55. CHAPTER LV.
A CONFESSION.
St. Leger remained at Blandfield until the sun was nearly
down, and then, having had his fears about Fanny somewhat
relieved, rode back slowly through the falling snow toward Huntsdon.
His head had sunk upon his breast; his hand scarcely retained
in its grasp the rein of his horse; he was evidently absorbed in
thought. This reverie lasted all the way to Huntsdon, and he
only became aware that he had reached his journey's end when
his horse stopped, and, looking up, the young man saw in front of
him the tall gate.
At the same moment he heard hoof-strokes, and looked round.
Harley and his brother were returning from Oakhill; and, joining
him, rode with him up the hill. Harley, speaking in a very grave,
sad voice, informed him of the condition of the old man, and they
went in.
St. Leger had scarcely spoken. They sat down—Sainty having
gone out—and the young Englishman, leaning his elbow on a
table and his forehead on his hand, looked for some moments at
the floor. Then he turned to Harley.
“My dear friend,” he said, “I am revolving in my mind a step
which will affect my whole future life, and wish your advice.”
“My advice? I will give it cheerfully if you desire it, St. Leger;
but you have seen enough of the world, friend, to know that
human beings rarely take advice—that is to say, follow it.”
“Well, perhaps I shall prove no exception. To speak plainly, I
have nearly or quite made up my mind—”
“To what, friend?”
St. Leger remained silent again; he was blushing now.
“To—to—well, why should I be ashamed to speak? I have
resolved, Harley, to—to—come back to Huntsdon some years
hence!”
Having made which extremely explicit statement, St. Leger
blushed more than ever, and was silent.
“To Huntsdon?” said Harley; “and can that be the subject
upon which you wish to ask my advice?”
He smiled, sadly.
“Come back by all means!”
“I have not finished.”
“Ah? Speak then, friend.”
“I think of coming back to Huntsdon—that is to Virginia—to—
to—you are sure to be astonished now, Harley.”
“Few things astonish me in this world, St. Leger.”
“Well, my object in returning will be to—to ask Fanny to marry
me!”
And having relieved himself of his secret, St. Leger blushed
more violently than before, and looked in the direction opposite to
Harley, who remained quite overcome with astonishment.
“Fanny!” he said, at length—“That child!”
“Yes, Harley! Why not?”
St. Leger's face glowed.
“Why not? She will be a woman then! And what other
obstacle is there? Her lowly origin? I thought that a serious
matter once, even an unconquerable objection—but—but—”
Harley said, gravely:
“But you do not think it such now, you would say.”
“I think it none whatever, my dear Harley. Let me be plain-spoken,
and open my whole heart to you. We are old comrades.
We are more to each other now than any other friends can be.
We have hunted, travelled, slept together in bivouac, shared each
other's dark and bright days, and should trust each other. Yes,
Harley—after seeing all the beauties of Europe, I have come here
to the wilds of Virginia to lose my heart with a child—a little
rustic creature—whose loveliness and purity have won my affection
—more than my affection. I love this child, Harley, and love her
so that I feel my future happiness depends upon whether she does
or does not become my wife!”
Harley listened to this avowal with unconcealed surprise, and
St. Leger, taking advantage of his friend's silence, proceeded with
all the ardor of a lover to speak of his acquaintance with Fanny,
and the gradual growth of his love for the child. Little by little,
this sentiment, he said, had taken possession of him; he had felt
it growing upon him, had struggled against it, feeling that such an
union was repugnant to every dictate of worldly wisdom—that he,
with his birth and position in the world, had the right to look to a
far more advantageous connection, and might repent during all
the remainder of his life the commission of an act so imprudent.
But the struggle had been short. One hour with Fanny was
sufficient to make him discard all such considerations. It was not
so much her beauty—although she was surely of rare personal
loveliness—which had enthralled him. She was a paragon of
innocence and loveliness of disposition—gentle, pure, refined, a
lady in every fibre of her being, in spite of her humble origin.
And if such were the fact, why should he hesitate? He was the
son of a gentleman, and the nephew of an earl, and Fanny was
only the daughter of a poor huntsman—a girl of the people, as the
French phrase was. But what of that? Her father was brave
and honest.
She was all that
any one could desire in his wife.
Ermingarde had wedded a squire of low degree, and King Cophetua
a beggar maid—to say nothing of the marriages of dukes
and marquises every day with actresses and ballet-girls—and was
not Fanny better than a girl of the ballet?
Having burst forth with which oration, St. Leger, blushing still,
was silent. Harley did not for some moments make any reply.
He then said, gravely and thoughtfully,
“Friend, you ask my advice,—or you go through the form of
doing so, after making up your mind—in an affair which, as you
justly say, concerns the happiness of your whole future life.
What am I to say? To urge the considerations which you declare
you have already revolved, and listen to the arguments with
which you are ready to refute me? It would be but time lost!”
“And yet—I desire it.”
“I will reply in a few words, then, dear St. Leger, and with
perfect plainness. Rank and position are nothing—or everything
—as one views them. But, under any conditions, marriage is a
serious affair—it means the union of two lives, for better or worse,
until death parts them—and there should be like tastes, feelings,
habits of living, even. Will you find these in Fanny?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain? She is purity itself; but will Henry St.
Leger never be ashamed of his wife?”
“I should never be ashamed of Fanny!”
Harley saw from the tone in which these words were uttered
that all further discussion was useless.
“Well, I see that you have made up your mind, St. Leger,” he
said. “I have not inquired whether Fanny returns your affection.”
The young man colored a little.
“I have not asked her—but—”
He did not finish the sentence, and Harley saved him the
trouble of doing so.
“Well, tell me now of your plans, as I see plainly that you have
arranged everything. A strange affair! and I never thought seriously
of it.”
“I scarce thought of it myself, or determined upon anything
until to-day. Something happened to-day, Harley, which showed
me the strength of my feeling for Fanny.”
And he told his friend of the accident at the church, adding,
that when he saw the child lying insensible, with her sleeve all
bloody, he discovered for the first time how deep his affection for
her was.
Harley gravely inclined his head.
“I understand everything now,” he said,—“poor child! I am
truly glad she was not more injured. Yes, yes, this opened your
eyes—brought you to your resolution. You have devised your
plan. Speak clearly. What is it?”
“To place Fanny in some educated family, or at some good
school, where she will become a cultivated woman in a few years;
to conceal my part in this; to return after a while, and ask her to
become my wife!”
The young fellow's face glowed. Harley looked at him, kindly.
“Well, your life after that, my dear St. Leger? What will it
be?”
“I shall purchase an estate—it must be a very modest one—near
Huntsdon, if I can, and live and die as an honest planter—”
“With Fanny!”
Harley uttered the words with a sad smile; he had not the
heart longer to oppose his friend's happiness.
“Well, St. Leger,” he said, “all this is in the future. Time is a
hard antagonist, and works unforeseen changes! but this is a cold
philosophy, after all, friend. Pardon me!—I am an old gentleman,
and a little disenchanted. I do not lose you yet, at least. We
return to Europe together. Afterwards—afterwards—well, afterwards
is a long time yet!”
The friends separated, St. Leger going to change his dress,
Harley remaining behind, lost in reflection.
“A singular denouement!” he murmured. “How life changes and
shifts like the foam on the wave! I did not tell him—there is
time enough—that Fanny is not the daughter of Puccoon!”
He fell into a profound reverie.
“Fanny—Gontran!” he muttered. “Who would have dreamed
of that?”
