How It All Came Round Part 37

"That money was left in your father's will in trust; it was confided to the care of three men, whose solemn duty it was to realize it for your mother first, afterwards for you and your children. Those men were called trustees; two of them, Charlotte, were your half-brothers, John and Jasper Harman; the other was your mother's only living brother, Sandy Wilson. These trustees were false to you: two of them by simply ignoring the trust and taking the money to themselves; the other, by pretending to be dead when he ought to have been in England attending to his duty. The Harmans, the other trustees, so fully believed me to be dead that they thought their sin would never be found out. But they reckoned without their host, for Sandy has returned, and the missing trustee can act now. Better late than never--eh, Niece Charlotte?"

"My poor mother!" said Charlotte, "my poor, poor mother!"

She covered her face with her hands. The suddenness and greatness of the crime done had agitated her. She was very much upset. Her husband came again very near and put his hand on her shoulder. His face, too, was troubled.

"It was a terrible sin," he said, "a terrible sin to lie on these men's b.r.e.a.s.t.s for three and twenty years. G.o.d help these sinners to repentance!"

"Yes, G.o.d help them," repeated Uncle Sandy, "and also those they have wronged. But now look up, Charlotte, for I have not told you all. A man never sins for himself alone; if he did it would not so greatly matter, for G.o.d and the pangs of an evil conscience would make it impossible for him to get off scot free; but--I found it out in the bush, where, I can tell you, I met rough folks enough--the innocent are dragged down with the guilty. Now this is the case here. In exposing the guilty the innocent must suffer. I don't mean you, my dear, nor my poor little wronged Daisy. In both your cases the time for suffering, I trust, is quite at an end, but there is another victim." Here Uncle Sandy paused, and Charlotte, having recovered her composure, stood upright on the hearthrug ready to listen. "When I went to Somerset House yesterday, I had, in order to obtain a sight of Mr. Harman's will, to go through a little ceremony. It is not necessary to go into it. I had to get certain papers, and take orders to certain rooms. All this was the little form imposed on me by the Government for my curiosity. At last I was told to go to a room, called the reading room, and asked to wait there until the will was brought to me. It was a small room, and I sat down prepared to wait patiently enough. There were about half-a-dozen people in the room besides myself, some reading wills, others waiting until they were brought. One woman sat at the table exactly opposite to me. She was the only woman in the room at the time, and perhaps that fact made me first notice her; but when I looked once, I could not have been old Sandy Wilson without wanting to look again. I have a weakness for fine women, and this woman was fine, in the sense that makes you feel that she is lovable. She was young, eager-looking. I have no doubt her features were handsome, but it was her open, almost childlike expression which attracted most. She was essentially a fine creature, and yet there was a peculiar childish innocence about her, that made old Sandy long to protect her on the spot. I was looking at her, and hoping she would not notice it and think old Sandy Wilson a bore, when a man came into the room and said something to the clerk at the desk. The clerk turned to me and said, 'The will of the name of Harman is being read at this moment by some one else in the room.' Instantly this girl looked up, her eyes met mine, her face grew all one blaze of color, though she was a pale enough la.s.s the moment before, and a frightened expression came into her eyes. She looked down again at once, and went on reading in a hurried, puzzled way, as if she was scarcely taking in much. Of course I knew she had the will, and I did not want to hurry or confuse her, so I pretended to turn my attention to something else. It must have been quite a couple of minutes before I looked again, and then--I confess that I am not easily startled, but I did have to smother an exclamation--the poor girl must have discovered the baseness and the fraud in those two minutes. Had she been any other but the plucky la.s.s she is, she would have been in a dead faint on the floor, for I never, never in all my pretty vast experience, saw a living face so white. I could not help looking at her then, for I was completely fascinated. She went on reading for half a minute longer; then she raised her eyes and gazed straight and full at me. She had big, open gray eyes, and a moment before, they were full of innocence and trust like a child's, now there was a wild anger and despair in them. She was quite quiet however, and no one else in the room noticed her. She pushed the will across the table to me and said, "That is Mr. Harman's will," then she put on her gloves quite slowly and drew down her veil, and left the room as sedately and quietly as you please. I just glanced my eye over the will.

I took in the right place and saw the shameful truth. I was horrified enough, but I could not wait to read it all. I gave the will back intending to go to it another time, for I felt I must follow that girl at any cost. I came up to her in Somerset House square. I did not care what she thought; I must speak to her; I did. Poor la.s.s! I think she was quite stunned. She did not resent the liberty old Sandy had taken. When I asked her to wait and let me talk to her she turned at once--I have not lived in the bush so long without being, I pride myself, sharp enough in reading character. I saw the girl, proud girl enough at ordinary times, was in that state of despair which makes people do desperate things. She was defiant, and told more than I expected. She was Miss Harman--Charlotte Harman, by the way, she said. Yes; her father had stolen that money; would I like to see him? he lived in such a place; his name was so-and-so. Yes; she was his only child. Her manner was so reckless, so defiant, and yet so full of absolute misery, that I could do nothing but pity her from my very heart. I forgot you, Niece Lottie, and your rights, and everything but this fine creature stricken so low through another's sins. I said, 'Hush, you shall say no more to-day. You are stunned, you are shocked, you must have time to think; I won't remember a thing you say about your father now. Go home and come back again to-morrow,' I said; 'sleep over it, and I will sleep over it, and I will meet you here to-morrow, when you are more calm.' She agreed to this and went away. I felt a little compunction for my own softness during that evening and night, Niece Charlotte, I felt that I was not quite true to you; but then you had not seen her face, poor brave young thing, poor young thing!"

Here Uncle Sandy paused and looked hard from his niece to her husband.

Charlotte's eyes were full of tears, Mr. Home was smiling at him. There was something peculiar in this man's rare smiles which turned them into blessings. They were far more eloquent than words, for they were fed from some illumination of strong approval within. Uncle Sandy, without understanding, felt a warm glow instantly kindling in his heart.

Charlotte said, "Go on," in a broken voice.

"To-day, at the appointed hour, I met her again," proceeded the Australian. "She was changed, she was composed enough now, she was on her guard, she did not win my sympathy so much as in her despair. She was quite open, however, as to the nature of the crime committed, and told me she knew well what a sin her father had been guilty of. Suddenly she startled me by saying that she knew you, Charlotte. She said she wished she could see you now. I asked her why. She said, 'That I might go down on my knees to her.' I was surprised at such words coming from so proud a creature. I said so. She repeated that she would go down on her knees that she might the better plead for mercy. I was beginning to harden my old heart at that, and to think badly of her, when she stopped me, by telling me a strange and sad thing. She said that she had discovered something, something very terrible, between that hour and yesterday. Her father had been ill for some time, but the worst had been kept from her. She said yesterday that a poor person let her know quite accidentally that he was not only ill but dying. She went alone that morning to consult a doctor, one of those first-rate doctors whose word is law. Mr. Harman, it seemed, unknown to her, was one of this man's patients. He told her that he was hopelessly ill; that he could only live for a few months, and that any shock might end his days in a moment. She then told this doctor in confidence something of what she had discovered yesterday. He said, 'As his medical man, I forbid you to tell to your father this discovery you have made; if you do so he will die instantly.' Miss Harman told me this strange tale, and then she began to plead with me. She begged of me to show mercy; not to do anything in this matter during the few months which still remained of her father's life. Afterwards, she promised to restore all, and more than all of what had been stolen. I hesitated; I scarcely knew how to proceed. She saw it and exclaimed, 'Do you want me to go on my knees to you? I will this moment, and here.' Then I said I could do nothing without consulting you, I could do nothing without your consent.

Instantly the poor thing's whole face changed--I never saw such a change from despair to relief. She held out her hand to me; she said she was safe; she said she knew you; and that with you she was safe. She said she never saw any one in her life seem to want money so badly as you; but for all that, with you she was quite safe. She looked so thankful.

'I can cry now,' she said as she went away." Uncle Sandy paused again, and again looked at his niece and her husband. "I told her that I would come to you to-night," he said, "that I would plead her cause, and I have, have I not?"

"Well and n.o.bly," answered Mrs. Home. "Angus, think of her trusting me!

I am so glad she could trust me. Indeed she is safe with us."

"How soon can you go to her in the morning, Lottie?" asked the curate.

"With the first dawn I should like to go, I only wish I could fly to her now. Oh, Angus! what she must suffer; and next Tuesday is to be her wedding-day. How my heart does ache for her! But I am glad she trusts me."

Here Mrs. Home become so excited that a great flood of tears came into her eyes. She must cry them away in private. She left the room, and the curate, sitting down, told to Uncle Sandy how Charlotte Harman had saved little Harold's life.

CHAPTER XLIV.

LOVE BEFORE GOLD.

For the first time in all her life, Mrs. Home laid her head on her pillow with the knowledge that she was a rich woman. Those good things which money can buy could be hers; her husband need want no more; her children might be so trained, so nurtured, so carefully tended that their beauty, their beauty both physical and moral, would be seen in clearest l.u.s.tre. How often she had dreamed of the possibility of such a time arriving, and now at last it had come. Ever since her dying mother had told her own true history, she had dwelt upon this possible moment, dwelt upon it with many murmurings, many heart frettings. Could it be realized, she would be the happiest of women. Then she had decided to give it all up, to put the golden dream quite out of her life and, behold! she had scarcely done so before it had come true, the dream was a reality, the riches lay at her feet. In no way through her interference had this come about. Yes, but in the moment of her victory the woman who had so longed for money was very miserable; like Dead Sea apples was the taste of this eagerly desired fruit. She was enriched through another's anguish and despair, through the wrecking of another's happiness, and that other had saved the life of her child. Only one thing comforted Charlotte Home during the long hours of that weary night; Charlotte Harman had said.--

"With her I am safe; dearly as she loves money, with her I am quite safe."

Mrs. Home thought the slow moments would never fly until she was with the sister friend, who in her own bitter humiliation and shame could trust her. In the morning, she and her husband had a talk together. Then hurrying through her household duties, she started at a still very early hour for Prince's Gate. She arrived there before ten o'clock, and as she mounted the steps and pulled the ponderous bell she could not help thinking of her last visit; she had felt sore and jealous then, to-day she was bowed down by a sense of unworthiness and humility. Then, too, she had gone to visit this rich and prosperous young woman dressed in her very best, for she said to herself that whatever her poverty, she would look every inch the lady; she looked every inch the lady to-day, though she was in her old and faded merino. But that had now come to her which made her forget the very existence of dress. The grand footman, however, who answered her modest summons, being obtuse and uneducated, saw only the shabby dress; he thought she was a distressed workwoman, he had forgotten that she had ever come there before. When she asked for Miss Harman, he hesitated and was uncertain whether she could see his young lady; finally looking at her again, he decided to trust her so far as to allow her to wait in the hall while he went to inquire.

Charlotte gave her name, Mrs. Home, and he went away. When he returned there was a change in his manner. Had he begun to recognize the lady under the shabby dress; or had Charlotte Harman said anything? He took Mrs. Home up to the pretty room she had seen before, and left her there, saying that Miss Harman would be with her in few moments. The room looked just as of old. Charlotte, as she waited, remembered that she had been jealous of this pretty room. It was as pretty to-day, bright with flowers, gay with sunshine; the same love-birds were in the same cage, the same canary sang in the same window, the same parrot swung lazily from the same perch. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait in oils of the pretty baby, who yet was not so pretty as hers. Charlotte remembered how she had longed for these pretty things for her children, but all desire for them had left her now. There was the rustling of a silk dress heard in the pa.s.sage, and Charlotte Harman carelessly, but richly attired, came in. There was, even in their outward appearance, the full contrast between the rich and the poor observable at this moment, for Charlotte Harman, too, had absolutely forgotten her dress, and had allowed Ward to put on what she chose. When they were about to reverse positions, this rich and this poor woman stood side by side in marked contrast. Charlotte Harman looked proud and cold; in the moment when she came to plead, she held her head high. Charlotte Home, who was to grant the boon, came up timidly, almost humbly. She took the hands of this girl whom she loved, held them firmly, then gathering sudden courage, there burst from her lips just the last words she had meant at this moment to say.

"How much I love you! how much I love you!"

As these fervent, pa.s.sionate words were almost flung at her, Charlotte Harman's eyes began suddenly to dilate. After a moment she said under her breath, in a startled kind of whisper?

"You know all?"

"I know everything."

"Then you--you will save my father?"

"Absolutely. You need fear nothing from me or mine; in this we are but quits. Did not you save Harold?"

"Ah," said Charlotte Harman; she took no notice of her friend and guest, she sat down on the nearest chair and covered her face. When she raised her head, Mrs. Home was kneeling by her side.

"Charlotte," said Miss Harman--there was a change in her, the proud look and bearing were gone--"Charlotte," she said, "you and I are one age, but you are a mother; may I lay my head on your breast just for a moment?"

"Lay it there, my darling. As you have got into my heart of hearts, so would I comfort you."

"Ah, Charlotte, how my heart has beat! but your love is like a cool hand laid upon it, it is growing quiet."

"Charlotte, you are right in reminding me that I am a mother. I must treat you as I would my little Daisy. Daisy trusts me absolutely and has no fear; you must trust me altogether, and fear nothing."

"I do. I fear nothing when I am with you. Charlotte, next Tuesday was to have been my wedding-day."

"Yes, dear."

"But it is all on an end now; I broke off my engagement yesterday. And yet, how much I love him! Charlotte, don't look at me so pityingly."

"Was I doing so? I was wondering if you slept last night."

"Slept! No, people don't sleep when their hearts beat as hard as mine did, but I am better now."

"Then, Charlotte, I must prescribe for you, as a mother. For the next two hours you are my child and shall obey me; we have a great deal to say to each other; but first of all, before we say a single word, you must lie on this sofa, and I will hold your hand. You shall try and sleep."

"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. .h.i.therto 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 n.o.bler fame.

But now all this was at an end; Tuesday was to pa.s.s 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 doc.u.ment. 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!