Mr. Harman had a hard task before him.  He was keeping two things at bay, two great and terrible things, Death and Thought.  They were pursuing him, they were racing madly after him, and sometimes the second of these his enemies so far took possession of him as to grasp him by the heartstrings.  But though he knew well that in the end both one and the other would conquer and lay him low, yet still he was in a measure victor.  That strong nourishment, those potent medicines were keeping the life in him; while his still eager absorption in business prevented that time for reflection which was worse than death.  His medical man, knowing nothing of his inner history, had begged of him to rest, to give up business, assuring him that by so doing he would prolong his short span of life.  But Harman had answered, and truly, “If I give up business I shall be in my grave in a fortnight;” and there was such solemn conviction in his voice and manner, that the physician was fain to bow to the dictum of his patient.  Except once to his brother Jasper, and once to Hinton, Mr. Harman had mentioned to no one how near he believed his end to be.  The secret was not alluded to, the master of the house keeping up bravely, bearing his pains in silence and alone, and that subtle element of rejoicing began to pervade this quiet, luxurious home which precedes a wedding.  Only one in the dwelling ever thought of funeral gloom.

Little Harold Home had gone to Torquay with his mother.  Hinton was once more free to go in and out of the house in Prince’s Gate, and he and Charlotte were necessarily much occupied with each other.  There seemed to these two so much to be done, and the time seemed so short until the twentieth of April, that had the very sun stood still for them, they would have felt no undue sensation of surprise.

When people are about to step into the Garden of Eden even nature must sympathize, and marriage seemed that to Charlotte and Hinton.  After their wedding tour it was arranged that they were to come to the house in Prince’s Gate.  For some time Mr. Harman had begged them to make it their home; but though Hinton could not oppose, he had a hope of some day settling down in a smaller house.  He liked the power which wealth could give, but he was so unused to luxuries, that they were in themselves almost repellent to him.  Charlotte, on the contrary, was perfectly happy to live in the old place.  Home to this womanly heart was wherever her loved ones were; and she also acceded joyfully to another question which otherwise might have appeared a little either strange or selfish.  Her father begged of her not to extend her wedding tour beyond a week.  “Come back to me,” said the old man, “at the end of a week; let me feel that comfort when you say good-by on your wedding-day.”

Charlotte had promised, with her arms round his neck and her bright hair touching his silver locks.  And now April had set in, and the days flew fast.  All was bustle and confusion, and milliners and dressmakers worked as though there had never been a bride before, and Charlotte, too, believed there had never been so happy, so fortunate, so altogether blessed a woman as herself.

One of those spring days, for the weather was particularly lovely, Mr. Harman came home earlier than usual and went to his study.  For no special reason he had found it impossible to settle to any active work that morning.  He had hastened home, and now taking his accustomed medicine, lay back in his armchair to rest.  The medicine he had taken was partly of a sedative character, but to-day it failed in all soothing effects.  That bloodhound Thought was near, and with a bound it sprang forward and settled its fangs into his heartstrings.

Mr. Harman could not sit still, he rose and began to pace his room.  Stay ­how could he quiet this monster of remorse and reflection?  Would death do it by and by?  He shook his head as this idea came to him.  Were death but an annihilation he could, would, how gladly, welcome it, but all his firmest convictions pointed to a God and a future.  A future to him meant retribution.  He found it absolutely impossible to comfort his heart with so false a doctrine as that of annihilation.  In the midst of his meditations his brother Jasper entered.

“Good Heavens!  John, you do look bad!” he exclaimed almost involuntarily, noticing the anguish on the fine old face.

“I’m a very miserable man,” answered John Harman, and he sank down into a chair as he spoke.

“I would not think so much about my health,” said Jasper; “doctors are the most mistaken fools under the sun.  I knew a man out in Australia, and the first medical man in Sydney told him he had not a week to live.  He came home and made his will and bid all his relations good-by.  Well, what were the consequences?  The week came to an end, but not the man; my dear John, that man is alive now, and what is more, he is in the enjoyment of perfect health.  The doctor was all wrong; they are mortal like ourselves, man, and by no means infallible.  I would not take my death for granted, if I were you; I would determine to take out a fresh lease of life when Charlotte is married.  Determination does wonders in such cases.”

“I am not thinking of my death,” answered Mr. Harman; “were death but all, I could almost welcome it.  No, it is not death, it is memory.  Jasper,” he added, turning fiercely on his brother, “you were as the very devil to me once, why do you come to preach such sorry comfort now?”

Jasper Harman had an impenetrable face, but at these words it turned a shade pale.  He went to the fire and stirred it, he put on more coal, he even arranged in a rather noisy way one or two of the chimney ornaments.

“If only that trustee had not died just then ­and if only ­only you had not tempted me,” continued the elder man.

“You forget, John,” suddenly said Jasper, “what the alternative would have been just then, absolute ruin, ruin coupled with disgrace!”

“I do not believe in the disgrace, and as to the ruin, we could have started afresh.  Oh! to start even now with but sixpence in my pocket, and with clean hands!  What would have been the old disgrace compared to the present misery?”

“Take comfort, John, no one knows of it; and if we are but careful no one need ever know.  Don’t excite yourself, be but careful, and no one need ever know.”

“God knows,” answered the white-headed elder brother.  And at these words Jasper again turned his face away.  After a time, in which he thought briefly and rapidly, he turned, and sitting down by John, began to speak.

“Something has come to my knowledge which may be a comfort to you.  I did not mention it earlier, because in your present state of health I know you ought not to worry yourself.  But as it seems you are so over-sensitive, I may as well mention that it will be possible for you to make reparation without exposing yourself.”

“How?” asked Mr. Harman.

“I know where Daisy Harman’s daughter lives ­you know we completely lost sight of her.  I believe she is poor; she is married to a curate, all curates are poor; they have three children.  Suppose, suppose you settled, say, well, half the money her mother had for her lifetime, on this young woman.  That would be seventy-five pounds a year; a great difference seventy-five pounds would make in a poor home.”

“A little of the robbery paid back,” said Mr. Harman with a dreary smile.  “Jasper, you are a worse rogue than I am, and I believe you study the Bible less.  God knows I don’t care to confront myself with its morality, but I have a memory that it recommends, nay, commands, in the case of restoring again, or of paying back stolen goods, that not half should be given, but the whole, multiplied fourfold!”

“Such a deed, as Quixotic as unnecessary, could not be done, it would arouse suspicion,” said Jasper decidedly.

After this the two brothers talked together for some time.  Jasper quiet and calm, John disturbed and perplexed, too perplexed to notice that the younger and harder man was keeping back part of the truth.  But conversation agitated John Harman, agitated him so much that that evening some of the veil was torn from his daughter’s eyes, for during dinner he fainted away.  Then there was commotion and dismay, and the instant sending for doctors, and John Hinton and Jasper Harman both felt almost needless alarm.

When the old man came to himself he found his head resting on his daughter’s shoulder.  During all the time he was unconscious she had eyes and ears for no one else.

“Leave me alone with the child,” he said feebly to all the others.  When they were gone, he looked at her anxious young face.  “There is no cause, my darling, no cause whatever; what does one faint signify?  Put your arms round me, Charlotte, and I shall feel quite well.”

She did so, laying her soft cheek against his.

“Now you shall see no one but me to-night,” she said, “and I shall sit with you the whole evening, and you must lie still and not talk.  You are ill, father, and you have tried to keep it from me.”

“A little weak and unfit for much now, I confess,” he said in a tone of relief.  He saw she was not seriously alarmed, and it was a comfort to confide so far in her.

“You are weak and tired, and need rest,” she said:  “you shall see no one to-night but me, and I will stay with you the whole evening!”

“What!” said her father, “you will give up Hinton for me, Lottie!”

“Even that I will do for you,” she said, and she stooped and kissed his gray head.

“I believe you love me, Lottie.  I shall think of that all the week you are away.  You are sure you will only remain away one week?”

“Father, you and I have never been parted before in all my life; I promise faithfully to come back in a week,” she answered.

He smiled at this, and allowing her still to retain his hand in hers, sank into a quiet sleep.  While he slept Charlotte sat quietly at his feet.  She felt perplexed and irresolute.  Her father’s fainting fit had alarmed her, and now, looking into his face, even to her inexperience, the ravages which disease, both mental and physical, had brought there could not but be apparent to her.  She had to acknowledge to herself that her father, only one year her Uncle Jasper’s senior, looked a very old, nay, she could not shut her eyes to the fact, a very unhappy man.  What brought that look on his face?  A look which she acknowledged to herself she had seen there all her life, but which seemed to be growing in intensity with his added years.  She closed her own eyes with a pang as a swift thought of great anguish came over her.  This thought passed as quickly as it came; in her remorse at having entertained it she stooped down and kissed the withered old hand which still lay in hers.

It was impossible for Charlotte really to doubt her father; but occupied as she was with her wedding preparations, and full of brightness as her sky undoubtedly looked to her just now, she had not forgotten Hinton’s manner when she had asked him what faith he put in Mrs. Home’s story.  Hinton had evaded her inquiry.  This evasion was as much as owning that he shared Mrs. Home’s suspicions.  Charlotte must clear up her beloved father in the eyes of that other beloved one.  If on all hands she was warned not to agitate him, there was another way in which she could do it:  she could read her grandfather’s will.  But though she had made up her mind to do this, she had an unaccountable repugnance to the task.  For the first time in all her open, above-board life she would be doing something which she must conceal from her father.  Even John Hinton should not accompany her to Somerset House.  She must find the will and master its contents, and the deed once done, what a relief to her!  With what joy would she with her own lips chase away the cloud which she felt sure rested over her beloved father in her lover’s heart!

“It is possible that, dearly as we love each other, such a little doubt might divide us by and by,” she said to herself.  “Yes, yes, it is right that I should dissipate it, absolutely right, when I feel so very, very sure.”

At this moment her father stirred in his sleep, and she distinctly heard the words drop from his lips ­

“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 God, 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 passed 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 noble-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 God’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 God I promise to help them; but I can never either see or speak of them, they recall too much.”