20. CHAPTER XX.
THE VAGRANTS.
St. Leger left Blandfield a little after nine o'clock at night.
There are single days or nights in the lives of men which are
fuller of incident than whole months at other times; and this
night was to be fruitful in adventure to St. Leger.
He rode a horse whose peculiar merit was a long, swinging walk,
which carried him over the ground easily and rapidly; and, going
on now at this gait along the winding county road, overshadowed
for the most part by tall oaks, and often descending into hollows
where the darkness was scarcely dispelled in any measure by the
struggling light of the full moon, the young man gave himself up to
reverie.
His conversation with Evelyn Bland had again suggested to him
the question whether Harley was or was not married. He went over
in his memory every detail of the night-encounter with the strollers;
recalled as clearly as possible the expression of Harley's countenance,
the tones of his voice, his allusions on the next morning
to the incident, and the most minute circumstances connected with
the affair—asking himself, persistently, the question, “Is he or is he
not married?” St. Leger was not actuated by mere idle curiosity.
He had little of that itching, prying trait so powerfully developed
in some organizations. His interest sprung from a sincere interest
in Harley—and in Evelyn Bland.
The young lady had played her part, during their recent interview,
with skill, but she had not been able to conceal completely the sentiment
behind her questions. St. Leger had heard the almost imperceptible
tremor of her voice at last; had felt that she was aiming
to extract something from him; and the truth came to him suddenly
—Evelyn Bland was more interested in Harley than she wished
him to think.
That complicated the matter terribly. If that interest—perhaps
a dawning affection—for Harley existed in the bosom of Evelyn,
and his friend were already married, a tragedy would soon be
played. He would not believe that Harley could be guilty of the
baseness of paying his addresses to a young lady whilst his wife was
living; but—but—“It is impossible!” he said aloud; “the whole
thing is a dream!”
But—and again St. Leger's mind returned to the night-meeting
with the strollers, to Harley's agitation, to that of the woman, to
the strange, vague rumors, and that expression attributed to her,
that she would have her rights now.
What could be the meaning of all this?
St. Leger knit his brow, and went on thoughtfully. He was now
in the depths of a hollow, and sudden darkness descended like a
pall. The moon had gone behind a cloud. It seemed in quite a
different position in the sky. St. Leger looked round. He was lost.
His horse, during his reverie, must have taken the wrong road, and
he found himself in a spot which he was perfectly certain he had
never visited before.
He emerged from the hollow, and as he did so, saw behind a
clump of bushes a bright light, toward which he rode, hearing as
he approached the sound of voices. A picturesque spectacle then
presented itself. A fire was burning in a sort of hammock, beneath
some immense cypresses raising their tall trunks, crowned with
delicate fringe, into the darkness above; and around this fire was
gathered a motley crew, both male and female, eating, drinking and
laughing, while a donkey, just unhitched from a small canvas-covered
van or wagon, was munching some blue thistles on the edge
of the circle of light.
In the nondescript gang of Bohemians, St. Leger recognized the
strollers met with on his night-ride from Williamsburg, and in the
centre of the group was the manager who had let the curtain fall
when the woman was taken sick in the tobacco-house. He was a
jovial vagabond, apparently, with a twinkling eye, a coarse face,
and a leer which seemed habitual.
As St. Leger came into the circle of light, the vagabond turned
his head.
“Who rides so late?” he exclaimed, rising, striking an attitude,
and spouting out his challenge: “Stand, or thou diest, base churl
and prowler of the night!”
St. Leger pushed his horse up to the group.
“What mummery is this?” he said, sternly.
Instantly the vagabond doffed his hat, which was decorated with
a huge feather. He had caught sight of the rich dress of St. Leger,
and this, with the tone of the young man's voice, probably produced
the conviction in his mind that the new-comer was some
squire or justice of the peace, and, consequently, a dangerous personage
to be trifled with by vagrants.
“Ha! ha!—a blunder! Pardon it, your honor!”
“Who are you?” said St. Leger, briefly.
“Only poor players, may it please your honor.”
He looked keenly at St. Leger.
“I have seen your honor once before,” he said, in a more natural
tone, “and you had another gentleman with you—something like a
month ago.”
“Yes.”
St. Leger put his hand in his pocket, and threw some coins on the
ground.
“We were at your play—there is for myself and my friend.”
The vagrant quickly picked up the coin, bowing low. St. Leger
was meanwhile looking keenly through the group. The woman
with the pale, thin cheeks, and the rouge making them paler, was
nowhere to be seen. The vagrant had followed the glance.
“Your honor is looking for Cleopatra.”
“Who is Cleopatra?”
“It is her stage-name. You saw her that night. She was taken
ill.”
“Where is she?”
An expression of sullen ill-humor had come to the vagrant's
face.
“She has run away after binding herself to stay. I am ruined!—
ruined!”
“Then she acted well?”
“Like a queen, your honor,—she did all the queens—carried the
queen into life behind the scenes. A queer character—she was in
the company, but would have nothing to do with us. Stuck up—
would never take a part with the least joke in it, or where she had
to show the point of her foot!”
The recollection seemed to excite the vagrant's indignation.
“A stuck-up piece!” he added.
“And she is gone!”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Well, I presume you might find her again among her friends.
She will no doubt return to her family.”
The vagrant knit his brows.
“There's the rub, your honor. We don't know where she came
from. Picked her up on the highway, years ago, without so much
as a bundle, her hair on her shoulders, and looking wild.”
“`What's the matter?' says I.
“`Save me!' says she.
“`Are they after you?' says I. If so, get into the van, and I'll
see you are safe.'
“So she got in the van, and that night we were twenty miles
away, and I told her, `in this company everybody that eats must
work'; so she got to acting, but you could see she hated it, and
was a real lady, for she would not stand a joke, and blazed out if it
was tried, and held her head like a queen, your honor.”
St. Leger reflected. The vagrant had given him a complete history
in a few words, and evidently had told all that he knew.
“What was the woman's name?” said St. Leger.
The vagabond shook his head.
“Don't know, your honor.”
“A married person, do you think?”
“Yes,” said a girl of the troop, in a red petticoat and a blue boddice;
“I saw the wedding-ring on her finger.”
The speaker held up the third finger of her left hand.
“That's all anybody knows about her—she never talked.”
The vagrant manager scowled ferociously at the speaker. All
these questions had ended by exciting his suspicions. Information
was desired—information was saleable—any amount of it might
be coined for the occasion; and the girl in the red petticoat had
defeated all!
St. Leger seemed, however, to have lost his interest in the subject.
He asked no more questions, and rode on.
“A fugitive—married—but was she married to Harley!” he muttered.
“The plot thickens—and the mystery too!”
