On went the spirited mare to The Hall, skillfully avoiding obstructions, and drew up at last before the big gate. She had not been gentle in her approach, and old Isham was out in the night holding her bit and talking to her before she realized that her coming had not been expected.
"De Lord bless yer, horse, whar you be'n an' what you done wid young missus?" Mary was now out on the porch.
"What is it, Isham?"
"For Gawd's sake, come hyar, missy. Dis hyar fool horse done come erlong back 'thout young missus, an' I spec' he done los' her out in de road somewhar—" Mary caught sight of the dress and bonnet and greatly alarmed drew them out. What could have happened? Why was Annie's bonnet and clothing in the buggy? For an instant her heart stood still.
Her presence of mind soon returned. Her mother had retired, and so, putting the maid on guard, she came out and with Isham beside her, turned the horse's head back toward the city. But as mile after mile passed nothing explained the mystery. There was no dark form by the roadside. At no place did the intelligent animal scent blood and turn aside. It was likely that Annie had gone to spend the night with a friend, as she declared she would if the hour were too late to enter the jail. But the clothing!
The girl drove within sight of the prison, but could not bring herself, at that hour, to stop there. She passed on to Annie's friends. She had not been there. She tried others with no better success. And now, thoroughly convinced that something terrible had occurred, she drove on to Ilexhurst. As the tired mare climbed the hill and Mary saw the light shining from the upper window, she began to realize that the situation was not very much improved. After all, Annie's disappearance might be easily explained and how she would sneer at her readiness to run to Mr. Morgan! It was the thought of a very young girl.
But it was too late to turn back. She drew rein before the iron gate and boldly entered, leaving Isham with the vehicle. She rapidly traversed the walk, ascended the steps and was reaching out for the knocker, when the door was suddenly thrown open and a man ran violently against her. She was almost hurled to the ground, but frightened as she was, it was evident that the accidental meeting had affected the other more. He staggered back into the hall and stood irresolute and white with terror. She came forward amazed and only half believing the testimony of her senses.
"Mr. Royson!" The man drew a deep breath and put his hand upon a chair, nodding his head. He had for the moment lost the power of speech.
"What does it mean?" she asked. "Why are you—here? Where is Mr. Morgan?" His ghastliness returned. He wavered above the chair and then sank into it. Then he turned his face toward hers in silence. She read something there, as in a book. She did not cry out, but went and caught his arm and hung above him with white face. "You have not—oh, no, you have not—" She could say no more. She caught his hand and looked dumbly upon it. The man drew it away violently as the horror of memory came upon him.
"Not that way!" he said.
"Ah, not that way! Speak to me, Mr. Royson—tell me you do not mean it—he is not——" The whisper died out in that dim hall. He turned his face away a moment and then looked back. Lifting his hand he pointed up the stairway. She left him and staggered up the steps slowly, painfully, holding by the rail; weighed upon by the horror above and the horror below. Near the top she stopped and looked back; the man was watching her as if fascinated. She went on; he arose and followed her. He found her leaning against the door afraid to enter; her eyes riveted upon a form stretched upon the bed, a cloth over its face; a strange sweet odor in the air. He came and paused by her side, probably insane, for he was smiling now.
"Behold the bridegroom," he said. "Go to him; he is not dead. He has been waiting for you. Why are you so late?" She heard only two words clearly. "Not dead!"
"Oh, no," he laughed; "not dead. He only sleeps, with a cloth and chloroform upon his face. He is not dead!" With a movement swift as a bounding deer, she sprang across the room, seized the cloth and hurled it from the window. She added names that her maiden cheeks would have paled at, and pressed her face to his, kissing the still and silent lips and moaning piteously.
The man at the door drew away suddenly, went to the stairway and passed down. No sound was heard now in the house except the moaning of the girl upstairs. He put on a hat in the hall below, closed the door cautiously and prepared to depart as he had come, when again he paused irresolute. Then he drew from his pocket a crumpled paper and read it. And there, under that one jet which fell upon him in the great hall, something was born that night in the heart of Amos Royson—something that proved him for the moment akin to the gods. The girl had glided down the steps and was fleeing past him for succor. He caught her arm.
"Wait," he said gently. "I will help you!" She ceased to struggle and looked appealingly into his face. "I have not much to say, but it is for eternity. The man upstairs is now in no immediate danger. Mary, I have loved you as I did not believe myself capable of loving anyone. It is the glorious spot in the desert of my nature. I have been remorseless with men; it all seemed war to me, a war of Ishmaelites—civilized war is an absurdity. Had you found anything in me to love, I believe it would have made me another man, but you did not. And none can blame you. To-night, for every kind word you have spoken to Amos Royson, for the note you sent him to-day, he will repay you a thousandfold. Come with me." He half-lifted her up the steps and to the room of the sleeper. Then wringing out wet towels he bathed the face and neck of the unconscious man, rubbed the cold wrists and feet and forced cold water into the mouth. It was a doubtful half-hour, but at last the sleeper stirred and moaned. Then Royson paused.
"He will awaken presently. Give me half an hour to get into a batteau on the river and then you may tell him all. That—" he said, after a pause, looking out of the window, through which was coming the distant clamor of bells—"that indicates that Annie has waked and screamed. And now good-by. I could have taken your lover's life." He picked up the picture from the table, kissed it once and passed out.
Mary was alone with her lover. Gradually under her hand consciousness came back and he realized that the face in the light by him was not of dreams but of life itself—that life which, but for her and the gentleness of her woman's heart, would have passed out that night at Ilexhurst.
And as he drifted back again into consciousness under the willows of the creeping river a little boat drifted toward the sea.
Dawn was upon the eastern hills when Mary, with her rescued sister-in-law, crept noiselessly into The Hall. It was in New York that the latter read the account of her mortification. Norton was not there. She had passed him in her flight.
Soon it became known that Col. Montjoy had gone to his final judgment. Then came the old friends of his young manhood out of their retreats; the country for twenty miles about gave them up to the occasion. They brought with them all that was left of the old times—courtesy, sympathy and dignity.
There were soldiers among them, and here and there an empty sleeve and a scarred face. There was simply one less in their ranks. Another would follow, and another; the morrow held the mystery for the next.
Norton had returned. He was violently affected, after the fashion of mercurial temperaments. On Edward by accident had fallen the arrangements for the funeral, and with the advice of the general he had managed them well. Fate seemed to make him a member of that household in spite of himself.
The general was made an honorary pall-bearer, and when the procession moved at last into the city and to the church, without forethought it fell to Edward—there was no one else—to support and sustain the daughter of the house. It seemed a matter of course that he should do this, and as they followed the coffin up the aisle, between the two ranks of people gathered there, the fact was noted in silence to be discussed later. This then, read the universal verdict, was the sequel of a romance.
But Edward thought of none of these things. The loving heart of the girl was convulsed with grief. Since childhood she had been the idol of her father, and between them had never come a cloud. To her that white-haired father represented the best of manhood. Edward almost lifted her to and from the carriage, and her weight was heavy upon his arm as they followed the coffin.
But the end came; beautiful voices had lifted the wounded hearts to heaven and the minister had implored its benediction upon them. The soul-harrowing sound of the clay upon the coffin had followed and all was over.
Edward found himself alone in the carriage with Mary, and the ride was long. He did not know how to lead the troubled mind away from its horror and teach it to cling to the unchanging rocks of faith. The girl had sunk down behind her veil in the corner of the coach; her white hands lay upon her lap. He took these in his own firm clasp and held them tightly. It seemed natural that he should; she did not withdraw them; she may not have known it.
And so they came back home to where the brave little wife, who had promised "though He slay me yet will I trust in Him," sat among the shadows keeping her promise. The first shock had passed and after that the faith and serene confidence of the woman were never disturbed. She would have died at the stake the same way.
The days that followed were uneventful, Norton had recovered his composure as suddenly as he had lost it, and discussed the situation freely. There was now no one to manage the place and he could not determine what was to be done. In the meantime he was obliged to return to business, and look after his wife. He went first to Edward and thanking him for his kindness to mother and sister, hurried back to New York. Edward had spent one more day with the Montjoys at Norton's request, and now he, too, took his departure.
When Edward parted from Mary and the blind mother he had recourse to his sternest stoicism to restrain himself. He escaped an awkward situation by promising to be gone only two days before coming again. At home he found Virdow philosophically composed and engaged in the library, a new servant having been provided, and everything proceeding smoothly. Edward went to him and said, abruptly:
"When is it your steamer sails, Herr Virdow?"
"One week from to-day," said that individual, not a little surprised at his friend's manner. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I go with you, never again in all likelihood to enter America. From to-day, then, you will excuse my absences. I have many affairs to settle."
Virdow heard him in silence, but presently he asked:
"Are you not satisfied now, Edward."
"I am satisfied that I am the son of Marion Evan, but I will have undoubted and unmistakable proof before I set foot in this community again! There is little chance to obtain it. Nearly thirty years—it is a long time, and the back trail is covered up."
"What are your plans?"
"To employ the best detectives the world can afford, and give them carte blanche."
"But why this search? Is it not better to rest under your belief and take life quietly? There are many new branches of science and philosophy—you have a quick mind, you are young—why not come with me and put aside the mere details of existence? There are greater truths worth knowing, Edward, than the mere truth of one's ancestry." Edward looked long and sadly into his face and shook his head.
"These mere facts," he said at length, "mean everything with me." He went to his room; there were hours of silence and then Virdow heard in the stillness of the old house the sound of Gerald's violin, for Edward's had been left in Mary's care. His philosophy could not resist the Fatherland appeal that floated down the great hall and filled the night with weird and tender melody. For the man who played worshipped as he drew the bow.
But silence came deep over Ilexhurst and Virdow slept. Not so Edward; he was to begin his great search that night. He went to the wing-room and the glass-room and flooded them with light. A thrill struck through him as he surveyed again the scene and seemed to see the wild face of his comrade pale in death upon the divan. There under that rod still pointing significantly down to the steel disk he had died. And outside in the darkness had Rita also died. He alone was left. The drama could not be long now. There was but one actor.
He searched among all the heaps of memoranda and writings upon the desk. They were memoranda and notes upon experiments and queries. Edward touched them one by one to the gas jet and saw them flame and blacken into ashes, and now nothing was left but the portfolio—and that contained but four pictures—the faces of Slippery Dick, himself and Mary and the strange scene at the church. One only was valuable—the face of the girl which he knew he had given to the artist upon the tune he had played. This one he took, and restored the others.
He had turned out the light in the glass-room, and was approaching the jet in the wing-room to extinguish it, when upon the mantel he saw a letter which bore the address "H. Abingdon, care John Morgan," unopened. How long it had been there no one was left to tell. The postman, weary of knocking, had probably brought it around to the glass-room; or the servant had left it with Gerald. It was addressed by a woman's hand and bore the postmark of Paris, with the date illegible. It was a hurried note:
"Dear Friend: What has happened? When you were called home so suddenly, you wrote me that you had important news to communicate if you could overcome certain scruples, and that you would return immediately, or as soon as pressing litigation involving large interests was settled, and in your postscript you added 'keep up your courage.' You may imagine how I have waited and watched, and read and reread the precious note. But months have passed and I have not heard from you. Are you ill? I will come to you. Are you still at work upon my interests? Write to me and relieve the strain and anxiety. I would not hurry you, but remember it is a mother who waits. Yours,"Cambia."
"Dear Friend: What has happened? When you were called home so suddenly, you wrote me that you had important news to communicate if you could overcome certain scruples, and that you would return immediately, or as soon as pressing litigation involving large interests was settled, and in your postscript you added 'keep up your courage.' You may imagine how I have waited and watched, and read and reread the precious note. But months have passed and I have not heard from you. Are you ill? I will come to you. Are you still at work upon my interests? Write to me and relieve the strain and anxiety. I would not hurry you, but remember it is a mother who waits. Yours,
"Cambia."
"Cambia!" Edward repeated the name aloud. Cambia. A flood of thoughts rushed over him. What was Cambia—John Morgan to him? The veil was lifting. And then came a startling realization. Cambia, the wife of Gaspard Levigne!
"God in heaven," he said, fervently, "help me now!" Virdow was gone; only the solemn memories of the room kept him company. He sank upon the divan and buried his face in his hands. If Cambia was the woman, then the man who had died in his arms—the exile, the iron-scarred, but innocent, convict, the hero who passed in silence—was her husband! And he? The great musician had given him not only the violin but genius! Cambia had begged of his dying breath proofs of marriage. The paling lips had moved to reply in vain.
The mystery was laid bare; the father would not claim him, because of his scars, and the mother—she dared not look him in the face with the veil lifted! But he would face her; he would know the worst; nothing could be more terrible than the mystery that was crushing the better side of his life and making hope impossible. He would face her and demand the secret.
Edward had formed a definite determination and made his arrangements at once. There had been a coolness between him and Eldridge since the publication of the Royson letter, but necessity drove him to that lawyer to conclude his arrangements for departure. It was a different man that entered the lawyer's office this time. He gave directions for the disposition of Ilexhurst and the conversion of other property into cash. He would never live on the place again under any circumstances.
His business was to be managed by the old legal firm in New York.
The memoranda was completed and he took his departure.
He had given orders for flowers and ascertained by telephone that they were ready. At 3 o'clock he met Mary driving in and took his seat beside her in the old family carriage. Her dress of black brought out the pale, sweet face in all its beauty. She flushed slightly as he greeted her. Within the vehicle were only the few roses she had been able to gather, with cedar and euonymus. But they drove by a green house and he filled the carriage with the choicest productions of the florist, and then gave the order to the driver to proceed at once to the cemetery.
Within the grounds, where many monuments marked the last resting-place of the old family, was the plain newly made mound covering the remains of friend and father. At sight if it Mary's calmness disappeared and her grief overran its restraints. Edward stood silent, his face averted.
Presently he thought of the flowers and brought them to her. In the arrangement of these the bare sod disappeared and the girl's grief was calmed. She lingered long about the spot, and before she left it knelt in silent prayer, Edward lifting his hat and waiting with bowed head.
The sad ceremony ended, she looked to him and he led the way to where old Isham waited with the carriage. He sent him around toward Gerald's grave, under a wide-spreading live oak, while they went afoot by the direct way impassable for vehicles. They reached the parapet and would have crossed it, when they saw kneeling at the head of the grave a woman dressed in black, seemingly engaged in prayer.
Edward had caused to be placed above the remains a simple marble slab, which bore the brief inscription:
They watched until the woman arose and laid a wreath upon the slab. When at last she turned her face and surveyed the scene they saw before them, pale and grief-stricken, Cambia. Edward felt the scene whirling about him and his tongue paralyzed. Cambia, at sight of them gave way again to a grief that had left her pale and haggard, and could only extend the free hand, while with the other she sought to conceal her face. Edward came near, his voice scarcely audible.
"Cambia!" he exclaimed in wonder; "Cambia!" she nodded her head.
"Yes, wretched, unhappy Cambia!"
"Then, madame," he said, with deep emotion, pointing to the grave and touching her arm, "what was he to you?" She looked him fairly in the face from streaming eyes.
"He was my son! It cannot harm him now. Alas, poor Cambia!"
"Your son!" The man gazed about him bewildered. "Your son, madame? You are mistaken! It cannot be!"
"Ah!" she exclaimed; "how little you know. It can be—it is true!"
"It cannot be; it cannot be!" the words of the horrified man were now a whisper.
"Do you think a mother does not know her offspring? Your talk is idle; Gerald Morgan was my son. I have known, John Morgan knew——"
"But Rita," he said, piteously.
"Ah, Rita, poor Rita, she could not know!"
The manner, the words, the tone overwhelmed him. He turned to Mary for help in his despair. Almost without sound she had sunk to the grass and now lay extended at full length. With a fierce exclamation Edward rushed to her and lifted the little figure in his arms. Cambia was at his side.
"What is this? What was she to him?" some explanation was necessary and Edward's presence of mind returned.
"He loved her," he said. The face of Cambia grew soft and tender and she spread her wrap on the rustic bench.
"Place her here and bring water. Daughter," she exclaimed, kneeling by her side, "come, come, this will never do—" The girl's eyes opened and for a moment rested in wonder upon Cambia. Then she remembered. A strange expression settled upon her face as she gazed quickly upon Edward.
"Take me home, madame," she said; "take me home. I am deathly ill."
They carried her to the carriage, and, entering, Cambia took the little head in her lap. Shocked and now greatly alarmed, Edward gave orders to the driver and entered. It was a long and weary ride, and all the time the girl lay silent and speechless in Cambia's lap, now and then turning upon Edward an indescribable look that cut him to the heart.
They would have provided for her in the city, but she would not hear of it. Her agitation became so great that Edward finally directed the driver to return to The Hall. All the way back the older woman murmured words of comfort and cheer, but the girl only wept and her slender form shook with sobs. And it was not for herself that she grieved.
And so they came to the house, and Mary, by a supreme effort, was able to walk with assistance and to enter without disturbing the household. Cambia supported her as they reached the hall to the room that had been Mary's all her life—the room opposite her mother's. There in silence she assisted the girl to the bed. From somewhere came Molly, the maid, and together using the remedies that women know so well they made her comfortable. No one in the house had been disturbed, and then as Mary slept Cambia went out and found her way to the side of Mrs. Montjoy and felt the bereaved woman's arms about her.
"You have reconsidered, and wisely," said Mrs. Montjoy, when the first burst of emotion was over. "I am glad you have come—where is Mary?"
"She was fatigued from the excitement and long drive and is in her room. I met her in town and came with her. But madame, think not of me; you are now the sufferer; my troubles are old. But you—what can I say to comfort you?"
"I am at peace, my child; God's will be done. When you can say that you will not feel even the weight of your sorrows. Life is not long, at best, and mine must necessarily be short. Some day I will see again." Cambia bowed her head until it rested upon the hand that clasped hers. In the presence of such trust and courage she was a child.
"My daughter," said Mrs. Montjoy, after a silence, her mind reverting to her visitor's remark; "she is not ill?"
"Not seriously, madame, but still she is not well."
"Then I will go to her if you will lend me your aid. I am not yet accustomed to finding my way. I suppose I will have no trouble after a while." The strong arm of the younger woman clasped and guided her upon the little journey, and the mother took the place of the maid. Tea was brought to them and in the half-lighted room they sat by the now sleeping figure on the bed, and whispered of Cambia's past and future. The hours passed. The house had grown still and Molly had been sent to tell Edward of the situation and give him his lamp.
But Edward was not alone. The general had ridden over to inquire after his neighbors and together they sat upon the veranda and talked, and Edward listened or seemed to listen. The rush of thoughts, the realization that had come over him at the cemetery, now that necessity for immediate action had passed with his charge, returned. Cambia had been found weeping over her son, and that son was Gerald. True or untrue, it was fatal to him if Cambia was convinced.
But it could not be less than true; he, Edward, was an outcast upon the face of the earth; his dream was over; through these bitter reflections the voice of the general rose and fell monotonously, as he spoke feelingly of the dead friend whom he had known since childhood and told of their long associations and adventures in the war. And then, as Edward sought to bring himself back to the present, he found himself growing hot and cold and his heart beating violently; the consequences of the revelation made in the cemetery had extended no further than himself and his own people, but Cambia was Marion Evan! And her father was there, by him, ignorant that in the house was the daughter dead to him for more than a quarter of a century. He could not control an exclamation. The speaker paused and looked at him.
"Did you speak?" The general waited courteously.
"Did I? It must have been involuntarily—a habit! You were saying that the colonel led his regiment at Malvern Hill." Evan regarded him seriously.
"Yes, I mentioned that some time ago. He was wounded and received the praise of Jackson as he was borne past him. I think Montjoy considered that the proudest moment of his life. When Jackson praised a man he was apt to be worthy of it. He praised me once," he said, half-smiling over the scene in mind.
But Edward had again lost the thread of the narrative. Cambia had returned; a revelation would follow; the general would meet his daughter, and over the grave of Gerald the past would disappear from their lives. What was to become of him? He remembered that John Morgan had corresponded with her, and communicated personally. She must know his history. In the coming denouement there would be a shock for him. He would see these friends torn from him, not harshly nor unkindly, but between them and him would fall the iron rule of caste, which has never been broken in the south—the race law, which no man can override. With something like a panic within he decided at once. He would not witness the meeting. He would give them no chance to touch him by sympathetic pity and by—aversion. It should all come to him by letter, while he was far away! His affairs were in order. The next day he would be gone.
"General," he said, "will you do me a favor? I must return to the city; my coming was altogether a matter of accident, and I am afraid it will inconvenience our friends here at this time to send me back. Let me have your horse and I will send him to you in the morning."
The abrupt interruption filled the old man with surprise.
"Why, certainly, if you must go. But I thought you had no idea of returning—is it imperative?"
"Imperative. I am going away from the city to-morrow, and there are yet matters—you understand, and Virdow is expecting me. I trust it will not inconvenience you greatly. It would be well, probably, if one of us stayed to-night; this sudden illness—the family's condition——"
"Inconvenience! Nonsense! If you must go, why, the horse is yours of course as long as you need him." But still perplexed the general waited in silence for a more definite explanation. Edward was half-facing the doorway and the lighted hall was exposed to him, but the shadow of the porch hid him from anyone within. It was while they sat thus that the old man felt a hand upon his arm and a grasp that made him wince. Looking up he saw the face of his companion fixed on some object in the hall, the eyes starting from their sockets. Glancing back he became the witness of a picture that almost caused his heart to stand still.
The records of John Morgan's life are fragmentary. It was only by joining the pieces and filling in the gaps that his friends obtained a clear and rounded conception of his true character and knew at last the real man.
Born about 1820, the only son of a wealthy and influential father, his possibilities seemed almost unlimited. To such a youth the peculiar system of the South gave advantages not at that time afforded by any other section. The South was approaching the zenith of its power; its slaves did the field work of the whole people, leaving their owners leisure for study, for travel and for display. Politics furnished the popular field for endeavor; young men trained to the bar, polished by study and foreign travel and inspired by lofty ideals of government, threw themselves into public life, with results that have become now a part of history.
At 22, John Morgan was something more than a mere promise. He had graduated with high honors at the Virginia University and returning home had engaged in the practice of law—his maiden speech, delivered in a murder case, winning for him a wide reputation. But at that critical period a change came over him. To the surprise of his contemporaries he neglected his growing practice, declined legislative honors and gradually withdrew to the quiet of Ilexhurst, remaining in strict retirement with his mother.
The life of this gentlewoman had never been a very happy one; refined and delicate she was in sharp contrast to her husband, who, from the handsome, darkhaired gallant she first met at the White Sulphur Springs, soon developed into a generous liver, with a marked leaning towards strong drink, fox-hunting and cards. As the wife, in the crucible of life, grew to pure gold, the grosser pleasures developed the elder Morgan out of all likeness to the figure around which clung her girlish memories.
But Providence had given to her a boy, and in him there was a promise of happier days. He grew up under her care, passionately devoted to the beautiful mother, and his triumphs at college and at the bar brought back to her something of the happiness she had known in dreams only.
The blow had come with the arrival of Rita Morgan's mother. From that time John Morgan devoted himself to the lonely wife, avoiding the society of both sexes. His morbid imagination pictured his mother and himself as disgraced in the eyes of the public, unconscious of the fact that the public had but little interest in the domestic situation at Ilexhurst, and no knowledge of the truth. He lived his quiet life by her side in the little room at home, and when at last, hurt by his horse, the father passed away, he closed up the house and took his mother abroad for a stay of several years. When they returned life went on very much as before.
But of the man who came back from college little was left, aside from an indomitable will and a genius for work. He threw himself into the practice of his profession again, with a feverish desire for occupation, and, bringing to his aid a mind well stored by long years of reflection and reading, soon secured a large and lucrative practice.
His fancy was for the criminal law. No pains, no expense was too great for him where a point was to be made. Some of his witnesses in noted cases cost him for traveling expense and detectives double his fee. He kept up the fight with a species of fierce joy, his only moments of elation, as far as the public knew, being the moments of victory.
So it was that at 40 years of age John Morgan found himself with a reputation extending far beyond the state and with a practice that left him but little leisure. It was about this time he accidentally met Marion Evan, a mere girl, and felt the hidden springs of youth rise in his heart. Marion Evan received the attentions of the great criminal lawyer without suspicion of their meaning.
When it developed that he was deeply interested in her she was astonished and then touched. It was until the end a matter of wonder to her that John Morgan should have found anything in her to admire and love, but those who looked on knowingly were not surprised. Of gentle ways and clinging, dependent nature, varied by flashes of her father's fire and spirit, she presented those variable moods well calculated to dazzle and impress a man of Morgan's temperament. He entered upon his courtship with the same carefulness and determination that marked his legal practice, and with the aid of his wealth and reborn eloquence carried the citadel of her maiden heart by storm. With misgivings Albert Evan yielded his consent.
But Marion Evan's education was far from complete. The mature lover wished his bride to have every accomplishment that could add to her pleasure in life; he intended to travel for some years and she was not at that time sufficiently advanced in the languages to interpret the records of the past. Her art was of course rudimentary. Only in vocal music was she distinguished; already that voice which was to develop such surprising powers spoke its thrilling message to those who could understand, and John Morgan was one of these.
So it was determined that Marion should for one year at least devote herself to study and then the marriage would take place. Where to send her was the important question, and upon the decision hinges this narrative.
Remote causes shape our destinies. That summer John Morgan took his mother abroad for the last time and in Paris chance gave him acquaintance with Gaspard Levigne, a man nearly as old as himself. Morgan had been touched and impressed by the unchanging sadness of a face that daily looked into his at their hotel, but it is likely that he would have carried it in memory for a few weeks only had not the owner, who occupied rooms near his own, played the violin one night while he sat dreaming of home and the young girl who had given him her promise. He felt that the hidden musician was saying for him that which had been crying out for expression in his heart all his life. Upon the impulse of the moment he entered this stranger's room and extended his hand. Gaspard Levigne took it. They were friends.
During their stay in Paris the two men became almost inseparable companions. One day Gaspard was in the parlor of his new friend, when John Morgan uncovered upon the table a marble bust of his fiancee and briefly explained the situation. The musician lifted it in wonder and studied its perfections with breathless interest. From that time he never tired of the beautiful face, but always his admiration was mute. His lips seemed to lose their power.
The climax came when John Morgan, entering the dim room one evening, found Gaspard Levigne with his face in his hands kneeling before the marble, convulsed with grief. And then little by little he told his story. He was of noble blood, the elder son of a family, poor but proud and exclusive. Unto him had descended, from an Italian ancestor, the genius of musical composition and a marvelous technique, while his brother seemed to inherit the pride and arrogance of the Silesian side of the house, with about all the practical sense and business ability that had been won and transmitted.
He had fallen blindly in love with a young girl beneath him in the social scale, and whose only dowry was a pure heart and singularly perfect beauty. The discovery of this situation filled the family with alarm and strenuous efforts were made to divert the infatuated man, but without changing his purpose. Pressure was brought to bear upon the girl's parents, with better success.
Nothing now remained for Gaspard but an elopement, and this he planned. He took his brother into his confidence and was pleased to find him after many refusals a valuable second. The elopement took place and assisted by the brother he came to Paris. There his wife had died leaving a boy, then nearly two years old.
Then came the denouement; the marriage arranged for him had been a mockery.
It was a fearful blow. He did not return to his home. Upon him had been saddled the whole crime.
When the story was ended Gaspard went to his room and brought back a little picture of the girl, which he placed by the marble bust. Morgan read his meaning there; the two faces seemed identical. The picture would have stood for a likeness of Marion Evan, in her father's hands.
The conduct of Gaspard Levigne upon the discovery of the cruel fraud was such as won the instant sympathy of the American, whose best years had been sacrificed for his mother. The musician had not returned to Breslau and exposed the treachery of the brother who was the idol of his parents; he suffered in silence and cared for the child in an institution near Paris. But John Morgan went and quietly verified the facts. He engaged the ablest counsel and did his best to find a way to right the wrong.
Then came good Mrs. Morgan, who took the waif to her heart. He passed from his father's arms, his only inheritance a mother's picture, of which his own face was the miniature.
Months passed; Gaspard Levigne learned English readily, and one more result of the meeting in Paris was that John Morgan upon returning to America had, through influential friends, obtained for Levigne a lucrative position in a popular American institution, where instrumental and vocal music were specialties.
It was to this institution that Marion Evan was sent, with results already known.
The shock to John Morgan, when he received from Marion a pitiful letter, telling of her decision and marriage, well-nigh destroyed him. The mind does not rally and reactions are uncertain at 40. In the moment of his despair he had torn up her letters and hurled her likeness in marble far out to the deepest part of the lake. Pride alone prevented him following it. And in this hour of gloom the one remaining friend, his mother, passed from life.
The public never knew his sufferings; he drew the mantle of silence a little closer around him and sank deeper into his profession. He soon became known as well for his eccentricities as for his genius; and presently the inherited tendency toward alcoholic drinks found him an easy victim. Another crisis in his life came a year after the downfall of his air castle, and just as the south was preparing to enter upon her fatal struggle.
The mother of Rita had passed away, and so had the young woman's husband. Rita had but recently returned to Ilexhurst, when one night she came into his presence drenched with rain and terrorized by the fierceness of an electrical storm then raging. Speechless from exhaustion and excitement she could only beckon him to follow. Upon the bed in her room, out in the broad back yard, now sharing with its occupant the mud and water of the highway, her face white and her disordered hair clinging about her neck and shoulders, lay the insensible form of the only girl he had ever loved—Marion Evan, as he still thought of her. He approached the bed and lifted her cold hands and called her by endearing names, but she did not answer him. Rita, the struggle over had sunk into semi-consciousness upon the floor.
When the family physician had arrived John Morgan had placed Rita upon the bed and had borne the other woman in his arms to the mother's room upstairs, and stood waiting at the door. While the genial old practitioner was working to restore consciousness to the young woman there, a summons several times repeated was heard at the front door. Morgan went in person and admitted a stranger, who presented a card that bore the stamp of a foreign detective bureau. Speaking in French the lawyer gravely welcomed him and led the way to the library. The detective opened the interview:
"Have you received my report of the 14th inst., M. Morgan?"
"Yes. What have you additional?"
"This. Mme. Levigne is with her husband and now in this city." Morgan nodded his head.
"So I have been informed." He went to the desk and wrote out a check. "When do you purpose returning?"
"As soon as possible, monsieur; to-morrow, if it pleases you."
"I will call upon you in the morning; to-night I have company that demands my whole time and attention. If I fail, here is your check. You have been very successful."
"Monsieur is very kind. I have not lost sight of Mme. Levigne in nearly a year until to-night. Both she and her husband have left their hotel; temporarily only I presume." The two men shook hands and parted.
Upstairs the physician met Morgan returning. "The lady will soon be all right; she has rallied and as soon as she gets under the influence of the opiate I have given and into dry clothes, will be out of danger. But the woman in the servant's house is, I am afraid, in a critical condition."
"Go to her, please," said Morgan quickly. Then entering the room he took a seat by the side of the young woman—her hand in his. Marion looked upon his grave face in wonder and confusion. Neither spoke. Her eyes closed at last in slumber.
Then came Mamie Hester, the old woman who had nursed him, one of those family servants of the old South, whose lips never learned how to betray secrets.
The sun rose grandly on the morning that Marion left Ixlexhurst. She pushed back her heavy veil, letting its splendor light up her pale face and gave her hand in sad farewell to John Morgan. Its golden beams almost glorified the countenance of the man; or was it the light from a great soul shining through?
"A mother's prayers," she said brokenly. "They are all that I can give."
"God bless and protect you till we meet again," he said, gently.
She looked long and sadly toward the eastern horizon in whose belt of gray woodland lay her childhood home, lowered her veil and hurried away. A generation would pass before her feet returned upon that gravel walk.
Mary slept.
The blind woman, who had for awhile sat silent by her side, slowly stroking and smoothing the girl's extended arm, nodded, her chin resting upon her breast.
Cambia alone was left awake in the room, her mind busy with its past. The light was strong; noiselessly she went to the little table to lower it. There, before her, lay a violin's antique case. As her gaze fell upon it, the flame sank under her touch, leaving the room almost in the shadow. The box was rounded at the ends and inlaid, the central design being a curiously interwoven monogram. Smothering an exclamation, she seized it in her arms and listened, looking cautiously upon her companions. The elder woman lifted her head and turned sightless eyes toward the light, then passed into sleep again.
She went back eagerly to the box and tried its intricate fastenings; but in the dim light they resisted her fingers, and she dare not turn up the flame again.
From the veranda in front came the murmur of men's voices; the house was silent. Bearing the precious burden Cambia went quickly to the hallway and paused for a moment under the arch that divided it. Overhead, suspended by an invisible wire, was a snow-white pigeon with wings outspread; behind swayed in the gentle breeze the foliage of the trees. She stood for a moment, listening; and such was the picture presented to Edward as he clutched the arm of his companion and leaned forward with strained eyes into the light.
Guided by the adjuncts of the scene he recognized at once a familiar dream. But in place of the girl's was now a woman's face.
Another caught a deeper meaning at the same instant, as the general's suppressed breathing betrayed.
Cambia heard nothing; her face was pale, her hand trembling. In the light descending upon her she found the secret fastenings and the lid opened.
Then the two men beheld a strange thing; the object of that nervous action was not the violin itself. A string accidentally touched by her sparkling ring gave out a single minor note that startled her, but only for a second did she pause and look around. Pressing firmly upon a spot near the inner side of the lid she drew out a little panel of wood and from the shallow cavity exposed, lifted quickly several folded papers, which she opened. Then, half rising, she wavered and sank back fainting upon the floor. The silence was broken. A cry burst from the lips of the old general.
"Marion! My child." In an instant he was by her side lifting and caressing her. "Speak to me, daughter," he said. "It has been long, so long. That face, that face! Child, it is your mother's as I saw it last. Marion, look up; it is I, your father." And then he exclaimed despairingly, as she did not answer him, "She is dead!"
"It is not serious, General," said Edward hurriedly. "See, she is reviving." Cambia steadied herself by a supreme effort and thrust back the form that was supporting her.
"Who calls Marion?" she cried wildly. "Marion Evan is dead! Cambia is dead! I am the Countess Levigne." Her voice rang out in the hall and her clenched hand held aloft, as though she feared they might seize them, the papers she had plucked from the violin case. Then her eyes met the general's; she paused in wonder and looked longingly into his aged face. Her voice sank to a whisper: "Father, father! Is it indeed you? You at last?" Clinging to the hands extended toward her she knelt and buried her face in them, her form shaking with sobs. The old man's tall figure swayed and trembled.
"Not there, Marion, my child, not there. 'Tis I who should kneel! God forgive me, it was I who—"
"Hush, father, hush! The blame was mine. But I have paid for it with agony, with the better years of my life.
"But I could not come back until I came as the wife of the man I loved; I would not break your heart. See! I have the papers. It was my husband's violin." She hid her face in his bosom and let the tears flow unchecked.
Edward was standing, white and silent, gazing upon the scene; he could not tear himself away. The general, his voice unsteady, saw him at last. A smile broke through his working features and shone in his tearful eyes:
"Edward, my boy, have you no word? My child has come home!" Marion lifted her face and drew herself from the sheltering arms with sudden energy.
"Edward," she said, gently and lovingly. "Edward!" Her eyes grew softer and seemed to caress him with their glances. She went up to him and placed both hands upon his shoulders. "His child, and your mother!"
"My mother, my mother!" The words were whispers. His voice seemed to linger upon them.
"Yes! Cambia, the unhappy Marion, the Countess Levigne and your mother! No longer ashamed to meet you, no longer an exile! Your mother, free to meet your eyes without fear of reproach!"
She was drawing his cheek to hers as she spoke. The general had come nearer and now she placed the young man's hand in his.
"But," said Edward, "Gerald! You called him your son!" She clasped her hands over her eyes and turned away quickly. "How can it be? Tell me the truth?" She looked back to him then in a dazed way. Finally a suspicion of his difficulty came to her. "He was your twin brother. Did you not know? Alas, poor Gerald!"
"Ah!" said the old man, "it was then true!"
"Mother," he said softly, lifting her face to his, "Gerald is at peace. Let me fulfill all the hopes you cherished for both!"
"God has showered blessings upon me this night," said the general brokenly. "Edward!" The two men clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes. And, radiant by their side, was the face of Cambia!
At this moment, Mary, who had been awakened by their excited voices, her hand outstretched toward the wall along which she had crept, came and stood near them, gazing in wonder upon their beaming faces. With a bound Edward reached her side and with an arm about her came to Cambia.
"Mother," he said, "here is your daughter." As Cambia clasped her lovingly to her bosom he acquainted Mary with what had occurred. And then, happy in her wonder and smiles, Edward and Mary turned away and discussed the story with the now fully awakened little mother.
"And now," said he, "I can ask of you this precious life and be your son indeed!" Mary's head was in her mother's lap.
"She has loved you a long time, Edward; she is already yours."
Presently he went upon the veranda, where father and daughter were exchanging holy confidences, and, sitting by his mother's side, heard the particulars of her life and bitter experience abroad.
"When Mr. Morgan went to you, father, and stated a hypothetical case and offered to find me, and you, outraged, suffering, declared that I could only return when I had proofs of my marriage, I was without them. Mr. Morgan sent me money to pay our expenses home—Gaspard's and mine—and we did come, he unwilling and fearing violence, for dissipation had changed his whole nature. Then, he had been informed of my one-time engagement to Mr. Morgan, and he was well acquainted with that gentleman and indebted to him for money loaned upon several occasions. He came to America with me upon Mr. Morgan's guaranty, the sole condition imposed upon him being that he should bring proofs of our marriage; and had he continued to rely upon that guaranty, had he kept his word, there would have been no trouble. But on the day we reached this city he gave way to temptation again and remembered all my threats to leave him. In our final interview he became suddenly jealous, and declared there was a plot to separate us, and expressed a determination to destroy the proofs.
"It was then that I determined to act, and hazarded everything upon a desperate move. I resolved to seize my husband's violin, not knowing where his papers were, and hold it as security for my proofs. I thought the plan would succeed; did not his love for that instrument exceed all other passions? I had written to Rita, engaging to meet her on a certain night at a livery stable, where we were to take a buggy and proceed to Ilexhurst. The storm prevented. Gaspard had followed me, and at the church door tore the instrument from my arms and left me insensible. Rita carried me in her strong arms three miles to Ilexhurst, and it cost her the life of the child that was born and died that night.
"Poor, poor Rita! She herself had been all but dead when my boys were born a week later, and the idea that one of them was her own was the single hallucination of her mind. The boys were said to somewhat resemble her. Rita's mother bore a strong resemblance to Mrs. Morgan's family, as you have perhaps heard, and Mrs. Morgan was related to our family, so the resemblance may be explained in that way. Mr. Morgan never could clear up this hallucination of Rita's, and so the matter rested that way. It could do no harm under the circumstances, and might—"
"No harm?" Edward shook his head sadly.
"No harm. You, Edward, were sent away, and it was early seen that poor Gerald would be delicate and probably an invalid. For my troubles, my flight, had—. The poor woman gave her life to the care of my children. Heaven bless her forever!"
Gambia waited in silence a moment and then continued:
"As soon as I could travel I made a business transaction of it, and borrowed of my friend, John Morgan. He had acquainted me with the conditions upon which I should be received at home; and now it was impossible for me to meet them. Gaspard was gone. I thought I could find him; I never did, until blind, poor, aged and dying, he sent for me."
"John Morgan was faithful. He secured vocal teachers for me in Paris and then an engagement to sing in public. I sang, and from that night my money troubles ended.
"Mr. Morgan stayed by me in Paris until my career was assured. Then, in obedience to his country's call he came back here, running the blockade, and fought up to Appomattox."
"As gallant a fire-eater," said the general, "as ever shouldered a gun. And he refused promotion on three occasions."
"I can readily understand that," said Cambia. "His modesty was only equaled by his devotion and courage.
"He visited me again when the war ended, and we renewed the search. After that came the Franco-Prussian war, the siege of Paris and the commune, destroying all trails. But I sang on and searched on. When I seemed to have exhausted the theaters I tried the prisons. And so the years passed by.
"In the meantime Mr. Morgan had done a generous thing; never for a moment did he doubt me." She paused, struggling with a sudden emotion, and then: "He had heard my statement—it was not like writing, Father, he had heard it from my lips—and when the position of my boys became embarrassing he gave them his own name, formally adopting them while he was in Paris."
"God bless him!" It was the general's voice.
"And after that I felt easier. Every week, in all the long years that have passed, brought me letters; every detail in their lives was known to me; and of yours, Father. I knew all your troubles. Mr. Morgan managed it. And," she continued softly, "I felt your embarrassments when the war ended. Mr. Morgan offered you a loan—"
"Yes, but I could not accept from him—"
"It was from me, Father; it was mine; and it was my money that cared for my boys. Yes," she said, lifting her head proudly, "Mr. Morgan understood; he let me pay back everything, and when he died it was my money, held in private trust by him, that constituted the bulk of the fortune left by him for my boys. I earned it before the footlights, but honestly!
"Well, when poor Gaspard died—"
"He is dead, then?"
"Ah! of course you do not know. To-morrow I will tell you his story. I stood by his body and at his grave, and I knew Edward. I had seen him many times. Poor Gerald! My eyes have never beheld him since I took him in my arms that day, a baby, and kissed him good—" She broke down and wept bitterly. "Oh, it was pitiful, pitiful!"
After awhile she lifted her face.
"My husband had written briefly to his family just before death, the letter to be mailed after; and thus they knew of it. But they did not know the name he was living under. His brother, to inherit the title and property, needed proof of death and advertised in European papers for it. He also advertised for the violin. It was this that suggested to me the hiding place of the missing papers. Before my marriage Gaspard had once shown me the little slide. It had passed from my memory. But Cambia's wits were sharper and the description supplied the link. I went to Silesia and made a trade with the surviving brother, giving up my interest in certain mines for the name of the person who held the violin. Gaspard had described him to me in his letter as a young American named Morgan. The name was nothing to the brother; it was everything to me. I came here determined, first to search for the papers, and, failing in that, to go home to you, my father. God has guided me."
She sat silent, one hand in her father's, the other clasped lovingly in her son's. It was a silence none cared to break. But Edward, from time to time, as his mind reviewed the past, lifted tenderly to his lips the hand of Cambia.
Steadily the ocean greyhound plowed its way through the dark swells of the Atlantic. A heavy bank of clouds covered the eastern sky almost to the zenith, its upper edges paling in the glare of the full moon slowly ascending beyond.
The night was pleasant, the decks crowded. A young man and a young woman sat by an elderly lady, hand in hand. They had been talking of a journey made the year previous upon the same vessel, when the ocean sang a new sweet song. They heard it again this night and were lost in dreams, when the voice of a well-known novelist, who was telling a story to a charmed circle, broke in:
"It was my first journey upon the ocean. We had been greatly interested in the little fellow because he was a waif from the great Parisian world, and although at that time tenderly cared for by the gentle woman who had become his benefactress, somehow he seemed to carry with him another atmosphere, of loneliness—of isolation. Think of it, a motherless babe afloat upon the ocean. It was the pathos of life made visible. He did not realize it, but every heart there beat in sympathy with his, and when it was whispered that the little voyager was dead, I think every eye was wet with tears. Dead, almost consumed by fever. With him had come the picture of a young and beautiful woman. He took it with him beneath the little hands upon his breast. That night he was laid to rest. Never had motherless babe such a burial. Gently, as though there were danger of waking him, we let him sink into the dark waters, there to be rocked in the lap of the ocean until God's day dawns and the seas give up their dead. That was thirty years ago; yet to-night I seem to see that little shrouded form slip down and down and down into the depths. God grant that its mother was dead."
When he ceased the elder woman in the little group had bent her head and was silently weeping.
"It sounds like a page from the early life of Gaspard Levigne," she said to her companions.
And then to the novelist, in a voice brimming over with tenderness: "Grieve not for the child, my friend. God has given wings to love. There is no place in all His universe that can hide a baby from its mother. Love will find a way, be the ocean as wide and deep as eternity itself."
And then, as they sat wondering, the moon rose above the clouds. Light flashed upon the waves around them, and a golden path, stretching out ahead, crossed the far horizon into the misty splendors of the sky.