22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE WOMAN.
St. Leger stopped for a moment beneath one of the great oaks to
enjoy the picturesque spectacle of the Huntsdown house, sleeping
in the vague chill moonlight. The building was more than ever
imposing in the weird light; the shadows of the wings took fantastic
shapes, and the long façade, with its rows of windows, its large
portico, and its heavy substantial look, produced the impression
on St. Leger of some feudal castle, fitted up as a modern dwelling.
In a single room a light was burning. This was the chamber in
which Harley slept, and as St. Leger had more than once observed
the light, at late hours, when he knew that Harley was asleep, he
paid no attention to it. It should be added here, however, by
way of explanation, that the young Englishman once or twice
asked his friend, in a jesting tone, if he was afraid of ghosts, to
which question Harley had responded with great coolness that he
was not. Everything in this world was a matter of habit, he said,
and one of his habits—a bad one, perhaps, as it excited attention—
was to sleep with a light burning throughout the night.
St. Leger enjoyed the spectacle of the great house in the dim
moonlight; but the lateness of the hour admonished him that
it was time to wake the groom, who was always in attendance,
give his horse in charge, and retire.
He was about, therefore, to ride out of his place of concealment,
when, chancing to turn his head toward the right wing of the
house in which Harley's light was burning, he saw the figure of a
woman come out of the shadow of the oak, whose boughs brushed
up against the walls, and look up to the light.
It was impossible for St. Leger afterward to explain why, but
from the first moment he knew that this woman, who was dressed
in black from head to foot, was the same whom he and Harley had
met, on the night when they lost their way, in returning from
Williamsburg—the same of whose flight the vagrant manager of
the strollers had complained—the woman, in a word, whose past
life seemed connected in some strange manner with the life of his
friend. What brought her now at midnight to Huntsdon? What
was her object? Did she come to have a private interview with
Harley, and was she waiting for him to keep his appointment?
St. Leger felt, at sight of this woman, a sentiment of gloom and
oppression—all this mystery puzzled him, and he was casting
about for some means of gaining the house without meeting the
woman, when a low thunder resounded through the mansion.
It was the great clock in the hall slowly striking the hour of
midnight.
As the sonorous strokes resounded, one by one, in the profound
silence, they produced a singular effect upon St. Leger's feelings.
Something solemn, superstitious, awful, spoke in these measured
beats of the hammer on the bell. It was time passing steadily,
inexorably, to the moment of some unknown catastrophe. The
woman in black remained perfectly motionless in the moonlight.
The last stroke died away, and there came, like an echo, the neigh
of a horse from a spot beneath one of the oaks where Harley had
the fancy always to dismount when he returned from riding.
St. Leger did not move; lost in the shadow, he listened intently,
with a strange feeling that something was about to take place.
The neigh of the horse had just replied to the last stroke of the
clock, when the front door of the mansion opened, a figure came
out, booted and spurred—for the chains of the spurs rattled on the
flags—and St. Leger clearly made out the tall, erect, and proud-looking
form of Harley. He came down the steps, walked along
the gravel road toward the spot from which the neigh of the horse
had been heard, and passed within a few feet of the woman, who
had quickly retired at his appearance beneath the shadow of the
oak, behind whose trunk she probably concealed herself.
St. Leger remained motionless. What was the meaning of all
this? Why had this woman come thus under cover of darkness
to the grounds of Huntsdon, and on the appearance of the master
of the mansion, concealed herself from his eyes? The young man
was lost in astonishment, and was only aroused by the rapid
hoof-strokes of Harley's horse as he went down the hill.
St. Leger did not see the woman, and she did not again make
her appearance. The shadow had blotted out her figure.
As to Harley, he had ridden down the hill at a gallop, and passed
through the gate. The footfalls of his horse were then heard on
the road beyond, and from the direction of the sound, which
steadily receded, St. Leger knew that he was going toward the
Blackwater Swamp, over the same road which he himself had
followed in returning from the vicinity of Puccoon's cabin to
Huntsdon. Five minutes afterward the sounds had died away,
and no noise interrupted the stillness of the night.
The moon soared aloft, pouring down its light in solemn splendor,
and the night wind only murmured in the great trees. No trace
of the woman was seen. She had evidently gone into the depth
of the park, and sought some hiding-place.
St. Leger touched his horse with the spur, rode to a side door,
where he waked the sleeping hostler, gave his animal in charge,
came back to the front door, which he found unlocked, and
entered.
“A queer night!” he muttered, as he went to his chamber. “I
begin to think that my good friend Justin Harley does not speak
of his past life because silence is best. Where has he gone?
Who is this woman? What does all this mean? By heaven!
“I'll not leave Virginia until I discover?”
