by G. A. Henty
CHAPTER XI.
LAYING A TRAIN.
It was not for three weeks after mamma's death that I again saw Mr.Harmer, and then he came over in his carriage to say good-bye to me, ashe would not see me again for some little time, for I was going away fora month with papa to Ramsgate for a change.
In truth we both needed it. I was pale and nervous; all the scenes andemotions of the last three months had shaken me very much, and I thinkthat had I not gone to the sea-side I should have had a serious illnessof some sort. Papa, too, looked ill and worn. He had felt mamma's lossvery much; and, indeed, the long watching and the constant noting thesigns of her rapid decay, all so clear to his medical eye, must havebeen a terrible trial.
The house, too, was now so dreadfully lonely and dull that I becamequite affected by it, and began to feel my old childish terrors of thedark passages, and the midnight sounds of the old house grew upon meagain: in fact, I became sadly nervous and out of sorts, and a changewas absolutely necessary.
Harry had gone back to his work in the North, and Polly to GrendonHouse, so papa and I had only ourselves and each other to think of.
When Mr. Harmer called, I found him very much better than when I hadseen him last. His difficulty of utterance had quite passed off, and hewas able to walk again nearly as firmly and freely as he had before. Hewas very kind to me, as, indeed, he always was; and sympathized with meso gently and feelingly upon the great loss I had sustained, that hesoothed rather than opened the recent wounds. Altogether, his visit didme good; and I was very glad to find him so much better than I hadexpected, for, although papa had told me that he was getting roundwonderfully, and was likely, unless he had another seizure, to live formany years, I had not hoped to see him as well as he was. He did not atall mind papa's going away, for he had promised to come up twice a weekfrom Ramsgate to see him, and he could be telegraphed for at any momentshould anything occur to render such a step necessary.
So papa and I went down to Ramsgate for a month, and a very great dealof good it did us. The fresh air and sea-bathing soon cured mynervousness, and the change of scene and the variety and life of theplace--so different from the quiet sleepiness of Canterbury--graduallysoftened the bitterness of my grief; while nearly every day I hadletters from Percy--long, loving letters, very cheering and dear tome--painting our future life together, and making me feel very happy; sohappy, that I sometimes blamed myself for feeling so, so soon after mydear mother's death. It was a tranquil, quiet life, and I rapidlyrecovered my health and strength again. I had no acquaintances downthere, for Ramsgate is too near to Canterbury for the people from thereto visit it. Besides, Canterbury is a great deal too genteel topatronize so exceedingly vulgar a place as Ramsgate. I had a chattingacquaintance with several of the boatmen, and papa was very fond ofsitting of an evening at the end of the pier, on the great stone poststo which the steamers are fastened, and talking to the fishermen of thewrecks they had known on those terrible Goodwins, and of the vesselswhich had been lost in trying to make the entrance to the Harbour. Ialso struck up a great acquaintance with the old bathing-woman--not,certainly, from any use that she was to me, for I would never let hertake me by the hands and plunge me under water as I saw some girls do,but I used to talk to her of an evening when her work was done, and shewas hanging up the towels to dry. She was a very worthy old body, andnot so frightfully ugly as she looked in her bathing-costume, with herdraggled clothes and weather-beaten bonnet, but was a quietrespectable-looking old woman. She had been a bathing-woman there foryears and years; and had, I have no doubt, saved up a snug little sum ofmoney. She told me that she had a married daughter who lived nearLondon, and who had a very nice cottage down at Putney, and who let partof it to lodgers; and she hoped that if I were ever going near London, Iwould patronize her. I told her that there was not the remotestprobability of such a thing; but she suggested that I might know someone who might one day go, and, accordingly, to please her, I took theaddress down in my pocket-book, but certainly without the remotest ideathat it would ever turn out of the slightest use to me.
Papa, on his return from his visits to Canterbury twice a week, alwaysbrought back some fresh topics for conversation. He was at all timesfond of talking over his day's visits, and told me so much about hispatients that I grew quite interested in his accounts of the improvementor otherwise of those who were seriously ill, and was pleased or sorryas his report of their state was good or the reverse. This had alwaysbeen papa's habit, partly because he felt so much interested in his workthat his patients were constantly in his thoughts, and partly becausewhen we were at home he always had soups, jellies, and otherstrengthening food made for those among his poorer patients as requiredsuch treatment.
One evening when papa came back, he looked vexed and thoughtful;however, I asked no questions for I knew that if he thought right hewould tell me presently what it was. When we had finished our dinner westrolled out on to the esplanade in front of our house. He lit hiscigar, and we leant on the rail and looked down upon the shipping in theharbour, in the gathering twilight, and at the light on the Goodwinwhich was as yet but just visible. For some time papa did not speak; atlast he took his cigar out of his mouth, and said, "I am vexed, Agnes;or rather troubled. I will tell you why: you are a discreet little womannow, and so I can trust you with what I have seen."
He again paused, and took two or three quick puffs at his cigar, as ifin angry thought of how he should begin, and then went on.
"There lives near Canterbury, Agnes, a lazy, bad, dissolute man, namedRobert Gregory. I do not suppose you have noticed him, although you mayhave possibly met him casually. He is, as I have said, a bad man, andbears a character of the worst description. Some eight or ten yearssince, when he was a very young man, he went up to London, and by hisextravagance and bad habits there, he ruined the old man, his father,and brought him prenaturely to the grave.
"This man, Agnes, is good-looking, and yet with a bad face. It is rathercoarse perhaps, more so than it was ten years since when I first sawhim, for that sort of face, when it once begins to go off, loses itsbeauty rapidly; still, I allow, much as I object to the man, that he ishandsome. It is just the sort of face likely to attract a young girl whois new to the world. A face apparently frank and good-natured, and yetwith something--imperious and even defiant about it; very taking to theyoung, who cannot help feeling flattered by seeing that the man, wholooks as if he neither cared for nor feared any other living thing,should yet bow to them; that the fierce eye should soften, and the loudvoice become gentle when he addresses them. Altogether a dangerous manfor a young girl to know, a very dangerous one for her to love. To a manlike myself, accustomed from habit and profession to study character, heis peculiarly repulsive. His face to me is all bad. The man is not onlya blackguard, and a handsome blackguard, but he is a clever anddetermined one; his face is marked with lines of profligacy anddrunkenness, and there is a passionate, dangerous flash about his eye.He has, too, seen the world, although only a bad side of it; but he can,when he chooses, lay aside his roughness and rampant blackguardism, andassume a tolerably gentlemanly, quiet demeanour, which would very wellpass muster with an inexperienced girl. In short, my dear, if I wereasked to select the man of all others, of those with whom I amacquainted, whom I would least rather meet in any society where mydaughter, or any young girl might see him, I should unhesitatinglysay--Robert Gregory. Fortunately for society here, the man, by hiswell-known drunken and bad character, has placed himself beyond itspale, and so he can do it no great harm. It was only the last time thatI was in Canterbury that I heard, and I acknowledge that I heard withgreat pleasure, that Robert Gregory was so deeply in debt that writswere out against him; and that unless he went away he would in a shorttime be consigned to a debtor's prison, so that Canterbury, at any ratefor some time, might hope to be free of him. Well, my dear, I daresayyou are wondering what all this long story about a person of whom youknow nothing can be going to end in, but you will see that it is allvery much to the poin
t. To-day I was rather earlier than usual in myvisit to Mr. Harmer. I was driving fast, and as I turned the corner ofthe road where the plantation in Mr. Harmer's ground begins, I saw a mangetting over the hedge into the road. Probably the noise he was makingbreaking through the twigs, together with the turn of the road,prevented his seeing or hearing the gig until he was fairly over; for ashe jumped into the road and looked round I was not twenty yards off, andcould hear him swear a deep oath, as he pulled his hat down over hiseyes, and turned his back to me as I drove past to prevent my seeing hisface; but it was too late, for I had recognized Robert Gregory. Ofcourse I said nothing; but as I drove up to the house, looking over thegrounds, I saw Sophy Needham coming up through the trees from the verydirection from which I had seen him come out. She was at some distanceoff, and I was almost at the door, so I could not have stopped to speakto her without being noticed, even had I wished it. She did not comeinto the room while I was there, so that I had no opportunity ofquestioning her about it, even had I made up my mind to do so; indeed itwas so delicate a matter that I could not have spoken to her withoutprevious reflection.
"Altogether the affair has a very curious and ugly look. It could hardlybe a mere coincidence, that he should be getting over the hedge from theplantation--where he could have no possible reason for going except tosee her--at the very time of her coming away from that part of thegrounds. It looks very like a secret meeting, but how such a thing couldhave been brought about is more than I can imagine. But if it is so, itis a dreadful business."
We were both silent for some time, and then I said,--
"Do you know, papa, I remember meeting the man you speak of at the feteat Mr. Harmer's last year."
"Now you mention it, Agnes, I recollect that he was there. I wondered atthe time at his being invited, but I supposed Mr. Harmer had known hisfather as a respectable man, and had asked the son, knowing nothing ofhis character, or the disrepute in which he was held. I did not noticehim much, nor did I see him dance with Sophy; had I done so I shouldhave warned Mr. Harmer of his real character."
"He did not dance with her, papa," I said, rather timidly, for I wasfrightened at the thought of what dreadful mischief had resulted, whichmight have been averted had I spoken of the matter at the time. "He didnot dance with her, but he had some sort of secret understanding withher; at least I thought so;" and I then told him all I had observed thatevening at the fete. "I should have mentioned it at the time, papa, forit perplexed me a good deal, but I went back to school next day, andnever thought of it from that day to this."
"Do you know, Agnes," papa said, throwing away his cigar, and takingthree or four turns up and down in extreme perplexity, "this is veryserious; I am quite frightened to think of it. What on earth is to bedone?" and papa took off his hat and rubbed his hair back from hisforehead. "How very unfortunate that you did not speak of what younoticed at the time. I am not blaming you; going off to school, as yousay, of course put it out of your head; besides, you did not know theman as I do, and could not guess what terrible results might be growingout of what you saw; you could not, as a mere girl, tell how bad it isfor a young woman to have a secret understanding of that sort with anyman--how fatal, when with such a man as Robert Gregory.
"Had I known it at that time, I might have done something to put a stopto it. It would, in any case, have been a delicate matter to haveinterfered in, merely on the grounds of what you noticed, and whichSophy would, of course, have disputed; still I might have warned Mr.Harmer against allowing such a man to enter his doors, and I would havespoken when Sophy was present, and said how bad his character was, so asto have opened her eyes to the real nature of the man. It might havedone no good. A girl is very slow to believe anything against a man sheloves. Still it would have been something; and had there been anyopportunity, I could have related some stories about him, which I knewto be true, which must have convinced her that he was a thoroughblackguard.
"It might have been quite ineffectual; still it might possibly have donegood. But now--really, Agnes," he said, stopping short, "I don't knowwhat to do: it is a dreadful affair. There, don't distress yourself, mychild"--for I was crying now--"matters may not be as bad as we fancy,although I confess that I do not see any possible interpretation whichcan put the affair in a better light. The only question is, what is tobe done?
"To begin with, we are, you see, placed in a peculiarly delicateposition in respect to Sophy. In case of any scandal being discoveredthrough our means, and Mr. Harmer altering his will in consequence, youmight benefit from it, and it would place my conduct and motive forinterfering in a very false and unpleasant light. In the next place, inMr. Harmer's present state of health, the agitation such a disclosurewould produce, would not improbably--indeed, would be very likelyto--bring on another paralytic fit, and cost him his life. The onlything I can at present think of is to appeal to Sophy herself.
"I fear that would hardly be successful, as the secret understandingbetween them must have gone on for more than a year, to our knowledge,and we dare not even think in what relation they may now stand to eachother. Still it must be tried. Should that fail, as I feel it is quitecertain to do, an appeal must be made to him. He may be bought off. Ofcourse, with him it is a mere question of time. If he waits till Mr.Harmer's death, which may not occur for years yet, Sophy is sure to be awealthy heiress; if he marries her before that, Mr. Harmer willinfallibly alter his will. He would, no doubt, still leave hersomething, for he loves her too much to leave her a beggar even in amoment of anger.
"So you see it is quite a matter of calculation. Robert Gregory haswaited until now, but he must be getting desperate. This writ, of whichI spoke, may induce him to come to some sudden decision--no one can saywhat. It is altogether a very bad business, and a difficult matter forany one, far more for myself, to meddle in. However, something must bedone: that much is certain. To-day is Wednesday. I had not intended togo into Canterbury again till Saturday, but now I shall go on Friday. Sowe shall have to-morrow to talk over what is the best thing to be done,and how I am to set about it. It is getting late, Agnes: it is time tobe going in."
I shall never forget that evening, as we turned and strolled along theedge of the cliffs towards home. I thought I had never seen such abeautiful night. The tide was high, and the sea was very calm, andhardly moved under the warm autumnal breeze, but broke on the beach farbelow our feet with a gentle plash. Out at sea the lights on the Goodwinshone clear and bright; while far away to the right, looking like a starnear the horizon, we could plainly see the Deal light. Below us lay theharbour, with its dark shipping, and its bright lamps reflected in thestill waters within it. Sometimes, from the sea, came up faint snatchesof songs from parties in boats enjoying the lovely evening.
Above it was most beautiful of all. The sky was a very deep blue, and Ido not think I ever saw so many stars as were visible that lovelySeptember night. The heavens seemed spangled with them, and they shoneout clear and bright, with none of the restless, unquiet twinkle theyusually have, but still and tranquil, seeming--as they never do seemexcept on such nights as this--to hang suspended from the deep blueabove them. The moon was up, but it was only a thin crescent, and waslovely in itself without outshining the glory of the stars. It was aglorious night, and, absorbed as we were with our own thoughts, andtroubled by what had occurred, we could not help feeling soothed andelevated by the wondrous beauty of the scene we looked upon.
Had papa known all that had passed at that interview between SophyNeedham and Robert Gregory, he would not have ridden out to Ramsgatewith his news, but would have acted upon it there and then, and perhapsI should never have written this story; or, if I had done so, it wouldhave been very different to what it is.
Long afterwards I learnt the history of that interview, and of manyothers which had gone before it; and so I shall again have the pleasureof dropping that first personal pronoun of which I am so tired, and ofrelating the story as it was told to me.