“Why, Mr. Justin! the very word drainage sickened Mr. Hartright
after he tried the Glenvale meadows; and he told me only
one month ago that he would not give a shilling for the whole
Blackwater tract.”

“He told you that?”

“He did indeed, Mr. Justin!”

This statement seemed to puzzle Harley immensly. He rose,
walked up and down, and then came back to his seat.

“Very well, my good Saunders,” he said. “This is a matter we
will talk about in future. I will think of it and decide what we will
do. I have an engagement with Colonel Hartright this morning.
My uncle's will is to be opened to-day.”

Saunders had taken his broad-brimmed hat from the floor, and
now stood up.

“I hope you are pleased with the look of things, Mr. Justin,” he
said. “I had the house opened from top to bottom and aired,
after you rode out, when you first came?”

“Thank you, Saunders. I find everything in excellent order.”

“The pink room was not opened. No key could be found, and
the shutters—”

Harley turned his head quickly, and looked straight at the
speaker.

“It may remain shut up—I do not require it,” he said.

“The largest chamber in the house, Mr. Justin, and the finest—
on the first floor, too.”

Harley made a motion with his hand.

“I prefer a smaller one,” he said. “Oblige me, as you go out,
by ordering my horse.”

“Yes, Mr. Justin.”

Saunders went out, wondering a little at the sudden change in
the voice of Harley, and his strange look. He had taken but a
few steps, when the hand of the younger man was laid upon his
shoulder.

“I have not said—and yet I should have said—that I am more
than satisfied, my old friend, with your management of my affairs.
I knew that you were intelligent and faithful. I have no other
friend like yourself. Thanks! And now time presses. Will you
order Ajax to be saddled and brought round at once?”

p513-041 CHAPTER VI. THE OPENING OF THE WILL.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

An hour after the conversation with Saunders, Harley came in
sight of Oakhill.

He had been reflecting, as he rode along slowly, upon the eccentric
words of his uncle as he was dying. What possible meaning
could be attached to the summons he had received, and to those
last words? He, Justin Harley, would give all he possessed to know
something connected with the Blackwater Swamp!

What was that something? That his uncle had meant to convey
to him some distinct intimation was plain; but the dying lips had
not been able to utter it; the secret was buried with him in the
remote family graveyard, under the great cypresses.

More than once Harley asked himself whether it were possible
that his uncle had been laboring, at the moment of his death, under
mental aberration? But the testimony of Colonel Hartright upon
this point was perfectly distinct. There had been no evidence of
any such thing. The mind of the dying man had never wandered.
His eyes had preserved their clear, calm, shrewd expression to the
last. Of his complete possession of all his faculties there had been
no reason to entertain a rational doubt. He had spoken upon other
topics a few minutes before, in the most intelligent and matter-of-
fact manner; there could be no question, in a word, that his brain
was clear, and that he had a distinct, business-like message to send
Harley, in reference to something in, or connected with, the
“Blackwater Swamp,” the well-known morass on the Huntsdon
estate.

What was that something? Had Mr. Hartright taken up the
fancy—moulding the said fancy into a hobby—that untold wealth
for his nephew lay in this rich ooze if once it were drained? Had
he used that mysterious form of words in his letter to bring his
beloved nephew back to Virginia? All this was an absolute mystery—
all the more since Saunders had stated Mr. Hartright's utter contempt
for the theory of drainage. Lost thus in a maze of conjecture,
and unable to find the end of the thread and unravel the web,
Harley reached Oakhill, rode up to the door, gave his horse to a
servant and went in.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

Colonel Hartright—richly dressed, his hair powdered, leaning
upon his cane, with an expression far from cheerful or amiable upon
his ruddy features—stood awaiting him in the large drawing-room.
No other persons were present but an aged lawyer, Mr. Barradale,
from Williamsburg, and the family physician, Dr. Wills, whom we
have seen arrive at Oakhill on the day of Mr. Hartright's death.
He had now come to attend the opening of the will, by request of
the owner of the mansion.

Colonel Hartright advanced one step, and making Harley a
ceremonious bow, said:

“I have requested your presence to-day, sir, as my note has informed
you, in order that you might witness the opening of the late
Mr. Hartright's will. I am not aware that any other relatives of
his live in Virginia, or they would have been summoned.”

Harley bowed, and sat down in the chair toward which his uncle
waved his hand in an august manner.

“I will state,” continued Colonel Hartright, who seemed to have
made up his mind to go through the scene with business-like coolness,
and to suppress his private emotions completely, “that on the
day after the death of the late Mr. George Hartright, I proceeded,
in presence of Dr. Wills, the friend and physician of the deceased,
to ascertain where he had deposited his will; and we had no difficulty
whatever in discovering it, as Mr. Hartright was wholly
methodical, and had placed the instrument in the desk of his
writing-table, the key of which was found in the pocket of the coat
which he wore when taken ill. I will state, before proceeding
further, that at the time of Mr. Hartright's death, he held in his
hand, unobserved by me, another key of small size, which Dr. Wills
took from his hand, and is under the impression he presented to
me at the time. Of this I have no recollection. The statement of
Dr. Wills is of course beyond question, but I only remember that
such a key was found in the hand of Mr. Hartright—at the time
dead. Beyond this I am unable to speak with distinctness, and
must content myself with saying that if the key was received by
me, it must have been dropped or mislaid; or, if placed in my
pocket, lost therefrom.”

“That is the most probable supposition,” said Dr. Wills. “You
received the key when it was handed to you, in an absent manner.
Whether it was placed in your pocket or not I cannot state.”

Colonel Hartright stiffly inclined his head.

“It may be—probably is—a matter of no importance. Still, I
have spoken of it. What door, drawer, or other receptacle was
opened by the key I do not know. If placed by me in my pocket,
it has been lost.”

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

While uttering these words, Colonel Hartright went to a table
standing by one of the windows; on this table was a stationary
desk, the key in the lock.

“Mr. Barradale,” he said, “be obliging enough to open this desk.
You will find in it a paper, marked `My last will,—George Hartright.'
The paper has not been touched. It lies where the late
Mr. Hartright placed it.”

The lawyer opened the desk, took out of it a paper, looked at it,
and unfolding it, said:

“This paper is marked as Colonel Hartright has stated. I will
proceed to read it.”

Mr. Barradale adjusted his spcetacles, held the paper at arm's
length, and read it aloud in a humdrum voice.

The last will and testament of George Hartright, Esq., was a brief
and perfectly explicit document. He had had no blood relations in
the world but his brother, the two sons of his sister, Mrs. Harley,
and a few very distant cousins in England, who were wholly indifferent
to him. The question lay, therefore, between his brother, to
whom he had been greatly devoted, and his two nephews; and his
will had evidently been framed with the view of gratifying all. He
left his whole property, consisting of his “Glenvale” estate, about
fifteen thousand acres, and his “Elmwood” estate, of about five
thousand—in all some twenty thousand acres—with the servants
and personal property on both, to his brother, Joshua Hartright.
There was but one qualifying clause, which was in these words:

“And I request my said beloved brother, Joshua Hartright, unless
he sees reason to act in a different manner, to leave the “Glenvale”
estate, with the personal property thereon, at his death, to my
nephew, Justin Harley; and the “Elmwood” estate, with personal
property, in like manner to my nephew, St. George Harley.”

Some valuable investments in London were disposed of in the
same manner. They were left to Colonel Hartright, to be divided
at his death, if he so willed, between Justin and St. George Harley.

Mr. Barradale folded up the paper. Colonel Hartright cleared
his throat, and said:

“I was not aware of my brother's intentions in the disposal of his
property. Will you be good enough, sir, to take charge of this, his
last will and testament, and have it admitted to probate?”

Colonel Hartright then rose, and added, in a ceremonious manner,
that dinner would be ready in an hour. This announcement was
received with evident approval by all but Harley. He rose, regretted
that he had business, bowed, and retired.

The disposition made by his uncle of his entire property had in
no degree disappointed Harley, who—indifferent by native bent of

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

character to money matters—had never built any air-castles upon
the probabilities of inheriting from his uncle. That the brother
should have the lands instead of the nephews seemed entirely
proper in his eyes; and he had not left Oakhill a mile behind him
when he dismissed the subject from his mind without an effort, and
began to ponder upon that other matter, which had now taken absolute
possession of him. What could have been the meaning of
his uncle George in sending him that message? To induce him to
drain the Swamp? But then his mind persistently reverted to the
conversation with Saunders. His uncle was bitterly opposed to
draining; then it was impossible that he could have had reference
to this as a source of wealth to be found by Harley “in the Blackwater
Swamp.” Was money buried in the morass? The idea was
for many reasons quite preposterous and visionary. His uncle had
never possessed any ready money, having an eccentric aversion to
the sight of it. He had shipped his great crops to London, ordered
and paid for whatever he wished, having the articles re-shipped,
and invested the remainder in English securities. First it was
necessary to have money; then to wish to conceal money; lastly, to
hide it in a swamp ten miles off; all of which was an utter absurdity.

“My uncle was an eccentric person,” Harley muttered, “but very
far from a senseless one. This puzzle becomes more puzzling than
ever—any clue more hopeless, it seems, than at first. But I am
satisfied that there is a clue; he must have had a meaning, and a
distinct and rational one. I see nothing to do but to get on my
horse, and go and look around me in this same swamp—a humdrum
and commonplace morass, one would think. I shall find nothing;
but I shall kill the hours of daylight, which make me mope, mope!
Night and sleep will come sooner; and sleep means forgetting,
which I think is the luxury of life!”

These muttered words were replied to by a mutter from the
clouds overhead. Harley had not observed that a heavy storm had
gathered, and that he was still some miles from Huntsdon, near
the Blackwater Swamp.

p513-045 CHAPTER VII. AT THE FORD OF THE BLACKWATER.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

The Blackwater is a tributary of the Nottoway river, and its turbid
and sullen waters flow in the direction of that tract, full of weird
and mysterious interest, which has received the appropriate name
of the Dismal Swamp. Both the Nottoway and the Blackwater
have a character of their own. The latter flows here and there
between high banks, densely wooded, which the dark waters often
hollow out, exposing the gnarled and fantastic roots of the trees
above. Then the banks trend away into low grounds, the current
running deep and strong in the narrow channel spreads out, and a
swamp appears. These huge tracts are overgrown with cypress,
juniper, and black gum; they are silent, dreary, forbidding; the
foot at every step sinks in the treacherous ooze; and the hiss of the
moccasin in the slime is echoed by the weird hoot of the owl, or
the cry of the whip-poor-will in the depths of the jungle.

Justin Harley, riding homeward from Oakhill, entered the skirts
of one of the largest of these morasses, called, par excellence, the
“Blackwater Swamp,” before he was aware of the fact. It is a misuse
of terms, perhaps, to say that he entered the swamp. The county
road which he pursued sought carefully to avoid the undesirable
locality, but finding it necessary to pass through its skirts, he did
so on a bed of logs and heaped up earth, leaping deep holes, full of
black ooze, here and there, on rude log bridges, and hastening on
to firmer ground.

Harley looked over his shoulder as he followed this rude highway,
overshadowed by cypresses.

“Not a time to explore the swamp to any great advantage,” he
said, “and yet I have nothing to do to-day, and the storm will soon
be over.”

He went on, looking for an opening. There was none through
which it seemed possible to force his horse. He was still searching,
when a distant shot came from the swamp, the noise of something
forcing its way through the swamp was heard, and five minutes
afterward a fallow deer broke through the vines shrouding a clump
of laurel, and, clearing the causeway at a bound, disappeared
beyond.

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

“A deer-hunter,” Harley muttered. “He takes bad weather for
his sport. If he can pass through I can; but decidedly I will put
it off. The storm is coming.”

He looked up, and saw the sky filled with black clouds, traversed
from moment to moment by the fiery zigzags of the lightning.

“I'll go back,” he said.

And pushing his horse to a gallop, he emerged from the swamp,
and entered on a firm road, which ran along the left bank of the
Blackwater, between high banks, opening here and there to give
access to the deep, narrow fords of the river. A glance toward
the stream, as he passed, showed him that the waters were greatly
swollen, no doubt by heavy rains toward the sources of the river,
which had the peculiarity of rising and falling with great rapidity.
The waters were now galloping through its high banks, with that
hoarse and threatening roar which accompanies a freshet. The
fords seemed impassable.

In approaching one of these fords, Harley exhibited a very singular
emotion. The ford was reached by a cut in the bank on each
side, and the current at the spot was strong, breaking, just below,
upon a mass of earth and rock, scarcely large enough to call an
island. Harley looked only once in the direction of the ford, and
turned his head abruptly from it, as if it suggested some unpleasant
recollection.

“What made me forget that I would pass this spot?” he said,
half-aloud.

His head turned completely from it, and he went on at greater
speed, with the evident desire to avoid all sight of it. He had just
passed the cut in the bank leading down to the ford when a cry was
heard.

This cry was—“Help!”

p513-047 CHAPTER VIII. IN THE WATER.

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

The cry for help was uttered by Judge Bland, who, swept away
by the current of the Blackwater, called aloud for some one to come
to the assistance of his daughter, who seemed about to share his fate.

They had ridden out, as we have seen, in the morning to visit Mr.
Randolph, a neighbor, on the opposite side of the Blackwater, and
no difficulty had been experienced in passing the ford, as the stream
had not then risen. On their return all was changed. The rains
had done their worst; the river was rushing between its banks,
and Judge Bland saw at a glance that the ford, so easily crossed in
the morning, was now dangerous or impracticable.

Evelyn had pushed her small horse into the water before her
father was aware of it.

“Do not attempt it, my daughter! Take care!”

A gay laugh came back.

“Brownie can swim!—but he will not have to! Look, papa!
The water is not up to the saddle!”

An instant afterward, the small animal was swept from his feet.
Judge Bland, driving his horse with the spur, caught at the bridle,
but failed to reach it. He was swept down; his frightened horse
became unmanageable; the aged gentleman lost his seat and was
carried away, uttering, as the water caught him, that cry for
“help”—not for himself, but for his daughter.

Harley had reached the bank in a few bounds of his horse, and
first caught a glimpse of Judge Bland's riderless animal as the current
bore him down. But something more frightful quickly attracted
his attention. Through a mass of foliage dipping in the
stream he saw, in the middle of the current, the head and shoulders
of Evelyn. She was clinging to the neck of her horse, which
the water was sweeping away; a moment afterward the animal
struck, and half-rose upon, the small island mentioned. The girl
was thrown forward on the debris of rock and earth, and the animal,
as though nothing had happened, struck out for shore, and safely
reached the bank some distance below.

Harley was already in the stream, swimming toward the island.
Accustomed to rough riding, and mounted on a well-trained and
powerful animal, he reached the island without trouble. Pushing
his horse upon the mass of rock, he left him standing there and

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

ran to the girl. She had half-risen, lying upon her right side, and
supporting herself with both hands.

Her first cry was “Oh! my father! my father!”

“I must think of you first,” said Harley, coolly; “the river is
rising. There is no time to be lost. Rise, if you can; if you cannot,
I will lift you.”

The poor girl was nearly distracted with grief, and only wrung
her hands, crying, “Father! father!”

Harley thereupon took her up in his arms, as he would have
lifted a baby; carried her to the horse; placed her on her feet, supporting
her with his left arm around her waist, and, mounting, drew
her up before him. He then drove his horse into the stream, saying,
as he did so,

“There is the chance that my horse will reach shore without
accident. If he strikes a root, there will be danger. Then, try not
to cling to me, as you will probably drown yourself and me too.”

The angry waves were by this time roaring around them and puffeting
them. Harley supported the girl without the least difficulty,
and they would speedily have reached shore, but then, all at once,
occurred what he had feared. The powerful animal, swept headlong,
but swimming bravely, suddenly struck, and entangled his
legs in, a submerged root of one of the large trees leaning from the
bank, raised himself out of water, uttered a sharp neigh, and,
turning on his side, was carried under.

Harley had provided for the accident. He had taken his feet
from the stirrups, and clung only with his knees. As the horse
sank he threw himself from the saddle, and passing his left arm
around the young lady's back, and under her arm, struck out with
his right.

They would have reached shore in a few moments, but suddenly
the young girl's arms darted toward his neck, and the small hands
were clasped around it.

“Do not cling to me! You will drown yourself.”

The hands clung all the tighter, and Harley felt that he was sinking.
The thought passed through his mind, “If this were a man,
I would know what to do—I would use brute force; but it is a
woman!” His head was dragged down; the pale face of the girl
was against his cheek—her eyes closed; the fatal arms still clinging
around his neck. Making a last effort—as he was sinking, in spite
of his great strength—Harley seized with his right hand the two
delicate wrists of the girl, tore them violently from his neck; caught
them with his left hand, twisted them upward in his strong grasp,
and throwing the weight of her body on his left shoulder, struck
out once more with his right arm.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

They were saved. The girl was now a mere dead-weight, and
Harley swam with her to a projecting point of sand where the
ground was level, found his feet touch earth, and carried her in his
arms to the dry land. She had fainted.

Harley had just placed her on the bank, when a low moan came
from some water-flags, ten paces off. He went to the spot, and
reached it just as Judge Bland was dragging his bruised limbs from
the water. He had been swept, by main force of the current, on
the low bank, and narrowly escaped drowning.

His first cry was—“My daughter!”

“She is safe,” said Harley. Then he exclaimed:

“Judge Bland? I am Justin Harley, sir. Thank God! I was here
to help my father's friend. But here is Miss Bland.” He pointed
to her. “She is unhurt.”

The old gentleman was already lifting his daughter in his arms.
Evelyn opened her eyes, saw him, clung around his neck, and burst
into tears, exclaiming:

“Oh, father! father!”

The horses of the whole party had the good fortune to get out of
the fierce current unhurt, and were easily caught. The storm had
muttered away into the distance. Evelyn had been lifted to the
saddle by her father, and they returned homeward, Harley leaving
them where the road divided. He would come to Blandfield and
pay his respects, he said; then, in response to Judge Bland's earnest
words, he pressed that gentleman's hand, made a ceremonious bow
to the young lady, and went toward Huntsdon.

“Well, this is something like an adventure,” he said, as he rode
homeward. “If I read it in a romance, I should no doubt sneer at
the writer for straining after effect, inventing the improbable, and
for not confining himself to the good, respectable, natural humdrum
of every day. Well, I prefer humdrum, I think. I am not a
romance-hero. I shall not establish further relations with this
handsome damsel.”

After going a little further, he said, half-aloud, as before:

“I will go back to Europe. This country depresses me more than
ever. That ford on the Blackwater had a sickening effect on me;
I had forgotten it was there.”

As he came near Huntsdon, the sky overhead had become perfectly
clear, and the sun sent a crimson glare from beneath two
bars of black cloud on the horizon. The red light slept on the trees
and the long façade of the building. Not a leaf stirred; not a sound
disturbed the silence.

“I will go back,” he muttered. “I am determined on that. I
can endure anything better than this pitiless serenity of nature!”

“Judge Bland was dragging his bruised limbs from the water.”—P. 38. [figure description] Image of three people: a woman is lying on the riverbank unconscious, her clothes drenched; there are two men on the right side of the image, one man is pulling the judge out of the river.[end figure description]

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

p513-052 CHAPTER IX. COLONEL HARTRIGHT EXPLODES.

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

On the next morning a money-lender came to Huntsdon, sent in
his name,—Mr. Hicks,—and bowing low as he entered the drawing-room
where Harley awaited him, hoped that gentleman was in the
enjoyment of good health.

Mr. Hicks was a small, wiry personage, with a thin face, a keen
pair of eyes, and a stereotyped smile. His dress was plain and unassuming—
indeed, rather shabby—and he held in his dingy hand a
dilapidated hat, with a broad brim, which, being too large for him,
generally reposed upon his ears—too large, like the hat, for his other
proportions. His hair was short and red—his eyebrows bushy.

Harley always came to the point in business matters.

“Sit down, sir,” he said. “I owe you money.”

“A little trifle of from three to five thousand pounds, Mr. Harley.”

“You want the money?”

Mr. Hicks cleared his throat.

“Money is money, Mr. Harley, you know. Still,—”

Now Mr. Hicks was putting himself to an enormous amount of
unnecessary trouble. He had not come to demand payment of the
amount, lent on mortgage to Harley during his absence, but to lend
him more. The explanation of this desire was simple. Dr. Wills
was a gossip. He met the parson of the parish on his way home
from Oakhill, and casually mentioned that Mr. George Hartright
had left his fine “Glenvale” estate to Justin Harley. Mr. Hicks,
riding by as the news was communicated, heard it; and as Mr.
Hicks had at the time the sum of two thousand pounds to lend on
mortgage, at a little, or a good deal, above the legal rate of interest,
he thought he could not do better than propose the loan to a young
gentleman of lavish expenditure, who would like to anticipate his
resources.

“The fact is, Mr. Harley,” said Mr. Hicks, “I have a regard for
you, and am not the man, you know, to press a gentleman. I could
even let you have a trifle more on good security, Mr. Harley, you
know.”

Harley reflected.

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“I want two thousand pounds. I am going back to Europe. Will
you lend it on this property?”

“Hum!—well; now to tell you the fact, Mr. Harley, this property
is in bad order, you know; and then the other mortgage—”

“Very well. This is all I possess.”

Dr. Hicks stared. He was certain that he had heard Dr. Wills
tell the parson that the “Glenvale” estate had been left to Justin
Harley. He now intimated his impression upon that point, and
Harley as promptly undeceived him. The “Glenvale” property was
left, he informed Mr. Hicks, to his uncle, Colonel Hartright, with
the simple expression of a wish that it might revert, if Colonel Hartright
saw no reason to change the reversion, to himself.

Mr. Hicks looked extremely blank, reflected, became much depressed,
brightened up slowly, and finally proposed to lend the
money “all the same” on Harley's bond, at an exorbitant interest.
He had said to himself, “Colonel Hartright loved his brother. He
will leave the property to the young man.”

Harley refused to pay the interest demanded; and Mr. Hicks,
with many groans and prostestations that a less percentage would
ruin him, “the way money then was—tight, sir, tight as wax,”—
consented to ruin himself. On the next morning he brought the
money, took Harley's obligation, and went away, saying:

“There is a spendthrift who will belong to me. He is borrowing
at high interest to squander!”

Mr. Hicks was blundering—as intelligent men will. Justin Harley
was princely in character, and disregarded money. If Mr.
Hicks had not come to Huntsdon on that morning, it had been his
intention to send for the money-lender, and obtain from him a new
loan for a specific object—but that object was not his own gratification
in the least.

This object may be simply stated. Harley was firmly convinced
that, in spite of his great physical strength and apparent health, he
would not live long. He faced this conviction with perfect coolness,
thinking of but one thing—how he could transmit the
Huntsdon estate to his beloved younger brother, St. George, or
“Sainty.” He had thrown away his money in Europe very recklessly,
and suddenly found Huntsdon encumbered. He resolved to
free the estate from this encumbrance. To do so, it was only necessary,
he felt sure, to drain the rich expanse of the Blackwater
Swamp, and this he resolved to do with his two thousand pounds.
When this great work should be well commenced, he had determined
to place his younger brother in charge of the work, return to
Europe, bury himself in some corner of France or Spain, live on a
pittance, and end in due time a life which was not happy—and

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

unhappiest of all, for some reason, it seemed, when his days passed
in Virginia.

Such was the intention of the young spendthrift of Mr. Hicks'
imagination. The money-lender did not speak of the transaction,
but the young lawyer who drew the paper—for Mr. Hicks' education
had been neglected—did. Chancing to be at Oakhill on some business
with Colonel Hartright, the lawyer incidentally mentioned the
loan, and as the Colonel was in a bad humor, his suspicions were
suddenly excited; he jumped to a conclusion, exploded, and wrote
the following note to Harley:

“Sir: I have reason to conclude that you have been borrowing
money on your expectations, in connection with my late brother's
property, to waste in reckless extravagance in foreign countries.
I write this to inform you that, if I have a say in that matter, as I
think I have, you will be dissappointed. I will not have the property
of my brother George pass into the hands of money-lenders to
supply your extravagance or your vices.

Harley read the note with entire coolness, and sent back this
reply:

“Sir: So be it. Life is, after all, so stupid an affair that justice
or injustice are the same.

He then ordered his horse, and rode out.

p513-055 CHAPTER X. THE VISIT.

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

Evelyn Bland came down on this morning in a charming neglig
é, which made her undeniable beauty more attractive than usual.
From head to foot the young lady was dazzling with youth, health
and loveliness. The morning-dress which she wore clearly defined
the fine outline of her slender figure; the small feet which peeped
out from the skirt of her dress were clad in morocco slippers, with
high heels and large red rosettes; and her head was a cluster of
brown curls, beneath which appeared a pair of red cheeks, rosy lips,
and the deep blue eyes, tinted with purple, which looked into your
own with an expression of candor and innocence which made you
love her, and look upon her as you look upon a bud from the flower-border,
fresh with the dews of morning.

She ran into her grandma's room—a large apartment on the
ground-floor of Blandfield—and found that aged lady long since
up, in her great elbow chair, with the roomy seat and high back,
busily knitting. Judge Bland was riding out on the estate; the
chamber was already set to rights, and grandma was looking from
beneath her silver spectacles on a small host of young and old
Africans, cutting out and basting “full cloth” for the servants'
clothes.

“Good morning, dear!” said the tall, straight, gray-haired old
lady, in her black dress, smiling sweetly as she spoke; her voice
was as sweet as her smile, and had a silvery intonation. “Good
morning! And how has my little girl slept?”

“As well as could be expected, after our terrible accident,
grandma.”

Evelyn put her arms around the aged lady's neck and kissed her
as she spoke.

“Yes, yes, my child, very terrible! And you were saved by young
Harley?”

“Yes, grandma.”

“A very fine-looking young man when I remember him; it was
ten years ago, I think. Was it ten years? How time does fly!”

“Yes indeed, grandma.”

“And young Harley has been to Europe?”

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

“For a long time, I believe.”

“It used to be more the fashion than at present. William Byrd,
of Westover, was away for many years—ah! he was very elegant.
They have his portrait at Westover, and Evelyn Byrd's too, your
cousin and your namesake, my dear—a very good likeness and very
pretty.”

“It is exquisite, grandma. I have seen it. You know Colonel
Byrd very well, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes! It seems strange; but I was young once, and we were
all boys and girls together.”

Grandma took up a stitch.

“Ah! my dear,” she continued, “we had a delightful society in
Virginia when I was a girl—a little too much given, perhaps, to
merry-making, and rather thoughtless, but a friendly, kindly set
of people.”

“What could be better? And I'm sure you are enough to make
anybody fall in love with that generation, you dear old grandma!
Do you know I think we are growing stupid, and the young men
awkward? Positively not one can dance the minuet now decently.”

“It is a pity; no dance is more stately; and I knew some admirably
graceful performers in old times. Edmund Randolph was
famous for his grace, and so was Henry Harley, of Huntsdon, the
father of your friend.”

“He must have been an elegant person, grandma.”

“Very elegant, indeed—tall, distinguished, and remarkably cordial
in his manners. Mrs. Harley—she was his second wife—was Ellen
Hartright, a younger sister of Mr. George Hartright—a beautiful
young girl. The young men Justin and St. George Harley are her
children. St. George, I remember, was a lovely baby, and Justin
was always noted for his goodness.”

“You remember all the kind things about people, dear grandma,
and that is because you yourself are so kind. And so the returned
traveller, Mr. Justin Harley, was a very good boy, was he?”

“A good child and a good boy.”

“What is his age, grandma?

“Let me see. His mother died in—no, in—well, my poor memory
is failing. But the young man must be thirty, I suppose. It is
time he should be married if he is going to be.”

“Married! Always something about marriage!” said a voice behind
the young lady; and Miss Clementina Bland came into the
room, gently waving a large fan, her inseparable companion in all
seasons, hot or cold. Miss Clementina was a lady of “uncertain
age;” but that fact did not prevent her from paying assiduous attention
to personal decoration. Her hair was elaborately curled—

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

also elaborately powdered—also pierced with two silver arrows, and
decorated with a string of pearls. In addition, her neck, which
was a handsome one, was half displayed, and she wore light slippers
and numerous ribbons. She came in elaborately,—the word
best describes her motions—as though entering a saloon filled with
company.

“Of whom were you speaking, my child?” said Miss Clementina,
with an elderly air.

“Of Mr. Harley,” said Evelyn.

“A most horrid young man I hear,” said the lady.

“He saved my life!” exclaimed Evelyn.

“Ah! Well, I suppose he did make himself useful. What has he
come back from Europe for? Has he brought his wife with him?”

“His wife!” exclaimed Evelyn, laughing. “You do not mean
that he is married?”

“I really don't know. Wasn't he married? I must have heard
the report somewhere. All men are alike, and all women—geese!
But there is breakfast.”

And forgetting her indignation against the institution of marriage,
and those who gave it countenance, in her fondness for tea, Miss
Clementina waved her fan with graceful deliberation before her face,
sailed from the room, and proceeded in the direction of breakfast.

The morning passed on. Evelyn spent it in idleness, strolling
indolently from room to room—from the drawing-room to the
porch—and looking down the avenue.

What was she thinking of? And was she expecting anybody?
It is difficult to follow the train of thought in the mind of a maiden
of nineteen. It is shown perhaps; it seldom expresses itself. Miss
Evelyn Bland was plainly expecting somebody, and at about one
o'clock this somebody came—Justin Harley.

Thereupon Miss Evelyn disappeared; she had seen him as he
entered the great gate, and going quietly to her chamber, began a
rapid toilet. In the midst thereof, the step of the visitor was heard
upon the portico; a servant came at his summons, and Evelyn,
listening, heard Harley ask for Judge Bland.

She left the window and threw herself upon a lounge, with an expression
of decided ill-humor and an elaborate pout. It was unpardonable!
Who could have believed it! A gentleman to violate
in this manner every rule of good society!—not to ask for the
ladies. Mr. Justin Harley might amuse himself as he could; certainly
she would not inflict her stupid society upon him!

Meanwhile Harley had been shown into the drawing-room; and
Judge Bland, who had been busy with some law papers in his study,
came down immediately.

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Miss Evelyn Bland was piqued, and in a defiant state of mind, but
curiosity conquered. She opened her door very slightly, leaned
against the frame-work, and listened. There was no difficulty in
hearing the voices. The cordial old Judge greeted Harley with
great warmth, uttered a few feeling words in reference to the accident,
and Harley's instrumentality in saving the life of one very
dear to him, and then the conversation passed to politics, neighborhood
news, the prospect of the trouble with the Indians, and other
topics, which Miss Evelyn Bland evidently regarded as intensely
wearisome, for she closed her door, and taking up a book, proceeded
to pout at it, and read it upside down.

At the end of two hours, Harley rose, and declining the hospitable
urging of Judge Bland to stay longer, went toward the door. All
at once he stopped and bowed. Into the apartment sailed Miss
Clementina, who smiled sweetly upon the visitor, and began a flow
of talk which paralyzed him. Harley would have felt disposed to
indulge in satirical laughter if any one had said that he could not
leave an apartment at any moment that it was agreeable to him to
do so. And yet on this occasion he attempted four distinct times
to rise and take his departure, and each time Miss Clementina
literally talked him down into his seat again. Dreadful was the
flow of it—a ceaseless flood.

Diverted from one subject, Miss Clementina instantly flowed onward
in the new direction. When any one attempted to intrude an
observation, she drowned the speaker's voice by raising her own,
and plunging into a new subject; and Harley began to feel a species
of paralysis, when the dinner-bell rang.

Evelyn was compelled to appear; her absence was becoming discourtesy.
She came into the drawing-room, approached Harley
with the most cordial unconstraint, held out her hand, and said with
a smile:

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Harley.”

Harley bowed.

“I ought to thank you,” said Evelyn, “for saving my life; but I
suppose you knight-errant people take pride in rescuing girls. I am
very much obliged to you indeed, and I am afraid I nearly suffocated
you in the water, when I clung to you. I was very much
frightened, and feared I was drowning.”

Judge Bland came up, smiling.

“Come, my dear, dinner is waiting,” he said.

Three hours afterward, Harley was still at Blandfield, absorbed in
the vivid and charming conversation of Judge Bland, who, seated
upon one of the rustic seats on the lawn, spoke of the father of
Harley, and the great men of his day. Harley listened with deep

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attention. There was something delightful to him in the talk of
this elegant and distinguished gentleman. They were talking still,
toward twilight, when the harpsichord was touched, and Judge
Bland said—

“There is Evelyn.”

Harley rose, went to the harpsichord, and with an air of polite
indifference asked the young lady to sing. Evelyn did not seem
to observe the tone, smiled in her sweetest manner, and sang a
Scottish ditty, with such tenderness in her clear young voice, that
Harley lost his indifference, feeling something like a breath of
youth revisit him.

An hour afterward he was on his way back to Huntsdon. He
went along musing, allowing his horse to walk slowly.

“A gentleman of the highest distinction,” he said, “and a happy
household. It is lucky when marriage comes to that. A beauty,
this Miss Evelyn, as the world goes, and seems sincere. I wonder!
But what matter? Before I'll think again of any woman—”

He left the sentence unfinished, and rode on.

p513-060 CHAPTER XI. ST. LEGER.

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Harley uttered the words recorded at the end of the last chapter
in a tone which left no doubt of his meaning. Whence had arisen
this antipathy? From some disappointment in love, as Miss Clementina
had asserted? It was possible; but other peculiarities of
the man were not so easily explained, and seemed to have had their
origin in some personal experience of a more serious character.

What impressed people most forcibly, at first sight of Harley, was
his gloomy composure. He attempted plainly to hide this melancholy
under a phlegmatic exterior—but there it was. Could a mere
love-affair, resulting unfortunately, have caused this? The fact
seemed doubtful. The man's mind was evidently strong, healthful,
well-poised, free from the least tendency to fanciful regrets or sadness,
and yet there was plainly something on his mind. Something
in his life had clearly made him gloomy, and spoiled his sunshine.
A happy man, with nothing in his memory to depress him, laughs,
plays with children, jest with his friends, lolls, talk of the weather,
and is commonplace and natural in his moods—grave or gay. Justin
Harley had not the least tendency toward any one of the proceedings
here mentioned. He did not laugh; he did not jest; he took
no interest in the little home details of life. He moped.

He had acquired in Germany the habit of smoking a short black
pipe, and used powerful tobacco. Tho “Virginia weed,” as it was
once called, is a mild and pleasing narcotic to mind and body, with
most persons, bringing cheerful reverie and golden moods; but it
seemed only to deaden Harley, making him duller. The statement
already made sums up all. He seemed to have something on his
mind, and this something strained the cords of his brain, producing
lassitude and unrest. He was never long out of the saddle,
and rode as often at night as by day. Often he could not sleep, and
read and walked to and fro in his room until daylight—a habit
which probably explained the peculiarity mentioned by Judge
Bland, that he would never sleep without a light in his apartment.
The outline here drawn of a man possessed by some thought ever-present
to his consciousness, and unable to banish it, may seem a

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distorted and exaggerated one to those excellent and fortunate persons
with good digestions, happy firesides, and the evening newspaper;
but humanity is none the less subject—from accident, if
there be such, or their own fault—to these moods. The physicians
tell you, in a matter-of-fact way, that it is the liver.

From this digression we come back to Justin Harley, and add
that, ten days after his visit to Blandfield, he spent nearly the whole
night walking up and down his chamber, and at daylight rang for
his old body-servant, a gray-haired African, and ordered his horse
to be saddled, also the hounds to be unloosed. He was determined
to have a fox-hunt.

Having taken a slight breakfast, chiefly consisting of some very
strong tea, Harley mounted, called his tawny pack around him,
started on his hunt, and soon the distant cry of the hounds indicated
that the fox was unearthed.

Two hours afterward, a young man of about twenty-five, elegantly
clad, and riding a fine English hunter, rode up to the front door of
Huntsdon, and, calling to a servant, asked if this was the residence
of Mr. Justin Harley. The reply was a respectful affirmative.

“Where was Mr. Harley?”

He was hunting—toward the river.

“What river?”

They called it the Blackwater river.

The servant pointed in the direction of the stream as he spoke,
and, after hesitating a moment, the visitor rode in the direction indicated.

Harley followed his dogs for four hours, riding like the wild
huntsman. The exercise brought some color to his cheeks, and
better than all, seemed to have banished the moody thought which
had strained to high pressure his mental machinery. Nothing stupefies
like a gallop, or rather, nothing diverts and exhilarates so
much. Every fence cleared took a part of the load from his mind,
and the ditches were so deep and dangerous often, that he had to
think of them.

A gray fox is a tough adversary. This one circled over twenty
miles, and came back—his tail up, with long leaps, and apparently
unfatigued—to the spot from whence he had started. Harley and
the dogs were coming, but they had not come. The horseman who
had stopped at Huntsdon, and then followed in the direction taken
by Harley, was riding along a narrow road on the banks of the
Blackwater, not far from the pond which had been the scene of
Judge Bland's misadventure, when the cry of the hounds was heard
in the distance. It steadily approached, and then the fox darted
across the road, and made through a field beyond, toward a

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brushfence crowning a high bank, formed of the earth thrown up from a
very deep ditch.

The sight of the game, and the close cry of the hounds, ever approaching
nearer, excited the horseman. He wheeled, put spurs to
his hunter, and rode on the track of the fox. Before he had gone
twenty yards, he found that his horse was in no condition for a run.
But excitement mastered him. The dogs burst from the bushes,
and shot by him, wild at sight of the fox, which leaped the ditch
and the fence. The horseman dug the spur into his animal, and
pushed him at the ditch and fence; the hunter rose to the leap, but
his hind-feet slipped: he pawed the air, reeled backward, and fell
on his rider, who rolled under him in the ditch.

The unlucky horseman was striving to avoid the heels of the
kicking and terrified animal, and extricate himself, when he felt a
strong grasp on his shoulder. He was dragged from under the
horse, and a voice said,

“St. Leger! Is it possible! You in Virginia?”

“Precisely, my dear Harley, and hurt a little, I'm afraid. That
worthless animal—” He turned somewhat pale as he spoke, and
said, “I think the brute has dislocated my shoulder.”

“You need a carriage!—we will talk afterwards. What good star
sent you? But come!—yonder is a cabin. You may stay there
until my coach comes and takes you to Huntsdon!”

Harley's face glowed. He passed his arm around his friend, supported
him as he walked, and they reached the cabin. It was a
rude hut, apparently a trapper's or fisherman's, in a sort of gash in
the hills, and in front of the door sat a girl mending a hand-net.
The girl seemed to be about fourteen, though she was not, probably,
so old, and what impressed one, at first sight, was the singular contrast
between her dress and surroundings and her appearance. She
wore the plainest homespun, but had the air of a little princess.
She was an exquisite blonde, with very large blue eyes, a complexion
delicately fair, and a figure as graceful as though she had
moved all her life in saloons. When she turned her head to look at
Harley and his friend, her attitude—the bend of the neck, the droop
of the shoulders—all was so perfect as to cause Harley the utmost
astonishment. In this rude cabin seemed to have bloomed a flower
of the woods more delicate than those of the most carefully-cultivated
garden.

One circumstance Harley afterwards recalled, with some surprise,
as it recurred to him. The bearing and expression of the girl had
been calm, gentle, and perfectly composed, as they came; her large,
soft eyes surveyed them without surprise or fear; but all at once
the red in her cheeks dissappeared, her eyes filled with sudden

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fright, and her gaze was riveted upon the young man called St.
Leger.

“What is the matter, my child?” said Harley, struck by this
look.

“Blood!—there is blood!” said the girl, shuddering.

“Oh it's nothing—a mere trifle, my pretty maid!” said St. Leger.
Harley assisted him into the cabin, explained why they had come,
and then, returning to his horse, who was grazing where he had
dismounted, rode back rapidly to procure the coach.

The young stranger was left with the girl, who busied herself
arranging the pillows on a little white bed, in a small room behind
the cabin. This room was evidently her own. Everything about
it was spotless; some books lay on a small rude table, and a flowering
vine festooned the window. This nest was the haunt of a girl
as plainly as the main cabin, with its rude couch, and nest, and
fishing-tackle, was the haunt of a man. The stranger declared,
with a light, friendly laugh, that he could not disarrange the bed;
but the girl begged him, in a very sweet and earnest voice, to lie
down. He yielded, and then, as his forehead appeared feverish,
she quickly proceeded to bathe it with a damp cloth—shivering,
now and then, as her eyes fell upon the blood from the bruise on
his shoulder. The young man closed his eyes: there was something
delightful in the touch of the delicate fingers. When he opened
them again, he saw bending over him the fresh, tender face, framed
in its auburn hair, with the large eyes looking into his own. He
again closed his eyes, and fell into a delicious reverie. He was
aroused from it by the sound of wheels, and, opening his eyes again,
became conscious of something which made him laugh.

In a purely unconscious manner, one of his hands had fallen at
his side, had there encountered one of the girl's which was hanging
down, and closed around it, and she, fearing to wake him, had left
her hand in his own.

Harley came in, and informing his friend that the coach had
arrived, assisted him to rise and walk to it. St. Leger turned his
head and held out his hand to the girl.

“I am told that in Virginia everybody shakes hands,” he said,
laughing. The girl gave him her small hand with perfect simplicity
and grace.

“And now your name, my little guardian angel. I would like to
have a name to think of you by, you know?”

“My name is Fanny, sir.”

“And your father's?”

“Puccoon,” she said.

Harley turned round.

“Blood! There Is Blood!” said the girl.—P. 50. [figure description] Image of a girl, standing at the front door of a cottage, speaking to two men who have approached. One man is holding the other upright, as the other man is injured. The injured man is standing with his hand in his jacket.[end figure description]

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

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“Puccoon, the hunter and trapper, my child?”

“Yes, sir; he went out hunting this morning.”

“He is an old friend of mine, and you must tell him that I have
come back. My name is Justin Harley, and he must come and see
me at Huntsdon.”

The girl promised to deliver the message. Following his friend
into the coach, Harley demanded an explanation of his sudden appearance.

“Nothing easier, my dear Harley,” returned the joyous young
fellow, “and you shall have the narrative with the brevity of a
military dispatch. You know I left diplomacy for the career of
arms; that is, to become ensign in the Royal Guard, “The Blues,”
which of all the tiresome—but I wander! Well, I grew weary; I
thirsted for travel. I asked my uncle, the earl, who is a minister,
to give me dispatches to some part of the world. He laughed, like
the jolly old boy he is, and said, `Would you like Virginia?' `Of
all things!' I said. And behold me in Virginia, with orders for his
Excellency the Governor. He was absent on my arrival, in pursuit
of Indians, so I thought I would look at the country, and I had
heard there was a strange spot call the Dismal Swamp, south of
James River. I took a hunter from my lord's stable; crossed the
river; rode on; spent the night at an ordinary; saw a fine house on
a hill this morning; heard that it was Justin Harley's; thought it
possible, barely, that he might be in Virginia, and ascertaining that
fact, with the further fact that he was out hunting, followed, and—
you know the rest.”

“You are the prince of raconteurs,” said Harley; “you come to
the point. I am happy, to the full extent of my power to be happy,
at your coming, St. Leger. Yonder is my house. Welcome!”

“I knew I should be welcome, and your house is admirable. I
like all in Virginia—down to our little princess of the hills yonder,
who is as delicate as a duchess, and far prettier.”

“A beauty—and, strangely, has a rough trapper for a father. But
here we are at Huntsdon.”

p513-067 CHAPTER XII. THE NIGHT-HUNT.

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Henry St. Leger was the younger son of an English gentleman
of ancient family, and had an uncle, an earl, in the ministry. He
was placed at an early age, through the influence of his noble relatives,
in the diplomatic career, which he had pursued as secretary
of embassy at Paris, then at Vienna, then at Berlin; when, weary
of red tape, and dancing at the embassy balls, he had sought and
obtained, through purchase and influence combined, the commission
of ensign in the Guards, then called the “Blues,” the most
select and aristocratic of corps. As the headquarters of the “Blues”
were necessarily in London, St. Leger had an excellent opportunity
to study military affairs; but the routine of duty was disagreeable to
him: he longed for movement, adventure, new scenes, and thought
often, with a sort of craving regret, of days spent in the wilds of
Hungary with a friend whose acquaintance he had first made at
Vienna—Justin Harley, of Virginia.

He had met Harley many years before, and an intimacy had
sprung up between them. One was cold, the other was impulsive;
one was twenty-odd, the other nearly thirty, and older in character
than in years. Hence the intimacy. The almost severe reserve of
Harley had a strange attraction for the young and impulsive St.
Leger, and the warm and cordial traits of the younger person had
for Harley an even greater charm. They speedily became intimate,
and then they were separated. St. Leger was transferred, by that
unseen machinery which regulates the English diplomatic service,
to Berlin, from which city he passed back to England, and entered
the Guards. Harley continued to reside at Vienna, contemplating,
meanwhile, a campaign, under the Russian flag, to the Caucasus,
when one day he received his uncle's letter and returned to Virginia.

The circumstances leading to the visit of St. Leger have been
mentioned. Weary of the routine of guard-duty, he had been
offered the mission of dispatch-bearer to the Governor of Virginia,
had reached Williamsburg, ridden out to look at the country, gone
fox-hunting, and been succored by his old friend Justin Harley,
whom he had left at Vienna.

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