all been dashed from the lips which were already so close to the charmed cup that its very flavor was apparent. The cup had never reached the lips of Hinton. Fortune was gone, love was gone; worst of all, yes, hardest of all, trust was gone. The ideal he had worshipped was but an ideal.

The Charlotte he had loved was unworthy. She had rejected him, and cruelly. His letter was unanswered. He himself was refused admittance.

Then his pride had risen in revolt. If she could so treat him, he would sue no longer. If she could so easily give him up, he would bow to her decision. She was not the Charlotte of his love and his dream. But what matter! Other men had come to an ideal and found it but a clay idol. He would recover: he would not let his heart break. He found, however, that he could not stay in London. An uncle of his, his only living near relation, was a solicitor in the south of England. Hinton went to visit his uncle. He received him warmly and kindly. He not only promised him work, but kept his word. Hinton took chambers in a fashionable part of the town, and already was not idle. But he was a changed man. That shattered trust was making his spirit very hard. The cynical part of him was being fostered. Mrs. Home, when she looked into his face, was quite right in saying to herself that his expression had not improved. Now, however, again, as he paced up and down, soft thoughts were visiting him. For what doubts, what blessed doubts had Mrs. Home not insinuated?

How irregularly his heart beat; how human he felt once more! Ah! what sound was that? A cab had drawn up at the door. Hinton flew to the window; he saw the soft fawn shade of a lady's dress, he could not see the lady. Of course, it was Mrs. Home returning. What news did she bring? How he longed to fly to meet her! He did not do so, however; his feet felt leaden weighted. He leant against the window, with his back to the door. His heart beat harder and harder; he clenched his hands hard.

There was a quick step running up the stairs, a quick and springing step. The drawing-room door was opened and then shut. He heard the rustle of soft drapery, then a hand was laid on his arm. The touch of that hand made him tremble violently. He turned his head, and--not Charlotte Home--but _his_ Charlotte, beautiful and true, stood by his side. Their eyes met.

"John!" she said.

"My own, my darling!" he answered.

In an instant they were clasped in each other's arms. That swift glance, which each had given the other, had told all.

"John, I never got your letter."

"No!"

"John, you doubted me."

"I did, I confess it; I confess it bitterly. But not now, not after one glance into your eyes."

"John, what did you say in that letter?"

"That I held you to your sacred promise; that I refused to give you up."

"But--but--you did not know my true reason. You did not know why--why----"

"Yes, I knew all. Before I wrote that letter I went to Somerset house. I read your grandfather's will."

"Ah! did you--did you indeed? Oh! what a dreadful time I have gone through."

"Yes, but it is over now. Mrs. Home told me how your father had repented. The sin is forgiven. The agony is past. What G.o.d forgets don't let us remember. Lottie, cease to think of it. It is at an end, and so are our troubles. I am with you again. Oh! how nearly I had lost you."

Charlotte's head was on her lover's shoulder. His arm was round her.

"Charlotte, I repeat what I said in that letter which never reached you.

I refuse to absolve you from your promise. I refuse to give you up. Do you hear? I refuse to give you up."

"But, John, I am poor now."

"Poor or rich, you are yourself, and you are mine. Charlotte, do you hear me? If you hear me answer me. Tell me that you are mine."

"I am yours, John," she said simply, and she raised her lips to kiss him.

CHAPTER LVIII.

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM.

A month after--just one month after, there was a very quiet wedding; a wedding performed in the little church at Kentish Town. The ceremony was thought by the few who witnessed it to be, even for that obscure part, a very poor one. There were no bridesmaids, or white dresses, or, indeed, white favors in any form. The bride wore the plainest gray travelling suit. She was given away by her gray-headed father; Charlotte Home stood close behind her; Mr. Home married the couple, and Uncle Sandy acted as best man. Surely no tamer ending could come to what was once meant to be such a brilliant affair. Immediately after the ceremony, the bride and bridegroom went away for two days and Mrs. Home went back to Prince's Gate with Mr. Harman, for she had promised Charlotte to take care of her father until her return.

Many changes were contemplated. The grand house in Prince's gate was to be given up, and the Hintons were to live in that large southern town where Hinton was already obtaining a young barrister's great ambition--briefs. Mr. Harman, while he lived, was to find his home with his son and daughter.

Mr. Harman was now a peaceful and happy man, and so improved was his health--so had the state of his mind affected his body, that though he could never hope for cure of his malady, yet Sir George Anderson a.s.sured him that with care he might live for a very much longer time than he had thought possible a few months before. Thus death stood back, not altogether thrust aside, but biding its time.

On the morning of Charlotte's wedding-day there arrived a letter from Jasper.

"So you have told all?" he said to his brother. "Well, be it so. From the time I knew the other trustee was not dead and had reached England, I felt that discovery was at hand. No, thank you; I shall never come back to England. If you can bear poverty and public disgrace, I cannot.

I have some savings of my own, and on these I can live during my remaining days. Good-bye--we shall never meet again on earth! I repent, do you say, of my share? Yes, the business turned out badly in the end.

What a heap of money those Homes will come in for! Stolen goods don't prosper with a man! So it seems. Well, I shall stay out of England."

Jasper was true to his word. Not one of those who knew him in this tale ever heard of him again.