How It All Came Round

CHAPTER VI.

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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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."