"My dear, I do own that your father is ill. I own, too, that I have, by his most express wish, made as light of the matter to you as I could.
The fact is, Charlotte, he is anxious, very anxious, about himself. He thinks himself much worse than I believe him to be; but his strongest desire is, that now, on the eve of your marriage, you should not be alarmed on his account. I firmly believe you have no cause for any special fear. Ought you not to respect his wishes, and rest satisfied without seeking to know more than he and I tell you? I will swear, Charlotte, if that is any consolation to you, that I am not immediately anxious about your father."
"You need not swear, Uncle Jasper. Your not being anxious does not prevent my being so. I am determined to find out the exact truth. If he thinks himself very ill he has, of course, consulted some medical man.
If you will not tell me his name I will myself ask my father to do so to-night."
"By so doing you will shock him, and the doctor does not wish him to be shocked."
"Just so, Uncle Jasper, and you can spare him that by telling me what you know."
"My dear niece, if you _will_ have it?"
"I certainly am quite resolved, uncle."
"Well, well, you approach this subject at your peril. If you _must_ see the doctor you must. Wilful woman over again. Would you like me to go with you?"
"No, thank you; I prefer to go alone. What is the doctor"s name?"
"Sir George Anderson, of B---- Street."
"I will go to him at once," said Charlotte.
She left the room instantly, though she heard her uncle calling her back. Yes, she would go to Sir George at once. She pulled out her watch, ran upstairs, put on some out-door dress, and in ten minutes from the time she had learned the name of the great physician was in a hansom driving to his house. This rapid action was a relief to her. Presently she arrived at her destination. Yes, the doctor was at home. He was engaged for the present with another patient, but if Charlotte liked to wait he would see her in her turn. Certainly she would wait. She gave her card to the man who admitted her, and was shown into a room, very dark and dismal, where three or four patients were already enduring a time of suspense waiting for their interviews. Charlotte, knowing nothing of illness, knew, if possible, still less of doctors" rooms. A sense of added depression came over her as she seated herself on the nearest chair, and glanced, from the weary and suffering faces of those who waited anxiously for their doom, to the periodicals and newspapers piled on the table. A gentleman seated not far off handed her the last number of the _Ill.u.s.trated London News_. She took it, turning the pages mechanically. To her dying day she never got over the dislike to that special paper which that half hour created.
One by one the patients" names were called by the grave footman as he came to summon them. One by one they went away, and at last, at last, Charlotte"s turn came. She had entered into conversation with a little girl of about sixteen, who appeared to be in consumption, and the little girl had praised the great physician in such terms that Charlotte felt more than ever that against his opinion there could be no appeal. And now at last she was in the great man"s presence, and, healthy girl that she was, her heart beat so loud, and her face grew so white, that the practised eyes of the doctor might have been pardoned for mistaking her for a _bona-fide_ patient.
"What are you suffering from?" he asked of her.
"It is not myself, Sir George," she said, then making a great effort to control her voice--"I have come about my father--my father is one of your patients. His name is Harman."
Sir George turned to a large book at his side, opened it at a certain page, read quietly for a moment, then closing it, fixed his keen eyes on the young lady.
"You are right," he said, "your father, Mr. Harman, is one of my patients. He came to see me no later than last week."
"Sir," said Charlotte, and her voice grew steadier and braver as she spoke, "I am in perfect health, and my father is ill. I have come here to-day to learn from your lips the exact truth as to his case."
"The exact truth?" said the doctor. "Does your father know you have come here, Miss--Miss Harman?"
"He does not, Sir George. My father is a widower, and I am his only child. He has endeavored to keep this thing from me, and hitherto has partially succeeded. Yesterday, through another source, I learned that he is very seriously ill. I have come to you to know the truth. You will tell it to me, will you not?"
"I certainly _can_ tell it to you."
"And you will?"
"Well, the fact is, Miss Harman, he is anxious that you should not know.
I am scarcely prepared to fathom your strength of character. Any shock will be of serious consequence to him. How can I tell how you will act when you know all?"
"You are preparing me for the worst now, Sir George. I solemnly promise you in no way to use my knowledge so as to give my father the slightest shock."
"I believe you," answered the doctor. "A brave woman can do wonders.
Women are unselfish; they can hide their own feelings to comfort and succor another. Miss Harman, I am sorry for you, I have bad news for you."
"I know it, Sir George. My father is very ill."
"Your father is as seriously ill as a man can be to be alive; in short, he is--dying."
"Is there no hope?"
"None."
"Must he die soon?" asked Charlotte, after a brief pause.
"That depends. His malady is of such a nature that any sudden shock, any sudden grief will probably kill him instantly. If his mind is kept perfectly calm, and all shocks are kept from him, he may live for many months."
"Oh! terrible!" cried Charlotte.
She covered her face. When she raised it at last it looked quite haggard and old.
"Sir George," she said, "I do not doubt that in your position as a doctor you have come across some secrets. I am going to confide in you, to confide in you to a certain measure."
"Your confidence shall be sacred, my dear young lady."
"Yesterday, Sir George, I learned something, something which concerns my father. It concerns him most nearly and most painfully. It relates to an old and buried wrong. This wrong relates to others; it relates to those now living most nearly and most painfully."
"Is it a money matter?" asked the doctor.
"It is a money matter. My father alone can set it right. I mean that during his lifetime it cannot possibly in any way be set right without his knowledge. Almost all my life, he has kept this thing a secret from me and--and--from the world. For three and twenty years it has lain in a grave. If he is told now, and the wrong cannot be repaired without his knowledge, it will come on him as a--disgrace. The question I ask of you is this: can he bear the disgrace?"
"And my answer to you, Miss Harman, is, that in his state of health the knowledge you speak of will instantly kill him."
"Then--then--G.o.d help me! what am I to do? Can the wrong never be righted?"
"My dear young lady, I am sincerely sorry for you. I cannot enter into the moral question, I can only state a fact. As your father"s physician I forbid you to tell him."
"You forbid me to tell him?" said Charlotte. She got up and pulled down her veil. "Thank you," she said, holding out her hand. "I have that to go on--as my father"s physician you forbid him to know?"
"I forbid it absolutely. Such a knowledge would cause instant death."
CHAPTER x.x.xIX
PUZZLED.
The old Australian Alexander Wilson, had left his niece, Charlotte Home, after his first interview with her, in a very disturbed state of mind.
More disturbed indeed was he than by the news of his sister"s death. He was a rich man now, having been successful in the land of his banishment, and having returned to his native land the possessor of a moderate fortune. He had never married, and he meant to live with Daisy and share his wealth with her. But in these day-dreams he had only thought of his money as giving some added comforts to his rich little sister, enabling her to have a house in London for the season, and, while living in the country, to add more horses to her establishment and more conservatories to build and tend. His money should add to her luxuries and, consequently, to her comforts. He had never heard of this unforgotten sister for three and twenty years, the strange dislike to write home having grown upon him as time went on but though he knew nothing about her, he many a time in his own wild and solitary life pictured her as he saw her last. Daisy never grew old to him. Death and Daisy were not connected. Daisy in his imagination was always young, always girlish always fresh and beautiful. He saw her as he saw her last in her beautiful country home standing by her rich husband"s side, looking more like his daughter than his wife. No, Sandy never dreamed that Daisy would or could die, but in thinking of her he believed her to be a widow. That husband, so old, when he went away, must be dead.
On his arrival in England, Sandy went down into Hertfortshire. He visited the place where he had last seen his sister. It was in the hands of strangers--sold long ago. No one even remembered the name of Harman.