University of Virginia Library

67. CHAPTER LXVII.
HARLEY ENDS HIS NARRATIVE.

“Let me pass over this gloomy and really terrible epoch in my
life as rapidly as possible,” continued Harley. “I became nervous,
fearful; the least noise unmanned me. My dear St. Leger, listen to
the words of a man who has suffered the agonies of Remorse.
Clothe yourself in rags, become a day-laborer, eat dry bread, sleep
in a hovel—live the life of the poorest and meanest of the human
species—rather than sleep in a palace, wear silk and velvet, have
all men take off their hats to you, and have that vulture called
Remorse gnawing at your vitals!

“I could see the face of Gontran day and night—pale, bloody and
reproachful. I did not sleep without a light in my chamber, for
fear some friend, perhaps—some one I loved—my own brother,
perchance—might in jest—in some manner—repeat Gontran's attempt.

“Well, this wasted me away; the phantom followed me, and I
left Virginia and went to Europe, taking my brother with me and
placing him at school in England. I wandered all over Europe,
restless, unhappy—the man you knew me. I was recalled at last by
a letter from my uncle George Hartright, the only person to whom
I had confided my wretched secret—the sole living human being of
whose affection I felt sure, for he had always loved me. The letter
of my uncle was as singular as he himself was eccentric. He wrote
that he had something of great importance to tell me—something
which I would give all I possessed in the world to know—and I must
meet him at the Raleigh tavern, in Williamsburg, on a night which
he fixed, when he would inform me what this something was. Well,
as soon as I received the letter I set out from Vienna, and reached
Williamsburg on the appointed night. My uncle had died on that
morning.”

“Singular!” said St. Leger.

“Yes, and his last words were equally strange. He commissioned
my uncle Colonel Hartright to meet me, and say that `In the Blackwater
Swamp—' There he stopped. These were his last words,
and they filled me with perplexity. I could only conclude that my
uncle had taken the fanciful idea that by draining the swamp—

which you know covers a large tract—I should become wealthy,
and in this conviction I continued until the other day when—but I
shall speak of that in a moment.

“Observe,” continued Harley, “that nothing had occurred up to
this moment to relieve my mind in any measure of the gloom resulting
from my conviction that I had cuused the death of Gontran.
You found me in Virginia as melancholy as when we parted in
Europe; and the singular meeting with—her—Augusta Chandos, as
I will still call her, on our return from Williamsburg that night,
certainly did not enliven me. I had supposed that she was dead—
a report to that effect had reached me from some quarter—and this
meeting with her, in so unexpected a manner, in the midst of such
surroundings, startled and unnerved me. I attempted soon afterwards
to find her, with the view of removing her from her low surroundings,
for which I was utterly unable to account; but the
strollers had disappeared, and I gave up the attempt—diverted from
it by an incident which for the moment made me forget everything
else. My uncle had died, holding in his hand a small key. This
was taken possession of, but afterwards dropped by, Colonel Hartright
at the Raleigh tavern, when he came thither to keep my uncle
George's appointment with myself. The key was found and delivered
to me, you will remember, to be conveyed to Colonel Hartright.”

“Yes.”

“He received and acknowledged it, but thought little of it. He
tried it in all the locks at Oakhill without success—lastly in a common
silver-closet in the wall. This closet it opened, and a paper
was found addressed to me, which told me everything.”

“Your uncle George's secret?”

“Yes; he had prepared this paper in case of accidents. It informed
me—to be brief—that Gontran was not dead: that he, my
uncle George, had, in riding out, attempted a short cut through the
Blackwater Swamp one day, to reach Oakhill before a storm, and
that, having lost his way, and penetrated the depths of the swamp,
he had distinctly seen and recognized Gontran, as he entered a sort
of den which was plainly his habitation. My uncle stated that
Gontran did not seem to be aware of his presence. He made his
way out, and, knowing what a burden of gloom and remorse the
intelligence would remove from my mind, wrote at once, and summoned
me back to hear this something connected with the Blackwater
Swamp, which I would give all I possessed in the world to
know.

“He was not wrong. I would cheerfully have beggared myself
to know that Gontran was alive, and the intelligence was the sweetest

music to my ears. Well, I had no sooner read my uncle's communication
than I determined to go and ascertain if there could be
any mistake. It was possible that he had been deceived by some
resemblance. He might have taken some poacher or vagrant for
Gontran, and all my new-found joy might be turned to gloom again.
My uncle had made the search comparatively easy. He had described
the spot where he had seen Gontran. It was on a small
island in an outlet of the waters of the swamp. I determined to go
to the spot that very night, see Gontran—if the `Man of the
Swamp' (as our friend Puccoon calls him) were really Gontran—
and do something, if possible, to relieve his outlawed condition, and
rescue his wife from her low associates. I had fully determined
to find her, if I had to devote my life to the search; and as the
only means of making her future safe, to procure a divorce from
Gontran.

“Well, I set out from Huntsdon about midnight—I could not rest
nor defer my visit until morning, so great was my anxiety to ascertain
if my uncle had or had not been mistaken—and made my way,
with great difficulty, to the spot which was described in my uncle's
statement. I entered the den—a hovel under ground. A fire was
burning, and I recognized Gontran—Gontran in flesh and blood!”

“A singular meeting!”

“Was it not?”

“Amicable?”

“Not altogether. I will tell you about it at another time. Well,
I heard, in the first place, the explanation of his escape on the
night of the attempted robbery. He had been carried off by his
horse, and reached the ford in the Blackwater. In crossing he was
swept from his seat, borne down by the current, and cast ashore at
some distance below. When he regained consciousness, he was
lying on the margin of the stream very much exhausted, but managed
to drag himself to higher ground, and bind up the wound in
his breast, which was not mortal, as he feared, although dangerous.
He made his way afterwards, with much difficulty, to the cabin of
some persons of humble class living lower down the stream, stated
that he had shot himself while hunting, was hospitably cared for
by these poor people, and recovered. Having no other resource,
he then took refuge in the depths of this strange swamp, where I
found him supporting himself by hunting.”

As Harley came to this part of the narrative, St. Leger's face had
begun to glow.

“But—!” he began.

“A moment,” Harley said. “I understand—you are thinking of
Fanny. I am coming to that. Gontran told me nothing on that

point at the time. Let me finish my account of the interview in
the swamp.”

St. Leger leaned back, resigned himself, and listened.

“I had three distinct objects,” continued Harley, “in visiting
Gontran in his den. The first was to convince myself that it was
really Gontran; the second to restore to him the jewels of which he
had attempted to rob me; and the last object was to effect, if possible,
a legal separation between himself and his wife, whom I supposed
I would be able to discover. You will easily understand my
motive for this. I sincerely desired the poor woman's happiness,
and the first step toward effecting it was to remove her from the
control of a man who had threatened her life. Well, having found
that the man was actually Gontran, I delivered to him the jewels
which I had taken with me, and then made him a plain business
offer of five hundred pounds sterling if he would agree to a divorce,
or what amounted to the same thing—affix his signature to an
acknowledgment that he had treated her with cruelty, threatening
her life, and would not oppose the proceedings for divorce. Strange
to say, he exhibited the utmost repugnance to this, and at first positively
refused. I thereupon informed him that by so refusing he
was making me his enemy. I was the owner of the swamp in which
he had taken refuge. I would seize him as a vagrant and poacher.
The threat had a remarkable effect. I did not know why at the
time, but know now—that would have separated him from Fanny.
In brief, he consented, and agreed to meet me at Huntsdon—you
remember the night when we returned through the snow storm—
and perfect the arrangement. I then left him, and set to work to
do my own part. First I tried to find the poor woman. Thinking
that she had sought refuge with her former guardian, I rode thither,
but she had not been seen. Returning on the day of my appointment
with Gontran, I went to consult Judge Bland, you will remember,
on the law of divorce, and hurried back to keep my appointment
with Gontran. He did not come, and when I went to
look for him in the swamp, I found that he had disappeared. It
was only when I visited his den again, on hearing from you that
he had been seen once more, that I found a note there, in which he
refused to agree to the divorce, refused the five hundred pounds,
and stated his intention of leaving the country.”

“But—!”

“Ah!” said Harley, with a sad smile, “I had forgotten that.
All this does not explain how Fanny became an inmate of
Puccoon's hut, you would say. The letter received from Gontran
through the post explains that. The story need not be a long one.
When he came to seize his mother's jewels that night at Huntsdon—let

me not use the word rob—he was ruined, and designed
making his way with his child to France. He came to the neighborhood
on horseback, carrying the child—then very small—in his
arms, tenderly wrapped in a cloak. What to do with her during
the time consumed in the abstraction of the jewels was the puzzle;
but a means all at once presented itself. He came at nightfall in
sight of Puccoon's cabin, and rode up to it, designing to invent some
plausible story, and leave the child there until his return. The
cabin was unoccupied, however, and he took a sudden resolution.
He would not be absent more than an hour or two; the child would
be safe from harm; he placed the little one—who had fallen asleep—
in front of the fire, and rode rapidly toward Huntsdon. Then the
burglary followed; he was wounded, his horse carried him off, his
head turning, his frame powerless from loss of blood, he could not
check the animal, and was washed away by the waves of the Blackwater.
When he recovered, he stole back, saw Puccoon sitting at
the door of his cabin, dandling the child, and realizing how much
better off his little Fanny, whom he loved passionately, would be
with the trapper than with himself, made no effort to regain possession
of her, contenting himself with the knowledge that she was
tenderly cared for.

St. Leger listened to these words with evident emotion.

“After all, Harley,” he said, “this man has noble, or at least
loving, instincts.”

“Assuredly. For the rest, he comes of one of the oldest and best
families in France.”

“And I am a believer in blood!” said the inconsistent St. Leger.

“It tells in animals—why not in men?” replied Harley. “But you
do not know all, friend. Gontran is more than a plain gentleman.”

“More?”

“He is the Comte de Gontran, the head of his family, and representative
of the name.”

“The Comte de Gontran!”

“By the death of the late Count. He communicated the fact in
his note, having discovered it through a letter addressed to him at
his former place of residence.”

“So Fanny—!”

“Is the daughter of M. le Comte de Gontran; and as soon as her
father made the discovery, he resolved to take her to France, which
her accident alone frustrated. He came, found that she was gone,
and ascertained in some manner what was unknown to me even,
that the mysterious inmate of Puccoon's cabin was his wife.

“The poor, dear girl—let me call her such; it is a kindly term—
had abandoned the strollers, overcome with shame on seeing me

that night, had made her way toward Huntsdon—receiving charity
from poor persons like herself—with the design of appealing to me
to discover her child, had “haunted,” as you said, the grounds here,
and on that very night when we returned through the snow-storm,
tottered away into the darkness, fell from exhaustion, and was saved
from death by the excellent Puccoon. The rest you know—how
she came to love her own child without knowing that she was her
child, how she is safe at last with a husband who is changed by
suffering, and loves her, who will soon offer her a position in life
such as she fell from when she married him.

“Poor, suffering creature! God, the all-merciful, the all-seeing,
can read my heart, and see that I have long ago forgiven her—that
I can say, `Forget the past; do not let it trouble you. I have forgotten
and forgiven it!”'

St. Leger stretched out his hand and grasped Harley's.

“I will not say you are the man I thought you were! You are
the man I knew you were!”

“Thanks, friend. Praise from you is grateful to me. Now I am
weary, and a little agitated by the emotion I have felt at meeting
with this poor girl. Let us retire.”