A Search For A Secret Volume Iii Part 12

"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 sons to go there on horseback this evening. Now be very particular. You are to start from here at six exactly, you are to ride over there, ring at the bell, give this note to the servant, and ride off as fast as you can without waiting to be asked any questions. Do you quite understand? Of course I do not wish any one to know who left the note, or anything about it."

"I'll do it, Miss Agnes, sure enough--at least my son William will. I am getting too old for riding. He is at home at present; I will take one of master's horses and bring him out quietly, and William will do just as you say; and if master should come into the stable--which he won't do at that time of day--I will say Bill has taken him round to have a shoe put on."

All that day Sophy was very anxious and nervous, not so much as to the success of her plans as to whether her request would be fulfilled and her letter sent as directed. Even Father Eustace looked up rather surprised at dinner, for his usually quiet composed servant seemed anxious and excited. Her movements were hurried and quick, and there was a red patch of colour on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and restless.

"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 the hall, and then I will give you a powder, and you must go to bed. I am afraid you are going to be ill."

At half-past six, Sophy, listening anxiously, heard the sound of horse's hoofs approaching at a gallop. It stopped at the gate. There was a ring at the bell. She went out, a letter was placed in her hands without a word, and the man and horse galloped off. She took the letter in to her master. He opened and read it.

"Mary," he said, quietly, "will you be good enough to see if Thomas is out in the stable; and if so, tell him to put the horse into the gig at once, 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 for to Sittingbourne, to Mrs. Ford, where I dined a short time since. The poor thing is taken suddenly ill, is dying in fact, and has sent to ask me to go over at once to administer the sacraments, and that is a call which I cannot refuse. Here is a powder; take that, and I should advise you to go to bed at once. Do not lock the door, I will let myself in when I come back."

In another ten minutes the gig was at the door, and Father Eustace went out, and in another minute was gone. Sophy stood at the door and watched them drive down into the village. Then she went in and shut the door. So far her plans had succeeded--would they to the end?

CHAPTER XII.

FOUND!

After Father Eustace had gone, Sophy sat herself down in the kitchen, and watched the clock for ten minutes, in case her master might have forgotten something, and driven back again to fetch it. That time pa.s.sed, she did not hesitate a moment; but went at once up to her room, unlocked her box, and took from it the things which she had long ago prepared for her enterprise. Then she proceeded to undress herself, and put on the clothes she had laid ready on the bed. All this was done quickly, but yet without hurry. She appeared as if she had so thoroughly rehea.r.s.ed the actions she was performing that there was not the least hesitation or delay in any of her movements. Then she took off the dark wig which had so much changed her, and put on another, with close-cut hair, and a tonsure shaved upon it; and in five minutes Sophy Gregory was gone, and a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic stood in her place. The clothes had been carefully padded to conceal the extreme slightness of her figure. The wig she had put on was nearly grey; and with some pigments she laid on lines at the corner of her eyes, her forehead, and round her lips. She also slightly tinged her cheeks and chin, to represent the dark marks of the shorn whiskers and beard. All this she did with care, but very quickly. Her hand never hesitated: night after night she had tried the effect of each line. And now her disguise was so complete that it would have required, a close observer, even by daylight, to detect that it was not a man of fifty, with a slight, very short, well-preserved figure who stood before him.

As Sophy went out of the door it was a little over half-past seven; Father Eustace had started at seven; it was still broad day out of doors, but indoors the light was fading, and in another half-hour it would be quite dusk, for it was now at the end of August.

Sophy locked the door behind her, and walked fast up the hill out of the village, past the plantation, to the lodge gate; she turned in here, walked up to the well-remembered hall door, and rang the bell. She had no thought of hesitation now; she knew that this was the last time that there was a possibility of recovering the object of her search, and that this chance gone, the will was lost for ever. She had no time to lose, for she calculated that she had hardly three clear hours before the priest's return. It would take him two hours to drive to Sittingbourne; but, the fraud which had been practised upon him once discovered, he would drive back in an hour and a half--three hours and a half in all; certainly not under that, for his horse was a fat, over-fed animal, whose farthest drive was into Canterbury, and who went even that short distance quite at his own pace. So she hoped she should have nearly four hours, but of that three-quarters of an hour was gone already.

The servant who opened the door looked rather surprised at seeing a strange gentleman standing there, for visitors had for many years been quite unknown at Harmer Place.

"I come from Father Eustace," Sophy said, with a strong foreign accent, and in a deep tone, which had cost her great trouble to learn to speak naturally and unfalteringly. "Will you be good enough to give this note to Miss Harmer?"

Sophy was shown into a sitting-room, every object in which she knew so well, and where she had last sat in such a different character. At another time, perhaps, she would have broken down and cried at the thought of the changes since then, but now her whole thoughts were absorbed in the present. She was not excited; she was perfectly cool and collected; her pulse beat faster, and there was a strange, wild look in her eyes, which she was conscious of herself, and strove to keep down and conceal; otherwise she was perfectly quiet, and hardly moved from the seat she had taken when she entered the room, scarcely even looking round at the familiar furniture, but sitting with her eyes fixed on the door, waiting her summons to go upstairs.

The servant took the letter up to Miss Harmer. She was sitting up in bed, partly supported by pillows. She was a very old woman now, and her once upright form had become bent, and her firm step grown feeble and uncertain for some time past; but her face was little changed; her eye was as bright, and her voice as cold and harsh as of old, sounding more strangely now, coming from the decrepid form.

"Is it Father Eustace, Hannah?"

"No, Miss Harmer; it is a gentleman with a letter from him." And the servant gave her the letter.

"Draw down the blinds, Hannah, and light the candles, and put them on the table by my side."

This done, Miss Harmer opened the letter and read as follows--it was in Italian--

"MY DEAR, SISTER,

"I have just received a letter with the commands of my superior, our beloved Bishop of Ravenna, to proceed at once to London upon a special mission, which will perhaps detain me there for some days. He has sent these orders by the hands of Father Boniface, one of the most esteemed of his clergy, and in whom I know he reposes the most absolute confidence. He was well known to me in Italy, and I judge, from the manner in which the bishop writes to me, that his business in England is of great importance. He is the bearer of a letter to you. I am unable to visit you before I leave this, as I have only just time to catch the train, and it is necessary that I should reach London to-night. I pray that the Holy Virgin and all the saints may have you in their keeping."

"Bring the gentleman up here," Miss Harmer said, when she had read the letter; and her eyes brightened at the thought of news direct from her beloved friend and guide, the Bishop of Ravenna.

The ecclesiastic entered with the usual _benedicte_, and then, advancing to the bed, bestowed a particular and solemn benediction upon her, as sent direct from the bishop. He then sat down by her bedside, and inquired, in a tone of earnest sympathy, after her health.

"I am not long for this world, father," she said. "A short time, a very short time, and my place will be empty."

"You have fought a good fight, sister, a good fight for our Church, and you will a.s.suredly win the prize."

"I trust so, father--I do indeed trust so. And now, how is my old friend? is it well with him?"

"It is not, sister. He is ill--very ill, I grieve to say."

"I indeed grieve, father, to hear this news. What is the cause of his illness?"

"A broken const.i.tution. He is worn out with long fastings and continued abstinence and prayer. Once, as you are aware, of a commanding figure, he is bent now with care and thought; his wide brow is furrowed, his hairs are few and white. But his spirit is bright and clear as ever, and his voice smooth and sonorous. The very last time he preached he had to be a.s.sisted to his place, but when he once began to speak, his voice still rang with its old tone; he was as vehement in denunciation as ever, as soft and earnest in his persuasions to repentance, as rich in promises and blessings upon those who devote their lives to G.o.d and their Church."

Miss Harmer was much affected at this narrative, which called up before her the bishop as she had known him of old; and she asked many more questions of his life and doings.

"You are, I presume, father, by the purity of your accent, a Florentine?"

The priest bowed a.s.sent.

"You are, Father Eustace tells me, much in our dear friend's confidence?"

"The good bishop condescends to consult much with my unworthy self upon most matters, and more especially on the subject on which I have now journeyed to England has he spoken often and much. Our good friend believes, and I fear with truth, that his life will not be prolonged many days. Of late this subject has pressed very heavily upon his mind, and he has felt so sorely that so many years of thought and hope might yet be wasted, that he at last told me he could not die easy until this good work was completed and the Church secure of her own. Seeing his deep feeling upon the subject, I offered, should he consider me worthy of so great a trust, to come over here to fetch what he desired, and to convey his last blessing to you. He accepted my offer, and this letter to you will fully explain his wishes."

Miss Harmer took the letter eagerly, looked at the direction, examined the seal, broke it open, and looked onwards to the signature, which she raised reverentially to her lips.

She was very much shocked at the news of her old friend's illness, and yet she could not help feeling a strange thrill of satisfaction to think that their deaths would probably occur within a very few days of each other. She could not have told why she felt so; but she had loved and respected this man beyond all others; loved him, perhaps, far more than she had ever admitted to herself. Had he been other than what he was, a Roman Catholic priest, Cecilia Harmer's life might have turned out a very different one.

The letter began with his usual greeting and benediction; it went on:--

"My days, my dear sister, are drawing fast to a close; yours also, I learn from my brother Eustace, are, as might be expected from your great age, nearly numbered; and you will shortly reap the benefit of all your sacrifices and efforts for the cause of G.o.d's holy Church here upon earth. I cannot write at great length, for my strength is failing fast; but there is one thought which weighs heavily upon me, and prevents my feeling that all my work here upon earth is finished. My greatest object in life has been to strengthen and magnify our great and glorious Church. In several cases I have, by the blessing of the holy Saints, succeeded in aiding this great work. In your own case, owing to the n.o.ble devotion which you have manifested--and for which your future reward is certain--a property, originally largely derived from the Church, has been preserved from falling into the hands of her enemies. At first you expressed by letter to me the repugnance you felt to destroying the doc.u.ment which would have so willed it away.

These scruples you will remember, I respected, although I considered them misplaced; but I would not force the tenderest conscience, and I have forborne in my letters, to urge you upon this point. I find, however, from Father Eustace, that these scruples have still lingered, and that he believes you have up to this time omitted to destroy the will. But I now feel that this step has become necessary. At your death my dear sister, the property must be sold, and the purchaser will not improbably pull down the house; the will must then be found, and the labour of your life frustrated. It is, therefore, essential that you should now reveal the hiding-place of the will. This I myself have never asked you, but I suppose it is in the secret chamber where you told me that many years ago your ancestors were in the habit of concealing the persecuted servants of our Church. This secret I have confided to Father Boniface. He is entirely in my confidence, so much so, that I have urgently recommended his appointment to this See at my death. I have deputed him especially for the purpose, as it would be better, should any inquiry ever be made, that Father Eustace, who is likely to be suspected, should be able to affirm truly that he had never seen it. I have other reasons into which I cannot now enter, for selecting Father Boniface to perform this service in his place. As I before told you, although I cannot agree with your scruples, I am yet willing to respect them; and, therefore, as you feel that you would not like the will to be destroyed, I promise most solemnly to you on the faith of a bishop of the Church, and of a dying man, that it shall not be destroyed, but shall be placed among the papers of the monastery here, where it will never be disturbed or discovered. My doctor gives me only a week of life. Father Boniface will travel night and day, and can only stay a few hours with you, and I trust that I shall be spared until his return. And now, sister, farewell."

The letter concluded with numberless blessings and farewells, and was signed Ravenna [Symbol: Maltese Cross].