FOUND!
After Father Eustace had gone, Sophy sat herself down in the kitchen,
and watched the clock for ten minutes, in case her master might have
forgotten something, and driven back again to fetch it. That time
passed, she did not hesitate a moment; but went at once up to her room,
unlocked her box, and took from it the things which she had long ago
prepared for her enterprise. Then she proceeded to undress herself, and
put on the clothes she had laid ready on the bed. All this was done
quickly, but yet without hurry. She appeared as if she had so thoroughly
rehearsed the actions she was performing that there was not the least
hesitation or delay in any of her movements. Then she took off the dark
wig which had so much changed her, and put on another, with close-cut
hair, and a tonsure shaved upon it; and in five minutes Sophy Gregory
was gone, and a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic stood in her place. The
clothes had been carefully padded to conceal the extreme slightness of
her figure. The wig she had put on was nearly grey; and with some
pigments she laid on lines at the corner of her eyes, her forehead, and
round her lips. She also slightly tinged her cheeks and chin, to
represent the dark marks of the shorn whiskers and beard. All this she
did with care, but very quickly. Her hand never hesitated: night after
night she had tried the effect of each line. And now her disguise was so
complete that it would have required, a close observer, even by
daylight, to detect that it was not a man of fifty, with a slight, very
short, well-preserved figure who stood before him.
As Sophy went out of the door it was a little over half-past seven;
Father Eustace had started at seven; it was still broad day out of
doors, but indoors the light was fading, and in another half-hour it
would be quite dusk, for it was now at the end of August.
Sophy locked the door behind her, and walked fast up the hill out of the
village, past the plantation, to the lodge gate; she turned in here,
walked up to the well-remembered hall door, and rang the bell. She had
no thought of hesitation now; she knew that this was the last time that
there was a possibility of recovering the object of her search, and that
this chance gone, the will was lost for ever. She had no time to lose,
for she calculated that she had hardly three clear hours before the
priest's return. It would take him two hours to drive to Sittingbourne;
but, the fraud which had been practised upon him once discovered, he
would drive back in an hour and a half--three hours and a half in all;
certainly not under that, for his horse was a fat, over-fed animal,
whose farthest drive was into Canterbury, and who went even that short
distance quite at his own pace. So she hoped she should have nearly four
hours, but of that three-quarters of an hour was gone already.
The servant who opened the door looked rather surprised at seeing a
strange gentleman standing there, for visitors had for many years been
quite unknown at Harmer Place.
"I come from Father Eustace," Sophy said, with a strong foreign accent,
and in a deep tone, which had cost her great trouble to learn to speak
naturally and unfalteringly. "Will you be good enough to give this note
to Miss Harmer?"
Sophy was shown into a sitting-room, every object in which she knew so
well, and where she had last sat in such a different character. At
another time, perhaps, she would have broken down and cried at the
thought of the changes since then, but now her whole thoughts were
absorbed in the present. She was not excited; she was perfectly cool and
collected; her pulse beat faster, and there was a strange, wild look in
her eyes, which she was conscious of herself, and strove to keep down
and conceal; otherwise she was perfectly quiet, and hardly moved from
the seat she had taken when she entered the room, scarcely even looking
round at the familiar furniture, but sitting with her eyes fixed on the
door, waiting her summons to go upstairs.
The servant took the letter up to Miss Harmer. She was sitting up in
bed, partly supported by pillows. She was a very old woman now, and her
once upright form had become bent, and her firm step grown feeble and
uncertain for some time past; but her face was little changed; her eye
was as bright, and her voice as cold and harsh as of old, sounding more
strangely now, coming from the decrepid form.
"Is it Father Eustace, Hannah?"
"No, Miss Harmer; it is a gentleman with a letter from him." And the
servant gave her the letter.
"Draw down the blinds, Hannah, and light the candles, and put them on
the table by my side."
This done, Miss Harmer opened the letter and read as follows--it was in
Italian--
"MY DEAR, SISTER,
"I have just received a letter with the commands of my
superior, our beloved Bishop of Ravenna, to proceed at once to
London upon a special mission, which will perhaps detain me
there for some days. He has sent these orders by the hands of
Father Boniface, one of the most esteemed of his clergy, and in
whom I know he reposes the most absolute confidence. He was
well known to me in Italy, and I judge, from the manner in
which the bishop writes to me, that his business in England is
of great importance. He is the bearer of a letter to you. I am
unable to visit you before I leave this, as I have only just
time to catch the train, and it is necessary that I should
reach London to-night. I pray that the Holy Virgin and all the
saints may have you in their keeping."
"Bring the gentleman up here," Miss Harmer said, when she had read the
letter; and her eyes brightened at the thought of news direct from her
beloved friend and guide, the Bishop of Ravenna.
The ecclesiastic entered with the usual _benedicte_, and then, advancing
to the bed, bestowed a particular and solemn benediction upon her, as
sent direct from the bishop. He then sat down by her bedside, and
inquired, in a tone of earnest sympathy, after her health.
"I am not long for this world, father," she said. "A short time, a very
short time, and my place will be empty."
"You have fought a good fight, sister, a good fight for our Church, and
you will assuredly win the prize."
"I trust so, father--I do indeed trust so. And now, how is my old
friend? is it well with him?"
"It is not, sister. He is ill--very ill, I grieve to say."
"I indeed grieve, father, to hear this news. What is the cause of his
illness?"
"A broken constitution. He is worn out with long fastings and continued
abstinence and prayer. Once, as you are aware, of a commanding figure,
he is bent now with care and thought; his wide brow is furrowed, his
hairs are few and white. But his spirit is bright and clear as ever, and
his voice smooth and sonorous. The very last time he preached he had to
be assisted to his place, but when he once began to speak, his voice
still rang with its old tone; he was as vehement in denunciation as
ever, as soft and earnest in his persuasions to repentance, as rich in
promises and blessings upon those who devote their lives to God and
their Church."
Miss Harmer was much affected at this narrative, which called up before
her the bishop as she had known him of old; and she asked many more
questions of his life and doings.
"You are, I presume, father, by the purity of your accent, a
Florentine?"
The priest bowed assent.
"You are, Father Eustace tells me, much in our dear friend's
confidence?"
"The good bishop condescends to consult much with my unworthy self upon
most matters, and more especially on the subject on which I have now
journeyed to England has he spoken often and much. Our good friend
believes, and I fear with truth, that his life will not be prolonged
many days. Of late this subject has pressed very heavily upon his mind,
and he has felt so sorely that so many years of thought and hope might
yet be wasted, that he at last told me he could not die easy until this
good work was completed and the Church secure of her own. Seeing his
deep feeling upon the subject, I offered, should he consider me worthy
of so great a trust, to come over here to fetch what he desired, and to
convey his last blessing to you. He accepted my offer, and this letter
to you will fully explain his wishes."
Miss Harmer took the letter eagerly, looked at the direction, examined
the seal, broke it open, and looked onwards to the signature, which she
raised reverentially to her lips.
She was very much shocked at the news of her old friend's illness, and
yet she could not help feeling a strange thrill of satisfaction to think
that their deaths would probably occur within a very few days of each
other. She could not have told why she felt so; but she had loved and
respected this man beyond all others; loved him, perhaps, far more than
she had ever admitted to herself. Had he been other than what he was, a
Roman Catholic priest, Cecilia Harmer's life might have turned out a
very different one.
The letter began with his usual greeting and benediction; it went on:--
"My days, my dear sister, are drawing fast to a close; yours
also, I learn from my brother Eustace, are, as might be
expected from your great age, nearly numbered; and you will
shortly reap the benefit of all your sacrifices and efforts for
the cause of God's holy Church here upon earth. I cannot write
at great length, for my strength is failing fast; but there is
one thought which weighs heavily upon me, and prevents my
feeling that all my work here upon earth is finished. My
greatest object in life has been to strengthen and magnify our
great and glorious Church. In several cases I have, by the
blessing of the holy Saints, succeeded in aiding this great
work. In your own case, owing to the noble devotion which you
have manifested--and for which your future reward is certain--a
property, originally largely derived from the Church, has been
preserved from falling into the hands of her enemies. At first
you expressed by letter to me the repugnance you felt to
destroying the document which would have so willed it away.
These scruples you will remember, I respected, although I
considered them misplaced; but I would not force the tenderest
conscience, and I have forborne in my letters, to urge you upon
this point. I find, however, from Father Eustace, that these
scruples have still lingered, and that he believes you have up
to this time omitted to destroy the will. But I now feel that
this step has become necessary. At your death my dear sister,
the property must be sold, and the purchaser will not
improbably pull down the house; the will must then be found,
and the labour of your life frustrated. It is, therefore,
essential that you should now reveal the hiding-place of the
will. This I myself have never asked you, but I suppose it is
in the secret chamber where you told me that many years ago
your ancestors were in the habit of concealing the persecuted
servants of our Church. This secret I have confided to Father
Boniface. He is entirely in my confidence, so much so, that I
have urgently recommended his appointment to this See at my
death. I have deputed him especially for the purpose, as it
would be better, should any inquiry ever be made, that Father
Eustace, who is likely to be suspected, should be able to
affirm truly that he had never seen it. I have other reasons
into which I cannot now enter, for selecting Father Boniface to
perform this service in his place. As I before told you,
although I cannot agree with your scruples, I am yet willing to
respect them; and, therefore, as you feel that you would not
like the will to be destroyed, I promise most solemnly to you
on the faith of a bishop of the Church, and of a dying man,
that it shall not be destroyed, but shall be placed among the
papers of the monastery here, where it will never be disturbed
or discovered. My doctor gives me only a week of life. Father
Boniface will travel night and day, and can only stay a few
hours with you, and I trust that I shall be spared until his
return. And now, sister, farewell."
The letter concluded with numberless blessings and farewells, and was
signed Ravenna [Symbol: Maltese Cross].
Miss Harmer read this letter through twice with great deliberation, so
much so indeed, that her visitor moved uneasily several times upon her
chair.
"You know the contents of this letter, Father Boniface?" she asked at
length.
"I do, Miss Harmer, it was written in my presence."
"And you agree that the will is likely to be found?"
"Unquestionably, Miss Harmer. The trustees to whom you have devised the
property for the benefit of the Church must sell it; and when the house
is pulled down, as it is certain to be ere long, the will will be
discovered, grievous loss and scandal brought upon the church, and
discredit upon your memory."
"The bishop has promised me that it shall not be destroyed," Miss Harmer
said, hesitatingly.
"I ratify that promise, Miss Harmer. Should I return too late, and our
dear friend be no more, I promise you that the will shall be preserved
in the way he mentions."
Miss Harmer was silent for some time, and then said--
"Father Boniface, before you search for the will, I must tell you, that
it is my solemn conviction that the spirit of my brother keeps watch
over that will."
"Any spirit that there be who would prevent this work being completed,"
the priest said gravely, "must needs be an evil spirit, and such, I,
acting in the Church's behalf, do not fear. Tell me where it is that I
may at once perform my errand."
"I do not know, remember, that the will is in existence. I have never
looked for it, and have all along said with truth that I know nothing of
it. But, if it be in existence, I believe that it is placed in a secret
hiding-place in the chamber, to which you know the means of entrance;
going up from that room to what was my brother's room, is another flight
of stairs, go up five steps and you are standing upon the secret
hiding-place; look closely by the side of the step, and you will see a
small projection; press that, and the step will open by itself. You are
not afraid, father?"
"I am not," the priest said, rising and taking a candle in his hand. "In
a good cause the servant of the Church fears not the powers of evil."
And with these words she was gone.
There was not a moment to be lost, the time had flown by terribly fast,
and terrible had been the effort to speak quietly and collectively when
every pulse throbbed with excitement and impatience; but she had the
secret at last.
With rapid, but noiseless steps, she sped down the stairs. The hall was
empty. She knelt down upon the hearth with breathless eagerness; the
tongue of the iron dog was unscrewed, and the spring clicked in another
instant; then a trembling passing of the fingers at the back of the
mantel piece; in a few moments she felt the projecting nob, and the door
swung round on its hinges beside her. Taking up her candle, she flew up
the narrow steps; she had no fear now of interruption from below, for no
one passing through the hall would notice that open door in the
fireplace. Up the first flight, into the secret chamber, and then up
again. She knelt down upon the third step, and then looked at the wall
by the step above her. The slight projection was visible, she pressed
it, and the step rolled back, and disclosed a sort of receptacle, the
width of the stair, and about a foot deep, filled with papers. She
turned these over, her breath held, her hands trembling with excitement,
her eyes staring and wild. The first three or four which she threw out
were leases and deeds; the next that she came to was a bulky packet
endorsed upon its back--_The last Will and Testament of Herbert Harmer_.
Sophy seized it with a short sharp cry of delight, and then hurried down
into the hall again. She closed the iron door behind her; blew out the
candle, placed it on the table; and then opened the hall door, and
without hat or covering on her head she flew down the drive at the top
of her speed. She had it then at last, after all these years; it was
hers, hers and her boy's! and Sophy with the greatest difficulty
repressed the wild cries of delight which rose to her lips. Once past
the lodge she kept on at her full speed towards the village, but when
she reached the top of the hill she paused to listen. Below her she
could see the bright lamps of an approaching vehicle, and in the still
night air could hear the noise of a vehicle coming up the hill, and a
man's voice urging the horse to his best speed. So she was only just in
time. Father Eustace had returned. She hid herself behind a hedge, and
as they came along, she could tell by the laboured breathing of the
horse how fast he had been driven, and she could even catch what the
men, who were walking up the hill to relieve it, were saying. The first
voice she heard was that of the priest.
"It is most extraordinary, Thomas; I cannot understand it. That I should
be sent for over to Sittingbourne was annoying enough; but I thought
that was only a foolish trick, though who would have taken the trouble
to play it upon me I cannot imagine: but now that we find the house
locked up, and Mary gone, I can still less understand what it means,
especially as in the hasty search I gave I found nothing missing."
"Perhaps she has gone out to see some friend in the village," the man
suggested.
"But I tell you, Thomas, she has left the clothes which she wore in her
room; and more extraordinary still, there is the black wig which I have
observed she wore laying on the bed. It is most singular and looks like
a deep plot of some sort or other."
"But why are you going up to Harmer Place, sir?" the groom asked.
"Surely they will know nothing about it there?"
"I cannot say," the priest said anxiously. "There Thomas, we are at the
top of the hill now! Jump up again!"
And so they went on; and Sophy came out and continued her flight down
the steep hill at the top of her speed, and far faster than she could
have run in her ordinary attire. Going through the village, she went
more quietly--not that she feared interruption, for it was eleven now,
and the village was all asleep, but she wanted to husband her powers. As
she walked she took off the stiff collar which pressed on her neck, and
directly she was past the houses she began to run again at a speed of
which at ordinary times she would have been incapable, but which in her
present state of excitement and exultation seemed nothing to her.
She had been only just in time; it had taken longer than she had
expected, for she had hoped to have reached Canterbury before she met
the priest, when she would have gone straight to a lawyer whom she had
known in the old times, and deposited the precious document in his
hands. She had before determined that if pressed for time she would
conceal the will in a thicket and suffer herself to be taken; but all
this was forgotten now--her brain had held up thus far, but it was
failing her. The only impulse in her mind was that of flight, that and a
fierce determination to defend the will to the last. As she ran, she
felt in her pocket to see that a pistol she had placed there was safe.
She took it out, and with it in one hand and the will in the other, she
ran on past the great mill and on over the bridge out into the long
straight road to Canterbury.