"And must this come soon?" repeated Hinton.

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

"Good G.o.d!" repeated Hinton.

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

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

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

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

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

"Then Charlotte is not to be told?"

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

John Hinton was silent for a moment or two; if he disliked Charlotte having a secret from him much more did he protest against the knowledge which now was forced upon him being kept from her. He saw that Mr.

Harman was firmly set on keeping his child in the dark; he disapproved, but he hardly dared, so much did he fear to agitate the old man, to make any vigorous stand against a decree which seemed to him both cruel and unjust. He must say something, however, so he began gently--

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI.

"VENGEANCE IS MINE."

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

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

"Dennis, has Mr. Jasper left?"

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

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

The footman answered softly in the affirmative and withdrew, and Mr.

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

"Dying men are said to find comfort here," he said faintly to himself.

He put one of the candles on the table and opened the book. It was an old Bible, but John Harman was not very well acquainted with its contents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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