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."