THE EXPLOSION.
There are some boys so naturally passionate and vicious, in whose
dispositions the evil so strongly predominates over the good, that we
are obliged to own that under no conceivable course of training could
they have turned out otherwise than bad. Some faults might have been
checked by early firmness, some vices eradicated by judicious kindness
and care, yet nothing could ever have altered the radical nature;
nothing could ever have made a fair, straight tree out of that crooked
and distorted sapling. Such a character was that of Robert Gregory, and
in his case there was no countervailing force, either of judicious
kindness or of proper severity, to check the strong tendency to evil in
his disposition. His mother had died when he was an infant, and his
father--who had married late in life, and who had no other
children,--indulged his every whim, and neither thwarted him in any
desire, nor punished him for any fault; and so he grew up an idle,
passionate, turbulent boy, pursuing his own way, and laughing to scorn
the entreaties and prayers of his weak father. As time went on, his
character developed; he chose his companions from the wildest and least
reputable youths of the neighbourhood, and soon became even wilder and
less reputable than the worst of them. He at length led such a life,
that his father was only too glad when he expressed a desire to go up to
London, in hopes that there, with other companions and habits, he might
yet retrieve himself. Robert Gregory was not all bad, he had his good
points, and with other training might have turned out, if not a good
man, at any rate not the character that Dr. Ashleigh had described. He
was good-natured and even generous--by fits and starts certainly--but
still enough so to make those who knew him as a boy, before he had got
entirely beyond all control, regret that his father, by his weakness and
injudicious kindness, was allowing him to grow up a curse to himself and
a nuisance to the whole neighbourhood. Any hopes his father may have
entertained of his reformation from the influence of a life in London,
were destined to be very shortly extinguished. He wrote at first flaming
accounts of the grand friends he was making, but lamenting their
expensive way of living, and begging more money to enable him to do as
they did. For months, for years, the letters came regularly, and always
demanding money, sometimes very large sums. Some of these letters were
accompanied by plausible tales that he wished to oblige his great
friends, through whom he shortly expected to obtain a lucrative
appointment. At other times he told the truth--various losses on the
turf, or heavy gambling debts which must, he said, be paid, or his
honour would be irretrievably lost. The old man patiently answered these
constant demands upon him, and paid without a complaint the large sums
required. He truly, although weakly, loved this reprobate son of his: he
knew that no remonstrances could now avail: he feared so to alienate the
liking which his son still felt for him by remonstrances which would
irritate, without reforming him, and so he continued to pay, and pay.
"The boy can have it but once," he said to himself; "as well now as at
my death; there will be enough to last my time." But there hardly was.
After Robert had been six years in London, during which he had only paid
three or four flying visits to his native place, he received a letter
from his father, asking him to let him know the total amount of his
debts; as he would rather settle the whole at once and set him clear,
than be continually asked for money. Robert consequently sent him a
list, which even he had grace enough left to be ashamed of. However, the
enormous amount was paid without a word; but a week afterwards a letter
came from his father, saying that in six years he had spent no less than
L40,000, and that now there only remained the house in which the old man
lived and a small farm which yielded a bare L200 a year; that this he
would not touch, and that not one single penny would he farther advance
his son; but that if he chose to come down and live with him, that he
would meet with a hearty welcome, and with not one word of reproach for
the past. Seeing no other course open to him, Robert Gregory came back
sulkily enough to the old house, where, as has before been said, the old
man did not live many months.
Long as was the list of debts which Robert had sent up from London, it
had by no means comprised the whole of them. At his father's death,
therefore, he was obliged to mortgage the farm to nearly its full value,
to satisfy the most pressing of his creditors, and then, for the first
time in his life, Robert Gregory asked himself how he was to live. It
was by no means an easy question to answer; indeed, think the matter
over as he would, he could imagine no mode by which, even had he been
inclined to work, which he was not, he could have earned his living. It
was while he was vainly, week after week, endeavouring to solve this
problem, that the intention of Mr. Harmer to make Sophy Needham his
heiress was made public. Robert Gregory hailed the news as a direct
answer to his question--he would marry the heiress. He did not jump at
the conclusion in haste; he inquired closely concerning the habits of
the family at Harmer Place, of whom previously he had known nothing
except by name; he found that their life had been hitherto one of
seclusion, owing to the ascetic life of the Miss Harmers, and the
studious one of their brother; he heard of Sophy Needham's birth and
origin, and he heard, too, that society refused to visit her, and at
last he said to himself confidently and firmly, "I will marry her."
Having arrived at this determination, Robert Gregory at once proceeded
to act upon it, and soon had his whole scheme arranged to his
satisfaction. He felt that the matter was one which required time, and
he accordingly sold the farm for two or three hundred pounds beyond the
amount for which it was mortgaged, and on this sum he calculated to be
able to live until he was able to marry Sophy.
This done, putting on a shooting suit, he day after day concealed
himself in the grounds at some distance from the house, at a spot from
which he could see when Sophy strolled out, and could watch the
direction she took. One day he perceived that the course she was
following in her ramble would lead her close to the boundary of the
property; making a circuit, he took his position on the other side of
the hedge, and therefore off the Harmer estate. When Sophy came along,
and he could see that she was immediately opposite him, separated only
by the hedge, he discharged both barrels of his gun. Sophy naturally
uttered an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and this was all he
needed.
As if astonished at finding a lady so close to him, he crossed the
hedge, and lifting his hat, he apologized deeply for the alarm he had
given her, trusted that the shock had not been serious, and in fact made
so good a use of his time, that he managed to detain her in conversation
for a quarter of an hour.
Robert Gregory, it has already been said, was a handsome man with a good
figure. His conversation and manners might not have passed muster in
critical society, still he had seen enough of the world to be able to
assume the air of a gentleman sufficiently well to deceive a girl who
had hardly ever conversed with a young man before in her life; his
address to her was straightforward and outspoken, and yet with something
deferential about it to which Sophy was quite unaccustomed, and which
gratified her exceedingly.
The attempt of Robert Gregory was well-timed. Sophy knew that Mr. Harmer
had proclaimed her his heiress, and she felt, and felt keenly, that
society refused to call upon her or recognise her; she was naturally a
sensitive, shy girl, and the accident of her birth had been a constant
pain and sorrow to her, and she was, therefore, in exactly the frame of
mind to receive with greedy pleasure the expression of Robert Gregory's
deference and distantly expressed admiration. She noted no bad
expression in the handsome face which smiled upon her, she detected no
flaw in the fine figure which bent a little as he spoke to her; she only
saw one who treated her--her whom the world scorned and repelled--with
respectful deference and admiration; and from that moment her heart went
out freely and fully towards him.
As he was leaving her, Robert Gregory mentioned that he lived on the
other side of Canterbury, but was out for a day's shooting on the
neighbouring estate. He said that on that day week he should again be
there, and asked her if she frequently walked in that direction; he
urged that he should feel really anxious to know if she had suffered
from the effect of the sudden alarm he had given her, and that he hoped
she would be kind enough to let him know how she was.
Sophy coloured and paused, and then said that she frequently walked in
that direction, and that if he happened to see her as she went past, she
should of course be happy to assure him that she was not in the least
upset by the little start that she had had. And so they parted, and
Robert Gregory felt, that as far as she was concerned, the game was won.
Again and again they met, and before very long he spoke of love to her;
and Sophy, whose life had been hitherto a joyless one, gave him her
heart without concealment, and found that, for the first time, she had
discovered happiness. But that happiness soon had its alloy of trouble.
When Christmas came, and the Bishop and his wife called, and society in
general followed their example, Sophy naturally wondered, and asked
Robert why he did not do the same. He was prepared for the question,
which he knew must come sooner or later, and his answer had long been
determined upon. He at once said that he threw himself entirely on her
mercy, and even if it were the signal for his dismissal from her side
for ever, he would tell her the truth. He told her that, owing to want
of control as a boy, he had been when a very young man, spendthrift and
wild, and that he had dissipated his fortune in folly and amusements.
That the Christian propriety of Canterbury had taken upon itself to be
greatly scandalized thereby; and that although he had long since given
up his former courses, and had returned and lived happily and quietly
with his old father, although that father himself had never complained
to him, or, he believed, to any one, of his previous folly, yet that
society in general had taken upon itself to refuse its assent to the
welcome of the prodigal, but had indeed desired him to go into a far
country and be fed upon husks.
Sophy, instead of being shocked at all this, clung to him, as might have
been expected, all the closer. The well-affected scorn and bitterness
with which he spoke of the Christian charity of society, struck, as he
had intended it should, a sympathetic chord in her own breast; for had
not she, too, been declared under the ban of society, and for no fault
or sin of her own? It is true, society had now condescended to visit
her, but why? Was she any better or more honourably born than before?
Had her conduct in any way softened them towards her? Not a bit. A
bishop had said that she might be visited, and so the world had
graciously extended its hand and received her into its fold. But
although Sophy accepted the offered hand, she hated the giver of it; and
although she arrayed her face with a placid smile as she entered into
society, it only covered a sense of bitter outrage and of indignant
contempt. Nursing, as she did, feelings like these, it was with an
absolute sense of pleasure that she found that her lover, like herself,
was deemed an outcast. To her it was but one more new tie between them;
and when Robert had finished his confession, her own rage and wrongs
against society broke out in a stream of bitter, passionate words, and
Robert Gregory found there was far more in the ordinarily tranquil,
quiet woman before him than he had ever given her credit for. However,
her present frame of mind was most favourable for his plans, and he
therefore took good care to keep alive her resentment against the world,
in order to bind her more closely to himself. It was soon after this
that the fetes at Harmer Place were given. Robert Gregory managed to
obtain an invitation, but arranged with Sophy that he would not dance
with her, alleging the truth, that if he did so, society would be sure
to poison Mr. Harmer's mind against him, and render his consent to their
marriage out of the question; and Sophy was content to follow his
guidance in all things, and to see everything with his eyes.
The real difficulties of Robert Gregory's course were only yet
beginning. Sophy was, indeed, won; but it was Sophy's money, and not
herself, that he cared for; now Sophy's money at present depended upon
Mr. Harmer, and not upon herself; and Robert feared that in the event of
a runaway match, Mr. Harmer would very materially alter his will. Still,
on the other hand, her grandfather was extremely fond of her; he had no
one else to leave his money to, and he might in time reinstate her in
his favour. At last he asked Sophy if she thought Mr. Harmer would,
after a time, forgive her if she made a runaway match with him, for he
had no hope of ever obtaining his consent beforehand. Sophy was very
loath to answer the question. She was quite ready to marry Robert, but
she shrank from the thought of paining the old man who had been so kind
to her. However, as Robert again and again returned to the point, she at
last came to discuss it as calmly as he did.
"Yes, she thought Mr. Harmer would be reconciled to her; she believed he
would miss her so much, that he would be sure to forgive her in a short
time; it was not in his nature to bear malice to any one. Yes, he would
soon come round; indeed, she was certain that if Robert would but make
himself known to him, that Mr. Harmer would not care for what other
people said, but would judge for himself, and would esteem and like him
as she did."
This course Sophy pressed very much upon her lover, with many loving
entreaties and tears, for she really loved Mr. Harmer truly, and shrank
from grieving him. These entreaties, however, Robert always gently, but
decidedly put aside. He said that Mr. Harmer would be certain to believe
the edict of society against him, would decline to grant him any
opportunity of justifying himself, and would refuse to allow him to
enter the house. Besides he would be just as angry at discovering the
secret understanding which existed between them, as he would be at their
marriage, and he would be certain to forbid all intercourse between
them, and perhaps even insert a condition in his will forbidding her to
marry him under pain of the forfeiture of his fortune. For Robert made
no secret from Sophy that her money would be of the greatest use to
them; not, as he put it, that he cared for money for its own sake, but
that if they were rich they could spend their life abroad, where no
scoff or sneer of society could reach them, and where they should never
be disturbed by the sarcasms and whispers of the world; while they, in
their turn, would be able to show society how heartily they despised it,
and how well they could do without it.
Sophy, in her present state of mind, thought all this very grand and
heroic, and really believed that her lover spoke in a noble and
disinterested manner; and as she was herself perfectly conscious of the
advantages of wealth, she quite agreed that, if possible, her fortune
should not be sacrificed.
Robert, then, at last, succeeded in persuading her that a runaway match
was the only alternative, and as she really believed that she would be
very soon forgiven by Mr. Harmer, it was at length arranged to take
place shortly. This was in the spring of the year, and their secret
acquaintance had then continued eighteen months. The date was fixed for
the elopement, when the paralytic stroke which Mr. Harmer had put a stop
to all their plans; and this for two reasons: pressed as he again was
for money--for his creditors, who had been only partially paid before,
were now becoming clamorous--Robert Gregory felt that with Mr. Harmer at
the point of death it would be perfect madness to run the risk of Sophy
being disinherited, when a few weeks might leave her the undisputed
owner of L75,000; so although sorely harassed for money, he was content
to wait. The other reason was that Sophy was full of remorse at the
thought that she had been at the point of deserting her benefactor. She
met Robert now very seldom, but devoted herself to Mr. Harmer. As,
however, the weeks ran on, he slowly but surely recovered health and
became his former self, and her constant attendance on him was no longer
needed; so she fell back to her old habits; her meetings in the
plantation became more frequent, and his influence resumed its power
over her. Robert Gregory had discernment enough to suit his behaviour to
his words: when the old man was at his worst, he was full of tender
commiseration for her; when he began to recover, he pretended a warm
interest in his health, although inwardly he was filled with rage and
chagrin at his convalescence. At length his own affairs arrived at such
a crisis that he was in momentary fear of arrest, and he felt that once
in prison his union with Sophy must be postponed at any rate till after
Mr. Harmer's death, which now again appeared to be a distant event. He,
therefore, once more began to persuade Sophy to elope with him; but he
had a far more difficult task than before. All his old arguments were
brought forward; but it was some time before he could succeed.
Gradually, however, her old habit of listening to his opinion prevailed;
she allowed herself to be persuaded that her grandfather might now live
for many years, and that he could for a short time dispense with her
services; that as she had been so useful to him during his illness, and
as he must be more attached to her than ever, it was quite certain that
he could not for long remain proof to her entreaties for forgiveness.
And so at last, but not without many tears and much bitter
self-reproach, Sophy consented to an elopement--consented at that very
interview coming from which Dr. Ashleigh surprised Robert Gregory--who,
elated by his success, was making his way off without observing his
usual care and precaution.
At breakfast on the following morning, Mr. Harmer remarked that Sophy
looked pale and ill; she answered that her head ached sadly, but that
she had no doubt a stroll in the grounds would do it good. After
breakfast she accordingly went out, and, after wandering for some time
carelessly in sight of the house, she made her usual circuit to avoid
observation, and then entered the plantation near the road. She found
Robert Gregory waiting for her under the tree where they had now met for
just two years, sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month, according
to the time of year, and the opportunities Sophy had for rambling about.
Robert looked anxiously at her as she came up, to see if there were any
signs of flinching or drawing back in her pale face, but there were
none. Sophy was quiet and shy, but she had a fund of quiet determination
and courage within her. He kissed her tenderly. "You are looking pale
this morning, little one."
"I daresay," she answered, "for I have not closed my eyes all night. Is
everything ready?"
"Quite. I shall be with the gig in the road just outside that gap, a
minute or two before a quarter past eight; if you will get here a few
minutes after that time, we shall be able to catch the nine o'clock
train to London easily. I shall take you to an Hotel near Euston Square,
and we will go on by the early train to Scotland, and shall be half way
there before they find out in the morning that you are gone. You can
trust me, dearest?"
"Yes, Robert," Sophy said quietly. "I have trusted you all these
meetings here, and I have found you an honourable gentleman, and I am
not going to distrust you now. I feel sure that all will turn out as we
wish, and that grandpapa will forgive me very soon, and take us both
into favour; and I hope that in a fortnight we shall be back here again,
forgiven and welcome." Sophy spoke cheerfully, for she really believed
what she said.
"Are you sure to be able to slip out unobserved?"
"Quite sure, Robert. I shall go up to bed at eight, and ask not to be
disturbed, as I wish to sleep. I shall bring a bag with me, and shall
put on a thick veil, so as not to be recognized by any one as we go
through Canterbury. I have, as I told you, plenty of money. Good-bye
now, Robert, I must not wait here any longer."
"Good bye, dear, till this evening."
He looked after her as she went lightly away among the trees, her
footsteps scarcely sounding in the limp, new-fallen autumn leaves, and a
shade of compunction came over his face. He was certainly a blackguard,
he knew it well, but, by heavens, he would try to make this little girl
happy. They would be rich some day, and then they would travel for
years, and when he came back his evil name would have died out, and he
could then lead a quiet, happy life, perhaps at the old house there; and
then--and then, who knows; perhaps little children would grow up round
him: surely then he must be happy. Could it be--good God! could it be
possible that he might yet turn out a good man after all? "Yes, there
was hope for him yet." And as Robert Gregory turned away, there was a
tear in his eye, which was even now growing heavy and red from long
excesses and hard drinking, and a sigh, and a half prayer from the
heart, from which for long years such things had ceased to rise.
The next morning at ten o'clock, as Sophy had not come down to
breakfast, Mr. Harmer, as he went into the library, desired the servant
to take his compliments to Miss Needham, and inquire how she felt.
Presently the servant came into the library looking very pale and
scared. "If you please, sir, Miss Sophy is not in her room, but there
was this letter for you laying on the table." So saying, the girl
hastily left the room, to relate to the other servants the extraordinary
fact that Miss Sophy was not in her room, and that her bed had not been
slept in.
The letter to Mr. Harmer was as follows:--
"My dearest Grandpapa,
"If you were other than you are, this letter would not be
written; I should not dare to plead my cause with you; but I
know you so well--I know how kind and good you are--and so I
venture to hope for your forgiveness. I am very wicked,
grandpapa; I am going away without your consent to be married.
He--my husband that is to be--is named Robert Gregory. He has
told me frankly that men do not speak well of him, and that
when he was young he was wild and bad. He tells me so, and I
must believe him; but he must have been very different to what
he is now--for now I know him to be good and noble. I have
known him long--I own it with shame that I have never told you
before, and many tears the concealment has cost me; but, oh,
grandpapa, had I told you, you would have sent him away, and I
should have lost him. He and you are all I have in the world;
let me keep you both. He showed me kindness when all the world,
except you--my kindest and best of friends--turned their backs
upon me, and I could not give him up. While I write now, my
eyes are full of tears, and my heart bleeds to think of the
pain this will give you, after all your goodness to me. Oh,
forgive me. Do for my sake, dear, dear grandpapa, see him and
judge for yourself. I only ask this, and then I know you will
forgive him and me. Write soon to me--only one word--say you
forgive me, and let me be your little Sophy once more. I shall
not love you the less for loving him, and much as I love him,
without your forgiveness my life will indeed be miserable.
"Write soon, grandpapa--write soon, and say you forgive me, and
that I shall again be your own--
"SOPHY."
Presently the Misses Harmer--who always breakfasted much earlier
together, and then retired to a dressing-room they had fitted up as a
small oratory--were surprised at loud talking, and confusion in the
house. In a short time their own maid knocked at the door, and then came
in with a face full of excitement, to say that Miss Sophy had not slept
in her bed, and that they had searched the whole house, and found no
signs of her.
"Does my brother know?" Miss Harmer asked, after hearing the whole story
very quietly to the end.
"I can't say, ma'am; there was a letter on Miss Sophy's table, which
Mary took into Mr. Harmer, in the library, when she first found it, and
he has not come out since."
The Misses Harmer, with their usual deliberate walk, went down stairs,
and then into the library.
Mr. Harmer was sitting at the table, with his back to the door, and did
not turn round at their approach. They went up. Beside him on the table
lay an open letter--the one from Sophy;--in his hand was a pen, and
before him a sheet of paper. On it he had written: "My dearest Sophy,
come back; I forgive"--but the handwriting was strangely indistinct, and
the last word, the word "forgive," was large and sprawling, like a
schoolboy's writing, and then the pen stopped, and had stopped for
ever;--Herbert Harmer was dead.