How It All Came Round Part 43

"'You mean,' I said, 'you mean that we--we are to _steal_ that money, the money left to the widow, and the fatherless?'

"I understood the meaning now. I staggered to my feet. I could have felled my brother to the ground. He was my brother, my only brother; but at that moment, so true were my heart's instincts to the good and right, that I loathed him. Before however, I could say a word, or utter a reproach, a message came to me from my wife. I was wanted in my wife's room instantly, she was excited, she was worse. I flew away without a word.

"'Come back again, I will wait for you here,' called after me my brother.

"I entered Constance's room. I think she was a little delirious. She was still talking about money, about being hungry and having no money to buy bread. Perhaps a presentiment of _the_ evil news had come to her. I had to soothe, to a.s.sure her that all she desired should be hers. I even took my purse out and put it into her burning hand. At last she believed me; she fell asleep with her hand in mine. I dared not stir from her; and all the time as I sat far into the night, I thought over Jasper's words. They were terrible words, but I could not get them out of my head, they were burning like fire into my brain. At last Constance awoke; she was better, and I could leave her. It was now almost morning.

I went to my study, for I could not sleep. To my surprise, Jasper was still there. It was six hours since I had left him, but he had not stirred.

"'John,' he said, seeing that I shrank from him, 'you must hear me out.

Call my plan by as ugly a name as you like, no other plan will save the firm. John, will you hear me speak?'

"'Yes, I will hear you,' I said. I sank down on the sofa. My head was reeling. Right and wrong seemed confused. I said to myself, My brain is so confused with grief and perplexity that it is no matter what Jasper says just now, for I shall not understand him. But I found to my surprise, almost to my horror, that I understood with startling clearness every word. This was Jasper's plan. There were three trustees to the will; I was one, my brother Jasper another, a third was a man by the name of Alexander Wilson. He was brother to my father's second wife.

This Alexander Wilson I had never seen. Jasper had seen him once. He described him to me as a tall and powerful man with red hair. 'He is the other trustee,' said my brother, 'and he is dead.'

"'Dead!' I said, starting.

"'Yes, he is without doubt dead; here is an account of his death.'

"Jasper then opened an Australian paper and showed me the name, also the full account of a man who answered in all particulars to the Alexander Wilson named as a third trustee. Jasper then proceeded to unfold yet further his scheme.

"That trustee being dead, we were absolute masters of the situation, we could appropriate that money. The widow knew nothing yet of her husband's will; she need never know. The sum meant for her was, under existing circ.u.mstances, much too large. She should not want, she should have abundance. But we too should not want. Were our father living he would ask us to do this. We should save ourselves and the great house of Harman Brothers. In short, to put the thing in plain language, we should, by stealing the widow's money, save ourselves. By being faithless to our most solemn trust, we could keep the filthy lucre. I will not say how I struggled. I did struggle for a day; in the evening I yielded. I don't excuse myself in the very least. In the evening I fell as basely as a man could fall. I believe in my fall I sank even lower than Jasper. I said to him, 'I cannot bear poverty, it will kill Constance, and Constance must not die; but you must manage everything. I can go into no details; I can never, never as long as I live, see that widow and child. You must see them, you must settle enough, abundance on them, but never mention their names to me. I can do the deed, but the victims must be dead to me.'

"To all this Jasper promised readily enough. He promised and acted. All went, outwardly, smoothly and well; there was no hitch, no outward flaw, no difficulty, the firm was saved; none but we two knew how nearly it had been engulfed in hopeless s.h.i.+pwreck. It recovered itself by means of that stolen money, and flew lightly once again over the waters of prosperity. Yes, our house was saved, and from that hour my happiness fled. I had money, money in abundance and to spare; but I never knew another hour, day or night, of peace. I had done the deed to save my wife, but I found that, though G.o.d would give me that cursed wealth, He yet would take away my idol for whom I had sacrificed my soul. Constance only grew well enough to leave England. We wintered abroad, and at Cannes, surrounded by all that base money could supply, she closed her eyes. I returned home a widower, and the most wretched man on the face of the earth. Soon after, the Australian branch of our business growing and growing, Jasper found it well to visit that country. He did so, and stayed away many years. Soon after he landed, he wrote to tell me that he had seen the grave of Alexander Wilson; that he had made many inquiries about him, and that now there was not the least shadow of doubt that the other trustee was dead. He said that our last fears of discovery might now rest.

"Years went by, and we grew richer and richer; all we put our hands to prospered. Money seemed to grow for us on every tree. I could give my one child all that wealth could suggest. She grew up unsullied by what was eating into me as a canker. She was beautiful alike in mind and body; she was and is the one pure and lovely thing left to me. She became engaged to a good and honorable man. He had, it is true, neither money nor position, but I had learned, through all these long years of pain, to value such things at their true worth. Charlotte should marry where her heart was. I gave her leave to engage herself to Hinton.

Shortly after that engagement, Jasper, my brother, returned from Australia. His presence, reminding me, as it did, day and night, of my crime, but added to my misery of soul. I was surprised, too, to see how easily what was dragging me to the very gate of h.e.l.l seemed to rest on him. I could never discover, narrowly as I watched him, that he was anything but a happy man. One evening, after spending some hours in his presence, I fainted away quite suddenly. I was alone when this fainting fit overtook me. I believe I was unconscious for many hours. The next day I went to consult a doctor. Then and there, in that great physician's consulting-room, I learned that I am the victim of an incurable complaint; a complaint that must end my life, must end it soon, and suddenly. In short, the doctor said to me, not in words, but by look, by manner, by significant hand pressure, and that silent sympathy which speaks a terrible fact. 'Prepare to meet thy G.o.d.' Since the morning I left the doctor's presence I have been trying to prepare; but between G.o.d and me stands my sin. I cannot get a glimpse of G.o.d. I wait, and wait, but I only see the awful sin of my youth. In short, sir, I am in the far country where G.o.d is not."

"To die so would be terrible," said Mr. Home.

"To die so will be terrible, sir; in, short, it will be h.e.l.l."

"Do not put it in the future tense, Mr. Harman, for you that day is past."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that even now, though you know it not, you are no longer in the far country. You are the prodigal son if you like, but you are on the road back to the Father. You are on the homeward road, and the Father is looking out for you. When you come to die you will not be alone, the hand of G.o.d will hold yours, and the smile of a forgiving G.o.d will say to you, as the blessed Jesus said once to a poor sinful woman, who yet was not _half_ as great a sinner as you are, 'Thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee.'"

"You believe then in the greatness of my sin?"

"I believe, I _know_ that your sin was enormous; but so also is your repentance."

"G.o.d knows I repent," answered Mr. Harman.

"Yes; when you asked me to visit you, and when you poured out that story in my ears, your long repentance and anguish of heart were beginning to find vent."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you will make reparation."

"Ay, indeed I am more than willing. Zacchaeus restored fourfold."

"Yes, the road for you, straight to the bosom of the Father, is very p.r.i.c.kly and full of sharp thorns. You have held a high character for honor and respectability. You have a child who loves you, who has thought you perfect. You must step down from your high pedestal. You must renounce the place you have held in your child's heart. In short, you must let your only child, and also the cold, censorious world, see you as G.o.d has seen you for so long."

"I don't mind the world, but--my child--my only child," said Mr. Harman, and now he put up his trembling hands and covered his face. "That is a very hard road," he said after a pause.

"There is no other back to the Father," answered the clergyman.

"Well, I will take it then, for I _must_ get back to Him. You are a man of G.o.d. I put myself in your hands. What am I to do?"

"You put yourself not into my hands, sir, but into the loving and merciful hands of my Lord Christ. The course before you is plain. You must find out those you have robbed; you must restore all, and ask these wronged ones' forgiveness. When they forgive, the peace of G.o.d will s.h.i.+ne into your heart."

"You mean the widow and the child. But I do not know anything of them; I have shut my eyes to their fate."

"The widow is dead, but the child lives; I happen to know her; I can bring her to you."

"Can you? How soon?"

"In an hour and a half from now if you like. I should wish you to rest in that peace I spoke of before morning. Shall I bring her to-night?"

"Yes, I will see her; but first, first, will you pray with me?"

Mr. Home knelt down at once. The gray-headed and sinful man knelt by his side. Then the clergyman hurried away to fetch his wife.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE PRINCE OF PEACE.

It was very nearly midnight when Mr. Home, entering the sitting-room where his wife waited up for him, asked her to come with him at once.

"There is a hansom at the door," he said, "put on your bonnet and come.

I will tell you all as we drive along; come at once, we have not a moment to lose."

Charlotte Home, accustomed as Home's wife to imperative demands, only thought of a night's nursing of some specially poor patient. She rose without a word, and in two minutes they were driving, as fast as a fleet horse could take them to Prince's Gate.

"Charlotte," said her husband, taking her hand, "G.o.d has heard my prayer, G.o.d has given me the man's soul."

"Whose soul, my dearest?"

"The soul of John Harman. Charlotte, I have prayed as I never prayed before in all my life for that guilty and troubled sinner's soul. I have been in an agony for it; it has seemed to me at times that for this lost and suffering brother I could lay down my very life. On Sunday last I went to conduct service in the small iron church. I tried the night before to prepare a sermon; no thought would come to me. I tried at last to look up an old one; no old sermon would commend itself. Finally I dropped all thought of the morrow's sermon and spent the greater part of the night in prayer. My prayer was for this sinner, and it seemed to me, that as I struggled and pleaded, G.o.d the Father and G.o.d the Son drew nigh. I went to bed with a wonderfully close sense of their presence. At morning prayers the next day, Miss Harman and her father entered the church. You may well look at me in surprise, Charlotte, but when I saw them I felt quiet enough; I only knew that G.o.d had sent them. For the first time in my life I preached without note or written help. I felt, however, at no loss for words; my theme was the Prodigal Son. I thought only of Mr. Harman; I went home and continued to pray for him. On Tuesday morning--that is, this morning--he was again at the church.

After the prayers were over he waited to speak to me: he asked me to visit him at his own house this evening. I went there; I have been with him all the evening; he told me his life story, the bitter story of his fall. I am now come for you, for he must confess to you--you are the wronged one."

"I am going to see John Harman, my half-brother who has wronged me?"

said Mrs. Home; "I am going to him now without preparation? Oh! Angus, I cannot, not to-night, not to-night."