He put her very gently aside, so gently that none could see the action, and then striding in with a firm step to his own business-room, he closed and locked the door. Truly he was in no mood either to endure pity or submit to the questionings even of the mother who bore him. The return to his home, to the sight of familiar faces gazing at him with the compassion which was so hard to bear, had been in itself a severe trial to the proud man, to whom a good name was a treasure beyond, price, and who could never--never, as he repeated with a terrible monotony to himself--hold up his head again. But grievous as these trials were, there was worse, much worse remaining behind; for the death of that poor young woman, who had so short a time before been full of life and happiness, lay (indirectly, it is true, but still it _did_ lie--John never deceived himself on that point) on his own miserable head; and the weight of that death and the dread of it pursued him as might the swift footsteps of an avenging spirit, even into the stillness of his closet. Turn which way he would, all seemed dark around him. Alone henceforth, and while life should last (for since the evident impossibility on Arthur Vavasour’s part to deny that he had seen Honor in London, the last ray of hope as regarded her virtue had been swept away)--alone in his deserted home--alone with his shame and his disgrace--what wonder was it that John Beacham, in the silence and solitude of his chamber, should have given way to a despondency that was twin-brother to despair? A tap at the door, not a delicate or gentle one, for there were no genteel and well-trained servants at the Paddocks, roused the master of the house from the kind of stupor of grief into which he had fallen. “A letter, please, sir,” said a voice outside--the voice of Hannah, who, not finding her summons for admittance, promptly answered, had “tried the door,” and _that_ method of ingress having proved an unsuccessful one, she, with laudable perseverance, had hit upon another plan for the attainment of her object. “A letter, please, sir,” and, in a lower voice at the key-hole, “I think it is from the young missus.” The words, as Hannah had anticipated, acted like a charm. In a moment the door flew open under John’s eager hand, and seizing the letter (it was the one which Honor had written previous to her departure, and which had remained ever since its delivery under Hannah’s watchful care), he speedily succeeded, though the daylight was waning fast, in making himself master of its contents.