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How It All Came Round

by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #23653 · 571,965 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: How It All Came Round

Author: L. T. Meade


        
Release date: November 28, 2007 [eBook #23653]
                Most recently updated: January 3, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW IT ALL CAME ROUND ***




Produced by Annie McGuire, D Alexander and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)







HOW IT ALL CAME ROUND

BY

MRS. L. T. MEADE

AUTHOR OF "GIRLS OF THE TRUE BLUE," "WILD KITTY,"
"A GIRL OF THE PEOPLE," ETC., ETC.

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS


[Illustration: MRS. L. T. MEADE.]




CHAPTER I.

THE RICH CHARLOTTE.


The room had three occupants, two were men, the third a woman. The men
were middle-aged and gray-haired, the woman on the contrary was in the
prime of youth; she was finely made, and well proportioned. Her face was
perhaps rather too pale, but the eyes and brow were noble, and the
sensitive mouth showed indications of heart as well as intellect.

The girl, or rather young woman, for she was past five and twenty, sat
by the fire, a book on her knee. The two men had drawn chairs close to a
table. The elder of these men bore such an unmistakable likeness to the
girl, that even the most casual observer must have guessed the
relationship which existed between them. He was a handsome man,
handsomer even than his daughter, but the same individualities marked
both faces. While, however, in the woman all was a profound serenity and
calm, the man had some anxious lines round the mouth, and some
expression, now coming, now going, in the fine gray eyes, which
betokened a long-felt anxiety.

The other and younger man was shrewd-looking and commonplace; but a very
close observer of human nature might have said, "He may be commonplace,
but do not feel too certain; he simply possesses one of those faces
which express nothing, from which not the cleverest detective in
Scotland Yard could extract any secret."

He was a man with plenty to say, and much humor, and at the moment this
story opens he was laughing merrily and in a heart-whole way, and his
older and graver companion listened with evident enjoyment.

The room in which the three sat bore evidence of wealth. It was a
library, and handsome books lay on the tables, and rare old folios could
have been found by those who cared to look within the carefully locked
bookcases. Some manuscripts were scattered about, and by the girl's
side, on a small table, lay several carefully revised proofs, and even
now she was bending earnestly over a book of reference.

"Well, Jasper," said the elder man, when the younger paused for an
instant in his eager flow of words, "we have talked long enough about
that fine land you have just come from, for even Australian adventures
can keep--I am interested in something nearer home. What do you say to
Charlotte there? She was but a baby when you saw her last."

"She was five years old," replied Jasper. "A saucy little imp, bless
you! just the kind that would be sure to grow into a fine woman. But to
tell the truth I don't much care to look at her, for she makes me feel
uncommonly old and shaky."

"You gave me twenty years to grow into a woman, uncle," answered the
pleasant voice of Charlotte Harman. "I could not choose but make good
use of the time."

"So you have, lass--so you have; I have been growing old and you have
been growing beautiful; such is life; but never mind, your turn will
come."

"But not for a long, long time, Lottie my pet," interrupted the father.
"You need not mind your uncle Jasper. These little speeches were always
his way. And I'll tell you something else, Jasper; that girl of mine has
a head worth owning on her shoulders, a head she knows how to use. You
will not believe me when I say that she writes in this magazine and
this, and she is getting a book ready for the press; ay, and there's
another thing. Shall I tell it, Charlotte?"

"Yes, father; it is no secret," replied Charlotte.

"It is this, brother Jasper; you have come home in time for a wedding.
My girl is going to leave me. I shall miss her, for she is womanly in
the best sense of the word, and she is my only one; but there is a
comfort--the man she is to marry is worthy of her."

"And there is another comfort, father," said Charlotte; "that though I
hope to be married, yet I never mean to leave you. You know that well, I
have often told you so," and here this grave young girl came over and
kissed her father's forehead.

He smiled back at her, all the care leaving his eyes as he did so. Uncle
Jasper had sprung impatiently to his feet.

"As to the lass being married," he said, "that's nothing; all women
marry, or if they don't they ought to. But what was that you said, John,
about writing, writing in a printed book? You were joking surely, man?"

"No, I was not," answered the father. "Go and show your uncle Jasper
that last article of yours, Charlotte."

"Oh, heaven preserve us! no," said uncle Jasper, backing a pace or two.
"I'm willing with all my heart to believe it, if you swear it, but not
the article. Don't for heaven's sake, confront me with the article."

"There's nothing uncommon in my writing for magazines, Uncle Jasper; a
great many girls do write now. I have three friends myself who----"

Uncle Jasper's red face had grown positively pathetic in its agitation.
"What a place England must have become!" he interrupted with a groan.
"Well, lass, I'll believe you, but I have one request to make. Tell me
what you like about your wedding; go into all the raptures you care for
over your wedding dress, and even over the lucky individual for whom you
will wear it; tell me twenty times a day that he's perfection, that you
and you alone have found the eighth wonder of the world, but for the
love of heaven leave out about the books! The other will be hard to
bear, but I'll endeavor to swallow it--but the books, oh! heaven
preserve us--leave out about the printed books. Don't mention the
unlucky magazines for which you write. Don't breathe to me the thoughts
with which you fill them. Oh, if there's an awful creature under the sun
'tis a blue-stocking, and to think I should have come back from England
to find such a horror in the person of my own niece!"




CHAPTER II.

THE POOR CHARLOTTE.


While this light and playful scene was being enacted in a wealthy house
in Prince's Gate, and Charlotte Harman and her father laughed merrily
over the Australian uncle's horror of authors and their works, another
Charlotte was going through a very different part, in a different place
in the great world's centre.

There could scarcely be a greater contrast than between the small and
very shabby house in Kentish Town and the luxurious mansion in
Kensington. The parlor of this house, for the drawing-rooms were let to
lodgers, was occupied by one woman. She sat by a little shabbily covered
table, writing. The whole appearance of the room was shabby: the
furniture, the carpet, the dingy window panes, the tiny pretence of a
fire in the grate. It was not exactly a dirty room, but it lacked all
brightness and freshness. The chimney did not draw well, and now and
then a great gust of smoke would come down, causing the busy writer to
start and rub her smarting eyes. She was a young woman, as young as
Charlotte Harman, with a slight figure and very pale face. There were
possibilities of beauty in the face. But the possibilities had come to
nothing; the features were too pinched, too underfed, the eyes, in
themselves dark and heavily fringed, too often dimmed by tears. It was a
very cold day, and sleet was beginning to fall, and the smoking chimney
had a vindictive way of smoking more than ever, but the young woman
wrote on rapidly, as though for bare life. Each page as she finished it,
was flung on one side; some few fell on the floor, but she did not stop
even to pick them up.

The short winter daylight had quite faded, and she had stood up to light
the gas, when the room door was pushed slightly ajar, and one of those
little maids-of-all-work, so commonly seen in London, put in her untidy
head.

"Ef you please, 'em, Harold's been and hurt Daisy, and they is
quarreling h'ever so, and I think as baby's a deal worse, 'em."

"I will go up to them, Anne, and you may stay down and lay the cloth for
tea--I expect your master in early to-night."

She put her writing materials hastily away, and with a light, quick step
ran upstairs. She entered a room which in its size and general
shabbiness might better have been called an attic, and found herself in
the presence of three small children. The two elder ran to meet her with
outstretched arms and glad cries. The baby sat up in his cot and gazed
hard at his mother with flushed cheeks and round eyes.

She took the baby in her arms and sat down in a low rocking-chair close
to the fire. Harold and Daisy went on their little knees in front of
her. Now that mother had come their quarrel was quite over, and the poor
baby ceased to fret.

Seated thus, with her little children about her there was no doubt at
all that Charlotte Home had a pleasant face; the care vanished from her
eyes as she looked into the innocent eyes of her babies, and as she
nursed the seven-months-old infant she began crooning a sweet old song
in a true, delicious voice, to which the other two listened with
delight:----

  "In the days when we went gipsying,
  A long time ago."

"What's gipsying, mother?" asked Harold, aged six.

"Something like picnicking, darling. People who live in the country, or
who are rich,"--here Mrs. Home sighed--"often, in the bright summer
weather, take their dinner or their tea, and they go out into the woods
or the green fields and eat there. I have been to gypsy teas; they are
great fun. We lit a fire and boiled the kettle over it, and made the
tea; it was just the same tea as we had at home, but somehow it tasted
much better out-of-doors."

"Was that some time ago, mother?" asked little Daisy.

"It would seem a long, long time to you, darling; but it was not so many
years ago."

"Mother," asked Harold, "why aren't we rich, or why don't we live in the
country?"

A dark cloud, caused by some deeper emotion than the mere fact of being
poor, passed over the mother's face.

"We cannot live in the country," she said, "because your father has a
curacy in this part of London. Your father is a brave man, and he must
not desert his post."

"Then why aren't we rich?" persisted the boy.

"Because--because--I cannot answer you that, Harold; and now I must run
downstairs again. Father is coming in earlier than usual to-night, and
you and Daisy may come down for a little bit after tea--that is, if you
promise to be very good children now, and not to quarrel. See, baby has
dropped asleep; who will sit by him and keep him from waking until Anne
comes back?"

"I, mother," said Harold, and, "I, mother," said Daisy.

"That is best," said the gentle-voiced mother; "you both shall keep him
very quiet and safe; Harold shall sit on this side of his little cot and
Daisy at the other."

Both children placed themselves, mute as mice, by the baby's side, with
the proud look of being trusted on their little faces. The mother kissed
them and flew downstairs. There was no time for quiet or leisurely
movement in that little house; in the dingy parlor, the gas had now been
lighted, and the fire burned better and brighter, and Anne with most
praiseworthy efforts, was endeavoring to make some toast, which, alas!
she only succeeded in burning. Mrs. Home took the toasting-fork out of
her hands.

"There, Anne, that will do nicely: I will finish the toast. Now please
run away, and take Miss Mitchell's dinner up to her; she is to have a
little pie to-night and some baked potatoes; they are all waiting, and
hot in the oven, and then please go back to the children."

Anne, a really good-tempered little maid-of-all-work, vanished, and Mrs.
Home made some fresh toast, which she set, brown, hot, and crisp, in the
china toast-rack. She then boiled a new-laid egg, and had hardly
finished these final preparations before the rattle of the latch-key was
heard in the hall-door, and her husband came in. He was a tall man, with
a face so colorless that hers looked almost rosy by contrast; his voice,
however, had a certain ring about it, which betokened that most rare and
happy gift to its possessor, a brave and courageous heart. The way in
which he now said, "Ah, Lottie!" and stooped down and kissed her, had a
good sound, and the wife's eyes sparkled as she sat down by the
tea-tray.

"Must you go out again to-night, Angus?" she said presently.

"Yes, my dear. Poor Mrs. Swift is really dying at last. I promised to
look in on her again."

"Ah, poor soul! has it really come? And what will those four children
do?"

"We must get them into an Orphanage; Petterick has interest. I shall
speak to him. Lottie?"

"Yes, dear."

"Beat up that fresh egg I saw you putting into the cupboard when I came
in; beat it up, and add a little milk and a teaspoonful of brandy. I
want to take it round with me to little Alice. That child has never left
her mother's side for two whole days and nights, and I believe has
scarcely tasted a morsel; I fear she will sink when all is over."

Lottie rose at once and prepared the mixture, placing it, when ready, in
a little basket, which her husband seldom went out without; but as she
put it in his hand she could not refrain from saying----

"I was keeping that egg for your breakfast, Angus; I do grudge it a
little bit."

"And to eat it when little Alice wanted it so sorely would choke me,
wife," replied the husband; and then buttoning his thin overcoat tightly
about him, he went out into the night.




CHAPTER III.

THE STORY.


The children were at last in bed, the drawing-room lodger had finished
her dinner, the welcome time of lull in the day's occupations had come,
and Mrs. Home sat by the dining-room fire. A large basket, filled with
little garments ready for mending, lay on the floor at her feet, and her
working materials were close by; but, for a wonder, the busy fingers
were idle. In vain Daisy's frock pleaded for that great rent made
yesterday, and Harold's socks showed themselves most disreputably out at
heels. Charlotte Home neither put on her thimble nor threaded her
needle; she sat gazing into the fire, lost in reverie. It was not a very
happy or peaceful reverie, to judge from the many changes on her
expressive face. The words, "Shall I, or shall I not?" came often to
her lips. Many things seemed to tear her judgment in divers ways; most
of all the look in her little son's eyes when he asked that eager,
impatient question, "mother, why aren't we rich?" but other and older
voices than little Harold's said to her, and they spoke pleadingly
enough, "Leave this thing alone; God knows what is best for you. As you
have gone on all these years, so continue, not troubling about what you
cannot understand, but trusting to him."

"I cannot; I am so tired sometimes," sighed the poor young wife.

She was still undetermined when her husband returned. There was a great
contrast in their faces--a greater almost in their voices, in the tone
of her dispirited, "Well, Angus," and his almost triumphant answer,----

"Well, Lottie, that hard fight has ended bravely. Thank God!"

"Ah! then the poor soul has gone," said the wife, moving her husband's
chair into the warmest corner.

"She has truly gone; I saw her breathe her last. But there is no need to
apply the word 'poor' to her; she has done with all that. You know what
a weakly, troubled creature she always was, how temptation and doubt
seemed to wrap her round like a mist, and prevent her seeing any of the
shining of the blue sky. Well, it all passed away at the last, and there
was nothing but a steadfast looking into the very face of her Lord. He
came for her, and she just stretched out her arms and went to Him. Thank
God for being privileged to witness such a death; it makes life far more
easy."

A little weariness had crept perceptibly into the brave voice of the
minister as he said these last words. His wife laid her hand
sympathizingly on his. They sat silent for a few moments, then he spoke
on a different subject,----

"How is baby to-night, Lottie?"

"Better, I think; his tooth is through at last. He will have rest now
for a bit, poor little darling."

"We must be careful to keep him from catching another cold. And how is
Anne getting on?"

"As well as we can expect from such an ignorant little mite. And oh!
Angus, the nursery is such a cold, draughty room, and I do--I do wish we
were rich."

The last words were tumbled out with a great irrepressible burst of
tears.

"Why, my Lottie, what has come to you?" said her husband, touched and
alarmed by this rare show of feeling "What is it, dear? You wish we were
rich, so do not I; I am quite content. I go among so very much poorer
people than myself, Lottie, that it always seems to me I have far more
than my fair share of life's good things; but, at any rate my Lottie,
crying won't make us rich, so don't waste your strength over it."

"I can't help it sometimes, Angus; it goes to my heart to see you
shivering in such a great-coat as you have just taken off, and then I
know you want better food, and wine; you are so tired this moment you
can scarcely speak. What a lot of good some port wine would do you!"

"And what a lot of good, wishing for it will do me! Come Lottie, be
sensible; we must not begin to repine for what we have not got, and
cannot get. Let us think of our mercies."

"You make me ashamed of myself, Angus. But these thoughts don't come to
me for nothing; the fact is--yes, I will tell you at last, I have long
been making up my mind. The truth is, Angus, I can't look at the
children--I can't look at you and see you all suffering, and hold my
peace any longer. We are poor, very--very--dreadfully poor, but we ought
to be rich."

"Lottie!"

Such a speech, so uttered, would have called for reproof from Angus
Home, had it passed the lips of another. But he knew the woman he had
married too well not to believe there was reason in her words.

"I am sorry you have kept a secret from me," he said. "What is this
mystery, Lottie?"

"It was my mother, Angus. She begged of me to keep it to myself, and she
only told me when she was dying. But may I just tell you all from the
very beginning?"

"Yes, dear. If it is a romance, it will just soothe me, for though I am,
I own, tired, I could not sleep for a long time to come."

"First, Angus, I must confess to a little bit of deceit I practised on
you."

"Ah, Lottie!" said her husband playfully, "no wonder you cried, with
such a heavy burden on your soul; but confess your sins, wife."

"You know how it has always fretted me, our being poor," said Charlotte.
"Your income is only just sufficient to put bread into our mouths, and,
indeed, we sometimes want even that. I have often lain awake at night
wondering how I could make a little money, and this winter, when it set
in so very severe, set my thoughts harder to work on this great problem
than ever. The children did want so much, Angus--new boots, and little
warm dresses--and so--and so--one day about a month ago, Mrs. Lisle, who
reads and writes so much, called, and I was very low, and she was kind
and sympathizing; somehow, at last out it all came, I did so wish to
earn money. She asked me if I could write a good clear hand, a hand
easily read. I showed her what I could do, and she was good enough to
call it excellent. She said no more then, but the next day she came
early. She brought me a MS. written by a friend of hers; very illegible
it was. She would not tell me the name of her friend, but she said she
was a lady very desirous of seeing herself in print. If I would copy
this illegible writing in my own good clear hand, the lady would give me
five pounds. I thought of the children's boots and their winter dresses,
and I toiled over it. I confess now that it was weary work, and tired me
more than I cared to own. I finished it to-day; this evening, just
before you came home, that task was done; but this morning I did
something else. You know Miss Mitchell is always kind enough to let me
see the _Times_. This morning Anne brought it down as usual, and, as I
ran my eyes over it I was struck by an advertisement, 'A young lady
living at Kensington wished for the services of an amanuensis, for so
many hours daily. Remuneration good.' I could not help it, Angus, my
heart seemed to leap into my mouth. Then and there I put on my bonnet,
and with a specimen of my handwriting in my pocket, went off to answer
the advertisement in person. The house was in Prince's Gate, Kensington:
the name of the young lady who had advertised for my services was
Harman."

"Harman! how strange, wife! your own name before you married."

"Yes, dear; but such a different person from me, so rich, while I am so
poor; so very, very beautiful, and graceful, and gracious: she may have
been a year or so younger than I, she was not much. She had a thoughtful
face, a noble face. I could have drawn tears from her eyes had I
described the little children, but I did not. It was delightful to look
upon her calm. Not for worlds would I disturb it; and, Angus, I found
out another thing--her name was not only Harman, but Charlotte Harman."

There was no doubt at all that the other Charlotte was excited now, the
color had come into her cheeks, her eyes sparkled. Her husband watched
her with undisguised surprise.

"I made a good thing of it Angus," she continued. "I am to go to
Prince's Gate every morning, I am to be there at ten, and give my
services till one o'clock. I am then to have lunch with the young lady,
and for all this, and the enjoyment of a good dinner into the bargain, I
am to receive thirty shillings a week. Does not it sound too good to be
true?"

"And that is how we are to be rich, Lottie. Well, go on and prosper. I
know what an active little woman you are and how impossible it is for
you to let the grass grow under your feet. I do not object to your
trying this thing, if it is not too much for your strength, and if you
can safely leave the children."

"I have thought of the children, Angus; this is so much for their real
interest, that it would be a pity to throw it away. But, as you say,
they must not be neglected. I shall ask that little Alice Martin to come
in to look after them until I am back every day; she will be glad to
earn half-a-crown a week."

"As much in proportion, as your thirty shillings is to you--eh, Lottie?
See how rich we are in reality."

Mrs. Home sighed, and the bright look left her face. Her husband
perceived the change.

"That is not all you have got to tell me," he said.

"No, it is only leading up to what I want to tell you. It is what has
set me thinking so hard all day that I can keep it to myself no longer.
Angus, prepare for a surprise; that beautiful young lady, who bears the
same name I bore before I was married--is--is--she is my near relation."

"Your near relation, Charlotte? But I never knew you had any near
relations."

"No, dear, I never told you; my mother thought it best that you should
not know. She only spoke to me of them when she was dying. She was sorry
afterwards that she had even done that; she begged of me, unless great
necessity arose, not to say anything to you. It is only because it seems
to me the necessity has really come that I speak of what gave my mother
such pain to mention."

"Yes, dear, you have wealthy relations. I don't know that it matters
very greatly. But go on."

"There is more than that, Angus, but I will try to tell you all. You
know how poor I was when you found me, and gave me your love and
yourself."

"We were both poor, Lottie; so much so that we thought two hundred a
year, which was what we had to begin housekeeping on, quite riches."

"Yes, Angus; well, I had been poor all my life, I could never do what
rich girls did, I was so accustomed to wearing shabby dresses, and
eating plain food, and doing without the amusements which seem to come
naturally into the lives of most young girls, that I had ceased to miss
them. I was sent to a rather good school, and had lessons in music and
painting, and I sometimes wondered how my mother had money even to give
me these. Then I met you, and we were married. It was just after our
little Harold was born that my mother died."

"Yes, you went down into Hertfordshire; you were away for six weeks."

"I took Harold with me; mother was so proud of him. Whenever she had an
easy moment, she used to like to have him placed on her knee. She told
me then that she had a little son older than I, who died, and that our
Harold reminded her of him. One night, I remember so well, I was sitting
up with her. She had been going through great pain, but towards the
morning she was easier. She was more inclined, however, to talk than to
sleep. She began again speaking about the likeness between our Harold
and my little brother who died.

"'I shall give you little Edgar's christening robe for Harold,' she
said. 'I never could bear to part with it before but I don't mind his
having it. Open my wardrobe, Charlotte, and you will find it folded away
in a blue paper, in the small wooden box.'

"I did so, and took out a costly thing, yellow, it is true, with age,
but half covered with most valuable lace.

"'Why, mother,' I exclaimed, 'how did you ever get such a valuable dress
as this? Why, this lace would be cheap at a guinea a yard!'

"'It cost a great deal more than that,' replied mother, stroking down
the soft lace and muslin with her thin fingers; 'but we were rich then,
Lottie.'

"'Rich!' I said, 'rich! I never, never thought that you and I had
anything to say to money, mother.'

"'You don't remember your father, child?'

"'No, mother,' I said; 'how could I? I was only two years old when he
died.'

"Mother was silent after that, and I think she went into a doze, but my
curiosity and wonder were excited, and I could not help seeking to know
more.

"'I never knew that we were rich,' I said again the next day. 'Why did
you never tell me before? The next best thing to enjoying riches would
be to hear about them.'

"'I did not want to make you discontented, Lottie. I thought what you
had never known or thought of you would never miss. I feared, my dear,
to make you discontented.'

"'But I have thought of money,' I owned, 'I have thought of it lately a
great deal. When I look at Angus I long to get him every luxury, and I
want my little Harold to grow up surrounded by those things which help
to develop a fine and refined character.

"'But they don't, Lottie; they don't indeed,' answered my dear dying
mother. 'Riches bring a snare--they debase the character, they don't
ennoble it.'

"'Mother,' I said, 'I see plainly that you are well acquainted with this
subject. You will tell me, mother, what you know?'

"'Yes,' replied my mother; 'it won't do you the least good; but as I
have said so much to you I may as well tell the rest.'

"Then, Angus, my mother told me the following story; it is not very
long.

"She was an orphan and a governess when my father found her and married
her--she was my father's second wife. She was much younger than he--he
had grown-up sons--two grown-up sons at the time of his marriage; and
they were very deeply offended at his thinking of a second marriage. So
indignant were they that my father and they came to quite an open
quarrel, and mother said that during the five years that my father lived
she never saw either of her stepsons until just at the close. She was
very happy as my father's wife; he loved her dearly, and as he had
plenty of money she wanted for nothing. My father was an old man, as I
have said, and he was tired of fuss, and also of much society; so though
they were so rich mother lived rather a lonely life--in a large and
beautiful place in Hertfordshire. She said the place was called the
Hermitage, and was one of the largest and best in the neighborhood. At
last my father fell ill, very ill, and the doctors said he must die.
Then for the first time there came hastening back to the Hermitage the
two elder sons--their names were John and Jasper--the eldest John, my
mother said, was very handsome, and very kind and courteous to her. He
was a married man, and he told mother that he had a little daughter much
about my age, who was also called Charlotte. My father and his two sons
seemed quite reconciled in these last days, and they spent most of their
time with him. On the evening, however, before he died, he had mother
and me with him alone. I sat on the bed, a little baby child of two, and
my father held mother's hand. He told mother how much he loved her, and
he spoke a very little about money matters.

"'John will make it all right for you, Daisy,' he said. 'John knows all
about my wishes with regard to you and little Charlotte. I should like
this little Charlotte and his to be friends; they are both called after
my own mother, the best woman I ever met. You will bring up little
Charlotte with every comfort and refinement, dear wife.'

"The next day my father died, and John and Jasper went to London. They
did not even wait for the funeral, though Jasper came back for it. John,
he told mother, was kept by the sudden dangerous illness of his wife.
Jasper said that John felt our father's death most dreadfully. Mother
had liked John, who was always very civil to her, but she could not bear
Jasper: she said he seemed a cleverer man than his brother, but she
never could get over a feeling of distrust towards him. The will was
never read to my mother, but Jasper came back again from London to tell
her of its contents, and then judge of her surprise--her name was not
even mentioned, neither her name nor mine. She had been married without
settlements, and every farthing of all my father's great wealth was left
to his two sons, John and Jasper. Jasper expressed great surprise; he
even said it was a monstrously unfair thing of his father to do, and
that certainly he and his brother would try to rectify it in a measure.
He then went back to London, and mother was left alone in the great
empty house. She said she felt quite stunned, and was just then in such
grief for my father that she scarcely heeded the fact that she was left
penniless. Two days afterwards a lawyer from London came down to see
her. He came with a message from her two stepsons. They were much
concerned for her, and they were willing to help her. They would allow
her, between them, as long as she lived the interest on three thousand
pounds--on one condition. The condition was this: she was never to claim
the very least relationship with them; she was to bring up her daughter
as a stranger to them. They had never approved of their father's
marrying her; they would allow her the money on condition that all
connection between them be completely dropped. The day it was renewed by
either mother or daughter, on that day the interest on the three
thousand pounds would cease to be paid. My mother was too young, too
completely inexperienced, and too bowed down with grief, to make the
least objection. Only one faint protest did she make. 'My husband said,'
she faltered, 'on the very last day of his life, he said that he wished
my little Charlotte and that other Charlotte in London to be friends.'
But the lawyer only shook his head. On this point his clients were firm.
'All communication between the families must cease.'

"That is the story, Angus," continued Charlotte Home, suddenly changing
her voice, and allowing her eyes, which had been lowered during her
brief recital, to rise to her husband's face. "My dear mother died a day
or two afterwards. She died regretting having to own even what she did,
and begging me not to think unkindly of my father, and not to unsettle
your mind by telling you what could do no good whatever.

"'I do not think unkindly of my father, mother,' I answered, 'and I will
not trouble my husband's mind, at least, not yet, never, perhaps, unless
fitting opportunity arises. But I know what I think, mother--what,
indeed, I know. That was not my father's real will; my brothers John and
Jasper have cheated you. Of this I am very sure.'

"Mother, though she was so weak and dying, got quite a color into her
cheeks when I said this. 'No, no,' she said, 'don't harbor such a
thought in your heart--my darling, my darling. Indeed it is utterly
impossible. It was a real, real will. I heard it read, and your
brothers, they were gentlemen. Don't let so base a thought of them dwell
in your heart. It is, I know it is, impossible.'

"I said no more to trouble my dear mother and shortly afterwards she
died. That is six years ago."




CHAPTER IV.

TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT.


After the story was finished the husband and wife sat for a long time
side by side, in absolute silence. Both pairs of eyes were fixed on the
glowing embers in the fire; the wife's reflected back both the lights
and the shadows; they were troubled eyes, troubled with possible joy,
troubled also with the dark feelings of anger. The husband's, on the
contrary, were calm and steady. No strong hope was visiting them, but
despair, even disquietude, seemed miles away. Presently the wife's small
nervous fingers were stretched out to meet her husband's, his closed
over them, he turned his head, met her anxious face, smiled and spoke.

"So it seems on the cards that you might have been rich, Lottie. Well,
it was unjust of your father not to have made some provision for your
mother and you, but--but--he has long been dead, the whole thing is
over. Let it pass."

"Angus! do you know what I should like?" asked his wife.

"No. What?"

"I should like to meet those two men, John and Jasper Harman, face to
face, and ask them without the least preamble or preparation, what they
have done with my father's real will?"

"Dear Lottie, you must get this strange idea out of your head. It is not
right of you to harbor such thoughts of any men."

"I should like to look so hard at them," continued Charlotte, scarcely
heeding her husband's words. "I know their eyes would flinch, they would
be startled, they would betray themselves. Angus, I can't help it, the
conviction that is over me is too strong to be silenced. For years, ever
since my mother told me that story, I have felt that we have been
wronged, nay, robbed of our own. But when I entered that house to-day
and found myself face with my half-brother's daughter, when I found
myself in the house that I had been forbidden to enter, I felt--I knew,
that a great wrong had been committed. My father! Why should I think
ill of my father, Angus? Is it likely that he would have made no
provision for my mother whom he loved, or for me? Is it likely that he
would have left everything he possessed to the two sons with whom he had
so bitterly quarrelled, that for years they had not even met? Is it
likely? Angus, you are a just man, and you will own to the truth. Is it
likely, that with his almost dying breath, he should have assured my
mother that all was settled that she could bring me up well, in comfort
and luxury, that Charlotte Harman and I should be friends? No, Angus! I
believe my father; he was a good and just man always; and, even if he
was not, dying men don't tell lies."

"I grant that it seems unlikely, Lottie; but then, on the other hand,
what do you accuse these men of? Why, of no less a crime than forging a
will, of suppressing the real will, and bringing forward one of their
own manufacture. Why, my dear wife, such an act of villainy would be not
only difficult, but, I should say, impossible."

"I don't know _how_ it was done, Angus, but something was done, of that
I am sure, and what that thing was I shall live, please God, to find
out."

"Then you--you, a clergyman's wife--the wife of a man who lives to
proclaim peace on earth, good-will to men, you go into your brother's
house as a spy!"

Mrs. Home colored. Her husband had risen from his chair.

"You shall not do that," he said; "I am your husband, and I forbid it.
You can only go to the Harmans, if they are indeed the near relations
you believe them to be, on one condition."

"And that?" said Charlotte.

"That you see not only Mr. Harman's daughter, but Mr. Harman himself;
that you tell him exactly who you are.... If, after hearing your story,
he allows you to work for his daughter, you can do so without again
alluding to the relationship. If they wish it dropped, drop it, Lottie;
work for them as you would for any other strangers, doing your best work
bravely and well. But begin openly. Above all things thinking no evil in
your heart of them."

"Then I cannot go on these conditions, Angus, for I cannot feel charity
in my heart towards Mr. Harman. It seemed such a good thing this
morning. But I must give it up."

"And something else will come in it's place, never fear; but I did not
know until to-night that my Lottie so pined for riches."

"Angus, I do--I do--I want Harold to go to a good school, Daisy to be
educated, little Angus to get what is necessary for his health, and
above all, you, my dearest, my dearest, to have a warm overcoat, and
port wine: the overcoat when you are cold, the port wine when you are
tired. Think of having these luxuries, not only for yourself, but to
give away to your poor, Angus, and I am sure we ought to have them."

"Ah, Lottie! you are a witch, you try to tempt me, and all these things
sound very pleasant. But don't dream of what we haven't, let us live for
the many, many things we have."




CHAPTER V.

LOVE IN A DIAMOND.


The next day Angus Home went out early as usual, about his many parish
duties; this was it was true, neither a feast nor a fast day, nor had he
to attend a morning service, but he had long ago constituted himself
chief visitor among the sick and poorest of his flock, and such work
occupied him from morning to night. Perhaps in a nature naturally
inclined to asceticism, this daily mingling with the very poor and the
very suffering, had helped to keep down all ambitions for earthly good
things, whether those good things came in the guise of riches or honors;
but though unambitious and very humble, never pushing himself forward,
doing always the work that men who considered themselves more fastidious
would shun, never allowing his voice to be heard where he believed wiser
men than he might speak, Mr. Home was neither morbid nor unhappy; one of
his greatest characteristics was an utter absence of all
self-consciousness.

The fact was, the man, though he had a wife whom he loved, and children
very dear to him, had grown accustomed to hold life lightly; to him life
was in very truth a pilgrimage, a school, a morning which should usher
in the great day of the future. His mental and spiritual eyes were fixed
expectantly and longingly on that day; and in connection with it, it
would be wrong to say that he was without ambition, for he had a very
earnest and burning desire, not only for rank but for kingship by and
by: he wanted to be crowned with the crown of righteousness.

Angus Home knew well that to wear that crown in all its lustre in the
future, it must begin to fit his head down here; and he also knew that
those who put on such crowns on earth, find them, as their great and
blessed Master did before them, made of thorns.

It is no wonder then that the man with so simple a faith, so Christ-like
a spirit, should not be greatly concerned by his wife's story of the
night before. He did not absolutely forget it, for he pondered over it
as he wended his way to the attic where the orphan Swifts lived. He felt
sorry for Lottie as he thought of it, and he hoped she would soon cease
to have such uncharitable ideas of her half-brothers; he himself could
not even entertain the notion that any fraud had been committed; he felt
rather shocked that his Lottie should dwell on so base a thing.

There is no doubt that this saint-like man could be a tiny bit
provoking; and so his wife felt when he left her without again alluding
to their last night's talk. After all it is wives and mothers who feel
the sharpest stings of poverty. Charlotte had known what to be poor
meant all her life, as a child, as a young girl, as a wife, as a mother,
but she had been brave enough about it, indifferent enough to it, until
the children came; but from the day her mother's story was told her, and
she knew how close the wings of earthly comfort had swept her by,
discontent came into her heart. Discontent came in and grew with the
birth of each fresh little one. She might have made her children so
comfortable, she could do so little with them; they were pretty children
too. It went to her heart to see their beauty disfigured in ugly
clothes; she used to look the other way with a great jealous pang, when
she saw children not nearly so beautiful as hers, yet looked at and
admired because of their bright fresh colors and dainty little
surroundings. But poverty brought worse stings than these. The small
house in Kentish Town was hot and stifling in the months of July and
August; the children grew pale and pined for the fresh country air which
could not be given to them; Lottie herself grew weak and languid, and
her husband's pale face seemed to grow more ethereal day by day. At all
such times as these did Charlotte Home's mind and thoughts refer back
to her mother's story, and again and again the idea returned that a
great, great wrong had been done.

In the winter when this story opens, poverty came very close to the
little household. They were, it is true, quite out of debt, but they
were only so because the food was kept so scanty, the fires so low,
dress so very insufficient to keep at a distance the winter's bitter
cold; they were only out of debt because the mother slaved from morning
to night, and the father ate less and less, having, it is to be feared,
less and less appetite to eat.

Then the wife and mother grew desperate, money must be brought in--how
could it be done? The doctor called and said that baby Angus would die
if he had not more milk--he must have what is called in London
baby-milk, and plenty of it. Such milk in Kentish Town meant money.
Lottie resolved that baby Angus should not die. In answering an
advertisement which she hoped would give her employment, she
accidentally found herself in her own half-brother's house. There was
the wealth which had belonged to her father; there were the riches to
which she was surely born. How delicious were those soft carpets; how
nice those cushioned seats; how pleasant those glowing fires; what an
air of refinement breathed over everything; how grand it was to be
served by those noiseless and well-trained servants; how great a thing
was wealth, after all!

She thought all this before she saw Charlotte Harman. Then the gracious
face, the noble bearing, the kindly and sweet manner of this girl of her
own age, this girl who might have been her dearest friend, who was so
nearly related to her, filled her with sudden bitterness; she believed
herself immeasurably inferior to Miss Harman, and yet she knew that she
might have been such another. She left the house with a mingled feeling
of relief and bitterness. She was earning present money. What might she
not discover to benefit her husband and children by and by?

In the evening, unable to keep her thoughts to herself, she told them
and her story for the first time to her husband. Instantly he tore the
veil from her eyes. Was she, his wife, to go to her own brother's house
as a spy? No! a thousand times no! No wealth, however needed, would be
worth purchasing at such a price. If Charlotte could not banish from her
mind these unworthy thoughts, she must give up so excellent a means of
earning money.

Poor Charlotte! The thoughts her husband considered so mean, so untrue,
so unworthy, had become by this time part of her very being. Oh! must
the children suffer because unrighteous men enjoyed what was rightfully
theirs?

For the first time, the very first time in all her life, she felt
discontented with her Angus. If only he were a little more everyday, a
little more practical; if only he would go to the bottom of this
mystery, and set her mind at rest!

She went about her morning duties in a state of mental friction and
aggravation, and, as often happens, on this very morning when she seemed
least able to bear it, came the proverbial last straw. Anne, the little
maid, put in her head at the parlor door.

"Ef you please, 'em, is Harold to wear 'em shoes again? There's holes
through and through of 'em, and it's most desp'rate sloppy out of doors
this mornin'."

Mrs. Home took the little worn-out shoes in her hand; she saw at a
glance that they were quite past mending.

"Leave them here, Anne," she said. "You are right, he cannot wear these
again. I will go out at once and buy him another pair."

The small maid disappeared, and Charlotte put her hand into her pocket.
She drew out her purse with a sinking heart. Was there money enough in
it to buy the necessary food for the day's consumption, and also to get
new shoes for Harold? A glance showed her but too swiftly there was not.
She never went on credit for anything--the shoes must wait, and Harold
remain a prisoner in the house that day. She went slowly up to the
nursery: Daisy and baby could go out and Harold should come down to the
parlor to her.

But one glance at her boy's pale face caused her heart to sink. He was a
handsome boy--she thought him aristocratic, fit to be the son of a
prince--but to-day he was deadly pale, with that washy look which
children who pine for fresh air so often get. He was standing in rather
a moping attitude by the tiny window; but at sight of his mother he flew
to her.

"Mother, Anne says I'm to have new shoes. Have you got them? I am so
glad."

No, she could not disappoint her boy. A sudden idea darted through her
brain. She would ask Miss Mitchell, the drawing-room boarder, to lend
her the three-and-sixpence which the little shoes would cost. It was the
first time she had ever borrowed, and her pride rose in revolt at even
naming the paltry sum--but, for the sake of her boy's pale face?

"I am going out to buy the shoes," she said, stooping down to kiss the
sweet upturned brow; and she flew downstairs and tapped at the
drawing-room door.

Miss Mitchell was a lady of about fifty; she had been with them now for
nearly a year, and what she paid for the drawing-room and best bedroom
behind it, quite covered the rent of the shabby little house. Miss
Mitchell was Charlotte Home's grand standby; she was a very
uninteresting person, neither giving nor looking for sympathy, never
concerning herself about the family in whose house she lived. But then,
on the other hand, she was easily pleased; she never grumbled, she paid
her rent like clockwork. She now startled Lottie by coming instantly
forward and telling her that it was her intention to leave after the
usual notice; she found the baby's fretful cries too troublesome, for
her room was under the nursery; this was one reason. Another, perhaps
the most truthful one, was, that her favorite curate in St. Martin's
Church over the way, had received promotion to another and more
fashionable church, and she would like to move to where she could still
be under his ministry. Charlotte bowed; there was nothing for it but to
accept the fact that her comfortable lodger must go. Where could she
find a second Miss Mitchell, and how could she possibly now ask for the
loan of three and sixpence?

She left the room. Where was the money to come from to buy Harold's
shoes? for that little pleading face must not be disappointed. This care
was, for the moment, more pressing than the loss of Miss Mitchell. How
should she get the money for her boy? She pressed her hand to her brow
to think out this problem. As she did so, a ring she wore on her
wedding-finger flashed; it was her engagement ring, a plain gold band,
only differing from the wedding-ring, which it now guarded, in that it
possessed one small, very small diamond. The diamond was perhaps the
smallest that could be purchased, but it was pure of its kind, and the
tiny gem now flashed a loving fire into her eyes, as though it would
speak if it could in answer to her inquiry. Yes, if she sold this ring,
the money would be forthcoming. It was precious, it symbolized much to
her; she had no other to act as guard; but it was not so precious as the
blue eyes of her first-born. Her resolve was scarcely conceived before
it was put in practice. She hastened out with the ring; a jeweller
lived not far away; he gave her fifteen shillings, and Charlotte,
feeling quite rich, bought the little shoes and hurried home.

As she almost flew along the sloppy streets a fresh thought came to her.
Yes! she must certainly decline that very excellent situation with Miss
Harman. That sorely wanted thirty shillings a week must be given up,
there was no question about that. Bitter were her pangs of heart as she
relinquished the precious money, but it would be impossible for her to
go to her brother's house in the only spirit in which her husband would
allow her to go. Yes; she must give it up. When the children were at
last fairly started on their walk she would sit down and write to Miss
Harman. But why should she write? She stood still as the thought came to
her to go to Miss Harman in person; to tell her from her own lips that
she must not visit that house, or see her daily. She might or might not
tell her who she really was; she would leave that to circumstances; but
she would at least once more see her brother's house and look into the
eyes of her brother's child. It would be a short, soon-lived-through
excitement. Still she was in that mood when to sit still in inactivity
was impossible; the visit would lead to nothing, but still she would pay
it; afterwards would be time enough to think of finding some one to
replace Miss Mitchell, of trying to buy again her engagement ring, of
purchasing warm clothes for her little ones.




CHAPTER VI.

IN PRINCE'S GATE.


Having arranged her household matters, been informed of another pair of
boots which could not last many days longer, seen to the children's
dinner, and finally started the little group fairly off for their walk
with Anne, Charlotte ran upstairs, put on her neat though thin and worn
black silk, her best jacket and bonnet and set off to Kensington to see
Miss Harman.

She reached the grand house in Prince's Gate about twelve o'clock. The
day had indeed long begun for her, but she reflected rather bitterly
that most likely Miss Harman had but just concluded her breakfast. She
found, however, that she had much wronged this energetic young lady.
Breakfast had been over with some hours ago, and when Mrs. Home asked
for her, the footman who answered her modest summons said that Miss
Harman was out, but had left directions that if a lady called she was to
be asked to wait.

Charlotte was taken up to Miss Harman's own private sitting room, where,
after stirring the fire, and furnishing her with that morning's _Times_,
the servant left her alone.

Mrs. Home was glad of this. She drew her comfortable easy chair to the
fire, placed her feet upon the neat brass rail, closed her eyes, and
tried to fancy herself alone. Had her father lived, such comforts as
these would have been matters of everyday occurrence to her. Common as
the air she breathed would this grateful warmth be then to her thin
limbs, this delicious easy chair to her aching back. Had her father
lived, or had justice been done, in either case would soft ease have
been her portion. She started from her reclining position and looked
round the room. A parrot swung lazily on his perch in one of the
windows. Two canaries sang in a gilded cage in the other. How Harold and
Daisy would love these birds! Just over her head was a very beautifully
executed portrait in oils of a little child, most likely Miss Harman in
her infancy. Ah, yes, but baby Angus at home was more beautiful. A
portrait of him would attract more admiration than did that of the proud
daughter of all this wealth. Tears started unbidden to the poor
perplexed mother's eyes. It was hard to sit quiet with this burning pain
at her heart. Just then the door was opened and an elderly gentleman
with silver hair came in. He bowed, distantly to the stranger sitting by
his hearth, took up a book he had come to seek, and withdrew. Mrs. Home
had barely time to realize that this elderly man must really be the
brother who had supplanted her, when a sound of feet, of voices, of
pleasant laughter, drew near. The room door was again opened, and
Charlotte Harman, accompanied by two gentlemen, came in. The elder of
the two men was short and rather stout, with hair that had once been
red, but was now sandy, keen, deep-set eyes, and a shrewd, rather
pleasant face. Miss Harman addressed him as Uncle Jasper, and they
continued firing gay badinage at one another for a moment without
perceiving Mrs. Home's presence. The younger man was tall and
square-shouldered, with a rather rugged face of some power. He might
have been about thirty. He entered the room by Miss Harman's side, and
stood by her now with a certain air of proprietorship.

"Ah! Mrs. Home," said the young lady, quickly discovering her visitor
and coming forward and shaking hands with her at once, "I expected you.
I hope you have not waited long, John," turning to the young man, "will
you come back at four? Mrs. Home and I have some little matters to talk
over, and I daresay her time is precious. I shall be quite ready to go
out with you at four. Uncle Jasper, my father is in the library; will
you take him this book from me?"

Uncle Jasper, who had been peering with all his might out of his
short-sighted eyes at the visitor, now answered with a laugh, "We are
politely dismissed, eh? Hinton," and taking the arm of the younger man
they left the room.




CHAPTER VII.

IT INTERESTS HER.


"And now, Mrs Home, we will have some lunch together up here, and then
afterwards we can talk and quite finish all our arrangements," said the
rich Charlotte, looking with her frank and pleasant eyes at the poor
one. She rang a bell as she spoke, and before Mrs. Home had time to
reply, a tempting little meal was ordered to be served without delay.

"I have been with my publishers this morning," said Miss Harman. "They
are good enough to say they believe my tale promises well, but they want
it completed by the first of March, to come out with the best spring
books. Don't you think we may get it done? It is the middle of January
now."

"I daresay it may be done," answered Mrs. Home, rising, and speaking in
a tremulous voice. "I have no doubt you will work hard and have it
ready--but--but--I regret it much, I have come to-day to say I cannot
take the situation you have so kindly offered me."

"But why?" said Miss Harman, "why?" Some color came into her cheeks as
she added, "I don't understand you. I thought you had promised. I
thought it was all arranged yesterday."

Her tone was a little haughty, but how well she used it; how keenly Mrs.
Home felt the loss of what she was resigning.

"I did promise you," she said; "I feel you have a right to blame me. It
is a considerable loss to me resigning your situation, but my husband
has asked me to do so. I must obey my husband, must I not?"

"Oh! yes, of course. But why should he object. He is a clergyman, is he
not? Is he too proud--I would tell no one. All in this house should
consider you simply as a friend. Our writing would be just a secret
between you and me. Your husband will give in when you tell him that."

"He is not in the least proud, Miss Harman--not proud I mean in that
false way."

"Then I am not giving you money enough--of course thirty shillings seems
too little; I will gladly raise it to two pounds a week, and if this
book succeeds, you shall have more for helping me with the next."

Mrs. Home felt her heart beating. How much she needed, how keenly she
longed for that easily earned money. "I must not think of it," she said,
however, shaking her head. "I confess I want money, but I must earn it
elsewhere. I cannot come here. My husband will only allow me to do so on
a certain condition. I cannot even tell you the condition--certainly I
cannot fulfil it, therefore I cannot come."

"Oh! but that is exciting. _Do_ tell it to me."

"If I did you would be the first to say I must never come to this house
again."

"I am quite sure you wrong me there. I may as well own that I have taken
a fancy to you. I am a spoiled child, and I always have my own way. My
present way is to have you here in this snug room for two or three hours
daily--you and I working in secret over something grand. I always get my
way so your conditions must melt into air. Now, what are they?"

"Dare I tell her?" thought Mrs. Home. Aloud she said, "The conditions
are these:--I must tell you a story, a story about myself--and--and
others."

"And I love stories, especially when they happen in real life."

"Miss Harman, don't tempt me. I want to tell you, but I had better not;
you had better let me go away. You are very happy now, are you not?"

"What a strange woman you are, Mrs. Home! Yes, I am happy."

"You won't like my story. It is possible you may not be happy after you
have heard it."

"That is a very unlikely possibility. How can the tale of an absolute
stranger affect my happiness?" These words were said eagerly--a little
bit defiantly.

But Mrs. Home's face had now become so grave, and there was such an
eager, almost frightened look in her eyes, that her companion's too
changed. After all what was this tale? A myth, doubtless; but she would
hear it now.

"I accept the risk of my happiness being imperiled," she said. "I choose
to hear the tale--I am ready."

"But I may not choose to tell," said the other Charlotte.

"I would make you. You have begun--begun in such a way that you _must_
finish."

"Is that so?" replied Mrs. Home. The light was growing more and more
eager in her eyes. She said to herself, "The die is cast." There rose up
before her a vision of her children--of her husband's thin face. Her
voice trembled.

"Miss Harman--I will speak--you won't interrupt me?"

"No, but lunch is on the table. You must eat something first."

"I am afraid I cannot with that story in prospect; to eat would choke
me!"

"What a queer tale it must be!" said the other Charlotte. "Well, so be
it." She seated herself in a chair at a little distance from Mrs. Home,
fixed her gaze on the glowing fire, and said, "I am ready. I won't
interrupt you."

The poor Charlotte, too, looked at the fire. During the entire telling
of the tale neither of these young women glanced at the other.

"It is my own story," began Mrs. Home: then she paused, and continued,
"My father died when I was two years old. During my father's lifetime I,
who am now so poor, had all the comforts that you must have had, Miss
Harman, in your childhood. He died, leaving my mother, who was both
young and pretty, nothing. She was his second wife, for five years she
had enjoyed all that his wealth could purchase for her. He died, leaving
her absolutely penniless. My mother was, as I have said, a second wife.
My father had two grown-up sons. These sons had quarrelled with him at
the time of his marrying my young mother; they came to see him and were
reconciled on his deathbed. He left to these sons every penny of his
great wealth. The sons expressed surprise when the will was read. They
even blamed my father for so completely forgetting his wife and youngest
child. They offered to make some atonement for him. During my mother's
lifetime they settled on her three thousand pounds; I mean the interest,
at five per cent., on that sum. It was to return to them at her death,
it was not to descend to me, and my mother must only enjoy it on one
condition. The condition was, that all communication must cease between
my father's family and hers. On the day she renewed it the money would
cease to be paid. My mother was young, a widow, and alone; she accepted
the conditions, and the money was faithfully paid to her until the day
of her death. I was too young to remember my father, and I only heard
this story about him on my mother's deathbed; then for the first time I
learned that we might have been rich, that we were in a measure meant to
enjoy the good things which money can buy. My mother had educated me
well, and you may be quite sure that with an income of one hundred and
fifty pounds a year this could only be done by practising the strictest
economy. I was accustomed to doing without the pretty dresses and nice
things which came as natural to other girls as the air they breathed. In
my girlhood, I did not miss these things; but at the time of my mother's
death, at the time the story first reached my ears, I was married, and
my eldest child was born. A poor man had made me, a poor girl his wife,
and, Miss Harman, let me tell you, that wives and mothers do long for
money. The longing with them is scarcely selfish, it is for the beings
dearer than themselves. There is a pain beyond words in denying your
little child what you know is for that child's good, but yet which you
cannot give because of your empty purse; there is a pain in seeing your
husband shivering in too thin a coat on bitter winter nights. You know
nothing of such things--may you never know them; but they have gone
quite through my heart, quite, quite through it. Well, that is my story;
not much, you will say, after all. I might have been rich, I am poor,
that is my story."

"It interests me," said Miss Harman, drawing a long breath, "it
interests me greatly; but you will pardon my expressing my real
feelings: I think your father was a cruel and unjust man."

"I think my brothers, my half-brothers, were cruel and unjust. I don't
believe that was my father's real will."

"What! you believe there was foul play? This is interesting--if so, if
you can prove it, you may be righted yet. Are your half-brothers
living?"

"Yes."

"And you think you have proof that you and your mother were unjustly
treated?"

"I have no proof, no proof whatever, Miss Harman, I have only
suspicions."

"Oh! you will tell me what they are?"

"Even they amount to very little, and yet I feel them to be certainties.
On the night before my father died he told my mother that she and I
would be comfortably off; he also said that he wished that I and his
son's little daughter, that other Charlotte he called her, should grow
up together as sisters. My father was a good man, his mind was not
wandering at all, why should he on his deathbed have said this if he
knew that he had made such an unjust will, if he knew that he had left
my mother and her little child without a sixpence?"

"Yes," said Miss Harman slowly and thoughtfully, "it looks strange."

After this for a few moments both these young women were silent. Mrs.
Home's eyes again sought the fire, she had told her story, the
excitement was over, and a dull despair came back over her face.
Charlotte Harman, on the contrary, was deep in that fine speculation
which seeks to succor the oppressed, her grey eyes glowed, and a faint
color came in to her cheeks. After a time she said--

"I should like to help you to get your rights. You saw that gentleman
who left the room just now, that younger gentleman, I am to be his wife
before long--he is a lawyer, may I tell him your tale?"

"No, no, not for worlds." Here Mrs. Home in her excitement rose to her
feet. "I have told the story, forget it now, let it die."

"What a very strange woman you are, Mrs. Home! I must say I cannot
understand you."

"You will never understand me. But it does not matter, we are not likely
to meet again. I saw you for the first time yesterday. I love you, I
thank you. You are a rich and prosperous young lady, you won't be too
proud to accept my thanks and my love. Now good-bye."

"No, you are not going in that fashion. I do not see why you should go
at all; you have told me your story, it only proves that you want money
very much, there is nothing at all to prevent your becoming my
amanuensis."

"I cannot, I must not. Let me go."

"But why? I do not understand."

"You will never understand. I can only repeat that I must not come
here."

Mrs. Home could look proud when she liked. It was now Miss Harman's turn
to become the suppliant; with a softness of manner which in so
noble-looking a girl was simply bewitching, she said gently----

"You confess that you love me."

Mrs. Home's eyes filled with tears.

"Because I do I am going away," she said.

She had just revealed by this little speech a trifle too much, the
trifle reflected a light too vivid to Charlotte Harman's mind, her face
became crimson.

"I will know the truth," she said, "I will--I must. This story--you say
it is about you; is it all about you? has it anything to say to me?"

"No, no, don't ask me--good-bye."

"I stand between you and the door until you speak. How old are you, Mrs.
Home?"

"I am twenty-five."

"That is my age. Who was that Charlotte your dying father wished you to
be a sister to?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You cannot--but you must. I will know. Was it--but impossible! it
cannot be--am _I_ that Charlotte?"

Mrs. Home covered her face with two trembling hands. The other woman,
with her superior intellect, had discovered the secret she had feebly
tried to guard. There was a pause and a dead silence. That silence told
all that was necessary to Charlotte Harman. After a time she said
gently, but all the fibre and tune had left her voice,----

"I must think over your story, it is a very, very strange tale. You are
right, you cannot come here; good-bye."




CHAPTER VIII.

THE WOMAN BY THE HEARTH.


Mrs. Home went back to the small house in Kentish Town, and Miss Harman
sat on by her comfortable fire. The dainty lunch was brought in and laid
on the table, the young lady did not touch it. The soft-voiced,
soft-footed servant brought in some letters on a silver salver. They
looked tempting letters, thick and bulgy. Charlotte Harman turned her
head to glance at them but she left them unopened by her side. She had
come in very hungry, from her visit to the publishers, and these letters
which now lay so close had been looked forward to with some impatience,
but now she could neither eat nor read. At last a pretty little
timepiece which stood on a shelf over her head struck four, and a clock
from a neighboring church re-echoed the sound. Almost at the same
instant there came a tap at her room door.

"That is John," said Charlotte. She shivered a little. Her face had
changed a good deal, but she rose from her seat and came forward to meet
her lover.

"Ready, Charlotte?" he said, laying his two hands on her shoulders; then
looking into her face he started back in some alarm. "My dear, my
dearest, something has happened; what is the matter?"

This young woman was the very embodiment of truth. She did not dream of
saying, "Nothing is the matter." She looked up bravely into the eyes she
loved best in the world and answered,----

"A good deal is the matter, John. I am very much vexed and--and
troubled."

"You will tell me all about it; you will let me help you?" said the
lover, tenderly.

"Yes, John dear, but not to-night. I want to think to-night. I want to
know more. To-morrow you shall hear; certainly to-morrow. No, I will not
go out with you. Is my father in? Is Uncle Jasper in?"

"Your father is out, and your uncle is going. I left him buttoning on
his great-coat in the hall."

"Oh! I must see Uncle Jasper; forgive me, I must see him for a minute."

She flew downstairs, leaving John Hinton standing alone, a little
puzzled and a little vexed. Breathless she arrived in the hall to find
her uncle descending the steps; she rushed after him and laid her hand
on his shoulder.

"Uncle Jasper, I want you. Where are you going?"

"Hoity-toity," said the old gentleman, turning round in some surprise,
and even dismay when he caught sight of her face. "I am going to the
club, child. What next. I sent Hinton up to you. What more do you want?"

"I want you. I have a story to tell you and a question to ask you. You
must come back."

"Lottie, I said I would have nothing to do with those books of yours,
and I won't. I hate novels, and I hate novelists. Forgive me, child. I
don't hate you; but if your father and John Hinton between them mean to
spoil a fine woman by encouraging her to become that monster of nature,
a blue-stocking, I won't help them, and that's flat. There now. Let me
go."

"It is no fiction I want to ask you, Uncle Jasper. It is a true tale,
one I have just heard. It concerns me and you and my father. It has
pained me very much, but I believe it can be cleared up. I would rather
ask you than my father about it, at least at first; but either of you
can answer what I want to know; so if you will not listen to me I can
speak to my father after dinner."

Uncle Jasper had one of those faces which reveal nothing, and it
revealed nothing now. But the keen eyes looked hard into the open gray
eyes of the girl who stood by his side.

"What thread out of that tangled skein has she got into her head?" he
whispered to himself. Aloud he said, "I will come back to dinner,
Charlotte, and afterwards you shall take me up to your little snuggery.
If you are in trouble, my dear, you had better confide in me than in
your father. He does not--does not look very strong."

Then he walked down the street; but when he reached his club he did not
enter it. He walked on and on. He puzzling, not so much over his niece's
strange words as over something else. Who was that woman who sat by
Charlotte's hearth that day?




CHAPTER IX.

CHARLOTTE CANNOT BEAR THE DARK.


The elder Mr. Harman had retired to his study, and Charlotte and her
uncle sat side by side in that young lady's own private apartment. The
room looked snug and sheltered, and the subdued light from a Queen's
reading-lamp, and from the glowing embers of a half burned-out fire,
were very pleasant. Uncle Jasper was leaning back in an armchair, but
Charlotte stood on the hearthrug. Soft and faint as the light was, it
revealed burning cheeks and shining eyes; but the old face these tokens
of excitement appealed to remained completely in shadow.

Charlotte had told the story she had heard that day, and during its
whole recital her uncle had sat motionless, making no comment either by
word or exclamation.

Mrs. Home's tale had been put into skilful hands. It was well told--all
the better because the speaker so earnestly hoped that its existence
might turn out a myth--that the phantom so suddenly conjured up might
depart as quickly as it had arrived. At last the story came to a
conclusion. There was a pause, and Charlotte said,----

"Well, Uncle Jasper?"

"Well, Lottie?" he answered. And now he roused himself, and bent a
little forward.

"Is the story true, Uncle Jasper?"

"It is certainly true, Charlotte, that my father and your grandfather
married again."

"Yes, uncle."

"It is also highly probable that this young woman is the daughter of
that marriage. When I saw her in this room to-day I was puzzled by an
intangible likeness in her. This accounts for it."

"Then why----" began Charlotte, and then she stopped. There was a whole
world of bitterness in her tone.

"Sit down, child," said her uncle. He pointed to a footstool at his
feet. Whenever he came into this room Charlotte had occupied this
footstool, and he wanted her to take it now, but she would not; she
still kept her place on the hearth.

"I cannot sit," she said. "I am excited--greatly excited. This looks to
me in the light of a wrong."

"Who do you think has committed the wrong, Charlotte?"

Before she answered, Charlotte Harman lit a pair of candles which stood
on the mantelshelf.

"There, now," she said with a sigh of relief, "I can see your face. It
is dreadful to speak to any one in the dark. Uncle Jasper, if I had so
near a relation living all these years why was I never told of it? I
have over and over again longed for a sister, and it seems I had one or
one who might have been to me a sister. Why was I kept in ignorance of
her very existence?"

"You are like all women--unreasonable, Lottie. I am glad to find you so
human, my dear; so human, and--and--womanly. You jump to conclusions
without hearing reasons. Now I will give you the reasons. But I do wish
you would sit down."

"I will sit here," said Charlotte, and she drew a chair near the table.
The room abounded in easy-chairs of all sizes and descriptions, but she
chose one hard and made of cane, and she sat upright upon it, her hands
folded on her lap. "Now, Uncle Jasper," she said, "I am ready to hear
your reasons."

"They go a good way back, my dear, and I am not clever at telling a
story; but I will do my best. Your grandfather made his money in trade;
he made a good business, and he put your father and me both into it. It
is unnecessary to go into particulars about our special business; it was
small at first, but we extended it until it became the great firm of
which your father is the present head. We both, your father and I,
showed even more aptitude for this life of mercantile success than our
father did, and he, perceiving this, retired while scarcely an old man.
He made us over the entire business he had made, taking, however, from
it, for his own private use, a large sum of money. On the interest of
this money he would live, promising, however, to return it to us at his
death. The money taken out of the business rather crippled us, and we
begged of him to allow us to pay him the interest, and to let the
capital remain at our disposal; but he wished to be completely his own
master, and he bought a place in Hertfordshire out of part of the
money. It was a year or two after, that he met his second wife and
married her. I don't pretend," continued Uncle Jasper, "that we liked
this marriage or our stepmother. We were young fellows then, and we
thought our father had done us an injustice. The girl he had chosen was
an insipid little thing, with just a pretty face, and nothing whatever
else. She was not quite a lady. We saw her, and came to the conclusion
that she was common--most unsuited to our father. We also remembered our
own mother; and most young men feel pain at seeing any one put into her
place.

"We expostulated with our father. He was a fiery old man, and hot words
passed between us. I won't repeat what we all said, my dear, or how
bitter John and I felt when we rode away from the old place our father
had just purchased. One thing he said as we were going off.

"'My marrying again won't make any money difference to you two fellows,
and I suppose I may please myself.'"

"I think my grandfather was very unjust," said Charlotte, but
nevertheless a look of relief stole over her face.

"We went back to our business, my dear, and our father married; and when
we wrote to him he did not answer our letters. After a time we heard a
son had been born, and then, shortly after the birth of this child, the
news reached us, that a lawyer had been summoned down to the manor-house
in Hertfordshire. We supposed that our father was making provision for
the child; and it seemed to us fair enough. Then we saw the child's
death in the _Times_, and shortly after the news also came to us that
the same lawyer had gone down again to see our father.

"After this, a few years went by, and we, busy with our own life, gave
little heed to the old man, who seemed to have forgotten us. Suddenly we
were summoned to his deathbed. John, your father, my dear, had always
been his favorite. On his deathbed he seemed to have returned to the old
times, when John was a little fellow. He liked to have him by his side;
in short, he could not bear to have him out of his sight. He appeared to
have forgotten the poor, common little wife he had married, and to live
his early days over again. He died quite reconciled to us both, and we
held his hand as he breathed his last.

"To our surprise, my dear, we found that he had left us every penny of
his fortune. The wife and baby girl were left totally unprovided for. We
were amazed! We thought it unjust. We instantly resolved to make
provision for her and her baby. We did so. She never wanted to the day
of her death."

"She did not starve," interrupted Charlotte, "but you shut her out, her
and her child, from yourselves, and from me. Why did you do this?"

"My dear, you would scarcely speak in that tone to your father, and it
was his wish as well as mine--indeed, far more his wish than mine. I was
on the eve of going to Australia, to carry on a branch of our trade
there; but he was remaining at home. He was not very long married. You
don't remember your mother, Charlotte. Ah! what a fine young creature
she was, but proud--proud of her high birth--of a thousand things. It
would have been intolerable to her to associate with one like my
stepmother. Your father was particular about his wife and child. He
judged it best to keep these undesirable relations apart. I, for one,
can scarcely blame him."

"I _will_ not blame my father," said Charlotte. Again that look of
relief had stolen over her face. The healthy tint, which was scarcely
color, had returned to her cheek; and the tension of her attitude was
also withdrawn, for she changed her seat, taking possession now of her
favorite easy-chair. "But I like Charlotte Home," she said after a
pause. "She is--whatever her mother may have been--quite a lady. I think
it is hard that when she is so nearly related to me she should be so
poor and I so rich. I will speak to my father. He asked me only this
morning what I should like as a wedding present. I know what I shall
like. He will give that three thousand pounds to Charlotte Home. The
money her mother had for her life she shall have for ever. I know my
father won't refuse me."

Charlotte's eyes were on the ground, and she did not see the dark
expression which for a moment passed over Jasper Harman's face. Before
he answered her he poked the fire into a vigorous flame.

"You are a generous girl, Lottie," he said then. "I admire your spirit.
But it is plain, my dear, that money has come as easily to you as the
very air you breathe, or you would not speak of three thousand pounds in
a manner so light as almost to take one's breath away. But
suppose--suppose the money could be given, there is another difficulty.
To get that money for Mrs. Home, who, by the way, has her husband to
provide for her, you must tell this tale to your father--you must not do
that."

"Why not?" asked Charlotte, opening her eyes wide in surprise.

"Simply because he is ill, and the doctors have forbidden him to be in
the least agitated."

"Uncle Jasper--I know he is not well, but I did not hear this; and
why--why should what I have to say agitate him?"

"Because he cannot bear any allusion to the past. He loved his father;
he cannot dwell on those years when they were estranged. My dear,"
continued old Uncle Jasper. "I am glad you came with this tale to me--it
would have done your father harm. The doctors hope soon to make him much
better, but at present he must hear nothing likely to give rise to
gloomy thoughts; wait until he is better, my dear. And if you want help
for this Mrs. Home, you must appeal to me. Promise me that, Lottie."

"I will promise, certainly, not to injure my father, but I confess you
puzzle me."

"I am truly sorry, my dear. I will think over your tale, but now I must
go to John. Will you come with me?"

"No, thanks; I would rather stay here."

"Then we shall not meet again, for in an hour I am off to my club.
Good-night, my dear."

And Charlotte could not help noticing how soft and catlike were the
footsteps of the old Australian uncle as he stole away.




CHAPTER X.

JOHN AND JASPER HARMAN.


Jaspar Harman was sixty years old at this time, but the days of his
pilgrimage had passed lightly over him, neither impairing his frame nor
his vigor. At sixty years of age he could think as clearly, sleep as
comfortably, eat as well--nay, even walk as far as he did thirty years
ago. His life in the Antipodes seemed to have agreed with him. It is
true his hair was turning gray, and his shrewd face had many wrinkles on
it, but these seemed more the effects of climate than of years. He
looked like a man whom no heart-trouble had ever touched and in this
doubtless lay the secret of his perpetual youth. Care might sweep him
very close, but it could not enter an unwelcome guest, to sit on the
hearth of his holy of holies; into the innermost shrine of his being it
could scarcely find room to enter. His was the kind of nature to whom
remorse even for a sin committed must be almost unknown. His affections
were not his strong point. Most decidedly his intellect overbalanced his
heart. But without an undue preponderance of heart he was good-natured;
he would pat a chubby little cheek, if he passed it in the street, and
he would talk in a genial and hearty way to those beneath him in life.
In business matters he was considered very shrewd and hard, but those
who had no such dealings with him pronounced him a kindly soul. His
smile was genial; his manner frank and pleasant. He had one trick,
however, which no servant could bear--his step was as soft as a cat's;
he must be on your heels before you had the faintest clue to his
approach.

In this stealthy way he now left his niece's room, stole down the
thickly carpeted stairs, crept across a tiled hall, and entered the
apartment where his elder brother waited for him.

John Harman was only one year Jasper's senior, but there looked a much
greater difference between them. Jasper was young for his years; John
was old; nay, more--he was very old. In youth he must have been a
handsome man; in age for every one spoke of him as aged, he was handsome
still. He was tall, over six feet; his hair was silver-white; his eyes
very deep set, very dark. Their expression was penetrating, kind, but
sad. His mouth was firm, but had some lines round it which puzzled you.
His smile, which was rare and seldom seen, was a wintry one. You would
rather John Harman did not smile at you; you felt miserable afterwards.
All who knew him said instinctively that John Harman had known some
great trouble. Most people attributed it to the death of his wife, but,
as this happened twenty years ago, others shook their heads and felt
puzzled. Whatever the sorrow, however, which so perpetually clouded the
fine old face, the nature of the man was so essentially noble that he
was universally loved and respected.

John Harmon was writing a letter when his brother entered. He pushed
aside his writing materials, however, and raised his head with a sigh of
relief. In Jasper's presence there was always one element of comfort.
He need cover over no anxieties; his old face looked almost sharp as he
wheeled his chair round to the fire.

"No, you are not interrupting me," he began. "This letter can keep; it
is not a business one. I never transact business at home." Then he
added, as Jasper sank into the opposite chair, "You have been having a
long chat with the child. I am glad she is getting fond of you."

"She is a fine girl," said Jasper; "a fine, generous girl. I like her,
even though she does dabble in literature; and I like Hinton too. When
are they to be married, John?"

"When Hinton gets his first brief--not before," answered John Harman.

"Well, well, he's a clever chap; I don't see why you should wait for
that--he's safe to get on. If I were you, I'd like to see my girl
comfortably settled. One can never tell what may happen!"

"What may happen!" repeated the elder Harman. "Do you allude now to the
doctor's verdict on myself. I did not wish Charlotte acquainted with
it."

"Pooh! my dear fellow, there's nothing to alarm our girl in that
quarter. I'd lay my own life you have many long years before you. No,
Charlotte knows you are not well, and that is all she need ever know. I
was not alluding to your health, but to the fact that that fine young
woman upstairs is, just to use a vulgar phrase, eating her own head off
for want of something better to do. She is dabbling in print. Of course,
her book must fail. She is full of all kinds of chimerical expedients.
Why, this very evening she was propounding the most preposterous scheme
to me, as generous as it was nonsensical. No, no, my dear fellow, even
to you I won't betray confidence. The girl is an enthusiast. Now
enthusiasts are always morbid and unhappy unless they can find vent for
their energies. Why don't you give her the natural and healthy vents
supplied by wifehood and motherhood? Why do you wait for Hinton's first
brief to make them happy? You have money enough to make them happy at
once."

"Yes, yes, Jasper--it is not that. It is just that I want the young man
not to be altogether dependent on his wife. I am fonder of Hinton than
of any other creature in the world except my own child. For his sake I
ask for his short delay to their marriage. On the day he brings me news
of that brief I take the first steps to settle on Charlotte a thousand
a year during my lifetime. I make arrangements that her eldest son
inherits the business, and I make further provision for any other
children she may have."

"Well, my dear fellow, all that sounds very nice; and if Hinton was not
quite the man he is I should say, 'Wait for the brief.' But I believe
that having a wife will only make him seek that said brief all the
harder. I see success before that future son-in-law of yours."

"And you are a shrewd observer of character, Jasper," answered his
brother.

Neither of the men spoke for some time after this, and presently Jasper
rose to go. He had all but reached the door when he turned back.

"You will be in good time in the city to-morrow, John."

"Yes, of course. Not that there is anything very special going on. Why
do you ask?"

"Only that we must give an answer to that question of the trusteeship to
the Rutherford orphans. I know you object to the charge, still it seems
a pity for the sake of a sentiment."

Instantly John Harman, who had been crouching over the fire, rose to his
full height. His deep-set eyes flashed, his voice trembled with some
hardly suppressed anguish.

"Jasper!" he said suddenly and sharply; then he added, "you have but one
answer to that question from me--never, never, as long as I live, shall
our firm become trustees for even sixpence worth. You know my feelings
on that point, Jasper, and they shall never change."

"You are a fool for your pains, then," muttered Jasper, but he closed
the door rather hastily behind him.




CHAPTER XI.

"A PET DAY."


At breakfast the next morning Charlotte Harman was in almost wild
spirits. Her movements were generally rather sedate, as befitted one so
tall, so finely proportioned, so dignified. To-day her step seemed set
to some hidden rhythmic measure; her eyes laughed; her gracious, kindly
mouth was wreathed in perpetual smiles. Her father, on the contrary,
looked more bent, more careworn, more aged even than usual. Looking,
however, into her eyes for light, his own brightened. As he ate his
frugal breakfast of coffee and dry toast he spoke:

"Charlotte, your Uncle Jasper came to me last night with a proposal on
your behalf."

"Yes, father," answered Charlotte. She looked up expectantly. She
thought of Mrs. Home. Her uncle had told the tale after all, and her
dear and generous father would refuse her nothing. She should have the
great joy of giving three thousand pounds to that poor mother for the
use of her little children.

The next words, however, uttered by Mr. Harman caused these dreams to be
dispelled by others more golden. The most generous woman must at times
think first of herself. Charlotte was very generous; but her father's
next words brought dimples into very prominent play in each cheek.

"My darling, Jasper thinks me very cruel to postpone your marriage. I
will not postpone it. You and Hinton may fix the day. I will take that
brief of his on trust."

No woman likes an indefinite engagement, and Charlotte was not the
exception to prove this rule.

"Dearest father," she said, "I am very happy at this. I will tell John.
He is coming over this morning. But you know my conditions? No wedding
day for me unless my father agrees to live with me afterwards."

"Settle it as you please, dear child. I don't think there would be much
sunshine left for me if you were away from me. And now I suppose you
will be very busy. You have _carte blanche_ for the trousseau, but your
book? will you have time to write it, Charlotte? And that young woman
whom I saw in your room yesterday, is she the amanuensis whom you told
me about?"

"She is the lady whom I hoped to have secured, father, but she is not
coming."

"Not coming! I rather liked her look, she seemed quite a lady. Did you
offer her too small remuneration? Not that that would be your way, but
you do not perhaps know what such labor is worth."

"It was not that, dear father. I offered her what she herself considered
a very handsome sum. It was not that. She is very poor; very, very poor
and she has three little children. I never saw such a hungry look in any
eyes as she had, when she spoke of what money would be to her. But she
gave me a reason--a reason which I am not at liberty to tell to you,
which makes it impossible for her to come here."

Charlotte's cheeks were burning now, and something in her tone caused
her father to gaze at her attentively. It was not his way, however, to
press for any confidence not voluntarily offered. He rose from his seat
with a slight sigh.

"Well, dear," he said, "you must look for some one else. We can't talk
over matters to-night. Ask Hinton to stay and dine. There; I must be
off, I am very late as it is."

Mr. Harman kissed his daughter and she went out as usual to button on
his great-coat and see him down the street. She had performed this
office for him ever since--a little mite of four years old--she had
tried to take her dead mother's place. The child, the growing girl, the
young woman, had all in turns stood on those steps, and watched that
figure walking away. But never until to-day had she noticed how aged and
bent it had grown. For the first time the possibility visited her heart
that there might be such a thing for her in the future as life without
her father.

Uncle Jasper had said he was not well; no, he did not look well. Her
eyes filled with tears as she closed the hall door and re-entered the
house. But her own prospects were too golden just now to permit her to
dwell as long, or as anxiously, as she otherwise would have done, on so
gloomy an aspect of her father's case.

Charlotte Harman was twenty-five years of age; but, except when her
mother died, death had never come near her young life. She could
scarcely remember her mother, and, with this one exception, death and
sickness were things unknown. She has heard of them of course; but the
grim practical knowledge, the standing face to face with the foe, were
not her experience. She was the kind of woman who could develop into the
most tender nurse, into the wisest, best, and most helpful guide,
through those same dark roads of sickness and death, but the training
for this was all to come. No wonder that in her inexperience she should
soon cease to dwell on her father's bent figure and drawn, white face. A
reaction was over her, and she must yield to it.

As she returned to the comfortable breakfast-room, her eyes shone
brighter through their momentary tears. She went over and stood by the
hearth. She was a most industrious creature, having trained herself not
to waste an instant; but to-day she must indulge in a happy reverie.

How dark had been those few hours after Mrs. Home had left her
yesterday; how undefined, how dim, and yet how dark had been her
suspicions! She did not know what to think, or whom to suspect; but she
felt that, cost her what it might, she must fathom the truth, and that
having once fathomed it, something might be revealed to her that would
embitter and darken her whole life.

And behold! she had done so. She had bravely grasped the phantom in both
hands, and it had vanished into thin air. What she dreamed was not.
There was no disgrace anywhere. A morbid young woman had conjured up a
possible tale of wrong. There was no wrong. She, Mrs. Home, was to be
pitied, and Charlotte would help her; but beyond this no dark or evil
thing had come into her life.

And now, what a great further good was in store for her! Her father had
most unexpectedly withdrawn his opposition over the slight delay he had
insisted upon to her marriage. Charlotte did not know until now how she
had chafed at this delay; how she had longed to be the wife of the man
she loved. She said, "Thank God!" under her breath, then ran upstairs to
her own room.

Charlotte's maid had the special care of this room. It was a sunshiny
morning, and the warm spring air came in through the open window.

"Yes, leave it open," she said to the girl; "it seems as if spring had
really come to-day."

"But it is winter still, madam, February is not yet over," replied the
lady's maid. "Better let me shut it, Miss Harman, this is only a pet
day."

"I will enjoy it then, Ward," answered Miss Harman. "And now leave me,
for I am very busy."

The maid withdrew, and Charlotte seated herself by her writing table.
She was engaged over a novel which Messrs. M----, of ---- Street, had
pronounced really good; they would purchase the copyright, and they
wanted the MS. by a given date. How eager she had felt about this
yesterday; how determined not to let anything interfere with its
completion! But to-day, she took up her pen as usual, read over the last
page she had written, then sat quiet, waiting for inspiration.

What was the matter with her? No thought came. As a rule thoughts flowed
freely, proceeding fast from the brain to the pen, from the pen to the
paper. But to-day? What ailed her to-day? The fact was, the most natural
thing in the world had come to stop the flow of fiction. It was put out
by a greater fire. The moon could shine brilliantly at night, but how
sombre it looked beside the sun! The great sunshine of her own personal
joy was flooding Charlotte's heart to-day, and the griefs and delights
of the most attractive heroine in the world must sink into
insignificance beside it. She sat waiting for about a quarter of an
hour, then threw down her pen in disgust. She pulled out her watch.
Hinton could not be with her before the afternoon. The morning was
glorious. What had Ward, her maid, called the day?--"a pet day." Well,
she would enjoy it; she would go out. She ran to her room, enveloped
herself in some rich and becoming furs, and went into the street. She
walked on a little way, rather undecided where to turn her steps. In an
instant she could have found herself in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park;
but, just because they were so easy of access, they proved unattractive.
She must wander farther afield. She beckoned to a passing hansom.

"I want to go somewhere where I shall have green grass and trees," she
said to the cabby. "No, it must not be Hyde Park, somewhere farther
off."

"There's the Regent's," replied the man. "I'll drive yer there and back
wid pleasure, my lady."

"I will go to Regent's Park," said Charlotte. She made up her mind, as
she was swiftly bowled along, that she would walk back. She was just in
that condition of suppressed excitement, when a walk would be the most
delightful safety-valve in the world.

In half an hour she found herself in Regent's Park and, having dismissed
her cab, wandered about amongst the trees. The whole place was flooded
with sunshine. There were no flowers visible; the season had been too
bad, and the year was yet too young; but for all that, nature seemed to
be awake and listening.

Charlotte walked about until she felt tired, then she sat down on one of
the many seats to rest until it was time to return home. Children were
running about everywhere. Charlotte loved children. Many an afternoon
had she gone into Kensington Gardens for the mere and sole purpose of
watching them. Here were children, too, as many as there, but of a
different class. Not quite so aristocratic, not quite so exclusively
belonging to the world of rank and fashion. The children in Regent's
Park were certainly quite as well dressed; but there was just some
little indescribable thing missing in them, which the little creatures,
whom Charlotte Harman was most accustomed to notice, possessed.

She was commenting on this, in that vague and slight way one does when
all their deepest thoughts are elsewhere, when a man came near and
shared her seat. He was a tall man, very slight, very thin. Charlotte,
just glancing at him took in this much also, that he was a clergyman. He
sat down to rest, evidently doing so from great fatigue. Selfish in her
happiness, Charlotte presently returned to her golden dreams. The
children came on fast, group after group; some pale and thin, some rosy
and healthy; a few scantily clothed, a few overladen with finery. They
laughed and scampered past her. For, be the circumstances what they
might, all the little hearts seemed full of mirth and sweet content. At
last a very small nurse appeared, wheeling a perambulator, while two
children ran by her side. These children were dressed neatly, but with
no attempt at fashion. The baby in the shabby perambulator was very
beautiful. The little group were walking past rather more slowly than
most of the other groups, for the older boy and girl looked decidedly
tired, when suddenly they all stopped; the servant girl opened her mouth
until it remained fixed in the form of a round O; the baby raised its
arms and crowed; the elder boy and girl uttered a glad shout and ran
forward.

"Father, father, you here?" said the boy. "You here?" echoed the girl,
and the whole cavalcade drew up in front of Charlotte and the thin
clergyman. The boy in an instant was on his father's knee, and the girl,
helping herself mightily by Charlotte's dress, had got on the bench.

The baby seeing this began to cry. The small nurse seemed incapable of
action, and Charlotte herself had to come to the rescue. She lifted the
little seven months old creature out of its carriage, and placed it in
its father's arms.

He raised his eyes gratefully to her face and placed his arm round the
baby.

"Oh! I'm falling," said the girl. "This seat is so slippy, may I sit on
your knee?"

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Charlotte to take this
strange, shabbily dressed little girl into her embrace.

The child began to stroke down and admire her soft furs.

"Aren't they lovely?" she said. "Oh, Harold, look! Feel 'em, Harold;
they're like pussies."

Harold, absorbed with his father, turned his full blue eyes round
gravely and fixed them not on the furs, but on the strange lady's face.

"Father," he said in a slow, solemn tone, "may I kiss that pretty lady?"

"My dear boy, no, no. I am ashamed of you. Now run away, children; go on
with your walk. Nurse, take baby."

The children were evidently accustomed to implicit obedience. They went
without a word.

"But I will kiss Harold first," said Charlotte Harman, and she stooped
down and pressed her lips to the soft round cheek.

"Thank you," said the clergyman. Again he looked into her face and
smiled.

The smile on his careworn face reminded Charlotte of the smile on St.
Stephen's face, when he was dying. It was unearthly, angelic; but it was
also very fleeting. Presently he added in a grave tone,----

"You have evidently the great gift of attracting the heart of a little
child. Pardon me if I add a hope that you may never lose it."

"Is that possible?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes; when you lose the child spirit, the power will go."

"Oh! then I hope it never will," she replied.

"It never will if you keep the Christ bright within you," he answered.
Then he raised his hat to her, smiled again, and walked away.

He was a strange man, and Charlotte felt attracted as well as repelled.
She was proud, and at another time and from other lips such words would
have been received with disdain. But this queer, shadowy-looking
clergyman looked like an unearthly visitant. She watched his rather weak
footsteps, as he walked quietly away in the northern direction through
the park. Then she got up and prepared to return home. But this little
incident had sobered her. She was not unhappy; but she now felt very
grave. The child spirit! She must keep it alive, and the Christ must
dwell bright within her.

Charlotte's temperament was naturally religious. Her nature was so frank
and noble that she could not but drink in the good as readily as the
flower receives the dew; but she had come to this present fulness of her
youthful vigor without one trial being sent to test the gold. She
entered the house after her long walk to find Hinton waiting for her.




CHAPTER XII.

FOUR MONTHS HENCE.


Hinton had gone away the day before rather disturbed by Charlotte's
manner. He had found her, for the first time since their betrothal, in
trouble. Wishing to comfort, she had repelled him. He was a strong man,
as strong in his own way as Charlotte was in hers, and this power of
standing alone scarcely pleased him in her. His was the kind of nature
which would be supposed to take for its other half one soft and
clinging. Contrary to the established rule, however, he had won this
proud and stately Charlotte. She thought him perfection: he was anything
but that. But he had good points, there was nothing mean or base about
him. There were no secrets hidden away in his life. His was an honorable
and manly nature. But he had one little fault, running like a canker
through the otherwise healthy fruit of his heart. While Charlotte was
frank and open as the day, he was reserved; not only reserved, but
suspicious. All the men who knew Hinton said what a capital lawyer he
would make; he had all the qualities necessary to insure success in his
profession. Above all things in the world secrets oppressed, irritated,
and yet interested him. Once having heard of any little possible
mystery, he could not rest until it was solved.

This had been his character from a boy. His own brothers and sisters had
confided in him, not because they found him particularly sympathetic, or
particularly clever, not because they loved him so much, but simply
because they could not help themselves. John would have found out all
the small childish matter without their aid; it was better, safer to
take him into confidence. Then, to do him justice, he was true as steel;
for though he must discover, he would scorn to betray.

On the white, untroubled sheet of Charlotte Harmon's heart no secrets
yet had been written. Consequently, though she had been engaged for many
months to John Hinton, she had never found out this peculiarity about
him. Those qualities of openness and frankness, so impossible to his own
nature, had attracted him most of all to this beautiful young woman.
Never until yesterday had there been breath or thought of concealment
about her. But then--then he had found her in trouble. Full of sympathy
he had drawn near to comfort, and she had repelled him. She had heard of
something which troubled her, which troubled her to such an extent that
the very expression of her bright face had changed, and yet this
something was to be a secret from him--true, only until the following
day, but a whole twenty-four hours seemed like for ever to Hinton in his
impatience. Before he could even expostulate with her she had run off,
doubtless to confide her care to another. Perhaps the best way to
express John Hinton's feelings would be to say that he was very cross as
he returned to his chambers in Lincoln's Inn.

All that evening, through his dreams all that night, all the following
morning as he tried to engage himself over his law books, he pondered on
Charlotte's secret. Such pondering must in a nature like his excite
apprehension. He arrived on the next day at the house in Prince's Gate
with his mind full of gloomy forebodings. His face was so grave that it
scarcely cleared up at the sight of the bright one raised to meet it. He
was full of the secret of yesterday; Charlotte, in all the joy of the
secret of to-day, had already forgotten it.

"Oh, I have had such a walk!" she exclaimed; "and a little bit of an
adventure--a pretty adventure; and now I am starving. Come into the
dining-room and have some lunch."

"You look very well," answered her lover, "and I left you so miserable
yesterday!"

"Yesterday!" repeated Charlotte; she had forgotten yesterday. "Oh, yes,
I had heard something very disagreeable: but when I looked into the
matter, it turned out to be nothing."

"You will tell me all about it, dear?"

"Well, I don't know, John. I would of course if there was anything to
tell; but do come and have some lunch, I cannot even mention something
else much more important until I have had some lunch."

John Hinton frowned. Even that allusion to something much more important
did not satisfy him. He must know this other thing. What! spend
twenty-four hours of misery, and not learn what it was all about in the
end! Charlotte's happiness, however, could not but prove infectious, and
the two made merry over their meal, and not until they found themselves
in Charlotte's own special sanctum did Hinton resume his grave manner.
Then he began at once.

"Now, Charlotte, you will tell me why you looked so grave and scared
yesterday. I have been miserable enough thinking of it ever since. I
don't understand why you did not confide in me at once."

"Dear John," she said--she saw now that he had been really hurt--"I
would not give you pain for worlds, my dearest. Yes, I was much
perplexed, I was even very unhappy for the time. A horrid doubt had been
put into my head, but it turned out nothing, nothing whatever. Let us
forget it, dear John; I have something much more important to tell you."

"Yes, afterwards, but you will tell me this, even though it did turn out
of no consequence."

"Please, John dear, I would rather not. I was assailed by a most
unworthy suspicion. It turned out nothing, nothing at all. I would
rather, seeing it was all a myth, you never knew of it."

"And I would rather know, Charlotte; the myth shall be dismissed from
mind, too, but I would rather be in your full confidence."

"My full confidence?" she repeated; the expression pained her. She
looked hard at Hinton; his words were very quietly spoken, but there was
a cloud on his brow. "You shall certainly have my full confidence," she
said after that brief pause; "which will you hear first, what gave me
pain yesterday, or what brings me joy to-day?"

"What gave you pain yesterday."

There is no doubt she had hoped he would have made the latter choice,
but seeing he did not she submitted at once, sitting, not as was her
wont close to his side, but on a chair opposite. Hinton sat with his
back to the light, but it fell full on Charlotte, and he could see every
line of her innocent and noble face as she told her tale. Having got to
tell it, she did so in few but simple words; Mrs. Home's story coming of
a necessity first, her Uncle Jasper's explanation last. When the whole
tale was told, she paused, then said,--

"You see there was nothing in it."

"I see," answered Hinton. This was his first remark. He had not
interrupted the progress of the narrative by a single observation; then
he added, "But I think, if even your father does not feel disposed to
help her, that we, you and I, Charlotte, ought to do something for Mrs.
Home."

"Oh, John dear, how you delight me! How good and noble you are! Yes, my
heart aches for that poor mother; yes, we will help her. You and I, how
very delightful it will be!"

Now she came close to her lover and kissed him, and he returned her
embrace.

"You will never have a secret again from me, my darling?" he said.

"I never, never had one," she answered, for it was impossible for her to
understand that this brief delay in her confidence could be considered a
secret. "Now for my other news," she said.

"Now for your other news," he repeated.

"John, what is the thing you desire most in the world?"

Of course this young man being sincerely attached to this young woman,
answered,--

"You, Charlotte."

"John, you always said you did not like Uncle Jasper, but see what a
good turn he has done us--he has persuaded my father to allow us to
marry at once."

"What, without my brief?"

"Yes, without your brief; my dear father told me this morning that we
may fix the day whenever we like. He says he will stand in the way no
longer. He is quite sure of that brief, we need not wait to be happy for
it, we may fix our wedding-day, John, and you are to dine here this
evening and have a talk with my father afterwards."

Hinton's face had grown red. He was a lover, and an attached one; but so
diverse were the feelings stirred within him, that for the moment he
felt more excited than elated.

"Your father is very good," he said, "he gives us leave to fix the day.
Very well, that is your province, my Lottie; when shall it be?"

"This is the twentieth of February, our wedding-day shall be on the
twentieth of June," she replied.

"That is four months hence," he said. In spite of himself there was a
sound of relief in his tone. "Very well, Charlotte; yes, I will come and
dine this evening. But now I am late for an appointment; we will have a
long talk after dinner."




CHAPTER XIII.

HIS FIRST BRIEF.


Hinton, when he left Charlotte, went straight back to his chambers. He
had no particular work to hurry him there; indeed, when he left that
morning he had done so with the full intention of spending the entire
afternoon with his betrothed. He was, as has been said, although a
clever, yet certainly at present a briefless young barrister.
Nevertheless, had twenty briefs awaited his immediate attention, he
could not have more rapidly hurried back as he now did. When he entered
his rooms he locked the outer door. Then he threw himself on a chair,
drew the chair to his writing table, pushed his hands through his thick
hair, and staring hard at a blank sheet of paper which lay before him
began to think out a problem. His might scarcely have been called a
passionate nature, but it was one capable of a very deep, very real
attachment. This attachment had been formed for Charlotte Harman. Their
engagement had already lasted nearly a year, and now with her own lips
she had told him that it might end, that the end, the one happy end to
all engagements, was in sight. With comfort, nay, with affluence, with
the full consent of all her friends, they might become man and wife.
John Hinton most undoubtedly loved this woman, and yet now as he
reviewed the whole position the one pleasure he could deduct for his own
reflection was in the fact that there was four months' reprieve.
Charlotte had herself postponed their wedding-day for four months.

Hinton was a proud man. When, a year ago, he had gone to Mr. Harman and
asked him for his daughter, Mr. Harman had responded with the very
natural question, "What means have you to support her with?"

Hinton had answered that he had two hundred a year--and--his profession.

"What are you making in your profession?" asked the father.

"Not anything--yet," answered the young man.

There was a tone of defiance and withal of hope thrown into that "yet"
which might have repelled some men, but pleased Mr. Harman. He paused to
consider. He might have got a much, much better match for Charlotte from
a temporal standpoint. Hinton was of no family in particular; he had no
money worthy of the name. He was simply an honest fellow, fairly
good-looking, and with the heart of a gentleman.

"You are doubtless aware," replied Mr. Harman, "that my daughter will
inherit a very large fortune. She has been sought for in marriage before
now, and by men who could give something to meet what she brings, both
with regard to money and position."

"I have heard of Mr. S.'s proposal," answered Hinton. "I know he is
rich, and the son of Lord ----; but that is nothing, for she does not
love him."

"And you believe she loves you?"

"Most certainly she loves me."

In spite of himself Mr. Harman smiled, then after a little more thought,
for he was much taken with Hinton, he came to terms.

He must not have Charlotte while he had nothing to support her with.
Pooh! that two hundred a year was nothing to a girl brought up like his
daughter. For Hinton's own sake it would not be good for him to live on
his wife's money; but when he obtained his first brief then they might
marry.

Hinton was profuse in thanks. He only made on his part one
stipulation--that brief, which was to obtain for him his bride, was in
no way to come to him through Mr. Harman's influence. He must win it by
his own individual exertion.

Mr Harman smiled and grew a trifle red. In his business capacity he
could have put twenty briefs in this young fellow's way, and in his
inmost heart he had resolved to do so; but he liked him all the better
for this one proviso, and promised readily enough.

Hinton had no business connections of his own. He had no influential
personal friends, and his future father-in-law felt bound in honor to
leave him altogether to his own resources. A year had nearly passed
since the engagement, and the brief which was to win him Charlotte was
as far away as ever. But now she told him that this one embargo to their
happiness had been withdrawn. They might marry, and the brief would
follow after. Hinton knew well what it all meant. The rich city
merchant could then put work in his way. Work would quickly pour in to
the man so closely connected with rich John Harman. Yes. As he sat by
his table in his small shabbily furnished room, he knew that his fortune
was made. He would obtain Charlotte and Charlotte's wealth; and if he
but chose to use his golden opportunities, fame too might be his
portion. He was a keen and ardent politician, and a seat in the House
might easily follow all the other good things which seemed following in
his track. Yes; but he was a proud man, and he did not like it. He had
not the heart to tell Charlotte to-day, as she looked at him with all
the love she had so freely given shining in her sweet and tender face,
that he would not accept such terms, that the original bargain must yet
abide in force. He could not say to this young woman when she came to
him, "I do not want you." But none the less, as he now sat by his
writing-table, was he resolved that unless his brief was won before the
twentieth of June it should bring no wedding-day to him. This was why he
rejoiced in the four months' reprieve. But this was by no means his only
perplexity. Had it been, so stung to renewed action was his sense of
pride and independence, that he would have gone at once to seek, perhaps
to obtain work; but something else was lying like wormwood against his
heart. That story of Mrs. Home's! That explanation of Jasper Harman's!
The story was a queer one; the explanation, while satisfying the
inexperienced girl, failed to meet the requirements of the acute lawyer.
Hinton saw flaws in Jasper's narrative, where Charlotte saw none. The
one great talent of his life, if it could be called a talent, was coming
fiercely into play as he sat now and thought about it all. He had
pre-eminently the gift of discovering secrets. He was rooting up many
things from the deep grave of the hidden past now. That look of care on
Mr. Harman's face, how often it had puzzled him! He had never liked
Jasper; indefinite had been his antipathy hitherto, but it was taking
definite form now. There _was_ a secret in the past of that most
respectable firm, and he, John Hinton, would give himself no rest until
he had laid it bare. No wedding-day could come to him and Charlotte
until his mind was at rest on this point. It was against his interest to
ferret out this hidden thing, but that fact weighed as nothing with him.
It would bring pain to the woman he loved; it might ruin her father; but
the pain and the ruin would be inflicted unsparingly by his righteous
young hand, which knew nothing yet of mercy but was all for justice, and
justice untempered with mercy is a terrible weapon. This Hinton was yet
to learn.




CHAPTER XIV.

LODGINGS IN KENTISH TOWN.


After a time, restless from the complexity of his musings, Hinton went
out. He had promised to return to the Harmans for dinner, but their hour
for dinner was eight o'clock, and it still wanted nearly three hours of
that time. As Charlotte had done before that day, he found himself in
the close neighborhood of Regent's Park. He would have gone into the
park, but that he knew that the hour of closing the gates at this early
period of the year must be close at hand; he walked, therefore, by the
side of the park, rather aimlessly it is true, not greatly caring,
provided he kept moving, in what direction his footsteps took him.

At last he found himself on the broad tram line which leads to the
suburb of Kentish Town. It was by no means an interesting neighborhood.
But Hinton, soon lost in his private and anxious musings, went on. At
last he left the public thoroughfare and turned down a private road.
There were no shops here, nor much traffic. He felt a sense of relief at
leaving the roar and bustle behind him. This road on which he had now
entered was flanked at each side by a small class of dwelling-houses,
some shabby and dirty, some bright and neat; all, however, were
poor-looking. It was quite dusk by this time, and the gas had been
already lit. This fact, perhaps, was the reason which drew Hinton's
much-preoccupied attention to a trivial circumstance.

In one of these small houses a young woman, who had previously lit the
gas, stepped to the window and proceeded to paste a card to the pane.
There was a gas lamp also directly underneath, and Hinton, raising his
eyes, saw very distinctly, not only the little act, but also the words
on the card. They were the very common words----

  APARTMENTS TO LET

  INQUIRE WITHIN.

Hinton suddenly drew up short on the pavement. He did not live in his
chambers, and it occurred to him that here he would be within a walk of
Regent's Park. In short, that these shabby-looking little lodgings might
suit him for the next few uncertain months. As suddenly as he had
stopped, and the thought had come to him, he ran up the steps and rang
the bell. In a moment or two a little servant-maid opened the door. She
was neither a clean nor a tidy-looking maid, and Hinton, fastidious on
such matters, took in this fact at a glance. Nevertheless the desire to
find for himself a habitation in this shabby little house did not leave
him.

"I saw a card up in your window. You have rooms to let," he said to the
little maid.

"Oh, yes, indeed, please, sir," answered the servant with a broad and
delighted grin. "'Tis h'our drawing-rooms, please, sir; and ef you'll
please jest come inter the 'all I'll run and tell missis."

Hinton did so; and in another moment the maid, returning, asked him to
step this way.

This way led him into a dingy little parlor, and face to face with a
young woman who, pale, self-possessed, and ladylike, rose to meet him.
Hinton felt the color rising to his face at sight of her. He also
experienced a curious and sudden constriction of his heart, and an
overawed sense of some special Providence leading him here. For he had
seen this young woman before. She was Charlotte Home. In his swift
glance, however, he saw that she did not recognize him. His resolve was
taken on the instant. However uncomfortable the rooms she had to offer,
they should be his. His interest in this Mrs. Home became intensified to
a degree that was painful. He knew that he was about to pursue a course
which would be to his own detriment, but he felt it impossible now to
turn aside. In a quiet voice, and utterly unconscious of this tumult in
his breast, she asked him to be seated, and they began to discuss the
accommodation she could offer.

Her back and front drawing-rooms would be vacant in a week. Yes,
certainly; Mr. Hinton could see them. She rang the bell as she spoke,
and the maid appearing, took Hinton up stairs. The rooms were even
smaller and shabbier than he had believed possible. Nevertheless, when
he came downstairs he found no fault with anything, and agreed to the
terms asked, namely, one guinea a week. He noticed a tremor in the
young, brave voice which asked for this remuneration, and he longed to
make the one guinea two, but this was impossible. Before he left he had
taken Mrs. Home's drawing-rooms for a month, and had arranged to come
into possession of his new quarters that day week.

Looking at his watch when he left the house, he found that time had gone
faster than he had any idea of. He had now barely an hour to jump into a
cab, go to his present most comfortable lodgings, change his morning
dress, and reach the Harmans in time for eight o'clock dinner. Little
more than these sixty minutes elapsed from the time he left the shabby
house in Kentish Town before he found himself in the luxurious abode of
wealth, and every refinement, in Prince's Gate. He ran up to the
drawing-room, to find Charlotte waiting for him alone.

"Uncle Jasper will dine with us, John," she said, "but my father is not
well."

"Not well!" echoed Hinton. Her face only expressed slight concern, and
his reflected it in a lesser degree.

"He is very tired," she said, "and he looks badly. But I hope there is
not much the matter. He will see you after dinner. But he could not eat,
so I have begged of him to lie down; he will be all right after a little
rest."

Hinton made no further remark, and Uncle Jasper then coming in, and
dinner being announced, they all went downstairs.

Uncle Jasper and Charlotte were merry enough, but Hinton could not get
over a sense of depression, which not even the presence of the woman he
loved could disperse. He was not sorry when the message came for him to
go to Mr. Harman. Charlotte smiled as he rose.

"You will find me in the drawing-room whenever you like to come there,"
she said to him.

He left the room suppressing the sigh. Charlotte, however, did not hear
or notice it. Still, with that light of love and happiness crowning her
bright face, she turned to the old Australian uncle.

"I will pour you out your next glass of port, and stay with you for a
few moments, for I have something to tell you."

"What is that, my dear?" asked the old man.

"Something you have had to do with, dear old uncle. My wedding-day is
fixed."

Uncle Jasper chuckled.

"Ah! my dear," he said, "there's nothing like having the day clear in
one's head. And when is it to be, my pretty lass?"

"The twentieth of June, Uncle Jasper. Just four months from to-day."

"Four months off!" repeated Uncle Jasper. "Well, I don't call that very
close at hand. When I spoke to your father last night--for you know I
did speak to him, Charlotte--he seemed quite inclined to put no obstacle
in the way of your speedy marriage."

"Nor did he, Uncle Jasper. You don't understand. He said we might marry
at once if we liked. It was I who said the twentieth of June."

"You, child!--and--and did Hinton, knowing your father had withdrawn all
opposition, did Hinton allow you to put off his happiness for four whole
months?"

"It was my own choice," said Charlotte. "Four months do not seem to me
too long to prepare."

"They would seem a very long time to me if I were the man who was to
marry you, my dear."

Charlotte looked grave at this. Her uncle seemed to impute blame to her
lover. Being absolutely certain of his devotion, she scorned to defend
it. She rose from the table.

"You will find me in the drawing-room, Uncle Jasper."

"One word, Charlotte, before you go," said her uncle. "No, child, I am
not going to the drawing-room. You two lovers may have it to yourselves.
But--but--you remember our talk of last night?"

"Yes," answered Charlotte, pausing, and coming back a little way into
the room. "Did you say anything to my father? Will he help Mrs. Home?"

"I have no doubt he will, my dear. Your father and I will both do
something. He is a very just man, is your father. He was a good deal
upset by this reference to his early days, and to his quarrel with his
own father. I believe, between you and me, that it was that which made
him ill this evening. But, Charlotte, you leave Mrs. Home to us. I will
mention her case again when your father is more fit to bear the subject.
What I wanted to say now, my dear, is this, that I think it would best
please the dear old man if--if you told nothing of this strange tale,
not even to Hinton, my dear."

"Why, Uncle Jasper?"

"Why, my dear child? The reason seems to me obvious enough. It is a
story of the past. It relates to an old and painful quarrel. It is all
over years ago. And then you could not tell one side of the tale without
the other. Mrs. Home, poor thing, not personally knowing your father as
one of the best and noblest of men, imputes very grave blame to him.
Don't you think such a tale, so false, so wrong, had better be buried in
oblivion?"

"Mrs. Home was most unjust in her ignorance," repeated Charlotte. "But,
uncle, you are too late in your warning, for I told John the whole story
already to-day."

Not a muscle of Uncle Jasper's face changed.

"Well, child, I should have said that to you last night. After all, it
is natural. Hinton won't let it go farther, and no harm is done."

"Certainly, John does not speak of my most sacred things," answered
Charlotte proudly.

"No, no, of course he doesn't. I am sorry you told him; but as you say,
he is one with yourself. No harm is done. No, thank you, my dear, no
more wine now. I am going off to my club."




CHAPTER XV.

MR. HARMAN'S CONFIDENCE.


All through dinner, Hinton had felt that strange sense of depression
stealing upon him. He was a man capable of putting a very great
restraint upon his feelings, and he so behaved during the long and weary
meal as to rouse no suspicions, either in Charlotte's breast or in the
far sharper one of the Australian uncle. But, nevertheless, so
distressing was the growing sense of coming calamity, that he felt the
gay laugh of his betrothed almost distressing, and was truly relieved
when he had to change it for the gravity of her father. As he went from
the dining-room to Mr. Harman's study, he reflected with pleasure that
his future father-in-law was always grave, that never in all the months
of their rather frequent intercourse had he seen him even once indulge
in what could be called real gayety of heart. Though this fact rather
coupled with his own suspicions, still he felt a momentary relief in
having to deal to-night with one who treated life from its sombre
standpoint.

He entered the comfortable study. Mr. Harman was sunk down in an
armchair, a cup of untasted coffee stood by his side; the moment he
heard Hinton's step, however, he rose and going forward, took the young
man's hand and wrung it warmly.

The room was lit by candles, but there were plenty of them, and Hinton
almost started when he perceived how ill the old man looked.

"Charlotte has told you what I want you for to-night, eh, Hinton?" said
Mr. Harman.

"Yes; Charlotte has told me," answered John Hinton. Then he sat down
opposite his future father-in-law, who had resumed his armchair by the
fire. Standing up, Mr. Harman looked ill, but sunk into his chair, with
his bent, white head, and drawn, anxious face, and hands worn to
emaciation, he looked twenty times worse. There seemed nearly a lifetime
between him and that blithe-looking Jasper, whom Hinton had left with
Charlotte in the dining-room. Mr. Harman, sitting by his fire, with
firelight and candlelight shining full upon him, looked a very old man
indeed.

"I am sorry to see you so unwell, sir. You certainly don't look at all
the thing," began Hinton.

"I am not well--not at all well. I don't want Charlotte to know. But
there need be no disguises between you and me; of course I show it; but
we will come to that presently. First, about your own affairs. Lottie
has told you what I want you for to-night?"

"She has, Mr. Harman. She says that you have been good and generous
enough to say you will take away the one slight embargo you made to our
marriage--that we may become man and wife before I bring you news of
that brief."

"Yes, Hinton: that is what I said to her this morning: I repeat the same
to you to-night. You may fix your wedding-day when you like--I dare say
you have fixed it."

"Charlotte has named the twentieth of next June, sir; but----"

"The twentieth of June! that is four months away. I did not want her to
put it off as far as that. However, women, even the most sensible, have
such an idea of the time it takes to get a trousseau. The twentieth of
June! You can make it sooner, can't you?"

"Four months is not such a long time, sir. We have a house to get, and
furniture to buy. Four months will be necessary to make these
arrangements."

"No, they won't; for you have no such arrangements to make. You are to
come and live here when you marry. This will be your house when you
marry, and I shall be your guest. I can give you Charlotte Hinton; but I
cannot do without her myself."

"But this house means a very, very large income, Mr. Harman. Is it
prudent that we should begin like this? For my part I should much rather
do on less."

"You may sell the house if you fancy, and take a smaller one; or go more
into the country. I only make one proviso--that while I live, I live
with my only daughter."

"And with your son, too, Mr. Harman," said Hinton, just letting his hand
touch for an instant the wrinkled hand which lay on Mr. Harman's knee.

The old man smiled one of those queer, sad smiles which Hinton had often
in vain tried to fathom. Responding to the touch of the vigorous young
hand, he said--

"I have always liked you, Hinton. I believe, in giving you my dear
child, I give her to one who will make her happy."

"Happy! yes, I shall certainly try to make her happy," answered Hinton,
with a sparkle in his eyes.

"And that is the main thing; better than wealth, or position, or
anything else on God's earth. Happiness comes with goodness, you know,
my dear fellow; no bad man was ever happy. If you and Charlotte get this
precious thing into your lives you must both be good. Don't let the evil
touch you ever so slightly. If you do, happiness flies."

"I quite believe you," answered Hinton.

"Well, about money matters. I am, as you know, very rich. I shall settle
plenty of means upon my daughter; but it will be better for you to enter
into all these matters with my solicitor. When can you meet him?"

"Whenever convenient to you and to him, sir."

"I will arrange it for you, and let you know."

"Mr. Harman, may I say a word for myself?" suddenly asked the young man.

"Most certainly. Have I been so garrulous as to keep you from speaking?"

"Not at all, sir; you have been more than generous. You have been
showing me the rose-color from your point of view. Now it is not all
rose-color."

"I was coming to that; it is by no means all rose-color. Well, say your
say first."

"You are a very rich man, and you are giving me your daughter; so
endowing her, that any man in the world would say I had drawn a prize in
money, if in nothing else."

Mr. Harman smiled.

"I fear you must bear that," he said. "I do not see that you can support
Charlotte without some assistance from me."

"I certainly could not do so. I have exactly two hundred a year, and
that, as you were pleased to observed before, would be, to one brought
up as Charlotte has been, little short of beggary."

"To Charlotte it certainly would be almost beggary."

"Mr. Harman, I have some pride in me. I am a barrister by profession.
Some barristers get high in their profession."

"Undoubtedly _some_ do."

"Those who are brilliant do," continued Hinton. "I have abilities,
whether they are brilliant or not, time will show. Mr. Harman, I should
like to bring you news of that brief before we are married."

"I can throw you in the way of getting plenty of briefs when you are my
son-in-law. I promise you, you will no longer be a barrister with
nothing to do."

"Yes, sir; but I want this before my marriage."

"My influence can give it to you before."

"But that was against our agreement, Mr. Harman. I want to find that
brief which is to do so much for me without your help."

"Very well. Find it before the twentieth of June."

After this the two men were silent for several moments. John Hinton,
though in no measure comforted, felt it impossible to say more just
then, and Mr. Harman, with a face full of care, kept gazing into the
fire. John Hinton might have watched that face with interest, had he not
been otherwise occupied. After this short silence Mr. Harman spoke
again.

"You think me very unselfish in all this; perhaps even my conduct
surprises you."

"I confess it rather does," answered Hinton.

"Will you oblige me by saying how?"

"For one thing, you give so much and expect so little."

"Ay, so it appears at first sight; but I told you it was not all
rose-color; I am coming to that part. Your pride has been roused--I can
soothe it."

"I love Charlotte too much to feel any pride in the matter," replied
Hinton, with some heat.

"I don't doubt your affection, my good fellow; and I put against it an
equal amount on Charlotte's part; also a noble and beautiful woman, and
plenty of money, with money's attendant mercies. I fear even your
affection is outweighed in that balance."

"Nothing can outweigh affection," replied Hinton boldly.

Mr. Harman smiled, and this time stretching out his own hand he touched
the young man's.

"You are right, my dear boy; and because I am so well aware of this, I
give my one girl to a man who is a gentleman, and who loves her. I ask
for nothing else in Charlotte's husband, but I am anxious for you to be
her husband at once."

"And that is what puzzles me," said Hinton: "you have a sudden reason
for this hurry. We are both young; we can wait; there is no hardship in
waiting."

"There would be a hardship to me in your waiting longer now. You are
quite right in saying I have a sudden reason; this time last night I had
no special thought of hurrying on Charlotte's marriage. Her uncle
proposed it; I considered his reasoning good--so good, that I gave
Charlotte permission this morning to fix with you the time for the
wedding. But even then delay would have troubled me but little; now it
does; now even these four short months trouble me sorely."

"Why?" asked Hinton.

"Why? You mentioned my health, and observed that I looked ill; I said I
would come to that presently. I am ill; I look very ill. I have seen
physicians. To-day I went to see Sir George Anderson; he told me,
without any preamble, the truth. My dear fellow, I want you to be my
child's protector in a time of trouble, for I am a dying man."

Hinton had never come face to face with death in his life before. He
started forward now and clasped his hands.

"Dying!" he repeated, in a tone of unbelief and consternation.

"Yes; you don't see it, for I am going about. I shall go about much as
usual to the very last. Your idea of dying men is that they stay in bed
and get weak, and have a living death long before the last great mercy
comes. That will not be my case. I shall be as you see me now to the
very last moment; then some day, or perhaps some night, you will come
into this room, or into another room, it does not a bit matter where,
and find me dead."

"And must this come soon?" repeated Hinton.

"It may not come for some months; it may stay away for a year; but again
it may come to-night or to-morrow."

"Good God!" repeated Hinton.

"Yes, Mr. Hinton, you are right, in the contemplation of such a solemn
and terrible event, to mention the name of your Creator. He is a good
God, but His very goodness makes Him terrible. He is a God who will see
justice done; who will by no means cleanse the guilty. I am going into
His presence--a sinful old man. Well, I bow to His decree. But enough of
this; you see my reasons for wishing for an early marriage for my
child."

"Mr. Harman, I am deeply, deeply pained and shocked. May I know the
nature of your malady?"

"It is unnecessary to discuss it, and does no good; suffice it to know
that I carry a disease within me which by its very nature must end both
soon and suddenly; also that there is no cure for the disease."

"Are you telling me all this as a secret?"

"As a most solemn and sacred secret. My brother suspects something of
it, but no one, no one in all the world knows the full and solemn truth
but yourself."

"Then Charlotte is not to be told?"

"Charlotte! Charlotte! It is for her sake I have confided to you all
this, that you may guard her from such a knowledge."

John Hinton was silent for a moment or two; if he disliked Charlotte
having a secret from him much more did he protest against the knowledge
which now was forced upon him being kept from her. He saw that Mr.
Harman was firmly set on keeping his child in the dark; he disapproved,
but he hardly dared, so much did he fear to agitate the old man, to make
any vigorous stand against a decree which seemed to him both cruel and
unjust. He must say something, however, so he began gently--

"I will respect your most sacred confidence, Mr. Harman; without your
leave no word from me shall convey this knowledge to Charlotte; but
pardon me if I say a word. You know your own child very well, but I also
know Charlotte; she has lived, for all her talent and her five and
twenty years, the sheltered life of a child hitherto--but that is
nothing; she is a noble woman, she has a noble woman's heart; in
trouble, such a nature as hers could rise and prove itself great. Don't
you suppose, when by and by the end really comes, she will blame me, and
even perhaps, you, sir, for keeping this knowledge from her."

"She will never blame her old father. She will see, bless her, that I
did it in love; you will tell her that, be sure you tell her that, when
the time comes; please God, you will be her husband then, and you will
have the right to comfort her."

"I hope to have the right to comfort her, I hope to be her husband;
still, I think you are mistaken, though I can urge the matter no
further."

"No, for you cannot see it with my eyes; that child and I have lived the
most unbroken life of peace and happiness together; neither storm nor
cloud has visited us in one another. The shadow of death must not
embitter our last few months; she must be my bright girl to the very
last. Some day, if you and she ever have a daughter, you will understand
my feelings--at least in part you will understand it."

"I cannot understand it now, but I can at least respect it," answered
the young man.




CHAPTER XVI.

"VENGEANCE IS MINE."


When Hinton at last left him, Mr. Harman sat on for a long time by his
study fire. The fire burnt low but he did not replenish it, neither did
he touch the cold coffee which still remained on his table. After an
hour or so of musings, during which the old face seemed each moment to
grow more sad and careworn, he stretched out his hand to ring his bell.

Almost instantly was the summons answered--a tall footman stood before
him.

"Dennis, has Mr. Jasper left?"

"Yes, sir. He said he was going to his club. I can have him fetched,
sir."

"Do not do so. After Mr. Hinton leaves, ask Miss Harman to come here."

The footman answered softly in the affirmative and withdrew, and Mr.
Harman still sat on alone. He had enough to think about. For the first
time to-day death had come and stared him in the face; very close indeed
his own death was looking at him. He was a brave man, but the sight of
the cold, grim thing, brought so close, so inevitably near, was scarcely
to be endured with equanimity. After a time, rising from his seat, he
went to a bookcase and took down, not a treatise on medicine or
philosophy, but an old Bible.

"Dying men are said to find comfort here," he said faintly to himself.
He put one of the candles on the table and opened the book. It was an
old Bible, but John Harman was not very well acquainted with its
contents.

"They tell me there is much comfort here," he said to himself. He turned
the old and yellow leaves.

"_Vengeance is mine. I will repay._" These were the words on which his
eyes fell.

Comfort! He closed the book with a groan and returned it to the
bookshelf. But in returning it he chose the highest shelf of all and
pushed it far back and well out of sight.

He had scarcely done so before a light quick step was heard at the door,
and Charlotte, her eyes and cheeks both bright, entered.

"My dearest, my darling," he said. He came to meet her, and folded her
in his arms. He was a dying man, and a sin-laden one, but not the less
sweet was that young embrace, that smooth cheek, those bright, happy
eyes.

"You are better, father; you look better," said his daughter.

"I have been rather weak and low all the evening, Lottie; but I am much
better for seeing you. Come here and sit at my feet, my dear love."

"I am very happy this evening," said Charlotte, seating herself on her
father's footstool, and laying her hand on his knee.

"I can guess the reason, my child; your wedding-day is fixed."

"This morning, father, I said it should be the twentieth of June; John
seemed quite satisfied, and four months were not a bit too long for our
preparations; but to-night he has changed his mind; he wants our wedding
to be in April. I have not given in--not yet. Two months seem so short."

"You will have plenty of time to prepare in two months, dear; and April
is a nice time of year. If I were you, I would not oppose Hinton."

Charlotte smiled. She knew in her heart of hearts she should not oppose
him. But being a true woman, she laid hold of a futile excuse.

"My book will not be finished. I like to do well what I do at all."

Her father was very proud of this coming book; but now, patting her
hand, he said softly,--

"The book can keep. Put it out of your head for the present; you can get
it done later."

"Then I shall leave you two months sooner, father; does that not weigh
with you at all?"

"You are only going for your honeymoon, darling; and the sooner you go
the sooner you will return."

"Vanquished on all points," said Charlotte, smiling radiantly, and then
she sat still, looking into the fire.

Long, long afterwards, through much of sorrow--nay, even of
tribulation--did her thoughts wander back to that golden evening of her
life.

"You remind me of my own mother to-night," said her father presently.

Charlotte and her father had many times spoken of this dead mother. Now
she said softly,--

"I want, I pray, I long to make as good a wife as you tell me she did."

"With praying, longing, and striving, it will come Charlotte. That was
how she succeeded."

"And there is another thing," continued Charlotte, suddenly changing her
position and raising her bright eyes to her old father's face. "You had
a good wife and I had a good mother. If ever I die, as my own mother
died, and leave behind me a little child, as she did, I pray that my
John may be as good a father to it as you have been to me."

But in answer to this little burst of daughterly love, a strange thing
happened. Mr. Harman grew very white, so white that he gasped for
breath.

"Water, a little water," he said, feebly; and when Charlotte had brought
it to him and he raised it to his lips, and the color and power to
breathe had come back again, he said slowly and with great pain,--

"Never, never pray that your husband may be like me, Charlotte. To be
worthy of you at all, he must be a much better and a very different
man."




CHAPTER XVII.

HAPPINESS NOT JUSTICE.


Hinton left Mr. Harman's house in a very perplexed frame of mind. It
seemed to him that in that one short day as much had happened to him as
in all the course of his previous life, but the very force of the
thoughts, the emotions, the hopes, the fears, which had visited him,
made him, strong, young and vigorous as he was, so utterly weary, that
when he reached his rooms he felt that he must let tired-out nature have
its way--he threw himself on his bed and slept the sleep of the young
and healthy until the morning.

It was February weather, February unusually mild and genial, and the pet
day of yesterday was followed by another as soft and sweet and mild.
When Hinton awoke from his refreshing slumbers, the day was so well and
thoroughly risen that a gleam of sunshine lay across his bed. He started
up to discover a corresponding glow in his heart. What was causing this
glow? In a moment he remembered, and the gleam of heart sunshine grew
brighter with the knowledge. The fact was, happiness was standing by the
young man's side, holding out two radiant hands, and saying, "Take me,
take me to your heart of hearts, for I have come to dwell with you."
Hinton rose, dressed hastily, and went into his sitting-room. All the
gloom which had so oppressed him yesterday had vanished. He could not
resist the outward sunshine, nor the heart-glow which had come to him.
He stepped lightly, and whistled some gay airs. He ate his breakfast
with appetite, then threw himself into an easy-chair which stood near
the window; he need not go to his chambers for at least an hour, he
might give himself this time to think.

Again happiness stepped up close and showed her beautiful face. Should
he take her; should he receive the rare and lovely thing and shut out
that stern sense of justice, of relieving the oppressed, of seeing the
wronged righted, which had been as his sheet-anchor yesterday, which had
been more or less the sheet-anchor of his life. Here was his position.
He was engaged to marry Charlotte Harman; he loved her with his whole
heart; she loved him with her whole heart; she was a beautiful woman, a
noble woman, a wealthy woman. With her as his wife, love, riches, power
might all be his. What more could the warm, warm feelings of youth
desire? what more could the ambitions of youth aspire to? Yesterday, it
is true, he had felt some rising of that noble pride which scorns to
receive so much and give so little. He had formed a wild, almost
passionate determination to obtain his brief before he obtained his
bride, but Mr. Harman had soothed that pride to sleep. There was indeed
a grave and sad reason why this beautiful and innocent woman whom he had
won should receive all the full comfort his love and protection could
give her as quickly as possible. Her father was dying, and she must not
know of his approaching death. Her father wished to see her Hinton's
wife as soon as possible. Hinton felt that this was reasonable, this was
fair; for the sake of no pride, true or false, no hoped-for brief, could
he any longer put off their wedding. Nay, far from this. Last night he
had urged its being completed two months sooner than Charlotte herself
had proposed. He saw by the brightness in Charlotte's eyes that, though
she did not at once agree to this, her love for him was such that she
would marry him in a week if he so willed it. He rejoiced in these
symptoms of her great love, and the rejoicings of last night had risen
in a fuller tide this morning. Yes, it was the rule of life, the one
everlasting law, the old must suffer and die, the young must live and
rejoice. Yes; Hinton felt very deep sympathy for Mr. Harman last night,
but this morning, his happiness making him more self-absorbed than
really selfish, he knew that the old man's dying and suffering state
could not take one iota from his present delight.

What then perplexed him? What made him stand aloof from the radiant
guest, Happiness, for a brief half hour? That story of Charlotte's; it
would come back to him; he wished now he had never heard it. For having
heard he could not forget: he could not exorcise this grim Thing which
stood side by side with Happiness in his sunny room. The fact was, his
acute mind took in the true bearings of the case far more clearly than
Charlotte had done. He felt sure that Mrs. Home had been wronged. He
felt equally sure that, if he looked into the case, it lay in his power
to right her. Over and over he saw her pale, sad face, and he hoped it
was not going to haunt him. The tale in his mind lay all in Mrs. Home's
favor, all against John and Jasper Harman. Was it likely that their
wealthy father would do anything so monstrously unjust as to leave all
his money to his two eldest sons with whom he had previously quarrelled,
and nothing, nothing at all to his young wife and infant daughter? It
would be a meaningless piece of injustice, unlike all that he had
gleaned of the previous character of the old man. As to John and Jasper,
and their conduct in the affair, that too was difficult to fathom.
Jasper had spent the greater portion of his life in Australia. Of his
character Hinton knew little; that little he felt was repugnant to him.
But John Harman--no man in the City bore a higher character for
uprightness, for integrity, for honor. John Harman was respected and
loved by all who knew him.

Yes, yes: Hinton felt that all this was possible, but also he knew that
never in their close intercourse had he been able to fathom John Harman.
A shadow rested over the wealthy and prosperous merchant. Never until
now had Hinton even approached the cause; but now, now it seemed to him
that he was grappling with the impenetrable mystery, that face to face
he was looking at the long and successfully hidden sin. Strong man as he
was, he trembled as this fear came over him. Whatever the cause,
whatever the sudden and swift temptation, he felt an ever-growing
conviction that long ago John and Jasper Harman had robbed the widow and
fatherless. Feeling this, being almost sure of this, how then should he
act? He knew very well what he could do. He could go to Somerset House
and see the will of old Mr. Harman. It was very unlikely that a forged
will had been attempted. It was, he felt sure, far, far more probable
that the real will was left untampered with, that the deed of injustice
had been done in the hope that no one who knew anything about such
matters would ever inquire into it.

Hinton could go that very day and set his mind at rest. Why then did he
hesitate? Ah! he knew but too well. Never and nearer came that shining
form of Happiness. If he did this thing, and found his suspicions
correct, as he feared much he should, if he then acted upon this
knowledge and gave Mrs. Home her own again, happiness would fly from
him, it might be for ever. To give Mrs. Home her rights he must cruelly
expose a dying old man. Such a shock, coming now, would most probably
kill John Harman. After bringing her father to such shame and dishonor,
would Charlotte ever consent to be his wife? would she not indeed in
very horror fly from his presence? What was Mrs. Home to him, that he
should ruin his whole life for her sake, that he should give up wife,
wealth, and fame? Nothing--a complete stranger. Why should he, for her
sake, pain and make miserable those he loved, above all break the heart
of the woman who was more precious to him than all the rest of the
world? He felt he could not do this thing. He must take that bright
winged happiness and let justice have her day when she could. Some other
hand must inflict the blow, it could not be his hand. He was sorry now
that he had taken Mrs. Home's lodgings. But after all what did it
signify? He had taken them for a month, he could go there for that short
period. His quickly approaching marriage would make it necessary for him
to leave very soon after, and he would try amongst his many friends to
find her a more permanent tenant, for though he had now quite made up
his mind to let matters alone, his heart ached for this woman. Yes, he
would, if possible, help her in little ways, though it would be
impossible for his hand to be the one to give her her own again. Having
come to this determination he went out.




CHAPTER XVIII.

"SUGAR AND SPICE AND ALL THAT'S NICE."


Perhaps for one day Charlotte Harman was selfish in her happiness. But
when she awoke on the morning after her interview with her father, her
finely balanced nature had quite recovered its equilibrium. She was a
woman whom circumstances could make very noble; all her leanings were
towards the good, she had hitherto been unassailed by temptation,
untouched by care. All her life the beautiful and bright things of this
world had been showered at her feet. She had the friends whom rich,
amiable, and handsome girls usually make. She had the devotion of a
most loving father. John Hinton met her and loved her. She responded to
his love with her full heart. Another father might have objected to her
giving herself to this man, who in the fashionable world's opinion was
nothing. But Harman only insisted on a slight delay to their marriage,
none whatever to their engagement, and now, after scarcely a year of
waiting, the embargo was withdrawn, their wedding-day was fixed, was
close at hand. The twentieth of April (Charlotte knew she should not
oppose the twentieth of April) was not quite two months away. Very light
was her heart when she awoke to this happy fact. Happiness, too, was
standing by her bedside, and she made no scruple to press the radiant
creature to her heart of hearts. But Charlotte's was too fine a nature
to be spoiled by prosperity. Independent of her wealth, she must always
have been a favorite. Her heart was frank and generous; she was
thoughtful for others, she was most truly unselfish. Charlotte was a
favorite with the servants; her maid worshipped her. She was a just
creature, and had read too much on social reform to give away
indiscriminately and without thought; but where her sense of justice was
really satisfied, she could give with a royal hand, and there were many
poor whom Ward, her maid, knew, who, rising up, called Miss Harman
blessed.

Charlotte had taken a great interest in Mrs. Home. Her face attracted,
her manner won, before ever her story touched the heart of this young
woman. The greatest pain Charlotte had ever gone through in her life had
followed the recital of Mrs. Home's tale, a terrible foreboding the
awful shadow which points to wrong done, to sin committed by her best
and dearest, had come near and touched her. Uncle Jasper, with his
clever and experienced hand, had driven that shadow away, and in her
first feeling of intense thankfulness and relief, she had almost
disliked the woman who had come to her with so cruel a tale. All
yesterday, in the midst of her own happiness, she had endeavored to shut
Mrs. Home from her thoughts; but this morning, more calm herself, the
remembrance of the poor, pale, and struggling mother rose up again fresh
and vivid within her heart. It is true Mrs. Home believed a lie, a cruel
and dreadful lie; but none the less for this was she to be pitied, none
the less for this must she be helped. Mrs. Home was Charlotte's near
relation, she could not suffer her to want. As she lay in bed, she
reflected with great thankfulness that John Hinton had said, on hearing
the tale, how manifestly it would be his and her duty to help this poor
mother. Yes, by and by they would give her enough to raise her above all
want, but Charlotte felt she could not wait for that distant time. She
must succor Mrs. Home at once. Her father had said last night that, if
she married in two months, there would be no time for her to finish her
book. He was right; she must give up the book; she would devote this
morning to Mrs. Home.

She rose with her determination formed and went downstairs. As usual her
father was waiting for her, as usual he came up and kissed her; and as
they had done every morning for so many years, they sat down opposite
each other to breakfast. Charlotte longed to speak to her father about
Mrs. Home, but he looked, even to her inexperienced eyes, very ill and
haggard, and she remembered her uncle's words and refrained from the
subject.

"You seem so feeble, father, had you not better go into town in the
carriage this morning?" she asked, as he rose from his chair.

To her surprise he assented, even confessed that he had already ordered
the carriage. He had never to her knowledge done such a thing before,
and little as she knew of real illness, nothing as she knew of danger
and death, she felt a sharp pain at her heart as she watched him driving
away. The pain, however, was but momentary, lost in the pressing
interests of other thoughts. Before eleven o'clock she had started off
to see Mrs. Home.

Now it was by no means her intention to go to this newly found relation
empty handed. Mrs. Home might or might not be willing to receive a gift
of money, but Charlotte hoped so to be able to convey it to her as to
save her pride from being too greatly hurt.

Charlotte had a small banking account of her own. She drove now straight
to her bank in the city, and drawing fifty pounds in one note slipped it
into her purse. From the bank she went to a children's West End shop.
She there chose a lovely velvet frock for the fair-haired little Daisy,
two embroidered white dresses for the baby; and going a little farther
she bought a smart tailor suit for the eldest boy. After buying the
pretty clothes she visited a toy shop, where she loaded herself with
toys; then a cake shop to purchase cakes and other goodies; and having
at last exhausted her resources; she desired the coachman to drive to
Mrs. Home's address in Kentish Town. She arrived, after a drive of a
little over half an hour, to find the lady whom she had come to seek,
out. The dirty little maid stared with full round eyes at the beautiful
young lady and at the handsome carriage, and declared she did not know
when her missis would be in.

For a moment Charlotte felt foiled; but she was excited now--she could
not go away, laden as she was with fairy gifts, without making some
effort to dispense these blessings.

"I am a relation of Mrs. Home's and I want to see the children. Are the
children in?" she asked of the little maid.

Rounder and rounder grew that small domestic's eyes.

"They can't be hout without me," she volunteered; "ain't I the nuss and
maid-of-all work? Yes, the children is hin."

Then she opened the dining-room door, and Charlotte, first flying to the
carriage and returning laden with brown paper parcels, followed her into
the little parlor.

The maid, on the swift wings of excitement, flew upstairs. There was the
quick patter of eager little feet, and in a very few moments the door
was pushed open and a boy and girl entered. Charlotte recognized them at
a glance. They were the very handsome little pair whose acquaintance she
had made yesterday in Regent's Park. The girl hung back a trifle shyly,
but the boy, just saying to his sister, "The pretty lady," came up, and
raised his lips for a kiss.

"You don't think me rude?" he said; "you don't mind kissing me, do you."

"I love to kiss you; I am your own cousin," said Charlotte.

"My own cousin! Then I may sit on your knee. Daisy, come here--the
pretty lady is our own cousin."

On hearing this, Daisy too advanced. Neither child had any idea what the
word cousin meant, but it seemed to include proprietorship. They stroked
Charlotte's furs, and both pairs of lips were raised again and again for
many kisses. In the midst of this scene entered the little maid with the
baby. Pretty as Daisy and Harold were, they were nothing to the baby;
this baby of eight months had a most ethereal and lovely face.

"Oh, you beauty! you darling!" said Charlotte, as she clasped the little
creature in her arms, and the baby, too young to be shy, allowed her to
kiss him repeatedly.

"What a lot of lumber!" said Daisy, touching the brown-paper parcels.

This little child's speech brought Charlotte back to the fact of her
cakes and toys. Giving baby to his small nurse, she opened her
treasures. Daisy received her doll with a kind of awed rapture, Harold
rattled his drum and blew his trumpet in a way most distracting to any
weak nerves within reasonable distance, and the baby sucked some rather
unwholesome sweets. No child thought of thanking their benefactor, but
flushed cheeks, bright eyes, eager little voices, were thanks louder and
more eloquent than words.

"I want to see your mother; when will she be in?" asked Charlotte, after
a little quiet had been restored.

"Not all day," answered Harold. "Mother has gone with father to nurse a
poor sick lady; she won't be back till quite night."

"She said we were to be very good; we are, aren't we?" said Daisy.

"Yes, darling; you are quite perfect," replied the inexperienced
Charlotte.

"Did our mother ask you to come and play with us and give us lovely
things?" demanded Harold.

"She does not know I am here, my dear little boy; but now, if you will
show me where I can get a sheet of paper, I will just write your mother
a little note."

The paper was quickly found, and Charlotte sat down, a boy and girl on
each side. It was not easy to say much under such circumstances, so the
words in the little note were few.

"You will give this to your mother when she comes in. See!--I will put
it on the mantelpiece," she said to Harold; "and you must not touch
these parcels until mother opens them herself. Yes; I will come again.
Now, good-by." Her bonnet was decidedly crooked as she stepped into the
carriage, her jacket was also much crumpled; but there was a very sweet
feel of little arms still round her neck, and she touched her hair and
cheeks with satisfaction, for they had been honored by many child
kisses.

"I believe she's just a fairy godmother," said Harold, as he watched the
carriage rolling away.

"I never seed the like in hall my born days," remarked the small
maid-of-all-work.




CHAPTER XIX.

"THE PRETTY LADY"


"Mother, mother, mother!"

"And look!--oh, do look at what I have got!" were the words that greeted
Mrs. Home, when, very tired, after a day of hard nursing with one of her
husband's sick parishioners, she came back.

The children ought to have been in bed, the baby fast asleep, the little
parlor-table tidily laid for tea: instead of which, the baby wailed
unceasingly up in the distant nursery, and Harold and Daisy, having
nearly finished Charlotte's sweeties, and made themselves very
uncomfortable by repeated attacks on the rich plum-cake, were now, with
very flushed cheeks, alternately playing with their toys and poking
their small fingers into the still unopened brown-paper parcels. They
had positively refused to go up to the nursery, and, though the gas was
lit and the blinds were pulled down, the spirit of disorder had most
manifestly got into the little parlor.

"Oh, mother!--what _do_ you think? The lovely lady!--the lady we met in
the park yesterday!--she has been, and she brought us _lots_ of
things--toys, and sweeties, and cakes, and--oh, mother, do look!"

Daisy presented her doll, and Harold blew some very shrill blasts from
his trumpet right up into his mother's eyes.

"My dear children," said Mrs. Home, "whom do you mean? where did you get
all these things? who has come here? Why aren't you both in bed? It is
long past your usual hour."

This string of questions met with an unintelligible chorus of replies,
in which the words "pretty lady," "Regent's Park," "father knew her,"
"we _had_ to sit up," so completely puzzled Mrs. Home, that had not her
eyes suddenly rested on the little note waiting for her on the
mantelpiece she would have been afraid her children had taken leave of
their senses.

"Oh, yes; she told us to give you that," said Harold when he saw his
mother take it up.

I have said the note was very short. Charlotte Home read it in a moment.

"Mother, mother! what does she tell you, and what are in the other
parcels? She said we weren't to open them until you came home. Oh, _do_
tell us what she said, and let us see the rest of the pretty things!"

"Do, do mother; we have been so patient 'bout it!" repeated little
Daisy.

Harold now ran for the largest of the parcels, and raised it for his
mother to take. Both children clung to her skirts. Mrs. Home put the
large parcel on a shelf out of reach, then she put aside the hot and
eager little hands. At last she spoke.

"My little children must have some more patience, for mother can tell
them nothing more to-night. Yes, yes, the lady is very pretty and very
kind, but we can talk no more about anything until the morning. Now,
Harold and Daisy, come upstairs at once."

They were an obedient, well-trained little pair. They just looked at one
another, and from each dimpled mouth came a short, impatient sigh; then
they gave their hands to mother, and went gravely up to the nursery.
Charlotte stayed with her children until they were undressed. She saw
them comfortably washed, their baby prayers said, and each little head
at rest on its pillow, then kissing the baby, who was also by this time
fast asleep, she went softly downstairs.

Anne, the little maid, was flying about, trying to get the tea ready and
some order restored, but when she saw her mistress she could not refrain
from standing still to pour out her excited tale.

"Ef you please, 'em, it come on me hall on a 'eap. She come in that free
and that bounteous, and seemed as if she could eat all the children up
wid love; and she give 'em a lot, and left a lot more fur you, 'em. And
when she wor goin' away she put half-a-crown in my hand. I never seed
the like--never, 'em--never! She wor dressed as grand as Queen Victory
herself, and she come in a carriage and two spanking hosses; and,
please, 'em, I heard of her telling the children as she wos own cousin
to you, 'em."

"Yes, I know the young lady," replied Mrs. Home. "She is, as you say,
very nice and kind. But now, Anne, we must not talk any more. Your
master won't be in for an hour, but I shan't wait tea for him; we will
have some fresh made later. Please bring me in a cup at once, for I am
very tired."

Anne gazed at her mistress in open-eyed astonishment. Any one--any one
as poor as she well knew missis to be--who could take the fact of being
cousin to so beautiful and rich a young lady with such coolness and
apparent indifference quite passed Anne's powers of comprehension.

"It beats me holler--that it do!" she said to herself; then, with a
start, she ran off to her kitchen.

Mrs. Home had taken her first cup of tea, and had even eaten a piece of
bread and butter, before she again drew Charlotte Harman's little note
out of her pocket. This is what her eyes had already briefly glanced
over:--

     DEAR FRIEND AND SISTER--for you must let me call you so--I have
     come to see you, and finding you out asked to see your children. I
     have lost my heart to your beautiful and lovely children. They are
     very sweet! Your baby is more like an angel than any earthly
     creature my eyes have ever rested on. Charlotte, I brought your
     children a few toys, and one or two other little things. You won't
     be too proud to accept them. When I bought them I did not love your
     children, but I loved you. You are my near kinswoman. You won't
     take away the pleasure I felt when I bought those things. Dear
     Sister Charlotte, when shall we meet again? Send me a line, and I
     will come to you at any time. Yours,

     "CHARLOTTE HARMAN."

It is to be regretted that Charlotte Home by no means received this
sweet and loving little note in the spirit in which it was written. Her
pale, thin face flushed, and her eyes burnt with an angry light. This
burst of excited feeling was but the outcome of all she had undergone
mentally since she had left Miss Harman's house a few days ago. She had
said then, and truly, that she loved this young lady. The pride, the
stately bearing, the very look of open frankness in Charlotte's eyes had
warmed and touched her heart. She had not meant to tell to those ears,
so unaccustomed to sin and shame, this tale of long-past wrong. It had
been in a manner forced from her, and she had seen a flush of
perplexity, then of horror, color the cheeks and fill the fine brave
eyes. She had come away with her heart sympathies so moved by this girl,
so touched, so shocked with what she herself had revealed, that she
would almost rather, could her father's money now be hers, relinquish
it, than cause any further pain or shame to Charlotte Harman.

She came home and confided what she had done to her husband. It is not
too much to say that he was displeased--that he was much hurt. The
Charlotte who in her too eagerness for money could so act was scarcely
the Charlotte he had pictured to himself as his wife. Charlotte was
lowered in the eyes of the unworldly man. But just because her husband
was so unworldly, so unpractical, Charlotte's own more everyday nature
began to reassert itself. She had really done no harm. She had but told
a tale of wrong. Those who committed the wrong were the ones to blame.
She, the sufferer--who could put sin at her door? Her sympathy for
Charlotte grew less, her sorrow for herself and her children more. She
felt more sure than ever that injustice had been committed--that she and
her mother had been robbed; she seemed to read the fact in Charlotte
Harman's innocent eyes, Charlotte, in spite of herself, even though her
own father was the one accused, believed her--agreed with her.

All that night she spent in a sort of feverish dream, in which she saw
herself wealthy, her husband happy, her children cared for as they ought
to be. The ugly, ugly poverty of her life and her surroundings had all
passed away like a dream that is told.

She got up in a state of excitement and expectation, for what might not
Charlotte Harman do for her? She would tell the tale to her father, and
that father, seeing that his sin was found out, would restore her to her
rights. Of course, this must be the natural consequence. Charlotte was
not low and mean; she would see that she had her own again. Mrs. Home
made no allowance for any subsequent event--for any influence other than
her own being brought to bear on the young lady. All that day she
watched the post; she watched for the possibility of a visit. Neither
letter nor visit came, but Mrs. Home was not discouraged. That day was
too soon to hear; she must wait with patience for the morrow.

On the morrow her husband, who had almost forgotten her story, asked her
to come and help him in the care of a sick woman at some distance away.
Charlotte was a capital sick-nurse, and had often before given similar
aid to Mr. Home in parish work.

She went, spent her day away, and returned to find that Charlotte had
come--that so far her dream was true. Yes, but only so far, for
Charlotte had come, not in shame, but in the plenitude of a generous
benefactor. She had come laden with gifts, and had gone away with the
hearts of the children and the little maid. Charlotte Home felt a great
wave of anger and pain stealing over her heart. In her pain and
disappointment she was unjust.

"She is a coward after all. She dare not tell her father. She believes
my tale, but she is not brave enough to see justice done to me and mine;
so she tries to make up for it; she tries to salve her conscience and
bribe me with gifts--gifts and flattery. I will have none of it. My
rights--my true and just rights, or nothing! These parcels shall go back
unopened to-morrow." She rose from her seat, and put them all tidily
away on a side-table. She had scarcely done so before her husband's
latch-key was heard in the hall-door. He came in with the weary look
which was habitual to his thin face. "Oh, Angus, how badly you do want
your tea!" said the poor wife. She was almost alarmed at her husband's
pallor, and forgot Charlotte while attending to his comfort.

"What are those parcels, Lottie?" he said, noticing the heaped-up things
on the side-table.

"Never mind. Eat your supper first," she said to him.

"I can eat, and yet know what is in them. They give quite a Christmas
and festive character to the place. And what is that I see lying on that
chair--a new doll for Daisy? Why, has my careful little woman been so
extravagant as to buy the child another doll?"

Mr. Home smiled as he spoke. His wife looked at him gravely. She picked
up the very pretty doll and laid it with the other parcels on the
side-table.

"I will tell you about the parcels and the doll if you wish it," she
answered. "Miss Harman called when I was out, and brought cakes, and
sweeties, and toys to the children. She also brought those parcels. I do
not know what they contain, for I have not opened them. And she left a
note for me. I cannot help the sweeties and cakes, for Harold and Daisy
have eaten them; but the toys and those parcels shall go back
to-morrow."

Mrs. Home looked very proud and defiant as she spoke. Her husband
glanced at her face; then, with a slight sigh, he pushed his supper
aside.

"No, I am not hungry, dear. I am just a little overtired. May I see Miss
Harman's note?"

Charlotte put it at once into his hand.

He read it carefully once--twice. His own spirit was very loving and
Christ-like; consequently the real love and true human feeling in the
little note touched him.

"Lottie," he said, as he gave it back to his wife, "why do you want to
pain that sweet creature?"

Mrs. Home took the note, and flung it into the fire.

"There!" she said, an angry spot on each cheek. "She and hers have
injured me and mine. I don't want gifts from her. I want my rights!"

To this burst of excited feeling Mr. Home answered nothing. After a
moment or two of silence he rang the bell, and when Anne appeared asked
her to take away the tea-things. After this followed an hour of perfect
quiet. Mrs. Home took out her great basket of mending. Mr. Home sat
still, and apparently idle, by the fire. After a time he left the room
to go for a moment to his own. Passing the nursery, he heard a little
movement, and, entering softly, saw Harold sitting up in his little cot.

"Father, is that you?" he called through the semi-light.

"Yes, my boy. Is anything the matter? Why are you not asleep?"

"I couldn't, father dear; I'm so longing for to-morrow. I want to blow
my new trumpet again, and to see the rest of the brown-paper parcels.
Father, do come over to me for a moment."

Mr. Home came, and put his arm round the little neck.

"Did mother tell you that _our_ pretty lady came to-day, and brought
such a splendid lot of things?"

"Whose pretty lady, my boy?"

"_Ours_, father--the lady you, and I, and Daisy, and baby met in the
park yesterday. You said it was rude to kiss her, and _she_ did not
mind. She gave me dozens and dozens of kisses to-day."

"She was very kind to you," said Mr. Home. Then, bidding the child lie
down and sleep, he left him and went on to his own room. He was going to
his room with a purpose. That purpose was quickened into intensity by
little Harold's words.

That frank, fearless, sweet-looking girl was Miss Harman! That letter
was, therefore, not to be wondered at. It was the kind of letter he
would have expected such a woman to write. What was the matter with his
Lottie?

In his perplexity he knelt down; he remained upon his knees for about
ten minutes, then he returned to the little parlor. The answer to his
earnest prayer was given to him almost directly. His wife was no longer
proud and cold. She looked up the moment he entered, and said,--

"You are angry with me, Angus."

"No, my darling," he answered, "not angry, but very sorry for you."

"You must not be sorry for me. You have anxieties enough. I must not add
to them. Not all the Miss Harmans that ever breathe shall bring a cloud
between you and me. Angus, may I put out the gas and then sit close to
you? You shall talk me out of this feeling, for I do feel bad."

"I will talk all night if it makes you better, my own Lottie. Now, what
is troubling you?"

"In the first instance, you don't seem to believe this story about our
money."

"I neither believe it, nor the reverse--I simply don't let it trouble
me."

"But, Angus, that seems a little hard; for if the money was left to me
by my father I ought to have it. Think what a difference it would make
to us all--you, and me, and the children?"

"We should be rich instead of poor. It would make that difference,
certainly."

"Angus, you talk as if this difference was nothing."

"Nothing! It is not quite nothing; but I confess it does not weigh much
with me."

"If not for yourself, it might for the children's sakes; think what a
difference money would make to our darlings."

"My dear wife, you quite forgot when speaking so, that they are God's
little children as well as ours. He has said that not a sparrow falls
without His loving knowledge. Is it likely when that is so, that He will
see His children and ours either gain or suffer from such a paltry thing
as money?"

"Then you will do nothing to get back our own?"

"If you mean that I will go to law on the chance of our receiving some
money which may have been left to us, certainly I will not. The fact is,
Lottie--you may think me very eccentric--but I cannot move in this
matter. It seems to me to be entirely God's matter, not ours. If Mr.
Harman has committed the dreadful sin you impute to him, God must bring
it home to him. Before that poor man who for years has hidden such a sin
in his heart, and lived such a life before his fellow-men, is fit to go
back to the arms of His father, he must suffer dreadfully. I pray, from
my heart I pray, that if he committed the sin he may have the suffering,
for there is no other road to the Father; but I cannot pray that this
awful suffering may be sent to give us a better house, and our children
finer clothes, and that richer food may be put on our table."

Mrs. Home was silent for a moment, then she said,--

"Angus, forgive me, I did not look at it in that light."

"No, my dearest, and because I so pity her, if her father really is
guilty, I do not want you unnecessarily to pain Miss Harman. You
remember my telling you of that fine girl I met in Regent's Park
yesterday, the girl who was so kind and nice to our children. I have
just been up with Harold, and he tells me that your Miss Harman and his
pretty lady are one and the same."

"Is that really so?" answered Mrs. Home. "Yes. I know that Charlotte
Harman is very attractive. Did I not tell you, Angus, that she had won
my own heart? But I confess when I saw those gifts and read her note I
felt angry. I thought after hearing my tale she should have done more.
These presents seemed to me in the light of a bribe."

"Charlotte!"

"Ah! I know you are shocked. You cannot see the thing with my eyes; that
is how they really looked to me."

"Then, my dear wife, may I give you a piece of advice?"

"That is what I am hungering for, Angus."

"Tell the whole story, as frankly--more frankly than you have told it to
me, to God to-night. Lay the whole matter in the loving hands of your
Father, then, Charlotte; after so praying, if in the morning you still
think Miss Harman was actuated by so mean a spirit, treat her as she
deserves. With your own hands deal the punishment to her, send
everything back."

Mrs. Home's face flushed very brightly, and she lowered her eyes to
prevent her husband seeing the look of shame which filled them. The
result of this conversation was the following note written the next
morning to Miss Harman.

     I could not have thanked you last night for what you have done,
     but I can to-day. You have won my children's little hearts. Be
     thankful that you have made my dear little ones so happy. You ask
     to see me again, Miss Harman. I do not think I can come to you, and
     I don't ask you to come here. Still I will see you; name some
     afternoon to meet me in Regent's Park and I will be there.

     Yours,
     CHARLOTTE HOME.

Thus the gifts were kept, and the mother tried to pray away a certain
soreness which would remain notwithstanding all her husband's words. She
was human after all, however, and Charlotte Harman might have been
rewarded had she seen her face the following Sunday morning when she
brought her pretty children down to their father to inspect them in
their new clothes.

Harold went to church that morning, with his mother, in a very
picturesque hat; but no one suspected quite how much it was worth, not
even those jealous mothers who saw it and remarked upon it, and wondered
who had left Mrs. Home a legacy, for stowed carefully away under the
lining was Charlotte Harman's bright, crisp, fifty-pound note.




CHAPTER XX.

TWO CHARLOTTES.


It was a week after; the very day, in fact, on which Hinton was to give
up his present most comfortable quarters for the chances and changes of
Mrs. Home's poor little dwelling. That anxious young wife and mother,
having completed her usual morning duties, set off to Regent's Park to
meet Miss Harman. It was nearly March now, and the days, even in the
afternoon, were stretching, and though it was turning cold the feeling
of coming spring was more decidedly getting into the air.

Mrs. Home had told her children that she was going to meet their pretty
lady, and Harold had begged hard to come too. His mother would have
taken him, but he had a cold, and looked heavy, so she started off for
her long walk alone. Won by her husband's gentler and more Christ-like
spirit, Mrs. Home had written to Miss Harman to propose this meeting;
but in agreeing to an interview with her kinswoman she had effected a
compromise with her own feelings. She would neither go to her nor ask
her to come to the little house in Kentish Town. The fact was she wanted
to meet this young woman on some neutral ground. There were certain
unwritten, but still most stringent, laws of courtesy which each must
observe in her own home to the other. Charlotte Home intended, as she
went to meet Miss Harman on this day of early spring, that very plain
words indeed should pass between them.

By this it will be seen that she was still very far behind her husband,
and that much of a sore and angry sensation was still lingering in her
heart.

"Miss Harman will, of course, keep me waiting," she said to herself, as
she entered the park, and walked quickly towards the certain part where
they had agreed to meet. She gave a slight start therefore, when she saw
that young woman slowly pacing up and down, with the very quiet and
meditative air of one who had been doing so for some little time. Miss
Harman was dressed with almost studied plainness and simplicity. All the
rich furs which the children had admired were put away. When she saw
Mrs. Home she quickened her slow steps into almost a run of welcome, and
clasped her toil-worn and badly gloved hands in both her own.

"How glad I am to see you! You did not hurry, I hope. You are quite out
of breath. Why did you walk so fast?"

"I did not walk fast until I saw you under the trees, Miss Harman. I
thought I should have time enough, for I imagined I should have to wait
for you."

"What an unreasonable thing to suppose of me! I am the idle one, you the
busy. No: I respect wives and mothers too much to treat them in that
fashion." Miss Harman smiled as she spoke.

Mrs. Home did not outwardly respond to the smile, though the gracious
bearing, the loving, sweet face were beginning very slowly to effect a
thaw, for some hard little ice lumps in her heart were melting. The
immediate effect of this was, however, so strong a desire to cry that,
to steel herself against these untimely tears, she became in manner
harder than ever.

"And now what shall we do?" said Charlotte Harman. "The carriage is
waiting for us at the next gate; shall we go for a drive, or shall we
walk about here?"

"I would rather walk here," said Mrs. Home.

"Very well. Charlotte, I am glad to see you. And how are your children?"

"Harold has a cold. The other two are very well."

"I never saw sweeter children in my life. And do you know I met your
husband? He and your children both spoke to me in the park. It was the
day before I came to your house. Mr. Home gave me a very short sermon to
think over. I shall never forget it."

"He saw you and liked you," answered Mrs. Home. "He told me of that
meeting."

"And I want another meeting. Such a man as that has never come into my
life before. I want to see more of him. Charlotte, why did you propose
that we should meet here? Why not in my house, or in yours? I wanted to
come to you again. I was much disappointed when I got your note."

"I am sorry to have disappointed you; but I thought it best that we
should meet here."

"But why? I don't understand."

"They say that rich people are obtuse. I did not want to see your
riches, nor for you to behold the poverty of my land."

"Charlotte!"

"Please don't think me very hard, but I would rather you did not say
Charlotte."

"You would rather I did not say Charlotte?"

Two large tears of surprise and pain filled Miss Harman's gray eyes. But
such a great flood of weeping was so near the surface with the other
woman that she dared not look at her.

"I would rather you did not say Charlotte," she repeated, "for we call
those whom we love and are friendly with by their Christian names."

"I thought you loved me. You said so. You can't take back your own
words."

"I don't want to. I do love you in my heart. I feel I could love you
devotedly; but for all that we can never be friends."

Miss Harman was silent for a moment or two, then she said slowly, but
with growing passion in her voice, "Ah! you are thinking of that
wretched money. I thought love ranked higher than gold all the world
over."

"So it does, or appears to do, for those who all their lives have had
plenty; but it is just possible, just possible, I say, that those who
are poor, poor enough to know what hunger and cold mean, and have seen
their dearest wanting the comforts that money can buy, it is possible
that such people may prefer their money rights to the profession of
empty love."

"Empty love!" repeated Miss Harman. The words stung her. She was growing
angry, and the anger became this stately creature well. With cheeks and
eyes both glowing she turned to her companion. "If you and I are not to
part at once, and never meet again, there must be very plain words
between us. Shall I speak those words?" she asked.

"I came here that our words might be very plain," answered Mrs. Home.

"They shall be," said Charlotte Harman.

They were in a very quiet part of the park. Even the nurses and children
were out of sight. Now they ceased walking, and turned and faced each
other.

They were both tall, and both the poor and the rich young woman had
considerable dignity of bearing; but Charlotte Home was now the composed
one. Charlotte Harman felt herself quivering with suppressed anger.
Injustice was being dealt out to her, and injustice to the child of
affluence and luxury was a new sensation.

"You came to me the other day," she began, "I had never seen you before,
never before in all my life ever heard your name. You, however, knew me,
and you told me a story. It was a painful and very strange story. It
made you not only my very nearest kin, but also made you the victim of a
great wrong. The wrong was a large one, and the victim was to be pitied;
but the sting of it all lay, to me, not in either of the facts, but in
this, that you gave me to understand that he who had dealt you such a
blow was--my father. My father, one of the most noble, upright, and
righteous of men, you made out to me, to me, his only child, to be no
better than a common thief. I did not turn you from my doors for your
base words. I pitied you. In spite of myself I liked you; in spite of
myself I _believed_ you. You went away, and in the agony of mind which
followed during the next few hours I could have gladly fled for ever
from the sight of all the wide world. I had been the very happiest of
women. You came. You went. I was one of the most miserable. I am engaged
to be married, and the man I am engaged to came into the room. I felt
guilty before him. I could not raise my eyes to his, for, again I tell
you, I believed your tale, and my father's bitter shame was mine. I
could not rest. Happen what would I must learn the truth at once. I have
an uncle, my father's brother; he must know all. I sent my lover away
and went to this uncle. I asked to have an interview with him, and in
that interview I told him all you had told to me. He was not surprised.
He acknowledged at once the true and real relationship between us; but
he also explained away the base doubts you had put into my head. My
father, my own beloved father, is all, and more than all, I have ever
thought him. He would scorn to be unjust, to rob any one. You have been
unfortunate; you have been treated cruelly; but the injustice, the
cruelty have been penetrated by one long years now in his grave. In
short, your father has been the wicked man, not mine."

Here Mrs. Home tried to speak, but Miss Harman held up her hand.

"You must hear me out," she said. "I am convinced, but I do not expect
you to be. After my uncle had done speaking, and I had time to realize
all the relief those words of his had given me, I said, still an
injustice has been done. We have no right to our wealth while she
suffers from such poverty. Be my grandfather's will what it may, we must
alter it. We must so act as if he had left money to his youngest child.
My uncle agreed with me; perhaps not so fully as I could wish, still he
did agree; but he made one proviso. My father is ill, I fear. I fear he
is very ill. The one dark cloud hanging over his whole life lay in those
years when he was estranged from his own father. To speak of you I must
bring back those years to his memory. Any excitement is bad for him now.
My uncle said, 'Wait until your father is better, then we will do
something for Mrs. Home.' To this I agreed. Was I very unreasonable to
agree to this delay for my father's sake?"

Here Charlotte Harman paused and looked straight at her companion. Mrs.
Home's full gaze met hers. Again, the innocent candor of the one pair of
eyes appealed straight to the heart lying beneath the other. Unconvinced
she was still. Still to her, her own story held good: but she was
softened, and she held out her hand.

"There is no unreasonableness in _you_, Charlotte," she said.

"Ah! then you will call me Charlotte?" said the other, her face glowing
with delight.

"I call you so now. I won't answer for the future."

"We will accept the pleasant present. I don't fear the future. I shall
win your whole heart yet. Now let us drop all disagreeables and talk
about those we both love. Charlotte, what a baby you have got! Your baby
must be an angel to you."

"All my children are that to me. When I look at them I think God has
sent to me three angels to dwell with me."

"Ah! what a happy thought, and what a happy woman. Then your husband, he
must be like the archangel Gabriel, so just, so righteous, so noble. I
love him already: but I think I should be a little afraid of him. He is
so--so very unearthly. Now you, Mrs. Home, let me tell you, are very
earthly, very human indeed."

Mrs. Home smiled, for this praise of her best beloved could not but be
pleasant to her. She told Miss Harman a little more about her husband
and her children, and Miss Harman listened with that appreciation which
is the sweetest flattery in the world. After a time she said,--

"I am not going to marry any one the least bit unearthly, but I see you
are a model wife, and I want to be likewise. For--did I not tell you?--I
am to be married in exactly two months from now."

"Are you really? Are you indeed?"

Was it possible after this piece of confidence for these two young women
not to be friends?

Charlotte Home, though so poor, felt suddenly, in experience, in all
true womanly knowledge, rich beside her companion. Charlotte Harman, for
all her five and twenty years, was but a child beside this earnest wife
and mother.

They talked; the one relating her happy experience, the other listening,
as though on her wedding-day she was certainly to step into the land of
Beulah. It was the old, old story, repeated again, as those two paced up
and down in the gray March afternoon. When at last they parted there was
no need to say that they were friends.

And yet as she hurried home the poor Charlotte could not help reflecting
that whatever her cause she had done nothing for it. Charlotte Harman
might be very sweet. It might be impossible not to admire her, to love
her, to take her to her heart of hearts. But would that love bring back
her just rights? would that help her children by and by? She reached
her hall door to find her husband standing there.

"Lottie, where have you been? I waited for you, for I did not like to go
out and leave him. Harold is ill, and the doctor has just left."




CHAPTER XXI.

A FRIEND IN NEED.


For many days after that interview in Regent's Park, it seemed that one
of the three, who made the little house in Kentish Town so truly like
heaven, was to be an angel indeed. Harold's supposed cold had turned to
scarlet fever, and the doctor feared that Harold would die.

Immediately after her interview with Charlotte Harman, Mrs. Home went
upstairs to learn from the grave lips of the medical man what ailed her
boy, and what a hard fight for life or death he had before him. She was
a brave woman, and whatever anguish might lie underneath, no tears
filled her eyes as she looked at his flushed face. When the doctor had
gone, she stole softly from the sick-room, and going to the drawing-room
where Hinton was already in possession, she tapped at the door.

To his "Come in," she entered at once, and said abruptly without
preface,--

"I hope you have unpacked nothing. I must ask you to go away at once."

She had her bonnet still on, and, but for the pallor of her face, she
looked cold, even unmoved.

"I have everything unpacked, and I don't want to go. Why should I?"
demanded Hinton, in some surprise.

"My eldest boy has scarlet fever. The other two will probably take it.
You must on no account stay here; you must leave to-night if you wish to
escape infection."

In an instant Hinton was by her side.

"Your boy has scarlet fever?" he repeated. "I know something of scarlet
fever. He must instantly be moved to an airy bedroom. The best bedroom
in the house is mine. Your boy must sleep in my bedroom to-night."

"It is a good thought," said Mrs. Home. "Thank you for suggesting it--I
will move him down at once; the bed is well aired, and the sheets are
fresh and clean. I will have him moved whenever you can go."

She was leaving the room when Hinton followed her.

"I said nothing about going. I don't mean to. I can have a blanket and
sleep on the sofa. I am not going away, Mrs. Home."

"Mr. Hinton, have you no one you care for? Why do you run this risk."

"I have some one I care for very much indeed; but I run no risk. I had
scarlet fever long ago. In any case I have no fear of infection. Now I
know your husband is out; let me go upstairs and help you bring down the
little fellow."

"God bless you," said the wife and mother. Her eyes were beautiful as
she raised them to the face of this good Samaritan.

       *       *       *       *       *

The little patient was moved to the large and comfortable room, and
Hinton found himself in the position of good angel to this poor family.
He had never supposed himself capable of taking such a post with regard
to any one; but the thing seemed thrust upon him. An obvious duty had
come into his life, and he never even for the briefest instant dreamed
of shirking it. He was a man without physical fear. The hardships of
life, the roughing of poverty were not worth a passing thought of
annoyance; but there was one little act of self-denial which he must now
exercise; and it is to be owned that he felt it with a heart-pang. He
had never told Charlotte that he was going to live in the house with
Mrs. Home. He had not meant to keep this fact a secret from her, but
there was still a soreness over him when he thought of this young woman
which prevented her name coming readily to his lips. On this first night
in his new abode he sat down to write to his promised wife; but neither
now did he give his address, nor tell his landlady's name. He had an
obvious reason, however, now for his conduct.

This was what Charlotte received from her lover on the following
morning,--

     "MY DARLING,--Such a strange thing has happened; but one which,
     thank God, as far as I am concerned, need not cause you the least
     alarm. I moved from my old lodgings to-day and went a little
     further into the country. I had just unpacked my belongings and was
     expecting some tea, for I was hot and thirsty, when my landlady
     came in and told me that her eldest child is taken very ill with
     scarlet fever. She has other children, and fears the infection will
     spread. She is a very poor woman, but is one of those who in their
     bearing and manner, you, Charlotte, would call noble. She wanted me
     to leave at once, but this, Charlotte, I could not do. I am staying
     here, and will give her what little help lies in my power. You know
     there is no fear for me, for I had the complaint long ago. But,
     dearest, there is just one thing that is hard. Until this little
     child is better, I must not see you. You have not had this fever,
     Charlotte, and for you, for my own sake, and your father's sake, I
     must run no risk. I will write to you every day, or as much oftener
     as you wish, for I can disinfect my paper; but I will not go to
     Prince's Gate at present."

     "Ever, my own true love,
     "Yours most faithfully,
     "John Hinton."

This letter was posted that very night, but Hinton did not put his new
address on it; he meant Charlotte now for prudential reasons to write to
his chambers. He returned to his lodgings, and for many weary and
anxious nights to come shared their watch with Mr. and Mrs. Home. So
quietly, so absolutely had this young man stepped into his office, that
the father and mother did not think of refusing his services. He was a
good nurse, as truly tender-hearted and brave men almost always are. The
sick child liked his touch. The knowledge of his presence was pleasant.
When nothing else soothed him, he would lie quiet if Hinton held his
little hot hand in his.

One evening, opening his bright feverish eyes, he fixed them full on
Hinton's face and said slowly and earnestly,--

"I did kiss that pretty lady."

"He means a lady whom he met in the Park; a Miss Harman, who came here
and brought him toys," explained Mrs. Home.

"Yes, isn't she a pretty lady?" repeated little Harold.

"Very pretty," answered Hinton, bending low over him.

The child smiled. It was a link between them. He again stole his hand

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