LAYING A TRAIN.
It was not for three weeks after mamma's death that I again saw Mr.
Harmer, and then he came over in his carriage to say good-bye to me, as
he would not see me again for some little time, for I was going away for
a month with papa to Ramsgate for a change.
In truth we both needed it. I was pale and nervous; all the scenes and
emotions of the last three months had shaken me very much, and I think
that had I not gone to the sea-side I should have had a serious illness
of some sort. Papa, too, looked ill and worn. He had felt mamma's loss
very much; and, indeed, the long watching and the constant noting the
signs of her rapid decay, all so clear to his medical eye, must have
been a terrible trial.
The house, too, was now so dreadfully lonely and dull that I became
quite affected by it, and began to feel my old childish terrors of the
dark passages, and the midnight sounds of the old house grew upon me
again: in fact, I became sadly nervous and out of sorts, and a change
was absolutely necessary.
Harry had gone back to his work in the North, and Polly to Grendon
House, so papa and I had only ourselves and each other to think of.
When Mr. Harmer called, I found him very much better than when I had
seen him last. His difficulty of utterance had quite passed off, and he
was able to walk again nearly as firmly and freely as he had before. He
was very kind to me, as, indeed, he always was; and sympathized with me
so gently and feelingly upon the great loss I had sustained, that he
soothed rather than opened the recent wounds. Altogether, his visit did
me good; and I was very glad to find him so much better than I had
expected, for, although papa had told me that he was getting round
wonderfully, and was likely, unless he had another seizure, to live for
many years, I had not hoped to see him as well as he was. He did not at
all mind papa's going away, for he had promised to come up twice a week
from Ramsgate to see him, and he could be telegraphed for at any moment
should anything occur to render such a step necessary.
So papa and I went down to Ramsgate for a month, and a very great deal
of good it did us. The fresh air and sea-bathing soon cured my
nervousness, and the change of scene and the variety and life of the
place--so different from the quiet sleepiness of Canterbury--gradually
softened the bitterness of my grief; while nearly every day I had
letters from Percy--long, loving letters, very cheering and dear to
me--painting our future life together, and making me feel very happy; so
happy, that I sometimes blamed myself for feeling so, so soon after my
dear mother's death. It was a tranquil, quiet life, and I rapidly
recovered my health and strength again. I had no acquaintances down
there, for Ramsgate is too near to Canterbury for the people from there
to visit it. Besides, Canterbury is a great deal too genteel to
patronize so exceedingly vulgar a place as Ramsgate. I had a chatting
acquaintance with several of the boatmen, and papa was very fond of
sitting of an evening at the end of the pier, on the great stone posts
to which the steamers are fastened, and talking to the fishermen of the
wrecks they had known on those terrible Goodwins, and of the vessels
which had been lost in trying to make the entrance to the Harbour. I
also struck up a great acquaintance with the old bathing-woman--not,
certainly, from any use that she was to me, for I would never let her
take me by the hands and plunge me under water as I saw some girls do,
but I used to talk to her of an evening when her work was done, and she
was hanging up the towels to dry. She was a very worthy old body, and
not so frightfully ugly as she looked in her bathing-costume, with her
draggled clothes and weather-beaten bonnet, but was a quiet
respectable-looking old woman. She had been a bathing-woman there for
years and years; and had, I have no doubt, saved up a snug little sum of
money. She told me that she had a married daughter who lived near
London, and who had a very nice cottage down at Putney, and who let part
of it to lodgers; and she hoped that if I were ever going near London, I
would patronize her. I told her that there was not the remotest
probability of such a thing; but she suggested that I might know some
one who might one day go, and, accordingly, to please her, I took the
address down in my pocket-book, but certainly without the remotest idea
that it would ever turn out of the slightest use to me.
Papa, on his return from his visits to Canterbury twice a week, always
brought back some fresh topics for conversation. He was at all times
fond of talking over his day's visits, and told me so much about his
patients that I grew quite interested in his accounts of the improvement
or otherwise of those who were seriously ill, and was pleased or sorry
as his report of their state was good or the reverse. This had always
been papa's habit, partly because he felt so much interested in his work
that his patients were constantly in his thoughts, and partly because
when we were at home he always had soups, jellies, and other
strengthening food made for those among his poorer patients as required
such treatment.
One evening when papa came back, he looked vexed and thoughtful;
however, I asked no questions for I knew that if he thought right he
would tell me presently what it was. When we had finished our dinner we
strolled out on to the esplanade in front of our house. He lit his
cigar, and we leant on the rail and looked down upon the shipping in the
harbour, in the gathering twilight, and at the light on the Goodwin
which was as yet but just visible. For some time papa did not speak; at
last he took his cigar out of his mouth, and said, "I am vexed, Agnes;
or rather troubled. I will tell you why: you are a discreet little woman
now, and so I can trust you with what I have seen."
He again paused, and took two or three quick puffs at his cigar, as if
in angry thought of how he should begin, and then went on.
"There lives near Canterbury, Agnes, a lazy, bad, dissolute man, named
Robert Gregory. I do not suppose you have noticed him, although you may
have possibly met him casually. He is, as I have said, a bad man, and
bears a character of the worst description. Some eight or ten years
since, when he was a very young man, he went up to London, and by his
extravagance and bad habits there, he ruined the old man, his father,
and brought him prenaturely to the grave.
"This man, Agnes, is good-looking, and yet with a bad face. It is rather
coarse perhaps, more so than it was ten years since when I first saw
him, for that sort of face, when it once begins to go off, loses its
beauty rapidly; still, I allow, much as I object to the man, that he is
handsome. It is just the sort of face likely to attract a young girl who
is new to the world. A face apparently frank and good-natured, and yet
with something--imperious and even defiant about it; very taking to the
young, who cannot help feeling flattered by seeing that the man, who
looks as if he neither cared for nor feared any other living thing,
should yet bow to them; that the fierce eye should soften, and the loud
voice become gentle when he addresses them. Altogether a dangerous man
for a young girl to know, a very dangerous one for her to love. To a man
like myself, accustomed from habit and profession to study character, he
is peculiarly repulsive. His face to me is all bad. The man is not only
a blackguard, and a handsome blackguard, but he is a clever and
determined one; his face is marked with lines of profligacy and
drunkenness, and there is a passionate, dangerous flash about his eye.
He has, too, seen the world, although only a bad side of it; but he can,
when he chooses, lay aside his roughness and rampant blackguardism, and
assume a tolerably gentlemanly, quiet demeanour, which would very well
pass muster with an inexperienced girl. In short, my dear, if I were
asked to select the man of all others, of those with whom I am
acquainted, whom I would least rather meet in any society where my
daughter, or any young girl might see him, I should unhesitatingly
say--Robert Gregory. Fortunately for society here, the man, by his
well-known drunken and bad character, has placed himself beyond its
pale, and so he can do it no great harm. It was only the last time that
I was in Canterbury that I heard, and I acknowledge that I heard with
great pleasure, that Robert Gregory was so deeply in debt that writs
were out against him; and that unless he went away he would in a short
time be consigned to a debtor's prison, so that Canterbury, at any rate
for some time, might hope to be free of him. Well, my dear, I daresay
you are wondering what all this long story about a person of whom you
know nothing can be going to end in, but you will see that it is all
very much to the point. To-day I was rather earlier than usual in my
visit to Mr. Harmer. I was driving fast, and as I turned the corner of
the road where the plantation in Mr. Harmer's ground begins, I saw a man
getting over the hedge into the road. Probably the noise he was making
breaking through the twigs, together with the turn of the road,
prevented his seeing or hearing the gig until he was fairly over; for as
he jumped into the road and looked round I was not twenty yards off, and
could hear him swear a deep oath, as he pulled his hat down over his
eyes, and turned his back to me as I drove past to prevent my seeing his
face; but it was too late, for I had recognized Robert Gregory. Of
course I said nothing; but as I drove up to the house, looking over the
grounds, I saw Sophy Needham coming up through the trees from the very
direction from which I had seen him come out. She was at some distance
off, and I was almost at the door, so I could not have stopped to speak
to her without being noticed, even had I wished it. She did not come
into the room while I was there, so that I had no opportunity of
questioning her about it, even had I made up my mind to do so; indeed it
was so delicate a matter that I could not have spoken to her without
previous reflection.
"Altogether the affair has a very curious and ugly look. It could hardly
be a mere coincidence, that he should be getting over the hedge from the
plantation--where he could have no possible reason for going except to
see her--at the very time of her coming away from that part of the
grounds. It looks very like a secret meeting, but how such a thing could
have been brought about is more than I can imagine. But if it is so, it
is a dreadful business."
We were both silent for some time, and then I said,--
"Do you know, papa, I remember meeting the man you speak of at the fete
at Mr. Harmer's last year."
"Now you mention it, Agnes, I recollect that he was there. I wondered at
the time at his being invited, but I supposed Mr. Harmer had known his
father as a respectable man, and had asked the son, knowing nothing of
his character, or the disrepute in which he was held. I did not notice
him much, nor did I see him dance with Sophy; had I done so I should
have warned Mr. Harmer of his real character."
"He did not dance with her, papa," I said, rather timidly, for I was
frightened at the thought of what dreadful mischief had resulted, which
might have been averted had I spoken of the matter at the time. "He did
not dance with her, but he had some sort of secret understanding with
her; at least I thought so;" and I then told him all I had observed that
evening at the fete. "I should have mentioned it at the time, papa, for
it perplexed me a good deal, but I went back to school next day, and
never thought of it from that day to this."
"Do you know, Agnes," papa said, throwing away his cigar, and taking
three or four turns up and down in extreme perplexity, "this is very
serious; I am quite frightened to think of it. What on earth is to be
done?" and papa took off his hat and rubbed his hair back from his
forehead. "How very unfortunate that you did not speak of what you
noticed at the time. I am not blaming you; going off to school, as you
say, of course put it out of your head; besides, you did not know the
man as I do, and could not guess what terrible results might be growing
out of what you saw; you could not, as a mere girl, tell how bad it is
for a young woman to have a secret understanding of that sort with any
man--how fatal, when with such a man as Robert Gregory.
"Had I known it at that time, I might have done something to put a stop
to it. It would, in any case, have been a delicate matter to have
interfered in, merely on the grounds of what you noticed, and which
Sophy would, of course, have disputed; still I might have warned Mr.
Harmer against allowing such a man to enter his doors, and I would have
spoken when Sophy was present, and said how bad his character was, so as
to have opened her eyes to the real nature of the man. It might have
done no good. A girl is very slow to believe anything against a man she
loves. Still it would have been something; and had there been any
opportunity, I could have related some stories about him, which I knew
to be true, which must have convinced her that he was a thorough
blackguard.
"It might have been quite ineffectual; still it might possibly have done
good. But now--really, Agnes," he said, stopping short, "I don't know
what to do: it is a dreadful affair. There, don't distress yourself, my
child"--for I was crying now--"matters may not be as bad as we fancy,
although I confess that I do not see any possible interpretation which
can put the affair in a better light. The only question is, what is to
be done?
"To begin with, we are, you see, placed in a peculiarly delicate
position in respect to Sophy. In case of any scandal being discovered
through our means, and Mr. Harmer altering his will in consequence, you
might benefit from it, and it would place my conduct and motive for
interfering in a very false and unpleasant light. In the next place, in
Mr. Harmer's present state of health, the agitation such a disclosure
would produce, would not improbably--indeed, would be very likely
to--bring on another paralytic fit, and cost him his life. The only
thing I can at present think of is to appeal to Sophy herself.
"I fear that would hardly be successful, as the secret understanding
between them must have gone on for more than a year, to our knowledge,
and we dare not even think in what relation they may now stand to each
other. Still it must be tried. Should that fail, as I feel it is quite
certain to do, an appeal must be made to him. He may be bought off. Of
course, with him it is a mere question of time. If he waits till Mr.
Harmer's death, which may not occur for years yet, Sophy is sure to be a
wealthy heiress; if he marries her before that, Mr. Harmer will
infallibly alter his will. He would, no doubt, still leave her
something, for he loves her too much to leave her a beggar even in a
moment of anger.
"So you see it is quite a matter of calculation. Robert Gregory has
waited until now, but he must be getting desperate. This writ, of which
I spoke, may induce him to come to some sudden decision--no one can say
what. It is altogether a very bad business, and a difficult matter for
any one, far more for myself, to meddle in. However, something must be
done: that much is certain. To-day is Wednesday. I had not intended to
go into Canterbury again till Saturday, but now I shall go on Friday. So
we shall have to-morrow to talk over what is the best thing to be done,
and how I am to set about it. It is getting late, Agnes: it is time to
be going in."
I shall never forget that evening, as we turned and strolled along the
edge of the cliffs towards home. I thought I had never seen such a
beautiful night. The tide was high, and the sea was very calm, and
hardly moved under the warm autumnal breeze, but broke on the beach far
below our feet with a gentle plash. Out at sea the lights on the Goodwin
shone clear and bright; while far away to the right, looking like a star
near the horizon, we could plainly see the Deal light. Below us lay the
harbour, with its dark shipping, and its bright lamps reflected in the
still waters within it. Sometimes, from the sea, came up faint snatches
of songs from parties in boats enjoying the lovely evening.
Above it was most beautiful of all. The sky was a very deep blue, and I
do not think I ever saw so many stars as were visible that lovely
September night. The heavens seemed spangled with them, and they shone
out clear and bright, with none of the restless, unquiet twinkle they
usually have, but still and tranquil, seeming--as they never do seem
except on such nights as this--to hang suspended from the deep blue
above them. The moon was up, but it was only a thin crescent, and was
lovely in itself without outshining the glory of the stars. It was a
glorious night, and, absorbed as we were with our own thoughts, and
troubled by what had occurred, we could not help feeling soothed and
elevated by the wondrous beauty of the scene we looked upon.
Had papa known all that had passed at that interview between Sophy
Needham and Robert Gregory, he would not have ridden out to Ramsgate
with his news, but would have acted upon it there and then, and perhaps
I should never have written this story; or, if I had done so, it would
have been very different to what it is.
Long afterwards I learnt the history of that interview, and of many
others which had gone before it; and so I shall again have the pleasure
of dropping that first personal pronoun of which I am so tired, and of
relating the story as it was told to me.