How It All Came Round

by L. T. Meade

"I would make you. You have begun—begun in such a way that you must finish."

"Is that so?" replied Mrs. Home. The light was growing more and more eager in her eyes. She said to herself, "The die is cast." There rose up before her a vision of her children—of her husband's thin face. Her voice trembled.

"Miss Harman—I will speak—you won't interrupt me?"

"No, but lunch is on the table. You must eat something first."

"I am afraid I cannot with that story in prospect; to eat would choke me!"

"What a queer tale it must be!" said the other Charlotte. "Well, so be it." She seated herself in a chair at a little distance from Mrs. Home, fixed her gaze on the glowing fire, and said, "I am ready. I won't interrupt you."

The poor Charlotte, too, looked at the fire. During the entire telling of the tale neither of these young women glanced at the other.

"It is my own story," began Mrs. Home: then she paused, and continued, "My father died when I was two years old. During my father's lifetime I, who am now so poor, had all the comforts that you must have had, Miss Harman, in your childhood. He died, leaving my mother, who was both young and pretty, nothing. She was his second wife, for five years she had enjoyed all that his wealth could purchase for her. He died, leaving her absolutely penniless. My mother was, as I have said, a second wife. My father had two grown-up sons. These sons had quarrelled with him at the time of his marrying my young mother; they came to see him and were reconciled on his deathbed. He left to these sons every penny of his great wealth. The sons expressed surprise when the will was read. They even blamed my father for so completely forgetting his wife and youngest child. They offered to make some atonement for him. During my mother's lifetime they settled on her three thousand pounds; I mean the interest, at five per cent., on that sum. It was to return to them at her death, it was not to descend to me, and my mother must only enjoy it on one condition. The condition was, that all communication must cease between my father's family and hers. On the day she renewed it the money would cease to be paid. My mother was young, a widow, and alone; she accepted the conditions, and the money was faithfully paid to her until the day of her death. I was too young to remember my father, and I only heard this story about him on my mother's deathbed; then for the first time I learned that we might have been rich, that we were in a measure meant to enjoy the good things which money can buy. My mother had educated me well, and you may be quite sure that with an income of one hundred and fifty pounds a year this could only be done by practising the strictest economy. I was accustomed to doing without the pretty dresses and nice things which came as natural to other girls as the air they breathed. In my girlhood, I did not miss these things; but at the time of my mother's death, at the time the story first reached my ears, I was married, and my eldest child was born. A poor man had made me, a poor girl his wife, and, Miss Harman, let me tell you, that wives and mothers do long for money. The longing with them is scarcely selfish, it is for the beings dearer than themselves. There is a pain beyond words in denying your little child what you know is for that child's good, but yet which you cannot give because of your empty purse; there is a pain in seeing your husband shivering in too thin a coat on bitter winter nights. You know nothing of such things—may you never know them; but they have gone quite through my heart, quite, quite through it. Well, that is my story; not much, you will say, after all. I might have been rich, I am poor, that is my story."

"It interests me," said Miss Harman, drawing a long breath, "it interests me greatly; but you will pardon my expressing my real feelings: I think your father was a cruel and unjust man."

"I think my brothers, my half-brothers, were cruel and unjust. I don't believe that was my father's real will."