65. CHAPTER LXV.
THE END OF A LOVE AFFAIR.
During the latter part of this narrative, Harley had exhibited a
certain degree of emotion. He had spoken at first with the calmness
of a man narrating events in which he has had no personal
concern; but his tone had changed, the speaker had become moved,
and unconsciously had pushed his horse to a trot, then to a gallop.
They now went on at this pace—resembling two phantoms. Soon
Huntsdon came in sight—a great hill, rising dim in the night.
“There is a room in the Huntsdon house,” said Harley, “which
witnessed the strange and tragic incident with which my history
will terminate, St. Leger. Let us go there.”
They were at the door as he spoke, and, giving their horses to the
groom—who promptly appeared—went in. Old James was waiting
for his master, who said:
“I wish you to kindle a fire at once in the pink room, James.”
The old servant stared.
“In the pink room, did you say, Mas' Justin?”
“Yes, James. I understand your look; but the time has come to
re-open the pink room.”
The old servant seemed to be in a maze, but speedily obeyed—following
his master almost immediately with materials for a fire, and
the fire in an iron carrier.
Harley turned into a passage leading to the left wing, and opened
the second door he came to with a key which he took from the
ledge above it. It was an apartment of considerable size, furnished
as a chamber, with a brown carpet, a large, ornamental bedstead, a
centre-table and elegant adjuncts of comfort—the entire woodwork
painted of a pink color. In ten minutes a cheerful fire was blazing
in the wide fireplace. The blaze seemed strange. All about this
room indicated that it had not been inhabited for many years.
Harley drew a seat for St. Leger toward the fire, and sat down in
one opposite. Old James had retired in silence.
“This is what we call the pink-room, my dear St. Leger,” Harley
said. “It has not been opened before during the whole of our visit;
and it is possible that the fact may have occasioned you some surprise.”
“I did not observe it—the house is so large.”
“Quite large, but this is one of the best rooms in it.”
“The cornice and walls are certainly very elegant.”
“And yet it has not been used for a great many years. There is
also another chamber—the one adjoining this—which has also been
shut up.”
“Ah?”
“More mysteries you see, my dear friend—nothing but mystery,
mystery!—for people do not close the best apartments in their
houses from wanton caprice. Well, these two rooms are connected
with one of the most painful events in my life; and not desiring to
have the scene in question brought continually to my mind, I determined
to shut up both, and use other parts of the house.”
“Yes, yes.”
“I see you are interested,” said Harley, “from the animation of
your tone. I shall therefore proceed to relate what took place in
this apartment. I have come to the end of that part of my life
which I may describe as the love-making period, and I leave it
without regret; for whatever people may say, however little blame
in a moral point of view may attach to a man who has been deceived,
the attitude he occupies in his own eyes is mortifying to his
pride, and the narrative of his misfortunes must be painful. It has
been impossible for me to avoid giving you an account of these
events, but I have tried, at least, to sum up the melancholy experience
of my early life in as few words as possible. I shall continue
to do so, and will strive not to indulge any feeling of bitterness.
You may see from my voice that I have none.”
In truth, Harley's tone was not only calm, but gentle. A quiet
sadness spoke in his voice: there was no trace either of anger or
indignation.
“I will pass briefly,” he continued, “over the time succeeding my
great misfortune. I could ascertain from Miss Chandos' guardian
nothing which explained the terrible step which she had taken.
He burst forth into violent denunciations—charges of treachery,
heartless deceit, lies, falsehood from beginning to end—and I confess
I did not take her part or defend her. But I was not thinking
of her. I was thinking of Gontran, whom I resolved to put to death
if I could find him. I tried to do so, and failed. I am glad I did
not meet him: it was better for him and myself too, perhaps, that
he could not be found. I afterwards ascertained that, fearing no
doubt some violent scene would ensue, he hurried through his marriage
with Miss Chandos, went to a northern port, and soon afterwards
sailed for Europe; probably for France, where members of
his family were living. I traced him afterwards, by chance rumors,
back to Virginia, whither he returned, probably, from disorder in
his financial affairs, to dispose of his property.
“And now, my dear St. Leger, before coming to the last incident
in this tragedy, I ought, I suppose, to supply some theory accounting
for this young lady's cruel treatment of me. I am spared that
trouble. The paper which I came into possession of so strangely,
on that night when I met the strollers, has told me everything.
I cannot show you that; I cannot even show you the letter which I
received recently from Gontran. They explain everything. Alas!
we are too prone to measure human nature by a foot-rule and compasses.
It will not admit of any such mathematical estimate. You
may assert, without fear of contradiction, that twice two are four,
and that twelve inches make a foot, but how can you measure human
motives and define them? Our actions in this world proceed
from strangely-jumbled motives and influences; from weakness,
impatience with our surroundings, the tedium of daily life often;
as frequently from caprice, perversity, and the fatal domination of
stronger will, pressing hard when the good genius is asleep or absent.
At such moments women, especially, take steps which they wonder
at afterwards—marry persons whom they never dreamed of marrying—a
weak hour decides a whole life. But to come back from these
generalities to the actual instance. Gontran was rich, plausible,
persevering, and a man of fine person. He induced this poor girl
to become his wife, and she was the first to discover what a fatal
error she had committed.
“I speak without bitterness, you see,—again and again I call your
attention to that fact. How could I indulge rancor toward one who
was deceived, doubtless; who repented, every hour of her life, the
step she had taken, and never ceased to regret her treatment of me?
Well, a last word in reference to Gontran. Nothing remains hidden
in this world, and his subsequent career is now known to me. He
seems to have labored under a sort of curse. He became a reckless
card-player; gradually drifted into the worst company; grew intemperate
in drink; and finding himself, step by step, approaching the
brink of misery, began to threaten, and possibly otherwise ill-treat
his wife. They had one child. You know who that child is, and
will soon be told how she came to be an inmate of Puccoon's hut;
and love for this child was the sole sentiment which struggled with
the evil spirit in Gontran's breast. The end soon came. One day
husband and wife had a bitter altercation. She enraged him, perhaps,
and he turned upon her like a tiger; raised his arm; threatened
to kill her; nay, even indeed, in the height of his rage, had
announced his intent to do so; and, overcome by nervous fear, she
fled from him, taking refuge with a party of strolling-players, whom
she met on the common highway!
“That is a sad story—is it not, friend? Not a cheerful comedy,
with which one wiles away an idle hour! It is terrible—this picture
of a husband threatening the woman whom he has vowed
before God to love and cherish — this mother, abandoning her
child!”
