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:
You gave me up yesterday. I was--I don't mind telling you this
now--stunned, surprised, pained. Since then, however, I have
thought much; all my thought has been about you. Thought sometimes
leads to light, and light has come to me. Charlotte, a contract
entered into by two takes two to undo. I refuse to undo this
contract. Charlotte, I refuse to give you up. You are my promised
wife; our banns have been read twice in church already. Have you
forgotten this? In the eyes of both God and man you are almost
mine. To break off this engagement, unless I, too, wished it, would
be, whatever your motive, a _sin_. Charlotte, the time has come,
when we may ruin all the happiness of both our lives, unless very
plain words pass between us. I use very plain words when I tell you
that I most absolutely refuse to give you up. That being so,
_whatever_ your motive, you are committing a sin in refusing to
give yourself to me. My darling, it is you I want, not your
money--you--not--not--But I will add no more, except one thing.
Charlotte, I went this morning to Somerset House, and I _read your
grandfather's will_.
Now, what hour shall I come to you? Any hour you name I will fly
to you. It is impossible for you to refuse what I demand as a
right. But know that, if you do refuse, I will come
notwithstanding.
Yours ever,
JOHN HINTON.
This letter, being directed, was quickly posted, and in due time reached
its address at Prince's Gate.
Then a strange thing happened to it. Jasper Harman, passing through the
hall, saw the solitary letter waiting for his niece. It was his habit to
examine every letter that came within his reach; he took up this one for
no particular reason, but simply from the force of this long
established habit. But having taken it in his hand, he knew the
writing. The letter was from Hinton, and Charlotte had told him--had
just told him--that her engagement with Hinton was broken off, that her
wedding was not to be. Old Jasper was beset just now by a thousand
fears, and Charlotte's manner and Charlotte's words had considerably
added to his alarm. There was a mystery; Charlotte could not deny that
fact. This letter might elucidate it--might throw light where so much
was needed. Jasper Harman felt that the contents of Hinton's letter
might do him good and ease his mind. Without giving himself an instant's
time for reflection, he took the letter into the dining-room, and,
opening it, read what was meant for another. He had scarcely done so
before Charlotte unexpectedly entered the room. To save himself from
discovery, when he heard her step, he dropped the letter into the fire.
Thus Charlotte never got her lover's letter.
Hinton, bravely as he had spoken, was, nevertheless, pained at her
silence. After waiting for twenty-four hours he, however, resolved to be
true to his word. He had said to Charlotte, "If you refuse what I demand
as a right, nevertheless I shall exercise my right. I will come to you."
But he went with a strange sinking of heart, and when he got to Prince's
Gate and was not admitted he scarcely felt surprised.