A Search For A Secret: A Novel. Vol. 1

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE LAST OF THE HARMERS.

  And so in spite of all human precautions and care, the property of theold Roman Catholic family was not disposed of for the benefit and gloryof Mother Church; but passed into the hands of the Protestant andapostate younger brother, under whose ownership and care it changed nota little.

  Not externally; there no great alteration was possible, unless the wholeplace had been pulled down and rebuilt, but the thick trees which hadcrowded it in, and made it dark and gloomy, were thinned out, so thatthe air and light could come in upon it; bright flower-beds took theplace of the masses of shrubbery on the lawn in front, and as far ascould be done, the whole place was cleared and brightened. Inside, muchgreater changes were made--there, indeed, the old house was completelyremodelled, new paper, new paint, new furniture and fittings of everydescription. Modern windows were put in where practicable, that is,wherever they could be inserted without violent incongruity with thestyle of architecture; part of the house indeed--that part containingthe principal apartments--was entirely modernized, party walls werepulled away, small rooms thrown into large ones, the ceilings and roofsraised, bow windows thrown out, and a bright, cheerful air given to it.

  In the chapel adjoining the house great alterations were made. Colouredglass windows took the place of the plain ones formerly there; these hadbeen inserted after a visit of inspection paid by a party of Puritancavalry, who, not having succeeded in finding the man of Belial of whomthey were in search, consoled themselves under their disappointment bythe holy amusement of smashing the beautiful stained-glass windows, anddestroying the decoration and carvings of the little chapel. The seatswere now removed, and the shrines, hangings, pictures, and other emblemsof the Romish Church were taken down. The grand stone altar wasretained, and a large cross in black marble was placed over it, takingthe place of the wooden crucifix which had so long hung there. At thefoot of the steps leading up to the altar, and where they had so oftenknelt in prayer, a beautiful monument of white marble was erected to thedead brothers, on which the sun threw strange, solemn lights as itstreamed in through the coloured windows.

  All these changes and alterations were carried on under the personalcare and inspection of Mr. Harmer, who, with his son, came down at onceto Canterbury, taking up their residence for the first two months at the"Fountain," but spending most of their time over at the "Place." Andalthough when masons and decorators once take possession of a house theygenerally contrive to make their stay nearly interminable, yet, money,energy, and personal supervision will occasionally work wonders, and inthis case, in three months after taking possession--that is, by the endof June--Mr. Harmer had the satisfaction of seeing the work completed,and the little army of men engaged upon it fairly out of the house.

  As soon as they had gone into residence, the neighbouring gentry calledalmost in a body. To them it possessed the charm of a new discovery;they knew the place existed, but all they had seen of it was the lodgegate, and the twisted chimneys of the house as they rose among the treeswhich shut it in from the view; that was all. They hardly knew what itwas like, even from tradition; neither their fathers or grandfathers hadever called there; not that the religion of its owner had constitutedany serious objection to their so doing, but the Harmers led toosecluded and recluse a life to care about knowing any one. With only avery few among the county families of their own creed had they anyvisiting acquaintance whatever, and this was confined to an exchange offormal calls, or of stately dinners once or so in the course of a year.Their only intimate acquaintances were chosen among foreigners,ecclesiastics or others, generally Italian, whom they had known duringtheir long absences on the Continent; of these there had been usuallyone or two staying in the house when the family were at home; beyondthis they had no friends. But now all this was to change, and thecarriages of the neighbouring gentry dashed in quick succession up thedrive where once the green moss had grown undisturbed, and gay talk andmerry laughter were heard where formerly silence had reigned almostunbroken.

  The visits afforded great satisfaction to those who paid them. Thefather and son were both much liked, and pronounced great acquisitionsto the county society.

  These visits were shortly returned, and invitations to dinner speedilyfollowed. But not to dinner-parties alone was the festivity confined;picnics were got up, balls given, and it was unanimously agreed for onceto overlook the fact that there was no lady head to Harmer Place, butthat mothers and daughters should accept Mr. Harmer's lavish hospitalityregardless of that fact. Indeed, the Harmers' accession to the propertygave rise to a series of feasting and festivity such as had not beenknown in that part of the county for years previously.

  Into all this Mr. Harmer entered with a fresh pleasure, and a frankjoyous spirit which charmed and attracted all. With the ladies he was anespecial favourite; to them his manners and address were so singularlydifferent to those of the men with whom they were accustomed toassociate, that they could not fail to be greatly impressed by it.Herbert Harmer had seen little or nothing of women, for--with theexception only of his wife, who had always been a great invalid, andwhom he had nursed for years with almost devotional care andkindness--he had been thrown in contact with very few English women, andhe regarded the whole sex with an almost chivalrous devotion and respectwhich in a man of his age was very strange and touching. Although a verywell-read man--for in his distant home he had kept himself well suppliedwith the current English literature, and with scientific works of everydescription--he knew very little of real life. Of commanding intellect,had he been placed in different circumstances where his mind could havehad fair scope for its exercise, Herbert Harmer would have made aconspicuous figure for himself; as it was, although all found in him acharming companion and a sympathizer in their various tastes, few wouldhave suspected how great were the stores of knowledge which thesimple-hearted childlike man had stored up in all those years ofsolitary reading.

  It was this general sympathy for the tastes of others, together with thereverence for the sex, which led him to treat the young girl ofseventeen with a deference not inferior to that which he would haveexhibited for her white-haired grandmother, which made him souniversally liked by women; and had Herbert Harmer, although a man offorty-seven, and looking older than he was, wished to marry again, hemight have nearly taken his choice among the fair young Kentish maidenswho surrounded him.

  Women, especially young women, appreciate a character such as this farbetter than men can do. Their purity of heart recognizes instinctivelyits goodness and childlike wisdom; and very many would own to themselvesthat, without entertaining any passionate love for him, they could yetentrust their happiness to such a one with a confidence far more sereneand implicit than that which they would experience in the case of ayounger man.

  Perhaps a thought as to the possibility of Mr. Harmer marrying again mayhave entered into the calculations of some of the matrons with grown-upfamilies, and who would not have unwillingly have seen one of theirdaughters holding sway as mistress at Harmer Place. But if so, it wasnot for long; for Mr. Harmer, upon one occasion--when the possibility ofsuch an event as a new mistress for his house being forthcoming when thealterations were completed, was laughingly suggested--resented the ideain quite a serious manner. From this it was quite evident that thefuture mistress of Harmer Place, whomsoever she might be, would enter itas the wife of Gerald rather than of Herbert Harmer.

  Gerald was by no means so great a favourite as his father; nor, althoughhe earnestly desired to be popular, could he altogether succeed in hisobject. He could not overcome the listless manner which his longresidence in India had rendered part of his nature; he could not acquirean interest in all the chit-chat and gossip of country society, ormanifest more than a most languid interest in the agriculturalconversations and disquisitions which formed the large staple of thecountry gentleman's talk. Of the price of corn he knew nothing. Malt andhops were mysteries, into which, beyond drinking the resulting compound,he had no desire t
o penetrate. And yet he was a sensible, good-heartedyoung fellow enough. His misfortune was that he had not strength of mindto adapt himself to the life and people he was thrown among.

  Mr. Harmer was extremely anxious that his son should marry early andwell; not well in a worldly point of view, but to some true woman, towhom he could look up, and who would in time correct the faults of hischaracter. Those faults his father saw and understood; and he fearedmuch that his weak and facile disposition would render him liable tofall into serious errors and faults, and would be not unlikely to leadhim to be entrapped into some hasty marriage, the evil consequences ofwhich might be incalculable to him. Mr. Harmer therefore watched withanxiety to see to which, among the various young girls of theneighbourhood, Gerald was most attracted, and at first he gave hisfather some little trouble. New to female society, it possessed aninfinite charm to him; but he seemed to admire too generally to devotehimself to any one in particular, and although he at once commenced aseries of active flirtations, he appeared quite unable to single out anyone for especial preference. _Les absents ont toujours tort_; and theconverse of the proverb seemed to him to be equally true--the presentare always right. Whosoever might chance to be in his society wouldassuredly, for the time being, appear to approach the nearest toperfection. Gerald Harmer was certainly a much greater favourite withthe girls than he was with their fathers and brothers. That languid,indolent way of his, as if he rather thought that it was the duty ofother people to devote themselves to his amusement, and which made themen vote him a puppy, was to them quite new and very amusing. Girls,too, rather like occasionally reversing positions, and bestowing homageinstead of receiving it; and so the lively country girls enjoyed theselanguid flirtations with Gerald, and entered into them with greatspirit, laughing in their sleeves, perhaps, at him while they did so,and not being in the least likely to become the victims of any veryardent passion.

  When the shooting season commenced, however, a great change came overhim, for he threw himself into the sport with an ardour that astonishedhis father. At last he really seemed to have found something worthcaring for, and in a short time, by his devotion for field sports, herose many degrees in the estimation of the young squires, who agreedthat Gerald Harmer had turned out a capital fellow after all, in spiteof his airs and nonsense. It is probable that he sank in the sisters'estimation as he rose in the brothers', for he now no longer cared forfemale society, and spent the whole of his time either in shooting overhis own or other estates, with parties of their young owners, orsometimes alone, with no other companion than Long William, thekeeper--or else in hunting, to which also he took with great ardour. Hissporting tastes rapidly developed; dogs, horses, and guns occupied hiswhole thoughts; and few would have recognized in the figure inshooting-jacket and gaiters, returning splashed to the head, after ahard day's work, the indolent lounger who had considered it almost toogreat a trouble to think for himself. His father observed this changewith pleasure, as he had noticed with pain his son's increasinglistlessness, although he was personally a loser by it; for Gerald hadbeen hitherto his constant companion in his walks over his estate, andhis visits of kindness at his labourers' cottages, which, under hiscare, assumed a very different and far more comfortable aspect than thatwhich they had worn under the old _regime_. Still, he felt that it mightdo him much good; he thought it natural that the young man should befond of sport, and should seek the companionship of men of his own age;and though he missed the former familiar intercourse with his son, heassented with a little sigh of regret to the new state of things, andtold himself that it was much better so, and was very right and proper.Even of an evening it was seldom now that Gerald accompanied his fatherto the houses of the neighbouring gentry, always pleading fatigue, orsome other excuse, for not doing so. On these occasions, when his fatherhad started alone, he would be sure to find some pretext, some forgottenorder, or question which must be asked, as a reason for strolling downin the course of the evening to smoke a pipe with his inseparable ally,Long William, the keeper.

  Of this his father of course knew nothing; but the people of the villagesoon noticed these visits, and shook their heads when they saw the youngsquire go in at the cottage door, for William's character stood by nomeans high, and such companionship could do no good. Sometimes, too,Long William would not have returned from his duties when Geraldsauntered down, and then the task of entertaining him till his returnwould fall on William's pretty sister, Madge, who kept house for herbrother. Altogether it would have been far better for Gerald to haveaccompanied his father, than to spend the evening sitting there smoking,and occasionally drinking; not truly that he was fond of drink for itsown sake, but as he felt obliged to send Long William out for a bottleof spirits, he felt equally bound to keep him in countenance while hedrank it.

  So things went on into the spring, and then the shooting and huntingbeing over, Gerald, to his father's great annoyance, subsided into hisformer listless state; indeed, into a much worse condition than he wasin before. He no longer was Mr. Harmer's companion in his rambles overthe estate; he took no interest in his plans for the improvement of thehouses of their poorer neighbours; he had no pleasure in society, whichbefore he had so enjoyed; indeed, so entirely without aim or object didhis life seem to have become, that Mr. Harmer felt that some change wasabsolutely necessary for him, and proposed to him that he should go fora few months' ramble on the Continent.

  This proposition Gerald embraced with eagerness, and in a few daysstarted on his tour.

  Mr. Harmer had at first thought of accompanying him, but finally decidedagainst doing so, as he judged it better that Gerald should have tothink and act entirely for himself; for being forced to do this, and tomake new acquaintances and friends--which in travelling he could only doby exerting himself to be agreeable--he would be far more likely toshake off his listless apathy, than if he had some one ever with him, toarrange matters, and take all necessity of thought or exertion off hishands.

  And so Gerald went alone, and, as far as could be gleaned from hisletters, he certainly seemed improving. At first he wrote without muchinterest in what he saw, but gradually the tone of his letters becamemore healthy, and when he reached Switzerland, he wrote in quiteenthusiastic terms. He had joined a party who intended to stay there twoor three months, and thoroughly wander over the various lakes andvalleys of that lovely country. He enjoyed the life immensely, wasbecoming a first-rate mountaineer, and altogether he appeared to haveentirely recovered his life and spirits.

  Mr. Harmer remained quietly at home, passing his time between his books,the management of his estates, and the pleasures of social intercoursewith his neighbours; and few days passed without his riding out into thecountry, or into Canterbury, for a visit to some among them.

  Everywhere he continued to gain golden opinions, and became so popularthat he was requested to allow himself to be put in nomination as memberfor that division of the county at the next election. This offer,although very gratifying, Mr. Harmer declined. He was very happy andcontented with his present mode of life, and had not the least wish totake upon himself the care and responsibility of a seat in Parliament.

  In autumn, soon after the shooting began, Gerald returned, lookingsunburnt and healthy; full of life and of his adventures and travels,and, seemingly, permanently cured of his listless, indolent ways. Hisfather was much pleased with the change, and was now quite satisfiedwith him; and yet at times he fancied--but it might be only fancy--thatin the pauses of conversation he would fall into short reveries ofsomething unpleasant; a quick, gloomy, anxious look seemed to passacross his face, and although it would be instantly dispelled, still Mr.Harmer could not help thinking that he had something on his mind. But ifit was so, he said no word to his father; and Herbert Harmer, even hadhe been sure that such a secret had existed, which he was far frombeing, was of too delicate a disposition to make the least advancetowards a confidence which his son did not seek to repose in him.

  At last the hunting season began again, to which
Gerald had been lookingforward eagerly, as he preferred it even to shooting, perhaps because itwas a much greater change, as the meets were seldom held nearCanterbury, and he would have to send his hunter on the night before,and drive over perhaps fifteen or twenty miles in the morning. However,it happened that one of the first meets of the season was appointed totake place near Canterbury, about three miles out on the old Dover Road,and Gerald started off, after an early breakfast, in unusually highspirits.

  Mr. Harmer, late in the afternoon, was in his library, which was in thefront of the house, and the windows of which commanded a view down thedrive.

  He had been reading, but the fast-closing shades of a wintryafternoon--it was the 12th of November, had rendered that difficult, andhe had laid down his book and walked to the window, to look out at thestill trees and the quiet hush of the thickening twilight.

  Suddenly there came on his ear a low confused sound, as of many peoplemoving and speaking; and then a horse's footsteps came fast up thedrive.

  He strained his eyes for the first sight of the rider, as he came roundthe turn of the drive into sight.

  It was not Gerald--it was one of his most intimate friends.

  What could it be? He threw open the window and listened again; betweenthe strokes of the horses' feet in the still evening air, he could hearthe confused sound of voices and the trampling of feet coming nearer.What could it be? A nameless terror blanched his cheek, a dim vision ofthe truth flashed across him. In an instant he was at the hall-door,which he opened and went out on to the steps. The horseman had alighted,and now stood looking pale and anxious at the door. When it opened, andhe saw Mr. Harmer himself, he shrank back as a man might, who, knowingthat he had something very painful to go through, is suddenly confrontedwith it before he had quite nerved himself to undergo it. Recoveringhimself, however, although his usually hearty, jovial face was blanchedwhite, he prepared to speak. Herbert Harmer waved him back, he couldtell him nothing that could be new to him now. He had seen his face, andhope had died with the look, and the father stood listening withsuspended breath to the irregular trampling now rapidly approaching upthe avenue.

  "Is he dead?" he asked with his eyes, for no sound came from the lips."Not dead--but----" The eyes closed for a moment in answer that theyunderstood--not dead, but dying; and then he stood rigid and immovable,his eyes open but seeing nothing, his whole senses merged in the effortof hearing.

  The gentleman who had brought the news, seeing that at present he coulddo nothing there, quietly entered the house and ordered the affrightedservants instantly to get a bed-room ready, with hot water, sponges, andeverything that could be required.

  Mr. Harmer moved not till he saw appear round the turn of the drive thehead of a sad procession: carried on the shoulders of six men, on a doorhastily taken from a cottage for the purpose, was something in redcovered with a cloak; riding by the side were several horsemen inscarlet, most of whom, on seeing Mr. Harmer standing on the steps,reined back their horses and returned into the village, there to waitfor news. Not that they expected any news, save one; for the man ingreen riding by the head of the little procession was the doctor. He wason the field at the time of the accident, he had already examined theinjured man, had shaken his head sadly over him, and the word had goneround--no hope.

  His horse, a young hunter which he had only purchased a few days before,had struck the top bar in leaping a gate, and had come down headlong onits rider, fearfully crushing and mangling him. They carried him up tohis room and laid him on the bed; his father walking beside speechlessand tearless. The only question he asked was, "Will he ever recover hisconsciousness?"

  The doctor replied, "He may at the last."

  The last did not come till next morning, when, just as the grey lightwas breaking, he opened his eyes. For some time they wandered confusedlyabout the room, as if endeavouring to comprehend what had happened; thenhe tried to move, and a slight groan of pain broke from him, and by thechange in his expression it was evident he remembered all. His eyes metthose of his father, and fixed there with a look of deep affection, thena sudden recollection of pain seemed to occur to him, and he closed hiseyes again and lay for sometime quite still.

  The doctor who had his finger on his wrist motioned to the father thatthe end was fast approaching. Again the eyes opened and he was evidentlyrallying his strength to speak. The doctor withdrew a few paces, and thefather placed his ear to the dying man's mouth. The lips moved, but allthat the hearer could catch was--"Dear father--kind to Madge--mysake--God forgive;" then the lips ceased moving, and the spirit was gonefor ever.

  Ten days had passed since then, Gerald Harmer had been laid in the quietgraveyard of the village church, and his father was sitting thoughtfuland alone in his library. A knock at the door, and Mr. Brandon, therector of the place, was announced, and by Mr. Harmer's manner as herose to meet him, it was evident that he was an expected visitor.

  "I am much obliged to you for calling so speedily," he said, after theyhad seated themselves. "I have a question which weighs much upon mymind, and which is to me an inexpressibly painful one. Yet it is onewhich I must ask, and you are the only person of whom I can ask it. Imay be mistaken altogether. I may be agitating myself under somewretched misconception; God grant it may be so; and yet I must arrive atthe truth. Do you know any young person in the village by the name ofMadge? how old is she, who are her parents, and what character does shebear?"

  The clergyman's face became very serious as Mr. Harmer addressed him,and the latter saw at once by his unmistakable start of surprise, and bythe look of distress which came across his face, that he not only knewsuch a person, but that he was very well aware why the question wasasked.

  Mr. Harmer laid his face in his hands and groaned; this was almostharder to bear than his son's death. It was some time before he lookedup again. When he did so, the clergyman said in a tone of deep feelingand commiseration--

  "It is a truly sad affair, my dear sir; indeed, I question if you yetknow how sad. The name of the young girl of whom you ask was MadgeNeedham; she lived with her brother, one of your keepers. I hardly knowhow to tell you what has occurred. She had been for some time indelicate health, and was standing at the door of her cottage when shesaw a little crowd coming down the village street. She carelessly askeda lad who was running past what it was, and was told that they werecarrying home your unfortunate son who had been killed out hunting. Theboy ran on; she said nothing, but closed the door of the cottage. Theshock had struck home. That night a little child was born into theworld, who before morning had lost both father and mother."

  Mr. Brandon ceased, his voice faltered as he spoke, and the tears fellfrom his eyes. Mr. Harmer hid his face in his hands, and sobbedunrestrainedly; he was inexpressibly shocked and grieved. At last hesaid--

  "Is the child alive?"

  "Yes; a young married woman in the village who had just lost a baby ofher own has taken it for the present. She consulted me about it onlythis morning, and I told her that in a short time when I could approachthe subject with you, I would do so, although I did not expect that theopportunity would have occurred so soon. Still, I thought it right,painful as it must be to you, that you should know the truth. I believefrom what I have heard that there can be no question as to the paternityof the infant, as I heard, late in the spring, rumours of your son beingfrequently down at the cottage. But it did not reach my ears until afterhe had gone abroad, consequently I could do nothing in the matter buthope for the best, and trust that rumour was mistaken."

  After another short silence, Mr. Harmer said--

  "Mr. Brandon, I am very much indebted to you for what you have alreadydone in the matter; will you further oblige me by acting for me in it?If the woman who has now charge of the child is a respectable and properperson, and is willing to continue the care of it, so much the better.If not, will you seek some one who will do so? Make any arrangements inthe way of money you may think fit. By the way, the east lodge, which isthe one farthest from the v
illage, is at present unoccupied; let themmove in there. I will give orders that it shall be made comfortable.Will you see to this for me? So much for the present; we can make otherarrangements afterwards."

  And so it was carried out. Mrs. Green, the woman who had first takencare of the child, with her husband, a steady working carpenter, movedinto the east lodge. They had no other children, and soon took to thelittle orphan, and loved her as their own. To them, indeed, the adoptionof the child proved of great benefit. The lodge was made comfortable; apiece of ground was added to it, and put in order for a garden; ahandsome yearly sum was paid; and the husband had steady work upon theestate.

  Long William, the keeper, had a sufficient sum of money given him, toenable him to emigrate to Australia.

  Upon the death of his son, Mr. Harmer went abroad for three or fouryears, and then returned again to the old place. The shock which he hadundergone had aged him much, and at fifty-one he looked as old as manymen of sixty. He still kept up the acquaintance of his former friends;but although fond of quiet social intercourse, he ceased altogether toenter into general society, and devoted himself entirely to study andscientific pursuits.

  It was a little before Mr. Harmer's return, that Dr. Ashleighestablished himself at Canterbury, having purchased a practice there.They met accidentally at a friend's house, and soon became very intimatewith each other. They were mutually attracted by the similarity of theirtastes and pursuits, and by each other's intellectual superiority andgoodness of heart. They were indeed kindred spirits, and their societybecame a source of the greatest mutual pleasure and gratification.Whenever Dr. Ashleigh could find time from his professional pursuits, hewould drive over to pass a few hours of scientific research andexperiment with his friend; and if anything should occur to prevent thevisit being paid for a few days, Mr. Harmer would, in turn, come overfor an evening to the doctor's, at Canterbury.

  In the mean time little Sophy Needham was growing up. She was not apretty child, but had an intelligent face, with large thoughtful greyeyes.

  It was some time after his return from abroad before Mr. Harmer trustedhimself to ride out at the east gate. At last, one day--it was theanniversary of his son's death--he did so, and stopping there, fastenedup his horse, and went in to see the child, then exactly four years old.

  At first she was inclined to be distant and shy; but when once she hadrecovered sufficiently to fix her large grey inquiring eyes upon him,she went to him readily, and in five minutes they were fast friends; forindeed he was one of those men whom children instinctively feel to begood, and take to as if by intuition.

  After this he would frequently go down to see her, and take her littlepresents of toys and dolls. Until she was ten years old she went to thevillage school, and then he sent her to London to a good school, to beeducated as he said, for a governess. When she came home for theholidays, he would frequently have her up for a day to the house, andwould interest himself greatly in her talk and growing knowledge.

  It was some little time after his return from abroad that Mr. Harmerreceived a letter from his sisters, who had since they left beentravelling and living abroad, saying, that if he were still of the samemind, and would repeat his invitation, they would be glad to come andstay with him for a time, as they longed to see the old place where theyhad lived so long. Although much surprised, Mr. Harmer willinglyassented, and his two sisters soon afterwards arrived. Their visit, atfirst intended only to last for a few weeks, lengthened into months;then they went away for a time, but soon returned, and took up theirabode there permanently.

  Whatever their motives may have been originally in returning to theplace, they unquestionably became very much attached to their brother,and were far happier than they had ever before been during their lives:they pursued their religious exercises, he his scientific pursuits,without interference from each other, and as the genial intercourse andkindness of their brother brightened their days, so did their affectionand interest soothe his. Their presence was a relief to the previoussilence and monotony of the house, and their management took allhousehold cares off his hands.

  On one subject alone had any disagreement arisen, and that was thepresence of Sophy; but here their brother at once so decidedly, and evensternly, stated that his wishes on that point were to be considered aslaw, and that no interference with them would be for a moment tolerated,that they were obliged at once to acquiesce, although they still, asmuch as they dare, kept up by their manner a protest against herpresence.

  Sophy now, during her holidays, stopped entirely at the house, occupyinga position something between that of visitor and humble companion. Thegirl accepted her lot with rare tact for one of her age. She felt heranomalous position, for she had, at Mr. Harmer's wish, been madeacquainted with her history, as he was sure that, sooner or later, shewas certain to be informed of it. She was of a quiet, retiring manner,self-contained, and thoughtful, and manifested a quiet deference for theMiss Harmers--with which, however much they might have wished it, theycould have found no fault--and a warm, though subdued, affection for Mr.Harmer.

  And thus matters stood when this story began.