AFTER THE BATTLE.
How well I remember that morning, and the excitement into which we were
all thrown by the terrible news. "Burglary at Harmer Place. Reported
murder of the younger Miss Harmer." And yet with all the excitement
people were hardly surprised. Harmer Place had got an evil name now;
folks shook their heads and spoke almost low when they mentioned it. For
the last twenty-five years a curse seemed to hang over it and its
belongings. The two elder brothers drowned, and all their intentions and
plans set aside, and the property devolving to the very person they were
so determined to disinherit. Gerald Harmer killed, and all the
melancholy circumstances attending his death. Herbert Harmer's adopted
child's elopement, and his own sudden death, and all his intentions
frustrated--as his brother's had been before--by the will being missing.
This was, indeed, a long list of misfortunes, and up to this time it had
seemed almost as if Providence had decreed that it should prove a fatal
inheritance to the Protestant who had, contrary to the will of his dead
brothers, taken possession of the old Roman Catholic property, and
wrested it from the clutch of Mother Church. It had brought him no
happiness; his son's death had destroyed all his hopes and plans for the
future; that son's daughter, whom he had reared with so much kindness
and care, had fled away from her home at night, and the news had dealt
his deathblow; and then the missing will. It really seemed as if it was
fated that the Romish Church should have her own again, and the elder
brother's intention be carried out.
The general community had wondered over the chain of events, and told
the tale to strangers as an extraordinary example of a series of
unexpected events which had frustrated the best-laid plans and baffled
all human calculation; while the few Catholics of the town instanced it
as a manifest interposition of Providence on behalf of their Church. But
now the tables seemed turned; and the "curse of Harmer Place," as it
began to be called, appeared working anew against its Catholic
possessors.
The news came to us while we were at breakfast, and we were all
inexpressibly shocked. Papa at once ordered the carriage, and directly
it came to the door he started for Harmer Place to inquire himself as to
the truth of these dreadful reports. He returned in about an hour and a
half, and brought quite a budget of news to us. When he arrived, he had
sent up his name, but Miss Harmer sent down word that Doctors Sadman and
Wilkinson were in attendance, and that therefore she would not trouble
him to come in. Papa had felt a good deal hurt at the message, but he
thought it was probably given because Miss Harmer, knowing how much they
had injured him, was afraid that her sister might recognize him, and in
the state she was in, reveal something about the will. However, just as
the carriage was driving away, Dr. Sadman, who, from the window above,
had seen papa drive up, came to the door and called after him. Papa
stopped the carriage, got out, and went back to speak to him. Dr. Sadman
particularly wished him to come up to give them the benefit of his
opinion. Finding that Miss Harmer was not in the room, and that Angela
was insensible, and not likely ever to recover consciousness, he had
gone up with him. He had found her in a dying state, and he did not
think it at all likely that she would live more than a few hours. She
was apparently dying from the effect of the shock upon the system, and
the terror and pain that she had undergone; for round one arm a piece of
string was found which had cut completely into the flesh, probably for
the purpose of extorting the supposed place of concealment of plate,
valuables, or money. She had not apparently received any injury which in
itself would have been sufficient to cause death, but she had had a very
heavy fall upon the back of her head which might have affected her
brain. The symptoms, however, from which she was suffering were not
exactly those which would have been caused by concussion of the brain;
and although the fall had assisted to produce the evil, yet, on the
whole, her death would be attributable rather to the mental shock, the
terror and distress, than to actual bodily violence.
Papa had heard all the particulars of the night's events as far as Miss
Harmer had told the other medical men. She had herself received a very
heavy blow from some blunt instrument, either a short stick, or the
but-end of a pistol, which had left a very severe wound on the forehead;
from this she was suffering so much, that, much as she wished it, she
was quite unable to sit up or take her place by her sister's side, but
was in bed herself; still, although much shaken, there was nothing
serious to be apprehended. Miss Harmer had fired a pistol at one of the
assailants, and it was believed that she had wounded him, as a few spots
of blood were visible on the floor and on the staircase. She had
recognized none of the figures, of whom there were three; they were, she
believed, all masked, but whether they were tall or short, or indeed
about any particulars of them she was quite ignorant, for she had seen
only her sister surrounded by them, had rushed forward, fired almost
unconsciously, and been felled to the ground an instant afterwards,
first seeing Angela's chair thrown backwards with her in it. The blow
which she had received in the fall, and the laceration of the arm by the
string, were the only signs of violence which could be found on Angela's
person. The police were up there, but had at present discovered no clue
whatever to guide them in their search; one of the men on duty in the
town remembered that about three o'clock, a light cart, with two men in
it, had driven in on that road, and another had seen such a cart go out
through Westgate, but there was at present nothing to connect it with
the affair. A detective had been telegraphed for at Miss Harmer's
request, and was expected down in the afternoon.
Papa told all this in a very grave and serious way. I was very much
shocked indeed, and for some time after he had done, we were all silent,
and then Polly said, "Was anything stolen, papa?" She asked the question
so earnestly that I looked up almost in surprise; with Miss Harmer
dying, it seemed such a very indifferent matter whether the robbers had
stolen anything or not, that it appeared to me an extraordinary question
for Polly to ask so anxiously. But papa did not seem to think so, for he
answered as seriously as she had spoken,--
"Only a watch and chain, and a diamond cross from the dressing-table."
"And was any attempt made to break open the plate-closets and places
below?"
"No, my dear," papa said, "none at all."
They were both silent again, and I looked surprised from one to the
other. What could this question of a few things matter, when a woman we
had known so long was dying? And yet Polly and papa evidently thought it
did, and that it mattered very much too, for they looked very meaningly
at each other.
"I don't understand you," I said; "you are laying so much stress upon
what can be of no consequence to people of their wealth; and you both,
by your looks, seem to think it really a matter of consequence."
Polly and papa were still silent. "What is it, papa?" I said wearily; "I
am stronger now, and I think it would take a great deal to affect me
much,--nothing that I could be told here certainly. Please tell me what
you mean, for although I really do not see how this robbery at Miss
Harmer's can be more serious than it seems, for that is bad enough,
still I worry myself thinking about it."
"The idea, my dear Agnes," papa said very gravely, "which has struck me,
and which I have been thinking over ever since I left Harmer Place, and
which I see has also occurred to Polly, is that this is no robbery at
all; that is, that robbery was no part of the original scheme. I am very
much afraid that it is an effort on the part of Robert Gregory to get
possession of the will."
I had said that I should not be shocked, but I was, terribly--more than
I had believed I could be by anything not connected with Percy.
"Why, papa," I asked presently, "what makes you think such a dreadful
thing?"
"The whole proceedings of these men, my dear--so different from what
might be expected of them. Ordinary burglars, on entering a house, would
have proceeded at once to the pantry and plate-room, forced the doors,
and stripped them of their contents, and would have done this in the
most noiseless manner possible, to avoid disturbing any one in the
house. These men, on the contrary, never seem to have gone near these
places--at any rate there are no signs of their having attempted to
force them; they appear to have gone straight to the bedroom of the
younger and weaker of the sisters, to have seized, gagged her, and
cruelly tortured her to make her reveal the hiding-place--of what?
Surely not of the plate; they might with a little search have found that
for themselves. Not of money or jewellery: there was hardly likely to
have been much in the house, assuredly nothing which Angela Harmer would
not at once have given up rather than endure the pain she must have
suffered. What then could they have wanted? To my mind, unquestionably,
the will; and as no one but you and Harry are interested in its
discovery, with the exception of Robert Gregory, I fear there is no
doubt of his being the author of this scheme, and indeed that he was
personally engaged in it."
It was some time before I continued the conversation: I was sick and
faint at the news. The idea of Sophy, whom I had known and liked so
well, being the wife of a man who had committed burglary, if not murder,
was too shocking, and it was some time before I recovered myself.
Polly spoke next: "The only thing, papa, is, why should Angela
Harmer--who so nearly revealed where the will was to me--so obstinately
refuse to do so even under such terrible pain and terror?"
"My dear, when you saw her, you acted upon her feelings of compassion
for Agnes here, and for a time shook her rooted faith that she was
acting rightly. In this case, there was nothing to act upon her
conviction; she felt no doubt, while refusing to betray where the will
was hidden, that she was suffering as a martyr for the good of her
Church, and with a martyr's strength and firmness she underwent what was
inflicted upon her. I have no doubt that this idea will occur to Miss
Harmer as it has done to us, and in that case there is little doubt that
Robert Gregory will be speedily arrested; for as I hear he is a
well-known betting man in London, the police will be pretty certain to
find him. And the last evil arising from it is that Miss Harmer will,
undoubtedly, in that case destroy the will. And now, my dear, take a
glass of wine, and then lie down upon the sofa till dinnertime; get to
sleep if you can, and do not worry yourself about it. As to the will, we
have already given up all hopes of ever finding it, so that it will make
no difference now, whether it is destroyed or not. Polly, you see that
Agnes does as I order her. We must run no risks of her being laid up
again."
At about half-past eleven, papa was told that a man wished to speak to
him, and the tanner of Rochester was shown in.
"I am speaking to Dr. Ashleigh?"
Papa bowed.
"I am not come to consult you about myself, sir, but about some one
else."
"It is of no use describing his symptoms to me," the doctor said, "I
cannot prescribe unless I see the patient himself."
"I do not wish you to do so, sir, but it is a very peculiar business,
and I hardly know how to begin. The person who sent me, told me that you
might be implicitly trusted."
"I hope so, sir!" Dr. Ashleigh said haughtily; "but as I am not fond of
secrets or mysteries, I would rather you went to some other medical man.
Good morning!"
The man made no motion to go.
"No offence is intended, doctor; but when the safety of three or four
men, including perhaps myself, is concerned, one cannot be too careful.
At any rate I will give you my message, and if after that you don't
come, why I shall have had a ride of nigh thirty miles here, and as much
back, for nothing. The words of my message are, 'Sophy's husband,
Robert, is dying, and begs you to go and see him.'"
Papa had listened to the first part of the man's speech with evident
impatience, but when the message came, his face changed altogether.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "then my suspicions are correct.
Unfortunate man! He is dying of a pistol wound, is he not?"
"Something like it," the man answered. "Will you come, sir?"
"Come? Of course I will. I would go to any man to whom my aid could be
useful, and to me it is a matter of no consequence whether he is a good
or a bad one; in any case I will for Sophy's sake do what I can for her
husband, bad as I am afraid he is. And you?" and the doctor shrunk back
from the man; "What have you to do with him?"
"Nothing, I am glad to say," the man answered. "Till I got into the town
I did not know where or what the job was; but from what every one is
talking about at the place where I put up my horse, I am afraid I do
know now, and a shocking bad affair it seems; although if what I hear of
it be true, I can't make head or tail of what they were up to. Two of
the men were at least too old hands to have gone on in the way they did.
There is something beyond what one sees."
"You are right!" Dr. Ashleigh said; "they never went for plunder at all.
I can guess very well what they did go for, but that is of no
consequence now. How, then, are you concerned in the affair?"
"They came to me and hired my horse and cart. I asked no questions, but
perhaps had my own thoughts what they were up to; but that was no
business of mine. Well, sir, this morning they came back with a dying
man in the cart, and I had nothing for it but to take him in."
"Where is he hurt?" the doctor asked.
"Right in the side, just above the hip. I am afraid it is all up with
him; the long journey, and the loss of blood, have pretty well done for
any chance he might have had. Still we could not let him die like a dog,
and he told us he was sure you would come."
The doctor nodded. "How had I better get over there?"
"I looked at the train book, when I went in to get a glass of beer after
putting up my horse, and I see there is a train for London at one
o'clock which gets there about four; and then you could go down by the
Rochester train, and get there between six and seven."
"The very thing!" papa said. "For it is very probable that suspicion
will fall upon this man; and as I am known to be, in a certain sort of
way, likely to go to him in case he were hurt, it would be sure to
attract notice, and might lead to his being traced, were I to take my
carriage over as far as Rochester. I am afraid by what you say that it
will be of no use, but I will bring my instruments with me: I practised
as a surgeon for some years as a young man. How shall I find the place?"
"I will meet you at the station, sir. I shall give my horse another two
hours' rest, and shall then get over there easily by six o'clock."
After a brief consultation of a time-table to see the exact hour at
which the first train from London, which papa could catch, would reach
Rochester, the tanner took his leave. And papa packed up such things as
he would require, and then came into the dining-room--where I had gone
to sleep on the sofa--and called Polly out. He then shortly told her
what had happened, and enjoined her on no account to tell me, but to say
only when I woke that he had been sent for into the country, and that it
was a case which would keep him all night. He also left a short note,
saying that he should be detained another night, for her to give to me
the next evening should he not return; and he promised that if it should
occur that his absence was still further prolonged, he would himself
write to me to explain it in some way. These plans were carried out, and
I had not the least suspicion at the time that papa's absence was caused
by anything unusual; indeed it was some months afterwards before I heard
the truth of the matter.
When Dr. Ashleigh got down to Rochester, at a quarter past six, he found
the tanner waiting for him, according to agreement.
"How is he now?" he asked.
"Very bad, sir! Going fast, I should say."
They went out of the station, and through the town, and then out towards
the country.
When the houses became fewer, and there was no one to overhear them, the
doctor said, "You tell me that three men hired a cart of you: I suppose
you knew them before?"
"The other two I knew before, but not this one."
"You live here, then?"
"Yes, sir; I have a small tanyard. The truth is, sir, my father was a
tanner down in Essex. He's dead long since. As a boy, I never took to
the business, but was fonder of going about shooting,--yes, and
sometimes poaching. At last I married a farmer's daughter near, and was
pretty steady for a bit; still, sometimes I would go out with my old
mates, and once our party fell in with the gamekeepers. Some one fired a
gun, and then we had a regular fight, and there were some bad hurts
given on both sides. We got off then; but some of us were known, and so
I went straight up to London,--and there, sir, I met the men who were
here to-day, and a good many others like them, and got my living as I
best could. At last my wife, who had joined me in London, got news that
some relative had died and left her a little money. So she persuaded me
to give it all up; and as we heard of this little place being for sale,
we bought it and settled down here--that's three years ago. But I have
never been able quite to get rid of my old work. They knew where I was,
and threatened, if I did not help them, they would peach on me: so I
agreed that I would hide anything down here for which the scent was too
hot in London. Of course they pay me for it. But I mean to give it up;
this will be a good excuse, as it is a terrible risk. Besides, they have
not sent me down many things lately, so I expect they have found another
place more handy. At any rate, I mean to give it up now."
"Does your tanyard pay?"
"Just about pays, sir. You see I do most of the work myself, and only
have a man or two in now and then, as I dared not trust any one: but I
could do very well with it. I have a good bit of money--some my wife's,
and some that I have saved; but I did not dare to extend the place
before for fear that I might get seized at any time. But I have to-day
made up my mind that I will set to work at it on a better scale, and cut
the other work altogether. Here we are, sir; through this gate."
The door was opened by the tanner's wife.
"Thank God you are here, sir! I was afraid he would not last till you
came."
The doctor followed her upstairs to the wounded man's bedside. He would
not have known him again. There was not a vestige of colour now in his
face. His whole complexion was of a ghastly ashen hue, his cheeks had
shrunk and fallen in, deep lead-coloured rings surrounded his eyes, and
his lips were pinched and bloodless, and drawn back, showing the regular
teeth between them. His hands, which lay outside the coverlid, were
bloodless and thin, and the nails were a deep blue. A slight movement of
his eyes, and an occasional twitching of his fingers, were the only
signs of life which remained. Dr. Ashleigh shook his head, he could be
of no use here. Probably had he even seen him immediately after the
wound was given, he could have done but little; now he was beyond all
earthly skill. Dr. Ashleigh took his hand in his own, and felt the
pulse, which beat so lightly and flickeringly that its action could
hardly be perceived. He looked for a moment to see where the ball had
entered, not that it mattered much now; and then shook his head, and
turned to the others who were standing by.
"I am glad I came over," he said; "it is a satisfaction; but I can do
nothing for him now--he is sinking fast. I do not think he will live
another hour."
In less than an hour the change came: for a moment the doctor thought
the eyes expressed recognition; the lips moved, and the name of Sophy
was breathed out; and then the breath came fainter and at longer
intervals, the fingers twitched no more, the fluttering pulse ceased to
beat. Robert Gregory was dead.
Dr. Ashleigh went downstairs with the tanner and his wife, and asked
them what they intended to do about the body.
"I am thinking, sir, of putting some tramp's clothes on him, and laying
him out on some straw in one of the sheds, as if he had died there. Then
I shall go to the parish medical officer, whom I know something of, and
say that a tramp I gave leave to sleep for a night in my shed is dead;
that he gave me a pound he had in his pocket to take care of for him,
and that I will put what may be necessary to it in order that he may be
buried without coming upon the parish. I have no doubt that he will give
me the necessary certificate without any trouble. The most he will do
will be to send down his assistant; and in that dark shed, he is not
likely, with the minute's inspection he will give, to see anything out
of the ordinary way. Should the worst come to the worst, which is not
likely, I must make the best story out of it I can; if it come to the
worst of all----"
"Then you must say I was present at his death, and I will come forward
to clear you. But of course I should not wish it to be known I was here,
if it can possibly be avoided; both because his name would then come
out--which would be very painful for others--and for other reasons which
I cannot explain. Here is some money for the necessary expenses."
"No, sir," the man said, drawing back, "I have been very well paid,
indeed. What shall I have put on the grave?"
"Merely R. G., aged thirty. If at any time his friends choose to put up
a headstone with more upon it, they can do so; but that will be
sufficient to point out the place. And now goodbye, my friend, do as you
have told me you intend to do, and you will be far happier, as well as
your wife."
"I mean to, sir; I will never touch a dishonest penny again. And now,
sir, I will just walk with you far enough to put you in the straight
road for the train."
And so the doctor went back to London, getting there at about eleven
o'clock. He did not hear from the tanner for some time, but about three
months afterwards met him in Canterbury, to which town he had come over
to buy some bark. The man then said that he had quite given up the
receiver business, and become an honest man; that he had enlarged his
place, and now employed three or four men regularly, and was doing very
well. He said, too, that the funeral of Robert Gregory had passed off
without any difficulty, for that the parish officer had, as he
anticipated, given him a certificate of the death without taking the
trouble of going to see the body.