SWIFT RETRIBUTION.
Sophy Gregory might have excited pity even in the minds of her enemies
could they have seen her as she lay, pale and sad, in her lonely room,
during the long hours of the day upon which her husband had gone down to
hear the reading of the will of Mr. Harmer. The week which had passed
since she left home had indeed been a terrible one. Her punishment had
followed, bitter and heavy, ere the fault was scarce committed. Only one
day of happiness and life, and then that crushing blow which met her the
very day after her marriage, in the words of the telegraphic message,
"Mr. Harmer is dead." It had reached them at York, where, after
wandering through the old streets, they had come back to their hotel to
lunch. It lay upon their table. Robert had opened it eagerly. Sophy
needed not that he should tell her what were its contents. The sudden
start, the deadly pallor, the look of horror that he could not control,
told their tale too plainly. Her grandfather was dead; she had killed
him.
She did not faint, she did not scream; one faint, low, wailing cry broke
from her, and then she stood, rigid and immovable, her eyes open and
staring, her lips parted, and every vestige of colour gone from her
face. One hand clasped her throat; the other, clenched and rigid, rested
on the table.
Robert Gregory forgot his own heavy interest in the news, forgot that a
fortune might have been gained or lost by the few words of that
telegram. Sophy's face frightened him as he had never been frightened
before. He spoke to her, he called her every loving name; but it was of
no avail. No movement of the rigid face, no change in the fixed eyes,
showed that she had heard him. He dared not touch her; she might break
into dreadful shrieks--her reason might be gone. What was he to do? He
pealed at the bell, and then went to the door, and told the waiter who
answered it to beg the landlady to come up instantly. In another minute
the landlady arrived, all of a fluster--as she afterwards expressed it
when describing the matter--at this sudden summons, and at the brief
account the waiter had given her of the manner of Robert Gregory.
"My wife has had a terrible shock; she has just heard of the sudden
death of her father, and I don't know what to do with her. She does not
hear me; I am afraid she is going to be ill or something terrible. For
God's sake speak to her, or do something or other." Such was the hurried
greeting which met her at the door.
The landlady was somewhat accustomed to sudden emergencies, but she saw
at a glance that this was beyond her, and she said to the waiter, who
had followed her up, to hear, if possible, what was the matter,--
"James, the lady is ill. Send Hannah here with some cold water, and my
scent bottle, and run across to Dr. Cope's opposite, and tell him to
come over at once. If he is out, run for the nearest doctor."
Then, closing the door, she advanced towards Sophy.
"Don'tye, don'tye, take on so, dear!" she said, in a kind, motherly way,
as if she was speaking to a little child; "don't, now, for your
husband's sake; try and rouse yourself, dear." But it was no use. There
was a slight, a very slight quiver of the eyelids, but no other sign of
life or movement.
The landlady paused. She was almost as much frightened at Sophy's face
as Robert Gregory had been, and she dared not touch the rigid hand. They
stood, one on each side of her, watching her helplessly; with faces
almost as much blanched by apprehension as was her own and listening
breathlessly for the footstep of the doctor outside. It was not long in
coming, although it seemed an age to them. He entered quietly: a tall,
slight man, with silvered hair, and took the whole state of things in at
a glance.
"A sudden shock?" he asked; and then gave orders to the servant to bring
such things as were necessary. Then he spoke to Sophy, and put his
finger upon the motionless wrist. "It is a serious case, sir," he said
to Robert, "very serious; the shock to the brain has been very great. I
must bleed her; it is the only thing to be done. Help me to place her
upon the sofa."
Between them they gently lifted the rigid figure and placed her, half
sitting, half lying, upon the sofa. There was no sign of consciousness.
In another minute the doctor had opened a vein in her arm. At first no
blood came, then a few dark drops, and then gradually a steady stream.
The doctor gave a sigh of relief. Still the blood flowed, on and on,
till Robert Gregory was frightened at the quantity, and looked anxiously
at the doctor, who, with his fingers on her pulse, was watching Sophy's
face. Presently a change came over the stony expression, the eyes lost
their fixed look, the eyelids began to droop down, and the whole figure
to yield; then, as she fell back on the sofa, he prepared to stop the
bleeding.
It had had its effect; Sophy had fainted. The first crisis was over, but
not as yet was the danger past. Very anxiously they watched her waking,
and intense was the relief when they found that she was conscious of
what had happened; but there were still grave apprehensions for the
future. Weak as she was, she was in a state of almost delirious grief
and excitement; indeed, at times her mind wandered.
No reproaches which the Misses Harmer had lavished upon her were
one-tenth as severe as those she bestowed upon herself. Over and over
again she called herself her grandfather's murderess. Constantly she
pictured up harrowing scenes of his death, and how he had died, invoking
the curse of heaven upon her and hers with his latest breath. Above all,
she insisted on returning at any rate to London, that Robert might go
down to Canterbury to hear the particulars.
The doctor had a long talk next day with Robert, who explained, to some
extent, the facts of the case.
"I hardly know what to do, Mr. Gregory. Your wife is in a most critical
state. She has set her mind upon going to London, and ill as she is, I
almost question whether there would not be less danger in her doing so
than remaining here in her present state of nervous anxiety. It is most
essential that, if possible, her mind should be relieved of the present
strain, and that she should obtain some intelligence as to the last
moments of her adopted father. You tell me that he had a seizure before;
it is likely, therefore, that the present attack was very sudden, and in
that case he may not--probably would not--have said anything against
her. This alone would be a relief to her; and, at any rate, she would be
pacified by knowing that she was doing all she could to learn the truth.
I fear that brain fever will be the termination of her attack, but its
character may be modified if her present anxiety is to some extent
allayed. By applying to-day at the railway office, you can have a
carriage with a sleeping couch ready by to-morrow, and I should advise
your taking her up without delay. Of course, upon your arrival there,
you will at once call in medical assistance."
And so it was carried out. Sophy bore the journey better than could have
been anticipated; indeed, the very fact that she was getting nearer to
Canterbury soothed and satisfied her. But she was still in an almost
delirious state of remorse and grief. The doctor who was called in to
her had shaken his head in talking over her case with her husband, and
had told him that unless her mind could be relieved from the terrible
weight upon it, he would not answer for her reason.
And so, leaving a nurse to take care of Sophy, Robert Gregory went down
to Canterbury and saw Dr. Ashleigh. The news which he brought back of
Mr. Harmer's forgiveness before his death, saved her from an attack of
brain fever, if not from entire loss of reason. And yet, although it
allayed her fears, and relieved her mind of the harrowing pictures of
her grandfather's death which she had before conjured up so constantly,
it scarcely lessened her sorrow and remorse; indeed, the knowledge that
his forgiveness had been so instant, and his last thoughts those of
kindness to her, caused her to reproach herself more than ever; but her
grief was now quieter, and the doctor believed that she would escape the
fever he had feared for her. She could now shed tears, and in long and
bitter fits of crying found exhaustion and relief. In another two or
three days she was calmer and better.
Robert had been everything which was kind and consoling to her, and very
gentle and thoughtful in his talk and manners. In her wildest outbursts
of grief she had never blamed him for his share in her fault, and would
not listen to the reproaches which, in the hope of relieving her
conscience somewhat, he would have gladly bestowed upon himself. But
this Sophy would not allow. He had not deceived a benefactor; he had
been actuated only by his love for her, and his entreaties for her to
elope with him had been but natural; it was she only who had been wrong
and wicked in neglecting her plain duty, and in deceiving her more than
father; and upon her, and her only, must the blame and grief fall.
She was very quiet and pale, as she lay that day that he had gone down
to the funeral, and she waited and thought all those long hours that he
was abroad. She thought a good deal of the future, and planned that they
should go upon the Continent first for a while, and upon their return
spend the great proportion of their income in doing good, living quietly
themselves upon very little; she thought that in any other way she
should feel as if this fortune were a curse to her, for it had never
even occurred to her that Mr. Harmer might have altered his will.
It was late in the evening before Robert returned; he came in quiet and
grave, but with no sign of passion or disappointment upon his face as he
kissed her, and asked her how she had been all the long day. Robert
Gregory was not a good man. In many respects he was bad and vicious;
but, as in most men, there was some good in him, and what there was came
out at its brightest in his relations with Sophy.
Deep as had been his disappointment, bitter and fierce the invectives
and curses which, during his journey, he had showered upon the Misses
Harmer, his own unfortunate luck, and upon the world in general, yet, as
he approached the hotel, he curbed himself in, and became calm and
quiet. As he thought of her love and suffering, of the sacrifices her
attachment for him would entail upon her, and upon her trust in himself,
he determined that, come what might, she should not see his
disappointment, and that in addition to her other troubles, she should
never come to know that he had married her for her money; and as he came
into the room where she was lying, pale and weak, upon the sofa, his
brow cleared, his voice softened, and he tried, and tried hard, that she
should see no sign in his face of that bitter sense of disappointment he
was feeling in his breast.
Sophy answered his inquiries as to her health, and then, as he sat down
on a chair close to the sofa, so that she could lean her head upon his
arm, and look up into his face, she said,--
"I am afraid that this has been a very painful day for you, Robert?"
"Not very pleasant, love," he said, almost cheerfully; "but, of course,
I had made up my mind for that."
"Did you see the Misses Harmer, Robert, and did they say anything about
me?"
"I saw them, Sophy, but we did not exchange many words."
"And Dr. Ashleigh, did he speak as kindly as before?"
"More so, Sophy; he could not have been more kind; he took me back in
his carriage to the station."
Sophy looked pleased. There was a little silence. Robert did not know
how to announce his intelligence, and his wife considered all that part
of the affair as so much a matter of course that she did not even think
it necessary to ask any question about it. In a short time Sophy went
on,--
"Do you know, Robert, I have been thinking so much about the future, and
I think that when we come back from our travels we ought to put aside
almost all our money to do good with."
"My dear," Robert said, gently, "I hardly think we need enter into that
now, for an event has occurred which will alter all our plans. The fact
is, darling, the will is missing."
"The will missing, Robert!" Sophy repeated, opening her eyes in
astonishment--"how can it be missing?"
"It is a curious business, darling, and looks very bad. Mr. Harmer, it
seems, had it down some little time since to make some slight
alteration. We know that he did not destroy it upon that morning, but it
is not to be found, and there is strong reason for supposing that the
Misses Harmer have concealed it. In that case, although it may yet turn
up, still we must look the worst in the face, and consider that it is
very probable that it may never be heard of again."
"And in that case should I get nothing?" Sophy asked, eagerly.
"Not one penny, Sophy; it will all go to the Misses Harmer."
Sophy closed her eyes, and leaned back, with a faint "Thank God!" She
looked upon it as a punishment--as a sort of atonement for her fault.
Then in an instant a fresh thought struck her. How would Robert bear it?
Would he love her any the less, now she was penniless, instead of being
a great heiress? And she looked up again with a frightened, inquiring
glance into his eyes. He bore it well, and said, gently,--
"We must bear it bravely, Sophy. It is, of course, a heavy blow. I have
never disguised from you how I am situated. Still, darling, we must do
our best, and I have no doubt we shall pull through somehow. I am very
sorry for your sake, dear, and I bitterly accuse myself for tempting
you. It will be a different life from what you expected, but I will try
hard to make it easy for you."
He spoke tenderly and earnestly, for he, at the time, almost felt what
he said. Sophy had raised herself, and, as he finished, was crying
softly, with her head upon his shoulder, but her tears were quite
different to those which she had shed during the last week.
"I am not crying, Robert, because I have lost the fortune--I am crying
because I am so happy. I know now that you love me quite for my own
sake, and not for my money."
"You did not doubt it, did you, Sophy?" her husband asked, rather
reproachfully, although he felt that he was but a hypocrite while he
said so.
"I never really doubted you, Robert--no, no--I would not have married
you if I had. At times, when I felt low, I could not help wondering how
much my money had to do with it, but I always drove away the thought,
dearest, as an injustice to you; and now I shall never think so again.
Do you know, Robert, this news has been quite a relief to me? I should
always have felt that the wealth was a burden; and now that I am
punished for my fault, I shall not reproach myself quite so much with
it. But I am sorry for your sake, dear. It must be a great blow for you,
and I feel how kind it is of you to hide your disappointment for my
sake. I will try very hard, Robert, to make it up to you by loving you
more and more; and you shall see what a useful little wife I will make
you as soon as I get strong again, which I mean to do very fast now."