Читать книгу How It All Came Round - L. T. Meade - Страница 24

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At breakfast the next morning Charlotte Harman was in almost wild spirits. Her movements were generally rather sedate, as befitted one so tall, so finely proportioned, so dignified. To-day her step seemed set to some hidden rhythmic measure; her eyes laughed; her gracious, kindly mouth was wreathed in perpetual smiles. Her father, on the contrary, looked more bent, more careworn, more aged even than usual. Looking, however, into her eyes for light, his own brightened. As he ate his frugal breakfast of coffee and dry toast he spoke:

"Charlotte, your Uncle Jasper came to me last night with a proposal on your behalf."

"Yes, father," answered Charlotte. She looked up expectantly. She thought of Mrs. Home. Her uncle had told the tale after all, and her dear and generous father would refuse her nothing. She should have the great joy of giving three thousand pounds to that poor mother for the use of her little children.

The next words, however, uttered by Mr. Harman caused these dreams to be dispelled by others more golden. The most generous woman must at times think first of herself. Charlotte was very generous; but her father's next words brought dimples into very prominent play in each cheek.

"My darling, Jasper thinks me very cruel to postpone your marriage. I will not postpone it. You and Hinton may fix the day. I will take that brief of his on trust."

No woman likes an indefinite engagement, and Charlotte was not the exception to prove this rule.

"Dearest father," she said, "I am very happy at this. I will tell John. He is coming over this morning. But you know my conditions? No wedding day for me unless my father agrees to live with me afterwards."

"Settle it as you please, dear child. I don't think there would be much sunshine left for me if you were away from me. And now I suppose you will be very busy. You have carte blanche for the trousseau, but your book? will you have time to write it, Charlotte? And that young woman whom I saw in your room yesterday, is she the amanuensis whom you told me about?"

"She is the lady whom I hoped to have secured, father, but she is not coming."

"Not coming! I rather liked her look, she seemed quite a lady. Did you offer her too small remuneration? Not that that would be your way, but you do not perhaps know what such labor is worth."

"It was not that, dear father. I offered her what she herself considered a very handsome sum. It was not that. She is very poor; very, very poor and she has three little children. I never saw such a hungry look in any eyes as she had, when she spoke of what money would be to her. But she gave me a reason—a reason which I am not at liberty to tell to you, which makes it impossible for her to come here."

Charlotte's cheeks were burning now, and something in her tone caused her father to gaze at her attentively. It was not his way, however, to press for any confidence not voluntarily offered. He rose from his seat with a slight sigh.

"Well, dear," he said, "you must look for some one else. We can't talk over matters to-night. Ask Hinton to stay and dine. There; I must be off, I am very late as it is."

Mr. Harman kissed his daughter and she went out as usual to button on his great-coat and see him down the street. She had performed this office for him ever since—a little mite of four years old—she had tried to take her dead mother's place. The child, the growing girl, the young woman, had all in turns stood on those steps, and watched that figure walking away. But never until to-day had she noticed how aged and bent it had grown. For the first time the possibility visited her heart that there might be such a thing for her in the future as life without her father.

Uncle Jasper had said he was not well; no, he did not look well. Her eyes filled with tears as she closed the hall door and re-entered the house. But her own prospects were too golden just now to permit her to dwell as long, or as anxiously, as she otherwise would have done, on so gloomy an aspect of her father's case.

Charlotte Harman was twenty-five years of age; but, except when her mother died, death had never come near her young life. She could scarcely remember her mother, and, with this one exception, death and sickness were things unknown. She has heard of them of course; but the grim practical knowledge, the standing face to face with the foe, were not her experience. She was the kind of woman who could develop into the most tender nurse, into the wisest, best, and most helpful guide, through those same dark roads of sickness and death, but the training for this was all to come. No wonder that in her inexperience she should soon cease to dwell on her father's bent figure and drawn, white face. A reaction was over her, and she must yield to it.

As she returned to the comfortable breakfast-room, her eyes shone brighter through their momentary tears. She went over and stood by the hearth. She was a most industrious creature, having trained herself not to waste an instant; but to-day she must indulge in a happy reverie.

How dark had been those few hours after Mrs. Home had left her yesterday; how undefined, how dim, and yet how dark had been her suspicions! She did not know what to think, or whom to suspect; but she felt that, cost her what it might, she must fathom the truth, and that having once fathomed it, something might be revealed to her that would embitter and darken her whole life.

And behold! she had done so. She had bravely grasped the phantom in both hands, and it had vanished into thin air. What she dreamed was not. There was no disgrace anywhere. A morbid young woman had conjured up a possible tale of wrong. There was no wrong. She, Mrs. Home, was to be pitied, and Charlotte would help her; but beyond this no dark or evil thing had come into her life.

And now, what a great further good was in store for her! Her father had most unexpectedly withdrawn his opposition over the slight delay he had insisted upon to her marriage. Charlotte did not know until now how she had chafed at this delay; how she had longed to be the wife of the man she loved. She said, "Thank God!" under her breath, then ran upstairs to her own room.

Charlotte's maid had the special care of this room. It was a sunshiny morning, and the warm spring air came in through the open window.

"Yes, leave it open," she said to the girl; "it seems as if spring had really come to-day."

"But it is winter still, madam, February is not yet over," replied the lady's maid. "Better let me shut it, Miss Harman, this is only a pet day."

"I will enjoy it then, Ward," answered Miss Harman. "And now leave me, for I am very busy."

The maid withdrew, and Charlotte seated herself by her writing table. She was engaged over a novel which Messrs. M——, of—— Street, had pronounced really good; they would purchase the copyright, and they wanted the MS. by a given date. How eager she had felt about this yesterday; how determined not to let anything interfere with its completion! But to-day, she took up her pen as usual, read over the last page she had written, then sat quiet, waiting for inspiration.

What was the matter with her? No thought came. As a rule thoughts flowed freely, proceeding fast from the brain to the pen, from the pen to the paper. But to-day? What ailed her to-day? The fact was, the most natural thing in the world had come to stop the flow of fiction. It was put out by a greater fire. The moon could shine brilliantly at night, but how sombre it looked beside the sun! The great sunshine of her own personal joy was flooding Charlotte's heart to-day, and the griefs and delights of the most attractive heroine in the world must sink into insignificance beside it. She sat waiting for about a quarter of an hour, then threw down her pen in disgust. She pulled out her watch. Hinton could not be with her before the afternoon. The morning was glorious. What had Ward, her maid, called the day?—"a pet day." Well, she would enjoy it; she would go out. She ran to her room, enveloped herself in some rich and becoming furs, and went into the street. She walked on a little way, rather undecided where to turn her steps. In an instant she could have found herself in Kensington Gardens or Hyde Park; but, just because they were so easy of access, they proved unattractive. She must wander farther afield. She beckoned to a passing hansom.

"I want to go somewhere where I shall have green grass and trees," she said to the cabby. "No, it must not be Hyde Park, somewhere farther off."

"There's the Regent's," replied the man. "I'll drive yer there and back wid pleasure, my lady."

"I will go to Regent's Park," said Charlotte. She made up her mind, as she was swiftly bowled along, that she would walk back. She was just in that condition of suppressed excitement, when a walk would be the most delightful safety-valve in the world.

In half an hour she found herself in Regent's Park and, having dismissed her cab, wandered about amongst the trees. The whole place was flooded with sunshine. There were no flowers visible; the season had been too bad, and the year was yet too young; but for all that, nature seemed to be awake and listening.

Charlotte walked about until she felt tired, then she sat down on one of the many seats to rest until it was time to return home. Children were running about everywhere. Charlotte loved children. Many an afternoon had she gone into Kensington Gardens for the mere and sole purpose of watching them. Here were children, too, as many as there, but of a different class. Not quite so aristocratic, not quite so exclusively belonging to the world of rank and fashion. The children in Regent's Park were certainly quite as well dressed; but there was just some little indescribable thing missing in them, which the little creatures, whom Charlotte Harman was most accustomed to notice, possessed.

She was commenting on this, in that vague and slight way one does when all their deepest thoughts are elsewhere, when a man came near and shared her seat. He was a tall man, very slight, very thin. Charlotte, just glancing at him took in this much also, that he was a clergyman. He sat down to rest, evidently doing so from great fatigue. Selfish in her happiness, Charlotte presently returned to her golden dreams. The children came on fast, group after group; some pale and thin, some rosy and healthy; a few scantily clothed, a few overladen with finery. They laughed and scampered past her. For, be the circumstances what they might, all the little hearts seemed full of mirth and sweet content. At last a very small nurse appeared, wheeling a perambulator, while two children ran by her side. These children were dressed neatly, but with no attempt at fashion. The baby in the shabby perambulator was very beautiful. The little group were walking past rather more slowly than most of the other groups, for the older boy and girl looked decidedly tired, when suddenly they all stopped; the servant girl opened her mouth until it remained fixed in the form of a round O; the baby raised its arms and crowed; the elder boy and girl uttered a glad shout and ran forward.

"Father, father, you here?" said the boy. "You here?" echoed the girl, and the whole cavalcade drew up in front of Charlotte and the thin clergyman. The boy in an instant was on his father's knee, and the girl, helping herself mightily by Charlotte's dress, had got on the bench.

The baby seeing this began to cry. The small nurse seemed incapable of action, and Charlotte herself had to come to the rescue. She lifted the little seven months old creature out of its carriage, and placed it in its father's arms.

He raised his eyes gratefully to her face and placed his arm round the baby.

"Oh! I'm falling," said the girl. "This seat is so slippy, may I sit on your knee?"

It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Charlotte to take this strange, shabbily dressed little girl into her embrace.

The child began to stroke down and admire her soft furs.

"Aren't they lovely?" she said. "Oh, Harold, look! Feel 'em, Harold; they're like pussies."

Harold, absorbed with his father, turned his full blue eyes round gravely and fixed them not on the furs, but on the strange lady's face.

"Father," he said in a slow, solemn tone, "may I kiss that pretty lady?"

"My dear boy, no, no. I am ashamed of you. Now run away, children; go on with your walk. Nurse, take baby."

The children were evidently accustomed to implicit obedience. They went without a word.

"But I will kiss Harold first," said Charlotte Harman, and she stooped down and pressed her lips to the soft round cheek.

"Thank you," said the clergyman. Again he looked into her face and smiled.

The smile on his careworn face reminded Charlotte of the smile on St. Stephen's face, when he was dying. It was unearthly, angelic; but it was also very fleeting. Presently he added in a grave tone——

"You have evidently the great gift of attracting the heart of a little child. Pardon me if I add a hope that you may never lose it."

"Is that possible?" asked Charlotte.

"Yes; when you lose the child spirit, the power will go."

"Oh! then I hope it never will," she replied.

"It never will if you keep the Christ bright within you," he answered. Then he raised his hat to her, smiled again, and walked away.

He was a strange man, and Charlotte felt attracted as well as repelled. She was proud, and at another time and from other lips such words would have been received with disdain. But this queer, shadowy-looking clergyman looked like an unearthly visitant. She watched his rather weak footsteps, as he walked quietly away in the northern direction through the park. Then she got up and prepared to return home. But this little incident had sobered her. She was not unhappy; but she now felt very grave. The child spirit! She must keep it alive, and the Christ must dwell bright within her.

Charlotte's temperament was naturally religious. Her nature was so frank and noble that she could not but drink in the good as readily as the flower receives the dew; but she had come to this present fulness of her youthful vigor without one trial being sent to test the gold. She entered the house after her long walk to find Hinton waiting for her.