A Changed Heart Part 31

But now the bishop, in mitre and chasuble, with a throng of attendant priests, in splendid vestments, preceded by a score of acolytes in scarlet soutanes, and white lace surplices, bearing candles and crozier, are all on the altar, and the choir have burst forth as with one voice, into the plaintive cry "Kyrie Eleison," and pontifical high ma.s.s has begun. High over all that swelling choir, high, clear and sweet, one soprano voice arises, the voice of the golden-haired organist: "Gloria in Excelsis!" Something in the deep solemnity of the scene, in the inspiring music, in the white-robed and flower-crowned girls, in the silent devotion of the thousands around him, stirred a feeling in the soul of the man, that he had never felt since, in early boyhood, before he knew Eton or Voltaire, he had knelt at his mother's knee, and learned there his childish prayers. He forgot, for a brief while, his wickedness and his worldliness, forgot the black-eyed girl by his side, and the blue-eyed girl whose voice vibrated through those lofty aisles, and, with dreamy eyes, and a heart that went back to that old time, listened to the sermon of the aged and white-haired priest, grown gray in the service of that G.o.d whom he, a poor atom of the dust, dared deride. It was one of those moments in which the great Creator, in his infinite compa.s.sion for his lost sheep, goes in search of us to lead us back to the fold, in which our good angel flutters his white wings about us, and tries to lift us out of the slime in which we are wallowing. But the sermon was over, the benediction given, the last voluntary was playing, and the vast crowd were pouring out. Captain Cavendish took his hat and went out with the rest; and before he had fairly pa.s.sed through the cathedral gates was his old, worldly, infidel self again, and was pouring congratulations and praise into the too-willing ears of Nathalie Marsh, on her admirable performances, while Charley went home with Cherrie.

All that day, and the next, and the next, Captain Cavendish never came near Redmon, or the pretty cottage where the roses and sweetbriers grew; but Mr. Johnston, a pleasant-spoken and dapper young c.o.c.kney, without an h in his alphabet, and the captain's confidential valet, came back and forth with messages, and took all trouble and suspicion off his master.

Neither had Miss Nettleby made her appearance in Speckport; she had spent the chief part of her time about the red-brick house, but had learned nothing further by all her eavesdropping. In a most restless and excited state of mind had the young lady been ever since Monday morning, in a sort of inward fever that grew worse and worse with every pa.s.sing hour. She got up and sat down, and wandered in and out, and tried to read, and sew, and net, and play the accordion, and threw down each impatiently, after a few moments' trial. She sat down to her meals and got up without eating anything; her cheeks burned with a deep, steady fever-red, her eyes had the unnatural brightness of the same disease, and Ann stared at her, and opined she was losing her wits.

In rain and gloom the wedding-day dawned at last. Cherrie's fever was worse--she wandered from room to room of the cottage all day long, the fire in her eyes and the hectic on her cheek more brilliant than ever.

The sky was like lead, the wind had a warning wail in its voice, and the rain fell sullenly and ceaselessly. But the rain could not keep the girl in-doors; she went out and wandered around in it all, returning dripping wet, three or four times, to change her drenched clothes. The girls had the cottage to themselves; old Nettleby was out in the shed, mending his gardening-tools, and the boys were in Speckport. The dull day was ending in a duller and rainier twilight, and Ann Nettleby was bustling about the tidy kitchen, getting tea, and wondering if Cherrie had gone to bed in her room up-stairs, she had been so quiet for the last half-hour. She did not go up to see; but set the tea to draw, laid the table, and lit the lamp. The wet twilight had now closed in, in a black and dismal night, when Ann heard a carriage stop at the gate, and, a moment after, a loud knock at the front door. Before she could open it, some person without did so, and Ann saw Mr. Val Blake, wrapped in a mackintosh, and waiting at the gate a cab, with a lighted lamp.

"How are you, Ann?" inquired Mr. Blake. "Is Cherrie in?"

"Yes, here I am!" a voice called out, and Cherrie herself came running down stairs, her heart beating so fast and thick she could hardly speak.

"I thought you would like a drive this evening, Cherrie," said Val; "it's wet, but you won't mind it in the cab, and I'll fetch you back before ten. Run and wrap up and come along."

It was not the first time Ann Nettleby had heard such impromptu invitations given and accepted, and it was none of her business to interfere. Cherrie was off like a flash, and down again directly, in out-door dress, her vail down, to hide her flushed and excited face.

Ann Nettleby, standing in the cottage-door, watched the cab drive away through the rainy night, and then, closing the door, went back to the kitchen, to give her father his tea. She took her own with him, setting the teapot back on the stove, to keep hot for her brothers. Old Nettleby fell asleep immediately after tea, with his pipe in his mouth, and Ann went back to her netting, wondering once more what Cherrie was about, and wis.h.i.+ng she could have such fine times as her elder sister. Could she only have seen in some magic mirror what was at that moment going on in a humble little Wesleyan chapel in a retired street of the town! The building dimly lighted by one flickering candle; a minister, or what looked like one, in white neckcloth and clerical suit of black; the tall and distinguished man, wearing a shrouding cloak, and the little girl, who trembled and quivered so fearfully, standing before him, while he p.r.o.nounced them man and wife; and that other tall young man, with his hands in his coat-pockets, listening and looking on! Could Ann Nettleby only have seen it all, and known that her pretty sister was that very night a bride!

Val Blake was certainly the soul of punctuality. As the clock on the kitchen-mantel was striking ten, the cab stopped once more at the cottage-door, and she heard his unceremonious voice bidding Cherrie good-night. Ann opened the door, and Cherrie, her vail still down, brushed past her without saying a word, and flitted up the staircase to her own room.

It was half an hour later when Ann Nettleby's two brothers came, dripping like water-dogs, home from town; and Ann having admitted them, went yawningly up-stairs to bed.

"I say, father," said Rob Nettleby, pulling off his wet jacket, "was there company up at Redmon to-day?"

"No," replied the old man. "Why?"

"Oh, because we met a carriage tearing by just now, as if Old Nick was driving. I wonder what it was about?"

CHAPTER XIV.

MINING THE GROUND.

Miss Cherrie Nettleby was not a young lady of very deep feeling, or one likely to be long overcome by romantic emotion of any sort. Therefore, before a week stood between her and that rainy July night, she was all her own self again, and that night seemed to have come and gone out of her life, and left no trace behind it. She was Cherrie Nettleby still, not Mrs. Captain Cavendish; she lived in the cottage instead of the handsome suite of apartments the elegant young officer occupied in the best hotel in Speckport. She flaunted in the old gay way through her native town, and held her usual evening levee of young men in the cottage-parlor as regularly as the evening came round. It did seem a little strange to her at first that marriage, which makes such a change in the lives of other girls, should make so little in hers. She never doubted for a single second that she was really and legally his wife, and Val Blake kept his own counsel. The captain told her that he would resign his commission or exchange into the first homeward-bound regiment; and meantime she was to be a good girl and keep their secret inviolably. She was to encourage Charley Marsh, still--poor Charley!

while he every day played the devoted to Nathalie.

Cherrie's wedding night had been nearly the last of July. The crimson glory of an August sunset lay on the climbing roses, the sweetbrier and honeysuckle arches of the cottage, and was turning its windows into sheets of red gold. The sun, a crimson globe, was dropping in an oriflamme of indescribable gorgeousness behind the tree-tops; and at all this tropical richness of light and coloring, Cherrie, leaning over her father's garden-gate, looked.

There were not many pa.s.sers-by to look at that hot August evening; but presently up the dusty road came a young man, well-dressed and well-looking. Cherrie knew him, and greeted him with a gracious smile, for it was Mr. Johnston, Captain Cavendish's servant. Mr. Johnston, with a look of unqualified admiration at her dark, bright face, took off his hat.

"Good-evening, Miss Nettleby. Ain't it shocking 'ot? Been to the picnic to-day?"

Cherrie nodded.

"'Ad a good time, I 'ope. Weren't you nearly melted with the 'eat?"

"Yes, it was warm," said Cherrie; "got anything for me?"

"A letter," said Mr. Johnston, producing the doc.u.ment, "which he'd 'ave come himself honely hold Major Grove hinvited 'im to dinner."

Cherrie eagerly broke open the envelope and read:

"DEAREST:--Meet me to-night, at half-past eight, in the cedar dell, without fail. Destroy this as soon as read.

"G. S."

Cherrie tore the note into atoms, and strewed them over the gra.s.s.

"There was to be a hanswer," insinuated Mr. Johnston.

"Tell him yes," said Cherrie; "that is all."

Mr. Johnston took off his hat once more, and himself immediately after.

Ann Nettleby, at the same moment, came to the door to tell Cherrie tea was ready; and Cherrie went in and partook of that repast with her father, sister, and brothers.

"Did you hear, boys," said old Nettleby, "that Lady Leroy has sold Partridge Farm?"

"Sold Partridge Farm!" repeated Rob. "No! has she, though? Who to?"

"To young Mr. Oaks, so Midge tells me; and a rare penny she'll get for it, I'll warrant you."

"What does Oaks want of it, I wonder?" said his other son. "He isn't going to take to farming."

"Oaks is the richest fellow in Speckport," said Rob Nettleby; "he has more money a great deal than he knows what to do with, and he may as well lay it out in property as at the gaming-table."

"Does he gamble?" asked Cherrie, helping herself to bread and b.u.t.ter.

Her brother laughed significantly.

"Doesn't he, though? You may find him and that Captain Cavendish all hours of the day and night in Prince Street."

"Is Captain Cavendish a gambler?" said Ann; "that's bad for Miss Natty.

They say they're going to be married."

Cherrie smiled to herself, and Rob went on speaking.

"It's bad for Miss Nathalie, for that Cavendish is a villain, for all his fine airs and graces, and is leading her brother to the devil. I met him and young McGregor coming from Prince Street last night, and they hadn't a leg to put under them--either one."

"Drunk?" said Cherrie, stirring her tea.

"Drunk as lords, the pair of 'em. I helped them both home, and found out afterward how it was. They had gone with Cavendish to the gaming-house as usual, had lost heavily also, as usual, and, excited and maddened, had drank brandy until they could hardly stand. Young McGregor will fleece his father before he stops; and where Marsh's money comes from, I can't tell."

"You ought to tell Miss Natty, Rob," said his father. "I should not like to see her throw herself away on such a man, such a handsome and pleasant-spoken young lady as she is."

"Not I," said his son, getting up; "she wouldn't thank me, and it's none of my business. Let Charley tell her, if he likes--a poor fellow like me has no call to interfere with fine ladies and gentlemen."

Cherrie, with a little disdainful toss of her black curls, but discreetly holding her tongue, went into the front room and seated herself with a novel at the window. She read until a quarter past eight, and it grew too dark to see; then, rising, she wrapped herself in a plaided shawl and crossed the deserted road un.o.bserved. Cedar dell, the place of tryst, was but a few yards off--the green hollow in the woods where Cherrie had told the captain of the result of her eavesdropping; a delightful place, shut in by the tall, dark trees, with a carpet of velvet sward, and a rustic bench of twisted boughs. Cherrie sat down on the bench and listened to the twittering of the birds in their nests, the restless murmuring and swaying of the trees in the night-wind, and watched the blue patches of sky and the pale rays of the new moon glancing in and out of the black boughs. All the holy beauty of the pale summer night could not lift her heart to the Creator who had made it--she was only waiting for the fall of a well-known step, for the sound of a well-known voice. Both came presently. The branches were swept aside, a step crashed over the dry twigs, a pale and handsome face, with dark eyes and mustache, under a broad-brimmed hat, looked in the white moonlight through the opening, and the expected voice asked: