by G. A. Henty
CHAPTER XII.
FOUND!
After Father Eustace had gone, Sophy sat herself down in the kitchen,and watched the clock for ten minutes, in case her master might haveforgotten something, and driven back again to fetch it. That timepassed, she did not hesitate a moment; but went at once up to her room,unlocked her box, and took from it the things which she had long agoprepared for her enterprise. Then she proceeded to undress herself, andput on the clothes she had laid ready on the bed. All this was donequickly, but yet without hurry. She appeared as if she had so thoroughlyrehearsed the actions she was performing that there was not the leasthesitation or delay in any of her movements. Then she took off the darkwig which had so much changed her, and put on another, with close-cuthair, and a tonsure shaved upon it; and in five minutes Sophy Gregorywas gone, and a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic stood in her place. Theclothes had been carefully padded to conceal the extreme slightness ofher figure. The wig she had put on was nearly grey; and with somepigments she laid on lines at the corner of her eyes, her forehead, andround her lips. She also slightly tinged her cheeks and chin, torepresent the dark marks of the shorn whiskers and beard. All this shedid with care, but very quickly. Her hand never hesitated: night afternight she had tried the effect of each line. And now her disguise was socomplete that it would have required, a close observer, even bydaylight, to detect that it was not a man of fifty, with a slight, veryshort, well-preserved figure who stood before him.
As Sophy went out of the door it was a little over half-past seven;Father Eustace had started at seven; it was still broad day out ofdoors, but indoors the light was fading, and in another half-hour itwould be quite dusk, for it was now at the end of August.
Sophy locked the door behind her, and walked fast up the hill out of thevillage, past the plantation, to the lodge gate; she turned in here,walked up to the well-remembered hall door, and rang the bell. She hadno thought of hesitation now; she knew that this was the last time thatthere was a possibility of recovering the object of her search, and thatthis chance gone, the will was lost for ever. She had no time to lose,for she calculated that she had hardly three clear hours before thepriest's return. It would take him two hours to drive to Sittingbourne;but, the fraud which had been practised upon him once discovered, hewould drive back in an hour and a half--three hours and a half in all;certainly not under that, for his horse was a fat, over-fed animal,whose farthest drive was into Canterbury, and who went even that shortdistance quite at his own pace. So she hoped she should have nearly fourhours, but of that three-quarters of an hour was gone already.
The servant who opened the door looked rather surprised at seeing astrange gentleman standing there, for visitors had for many years beenquite unknown at Harmer Place.
"I come from Father Eustace," Sophy said, with a strong foreign accent,and in a deep tone, which had cost her great trouble to learn to speaknaturally and unfalteringly. "Will you be good enough to give this noteto Miss Harmer?"
Sophy was shown into a sitting-room, every object in which she knew sowell, and where she had last sat in such a different character. Atanother time, perhaps, she would have broken down and cried at thethought of the changes since then, but now her whole thoughts wereabsorbed in the present. She was not excited; she was perfectly cool andcollected; her pulse beat faster, and there was a strange, wild look inher eyes, which she was conscious of herself, and strove to keep downand conceal; otherwise she was perfectly quiet, and hardly moved fromthe seat she had taken when she entered the room, scarcely even lookinground at the familiar furniture, but sitting with her eyes fixed on thedoor, waiting her summons to go upstairs.
The servant took the letter up to Miss Harmer. She was sitting up inbed, partly supported by pillows. She was a very old woman now, and heronce upright form had become bent, and her firm step grown feeble anduncertain for some time past; but her face was little changed; her eyewas as bright, and her voice as cold and harsh as of old, sounding morestrangely now, coming from the decrepid form.
"Is it Father Eustace, Hannah?"
"No, Miss Harmer; it is a gentleman with a letter from him." And theservant gave her the letter.
"Draw down the blinds, Hannah, and light the candles, and put them onthe table by my side."
This done, Miss Harmer opened the letter and read as follows--it was inItalian--
"MY DEAR, SISTER,
"I have just received a letter with the commands of my superior, our beloved Bishop of Ravenna, to proceed at once to London upon a special mission, which will perhaps detain me there for some days. He has sent these orders by the hands of Father Boniface, one of the most esteemed of his clergy, and in whom I know he reposes the most absolute confidence. He was well known to me in Italy, and I judge, from the manner in which the bishop writes to me, that his business in England is of great importance. He is the bearer of a letter to you. I am unable to visit you before I leave this, as I have only just time to catch the train, and it is necessary that I should reach London to-night. I pray that the Holy Virgin and all the saints may have you in their keeping."
"Bring the gentleman up here," Miss Harmer said, when she had read theletter; and her eyes brightened at the thought of news direct from herbeloved friend and guide, the Bishop of Ravenna.
The ecclesiastic entered with the usual _benedicte_, and then, advancingto the bed, bestowed a particular and solemn benediction upon her, assent direct from the bishop. He then sat down by her bedside, andinquired, in a tone of earnest sympathy, after her health.
"I am not long for this world, father," she said. "A short time, a veryshort time, and my place will be empty."
"You have fought a good fight, sister, a good fight for our Church, andyou will assuredly win the prize."
"I trust so, father--I do indeed trust so. And now, how is my oldfriend? is it well with him?"
"It is not, sister. He is ill--very ill, I grieve to say."
"I indeed grieve, father, to hear this news. What is the cause of hisillness?"
"A broken constitution. He is worn out with long fastings and continuedabstinence and prayer. Once, as you are aware, of a commanding figure,he is bent now with care and thought; his wide brow is furrowed, hishairs are few and white. But his spirit is bright and clear as ever, andhis voice smooth and sonorous. The very last time he preached he had tobe assisted to his place, but when he once began to speak, his voicestill rang with its old tone; he was as vehement in denunciation asever, as soft and earnest in his persuasions to repentance, as rich inpromises and blessings upon those who devote their lives to God andtheir Church."
Miss Harmer was much affected at this narrative, which called up beforeher the bishop as she had known him of old; and she asked many morequestions of his life and doings.
"You are, I presume, father, by the purity of your accent, aFlorentine?"
The priest bowed assent.
"You are, Father Eustace tells me, much in our dear friend'sconfidence?"
"The good bishop condescends to consult much with my unworthy self uponmost matters, and more especially on the subject on which I have nowjourneyed to England has he spoken often and much. Our good friendbelieves, and I fear with truth, that his life will not be prolongedmany days. Of late this subject has pressed very heavily upon his mind,and he has felt so sorely that so many years of thought and hope mightyet be wasted, that he at last told me he could not die easy until thisgood work was completed and the Church secure of her own. Seeing hisdeep feeling upon the subject, I offered, should he consider me worthyof so great a trust, to come over here to fetch what he desired, and toconvey his last blessing to you. He accepted my offer, and this letterto you will fully explain his wishes."
Miss Harmer took the letter eagerly, looked at the direction, examinedthe seal, broke it open, and looked onwards to the signature, which sheraised reverentially to her lips.
She was very much shocked at the news of her old friend's illness, andyet she
could not help feeling a strange thrill of satisfaction to thinkthat their deaths would probably occur within a very few days of eachother. She could not have told why she felt so; but she had loved andrespected this man beyond all others; loved him, perhaps, far more thanshe had ever admitted to herself. Had he been other than what he was, aRoman Catholic priest, Cecilia Harmer's life might have turned out avery different one.
The letter began with his usual greeting and benediction; it went on:--
"My days, my dear sister, are drawing fast to a close; yours also, I learn from my brother Eustace, are, as might be expected from your great age, nearly numbered; and you will shortly reap the benefit of all your sacrifices and efforts for the cause of God's holy Church here upon earth. I cannot write at great length, for my strength is failing fast; but there is one thought which weighs heavily upon me, and prevents my feeling that all my work here upon earth is finished. My greatest object in life has been to strengthen and magnify our great and glorious Church. In several cases I have, by the blessing of the holy Saints, succeeded in aiding this great work. In your own case, owing to the noble devotion which you have manifested--and for which your future reward is certain--a property, originally largely derived from the Church, has been preserved from falling into the hands of her enemies. At first you expressed by letter to me the repugnance you felt to destroying the document which would have so willed it away. These scruples you will remember, I respected, although I considered them misplaced; but I would not force the tenderest conscience, and I have forborne in my letters, to urge you upon this point. I find, however, from Father Eustace, that these scruples have still lingered, and that he believes you have up to this time omitted to destroy the will. But I now feel that this step has become necessary. At your death my dear sister, the property must be sold, and the purchaser will not improbably pull down the house; the will must then be found, and the labour of your life frustrated. It is, therefore, essential that you should now reveal the hiding-place of the will. This I myself have never asked you, but I suppose it is in the secret chamber where you told me that many years ago your ancestors were in the habit of concealing the persecuted servants of our Church. This secret I have confided to Father Boniface. He is entirely in my confidence, so much so, that I have urgently recommended his appointment to this See at my death. I have deputed him especially for the purpose, as it would be better, should any inquiry ever be made, that Father Eustace, who is likely to be suspected, should be able to affirm truly that he had never seen it. I have other reasons into which I cannot now enter, for selecting Father Boniface to perform this service in his place. As I before told you, although I cannot agree with your scruples, I am yet willing to respect them; and, therefore, as you feel that you would not like the will to be destroyed, I promise most solemnly to you on the faith of a bishop of the Church, and of a dying man, that it shall not be destroyed, but shall be placed among the papers of the monastery here, where it will never be disturbed or discovered. My doctor gives me only a week of life. Father Boniface will travel night and day, and can only stay a few hours with you, and I trust that I shall be spared until his return. And now, sister, farewell."
The letter concluded with numberless blessings and farewells, and wassigned Ravenna [Symbol: Maltese Cross].
Miss Harmer read this letter through twice with great deliberation, somuch so indeed, that her visitor moved uneasily several times upon herchair.
"You know the contents of this letter, Father Boniface?" she asked atlength.
"I do, Miss Harmer, it was written in my presence."
"And you agree that the will is likely to be found?"
"Unquestionably, Miss Harmer. The trustees to whom you have devised theproperty for the benefit of the Church must sell it; and when the houseis pulled down, as it is certain to be ere long, the will will bediscovered, grievous loss and scandal brought upon the church, anddiscredit upon your memory."
"The bishop has promised me that it shall not be destroyed," Miss Harmersaid, hesitatingly.
"I ratify that promise, Miss Harmer. Should I return too late, and ourdear friend be no more, I promise you that the will shall be preservedin the way he mentions."
Miss Harmer was silent for some time, and then said--
"Father Boniface, before you search for the will, I must tell you, thatit is my solemn conviction that the spirit of my brother keeps watchover that will."
"Any spirit that there be who would prevent this work being completed,"the priest said gravely, "must needs be an evil spirit, and such, I,acting in the Church's behalf, do not fear. Tell me where it is that Imay at once perform my errand."
"I do not know, remember, that the will is in existence. I have neverlooked for it, and have all along said with truth that I know nothing ofit. But, if it be in existence, I believe that it is placed in a secrethiding-place in the chamber, to which you know the means of entrance;going up from that room to what was my brother's room, is another flightof stairs, go up five steps and you are standing upon the secrethiding-place; look closely by the side of the step, and you will see asmall projection; press that, and the step will open by itself. You arenot afraid, father?"
"I am not," the priest said, rising and taking a candle in his hand. "Ina good cause the servant of the Church fears not the powers of evil."And with these words she was gone.
There was not a moment to be lost, the time had flown by terribly fast,and terrible had been the effort to speak quietly and collectively whenevery pulse throbbed with excitement and impatience; but she had thesecret at last.
With rapid, but noiseless steps, she sped down the stairs. The hall wasempty. She knelt down upon the hearth with breathless eagerness; thetongue of the iron dog was unscrewed, and the spring clicked in anotherinstant; then a trembling passing of the fingers at the back of themantel piece; in a few moments she felt the projecting nob, and the doorswung round on its hinges beside her. Taking up her candle, she flew upthe narrow steps; she had no fear now of interruption from below, for noone passing through the hall would notice that open door in thefireplace. Up the first flight, into the secret chamber, and then upagain. She knelt down upon the third step, and then looked at the wallby the step above her. The slight projection was visible, she pressedit, and the step rolled back, and disclosed a sort of receptacle, thewidth of the stair, and about a foot deep, filled with papers. Sheturned these over, her breath held, her hands trembling with excitement,her eyes staring and wild. The first three or four which she threw outwere leases and deeds; the next that she came to was a bulky packetendorsed upon its back--_The last Will and Testament of Herbert Harmer_.Sophy seized it with a short sharp cry of delight, and then hurried downinto the hall again. She closed the iron door behind her; blew out thecandle, placed it on the table; and then opened the hall door, andwithout hat or covering on her head she flew down the drive at the topof her speed. She had it then at last, after all these years; it washers, hers and her boy's! and Sophy with the greatest difficultyrepressed the wild cries of delight which rose to her lips. Once pastthe lodge she kept on at her full speed towards the village, but whenshe reached the top of the hill she paused to listen. Below her shecould see the bright lamps of an approaching vehicle, and in the stillnight air could hear the noise of a vehicle coming up the hill, and aman's voice urging the horse to his best speed. So she was only just intime. Father Eustace had returned. She hid herself behind a hedge, andas they came along, she could tell by the laboured breathing of thehorse how fast he had been driven, and she could even catch what themen, who were walking up the hill to relieve it, were saying. The firstvoice she heard was that of the priest.
"It is most extraordinary, Thomas; I cannot understand it. That I shouldbe sent for over to Sittingbourne was annoying enough; but I thoughtthat was only a foolish trick, though who w
ould have taken the troubleto play it upon me I cannot imagine: but now that we find the houselocked up, and Mary gone, I can still less understand what it means,especially as in the hasty search I gave I found nothing missing."
"Perhaps she has gone out to see some friend in the village," the mansuggested.
"But I tell you, Thomas, she has left the clothes which she wore in herroom; and more extraordinary still, there is the black wig which I haveobserved she wore laying on the bed. It is most singular and looks likea deep plot of some sort or other."
"But why are you going up to Harmer Place, sir?" the groom asked."Surely they will know nothing about it there?"
"I cannot say," the priest said anxiously. "There Thomas, we are at thetop of the hill now! Jump up again!"
And so they went on; and Sophy came out and continued her flight downthe steep hill at the top of her speed, and far faster than she couldhave run in her ordinary attire. Going through the village, she wentmore quietly--not that she feared interruption, for it was eleven now,and the village was all asleep, but she wanted to husband her powers. Asshe walked she took off the stiff collar which pressed on her neck, anddirectly she was past the houses she began to run again at a speed ofwhich at ordinary times she would have been incapable, but which in herpresent state of excitement and exultation seemed nothing to her.
She had been only just in time; it had taken longer than she hadexpected, for she had hoped to have reached Canterbury before she metthe priest, when she would have gone straight to a lawyer whom she hadknown in the old times, and deposited the precious document in hishands. She had before determined that if pressed for time she wouldconceal the will in a thicket and suffer herself to be taken; but allthis was forgotten now--her brain had held up thus far, but it wasfailing her. The only impulse in her mind was that of flight, that and afierce determination to defend the will to the last. As she ran, shefelt in her pocket to see that a pistol she had placed there was safe.She took it out, and with it in one hand and the will in the other, sheran on past the great mill and on over the bridge out into the longstraight road to Canterbury.