Читать книгу The Greatest Murder Mysteries - G.A. Henty Edition - G. A. Henty - Страница 28

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In three or four days after that terrible interview with Percy, in which we agreed—well, I don't know that we actually did agree to anything,—but in which it was at any rate understood that my resolution was immovable, and that I would not marry and accompany him to India without Lady Desborough's consent to our union—I received a letter from him. It was written from Newry, where his regiment was stationed, and was as follows:—

"My darling Agnes,

"I do not write this letter to you to ask you to reconsider your determination. Deeply as I feel the disappointment of my dearest hopes, I yet bow to your decision. Indeed, although it is against me, I feel, now that I can consider it calmly, that it is the only one which you, with your feelings of delicacy, could have arrived at. Forgive me, Agnes, for the cruel way in which I tried and agitated you the other day; but my mother's hardness and obduracy had driven me nearly out of my mind. I went away, Agnes, with your words ringing in my ears, 'Wait and hope!' and I am ready to do so. But how long, Agnes? My regiment may not improbably remain in India fifteen years; but at the end of eight years out there, I can return home for, at any rate, a year's leave; so that I may expect to be in England again in nine years from the present time. I shall by that time have got my troop; and my pay as a captain in India, together with the extra pay I may get from any staff appointment, would enable us to live in tolerable comfort. Should my regiment be returning before the time I name, I can exchange into another; so as to remain in India, at any rate, for another six or seven years.

"Will you, Agnes, when I return in nine years from this time, be my wife?—I mean, whether my mother still oppose or not? I cannot think she will; but let us suppose the worst. Will you then be my wife? Will you continue your engagement to me, and correspond with me for that time? Will you give me that fixed period to look forward to, instead of a restless waiting for my mother's death? If you do this, I shall be comparatively happy; for I should then have something certain to look forward to. If you answer 'yes,' I shall write to my mother, whom I have neither seen nor heard from, and say that I am willing—at your request—so far to give in to her that I will agree not to marry you before proceeding to India, and that we will wait, at any rate, until my return. But that I shall, of course, expect on her part that my allowance will be continued as before. The three hundred a-year which I receive from her I shall scrupulously lay by, as I can manage very well in India upon my lieutenant's pay; and as this, without counting what I may make by my staff appointment, will amount to nearly three thousand pounds in the nine years, I shall—even in the event of my mother refusing to assist me farther after my marriage with you—have accumulated enough to purchase my majority when the time comes. This is my future, if you agree to my proposal, dearest. If you tell me that you will not promise, if you write and repeat that you will not ruin me by marrying without my mother's consent, my mind is made up. I shall at once send in my papers to the Horse Guards, sell my commission, and embark for Australia, where, I am told, with a thousand pounds capital to start with, I may in a few years be a rich man. I shall then return and claim you, and no one will have a right to discuss my choice. Upon your decision, dearest Agnes, rests my future. What is it to be?

"Your own,

"Percy."

After I had read this letter through many times, I resolved to lay it before Polly, in whose judgment I felt the most perfect confidence. My sister did not hesitate a moment.

"What Percy asks is only fair, Agnes. He must not, as he says, be made to look forward to his mother's death as the only hope of his marriage with you. If you and he make this great sacrifice to her wishes, and at the end of nine years are of the same mind, I think that he at thirty-two and you at twenty-seven, have a perfect right to marry even without her consent; and by that time, as he says, his position will be so secured that he can afford to make the money sacrifice. Write and agree to his proposal, dear, by all means."

My own opinion tallied with Polly's, and I wrote to Percy to tell him that I agreed to remain engaged to him, and that, at the end of the nine years, if he claimed me, I would be his. That I would not cease all correspondence with him, although I felt that I had better do so, but that I would agree to exchange letters once every three months.

Percy wrote at once, thanking me very much for my decision, but begging that I would not insist on such long intervals between the letters. I would not, however, relax that condition. I knew how few long engagements ever came to anything, and how hard it is for a man to wait through the best part of his life. I determined, therefore, not to keep up a too frequent exchange of letters, which would, I felt, however much he might wish it at present, prove terribly tiresome to him long before the expiration of the period of trial; and yet he would not like to fall off in his correspondence, for he would know that I should feel it a great trial when he began to write less frequently. So I maintained my resolution, but told him that, in the event of illness, or of any particular news, the rule might, of course, be broken.

In another day or two I heard again from him, saying that his mother—while on her part reiterating her assertion that she should never alter her determination, or consent to his marriage with any woman without either money or rank to assist him—had yet agreed willingly to his proposal, namely, that things should go on as before, and that the breach between them should be healed if he would go to India by himself.

And so it was settled; and when my letter to Percy in answer to his was written, the three months' rule began. And now that I could have no letter for that time, I settled down into a dreamy, despondent state, from which, although I tried to rouse myself, I could not succeed in doing so. Nine years! It was such a long, long time to look forward to; and so few long engagements ever came to anything, even when there were no difficulties in the way. How could I hope that my case would form an exception to the rule?

Under all this, my health, which had never since my mother's death been strong, failed rapidly, in spite of papa's tonics, and sister Polly's kindness and tender care. Papa I could see was growing very anxious about me, and I myself thought that I was going into a decline. I was thin and pale; I had no longer strength to go for long walks with Polly, but seldom went out beyond the garden. I felt the heat, too, dreadfully. I do not know that it was a particularly hot summer, but I was weak, and the heat tired me sadly. Polly was unceasing in her kindness and attention; she read to me, chatted to me, talked cheerfully about the future, pictured Percy's return to claim me, painted our life in India, and laughingly said that if she could not get a husband here, that she would come out to us on spec. Indeed she did everything in her power to cheer and amuse me. I tried hard to respond to all this kindness, but with little result; I was ashamed of myself for giving way, and yet I gave way, and daily became weaker and weaker. I am sure that Polly thought I was going to die, and she came to a resolution of the result of which I was not told till long afterwards.

She ascertained that the elder Miss Harmer was in the habit of coming in on Sunday mornings, to the little Catholic chapel in the town, and that she was very seldom accompanied by her sister. Accordingly, one morning when I was unusually poorly, and was unable to go to church, she started early, and walked through the town, and out upon the road to Sturry; presently she saw the well-known Harmer carriage approaching, and she pulled down her veil as it approached her, to prevent any possibility of her being recognized.

She pursued her way until she reached the lodge gate of Harmer Place, turned in, went up the drive, and rang at the hall door. Sarah opened it, and looked not a little surprised at seeing Polly.

"Is Miss Angela Harmer in, Sarah?"

"Yes, Miss, she has just come down into the drawing-room."

"Do not ask her if she will see me, Sarah, as I have no doubt she would refuse, and it is absolutely necessary that I should have a talk with her."

"Very well, Miss," Sarah said; "I gave notice better than three weeks ago, and my month is up on Thursday, so I do not care in the least what they say to me." Accordingly Sarah led the way to the drawing-room, opened the door, and announced "Miss Mary Ashleigh." Polly went in, the door closed behind her, and she was alone with Angela Harmer.

The old lady had changed much since Polly had seen her a year before; she had aged wonderfully, and was evidently breaking fast; her cheeks had fallen in, her face was wrinkled, and her whole figure was thinner and feebler than before; her hands, too, which had before been plump and well shaped—and upon which, if Angela Harmer had a single thought of personal vanity, she rather prided herself—were thin and bony, unmistakably the hands of an old woman.

As Polly Ashleigh was announced and entered, Angela Harmer half rose, with an exclamation almost of terror, and looked round with a wild, frightened look, as if seeking some outlet of escape; but there was none, and even had there been she could not have availed herself of it, for her knees gave way under her, and she sank down with a scared, helpless look, into the chair from which she had half risen.

Polly raised her veil, and looked down with a rather heightened colour, but with a steady look, at the cowering old woman before her, and then said, "You are surprised to see me here, Miss Harmer; and you well may be; for myself—had it been to make me the richest woman in the world—would not have set foot as a petitioner within the walls; but on behalf of my sister, I would do this and much more."

"What do you want, Miss Ashleigh?" Angela Harmer said, in hurried, anxious tones. "You must not talk to me; you must see my sister; she is more able to talk upon business than I am."

"I do not go to your sister, Miss Harmer, because I know my errand would then be a fruitless one. I come to you in her absence, because from what I know and have heard of you, I believe that your heart is accessible to impulses of kindness and pity; I come to you because I believe you to have been a mere passive participator in the wrong which others have committed."

"What do you want?" again Miss Harmer asked, in the same frightened, helpless way.

"I ask at your hands my sister's life—Miss Harmer, she is dying; do you know why? She was happy, she was loved; and was engaged to a man worthy of her, and they would before this have been married. But this man is dependent upon another, and that other's consent was only given for him to wed an heiress; my sister is an heiress no longer. This man would gladly take her penniless as she is, take her to the ruin of his worldly prospects, but she cannot accept the sacrifice; and she is dying—dying; do you hear that, Miss Harmer? And you are assuredly her murderess,—far, far more so than you allege Sophy to have been of your brother; for he was an old man, suffering from a deadly malady, by which he might at any moment have been carried off, while this is a fair, young, happy girl, whom you have struck down. She is dying;—Miss Harmer, I demand her life of you!"

Miss Harmer cowered back into her chair before the young girl who stood looking down with her earnest face upon her; and raised her hands feebly, as if to keep her accuser at a distance.

"I pity you," Polly went on, "I pity you from my heart; but yet I demand my sister's life; give her back to us again, and you will be doubly—yes, tenfold repaid; for your peace of mind will be restored to you. I know what you must have suffered—your changed face shows it; I know what misery you must have undergone, and the struggle between your conscience, your innate sense of right, and what you had been led to believe. This was terrible before; but it was nothing to what you will feel now, with the thought of my sister, whom you are sending to her grave, before you. You cannot—I see it in your face—you cannot reconcile with your conscience what you are doing; for your own sake, Miss Harmer, and for my sister's, I call upon you to do what is right."

"What would you have?" Miss Harmer asked, wringing her hands in helpless despair; "we offered at Christmas——"

"You did," Polly broke in, "you tried to cheat your conscience, as Ananias did of old, by giving part while you held back the rest; but we could not accept it: not even to save life, could we receive as a gift part of our own, and so become almost participators in the robbery of Sophy and ourselves. No, Miss Harmer, we must have our own, or nothing. I call upon you now, solemnly in the names of your dead brother, and of my dying sister, to give me this will you are hiding. Give it to me, and I promise you in the name of us all, that the past shall never be alluded to; I offer you a clear conscience, and our blessing, as the saviour of my sister's life."

"But my sister!—Father Eustace!" Miss Harmer murmured, in a terrified tone to herself. "Oh, no, no, no, I dare not!" and she again wrung her hands despairingly.

"You dare not refuse, Miss Harmer; you dare not go down to your grave with this grievous wrong and with my sister's death upon your soul; you will have to meet then, One whose wrath will be far more terrible than that of the anger of mortal. Miss Harmer, give me the will,—come," and with an air of mingled entreaty and command, Sophy took Miss Harmer's hands, looking down upon her with her earnest eyes, and Miss Harmer almost unconsciously rose to her feet.

"Come," Polly said again, "save my sister's life, earn peace and happiness for yourself, here and hereafter."

The girl led the old woman to the door, never taking her eyes from her face, for she felt that somehow she was exercising a strange power over her, that she was leading her, as it were, against her own will and volition, and that if nothing occurred to break the spell, the victory was hers. Miss Harmer's eyes were wide open, but she hardly seemed to see, but went mechanically, like a person walking in her sleep; her lips moved, but no sound came from them; then they went out of the door, and up the stairs, and turned towards the door of Mr. Harmer's former bedroom, when a noiseless step came up the stairs behind them, a hand was placed upon Miss Harmer's shoulder, and the deep voice of Father Eustace said,—

"Sister Angela, what are you doing?"

As a sleep-walker startled at some sudden touch from a dream, the old woman turned round with a convulsive start, and then with a loud cry fell senseless to the ground.

"Who are you?" the priest asked of Polly, as he stooped to raise the fallen woman. "Who are you?"

"One of the rightful possessors of this house," Polly said, proudly; and then turning round—for she saw that the prize was hopelessly lost at the moment of victory—she went down stairs and out of the house, telling Sarah, whom she found in the hall, to go upstairs to help the astonished Father Eustace to carry the insensible woman to her room.

Polly, when she got home again, went straight to the library, and told papa of her visit to Harmer Place, and its results, and how nearly she had been to the recovery of the will. Papa looked thoughtful over it for some time.

"It was a dangerous experiment, Polly, but the fact that you so nearly succeeded, proves that it was not a hopeless one, as I should have unhesitatingly have pronounced it to be, had you asked my opinion before starting. It shows that the will is in existence still, and no doubt as she was leading you towards Mr. Harmer's room, she was going down the upper staircase towards the secret chamber, in some closet in which it is undoubtedly concealed. I only hope that Miss Harmer will not, when she returns home, and hears what a narrow escape she has had, destroy the will at once. However, we must do as we have done before, hope for the best."

Papa and Polly had a long talk again over Miss Harmer, and they quite agreed that her religious bigotry and personal obstinacy were both so great that it was hopeless to expect any change in her. Her superstition was the only weak point in her character. So great was this, that papa said that, strong-minded woman as she was in other respects, he had heard her confess that she would not remain without a light at night for any consideration, and that she would not even go into a dark room without a candle on any account.

"It is very strange, papa," Polly said. "How do you account for a feeling so opposed to her general character?"

"We are all anomalies, Polly, and in the present instance the anomaly can be accounted for more easily than it can in many others. As children, the Misses Harmer were brought up in convents abroad, and saw pictures and were told stories of the martyrdoms of saints, until the very air seemed full of horrors. I have no doubt that this is how their feeling originated; but at any rate it is fortunate for us, for there is no question that it is their superstition, heightened by the threat I held over them of their brother's spirit, which has prevented Miss Harmer from destroying the will long ago."

"I wish I could frighten her again," Polly said thoughtfully.

"Come, Polly, no more tricks," papa said, "you might get yourself into some very serious scrape. You must promise me that you will on no account go to Harmer Place again, without consulting me beforehand."

Polly did not like to promise, but papa insisted upon it, and Polly, although very reluctantly, had to bind herself by a promise not to do so again.

Two days afterwards, a short time after breakfast—to which I had not risen—there was a knock at the door, and the servant came in, looking rather surprised, and said that Miss Harmer wished to speak to Miss Mary Ashleigh.

Polly, who was alone, at once ordered her to be shown in. The girl rose to meet her visitor with a bright flush on her cheek, and a little nervous tremor of excitement running through her, for she felt that Miss Harmer was a very different woman to her sister, and that she had a harder battle to fight than the previous one had been, and with even a slighter chance of victory.

Miss Harmer entered stiff and unbending, and her cold stern face at once restored Polly's composure. Her bow of greeting was to the full as haughty as that of Miss Harmer, and she motioned that lady to a chair, and in silence sat down opposite to her.

The two women looked at each other full in the face, and Miss Harmer, fearless as she herself was of all earthly things, could not help admiring the bright unflinching look of the young girl, and feeling that despite the difference of age, she had met an opponent worthy of her. Seeing that Polly waited quietly for her to begin, she said at last,—

"I have called, Miss Ashleigh, to remonstrate with you upon your very extraordinary conduct the other day. My sister has been very ill, and indeed it was only last evening that she was able to give me any account of what had taken place."

"I am sorry to hear that your sister has been ill, Miss Harmer, but for no other reason do I regret what I did. I endeavoured for my sister's sake to persuade your sister to do what was right. I grieve that my attempt failed, but on that account only do I regret what I have done. I did it without the knowledge of my father or sister. I acted as I did because my conscience told me I was right."

"But your conduct is outrageous, Miss Ashleigh," Miss Harmer said angrily. "You first gratuitously assume that this will—which there is every reason to believe is long since destroyed—is in existence; upon the strength of this unfounded and injurious supposition you insult us grossly, and have shocked and alarmed my poor sister beyond description. If such a thing occur again, or if any similar attempt is made, I shall call in the assistance of the law for our protection."

"I assume that the will is in existence, Miss Harmer, because I am as certain of it as I am of my own being."

"I suppose," Miss Harmer said scornfully, "you imagine that my poor sister—whom your language and manner appear to have affected until she did not know what she was doing—was taking you to my brother's room, and that she would have there unlocked a drawer and given you the will."

"My supposition is founded upon no such grounds, Miss Harmer. I know the will to be in existence, and I also know that it is not in your brother's room."

Polly spoke so calmly and earnestly, that Miss Harmer felt a little startled and uneasy in spite of herself.

"Upon what my conviction is founded I will presently inform you. My attempt failed, and I shall try no more, but leave the matter in His hands who is certain to bring the works of darkness to light in the end. You believe, Miss Harmer," and the girl's voice rose now, and became more firm and impressive, "that you are acting in the interests of God; believe me, He is strong enough to act for Himself. I have a strong, a sure conviction that some day it will be all made straight, and in the meantime I am content to trust my sister's life in His hands, and wait. If she die, it is His will; but I still hope that He will in some way or other make known to me where the will is placed."

Miss Harmer looked scornfully at her. Polly paid no heed to her look; she had turned her eyes from Miss Harmer now, and was looking straight before her, and went on, speaking in a quiet, dreamy tone, as if almost unconscious of her visitor's presence.

"Already I know much. I know that the will is not destroyed, and yet I know not where it is, but I may know yet. I have dreams at night. I see at times before me a small chamber, with a single arm-chair and a table there; a light stands upon the table, and a figure, your brother, sits there writing. The will lies on the table before him. He has risen now, and has taken up the will and the candle, but the light burns dimly, and I cannot see what he does with it; but I know somehow that he has put it into a place of safety, and that it is there still. A voice seems to say to me, 'Patience, and wait: I guard it!' When I wake I know this is no ordinary dream, for it comes over and over again, and I know that the chamber is in existence. I can see it now before me, with its low ceiling, and a stone staircase which seems to run through it, leading both up and down—I know not where. I can see it, with its table and chair, with books and some scattered papers, and a figure is sitting in the chair, and which yet seems to me to be no figure, but a mere shadow; but I know that he is there, and that he will wait until the time comes for the hidden will to be found. Miss Harmer!" Polly said, turning suddenly round upon her, "you best know how far my dream is true, and whether such a chamber as I have seen exists!"

Miss Harmer made no reply, but sat as if stricken with a fit. She had during her brother's life been frequently in the "priest's chamber," and once on the afternoon of his death; and the room rose before her as Polly described it, with its table and candles, and her brother sitting reading, and the stone steps leading up and down. She could hardly keep herself from screaming aloud. The hard, rigid lines of her face relaxed; the tightly-closed lips parted; and the whole expression of her face was changed by this great terror.

Polly saw the tremendous sensation she had created, and rose and filled a tumbler with water from a caraffe which stood on the side board, and offered it to Miss Harmer, but she motioned it away. Polly set it down beside her, and it was some time before the stricken woman could trust her trembling hand to carry it to her lips. At length she did so, drank a little, and then said,—

"One question, Miss Ashleigh: Did my brother ever reveal to your father, sister, or yourself the existence and description of such a place as you speak of?"

"As I hope in heaven!" Polly said, solemnly, "he did not."

There was a pause for some time, and then Miss Harmer said, very feebly,—

"I confess you have startled me, Miss Ashleigh; for you have, I say honestly, described accurately a place the very existence of which I believed known only to my dead brother, my sister, myself, and one other person abroad, with whom it would be as safe as with myself. I went into that chamber on the day after my brother's death, to see if the will was on that table, but, as you say, it was not. Should it be anywhere in existence, which, remember, I am ignorant of—for I give you my solemn assurance that I have not seen it since my brother's death—and should, in your dream, the place where it is hidden be revealed to you, come to me, and you shall be free to examine the place, and take the will if you find it. I will acknowledge the hand of God, and not struggle against it. And now goodbye. You will not come again to my sister?"

"I will not, Miss Harmer. I wait and hope."

"Will you not reconsider the proposal we made?"

"No, Miss Harmer—it is impossible."

Miss Harmer now rose with some difficulty, and went out, attended by Polly, to her carriage, with an air very different to her usual upright walk.

When the door had closed, and the carriage had driven off, Polly said exultingly to herself, "The will is safe for a time anyhow."

Four or five days afterwards papa received a formal letter from Miss Harmer's man of business in London, saying that the Misses Harmer were anxious to clear off all outstanding accounts, and that they did not find any mention among Mr. Harmer's papers of money paid to Dr. Ashleigh for professional services, during the three years prior to his death; that as all other payments were punctually entered by Mr. Harmer, it was evident that no such sum had been paid; and that he, therefore, at Miss Harmer's request, forwarded a cheque for £500, being, she stated, certainly not too large a sum for the constant attendance furnished by him during that time.

Papa did not refuse to accept this money, as indeed he had not, from the time that Mr. Harmer declared his intentions respecting us, ever sent in any account to him. Papa determined to spend the money in making a grand tour for the benefit of my health; and accordingly, in another fortnight—having arranged with some one to take his practice during his absence—he, Polly, and I started for a four months' tour. For that time we wandered through Switzerland, Germany, and the old cities of Belgium; and very greatly we enjoyed it. My health improved with the change of scene, and when we returned to our old home, at the end of November, I was really myself again, and was able to look forward cheerfully to the future, and to take my part again in what was going on round me.