by G. A. Henty
CHAPTER IX.
PREPARED FOR THE ATTEMPT.
And now I have told of the joyful news which has so wonderfully alteredthe current of my life, and restored me to youth and happiness, I mustrelate another incident which happened, indeed, two months prior to itin point of time, but which I record after it, because the other is soinfinitely more important to myself, and, indeed, filled my heart, tothe exclusion of all else. And yet, until I received the news of Percy'srecovery--I had almost written resurrection, for to me it is indeed acoming back from the grave--I had, from the time the event happened,thought a great deal about it. Not, indeed, that I attached, or doattach, the slightest importance to it, as far as regards myself; but ithas brought back to my mind all the circumstances connected with theseries of efforts which we made to find the will of Mr. Harmer, from sixto seven years ago, and which terminated in the death of the unfortunateRobert Gregory. This research, so long abandoned, has now, strangelyenough, been once again taken in hand; and this time even moremethodically and determinately than at any of our former attempts, andthat by the very person whose conduct indirectly caused the originalloss of the will--Sophy Gregory.
It was about a month after my return from my visit to London, that I wasin the parlour alone, when Hannah came in and said that a person wishedto speak to me.
"Do you know who it is, Hannah?"
"No, miss. She is a servant, I should say, by her looks."
"Did she ask for me, or for Mrs. Mapleside?"
"For you, miss, special."
"Very well, Hannah, then show her in."
And Hannah accordingly ushered my visitor into the room. She was a womanof apparently three or four and thirty, and was paler, I think, than anyperson I ever saw. Not the pallor produced by illness, although that mayhave had something to do with it; but a complete absence of colour, suchas may be caused by some wearing anxiety, or some very great and suddenshock; her eyes, too, had a strange unnatural look, which, coupled withher unusual paleness, gave her a very strange appearance; indeed, itstruck me at once that there was something wrong with her mind, and hadnot Hannah closed the door as soon as she had shown her in, I shouldcertainly have told her to remain in the room with us. I had not theleast recollection of having seen her face before, and waited in silencefor her to address me, but as she did not, I said:--
"Did I understand that you wished to speak to me? my name is MissAshleigh."
"Then you have no recollection of me?" she asked.
The instant she spoke I recognized her voice: it was Sophy.
"Sophy!" I almost cried out.
"Yes, indeed, Agnes, it is Sophy."
I was very much shocked at the terrible change which seven years hadmade in her. My poor friend what must she have suffered, what had mygrief and sorrow been to hers? We had both lost those we loved best inthe world, but I had no painful or shameful circumstances in the deathof my lover, as there had been in the death of her husband. Percy haddied honourably, in the field of battle; Robert had fallen, shot as aburglar by a woman's hand; beside, I was not alone in the world, I hadmy brother Harry, and my dear Polly, and Ada, and many kind andsympathizing friends. Sophy was quite alone. Truly my own sufferingsseemed but small in my eyes when I thought of hers, and I was very muchmoved by pity and tenderness for my old friend, as I thought of what shehad gone through. All these thoughts rushed through me, as I embracedher with almost more than the warmth of my old affection for her; for itseemed to me that the sorrow which we both suffered was an additionaltie between us. It was some time before we were composed enough tospeak, or rather before I was; for she, although she had responded to myembrace, and was evidently glad to see me, was plainly in a state of toogreat tension of mind to find relief as I did in tears.
When I came to look at her face more quietly, I was still puzzled by it.It was not so much that it was changed and aged, as that there wassomething which seemed to me to be quite different, to what Iremembered: what it was I could not for some time make out. At last Iexclaimed,--
"Why, Sophy, you have put on a black wig and dyed your eyebrows. Theywere quite fair before, and now they are black."
"It was only last night that I did so," she said quietly. "I did notwish to be recognized down here for a very particular reason, which Iwill tell you presently."
Now I knew what the change in Sophy's face was, I could recall it, andsaw that the alteration in her was not really so great as I hadimagined. She certainly looked many years older than she was, but it wasthe black hair and eyebrows which gave the pale and unnatural appearanceto her face, which had so struck me when she first entered the room.
"And now, Sophy," I said, "tell me all about yourself; where have youbeen living, and how have you been getting on all this time, and whatare your plans for the future? Your little child, too, Sophy? What hasbecome of it? You have not lost it, have you?"
"No, Agnes," Sophy said quietly, "I have not lost Jamie, and he is avery good, dear little fellow; but I have left him now for some time,and so I would rather talk of something else. And now I will give youthe history of my life, as nearly as I can, from the time I went awayfrom here."
But although Sophy had thus volunteered me this information, it was somelittle time before she could begin the sad narrative of her earlymarried days. And yet she was not agitated as she told it--she seemedrather cold and strange; and I think the very manner which would haverepelled other people drew me towards her. I had felt so much the same;I was still so quiet and old from my great loss, that I saw in thatabstracted air of hers, and the impassive tone in which she spoke oftimes when she must have suffered so deeply, that she, like me, had hadso great a grief, that nothing again would ever move her from her quietself-possession. And yet I fancied afterwards that it was not exactlyso, for it was upon a point in the future that all her thoughts andenergies were centered, while all mine were buried in the past.
But by degrees Sophy told me all her history, from the date of herelopement up to the present time. She did not, at that time, enter intoall the details of her life, but she has done so in the two visits shehas paid me since she came down. As much of her history as is at allimportant in itself--more especially as having any reference to my ownstory,--particularly their life in London when first married, and theevents prior to Robert's coming down to try and recover the will, I havetold at some length. The rest of her tale I have had to relate verybriefly; and I have now written it out in chapters, and arranged themwith my own story, as well as I could, according to the date at whichthe various events took place, so that our two stories may be read intheir proper order.
When Sophy had finished her tale, she told me that she had left her boyin London, and had come down to devote herself to the task she had solong had before her.
"What is this task, Sophy?" I asked. "You have alluded to it severaltimes in the course of your story. What is it?"
"I am resolved, Agnes," Sophy said quietly, "for my boy's sake, and foryours, to find Mr. Harmer's missing will."
"Oh no, no Sophy!" I said, frightened at the thought, "pray give up allthought of it. That will has proved a curse to us all. It has cost onelife if not two already, it has ruined your happiness and mine. Oh,Sophy! if it still exist let it lie where it is, it will do none of usany good now."
"I must find it," Sophy continued, quite unmoved; "you have triedtogether and failed; your sister tried alone, but without success;Robert tried, and died in the attempt; it is my turn now, if it costsme, too, my life. I ought to have tried first of all, for through my sinit was that the will was lost. Had I not deceived and left him, mygrandfather would have lived perhaps for years, the will would have beenhanded back to the lawyer, and we should all have been happy. I lost itAgnes, and I will find it. From the day when I heard how Robert died,this has been the one purpose of my life. I will find that will, I willmake my son a rich man yet, I will atone to you all, as far as I can,for the grief and loss I have caused you. I have thought it all over,Agnes, till my brain seemed to
be on fire with it."
And Sophy's eyes looked so strange and wild, that I really thought, andthink still, that her brain has a little turned by long thinking uponthis subject. I saw at once that it would be worse than useless toendeavour to dissuade her from what I feel is a perfectly hopelessattempt. After a pause I said, "Well, Sophy, tell me at least what yourplan is, and in any way in which I can give you assistance withoutmixing myself up in your project, I will do so. But I must tell you atonce that I will take no active part in it whatever, because in thefirst place after the time which has now elapsed, I question muchwhether I should feel justified in acting even as I acted when the lossof the will was a recent event; in the next place, one life has alreadybeen lost in the search, indeed I may say two, and I consider all hasbeen attempted which could be done, and lastly, I believe the search tobe perfectly hopeless. But in any way in which I can help you withouttaking an active part, I will do so, not with any hope of finding thewill, but for our old friendship's sake.
"I do not know at present," said Sophy quietly, "that I require anyassistance, but there is one point which you may be able to inform me,and on which depends very much the method in which I shall set about mywork. The only question I have to ask, Agnes, is does Miss Harmer'sconfessor live in the house with her, or in the priest's house in thevillage?"
"Just as before, Sophy, in the village. One would have thought that itwould have been far more convenient for him to have lived at the house.But Miss Harmer, who I hear is just as obstinate at eighty as ever shewas, insists on making no change, but on doing as has always been done.Ever since her sister's death her maid sleeps in the room with her, andthe other servants in the room immediately adjoining, instead of in theservants' quarter, at the end of the house as they used to do. But nowwhat else can I do to help you?"
"Nothing," Sophy said, "what you have told me is exactly what I havehoped and wished, although I was afraid it would not be so. Had it beenotherwise, I had arranged other methods of going to work; but the onewhich I shall now try--and I look upon its success as nearlycertain--could not have been carried out unless the confessor had livedas before. Now I see that every thing is in my favour. Do you know,Agnes, I have every minute detail arranged in my mind. It was for that Iwent to Italy. It was necessary that I should be able to speak thelanguage like a native, and I can do so. I wanted to see the Bishop ofRavenna, and I saw him. So you see I am getting on already;" and shegave a laugh that made me feel quite uncomfortable, it was so wild andstrange.
"The Bishop of Ravenna," I said, "I seem to have heard that name before;oh, I remember! it is the man that Miss Harmer telegraphed the news ofher brother's death to."
"It is, Agnes, and that is why I went to see him. Do you know I havecopied out every word, in the letters that you and your papa wrote tome, which is in any way related to the will, and have learnt them byheart."
"But what are you going to do first Sophy?"
"You think no one will know me?"
"I am quite sure they will not; even I, knowing who you are, and whatyou have done to yourself can hardly see any resemblance between yourface now, and what it was then."
"I intend, Agnes, to go as servant to the priest."
"You, Sophy, as a servant! You must not think of such a thing. There areso many, many things against it. Oh, pray give it all up Sophy! Evensupposing that you go through all this without detection, what nearerwill you be to the will, as his servant, than as you are now?" I arguedand pleaded, but neither argument nor entreaty had the slightest effectupon her. Her mind was so entirely fixed upon her plan, that she hardlyeven paid attention to what I said, and soon after took her leave.
I have seen her two or three times since, but shall say nothing of ithere, more than that she is still engaged upon her hopeless task. Whenshe gives it up, and goes out, as I suppose she will eventually toAustralia, I will write down the particulars.
I believe she is on this point rather out of her mind, and I do hope thepoor thing will not do anything wild, and get into mischief.
At the time she first came down I had not heard of Percy being alive,and consequently I had really, putting aside that I knew it to beutterly hopeless, hardly any interest at all in the search. Now, that heis alive, I should of course, for his sake, like to recover the money,but I know I might as well wish to come into possession of a snug estatein the moon. No good can come of this madcap scheme, and I only hopethat there may be no harm. I shall wait with great anxiety to see if shegets found out, and to ascertain what plan she proposes to herself forfinding out where the will is concealed; for that she fancies she has anidea, which will enable her to do so, is certain; if it seems likely toget her into any danger, I must, for her own sake, poor thing, take somestep or other to prevent her carrying on schemes which might end, as herhusband's did, fatally for her.