26. CHAPTER XXVI.
“A. C.”
Between four and five o'clock in the morning, St. Leger, who had
lain awake for a long time reflecting, was aroused by the hoof-strokes
of a horse on the road in front of the house, and then a
firm step crossed the portico, entered the door, ascended the staircase,
and went into Harley's room, the door of which closed.
Harley had evidently returned, after attending to his “business,”
whatever it might be.
For half-an-hour St. Leger remained awake, pondering as before.
He then fell asleep—having formed a resolution.
This resolution was simple. He had determined, when he came
down in the morning, to drop all ceremony and say to his host—he
had shaped in his mind the very words he would employ—
“My dear Harley, will you be kind enough to relieve the
curiosity of an unhappy friend of yours, and inform him, frankly,
whether you are or are not—married!”
The question would be unceremonious, but then it would be gay,
jovial, and, uttered in a tone of unconcern, it might not offend.
But St. Leger had resolved to run the risk of giving offence. He
felt himself absolutely called upon, after his conversation with
Evelyn Bland, to ascertain in some manner whether Harley had
or had not a wife living; and he was impelled to adopt his resolution
far more by his deep and sincere interest in the welfare of the
woman he had loved than by mere curiosity. St. Leger was in fact
that rarest of human beings—an unselfish person. He had loved
Evelyn ardently, and had not found in her rejection of his addresses
any reason for becoming indifferent to her. He bowed
like a brave young fellow to his fate, accepted the result, and said
to himself, “I can at least be her friend, and watch over her as I
would over my sister; unless I do, something tragic will result
from all this.” For Evelyn to place her affections upon Harley,
regarding him as unmarried, and a possible suitor, whilst he was
already married!—St. Leger knit his brows at the very thought,
and said to himself that the occasion did not justify ceremony; he
would ask, or, if necessary, demand, the truth from Harley's lips.
He came down ready for the encounter. In spite of his firm
resolution, and his conviction that his duty as a gentleman required
him to drop all ceremony, it was not without some repugnance and
a slight tremor of the nerves that he approached the moment. In
fact the question was awkward—it was certainly intrusive. How
would Harley receive it? Nothing had been easier than asking
that jocose question in bed, with no one present! To face his
friend, and ask it, was quite different. He could see, in imagination,
the grave countenance of Harley, the cold surprise of his
expression, the possible hauteur of his lips, as he declined responding.
What would be the result? Whatever it might be, he would adhere
to his resolution: ask; take the consequences; do his duty—
and St. Leger walked into the breakfast-room.
Harley was not there. An excellent breakfast smoked upon the
table; the urn sang by the cheerful fire; and the gray-haired old
African major-domo, with a silver waiter in his hand and a white
napkin over his left arm, respectfully waited, making him a cordial
and deferential morning-salute as he came in.
“Where is Mr. Harley, James?” he said.
“Rode out, sir,” replied James, respectfully; “left a note for
you, sir.”
The old African then went to a side-table, took a note from it,
deposited the note upon his waiter, and presented it to St. Leger.
He opened it and read:
“My Dear St. Leger—I am called away this morning upon business,
and may not possibly return until to-morrow or the next day.
Try to amuse yourself. You must have returned late last night.
Were you at Blandfield? These affairs are always renewed. Bon
voyage, mon ami!
Your friend,
“Justin Harley.”
St. Leger put the note in his pocket, and sat down to breakfast
with a feeling of decided relief. The ordeal was deferred. After
breakfast the young man went out to walk in the grounds. He
went first to the spot where the woman in black had stood looking
up at the light in Harley's window. It was possible, he said to
himself, that he might follow her by the print of her feet, and thus
ascertain in what direction she had disappeared. No traces were,
however, visible. The storm had obliterated everything, and there
was not the least indication to guide him. He went on, strolling
idly along and musing. A winding path led through the oaks,
whose enormous boughs here and there were interlocked, and this
path conducted him to a little dell, where a spring welled up.
The path led beyond the spring, running beneath a large oak.
There was a stile in the tall fence, made of a large block. St. Leger
was about to turn back, when something under the oak attracted
his attention. He went and picked it up. It was a black veil.
He looked at it, examined it for some mark, but could find none.
As he gave up the search, he chanced to raise his eyes and look at
the oak. There within a few feet of him, carved in the trunk,
were these initials:
“J. H.
A. C.”
St. Leger saw that they had been carved there many years
before, for the bark was closing around the letters, and slowly
growing over them.
“'J. H.”' he muttered; “that seems to stand for Justin Harley!
But `A. C.'—what does `A. C.' stand for?”
He looked for some time at the letters, shook his head, and then
putting the veil in his pocket, went back, along the same path,
to the house.
An hour afterwards, he had exhausted every means of passing
the time.
“I will take a ride,” he said. His horse was now ready.
“Decide for me, chance!” he said, dropping the rein on his horse's
neck, as he rode through the great gate into the highway.
The animal, thus left to his own guidance, turned toward the left,
and went, at a long swinging walk, in the direction of the Blackwater.
St. Leger did not seem to be aware of the road he was following.
He had let his chin fall upon his breast, and was musing.
“`A. C.'!—who is or was `A. C.'?” he muttered.
