A YOUNG WIDOW.
The next morning Dr. Ashleigh started from his hotel after breakfast to
see Sophy Gregory. He shrank from what he had to do, for he knew what a
terrible shock it must be to her, and he remembered how ill she had
been, and how nearly she had gone out of her mind a year before, under
the blow of the news of Mr. Harmer's sudden death. But there was no help
for it: it was evident that she must be told. He knew where she lived,
as letters had been exchanged several times, up to the last, which had
conveyed the news of the failure of the attempt to find the will in the
secret chamber. Of course, it was possible that they might have since
changed their abode; but if so, the people at their last lodgings would
be certain to know their present address. However, this doubt was at
once removed by the reply to his question, "Is Mrs. Gregory in?"
"Yes, sir, but she is in bed."
"In bed!" the doctor said, rather surprised. "Is she not well?"
"Don't you know, sir, she had a little baby last week?"
"God bless me!" was all the doctor could say; for Sophy had not in her
last letter, which, indeed, had been written some time before, made any
mention of her expecting such a thing. "Will you be good enough to tell
her that Dr. Ashleigh is here, and ask her if she will see him; and do
not mention that I did not know of her confinement."
The doctor was shown into the little parlour, where he sat down while
Mrs. Billow went in to tell Sophy that he was there. As he looked round
on the pictures which he remembered hanging in such a different room, he
wondered to himself whether the advent of this little child, who was
fatherless now, was for the better or no; and he came to the conclusion
that it was. Sophy would have two mouths to feed instead of one, but it
would be surely a comfort to her--something to cling to and love, under
this terrible blow which he had to give her.
In about five minutes Mrs. Billow came in, and said that Mrs. Gregory
was ready to see him now.
"She is rather low to-day, sir," she said, "for Mr. Gregory went away
the day before yesterday, and said he should be back yesterday; but he
has not come back, and Mrs. Gregory is fretting like about it."
Dr. Ashleigh went into the little room where Sophy was. She was sitting
up in bed, in a white wrapper, and her baby was asleep beside her. She
looked, Dr. Ashleigh thought, years older than when he had seen her
fifteen months before. She had a worn look, although the flush of
pleasure and surprise which his coming had called up in her cheek made
her quite pretty for the moment.
"Oh, Dr. Ashleigh," she said, "how kind of you to come and see me! how
very kind! I suppose you had heard of my confinement. Is it not a fine
little fellow?" and she uncovered the baby's face, that the doctor might
see it. "Robert did not tell me that he had written to you. I suppose he
wanted to surprise me. I am so sorry he is away: he is not often away,
Dr. Ashleigh--very, very seldom--and then always on business. He is very
kind to me."
The doctor was greatly touched, accustomed as he was, and as all medical
men must be, to scenes of pain and grief; yet there was something very
touching in her pleading now for her husband, for whose sake she had
gone through so much, and who was now lying dead, although she knew it
not. He could hardly command his voice to speak steadily, as he
answered,--
"I am very glad to see you again, Sophy, and I came up specially to do
so; but I did not know till I came to the door that you were confined,
or were even expecting it; but I am very glad, for your sake, that it is
so, and that you have got over it so well."
Dr. Ashleigh spoke very kindly, but Sophy at once detected a certain
gravity in his manner.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked at once.
Dr. Ashleigh hardly knew what answer to make, and hesitated for a moment
whether it would not be better to defer the communication of the fatal
intelligence for a few days; but the thought of the anxiety Sophy would
suffer from Robert's continued and unexplained silence, decided him; for
he thought she would probably pine and fret so much, that in a short
time she would be in a state even less fitted to stand the blow than she
was at present.
"My dear Sophy," he said, sitting down upon the bed, and taking her hand
in his, "since I last saw you, things have greatly changed with us all.
With you I need not say how much--with us also greatly."
"I am so sorry----" Sophy began, as if about to lament the share she had
had in all this.
"My dear Sophy, we do not blame you. That was all over long ago; nor
could you, at any rate, have possibly foreseen that my children could
have been injured by anything you might have done to displease Mr.
Harmer. Humanly speaking, the contrary effect might have been
anticipated. I only say that great changes have taken place. Your little
friend Polly has grown into a very dear, lovable, clever woman; while
Agnes has suffered very much. Her engagement with Mr. Desborough has
been broken off, and she has been very ill. However, by God's mercy, she
has been spared to us, but she is still in a sadly weak state."
"But there is something else, doctor--is there not?--some new
misfortune? It cannot be about Robert?" she said, anxiously; "you could
not have heard anything of him?"
Dr. Ashleigh was silent.
"It is, then! Oh, tell me what it is!"
"My dear Sophy, you have judged rightly. I do come to tell you about
Robert, but you must be calm and collected. Remember that any excitement
on your part now would be most injurious to your child--remember that
any illness on your part means death on his."
Sophy, with a great effort, controlled herself, and sat very quiet. The
colour had faded from her cheeks now, and the marks of care seemed to
come back again very plain and deep; then, after waiting a minute or
two, until she felt herself quite quiet, she laid one hand on the cheek
of her sleeping baby, and looked up appealingly into Dr. Ashleigh's
face.
"My dear Sophy, your husband has met with an accident, and is seriously
injured."
Sophy's cheeks were as white, now, as the dress she wore; she spoke not,
although her lips were parted, but her eyes--at all times large, and now
looking unnaturally so from the thinness of her cheeks--begged for more
news.
"I'm afraid he is very ill," the doctor said.
"I must go to him!" she panted out; "I must go to him!" and she made an
effort to rise.
"You cannot," Dr. Ashleigh said; "you cannot; it would kill you. Bear it
bravely, Sophy; keep quiet, my child, for your own sake and your
baby's."
Again Sophy's hand went back to the infant's face, from which in her
effort to rise she had for a moment withdrawn it, and rested on the soft
unconscious cheek, but she never took her eyes from the doctor's face.
At last she said, in a strange far-off sort of voice,--
"Tell me the worst--Is he dead?"
She read the answer in his face, and gave a low short cry; and then was
silent, but her eyes no longer looked at him, but gazed with a blank
horror into the distance, as if they sought to penetrate all obstacles,
and to seek her dead husband.
"Comfort yourself, my poor child," Dr. Ashleigh said tenderly; "God has
stricken you grievously, but he has given you your child to love."
Sophy made no answer; she neither heard nor saw him, but sat rigid and
stiff, the picture of mute despair. Two or three times the doctor spoke
to her, but nothing betokened that she heard him. He raised her hand,
which was laying motionless in his; he let it go, and it fell lifelessly
on the bed again. He began to be seriously alarmed--he feared that she
would awaken from this state with a succession of wild shrieks, and then
a series of fainting fits, the termination of which in her condition
would probably be death. In the hopes of acting upon her newborn
feelings of maternity, he took the child up, and placed it against her,
but the arms made no movement to enclose or support it; she showed no
sign of consciousness of what he was doing. Then he slightly pinched the
child's arm, and it woke with a loud wailing cry. In an instant a change
passed over the rigid face; a human light came into the stony fixed
eyes; and with a little cry, and a quick convulsive movement, she
clasped the child to her breast, leaned over it, and her tears rained
down freely now, as she swayed herself to and fro, and hushed it to her
bosom.
Dr. Ashleigh knew that the worst was over now, and for a time he let her
grief have its way undisturbed; he then persuaded her to lie down, and,
enfeebled as she was by her recent illness, in less than an hour she
cried herself to sleep.
The doctor sat by her side until she awoke, which was not for some time,
and when she did so she was calmer and more composed. He then talked to
her very soothingly, but did not enter into any of the details of her
husband's death, beyond the fact that it was the result of an accident,
and that he had died at Rochester, and would be buried there; that he
had sent for him, and that he had been with him to the end, and that her
name had been the last word on his lips. The doctor told her he would
return again in a few days to see her, and that she must not disquiet
herself about the future, for that he would take care of her and her
child as if they were his own.
Sophy answered dreamily, although gratefully, to all he said, but she
was at present too much stunned by the blow to be capable of fixing her
attention; indeed, she scarce understood his words. While Sophy was
asleep, Dr. Ashleigh had gone out and told the news to Mrs. Billow; she
was deeply concerned at it, although her regret was evidently more for
Sophy's sake than for that of her husband. She readily promised to do
all in her power to soothe and comfort Sophy, and said she was sure that
as soon as she felt equal to it, one or other of her kind neighbours
would be glad to come over and sit with her; and she promised that
should Sophy be taken worse, she would immediately telegraph for Dr.
Ashleigh.
The doctor stayed till late in the afternoon, and then drove round to
Sophy's medical attendant to tell him that she had just received the
news of her husband's death, and to bespeak his best care and attention
on her behalf. He afterwards returned to the station, and reached home
at nine o'clock. I was very pleased to see him back again, for it was
not often that he was away so long as thirty hours; however, I did not
ask any questions, and he did not volunteer, as he usually did, any
account of his doings; and so I had no idea that he had been to more
than an ordinary visit, demanding unusual time and attention; and, as I
have before said, it was some months afterwards before I was told of
Robert Gregory's death.
It was fortunate, as it turned out, that papa got back that evening, for
while we were at breakfast next morning a servant brought over a letter
from Miss Harmer. It was written on the previous evening, and said that
as she had declined to see him on the day before when he had called, he
might feel a difficulty in coming now to see her; but that she had a
particular matter on which she was very anxious to speak to him.
I have forgotten to say that when papa came home the evening before, we
had the news to give him, which indeed he had quite expected to hear,
that Angela Harmer had died the previous evening.
Papa had a strong suspicion what it was that Miss Harmer wished to see
him about. While the horses were being put into the carriage, he had a
little consultation with Polly in his study, and they agreed that for
Sophy's sake he should try to lull as far as possible any suspicions
Miss Harmer might entertain of Robert's having had a part in the affair.
Besides, it was quite certain that unless any suspicions which she might
have were laid at rest, she would at last destroy the will,--although
that was a very secondary matter now, as there did not seem the most
remote probability of its ever coming to light, even if it should be in
existence, for years. Papa then started for Harmer Place, and on
arriving was shown at once into the drawing-room, orders evidently
having been given to that effect; in a few minutes Miss Harmer joined
him. Her forehead was bandaged up, and her general aspect was more stiff
and forbidding than ever. After the first few remarks were over, she
proceeded at once to the point.
"It would be a strange step to have taken, Dr. Ashleigh, in the position
in which we stand to each other, for me to have asked you to have come
over here, had I not had very powerful reasons for so doing. But it
appears to me that I have, for I have very strong suspicions concerning
the events which have taken place here in the last two days. Have you
heard the particulars?"
"Yes, Miss Harmer; when I called here the day before yesterday, Dr.
Sadman gave me the details of them, so far as he knew."
"Did you hear that these burglars--" and Miss Harmer strongly emphasized
the word--"did not attempt to take anything downstairs?" The doctor
bowed assent. "Did you hear that they tortured my sister to make her
tell them something?"
"I did, Miss Harmer. I have before heard of people being threatened, or
even absolutely tortured, to oblige them to tell where their valuables
are concealed; but it is a very rare occurrence, and surprised me at the
time, almost as much as it shocked me. As a general thing, burglars when
they attempt a robbery, ascertain previously where the valuables are
kept, and act accordingly. It is possible that in this case it was not
so. These men may have been merely passing vagrants, or they may have
been thieves from London, who may have heard that there was a very fine
collection of plate here. Taking into consideration the lonely position
of the place, and the fact that the only males in it are servants who
sleep in a remote corner of the house, they may have thought that it
would be at once quicker, and would save them the trouble of breaking
open a number of doors in the search for the plate-closet, to come at
once to the owners, whom, they imagined, would readily be frightened
into revealing its exact whereabouts."
"Your supposition, Dr. Ashleigh, is nearly that of the detective who has
been sent down here, and who, knowing nothing of my private affairs,
could not without a clue come to any other conclusion. He says it was a
strange and unusual, although not an unprecedented affair. This clue I
have not yet given him, although I intend to do so upon leaving this
room, as I have not the least doubt in my own mind that my suspicions
are correct. My sister, Dr. Ashleigh, was not tortured to tell where any
plate was hidden: she was treated as she was to make her divulge the
supposed hiding-place of what--in spite of all we can say--it still
appears that some of you persist in believing to be in existence,--I
mean my late brother's will."
Dr. Ashleigh made a movement of astonishment.
"Yes, Dr. Ashleigh, I have no doubt that it was so. I need not say that
I do not for a moment suspect you or yours of having the slightest
knowledge or complicity in this villainous plot, to which my poor sister
has fallen a victim; but there is another who is interested in this
supposed will, and who to the murder of my brother has now added the
murder of my poor sister. I mean Robert Gregory. Thank God, the law can
and will avenge this murder, if it could not the other."
"Miss Harmer," papa said very quietly, "you have had much to agitate and
trouble you, and I am not therefore surprised at your thus fixing upon
him; indeed in the way you put it, it does seem reasonable; but I
believe that you will regret your hastiness when I tell you that you are
actually accusing a dead man."
"Dead!--Robert Gregory dead!" Miss Harmer exclaimed, greatly astonished;
"I had no idea of that. How long has he been dead?"
"Only a short time," Dr. Ashleigh answered. "I am not surprised that you
are ignorant of the fact, for it is hardly likely that Sophy would have
written to tell you. This poor young widow was only confined last week.
I had to go to town on business, after I left here the day before
yesterday, and I called to see her and her child. She has been keeping
herself, until she was confined, by giving lessons in music."
"Did you know of her husband's death before you saw her then?" Miss
Harmer asked.
"Most assuredly I did," the doctor answered; "I heard of it at the time
when he died. And now, Miss Harmer, I trust that I have quite dissipated
your suspicions. Robert Gregory is dead, his wife is on a sick bed, and
my children, you acknowledge, are very unlikely to have entered into a
plot of this sort."
"Quite, Dr. Ashleigh; in fact it cannot be otherwise; and I am
exceedingly glad that I spoke to you before putting the matter into the
hands of the detective, for it would have perhaps put him off the right
clue, and would have led to the discussion of very painful matters.
About Sophy"--and here she hesitated--"Is she in very bad circumstances?
Because, even looking at her in the way I do, and always shall do, as my
brother's murderess, I should not like her to----"
"You need not be uneasy on that score Miss Harmer," papa said rather
coldly, "I have already told Sophy that my house is a home for her and
her child, whenever she may choose to come. Whether she will use it as
such, I cannot say; but I think I can assert with certainty that she
would rather lay her head in the streets than owe a shelter to your
favour. Is there anything else you wish to ask me about, or in which I
can be of any service to you?"
"Nothing, Dr. Ashleigh. I really feel much obliged to you for having set
my mind at rest upon a point which has been troubling me much for the
last three days. Indeed, by the information that this bad man has gone
to his end, you have set me greatly at ease on my own account;
for--believing as I did that he was the perpetrator of this dreadful
deed--I should have never felt safe until he had met with his deserts at
the hand of the law that some such murderous attack might not have been
perpetrated upon me. I am, I believe, no coward; still, with the idea
that it was my life or his in question, I should have offered a reward
for his apprehension which would have set every policeman in England on
the look-out for him. I am glad to hear that your daughter Agnes is
better. Goodbye, Dr. Ashleigh; I am sorry that we cannot be friends, but
at least we need not be enemies." She held out her hand to Dr. Ashleigh,
which he took, and then retired, well pleased that he had, without any
actual sacrifice of the truth, been enabled to save Sophy, and perhaps
some day Sophy's child, from the pain and shame of the exposure which
must have followed, had not Miss Harmer's suspicions been averted.
On the following week papa again went up to London to see Sophy. He
found her recovering from the blow; still pale and thin, but upon the
whole as well as could have been expected. Papa again offered her a home
with us, but she declined, gratefully but decidedly; she had, she said,
even when it was supposed that she was an heiress, been looked down upon
on account of the misfortune of her birth; and now, with the story of
her elopement and Mr. Harmer's sudden death fresh on the memory, she
would rather beg her bread in the streets than live there.
"Would she accept money for her present uses?"
Again she thanked papa, but declined. "She had," she said, "plenty of
money; she had been putting by nearly four pounds a week for ten months,
and was therefore provided for for a long time." All that she would
promise at last was, that if she should ever be really in distress for
money, she would not hesitate to write and apply to him for it. When
this point had been discussed at length, Sophy insisted upon knowing all
particulars of Robert's death, and papa--after in vain endeavouring to
persuade her to be content with what she knew already--was obliged at
last to tell her, softening all the worst points as much as he could;
and saying only that Robert had gone at night with two men, in the hopes
of frightening Angela Harmer into disclosing where the will was hidden;
how they had been disturbed by Miss Harmer, who had fired a pistol,
which had wounded Robert, and how he had been carried to Rochester to
die. He told her, too--for he feared she might see it in the
papers--that Angela Harmer had died the same evening from the fright,
but he suppressed all mention of the cruelty or violence. He partly told
her how Miss Harmer had entertained suspicions of the truth, and how he
had, he believed, succeeded in laying them at rest, and that he felt
sure that the subject would not be pursued further in that direction;
still, for her sake and the child's, should any one, under any pretence
or other, come and make inquiries as to the date of Robert's death, that
she should mention that it took place a short time earlier than it
really did.
Sophy heard the doctor through more tranquilly than he had expected. She
asked a few questions here and there, but was very pale and composed.
When he had quite done, she said,--
"You do not surprise me, Dr. Ashleigh. My husband has so frequently
asked me questions about the positions of the different rooms, and has
so often said that he would try for it some day, that when you came and
told me that he was killed by accident, and did not say how, or when, or
where, I guessed that it was somehow in trying to get the will. If you
please, we will not say any more about it now; I want to think it all
over, and my head aches sadly. I am much obliged to you for all your
kindness."
And so Sophy held out her hand, and papa came away, still very uneasy
about her, and repeating his former direction to Mrs. Billow to send for
him at once in the event of Sophy being taken ill.
A week after, a letter came from Sophy to me. It began by again thanking
papa for his kindness to her, but saying that she was determined, if
possible, to earn a living for herself and child; should she, however,
from illness or other cause, fail in the attempt, she would then, for
her child's sake, accept his kindness. The letter went on--
"My child will be one chief object of my life; and I have
another, in the success of which he will be interested. I am
determined, next to my child, to devote my life to finding the
stolen will. You have tried, and failed. Robert tried, and laid
down his life in the attempt. I alone, by whose conduct the
will was lost, have not tried; but I will do so; it shall be
the purpose of my life. Every thought and energy shall be given
to it, for the sake of my child, and of you who have innocently
been punished for my fault. I am not going to act now; I know
it would be useless; but some day--it may be years on--some day
I will try, and when I do I will succeed. Do not seek to
dissuade me from this; my determination is irrevocable."
We did write, and tried to argue with her. She answered briefly, that
nothing would alter her resolve. From time to time we exchanged letters,
but at longer intervals, until at last she did not answer one of mine,
and from that time years past before I again heard of Sophy Gregory.
END OF VOL. II.
End of Project Gutenberg's A Search For A Secret (Vol 2 of 3), by G. A. Henty