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American Sunday Monthly Magazine Section
groom, and he staggered and fell, striking his head
against the stone curb of the mantelpiece, and there
lay dead upon the floor. It was then,
Hartington, who had witnessed this ter
rible scene, rushed up to warn Parton to
keep me from the cruel sight, while they sent for
Doctor Burnley to know the worst.
But I cannot write of what followed, or of my son’s
wild, frenzied agony that held sickening remorse as
well as grief. They had not loved one another
greatly in life, at least Algernon had certainly not
loved his father—but to part thus for ever in horrible
rage—Oh, the tragedy of it!—my poor boy—my
poor son!
The horror of the days that followed in this grim
house of death—from whence Humphrey’s body was
carried to sleep with his ancestors in the vault of
the church. I try in vain to banish it from my mem
ory but never can I pass the hall but my fancy seems
to conjure up that great strain of blood slowly spread
ing from under the tall oak chair, to the feet of one
of the suits of armor. It seemed so real to-day, that
although I knew it was only a reflection from the
stained glass emblazoned window, still it was so
weirdly terrible, that I nearly screamed and picked
up my skirt. Oh! my poor Humphrey, to die so! —
how can your spirit rest in peace!—How glad I am
that lately we had seemed nearer to one another,
and I can feel that he was more contented with me.
His last words were kindly, about my fall on the
stairs: I am comforted to remember that.
It is October now, and the sad days pass with
Algernon and Sir John Kaird and me alone. Soon
we are leaving this scene of ghastly misery. But
there were many things to be arranged first. Sir
John is Humphrey’s executor and my son’s guardian,
as well as his godfather, and has been often down
here settling papers and carrying out instructions.
Algernon will be very rich, and I also need have no
anxieties about the future as far as money is con
cerned—it has been lavished upon me. And one
sentence in Humphrey’s will I can never think of
without bitter tears:
“And to my dear wife I leave”—and here the
sum is mentioned—“in gratitude for her unfailing
obedience, patience and devotion which I have some
times ill repaid—that she may have peace and plenty
for the rest of her natural life.”
Oh! if he had ever been tender with me while he
lived, my poor Humphrey, how different it all could
have been.
The bride and bridegroom return to their home
to-morrow, and there are to be rejoicings at Minton
Dremont. But even this has not moved me from
the dull apathy of sodden grief. I am thankful only
that I shall be far away this winter, and not forced
to witness Hugh’s companionship with his young wife.
As echoes of things come to one, no matter how
aloof one may be, I have heard that the Lady Kath
leen Dremont has
already made /a
great impression
upon her hus
band’s relations,
and one that they
strongly dislike—
but I must never
allow prejudice to
color my thoughts
of her. I must
force myself to
dwell only upon
her good side, and
try and think
tenderly and
kindly of this
motherless young
girl now shelter
ing in the arms
of my Beloved.
But I cannot
yet bear the sight
of her in the
rooms which seem
sacred to me—or
her flitting, beau
tiful form in the
gardens that con
tain memories of
all sweetness and
love.
The Friday
afternoon has
come. Algernon and Sir John left yesterday for
Sandhurst, and I am alone this last day that I shall
spend here at Redwood Moat for a long time to
come. Letitia’s housekeeper in Cheshire is going
to keep Petrov for me during my absence from
England, and my dear beast seems to know he is
going from me, and creeps ever to my side.
I am sitting in my shrine, with the curtains drawn—-
and Parton has just brought me in some tea. Out
side, the wind is howling in a slowly-gathering storm,
and nature is in unison with the sad atmosphere of
this house.
And for me my life is over—and I am thirty-six
years old.
Am I dreaming—dreaming in the firelight? What
is that noise far down upon the turret stair? the soft
shutting of the garden entrance door—footsteps—
mounting, mounting with never a stumble in the
gloom. It must be someone who knows the way.
My heart beats, but it is not in fear. Fear has no
place in its numbed depths.
Then the narrow door opened noiselessly, and there
stood—Hugh!
Gaunt and haggard and pitiful, my once dear,
splendid lover came toward me, stopped beside the
great wide chair—and there we gazed into each
other’s eyes w ith an anguish too deep for tears.
“Guinevere,” he whispered hoarsely, “to-morrow
you are going away, they tell me, and there are things
to be spoken of between us first; so I have come to
you here.”
I did not answer—I had no words—I only pointed
to the chair, and Hugh sank into it with a bitter
sigh and there was a long silence. Then after a
while he spoke.
“It is all my punishment, dear Love,” he groaned
brokenly, clasping together his hands. “My pun
ishment for my uncontrolled passions to begin with,
and our punishment, Guinevere, for breaking that
bond of our souls’ union which should have been
stronger than laws, stronger than life or death.
You had no right to send me from you, dear—I was
your mate and your lover—and w'e should have been
great enough to live as priest and nun until God
cleared us a path. And now the path is cleared and
I by my passion have erected a barrier crueller than
that which stood before. Speak to me, dearest—let
me hear your gentle voice once more—or I shall have
no courage to go on.”
“Hugh,” I faltered—“my dear, dear Hugh.”
“Guinevere, to no other soul on earth would I
bare the shame and horror in my heart—listen to the
awful story—and then tell me what to do.”
I leaned forward in my hooded chair and fixed my
eyes upon his loved, stern face—and there in the
lamplight I saw that the thick, brown hair that
waves back from his broad brow was all streaked
with grey.
“I will not go over the time after our separation,
Guinevere,” he began. “It was the same as it had
been before, only more cruel—the same heartbreak
ing suffering and torture—then the excitement and
the sport—and often a bitter, furious rebellion
against fate and then gradually rebellion and resent
ment against the thrall of your memory and the pain.
And as before I crushed all tender things—they hurt
the most—and I took life as it came—any distraction
to deaden my passionate love for you. I had no il
lusions this time that I could come back and be
friends—I knew I had not conquered anything—I
was even afraid to speak to Letitia about you—
—afraid to come home. Nothing was deadened anti
I W'as in angry revolt at my impotence and my suf
fering—you will have heard, of course, how 1 first
met Kathleen—” here his voice grew deeper and he
paused as though the words would not come.- “She
is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. She
maddened me—that side of me which you always
knew was there. Nothing really mattered any more
—a crust of cynical hardness was over my soul—so
I felt I would grasp that which could bring me some
tangible joy, because I could never conquer the wild
ache for you. I would not let myself see that Kath
leen was brainless and soulless and utterly untrust
worthy, although I was always finding her out in lies.
The other attraction was so strong. I knew she did
not care a rush for me, but that did not deter me at
all, I only wanted her for my own pleasure. Most
women cannot understand this side of a man, or make
allowances for it, but you were always greater, and
realized it, Beloved. A man can worship one woman
as I worship you, and yet be drawn by his senses to
another if his dear one is absent—there is no use for
people to argue against this, it is so—and will be to
the end of time.”
There was silence for a moment and then Hugh
began again and I hardly recognized his voice.
“W e were married, you know—do you remember
the day it was? The rain and the raging wind—I
felt intoxicated—she was more beautiful than the
dawn. 1 was only mad to be away alone with her,
I had no other thought. Well, when we got back to
Hilda’s house in Berkeley Square, after the ceremony
at the church, to change our wedding clothes—while
I was dressing,—Carton—you remember my servant,
Carton—gave me a packet which he said had come
the night before, and he was sorry he had forgotten
in the excitement to give it to me—a messenger had
brought it and had said it was imperative that I read
its contents without a moment’s delay—Carton could
not be sorry enough but felt I would forgive him under
the circumstances. It was all sealed and looked an
ominous thing enough. I do not know why I did not
pitch it into my dressing bag, or the waste paper
basket, as most men would hav e done at such a time.
But this was fate again. I opened it, and as the first
words caught my eye, 1 stiffened and then I read on—
I won’t go into it all, Guinevere, or how it was an at
tested set of documents proving that my beautiful
bride was eighth part—black—Oh! God! the agony,
the horror, the disgust of that moment—I—cannot
tell you, Guinevere! Suddenly, tricks of movement
came back to me—the flashing of her eyes—her
hands—her too-curly golden hair. And all the pas
sion went out of me and a frightful revulsion took its
place. The sender of these documents went on to
say, being a deep student of evolution and heredity,
and a Southerner of fine old family himself, he felt
that it W'as his duty to apprise me of these facts in
time, and it was only that minute he had been able
to get the necessary documents together from Amer
ica—as he felt he could not tell me all this without
proof. He said he knew' how one Southern gentle
man w'ould feel to another about such a thing, and if I,
being an Englishman, did not share his feelings then
no harm would have been done—but that if I did,
then he was thankful to say he had been able to warn
me just in lime. Oh, Guinevere—in time."
And Hugh groaned w'ith bitterness as he repeated
over again the words—“in time!”
I cannot say what were the feelings which came
rushing through me—of horror and sympathy
and pain.
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