A Changed Heart Part 68

"It's only the rats! So you will leave Speckport, and do nothing for Cherrie? Cavendish, I am sorry I ever had a hand in that night's work!"

"Too late now, my dear boy!" laughed the Englishman. "Make your mind easy about Cherrie! She's just the girl can take care of herself! If ever she comes back to Speckport, give her my regards!"

He pulled out his watch, still laughing, and arose to go.

"Half-past eleven--I have an engagement at twelve, and must be off.

By-by, Blake! don't fret about Cherrie!"

Mr. Blake did not reply, and his face was very grave as he shut and locked the door after his visitor.

"You're a greater villain, Captain Cavendish," he said to himself, "than even I took you to be! Come out, Cherrie--have you heard enough?"

Yes, she had heard enough! She was crouching on the door, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing. She leaped up like a little tigress as he opened the door.

"Take me to a magistrate!" she cried. "Let me tell all I know! I'll hang him! I'll hang him, if I can!"

"Sit down, Cherrie," said Val, "and compose yourself. It won't do to go in such a gale as this before the authorities. Tell me first. By that time you will be settled!"

An hour afterward, Mr. Blake left his office by the back-door, accompanied by the vailed lady. Cherrie had told all.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

OVERTAKEN.

Mr. Blake had made little notes of Cherrie's discourse, and had the whole story arranged in straightforward and business-like shape, for the proper authorities. He did not lead his fair companion straight to those authorities, as she vindictively desired, but back to her hotel.

"I think I'll hand over the case to Darcy, Cherrie," he said; "and he is out of town, and won't be back till to-morrow afternoon.--There's no hurry--Cavendish won't leave Speckport yet awhile. We'll wait until to-morrow, Cherrie."

Cherrie had to obey orders; and pa.s.sed the time watching the pa.s.sers-by under her window. There were plenty of pa.s.sers-by, for the window fronted on Queen Street, and Cherrie knew almost every one. It was hard sometimes to hide behind the curtain instead of throwing open the cas.e.m.e.nt and hailing those old friends who brought back so vividly the happy days when she had been the little black-eyed belle, and Captain Cavendish was unknown. It seemed only like yesterday since she had tripped down that sunlit street, in glittering silk, with all the men bowing, and smiling, and tipping their hats jocosely to her; only yesterday since the good-looking young drygoods clerks vaulted airily over the counters to do her bidding. And now, and now! She never could be what she had been again. And to this man, this false and treacherous Englishman, for whom she had sacrificed n.o.ble-hearted Charley Marsh, she owed it all. She set her teeth vindictively, and clenched her little fist at the thought.

"But I'll pay him for it! I'll teach him to despise me! I only hope they may hang him--the villain! Hard labor for life would not be half punishment enough for him!"

They talk of presentiments! Surely, there never was such a thing, else why had George Cavendish no dim foreshadowing of the doom darkening so rapidly around him. He had told Val Blake he had an engagement. So he had; it was in Prince Street, with Mr. Tom Oaks, who had returned to Speckport, and who was going the road to ruin faster than any victim Captain Cavendish had ever in hand before. It was growing dusk when they left the gambling-h.e.l.l; and Mr. Oaks was poorer and Captain Cavendish richer by several hundred pounds than when they entered. The gorgeous coloring of the sunset yet flared in the sky, though the crimson and amber were flecked with sinister black. Captain Cavendish drew out a gold hunting-watch, and looked at the hour. "Past six," he said, carelessly; "I shall be late at Redmon, I fear. The hour is seven, I believe. Do you drive there this evening?"

"No," said Mr. Oaks, with a black scowl, "I hope my legs will be palsied if ever they cross the threshold of that woman! I'm not a hound, to fawn on people who kick me!"

Captain Cavendish only smiled--he rarely lost his temper--and went off to his hotel, whistling an opera air. He pa.s.sed under Cherrie's window; but no prescience of the flashing black eyes above troubled the serenity of his mind. He was walking steadily to his fate, as we all walk--blindly, unconsciously.

Captain Cavendish was the last to arrive at Redmon--all the other guests were a.s.sembled in the drawing-room when he entered, and they had been discussing him and his departure for the last quarter of an hour.

The dinner party at Redmon was a very pleasant one; and every one, except, perhaps, the stately hostess herself, was very gay and animated.

Mr. Wyndham, despite the trouble he was in about his poor mad mother, was the most entertaining and agreeable of hosts. The ladies, when they flocked back to the drawing-room, enthusiastically p.r.o.nounced Mr.

Wyndham "a perfect love!" and declared they quite envied Mrs. Wyndham a husband who could tell such charming stories, and who was so delightfully clever and talented. And Olive Wyndham smiled, and sat down at the piano to do her share of the entertaining, with that dreary pain at her beating and rebellious heart that never seemed to leave it now. Yes, it was a very pleasant evening; and Captain Cavendish found it so, and lingered strangely, talking to his hostess after all the rest had gone. Lieutenant the Honorable L. H. Blank, who was waiting for him on the graveled drive outside, grew savage as he pulled out his watch and saw it wanted only a quarter of twelve.

"Confound the fellow!" he muttered, "does he mean to stay all night talking to Mrs. Wyndham, and I am sleepy. Oh, here he is at last! I say, Cavendish, what the d.i.c.kens kept you?"

Captain Cavendish laughed, as he vaulted into his saddle.

"What's your hurry, my dear fellow? I was talking to Mrs. Wyndham, and common politeness forbade my cutting the conversation short."

"Common bosh! Mrs. Wyndham was yawning in your face, I dare say! My belief is, Cavendish, you are as much in love with that black-eyed G.o.ddess now as ever."

"Pooh! it was only a flirtation all through; and I would as soon flirt with a married lady any day as a single one. She looked superb to-night, did not she, in that dress that flashed as she walked--was it pink or white--and that ivy crown on her head?"

"She always looks superb! I should like to fetch such a wife as that back to old England. A coronet would sit well on that stately head."

A strangely-bitter regret for what he had lost smote the heart of Captain Cavendish. It might have been. He might have brought that black-eyed divinity as his wife to England, but for Paul Wyndham. Why had she preferred that man to him?

"I wonder if she loves him?" he said aloud.

"Who?--her husband? Do you know, Cavendish, she puzzles me there. She treats him with fearfully frigid politeness, but she never ceases to watch him. If he were any kind of man but the kind he is, I should say she was jealous of him. He is a capital fellow, anyhow, and I like him immensely."

They rode through the iron gates as he spoke, which clanged noisily behind them. The night was not very bright, for the moon struggled through ragged piles of black cloud, and only glimmered with a wan and pallid light on the earth. The trees loomed up black against the clear sky, and cast vivid and unearthly shadows across the dusty road. A sighing wind moaned fitfully through the wood, and the trees surged and groaned, and rocked to and fro restlessly. It was a spectral night enough, and the young lieutenant shivered in the fitful blast.

"I feel as if I had taken a shower-bath of ice-water," he said. "Wasn't it somewhere near here that Val Blake saw the ghost? Good Heavens!

What's that?"

As he spoke, there suddenly came forth from the shadow of the tree, as if it took shape from the blackness, a figure--a woman's figure, with long disordered fair hair, and a face white as snow. Captain Cavendish gave an awful cry as he saw it; the cry startled his horse--only a half-tamed thing at best--and, with a loud neigh, it started off like an arrow from a bow. The horse of Lieutenant Blank, either taking this as a challenge, or frightened by the sudden appearance of the woman, p.r.i.c.ked up its ears and fled after, with a velocity that nearly unseated his rider. The lieutenant overtook his companion as they clattered through the streets of the town, and the face of Captain Cavendish was livid.

"For Heaven's sake, Cavendish!" cried the young man, "what was that?

What was that we saw?"

"It was Nathalie Marsh!" Captain Cavendish said, in an awful voice.

"Don't speak to me, Blank! I am going mad!"

He looked as if he was, as he galloped furiously out of sight, waking the sleeping townsfolk with the thunder of his horse's hoofs. He had heard the story of the ghost, and had laughed at it, with the rest; but he had heard it in broad daylight, and the most timid of us can laugh at ghost-stories then. He had not been thinking of her, and he had seen her--he had seen her at midnight--true ghostly hour--on the lonesome Redmon road, with her death-white face and streaming hair! He had seen her--he had seen the ghost of Nathalie Marsh!

Mr. Johnston, the sleepy valet, sitting up for his master, recoiled in terror as that master crossed the threshold of the room. Captain Cavendish only stared vaguely as the man spoke to him, and strode by him and into his room, with an unearthly glare in his eyes and the horrible lividness of death in his face. Mr. Johnston stood appalled outside the door, wondering if his master had committed a murder on the way home--nothing less could excuse his looking like that. Once, half an hour after, Captain Cavendish opened his door, still "looking like that," and ordered brandy, in a voice that did not sound like his own; and Mr. Johnston brought it, and got the door slammed in his face afterward.

The usually peaceful slumbers of Mr. Johnston were very much disturbed that night by this extraordinary conduct on the part of his master. He lost at least three hours' sleep perplexing himself about it, for never since he had had the honor of being the captain's man, had that gentleman behaved so singularly, or exhibited so ghastly and deathlike a face. When, in the early watches of the morning, he presented himself at his master's door with towels and water, it was in a state of mingled curiosity and terror; but he found there was no call for the latter emotion. Beyond looking uncommonly pale and hollow-eyed (sure tokens of a sleepless night), Captain Cavendish was perfectly himself again; and whether this was owing to the brandy he had drank or the exhilarating effect of the morning sunshine, Mr. Johnston could not tell, but he was inclined to set it down to the brandy. Even the paleness and hollow-eyedness was not noticeable after he had shaved and dressed, and partaken of his breakfast, and sauntered out, swinging his cane and smoking his cigar, to kill thought in the bustling streets of the town.

Val Blake, standing in his office-door, hailed him as he pa.s.sed.

"How are you, Cavendish? Heavenly morning, isn't it? Have you any particular engagement for this afternoon?"

"This afternoon? What hour?"

"Oh, about three. You must postpone your engagements to accommodate me."

"I have none so early. I dine with the mess at six. What is it?"

"A little surprise that I have in store for you. Drop into Darcy's office about five, and we'll give you a little surprise!"

"A little surprise! Of what nature, pray?"