"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 grass, 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?"