PREPARED FOR THE ATTEMPT.
And now I have told of the joyful news which has so wonderfully altered
the current of my life, and restored me to youth and happiness, I must
relate another incident which happened, indeed, two months prior to it
in point of time, but which I record after it, because the other is so
infinitely more important to myself, and, indeed, filled my heart, to
the exclusion of all else. And yet, until I received the news of Percy's
recovery--I had almost written resurrection, for to me it is indeed a
coming back from the grave--I had, from the time the event happened,
thought a great deal about it. Not, indeed, that I attached, or do
attach, the slightest importance to it, as far as regards myself; but it
has brought back to my mind all the circumstances connected with the
series of efforts which we made to find the will of Mr. Harmer, from six
to seven years ago, and which terminated in the death of the unfortunate
Robert Gregory. This research, so long abandoned, has now, strangely
enough, been once again taken in hand; and this time even more
methodically and determinately than at any of our former attempts, and
that by the very person whose conduct indirectly caused the original
loss of the will--Sophy Gregory.
It was about a month after my return from my visit to London, that I was
in the parlour alone, when Hannah came in and said that a person wished
to speak to me.
"Do you know who it is, Hannah?"
"No, miss. She is a servant, I should say, by her looks."
"Did she ask for me, or for Mrs. Mapleside?"
"For you, miss, special."
"Very well, Hannah, then show her in."
And Hannah accordingly ushered my visitor into the room. She was a woman
of apparently three or four and thirty, and was paler, I think, than any
person I ever saw. Not the pallor produced by illness, although that may
have had something to do with it; but a complete absence of colour, such
as may be caused by some wearing anxiety, or some very great and sudden
shock; her eyes, too, had a strange unnatural look, which, coupled with
her unusual paleness, gave her a very strange appearance; indeed, it
struck me at once that there was something wrong with her mind, and had
not Hannah closed the door as soon as she had shown her in, I should
certainly have told her to remain in the room with us. I had not the
least recollection of having seen her face before, and waited in silence
for her to address me, but as she did not, I said:--
"Did I understand that you wished to speak to me? my name is Miss
Ashleigh."
"Then you have no recollection of me?" she asked.
The instant she spoke I recognized her voice: it was Sophy.
"Sophy!" I almost cried out.
"Yes, indeed, Agnes, it is Sophy."
I was very much shocked at the terrible change which seven years had
made in her. My poor friend what must she have suffered, what had my
grief and sorrow been to hers? We had both lost those we loved best in
the world, but I had no painful or shameful circumstances in the death
of my lover, as there had been in the death of her husband. Percy had
died honourably, in the field of battle; Robert had fallen, shot as a
burglar by a woman's hand; beside, I was not alone in the world, I had
my brother Harry, and my dear Polly, and Ada, and many kind and
sympathizing friends. Sophy was quite alone. Truly my own sufferings
seemed but small in my eyes when I thought of hers, and I was very much
moved by pity and tenderness for my old friend, as I thought of what she
had gone through. All these thoughts rushed through me, as I embraced
her with almost more than the warmth of my old affection for her; for it
seemed to me that the sorrow which we both suffered was an additional
tie between us. It was some time before we were composed enough to
speak, or rather before I was; for she, although she had responded to my
embrace, and was evidently glad to see me, was plainly in a state of too
great tension of mind to find relief as I did in tears.
When I came to look at her face more quietly, I was still puzzled by it.
It was not so much that it was changed and aged, as that there was
something which seemed to me to be quite different, to what I
remembered: what it was I could not for some time make out. At last I
exclaimed,--
"Why, Sophy, you have put on a black wig and dyed your eyebrows. They
were quite fair before, and now they are black."
"It was only last night that I did so," she said quietly. "I did not
wish to be recognized down here for a very particular reason, which I
will tell you presently."
Now I knew what the change in Sophy's face was, I could recall it, and
saw that the alteration in her was not really so great as I had
imagined. She certainly looked many years older than she was, but it was
the black hair and eyebrows which gave the pale and unnatural appearance
to her face, which had so struck me when she first entered the room.
"And now, Sophy," I said, "tell me all about yourself; where have you
been living, and how have you been getting on all this time, and what
are your plans for the future? Your little child, too, Sophy? What has
become of it? You have not lost it, have you?"
"No, Agnes," Sophy said quietly, "I have not lost Jamie, and he is a
very good, dear little fellow; but I have left him now for some time,
and so I would rather talk of something else. And now I will give you
the history of my life, as nearly as I can, from the time I went away
from here."
But although Sophy had thus volunteered me this information, it was some
little time before she could begin the sad narrative of her early
married days. And yet she was not agitated as she told it--she seemed
rather cold and strange; and I think the very manner which would have
repelled other people drew me towards her. I had felt so much the same;
I was still so quiet and old from my great loss, that I saw in that
abstracted air of hers, and the impassive tone in which she spoke of
times when she must have suffered so deeply, that she, like me, had had
so great a grief, that nothing again would ever move her from her quiet
self-possession. And yet I fancied afterwards that it was not exactly
so, for it was upon a point in the future that all her thoughts and
energies were centered, while all mine were buried in the past.
But by degrees Sophy told me all her history, from the date of her
elopement up to the present time. She did not, at that time, enter into
all the details of her life, but she has done so in the two visits she
has paid me since she came down. As much of her history as is at all
important in itself--more especially as having any reference to my own
story,--particularly their life in London when first married, and the
events prior to Robert's coming down to try and recover the will, I have
told at some length. The rest of her tale I have had to relate very
briefly; and I have now written it out in chapters, and arranged them
with my own story, as well as I could, according to the date at which
the various events took place, so that our two stories may be read in
their proper order.
When Sophy had finished her tale, she told me that she had left her boy
in London, and had come down to devote herself to the task she had so
long had before her.
"What is this task, Sophy?" I asked. "You have alluded to it several
times in the course of your story. What is it?"
"I am resolved, Agnes," Sophy said quietly, "for my boy's sake, and for
yours, to find Mr. Harmer's missing will."
"Oh no, no Sophy!" I said, frightened at the thought, "pray give up all
thought of it. That will has proved a curse to us all. It has cost one
life if not two already, it has ruined your happiness and mine. Oh,
Sophy! if it still exist let it lie where it is, it will do none of us
any good now."
"I must find it," Sophy continued, quite unmoved; "you have tried
together and failed; your sister tried alone, but without success;
Robert tried, and died in the attempt; it is my turn now, if it costs
me, too, my life. I ought to have tried first of all, for through my sin
it was that the will was lost. Had I not deceived and left him, my
grandfather would have lived perhaps for years, the will would have been
handed back to the lawyer, and we should all have been happy. I lost it
Agnes, and I will find it. From the day when I heard how Robert died,
this has been the one purpose of my life. I will find that will, I will
make my son a rich man yet, I will atone to you all, as far as I can,
for the grief and loss I have caused you. I have thought it all over,
Agnes, till my brain seemed to be on fire with it."
And Sophy's eyes looked so strange and wild, that I really thought, and
think still, that her brain has a little turned by long thinking upon
this subject. I saw at once that it would be worse than useless to
endeavour to dissuade her from what I feel is a perfectly hopeless
attempt. After a pause I said, "Well, Sophy, tell me at least what your
plan is, and in any way in which I can give you assistance without
mixing myself up in your project, I will do so. But I must tell you at
once that I will take no active part in it whatever, because in the
first place after the time which has now elapsed, I question much
whether I should feel justified in acting even as I acted when the loss
of the will was a recent event; in the next place, one life has already
been lost in the search, indeed I may say two, and I consider all has
been attempted which could be done, and lastly, I believe the search to
be perfectly hopeless. But in any way in which I can help you without
taking an active part, I will do so, not with any hope of finding the
will, but for our old friendship's sake.
"I do not know at present," said Sophy quietly, "that I require any
assistance, but there is one point which you may be able to inform me,
and on which depends very much the method in which I shall set about my
work. The only question I have to ask, Agnes, is does Miss Harmer's
confessor live in the house with her, or in the priest's house in the
village?"
"Just as before, Sophy, in the village. One would have thought that it
would have been far more convenient for him to have lived at the house.
But Miss Harmer, who I hear is just as obstinate at eighty as ever she
was, insists on making no change, but on doing as has always been done.
Ever since her sister's death her maid sleeps in the room with her, and
the other servants in the room immediately adjoining, instead of in the
servants' quarter, at the end of the house as they used to do. But now
what else can I do to help you?"
"Nothing," Sophy said, "what you have told me is exactly what I have
hoped and wished, although I was afraid it would not be so. Had it been
otherwise, I had arranged other methods of going to work; but the one
which I shall now try--and I look upon its success as nearly
certain--could not have been carried out unless the confessor had lived
as before. Now I see that every thing is in my favour. Do you know,
Agnes, I have every minute detail arranged in my mind. It was for that I
went to Italy. It was necessary that I should be able to speak the
language like a native, and I can do so. I wanted to see the Bishop of
Ravenna, and I saw him. So you see I am getting on already;" and she
gave a laugh that made me feel quite uncomfortable, it was so wild and
strange.
"The Bishop of Ravenna," I said, "I seem to have heard that name before;
oh, I remember! it is the man that Miss Harmer telegraphed the news of
her brother's death to."
"It is, Agnes, and that is why I went to see him. Do you know I have
copied out every word, in the letters that you and your papa wrote to
me, which is in any way related to the will, and have learnt them by
heart."
"But what are you going to do first Sophy?"
"You think no one will know me?"
"I am quite sure they will not; even I, knowing who you are, and what
you have done to yourself can hardly see any resemblance between your
face now, and what it was then."
"I intend, Agnes, to go as servant to the priest."
"You, Sophy, as a servant! You must not think of such a thing. There are
so many, many things against it. Oh, pray give it all up Sophy! Even
supposing that you go through all this without detection, what nearer
will you be to the will, as his servant, than as you are now?" I argued
and pleaded, but neither argument nor entreaty had the slightest effect
upon her. Her mind was so entirely fixed upon her plan, that she hardly
even paid attention to what I said, and soon after took her leave.
I have seen her two or three times since, but shall say nothing of it
here, more than that she is still engaged upon her hopeless task. When
she gives it up, and goes out, as I suppose she will eventually to
Australia, I will write down the particulars.
I believe she is on this point rather out of her mind, and I do hope the
poor thing will not do anything wild, and get into mischief.
At the time she first came down I had not heard of Percy being alive,
and consequently I had really, putting aside that I knew it to be
utterly hopeless, hardly any interest at all in the search. Now, that he
is alive, I should of course, for his sake, like to recover the money,
but I know I might as well wish to come into possession of a snug estate
in the moon. No good can come of this madcap scheme, and I only hope
that there may be no harm. I shall wait with great anxiety to see if she
gets found out, and to ascertain what plan she proposes to herself for
finding out where the will is concealed; for that she fancies she has an
idea, which will enable her to do so, is certain; if it seems likely to
get her into any danger, I must, for her own sake, poor thing, take some
step or other to prevent her carrying on schemes which might end, as her
husband's did, fatally for her.