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.