Sons and Fathers

Then, when the tumult had reached its climax, there was a crash, and with bow in air Edward, flushed and excited, stood gazing upon the crowd. Then forty voices shouted:

"Missy! Missy!" On the impulse of the moment they cheered and clapped their hands.

All eyes were turned to Mary. She looked into the face of the player; his eyes challenged hers and she responded, instinctively the dusky figures shrank to the wall and alone, undaunted, the slender girl stood in the middle of the deserted floor. Edward played the gypsy dance, increasing the time until it was a passionate melody, and Mary began. Her lithe form swayed and bent and glided in perfect response to the player, the little feet twinkling almost unseen upon the sandy boards. Such grace, such allurements, he had never before dreamed of. And finally, breathless, she stood one moment, her hand uplifted, the triumphant interpreter of his melody. With mischievous smile, she sprang from the door, her face turned backward for one instant.

Releasing the instrument, Edward followed in perfect forgetfulness of self and situation. But when, puzzled, he appeared alone at the opposite door, he heard her laugh in the distance – and memory overwhelmed him with her tide.

He was pale and startled and the company was laughing. He cast a handful of money among them and in the confusion that followed made his escape. Mary was waiting demurely in the path.

"It was perfect," he said, breaking the awkward silence.

"Any one could dance to that music," was her reply.

Silently they began their return. An old woman sat in her cabin door, a fire of chunks making a red spot in the gloom behind.

"We go to-morrow, Aunt Sylla. Is it for good or ill?" The woman was old and wrinkled. She was the focus of all local superstition; one of the ante-bellum voodoos. If her pewter spoons had been gold, her few beads diamonds, she might have left the doors unbarred without danger.

Mary had paused and asked the question to draw out the odd character for her friend.

"In the woods the clocks of heaven strike 11! Jeffers, who was never born, speaks out," was the strange reply.

"In the woods," said Mary, thoughtfully, "the dew drips tinkling from the leaves; Jeffers, the redbird, was never born, but hatched. What does he say, Aunt Sylla?" The woman was trying to light her pipe. Absence of tobacco was the main cause of her failure. Edward crushed a cigar and handed it to her. When she had lighted it she lifted the blazing chunk and her faded eyes looked steadily upon the young man.

"He says the gentleman will come some day and bring much tobacco." The girl laughed, but the darkness hid her blushes.

"In the meantime," said Edward cheerfully, placing a silver coin in her hand, "you can tell your friend Jeffers that you are supplied."

The negro's prophecy is usually based on shrewd guesses. Sylla grasped the coin with the eagerness of a child receiving a new doll. She pointed her finger at him and looked to the girl. Mary laughed.

"Keep still a moment, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I must rob you."

She took a strand or two of his hair between her little fingers and plucked them out. Edward would not have flinched had there been fifty. "Now something you have worn – what can it be? Oh, a button." She took his penknife and cut from his coat sleeve one of its buttons. "There, Aunt Sylla, if you are not successful with them I shall never forgive you." The old woman took the hair and the button and relapsed into silent smoking.

"I am a little curious to know what she is going to do with those things," said Edward. Mary looked at him shyly.

"She is going to protect you," she said. "She will mix a little ground glass and a drop of chicken blood with them, and sew all in a tiny bag. No negro alive or dead would touch you then for the universe, and should you touch one of them with that charm it would give them catalepsy. You will get it to-morrow."

"She is arming me with a terrible power at small cost," he replied, dryly.

"Old Sylla is a prophetess," said the girl, "as well as a voodoo, and there is with us a tradition that death in the family will follow her every visit to the house. It is strange, but within our memory it has proved true. My infant brother, my only sister, mamma's brother, papa's sister, an invalid northern cousin spending the winter here – all their deaths were preceded by the appearance of old Sylla."

"And is her success in prophecy as marked?"

"Yes, so far as I know." She hesitated a moment. "Her prediction as to myself has not had time to mature."

"And what was the prediction?"

"That some day a stranger would carry me into a strange land," she said, smiling; "and – break my heart."

They had reached the gate; except where the one light burned in the sitting-room all was darkness and silence. Edward said gently, as he stood holding open the gate:

"I am a stranger and shortly I will take you into a strange land, but may God forget me if I break your heart." She did not reply, but with face averted passed in. The household was asleep. She carried the lamp to his door and opened it. He took it and then her hand. For a moment they looked into each other's eyes; then, gravely lifting the little hand, he kissed it.

"May God forget me," he said again, "if I break your heart." He held the door open until she had passed down the stairs, her flushed face never lifted again to his.

And then with the shutting of the door came darkness. But in the gloom a white figure came from the front doorway, stood listening at the stairs and then as noiseless as a sunbeam glided down into the hall below.

CHAPTER XXXIX

BARKSDALE'S WARNING

Edward was awakened by a cowhorn blown just before the peep of day and the frantic baying of the hounds that Charlie Possum was bringing to the house. As he dressed and came forth the echos of horses' feet were heard in the distance upon the public roads and the cry of other hounds, and as the gray dawn lighted the east the outer yard presented an animated scene. About a dozen riders were dismounting or dismounted were trying to force a place between the multitude of dogs, great and small, that were settling old and new disputes rough and tumble, tooth and toe nail.

There was little of the holiday attire that is usually seen at club meets; the riders wore rough clothing and caps and their small slender horses were accoutered with saddles and bridles that had been distinctly "worn." But about all was a business air and promise of genuine sport. Many of the dogs were of the old "July" stock, descendants of a famous Maryland dog of 40 years before, whose progeny scattered throughout Georgia constitute canine aristocracy wherever found – a slender-flanked, fullchested animal, with markings of black and tan. Among them were their English rivals of larger form and marked with blotches of red and white.

The servants were busy getting light refreshments for the riders. Mary was the superintendent of this, but at the same time she was presiding over a ceremony dear to the old south at all hours of the day. Into each generous cut glass goblet that lined her little side table she poured a few spoonsful of sweetened water, packing them with crushed ice. Down through the little arctic heaps, a wineglassful of each, she poured a ruby liquor grown old in the deep cellar, and planted above the radiated pyramids little forests of mint. Nothing but silver is worthy to hold such works of art, and so getting out an old, well-worn Montjoy silver, its legend and crest almost faded into the general smoothness of their background, she placed them there and began her ministry in the long dining room. She made a pretty picture as she passed among the men, her short, narrowskirted riding dress and little felt hat setting off her lithe, active form perfectly. The ceremony was simple and short. Everybody was eager to be off.

Just as they mounted and rode out, Mary appeared from somewhere, mounted upon a half broken colt, that betrayed a tendency to curve herself into a half-moon, and gallop broadside against fences and trees that were inconveniently located.

Edward viewed the mount with alarm. Though a fairly good rider, he was not up to cross country runs and he questioned his ability to be of much assistance should the half broken animal bolt, with its fair burden. He proposed an exchange, but Mary laughed at the idea.

"Lorna is all right," she said, "but you could never get her out of the yard. She will steady up after awhile, and the best of horses can't beat her in getting round corners and over fences."

"Daughter," said the colonel, checking his horse as he prepared to follow, "are you sure of Lorna?"

"Perfectly. She is going to do her worst for a while and then her best. Steady girl; don't disgrace yourself before company." Lorna danced and tossed her head and chewed upon her bit with impatience.

At that moment Barksdale rode into the yard, mounted upon a tall thoroughbred, his equipments perfect, dress elegant, seat easy and carriage erect. He seemed to Edward a perfect horseman. He gravely saluted them both.

"I see that I am in the nick of time, Miss Mary; I was afraid it was late."

"It is late," said the girl, "but this time it is a cat and doesn't matter. The scent will lie long after sun-up." They were following then and the conversation was difficult. Already the dark line of men was disappearing down the line in its yet unbroken shadow. A mile away the party turned into the low grounds and here the general met them riding his great roan and, as always when mounted, having the appearance of an officer on parade. He came up to the three figures in the rear and saluted them cheerily. His old spirits seemed to have returned.

They entered into a broad valley that had been fallow for several years. Along the little stream that threaded its way down the middle with zigzag indecision, grew the southern cane from 6 to 15 feet high; the mass a hundred yards broad in places, and at others narrowing down to fords. This cane growing erect is impenetrable for horses. The rest of the valley, half a mile wide, was grown up in sage, broomstraw, little pines and briars.

The general shape of the ground was that of the letter Y, the stem being the creek, and the arms its two feeders leading in from the hills. To start at the lower end of the letter, travel up and out one arm to its end, and return to the starting point, meant an eight mile ride, if the cat kept to the cane as was likely. It was a mile across from arm to arm, without cover except about an acre of sparse, low cane half way between. When Mary came up to the leading riders, with her escort, they were discussing a fact that all seemed to regard as significant. One of the old dogs, "Leader," had uttered a sharp, quick yelp. All other dogs were focusing toward her; their dark figures visible here and there as they threaded the tangled way. Suddenly an angry, excited baying in shrill falsetto was heard, and Evan shouted: "That's my puppy Carlo! Where are your English dogs?"

"Wait," said one of the party. "The English dogs will be in at start and finish." Suddenly "Leader" opened fullmouthed, a second ahead of her puppy, and the next instant, pandemonium broke loose. Forty-seven dogs were racing in full cry up the stream. A dozen excited men were following, with as much noise and skill as they could command.

"A cat, by – " exclaimed one of the neighbors. "I saw him!" Barksdale led the way for the little group behind. Edward could have closed in, but his anxiety for the girl was now developed into genuine fear. The tumult was the signal for Lorna to begin a series of equine calisthenics, more distinguished for violence than beauty. For she planted her heels in the face of nature repeatedly, seemingly in an impartial determination to destroy all the cardinal points of the compass. This exercise she varied with agile leaps upward, and bunching of feet as she came down.

Edward was about to dismount to take hold of her when Lorna, probably discerning that it was unnecessary to get rid of her rider before joining the rout, went past him like a leaf upon a hurricane. He planted spurs in his horse's side and followed with equal speed, but she was now far ahead. He saw her skim past Barksdale, and that gentleman with but a slight motion of his knees increased his speed. And then Lorna and the thoroughbred went straight into the wall of cane, but instead of a headlong plunge and a mixture of human being and struggling animal floundering in the break, he simply saw – nothing. The pair went out of sight like an awkwardly snuffed candle.

He had no time to wonder; the next instant he was going through a hog path in the cane, the tall stems rattling madly against his knees, his eyes dazed by the rushing past of so many near and separate points of vision. Then he rose in air. There was a flash of water underneath and down he came into the path. The open world burst upon him again like a beautiful picture. He only saw the flying figure of the girl upon a mad colt. Was she trying in vain to hold it? Would she lose her head? Would her nerve forsake her? Heavens!! She is plying her whip with might and main, and the man on the thoroughbred at her heels looks back over his shoulder into Edward's white face and smiles. Then they disappear into the green wall again and again the world is reborn on the other side.

The pace tells. One by one Edward passes the riders. The old general comes up at last. As Mary goes by, he gives what Edward supposes to be the old rebel yell of history and then they are out of the end of one arm of the Y and heading for the clump of cane.

There has been little dodging. With so many dogs plunging up both sides of the creek, and picking up its trail as he crossed and re-crossed, the cat had finally to adopt a straightaway program as the cover would permit. If it dodged once in this little bit of small cane it was lost. It did not dodge. It went straight into the end of the other arm of the Y and to the astonishment of all the hunters apparently went out again and across a sedge field toward the hills.

It was then a straight race of half a mile and the dogs won. They snarled and pulled and fought around the carcass, when Lorna went directly over them and was "sawed up" at the edge of the woods 50 yards further. One of the hunters jumped down and plucked the carcass from the dogs and held it up. It was a gray fox. The dogs had run over him in the little cane and indulged in a view chase. The cat was elsewhere!

Exclamations of disgust were heard on all sides and Evan looked anxiously among the gathering dogs.

"Where is Carlo?" he asked of several. "Has anybody seen Carlo?" Nobody had, apparently; but at that moment in the distance, down the arm of the Y which Reynard had crossed, they heard a sharp, puppyish cry, interspersed with the fuller voicings of an old dog.

"There is Carlo!" shouted the old gentleman in a stentorian voice. "And Leader," interpolated Montjoy.

"Come on with your English dogs! Ha, ha, ha!" and Evan was gone. But Lorna was done for the day. She distinctly refused to become enthused any more. She had carried her rider first in at the death in one race and the bush had been handed to Mary. Lorna responded to the efforts to force her, by indulging in her absurd half-moon antics. Barksdale and Edward turned back.

"It will come around on the same circuit," said Barksdale, speaking of the cat; "let us ride out into the open space and see it." They took position and listened. Two miles away, about at the fork of the Y, they could hear the echo of the tumult. If the cat went down the main stem the day was probably spoiled; if it came back up the other branch as before, they were in good position.

Nearer and nearer came the rout and then the dogs swarmed all over the lone acre of cane. The animal had dodged back from the horsemen standing there and was now surrounded.

The dogs ran here and there trotting along outside the cane careless and fagged suddenly became animated again and sprang upon a crouching form, whose eyeballs could even from a distance, be seen to roll and glare frightfully. There was one motion, the yelping puppy went heels over head with a wound from neck to hip, and Carlo had learned to respect the wild cat. But the next instant a dozen dogs were rolling in horrid combat with the animal and then a score were pulling at the gray and tan form that offered no more resistance.

"Thirty-five pounds," said an expert, holding up the dead cat. A front foot was cut off and passed up for examination. It was as large as a man's fist and the claws were like the talons of a condor.

The general was down, examining the wound of poor Carlo, and, all rivalry cast aside, the experienced hunters closed in to help him. It was not a question now of Maryland or England; a puppy that would hold a trail when abandoned by a pack of old dogs whom it was accustomed to follow and rely upon its own judgment as to wherein lay its duty, and first of all, after a 16 mile run, plants its teeth in the quarry – was now more than a puppy. Ask any old fox hunter and he will prophesy that from the day of the killing of the cat, whenever Carlo opened in a hunt, no matter how much the other dogs might be interested, they would suspend judgment and flock to him. That day made Carlo a Napoleon among canines.

Edward was an interested observer of the gentle surgery being practiced upon the dog. At length he ventured to ask a question. "What is his name, General?"

"Carlo."

"And I presume he is not what you call an English dog?"

The general looked at him fiercely; then his features relaxed. "Go away, Edward, go away – and give the dog a chance."

Barksdale had ridden to one side with Mary and was gravely studying the scene. Presently he said abruptly:

"When is it you leave for Europe?"

"To-morrow."

"There is a matter pending," he said quietly, "that renders it peculiarly unfortunate." She regarded him with surprise. "What I say is for you alone. I know Mr. Morgan has been out here for several days and has probably not been made aware of what is talked in town." Briefly he acquainted her with the rumors afloat and seeing her deep concern and distress added: "The affair is trivial with Mr. Morgan; he can easily silence the talk, but in his absence, if skillfully managed, it can affect his reputation seriously."

"Skillfully managed?"

"Do you suppose that Mr. Morgan is without enemies?"

"Who could be his enemy?" She asked quickly, then flushed and was silent.

"I will not risk an injustice to innocent people," he said slowly, "but he has enemies, I leave it to you to decide whether to acquaint him with what is going on or not. I do not even advise you. But I came on this hunt to acquaint you with the situation. If the man whom I suspect is guilty in this matter he will not leave a stone unturned to destroy his rival. It is nearer home from this point than from the hall and I have business waiting. Good-bye."

He saluted Morgan, who was approaching, and went rapidly away. Mary rode home in silence, returning only monosyllables to her escort. But when she spoke of being doubtful of their ability to get ready by morning and Edward proposed to cancel his order for berths, she hesitated. After all the affair was ridiculous. She let it pass from her mind.

CHAPTER XL

THE HIDDEN HAND

It matters little what kind of seed is planted, it finds its proper elements in the soil. So with rumors. There is never a rumor so wild, but that finds a place for its roots.

It soon reached the coroner, that zealous officer whose compensation is based upon fees, that his exchequer had been defrauded by the improper burial of a woman out at Ilexhurst. She had dropped dead, and there had not been a witness. An inquest was proper; was necessary. He began an investigation. And then appeared in the brevity columns of one of the papers the incipient scandal:

"It is whispered that suspicions of foul play are entertained in connection with Rita, the housekeeper of the late John Morgan at Ilexhurst. The coroner will investigate."

And the next day the following:

"Our vigilant coroner has made inquiry into the death and burial of Rita Morgan, and feels that the circumstances demand a disinterment and examination of the body. So far the rumors of foul play come from negroes only. It seems that Mr. Edward Morgan found the woman lying in his yard, and that she died almost immediately after the discovery. It was upon the night but one preceding his meeting with Mr. Royson on the field of honor, and during his absence next day the body was hurriedly interred. There is little doubt that the woman came to her death from natural causes, but it is known that she had few if any friends among her race, and other circumstances attending her demise are such that the body will be disinterred and examined for evidence."

Even this did not especially interest the public. But when next day the morning papers came out with triple headlines the first of which was "Murdered," followed by a succinct account of the disinterment of Rita Morgan, as she was called, with the discovery of a cut on the left temple and a wound in the back of the head that had crushed in the skull, the public was startled. No charge was made against Edward Morgan, no connection hinted at, but it was stated in the history of the woman, that she was the individual referred to in Royson's famous letter on which the duel had been fought, and that she died suddenly upon the day it was published. The paper said that it was unfortunate that Mr. Morgan had left several days before for Paris, and had sailed that morning from New York.

Then the public tongue began to wag and the public mind to wait impatiently for the inquest.

The inquest was held in due form. The surgeons designated to examine the supposed wounds reported them genuine, the cut in the temple trifling, the blow in the back of the head sufficient to have caused death.

A violent discussion ensued when the jury came to make up its verdict, but the conservative members carried the day. A verdict of "death by a blow upon the head by a weapon in the hands of a person or persons unknown to the jury" was rendered; the body reinterred and the crowds of curiosity seekers withdrew from Ilexhurst.

Unfortunately during the era of excitement Gerald was locked in his room, lost in the contemplation of some question of memory that had come upon him, and he was not summoned as a witness, from the fact that in no way had he been mentioned in the case, except by Gen. Evan, who testified that he was asleep when the death occurred. The German professor and Gen. Evan were witnesses and gave their testimony readily.

Evan explained that, although present at the finding of the body, he left immediately to meet a gentleman who had called, and did not return. When asked as to Edward's actions he admitted that they were excited, but stated that other matters, naming them briefly, were engaging them at the same time and that they were of a disturbing nature. The woman, he said, had first attracted Edward's attention by falling against the glass, which she was evidently looking through, and which she broke in her fall. If she was struck, it was probably at that moment.

He was positive in his belief that at the time the sound of falling glass was heard Edward was in the room, but he would not state it under oath as a fact. It was this evidence that carried the day.

When asked where was Edward Morgan and the reason for his absence, he said that he had gone as the escort of Mrs. Montjoy to Paris, where her eyes were to be examined, and that the trip had been contemplated for several weeks. Also that he would return in less than a month.

Nevertheless, the gravest of comments began to be heard upon the streets, and prophecies were plenty that Edward would never return.

And into these began to creep a word now and then for Royson. "He knew more than he could prove," "was the victim of circumstances," "a bold fellow," etc., were fragments of conversation connected with his name.

"We fought out that issue once," he said, briefly, when asked directly about the character of the woman Rita, "and it is settled so far as I am concerned." And the public liked the answer.

No charge, however, had been brought against Edward Morgan; the matter was simply one that disturbed the public; it wanted his explanation and his presence. But behind it all, behind the hesitancy which the stern, open championship of Evan and Montjoy commanded, lay the proposition that of all people in the world only Edward Morgan could have been benefited by the death of the woman; that he was the only person present and that she died a violent death. And people would talk.