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

by G. A. Henty

CHAPTER XIV.

ENJOYING THE SPOILS.

For a long week Sophy Gregory lay between life and death, and the doctors who attended her thought very badly of her case, and doubted much whether—even if, contrary to their expectation, she should ever recover from her illness, and regain her bodily strength—her intellect would not be hopelessly shattered from the effect of the terrible strain it had undergone.

I do not know how I should ever have supported the responsibility and anxiety of that week's watching, had it not been that on the second day of her illness Sophy uttered, in her ravings, a name which I remembered directly I heard it as that of the woman who had brought her up in childhood, and with whom she had stayed for some days when she first came down to Sturry. In her delirium Sophy called wildly to Mammy Green to save and hide her. She plaintively recalled her childish days, and besought her, for the sake of their love in those times, to shelter and protect her.

I immediately sent over to Sturry to her, asking her to come at once, and take charge of her foster-child.

Mrs. Green had been in a terrible state of anxiety, for all sorts of vague rumours were afloat in the village of the strange doings up at the Hall, and of the flight, and pursuit by the priest, concerning the reason for which, even the servant who had driven Father Eustace was ignorant. All that he knew was, "that they had been sent over to Sittingbourne on a fool's errand; and that when they reached home his fellow-servant was found to be missing. That they had then driven up to Harmer Place, and his master had gone in telling him to wait, and had returned in two or three minutes in a state of the greatest excitement, had jumped into the gig, and had told him to drive as hard as he could; and that he believed, from what he said, they were in pursuit of the missing servant. They had not, however, seen anything of her; but when they were nearly at Canterbury, a man, or a boy, he could not say which, who was running before them, had suddenly turned round and fired a pistol in the horse's face. This man had afterwards taken refuge in the barracks, and Father Eustace had gone in after him. What had happened there he could not say: he only knew that his master came out shortly, and did not speak while they drove back to the village, but looked, he thought, quite queer, and cut-up like. Father Eustace had got out at the door, had left him to put the horse up—which the poor thing wanted badly enough, for he had never done such a day's work in his life—and had gone up to the Hall, where he remained till morning."

Nor could the servants at Harmer Place give Mrs. Green any account of Sophy. They knew that something strange had taken place, but what they could not say. "A strange priest had arrived, and had, by her orders, been shown up to Miss Harmer's room; that was about half-past seven, and they heard nothing more of him till near eleven. Then the bell had rang violently, and the servant, on answering it, had found Miss Harmer alone, to her great surprise, for no one had heard the priest go out. Her mistress had asked her if she had seen him, and she had answered that she had not, and had thought he was with her mistress. Miss Harmer had appeared very much agitated, and had told her to call another servant, and to go down into the hall, and that they would find a sort of door open by the side of the fireplace, and a flight of steps; they were to call out loudly at the bottom of these, and if they received no answer, were to come up to tell her.

"Rather scared, thinking that their mistress had gone out of her mind, and wondering over the mysterious disappearance of the strange priest, the women had done as she had ordered, but had found no signs of the door she spoke of, and had gone up, with white faces, to tell their mistress so. Miss Harmer had been still more agitated, and had said to herself, 'He must have let the door close behind him, and cannot open it from the inside;' and then, after a minute, wrung her hands and cried out, 'Oh, my dream! my dream! What has happened to him? has it been as I thought? has the spirit——' and then she had broken off, and told them to dress her somewhat, and to call the men-servants, for that she must be carried down into the hall at once. Greatly scared by all this strange mystery, and believing that their mistress was delirious, they were still afraid to disobey her, and had just commenced carrying out her instructions, when Father Eustace arrived. He had at once gone up into Miss Harmer's room, and had a short conversation with her; what had been its import the servants could not tell, but both parties seemed greatly excited. The priest had then run downstairs again, very pale, and evidently much agitated, had called for a light, knelt down at the hall fireplace, picked up one of the iron dogs'-tongues which was lying on the hearth, and pushed it into its place; he had then risen, and put his hand up the chimney, and immediately a small door, that none of them had ever seen before, had flown open by the side of the fireplace. Father Eustace had snatched up the candle, and ran up some steps which went up behind it; he had been away a minute or two, and then came down again, looking out of his senses, and rushed wildly upstairs to Miss Harmer's room. He had only stayed there a moment, and said a word or two to her; but their mistress had given a terrible cry, and fallen back like dead upon her bed, while the priest had run downstairs again, calling to them to look to Miss Harmer, had leapt into the gig, and driven off again, telling his servant to drive for his life." This was all they knew; what it was all about they could not even guess; but judging from the priest's and their mistress's faces, something very terrible. As to Father Eustace's maid-servant, they knew nothing, and indeed had not heard until the next day that she was missing.

Mrs. Green had therefore remained in a state of terrible anxiety concerning Sophy, until she received my summons; and, bad as the reality was, she almost felt it a relief after the agony of suspense she had before endured. She came over immediately to the barracks, and at once took the responsibility off my hands, never leaving her night or day, and nursing her with a mother's tenderness; and as Sophy had, besides, the nurse I had before engaged, my services could be now, to a certain extent, dispensed with, and I was therefore enabled to go back of an evening to Mrs. Mapleside's, and to sleep there, returning to take my place by Sophy's bedside early in the morning. But still it was a terrible week, believing, as I did, that her illness could have but one termination, or that at best—if it could be called best—even should her life be spared, that her reason was gone for ever.

But God in His infinite mercy willed it otherwise.