A Search For A Secret Volume Iii Part 15

Nor could the servants at Harmer Place give Mrs. Green any account of Sophy. They knew that something strange had taken place, but what they could not say. "A strange priest had arrived, and had, by her orders, been shown up to Miss Harmer's room; that was about half-past seven, and they heard nothing more of him till near eleven. Then the bell had rang violently, and the servant, on answering it, had found Miss Harmer alone, to her great surprise, for no one had heard the priest go out.

Her mistress had asked her if she had seen him, and she had answered that she had not, and had thought he was with her mistress. Miss Harmer had appeared very much agitated, and had told her to call another servant, and to go down into the hall, and that they would find a sort of door open by the side of the fireplace, and a flight of steps; they were to call out loudly at the bottom of these, and if they received no answer, were to come up to tell her.

"Rather scared, thinking that their mistress had gone out of her mind, and wondering over the mysterious disappearance of the strange priest, the women had done as she had ordered, but had found no signs of the door she spoke of, and had gone up, with white faces, to tell their mistress so. Miss Harmer had been still more agitated, and had said to herself, 'He must have let the door close behind him, and cannot open it from the inside;' and then, after a minute, wrung her hands and cried out, 'Oh, my dream! my dream! What has happened to him? has it been as I thought? has the spirit----' and then she had broken off, and told them to dress her somewhat, and to call the men-servants, for that she must be carried down into the hall at once. Greatly scared by all this strange mystery, and believing that their mistress was delirious, they were still afraid to disobey her, and had just commenced carrying out her instructions, when Father Eustace arrived. He had at once gone up into Miss Harmer's room, and had a short conversation with her; what had been its import the servants could not tell, but both parties seemed greatly excited. The priest had then run downstairs again, very pale, and evidently much agitated, had called for a light, knelt down at the hall fireplace, picked up one of the iron dogs'-tongues which was lying on the hearth, and pushed it into its place; he had then risen, and put his hand up the chimney, and immediately a small door, that none of them had ever seen before, had flown open by the side of the fireplace.

Father Eustace had s.n.a.t.c.hed up the candle, and ran up some steps which went up behind it; he had been away a minute or two, and then came down again, looking out of his senses, and rushed wildly upstairs to Miss Harmer's room. He had only stayed there a moment, and said a word or two to her; but their mistress had given a terrible cry, and fallen back like dead upon her bed, while the priest had run downstairs again, calling to them to look to Miss Harmer, had leapt into the gig, and driven off again, telling his servant to drive for his life." This was all they knew; what it was all about they could not even guess; but judging from the priest's and their mistress's faces, something very terrible. As to Father Eustace's maid-servant, they knew nothing, and indeed had not heard until the next day that she was missing.

Mrs. Green had therefore remained in a state of terrible anxiety concerning Sophy, until she received my summons; and, bad as the reality was, she almost felt it a relief after the agony of suspense she had before endured. She came over immediately to the barracks, and at once took the responsibility off my hands, never leaving her night or day, and nursing her with a mother's tenderness; and as Sophy had, besides, the nurse I had before engaged, my services could be now, to a certain extent, dispensed with, and I was therefore enabled to go back of an evening to Mrs. Mapleside's, and to sleep there, returning to take my place by Sophy's bedside early in the morning. But still it was a terrible week, believing, as I did, that her illness could have but one termination, or that at best--if it could be called best--even should her life be spared, that her reason was gone for ever.

But G.o.d in His infinite mercy willed it otherwise.

At the end of a week Sophy fell into a long sleep, so quiet and still, that I several times leaned over her to see that she still breathed.

This sleep the doctors said was the crisis of her illness, and upon the state in which she woke depended her life and reason.

Very long she lay so; the time seeming even longer than it was, to us watching by her side, longing for, and yet fearing, her waking. At last she moved slightly, and her eyes opened. I leant over her and saw that she knew me.

"Do not try to talk, dear," I said; "you have been ill, but are better now, do not trouble about anything. I am here to watch you, and your kind nurse, Mrs. Green, is beside you."

The old woman gently took one of Sophy's hands in her own; she could not speak, for she was crying now with joy and thankfulness.

Sophy gave a very faint smile of pleasure and recognition, and then taking a little medicine, which the doctor had prepared in readiness for her waking, she closed her eyes, and was soon again asleep.

A great burden was lifted from our hearts, for the doctor said that he had every hope now, for that nature had made a wonderful effort, that he believed she was saved, body and mind.

This time she slept about two hours, and when she woke, even my unpractised eye could see that she was decidedly better than before.

After the first faint look of pleased recognition at Mrs. Green and myself, and a little pressure of the fingers we held in ours, she lay quite quiet, but with her eyes open as if thinking. Then they wandered over the room as if in vague wonder as to where she was. Presently she spoke in a voice which sounded strangely low and weak, after the loud ravings and terrible screams of the past week.

"Where am I? What has happened?"

"You have been very ill, darling," I said soothingly, "but you will be better now. Do not wonder or trouble about anything; you are with friends, and when you get strong enough, you shall hear all about it."

She was quiet for a while again, and lay with no expression beyond a thoughtful wonder in her eyes, gradually she closed them again, and I hoped that she was going to doze off. But presently they opened suddenly, and she said, in a voice so loud and sharp in comparison with that in which she had before spoken, that it quite startled me, "Where is the will?"

"It is quite safe, dearest; all is well; do not think more about it now, you shall hear all in good time."

Sophy lay quiet for a while, but I could see that she was not satisfied; and then she asked again, "where is it?"

"In Mr. Petersfield's hands, dear, so you need not feel uneasy about it.

It will never be lost again."

A look of pleasure came across Sophy's face. "Thank G.o.d," she murmured, and then closed her eyes, and was soon asleep again.

From that time Sophy recovered rapidly; in ten days she was able to be removed from barracks, and in a month was strong enough to be taken up to London, to stay with me at Polly's, where her little boy was to meet her.

Upon the very day when life was coming back to Sophy, and she was s.n.a.t.c.hed as it were from the grasp of death, Miss Harmer pa.s.sed away.

How she died I never heard, but I have no doubt bravely and trustfully.

She had, according to her light, fought for eighty years, a good fight, and had held the faith; and although the battle was in the end lost, and the purpose of her life frustrated, still I doubt not that she died, if angry and grieved, as I can well believe she was, at the failure of the schemes from which she had hoped so much, yet of good conscience and a fair hope that she would reap the reward of a life spent in the service of her beloved Church, and at length, after her long weary life's struggle, attain peace in the world to come.

Mr. Petersfield, at her death, wrote to her lawyers, inclosing a copy of the will, and took the necessary steps for proving it. Of course delays and difficulties arose, but as there was no one to oppose, it took less time to arrange matters than might have been antic.i.p.ated, more especially with respect to the acc.u.mulations. But it appeared, that strangely enough--probably with the constant dread before her eyes, that the secret would be some day supernaturally disclosed to Polly, and the will discovered--Miss Harmer had never touched one penny of the rents or interest arising from the property left by her brother; but by her direction a separate account had been opened at the bank, to which these moneys had been regularly paid in, and in these seven years the property had acc.u.mulated to nearly a third more than the original account. In consequence our shares had increased from 25,000 each to over 32,000.

From the order and regularity with which everything had been kept, and the absence of any opposition whatever, in about two months from the time of Miss Harmer's death, Mr. Petersfield, who had exerted himself very much in the matter, told us that it now only required our signatures to obtain our respective shares of the property.

Mr. Petersfield besides acting as our man of business in the affair, was one of the executors; for Mr. Ransome and papa, who were the two originally named, being both dead, he, with James Fielding, who was appointed at Sophy's request, acted as executors, and arranged the whole business with as little trouble to us as possible.

In accordance with the terms of the will, as soon as we were fairly in possession, Harmer Place was ordered to be pulled down, and the estate, which was part of Sophy's share, was by her wishes, soon afterwards advertised to be sold.

And so at last we were really rich. I could hardly believe that it was true; for I had for so long given up all hopes of ever finding the will.

However, I was very glad for all our sakes that it was so, and I was very pleased to think that dear Polly was now placed beyond all possibility of a reverse of fortune; for Charley insisted on executing a deed settling the whole of her share upon her; not, as he said, that he had any reason to fear such an event--for he was doing a capital business--still it was as well to be prepared for all possible eventualities.

And so Sophy and I left Canterbury together, but with very different feelings in so doing. I with some little regret, for I dearly loved the old town where I had lived so many happy years; and to which I had gone back as to a haven of rest, in the time of my great sorrow. How different were my feelings now from those with which I had come down little more than a year before! Then I believed that all hope was for ever dead, that my life, as far as pleasure and happiness were concerned was over; and that the most I could ever look forward to or strive for, was a chastened content in my lonely life. But now how bright was my prospect! with Percy alive and soon to return, with every obstacle to our union cleared away, with a happy, happy future with him to look forward to! And yet, happy as I was, as I looked from the window of the train, and caught the last sight of the dear old town, and its stately cathedral, I could not help a little sigh of regret at leaving it, and all the friends who had been so kind to me in my hour of sadness.

But with Sophy it was quite otherwise, and she gave what she told me was a sigh of relief at leaving it for ever behind. The place was to her hateful, every a.s.sociation connected with it full of pain, and she felt happy in the thought that she was leaving it never to return.

Polly and Charley received us joyfully at Putney, and I was very, very glad to be with them. Polly was a mother now, a son having been born to her a few days after the will was found. The meeting between Sophy and her child was very pitiful; she kissed him and cried over him, while the little fellow, in his joy at seeing her again, could not understand her tears, and could only stroke her thin cheeks and say, "Don't cry, mammy; mammy has got her little Jamie again, she must not cry any more."

Sophy stayed with us for a week, and then took rooms near us. She was still pale and weak, and did not gain strength as she should have done.

She never spoke of the past, except upon one occasion before we came up to town, when she related to me the whole circ.u.mstances of her finding the will; except on that occasion she never mentioned the past, and the slightest allusion to it excited a nervous horror in her, and greatly r.e.t.a.r.ded her recovery. The medical men said that her brain had not recovered from the terrible strain upon it, and that a perfect change was necessary, and a total absence of anything which might, by recalling the past, tend to excite her.

Accordingly, about two months after coming up to town, she started for the continent, taking with her a maid, and a young lady as governess for her little boy, and companion to herself, and accompanied by James Fielding and his wife, who were only going for a short time, but who took charge of her as far as Florence, which was her destination, at any rate for the present.

Her letters tell me that she is much better, and that she is happy with her boy. She has spent a fortnight with her old friends, leaving her companion and maid at Florence, and living with them as before as one of themselves. I earnestly hope that this improvement may continue, and that Sophy may have happy days yet in store for her. Poor girl, she has indeed suffered sorely, and has paid dearly for the fault she committed.

And yet I have always thought that the fault was not all hers, and that had it not been for the harsh verdict of society against her, she would never have fallen so easy a victim to the snares of Robert Gregory, at a time when her wounded feelings led her to cling to any one who would show her kindness. However, I may be mistaken. Society certainly never took any of the blame of her misdeeds upon itself, and she alone has paid the penalty. I trust that that penalty is now paid in full, and that her future life may in some sort atone to her for the unhappiness of the past.

In due course I received a letter from Harry, in answer to mine announcing the recovery of the will. He said that he was delighted to hear of it, not so much for his own sake as for that of his wife, for that the climate of Australia did not suit her; the hot winds and sudden changes were very trying to her const.i.tution, and he should therefore, as soon as he could be relieved, return to England, and carry out his original plan of buying a partners.h.i.+p in a good firm in London.

And now I have only myself to speak of, and in that I shall be exceedingly brief. My happiness is far too great to speak of--too perfect to describe.

Little more than a month after I returned to Putney, I received a letter from Percy, now long since become Captain Desborough, saying that he should sail for England by the next mail, that he should, as he had warned me, claim me at once, and that he hoped I would not keep him more than a fortnight waiting.

Although he had not received my letter telling him of my late-found wealth, yet he knew that there would be no cloud to dim the brightness of our happiness, for he had long since heard from his mother of the determination she had arrived at, on hearing of his being alive, that she would no longer in any way oppose our union. In due time Percy came home. I cannot tell how we met. That happiness is too deep, too sacred to be described.

Percy was somewhat changed, the terrible trials and anxiety he underwent have told upon his const.i.tution, and the doctors have recommended him to leave the army, and to lead a quiet life, at any rate for the present.

To this he has acceded, and intends at the end of his two years' leave of absence to sell out. However, in the short time he has been at home, he has greatly recovered his strength, and will I trust soon be as strong as ever.

He talks of going into Parliament, for Percy is of too energetic a nature to rest content with a life of perfect idleness. Lady Desborough, Ada, and I encourage him in the idea, and, of course, prophesy great things of him.

We have now been married three months. He is sitting beside me, and even with his dear, dear face looking at me I can hardly believe that it is indeed all true, that it is not a mere happy dream.

I have finished my story, such as it is, and glancing over the earlier pages, I can hardly, in my present happiness, believe that they are mine, or understand the sad feelings with which I then wrote it. Were I to begin again now, it would be written in a very different strain; but that cannot be. The occupation of recording my history has served its purpose, and cheered and occupied me at a time when I sorely needed consolation.

Percy is telling me that if I go on writing any more, he shall begin to think he has married a blue-stocking. So I must end now, with a fervent feeling of thankfulness for the great mercies which have been vouchsafed to me; which have dissipated all the dark clouds which hung over me, and have changed an existence which promised to be a very sad one, into a life of as perfect happiness as ever falls to the lot of mortals upon earth.