ENJOYING THE SPOILS.
For a long week Sophy Gregory lay between life and death, and the
doctors who attended her thought very badly of her case, and doubted
much whether--even if, contrary to their expectation, she should ever
recover from her illness, and regain her bodily strength--her intellect
would not be hopelessly shattered from the effect of the terrible strain
it had undergone.
I do not know how I should ever have supported the responsibility and
anxiety of that week's watching, had it not been that on the second day
of her illness Sophy uttered, in her ravings, a name which I remembered
directly I heard it as that of the woman who had brought her up in
childhood, and with whom she had stayed for some days when she first
came down to Sturry. In her delirium Sophy called wildly to Mammy Green
to save and hide her. She plaintively recalled her childish days, and
besought her, for the sake of their love in those times, to shelter and
protect her.
I immediately sent over to Sturry to her, asking her to come at once,
and take charge of her foster-child.
Mrs. Green had been in a terrible state of anxiety, for all sorts of
vague rumours were afloat in the village of the strange doings up at the
Hall, and of the flight, and pursuit by the priest, concerning the
reason for which, even the servant who had driven Father Eustace was
ignorant. All that he knew was, "that they had been sent over to
Sittingbourne on a fool's errand; and that when they reached home his
fellow-servant was found to be missing. That they had then driven up to
Harmer Place, and his master had gone in telling him to wait, and had
returned in two or three minutes in a state of the greatest excitement,
had jumped into the gig, and had told him to drive as hard as he could;
and that he believed, from what he said, they were in pursuit of the
missing servant. They had not, however, seen anything of her; but when
they were nearly at Canterbury, a man, or a boy, he could not say which,
who was running before them, had suddenly turned round and fired a
pistol in the horse's face. This man had afterwards taken refuge in the
barracks, and Father Eustace had gone in after him. What had happened
there he could not say: he only knew that his master came out shortly,
and did not speak while they drove back to the village, but looked, he
thought, quite queer, and cut-up like. Father Eustace had got out at the
door, had left him to put the horse up--which the poor thing wanted
badly enough, for he had never done such a day's work in his life--and
had gone up to the Hall, where he remained till morning."
Nor could the servants at Harmer Place give Mrs. Green any account of
Sophy. They knew that something strange had taken place, but what they
could not say. "A strange priest had arrived, and had, by her orders,
been shown up to Miss Harmer's room; that was about half-past seven, and
they heard nothing more of him till near eleven. Then the bell had rang
violently, and the servant, on answering it, had found Miss Harmer
alone, to her great surprise, for no one had heard the priest go out.
Her mistress had asked her if she had seen him, and she had answered
that she had not, and had thought he was with her mistress. Miss Harmer
had appeared very much agitated, and had told her to call another
servant, and to go down into the hall, and that they would find a sort
of door open by the side of the fireplace, and a flight of steps; they
were to call out loudly at the bottom of these, and if they received no
answer, were to come up to tell her.
"Rather scared, thinking that their mistress had gone out of her mind,
and wondering over the mysterious disappearance of the strange priest,
the women had done as she had ordered, but had found no signs of the
door she spoke of, and had gone up, with white faces, to tell their
mistress so. Miss Harmer had been still more agitated, and had said to
herself, 'He must have let the door close behind him, and cannot open it
from the inside;' and then, after a minute, wrung her hands and cried
out, 'Oh, my dream! my dream! What has happened to him? has it been as I
thought? has the spirit----' and then she had broken off, and told them
to dress her somewhat, and to call the men-servants, for that she must
be carried down into the hall at once. Greatly scared by all this
strange mystery, and believing that their mistress was delirious, they
were still afraid to disobey her, and had just commenced carrying out
her instructions, when Father Eustace arrived. He had at once gone up
into Miss Harmer's room, and had a short conversation with her; what had
been its import the servants could not tell, but both parties seemed
greatly excited. The priest had then run downstairs again, very pale,
and evidently much agitated, had called for a light, knelt down at the
hall fireplace, picked up one of the iron dogs'-tongues which was lying
on the hearth, and pushed it into its place; he had then risen, and put
his hand up the chimney, and immediately a small door, that none of them
had ever seen before, had flown open by the side of the fireplace.
Father Eustace had snatched up the candle, and ran up some steps which
went up behind it; he had been away a minute or two, and then came down
again, looking out of his senses, and rushed wildly upstairs to Miss
Harmer's room. He had only stayed there a moment, and said a word or two
to her; but their mistress had given a terrible cry, and fallen back
like dead upon her bed, while the priest had run downstairs again,
calling to them to look to Miss Harmer, had leapt into the gig, and
driven off again, telling his servant to drive for his life." This was
all they knew; what it was all about they could not even guess; but
judging from the priest's and their mistress's faces, something very
terrible. As to Father Eustace's maid-servant, they knew nothing, and
indeed had not heard until the next day that she was missing.
Mrs. Green had therefore remained in a state of terrible anxiety
concerning Sophy, until she received my summons; and, bad as the reality
was, she almost felt it a relief after the agony of suspense she had
before endured. She came over immediately to the barracks, and at once
took the responsibility off my hands, never leaving her night or day,
and nursing her with a mother's tenderness; and as Sophy had, besides,
the nurse I had before engaged, my services could be now, to a certain
extent, dispensed with, and I was therefore enabled to go back of an
evening to Mrs. Mapleside's, and to sleep there, returning to take my
place by Sophy's bedside early in the morning. But still it was a
terrible week, believing, as I did, that her illness could have but one
termination, or that at best--if it could be called best--even should
her life be spared, that her reason was gone for ever.
But God in His infinite mercy willed it otherwise.
At the end of a week Sophy fell into a long sleep, so quiet and still,
that I several times leaned over her to see that she still breathed.
This sleep the doctors said was the crisis of her illness, and upon the
state in which she woke depended her life and reason.
Very long she lay so; the time seeming even longer than it was, to us
watching by her side, longing for, and yet fearing, her waking. At last
she moved slightly, and her eyes opened. I leant over her and saw that
she knew me.
"Do not try to talk, dear," I said; "you have been ill, but are better
now, do not trouble about anything. I am here to watch you, and your
kind nurse, Mrs. Green, is beside you."
The old woman gently took one of Sophy's hands in her own; she could not
speak, for she was crying now with joy and thankfulness.
Sophy gave a very faint smile of pleasure and recognition, and then
taking a little medicine, which the doctor had prepared in readiness for
her waking, she closed her eyes, and was soon again asleep.
A great burden was lifted from our hearts, for the doctor said that he
had every hope now, for that nature had made a wonderful effort, that he
believed she was saved, body and mind.
This time she slept about two hours, and when she woke, even my
unpractised eye could see that she was decidedly better than before.
After the first faint look of pleased recognition at Mrs. Green and
myself, and a little pressure of the fingers we held in ours, she lay
quite quiet, but with her eyes open as if thinking. Then they wandered
over the room as if in vague wonder as to where she was. Presently she
spoke in a voice which sounded strangely low and weak, after the loud
ravings and terrible screams of the past week.
"Where am I? What has happened?"
"You have been very ill, darling," I said soothingly, "but you will be
better now. Do not wonder or trouble about anything; you are with
friends, and when you get strong enough, you shall hear all about it."
She was quiet for a while again, and lay with no expression beyond a
thoughtful wonder in her eyes, gradually she closed them again, and I
hoped that she was going to doze off. But presently they opened
suddenly, and she said, in a voice so loud and sharp in comparison with
that in which she had before spoken, that it quite startled me, "Where
is the will?"
"It is quite safe, dearest; all is well; do not think more about it now,
you shall hear all in good time."
Sophy lay quiet for a while, but I could see that she was not satisfied;
and then she asked again, "where is it?"
"In Mr. Petersfield's hands, dear, so you need not feel uneasy about it.
It will never be lost again."
A look of pleasure came across Sophy's face. "Thank God," she murmured,
and then closed her eyes, and was soon asleep again.
From that time Sophy recovered rapidly; in ten days she was able to be
removed from barracks, and in a month was strong enough to be taken up
to London, to stay with me at Polly's, where her little boy was to meet
her.
Upon the very day when life was coming back to Sophy, and she was
snatched as it were from the grasp of death, Miss Harmer passed away.
How she died I never heard, but I have no doubt bravely and trustfully.
She had, according to her light, fought for eighty years, a good fight,
and had held the faith; and although the battle was in the end lost, and
the purpose of her life frustrated, still I doubt not that she died, if
angry and grieved, as I can well believe she was, at the failure of the
schemes from which she had hoped so much, yet of good conscience and a
fair hope that she would reap the reward of a life spent in the service
of her beloved Church, and at length, after her long weary life's
struggle, attain peace in the world to come.
Mr. Petersfield, at her death, wrote to her lawyers, inclosing a copy of
the will, and took the necessary steps for proving it. Of course delays
and difficulties arose, but as there was no one to oppose, it took less
time to arrange matters than might have been anticipated, more
especially with respect to the accumulations. But it appeared, that
strangely enough--probably with the constant dread before her eyes, that
the secret would be some day supernaturally disclosed to Polly, and the
will discovered--Miss Harmer had never touched one penny of the rents or
interest arising from the property left by her brother; but by her
direction a separate account had been opened at the bank, to which these
moneys had been regularly paid in, and in these seven years the property
had accumulated to nearly a third more than the original account. In
consequence our shares had increased from L25,000 each to over L32,000.
From the order and regularity with which everything had been kept, and
the absence of any opposition whatever, in about two months from the
time of Miss Harmer's death, Mr. Petersfield, who had exerted himself
very much in the matter, told us that it now only required our
signatures to obtain our respective shares of the property.
Mr. Petersfield besides acting as our man of business in the affair, was
one of the executors; for Mr. Ransome and papa, who were the two
originally named, being both dead, he, with James Fielding, who was
appointed at Sophy's request, acted as executors, and arranged the whole
business with as little trouble to us as possible.
In accordance with the terms of the will, as soon as we were fairly in
possession, Harmer Place was ordered to be pulled down, and the estate,
which was part of Sophy's share, was by her wishes, soon afterwards
advertised to be sold.
And so at last we were really rich. I could hardly believe that it was
true; for I had for so long given up all hopes of ever finding the will.
However, I was very glad for all our sakes that it was so, and I was
very pleased to think that dear Polly was now placed beyond all
possibility of a reverse of fortune; for Charley insisted on executing a
deed settling the whole of her share upon her; not, as he said, that he
had any reason to fear such an event--for he was doing a capital
business--still it was as well to be prepared for all possible
eventualities.
And so Sophy and I left Canterbury together, but with very different
feelings in so doing. I with some little regret, for I dearly loved the
old town where I had lived so many happy years; and to which I had gone
back as to a haven of rest, in the time of my great sorrow. How
different were my feelings now from those with which I had come down
little more than a year before! Then I believed that all hope was for
ever dead, that my life, as far as pleasure and happiness were concerned
was over; and that the most I could ever look forward to or strive for,
was a chastened content in my lonely life. But now how bright was my
prospect! with Percy alive and soon to return, with every obstacle to
our union cleared away, with a happy, happy future with him to look
forward to! And yet, happy as I was, as I looked from the window of the
train, and caught the last sight of the dear old town, and its stately
cathedral, I could not help a little sigh of regret at leaving it, and
all the friends who had been so kind to me in my hour of sadness.
But with Sophy it was quite otherwise, and she gave what she told me was
a sigh of relief at leaving it for ever behind. The place was to her
hateful, every association connected with it full of pain, and she felt
happy in the thought that she was leaving it never to return.
Polly and Charley received us joyfully at Putney, and I was very, very
glad to be with them. Polly was a mother now, a son having been born to
her a few days after the will was found. The meeting between Sophy and
her child was very pitiful; she kissed him and cried over him, while the
little fellow, in his joy at seeing her again, could not understand her
tears, and could only stroke her thin cheeks and say, "Don't cry, mammy;
mammy has got her little Jamie again, she must not cry any more."
Sophy stayed with us for a week, and then took rooms near us. She was
still pale and weak, and did not gain strength as she should have done.
She never spoke of the past, except upon one occasion before we came up
to town, when she related to me the whole circumstances of her finding
the will; except on that occasion she never mentioned the past, and the
slightest allusion to it excited a nervous horror in her, and greatly
retarded her recovery. The medical men said that her brain had not
recovered from the terrible strain upon it, and that a perfect change
was necessary, and a total absence of anything which might, by recalling
the past, tend to excite her.
Accordingly, about two months after coming up to town, she started for
the continent, taking with her a maid, and a young lady as governess for
her little boy, and companion to herself, and accompanied by James
Fielding and his wife, who were only going for a short time, but who
took charge of her as far as Florence, which was her destination, at any
rate for the present.
Her letters tell me that she is much better, and that she is happy with
her boy. She has spent a fortnight with her old friends, leaving her
companion and maid at Florence, and living with them as before as one of
themselves. I earnestly hope that this improvement may continue, and
that Sophy may have happy days yet in store for her. Poor girl, she has
indeed suffered sorely, and has paid dearly for the fault she committed.
And yet I have always thought that the fault was not all hers, and that
had it not been for the harsh verdict of society against her, she would
never have fallen so easy a victim to the snares of Robert Gregory, at a
time when her wounded feelings led her to cling to any one who would
show her kindness. However, I may be mistaken. Society certainly never
took any of the blame of her misdeeds upon itself, and she alone has
paid the penalty. I trust that that penalty is now paid in full, and
that her future life may in some sort atone to her for the unhappiness
of the past.
In due course I received a letter from Harry, in answer to mine
announcing the recovery of the will. He said that he was delighted to
hear of it, not so much for his own sake as for that of his wife, for
that the climate of Australia did not suit her; the hot winds and sudden
changes were very trying to her constitution, and he should therefore,
as soon as he could be relieved, return to England, and carry out his
original plan of buying a partnership in a good firm in London.
And now I have only myself to speak of, and in that I shall be
exceedingly brief. My happiness is far too great to speak of--too
perfect to describe.
Little more than a month after I returned to Putney, I received a letter
from Percy, now long since become Captain Desborough, saying that he
should sail for England by the next mail, that he should, as he had
warned me, claim me at once, and that he hoped I would not keep him more
than a fortnight waiting.
Although he had not received my letter telling him of my late-found
wealth, yet he knew that there would be no cloud to dim the brightness
of our happiness, for he had long since heard from his mother of the
determination she had arrived at, on hearing of his being alive, that
she would no longer in any way oppose our union. In due time Percy came
home. I cannot tell how we met. That happiness is too deep, too sacred
to be described.
Percy was somewhat changed, the terrible trials and anxiety he underwent
have told upon his constitution, and the doctors have recommended him to
leave the army, and to lead a quiet life, at any rate for the present.
To this he has acceded, and intends at the end of his two years' leave
of absence to sell out. However, in the short time he has been at home,
he has greatly recovered his strength, and will I trust soon be as
strong as ever.
He talks of going into Parliament, for Percy is of too energetic a
nature to rest content with a life of perfect idleness. Lady Desborough,
Ada, and I encourage him in the idea, and, of course, prophesy great
things of him.
We have now been married three months. He is sitting beside me, and even
with his dear, dear face looking at me I can hardly believe that it is
indeed all true, that it is not a mere happy dream.
I have finished my story, such as it is, and glancing over the earlier
pages, I can hardly, in my present happiness, believe that they are
mine, or understand the sad feelings with which I then wrote it. Were I
to begin again now, it would be written in a very different strain; but
that cannot be. The occupation of recording my history has served its
purpose, and cheered and occupied me at a time when I sorely needed
consolation.
Percy is telling me that if I go on writing any more, he shall begin to
think he has married a blue-stocking. So I must end now, with a fervent
feeling of thankfulness for the great mercies which have been vouchsafed
to me; which have dissipated all the dark clouds which hung over me, and
have changed an existence which promised to be a very sad one, into a
life of as perfect happiness as ever falls to the lot of mortals upon
earth.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Search For A Secret (Vol 3 of 3), by G. A. Henty