Silently Lilian embraces her, and she and Archibald return home.
* * * * * * *
At Chetwoode very intense relief and pleasure are felt as Lilian relates her wonderful story. Every one is only too willing to place credence in it. Chesney confesses to some sensations of shame.
"Somehow," he says, "it never occurred to me your tenant might be Jasper Arlington's wife and the pretty Miss Duncan who tore my heart into fritters some years ago. And I knew nothing of all this terrible story about her husband's supposed resuscitation until to-day. It is a 'comedy of errors.' I feel inclined to sink into the ground when I remember how I have walked about here among you all, with full proof of what would have set you all at rest in no time, carefully locked up in my breast. Although innocent, Lady Chetwoode, I feel I ought to apologize."
"I shall go down and make her come up to Chetwoode," says her ladyship, warmly. "Poor girl! it is far too lonely for her to be down there by herself, especially just now when she must be so unstrung. As soon as I hear she has had that letter from George Trant, I shall persuade her to come to us."
The next evening brings a letter from Trant that falls like a little warm seal of certainty upon the good news of yesterday.
"Going down to the landing-place," writes he, "I found the steamer had really arrived, and went on board instantly. With my heart beating to suffocation I walked up to the captain, and asked him if any gentleman named Arlington had come with him. He said, 'Yes, he was here just now,' and looking round, pointed to a tall man bending over some luggage. 'There he is,' he said. I went up to the tall man. I could see he was a good height, and that his hair was black. As I noted this last fact my blood froze in my veins. When I was quite close to him he raised himself, turned, and looked full at me! And once more my blood ran warmly, comfortably. It was not the man I had feared to see. I drew my breath quickly, and to make assurance doubly sure, determined to ask his name.
"'Sir,' I said, bluntly, forgetful of etiquette, 'is your name Arlington?'
"'Sir,' replied he, regarding me with calm surprise, 'it is.' At this moment I confess I lost my head. I became once more eighteen, and impulsive. I grasped his hands; I wrung them affectionately, not to say violently.
"'Then, my dear sir,' I exclaimed, rapturously, 'I owe you a debt of gratitude. I thank you with all my heart. Had you not been born an Arlington, I might now be one of the most miserable men alive; as it is, I am one of the happiest.'