"I would make reparation."

Before she had even time to take these words in, he had opened his eyes and was gazing at her.

"You are better now," she said, stooping down and kissing him.

"Yes, my darling; much, much better." He sat up as he spoke, and made an effort to put on at least a show of life and vigor. "A man of my age fainting, Charlotte, is nothing," he said; "really nothing whatever. You must not dwell on it again."

"I will not," she said.

Her answer comforted him and he became really brighter and better.

"It is nice to have you all to myself, my little girl; it is very nice.

Not that I grudge you to Hinton; I have a great regard for Hinton; but, my darling, you and I have been so much to each other. We have never in all our lives had one quarrel."

"Quarrel, father! of course not. How can those who love as we do quarrel?"

"Sometimes they do, Lottie. Thank G.o.d, such an experience cannot visit you; but it comes to some and darkens everything. I have known it."

"You have, father?" In spite of herself, Charlotte felt her voice trembling.

"I had a great and terrible quarrel with my father, Charlotte; my father who seemed once as close to me as your father is to you. He married again, and the marriage displeased me, and such bitter words pa.s.sed between us, that for years that old man and I did not speak. For years, the last years of his life, we were absolutely divided. We made it up in the end; we were one again when he died; but what happened then has embittered my whole life--my whole life."

Charlotte was silent, though the color was coming into her cheeks and her heart began to beat.

"And to-day, Lottie," continued Mr. Harman, "to-day your uncle Jasper told me about my father's little daughter. You have never heard of her; she was a baby-child when I saw her last. There were many complications after my father's death; complications which you must take on trust, for I cannot explain them to you. They led to my never seeing that child again. Lottie, though she was my little half-sister, she was quite young, not older than you, and to-day Jasper told me about her. He knows where she lives; she is married and has children, and is poor. I could never, never bring myself to look on her face; but some day, not when I am alive, but some day you may know her; I should like you to know her some day, and to be kind to her. She has been hardly treated, into that too I cannot go; but I must set it right. I mean to give her money; you will not be quite so rich; you won't mind that?"

"Mind it! mind it! Oh, father!" And Charlotte suddenly began to weep; she could not help that sudden, swift shower, though she struggled hard to repress it, seeing how her father trembled, and how each moment he looked more agitated.

"Do you know," she said, checking her sobs as soon as she possibly could, "that Uncle Jasper, too, has told me that story; he asked me not to speak of it to you, for you would only be upset. He said how much you took to heart, even still, that time when your father was angry with you."

"And I angry with him, Lottie; and I with him. Don't forget that."

"Yes, dear father, he told me the tale. I longed to come to you with it, for it puzzled me, but he would not let me. Father, I, too, have seen that little sister; she is not little now, she is tall and n.o.ble-looking. She is a sweet and brave woman, and she has three of the most lovely children I ever saw; her children are like angels. Ah! I shall be glad to help that woman and those children. I cannot thank you enough for doing this."

"Don't thank me, child; in G.o.d's name don't thank me."

"If you could but see those children."

"I would not see them; I would not; I could not. Charlotte, you don't know what bygone memories are to an old man like me. I could never see either the mother or the children. Lottie, tell me nothing more about them; if you love me never mention their names to me. They recall too much, and I am weak and old. I will help them; yes, before G.o.d I promise to help them; but I can never either see or speak of them, they recall too much."

CHAPTER XXVI.

HAD HE SEEN A GHOST?

At this time Jasper Harman was a very perplexed man. Unlike his brother John, he was untroubled by remorse. Though so outwardly good-tempered and good-natured, his old heart was very hard; and though the arrows of past sins and past injustices might fly around him, they could not visit the inner shrine of that adamantine thing which he carried about instead of a heart of flesh within him.

What the painful process must be which would restore to Jasper Harman the warm living heart of a little child, one must shudder even to contemplate. At present that process had not begun. But though he felt no remorse whatever, and stigmatized his brother as an old fool, he had considerable anxiety.

There was an ugly secret in the back parts of these two brothers' lives; a secret which had seemed all these years safe and buried in the grave, but over which now little lights were beginning to pour. How could Jasper plaster up the crevices and restore the thing to its silent grave? Upon this problem he pondered from morning to night.

He did not like that growing anxiety of his brother's; he could not tell to what mad act it would lead him; he did not like a new look of fear which, since her father's fainting fit, he had seen on Charlotte's smooth brow; he did not like Mrs. Home coming and boldly declaring that an injustice had been done; he felt that between them these foolish and miserable people would pull a disgraceful old secret out of its grave, unless he, Jasper Harman, could outwit them. What a blessing that that other trustee was dead and buried, and that he, Jasper Harman, had really stood over his grave. Yes, the secret which he and his brother had guarded so faithfully for over twenty years might remain for ever undiscovered if only common sense, the tiniest bit of common sense, was exercised. Jasper paced his room as he thought of this. Yes, there could be no fear, unless--here he stood still, and a cold dew of sudden terror stole over him--suppose that young woman, that wronged young woman, Charlotte Home, should take it into her head to go and read her father's will. The will could not be put away. For the small sum of one shilling she might go and master the contents, and then the whole fraud would be laid bare. Was it likely that Mrs. Home would do this? Jasper had only seen her for a moment, but during that brief glance he read determination and fixity of purpose in her eyes and mouth. He must trust that this thought would not occur to her; but what a miserable uncertainty this was to live in! He did not know that the graver danger lay still nearer home, and that his own niece Charlotte was already putting the match to this mine full of gunpowder. No, clever as he thought himself, he was looking for the danger at the front door, when it was approaching him by the back.

After many days of most anxious thought he resolved to go and see the Homes, for something must be done, and he could feel his way better if he knew something of his opponents.

Getting Mr. Home's address in the Post Office Directory, for he would not betray himself by questioning Charlotte, he started off one evening to walk to Kentish Town. He arrived in the dusk, and by good fortune or otherwise, as he liked best to term it, the curate was at home, and so far disengaged as to be able to give him a little leisure time.

Jasper sent in his card, and the little maid, Anne, showed him into the small parlor. There was a musty, unused smell in the dingy little room, for Mrs. Home was still at Torquay, and the curate during her absence mostly occupied his study. The maid, however, turned on the gas, and as she did so a small girl of four slipped in behind her. She was a very pretty child, with gray eyes and black eyelashes, and she stared in the full, frank manner of infancy at old Jasper. She was not a shy child, and felt so little fear of this good-natured, cherry-cheeked old man, that when Anne withdrew she still remained in the room.

Jasper had a surface love for children; he would not take any trouble about them, but they amused him, and he found pleasure in watching their unsophisticated ways. His good-natured, smiling face appealed to a certain part of Daisy Home, not a very high part certainly, but with the charming frankness of babyhood, the part appealed to gave utterance to its desire.

"Have 'ou brought me a present?" she demanded, running up to old Jasper and laying her hand on his knee.

"No, my dear," he replied quickly. "I'm so sorry; I forgot it."

"Did 'ou?" said Daisy, puckering her pretty brows; "Then 'ou're not like our pretty lady; she did not forget; she brought lots and lots and lots."

"I am very sorry," replied Jasper; "I will think of it next time." And then Mr. Home coming in, the two went into the little study.

"I am your wife's half-brother," said Jasper, introducing himself without preface, for he had marked out his line of action before he came.

"Indeed!" replied Mr. Home. He was not a man easily surprised, but this announcement did bring a slight color into his face. "You are Mr.

Harman," he repeated. "I am sorry my wife is away. She is staying at Torquay with our eldest boy, who has been ill. She has seen your daughter."

"Not my daughter, sir, my niece--a fine girl, but Quixotic, a little fanciful and apt to take up whims, but a fine girl for all that."

"I, too, have seen Miss Harman," answered Mr. Home. "I met her once in Regent's Park, and, without knowing anything about us, she was good to our children. You must pardon me, sir, if in expressing the same opinion about her we come to it by different roads. It seems to me that the fine traits in Miss Harman's character are _due_ to her Quixotic or unworldly spirit."

For a moment Jasper Harman felt puzzled, then he chuckled inwardly. "The man who says that, is unworldly himself, therefore unpractical. So much the better for my purpose." Aloud he said, "Doubtless you put the case best, sir; but I will not take up your valuable time discussing my niece's virtues. I have come to talk to you on a little matter of business. Your wife has told you her story?"

"My wife has certainly concealed nothing from me," replied Mr. Home.

"She has mentioned her father's very curious will?"

"His very unjust will," corrected Mr. Home.

"Yes, sir, I agree with you, it was unjust. It is to talk to you about that will I have come to you to-night."

"Sit nearer to the fire," replied Mr. Home, poking up the handful in the grate into as cheerful a blaze as circ.u.mstances would permit.

"It was, as you say, an unjust will," proceeded old Jasper, peering hard with his short-sighted eyes at the curate, and trying to read some emotion beneath his very grave exterior. Being unable to fathom the depths of a character which was absolutely above the love of money, he felt perplexed, he scarcely liked this great self-possession. Did this Home know too much? "It was an unjust will," he repeated, "and took my brother and myself considerably by surprise. Our father seemed fond of his young wife, and we fully expected that he would leave her and her child well provided for. However, my dear sir, the facts could not be disputed. Her name was not mentioned at all. The entire property was left princ.i.p.ally to my elder brother John. He and I were partners in business. Our father's money was convenient, and enabled us to grow rich. At the time our father died we were very struggling. Perhaps the fact that the money was so necessary to us just then made us think less of the widow than we should otherwise have done. We did not, however, forget her. We made provision for her during her life. But for us she must have starved or earned her own living."

"The allowance you made was not very ample," replied Mr. Home, "and such as it was it ceased at her death."

"Yes, sir; and there I own we--my brother and I--were guilty of an act of injustice. I can only exonerate us on the plea of want of thought.

Our father's widow was a young woman--younger than either of us. The child was but a baby. The widow's death seemed a very far off contingency. We placed the money we had agreed to allow her the interest on, in the hands of our solicitor. We absolutely forgot the matter. I went to Australia, my brother grew old at home. When, five or six years ago, we heard that Mrs. Harman was dead, and that our three thousand pounds could return to us, we had absolutely forgotten the child. In this I own we showed sad neglect. Your wife's visit to my niece, through a mere accident, has recalled her to our memory, and I come here to-night to say that we are willing, willing and anxious, to repay that neglect, and to settle on your wife the sum of three thousand pounds; that sum to be hers unconditionally, to do what she pleases with."