"YOU DON'T WANT MONEY?"
Sandy Wilson having again very carefully read Mr. Harman's will, felt
much puzzled how to act. He was an honest, upright, practical man
himself. The greatness of the crime committed quite startled him. He had
no sympathy for the wicked men who had done the deed, and he had the
very keenest sympathy for those against whom the deed was done. His
little orphan and widowed sister and her baby child were the wronged
ones. The men who had wronged her he had never seen. He said to himself
that he had no sympathy, no sympathy whatever for Mr. Harman. What if he
was a dying man, was that fact to screen him? Was he to be allowed to go
down to his grave in peace, his gray head appearing to be to him a crown
of glory, honored by the world, cheered for his great success in life?
Was all this to be allowed to continue when he was worthy not of
applause but of hisses, of the world's most bitter opprobrium?
And yet Sandy felt that, little or indeed no pity as he had for this
most wicked man, even if Charlotte had not come to him and pleaded with
eyes, voice, and manner he could scarcely have exposed Mr. Harman. He
could scarcely, after hearing that great doctor's verdict, have gone up
to the old man and said that which would hurry him without an instant's
time for repentance, to judgment.
Alexander Wilson believed most fully in a judgment to come. When he
thought of it now, a certain sense of relief came over him. He need not
trouble so sorely; he might leave this sinner to his God. It is to be
feared that he thought more of God's justice than of His loving mercy
and forgiveness, as he decided to leave John Harman in His hands.
That evening at six o'clock he was to be again with Charlotte Home. For
Charlotte Harman's sake, he had denied himself that pleasure the night
before; but this evening the solitary man might enjoy the keen pleasure
of being with his very own. Mrs. Home was his nearest living
relation--the child of his own loved sister. He did not know yet whether
he could love her at all as he had loved his little Daisy; but he felt
quite sure that her children would twine themselves round his heart; for
already the remembrance of Daisy Home was causing it to beat high with
pleasure.
As the hour approached for his visit, he loaded himself with presents
not only for the children, but for the whole family. He said to himself
with much delight, that however much Mr. Harman's will might be tied up
for the present, yet Sandy Wilson's purse was open. He had far less idea
than Charlotte Harman what children really liked, but he loaded himself
with toys, cakes, and sweeties; and for his special pet Daisy over and
above the other two he bought the very largest doll that a Regent Street
shop could furnish him with. This doll was as heavy as a baby, and by no
means so beautiful to look at as its smaller companions. But Sandy was
no judge in such matters.
With his presents for the adults of the party he was more fortunate. For
his niece he purchased a black silk, which in softness, lustre, and
quality could not be surpassed; for Mr. Home he bought two dozen very
old port; for Anne, a bright blue merino dress.
These goods were packed into a four-wheeler, and, punctually at six
o'clock, that well-laden cab drew up at 10, Tremins Road. Three eager
pairs of eyes watched the unpacking, for the three pretty children,
dressed in their best, were in the dining-room; Mr. Home was also
present, and Charlotte had laid her tea-table with several unwonted
dainties in honor of her uncle's visit. Anne, the little maid, was
fluttering about; that well-laden cab had raised her spirits and her
hopes. She flew in and out, helping the cabby to bring the numerous
parcels into the hall.
"Ah! Annie, my girl, here's something for you," said Uncle Sandy,
tossing her dress to her. After which, it is to be feared, Anne went off
her head for a little bit.
The children, headed by their mother, came into the little hall to meet
and welcome their uncle. He entered the dining-room with Daisy riding on
his shoulder. Then before tea could even be thought of, the presents
must be discussed. The cakes, the sweeties, the toys were opened out;
the children scampered about, laughed, shouted, and kissed the old
Australian. Never in all his life had Uncle Sandy felt so happy.
Over an hour passed in this way, then the mother's firm voice was heard.
The little heads were raised obediently. Good-night kisses were given,
and Harold, Daisy, and little Angus were led off to their nursery by the
highly flushed and excited Anne.
The tea which followed and the quiet talk were nearly as pleasant, and
Uncle Sandy so enjoyed himself, that for a time he completely forgot old
Harman's will, his own half promise, Charlotte Harman's despair.
It was all brought back to him, however, and by the Homes themselves.
The tea things had been removed, the gas was lit, the curtains drawn,
and Charlotte Home had insisted on her old uncle seating himself in the
one easy-chair which the room possessed. She herself stood on the
hearthrug, and glancing for a moment at her husband she spoke.
"Uncle Sandy, it is so good to have you back again, and Angus and I are
so truly glad to welcome my dear mother's brother to our home, that we
think it hard to have to touch on anything the least gloomy to-night.
Just a word or two will be sufficient, and then we must drop the subject
for ever."
Uncle Sandy raised his wrinkled old face.
"Ah," he said. "If there's anything unpleasant, have it cut by all
means--out and over--that's my own motto."
"We spoke the other night," continued Charlotte, "about my dear mother.
I told you that she was poor--that she had to do with poverty, from the
hour of my father's death until the end of her own life. It is all over
for her now, she is at rest. If plenty of money could be found for her
she would not need it. When I told you the story you expressed a doubt
that all was not right; you said it was absolutely impossible that my
father could have left my mother nothing; you said that either the will
was tampered with or not acted on. Well, Uncle Sandy, I agree with you.
I had long felt that something was not right."
"Ay, ay, my girl; I said before, you had a brain in your head and a head
on your shoulders. Trust Uncle Sandy not to know a clever woman when he
sees her."
"Well, uncle, I can say all the rest in a very few words. You said you
could investigate the matter; that you could discover whether any foul
play had been committed. I asked you not to do so until I saw you again;
I now ask you not to do so at all; to let the whole matter rest always.
In this I have my husband's sanction and wish."
"Yes, Lottie has my full approval in this matter," said Mr. Home, coming
forward and laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "We don't want
money, we would rather let the matter rest."
"You don't want money!" said Uncle Sandy, gazing hard from the ethereal
worn-looking man, to the woman, tall and thin, in her rusty dress, with
every mark of poverty showing in thin cheek, in careworn eyes, in
labor-stained hands. "You don't want money!" he repeated. "Niece
Charlotte, I retract what I said of you--I thought you were not quite a
fool. As to you, Home, I don't pretend to understand you. You don't want
money?"
Mr. Home smiled. Charlotte bent down and kissed her old uncle's brow.
"Nevertheless, you will do what we wish, even though you don't
understand," she said.
Uncle Sandy took her hand.
"Sit down near me, Niece Charlotte," he said. "And as to you, Home, you
have a long story to hear. After you have heard it, it will be time
enough to discuss your proposition. The fact is, Charlotte, I disobeyed
you in part. You asked me to do nothing in this matter until we met
again. I did nothing to compromise you; but, nevertheless, I was not
idle, I wanted to set my own mind at rest. There was an easy way of
doing this which I knew of, and which I wondered had not occurred to
you. Charlotte, I went yesterday to Somerset House; doubtless, you know
nothing of what took me there. I can soon enlighten you. In a certain
part of that vast pile, all wills are obliged to be kept. Anyone who
likes may go there, and, by paying the sum of one shilling, read any
will they desire. I did so. I went to Somerset House and I saw your
father's will."
"Yes," said Charlotte. Whatever her previous resolution, she no doubt
felt keenly excited now. "Yes," she repeated, "you read my father's
will."
"I read it. I read it in a hurry yesterday; to-day I saw it again and
read it carefully. There is no flaw in it; it is a will that must stand,
that cannot be disputed. Charlotte, you were right in your forebodings.
Niece Charlotte, you and your mother, before you, were basely robbed,
cruelly wronged; your dead father was just and upright; your living
brothers are villains; your father left, absolutely to your mother
first, and to you at her death, the sum of twelve hundred a year. He
left to you both a large enough sum of money to realize that large
yearly income. You were robbed of it. Do you know how?"
"No," said Charlotte. She said that one little word almost in a whisper.
Her face was deadly pale.
"That money was left in your father's will in trust; it was confided to
the care of three men, whose solemn duty it was to realize it for your
mother first, afterwards for you and your children. Those men were
called trustees; two of them, Charlotte, were your half-brothers, John
and Jasper Harman; the other was your mother's only living brother,
Sandy Wilson. These trustees were false to you: two of them by simply
ignoring the trust and taking the money to themselves; the other, by
pretending to be dead when he ought to have been in England attending to
his duty. The Harmans, the other trustees, so fully believed me to be
dead that they thought their sin would never be found out. But they
reckoned without their host, for Sandy has returned, and the missing
trustee can act now. Better late than never--eh, Niece Charlotte?"
"My poor mother!" said Charlotte, "my poor, poor mother!"
She covered her face with her hands. The suddenness and greatness of the
crime done had agitated her. She was very much upset. Her husband came
again very near and put his hand on her shoulder. His face, too, was
troubled.
"It was a terrible sin," he said, "a terrible sin to lie on these men's
breasts for three and twenty years. God help these sinners to
repentance!"
"Yes, God help them," repeated Uncle Sandy, "and also those they have
wronged. But now look up, Charlotte, for I have not told you all. A man
never sins for himself alone; if he did it would not so greatly matter,
for God and the pangs of an evil conscience would make it impossible for
him to get off scot free; but--I found it out in the bush, where, I can
tell you, I met rough folks enough--the innocent are dragged down with
the guilty. Now this is the case here. In exposing the guilty the
innocent must suffer. I don't mean you, my dear, nor my poor little
wronged Daisy. In both your cases the time for suffering, I trust, is
quite at an end, but there is another victim." Here Uncle Sandy paused,
and Charlotte, having recovered her composure, stood upright on the
hearthrug ready to listen. "When I went to Somerset House yesterday, I
had, in order to obtain a sight of Mr. Harman's will, to go through a
little ceremony. It is not necessary to go into it. I had to get certain
papers, and take orders to certain rooms. All this was the little form
imposed on me by the Government for my curiosity. At last I was told to
go to a room, called the reading room, and asked to wait there until the
will was brought to me. It was a small room, and I sat down prepared to
wait patiently enough. There were about half-a-dozen people in the room
besides myself, some reading wills, others waiting until they were
brought. One woman sat at the table exactly opposite to me. She was the
only woman in the room at the time, and perhaps that fact made me first
notice her; but when I looked once, I could not have been old Sandy
Wilson without wanting to look again. I have a weakness for fine women,
and this woman was fine, in the sense that makes you feel that she is
lovable. She was young, eager-looking. I have no doubt her features were
handsome, but it was her open, almost childlike expression which
attracted most. She was essentially a fine creature, and yet there was a
peculiar childish innocence about her, that made old Sandy long to
protect her on the spot. I was looking at her, and hoping she would not
notice it and think old Sandy Wilson a bore, when a man came into the
room and said something to the clerk at the desk. The clerk turned to me
and said, 'The will of the name of Harman is being read at this moment
by some one else in the room.' Instantly this girl looked up, her eyes
met mine, her face grew all one blaze of color, though she was a pale
enough lass the moment before, and a frightened expression came into her
eyes. She looked down again at once, and went on reading in a hurried,
puzzled way, as if she was scarcely taking in much. Of course I knew she
had the will, and I did not want to hurry or confuse her, so I
pretended to turn my attention to something else. It must have been
quite a couple of minutes before I looked again, and then--I confess
that I am not easily startled, but I did have to smother an
exclamation--the poor girl must have discovered the baseness and the
fraud in those two minutes. Had she been any other but the plucky lass
she is, she would have been in a dead faint on the floor, for I never,
never in all my pretty vast experience, saw a living face so white. I
could not help looking at her then, for I was completely fascinated. She
went on reading for half a minute longer; then she raised her eyes and
gazed straight and full at me. She had big, open gray eyes, and a moment
before, they were full of innocence and trust like a child's, now there
was a wild anger and despair in them. She was quite quiet however, and
no one else in the room noticed her. She pushed the will across the
table to me and said, "That is Mr. Harman's will," then she put on her
gloves quite slowly and drew down her veil, and left the room as
sedately and quietly as you please. I just glanced my eye over the will.
I took in the right place and saw the shameful truth. I was horrified
enough, but I could not wait to read it all. I gave the will back
intending to go to it another time, for I felt I must follow that girl
at any cost. I came up to her in Somerset House square. I did not care
what she thought; I must speak to her; I did. Poor lass! I think she was
quite stunned. She did not resent the liberty old Sandy had taken. When
I asked her to wait and let me talk to her she turned at once--I have
not lived in the bush so long without being, I pride myself, sharp
enough in reading character. I saw the girl, proud girl enough at
ordinary times, was in that state of despair which makes people do
desperate things. She was defiant, and told more than I expected. She
was Miss Harman--Charlotte Harman, by the way, she said. Yes; her father
had stolen that money; would I like to see him? he lived in such a
place; his name was so-and-so. Yes; she was his only child. Her manner
was so reckless, so defiant, and yet so full of absolute misery, that I
could do nothing but pity her from my very heart. I forgot you, Niece
Lottie, and your rights, and everything but this fine creature stricken
so low through another's sins. I said, 'Hush, you shall say no more
to-day. You are stunned, you are shocked, you must have time to think; I
won't remember a thing you say about your father now. Go home and come
back again to-morrow,' I said; 'sleep over it, and I will sleep over it,
and I will meet you here to-morrow, when you are more calm.' She agreed
to this and went away. I felt a little compunction for my own softness
during that evening and night, Niece Charlotte, I felt that I was not
quite true to you; but then you had not seen her face, poor brave young
thing, poor young thing!"
Here Uncle Sandy paused and looked hard from his niece to her husband.
Charlotte's eyes were full of tears, Mr. Home was smiling at him. There
was something peculiar in this man's rare smiles which turned them into
blessings. They were far more eloquent than words, for they were fed
from some illumination of strong approval within. Uncle Sandy, without
understanding, felt a warm glow instantly kindling in his heart.
Charlotte said, "Go on," in a broken voice.
"To-day, at the appointed hour, I met her again," proceeded the
Australian. "She was changed, she was composed enough now, she was on
her guard, she did not win my sympathy so much as in her despair. She
was quite open, however, as to the nature of the crime committed, and
told me she knew well what a sin her father had been guilty of. Suddenly
she startled me by saying that she knew you, Charlotte. She said she
wished she could see you now. I asked her why. She said, 'That I might
go down on my knees to her.' I was surprised at such words coming from
so proud a creature. I said so. She repeated that she would go down on
her knees that she might the better plead for mercy. I was beginning to
harden my old heart at that, and to think badly of her, when she stopped
me, by telling me a strange and sad thing. She said that she had
discovered something, something very terrible, between that hour and
yesterday. Her father had been ill for some time, but the worst had been
kept from her. She said yesterday that a poor person let her know quite
accidentally that he was not only ill but dying. She went alone that
morning to consult a doctor, one of those first-rate doctors whose word
is law. Mr. Harman, it seemed, unknown to her, was one of this man's
patients. He told her that he was hopelessly ill; that he could only
live for a few months, and that any shock might end his days in a
moment. She then told this doctor in confidence something of what she
had discovered yesterday. He said, 'As his medical man, I forbid you to
tell to your father this discovery you have made; if you do so he will
die instantly.' Miss Harman told me this strange tale, and then she
began to plead with me. She begged of me to show mercy; not to do
anything in this matter during the few months which still remained of
her father's life. Afterwards, she promised to restore all, and more
than all of what had been stolen. I hesitated; I scarcely knew how to
proceed. She saw it and exclaimed, 'Do you want me to go on my knees to
you? I will this moment, and here.' Then I said I could do nothing
without consulting you, I could do nothing without your consent.
Instantly the poor thing's whole face changed--I never saw such a change
from despair to relief. She held out her hand to me; she said she was
safe; she said she knew you; and that with you she was safe. She said
she never saw any one in her life seem to want money so badly as you;
but for all that, with you she was quite safe. She looked so thankful.
'I can cry now,' she said as she went away." Uncle Sandy paused again,
and again looked at his niece and her husband. "I told her that I would
come to you to-night," he said, "that I would plead her cause, and I
have, have I not?"
"Well and nobly," answered Mrs. Home. "Angus, think of her trusting me!
I am so glad she could trust me. Indeed she is safe with us."
"How soon can you go to her in the morning, Lottie?" asked the curate.
"With the first dawn I should like to go, I only wish I could fly to her
now. Oh, Angus! what she must suffer; and next Tuesday is to be her
wedding-day. How my heart does ache for her! But I am glad she trusts
me."
Here Mrs. Home become so excited that a great flood of tears came into
her eyes. She must cry them away in private. She left the room, and the
curate, sitting down, told to Uncle Sandy how Charlotte Harman had saved
little Harold's life.