68. CHAPTER LXVIII.
“TO THE LADY WHO FAINTED.”
It was a little past midnight when the friends separated, and
Harley retired to his chamber, but not to rest. An utter depression
seemed to have taken possession of him; whether resulting from
the exciting emotions of the day or that long narrative of his past
life, he could not determine: but there it was—a sombre shadow,
as it were, obscuring his present and his future.
Walking to and fro in his chamber, he passed in rapid review all
the singular events and scenes which had occurred since his return
to Virginia, and then his thoughts concentrated upon one absorbing
point—the change which had taken place in the woman whom he
had begun to love with such passionate tenderness. That change
was so plain that it was idle to attempt to conceal it from himself.
The first instinctive sentiment of joy at finding that she was not
the object of his brother's love had quite disappeared. Why had
he permitted himself to derive any cheerfulness from that discovery?
It was plain that she regarded him with indifference, if
not with positive dislike, now. True he had thought that day when
they rode together, and on that night when they walked side by
side in the dreamy moonlight, that he had begun to touch her heart
with a feeling more tender than friendship; but the cloud had soon
blotted out the sunlight. He had been received when he came
back, and found her in the Blandfield grounds that evening, with
actual coldness. She had been chill, distraite, and simply polite—
another person. Had she suddenly grown conscious that he was
becoming her suitor, and finding herself indifferent to him, meant
to say, by her repellant manner, “Do not love me; I can never love
you in return?” Women acted thus sometimes—aiming to discourage
men in advance, and to say with the eyes, and the tones of the
voice, what they could not say with the lips!.....
And then that meeting on the night before, when she had scarcely
looked at him or seemed aware of his presence, until the lady in
black fainted. Then that look!—that actual scorn!—what did it
mean?
Suddenly Harley's face flushed, and he muttered,
“She would not insult me so, in her thought even!”
He had all at once penetrated—or thought he had penetrated—
the secret. Some words let fall by St. Leger came back to him.
Did Evelyn think that the lady in black was his wife, and that he
had concealed that fact while paying his addresses to herself? The
proud man shrunk with indignation from the idea. But it constantly
recurred to him, stinging him. Then she conceived that he
was capable of this dishonor! She had so poor an opinion of him!
He, Justin Harley, had sunk so low in her estimation as that!
“Well, well!” he muttered, wearily, “`patience and shuffle the
cards!' That dream is over. I'll not go yonder again to be insulted
by a girl! I'll never utter one word to undeceive her. The transfer
of Huntsdon to Sainty shall be made. I'll rid her of my presence
—go back to Europe with St. Leger, and forget!”
Piteous self-scorn succeeded.
“What a tragi-comic personage I am!” he muttered. “I revel in
heroics! I make a fool of myself about a girl—again!—and become
a majestic exile!”
His head sunk and he sighed.
“But it is best; there's no place for me here in this maze. I am
a savage; I will break out of the net, and go back to my wandering
and hunting. Fatigue brings forgetfulness.”
He sat down and looked at his fire, which was dying out. As he
mused, his face softened, and something of its old patience and
gentleness came back. He was thinking of the scene on the preceding
evening at Blandfield, and not now of Evelyn at all. He
recalled the poor, wan cheeks of the woman he had once loved;
and the noble and sympathetic nature of the man, tried by so many
and such various emotions, melted to pity, as he mused. How
white she was! How thin her worn figure! How eager, craving,
helpless, her shrinking glances!...... Had the sacred
mother's love thus changed her? Had she made the discovery that
the child she had learned to love so was her own?......
He uttered a low sigh. Something like a mist passed before his
eyes. He saw again—and an overpowering pity and tenderness
came with the vision—the poor, white face, and the thin figure, as
it wavered, and fell fainting at his feet.....
He remained thinking thus for a long time. After a while, his
fire began to die out entirely, and he shivered, and rose.
“That must be attended to,” he muttered; “I shall be too busy
to-morrow, and shall not see her again.”
He took his candle, went slowly down stairs to the library, and,
seating himself at the table in the cold room, began to write. What
he wrote consisted of only a few lines.
“I am going to Europe, and this is our first and last greeting, after
so many years. If your emotion to-night was caused by the sight
of myself, I deplore the fact from my heart. If I have anything to
forgive, I forgive you from my heart of hearts.
“But this is not what I meant to write. Your future will be
happy. Your husband is changed by suffering and by love of your
child and his—your little Fanny, who is restored to you. They
must have told you that the child is your own. She is the darling
of her father, and that father is the Count de Gontran now, as you
are the Countess. He is coming to take you, and love and cherish
you.
“Forget the past, and live for your husband and your child.
“Justin Harley.”
He sealed this, and then for the first time remembered that he
knew no name to place upon it which would be intelligible to the
family at Blandfield. He solved the difficulty by addressing it
“To the Lady who Fainted Last Night.”
On the next morning, he dispatched it by his old body-servant to
Blandfield.
