A Changed Heart Part 47

After he broke jail that time (of course, Turnbull helped him off), he skulked in the woods for two or three weeks, visited occasionally by a friend (Turnbull again), and through him heard of Nathalie's death. At last, he got the chance of a blockade-runner. The 'Stonewall Jackson'

was leaving here, and he got on board, ran the blockade, and found himself in Dixie. There he was offered a captainship, if he would stay and fight a little. He accepted, and that's the whole story. I must tell the mother. It will do her more good than fifty novels and fifty thousand blue pills. Jo went into hysterics of delight when she heard it at breakfast, and I left her kicking when I came away."

"Does he say anything at all about the murder?"

"Oh, yes. I forgot that. He wants to know if Cherrie has turned up yet, and says he may thank her for all his trouble. He was up at Redmon that night to meet her. She had promised to elope with him, but she never came. He protests his innocence of the deed, and I believe him."

"Humph!" said Mr. Darcy, reflectingly. "It is most singular Cherrie does not turn up. I dare say she could throw light on the subject, if she chose."

"I don't despair, yet," said Val. "I'll find her before I stop, if she's above ground. No news yet, I suppose, from the heirs of Redmon?"

"None; and I am sick and tired of advertising. Not a New York or Canadian paper I have not tried, and all alike unsuccessfully. I believe the man's dead, and it's of no use."

"Well," said Mr. Blake, dismounting from the chair, "I'm off. I must get back to the office after I've seen Mrs. Marsh, and give the 'Snorter'

such a flailing as it won't get over for a month of Sundays."

Off went Mr. Blake like a long-legged steam-engine; and Mr. Darcy's office boy entered with a handful of letters from the post-office. The lawyer, laying down his paper, began to break the envelopes and read.

The first three were business communications, brief and legal, in big buff envelopes. The fourth bore a different aspect. It was considerably stouter. The envelope was white; the writing, a lady's delicate spidery tracery; the postmark New York. The lawyer surveyed it for a moment in grave surprise, then broke it open and began to read. The letter was a long one--three sheets of note-paper closely written; and before he had got to the end of the first, Mr. Darcy, with a sort of shout of astonishment, began at the beginning again. Once, twice, three times, and Mr. Darcy perused the letter; and then rising, with the rest unopened, began pacing up and down the floor. The windows of the office faced the street, and, glancing out, he saw Mr. Blake striding past presently, as if shod with seven-league boots. Mr. Darcy put his head out of the window and hailed him.

"Hallo, Blake! Come up here a moment, will you?"

Mr. Blake looked up, ran up-stairs, and entered the office.

"You'll have to be quick, Mr. Darcy," he said. "Time's precious this morning, and my conscience is uneasy until I give the 'Snorter' fits.

Anything up?"

"Yes. The heir of Redmon has turned up at last!"

"By Jove!" cried Val, "you don't say so? Where is he?"

"It's not a he. I should have said the heiress of Redmon has come to light. I have had a letter from Philip Henderson's daughter this morning."

"And where's Philip himself?"

"Where Heaven pleases. The man's dead, and has been these three years.

No wonder he never answered our advertis.e.m.e.nts."

"But it is a wonder this daughter of his did not?"

"She never heard it until the day before she wrote, and then by the merest chance, she says. She is very poor, I fancy, though she does not exactly say so, and without the means to come on here."

"Where is she?"

"In New York. Mrs. Leroy told me her brother resided in Yonkers, with his wife and two daughters, she believed, and the writer of this letter corroborates that statement. They did live in Yonkers, she says, and were in affluent circ.u.mstances for a number of years, until she, the writer, was thirteen years old, when they became involved in debt, and everything was seized by the creditors. Henderson, the father, went to Canada. Mrs. Leroy told me she heard he had gone there, but they never held any correspondence. He went to Canada and died there about three years ago. The youngest daughter died about the same time, and the mother shortly after their loss of fortune. The writer of this letter, then, is the only survivor of the family, and the rightful heiress of Mrs. Leroy's fortune. She speaks of Mrs. Leroy, too; says her father had an only sister, who married a New York Jew of that name, for which low alliance, her father ever afterwards refused to have anything to do with her. She refers me to several persons in Yonkers, who can confirm her story, if necessary; though, as she has not been there since she was a child of thirteen, and is now a young lady of twenty, they would hardly be able to identify her. She works for her living, she says--as a teacher, I presume--and tells me to address my reply to 'Station G, Broadway.' Her story bears truth on the face of it, I think. Here is the letter--read it."

Mr. Blake took the lady-like epistle, and, apparently forgetful of his late haste, sat down and perused it from the date "New York, March 7th, 1862," to the signature, "Yours respectfully, Olive W. Henderson." He laid it down with a thoughtful face.

"Her statement is frank and clear, and coincides in every particular with what Mrs. Leroy told you. I don't think there is any deception, but you had better write to Yonkers and ascertain."

"I shall do so: and if all is right, I will forward money to Miss Henderson to come here at once. I am heartily glad to be rid of the bother at last. What will Speckport say?"

"Ah, what won't it say! It's an ill wind that blows n.o.body good; and what killed poor Natty Marsh is the making of this girl. I wonder if she's good-looking. I shouldn't mind making up to her myself, if she is."

"You might make down again, then. She wouldn't touch you with a pair of tongs. How did Mrs. Marsh take the news?"

"She cried a little," said Val, turning to go, "and then went back to 'Florinda the Forsaken,' I having disturbed her in the middle of the ninety-eighth chapter."

Nodding familiarly, Mr. Blake took his departure, and Mr. Darcy sat down to write to Station G, Broadway, and to Yonkers.

The very winds of heaven seemed to carry news in Speckport, and before night everybody at all concerned knew that the heiress of Redmon had turned up.

Before the expiration of a fortnight, Mr. Darcy received an answer from Yonkers. Mr. and Mrs. Philip Henderson had resided there with their two daughters some years before, but he had absconded in debt, and his wife had left the place, and died shortly after. Harriet and Olive, they believed, were the names of the children; but they knew nothing whatever of them, whether they were living or dead. Mr. Henderson, they had read in the papers, had died very suddenly in Canada--committed suicide, they believed, but they were not certain.

Mr. Darcy, upon receipt of these letters, forwarded a hundred dollars to Miss Henderson, desiring her to come on without delay to Speckport, and take possession of her property. The hunt for the heirs had given Mr.

Darcy considerable trouble, and he was very glad to be rid of the bore.

He directed the young lady to come to his house immediately upon landing, instead of a hotel; if she sent him word what day she would come, he would be at the boat to meet her.

Mr. Val Blake, among less noted people, went down to the wharf one Tuesday afternoon, nearly a fortnight after Mr. Darcy had dispatched that last letter containing the hundred dollars, to New York. It was late in March now, a lovely, balmy, June-like day; for March, having come in like a lion, was going peacefully out like a lamb. There was not a shadow of fog in Speckport. The sky was as blue as your eyes, my dear reader--unless your eyes happen to be black--with billowy white clouds sailing like fairy ships through a fairy sea. The soft breezes and warm sunshine rendered fans unnecessary, and the bay was a sheet of sapphire and gold. The wharf, a superb wharf, by the way, and a delightful promenade, was thronged. All the pretty girls in Speckport--and, oh!

what a lot of pretty girls there are in Speckport--were there; so were the homely ones, and all the nice young men, and the officers with canes under their arms, staring at the fair Speckportians. Young and old, rich and poor, lined the wharf, sitting down, standing up, and walking about, attracted by the beauty of the evening, and the report that the new heiress was coming in that day's boat.

Mr. Val Blake, with his hands in his trowsers' pockets as usual, and his black Kossuth hat pushed far back on his forehead, not to obstruct his view, also as usual, lounged down through the crowd, nodding right and left, and joined a group near the end of the wharf, of whom Miss Jeannette McGregor, Miss Laura Blair, Miss Catty Clowrie, and Captain Cavendish formed prominent features. Two or three more officers and civilians hovered around, and way was made for Mr. Blake.

"Oh, Mr. Blake, do you suppose we'll know her when she lands?" eagerly inquired Miss McGregor. "I am dying to see what she is like!"

"Darcy's going on board after her," said Val, "you'll see him linking her up the wharf. I say, Laura, Bill told me you had a letter from Miss Rose."

"Why, yes, didn't you know? And she is coming back with Mrs. Wheatly, and I am so glad!"

"Have you been corresponding with Miss Rose all this time, Laura?"

inquired Miss Clowrie.

"No; this is the first letter I have received. I sent her the 'Spouter,'

containing Nathalie Marsh's death, to Quebec, and she wrote back in reply. This is all I have heard of her until now. She says she has had scarcely a moment to herself."

"Do you know, Laura," said Miss McGregor, "I used to think she was half in love with Charley Marsh before that terrible affair of his. He was a handsome fellow, and she must have seen a great deal of him, living in the same house."

"One might fall in love with Charley without living in the same house with him, mightn't they, Catty?" asked Mr. Blake, with a grin; "but it's all nonsense in saying the little school-mistress cared about him. She was too much of a saint to fall in love with any one."

"There's the boat!" cried Captain Cavendish; "coming round Paradise Island!"

"And there goes Darcy down the floats," echoed Val. "Watch well, ladies, and you will behold the heiress of Redmon in a jiffy."

The steamer swept around the island and floated gracefully up the harbor. In twenty minutes she was at the wharf; a little army of cabmen, armed with whips, stood ready, as if to thrash the pa.s.sengers as they came up. A couple of M. P.'s, bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned, blue-coated, and red-batoned, stood keeping order among the rabble of boys, ready to tear each other's eyes out for the privilege of carrying somebody's luggage.

Our party flocked to the edge of the high wharf overlooking the floats, up which the travelers must come, and strained their necks and eyes to catch sight of the heiress. Mr. Darcy had gone on board the first moment he could, and the pa.s.sengers were flocking out and up the floats. Some of them, who had been to Speckport before, or had heard from others that it was one of the inst.i.tutions of the place for the population of the town to flock down on such occasions, pa.s.sed on indifferently; but others, more ignorant, looked, up in amazement, and wondered if all those people expected friends. Most of the pa.s.sengers had gone, when there was an exclamation from more than one mouth of "Here she is!"

"There's the heiress with Mr. Darcy!" "Look, she's coming!" and all bent forward more eagerly than before. Yes, Mr. Darcy was slowly ascending the floats with a lady on his arm, a tall lady, very slender and graceful of figure, wearing a black silk dress, a black cloth mantle trimmed with purple, a plain dark traveling bonnet, and a thick brown vail. The vail defied penetration--the eyes of Argus himself could not have discovered the face behind it.

"Oh, hang the vail!" cried Captain Cavendish; "they ought to be indicted as public nuisances. The face belonging to such a figure should be pretty!"

"How tall she is!" exclaimed Miss McGregor, who was rather dumpy than otherwise. "She is a perfect giantess!"