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

  CHAPTER III.

  A STRANGE PROFESSION.

  A very touching picture Sophy Gregory presented as she sat in the littleparlour at work, a week after Dr. Ashleigh's visit; in her mourningdress, and with the tiny fatherless child in her lap. She was very pale,and looked years older than she was. Sophy had gone through a heavytrial. She had loved her husband very truly; not indeed with the sameadmiring affection she had felt for him when they met in the plantationsof Harmer Place--that dream had been dispelled rudely enough longago,--but she had loved him as a true woman, knowing his faults, andbearing with them, taking them indeed as a special and deservedpunishment upon herself for her fault in marrying him as she had done;but yet loving him the more, in that she saw how hard he tried, in spiteof his faults, to make her happy. For this she had thanked God, and hadprayed very earnestly that some day it might be granted to her, thatthrough her influence over him, and his love for her, he might yet turnout nearly such a man as, in her early days of love, she had fancied himto be. But now all those pictures which she had been so fondly paintingof their life in a distant land, had suddenly faded away; those brightpictures which had been ever before her eyes, as she sat at her workthrough the day, or of an evening, with Robert sitting moodily drinkingbeside her; fair, happy pictures of their future life, in a rude hut insome lonely clearing, far away from the nearest neighbours; she, engagedin her household work, listening to the ring of Robert's axe, till thehour should come for him to return from his labour, tired, but cheeryand bright, to spend the evening with her happily without that dreadfulbottle; contented with her fond welcome, sitting by the log fire-side,perhaps with his children climbing on his knee, or standing by while hetold them stories, or taught them their first simple lessons, while shesat by busy at her work watching them fondly. At the thought of these,or some such fancies, Sophy's face had brightened often, and, trustingin the future, she had almost forgotten the present, and once againadmired as well as loved her husband, not for what he was, but for whathe would some day become. But now all these pictures were gone, blottedout in a moment by the rude hand of death,--and of such a death! If hehad died as most men die, tranquilly and peacefully, with his last wordsbreathed in her ears, his last look fixed upon herself, Sophy thoughtshe could have borne it with resignation; but to die such a death asthis, to be shot down in his strength, to go out full of health andspirits, and never to return; and for her only to be told that he lay inan obscure grave in a distant town! this she could hardly bear; and asshe looked with a blank hopeless look into the fire, she thought thatwere it not for the unconscious babe on her knees, she would gladly--oh,how gladly!--go where there is no more weeping and tears. But for thechild's sake she must live and work; for that child who, if he had hisrights, would be heir to wealth and fortune--to that very home where hisfather had been shot down like a common robber, by the woman who haddefrauded him of his rights. Sophy did not know all the history of thatnight's work, only what Dr. Ashleigh had told her; that Robert had gonewith the intention of alarming Miss Harmer into divulging where the willwas hidden. Angela Harmer's death she regarded as an unfortunate effectof the fright, which could not have been foreseen; of the violence usedtowards her she was of course ignorant.

  Was not Robert, she asked herself, right in what he did? Was he not inhis own house, seeking his own for her sake and the child's. Should allthis go for ever unpunished? Should this woman who had robbed her andher child, who had now slain her husband, who had, as Dr. Ashleigh hadtold her, destroyed his daughter's happiness, and brought her to theverge of the grave; should she prosper and triumph? No, a thousand timesno; and day after day Sophy's determination became more and more deeplyrooted, her purpose more strongly confirmed. Should it cost her her lifeas it had done Robert's, she would yet find the will. But how? And shebrooded over the thought till her brain seemed on fire; she fell intoreveries from which nothing except the crying of her child could rouseher; her eyes began to have a dreamy, far-off look, and had there notbeen anything to rouse and occupy her, it is probable that her reasonwould have given way entirely under the strain of this fixed idea uponher mind. Upon this day, however, there was a knock at the door, and alittle talking in the passage, and then Mrs. Billow, who had been askind as a mother to Sophy during this period, came into the room.

  "Mr. Fielding wishes to speak to you, my dear; he has been here three orfour times to ask after you, and I do think you had better see him."

  Sophy looked up at her as she spoke, but it was evident that she did nothear what was said to her; her thoughts were too far away to be calledback all at once.

  "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Billow," she said presently, with an effort,"what are you saying?" Mrs. Billow repeated her message.

  "Do see him, my dear," she went on as Sophy shook her head, "It will doyou good; you are fretting yourself to death. Indeed, indeed, my dear,you are, and it is very wrong of you; what is to become of your littlebaby if you get ill, as I am sure you will, if you sit here think,think, all day, without speaking a word to any one? Do see him, nowthere's a deary, it will do you good, indeed it will."

  Sophy paused a little, and then said in a weary tone, "Very well, Mrs.Billow, if it will please you, I will see him."

  Mr. Fielding was shown in. He was a rough man, and, to a certain extent,an unprincipled one; but he had been a gentleman once, and could be onestill when he chose, and his heart was, after all, not far from itsright place.

  "Mrs. Gregory," he said, as he came in, "I will not pain you by offeringyou my condolences, or by telling you how I feel for you in youraffliction. Please to consider all that as said, and to take this visitas one simply of business. When I called the day before yesterday, Itook the liberty of asking your landlady what you were thinking ofdoing. She told me that from what you said she believed that youintended teaching again. Now will you excuse me if I say, that although,under other circumstances, such a plan might have its advantages, yetthat I think, that with a young baby, whom you would be obliged to leavewithout you the whole day, it would be attended by great inconveniences.Besides, there is no occasion why you should do so. My proposition is,that you should continue to do as you have hitherto done. I can leavethe papers, letters, and such information as you require, here of a day,without coming in to disturb you. If I were to see you, say once a weekat present, while it is the slack time, it would, I should think, besufficient. By the time the busy season comes on, you will, I hope, beso far recovered as to be able to see me for half an hour or so everyday. Of course, the remuneration will be the same as it has been up tothis time. I do not think you could earn more at your teaching, and youwill be able to have baby with you all day. There is another thing Ishould wish to say. It was through--through my late partner's capitaland assistance, that we managed to do as well as we did, and it has laidthe foundation for a first-rate business this year. There is at presentL150 only in the bank, half of which is your property. Should you chooseto let that remain in the business, I will give you, as I think would befair, an interest in it--say one-fifth of the profits at the end of theyear."

  "But I have no right to that, have I, Mr. Fielding? For I know that Iheard Robert say that any man would be ready to put L1,000 into thebusiness for a third of the profits."

  "That is right enough, Mrs. Gregory, and I do not disguise from you thatthe fifth of the business is worth a great deal more than L75, even fora sleeping partner; but that is not the question: it is not for themoney, but for your interest and partnership, as it were, that I thinkit fair that you should still have a share in it."

  "But I have no absolute right to any share, Mr. Fielding?"

  "Well, not actually a right, Mrs. Gregory. You see we never drew up anydeed of partnership when we began; but it was, of course, an understoodthing that if anything should happen to either of us that hisrepresentatives should have some sort of interest or pull out of theaffair."

  "And about the writing, Mr. Fielding? Are you sure that my work is worthwhat you pay me?"

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p; "Quite sure," he said, in a far less hesitating and undecided way thanhe had before spoken in. "I can assure you that I could not get any oneon whom I could rely to do the work for less money, and that I should bevery sorry for any one else to know all my affairs as you do."

  "Then in that case I accept with many thanks," Sophy said, gratefully;"and I feel that you are acting with great kindness, for the L75 is noequivalent for my share of the profits. You have, indeed, taken a greatweight off my mind, for I have been very troubled, wondering what Ishould do with baby while I was out."

  "That is settled, then," Mr. Fielding said, cheerfully, as if greatlyrelieved that the matter had been so arranged. "I will send you thepapers and letters to-morrow, when the post comes in. I can assure youit will be quite a relief to me; for although work is slack now, I havegot into such a muddle that I hardly know which letters I have answeredand which I have not. I have all this week's lot here." And he took alarge bundle of letters from his pocket. "I believe I have answered allthe others, but I have not touched one of these. I will leave them withyou to clear up. And now, good bye. I will call again this day week."

  And so Sophy, very joyful that she should be always with her baby, againset to at her old work of making out lists, and answeringcorrespondents, and sending out the names of winning horses; and busiedin these pursuits, and in the nursing and fondling of baby, her thoughtsceased to dwell on her project for the recovery of the will, and hereyes recovered their former expression. Not that she had given up heridea, but she had postponed it for a fitting season; the only step shetook towards it being to write to her foster-mother, the woman who hadbrought her up, to ask her to send an account of Miss Harmer's state ofhealth every three months, and to let her know at once if she should betaken ill.

  As time went on, the first faint gleams of consciousness came intobaby's eyes, and then it came to know her, and to hold out its arms, andstruggle and cry to come to her, and Sophy began to feel that life mighthave some happiness for her yet, for she had something to love and workfor, something which loved her in return.

  And so a year passed, and now the little child was able just to toddleacross the room, to Sophy's delight and terror, and to call her "mammy,"and to utter other sounds, perfectly unintelligible to any one, butwhich she persisted was talking; and Sophy was able to toss him and playwith him almost as gleefully as she would have done years before. Shelooked far younger than she had done eighteen months back, for she hadnow no care on her mind. Sometimes, indeed, of an evening, when her workwas all done, and the child in bed, she would sit by the hour musingover her plans for the recovery of the will; but her eyes had not thefixed, strange look they used to wear when thinking it over; for thenshe had thought of it as a duty, as a something which she had to do; butnow that it was for her darling's sake, it was a pleasure; and her eyeswould lighten as she thought over what she would do when she hadsucceeded, and she and her boy were rich.

  She was comfortably off now; for the firm was doing well, and JamesFielding was a member of Tattersall's and began to stand high in thering. His drawings had risen from five pounds to ten pounds a week. Hetold Sophy so, and said that he considered this five pounds had beenpayment for his work, in the same way that her two pounds was of hers,but this additional five pounds he looked upon as a weekly division ofprofits, and consequently she was entitled to another one pound a weekalso. So she had now three pounds a week and was very comfortable. Atthe end of the season he showed her his banker's book, and there wasnearly L2,000 standing to his credit; and he said that next year, havingso good a capital, he should be able to bet more heavily, and had noquestion that he should do much better.

  All through that winter although business was very slack, and there wasno occasion for his so doing, James Fielding used to come over threetimes a week to see her. And indeed all along his kindness had been verygreat, sending her little presents of game and poultry, and bringingbaskets of choice fruit from Covent Garden.

  It was not for a year after Robert Gregory's death that Sophy thoughtanything of all this. James Fielding had been very kind to her, and shehad learned to think of him as a true friend; but absorbed as she was inher child, and with her spare thoughts so fixed on that other purpose ofhers, she had never thought more on the subject. At length one day,something he said, some tone of his voice came upon her like arevelation. She started, looked hurriedly and anxiously at him and sawthat it was indeed so. With an exclamation almost of pain she rose--

  "James Fielding," she said, "don't say it to me. Never think of itagain. Do not take away the last friend I have in the world from me. Youare the only one I have to rely upon, do not make it impossible for meever to receive a kindness from you again. I shall never marry again; donot, do not speak of it."

  "I know, Sophy, I am not worthy of you," James Fielding began slowly,and then--as with an imploring gesture, she tried to silence him--"Letme speak, Sophy, I will never allude to it again."

  "No, no, no," Sophy cried, passionately; "I will not hear you! If youonce tell me you love me, you can never be to me what you have beenbefore. I cannot be your wife; pray, pray, do not ask me."

  "And can it never be, Sophy? Not in a long, long time?"

  "Never, James, never! Think of me as a dear friend, as a sister. Shakehands, James. You will be my friend as you have been before, will younot? And the friend of my child?"

  "I will, Sophy," he said, sorrowfully but earnestly. "I will, so help meGod!"

  It was a great blow to him; for he had come to love his late partner'spale young widow very truly, with her grave, sedate face when atbusiness, and her pretty winning ways when he had come in sometimes andfound her romping with her baby.

  However, he saw at once that it was not to be, and very sorrowfullydetermined that at all events she should not find any change in hismanner or way, and that she should be able to look on him as a brother.Had he thought that time could have made any change in his favour hewould have been content to wait and hope; but he saw that there wasnone, and as he said to himself on his way home, "a man may back a horsewhen the odds are a hundred to one against it, and land his money in theend, but no one but a fool would put money on a scratched horse."

  From that time Sophy never saw by his manner that she was anything morethan a dear friend to him; and although for a little while she was timidand reserved with him, yet this in time wore off, and they fell backinto their old relations, and things went on as before.

  Next to James Fielding, Sophy's greatest friends were Mr. Harley and hiswife who lived opposite. They had known her before Robert's death, andhad about that time been very kind to her, and were really much attachedto her and her boy. He played first violin at the Victoria, and his wifetook the singing chambermaid at the same theatre. She was consideredvery clever in her line, and could have obtained an engagement at one ofthe houses across the water, but she preferred remaining at the sametheatre with her husband. He was a man about thirty; she was twenty-six.They had been married five years, and it was their great grief that theyhad no children. They took very much to Sophy and her boy, who waschristened James, after Mr. Fielding, his godfather; for Sophy could notat that time have borne that her child should be named after his father.

  And so three years more went on. Little James was now four years old,and was growing up a very fine little fellow, and Sophy, who almostadored him, began to tell herself that it was time that she should leavehim and devote herself for a while to that purpose which, if successful,would make him a rich man.

  One day, nearly four years after her husband's death, James Fieldingcalled upon her. After talking for some time on indifferent matters, hesaid--

  "My dear Sophy, three years ago I asked you a question, and you said itcould not be."

  Sophy looked up for a moment with a little frightened start, but seeingby his steady face that he was not as she feared going to repeat thatquestion, she listened quietly as he went on.

  "Had your answer been other than it was--had you given me the lea
sthope, I should have been contented to have waited any time; but I sawthat what you said was final, and that it was not to be. I thereforegave up all hope and have looked upon you ever since as you asked me todo--as a sister; and now I am come to tell you that I am going to bemarried."

  "I am very glad to hear it, James," Sophy said, cordially; "more gladthan I can tell."

  "I was sure you would be, Sophy. She is a cousin of mine down inLeicestershire. She was a child when I left home, at my poor father'sdeath, and came up to London, twelve years ago; now she is twenty-five.The winter before last, as you know, I went down to see the old placeand the old folk. Two of my uncles were living there, and they were gladenough to see me. I don't say that they altogether approved of myprofession; still, it is a sporting county. One of my uncles is alawyer, the other a doctor, and both ride to the hounds, and theyconsequently did not think my being a betting man quite such a dreadfulthing as some people might have done. At any rate they received mekindly, and I had rather a strong flirtation with my cousin. Last winterwe came pretty well to an understanding, and now we have arranged that Ishall go down to spend Christmas with them, and shall carry her awaywith me a day or two afterwards. And now, Sophy, I am going to talkbusiness. These last few years we have been doing better and better, andwe have now as nearly as may be L25,000 in the bank. Now, some of this Iwant to take out, as I have arranged to settle L8,000 on my wife, and Itherefore propose that you should draw your share out. It is now L5,000,which will be enough to make you comfortable with your child, and placeyou beyond all necessity for work. It is better for us both, for,careful as I am, I might, by a run of ill luck, have it all swept away,yours and mine, and by this arrangement we shall be safe."

  "I had already made up my mind, James, to tell you that I wished ourpartnership to be dissolved. To begin with, you now bet in such a largeway, that I am sure this commission business is only an annoyance toyou, and that you only continue it because it affords me work. However,I have kept a private account for the last three years, and I found thatthere was a good balance of profit after paying me my four pounds aweek, so I did not hesitate in keeping on. However, I am now desirous ofgiving it up. For these four years I have been putting off the executionof a purpose I have had in my mind, and I must delay no longer. I do nottell you what it is, James, true friend as you are, for you might tryand dissuade me from it, and that would only trouble me, withoutdiverting me from my purpose. As for the L5,000, I cannot take such asum as that; that is the result of your work, and not of the L75, whichwas what I put in. Still, as you say that you did benefit by Robert'swork that year, and as that year laid the foundation of your fortune, Iwill consent to take L2,000, and I do that only for the sake of mychild. Will you let it be so?"

  James Fielding did not let it be so without a great struggle; butnothing could persuade Sophy to take more than the L2,000. At last, whenhe found that nothing could change her determination, he gave in, andagreed that it should be as she wished. He then began to ask her abouther future plans.

  "I cannot tell you, James, so do not ask me. My design, whatever it is,may take a year in execution--it may take two years. I may be gonebefore you come back."

  "Gone!" James Fielding said, in astonishment; "but where on earth areyou going?"

  "I cannot tell you, James, so it is not of the slightest use asking."

  "But what on earth are you going to do, Sophy?"

  "I can tell you nothing now, James, so pray do not ask. I will send youmy address when I am gone, and you can write to me; and if anythingshould happen to me, James, will you promise to be a father to my boy?"

  "I will, Sophy. I will bring him up as my own child. But all this isreally too bad, Sophy. You promised to look upon me as a brother, andnow you are going upon some extraordinary business, and don't give methe slightest clue as to what you are going to do; and yet it is soserious that you ask me to take care of your child, if anything happensto you."

  "I do look upon you as a brother, James, but not to my own brother wouldI tell what I am going to do. But at any rate you shall know in sixweeks where I am."

  More than this James Fielding could not obtain from her, and went awaygreatly mystified and rather anxious. James Fielding had a shrewdsuspicion of how Robert Gregory had met his end. He knew theanticipations of fortune he had under Mr. Harmer's will. He knew--forRobert had spoken to him of it--of the efforts which had been made tofind the will. He had read in the papers the account of the burglary atHarmer Place, and that one of the robbers was supposed to have beenwounded. When therefore he heard of Robert's death, and that it hadresulted from an accident, without any particulars of the how or wherebeing given, the idea had struck him that he had fallen in the attemptto recover the will. All these thoughts forgotten for many years nowcame back to him, and he could not help fancying that in some waySophy's new resolution was connected with the same end. However, it wasno use guessing on the subject; it was evident that time alone wouldshow, for Sophy would tell him nothing.

  The next day James Fielding paid L2,000 in to Sophy's account, and aweek afterwards went down into Leicestershire to fetch his bride.