A CHANGED HEART
A Novel.
BY MAY AGNES FLEMING,
AUTHOR OF "GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "A WONDERFUL
WOMAN," "ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY," "SILENT AND TRUE," "A MAD MARRIAGE,"
"LOST FOR A WOMAN," ETC., ETC.
"If Fortune, with a smiling face,
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up?
To-day, my love, to-day."
NEW YORK:
Copyright, 1881, by
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_,
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
MDCCCLXXXIII.
Stereotyped by
SAMUEL STODDER,
ELECTROTYPER & STEREOTYPER,
90 ANN STREET, N. Y.
TROW
PRINTING AND BOOK-BINDING CO.
N. Y.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Miss McGregor at home 7
II. Nathalie 14
III. Miss Rose 25
IV. Val's office 36
V. Killing two birds with one stone 46
VI. An evening at Miss Blake's 59
VII. Too many irons in the fire 67
VIII. Val turns mentor 82
IX. Wooed and won 95
X. Fast and loose 112
XI. How Captain Cavendish meant to marry Cherrie. 123
XII. In which the wedding comes off 138
XIII. After the wedding 150
XIV. Mining the ground 157
XV. Springing the mine 167
XVI. A crime 179
XVII. Found guilty 191
XVIII. The darkening sky 207
XIX. The flight 217
XX. "One more unfortunate" 227
XXI. Mrs. Butterby's lodgings 236
XXII. The heiress of Redmon 247
XXIII. The heiress of Redmon enters society 259
XXIV. The spell of the enchantress 275
XXV. The double compact 283
XXVI. Mr. Paul Wyndham 299
XXVII. Mr. Wyndham's wooing 312
XXVIII. Mr. Wyndham's wedding 324
XXIX. Mr. Wyndham's mother 336
XXX. Very mysterious 349
XXXI. Val's discovery 366
XXXII. Cherrie tells the truth 377
XXXIII. Overtaken 391
XXXIV. The Vesper-Hymn 406
XXXV. "Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore'" 417
XXXVI. Drifting out 425
XXXVII. Dies Iræ, Dies Illa 430
XXXVIII. Out of the crooked ways 450
XXXIX. In Hope 478
A CHANGED HEART.
CHAPTER I.
MISS McGREGOR AT HOME.
It was a foggy night in Speckport. There was nothing uncommon in its
being foggy this close May evening; but it was rather provoking and
ungallant of the clerk of the weather, seeing that Miss McGregor
particularly desired it to be fine. Miss Jeannette (she had been
christened plain Jane, but scorned to answer to anything so
unromantic)--Miss Jeannette McGregor was at home to-night to all the
élite of Speckport; and as a good many of the élite owned no other
conveyance than that which Nature had given them, it was particularly
desirable the weather should be fine. But it wasn't fine; it was nasty
and drizzly, and sultry and foggy; and sky and sea were blotted out; and
the gas-lamps sprinkled through the sloppy streets of Speckport blinked
feebly through the gloom; and people buttoned up to the chin and wrapped
in cloaks flitted by each other like phantoms, in the pale blank of wet
and fog. And half the year round that is the sort of weather they enjoy
in Speckport.
You don't know Speckport! There I have the advantage of you; for I know
its whole history, past, present, and--future, I was going to say,
though I don't set up for a prophet; but the future of Speckport does
not seem hard to foretell. The Union-jack floats over it, the State of
Maine is its next-door neighbor, and fish and fog are its principal
productions. It also had the honor of producing Miss McGregor, who was
born one other foggy night, just two-and-twenty years previous to this
"At Home," to which you and I are going presently, in a dirty little
black street, which she scorns to know even by name now. Two-and-twenty
years ago, Sandy McGregor worked as a day-laborer in a shipyard, at
three and sixpence per day. Now, Mr. Alexander McGregor is a
ship-builder, and has an income of ten thousand gold dollars per year.
Not a millionaire, you know; but very well off, and very comfortable,
and very contented; living in a nice house, nicely furnished, keeping
horses and carriage, and very much looked up to, and very much respected
in Speckport.
Speckport has its Fifth Avenue as well as New York. Not that they call
it Fifth Avenue, you understand; its name is Golden Row, and the abiders
therein are made of the porcelain of human clay. Great people, magnates
and aristocrats to their finger-tips, scorning the pigmies who move in
second and third society and have only the happiness of walking through
Golden Row, never of dwelling there. The houses were not brown-stone
fronts. Oh, no! there were half-a-dozen brick buildings, some pretty,
little Gothic cottages, with green vines, and beehives, and bird-houses,
about them, and all the rest were great painted palaces of wood. Some
had green shutters, and some had not; some were painted white, and some
brown, and some stone-color and drab, and they all had a glittering air
of spickspan-newness about them, as if their owners had them painted
every other week. And in one of these palaces Mr. McGregor lived.
You drove down Golden Row through the fog and drizzle, between the
blinking lamps, and you stop at a stone-colored house with a brown
hall-door, and steps going up to it. The hall is brilliant with gas, so
is the drawing-room, so are the two parlors, so is the dining-room, so
are the dressing rooms; and the élite of Speckport are bustling and
jostling one another about, and making considerable noise, and up in the
gallery the band is in full blast at the "Lancers"--for they know how
to dance the Lancers in Speckport--and the young ladies dipping and
bowing through the intricacies of the dance, wear their dresses just as
low in the neck and as short in the sleeves as any Fifth avenue belle
dare to do.
Very pretty girls they are, floating about in all the colors of the
rainbow. There are no diamonds, perhaps, except glass ones; but there
are gold chains and crosses, and bracelets, and lockets and things; and
some of the young ladies have rings right up to the middle joint of
their fingers. The young gentlemen wear rings, too, and glittering
shirt-studs and bosom-pins, and are good looking and gentlemanly. While
the young folks dance, the old folks play wallflower or cards, or take
snuff or punch, or talk politics. All the juvenile rag-tag and bobtail
of Speckport are outside, gaping up with open-mouthed admiration at the
blazing front of the McGregor mansion, and swallowing the music that
floats through the open windows.
Sailing along Golden Row, with an umbrella up to protect her bonnet from
the fog, comes a tall lady, unprotected and alone, and "There's Miss Jo,
hurrah!" yells a shrill voice; and the tall lady receives her ovation
with a gratified face, and bows as she steps over the McGregor
threshold. Ten minutes later, she enters the drawing-room, divested of
her wrappings; and you see she is elderly and angular, and prim and
precise, and withal good-natured. She is sharp at the joints and
shoulder-blades, and her black silk dress is hooked up behind in the
fashion of twenty years ago. She wears no crinoline, and looks about as
graceful as a lamp-post; but she is fearfully and wonderfully fine, with
a massive gold chain about her neck that would have made a ship's cable
easily, and a cross and a locket clattering from it, and beating time to
her movements on a cameo brooch the size of a dinner-plate. Eardrops, a
finger-length long, dangle from her ears; cameo bracelets adorn her
skinny wrists; and her hair, of which she has nothing to speak of, is
worn in little corkscrew curls about her sallow face.
Miss Joanna Blake is an old maid, and looks like it; she is also an
exile of Erin, and the most inveterate gossip in Speckport.
A tremendous uproar greets her as she enters the drawing-room, and she
stops in considerable consternation.
In a recess near the door was a card-table, round which four elderly
ladies and four elderly gentlemen sat, with a laughing crowd looking on
from behind. The card-party were in a violently agitated and excited
state, all screaming out together at the top of the gamut.
Miss Jo swept on in majestic silence, nodding right and left as she
streamed down the apartment to where Mrs. McGregor stood, with a little
knot of matrons around her--a lady as tall as Miss Jo herself, and ever
so much stouter, her fat face hot and flushed, and wielding a fan
ponderously, as if it were a ton weight. Mrs. McGregor, during forty
years of her life, had been a good deal more familiar with
scrubbing-brushes than fans; but you would not think so now, maybe, if
you saw her in that purple-satin dress and gold watch, her fat hands
flashing with rings, and that bewildering combination of white lace and
ribbons on her head. Her voice was as loud as her style of dress, and
she shook Miss Jo's hand as if it had been a pump-handle.
"And how do you do, Miss Blake, and whatever on earth kept you till this
hour? I was just saying to Jeannette, a while ago, I didn't believe you
were going to come at all."
"I could not help it," said Miss Jo. "Val didn't come home till late,
and then I had to stop and find him his things. You know, my dear, what
a trouble men are, and that Val beats them all. Has everybody come?"
"I think so; everybody but your Val and the Marshes. Maybe my lady is in
one of her tantrums, and won't let Natty come at all. Jeannette is all
but distracted. Natty's got lots of parts in them things they're
having--tablets--no; tableaux, that's the name, and they never can get
on without her. Jeannette's gone to look for Sandy to send him up to
Redmon to see."
"I say, Miss Jo, how do you find yourself this evening?" exclaimed a
spirited voice behind her; and Mrs. McGregor gave a little yelp of
delight as she saw who it was--a young man, not more than twenty,
perhaps, very good-looking, with bright gray eyes, fair hair, and a
sunny smile. He was holding out a hand, small and fair as a lady's, to
Miss Blake, who took it and shook it heartily.
"Jo's very well, thank you, Mr. Charles. How is your mamma this
evening?"
"She was all right when I left home. Is Val here?"
"Not yet. Have you just come?"
The young gentleman nodded, and was turning away, but Mrs. McGregor
recalled him.
"Isn't your mother coming, Charley?"
"No, she can't," said Charley. "The new teacher's come, and she's got to
stay with her. She told me to bring her apologies."
The ladies were all animation directly. The new teacher! What was she
like? When did she come? Was she young? Was she pretty? Did she seem
nice?
"I didn't see her," said Charley, lounging against a sofa and flapping
his gloves about.
"Didn't see her! I thought you said she was in your house?" cried Mrs.
McGregor.
"So she is. I mean I didn't see her face. She had a thick vail on, and
kept it down, and I left two or three minutes after she came."
"She came to Speckport in this evening's boat, then?" said Miss Jo.
"What did she wear?"
Charley was bowing and smiling to a pretty girl passing on her partner's
arm.
Mrs. McGregor nodded, and Charley sauntered off. The two ladies looked
after him.
"What a nice young man that Charley Marsh is!" exclaimed Miss Jo,
admiringly, "and so good-looking, and so steady, and so good to his
mamma. You won't find many like him nowadays."
Mrs. McGregor lowered her voice to a mysterious whisper.
"Do you know, Miss Jo, they say he goes after that Cherrie Nettleby. Did
you hear it?"
"Fiddlestick!" said Miss Jo, politely. "Speckport's got that story out,
has it? I don't believe a word of it!"
"Here's Val!" cried Mrs. McGregor, off on a new tack; "and, my patience!
what a swell he's got with him!"
Miss Jo looked round. Coming down the long room together were two young
men, whose appearance created a visible sensation--one of them,
preposterously tall and thin, with uncommonly long legs and arms--a
veritable Shanghai--was Mr. Valentine Blake, Miss Jo's brother and sole
earthly relative. He looked seven-and-twenty, was carelessly dressed,
his clothes hanging about him any way--not handsome, but with a droll
look of good humor about his face, and a roguish twinkle in his eyes
that would have redeemed a plainer countenance.
His companion was a stranger, and it was he who created the sensation,
not easy Val. Mrs. McGregor had called him a "swell," but Mrs. McGregor
was not a very refined judge. He was dressed well, but not overdressed,
as the slang term would imply, and he looked a thorough gentleman. A
very handsome one, too, with dark curling hair, dark, bright, handsome
eyes, a jetty mustache on his lip, and a flashing diamond ring on his
finger. There was a certain air militaire about him that bespoke his
profession, though he wore civilian's clothes, and he and Val looked
about the same age. No wonder the apparition of so distinguished-looking
a stranger in Mrs. McGregor's drawing-room should create a buzzing among
the Speckport bon ton.
"My goodness!" cried Mrs. McGregor, all in a flutter. "Whoever can he
be? He looks like a soldier, don't he?"
"There came a regiment from Halifax this morning," said Miss Jo. "Here's
Val bringing him up."
Mr. Val was presenting him even while she spoke. "Captain Cavendish,
Mrs. McGregor, of the --th," and then the captain was bowing profoundly;
and the lady of the mansion was returning it, in a violent trepidation
and tremor, not knowing in the least what she was expected to say to so
distinguished a visitor. But relief was at hand. Charley Marsh was
beside them with a young lady on his arm--a young lady best described by
that odious word "genteel." She was not pretty; she was sandy-haired
and freckled, but she was the daughter of the house, and, as such,
demanding attention. Val introduced the captain directly, and Mrs.
McGregor breathed freely again.
"Look here, Val!" she whispered, catching him by the button, "who is he,
anyway?"
Val lowered his voice and looked round him cautiously.
"Did you ever hear of the Marquis of Carrabas, Mrs. McGregor?"
"No--yes--I don't remember. Is he an English nobleman?"
"A very great nobleman, Ma'am; famous in history as connected with the
cat-trade, and Captain Cavendish is next heir to the title. Mrs. Marsh
can tell you all about the Marquis; can't she, Charley?"
Charley, who was ready to burst into a fit of laughter at
Mrs. McGregor's open-mouthed awe, took hold of the arm of a
feeble-minded-looking young gentleman, whose freckled features, sandy
hair, and general resemblance to the family, proclaimed him to be Mr.
Alexander McGregor, Junior, and walked him off.
"And he came from Halifax this evening, Val?" Mrs. McGregor asked,
gazing at the young Englishman in the same state of awe and delight.
"Yes," said Val, "it was there I got acquainted with him first. I met
him on my way here, and thought you would not be offended at the liberty
I took in fetching him along."
"Offended! My dear Val, you couldn't have pleased me better if you had
been trying for a week. A Markis and a Captain in the Army! Why, it's
the greatest honor, and I'm ever so much obliged to you. I am, indeed!"
"All right," said Val. "Speckport will be envious enough, I dare say,
for it's not every place he'll go to, and all will want him. You'll lose
Jane if you're not careful, though--see how he's talking to her."
Mrs. McGregor's eyes were dancing in her head. A dazzling vision rose
before her--her daughter a Marchioness, living in a castle, dressed in
satin and diamonds the year round! She could have hugged Val in her
rapture; and Val reading some such idea in her beaming face, backed a
little, in some alarm.
"I say, though, wasn't there to be tableaux or something?" he inquired.
"When are they coming off?"
"As soon as Natty Marsh gets here; they can't get on without her."
"What keeps her?" asked Val.
"The new teacher's come to Mrs. Marsh's, Charley says, and Natty is
stopping in to see her. There's the captain asking Jeannette to dance."
So he was; and Miss Jeannette, with a gratified simper, was just laying
her kidded fingers inside his coat-sleeve, when her brother came
breathlessly up.
"Look here, Janie! you'd better not go off dancing," was his cry, "if
you mean to have those tableaux to-night. Natty's come!"