A Search For A Secret: A Novel. Vol. 3

  CHAPTER X.

  THE SPY IN THE CAMP.

  It is a year now since I wrote any of this story, and this time I shallreally finish it. How little do we foresee the course of events! andcertainly, when I last laid down my pen, I little thought that thisstory would have ended as it has. Most of what follows I have at timesgathered from Sophy's lips, the rest from my own knowledge of theaffair.

  Sophy Gregory did not leave me, the first time when she came, until itwas getting dusk, as she did not wish to arrive at Sturry until afterdark, for a single woman with a bundle entering that quiet village wouldbe almost certain to attract attention. Then she rose to go, andsubmitted to my embrace as before, in a quiet, impassive way; and yet,as she turned to leave me, there was a strange, wistful look in hereyes, as if with me she felt that she had left the last of her oldlandmarks behind, that she had finally started on the strange coursewhich she had chosen. But whatever her thoughts were, there was no signof wavering or hesitation. Steadily and quietly as she had saidgood-bye, she went out, down the steps, and through the gatheringdarkness.

  By the time she was past the barracks and out into the bleak countrybeyond, night had fairly fallen, and the wind blew keenly across theflats. But Sophy hardly felt it; she had entered upon her task at last,and it would have been no ordinary event which would have attracted herattention now.

  Presently the long, straight, level road rose suddenly, and she heardthe heavy water-shed wheel working, and could dimly see the black massof the building to her right. She was nearly at Sturry now; a littlefurther on and she could just see two white foaming streams on her left,and she knew now she was passing the great mill. Another hundred yardsand she was in the village itself. There was hardly any one about, butthe windows were a-glow with the bright fires within. Sophy shiveredslightly and drew her shawl more closely round her, as she hurried on;but it was her own bitter memories, and no thought of the cutting wind,which had so chilled her. The last time she had passed through thevillage was on the night she had eloped; the time before that she haddriven through it in her pony chaise with her two pretty ponies.

  Sophy passed through the village and went up the hill beyond it till shereached the plantation where she had so often met Robert Gregory, andthe lane where the dog-cart had stood waiting on that evening for her.Absorbed as she was in the future, concentrated as all her energies andthoughts were upon that one point, she could not help being moved bythat sad remembrance of the past. That night--oh, how different mighther life have been had she not taken that false step! How different--oh,how different! and with a wailing cry Sophy sat down upon some stones atthe corner of the lane, and cried with a terrible sorrow over her lostlife, cried as she had not cried since her husband's death. A long timeshe sat there and wept; passionately and bitterly at first, quietly andtranquilly afterwards. When she rose at last and went on, it was withfeebler steps than before, but with a mind lightened and relieved. Itseemed to her that a great weight was taken from her brain. She had, forso many weary months, thought of this one idea to the exclusion of allother, that her brain sorely needed relief; and that long fit of cryingtook off the deadening strain, and I do believe saved her reason. Hereyes had a softer look afterwards, and her manner was less hard andcold. I noticed the change when I saw her a month afterwards, and toldher that she looked much more like herself, and that her eyes had lost astrange look which they had about them. She answered that she knew thatit was so, and she had herself, at times, thought that her brain wasfailing her; she told me she believed that that fit of crying had beenmercifully sent as a relief to her, for she had felt a different womanever since.

  And so Sophy rose from the heap of stones, weaker indeed in body, butwith a clearer and brighter intellect; and although her search was by nomeans given up, she went about it in a more steady and thoughtful, ifwith a less fixed and cunning method; and she herself told me, "If attimes my old, strange, wild feeling comes over me, I shut myself up inmy room, and think over my past life; I am able now to pray God to havepity on me, to bring wrong right, and to spare my reason for my child'ssake."

  Sophy went on until at last she came to the well-remembered east lodge,where she had lived so long as a child, not dreaming then but that itwas her proper home; and afterwards, as long as she lived at HarmerPlace, she had been in the habit of going down at least once a week tosee her foster-mother. She knocked at the door, and without waiting foran answer, lifted the latch and went in.

  A tall woman of about fifty years old came out from the inner room onhearing the door open, for she had not heard Sophy's gentle knock.

  She looked suspiciously for a moment at her visitor, and then seeing byher attire, which was that of a respectable servant, that although shehad a bundle in her hand, she was no ordinary tramp, she asked civilly,"What may you please to want?"

  "Don't you know me, Mammy Green?" Sophy said, calling her by her oldchildish name.

  The woman fell back as if struck by a blow, her candle dropped from herhand and was extinguished; then she seized Sophy's arm and almostdragged her to the fire, that she might see her features moredistinctly, and then as Sophy smiled sadly, she recognized her faceagain, and with a cry of "Sophy! Sophy!" caught her in her strong armsand kissed her, and cried over her. Sophy cried too, and the old womanrecovered from her unwonted emotion first, for Sophy was weak andexhausted by the day's excitement, and her foster-mother soothed andpetted her as she would have done a child. When Sophy was composedagain, her nurse took off her bonnet and shawl, and made her sit downquietly in the great oak settle by the fire, while she put some wood onand made a cheerful blaze. Then she lit the candle again, and laid thelittle round table with the tea-things; in a short time the kettleboiled, and Sophy, after taking a cup of tea, felt once more herself.

  "And are you come down to live with me again, my dear?" her nurse askedpresently.

  "We will talk all that over to-morrow, Mammy Green, and I will tell yousome of my history, and what I intend doing. I am tired now, I supposemy little bedroom is nearly as it used to be?"

  "Yes, just the same, deary," the woman said, and taking down a key sheunlocked the door, and Sophy saw her little room quite unchanged, andlooking exactly as it did when she slept there last, twelve yearsbefore. Her little drawings hung on the wall, the elaborate sampler shehad worked when quite a child, was in its frame in its old place overthe mantle. Not a speck of dirt was visible anywhere, and a sweet scentof rosemary and lavender filled the room. Everything was just as she hadleft it; the white coverlid lay on the bed, which needed only its sheetsto be ready for sleeping in.

  "The bed is quite aired," her nurse said, "I have the room opened, andaired, and dusted once a week, and I take the bed off and put it beforethe fire all day once a month, and the blankets and sheets are kept inthe closet against the kitchen chimney, so they are always warm and dry.I have always been hoping you would come back to me again some day, andI was determined you should find it all ready."

  She then took the paper ornament off the grate, the fire was ready laidbehind it; this she lit, and in a few minutes, by the time she had madethe bed, the fire burned brightly up. Sophy, exhausted and tired withher day's excitement, was soon in bed, and her old nurse then came in tosee if she wanted anything else, and to tuck her up and kiss her as shehad done when she was a child; and Sophy, when she had said "good night,Mammy Green," lay drowsily watching the dancing shadows cast by the fireon the wall, and could hardly believe that she was not a child again,and that all these last twenty years were not a troubled feverish dream.

  Sophy's last injunction to her foster-mother before going to bed was,that on no account--should she see any one in the morning--was she tomention that she had returned; but that Mrs. Green was to tell all whomshe met, that a young woman who had been in service in London, had comedown with a letter from some old friend there, asking her to take her inuntil she could find a place in the country, which she was anxious to dofor the sake of her health.

  Accordingly, when
Mrs. Green went down into the village early in themorning, before Sophy was awake, to purchase a few little luxuries--suchas white sugar, some ham, and a little fresh meat--she told herneighbours that a friend of her old acquaintance Martha White, who hadgone up to London to service eight years before, had come down with aletter from her, asking her to take her friend in for a while, as shehad been ill, and was ordered country air.

  When Sophy awoke, she heard her old nurse moving about in the next room.On calling to her, she came in, with many inquiries as to how Sophy hadslept, and Sophy was able honestly to answer, that she had not slept sowell for weeks. The first question, in return, was, whether her nursehad seen any one that morning; and when she found that she had, sheinsisted on her repeating, word for word, what she had said; and notuntil she had done so twice was Sophy satisfied that her nurse had in noway betrayed her secret. In a quarter of an hour she was dressed, andfound breakfast in the next room--tea and fresh cream, eggs newly laid,for Mrs. Green kept a number of fowls, and a rasher of ham.

  "You look better, much better, this morning, deary," her nurse said, asshe came in; "but still there is something quite strange about you,which makes you look altogether different to what you used to."

  "Never mind now, nurse: I will tell you all about it after breakfast."

  Presently her nurse put down a cup of tea she was in the act of raisingto her lips.

  "There is one question I must ask you, deary; it has been on my lipsever since you came in last night, only you looked so tired and weary Iwas feared to sorrow you. But in the short letters you sent me when Iwrote to you, as you asked me, about the old lady's health up there, youused to write about your little boy. Have you--have you lost the littledarling, Sophy?"

  "No, Mammy Green--no. Thank God! he is alive and well; but I have lefthim with some kind friends in London while I came down here."

  "Thank God! indeed, Miss Sophy. Do you know, I have been so anxious eversince you came in about him, only I daren't, for the life of me, ask youlast night, though I almost had to bite my tongue off to keep quiet.There--go on with your breakfast now, deary. Now my mind is at rest, youneed not tell me any more till you are quite ready to do so yourself."

  After breakfast was over, Sophy tucked up her sleeves, and, in spite ofmany remonstrances, helped to clear the things away, and wash them up.When all was tidy, they sat down to the fire--Mrs. Green knitting, andSophy hemming an apron, to keep her fingers employed while shetalked--and then she began, and told as much of her past history as shedeemed it expedient for the woman to know.

  Mrs. Green interrupted her frequently with ejaculations of wonder andpity.

  When Sophy had finished her story, she told her old nurse that she hadcome down for the express purpose of finding the will, by which shewould become the heiress of Harmer Place; and that it was to this endthat she had begged her to write, letting her know how Miss Harmer was,as--in the way in which she intended to attempt to find the will--it wasuseless for her to attempt anything as long as Miss Harmer was in goodhealth.

  "My dear," her old nurse said, shaking her head, "well or ill, it willmake no difference. It is my belief, and always has been, that thatwoman has got a stone for a heart, and, well or ill, you might as welltry to stop one of them engines which go running along the valley, astry and change what she has once resolved upon."

  "I have no idea of changing her mind," Sophy said, quietly; "my opinionon that subject perfectly agrees with yours. I am going quite anotherway to work, and in this I require your help. I wish to get the place ofservant to Miss Harmer's confessor."

  This proposal so much roused Mrs. Green's indignation and amazement,that for a long time Sophy could not utter a word.

  "What! Miss Sophy, who was the lawful mistress of the Hall, to go for aservant! and--most of all--as a servant to a Popish priest! What was shethinking of? A servant, indeed! She had thought, from the way Sophy hadspoken of what she had been doing, that she had money; if not, it was ofno consequence. She had two hundred pounds in the savings' bank, whichshe had laid by in the good times; and was it likely that, as long asthat lasted, she would let her Miss Sophy go out as a servant? No,indeed!"

  Sophy had to wait patiently till the storm was past, and she thenexplained to her nurse that it was not because she wanted money that shedid this, for that she had an abundant supply; that she was very muchobliged to her dear old Mammy Green for her offer, but it was not aquestion of money at all; and that it was absolutely necessary, for therecovery of the will, that she should enter the priest's service.

  The nurse for a long time obstinately refused to do anything whatever toforward the design, and it was only by dint of coaxings and argumentsinnumerable, and, indeed, by the threat, if she would not assist her,that she must proceed--difficult as it would be--by herself, that she atlast succeeded in persuading Mrs. Green into giving her assistance inthe enterprise. At last, however, she gave in, and consented--althoughunder protest that she disapproved of it all, and that she washed herhands of the whole affair--to do what Sophy desired of her.

  Accordingly the next day Mrs. Green went down into the village, puttingsome eggs and a chicken into a basket, and under pretence of offeringthem for sale to the priest entered into conversation with his oldservant. She mentioned to her that she had a friend down from London whohad been in service there, but whose health was very bad, and who wasordered by the doctor to go down into the country and to take some veryquiet situation there. Mrs. Green said that her friend had saved somemoney in service and would not mind paying handsomely for such a placeas she wanted, as the doctor said her life depended upon it.

  The old woman listened with great interest, and a day or two afterwardswhen Mrs. Green went down again with eggs, she told her that she shouldlike very much to have a talk with her friend, for that she herself hadbeen thinking of leaving service for some time, and of going to livewith some relatives in a distant part of the country. Mrs. Greenthereupon invited her to come up and take a cup of tea with her on thefollowing evening--which invitation was accepted.

  The next evening, after tea, the matter was entered into, and a greatamount of bargaining and discussion went on between Sophy and the oldservant, as Sophy did not wish to appear too eager about it. But it wasat last settled that Sophy should give L8--which was a year's wages--ifthe place could be procured for her at once. The old woman took herleave, chuckling inwardly at the thought of the good bargain she hadmade; for Miss Harmer was not expected now to last many months longer,and as there was no heir, and the property would pass to strangers, whowere not likely to require the services of a priest, she thought itprobable that her successor would not remain long enough in her newplace even to receive the year's wages she had paid for it.

  The next morning the old servant told her master the tale which had beenagreed upon, namely--that she had just heard that a relative in adistant town was taken seriously ill, and wished her to go and live withher and nurse her. She said that she should take it very kind of hermaster if he would let her go at once; and that she trusted that hewould not be inconvenienced; for that there was a person staying in thevillage who would suit his situation exactly. She was a friend of herown--indeed, a sort of relation; she had been in service but had left tomarry a tradesman; it was altogether a very sad story; for her husbandhad been ruined and had died; the poor thing's health was not verystrong, and so she wished to take some quiet place in the country; andthat she was quite sure she would suit master.

  The priest heard her quietly to the end, and then asked if her friendwould be willing to come.

  "Yes, she would, sir. After you had gone up to the Hall yesterday, Iwent up to see her, as I could not have asked you to let me go at once,if I could not have found some one to take my place. She would be gladto come, sir; and I am sure she will suit you."

  "Ask her to come in to see me at once, then," Father Eustace said,"before I go up to the Hall."

  In an hour Sophy came down. Father Eustace looked at her gravely, andsaw
a respectable quiet-looking woman before him, very pale andsad-looking--much as he might have expected from what he had heard ofher story.

  He asked a few questions, which were satisfactorily answered, and thatsame afternoon Sophy Gregory entered upon her new duties as servant toFather Eustace.