"ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE."
The first person to tell Val Blake of Charley's flight was Captain
Cavendish. He found that officer killing time by lounging on the
platform, and staring at the passengers, as he alighted. Speckport, from
time immemorial, had had a great fancy for crowding steamboat wharves
and railway-platforms, to look at new arrivals; and strangers in the
place fell into the habits of the natives, unconsciously.
"Poor devil!" said the captain, swinging his cane airily about, and
linking his arm in Val's; "I hope he'll dodge them, and escape Jack
Ketch. I never like to see any one I've been on friendly terms with
once, coming to that."
"Are your friends in the habit of coming to it?" Mr. Blake asked,
innocently.
"Bah! How did you enjoy your trip up the country?"
"As well as I expected."
"And did you find Cherrie?"
"What?"
"Did you find Cherrie?" serenely repeated Captain Cavendish.
"No," said Val. "Do you know where she is!"
The question might have disconcerted any other man, but it only made the
young officer stare.
"I! My dear fellow, I don't understand you!"
"Oh, yes, you do," said Mr. Blake. "I think you are about as apt to know
the hiding-place of little Cherrie as any other man in this province.
That she is in hiding I am positive; and I'll ferret her out yet, as
sure as my name's Blake."
There was a certain determination in Mr. Blake's voice that the captain
by no means liked, but he only laughed indifferently.
"Success to you! No one will be more rejoiced to see the little dear
back in Speckport than I! The place is a desert without her; but I give
you my word of honor, Blake, she might be in the moon for all I know to
the contrary."
And in saying this, Captain Cavendish spoke the truth, for Cherrie had
not yet written.
The notion had been vaguely floating through Val's mind, ever since the
robbery and murder and Cherrie's flight, that the English officer was in
some way connected with the affair. He might even have mentally
suspected him of the crime, but for one circumstance. It was at
precisely eleven o'clock Midge had first been alarmed by the flying
footsteps of the assassin; and at precisely eleven the Princess Royal
had left Speckport, with the captain on board. It was clear he could not
be in two places at once; so Val had acquitted him of the murder, but
not of knowing Cherrie's whereabouts. Even now, he was anything but
ready to take him at his word, but it was useless to press the question.
"How do they get on in Cottage Street?" he asked. "I presume you are
there every day."
"I call every day, of course," replied Captain Cavendish, a slight flush
coloring his nonchalant face; "but I never see any one except Midge, or
that other girl."
"Betsy Ann?"
"I suppose so. No one is permitted to enter, it appears, except your
sister and Miss Blair."
"Indeed," said Val; "I should think you would have the entry above all
others. Have you not seen Nathalie since those melancholy changes have
occurred?"
"Yes. Once."
"Ah! At Cottage Street?"
"Yes."
"Well," said Val, who was never restrained by sentimental delicacy,
"what did she say?"
"Not much, but what she did say was exceedingly to the point. She gave
me my _coup de conge_."
"You don't say so! Did you take it?"
"What could I do? She was inexorable! Of course, as a man of honor, I
should have made her my wife, in spite of all, but she was determined."
A queer smile went wandering for a second or two round Mr. Blake's
mouth, but he instantly called his risible faculties to order, and
became grave again.
"How are they? How do they take Charley's escape?"
"Mrs. Marsh is poorly--confined to her bed, I believe, but Nathalie,
they tell me, appears better, and takes care of her mother. Your sister,
however, will be able to tell you all particulars."
"I say, Cavendish," exclaimed Val, "you could go in for Jane McGregor,
now. She is nearly as rich as poor Natty was to be."
"Bah! What do I care for her riches?"
"Oh, yes, I understand; but just reflect that her papa will give her ten
thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and three times that much at his
death; and I am sure you will be brought to take pity on her."
"Take pity on her?"
"Tah! Tah! Tah!" cried Val; "don't play innocent. You know as well as I
do, she is dying for you."
"But, my dear Blake," expostulated the captain, "she has red hair and
freckles."
"Auburn hair--auburn! As for the freckles, her guineas will cover them.
Will you come in?" They were at the office door, but Captain Cavendish
declined.
"I have to go to barracks," he said. "Good morning."
Mr. Blake spent some two hours in his office, attending to business, and
then sallied forth again. His steps were bent in the direction of
Cottage Street, where he expected to find his sister. The house looked
as if some one were dead within--the blinds all down, the doors all
closed--and no one visible within or without. It was Midge who opened
the door, in answer to his loud knock. "How are you, Midge?" inquired
Mr. Blake, striding in, "and how are Mrs. and Miss Marsh?"
Midge's reply was a prolonged and dismal narrative of the sufferings of
both. The elder lady was unable to leave her bed--she had fretted
herself into a low, nervous fever, and was so cross, and captious, and
quarrelsome, and peevish, that she made the lives of every one in the
house a misery to them. She did nothing but sigh, and cry, and moan, and
complain from morning till night, and from night till morning. Nothing
they did pleased her.
Of Nathalie, Midge had the reverse of this story to tell--she never
complained at all. No, Midge wished she would; her mute despair was far
harder to bear than the weary complainings of her mother. She sat by
that petulant invalid mother's side the livelong day, holding cooling
drinks to her poor parched lips, bathing the hot brow and hands, and
smoothing the tossed pillow; rarely speaking, save to ask or answer some
question; never replying to the endless reproaches of the sick woman;
never uttering one complaint or shedding one tear.
Mr. Val Blake was ushered by Midge into the darkened chamber of Mrs.
Marsh, and looked at Nathalie sitting by her bedside. In spite of what
he had heard, he was shocked at the change which the past week had made
in her--shocked at the wasted and shadowy form, the wan, transparent
hands, the hollow eyes and haggard cheeks. She was dressed in mourning,
and the crape and bombazine made her look quite ghastly by contrast.
Mr. Blake's visit was not a long one. Nathalie scarcely spoke at all,
and his sister was not there. Mrs. Marsh, who had been asleep when he
entered, awoke presently, and poured her dreary wailings into his ear.
Val consoled her as well as he could; but there was no balm in Gilead
for her, and he was glad when he could with decency get out of the reach
of her querulous voice. Her time, of late, seemed pretty equally divided
between dozing and bewailings; and she fretted herself into another
slumber shortly after.
Left alone, Nathalie Marsh sat by the window, while the dull afternoon
wore away, looking out over the gloomy bay, with a darkly brooding face.
Her desolation had never seemed so present to her as on this eerie
evening. She had been stunned and stupefied by the rapidly-falling
blows, but the after-pain was far more acute and keen than that first
dull sense of suffering. "Ruined and disgraced!" they were the two ugly
words on which all the changes of her thoughts rang. Ruined and
disgraced! Yes, she was that; and she who had once been the belle and
boast of the town could never hold up her head there any more. How those
who had envied and hated her for her beauty and her prosperity, would
exult over her now! What had she done that such misery should fall upon
her? What had she done?
The little house in Cottage Street was very still. Mrs. Marsh yet dozed
fitfully; Midge had gone out to give herself an airing, and Betsy Ann
was standing in the open front door, looking drearily out at the rain,
which was beginning to fall with the night. Like Mariana, she was
"a-weary,"--though, not being quite so far gone in the blues as that
forlorn lady, she did not wish she was dead--and was staring dismally at
the slanting rain, when the rustle of a dress on the stairs made her
turn round, and become transfixed with amazement at beholding Miss
Marsh, in bonnet and shawl, arrayed to go out. Betsy Ann recoiled as if
she had seen a ghost, for the white face of the young lady looked
awfully corpse-like, in contrast with her sable wrappings.
"Good gracious me! Miss Natty!" she gasped, "you're never going out in
this here rain! Ye'll get your death!"
If Nathalie heard her, she did not heed, for she walked steadily out and
on through the wet evening, until she was lost to Betsy Ann's shivered
view. There were very few abroad that rainy evening, and those few
hurried along with bent heads and uplifted umbrellas, and saw not the
black figure flitting by them in the gloom. On she steadfastly went,
through the soaking rain, heeding it no more than if it were rays of
sunshine; on, with one purpose in her face, with her eyes ever turned in
one direction--toward the sea.
Cottage Street wound away with a path that led directly to the shore. It
had been familiar to her all her life, and there was an old disused
wharf at the end, where she and Charley had used to play in the sunny
summer days long ago--a hundred years ago, it seemed, at the least. It
was a useless old wharf, rotten, and slippery, and dangerous, to which
boats were made fast, and where fishermen mended their nets. To this
wharf Nathalie made her way in the thickening darkness, the piteous rain
beating in her face, the sea-wind fluttering her black vail and soaking
dress. Heaven knows what purpose the poor half-delirious girl had in her
mind! Perhaps only to stand on the familiar spot, and listen to the
familiar voices of the wind and waves dashing against the rotten logs
and slimy planks of the old wharf, on which she had spent so many happy
hours. No one ever knew how it was; and we must only pity her in her
dumb agony of despair, and think as mercifully of the dark and
distracted soul as we can. The night was dark, the wharf dangerous and
slippery with the rain, and one might easily miss their footing and
fall. Who can say how it was? but there was a suppressed cry--the last
wail of that despairing soul--a sullen plunge, a struggle in the black
and dreadful waters, another smothered cry, and then the wharf was
empty, and the devouring waves had closed over the golden head of
Nathalie Marsh!
In the roar of the surf on the shore, and the wailing cry of the night
wind, there was no voice to tell what had happened in the lonely gloom
of the rainy night. No, surely, or the faithful servant, who entered the
cottage dripping, after her constitutional, would have fled wildly to
the scene of the tragedy, instead of standing there in the kitchen,
talking to Betsy Ann, as she placed her wet umbrella in a corner to
drip.
"I went up to Miss Jo's," said Midge, shaking herself, and giving Betsy
Ann an impromptu shower-bath, "and she made me stay for tea, and fetch
this umberel home. How's the Missis--asleep?"
"Yes," said Betsy Ann, looking nervous and scared, for she was mortally
afraid of the dwarf; "but you didn't--I mean to say, was not Miss Natty
to Blake's?"
"Miss--What!" screamed Midge; "how should Miss Natty get there, stupid!
Isn't she in her own room?"
"No, she ain't," said Betsy Ann, looking still more scared; "and I don't
know where she is, neither! She came down stairs just afore dark, with
her things on, and went out in all the rain. She wouldn't tell me where
she was going, and she wouldn't stay in for me; and you needn't look so
mad about it, for I couldn't help it! There!"
Midge's florid face turned ashen gray with terror; a vague, nameless,
dreadful fear, that brought cold beads of sweat out on her brow. Betsy
Ann had no need to back in alarm; it was not anger that blanched the
homely face, and her ears were in no danger of being boxed.
"Which way did she take?" she asked, her very voice husky with that
creeping fear.
"She went straight along," Betsy Ann replied, "as if a going to the
shore."
It was the answer Midge had expected, but the hands fastening her shawl
shook so, as she heard it, that she could hardly finish that operation.
"Go to Mr. Blake!" she said; "run for your life, and tell Mr. Val to
hurry to the beach, and fetch a lantern. Tell him I am afraid something
dreadful has happened."
She hurried off herself, as she spoke, heedless of the invalid
up-stairs, of lashing rain, and driving wind, and black night. Heedless
of all but that terrible fear, Midge hurried through the storm to the
shore.
In the next day's issue of the Speckport Spouter, the following item
appeared:
"MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE!--Yesterday evening, about seven o'clock,
Miss Nathalie Marsh quitted her residence in Cottage Street,
without informing her friends where she was going, and has not
since been heard of. Upon the discovery of her absence, search was
made along the shore, in which direction she was seen to go, and a
crape vail, recognized as belonging to Miss Marsh, found on the old
wharf at the end of Cottage Street. The vail had been caught by a
spike projecting from the wharf, immediately above the water. It
is feared that a dreadful accident has happened, and the young lady
has been drowned. She had been ill and a little delirious some time
before, and we presume wandered down to the old wharf, a most
dangerous place at all times, and particularly so on a dark and
stormy night, such as last night was, and fell in. Any intelligence
of her will be thankfully received, and liberally rewarded, by her
afflicted friends. The young lady was dressed in deep mourning, and
might easily be recognized by the luxuriant abundance of her golden
hair."
Speckport read this paragraph over its breakfast coffee and toast, and
was profoundly shocked thereby. And so poor Miss Marsh had drowned
herself! They had expected as much all along--she was not the girl to
survive such disgrace! But it was very dreadful; and they wouldn't
wonder to hear next that the poor bereaved mother had died of a broken
heart. They hoped the body would be recovered--it would be a melancholy
consolation to her friends, not to say to her enemies, who would then be
out of doubt as to her fate. People went past the house in Cottage
Street with the same morbid curiosity that had driven them to Redmon
after the murder, and stared at the closed blinds and muffled knocker,
and thought of the wretched mother lying within, whose footsteps were
even then crossing the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
Two weeks passed, and these charitable wishes were not fulfilled. The
mother of Nathalie still lay ill unto death, and still faithfully waited
on by Midge and Miss Jo. It was toward the close of the second week that
Val received a note from the coroner of a fishing-village, some ten
miles up the coast, informing him that, the day previously, the body of
a woman answering the description of Miss Marsh had been washed ashore,
that an inquest had been held, and a verdict of "Found drowned"
returned. If the missing girl's friends would come immediately they
might be able to identify the corpse.
Before noon, after the receipt of this missive, Mr. Val Blake was
bending over the corpse of the drowned woman, as it lay in its rough
deal coffin in the village dead-house. Before sunset he was back in
Speckport, and bore the deal coffin and its quiet contents to No. 16.
Great St. Peter Street. The slender girlish form, the mourning dress,
the long fair hair, were not to be mistaken, though what had been the
face was too horrible to look upon. Val turned away from what had once
been so beautiful, with a shudder; and thought of the Duke of Gandia,
made a saint by a similar sight. Before morning, the deal coffin was
inclosed in another of rosewood, and a grave dug in Speckport Cemetery.
The funeral was an unusually quiet and solemn one, though there was no
requiem mass for the soul of the departed offered up in the
cathedral--why should there for a wretched suicide, forever lost?
Mr. Val Blake, with no sentimentality about him, and not over
straight-laced either, in some things, was yet a generous, good-hearted
fellow in the main, and placed a white marble cross over the dead girl's
grave. Some very good people were rather scandalized by the act. A cross
over the grave of a suicide!--it was sacrilege. But Mr. Blake did not
care much what good people or bad people thought or said of his actions;
and did just as he pleased, in spite of their teeth. So the white cross
remained gleaming palely in the spectral moonlight, and casting its
solemn shadow over the grave in the sunshine. It bore no
inscription--what inscription could be placed over such a grave?--only
the name "Nathalie." Her story was told, her life ended, the world went
on, and she was forgotten! O sublime lesson of life! told in three
words: Dead and forgotten!
So, while Charley skulked in dark places, a hunted criminal, with a
price on his head, and his mother lay still hovering on that narrow
boundary that divides life and death, morning sunlight and noonday
shadows brightened and darkened around that pale cross in the cemetery,
and the night winds sighed over Nathalie's grave.