"But can you spare the time from your children?"
"You are my child now; as long as you want me I will stay with you. See, I am going to draw down the blinds, and I will lock the door; you must not be disturbed."
It was thus that these two spent the morning. When Charlotte Harman awoke some hours later, quiet and refreshed, they had a long, long talk. That talk drew their hearts still closer together; it was plain that such a paltry thing as money could not divide these friends.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE FATE OF A LETTER.
Hinton had left the Harmans' house, after his strange interview with Charlotte, with a stunned feeling. It is not too much to say of this young man that he utterly failed to realize what had befallen him. He walked like one in a dream, and when he reached his lodgings in Jermyn Street, and sat down at last by his hearth, he thought of himself in a queer way, as if he were some one else; a trouble had come to some one else; that some one was a friend of his so he was called on to pity him. Gradually, however, it dawned upon him that the friend was unpleasantly close, that the some one else reigned as lord of his bosom. It was he—he himself he was called on to pity. It was on his hitherto so prosperous, young head that the storm had burst. Next Tuesday was to have been his wedding-day. There was to be no wedding. On next Tuesday he was to have won a bride, a wife; that other one dearer than himself was to give herself to him absolutely. In addition to this he was to obtain fortune: and fortune was to lead to far dearer, far nobler fame. But now all this was at an end; Tuesday was to pass as any other day—gray, neutral-tinted, indifferent, it was to go over his head. And why? This was what caused the sharpest sting of the anguish. There seemed no reason for it all. Charlotte's excuse was a poor one; it had not the ring of the true metal about it. Unaccustomed to deceive, she had played her part badly. She had given an excuse; but it was no excuse. In this Hinton was not blinded, even for a moment. His Charlotte! There, seemed a flaw in the perfect creature. His Charlotte had a second time turned away her confidence from him. Yes, here was the sting; in her trouble she would not let him comfort her. What was the matter? What was the mystery? What was the hidden wrong?
Hinton roused himself now. As thought and clearness of judgment came more vividly back to him, his anger grew and his pity lessened. His mind was brought to bear upon a secret, for there was a hidden secret. His remembrance travelled back to all that had happened since the day their marriage was fixed—since the day when he first saw a troubled look on Charlotte's face—and she had told him, though unwillingly, that queer story of Mrs. Home's. Yes, of course, he knew there was a mystery—a strange and dark mystery; like a coward he had turned away from investigating it. He had seen Uncle Jasper's nervous fear; he had seen Mrs. Home's poverty; he had witnessed Mr. Harman's ill-concealed disquietude—all this he had seen, all this he had known. But for Charlotte's sake, he had shut his eyes; Charlotte's sake he had forbidden his brain to think or his hands to work.—
And now—now—ah! light was dawning. Charlotte had fathomed what he had feared to look at. Charlotte had seen the dread reality. The secret was disgraceful. Nothing else could so have changed his one love. Nothing but disgrace, the disgrace of the one nearest to her, could bring that look to her face. Scarcely had he thought this before a memory came to him. He started to his feet as it came back. Charlotte had said, "Before our wedding-day I will read my grandfather's will." Suppose she had done so, and her grandfather's will had been—what? Hinton began to see reason now in her unaccountable determination not to see Webster. She had doubtless resolved on that very day to go to Somerset House and read that fatal document. Having made up her mind she would not swerve from her purpose. Then, though she was firm in her determination, her face had been bright, her brow unfurrowed, she had still been his own dear and happy Charlotte. He had not seen her again until she knew all. She knew all, and her heart and spirit were alike broken. As this fact became clear to Hinton, a sense of relief and peace came over him; he began once more to understand the woman he loved. Beside the darkness of misunderstanding her, all other misunderstandings seemed light. She was still his love, his life; she was still true to herself, to the beautiful ideal he had enthroned in his heart of hearts. Poor darling! she would suffer; but he must escape. Loving him as deeply, as devotedly as ever, she yet would give him up, rather than that he should share in the downfall of her house. Ah! she did not know him. She could be great; but so also could he. Charlotte should see that her love was no light thing for any man to relinquish: she would find that it weighed heavier in the balance than riches, than fame; that disgrace even could not crush it down. Knowing all, he would go to her; she should not be alone in her great, great trouble; she should find out in her hour of need the kind of man whose heart she had won. His depression left him as he came to this resolve, and he scarcely spent even an anxious night. On the next day, however, he did not go to Charlotte; but about noon he sat down and wrote her the following letter:—
My Darling: