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How It All Came Round, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 40. Charlotte's Plea |
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_ CHAPTER XL. 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. _ |
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