A DEMON’S DEED.
Forthcoming events cast their shadows before.
FOLK LORE.
I see a hand ye cannot see,
That beckons me away;
I hear a voice ye cannot hear,
That says I may not stay.
ANONYMOUS.
Brandon Coyle since his exposure and disgrace at Castle Montjoie, had
but two objects in view:
To wreak a signal vengeance on the beautiful simpleton whom he had
betrayed by a false marriage, yet who with all her simplicity, had had
fatal cunning enough to write that warning letter which had arrested his
marriage with Lady Arielle Montjoie and ruined all his prospects of
prosperity.
And then to leave England and seek his safety and his fortune in the New
World.
To secure these objects he was compelled to act promptly.
Immediately on leaving Montjoie Castle he had hurried on to Caveland as
fast as his horse could carry him.
On reaching his own room he had summoned his valet, ordered him to
gather up and pack his valise, with a couple of changes of underclothing
and all his jewels, together with a small traveling dressing-case.
Then having put on his ulster and cap, he threw himself into his
dog-cart and ordered the groom to drive him to Miston Station.
There he secured the midnight London express and reached Paddington at
seven o’clock the next morning and Chelsea at eight.
After successively frightening, amazing and delighting the poor,
excitable creature, he left the doomed woman to get ready for her fatal
journey, and went out to prepare the way for his own deadly revenge and
speedy escape.
He threw himself into a passing cab and told the cabman to drive into
the city.
He stopped the driver at a coffee-house, where he got out and called for
a private room and writing materials.
Here he drew from his pocket a blank check cut from his uncle’s
check-book at Caveland.
Having the art of imitating any handwriting perfectly at command, he
spread the blank check out on the table before him, and filled it up for
five thousand pounds sterling, and signed it with his uncle’s name.
Then he re-entered his cab and directed the cabman to drive to Bunson
Brothers, bankers, Northcote street.
On his arrival at the bank he went up to the paying teller’s window,
where two or three men were standing, and where he had to wait his own
turn to be served.
Yet when that turn came he hesitated and quailed, not from any twinges
of conscience, but from absolute fear!
He felt the situation. He was about to commit a forgery, which, if
discovered, would send him to penal servitude for life! He had often
presented his uncle’s checks for large amounts to be cashed at that very
window, by that very teller.
But the voice of the paying teller sealed his fate.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Brandon?”
“Cash this, if you please,” said Coyle, deciding quickly, with the
desperation born of despair.
He received the money, put it in a large pocket-book, and that into his
breast-pocket, and left the bank.
On reseating himself in his cab he ordered the cabman to drive to
Osborne & Son, brokers. Here he exchanged the bulk of his English funds
for American money. Having concluded this affair he left the office,
sprang into his cab, and bade the driver to go to the agency of the
Cunard Line of Ocean Steamships.
Reaching that office he got down, went in and secured a berth in the
first cabin of the _America_, which was to sail from Liverpool to New
York the next morning.
He took the precaution to get out his tickets under an assumed name—one
that, seen in the list of passengers, might appear as a typical American
name—George Washington Brown.
Having concluded this business he next went to a hairdresser’s, where he
had his own luxuriant blue-black locks trimmed as closely as fashion
would permit.
Then he drove to a theatrical wig-maker and procured from him an auburn
wig and auburn whiskers—a color which would suit his black eyes as
naturally as did his own raven locks.
These he put carefully away in his pocket to be used as occasion should
call for them.
His next visit was to an outfitting establishment, where he purchased a
suit of sea-clothing and another valise, which he filled with all the
articles likely to be wanted on his voyage.
His last two acquisitions were deadly in their significance. He took the
precaution of procuring them at shops far distant from each other.
From a druggist in the Borough he purchased a three-ounce bottle of
chloroform, and from a hardware dealer in Oxford street he bought an
Italian stiletto, or small dagger, three-edged, fine and sharp, and
folding into a case handle for convenience in carrying. These articles
he closely concealed in his bosom as soon as he found himself alone.
Then he went to “Véry’s,” where he ordered the most luxurious luncheon
the house could afford.
And having partaken of this with as much relish as if he had not
committed a forgery, and was not meditating a murder and a flight for
life, and having drank a bottle of champagne and several glasses of
brandy and smoked two cigars, he settled his bill, re-entered his cab
and drove back to Church street, Chelsea.
Kit, meanwhile, had not been idle one moment.
Full of excitement at the idea of returning to her native village as
Mrs. Brandon Coyle of Caveland, a “rale leddy and nobbut else,” poor Kit
ran up to the room where she kept her boxes and rang for the servant to
take down such as she required, and made preparations to leave.
Little did she care for the supposed death of the old squire, except as
it appeared to favor her own interests.
Kit generously gave away much of her showy ornaments to poor Jane
Mossop, and had scarcely got through when the latter was called down
stairs to help her mistress.
Kit was then left alone, and being a little tired sat down to rest in
her easy-chair.
And now a strange mood came over the girl—a reaction from the wild
delight she had experienced in the immediate anticipation of being “med
a leddy,” and going to rule as such at Caveland; a reaction into a deep
depression, for which she could not account; a presentiment of coming
calamity which she could neither comprehend nor banish—one of those
dark, foreboding moods to which the poor beauty had been lately subject.
Such a one as had overcome her on the last evening of her stay at Net’s
cottage.
She sat and brooded over the situation until her weak brains were
utterly bewildered.
Suddenly through her mental confusion came an inspiration that instantly
restored that confusion to order.
She got up and rang the bell.
The landlady herself came up to answer it.
“Oi want yo to get me pen, ink, and paper, and a postage stamp,” said
Kit.
The landlady left the room for the purpose, and presently sent up the
required articles by Jane Mossop.
When the girl had placed them on the table and retired, Kit locked
herself in the room and sat down to write a letter.
Witless Kit could be as cunning as a fox, upon occasion.
She wrote a long, explanatory letter to her late mistress, Mrs. Adrian
Fleming. She gave that lady a narrative of her flight from the Birds’
Nest, her journey to London, her residence at Mrs. Perkins’
lodging-house, Church street, Chelsea, and of her impending journey down
to Miston to attend the funeral of the late Squire Coyle, and then to be
“set up” as the lady of Caveland.
But she also expressed her doubts and fears of Brandon Coyle, because of
the rumors she had heard of his engagement to Lady Arielle Montjoie, and
the threats he had made of putting her—Kit—into a mad-house.
She concluded by beseeching Mistress Net, in case she—Kit—should not be
heard from at Caveland, to “take the law” of Mr. Brandon Coyle, and make
him tell what he had done with her, and bring her “to the fore” to prove
whether she was crazy enough to be locked up in a mad-house.
Such was the substance of the letter.
She enveloped it, and directed in a clear, though large and clumsy hand
that nearly covered the face of the envelope, to
“MISTRESS NETT FLEMMING, Miston, Kumberland.”
She sealed this letter and ran down stairs with it to the kitchen, where
the landlady and her maid-of-all-work were both busy cooking.
“No. Kem here; Oi want to speak to yo in proivate,” said Kit, leading
the way to the basement hall.
“Well, then, ma’am?” inquired the landlady, following her.
“Yo see this letter?” inquired Kit.
“Certainly, ma’am.”
“You tek this letter and keep it boy yo, safe for one wik! If Oi get to
Caveland _safe_, Oi wull wroite to yo, do yo hear?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I shall be very glad to hear from you.”
“Noo listen agen. If yo _don’t_ get any letter from me, yo’ll know thet
summat hev happened to me—”
“Oh! dear, ma’am, I hope not.”
“Oi hope not, too, but nobuddy can tell. So moind, noo, wot I say to
yo—if yo dunnot get a letter from me in one wik’s toime, yo may be
sartain sure Oi never get to Caveland at all! And noo listen good. Yo
must pit thet letter into the post, and it wull go to my dear Mistress
Net Fleming, and she would hunt me up.”
“But—my dear—lady!” said Mrs. Perkins, in a tone of expostulation
against fancied dangers and vain precautions.
“Do yo moind wot Oi want yo to do?” inquired Kit.
“Yes, my dear ma’am; but it all seems so uncalled for! Of course, ma’am,
I will take the letter and be very careful of it, and I will follow your
directions in all respects.”
“Thet’s it! Yo remember and do thet, and yo’ll get yor reward,” said
Kit, as she turned and ran upstairs with a somewhat lightened heart.
“And noo Oi’m all right!” she said to herself, as she dropped into a
rocking-chair by the window, and looked out idly at the passers-by, in
the drizzling rain that still continued to fall.
Her self-congratulatory soliloquy was cut short by the loud striking of
the clock and the simultaneous entrance of Brandon Coyle.
“Are you ready?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes! readdy and wulling!” promptly answered Kit. “Is it toime to
start?”
“We have no time to lose. Put on your bonnet and sack and also your
waterproof cloak, while I go and settle with Mrs. Perkins. The cab is at
the door.”
Mrs. Perkins and Jane Mossop met her in the hall to bid her good-bye.
And then Brandon Coyle put her into the cab and ordered the man on the
box to drive to the Paddington Station.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]