CHARLOTTE'S PLEA.
When at last the time drew near for him to bend his steps in the
direction of Somerset House he had by no means made up his mind how to
act. His sympathies were still with Miss Harman. Her face had haunted
him all night long; but he felt that every sense of justice, every sense
of right, called upon him to befriend Mrs. Home. His dearly loved dead
sister seemed to call to him from her grave and to ask him to rescue
those belonging to her, to give again to these wronged ones what was
rightfully theirs. In any case, seeing the wrong as he so plainly did,
he would have felt called upon to take his sister's part in the matter.
But as circumstances now stood, even had Mrs. Home been no relation to
him whatever, he still must have acted for her and her alone. For was he
not the _other trustee_? and did not the very law of the land of his
birth demand that he should see that the terms of the will were carried
out?
He arrived at the square of Somerset House, and found Miss Harman
waiting for him.
She came up to him at once and held out her hand. His quick eye
detected at a glance that she was now quite calm and collected, that
whatever she might have done in the first agony of her despair
yesterday, to-day she would do nothing to betray herself. Strange to
say, he liked her far less well in this mood than he had done yesterday,
and his heart and inclination veered round again to his wronged niece
and her children with a sense of pleasure and almost triumph.
They began to walk up and down, and Miss Harman, finding that her
companion was silent, was the first to speak.
"You asked me to meet you here to-day. What do you want to say to me?"
Good heavens! was she going to ride the high horse over him in this
style? Sandy's small eyes almost flashed as he turned to look at her.
"A monstrous wrong has been done, Miss Harman," he answered. "I have
come to talk about that."
"I know," replied Charlotte. "I have thought it all out. I know exactly
what has been done. My grandfather died and left a sum of twelve
hundred a year to my--to his wife. He left other moneys to my father
and his brother. My father and his brother, my uncle, disregarded the
claims of the widow and the orphan child. They appropriated the
money--they--_stole it_--giving to my grandfather's widow a small sum
during her life, which small sum they did not even allow to be retained
by her child."
"That is pretty much the case, young lady. You have read the will with
tolerable accuracy."
"I do not know in the least how the deed was done," continued Charlotte.
"How such a crime could be committed and yet lie hidden all these years
remains a terrible and mysterious thing to me. But that it was done, I
can but use my own eyes in reading my grandfather's will to see."
"It was done easily enough, Miss Harman. They thought the other trustee
was dead. Your father and his brother were false to their trust, and
they never reckoned that Sandy Wilson would come back all alive and
blooming one fine morning--Sandy, whose duty it is to see this great
wrong put right."
"Yes, it is your duty," said Charlotte; and now, again, she grew very
white; her eyes sought the ground and she was silent.
"It is my most plain duty," repeated Wilson, shuffling with his great
feet as he walked by her side.
"I should like to know what steps you mean to take," continued
Charlotte, suddenly raising her eyes to his face.
"Steps! Good gracious! young lady, I have not had time to go into the
law of the thing. Besides, I promised to do nothing until we met again.
But one thing is plain enough, and obvious enough--my niece, that young
woman who might have been rich, but who is so poor--that young woman
must come in for her own again. It is three-and-twenty years since her
father died. She must receive from your father that money with all back
interest for the last three and twenty years. That means a goodish bit
of money I can tell you."
"I have no doubt it does," replied Charlotte. "Mrs. Home shall have it
all."
"Well, I hope so, young lady, and soon, too. It seems to me she has had
her share of poverty."
"She has had, as you say, her share of that evil. Mr. Wilson," again
raising her eyes to his face, "I know Mrs. Home."
"You know her? You know my niece Charlotte personally? She did not tell
me that."
"Yes, I know her. I should like to see her now."
"You would?--I am surprised! Why?"
"That I might go down on my knees to her."
"Well, good gracious! young lady, I supposed you might feel sorry, but I
did not know you would humble yourself to that extent. It was not _your_
sin."
"Hush! It was my father's sin. I am his child. I would go lower than my
knees--I would lie on the ground that she might walk over me, if the
better in that position I might plead for mercy."
"For mercy? Ay, that's all very well, but Charlotte must have her
rights. Sandy Wilson must see to that."
"She shall have her rights! And yet I would see her if I could, and if I
saw her I would go on my knees and plead for mercy."
"I don't understand you, Miss Harman."
"I do not suppose you do. Will you have patience with me while I explain
myself?"
"I have come here to talk to you and to listen to you," said Wilson.
"Sir, I must tell you of my father, that man whom you (and I do not
wonder) consider so bad--so low! When I read that will yesterday--when I
saw with my own eyes what a fraud had been committed, what a great,
great evil had been done, I felt in my first misery that I almost hated
my father! I said to myself, 'Let him be punished!' I would have helped
you then to bring him to punishment. I think you saw that?"
"I did, Miss Harman. I can see as far through a stone wall as most
people. I saw that you were a bit stunned, and I thought it but fair
that you should have time to calm down."
"You were kind to me. You acted as a good man and a gentleman. Then I
scarcely cared what happened to my father; now I do."
"Ay, ay, young lady, natural feelings must return. I am very sorry for
you."
"Mr. Wilson, I hope to make you yet more sorry. I must tell you more.
When I saw you yesterday I knew that my father was ill--I knew that he
was in appearance an old man, a broken down man, a very unhappy man; but
since I saw you yesterday I have learned that he is a dying man--that
old man against whom I hardened my heart so yesterday is going fast to
judgment. The knowledge of this was kept from me, for my father so loved
me, so guarded me all my life that he could not bear that even a pin's
point of sorrow should rest upon me. After seeing you yesterday, and
leaving you, I visited some poor people who, not knowing that the truth
was hidden from me, spoke of it as a well known fact. I went away from
them with my eyes opened. I only wondered they had been closed so long.
I went away, and this morning I did more. I visited one of the greatest
and cleverest doctors in London. This doctor my father, unknown to me,
had for some time consulted. I asked him for his candid opinion on my
father's case. He gave it to me. Nothing can save my father. My father
must die! But he told me more; he said that the nature of his complaint
was such that any shock must instantly kill him. He said without that
shock he may live for months; not many months, but still for a few.
Hearing this, I took the doctor still further into my confidence. I told
him that a wrong had been committed--that during my father's lifetime
that wrong could not be set right without his knowledge. I said that he
must know something which would disgrace him. His answer was this: 'As
his medical man, I forbid him to know; such a knowledge will cause
certain and instant death.'"
Charlotte paused. Wilson, now deeply interested, even appalled, was
gazing at her earnestly.
"I know Charlotte Home," continued Miss Harman; "and, as I said just
now, I would see her now. Yes, she has needed money; she has longed for
money; she has been cruelly wronged--most cruelly treated! Still, I
think, if I pleaded long enough and hard enough, she would have mercy;
she would not hurry that old man to so swift a judgment; she would spare
him for those few, few months to which his life is now limited. It is
for those months I plead. He is a dying man. I want nothing to be done
during those months. Afterwards--afterwards I will promise, if necessary
sign any legal paper you bring to me, that all that should have been
hers shall be Charlotte Home's--I restore it all! Oh, how swiftly and
how gladly! All I plead for are those few months."
Wilson was silent.
Charlotte suddenly looking at him almost lost her self-control.
"Must I go down on my knees to you, sir? I will if it is necessary. I
will here--even here do so, if it is necessary."
"It is not, it is not, my dear Miss Harman. I believe you; from my soul
I pity you! I will do what I can. I can't promise anything without my
niece's permission; but I am to see her this evening."
"Oh, if you plead with her, she will have mercy; for I know her--I am
sure of her! Oh! how can I thank you?--how can I thank you both?"
Here some tears rose to Charlotte's eyes, and rolled fast and heavily
down her cheeks. She put up her handkerchief to wipe them away.
"You asked me to cry yesterday, but I could not; now I believe I shall
be able," she said with almost a smile. "God bless you!"
Before Wilson could get in another word she had left him and, hurrying
through the square, was lost to sight.
Wilson gazed after her retreating form; then he went into Somerset
House, and once more long and carefully studied Mr. Harman's will.