University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
ST. LEGER COMES TO THE CONCLUSION THAT HE IS CRAZY.

Fanny, the daughter of Puccoon, the trapper, was sitting, as
usual, at the door of the hut in the hills, when St. Leger emerged
on horseback—after leaving Harley and Evelyn—from the deep-green
magnolia-like laurels, approached, and dismounting, affixed
the bridle of his horse to a bough not far from the girl.

At sight of him Fanny rose quickly, with a sudden color in her
cheek.

“You!”

“Yes, Fanny, yes!”

“You have come back!”

These words had escaped the girl's lips in a sort of flutter. She
took two steps toward him and stopped. Standing there, with one
knee bent, the little feet, in their spotless stockings and coarse
shoes, plain beneath the skirt, her head drooping forward a little,
her curls covering her shoulders in tangled profusion, and framing
the blushing cheeks and blue eyes, Fanny was like a picture.

“Are you glad to see me, then?”

St. Leger took her hand as he said this, and looked earnestly into
her face.

“Oh! yes.”

“I really believe that you are; and now, as I am tired, I will sit
down. Go on with your sewing.”

Fanny went back to her seat, and St. Leger sat down on a stool
beside her. It was his customary seat. He had visited the cabin
often now, and fell into the ways of things easily. Puccoon was
almost always absent, hunting, as he was on this morning.

“I am very glad to see you again,” said the girl, in her sweet,
simple voice; “I was sure you were gone.”

“I did go—as far as Williamsburg.”

“And—”

“What brought me back? The intervention of the best of Governors!”
laughed St. Leger. “Do you wish to hear about it?”

“Oh yes.”

“Here is the narrative, then, Fanny. As a great author says, `I
will be brief.' I set off with Mr. Harley, who was ready to weep at
my departure, rode to the capital, and was about to sail, when I got
a note from his Excellency the Governor, requesting me to come

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Fanny had resumed her sewing without further words."—P. 149.

[Description: 513EAF. Image of Fanny and St. Leger sitting on the stoop outside of her cabin. She is looking down at her sewing. St. Leger is holding onto his tri-cornered hat and looking over at her, smiling. Behind them is the cabin, with animal pelts and nets hanging on the exterior walls.]

and see him. I went; I was received in his big room, with portraits
of the King and Queen staring down at you. I am now going to
use some long, fine words. His Excellency, it seems, was in a
difficulty. He wished to send to the people in London—the mintstry
they are called—a report of affairs in the colonies. This report
must go by a sure hand; I was a sure hand. The report would
take a month: would I wait? Now for some more long words.
His Excellency proceeded to add that he would see that Mr. St.
Leger got into no trouble. He would write to the Foreign Office,
which would notify the War Office, which would notify the commanding
officer of the Blues, that the said Mr. St. Leger was absent
on the public service; by which means red tape would be respected.
Do you know what red tape is, Fanny?”

Fanny shook her head, laughing, and said “No.”

“And what the Foreign Office is, and the other offices, and all?”

The same ignorance.

“Happy maiden!” said St. Leger, laughing, “and if you take my
advice you will never learn. They are fearfully stupid things, and
I am a fortunate man to be here with you, instead of in London
with them!”

If ever a human being's expression of countenance verified his
words, St. Leger's did. He was looking at Fanny's cheeks, just
touched with the tea-rose tint, at her long lashes, as her eyes were
fixed upon her sewing, and at the wealth of tangled curls, with a
quite singular expression. On the fair head, and neck bent forward
with exquisite grace, fell the dreamy splendor of the Indian summer
sunshine. It was strange—very strange—but St. Leger's heart
throbbed, and a sudden warmth came to it.

“Fanny!” he said.

She raised her eyes and looked at him, turning her head slightly.

“I am going to ask you a question. Did anybody ever tell you
that you were very beautiful?”

“Beautiful!” exclaimed the girl.

“Yes.”

“I beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“No, indeed, sir. Who would take the trouble?”

“It would not take much trouble,” said St. Leger, with a little
laugh, mingled with a suspicious sigh.

Fanny had resumed her sewing, without further words; but there
was a good deal more color in her cheeks. She seemed to be
musing; a new thought had plainly come into her mind.

“I don't think it would be worth any one's trouble to come away
off here to the hills and our poor cabin to tell me any such thing,”
she said simply. “I am a child, and we are poor, common people.”

St. Leger shook his head.

“You are not a child—you are nearly a woman; and whether
you are poor or not you are not common.”

The girl seemed somewhat troubled at these remarks, and did
not make any reply.

“For that matter,” said St. Leger, “I am not of those people who
believe mere rank in life makes any difference. A gentleman is a
gentleman, and a lady is a lady, whether they live in a cabin or a
palace—there is no common about it.”

St. Leger seemed to be listening to some one else speaking with
his own voice. Here he was—he, the elegant man of the world,
with deeply-grounded prejudices in favor of class—expounding to
this child the doctrine of the French philosophers and overturners,
then coming into vogue.

“I am very glad you think well of us,” said Fanny, simply. “I
have heard and read of fine society, but never expect to see it. I
shall live and die here in the hills.”

“That would be a pity!”

“A pity? Oh no! I am happy—I ought to be. I have father,
and he loves me, and—and—”

“Go on, Fanny!”

She looked at him with an air of exquisite candor and innocence.

“I meant that—I had you, too.”

St. Leger felt a strong desire to take the small hand holding the
needle, draw the child to him, hold her close to his heart, and tell
her how much he loved her. He did nothing of the sort, however—
not making the least attempt to do so—but he looked at her with
the greatest tenderness. She turned away from him thereupon,
and all at once St. Leger saw her give a slight start.

“What is the matter?” he said.

“That man again!”

“What man?”

“The man of the swamp!”

“You are dreaming, Fanny! Why, he's gone!”

“He has come back!”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes, sir—twice. He has been away, but has returned, and I saw
him pass across the opening in the trees yonder—in a different
dress, but the same person—and he was looking at us!”

“I will find him!” cried St. Leger, starting up.

Fanny caught him by the arm.

“Oh no! no! You must not follow him. He always has his
gun, and you could not find him either! Don't go, Mr. St. Leger.

You must not go—come in! He may be looking now—maybe from
some cypress he has climbed!”

It was evident that Fanny was really terrified. She drew St.
Leger into the cabin, shut the door, and said:

“He frightens me! Why does he haunt us so?”

The child closed her eyes, falling on a seat as though she were
dizzy and faint. St. Leger was alarmed, and looked about him for
water to revive her. None was visible, and he tried to open the
door leading into Fanny's little room in rear of the cabin, where he
supposed he would have better success. The door was locked, and
St. Leger was trying still to enter, when Fanny, who had risen
quickly, caught his arm.

“No! no!” she said, hurriedly, “do not go in there!”

“Not go in? Why not, Fanny?”

“Because—please do not!”

“I was looking for water; you were faint.”

“I am not faint! I am very well now.”

St. Leger smiled.

“Why did you lock this door?”

“I cannot tell you,” Fanny said, in a low tone. “Come away,
Mr. St. Leger; do come!”

She went and opened the cabin-door again, resumed her seat,
and said:

“There is father coming home.”

Puccoon soon made his appearance, saluted St. Leger cordially,
and kissed Fanny with warm affection. He and his guest then
entered into conversation. St. Leger mentioned the re-appearance
of the man of the swamp, and Puccoon said, in a gloomy voice,

“Yes, he has come back, and trouble will come of it.” He then
dismissed the subject, spoke of hunting, and at the end of an hour,
St. Leger mounted his horse and rode away.

“I wonder why Fanny locked that door, and opposed my entering
so strongly?” muttered the young man.

He pondered thereon for some moments vainly; then another
subject evidently occupied him.

“Am I falling in love?” he murmured—“in love with a child?
I, in love with Fanny? Am I crazy?”

He tried to laugh, but did not succeed very well.

“I was laughing at Harley yonder. If he saw me, he would laugh
at me! A child!—the daughter of the poor trapper! And that
lofty moral discourse I made on the nothingness of rank! If my
uncle the earl had heard it, what a jolly laugh would have come
from him. And still I defy any one to find in this girl anything
but an exquisite delicacy and refinement. And she has improved.

She is educating herself. There is not a fault in her choice of
words, or her pronunciation.”

He colored as he thought of her, and then began to laugh.

“By heaven! she's a princess; and Henry St. Leger, Esq., could
present her at court, and not be ashamed of her, if she were a
woman and not a child!”