Sons and Fathers

Then came a greater shock. A little paper, the Tell-Tale, published in an adjoining city and deriving its support from the publication of scandals, in which the victim was described without naming, was cried upon the street. Copies were sold by the hundreds, then thousands. It practically charged that Edward Morgan was the son of Rita Morgan; that upon finding Royson possessed of his secret he first killed the woman and then tried to kill that gentleman in a duel into which Morgan went with everything to gain and nothing to lose; that upon seeing the storm gathering he had fled the country, under the pretense of escorting a very estimable young lady and her mother abroad, the latter going to have her eyes examined by a Parisian expert, the celebrated Moreau.

It proceeded further; the young man had completely hoodwinked and deceived the family to which these ladies belonged, and, it was generally understood, would some day become the husband and son-in-law. Every sensational feature that could be imagined was brought out – even Gerald did not escape. He was put in as the legitimate heir of John Morgan; the child of a secret marriage, a non compos mentis whose property was being enjoyed by the other.

The excitement in the city reached white heat. Col. Montjoy and Gen. Evan came out in cards and denounced the author of the letter an infamous liar, and made efforts to bring the editor of the sheet into court. He could not be found.

Days slipped by, and then came the climax! One of the sensational papers of New York published a four-column illustrated article headed "A Southern Tragedy," which pretended to give the history of all the Morgans for fifty years or more. In this story the writer displayed considerable literary ability, and the situations were dramatically set forth. Pictures of Ilexhurst were given; the murder of a negro woman in the night and a fancy sketch of Edward. The crowning shame was bold type. No such sensation had been known since the race riots of 1874.

In reply to this Montjoy and Evan also telegraphed fiery denunciations and demanded the author's name. Their telegrams were published, and demands treated with contempt. Norton Montjoy, in New York, had himself interviewed by rival papers, gave the true history of Morgan and denounced the story in strong terms. He consulted lawyers and was informed that the Montjoys had no right of action.

Court met and the grand jury conferred. Here was evidence of murder, and here was a direct published charge. In vain Evan and Virdow testified before it. The strong influence of the former could not carry the day. The jury itself was political. It was part of the Swearingen ring. When it had completed its labors and returned its batch of bills, it was known in a few hours that Edward Morgan had been indicted for the murder of Rita Morgan.

Grief and distress unspeakable reigned in the houses of Gen. Evan and Col. Montjoy, and in his bachelor quarters that night one man sat with his face upon his hands and thought out all of the details of the sad catastrophe. An unspeakable sorrow shone in his big eyes. Barksdale had been touched in the tenderest part of his life. Morgan he admired and respected, but the name of the woman he loved had been bespattered with mud. With him there rested no duty. Had the circumstances been different, there would have been a tragedy at the expense of his last dollar – and he was rich.

At the expense even of his enterprise and his business reputation, he would have found the author of those letters and have shot him to death at the door of a church, if necessary. There is one point on which the south has suffered no change.

Morgan, he felt, would do the same, but now, alas, Morgan was indicted for another murder, and afterward it would be too late. Too late! He sprang to his feet and gave vent to a frightful malediction; then he grew calm through sheer astonishment. Without knock or inquiry his door was thrown open and Gerald Morgan rushed into the room.

When Barksdale had last seen this man he doubted his ability to stand the nervous strain put upon him, but here was evidence of an excitement tenfold greater. Gerald quivered like an overtaxed engine, and deep in the pale face the blazing eyes shone with a horrible fierceness. The cry he uttered as he paused before Barksdale was so unearthly that he unconsciously drew back. The young man was unrolling some papers. Upon them were the scenes of the grave as he drew them – the open coffin, the shrunken face of the woman – and then, in all its repulsive exactness, the face of the man who had turned upon the artist under the electric light!

"What does it mean, my friend?" said Barksdale, seeking by a forced calmness to reduce the almost irrational visitor to reason again.

"What?" exclaimed Gerald; "don't you understand? The man uncovered that coffin; he struck that blow upon poor dead Rita's head! I saw him face to face and drew those pictures that night. There is the date."

"You saw him?" Barksdale could not grasp the truth for an instant.

"I saw him!"

"Where is he now?"

"I do not know; I do not know!" A thrill ran through the now eager man, and he felt that instead of calming the excitement of his visitor he was getting infected by it. He sat down deliberately.

"Take a seat, Mr. Morgan, and tell me about it." But Gerald dropped the pictures and stood over them.

"There was the grave," he said, "and the man was down in it; I stood up here and lifted a spade, but then he had struck and was arranging her hair. If he had struck her again I would have killed him. I wanted to see what it was about. I wanted to see the man. He fled, and then I followed. Downtown I saw him under an electric light and got his face. He was the man, the infamous, cowardly scoundrel who struck poor Rita in her coffin; but why – why should any one want to strike Rita? I can't see. I can't see. And then to charge Edward with it!"

Barksdale's blood ran cold during the recital, the scene so vividly pictured, the uncanny face before him. It was horrible. But over all came the realization that some hidden hand was deliberately striking at the life of Edward Morgan through the grave of the woman. The cowardliness, the infamy, the cruelty was overpowering. He turned away his face.

But the next instant he was cool. It was a frail and doubtful barrier between Edward and ruin, this mind unfolding its secret. If it failed there was no other witness.

"What became of the man, did you say?"

"I do not know. I wanted his face; I got it."

"Where did you last see him?"

"On the street." Barksdale arose deliberately.

"Mr. Morgan, how did you come here?"

"I suppose I walked. I want you to help me find the man who struck the blow."

"You are right, we must find the man. Now, I have a request to make. Edward trusted to my judgment in the other affair, and it came out right, did it not?"

"Yes. That is why I have come to you."

"Trust me again. Go home now and take that picture. Preserve it as you would your life, for on it may hang the life of Edward Morgan. You understand? And do not open your lips on this subject to any one until I see you again."

Gerald rolled up the paper and turned away abruptly. Barksdale followed him down the steps and called a hack.

"Your health," he said to Gerald, as he gently forced him into the carriage, "must not be risked." And to the driver, slipping a fee in his hand: "Take Mr. Morgan to Ilexhurst. Remember, Mr. Morgan," he called out.

"I remember," was the reply. "I never forget. Would to God I could."

Barksdale walked rapidly to the livery stable.

CHAPTER XLI

WITH THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM

Edward Morgan gave himself up to the dream. The flying train sped onward, out of the pine forest, into the hills and the shadow of mountains, into the broad world of life and great cities.

They had the car almost to themselves, for the northward travel is small at that season.

Before him was the little woman of the motherly face and smooth, soft hand, and behind her, lost in the contemplation of the light literature with which he had surrounded her, was the girl about whom all the tendrils of his hungry life were twining. He could see her half-profile, the contour of the smooth cheek, the droop of eyelid, the fluff of curly hair over her brow, and the shapely little head. He was content.

It was a novel and suggestive situation. And yet – only a dream. No matter how far he wandered, how real seemed the vision, it always ended there – it was but a dream, a waking dream. He had at last no part in her life; he would never have.

And yet again, why not? The world was large; he felt its largeness as they rushed from center to center, saw the teeming crowds here, the far-stretching farms and dwellings there. The world was large, and they were at best but a man and a woman. If she loved him what did it matter? It meant only a prolonged and indefinite stay abroad in the land he best knew; all its pleasures, its comforts, his – and hers.

If only she loved him! He lived over every minute detail of their short companionship, from the hour he saw her, the little madonna, until he kissed her hand and promised unnecessarily that he would never break her heart. A strange comfort followed this realization. Come what might, humiliation, disgrace, separation, she loved him!

His fixed gaze as he dreamed had its effect; she looked up from her pictures and back to him.

A rush of emotions swept away his mood; he rose almost angrily; it was a question between him and his Savior only. God had made the world and named its holiest passion love, and if they loved blindly, foolishly, fatally, God, not he, was to blame. He went and sat by her.

"You puzzle me sometimes," she said. "You are animated and bright and – well, charming often – and then you seem to go back into your shell and hide. I am afraid you are not happy, Mr. Morgan."

"Not happy? Hardly. But then no bachelor can be quite happy," he added, returning her smile.

"I should think otherwise," she answered. "When I look about among my married friends I sometimes wonder why men ever marry. They seem to surrender so much for so little. I am afraid if I were a bachelor there isn't a woman living whom I would marry – not if she had the wealth of Vanderbilt."

Edward laughed outright.

"If you were a bachelor," he answered, "you would not have such thoughts."

"I don't see why," she said trying to frown.

"Because you are not a bachelor."

"Then," she said, mockingly, "I suppose I never will – since I can't be a bachelor."

"The mystery to me," said Edward, "is why women ever marry."

"Because they love," answered the girl. "There is no mystery about that."

"But they take on themselves so much care, anxiety, suffering."

"Love can endure that."

"And how often it means – death!"

"And that, too, love does not consider. It would not hesitate if it knew in advance."

"You speak for yourself?"

"Yes, indeed. If I loved, I am afraid I would love blindly, recklessly. It is the way of Montjoy women – and they say I am all Montjoy."

"Would you follow barefooted and in rags from city to city behind a man, drunken and besotted, to sing upon the streets for a crust and sleep under a hedge, his chances your chances, and you with no claim upon him save that you loved him once? I have seen it." She shook her head.

"The man I loved could never sink so low. He would be a gentleman, proud of his name, of his talents, of his honor. If misfortune came he would starve under the first hedge before he would lead me out to face a scornful world. And if it were misfortune only I would sing for him – yes, if necessary, beg, unknown to him for money to help him in misfortune. Only let him keep the manliness within him undimmed by act of his." He gazed into her glowing face.

"I thank you," he said. "I never understood a true woman's heart before."

The express rushed into new and strange scenes. There were battlefields pointed out by the conductor – mere landscapes only the names of which were thrilling. Manassas glided by, the birthplace of a great hope that perished. How often she had heard her father and the general tell of that battle!

And then the white shaft of the Washington monument, and the capitol dome rose in the distance.

As they glided over the long bridge across the Potomac and touched the soil of the capital city and the street lights went past, the young woman viewed the scenes with intense interest. Washington! But for that infamous assault upon her father, through the man who had been by her side, he would have walked the streets again, a Southern congressman!

They took rooms to give the little mamma a good night's rest, and then, with the same unconventional freedom of the hall, Mary wandered out with Edward to view the avenue. They went and stood at the foot of that great white pile which closes one end of the avenue, and were awed into silence by its grandeur.

She would see grander sights, but never one that would impress her more. She thought of her father alone, away back in Georgia, at the old home, sitting just then upon the porch smoking his pipe. Perhaps the Duchess was asleep in his lap, perhaps the general had come over to keep him company, and if so they were talking of the absent ones. Edward saw her little hand lightly laid upon her eyes for a moment, and comprehended.

Morning! And now the crowded train sweeps northward through the great cities and opens up bits of marine views. For the first time the girl sees a stately ship, with wings unfurled, "go down into the seas," vanishing upon the hazy horizon, "like some strain of sweet melody silenced and made visible," as Edward quoted from a far-away poet friend.

"And if you will watch it intently," he added, "and forget yourself you will lose sight of the ship and hear again the melody." And then came almost endless streets of villages and towns, the smoke of factories, the clamor and clangor of life massed in a small compass, a lull of the motion, hurrying crowds and the cheery, flushed face of Norton pressed to his mother's and to hers.

The first stage of the journey was over. Across the river rose, in dizzy disorder and vastness, New York.

The men clasped hands and looked each other in the eyes, Montjoy smiling, Morgan grave. It seemed to the latter that the smile of his friend meant nothing; that behind it lay anxiety, questioning. He did not waver under the look, and in a moment the hand that held his tightened again. Morgan had answered. Half the conversation of life is carried on without words. Morgan had answered, but he could not forget his friend's questioning gaze. Nor could he forget that his friend had a wife.

CHAPTER XLII

THE SONG THE OCEAN SANG

The stay of the party in New York was short. Norton was busy with trade that could not wait. He stole a part of a day, stuffed the pocketbooks of the ladies with gold, showed them around and then at last they looked from the deck of a "greyhound" and saw the slopes of Staten island and the highlands sink low upon the horizon.

The first night at sea! The traveler never forgets it. Scenes of the past may shine through it like ink renewed in the dimmed lines of a palimpsest through later records, but this night stands supreme as if it were the sum of all. For in this night the fatherland behind and the heart grown tender in the realization of its isolation, come back again the olden experiences. Dreams that have passed into the seas of eternity meet it and shine again. Old loves return and fold their wings, and hopes grown wrinkled with disappointment throw off dull Time's imprints and are young once more.

To the impressionable heart of the girl, the vastness and the solemnity brought strange thoughts. She stood by the rail, silenced, sad, but not with the sadness that oppresses. By her was the man who through life's hidden current had brought her all unknowing into harmony with the eternal echos rising into her consciousness.

At last she came back to life's facts. She found her hand in his again, and gently, without protest, disengaged it. Her face was white and fixed upon nothingness.

"Of what are you thinking?" she asked, gently. He started and drew breath with a gasp.

"I do not know – of you, I suppose." And then, as she was silent and embarrassed: "There is a tone in the ocean, a note I have never heard before, and I have listened on all seas. But here is the new song different from all. I could listen forever."

"I have read somewhere," she said, "that all the sound waves escape to the ocean. They jostle and push against each other where men abound, the new crowding out the old; but out at sea there is room for all. It may be that you hear only as your heart is attuned."

He nodded his head, pleased greatly.

"Then I have heard to-night," he said, earnestly, "a song of a woman to the man she loves."

"But you could not have heard it unless your heart was attuned to love's melodies. Have you ever loved a woman, Mr. Morgan?"

He started and his hand tightened upon the guard.

"I was a boy in heart when I went abroad," he said. "I had never known a woman's love and sympathy. In Switzerland a little girl gave me a glass of goat's milk at a cottage door in the mountains. She could not have been more than 12 years old. I heard her singing as I approached, her voice marvelous in its power and pathos. Her simple dress was artistic, her face frank and eyes confiding. I loved her. I painted her picture and carried her both in my heart and my satchel for three years. I did not love her and yet I believed I did. But I think that I must have loved at some time. As you say, I could not have heard if it were not so." He drew her away and sought the cabin. But when he said good-night he came and walked the deck for an hour, and once he tossed his arms above him and cried out in agony: "I cannot! I cannot! The heart was not made for such a strain!"

Six times they saw the sun rise over the path ahead, ascend to the zenith and sink away, and six times the endless procession of stars glinted on the myriad facets of the sea. The hundreds of strange faces about them grew familiar, almost homelike. The ladies made acquaintances; but Edward none. When they were accessible he never left their presence, devoting himself with tender solicitude to their service, reading to them, reciting bits of adventure, explaining the phenomena of the elements, exhibiting the ship and writing in their journals the record for the father at home. When they were gone he walked the deck silent, moody, sad; alone in the multitude.

People had ceased to interest him. Once only did he break the silence; from the ship's orchestra he borrowed a violin, and standing upon the deck, as at first, he found the love-song again and linked it forever with his life. It was the ocean's gift and he kept it.

He thought a great deal, but from the facts at home he turned resolutely. They should not mar the only summer of his heart. "Not now," he would say to these trooping memories. "After a while you may come and be heard."

But of the future he thought and dreamed. He pictured a life with the woman he loved, in every detail; discounting its pleasures, denying the possibility of sorrow. There were times when with her he found himself wishing to be alone that he might review the dream and enlarge it. It ceased to be a dream, it became a fact, he lived with it and he lived by it. It was possible no longer; it was certain. Some day he would begin it; he would tell it to her and make it so beautiful she would consent.

All this time the elder lady thought, listened and knitted. She was one of those gentle natures not made for contentions, but for soothing. She was never idle. Edward found himself watching the busy needles as they fought for the endless thread, and marveled. What patience! What continuity! What endurance!

The needles of good women preach as they labor. He knew the history of these. For forty years they had labored, those bits of steel in the velvet fingers. Husband, children, slaves, all had felt upon their feet the soft summings of their calculations. One whole company of soldiers, the gallant company her husband had led into Confederate service, had threaded the Wilderness in her socks, and died nearly all at Malvern Hill. Down deep under the soil of the old Mother State they planted her work from sight, and the storms of winter removed its imprints where, through worn and wasted leather, it had touched virgin soil as the bleeding survivors came limping home. Forty years had stilled the thought on which it was based. It was strong and resolute still. Some day the needles would rust out of sight, the hands be folded in rest and the thought would be gone. Edward glanced from the woman to the girl.

"Not so," he said, softly; "the thought will live. Other hands trained under its sweet ministry will take up the broken threads; the needles will flash again. Woman's work is never done, and never will be while love and faith and courage have lodgment upon earth.

"Did you speak, Mr. Morgan?"

"Possibly. I have fallen into the habit of thinking aloud. And I was thinking of you; it must have been a great privilege to call you mother, Mrs. Montjoy." She smiled a little.

"I am glad you think so."

"I have never called any by that name," he said, slowly, looking away. "I never knew a mother."

"That will excuse a great many things in a man's life," she said, in sympathy. "You have no remembrance, then?"

"None. She died when I was an infant, I suppose, and I grew up, principally, in schools."

"And your father?"

"He also – died." He was reckless for the moment. "Sometimes I think I will ask you to let me call you – mother. It is late to begin, but think of a man's living and dying without once speaking the name to a woman."

"Call me that if you will. You are certainly all that a son could be to me."

"Mother," he said, reflectively, "mother," and then looking toward Mary he saw that, though reading, her face was crimson; "that gives me a sister, does it not?" he added, to relieve the situation. She glanced toward him, smiling.

"As you will, brother Edward – how natural."

"I like the mother better," he said, after a pause. "I have observed that brothers do not wear well. I should hate to see the day when it would not be a pleasure to be with you, Miss Montjoy." He could not control nor define his mood.

"Then," she said, with eyes upon the book, "let it not be brother. I would be sorry to see you drift away – we are all your friends."

"Friends!" He repeated the word contemplatively. "That is another word I am not fond of. I have seen so many friends – not my own, but friends of others! Friends steal your good name, your opportunities, your happiness, your time and your salvation. Oh, friendship!"

"What is the matter with you to-day, Mr. Morgan?" said Mary. "I don't think I ever saw you in just such a frame of mind. What has made you cynical?"

"Am I cynical? I did not know it. Possibly I am undergoing a metamorphosis. Such things occur about us every day. Have you ever seen the locust, as he is called, come up out of the earth and attach himself to a tree and hang there brooding, living an absolutely worthless life? Some day a rent occurs down his own back and out comes the green cicada, with iridescent wings; no longer a dull plodder, but now a swift wanderer, merry and musical. So with the people about you. Useless and unpicturesque for years, they some day suffer a change; a piece of good luck, success in business; any of these can furnish sunlight, and the change is born. Behold your clodhopper is a gay fellow."

"But," said the girl, laughing, "the simile is poor; you do not see the cicada go back from the happy traveler stage and become a cynic."

"True. What does become of him? Oh, yes; along comes the ichneumon fly and by a skillful blow on the spine paralyzes him and then thrusts under his skin an egg to be warmed into life by its departing heat. That is the conclusion; your gay fellow and careless traveler gets an overwhelming blow; an idea or a fact, or a bit of information to brood upon; and some day it kills him."

She was silent, trying to read the meaning in his words. What idea, what fact, what overwhelming blow were killing him? Something, she was sure, had disturbed him. She had felt it for weeks.