The Greatest Murder Mysteries - G.A. Henty Edition. G. A. Henty
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Название: The Greatest Murder Mysteries - G.A. Henty Edition
Автор: G. A. Henty
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066386146
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"Would she accept money for her present uses?"
Again she thanked papa, but declined. "She had," she said, "plenty of money; she had been putting by nearly four pounds a week for ten months, and was therefore provided for for a long time." All that she would promise at last was, that if she should ever be really in distress for money, she would not hesitate to write and apply to him for it. When this point had been discussed at length, Sophy insisted upon knowing all particulars of Robert's death, and papa—after in vain endeavouring to persuade her to be content with what she knew already—was obliged at last to tell her, softening all the worst points as much as he could; and saying only that Robert had gone at night with two men, in the hopes of frightening Angela Harmer into disclosing where the will was hidden; how they had been disturbed by Miss Harmer, who had fired a pistol, which had wounded Robert, and how he had been carried to Rochester to die. He told her, too—for he feared she might see it in the papers—that Angela Harmer had died the same evening from the fright, but he suppressed all mention of the cruelty or violence. He partly told her how Miss Harmer had entertained suspicions of the truth, and how he had, he believed, succeeded in laying them at rest, and that he felt sure that the subject would not be pursued further in that direction; still, for her sake and the child's, should any one, under any pretence or other, come and make inquiries as to the date of Robert's death, that she should mention that it took place a short time earlier than it really did.
Sophy heard the doctor through more tranquilly than he had expected. She asked a few questions here and there, but was very pale and composed. When he had quite done, she said,—
"You do not surprise me, Dr. Ashleigh. My husband has so frequently asked me questions about the positions of the different rooms, and has so often said that he would try for it some day, that when you came and told me that he was killed by accident, and did not say how, or when, or where, I guessed that it was somehow in trying to get the will. If you please, we will not say any more about it now; I want to think it all over, and my head aches sadly. I am much obliged to you for all your kindness."
And so Sophy held out her hand, and papa came away, still very uneasy about her, and repeating his former direction to Mrs. Billow to send for him at once in the event of Sophy being taken ill.
A week after, a letter came from Sophy to me. It began by again thanking papa for his kindness to her, but saying that she was determined, if possible, to earn a living for herself and child; should she, however, from illness or other cause, fail in the attempt, she would then, for her child's sake, accept his kindness. The letter went on—
"My child will be one chief object of my life; and I have another, in the success of which he will be interested. I am determined, next to my child, to devote my life to finding the stolen will. You have tried, and failed. Robert tried, and laid down his life in the attempt. I alone, by whose conduct the will was lost, have not tried; but I will do so; it shall be the purpose of my life. Every thought and energy shall be given to it, for the sake of my child, and of you who have innocently been punished for my fault. I am not going to act now; I know it would be useless; but some day—it may be years on—some day I will try, and when I do I will succeed. Do not seek to dissuade me from this; my determination is irrevocable."
We did write, and tried to argue with her. She answered briefly, that nothing would alter her resolve. From time to time we exchanged letters, but at longer intervals, until at last she did not answer one of mine, and from that time years past before I again heard of Sophy Gregory.
END OF VOL. II.
Volume III.
Chapter I.
Great Changes.
Now that I have finished the account of the last of the series of unsuccessful attempts which were made to find the will, I must hurry over the subsequent events of my life in a much briefer and more concise way. It is now nearly six years since Robert Gregory died, and I must content myself with a mere sketch of what has taken place in that time; for this my history has already spun out to a most unreasonable length, many times surpassing the limits I proposed to myself when I first sat down with the intention of writing it. But my pen has run on and on, as I recalled all the past events of my life; and I feel every day, when I see the mass of manuscript which has accumulated in my drawer—for my desk has long since been too small to contain its growing bulk—that the chances that any one will ever take the trouble to read it through, are growing fainter and fainter every day.
However, should it be so, my task has served its purpose. It has, by chaining my attention to the period of which I have been writing, saved me from many an hour of sorrowful thought, and has served as a break to the monotony of many a weary day. It has, too, often served as an excuse for me to seclude myself in my own room, when my spirits have felt unequal to take part in the constant flow of tittle-tattle and harmless gossip, which form the staple of the conversation of those with whom my life is now cast, and is likely, I hope, to remain to the end.
After I came back from our three months' trip on the continent, with my health greatly restored, my spirits rose proportionately; and as I had nothing to throw me back again into my old state, with the exception of the shock I received at the news of Angela Harmer's death, I really began to look at things in a more hopeful way, and to think that the eight years—no, the seven years and a half—I was getting very particular as to dates—which were to elapse before Percy started on his return from India, were not such a hopelessly long time to look forward to after all.
By the way, I did not mention in its proper place that he started with his regiment for India while we were on the continent. Poor Percy! he was terribly disappointed and grieved that he could not see me before he sailed. But we were in Italy at the time he received his order, and as he had very short notice, it was quite out of the question that he could come for the purpose.
I, too, was very sorry that it so happened, and had we been in England I certainly should have made no objection to our meeting; and yet the interview would have been so painful to us both, that although I was very sorry I did not see him, I was yet sure that it was for the best that we should not meet. My letters from him, except during the voyage, came regularly every three months, and it did not seem nearly so hard hearing at these long intervals—now that he was so very far off—as it had done while he was within a day's journey of me. I knew how hard Percy must have felt it before by own feelings; for I, who had made the rule, fretted and complained to myself against it. It seemed so cruel, when by merely sitting down and writing to him, I could have given myself so much pleasure as well as conferred it upon him—so hard, when the postman came of a day with letters for others, that none should come from him, who if I only gave him leave, would have written such long loving letters to me every day. I knew that I had determined for the best, but still it had been a very great trial for me. But now it was quite different; letters from India could only come once a month or so, and therefore, as I have said, three months did not seem so very unnatural.
When the letters did come, they were quite volumes; for I had put no limit to length, and Percy used to write a little nearly every day, so that in the three months it swelled to quite a bulky packet. They were delightful letters; such long СКАЧАТЬ