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On his return homeward, after his professional visit to Oakhill,
Dr. Wills called at Huntsdon, and informed Harley of Colonel
Hartright's attack.

The intelligence sincerely grieved him; but the doctor relieved
his mind by adding that the danger was over, and Harley contented
himself with riding to Oakhill, sending up his name, and
asking how Colonel Hartright then was. The old servant brought
back word that his master was better, thanked Mr. Harley, and
hoped to be about again in a day or two.

Harley then rode back, not ill-pleased to have the visit end thus,
without a personal interview. He had gone from a sense of what
was due his uncle, and with a sincere sympathy; he had been,
however, a little fearful that Colonel Hartright would attribute his
visit to interested motives. He returned, therefore, quite satisfied
note to see his uncle, and finding that Sainty, who had been absent,
had gotten back, informed him of the Colonel's attack and urged
him to ride and see him.

The warm-hearted young man did so promptly, and was absent
several hours. He came back looking very sad.

“Poor uncle Joshua!” he said, as Harley came out to meet him,
“he looks a great deal weaker.”

“You saw him, I suppose?”

“Oh yes; didn't you, brother?”

“I did not. I did not ask to see him, as I supposed it best for
him to be quiet.”

“He was very kind to me, and said he had had a hard time, but
was wellnigh over it, he hoped. Uncle is getting right old now,
I reckon, brother, and I'm mighty sorry for him—he seems so
lonely.”

“An excellent old man—quick-tempered but generous. He is
very fond of you, Sainty, and you must go and cheer him up when
I go back to Europe. I think I will leave you here in command,
and go back to my eternal travelling.”

“You! brother? Return to Europe! Why I thought you were
going to stay in Virginia.”

Harley smiled rather sorrowfully.

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“You can never count on birds of passage like myself, my boy.
Did you never see the wild-geese flying south? Whenever you see
them, they are—on the wing.”

“Oh! brother, what a disappointment! I hoped to be with you
always.”

“Thank you, my boy! Always is a strong word. No, I shall go
back—but we will talk of this another time.”

“Do give up the idea. You said I need not go back to Eton.”

“There is no reason in the world why you should. No, you shall
stay here, my dear Sainty, in my place—but where is St. Leger?”

“Yonder he is. He always rides in that direction—toward the
Blackwater. I never saw such a rider! I wonder if he's in love!”

And having fired off this criticism of St. Leger, Sainty Harley
disappeared, mounted his horse at the stables, and, in rather a
sneaking and surreptitious manner, rode off toward Blandfield—
Harley not observing, or seeming not to observe, the fact.

St. Leger rode up the hill, dismounted, and came to where his
friend was sitting.

“Here you are moping as usual old fellow!” he laughed.

“Moping? I?”

“You appear to be.”

“I am merely lounging.”

St. Leger looked at him, and a sudden temptation assailed him.

“Harley!” he exclaimed.

“Well, my dear St. Leger?”

“Why don't you get married?”

Carless and devoid of all significance as the words seemed, they
were uttered with a little embarrassment—of which fact the explanation
was perfectly simple. St. Leger had never had his curiosity
in the least degree satisfied with reference to Harley's past life.
Still came back to him, day after day, night after night, that ever-recurring
question, “Is or is not Justin Harley married?” It was
impossible for him to banish the subject, even absorbed as he had
now become by his singular sentiment toward Fanny—a sentiment
growing stronger as every hour passed on. Why had not Harley
satisfied this curiosity, St. Leger asked himself. He was perfectly
aware of its existence; he had even offered of his own accord to
narrate some day, soon, those unknown events of his youth. Why
did he not do so? Was he ashamed of anything in his career?
Had he been married, and divorced? Had he been outraged by
the course of the woman whom he had married—had his pride
been mortally wounded—and did he shrink from speaking of what
had happened, avoiding thus the cruel pang which the narrative
would cost him?

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One thing only was plain to St. Leger. The woman whom they
had encountered on their way from Williamsburg was in some way
connected with Harley's past life, whether she were or had been
his wife or not. Was she his wife? The thing was impossible, and
yet there was the eternally recurring problem to be solved! And
he could not ask Harley. There are some things that are so easy
that they are impossible. What was easier than to say, “Harley, I
am your sincere friend: there are reports about you—you know
that. Are you or are you not married?” And what more impossible
after Harley's declaration that he regarded such intrusion as
“ill-bred” and offensive!

So the unfortunate St. Leger pined away with unsatisfied curiosity,
and consoled himself amid all this mystery with visits to
Fanny! At last, however, he had summoned courage, had approached
the subject at last, had said,

“Harley! why don't you get married?”

Harley looked at him quietly.

“I have no intention of marrying. I have told you that more
than once, my dear friend,” he said.

“I know that you have; but the subject is a highly interesting
one.”

“To you perhaps. It is perfectly natural that you, a young man,
should think of such things, and I am not in the least surprised;
but as naturally the subject possesses less interest for me.”

“Hum!”

“You don't seem to be convinced.”

“I am not.”

“I am sorry. See what it is to have an old philosopher for a
friend. But let us talk of something else.”

“No, let us talk of this—the subject is interesting.”

“Very well.”

“Once more—why don't you marry?”

“I am an old gentleman—that alone is sufficient.”

“You are in the bloom of manhood.”

“I am past thirty.”

“Which is a man's prime.”

“Have it as you wish.”

There was a short pause. St. Leger then said:

“You are a swordsman of the first skill, Harley, and an opponent
must press home with you. Will you answer me a plain
question?”

“Yes,” was the quiet reply.

“An ill-bred question?”

“It will not be ill-bred if you ask it.”

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“Humph!” muttered St. Leger, “that's the way I'm always disarmed!”

“Well,” he said, “I'll venture. The question is not ill-bred, I
hope, but it is plain. Are you—paying your addresses to Evelyn
Bland?”

“Certainly not,” said Harley, the color suddenly fading out of
his face.

“You are not?”

“I am not.”

St. Leger was defeated on the very threshold.

“And you have no intention of doing so? I am a vulgar fellow
to be intruding in this offensive way, Harley; but I mean well.”

“You are never intrusive, friend, and never ill-bred; you are, on
the contrary, one of the best-bred persons I have ever known,” said
Harley, calmly. “You have been full of curiosity in reference to
myself and my past life ever since I have known you, and you
have never asked me a single indiscreet question, in spite of all this
mystery, which I hope soon now to dispel. I have shrunk from
so doing for many reasons—one is that the narrative will be an
extremely painful one to me. Let that suffice for the present, St.
Leger. To the questions you have asked me I have replied without
difficulty—I am even glad that you have asked them. No! I do
not design marrying.”

“I really don't see why you should not think of matrimony, if
you wish,” said the baffled St. Leger. “You are young, you have a
warm heart, you are rich.”

Harley shook his head.

“I am very far from rich; but still money is the least obstacle—I
have never thought much of it.”

“I have,” said St. Leger, laughing. “It is devilish disagreeable
to be without it—I have tried it.”

“Yes; but still the difference between the poor man and the rich
man is not so great as the poor man thinks. Daily bread and
shelter and clothing are necessary to us all; but after this, what is
really necessary? And the true luxuries of life are open to all—
the sunshine, the songs of birds, and the laughter of children—the
simple things of life. The poor man has these, and the rich man
can have no more.”

St. Leger laughed.

“One of the poor man's luxuries depends on matrimony—I mean
the laughter of children.”

“Yes—every man dreams of that music, I suppose, sometimes—
I shall never hear the laughter of my own.”

“Why not?”

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“The subject is a waste of time, friend. Let us change it. Where
have you been?”

St. Leger gave up in despair.

“Toward the Blackwater, and I stopped at Puccoon's in returning.
By-the-way, Harley, I have some singular intelligence for you.”

“Indeed?”

“Puccoon's friend—or foe—the man of the swamp, as he calls
him, has returned.”

Harley turned his head quickly, and looked at St. Leger.

“Are you certain of that?” he said.

“Yes.”

Harley pondered for some moments.

“I know he has not been seen for some time,” he at length said.

“You have seen him, I suppose?”

“I?” said Harley. “Yes.”

“You know him, perhaps,” said St. Leger, smiling.

“Yes,” said Harley; “an indiscreet reply, for it will lead you to
think that I have mysteries within mysteries—that all about me is
mystery!”

“My dear Harley, I really don't know what to think, and whether
thinking is not a high crime and misdemeanor. Pardon me, I only
mean—nothing! I give you a piece of news simply. The myth,
goblin, chimera, illusion, or streak of moonshine, known to our
friend Puccoon as the man of the swamp—whether swamp angel or
swamp devil I really don't know—has been absent, has returned,
and has resumed his eccentric habit of lurking around the abode
of Puccoon—for what reason, or with what object, I don't know.”

Harley remained silent. He was evidently reflecting.

“There is a person living in the marshes, St. Leger, and I am
personally acquainted with him,” he said at length; “I am also
cognizant of the fact that he has been away—or appears to have
been away—from the neighborhood. There my knowledge ends.
Why he haunts our friend Puccoon I don't know. At least you
have, on this point, a plain statement.”

“Which I do not ask, my dear Harley. Let us leave the subject.
But, as we are speaking of strange things, I have another item
pertaining to the domain of Wonderland—there is somebody living
at Puccoon's.”

“Somebody?”

“Besides himself and Fanny.”

“Who?”

“There is the mystery.”

Harley turned his head.

“Tell me about your mystery.”

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“I shall do so in a very few words. Some one occupies Fanny's
room—the small apartment behind the cabin.”

And St. Leger proceeded to speak of the day when Fanny had
become faint at sight of the man of the swamp, and he had
attempted to procure the water to revive her. It was singular that
her door should be closed and locked—a practice which St. Leger
knew to be unusual with her; and still stranger that when he
attempted to enter, the girl should exhibit that sudden emotion,
calling out to him not to do so. He had returned to Huntsdon, he
said, wondering at all this; and having ridden to Puccoon's cabin
again on this day, had distinctly heard the voices of two persons,
during the absence of Puccoon, as he rode toward the cabin. At
the sound of his horse's hoofs the voices had ceased: silence had
followed, and when he dismounted and walked to the door, Fanny
came out to meet him, blushing and looking a little confused, and
the door of her chamber was again closed.

“Well, that is an odd incident,” said Harley, “and I must say
the whole thing is incomprehensible to me. Who can be the other
inmate of the cabin? But, after all, it is not my affair.”

“I will find!” said St. Leger, knitting his brows. Harley looked
at his friend with a slight smile.

“You seem really interested in—shall I say in Puccoon or in—
Fanny, St. Leger!”

“Pshaw!”

“You see I am intrusive, if you like the word, in my turn; but I
am merely jesting. Not to say, my dear friend, that anybody would
be absurd to be fond of Fanny. She's a little duchess, or what
is better, a sweet and innocent maiden.”

“Is she not?”

“Indeed she is.”

St. Leger actually colored a little, and his glance stole to a rosebud—
the last of the year—which Fanny had placed in his buttonhole.

“Why is not a rosebud a rosebud whether it grows in a garden or
in a wildwood!” he said. “For my part, Harley, I look only at
the color, and think of the perfume—but we will talk of flowers
afterwards. I'm hungry, and want some claret!”

p513-225

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