CHAPTER XI.
OFF GUARD.
And so Sophy succeeded in the first step of her enterprise, and waspromoted to the honourable position of servant to Father Eustace, _vice_old Peggy resigned; and, although she was a long way from the goal yet,she felt very sanguine of success now, and looked upon the easy way inwhich this first part of her scheme had been effected as a sure omen ofher future success. The priest lived in a comfortable little house atthe extreme end of the village nearest to Harmer Place, and whichbelonged to the estate, having indeed been built by the grandfather ofMiss Harmer specially as a residence for the family confessor. It stoodback a little from the road, and had a small garden in front. There wasa coach-house and stable attached, over which was a room where the groomslept.
Sophy commenced her new duties in earnest, and Father Eustace very soonhad reason to congratulate himself on his change of domestics, and onthe advent of this quiet, respectable-looking woman in the place of hisformer garrulous and slatternly old servant; and he soon felt a greatincrease of comfort in his domestic arrangements. This new servant wasscrupulously neat and tidy. What little cooking she had to do, was sureto be well done; and above all, she was always at home, and, come inwhen he would, she was there at her work, instead of gossiping about thevillage, as he had frequently found it the case before: his only regretwas that the change had not taken place years earlier.
Sophy's duties were not heavy. Father Eustace breakfasted at home, andthen sat writing until lunch-time, after which he went up to the Hall;from this he seldom returned until late in the evening, never taking hisdinner at home. The groom was on board wages, and did not have any ofhis meals in the house; consequently, when breakfast was over, Sophy hadthe rest of the day nearly to herself.
The thing, perhaps, for which of all others Father Eustace liked his newdomestic, was, that he could now leave his papers about with theabsolute certainty that on his return he would find them precisely as heleft them; and with no fear that they would be crumpled up, and put awayin a closet, or piled in a heap in a corner, either to make way for abreakfast or lunch-tray, or in an accession of an occasional fit oftidiness, such as sometimes seized his former servant. To his newdomestic his papers were sacred; leave them about in the wildestapparent confusion, and he might rely upon it that she would never movethem; and to such a point did she carry this, that one or two morningsafter her arrival--when the priest had left some papers on thetable--she brought a small round table out of another room, on which sheplaced the breakfast things; after this she always continued the samepractice, so that there was no longer any occasion for the papers to bemoved from the table at all. This being the case, Father Eustace ceasedto put them away, but left them all about, feeling quite secure that,from their being entirely in Italian, it would be out of the questionthat any one would attempt to read them.
Father Eustace had not changed in appearance in the slightest, in theseven years he had been at Harmer Place. His thin face, with its shavencheeks and chin, was perhaps a shade thinner, but that was all; and yetFather Eustace chafed inwardly at his long detention there, wasting sixprecious years of his life in his daily ministrations on this obstinateiron old woman. Sometimes he regretted that he had ever accepted thepost, but yet the reward at the end would be great. The Bishop ofRavenna, his especial patron, at whose bidding he had come over, wouldsee that his merits were known in the proper quarter, and that a rewardproportionate to the service he had rendered was bestowed upon him. Thebishop was a man of great influence; he had been spoken of for acardinal's hat; and he had promised Father Eustace that he would put hisconduct in such a light, that it would be nearly sure to lead to hiselevation to some vacant see.
Father Eustace was a clever man, and an ambitious--for himself and hisChurch, and would have scrupled at little for the good of either. Stillit was very wearying waiting so long for this iron old woman to die; themore so as the principal object of his coming had not yet been attained.However, he had been trained in a good school for patience, and althoughwhen alone his eyes would sometimes flash angrily, and his thin handsclench in his impatience, at ordinary times he was bland and gentle, andseemed never weary of reading to her in that suave, mellow voice of hisfor hours at a time.
As a resource for his leisure hours, he occupied himself in writing anelaborate history of the martyrs of the early Church, and it was withthe sheets of this manuscript that his tables were generally littered.
From these Sophy gained no information, and it was some little time,indeed, before she did so; but one day, rendered careless by thetidiness and care of his servant, Father Eustace went out, leaving hiskey in the lock of his desk. It was for this that Sophy had been waitingand hoping. She lost not a moment in taking it out, and taking animpression of it on a flat cake of wax, which she had carried ready inher pocket from the day she had entered his service. The same afternoonshe sent the cake of wax, in a small tin box, to Mr. Billow, King EdwardStreet, Lambeth, enclosed in a letter with a L5 note, requesting a keyto be made from the impression, and sent down at once to the direction,"Mary Westwood, Post Office, Sturry, Kent."
In three days the key arrived, and Sophy was now able to indulge herintense desire to examine the contents of Father Eustace's desk. It wasa large one, and contained a great number of letters and documents; butall that she had any interest in were two bundles of papers, of aboutthe same size, the one endorsed, "Letters of Monseigneur the Bishop ofRavenna," the other, "Copies of my letters to the Bishop of Ravenna."
These she read through and through, taking one letter out at a time, andreading it up in her own room; so that in case her master suddenlyreturned, even should he go at once to his desk, he would find itlocked, and the bundles of papers apparently as he had left them.
The earlier letters were the most interesting: in these Father Eustacerelated the events of the funeral, and of the ineffectual search for thewill. He said that Miss Harmer, on his arrival, had told him at oncethat she was determined that her elder brother's will should be carriedout, that the property should all go to the Church, and that no willwould ever be forthcoming. He had of course applauded her resolution,and promised her the blessing of the Church. But he said that she hadnot, even in confession, told him where the will really was.
As time went on, he wrote to say that he could not elicit from her whereit was hidden, and that, devoted as she was to the Church, she was of soobstinate a character, that he was afraid he never should find out fromher; but that he did not like to appear too pertinacious on the point,about which indeed there was no especial hurry. He told the bishop thathe believed that this reticence of hers was caused by two reasons--theone, that she wished to be able to say conscientiously that she hadnever seen it; the other and stronger one, that she was ridiculouslysuperstitious; that she had an idea that her brother's spirit wasguarding it, and that his curse would fall upon her if she destroyed it.He said that he had reasoned with her, and rebuked her for hersuperstition; but that nothing he could say had the least effect uponher. Angela Harmer, he said, he should have been able to have managedwithout difficulty; but she was guided entirely by her elder sister, whohad even bound her by a solemn vow not to tell, even in confession,anything about the will; and no assurance on the part of himself thatany vow which was to the detriment of the Church was binding, had anyeffect upon her. In return, the bishop exhorted him to patience. Fromhis own knowledge of Cecilia Harmer's character, he was certain that shewould not be easily diverted from any purpose she had once taken up; butwhen the time should come, he would use his own authority, and he had nodoubt that then she would give way.
The bishop, however, thought that the will might be found and destroyedwithout the Miss Harmers' knowledge, for he believed he knew where itwas hidden. The Miss Harmers had frequently, in their conversations withhim, spoken of the way in which their family had in the old times ofpersecution concealed fugitive priests, in a secret room constructed ina chimney; access was had to this room from the hall, by unscrewing theton
gue of one of the iron dogs in the fireplace, and by pushing a springinside the mouth, and also pressing a spring in the chimney behind themantelpiece. The bishop said that he had taken a note of it at the time,as he always did of everything which could by any possibility ever turnout useful; and that he had no doubt the will would be found there.
Father Eustace wrote in reply to say that he had followed theinstructions, and had entered the secret chamber; but that there was nowill there.
After this there was nothing in any of the letters of much interestuntil the last one or two. In these Father Eustace repeated that MissHarmer was breaking fast, and that it was becoming necessary to makeanother effort to find the will.
The Bishop replied that when the time came he would himself write toher; and would point out, "that the house must be sold at her death, andthat some day it might be pulled down and the will found, and therebyall her good intentions for the benefit of the Church would befrustrated; that he, therefore, exhorted--nay, more, commanded, ifnecessary, that she would reveal the hiding-place to her confessor inorder that such a contingency as the will ever being found might berendered an impossibility."
All these letters Sophy read through and through. She was disappointed,for she had hoped that she should have found this secret which she solonged to find out, but it was not to be; and so she fell back uponanother plan, for she had thoroughly foreseen every possible difficultyand discouragement, and had marked out various schemes for herself,which were to be adopted according to circumstances. One of the lettersfrom the bishop happened to have the large seal with which he sealed hisletters unbroken. Of this she carefully took an impression, with a pieceof bread, kneaded up with a little oil, just as she had often taken sealimpressions when a girl. This she put by to dry, in order to be inreadiness when required. She then carefully wrote the two letters shewished copied, took one of the bishop's earlier letters from the bundle,and also a note in Father Eustace's own handwriting, and enclosed themto Mr. Billow, with the following letter:--
* * * * *
"Dear Mr. Billow,
"The time has now come when I require the letters I spoke to you aboutwhen in London. I enclose copies of the two letters I wish written, andalso letters the handwriting of which is to be imitated; the long one inItalian must be done on foreign letter-paper, and the other onnote-paper, and let the addresses be written as in the copies, on theback. I enclose L25 in notes, and will forward another L25 when Ireceive the letter from you. Please register it, and enclose it to MaryWestwood, Sturry, Kent."
* * * * *
In three days the letters came down, and the handwritings were soexactly imitated, that Sophy could not detect the slightest difference.She folded them, sealed one with the broad seal, and then locked them upin her box till wanted. She was now ready for the attempt, and onlywaited for the time. It was longer coming than she had expected, and sixmonths went on after she had come down to Sturry before there was anydecided change. Then Miss Harmer began to sink rapidly, and took to herbed. Sophy could see that her master was nervous and anxious, and hewrote off at once to the Bishop of Ravenna. He came back now to dinnerat five, and soon after six again went up to Harmer Place, and remainedthere till late in the evening.
Sophy now felt that the time was come. She sat down and wrote to me,asking me to hire a man the next day at the livery-stable, to ride outand deliver a note, which she enclosed in her letter to me; with strictinjunctions that he was to leave Canterbury at six exactly: that he wasto ride up to the door of Father Eustace's house, to ring the bell,deliver the letter, and ride off instantly without waiting to bequestioned. She implored me not to fail in this, for that upon its beingdone exactly as she had dictated the whole of her plan depended, andthat she believed ere long she should be able to tell me that she hadfound the will.
I confess that when I had read her letter I was very much puzzled whatto do. I had no idea what her plans were, or what were the contents ofthe letter. I had not the least hope that she would find the will; andyet she wrote so urgently, that I was sure she believed herself that shehad; and as she was going through so much, surely I need not mindrisking a little. I had a long debate with myself, but at last came tothe conclusion that I could not but do as she asked me, and send thelittle note, which was merely directed Father Eustace, in a hurried,almost illegible writing--to its destination. However, I determined torun as little risk of being discovered as being connected with it aspossible, and I accordingly went down to old Andrew's cottage. I havenot mentioned that he was still living in Dr. Hooper's service, andresided as before close to the old house, nor have I told of the delightwith which he received me on my return.
"Andrew," I said to him, "I have got a piece of rather particularbusiness I want done, and I know you will manage it for me."
"That I will, Miss Agnes. What is it?"
"I have a note here which I want delivered at the priest's at Sturry.You know the house, Andrew, the last one in the village."
"Aye, aye, Miss, I know it well enough."
"Well, Andrew, I want you either to go yourself, or get one of your sonsto go there on horseback this evening. Now be very particular. You areto start from here at six exactly, you are to ride over there, ring atthe bell, give this note to the servant, and ride off as fast as you canwithout waiting to be asked any questions. Do you quite understand? Ofcourse I do not wish any one to know who left the note, or anythingabout it."
"I'll do it, Miss Agnes, sure enough--at least my son William will. I amgetting too old for riding. He is at home at present; I will take one ofmaster's horses and bring him out quietly, and William will do just asyou say; and if master should come into the stable--which he won't do atthat time of day--I will say Bill has taken him round to have a shoe puton."
All that day Sophy was very anxious and nervous, not so much as to thesuccess of her plans as to whether her request would be fulfilled andher letter sent as directed. Even Father Eustace looked up rathersurprised at dinner, for his usually quiet composed servant seemedanxious and excited. Her movements were hurried and quick, and there wasa red patch of colour on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright andrestless.
"Come here, child," he said, presently. "Give me your hand."
Rather surprised, she did as he told her.
"Your hand is hot and feverish, Mary," he said, "and your pulse is high.You are not at all well. I shall be back in an hour or two from thehall, and then I will give you a powder, and you must go to bed. I amafraid you are going to be ill."
At half-past six, Sophy, listening anxiously, heard the sound of horse'shoofs approaching at a gallop. It stopped at the gate. There was a ringat the bell. She went out, a letter was placed in her hands without aword, and the man and horse galloped off. She took the letter in to hermaster. He opened and read it.
"Mary," he said, quietly, "will you be good enough to see if Thomas isout in the stable; and if so, tell him to put the horse into the gig atonce, and get ready to drive me to Sittingbourne."
Sophy did as he had ordered her, and then returned to the parlour.
"I am sorry I am obliged to go out this evening, Mary; but I am sent forto Sittingbourne, to Mrs. Ford, where I dined a short time since. Thepoor thing is taken suddenly ill, is dying in fact, and has sent to askme to go over at once to administer the sacraments, and that is a callwhich I cannot refuse. Here is a powder; take that, and I should adviseyou to go to bed at once. Do not lock the door, I will let myself inwhen I come back."
In another ten minutes the gig was at the door, and Father Eustace wentout, and in another minute was gone. Sophy stood at the door and watchedthem drive down into the village. Then she went in and shut the door. Sofar her plans had succeeded--would they to the end?