Miss Harmer read this letter through twice with great deliberation, so much so indeed, that her visitor moved uneasily several times upon her chair.

"You know the contents of this letter, Father Boniface?" she asked at length.

"I do, Miss Harmer, it was written in my presence."

"And you agree that the will is likely to be found?"

"Unquestionably, Miss Harmer. The trustees to whom you have devised the property for the benefit of the Church must sell it; and when the house is pulled down, as it is certain to be ere long, the will will be discovered, grievous loss and scandal brought upon the church, and discredit upon your memory."

"The bishop has promised me that it shall not be destroyed," Miss Harmer said, hesitatingly.

"I ratify that promise, Miss Harmer. Should I return too late, and our dear friend be no more, I promise you that the will shall be preserved in the way he mentions."

Miss Harmer was silent for some time, and then said--

"Father Boniface, before you search for the will, I must tell you, that it is my solemn conviction that the spirit of my brother keeps watch over that will."

"Any spirit that there be who would prevent this work being completed,"

the priest said gravely, "must needs be an evil spirit, and such, I, acting in the Church's behalf, do not fear. Tell me where it is that I may at once perform my errand."

"I do not know, remember, that the will is in existence. I have never looked for it, and have all along said with truth that I know nothing of it. But, if it be in existence, I believe that it is placed in a secret hiding-place in the chamber, to which you know the means of entrance; going up from that room to what was my brother's room, is another flight of stairs, go up five steps and you are standing upon the secret hiding-place; look closely by the side of the step, and you will see a small projection; press that, and the step will open by itself. You are not afraid, father?"

"I am not," the priest said, rising and taking a candle in his hand. "In a good cause the servant of the Church fears not the powers of evil."

And with these words she was gone.

There was not a moment to be lost, the time had flown by terribly fast, and terrible had been the effort to speak quietly and collectively when every pulse throbbed with excitement and impatience; but she had the secret at last.

With rapid, but noiseless steps, she sped down the stairs. The hall was empty. She knelt down upon the hearth with breathless eagerness; the tongue of the iron dog was unscrewed, and the spring clicked in another instant; then a trembling pa.s.sing of the fingers at the back of the mantel piece; in a few moments she felt the projecting n.o.b, and the door swung round on its hinges beside her. Taking up her candle, she flew up the narrow steps; she had no fear now of interruption from below, for no one pa.s.sing through the hall would notice that open door in the fireplace. Up the first flight, into the secret chamber, and then up again. She knelt down upon the third step, and then looked at the wall by the step above her. The slight projection was visible, she pressed it, and the step rolled back, and disclosed a sort of receptacle, the width of the stair, and about a foot deep, filled with papers. She turned these over, her breath held, her hands trembling with excitement, her eyes staring and wild. The first three or four which she threw out were leases and deeds; the next that she came to was a bulky packet endorsed upon its back--_The last Will and Testament of Herbert Harmer_.

Sophy seized it with a short sharp cry of delight, and then hurried down into the hall again. She closed the iron door behind her; blew out the candle, placed it on the table; and then opened the hall door, and without hat or covering on her head she flew down the drive at the top of her speed. She had it then at last, after all these years; it was hers, hers and her boy's! and Sophy with the greatest difficulty repressed the wild cries of delight which rose to her lips. Once past the lodge she kept on at her full speed towards the village, but when she reached the top of the hill she paused to listen. Below her she could see the bright lamps of an approaching vehicle, and in the still night air could hear the noise of a vehicle coming up the hill, and a man's voice urging the horse to his best speed. So she was only just in time. Father Eustace had returned. She hid herself behind a hedge, and as they came along, she could tell by the laboured breathing of the horse how fast he had been driven, and she could even catch what the men, who were walking up the hill to relieve it, were saying. The first voice she heard was that of the priest.

"It is most extraordinary, Thomas; I cannot understand it. That I should be sent for over to Sittingbourne was annoying enough; but I thought that was only a foolish trick, though who would have taken the trouble to play it upon me I cannot imagine: but now that we find the house locked up, and Mary gone, I can still less understand what it means, especially as in the hasty search I gave I found nothing missing."

"Perhaps she has gone out to see some friend in the village," the man suggested.

"But I tell you, Thomas, she has left the clothes which she wore in her room; and more extraordinary still, there is the black wig which I have observed she wore laying on the bed. It is most singular and looks like a deep plot of some sort or other."

"But why are you going up to Harmer Place, sir?" the groom asked.

"Surely they will know nothing about it there?"

"I cannot say," the priest said anxiously. "There Thomas, we are at the top of the hill now! Jump up again!"

And so they went on; and Sophy came out and continued her flight down the steep hill at the top of her speed, and far faster than she could have run in her ordinary attire. Going through the village, she went more quietly--not that she feared interruption, for it was eleven now, and the village was all asleep, but she wanted to husband her powers. As she walked she took off the stiff collar which pressed on her neck, and directly she was past the houses she began to run again at a speed of which at ordinary times she would have been incapable, but which in her present state of excitement and exultation seemed nothing to her.

She had been only just in time; it had taken longer than she had expected, for she had hoped to have reached Canterbury before she met the priest, when she would have gone straight to a lawyer whom she had known in the old times, and deposited the precious doc.u.ment in his hands. She had before determined that if pressed for time she would conceal the will in a thicket and suffer herself to be taken; but all this was forgotten now--her brain had held up thus far, but it was failing her. The only impulse in her mind was that of flight, that and a fierce determination to defend the will to the last. As she ran, she felt in her pocket to see that a pistol she had placed there was safe.

She took it out, and with it in one hand and the will in the other, she ran on past the great mill and on over the bridge out into the long straight road to Canterbury.

CHAPTER XIII.

A VAIN PURSUIT.

For nearly a mile Sophy ran, hope and excitement lending her unnatural strength and speed. Then for a little time she broke into a walk, drawing her breath in short quick sobs. She looked round as she stopped running, but there was no light on the road behind her, nothing to tell of pursuit. Before she had walked a hundred yards, she again turned, and far behind her along the straight road she saw the two bright lights, and felt that it was the gig in pursuit, felt, too, that she could never reach Canterbury before she was overtaken. She turned again to run, for her only thought now was of flight. On one side of the road ran a deep d.y.k.e full of water, on the other the country was open, so that had she thought of leaving the road and concealing herself, she could still have done so. But no such thought entered her mind; her only hope was to gain the town in time, or if overtaken to defend the will with her life.

Could she have run with her former speed, she would have been there, but her breath came short and hard, and she could scarcely keep at a pace beyond a walk. Once or twice she looked wildly over her shoulder. The lights gained fast, terribly fast, upon her; she had not much farther to go, but she felt that before that little was past, the gig would be up to her. She could hear the sound of wheels, and of the galloping horse behind her, but the barracks were close to her now, and if she could but enter them she would be safe; but the gig was gaining too fast upon her, and as she reached the corner of the barracks it was just behind her.

She stopped suddenly in the middle of the road, and before the horse could be pulled up he was almost upon her. She levelled her pistol and fired in his face; she did not wound him, but startled, by the flash and report close to his eyes, the animal reared up, struck wildly out with its forefeet, and then wheeling round, dashed back at full speed, along the road it had come. Sophy continued her flight: on through the turnpike the bar of which stood across the road; along by the side of the long iron railings, and past the closed entrance to the cavalry barracks; she could hear her pursuers behind her again, but feeble and slow as her pace was now, she felt that she was saved. Breathless and faint, stumbling and nearly falling, she held on as far as the gate of the infantry barracks. It was open, and a party of officers were just coming in from the town.

She was but just in time; for she could hear footsteps following fast behind her, for on reaching the gate Father Eustace had not waited for it to be opened, but had leaped out and had run on on foot. Sophy did not hesitate a moment, but rushed in among the group of officers. She clung to the one nearest to her, with a hoa.r.s.e cry, and panted out, "Save me! I am a woman; I am Mr. Harmer's grand-daughter, and this is his will: don't give it up--don't let him have it--don't let"--and Sophy sank in a lifeless heap at the officers' feet. When she first began to speak, there had been a general exclamation of astonishment, but now they all cl.u.s.tered round her, and the eldest of them raised her from the ground. He had hardly done so, when the group was broken again, and Father Eustace burst in among them: "I charge you to deliver that man up to me; he is a thief--he has stolen a deed, a doc.u.ment of value. Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly, seeing it in the hand of the officer, into whose hold Sophy had thrust it when she came in, and who still retained it in his hand, although hardly knowing that he did so, so surprised and bewildered were they all by this strange scene.

"You have it--give it to me, sir," and he made an effort to s.n.a.t.c.h at it.

"No, no, sir," the officer said. "The priest or woman, or whatever it is, begged me to keep it, and I don't even know that it belongs to you; what do you say, major?"

"Certainly not," said the officer who was porting Sophy; "by no means, Featherstone. This is a serious matter."

Father Eustace again made an effort to possess himself of the will. He saw the labour of years slipping from him now, and he would have stopped at nothing to regain the will. He again pushed forward, exclaiming--

"It is my paper--it is my paper; she has stolen it. You dare not keep it from me."

"Stand back, sir," the young officer who was holding the will said, "or else, priest or no priest, down you go."

"Sir," the major said, "violence will do no good here, nor are we likely to be alarmed at your threats. This is a very serious affair. I was stationed here eight years ago, and I was then often over at Mr.

Harmer's, and knew his grand-daughter well. I do not know whether this person dressed as a man is she, but I have heard that she ran away many years ago, and that at Mr. Harmer's death the will which would have made her his heiress was missing. For aught I know that paper which she has just brought in may be the will after all. Hold it up to the light, Featherstone, and see what it says."

"By Jove, major!" the young officer said, examining it, "it is endorsed 'The last will and testament of Herbert Harmer,' sure enough."

"It is a forgery," the priest broke out, "it is an infamous forgery. I insist on having it. I warn you at your peril, sir, to detain it."

"I will take the risk of that, sir," the major said coolly; "and as you say it was stolen from you, it is evident that the forgery, if it be one, was not committed by this person here. Your own words convict you, sir. There, say no more. My name is Charteris--Major Charteris, and any charge you may bring against this lady, for so I believe her to be, I will be responsible that she shall appear to answer it, and I will hold this will till it is proved who is the proper person to take charge of it. I have nothing more to say, sir. Hankey, help me to carry this lady up to my rooms. Leighton, I wish you would run up to the mess-room, and ask the doctor to come round to my quarters at once."

And so the officers moved off in a body, talking among themselves of the strange event, the two priests, one a woman, and the will, which seemed of such importance. "'Pon my soul, it's quite a romance;" and so talking they went up towards their barracks, leaving the priest standing, rigid and ghastly, looking after them. How long he might have stood there, with a strange whirl of despairing thoughts surging up in his heart, I cannot say. He stood there till the sergeant of the guard who had heard all that had pa.s.sed, after speaking to him twice, and receiving no answer, came up and touched him on the shoulder, and said--

"I am going to close the gate, sir."

The priest looked at him for a moment as if not understanding him, then he threw up his hands despairingly, and with a low moaning cry, turned round and went out as if in a dream. Mechanically he got up into his gig which was standing there, and then with a wild hopeless look in his eyes, he cowered down, while his servant drove the weary horse off into the darkness again.

Major Charteris was a married man, and his wife at once took charge of Sophy, and with the maid's a.s.sistance undressed the insensible woman and put her into bed, by which time the doctor arrived. But it was a long time before she showed any signs of returning consciousness.

Presently the major went down into the mess-room where the other officers were sitting, discussing this singular adventure, smoking many cigars and pipes over their consultation, and making various bets as to the result. His entrance was greeted with a shout--

"Well, major, how is the fair priest?"

"She is very ill," the major said seriously, "she has recovered from her faint, but she is quite unconscious, and the doctor talks about brain fever."

"Is she Mr. Harmer's grand-daughter, major?"

"I cannot say for certain, Featherstone, although I should think that she is, but she is so changed I should not have known her again in the least; besides, all her hair is cut close."