by G. A. Henty
CHAPTER XII.
THE EXPLOSION.
There are some boys so naturally passionate and vicious, in whosedispositions the evil so strongly predominates over the good, that weare obliged to own that under no conceivable course of training couldthey have turned out otherwise than bad. Some faults might have beenchecked by early firmness, some vices eradicated by judicious kindnessand care, yet nothing could ever have altered the radical nature;nothing could ever have made a fair, straight tree out of that crookedand distorted sapling. Such a character was that of Robert Gregory, andin his case there was no countervailing force, either of judiciouskindness or of proper severity, to check the strong tendency to evil inhis disposition. His mother had died when he was an infant, and hisfather--who had married late in life, and who had no otherchildren,--indulged his every whim, and neither thwarted him in anydesire, nor punished him for any fault; and so he grew up an idle,passionate, turbulent boy, pursuing his own way, and laughing to scornthe entreaties and prayers of his weak father. As time went on, hischaracter developed; he chose his companions from the wildest and leastreputable youths of the neighbourhood, and soon became even wilder andless reputable than the worst of them. He at length led such a life,that his father was only too glad when he expressed a desire to go up toLondon, in hopes that there, with other companions and habits, he mightyet retrieve himself. Robert Gregory was not all bad, he had his goodpoints, and with other training might have turned out, if not a goodman, at any rate not the character that Dr. Ashleigh had described. Hewas good-natured and even generous--by fits and starts certainly--butstill enough so to make those who knew him as a boy, before he had gotentirely beyond all control, regret that his father, by his weakness andinjudicious kindness, was allowing him to grow up a curse to himself anda nuisance to the whole neighbourhood. Any hopes his father may haveentertained of his reformation from the influence of a life in London,were destined to be very shortly extinguished. He wrote at first flamingaccounts of the grand friends he was making, but lamenting theirexpensive way of living, and begging more money to enable him to do asthey did. For months, for years, the letters came regularly, and alwaysdemanding money, sometimes very large sums. Some of these letters wereaccompanied by plausible tales that he wished to oblige his greatfriends, through whom he shortly expected to obtain a lucrativeappointment. At other times he told the truth--various losses on theturf, or heavy gambling debts which must, he said, be paid, or hishonour would be irretrievably lost. The old man patiently answered theseconstant demands upon him, and paid without a complaint the large sumsrequired. He truly, although weakly, loved this reprobate son of his: heknew that no remonstrances could now avail: he feared so to alienate theliking which his son still felt for him by remonstrances which wouldirritate, without reforming him, and so he continued to pay, and pay."The boy can have it but once," he said to himself; "as well now as atmy death; there will be enough to last my time." But there hardly was.After Robert had been six years in London, during which he had only paidthree or four flying visits to his native place, he received a letterfrom his father, asking him to let him know the total amount of hisdebts; as he would rather settle the whole at once and set him clear,than be continually asked for money. Robert consequently sent him alist, which even he had grace enough left to be ashamed of. However, theenormous amount was paid without a word; but a week afterwards a lettercame from his father, saying that in six years he had spent no less thanL40,000, and that now there only remained the house in which the old manlived and a small farm which yielded a bare L200 a year; that this hewould not touch, and that not one single penny would he farther advancehis son; but that if he chose to come down and live with him, that hewould meet with a hearty welcome, and with not one word of reproach forthe past. Seeing no other course open to him, Robert Gregory came backsulkily enough to the old house, where, as has before been said, the oldman did not live many months.
Long as was the list of debts which Robert had sent up from London, ithad by no means comprised the whole of them. At his father's death,therefore, he was obliged to mortgage the farm to nearly its full value,to satisfy the most pressing of his creditors, and then, for the firsttime in his life, Robert Gregory asked himself how he was to live. Itwas by no means an easy question to answer; indeed, think the matterover as he would, he could imagine no mode by which, even had he beeninclined to work, which he was not, he could have earned his living. Itwas while he was vainly, week after week, endeavouring to solve thisproblem, that the intention of Mr. Harmer to make Sophy Needham hisheiress was made public. Robert Gregory hailed the news as a directanswer to his question--he would marry the heiress. He did not jump atthe conclusion in haste; he inquired closely concerning the habits ofthe family at Harmer Place, of whom previously he had known nothingexcept by name; he found that their life had been hitherto one ofseclusion, owing to the ascetic life of the Miss Harmers, and thestudious one of their brother; he heard of Sophy Needham's birth andorigin, and he heard, too, that society refused to visit her, and atlast he said to himself confidently and firmly, "I will marry her."Having arrived at this determination, Robert Gregory at once proceededto act upon it, and soon had his whole scheme arranged to hissatisfaction. He felt that the matter was one which required time, andhe accordingly sold the farm for two or three hundred pounds beyond theamount for which it was mortgaged, and on this sum he calculated to beable to live until he was able to marry Sophy.
This done, putting on a shooting suit, he day after day concealedhimself in the grounds at some distance from the house, at a spot fromwhich he could see when Sophy strolled out, and could watch thedirection she took. One day he perceived that the course she wasfollowing in her ramble would lead her close to the boundary of theproperty; making a circuit, he took his position on the other side ofthe hedge, and therefore off the Harmer estate. When Sophy came along,and he could see that she was immediately opposite him, separated onlyby the hedge, he discharged both barrels of his gun. Sophy naturallyuttered an exclamation of surprise and alarm, and this was all heneeded.
As if astonished at finding a lady so close to him, he crossed thehedge, and lifting his hat, he apologized deeply for the alarm he hadgiven her, trusted that the shock had not been serious, and in fact madeso good a use of his time, that he managed to detain her in conversationfor a quarter of an hour.
Robert Gregory, it has already been said, was a handsome man with a goodfigure. His conversation and manners might not have passed muster incritical society, still he had seen enough of the world to be able toassume the air of a gentleman sufficiently well to deceive a girl whohad hardly ever conversed with a young man before in her life; hisaddress to her was straightforward and outspoken, and yet with somethingdeferential about it to which Sophy was quite unaccustomed, and whichgratified her exceedingly.
The attempt of Robert Gregory was well-timed. Sophy knew that Mr. Harmerhad proclaimed her his heiress, and she felt, and felt keenly, thatsociety refused to call upon her or recognise her; she was naturally asensitive, shy girl, and the accident of her birth had been a constantpain and sorrow to her, and she was, therefore, in exactly the frame ofmind to receive with greedy pleasure the expression of Robert Gregory'sdeference and distantly expressed admiration. She noted no badexpression in the handsome face which smiled upon her, she detected noflaw in the fine figure which bent a little as he spoke to her; she onlysaw one who treated her--her whom the world scorned and repelled--withrespectful deference and admiration; and from that moment her heart wentout freely and fully towards him.
As he was leaving her, Robert Gregory mentioned that he lived on theother side of Canterbury, but was out for a day's shooting on theneighbouring estate. He said that on that day week he should again bethere, and asked her if she frequently walked in that direction; heurged that he should feel really anxious to know if she had sufferedfrom the effect of the sudden alarm he had given her, and that he hopedshe would be kind enough to let him know how she was.
Sophy coloured and pau
sed, and then said that she frequently walked inthat direction, and that if he happened to see her as she went past, sheshould of course be happy to assure him that she was not in the leastupset by the little start that she had had. And so they parted, andRobert Gregory felt, that as far as she was concerned, the game was won.
Again and again they met, and before very long he spoke of love to her;and Sophy, whose life had been hitherto a joyless one, gave him herheart without concealment, and found that, for the first time, she haddiscovered happiness. But that happiness soon had its alloy of trouble.When Christmas came, and the Bishop and his wife called, and society ingeneral followed their example, Sophy naturally wondered, and askedRobert why he did not do the same. He was prepared for the question,which he knew must come sooner or later, and his answer had long beendetermined upon. He at once said that he threw himself entirely on hermercy, and even if it were the signal for his dismissal from her sidefor ever, he would tell her the truth. He told her that, owing to wantof control as a boy, he had been when a very young man, spendthrift andwild, and that he had dissipated his fortune in folly and amusements.That the Christian propriety of Canterbury had taken upon itself to begreatly scandalized thereby; and that although he had long since givenup his former courses, and had returned and lived happily and quietlywith his old father, although that father himself had never complainedto him, or, he believed, to any one, of his previous folly, yet thatsociety in general had taken upon itself to refuse its assent to thewelcome of the prodigal, but had indeed desired him to go into a farcountry and be fed upon husks.
Sophy, instead of being shocked at all this, clung to him, as might havebeen expected, all the closer. The well-affected scorn and bitternesswith which he spoke of the Christian charity of society, struck, as hehad intended it should, a sympathetic chord in her own breast; for hadnot she, too, been declared under the ban of society, and for no faultor sin of her own? It is true, society had now condescended to visither, but why? Was she any better or more honourably born than before?Had her conduct in any way softened them towards her? Not a bit. Abishop had said that she might be visited, and so the world hadgraciously extended its hand and received her into its fold. Butalthough Sophy accepted the offered hand, she hated the giver of it; andalthough she arrayed her face with a placid smile as she entered intosociety, it only covered a sense of bitter outrage and of indignantcontempt. Nursing, as she did, feelings like these, it was with anabsolute sense of pleasure that she found that her lover, like herself,was deemed an outcast. To her it was but one more new tie between them;and when Robert had finished his confession, her own rage and wrongsagainst society broke out in a stream of bitter, passionate words, andRobert Gregory found there was far more in the ordinarily tranquil,quiet woman before him than he had ever given her credit for. However,her present frame of mind was most favourable for his plans, and hetherefore took good care to keep alive her resentment against the world,in order to bind her more closely to himself. It was soon after thisthat the fetes at Harmer Place were given. Robert Gregory managed toobtain an invitation, but arranged with Sophy that he would not dancewith her, alleging the truth, that if he did so, society would be sureto poison Mr. Harmer's mind against him, and render his consent to theirmarriage out of the question; and Sophy was content to follow hisguidance in all things, and to see everything with his eyes.
The real difficulties of Robert Gregory's course were only yetbeginning. Sophy was, indeed, won; but it was Sophy's money, and notherself, that he cared for; now Sophy's money at present depended uponMr. Harmer, and not upon herself; and Robert feared that in the event ofa runaway match, Mr. Harmer would very materially alter his will. Still,on the other hand, her grandfather was extremely fond of her; he had noone else to leave his money to, and he might in time reinstate her inhis favour. At last he asked Sophy if she thought Mr. Harmer would,after a time, forgive her if she made a runaway match with him, for hehad no hope of ever obtaining his consent beforehand. Sophy was veryloath to answer the question. She was quite ready to marry Robert, butshe shrank from the thought of paining the old man who had been so kindto her. However, as Robert again and again returned to the point, she atlast came to discuss it as calmly as he did.
"Yes, she thought Mr. Harmer would be reconciled to her; she believed hewould miss her so much, that he would be sure to forgive her in a shorttime; it was not in his nature to bear malice to any one. Yes, he wouldsoon come round; indeed, she was certain that if Robert would but makehimself known to him, that Mr. Harmer would not care for what otherpeople said, but would judge for himself, and would esteem and like himas she did."
This course Sophy pressed very much upon her lover, with many lovingentreaties and tears, for she really loved Mr. Harmer truly, and shrankfrom grieving him. These entreaties, however, Robert always gently, butdecidedly put aside. He said that Mr. Harmer would be certain to believethe edict of society against him, would decline to grant him anyopportunity of justifying himself, and would refuse to allow him toenter the house. Besides he would be just as angry at discovering thesecret understanding which existed between them, as he would be at theirmarriage, and he would be certain to forbid all intercourse betweenthem, and perhaps even insert a condition in his will forbidding her tomarry him under pain of the forfeiture of his fortune. For Robert madeno secret from Sophy that her money would be of the greatest use tothem; not, as he put it, that he cared for money for its own sake, butthat if they were rich they could spend their life abroad, where noscoff or sneer of society could reach them, and where they should neverbe disturbed by the sarcasms and whispers of the world; while they, intheir turn, would be able to show society how heartily they despised it,and how well they could do without it.
Sophy, in her present state of mind, thought all this very grand andheroic, and really believed that her lover spoke in a noble anddisinterested manner; and as she was herself perfectly conscious of theadvantages of wealth, she quite agreed that, if possible, her fortuneshould not be sacrificed.
Robert, then, at last, succeeded in persuading her that a runaway matchwas the only alternative, and as she really believed that she would bevery soon forgiven by Mr. Harmer, it was at length arranged to takeplace shortly. This was in the spring of the year, and their secretacquaintance had then continued eighteen months. The date was fixed forthe elopement, when the paralytic stroke which Mr. Harmer had put a stopto all their plans; and this for two reasons: pressed as he again wasfor money--for his creditors, who had been only partially paid before,were now becoming clamorous--Robert Gregory felt that with Mr. Harmer atthe point of death it would be perfect madness to run the risk of Sophybeing disinherited, when a few weeks might leave her the undisputedowner of L75,000; so although sorely harassed for money, he was contentto wait. The other reason was that Sophy was full of remorse at thethought that she had been at the point of deserting her benefactor. Shemet Robert now very seldom, but devoted herself to Mr. Harmer. As,however, the weeks ran on, he slowly but surely recovered health andbecame his former self, and her constant attendance on him was no longerneeded; so she fell back to her old habits; her meetings in theplantation became more frequent, and his influence resumed its powerover her. Robert Gregory had discernment enough to suit his behaviour tohis words: when the old man was at his worst, he was full of tendercommiseration for her; when he began to recover, he pretended a warminterest in his health, although inwardly he was filled with rage andchagrin at his convalescence. At length his own affairs arrived at sucha crisis that he was in momentary fear of arrest, and he felt that oncein prison his union with Sophy must be postponed at any rate till afterMr. Harmer's death, which now again appeared to be a distant event. He,therefore, once more began to persuade Sophy to elope with him; but hehad a far more difficult task than before. All his old arguments werebrought forward; but it was some time before he could succeed.Gradually, however, her old habit of listening to his opinion prevailed;she allowed herself to be persuaded that her grandfather might now livefor many years, and tha
t he could for a short time dispense with herservices; that as she had been so useful to him during his illness, andas he must be more attached to her than ever, it was quite certain thathe could not for long remain proof to her entreaties for forgiveness.
And so at last, but not without many tears and much bitterself-reproach, Sophy consented to an elopement--consented at that veryinterview coming from which Dr. Ashleigh surprised Robert Gregory--who,elated by his success, was making his way off without observing hisusual care and precaution.
At breakfast on the following morning, Mr. Harmer remarked that Sophylooked pale and ill; she answered that her head ached sadly, but thatshe had no doubt a stroll in the grounds would do it good. Afterbreakfast she accordingly went out, and, after wandering for some timecarelessly in sight of the house, she made her usual circuit to avoidobservation, and then entered the plantation near the road. She foundRobert Gregory waiting for her under the tree where they had now met forjust two years, sometimes once a week, sometimes once a month, accordingto the time of year, and the opportunities Sophy had for rambling about.Robert looked anxiously at her as she came up, to see if there were anysigns of flinching or drawing back in her pale face, but there werenone. Sophy was quiet and shy, but she had a fund of quiet determinationand courage within her. He kissed her tenderly. "You are looking palethis morning, little one."
"I daresay," she answered, "for I have not closed my eyes all night. Iseverything ready?"
"Quite. I shall be with the gig in the road just outside that gap, aminute or two before a quarter past eight; if you will get here a fewminutes after that time, we shall be able to catch the nine o'clocktrain to London easily. I shall take you to an Hotel near Euston Square,and we will go on by the early train to Scotland, and shall be half waythere before they find out in the morning that you are gone. You cantrust me, dearest?"
"Yes, Robert," Sophy said quietly. "I have trusted you all thesemeetings here, and I have found you an honourable gentleman, and I amnot going to distrust you now. I feel sure that all will turn out as wewish, and that grandpapa will forgive me very soon, and take us bothinto favour; and I hope that in a fortnight we shall be back here again,forgiven and welcome." Sophy spoke cheerfully, for she really believedwhat she said.
"Are you sure to be able to slip out unobserved?"
"Quite sure, Robert. I shall go up to bed at eight, and ask not to bedisturbed, as I wish to sleep. I shall bring a bag with me, and shallput on a thick veil, so as not to be recognized by any one as we gothrough Canterbury. I have, as I told you, plenty of money. Good-byenow, Robert, I must not wait here any longer."
"Good bye, dear, till this evening."
He looked after her as she went lightly away among the trees, herfootsteps scarcely sounding in the limp, new-fallen autumn leaves, and ashade of compunction came over his face. He was certainly a blackguard,he knew it well, but, by heavens, he would try to make this little girlhappy. They would be rich some day, and then they would travel foryears, and when he came back his evil name would have died out, and hecould then lead a quiet, happy life, perhaps at the old house there; andthen--and then, who knows; perhaps little children would grow up roundhim: surely then he must be happy. Could it be--good God! could it bepossible that he might yet turn out a good man after all? "Yes, therewas hope for him yet." And as Robert Gregory turned away, there was atear in his eye, which was even now growing heavy and red from longexcesses and hard drinking, and a sigh, and a half prayer from theheart, from which for long years such things had ceased to rise.
The next morning at ten o'clock, as Sophy had not come down tobreakfast, Mr. Harmer, as he went into the library, desired the servantto take his compliments to Miss Needham, and inquire how she felt.Presently the servant came into the library looking very pale andscared. "If you please, sir, Miss Sophy is not in her room, but therewas this letter for you laying on the table." So saying, the girlhastily left the room, to relate to the other servants the extraordinaryfact that Miss Sophy was not in her room, and that her bed had not beenslept in.
The letter to Mr. Harmer was as follows:--
"My dearest Grandpapa,
"If you were other than you are, this letter would not be written; I should not dare to plead my cause with you; but I know you so well--I know how kind and good you are--and so I venture to hope for your forgiveness. I am very wicked, grandpapa; I am going away without your consent to be married. He--my husband that is to be--is named Robert Gregory. He has told me frankly that men do not speak well of him, and that when he was young he was wild and bad. He tells me so, and I must believe him; but he must have been very different to what he is now--for now I know him to be good and noble. I have known him long--I own it with shame that I have never told you before, and many tears the concealment has cost me; but, oh, grandpapa, had I told you, you would have sent him away, and I should have lost him. He and you are all I have in the world; let me keep you both. He showed me kindness when all the world, except you--my kindest and best of friends--turned their backs upon me, and I could not give him up. While I write now, my eyes are full of tears, and my heart bleeds to think of the pain this will give you, after all your goodness to me. Oh, forgive me. Do for my sake, dear, dear grandpapa, see him and judge for yourself. I only ask this, and then I know you will forgive him and me. Write soon to me--only one word--say you forgive me, and let me be your little Sophy once more. I shall not love you the less for loving him, and much as I love him, without your forgiveness my life will indeed be miserable.
"Write soon, grandpapa--write soon, and say you forgive me, and that I shall again be your own--
"SOPHY."
Presently the Misses Harmer--who always breakfasted much earliertogether, and then retired to a dressing-room they had fitted up as asmall oratory--were surprised at loud talking, and confusion in thehouse. In a short time their own maid knocked at the door, and then camein with a face full of excitement, to say that Miss Sophy had not sleptin her bed, and that they had searched the whole house, and found nosigns of her.
"Does my brother know?" Miss Harmer asked, after hearing the whole storyvery quietly to the end.
"I can't say, ma'am; there was a letter on Miss Sophy's table, whichMary took into Mr. Harmer, in the library, when she first found it, andhe has not come out since."
The Misses Harmer, with their usual deliberate walk, went down stairs,and then into the library.
Mr. Harmer was sitting at the table, with his back to the door, and didnot turn round at their approach. They went up. Beside him on the tablelay an open letter--the one from Sophy;--in his hand was a pen, andbefore him a sheet of paper. On it he had written: "My dearest Sophy,come back; I forgive"--but the handwriting was strangely indistinct, andthe last word, the word "forgive," was large and sprawling, like aschoolboy's writing, and then the pen stopped, and had stopped forever;--Herbert Harmer was dead.