by G. A. Henty
CHAPTER II.
SWIFT RETRIBUTION.
Sophy Gregory might have excited pity even in the minds of her enemiescould 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 tohear the reading of the will of Mr. Harmer. The week which had passedsince she left home had indeed been a terrible one. Her punishment hadfollowed, bitter and heavy, ere the fault was scarce committed. Only oneday of happiness and life, and then that crushing blow which met her thevery day after her marriage, in the words of the telegraphic message,"Mr. Harmer is dead." It had reached them at York, where, afterwandering through the old streets, they had come back to their hotel tolunch. It lay upon their table. Robert had opened it eagerly. Sophyneeded not that he should tell her what were its contents. The suddenstart, the deadly pallor, the look of horror that he could not control,told their tale too plainly. Her grandfather was dead; she had killedhim.
She did not faint, she did not scream; one faint, low, wailing cry brokefrom her, and then she stood, rigid and immovable, her eyes open andstaring, her lips parted, and every vestige of colour gone from herface. One hand clasped her throat; the other, clenched and rigid, restedon the table.
Robert Gregory forgot his own heavy interest in the news, forgot that afortune might have been gained or lost by the few words of thattelegram. Sophy's face frightened him as he had never been frightenedbefore. He spoke to her, he called her every loving name; but it was ofno 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 breakinto dreadful shrieks--her reason might be gone. What was he to do? Hepealed at the bell, and then went to the door, and told the waiter whoanswered it to beg the landlady to come up instantly. In another minutethe landlady arrived, all of a fluster--as she afterwards expressed itwhen describing the matter--at this sudden summons, and at the briefaccount the waiter had given her of the manner of Robert Gregory.
"My wife has had a terrible shock; she has just heard of the suddendeath of her father, and I don't know what to do with her. She does nothear me; I am afraid she is going to be ill or something terrible. ForGod's sake speak to her, or do something or other." Such was the hurriedgreeting which met her at the door.
The landlady was somewhat accustomed to sudden emergencies, but she sawat a glance that this was beyond her, and she said to the waiter, whohad followed her up, to hear, if possible, what was the matter,--
"James, the lady is ill. Send Hannah here with some cold water, and myscent bottle, and run across to Dr. Cope's opposite, and tell him tocome 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 yourhusband's sake; try and rouse yourself, dear." But it was no use. Therewas a slight, a very slight quiver of the eyelids, but no other sign oflife or movement.
The landlady paused. She was almost as much frightened at Sophy's faceas Robert Gregory had been, and she dared not touch the rigid hand. Theystood, one on each side of her, watching her helplessly; with facesalmost as much blanched by apprehension as was her own and listeningbreathlessly for the footstep of the doctor outside. It was not long incoming, 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 ata glance.
"A sudden shock?" he asked; and then gave orders to the servant to bringsuch things as were necessary. Then he spoke to Sophy, and put hisfinger upon the motionless wrist. "It is a serious case, sir," he saidto Robert, "very serious; the shock to the brain has been very great. Imust bleed her; it is the only thing to be done. Help me to place herupon the sofa."
Between them they gently lifted the rigid figure and placed her, halfsitting, 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 noblood 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 anxiouslyat the doctor, who, with his fingers on her pulse, was watching Sophy'sface. Presently a change came over the stony expression, the eyes losttheir fixed look, the eyelids began to droop down, and the whole figureto yield; then, as she fell back on the sofa, he prepared to stop thebleeding.
It had had its effect; Sophy had fainted. The first crisis was over, butnot as yet was the danger past. Very anxiously they watched her waking,and intense was the relief when they found that she was conscious ofwhat had happened; but there were still grave apprehensions for thefuture. Weak as she was, she was in a state of almost delirious griefand excitement; indeed, at times her mind wandered.
No reproaches which the Misses Harmer had lavished upon her wereone-tenth as severe as those she bestowed upon herself. Over and overagain she called herself her grandfather's murderess. Constantly shepictured up harrowing scenes of his death, and how he had died, invokingthe 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 godown to Canterbury to hear the particulars.
The doctor had a long talk next day with Robert, who explained, to someextent, the facts of the case.
"I hardly know what to do, Mr. Gregory. Your wife is in a most criticalstate. She has set her mind upon going to London, and ill as she is, Ialmost question whether there would not be less danger in her doing sothan remaining here in her present state of nervous anxiety. It is mostessential that, if possible, her mind should be relieved of the presentstrain, and that she should obtain some intelligence as to the lastmoments 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 inthat case he may not--probably would not--have said anything againsther. This alone would be a relief to her; and, at any rate, she would bepacified 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 itscharacter may be modified if her present anxiety is to some extentallayed. By applying to-day at the railway office, you can have acarriage with a sleeping couch ready by to-morrow, and I should adviseyour 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 havebeen anticipated; indeed, the very fact that she was getting nearer toCanterbury soothed and satisfied her. But she was still in an almostdelirious state of remorse and grief. The doctor who was called in toher had shaken his head in talking over her case with her husband, andhad told him that unless her mind could be relieved from the terribleweight upon it, he would not answer for her reason.
And so, leaving a nurse to take care of Sophy, Robert Gregory went downto Canterbury and saw Dr. Ashleigh. The news which he brought back ofMr. Harmer's forgiveness before his death, saved her from an attack ofbrain fever, if not from entire loss of reason. And yet, although itallayed her fears, and relieved her mind of the harrowing pictures ofher grandfather's death which she had before conjured up so constantly,it scarcely lessened her sorrow and remorse; indeed, the knowledge thathis forgiveness had been so instant, and his last thoughts those ofkindness to her, caused her to reproach herself more than ever; but hergrief was now quieter, and the doctor believed that she would escape thefever he had feared for her. She could now shed tears, and in long andbitter fits of crying found exhaustion and relief. In another two orthree days she was calmer and better.
Robert had been everything which was kind and consoling to her, and verygentle and thoughtful in his talk and manners. In her wildest outburstsof grief she had never blamed him for his share in her fault, and wouldnot listen to the reproaches which, in the hope of relieving herconscience somewhat, he would have gladly bestowed upon himself. Butthis Sophy w
ould not allow. He had not deceived a benefactor; he hadbeen actuated only by his love for her, and his entreaties for her toelope with him had been but natural; it was she only who had been wrongand wicked in neglecting her plain duty, and in deceiving her more thanfather; 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 downto the funeral, and she waited and thought all those long hours that hewas abroad. She thought a good deal of the future, and planned that theyshould go upon the Continent first for a while, and upon their returnspend the great proportion of their income in doing good, living quietlythemselves upon very little; she thought that in any other way sheshould feel as if this fortune were a curse to her, for it had nevereven occurred to her that Mr. Harmer might have altered his will.
It was late in the evening before Robert returned; he came in quiet andgrave, but with no sign of passion or disappointment upon his face as hekissed her, and asked her how she had been all the long day. RobertGregory 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 cameout at its brightest in his relations with Sophy.
Deep as had been his disappointment, bitter and fierce the invectivesand curses which, during his journey, he had showered upon the MissesHarmer, his own unfortunate luck, and upon the world in general, yet, ashe approached the hotel, he curbed himself in, and became calm andquiet. As he thought of her love and suffering, of the sacrifices herattachment for him would entail upon her, and upon her trust in himself,he determined that, come what might, she should not see hisdisappointment, and that in addition to her other troubles, she shouldnever come to know that he had married her for her money; and as he cameinto the room where she was lying, pale and weak, upon the sofa, hisbrow cleared, his voice softened, and he tried, and tried hard, that sheshould see no sign in his face of that bitter sense of disappointment hewas feeling in his breast.
Sophy answered his inquiries as to her health, and then, as he sat downon a chair close to the sofa, so that she could lean her head upon hisarm, 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 aboutme?"
"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 inhis carriage to the station."
Sophy looked pleased. There was a little silence. Robert did not knowhow to announce his intelligence, and his wife considered all that partof the affair as so much a matter of course that she did not even thinkit necessary to ask any question about it. In a short time Sophy wenton,--
"Do you know, Robert, I have been thinking so much about the future, andI think that when we come back from our travels we ought to put asidealmost all our money to do good with."
"My dear," Robert said, gently, "I hardly think we need enter into thatnow, for an event has occurred which will alter all our plans. The factis, darling, the will is missing."
"The will missing, Robert!" Sophy repeated, opening her eyes inastonishment--"how can it be missing?"
"It is a curious business, darling, and looks very bad. Mr. Harmer, itseems, had it down some little time since to make some slightalteration. We know that he did not destroy it upon that morning, but itis not to be found, and there is strong reason for supposing that theMisses Harmer have concealed it. In that case, although it may yet turnup, still we must look the worst in the face, and consider that it isvery 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!" Shelooked 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 beinga great heiress? And she looked up again with a frightened, inquiringglance into his eyes. He bore it well, and said, gently,--
"We must bear it bravely, Sophy. It is, of course, a heavy blow. I havenever disguised from you how I am situated. Still, darling, we must doour best, and I have no doubt we shall pull through somehow. I am verysorry for your sake, dear, and I bitterly accuse myself for temptingyou. It will be a different life from what you expected, but I will tryhard to make it easy for you."
He spoke tenderly and earnestly, for he, at the time, almost felt whathe said. Sophy had raised herself, and, as he finished, was cryingsoftly, with her head upon his shoulder, but her tears were quitedifferent to those which she had shed during the last week.
"I am not crying, Robert, because I have lost the fortune--I am cryingbecause I am so happy. I know now that you love me quite for my ownsake, and not for my money."
"You did not doubt it, did you, Sophy?" her husband asked, ratherreproachfully, although he felt that he was but a hypocrite while hesaid so.
"I never really doubted you, Robert--no, no--I would not have marriedyou if I had. At times, when I felt low, I could not help wondering howmuch 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 shouldalways have felt that the wealth was a burden; and now that I ampunished for my fault, I shall not reproach myself quite so much withit. 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 mysake. I will try very hard, Robert, to make it up to you by loving youmore and more; and you shall see what a useful little wife I will makeyou as soon as I get strong again, which I mean to do very fast now."