University of Virginia Library

48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
WHAT HARLEY FOUND.

Harley rode toward the Blackwater Swamp.

“So much for that business!” he said. “My boy will be a better
match, and my glum face will not trouble anybody, since I shall
be in Europe. Now for a last duty. When this is done, there will
no longer be a tie attaching me to Virginia, and I shall be ready to
go with St. Leger at any moment.”

An expression of deep sadness had settled upon his face, and
the landscape around him was in unison with his mood. The sun
was slowly sinking, and the long shadows of the cypresses and
laurels fell in black bars across the lonely road which he was
pursuing. The air was perfectly still, and a dreamy haze enveloped
every object—the last days of the brief Indian summer were
at hand, and the year was slowly going to his death, the faint,
sweet sunshine lighting up the landscape like a smile on the face
of a dying man.

“Sad, very sad!” Harley murmured, “and this business I am on
is saddest of all. Where is that poor girl? She has disappeared
like a shadow. That stroller, so long the master of her destiny,
knows nothing of her whereabouts, or he would have returned to
tell me, and claim his reward. Where is she? Is she dead or
alive? She was last seen in this country just before that sudden
snowstorm. What if she was wandering at the time in these
woods—homeless, not knowing her way—friendless, hopeless!”

A deep and painful sigh followed the words.

“That is frightful! Only to think of it! While I—I—have
been yonder with a roof over my head, with wholesome food,
with clothing and fire, and every comfort—she, this poor, unfortunate
girl, whom I loved so dearly once, may have been without
shelter, with thin clothing, hungry, shivering, despairing—perhaps
falling and dying in some hollow of this pitiless wood!”

An acute expression of anguish came to the lips of the speaker.
An immense pity and tenderness might have been discovered in
his eyes.

He went on, with his head hanging down. He had directed his
course toward the point where he and St. Leger had entered the

Blackwater Swamp on the night of the deer-hunt. But his horse
had obliqued to the right. As the sun was setting he found himself
in front of Puccoon's hut.

He rode up to the door, which was closed, and leaning over,
tapped upon it with the butt of his riding-whip.

The door was not opened at once. Harley heard voices; then
an inner door—apparently that of Fanny's little chamber—was
shut quickly, a key was turned, securing it, and Fanny appeared
upon the threshold of the outer door, with heightened color,
exhibiting some trepidation.

But at sight of Harley, with his sweet and cordial smile, the
child's fears quickly disappeared. In all countries which he had
traversed—in France, Austria, Italy, England—the face of this
man had inspired confidence in women and children, who seemed
to read by instinct the kind and loyal nature from which they had
nothing to fear.

Harley asked for Puccoon, and finding that he was abroad, rode
on, saying that he would probably return on the same night. As
he rode down the hill, he thought of St. Leger's statement, that
some one was living in Puccoon's cabin besides himself and
Fanny; but attaching no importance to the fact, if it were a fact,
he dismissed the subject from his mind.

“St. Leger might very well love this little maid,” he said to himself,
glancing over his shoulder at Fanny, upon whose tangled curls
the last rays of sunset fell, making her resemble a picture. “The
nephew of an earl—the daughter of a trapper—that would be
strange, but life is, after all, a strange affair.”

Having uttered which maxim, Harley rode toward the Blackwater
Swamp, which he reached, and, dismounting, penetrated on
foot, just as the sun balanced itself, like a ball of fire, on the
summit of the woods, flushing the weird and phantom-like cypresses
with an angry crimson.

He knew his way now, and went on steadily, circling the lake,
and making for the spot where the long-swaying tree-trunk served
for a bridge over the stream running into the large body of water.
This he soon reached, and crossed. He then continued to advance
through the jungle toward the outlet to the lake in the midst of
which was the small island—the home of the man of the swamp.

It was the fourth time that he had visited the wild and sombre
locality. The first visit has been described; and we have seen how
he penetrated the morass, crossed the sullen, moat-like outlet and
reached the den of the hunter, poacher, or whatever he was. He
had repeated this visit a few days afterwards, and had come a third
time, but on both subsequent visits had seen nothing of the man

whom he evidently sought. The underground home of the swamp-dweller
was deserted.

Would he have better fortune now? He had renewed his attempt
in consequence of the information communicated to him by
St. Leger on the preceding day. The mysterious man of the swamp
had been seen again, after a month's absence, in the vicinity of
Puccoon's cabin—Fanny had recognized him—and there was no
reason why he should not have returned to his den in the marshes.
Harley had resolved at least to look for him in that direction, and
was now approaching the island, upon which the under-ground
dwelling was situated. He was unarmed, as he had been upon all
his latter visits. On his first visit he had taken the precaution to
buckle around his waist a belt containing a pistol; but now, either
from a conviction that it was unnecessary, or relying on his great
physical strength, he carried no weapon more dangerous than his
riding-whip.

He reached the outlet, waded through as before, and went up the
bank toward the den, the dry water-flags and canes crackling under
his feet as they might have done under the feet of a panther, or
some other denizen of the marsh and the night.

Ten steps brought him to the low door, with the narrow aperture
half-covered with dry vines near it in the slope of the grassy
mound. He pushed the door; it opened. The last glimmer of
sunset streamed in. The den was deserted. The rude table and
chair—the ruder bed—a few blackened brands in the fireplace—
these objects, and these only, served to indicate that the place had
ever been inhabited.

Suddenly Harley stooped. One other object had attracted his
attention. This was a paper which had probably been left upon
the table. It lay upon the ground; the wind passing through the
narrow aperture had no doubt blown it from the table.

Harley picked it up, and came out into the open air again.
There was just sufficient light to read it by. These words were
traced, in a firm, strong hand upon the paper:

Harley read this paper twice. When he had read it a second
time, the hand holding it fell at his side, and he fixed his eyes
upon the ground, reflecting profoundly.

“I am glad of one thing,” he muttered—“there is good in that
man after all. But why does he refuse to sign the paper?”

He went slowly back as he came, crossed the stream, circled the
lake, emerged from the swamp, and rode toward Puccoon's cabin.

He had just disappeared from the vicinity of the island, when
the head of a man, whose face was half covered with a long beard,
rose cautiously above a thick growth of swamp-grass and flags, in
which he had been concealed.

“I thought he would come,” the man said, in a low tone, “and
it was better to wait. I am tired of this country. All is ready for
her. To-morrow—yes, to-morrow—”

He stopped, looked cautiously in the direction in which Harley
had disappeared, and then, springing up on firm ground, stood fully
revealed in the twilight. His whole appearance had changed.
There was no longer any ferocity in his face: a firm and stern
look had replaced it—a look not without a tinge of sadness. His
rude dress had been discarded. He was dressed like a man of
good society, and the carriage of his person was not without a
certain pride and grace. It was more than ever plain that this
human being was not of boorish origin: culture—social position,
perhaps—had preceded debasement.

“There is no time to lose,” he muttered; “this place is growing
too hot. To-morrow—yes, to-morrow—”

He left the sentence unfinished, and went slowly into the jungle,
which he evidently knew perfectly. A winding path opened in it.
He pursued this path, and in half-an-hour emerged on the banks
of the Blackwater.

A horse was tied in a dense thicket at the point where he came
out. The man mounted, and going along the bank, came to a
private and little-known ford, which he crossed, disappearing in
the woods on the other side, just as Harley, who had emerged from
the marsh in the opposite direction, approached Puccoon's hut.