63. CHAPTER LXIII.
AUGUSTA CHANDOS.
The two friends mounted their horses, and set out slowly in the
direction of Huntsdon.
Harley's face wore an expression of deep sadness, and he rode
on for more than a mile without speaking. Then he raised his
head, and turning toward St. Leger, said:
“My dear friend, the scene through which we have just passed
leads me to that avowal, in reference to my past life, which I have
so often promised you, but have never before had the courage to
make. The time has come at last. I can no longer refrain from
speaking, without leaving on your mind an impression which is not
very flattering to me. I do you the justice to believe that you
would find it hard to think ill of me; but there are limits even to
friendship—appearances have their influence on the human mind, in
spite of everything. I have shrunk from telling you my history
heretofore, for the narrative will be a painful one to me. I can no
longer shrink. Do you wish to hear it?”
The grave, sorrowful voice ceased. Harley rode on, looking with
great sadness on the ground.
“Yes! yes!” said St. Leger. “Do I wish to hear it? I swear to
you, Harley, there is nothing in all the world I so long to know.”
“Well, well! you shall hear my history, if only to have valid
grounds for continuing to think well of me.”
“I have never thought otherwise—never, so help me Heaven!—
never, Harley!”
“Thanks, friend! That encourages me a little.”
“Take any encouragement from the statement that you desire,
Harley. I am not one of those friends of the sunshine, who smile
when the day is bright, and frown when it is overclouded. My
motto is, `Once a friend, always a friend.' Tell me your life or not,
just as you fancy. You will always be the old Justin Harley to
me—neither more nor less.”
“Again, thanks. We understand each other. There is nothing,
St. Leger, that I hate so much as mystery, and during our whole
acquaintance I have been compelled to remain obstinately silent in
regard to my youth. I have seen you, on at least a hundred occasions,
look the surprise, and curiosity too, which you were too well-bred
to express, and just as often I have felt the strongest desire to
tell you all about myself, and rid myself of this melo-dramatic,
theatrical surrounding of mystery—mystery! I say, again, there is
nothing I so detest! If there is any trait in my character stronger
than all the rest, it is a passion for frankness and candor—to be
open and above board in everything, with no concealments whatever;
and yet my pride has withheld me from speaking frankly—
has made me silent. I have conquered it now. The time has come—
you shall know all, and you certainly deserve to know it. You have
been admirably observant of all the rules of good society, and yet—
shall I speak plainly?”
“Without ceremony.”
“And yet you have been unable to rid your mind of suspicion.
You have—feared, let me say, that there was something discreditable
in my past life; and you think also, perhaps, that I have a wife
now living—this poor woman!”
“I think nothing—I suspect nothing! I believe in your honor as
I believe in my own existence!”
“That is Harry St. Leger speaking! But I rejoice that the time
has come when I have found the courage to speak plainly—when
the remorse for a fancied crime has wholly disappeared, and I am
almost happy again.”
Harley stopped a moment, seeming to recall his memories. He
then went on—the horses still walking slowly.
“My story will not detain you very long. My father, Henry Harley,
of Huntsdon, belonged to an old English family, and inherited
from my grandfather a landed estate which gave him social prominence.
He was also a very elegant person, and very fond of society—
entertaining profusely at Huntsdon. He remained single until he
had passed middle-age; he then married a very beautiful person, a
Mrs. Gontran, the widow of a French gentleman, said to be of noble
family, who had died leaving an only son. Mrs. Gontran did not
survive her second marriage more than a year or two. She died,
and my father remained a widower, with no one but himself and
young Gontran in the Huntsdon house, until nearly five years afterwards.
He then married Miss Hartright, who also died in ten or
twelve years, leaving two children—my younger brother St. George
and myself.
“Well, I will pass as rapidly as possible over humdrum details,
and come to those events of my life which possess greater interest.
You will see that these events were tragic—but let me narrate,
instead of indulging in comment. Young Gontran was, from childhood,
what is called a
mauvais sujet in France, and in England a
headstrong boy. He was not exactly bad, for he had many good
qualities, being perfectly generous in money-matters, and even a
strong friend where he conceived a liking. But he quarrelled with
everybody, and was unscrupulous where his passions were concerned.
He had very soon grown jealous, it seemed, of myself and
my brother Sainty, and did not conceal his dislike of us. As he
grew up, he conducted himself at Huntsdon—for what reason it is
impossible to say—as eldest son and prospective heir; although he
had inherited an ample property from his mother, and was no
favorite with my father, who looked upon him, indeed, with ill-concealed
distaste.
“Still he was treated as a son, and I and my younger brother
were accustomed to look upon him as a brother. He went to college,
and was compelled to leave the place in consequence of some
discreditable affair. He returned; was upbraided by my father;
retorted with insults, and, as he was now his own master, left Huntsdon,
and took possession of his estates in another part of the province.
“You may call that, if you will,” continued Harley, “the first chapter
in my autobiography—all the more as my father died almost
immediately afterwards, and I found myself the head of the family
and owner of Huntsdon. You know our law of primogeniture—
it is an unjust law—it gave me the whole estate as eldest son, and I
assumed my responsibilities. I was young to occupy such a station,—only
nineteen; but my guardian was pleased to say that I
was old enough and had good judgment; he therefore left me in
virtual control of everything, and my younger brother was committed
to my guardianship.
“Soon afterwards, the romance—tragedy—call it what you will—
of my life began. I made a journey to some distance. I will not
stop to explain everything and enter into every detail. I was detained
as the guest of a gentleman who had known my father well,
and at the house of this gentleman made the acquaintance of a
young lady—I may as well give you her name—Augusta Chandos,
a beauty, and with the beauty I proceeded to fall in love. If I had
time and the inclination, I would describe this young person—you
would understand then how natural my infatuation was. I will
only say—you have seen her to-night, and even that is unnecessary—that
she was very beautiful, had in every movement of her
person, every tone of her voice, and every expression of her face, a
subtle fascination; she drew me from the first moment, and I returned
to Huntsdon perfectly wild with love. I remember committing
a thousand extravagances—walking my chamber hour after
hour at night, thinking of her, riding at full gallop mile after mile
through the woods and fields shouting aloud her name, carving her
initials on trees in the grounds at Huntsdon. I was half demented
with love of her.
“Well, a month after my return, I hastened back, and began to
pay my addresses to the young lady in due form. There seemed
no good reason why we should not make a match, as the phrase is,
always provided I could procure the consent of the young lady.
She was an orphan, like myself—poor, almost alone in the world,
with no one to direct her action but an old guardian, who seemed
very fond of me—and as I was the possessor of a large estate, no
worldly obstacle stood in the way of our union. All that was wanting
was the young lady's consent, and this obstacle was soon overcome.
I paid my addresses with ardor, offered my hand, and was
accepted.
“You may call that, if you choose, chapter second in my biography!”
said Harley. The words were uttered with the slightest
possible bitterness; but this expression quickly disappeared, and
Harley went on in the same calm, almost gentle tone which he had
used from the beginning of his narrative.
