A STRANGE PROFESSION.
A very touching picture Sophy Gregory presented as she sat in the little
parlour at work, a week after Dr. Ashleigh's visit; in her mourning
dress, and with the tiny fatherless child in her lap. She was very pale,
and looked years older than she was. Sophy had gone through a heavy
trial. She had loved her husband very truly; not indeed with the same
admiring affection she had felt for him when they met in the plantations
of Harmer Place--that dream had been dispelled rudely enough long
ago,--but she had loved him as a true woman, knowing his faults, and
bearing with them, taking them indeed as a special and deserved
punishment upon herself for her fault in marrying him as she had done;
but yet loving him the more, in that she saw how hard he tried, in spite
of his faults, to make her happy. For this she had thanked God, and had
prayed very earnestly that some day it might be granted to her, that
through her influence over him, and his love for her, he might yet turn
out nearly such a man as, in her early days of love, she had fancied him
to be. But now all those pictures which she had been so fondly painting
of their life in a distant land, had suddenly faded away; those bright
pictures which had been ever before her eyes, as she sat at her work
through the day, or of an evening, with Robert sitting moodily drinking
beside her; fair, happy pictures of their future life, in a rude hut in
some lonely clearing, far away from the nearest neighbours; she, engaged
in her household work, listening to the ring of Robert's axe, till the
hour should come for him to return from his labour, tired, but cheery
and bright, to spend the evening with her happily without that dreadful
bottle; contented with her fond welcome, sitting by the log fire-side,
perhaps with his children climbing on his knee, or standing by while he
told them stories, or taught them their first simple lessons, while she
sat by busy at her work watching them fondly. At the thought of these,
or some such fancies, Sophy's face had brightened often, and, trusting
in the future, she had almost forgotten the present, and once again
admired as well as loved her husband, not for what he was, but for what
he would some day become. But now all these pictures were gone, blotted
out in a moment by the rude hand of death,--and of such a death! If he
had died as most men die, tranquilly and peacefully, with his last words
breathed in her ears, his last look fixed upon herself, Sophy thought
she could have borne it with resignation; but to die such a death as
this, to be shot down in his strength, to go out full of health and
spirits, and never to return; and for her only to be told that he lay in
an obscure grave in a distant town! this she could hardly bear; and as
she looked with a blank hopeless look into the fire, she thought that
were it not for the unconscious babe on her knees, she would gladly--oh,
how gladly!--go where there is no more weeping and tears. But for the
child's sake she must live and work; for that child who, if he had his
rights, would be heir to wealth and fortune--to that very home where his
father had been shot down like a common robber, by the woman who had
defrauded him of his rights. Sophy did not know all the history of that
night's work, only what Dr. Ashleigh had told her; that Robert had gone
with the intention of alarming Miss Harmer into divulging where the will
was hidden. Angela Harmer's death she regarded as an unfortunate effect
of the fright, which could not have been foreseen; of the violence used
towards her she was of course ignorant.
Was not Robert, she asked herself, right in what he did? Was he not in
his own house, seeking his own for her sake and the child's. Should all
this go for ever unpunished? Should this woman who had robbed her and
her child, who had now slain her husband, who had, as Dr. Ashleigh had
told her, destroyed his daughter's happiness, and brought her to the
verge of the grave; should she prosper and triumph? No, a thousand times
no; and day after day Sophy's determination became more and more deeply
rooted, her purpose more strongly confirmed. Should it cost her her life
as it had done Robert's, she would yet find the will. But how? And she
brooded over the thought till her brain seemed on fire; she fell into
reveries from which nothing except the crying of her child could rouse
her; her eyes began to have a dreamy, far-off look, and had there not
been anything to rouse and occupy her, it is probable that her reason
would have given way entirely under the strain of this fixed idea upon
her mind. Upon this day, however, there was a knock at the door, and a
little talking in the passage, and then Mrs. Billow, who had been as
kind as a mother to Sophy during this period, came into the room.
"Mr. Fielding wishes to speak to you, my dear; he has been here three or
four times to ask after you, and I do think you had better see him."
Sophy looked up at her as she spoke, but it was evident that she did not
hear what was said to her; her thoughts were too far away to be called
back all at once.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Billow," she said presently, with an effort,
"what are you saying?" Mrs. Billow repeated her message.
"Do see him, my dear," she went on as Sophy shook her head, "It will do
you good; you are fretting yourself to death. Indeed, indeed, my dear,
you are, and it is very wrong of you; what is to become of your little
baby if you get ill, as I am sure you will, if you sit here think,
think, all day, without speaking a word to any one? Do see him, now
there's a deary, it will do you good, indeed it will."
Sophy paused a little, and then said in a weary tone, "Very well, Mrs.
Billow, if it will please you, I will see him."
Mr. Fielding was shown in. He was a rough man, and, to a certain extent,
an unprincipled one; but he had been a gentleman once, and could be one
still when he chose, and his heart was, after all, not far from its
right place.
"Mrs. Gregory," he said, as he came in, "I will not pain you by offering
you my condolences, or by telling you how I feel for you in your
affliction. Please to consider all that as said, and to take this visit
as one simply of business. When I called the day before yesterday, I
took the liberty of asking your landlady what you were thinking of
doing. She told me that from what you said she believed that you
intended teaching again. Now will you excuse me if I say, that although,
under other circumstances, such a plan might have its advantages, yet
that I think, that with a young baby, whom you would be obliged to leave
without you the whole day, it would be attended by great inconveniences.
Besides, there is no occasion why you should do so. My proposition is,
that you should continue to do as you have hitherto done. I can leave
the papers, letters, and such information as you require, here of a day,
without coming in to disturb you. If I were to see you, say once a week
at present, while it is the slack time, it would, I should think, be
sufficient. By the time the busy season comes on, you will, I hope, be
so far recovered as to be able to see me for half an hour or so every
day. Of course, the remuneration will be the same as it has been up to
this time. I do not think you could earn more at your teaching, and you
will be able to have baby with you all day. There is another thing I
should wish to say. It was through--through my late partner's capital
and assistance, that we managed to do as well as we did, and it has laid
the foundation for a first-rate business this year. There is at present
L150 only in the bank, half of which is your property. Should you choose
to let that remain in the business, I will give you, as I think would be
fair, an interest in it--say one-fifth of the profits at the end of the
year."
"But I have no right to that, have I, Mr. Fielding? For I know that I
heard Robert say that any man would be ready to put L1,000 into the
business for a third of the profits."
"That is right enough, Mrs. Gregory, and I do not disguise from you that
the fifth of the business is worth a great deal more than L75, even for
a sleeping partner; but that is not the question: it is not for the
money, but for your interest and partnership, as it were, that I think
it fair that you should still have a share in it."
"But I have no absolute right to any share, Mr. Fielding?"
"Well, not actually a right, Mrs. Gregory. You see we never drew up any
deed of partnership when we began; but it was, of course, an understood
thing that if anything should happen to either of us that his
representatives should have some sort of interest or pull out of the
affair."
"And about the writing, Mr. Fielding? Are you sure that my work is worth
what you pay me?"
"Quite sure," he said, in a far less hesitating and undecided way than
he had before spoken in. "I can assure you that I could not get any one
on whom I could rely to do the work for less money, and that I should be
very sorry for any one else to know all my affairs as you do."
"Then in that case I accept with many thanks," Sophy said, gratefully;
"and I feel that you are acting with great kindness, for the L75 is no
equivalent for my share of the profits. You have, indeed, taken a great
weight off my mind, for I have been very troubled, wondering what I
should do with baby while I was out."
"That is settled, then," Mr. Fielding said, cheerfully, as if greatly
relieved that the matter had been so arranged. "I will send you the
papers and letters to-morrow, when the post comes in. I can assure you
it will be quite a relief to me; for although work is slack now, I have
got into such a muddle that I hardly know which letters I have answered
and which I have not. I have all this week's lot here." And he took a
large bundle of letters from his pocket. "I believe I have answered all
the others, but I have not touched one of these. I will leave them with
you to clear up. And now, good bye. I will call again this day week."
And so Sophy, very joyful that she should be always with her baby, again
set to at her old work of making out lists, and answering
correspondents, and sending out the names of winning horses; and busied
in these pursuits, and in the nursing and fondling of baby, her thoughts
ceased to dwell on her project for the recovery of the will, and her
eyes recovered their former expression. Not that she had given up her
idea, but she had postponed it for a fitting season; the only step she
took towards it being to write to her foster-mother, the woman who had
brought her up, to ask her to send an account of Miss Harmer's state of
health every three months, and to let her know at once if she should be
taken ill.
As time went on, the first faint gleams of consciousness came into
baby's eyes, and then it came to know her, and to hold out its arms, and
struggle and cry to come to her, and Sophy began to feel that life might
have some happiness for her yet, for she had something to love and work
for, something which loved her in return.
And so a year passed, and now the little child was able just to toddle
across the room, to Sophy's delight and terror, and to call her "mammy,"
and to utter other sounds, perfectly unintelligible to any one, but
which she persisted was talking; and Sophy was able to toss him and play
with him almost as gleefully as she would have done years before. She
looked far younger than she had done eighteen months back, for she had
now no care on her mind. Sometimes, indeed, of an evening, when her work
was all done, and the child in bed, she would sit by the hour musing
over her plans for the recovery of the will; but her eyes had not the
fixed, strange look they used to wear when thinking it over; for then
she had thought of it as a duty, as a something which she had to do; but
now that it was for her darling's sake, it was a pleasure; and her eyes
would lighten as she thought over what she would do when she had
succeeded, and she and her boy were rich.
She was comfortably off now; for the firm was doing well, and James
Fielding was a member of Tattersall's and began to stand high in the
ring. His drawings had risen from five pounds to ten pounds a week. He
told Sophy so, and said that he considered this five pounds had been
payment for his work, in the same way that her two pounds was of hers,
but this additional five pounds he looked upon as a weekly division of
profits, and consequently she was entitled to another one pound a week
also. So she had now three pounds a week and was very comfortable. At
the end of the season he showed her his banker's book, and there was
nearly L2,000 standing to his credit; and he said that next year, having
so good a capital, he should be able to bet more heavily, and had no
question that he should do much better.
All through that winter although business was very slack, and there was
no occasion for his so doing, James Fielding used to come over three
times a week to see her. And indeed all along his kindness had been very
great, sending her little presents of game and poultry, and bringing
baskets of choice fruit from Covent Garden.
It was not for a year after Robert Gregory's death that Sophy thought
anything of all this. James Fielding had been very kind to her, and she
had learned to think of him as a true friend; but absorbed as she was in
her child, and with her spare thoughts so fixed on that other purpose of
hers, she had never thought more on the subject. At length one day,
something he said, some tone of his voice came upon her like a
revelation. She started, looked hurriedly and anxiously at him and saw
that it was indeed so. With an exclamation almost of pain she rose--
"James Fielding," she said, "don't say it to me. Never think of it
again. Do not take away the last friend I have in the world from me. You
are the only one I have to rely upon, do not make it impossible for me
ever to receive a kindness from you again. I shall never marry again; do
not, do not speak of it."
"I know, Sophy, I am not worthy of you," James Fielding began slowly,
and then--as with an imploring gesture, she tried to silence him--"Let
me speak, Sophy, I will never allude to it again."
"No, no, no," Sophy cried, passionately; "I will not hear you! If you
once tell me you love me, you can never be to me what you have been
before. I cannot be your wife; pray, pray, do not ask me."
"And can it never be, Sophy? Not in a long, long time?"
"Never, James, never! Think of me as a dear friend, as a sister. Shake
hands, James. You will be my friend as you have been before, will you
not? And the friend of my child?"
"I will, Sophy," he said, sorrowfully but earnestly. "I will, so help me
God!"
It was a great blow to him; for he had come to love his late partner's
pale young widow very truly, with her grave, sedate face when at
business, and her pretty winning ways when he had come in sometimes and
found her romping with her baby.
However, he saw at once that it was not to be, and very sorrowfully
determined that at all events she should not find any change in his
manner or way, and that she should be able to look on him as a brother.
Had he thought that time could have made any change in his favour he
would have been content to wait and hope; but he saw that there was
none, and as he said to himself on his way home, "a man may back a horse
when the odds are a hundred to one against it, and land his money in the
end, but no one but a fool would put money on a scratched horse."
From that time Sophy never saw by his manner that she was anything more
than a dear friend to him; and although for a little while she was timid
and reserved with him, yet this in time wore off, and they fell back
into their old relations, and things went on as before.
Next to James Fielding, Sophy's greatest friends were Mr. Harley and his
wife who lived opposite. They had known her before Robert's death, and
had about that time been very kind to her, and were really much attached
to her and her boy. He played first violin at the Victoria, and his wife
took the singing chambermaid at the same theatre. She was considered
very clever in her line, and could have obtained an engagement at one of
the houses across the water, but she preferred remaining at the same
theatre with her husband. He was a man about thirty; she was twenty-six.
They had been married five years, and it was their great grief that they
had no children. They took very much to Sophy and her boy, who was
christened James, after Mr. Fielding, his godfather; for Sophy could not
at that time have borne that her child should be named after his father.
And so three years more went on. Little James was now four years old,
and was growing up a very fine little fellow, and Sophy, who almost
adored him, began to tell herself that it was time that she should leave
him and devote herself for a while to that purpose which, if successful,
would make him a rich man.
One day, nearly four years after her husband's death, James Fielding
called upon her. After talking for some time on indifferent matters, he
said--
"My dear Sophy, three years ago I asked you a question, and you said it
could not be."
Sophy looked up for a moment with a little frightened start, but seeing
by his steady face that he was not as she feared going to repeat that
question, she listened quietly as he went on.
"Had your answer been other than it was--had you given me the least
hope, I should have been contented to have waited any time; but I saw
that what you said was final, and that it was not to be. I therefore
gave up all hope and have looked upon you ever since as you asked me to
do--as a sister; and now I am come to tell you that I am going to be
married."
"I am very glad to hear it, James," Sophy said, cordially; "more glad
than I can tell."
"I was sure you would be, Sophy. She is a cousin of mine down in
Leicestershire. She was a child when I left home, at my poor father's
death, and came up to London, twelve years ago; now she is twenty-five.
The winter before last, as you know, I went down to see the old place
and the old folk. Two of my uncles were living there, and they were glad
enough to see me. I don't say that they altogether approved of my
profession; still, it is a sporting county. One of my uncles is a
lawyer, the other a doctor, and both ride to the hounds, and they
consequently did not think my being a betting man quite such a dreadful
thing as some people might have done. At any rate they received me
kindly, and I had rather a strong flirtation with my cousin. Last winter
we came pretty well to an understanding, and now we have arranged that I
shall go down to spend Christmas with them, and shall carry her away
with me a day or two afterwards. And now, Sophy, I am going to talk
business. These last few years we have been doing better and better, and
we have now as nearly as may be L25,000 in the bank. Now, some of this I
want to take out, as I have arranged to settle L8,000 on my wife, and I
therefore propose that you should draw your share out. It is now L5,000,
which will be enough to make you comfortable with your child, and place
you beyond all necessity for work. It is better for us both, for,
careful as I am, I might, by a run of ill luck, have it all swept away,
yours and mine, and by this arrangement we shall be safe."
"I had already made up my mind, James, to tell you that I wished our
partnership to be dissolved. To begin with, you now bet in such a large
way, that I am sure this commission business is only an annoyance to
you, and that you only continue it because it affords me work. However,
I have kept a private account for the last three years, and I found that
there was a good balance of profit after paying me my four pounds a
week, so I did not hesitate in keeping on. However, I am now desirous of
giving it up. For these four years I have been putting off the execution
of a purpose I have had in my mind, and I must delay no longer. I do not
tell you what it is, James, true friend as you are, for you might try
and dissuade me from it, and that would only trouble me, without
diverting me from my purpose. As for the L5,000, I cannot take such a
sum as that; that is the result of your work, and not of the L75, which
was what I put in. Still, as you say that you did benefit by Robert's
work that year, and as that year laid the foundation of your fortune, I
will consent to take L2,000, and I do that only for the sake of my
child. Will you let it be so?"
James Fielding did not let it be so without a great struggle; but
nothing could persuade Sophy to take more than the L2,000. At last, when
he found that nothing could change her determination, he gave in, and
agreed that it should be as she wished. He then began to ask her about
her future plans.
"I cannot tell you, James, so do not ask me. My design, whatever it is,
may take a year in execution--it may take two years. I may be gone
before you come back."
"Gone!" James Fielding said, in astonishment; "but where on earth are
you going?"
"I cannot tell you, James, so it is not of the slightest use asking."
"But what on earth are you going to do, Sophy?"
"I can tell you nothing now, James, so pray do not ask. I will send you
my address when I am gone, and you can write to me; and if anything
should happen to me, James, will you promise to be a father to my boy?"
"I will, Sophy. I will bring him up as my own child. But all this is
really too bad, Sophy. You promised to look upon me as a brother, and
now you are going upon some extraordinary business, and don't give me
the slightest clue as to what you are going to do; and yet it is so
serious that you ask me to take care of your child, if anything happens
to you."
"I do look upon you as a brother, James, but not to my own brother would
I tell what I am going to do. But at any rate you shall know in six
weeks where I am."
More than this James Fielding could not obtain from her, and went away
greatly mystified and rather anxious. James Fielding had a shrewd
suspicion of how Robert Gregory had met his end. He knew the
anticipations of fortune he had under Mr. Harmer's will. He knew--for
Robert had spoken to him of it--of the efforts which had been made to
find the will. He had read in the papers the account of the burglary at
Harmer Place, and that one of the robbers was supposed to have been
wounded. When therefore he heard of Robert's death, and that it had
resulted from an accident, without any particulars of the how or where
being given, the idea had struck him that he had fallen in the attempt
to recover the will. All these thoughts forgotten for many years now
came back to him, and he could not help fancying that in some way
Sophy's new resolution was connected with the same end. However, it was
no use guessing on the subject; it was evident that time alone would
show, for Sophy would tell him nothing.
The next day James Fielding paid L2,000 in to Sophy's account, and a
week afterwards went down into Leicestershire to fetch his bride.