71. CHAPTER LXXI.
THE LAST GREETING.
They stood erect, confronting each other.
Harley had recovered instantly from his astonishment at their
unexpected meeting, and the expression of his face was exquisitely
calm and sweet. He looked at the poor trembling figure before
him—at the bent head, the wan cheeks, and the moist eyes—with
an immense compassion and kindness.
“So we meet at last,” he said, coming and taking her hand, and
speaking in his simple, cordial voice. “I thought I would not see
you again; and, after all, perhaps it only distresses you.”
“Oh, no! no! I was just reading your letter.”
She held it toward him.
“I was breaking my heart over it, and longing—longing for you
to come!”
He replied, in the voice of a man addressing a child:
“Well, you see I have come. Since you wished to see me, I am
glad I am here; but you must promise me one thing.”
She had sunk back into the chair again, raising her handkerchief
to her eyes.
“You must not go back to the past,” he said, always with the
same kindness and gentleness. “Let us forget it; it was a sad time.
Let us speak rather of Fanny, and of your future, Augusta.”
A slight tremor agitated the worn frame as she heard him utter
the old name he had called her by so often in their youth. Those
days now seemed to rise up before her, and her eyes filled with
tears.
“I will not; it is—it is I who should beg you not to speak of the
past,” she faltered; “but I must—oh! I must say—it will relieve me
so—I must tell you—”
Harley laid his hand upon her arm.
“Do not say it; it is unnecessary, Augusta.”
He took from his breast—where he always carried it—the paper
which he had procured from the stroller on the night of his return
through the snow storm from Blandfield —that passionate, self-reproachful
revelation of a human heart, addressed to himself.
“Look!” he said; “a strange chance placed me in possession of
this paper—your journal. You left it with the players, and I obtained
it from them, and have read it, since it is addressed to
me.”
She raised her head, and looked at the discolored paper with astonishment,
sobbing.
“You now understand why it is unnecessary that you should
speak of the past, of what followed our last meeting, or of your feelings.”
“You have—read it?” she faltered, blushing and trembling.
“Through my tears more than once, Augusta, thanking Heaven
that Providence—for there is no such thing as chance—threw in
my way what has brought back my faith in woman.”
“Your faith! You can have no faith in me! I deceived you—
basely deceived you—when you were young and hopeful.”
“I have forgotten it,” said Harley, in his grave, kind voice.
“I darkened your life as far as I could darken it! I was base, deceitful!
I outraged the noblest heart I have ever known! I deserted
you, as much as wife ever deserted husband—for you looked
upon me as your wife in the sight of God!”
“You must not think thus! Do not—”
“Oh, I must speak, or my heart will break! I have had this
weight upon my heart for years—in all those terrible wanderings I
have thought of you!”
He pressed the hand he held, and said:
“Think no longer of me as one whom you have wronged, but as
of one who loves you, and would sacrifice his own happiness to secure
yours, Augusta.
She sobbed and trembled.
“Oh, you fill me with shame! How could I have treated you so!
But I have repented! Forgive me! I was badly brought up! I had
no mother, Justin! I have suffered so! I am only twenty-eight,
and look at my face! I shall die soon! I faint at the least emotion.
But, thank God! thank God! I have seen you again, and can say
to you, what I said in that paper—forgive me, Justin!”
Her head fell upon his hand holding her own, and she burst into
passionate sobs.
Harley looked at her in silence. An inexpressible sweetness and
compassion filled his eyes, and it was plain that the noble heart of
the man was stirred to its depths. He bent over the poor trembling
head, laid his hand upon her hair, as a father lays his hand
upon the head of his child, and said, in a low voice:
“Augusta, remember what I wrote in my letter—if I have anything
to forgive, I forgive you from my heart of hearts.”
“Oh, thank you!—thank you!” came in faltering tones from his
companion.
“God, the all-merciful, has bidden us forgive one another, as we
hope to be forgiven. Let this be my last word—I have not only
forgiven all the past—I have forgotten it.”
Before he was aware of her intention, she caught his hand, and
pressed it to her lips. He withdrew the hand quickly, but—
Miss Clementina had entered just in time to see Harley and his
companion in that attitude, one of his hands upon her head, the
other clapsed in her own.
“Oh, excuse me!” cried Miss Clementina, with an excited laugh,
trembling a little as she attempted the laugh. “I only came in—a
book—don't let me disturb you, I beg.”
Harley rose and bowed.
“You do not disturb us, madam,” he said, calmly; “pray remain.”
