A Changed Heart Part 33

"Very well. Give him his answer to-morrow morning. Call at the office, and tell him you consent to run away with him, but that, to avoid suspicion for a few days, you are going to give out you are off on a visit to your cousin in Greentown. That you will actually start in the cars, but will step quietly out at the first station, which is only three miles from town, and that you will walk back and get to Speckport about dark. You understand, Cherrie? You are not really to do this, only to tell Marsh you will."

"Yes," said Cherrie, looking hopelessly bewildered.

"Tell him to come to Redmon between eight and nine, to call at your cottage first, and if you are not there, to go to Lady Leroy's and wait there as long as he can. If you are not there before the house is closed, he is to wait in the grounds for you in front of the house until you do come. I will enter by that back window you showed me, Cherrie, and the probability is Charley will wait all night, and, of course, will be seen by several people, and actually suspected of the robbery."

"It seems a pity, though, don't it?" said Cherrie, her woman's heart touched for poor Charley.

"If he is not suspected, I will be," said Captain Cavendish, sternly.

"Remember your oath."

"I remember. Is there anything else?"

"Yes; you must send him a note in the afternoon. Ann will fetch it for you. To-morrow is Thursday, and at eight in the morning the steamer leaves for Boston."

"Here," said the young man, putting his hand in his pocket and producing a slip of paper, "is a draft of the note you are to send him, written in pencil. Copy it word for word, and then tear this up. Listen, and I will read it."

More from memory than the pale moon's rays glancing through the woods, Captain Cavendish read:

"DEAR CHARLEY:--I forgot to tell you this morning, when I consented to elope with you, that you had better go down to the steamboat office to-day and secure staterooms, so that we may conceal ourselves as soon as we go on board. You can pay for this out of that money; it will do us more good than it ever would do that miser of a Lady Leroy. Ever yours,

"CHERRIE NETTLEBY."

"What money?" inquired Cherrie. "What money is he to pay for the staterooms out of?"

"Oh, I forgot. When you see him in the morning, give him this,"

producing a bank note. "I know he has not a stiver, and I got this from Oaks myself yesterday. It is for ten pounds, and Oaks's initials were scrawled on it, as he has a fas.h.i.+on of doing with all his bills. Tell him Lady Leroy gave it to your father in payment, and he presented it to you. Charley will take it; he is too hard up to be fastidious. Your note will, no doubt, be found upon him, and convict him at once."

"There's another thing," said Cherrie. "When Charley's arrested and my name found to that note, they'll think I knew about the robbery, and come up to Greentown after me. What should I do then?"

"That is true," said the captain, thoughtfully. "Perhaps, after all, then, you had better not go to your cousin's. Go on to Bridgeford; it is thirty miles further up, and a quiet out-of-the-way place, where no one ever stops, hardly. There is one hotel there, where you can stay quietly for a few days, and then slip off and get board in some farmer's house.

Call yourself Miss Smith, and write to me when you are settled, telling all the particulars. Disguise your hand in writing the address, and I will run up and see you as soon as I safely can, and settle our future plans. Now, you are sure you remember and understand all I have been saying?"

"Yes," said Cherrie; "but, oh, dear me! I feel just as nervous and as scared! What will they do to Charley? Maybe they'll hang him!"

"Not the least fear of it. If they put him in prison, I'll try and get him clear off. You say they always go to bed for certain at nine o'clock at Redmon house?"

"At nine to a minute; but Lady Leroy always locks her door, nights. How will you get in?"

Captain Cavendish smiled.

"If it all was as easy as that, it would be a simple affair. Don't look so discouraged, my darling black eyes. With eight thousand pounds in my pocket, and the prettiest little girl in wide America as my wife, I will be off to merry England, and you and I will forget this land of fog and fish. I'm off now, Cherrie and perhaps it may be two or three weeks before I shall see you again, so take care of yourself. Here are eight sovereigns to pay your expenses; and be sure you write to me from Bridgeford."

He got up, but Cherrie clung to him, crying:

"Oh, I am afraid! O George, I am afraid I will never see you again."

"Little simpleton," he said, giving her a parting caress, "what can happen if you do your part bravely? If you fail, then, indeed, we will never meet again."

Cherrie's tears were falling fast now.

"I will not fail; but--but----"

"But what, my darling?"

"When you go to Halifax, perhaps you will never come back; perhaps you will never come to Bridgeford."

"Cherrie, you are a goose! Don't you know I am in your power, and that I must come back? Come, stop crying now, and give me a kiss, and say good-bye. It won't be long, you know."

One other parting caress, and then he was gone.

Cherrie listened until the echo of his footsteps died out in the distance, and then she threw herself on her face in the wet gra.s.s, heedless of her white dress, and cried like a spoiled child whose doll has been taken away. She was frightened, she was excited, she was grieved, but she was not remorseful. There was little compunction in her heart for the part she was to play--betraying the man who loved her and trusted her. It was the old story of Delilah and Samson over again.

The clocks of Speckport striking ten, and clearly heard this still summer night, had ceased before she came out, her cheeks pale, her eyes red with weeping. There was a dull circle round the moon, foreboding a coming storm; but what was there to give warning to poor Charley Marsh of the storm about to burst upon him?

Ann Nettleby was at the door waiting patiently for Cherrie. She turned crossly upon her when she appeared.

"I wish you would learn to come home earlier, and not keep folks out of their beds all night. What were you doing in the woods?"

"Crying," said Cherrie, quite as crossly as her sister. "I'm tired to death of this dull place. I'll go off to Greentown to-morrow."

"I wish to mercy you would; the rest of us would have some peace then.

Did you expect Charley Marsh to-night?"

"No; why?"

"He's been here, then, and only just gone. Come in, and let me lock the door."

Cherrie went up to her room, but not to sleep. She sat by the window, looking out on the quiet road, the black woods, and the moon's sickly, watery glimmer, while the long hours dragged slowly on, and her sister slept. She was thinking of the eventful to-morrow--the to-morrow that was to be the beginning of a new life to her.

CHAPTER XV.

SPRINGING THE MINE.

When Mr. Robert Nettleby informed his family circle that Charley Marsh was going to--well, to a certain dark spirit not to be lightly named in polite literature, he was about right. That young gentleman, mounted on the furious steed of extravagance, was galloping over the road to ruin at the rate of an express train.

Not alone, either; young McGregor, Tom Oaks, Esquire, and some dozen more young Speckportians, were keeping him company--and all ran nearly abreast in the dizzy race.

The terrible terminus--Disgrace, Misery, and Sudden Death--looked very near to some of them, very near, indeed, to the brother of Nathalie. He had taken to hard drinking of late, as a natural sequence of the other vice; gamblers must drink to drown remorse, and it was no unusual thing now for him to be helped home by pitying friends, and carried up-stairs to bed. How the mother cried and scolded; how the sister wept in pa.s.sionate shame and sorrow in the silence of her own room; how he, the prodigal, suffered after, Heaven only knows, but it never came to anything.

Next day's splitting headache, and insuperable shame and remorse, must be drowned in brandy; that fatal stimulant brought the old delusive hopes--he must go back, he must win.

He was over four hundred dollars indebted to Captain Cavendish now, without possessing one dollar in the world, or the hope of one, to pay him. He had ceased to ask money from Nathalie--she had no more to give him, and Alick McGregor and Tom Oaks found enough to do to foot their own bills.

Strange to say, the primary mover of this mischief, the arch-tempter himself, George Percy Cavendish, remained unsuspected, save by a few, and went altogether unblamed. Captain Cavendish seldom lost his money, never his temper; never got excited, was ever gentlemanly and cool, though half the men about him were mad with liquor and losses, and ready to hold pistols to their heads and blow their miserable brains out.