Sons and Fathers

Mrs. Montjoy expressed a desire to go to her stateroom, and Edward accompanied her. The girl had ceased reading and sat with her chin in hand, revolving the matter. After he had resumed his position she turned to find his gaze upon her. They walked to the deck; the air was cold and bracing.

"I am sorry you are so opposed to sisters," she said, smiling. "If I were a sister I would ask you to share your trouble with me."

"What trouble?"

"The trouble that is changing the careless traveler to a cynic – is killing his better self."

He ceased to speak in metaphor. "There is a trouble," he said, after reflection; "but one beyond your power to remedy or lighten. Some day I will tell it to you – but not now."

"You do not trust me."

"I do not trust myself." She was silent, looking away. She said no more. Pale and trembling with suppressed emotion, he stood up. A look of determination came into his eyes, and he faced her. At that moment a faint, far cry was heard and every one in sight looked forward.

"What is it?" asked a passenger, as the captain passed.

"The cliffs of England," he said. Edward turned and walked away, leaving her leaning upon the rail. He came back smoking. His mood had passed.

The excitement had begun at once. On glided the good ship. Taller grew the hills, shipping began to appear, and land objects to take shape. And then the deep heart throbbing ceased and the glad voyagers poured forth upon the shore.

CHAPTER XLIII

THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE

Paris!

With emotions difficult to appreciate Edward found himself at home, for of all places Paris meant that to him. He went at once to his old quarters; a suite of rooms in a quiet but accessible street, where was combined something of both city and suburban life. The concierge almost overwhelmed him with his welcome.

In obedience to his letters, everything had been placed in order, books and furniture dusted, the linen renewed, the curtains laundered and stiffened anew, and on the little center table was a vase of crimson roses – a contribution for madame and mademoiselle.

His own, the larger room, was surrendered to the ladies; the smaller he retained. There was the little parlor between, for common use. Outside was the shady vista of the street and in the distance the murmur of the city.

Mrs. Montjoy was delighted with the arrangement and the scene. Mary absorbed all the surroundings of the owner's past life; every picture, every book and bit of bric-a-brac, all were parts of him and full of interest. The very room seemed imbued with his presence. Here was his shaded student's lamp, there the small upright piano, with its stack of music and, in place ready for the player, an open sheet. It might have been yesterday that he arose from its stool, walked out and closed the door.

It was a little home, and when coming into the parlor from his dressing room, Edward saw her slender figure, he paused, and then the old depression returned.

She found him watching her, and noted the troubled look upon his face.

"It is all so cozy and beautiful," she said. "I am so glad that you brought us here rather than to a hotel."

"And I, too, if you are pleased."

"Pleased! It is simply perfect!"

A note lay upon the center table. He noticed that it was addressed to him, and, excusing himself, opened it and read:

"M. Morgan. Benoni, the maestro, is ill and desires monsieur. It will be well if monsieur comes quickly.

"Annette."

He rang the bell hurriedly and the concierge appeared.

"This note," said Edward, speaking rapidly in French; "has it been long here?"

"Since yesterday. I sent it back, and they returned it. Monsieur is not disappointed, I trust." Edward shook his head and was seeking his hat and gloves.

"You recall my old friend, the maestro, who gave me the violin," he said, remembering Mary. "The note says he is very ill. It was sent yesterday. Make my excuses to your mother; I will not stay long. If I do not see you here, I will seek you over yonder in the park, where the band may be playing shortly; and then we will find a supper."

Walking rapidly to a cab stand he selected one with a promising horse, and gave directions. He was carried at a rapid rate into the region of the Quartier Latin and in a few moments found the maestro's home.

One or two persons were by him when he entered the room, and they turned and looked curiously. "Edward!" exclaimed the old man, lifting his sightless eyes toward the door; "there is but one who steps like that!"

Edward approached and took his hand. The sick man was sitting in his arm-chair, wrapped in his faded dressing-gown. "My friends," he continued, lifting his hand with a slight gesture of dismissal, "you have been kind to Benoni; God will reward you; farewell!"

The friends, one a woman of the neighborhood, the other the wife of the concierge, came and touched his hand, and, bowing to Edward, withdrew, lifting their white aprons to their faces as they passed from the room.

"You are very ill," said Edward, placing his hand upon the old man's arm; "I have just returned to Paris and came at once."

"Very ill, indeed." He leaned back his head wearily. "It will soon be over."

"Have you no friends who should know of this, good Benoni; no relatives? You have been silent upon this subject, and I have never questioned you. I will bring them if you will let me." Benoni shook his head.

"Never. I am to them already dead." A fit of coughing seized him, and he became greatly exhausted. Upon the table was a small bottle containing wine, left by one of the women. Edward poured out a draught and placed it to the bloodless lips.

"One is my wife," said the dying man, with sudden energy, "my own wife."

"I will answer that she comes; she cannot refuse."

"Refuse? No, indeed! She has been searching for me for a lifetime. Many times she has looked upon me without recognition. She would come; she has been here – she has been here!"

"And did not know you? It is possible?"

"She did not know."

"You told her, though?"

"No."

"You never told her – " There was a pause. The sick man said, gasping:

"I am a convict!" A cry of horror broke from the lips of the young man. The old violinist resented his sudden start and exclamation. "But a convict innocent. I swear it before my Maker!" Edward was deeply touched.

"None can doubt that who knows you, Benoni."

"He threatened my life; he struck at me with his knife; I turned it on him, and he fell dead. I did what I could; I was stanching the wound when they seized me. His ring jewel had cut my face; but for that I would have been executed. I had no friends, even my name was not my own. I went to prison and labor for twenty years."

He named the length of his sentence in a whisper. It was a horror he could never understand. He stretched out his hand. "Wine." Again Edward restored something of the fleeting strength.

"She came," he said, "searching for me. I was blind then; they had been careless with their blasting – my eyes were gone, my hair white, my face scarred. She did not know me. Her voice was divine! Her name has been in the mouths of all men. She came and sang at Christmas, to the prisoners, the glorious hymns of her church, and she sang to me. It was a song that none there knew but me – my song! Had she watched my face, then, she would have known; but how could she suspect me, the blind, the scarred, the gray? She passed out forever. And I, harmless, helpless, soon followed – pardoned. I knew her name; I made my way to Paris to be near that voice; and the years passed; I was poor and blind. It cost money to hear her."

Trembling with emotion, Edward whispered: "Her name?" Benoni shook his head and slowly extended his withered arms. The woolen wristlets had been removed, there were the white scars, the marks of the convict's long-worn irons.

"I have forgiven her; I will not bring her disgrace."

"Cambia?" said Edward, unconsciously. There was a loud cry; the old man half-rose and sank back, baffled by his weakness.

"Hush! Hush!" he gasped; "it is my secret; swear to me you will keep it; swear to me, swear!"

"I swear it, Benoni, I swear it." The old man seemed to have fallen asleep; it was a stupor.

"She came," he said, "years ago and offered me gold. It was to be the last effort of her life. She could not believe but that her husband was in Paris and might be found. She believed the song would find him. I had been suggested to her because my music and figure were known to all the boulevards. I was blind and could never know her. But I knew her voice.

"She went, veiled to avoid recognition; she stood by me at a certain place on the boulevard where people gather in the evening and sang. What a song. The streets were blocked, and men, I am told, uncovered before the sacred purity of that voice, and when all were there who could hear she sang our song; while I, weeping, played the accompaniment, ay, as no man living or dead could have played it. Always in the lines —

"Oceans may roll betweenThy home and thee."

– her voice gave way. They called it art.

"Well, I thought, one day I will tell; it was always the next day, but I knew, as she sang, in her mind must have arisen the picture of that husband standing by her side – ah, my God, I could not, I could not; blind, scarred, a felon, I could not; I was dead! It was bitter!

"And then she came to me and said: 'Good Benoni, your heart is true and tender; I thank you; I have wealth and plenty; here is gold, take it in memory of a broken heart you have soothed.' I said:

"'The voice of that woman, her song, are better than gold. I have them.' I went and stood in the door as she, weeping, passed out. She lifted her veil and touched the forehead of the old musician with her lips, and then – I hardly knew! I was lying on the floor when Annette came to bring my tea."

For a long time he sat without motion after this recital. Edward loosened the faded cords of his gown. The old man spoke again in a whisper:

"Come closer; there is another secret. I knew then that I had never before loved her. My marriage had been an outrage of heart-faith. I mistook admiration, sympathy, memory, for love. I was swept from my feet by her devotion, but it is true – as God is my judge, I never loved her until then – until her sad, ruined life spoke to me in that song on the streets of Paris." Edward still held his hand.

"Benoni," he said, simply, "there is no guilt upon your soul to have deserved the convict's irons. Believe me, it is better to send for her and let her come to you. Think of the long years she has searched; of the long years of uncertainty that must follow. You cannot, you cannot pass away without paying the debt; it was your fault in the beginning – "

The old man had gradually lifted his head; now he bowed it. "Then you owe her the admission. Oh, believe me, you are wrong if you think the scars of misfortune can shame away love. You do not know a true woman's heart. You have not much time, I fear; let me send for her." There was no reply. He knelt and took one withered hand in his. "Benoni, I plead for you as for her. There will come a last moment – you will relent; and then it will be too late."

"Send!" It was a whisper. The lips moved again; it was an address. Upon a card Edward wrote hurriedly:

"The blind musician who once played for you is dying. He has the secret of your life. If you would see your husband alive lose no minute.

"A Friend."

He dashed from the room and ran rapidly to a cab stand.

"Take this," he said, "bring an answer in thirty minutes, and get 100 francs. If the police interfere, say a dying man waits for his friend."

The driver lashed his horses, and was lashing them as he faded into the distance.

Edward returned; he called for hot water and bathed the dying man's feet; he rubbed his limbs and poured brandy down his throat. He laid his watch upon the little table; five, ten, fifteen, twenty, five – would she never come?

Death had already entered; he was hovering over the doomed man.

The door opened; a tall woman of sad but noble countenance stepped in, thrusting back her veil. Edward was kneeling by Benoni's side. Cambia's eyes were fastened upon the face of the dying man.

Edward passed out, leaving them alone. A name escaped her.

"Gaspard."

Slowly, leaning upon the arm of his chair, the old man arose and listened.

"It was a voice from the past," he said, clearly. "Who calls Gaspard Levigne?"

"Oh, God in heaven!" she moaned, dropping to her knees. "Is it true? What do you know of Gaspard Levigne?"

"Nothing that is good; but I am he, Marie!" The woman rushed to his side; she touched his face and smoothed the disordered hair. She held his hand after he had sunk into his chair.

"Tell me, in God's name," she said. "Tell me where are the proofs of our marriage? Oh, Gaspard, for my sake, for the sake of your posterity! You are dying; do not deny me!"

"Ah," he said, in a whisper. "I did not know – there – was – another – I did not know. The woman – she wrote that it died!" He rose again to his feet, animated by a thought that gave him new strength. Turning his face toward her in horror, he said:

"It is for you that you search, then – not for me!"

"Speak, Gaspard, my husband, for my sake, for the sake of your Marie, who loved and loves you, speak!" His lips moved. She placed her ear to them:

"Dear heaven," she cried in despair. "I cannot hear him! I cannot hear him! Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard! Ah – " The appeal ended in a shriek. She was staring into his glazing eyes. Then over the man's face came a change. Peace settled there. The eyes closed and he whispered: "Freda!"

Hearing her frantic grief, Edward rushed in and now stood looking down in deep distress upon the scene.

"He is dead, madame," he said, simply. "Let me see you to your home." She arose, white and calm, by a mighty effort.

"What was he to you? Who are you?" she asked.

"He was my friend and master." He laid his hands lovingly on the eyes, closing them. "I am Edward Morgan!" Her eyes never left him. There was no motion of her tall figure; only her hand upon the veil closed tightly and her features twitched. They stood in silence but a moment; it was broken by Cambia. She had regained something of the bearing of the dramatic soprano. With a simple dignity she said:

"Sir, you have witnessed a painful scene. On the honor of a gentleman give me your pledge to secrecy. There are tragedies in all lives; chance has laid bare to you the youth of Cambia." He pointed downward to where the still form lay between them.

"Above the body of your husband – my friend – I swear to you that your secret is safe."

"I thank you."

She looked a moment upon the form of the sleeper, and then her eyes searched the face of the young man. "Will you leave me alone with him a few moments?" He bowed and again withdrew into the little hall.

When he was gone she knelt above the figure a long time in prayer, and then, looking for the last time upon the dead face, sadly withdrew. The young man took her to the carriage. A policeman was guarding it.

"The driver broke the regulation by my orders," Edward said; "he was bringing this lady to the bedside of a dying friend. Here is enough to pay his fine." He gave a few napoleons to the cabman and his card on which he placed his address.

"Adieu, madame. I will arrange everything, and if you will attend the funeral I will notify you."

"I will attend," said Cambia; "I thank you. Adieu."

CHAPTER XLIV

THE HEART OF CAMBIA

It was a simple burial. Edward sent a carriage for Cambia, one for the concierge and his wife, and in the other he brought Mrs. Montjoy and Mary, to whom he had related a part of the history of Benoni, as he still called him. Out in Pere la Chaise they laid away the body of the old master, placed on it their flowers and the beautiful wreath that Cambia brought, and were ready to return.

As they approached their carriage, Edward introduced the ladies, to whom he had already told of Cambia's career.

They looked with sympathetic pleasure upon the great singer and were touched by her interest in and devotion to the old musician, "whom she had known in happier days."

Cambia studied their faces long and thoughtfully and promised to call upon them. They parted to meet again.

When Edward went to make an engagement for Mrs. Montjoy with Moreau, the great authority on the eye, he was informed that the specialist had been called to Russia for professional services in the family of the Czar, and would not return before a date then a week off. The ladies accepted the delay philosophically. It would give them time to see something of Paris.

And see it they did. To Edward it was familiar in every feature. He took them to all the art centers, the historical points, the great cathedral, the environments of Malmaison and Versailles, to the promenades, the palaces and the theaters. This last feature was the delight of both. For the dramatic art in all its perfection both betrayed a keen relish, and just then Paris was at its gayest. They were never jostled, harassed, nor disappointed. They were in the hands of an accomplished cosmopolitan.

To Mary the scenes were full of never-ending delight. The mother had breathed the same atmosphere before, but to Mary all was novel and beautiful.

Throughout all Edward maintained the sad, quiet dignity peculiar to him, illumined at times by flashes of life, as he saw and gloried in the happiness of the girl at his side.

Then came Cambia! Mary had gone out with Edward, for a walk, and Mrs. Montjoy was knitting in the parlor in silent reverie when a card was brought in, and almost immediately the sad, beautiful face of the singer appeared in the door.

"Do not arise, madame," she said, quickly, coming forward upon seeing the elderly lady beginning to put aside her knitting, "nor cease your work. I ask that you let me forget we are almost strangers and will sit here by your side. You have not seen Moreau yet?"

"No," said Mrs. Montjoy, releasing the white hand that had clasped hers; "he is to return to-day."

"Then he will soon relieve your anxiety. With Moreau everything is possible."

"I am sure I hope your trust is not misplaced; success will lift a great weight from my family." Cambia was silent, thinking; then she arose and, sinking upon the little footstool, laid her arms upon the knees of her hostess, and with tearful eyes raised to her face she said:

"Mrs. Montjoy, do you not know me? Have I indeed changed so much?"

The needles ceased to contend and the work slipped from the smooth little hands. A frightened look overspread the gentle face.

"Who is it speaks? Sometime I must have known that voice."

"It is Marion Evan." The visitor bent her head upon her own arms and gave way to her emotion. Mrs. Montjoy had repeated the name unconsciously and was silent. But presently, feeling the figure bent before her struggling in the grasp of its emotion, she placed both hands upon the shapely head and gently stroked its beautiful hair, now lined with silver.

"You have suffered," she said simply. "Why did you leave us? Why have you been silent all these years?"

"For my father's sake. They have thought me cold, heartless, abandoned. I have crucified my heart to save his." She spoke with vehement passion.

"Hush, my child," said the elder lady; "you must calm yourself. Tell me all; let me help you. You used to tell me all your troubles and I used to call you daughter in the old times. Do you remember?"

"Ah, madame, if I did not I would not be here now. Indeed you were always kind and good to Marion."

And so, living over the old days, they came to learn again each other's heart and find how little time and the incidents of life had changed them. And sitting there beneath the sympathetic touch and eyes of her lifetime friend, Cambia told her story.

"I was not quite 17, madame, you remember, when it happened. How, I do not know; but I thought then I must have been born for Gaspard Levigne. From the moment I saw him, the violin instructor in our institution, I loved him. His voice, his music, his presence, without effort of his, deprived me of any resisting power; I did not seek to resist. I advanced in my art until its perfection charmed him. I had often seen him watching me with a sad and pensive air and he once told me that my face recalled a very dear friend, long dead. I sang a solo in a concert; he led the orchestra; I sang to him. The audience thought it was the debutante watching her director, but it was a girl of 17 singing to the only man the world held for her. He heard and knew.

"From that day we loved; before, only I loved. He was more than double my age, a handsome man, with a divine art; and I – well, they called me pretty – made him love me. We met at every opportunity, and when opportunities did not offer we made them, those innocent, happy trysts.

"Love is blind not only to faults but to all the world. We were discovered and he was blamed. The great name of the institution might be compromised – its business suffer. He resigned.

"Then came the terrible misstep; he asked me to go with him and I consented. We should have gone home; he was afraid of the legal effects of marrying a minor, and so we went the other way. Not stopping in New York we turned northward, away from the revengeful south; from police surveillance, and somewhere we were married. I heard them call us man and wife, and then I sank again into my dream.

"It does not seem possible that I could not have known the name of the place, but I was no more than a child looking from a car window and taken out for meals here and there. I had but one thought – my husband.

"We went to Canada, then abroad. Gaspard had saved considerable money; his home was in Silesia and thither we went; and that long journey was the happiest honeymoon a woman could know."

"I spent mine in Europe wandering from point to point. I understand," said Mrs. Montjoy, gently.

"Oh, you do understand! We reached the home and then my troubles began. My husband, the restraints of his professional engagement thrown off, fell a victim to dissipation again. He had left his country to break up old associations and this habit.

"His people were high-class but poor. He was Count Levigne. Their pride was boundless. They disliked me from the beginning. I had frustrated the plans of the family, whose redemption was to come from Gaspard. Innocent though I was, and soon demanding the tenderness, the love, the gentleness which almost every woman receives under like circumstances, I received only coldness and petty persecution.

"Soon came want; not the want of mere food, but of clothing and minor comforts. And Gaspard had changed – he who should have defended me left me to defend myself. One night came the end. He reproached me – he was intoxicated – with having ruined his life and his prospects." The speaker paused. With this scene had come an emotion she could with difficulty control; but, calm at last, she continued with dignity:

"The daughter of Gen. Albert Evan could not stand that. I sold my diamonds, my mother's diamonds, and came away. I had resolved to come back and work for a living in my own land until peace could be made with father. At that time I did not know the trouble. I found out, though.

"Gaspard came to his senses then and followed me. Madame, can you imagine the sorrow of the coming back? But a few months before I had gone over the same route the happiest woman in all the to me beautiful world, and now I was the most miserable; life had lost its beauty!

"We met again – he had taken a shorter way, and, guessing my limited knowledge correctly, by watching the shipping register found me. But all eloquence could not avail then; there had been a revulsion. I no longer loved him. He would never reform; he would work by fits and starts and he could not support me. At that time he had but one piece of property in the world – a magnificent Stradivarius violin. The sale of that would have brought many thousand francs to spend, but on that one thing he was unchanging. It had come to him by many generations of musicians. They transmitted to him their divine art and the vehicle of its expression. A suggestion of sale threw him into the most violent of passions, so great was the shock to his artistic nature and family pride. If he had starved to death that violin would have been found by his side.