University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
A MAN WITH A LANTERN.

Harley and St. Leger went on at full gallop through the slow,
steady, never-ceasing snow-fall. Their horses were the finest in
the Huntsdon stables. Harley's, especially, was an animal of great
power, who kept the long, regular gallop unurged; his neck arched
from the heavy hand of his rider on the rein; his nostrils flecked
with foam-flakes.

Harley's eyes were fixed straight before him. He had evidently
quite forgotten the presence of St. Leger, and was thinking of something
which completely deverted his attention from the landscape
through which he moved; and yet the landscape was striking.
The snow began to cover every object—a ghastly shroud, hiding
not the face of living nature, it seemed, but something that was
dead. The trees rose, gaunt and weird, like phantoms of the night;
the bushes, as they passed, were goblin-like, with outstretched
arms to arrest the travellers. They themselves resembled phantoms.
As they went on, their horses' hoofs made no noise on the
soft snow. They passed over the long levels, up the hills, down
into hollows, where the road ran between overhanging banks,
thick-clothed with evergreens, quite ghastly now—as silent as
shadows.

Harley was looking still straight before him, when he saw a light
through the falling flakes. This light was an eccentric one; it
moved along the ground, rose, was lowered, disappeared, re-appeared,
and then moved steadily forward, still near the surface.
A man was carrying a lantern, it seemed, and was approaching the
main road at right angles, coming from the north and going toward
the south.

There was something singular in this light, moving steadily in
the wild spot, on such a night. Who was the night-wanderer?
Absorbed as he was in thought, Harley followed the light with his
eyes, saw it approach the road over which he was riding, and
reached the point where another road crossed, just as the light did.
It was carried in the hand of a man who walked in front of a small
van, covered with canvas, and drawn by a solemn-looking donkey.
Beside the van, like pall-bearers beside a coffin, walked four or five
men, wrapped in nondescript overcoats. Men, van, and donkey
were snow-covered.

Harley was about to continue his way, when suddenly the thought
passed through his mind—

“This is the company of strollers.”

“He stopped all at once—St. Leger imitating him—and called out
to the man with the lantern to halt. The command was at once
obeyed, and the light fell upon the face of the man. It was the
manager of the strollers, and a glance showed Harley that his order
to him to halt had occasioned him very considerable trepidation.

“A word with you, friend,” said Harley. “You are travelling
late.”

“Yes, your honor. We are poor playing people making for
Smithfield. A bad night, your honor.”

“A bad night, as you say.”

He leaned over his horse's neck, close to the man.

“Where is the—woman—I saw a month ago in this company?
Tell me, and I will pay you well for the information. Refuse to tell
me, and you shall lie in Smithfield jail to-morrow as a kidnapper
and vagrant.”

“The woman? Oh! your honor? am I to get into trouble about
that woman? I wish I had never seen her!

“Where is she?”

“Your honor—”

“Where is she!”

“Now, don't, your honor! Don't be hard on a poor fellow that's
done nothing. She's gone, your honor—gone, and I've never laid
eyes on her since.”

Harley looked at the man upon whose face the light of the lantern
fell clearly. There was no mistaking the face. Terror was
written upon it—terror too great to be reconcilable with deceit.

“You do not know, I see that. Why did she leave you?”

“Well, your honor,” said the stroller, much re-assured, “I can't
tell that, and nobody can, except it is a Mr. Justin Harley.”

“Justin Harley!”

“That's the name, sir. It is on a paper we found this very day,
among her things. Queer enough, but somebody saw it before.
There is a Mr. Harley living somewhere in this country, I'm told.
The paper must be for him.”

“The paper!—a paper addressed to Justin Harley!”

“Just so, your honor.”

“Give me the paper!”

“Give it to you, your honor!”

“I am Justin Harley.”

And knitting his brows with sudden gloom, he repeated,

“Give me the paper!”

The man, who had listened with evident surprise, saw that Harley
was too much in earnest to endure temporizing.

“Yes, your honor; you shall have the paper in a minute,” he
said.

It was not far to seek. The vagrant put his hand into his breast,
drew out a sealed packet, and gave it to Harley, saying, as he did so,

“I hope you'll remember a poor man, sir. You see I am making
no difficulty. I don't know your honor. I was going to look for
you, and give you this; but if you say you are Mr. Harley, that's
enough.”

Harley had taken the packet, and was looking at it closely. It
was of coarse paper, heavily sealed, and his name was written upon
the cover.

“Her writing!” he muttered. “I know it too well! Yes, her
writing; and this paper is addressed to me!”

He was about to tear it open, but instead of doing so, put it in
the breast-pocket of his coat, and buttoned the coat over it.

“Not now, and not here,” he muttered.

During this time the manager of the strollers was looking at him
with very great anxiety. The paper had left his possession, and
an equivalent had not been forthcoming. Harley comprehended
the look and replied to it.

“Yes,” he said—“I had forgotten.”

He took out his purse, selected a bank of England note of considerable
value, and handed it to the stroller.

“That to begin with,” he said, “on condition that you reply to
my questions. Afterwards, if you accomplish what I wish, as
much more—twice as much more.”

The stroller's eyes had glittered with cupidity. He examined the
bank of England note with unflattering intensity, uttered a little,
suppressed grunt of delight, and placed it, with cautious rapidity,
in an inner pocket.

“Yes, your honor, yes—I will do anything. Your honor has
only to command. Where's the base slave that, seeing straight
before him!—but enough of this!”

“More than enough! This is no time for your heroics, sir.
have no time to waste. First for my questions.”

“Anything your honor—anything a poor—”

“Tell me all about—this woman,” interrupted Harley. “I—take
an interest in her; but that is not the question. How did she
come to be a member of your company? Where and when did
you meet her first? Tell me all—all; and I warn you I will have
the plainest answers and the plainest truth. I am in no haste.
The night is before us.”

The stroller wiped the snow from his face.

“It is a bad night to talk in, your honor, but—”

“True. I had forgotten. Yonder is a better place. You will not
reach shelter, and had better bivouac—fire is house and bed.”

“I see your honor is a soldier.”

“I am a hunter at least, and used to this. Yonder is your bivouac
under that pine, where the bank shelter you.”

He pointed to a large pine growing at the edge of the road,
beneath a bank. The heavy foliage had protected the ground from
the snow, and drooped with its burden, making a warm nest.

“There is the fence—burn it. It is my own. And now for my
questions.”

The strollers kindled a fire with the rapidity of old hands at the
business. A bright blaze sprung up beneath the pine—the donkey
was unhitched—the men gathered around the fire, St. Leger waited
patiently, and Harley and the manager, at some paces off, began to
talk—or rather Harley listened. The stroller had evidently been
impressed by the warning to be straightforward and to conceal or
misrepresent nothing. His story was essentially the same as that
which he had told St. Leger—whom he did not seem in the least
to recognize. Travelling, many years before, upon a highway which
had just entered a clump of woods, a woman, scarcely more than
twenty in appearance, had suddenly joined them, laboring under
great excitement—flying, it seemed, from some one or something.
They must save her!—save her! she cried; and thinking it only
humane to succor beauty, (here the stroller became sentimental, but
was checked by an impatient exclamation from Harley,) they had
given her refuge, placed her in the van, travelled on, and she had
remained with them.

“And no one pursued her?”

“Nobody, your honor!”

“She gave you her name?”

“A name, your honor—a mere make up—we have forgot it, and
always called her Cleopatra.”

“She acted?”

“Like a queen, your honor!”

“She was—irreproachable? Answer plainly.”

Harley's voice changed a little; his eyes were full of a gloomy
fire.

“Irre-proach-able?” said the manager, pronouncing the long word
with sedulous care, “I believe, your honor! Irre-proach-able?—

“That is enough. Spare me your stage-talk—I am in no humor
for it. Why did she leave you?”

The stroller shook his head. He looked for a single instant at
Harley, evidently with the desire of saying, “It was after seeing
you that night;” but this intimation, he seemed to feel, would
hazard his prospective gains.

“I don't know any more than the babe unborn, your honor. I
only know we woke up on the morning after—a performance—and
the bird had flown.”

“You don't know where she is?”

“No more than the babe just mentioned, as I live, your
honor!”

“Good, and now listen to me, and hear only what I say, without
asking questions, or repeating anything to any one. Look for this
woman. Find her if you can—or some trace of her. Then come at
once to me. I live at a house called Huntsdon, not far from this
spot—any one can direct you. Bring me information of her, and I
will pay you for your information, and pay you largely.”

The stroller took off his hat and bowed low. He respected that
strong vibrating voice—and the roll of bank-notes he had seen in
the purse of the owner of the voice.

“Yes, yes, your honor. I'll find your honor's house, never fear,
your honor.”

“And keep your own counsel.”

“I am secret as death itself, your honor! And never fear. She
is lurking somewhere—she can't be very far. I see you take an
interest in her—that's enough—I haven't asked, your honor—”

“Ask me nothing,” said Harley, gloomily. “I want this information,
and I will pay for it.”

He reflected for a few moments, and his face grew soft and sad.

“Poor girl!” he muttered. “On such a night! She may be at
this moment—”

He looked up. The stroller was watching him.

“I have said all that I need say,” he muttered. “Begin your
search at once—to-morrow.”

And making a brief salute with his hand, he mounted, and set
out again, with St. Leger at a gallop as before, looking straight
before him still. The long, steady gallop carried him swiftly over
the white road; and the forest around Huntsdon rose in front of
him.

“Poor, poor girl!” he murmured again. On such a night! God
grant she may be sheltered! Forgive her! Oh yes! from the
bottom of the heart she wellnigh broke! I must see her again, if
only for an instant. How can I think of it! On such a night!”

He went up the hill, still at the long gallop, followed by St. Leger.
As he threw himself from the saddle in front of the portico, he

looked toward the oak, under which St. Leger had informed him
she had concealed herself.

“If she were only there!” he murmured; “but, thank heaven!
she is not. On such a night, with her poor little feet—!”

He drew a long breath. Then he called, and the groom, who
who always awaited him, came promptly.

“Has any one been here?” he said.

“No, Mas' Justin.”

He looked at his watch, on which a gleam from one of the windows
fell.

“It is time,” he said.

He went slowly up the steps, followed by St. Leger, the groom
leading off their horses through the falling snow. His hand was
thrust into his breast. He seemed anxious to assure himself that
the package was still there, and to guard it.

“Why did she ever write this?” he murmured. “I do not wish
to read it. I think I know what it contains. But—ah! the long,
long hours when she was thinking of me—writing her heart here!
Poor girl! poor girl!”

St. Leger laid his hand upon his arm. He was deeply affected.

“And to think,” he said, “that I have heard you called cold!”

Harley drew a long breath, and looked at his companion with
unutterable sadness.

“It is better, perhaps, to be—this life is so sorrowful,” he murmured.

They went in, and the door closed.

Until after midnight, Harley sat up, evidently expecting some
one.

This some one did not come. The snow continued to fall in a
blinding mass. The long hours slowly passed.

The appointment had not been kept, and without another word
upon the subject, Harley bade his friend good-night, and retired to
his chamber.