A Search For A Secret: A Novel. Vol. 1

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  A SEARCH FOR A SECRET.

  A Novel.

  BY G. A. HENTY.

  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. I.

  LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1867.

  LONDON: WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S-INN FIELDS, W.C.

  CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

  CHAPTER I. EARLY DAYS

  CHAPTER II. THE HARMERS OF HARMER PLACE

  CHAPTER III. "L'HOMME PROPOSE, DIEU DISPOSE"

  CHAPTER IV. THE LAST OF THE HARMERS

  CHAPTER V. TESTAMENTARY INTENTIONS

  CHAPTER VI. THE BISHOP OF RAVENNA

  CHAPTER VII. SOCIETY GRACIOUSLY CONDESCENDS

  CHAPTER VIII. INTRODUCED TO THE WORLD

  CHAPTER IX. THE OLD STORY

  CHAPTER X. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

  CHAPTER XI. LAYING A TRAIN

  CHAPTER XII. THE EXPLOSION

  CHAPTER XIII. A BAD BUSINESS

  CHAPTER XIV. MISSING!

  CHAPTER I.

  EARLY DAYS.

  There are towns over which time seems to exercise but little power, butto have passed them by forgotten, in his swift course. Everywhere else,at his touch, all is changed. Great cities rise upon the site of fishingvillages; huge factories, with their smoky chimneys grow up andmetamorphose quiet towns into busy hives of industry; while othercities, once prosperous and flourishing, sink into insignificance; andthe passer by, as he wanders through their deserted streets, wonders andlaments over the ruin which has fallen upon them.

  But the towns of which I am speaking--and of which there are but few nowleft in England, and these, with hardly an exception, cathedraltowns--seem to suffer no such change. They neither progress nor fallback. If left behind, they are not beaten in the race, for they havenever entered upon it; but are content to rest under the shelter oftheir tall spires and towers; to seek for no change and to meet withnone; but to remain beloved, as no other towns are loved, by those whohave long known them--assimilating, as it were, the very natures ofthose who dwell in them, to their own sober, neutral tints.

  In these towns, a wanderer who has left them as a boy, returning as anold, old man, will see but little change--a house gone here, anothernearly similar built in its place; a greyer tint upon the stone; a treefallen in the old close; the ivy climbing a little higher upon thecrumbling wall;--these are all, or nearly all, the changes which he willsee. The trains rush past, bearing their countless passengers, who sorarely think of stopping there, that the rooks, as they hold their graveconversations in their nests in the old elm-trees, cease to break off,even for a moment, at the sound of the distant whistle. The very peopleseem, although this is but seeming, to have changed as little as theplace: the same names are over the shop doors--the boy who was at schoolhas taken his grand-sire's place, and stands at his door, looking downthe quiet street as the old man used to do before him; the dogs areasleep in the sunny corners they formerly loved; and the same horsesseem to be lazily drawing the carts, with familiar names upon them, intothe old market-place. The wanderer may almost fancy that he has awokefrom a long, troubled dream. It is true that if he enters the littlechurchyard, he will see, beneath the dark shadows of the yew-trees, moregravestones than there were of old; but the names are so similar, thatit is only upon reading them over, that he will find that it is trueafter all, and that the friends and playfellows of his childhood, thestrong, merry boys, and the fair girls with sunny ringlets, sleeppeacefully there. But it is not full yet; and he may hope that, when histime shall come, there may be some quiet nook found, where, even as achild, he may have fancied that he would like some day to rest.

  Among these cities pre-eminent, as a type of its class, is the town inwhich I now sit down to recount the past events of my life, and of thelives of those most dear to me--not egotistically, I hope, nor thrustingmy own story, in which, indeed, there is little enough, into view; buttelling of those I have known and lived with, as I have noted the eventsdown in my journal, and at times, when the things I speak of are relatedmerely on hearsay, dropping that dreadful personal pronoun which willget so prominent, and telling the story as it was told to me.

  Although not born at Canterbury, I look upon it as my native town, mycity of adoption. My earliest remembrances are of the place; mychildhood and youth were spent there; and, although I was then for a fewyears absent, it was for that stormy, stirring time, when life iswrapped up in persons and not in places, when the mere scene in whichthe drama is played out leaves barely an impression upon the mind, soall-absorbing is the interest in the performers. That time over, Ireturned to Canterbury as to my home, and hope, beneath the shadow ofits stately towers, to pass tranquilly down the hill of life, whoseascent I there made with such eager, strong young steps.

  Dear old Canterbury! It is indeed a town to love with all one's heart,as it lies, sleeping, as it were, amidst its circle of smilinghop-covered hills, with its glorious cathedral looking so solemnly downupon it, with its quiet courts, its shady, secluded nooks and corners,its quaint, old-fashioned houses, with their many gables and projectingeaves, and its crumbling but still lofty walls, it gives me somehow theidea of a perfect haven of rest and peace. It, like me, has seen itsstormy times: Briton, Dane, and Saxon have struggled fiercely before itswalls. It, too, has had its proud dreams, its lofty aspirations; butthey are all over now, and it is, like myself, contented to pass itsdays in quiet, resting upon its old associations, and with neither wishnor anticipation of change in the tranquil tenour of its way.

  I was not, as I have said, born in the town, but went there veryyoung--so young that I have no remembrance of any earlier time.

  We lived in a large, rambling, old-fashioned house in a back lane. In alittle court before it stood some lime-trees, which, if they helped tomake the front darker and more dismal than it would otherwise have been,had the good effect of shutting it out from the bad company into whichit had fallen.

  It had at one time been a place of great pretension, and belonged,doubtless, to some country magnate, and before the little houses in thenarrow lane had sprung up and hemmed it in, it may have had a cheerfulappearance; but, at the time I speak of, the external aspect wasundeniably gloomy. But behind it was very different. There was a lawnand large garden, at the end of which the Stour flowed quietly along,and we children were never tired of watching the long streamer-likegreen weeds at the bottom waving gently in the current, and the troutdarting here and there among them, or lying immovable, apparentlywatching us, until at the slightest noise or motion they would dart awaytoo quickly for the eye to follow them.

  Inside, it was a glorious home for us, with its great old-fashioned hallwith dark wainscoting and large stags' heads all round it, which seemedto be watching us children from their eyeless sockets; and its vastfireplace, with iron dogs, where, in the old days, a fire sufficient forthe roasting of a whole bullock, might have been piled up; with itsgrand staircase, with heavy oak balustrades, lit by a great window largeenough for an ordinary church; with its long passages and endlessturnings and backstairs in unexpected places; with all its low, quaintrooms of every shape except square, and its closets nearly as large asrooms.

  Oh, it was a delightful house! But very terrible at dusk. Then we wouldnot have gone along alone those long, dark passages for worlds; for weknew that the bogies, and other strange things of which our old nursetold us, would be sure to be lurking and
upon the watch.

  It was a wonderful house for echoes, and at night we would steal fromour beds and creep to the top of the grand staircase, and listen, withhushed breath, to the almost preternaturally loud tick of the old clockin the hall, which seemed to us to get louder and louder, till at lastthe terrors of the place would be almost too much for us, and, at thesound of some mouse running behind the wainscoting, we would scamper offto our beds, and bury our heads beneath the clothes, falling into atroubled sleep, from which we woke, with terrified starts, until thewelcome approach of day, when, as the sun shone brightly in, we wouldpluck up courage and laugh at our night's fright.

  Of my quite young days I have not much to say. My brother Harry, who wastwo years older than I, went to the King's School; and Polly--who was asmuch my junior--and I were supposed to learn lessons from our mother.Poor mamma! not much learning, I think, did we get from her. She wasalways weak and ailing, and had but little strength or spirits to giveto teaching us. When I was twelve, and Polly consequently ten, we had agoverness in of a day, to teach us and keep us in order; but I am afraidthat she found it hard work, for we were sadly wild, noisy girls--atleast, this was the opinion of our unmarried aunts, who came to stayperiodically with us.

  I have not yet spoken of my father, my dear, dear father. How we lovedhim, and how he loved us, I cannot even now trust myself to write. As Isit at my desk his portrait hangs on the wall before me, and he seems tobe looking down with that bright genial eye, that winning smile which hewore in life. Not only by us was he loved, almost adored, but all whocame in contact with him were attracted in a similar way. To rich orpoor, ill or in health, to all with whom he was in any way associated,he was friend and adviser. A large man and somewhat portly, withiron-grey hair, cut short, and brushed upright off his forehead, arather dark complexion, a heavy eyebrow, a light-blue eye, very clearand penetrating, and the whole face softened and brightened by hisgenial smile. Very kind and sympathetic to the poor, the sick, and theerring; pitilessly severe upon meanness, hypocrisy, and vice. He was aman of great scientific attainments, and his study was crowded withbooks and instruments which related to his favourite pursuits. Upon theshelves were placed models of steam-engines, electrical machines,galvanic batteries, air-pumps, microscopes, chemical apparatus, andnumberless other models and machinery of which we could not even guessthe uses. Thick volumes of botanical specimens jostled entomologicalboxes and cases, butterfly-nets leant in the corner with telescopes,retorts stood beneath the table, the drawers of which were filled with amiscellaneous collection indescribable.

  With us children he was firm, yet very kind, ever ready to put aside hiswork to amuse us, especially of a winter's evening, when, dinner over,he always went into his study, to which we would creep, knock gently atthe door, and when allowed to enter, would sit on stools by his side,looking into the fire, while he told us marvellous tales of enchantersand fairies. It was at these times, when we had been particularlygood--or at least when he, who was as glad of an excuse to amuse us aswe were to be amused, pretended that we had been so--that he would takedown his chemicals, or electrical apparatus, and show us startling orpretty experiments, ending perhaps by entrapping one of us into gettingan unexpected electric shock, and then sending us all laughing up tobed.

  We always called papa Dr. Ashleigh in company. It was one of mamma'sfancies: she called him so herself, and was very strict about our doingthe same upon grand occasions. We did not like it, and I don't thinkpapa did either, for he would often make a little funny grimace, as hegenerally did when anything rather put him out; but as mamma set hermind upon it so much, he never made any remark or objection. He wasvery, very kind to her, and attentive to her wishes, and likes anddislikes; but their tastes and characters were as dissimilar as it waspossible for those of any two persons to be.

  She was very fond of papa, and was in her way proud to see him so muchlooked up to and admired by other people; but I do not think that sheappreciated him for himself as it were, and would have been far happierhad he been a common humdrum country doctor. She could not understandhis devotion to science, his eager inquiry into every novelty of theday, and his disregard for society in the ordinary sense of the word;still less could she understand his untiring zeal in his profession. Whyhe should be willing to be called up in the middle of a winter's night,get upon his horse, and ride ten miles into the country on a suddensummons to some patient, perhaps so poor that to ask payment for hisvisit never even entered into the Doctor's mind, was a thing she couldnot understand. Home, and home cares occupied all her thoughts, and itwas to her inexpressibly annoying, when, after taking extreme care tohave the nicest little dinner in readiness for his return from work, hewould come in an hour late, be perfectly unconcerned at his favouritedish being spoilt, and, indeed, be so completely absorbed in thecontemplation of some critical case in his day's practice, as not evento notice what there was for dinner, but to eat mechanically whatsoeverwas put before him.

  Mamma must have been a very pretty woman when she married Dr. Ashleigh.Pretty is exactly the word which suits her style of face. A very faircomplexion, a delicate colour, a slight figure, light hair, which thenfell in curls, but which she now wore in bands, with a pretty apologyfor a cap on the back of her head. She had not much colour left when Ifirst remember her, unless it came in a sudden flush; but she was still,we thought, very pretty, although so delicate-looking. She lay upon thesofa most of the day, and would seldom have quitted it, had she not beenso restlessly anxious about the various household and nursery details,that every quarter of an hour she would be off upon a tour of inspectionand supervision through the house. She was very particular about ourdress and manners, and I am sure loved us very much; but from her weakstate of health she could not have us long with her at a time.

  It was one bright summer afternoon, I remember well, when I was rathermore than fourteen years old, we had finished our early dinner, Harryhad started for school, and we had taken our books and gone out toestablish ourselves in our favourite haunt, the summer-house at the endof the garden. This summer-house was completely covered with creepers,which climbed all over the roof, and hung in thick festoons andclusters, almost hiding the woodwork, and making it a perfect leafybower; only towards the river we kept it clear. It was so charming tosit there with our toys or our work and watch the fish, the driftingweeds and fallen leaves, to wonder which would get out of sight first,and whether they would catch in the wooden piles of the bridge,--forthere was a bridge over from our garden into the fields beyond, whereour cow Brindle was kept, and where our horses were sometimes turned outto graze, and make holiday. It was a very happy and peaceful spot. Whenwe were little, the summer-house was our fairy bower; here we could playwith our dolls, and be queens and princesses without fear ofinterruption, and sometimes when Harry was with us, we would be RobinsonCrusoes wrecked on a desert island; here we would store up provisions,and make feasts, here we would find footprints in the sand, and hereabove all we would wage desperate battles with imaginary fleets ofcanoes full of savages endeavouring to cross the stream. Harry wouldstand courageously in front, and we girls carefully concealing ourselvesfrom the enemy, would keep him supplied with stones from the magazine,with which he would pour volleys into the water, to the imaginary terrorof the savages, and the real alarm of our friends the fish. With whatzeal did we throw ourselves into these fights, with what excited shoutsand cries, and what delight we felt when Harry proclaimed the victorycomplete and the enemy in full flight!

  As time went on, and the dolls were given up, and we could no longerbelieve in savages, and began to think romping and throwing stonesunladylike, although at times very pleasant, the summer-house became ourreading-room, and at last, after we had a governess, our schoolroom infine weather. This was not obtained without some opposition upon thepart of mamma, who considered it as an irregular sort of proceeding; butwe coaxed papa into putting in a good word for us, and then mamma, whowas only too glad to see us happy, gave in at once. We had but just goneou
t, and after a look down at the river and the fish, and across at thepretty country beyond, had opened our books with a little sigh ofregret, when we heard a footstep coming down the garden and to oursurprise found it was papa.

  "Now girls," he said, "put on your things as quickly as you can. I amgoing over to Mr. Harmer at Sturry, and will take you with me. Firstthough, we must ask mamma's leave. I have no doubt Miss Harrison here,will be as glad of a holiday as you are."

  Mamma, however, although she seldom opposed any of papa's plans for ouramusement, raised many objections. Indeed, I had for some time pastnoticed that she did not like our visiting at Harmer Place. Upon thisoccasion she was particularly averse to our going, and said that I "wasgetting too old to associate with a person of such extraordinaryantecedents as----."

  We did not hear who the person was, for papa broke in more sternly thanI had ever before heard him speak to mamma, and said that "he differedfrom her entirely: for his part he could see no harm whatever in ourgoing, and that, at any rate until we were of an age to judge forourselves, no question of the sort could arise."

  Mamma, directly she saw he was in earnest, said no more, and we set outsoon afterwards, with the understanding that we should most probably notbe back until evening.

  Although neither Polly nor I ever made any remark to each other aboutthat conversation, we--or at least I can answer for myself--were not theless astonished at it. It seemed perfectly inexplicable to me. Whatobjection could there be to our going to the Harmers? I was, as I havesaid, past fourteen, and was beginning to think and reason about allsorts of things, and this was a problem which I tried in vain for a longtime to solve to my satisfaction. How I pondered the matter over inevery light, but ever without success. Mamma had said it was a person.Now, person generally means a woman, and the only women at Harmer Placewere the two Miss Harmers. Had it been a principle mamma objected to, Icould have understood it, for the Miss Harmers were bigoted Catholics.Not that that would have made any difference with papa, who looked atthese matters with a very latitudinarian eye. "In my opinion," I haveheard him say, "the sect to which a man belongs makes but littledifference, if he does but do his best according to his belief."

  And I remember that in after years, when we had suffered much, he warnedus not to blame a creed for the acts of its professors. "History hasshown," he would say, "that a bigot, whether he be Catholic, Protestant,or Mussulman, will be equally a cruel persecutor of others, equallyready to sacrifice everything which he believes to stand in the way ofhis Church."

  I mention this here because I should be very sorry that the feelings ofany one who may ever come to read this story of mine should be hurt, orthat it should be taken to be an attack or even an implication against aparticular form of worship.

  I knew then that although papa objected to the extreme opinions whichthe Miss Harmers held, and which had been caused by the exceptional lifewhich they had led, still the antecedents, to which mamma alluded, couldbe no question of religion. And yet the only other female at HarmerPlace was Sophy Needham, the pretty girl we so often met there. She wasan orphan village child, to whom Mr. Harmer had taken such a fancy thathe had sent her, at his own expense, to a London school, and had herconstantly staying at the house with him. But, of course, it could notbe Sophy; for I was quite sure that the fact of her having been avillage girl would not make the slightest difference in either papa's ormamma's eyes, so far as our associating with her went; and in otherrespects there could be no objection, for she was a particularly quiet,retiring girl, and was two years older than myself.

  The objection, then, did not appear to apply to any one at Harmer Place,and I puzzled myself in vain upon the subject; and indeed it was not forsome years afterwards that the mystery was solved, or that I found outthat it was indeed Sophy Needham to whom mamma had alluded. There is noreason why I should make a mystery of it in this journal of mine, whichwill be more easily understood by making the matter clear at once, and Iwill therefore, before I go on with my own story, relate the history ofthe Harmers as nearly as I can as it was told to me.