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Sons and Fathers

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Title: Sons and Fathers

Author: Harry Stillwell Edwards


        
Release date: May 14, 2011 [eBook #36112]

Language: English

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SONS AND FATHERS

by

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS.







Published by
The J. W. Burke Company
Macon, Georgia

The First-Prize Story
In The Chicago Record's series of "Stories of Mystery"

This story--out of 816 competing--was awarded the FIRST
PRIZE--$10,000--in The Chicago Record's "$30,000
to Authors" competition.

Copyright 1896, by Harry Stillwell Edwards.
Copyright 1921, by Harry Stillwell Edwards.



CONTENTS

   CHAPTER I.       TWO SONS.
   CHAPTER II.      THE STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD.
   CHAPTER III.     A BREATH FROM THE OLD SOUTH.
   CHAPTER IV.      THE MOTHER'S ROOM.
   CHAPTER V.       THE STRANGER IN THE LIBRARY.
   CHAPTER VI.      "WHO SAYS THERE CAN BE A 'TOO LATE' FOR THE
                       IMMORTAL MIND?"
   CHAPTER VII.     "BACK! WOULD YOU MURDER HER?"
   CHAPTER VIII.    ON THE BACK TRAIL.
   CHAPTER IX.      THE TRAGEDY IN THE STORM.
   CHAPTER X.       "GOD PITY ME! GOD PITY ME!"
   CHAPTER XI.      IN THE CRIMSON OF SUNSET.
   CHAPTER XII.     THE OLD SOUTH VERSUS THE NEW.
   CHAPTER XIII.    FEELING THE ENEMY.
   CHAPTER XIV.     THE OLD SOUTH DRAWS THE SWORD.
   CHAPTER XV.      "IN ALL THE WORLD, NO FAIRER FLOWER THAN THIS!"
   CHAPTER XVI.     BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT.
   CHAPTER XVII.    "IF I MEET THE MAN!"
   CHAPTER XVIII.   HOW THE CHALLENGE WAS WRITTEN.
   CHAPTER XIX.     BROUGHT TO BAY.
   CHAPTER XX.      IN THE HANDS OF THEIR FRIENDS.
   CHAPTER XXI.     "THE WITNESS IS DEAD."
   CHAPTER XXII.    THE DUEL AT SUNRISE.
   CHAPTER XXIII.   THE SHADOW OVER THE HALL.
   CHAPTER XXIV.    THE PROFILE ON THE MOON.
   CHAPTER XXV.     THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH.
   CHAPTER XXVI.    GATHERING THE CLEWS.
   CHAPTER XXVII.   THE FACE THAT CAME IN DREAMS.
   CHAPTER XXVIII.  THE THREE PICTURES.
   CHAPTER XXIX.    "HOME SWEET HOME."
   CHAPTER XXX.     THE RAINBOW IN THE MIST.
   CHAPTER XXXI.    THE HAND OF SCIENCE.
   CHAPTER XXXII.   THE FLASHLIGHT PHOTOGRAPH.
   CHAPTER XXXIII.  THE TRADE WITH SLIPPERY DICK.
   CHAPTER XXXIV.   THE FACE OF THE BODY-SNATCHER.
   CHAPTER XXXV.    THE GRAVE IN THE PAST.
   CHAPTER XXXVI.   THE PLEDGE THAT WAS GIVEN.
   CHAPTER XXXVII.  "WHICH OF THE TWO WAS MY MOTHER?"
   CHAPTER XXXVIII. UNDER THE SPELL.
   CHAPTER XXXIX.   BARKSDALE'S WARNING.
   CHAPTER XL.      THE HIDDEN HAND.
   CHAPTER XLI.     WITH THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM.
   CHAPTER XLII.    THE SONG THE OCEAN SANG.
   CHAPTER XLIII.   THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE.
   CHAPTER XLIV.    THE HEART OF CAMBIA.
   CHAPTER XLV.     THE MAN WITH THE TORCH.
   CHAPTER XLVI.    WHAT THE SHEET HID.
   CHAPTER XLVII.   ON THE MARGINS OF TWO WORLDS.
   CHAPTER XLVIII.  WAR TO THE KNIFE.
   CHAPTER XLIX.    PREPARING THE MINE.
   CHAPTER L.       SLIPPERY DICK RIGHTS A WRONG.
   CHAPTER LI.      A WOMAN'S WIT CONQUERS.
   CHAPTER LII.     DEATH OF COL. MONTJOY.
   CHAPTER LIII.    THE ESCAPE OF AMOS ROYSON.
   CHAPTER LIV.     HOW A DEBT WAS PAID.
   CHAPTER LV.      THE UNOPENED LETTER.
   CHAPTER LVI.     "WOMAN, WHAT WAS HE TO YOU?"
   CHAPTER LVII.    FRAGMENTARY LIFE RECORDS.
   CHAPTER LVIII.   "THE LAST SCENE OF ALL"




SONS AND FATHERS




CHAPTER I.

TWO SONS.


At a little station in one of the gulf states, where the east and west
trains leave and pick up a few passengers daily, there met in the summer
of 1888 two men who since they are to appear frequently in this record,
are worthy of description. One who alighted from the west-bound train
was about 29 years of age. Tall and slender, he wore the usual
four-button cutaway coat, with vest and trousers to match, which,
despite its inappropriateness in such a climate, was the dress of the
young city man of the south, in obedience to the fashion set by the
northern metropolis. His small feet were incased in neat half-moroccos,
and his head protected by the regulation derby of that year. There was
an inch of white cuffs visible upon his wrists, held with silver link
buttons, and an inch and a half of standing collar, points turned down.
He carried a small traveling bag of alligator skin swung lightly over
his left shoulder, after the English style, and a silk umbrella in lieu
of a cane. This man paced the platform patiently.

His neighbor was about the same age, dressed in a plain gray cassimer
suit. He wore a soft felt traveling hat and the regulation linen. He
was, however, of heavier build, derived apparently from free living, and
restless, since he moved rapidly from point to point, speaking with
train hands and others, his easy, good-fellow air invariably securing
him courtesy. His face was full and a trifle florid, but very mobile in
expression; while that of the first mentioned was somewhat sallow and
softened almost to sadness by gray eyes and long lashes. As they passed
each other the difference was both noticed and felt. The impressions
that the two would have conveyed to an analyst were action and
reflection. Perhaps in the case of the man in gray the impression would
have been heightened by sight of his two great commercial traveling bags
of Russia leather, bearing the initials "N. M. Jr."

There was one other passenger on the platform--a very handsome young
woman, seated on her trunk and trying to interest herself in a pamphlet
spread upon her lap, but from time to time she lifted her face, and when
the eyes of the man glanced her way she lowered hers with a half-smile
on her lips. There was something in his tone and manner that disarmed
reserve.

An officer in uniform came from the little eating-house near by and
approached the party.

"Are there any passengers for the coast here?" he asked.

"I am going to Charleston," the young lady said.

"Where are you from, miss?" Then, seeing her surprise, he continued:
"You must excuse the question but I am a quarantine officer and
Charleston has quarantined against all points that have been exposed to
yellow fever."

"That, then, does not include me," she said, confidently. "I am from
Montgomery, where there is no yellow fever, and a strict quarantine."

"Have you a health certificate?"

"A what?"

"A ticket from any of the authorities or physicians in Montgomery."

"No, sir; I am Miss Kitty Blair, and going to visit friends in
Charleston."

The officer looked embarrassed. The health-certificate regulation and
inland quarantine were new and forced him frequently into unpleasant
positions.

"You will excuse me," he said, finally; "but have you anything that
could establish that fact, visiting cards, correspondence--"

"I have told you," she replied, flushing a little, "who I am and where I
am from."

"That would be sufficient, miss, if all that is needed is a lady's word,
but I am compelled to keep all persons from the east-bound train who
cannot prove their residence in a non-infected district. The law is
impartial."

"And I cannot go on, then?" There were anxiety and pathos in her eyes
and tones. The gentleman in gray approached.

"I can fix that, sir," he said, briskly addressing the officer. "I am
not personally acquainted with Miss Blair, but I can testify to what she
says as true. I have seen her in Montgomery almost daily. My name is
Montjoy--Norton Montjoy, Jr. Here are my letters and my baggage is over
yonder."

"Are you a son of Col. Norton Montjoy of Georgia, colonel of the old
'fire-eaters,' as we used to call the regiment?"

"Yes, indeed," and a happy smile illumined his face.

"My name is Throckmorton," said the officer. "I followed your father
three years during the war, and you are--by Jove! you are the brat that
they once brought to camp and introduced as the latest infantry recruit!
Well, I see the likeness now."

The two men shook hands fervently. The officer bowed to the lady. "The
matter is all right," he said, smiling; "I will give you a paper
presently that will carry you through." The new friends then walked
aside talking with animation. The quarantine officer soon got into war
anecdotes. The other stranger was now left to the amusement of watching
the varying expressions of the girl's face. She continued low over her
book and began to laugh. Presently, with a supreme effort she recovered
herself. Montjoy had shaken off his father's admirer and was coming her
way. She looked up shyly. "I am very much obliged to you for getting me
out of trouble; I----"

"Don't mention it, miss; these fellows haven't much discretion."

"But what a fib it was!"

"How?"

"I haven't been in Montgomery in two weeks. I came here from an aunt's
in Macon."

"And I haven't been there in six months!" His laugh was hearty and
infectious. "Here comes your train; let me put you aboard." He secured
her a seat; the repentant quarantine officer supplied her with a ticket,
and then, shaking hands again with his father's friend, Montjoy hurried
to the southwester, which was threatening to get under way. The other
traveler was in and had a window open on the shady side.

There were men only in the car, and as Montjoy entered he drew off his
coat and dropped it upon his bags. The motion of the starting train did
not add to his comfort. The red dust poured in through the open windows,
invading and irritating the lungs. He thought of the moonlit roof
gardens in New York with something like a groan.

"Confound such a road!" and down went the book he was seriously trying
to lose himself in. His silent companion's face was lifted toward him:

"A railroad company that will run cars like this on such a schedule
ought to be abolished, the officers imprisoned, track torn up and
rolling stock burned! But then," he continued, "I am the fool. I ought
not to have come by this God-forsaken route."

"It is certainly not pleasant traveling to-day," his companion remarked,
sympathetically, showing even, white teeth under his brown mustache.
Montjoy had returned to his seat, but the smooth, even, musical tones of
the other echoed in his memory. He glanced back and presently came and
took a seat near by.

"Are you a resident of the south?" It was the stranger who spoke first.
This delicate courtesy was not lost on Montjoy.

"Yes. That is, I count myself a citizen of this state. But I sell
clothing for a New York house and am away from home a great deal."

"You delivered the young lady at the junction from quite a predicament."

"Didn't I, though! Well, she is evidently a fine little woman and
pretty. Lies for a pretty woman don't count. By the way--may I ask? What
line of business are you in?"




CHAPTER II.

THE STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD.


"I am not in business," said the other. "I am a nephew of John Morgan,
of Macon. I suppose you must have known him."

"Yes, indeed."

"And am going out to wind up his affairs. I have been abroad and have
only just returned. The news of his death was quite a surprise to me. I
had not been informed that he was ill."

"Then you are the heir of John Morgan?"

"I am told so. It is but three days now since I reached this country,
and I have no information except as contained in a brief notice from
attorneys."

"How long since you have seen him?"

"I have never seen him--at least not since I was an infant, if then. My
parents left me to his care. I have spent my life in schools until six
or seven years ago, when, after graduating at Harvard and then at
Columbia college in law, I went abroad. Have never seen so much as the
picture of my uncle. I applied to him for one through his New York
lawyer once, sending a new one of myself, and he replied that he had too
much respect for art to have his taken."

"That sounds like him," and Montjoy laughed heartily. "He was a florid,
sandy-haired man, with eyes always half-closed against the light, stout
and walked somewhat heavily. He has been a famous criminal lawyer, but
for many years has not seemed to care for practice. He was a heavy
drinker, but with all that you could rely implicitly upon what he said.
He left a large property, I presume?"

"So I infer." Edward looked out of the window, but presently resumed the
conversation.

"My uncle stood well in the community, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; we have lost a good citizen. Do you expect to make your home
with us?"

"That depends upon circumstances. Very likely I shall."

"I see! Well, sir, I trust you will. The Morgan place is a nice one and
has been closed to the young people too long."

"I am afraid they will not find me very gay." A shadow flitted over his
face, blotting out the faint smile.

The towns and villages glided away.

Edward Morgan noticed that there was little paint upon the country
houses, and that the fences were gone from the neighborhoods. And then
the sun sank below the black cloud, painting its peaks with gold, and
filling the caverns with yellow light; church spires, tall buildings and
electric-light towers filed by with solemn dignity and then stood
motionless. The journey was at an end.

"My home is six miles out," said Montjoy, "and if you will go with me I
shall be glad to have you. It is quite a ride, but anything is
preferable to the hotels."

Morgan's face lighted up quickly at this unexpected courtesy.

"Thank you," he said "but I don't mind the hotels. I have never had any
other home, sir, except boarding houses." Through his smile there fell
the little, destroying shadow. Montjoy had not expected him to accept,
but he turned now, with his winning manner.

"Well, then, I insist. We shall find a wagon waiting outside, and
to-morrow I am coming in and shall bring you back. We will have to get
acquainted some of these days, and there is nothing like making an early
start." He was already heading for the sidewalk; his company was as
sunlight and Morgan was tempted to stay in the sunlight.

"Then I shall go," he said. "You are very kind."

A four-seated vehicle stood outside and by it a little old negro, who
laughed as Montjoy rapidly approached.

"Well, Isam," he said, tossing his bag in, "how are all at home?"

"Dey's all well."

"By the way, Mr. Morgan, we shall leave your trunks, but I can supply
you with everything for a 'one-night stand.'"

"I have a valise that will answer, if there is room."

"Plenty. Let Isam have the check and he will get it." While Morgan was
feeling for his bit of brass Isam continued:

"Miss Annie will be mighty glad to see you. Sent me in here now goin' on
fo' times an' gettin' madder----"

"That's all right; here's the check; hurry up." The negro started off
rapidly.

"Drive by the club, Isam," he said, when the negro had resumed the
lines. "I reckon we'll be too late for supper at home; better get it in
town."

"Miss Mary save supper for you, sho', Marse Norton."

"Save, the mischief! Go ahead!" The single horse moved forward in a
dignified trot.

As they entered the club several young men were grouped near a center
table. There was a vista of open doors, a glimmer of cards and the crash
of billiards. Montjoy walked up and dropped his hat on the table. There
followed a general handshaking. Edward Morgan noticed that they greeted
him with cordiality. Then he saw his manner change and he turned with a
show of formality.

"Gentlemen, this is my friend, Mr. Morgan, a nephew of Col. John
Morgan." He rapidly pronounced the names of those present, and each
shook the newcomer's hand. At the same time Morgan felt their sudden
scrutiny, but it was brief. Montjoy rang the bell.

"What are you going to have, gentlemen? John," to the old waiter, "how
are you, John?"

"First rate, Marse Norton; first rate." The old man bowed and smiled.

"Take these orders, John. Five toddies, one Rhine wine, and hurry, John!
Oh, John!" The worthy came back. "There is only one mistake you can make
with mine; take care about the water!"

"All right, sah, all right! Dare won't be any!"

Montjoy ordered a tremendous supper, as he called it, and while waiting
the half-hour for its preparation, several of the party repeated the
order for refreshments, it appeared to the stranger, with something like
anxiety. It was as though they feared an opportunity to return the
courtesies they had accepted would not be given. None joined them at
supper, but when the newcomers were seated one of the gentlemen lounged
near and dropping into a seat renewed the conversation that had been
interrupted. Champagne had been added to the supper and this gentleman
yielded at length to Montjoy's demand and joined them.

The conversation ran upon local politics until Morgan began to feel the
isolation. He took to studying the new man and presently felt the
slight, inexplicable prejudice that he had formed upon the introduction,
wearing away. The man was tall, dark and straightly built, probably
thirty years of age, with fine eyes and unchanging countenance. He did
but little talking, and when he spoke it was with great deliberation and
positiveness. If there were an unpleasant shading of character written
there it was in the mouth, which, while not ill-formed, seemed to
promise a relentless disposition. But the high and noble forehead
redeemed it all. This man was now addressing him:

"You will remain some time in Macon, Mr. Morgan?"

The voice possessed but few curves; it grated a trifle upon the
stranger.

"I cannot tell as yet," he said; "I do not know what will be required of
me."

"Well, I shall be pleased to see you at my place of business whenever
you find an opportunity of calling. Norton, bring Mr. Morgan down to see
me."

He laid his card by Edward and bade them good-evening. Looking over his
plate, the latter read H. R. Barksdale, president A. F. & C. railroad.
He had not caught the name in the general introduction. "Good fellow,"
said Montjoy, between mouthfuls; "talked more to-night than I ever heard
him, and never knew him to pull a card before."

The night was dark. The road ran over hills, but sometimes was sandy
enough to reduce the horse to his slowest gait. "From this point," said
Montjoy, looking back, "you can see the city five miles away, rather a
good view in the daytime, but now only the scattered electric lights
show up."

"It looks like the south of France," said Morgan. Montjoy revealed the
direction of his thoughts.

"You will find things at home very different from what they once were,"
he put in. "With free labor the plantations have run down, and it is
very hard for the old planters to make anything out of land now. The
negroes won't work and it hardly pays to plant cotton. I wish often that
father could do something else, but he can't change at his time of
life."

"Could not the young men do better with the plantations?"

"Young men! My dear sir, the young men can't afford to work the
plantations; it is as much as they can do to make a living in town--most
of them."

"Is there room for all?"

"No, indeed! They are having a hard time of it, I reckon, and salaries
are getting smaller every year."

"I have heard," said Morgan, slowly, "that labor is the wealth of a
country. It seems to me that if they expect to make anything out of
this, they must labor in the productive branches. Where does the support
for all come from?"

"From the farms--from cotton, mostly."

"The negro is, then, after all, the productive agent."

Montjoy thought a moment, then replied:

"Yes, as a rule. Manufacturing is increasing and there is some
development in mining, but as a matter of fact the negroes and the poor
whites of the country keep the balance up. Somebody has got to sweat it
out between the plow handles, but you can bet your bottom dollar that
Montjoy is out. I couldn't make $100 a year on the best plantation in
Georgia, but I can make $5,000 selling clothing."

The dignified horse had climbed his last hill for the night and was just
turning into an avenue, when a dark form came plunging out of the shadow
and collided with him violently. Morgan beheld a rider almost unhorsed
and heard an oath. For an instant only he saw the man's face, white and
malignant, and then it disappeared in the darkness. To Montjoy's
greeting, good-naturedly hurled into the night, there came no reply.

"My wife's cousin," he said, laughing. "I am glad it is not my horse he
is riding to-night."

They came up in front of a large house with Corinthian columns and many
lights. There was a sudden movement of chairs upon the long veranda and
then a young woman came slowly down to the gate and lifted her face to
Montjoy's kiss. A pretty boy of five climbed into his arms. Morgan stood
silent, touched by the scene. He started violently as Norton Montjoy,
remembering his presence, called his name. The woman extended her hand.

"I am very glad to see you," she said, accenting the adjective. Morgan,
sensitive to fine impressions, did not like the voice, although the
courtesy was perfect.

They advanced to the porch. An old gentleman was standing at the top of
the steps. In the light streaming from the hallway Morgan saw that he
was tall and soldierly and with gray hair pressed back in great waves
from the temples. He put one arm around his son and the other around his
grandson, but did not remove his eyes from the guest. While he addressed
words of welcome and chiding to the former, he was slowly extending his
right hand, seeing which the son said gayly:

"Mr. Morgan, father--a nephew of Col. John Morgan." The light fell upon
the half-turned face of the old gentleman and showed it lighted by a
mild and benevolent expression and dawning smile.

"Indeed! Come in, Mr. Morgan, come in; I am glad to see you."

The words were cordial and tone of voice perfect, but to Edward there
seemed a shading of surprise in the prolonged gaze that rested upon him.

Norton had passed on to the end of the porch, where an elderly lady sat
upright, prevented from rising by a little girl asleep in her lap. There
were sounds of repeated kisses as she embraced her overgrown boy, and
then her voice:

"The Duchess tried to keep her eyes open for you, but she could not. Why
are you so late?" Her voice was as the winds in the pines, and the hand
she gave to Morgan a moment later was as cool as chamois and as soft.

A young girl had come to the doorway. She was simply dressed in white
and her abundant hair was twisted into the Grecian knot that makes some
women appear more womanly. She put her arms about the big brother and
gave her little hand to Morgan. For a moment their eyes met, and then,
gently disengaging her hand, she went to lean against her father's
chair, softly stroking his white hair, while the conversation went
'round.

"Mary," said the older woman, presently, "Mr. Morgan and Norton have had
a long ride and must be hungry."

"No," said the latter, checking the girl's sudden movement, "we have had
something to eat in town."

"You should have waited, my son; it was a needless expense," said the
mother, gently. "But I am afraid you will never practice economy."
Norton laughed and did not dispute the proposition. The young mother and
children disappeared, and Norton gave a spirited account of the
quarantine incident without securing applause.

"I understand," said the colonel to his guest presently, when
conversation had lulled, "that you are a nephew of John Morgan. I did
not know that he had brothers or sisters----"

"I am not really a nephew," said Morgan, quietly, "but a distant
relative and always taught to regard him as uncle." Something in his
voice made the young girl lift her eyes. His figure in the half-light
where he sat was immovable. Against the white column beyond, his head,
graceful in its outlines, was sharply silhouetted. It was bent slightly
forward; and while they remained upon the porch, ever at the sound of
his voice she would turn her eyes slowly and let them rest upon the
speaker. But she was silent.




CHAPTER III.

A BREATH FROM THE OLD SOUTH.


The room in which Edward Morgan opened his eyes next morning was large
and the ceiling low. The posts of the bed ran up to within a foot of the
latter and supported a canopy. There was no carpet, the curtains were of
chintz and the lambrequins evidently home made. The few pictures on the
wall were portraits, in frames made of pine cones, with clusters of
young cones at the corners. There were home-made brackets, full of swamp
grasses. The bureau had two miniature Tuscan columns, between which was
hung a swivel glass. All was homely but clean and suggestive of a
woman's presence. And through the open windows there floated a delicious
atmosphere, fresh, cool and odorous, with the bloom-breath of tree and
shrub.

He stepped out of bed and looked forth. For a mile ran the great fields
of cotton and corn, with here and there a cabin and its curl of smoke. A
flock of pigeons were walking about the barn doors, and a number of
goats waited at the side gate, which led into a broad back yard. In the
distance he could see negroes in the fields, hear their songs and the
"clank" of a little grist-mill in the valley.

But sweeping all other sounds from mind, he heard also another musical
voice calling "Chick! chick! chickee, chickee!" and caught a glimpse of
fowls hurrying from every direction toward the back yard. He plunged his
head into a basin of cool water, and presently he was dressed.

The front door was open, as it had remained all night, the chairs on the
porch, with here and there books and papers, when Edward Morgan walked
out. The yard was spacious and full of plants. Sunflowers and
poke-berries were growing along the front fence, and mocking birds,
cardinals and jays, their animosities suspended, were breakfasting side
by side. His walk carried him to the side of the house, and, looking
across the low picket fence, he saw Mary. Her sleeves were rolled up
above the elbows and her arms covered with dough from a great pan into
which, from time to time, she thrust a hand. A multitude of ducks,
chickens, turkeys and guineas scrambled about her, and a dozen white
pigeons struggled for standing-room upon her shoulders.

"May I come in?" he called.

"If you can stand it, Mr. Morgan." There was not the slightest
embarrassment; the brown eyes were frank and encouraging; he placed his
hands upon the fence and leaped lightly over.

"What a family you have!" he said. She smiled, turning her face to him
as she scattered dough and gently pushed away the troublesome birds.

"Many birds' mouths to fill; and they will have to fill some mouths too,
one of these days, poor things."

"That is but fair."

"I suppose so; but what a mission in life--just to fill somebody's
mouth."

"The mission of many poor men and women I have seen," he said, "is
merely to fill mouths. And sometimes they get so poor they can't do
that."

"And sometimes chickens get the same way," she said, sagely, at which
both laughed outright. Her face resumed its placid expression almost
instantly. "It must be sad to be very poor; how I wish they could
arrange for all of the poor people to come out here and find homes;
there seems to be so much land wasted."

"They would not stay long anywhere away from the city," he said; "but do
you never sigh for city life?"

"I prefer it," she replied, simply, "but we cannot afford it. And there
is no one to take care of this place. It is harder on Annie, brother's
wife. She simply detests the country. When I graduated--"

"You graduated!" he exclaimed, almost incredulously. She looked at him
surprised.

"Yes, I am young, seventeen this month, but that is not extraordinary.
Mamma graduated at the same age, sixteen, forty years ago." A servant
approached, spoon in hand.

"Want some more lard, missy." She took her bunch of keys, and selecting
one that looked like the bastile memento at Mount Vernon, unlocked the
smoke-house door and waited. "Half of that will do, Gincy," she said,
not looking around as she talked with Morgan, and the woman returned
half.

"Now," she continued to him, "I must go see about the milking."

"I will go, too, if you do not object! This is all new and enjoyable."
They came to where the women were at work. As they stood looking on, a
calf came up and stood by the girl's side, letting her rub its sensitive
ears. A little kid approached, too, and bleated.

"Aunt Mollie," Mary asked, "has its mother come up yet?"

"No, ma'am. Spec' somep'n done cotch her!"

"See if he will drink some cow's milk--give me the cup." She offered him
a little, and the hungry animal drank eagerly. "Let him stay in the yard
until he gets large enough to feed himself." Then turning to Morgan,
laughing, she said: "I expect you are hungry, too; I wonder why papa
does not come."

"Is he up?"

"Oh, yes; he goes about early in the morning--there he comes now!" The
soldierly form of the old man was seen out among the pines. "Bring in
breakfast, Gincy," she called, and presently several negroes sped across
the yard, carrying smoking dishes into the cool basement dining-room.
Then the bell rang.

At the top of the stairway Morgan had an opportunity to better see his
hostess. The lady was slender and moved with deliberation. Her gray hair
was brightened by eyes that seemed to swim with light and sympathy. The
dress was a black silk, old in fashion and texture, but there was real
lace at the throat and wrists, and a little lace headdress. She smiled
upon the young man and gave him her plump hand as he offered to assist
her.

"I hope you slept well," she said; "no ghosts! That part of the house
you were in is said to be one hundred years old, and must be full of
memories."

They stood for grace, and then Mary took her place behind the coffee pot
and served the delicious beverage in thin cups of china. The meal
consisted of broiled chicken, hot, light biscuits, bread of cornmeal,
and eggs that Morgan thought delicious, corn cakes, bacon and fine
butter. A little darky behind an enormous apron, but barefooted, stood
by the coffee pot and with a great brush of the gorgeous peacock
feathers kept the few flies off the tiny caster in the middle of the
table, while his eyes followed the conversation around. Presently there
was a clatter on the stairs and the little boy came down and climbed
into his high chair. He was barefooted and evidently ready for
breakfast, as he took a biscuit and bit it. The colonel looked severely
at him.

"Put your biscuit down," he said, quietly but sternly, "and wait outside
now until the others are through. You came in after grace and you have
not said good-morning." The boy's countenance clouded and he began to
pick at his knife handle; the grandmother said, gently:

"He'll not do it again, grandpa, and he is hungry, I know. Let him off
this time." Grandpa assumed a very severe expression as he replied,
promptly:

"Very well, madam; let him say grace and stay, under those
circumstances." The company waited on him, he hesitated, swelled up as
if about to cry and said, earnestly: "Gimme somep'n to eat, for the
Lord's sake, amen." Grandma smiled benignly, but Mary and grandpa were
convulsed. Then other footfalls were heard on the stairs outside, as if
some one were coming down by placing the same foot in front each time.
Presently in walked a blue-eyed, golden-haired, barefooted girl of
three, who went straight to the colonel and held up her arms. He lifted
her and pressed the little cheek to his.

"Ah," he said, "here comes the Duchess." He gave her a plate next to
his, and taking her fork she ate demurely, from time to time watching
Morgan.

"Papa ain't up yet," volunteered the boy. "He told mamma to throw his
clothes in the creek as he wouldn't have any more use for them--ain'
going to get up any more."

"Mamma, does your eye hurt you?" said Mary, seeing the white hand for
the second time raised to her face.

"A little. The same old pain."

"Mamma," she explained to Morgan, "has lost the sight of one eye by
neuralgia, tho you would never suspect it. She still suffers dreadfully
at times from the same trouble."

Presently the elder lady excused herself, the daughter watching her
anxiously as she slowly disappeared.

It was nearly noon when Norton Montjoy and Edward Morgan reached the law
office of Ellison Eldridge. As they entered Morgan saw a clean-shaven
man of frank, open expression. Norton spoke:

"Judge, this is Mr. Edward Morgan--you have corresponded with him."
Morgan felt the sudden penetrating look of the lawyer. Montjoy was
already saying au revoir and hastening out, waving off Edward's thanks
as he went.

"Will see you later," he called back from the stairway, "and don't
forget your promise to the old folks."

"You got my letter, Mr. Morgan? Please be seated."

"Yes; three days since, in New York, through Fuller & Fuller. You have,
I believe, the will of the late John Morgan."

"A copy of it. The will is already probated." He went to his safe and
returned with a document and a bunch of keys. "Shall I read it to you?"

"If you please."

The lawyer read, after the usual recitation that begins such documents,
as follows: "Do create, name and declare Edward Morgan of the city of
New York my lawful heir to all property, real and personal, of which I
may die possessed. And I hereby name as executor of this my last will
and testament, Ellison Eldridge of ---- state afore-said, relieving said
Ellison Eldridge of bond as executor and giving him full power to wind
up my estate, pay all debts and settle with the heir as named, without
the order of or returns to any court, and for his services in this
connection a lien of $10,000 in his favor is hereby created upon said
estate, to be paid in full when the residue of property is transferred
to the said Edward Morgan," etc.

"The property, aside from Ilexhurst, his late home," continued Judge
Eldridge, "consists of $630,000 in government bonds. These I have in a
safety-deposit company. I see the amount surprises you."

"Yes," said the young man; "I am surprised by the amount." He gave
himself up to thought for a few moments.

"The keys," said Eldridge, "he gave me a few days before his death,
stating that they were for you only, and that the desk in his room at
home, which they fitted, contained no property."

"You knew Mr. Morgan well, I presume?" said the young man.

"Yes, and no. I have seen him frequently for a great many years, but no
man knew him intimately. He was eccentric, but a fine lawyer and a very
able man. One day he came in here to execute this will and left it with
me. He referred to it again but once and that was when he came to bring
your address and photograph."

"Was there--anything marked--or strange--in his life?"

"Nothing beyond what I have outlined. He was a bachelor, and beyond an
occasional party to gentlemen in his house, when he spared no expense,
and regular attendance upon the theater, he had few amusements. He
inherited some money; the balance he accumulated in his practice and by
speculation, I suppose. The amount is several times larger than I
suspected. His one great vice was drink. He would get on his sprees two
or three times a year, but always at home. There he would shut himself
up and drink until his housekeeper called in the doctors." Morgan waited
in silence; there was nothing else and he rose abruptly.

"Judge, we will wind up this matter in a few days. Here are your
letters, and John Morgan's to me, and letters from Fuller & Fuller, who
have known me for many years and have acted as agents for both Col.
Morgan and myself. If more proof is desired----"

"These are sufficient. Your photograph is accurate. May I ask how you
are related to Col. Morgan?"

"Distantly only. The fact is I am almost as nearly alone in the world as
he was. I must have your advice touching other matters. I shall return,
very likely, in the morning."

Upon the street Edward Morgan walked as in a dream. Strange to say, the
information imparted to him had been depressing. He called a carriage.

"Take me out to John Morgan's," he said, briefly.

"De colonel's done dead, sah!"

"I know, but the house is still there, is it not?"

The driver conveyed the rebuke to his bony horse, in the shape of a
sharp lash, and secured a reasonably fair gait. Once or twice he
ventured observations upon the character of the deceased.

"Col. Morgan's never asked nobody 'how much' when dey drive 'im; he des
fling down half er doller an' go long 'bout es business. Look to me,
young marster, like you sorter got de Morgan's eye. Is you kinned to
'im?"

"I employed you to drive, not to talk," said Edward, sharply.

"Dere now, dat's des what Col. Morgan say!"

The negro gave vent to a little pacifying laugh and was silent. The
shadow on the young man's face was almost black when he got out of the
hack in front of the Morgan house and tossed the old negro a dollar.

"Oom-hoo!" said that worthy, significantly. "Oo-hoo! What I tole you?"




CHAPTER IV.

THE MOTHER'S ROOM.


The house before which Morgan stood overlooked the city two miles away
and was the center of a vast estate now run to weeds. It was a fine
example of the old style of southern architecture. The spacious roof,
embattled, but unbroken by gable or tower, was supported in front by
eight massive columns that were intended to be Ionic. The space between
them and the house constituted the veranda, and opening from the center
of the house upon this was a great doorway, flanked by windows. This
arrangement was repeated in the story above, a balcony taking the place
of the door. The veranda and columns were reproduced on both sides of
the house, running back to two one-story wings. The house was of slight
elevation and entered in front by six marble steps, flanked by carved
newel posts and curved rails; the front grounds were a hundred yards
wide and fifty deep, inclosed by a heavy railing of iron. These details
came to him afterward; he did not even see at that time the magnolias
and roses that grew in profusion, nor the once trim boxwood hedges and
once active fountain. He sounded loudly upon the front door with the
knocker.

At length a woman came around the wing room and approached him. She was
middle-aged and wore a colored turban, a white apron hiding her dress.
The face was that of an octoroon; her figure tall and full of dignity.
She did not betray the mixed blood in speech or manner, but her form of
address proclaimed her at once a servant. The voice was low and musical
as she said, "Good-morning, sir," and waited.

Morgan studied her in silence a moment; his steady glance seemed to
alarm her, for she drew back a step and placed her hand on the rail.

"I want to see the people who have charge of this house," said the young
man. She now approached nearer and looked anxiously into his face.

"I have the care of it," she answered.

"Well," said he, "I am Edward Morgan, the new owner. Let me have the
keys."

"Edward Morgan!" She repeated the name unconsciously.

"Come, my good woman, what is it? Where are the keys?" She bowed her
head. "I will get them for you, sir." She went to the rear again, and
presently the great doors swung apart and he entered.

The hallway was wide and opened through massive folding doors into the
dining-room in the rear, and this dining-room, by means of other folding
doors, entering the wing-rooms, could be enlarged into a princely salon.
The hall floor was of marble and a heavy frieze and centerpiece
decorated walls and ceiling. A gilt chandelier hung from the center.
Antique oak chairs flanked this hallway, which boasted also a hatrack,
with looking-glass six feet wide. A semicircular stairway, guarded by a
carved oak rail, a newel post and a knight in armor, led to apartments
above. A musty odor pervaded the place.

"Open the house," said Edward; "I must have better air."

And while this was being done he passed through the rooms into which now
streamed light and fresh air. On the right was parlor and guest chamber,
the hangings and carpets unchanged in nearly half a century. On the left
was a more cheerful living-room, with piano and a rack of yellow sheet
music, and the library, with an enormous collection of books. There were
also cane furniture, floor matting and easy-chairs.

In all these rooms spacious effects were not lessened by bric-a-brac and
collections. A few portraits and landscapes, a candelabra or two, a pair
of brass fire dogs, one or two large and exquisitely painted vases made
up the ornamental features. The dining-room proper differed in that its
furnishings were newer and more elaborate. The wing-rooms were evidently
intended for cards and billiards. Behind was the southern back porch
closed in with large green blinds. Over all was the chill of isolation
and disuse.

Edward made his way upstairs among the sleeping apartments, full of old
and clumsy furniture, the bedding having been removed. Two rooms only
were of interest; to the right and rear a small apartment connected with
the larger one in front by a door then locked. This small room seemed to
have been a boy's. There were bows and arrows, an old muzzle-loading
gun, a boat paddle, a dip net, stag horns, some stuffed birds and small
animals, the latter sadly dilapidated, a few game pictures, boots, shoes
and spurs--even toys. A small bed ready for occupancy stood in one
corner and in another a little desk with drop lid. On the hearth were
iron fire dogs and ashes, the latter holding fragments of charred paper.

For the first time since entering the house Edward felt a human
presence; it was a bright sunny room opening to the western breeze and
the berries of a friendly china tree tapped upon the window as he
approached it. He placed his hand upon the knob of the door, leading
forward, and tried to open it; it was locked.

"That," said the woman's low voice, "is Col. Morgan's mother's room,
sir, and nobody ever goes in there. No one has entered that room but him
since she died, I reckon more than forty years ago."

Edward had started violently; he turned to find the sad, changeless face
of the octoroon at his side.

"And this room?"

"There is where he lived all his life--from the time he was a boy until
he died."

Edward took from his pocket the bunch of keys and applied the largest to
the lock of the unopened door; the bolt turned easily. As he crossed the
threshold a thrill went through him; he seemed to trespass. Here had the
boy grown up by his mother, here had been his retreat at all times. When
she passed away it was the one spot that kept fresh the heart of the
great criminal lawyer, who fought the outside world so fiercely and
well. Edward had never known a mother's room, but the scene appealed to
him, and for the first time he felt kinship with the man who preceded
him, who was never anything but a boy here in these two rooms. Even when
he lay dead, back there in that simple bed, over which many a night his
mother must have leaned to press her kisses upon his brow, he was a boy
grown old and lonely.

One day she had died in this front room! What an agony of grief must
have torn the boy left behind. In the dim light of the room he had
opened, objects began to appear; almost reverently Edward raised a
window and pushed open the shutters. Behind him stood ready for
occupancy a snowy bed, with pillows and linen as fresh seemingly as if
placed there at morn. By the bedside was a pair of small worn slippers,
a rocking chair stood by the east window, and by the chair was a little
sewing stand, with a boy's jacket lying near, and threaded needle thrust
into its texture. On the little center table was a well-worn Bible by a
small brass lamp, and a single painting hung upon the wall--that of a
little farmhouse at the foot of a hill, with a girl in frock and poke
bonnet swinging upon its gate.

There was no carpet on the floor; only two small rugs. It had been the
home of a girl simply raised and grown to womanhood, and her simplicity
had been repeated in her boy. The great house had been the design of her
husband, but there in these two rooms mother and son found the charm of
a bygone life, delighting in those "vague feelings" which science cannot
fathom, but which simpler minds accept as the whispering of heredity.

One article only remained unexamined. It was a small picture in a frame
that rested upon the mantel and in front of which was draped a velvet
cloth. Morgan as in a dream drew aside the screen and saw the face of a
wondrously beautiful girl, whose eyes rested pensively upon him. A low
cry escaped the octoroon, who had noiselessly followed him; she was
nodding her head and muttering, all unconscious of his presence. When
she saw at length his face turned in wonder upon her she glided
noiselessly from the room. He replaced the cloth, closed the window
again and tiptoed out, locking the door behind him.

He found the octoroon downstairs upon the back steps. She was now calm
and answered his questions clearly. She had not belonged to John Morgan,
she said, but had always been a free woman. Her husband had been free,
too, but had died early. She had come to keep house at Ilexhurst many
years ago, before the war, and had been there always since, caring for
everything while Mr. Morgan was in the army, and afterward; when he was
away from time to time. No, she did not know anything of the girl in the
picture; she had heard it said that he was once to have married a lady,
but she married somebody else and that was the end of it. John Morgan
had kept the room as it was. No, he was never married. He had no cousins
or kinfolks that she had heard of except a sister who died, and her two
sons had been killed in battle or lost at sea during the war. Neither of
them was married; she was certain of that. She herself cooked and kept
house, and Ben, a hired boy, attended to the rest and acted as butler.

Edward was recalled to the present by feeling her eyes fixed upon him.
He caught but one fleeting glance at her face before it was averted; it
had grown young, almost beautiful, and the eyes were moistened and
tender and sad. He turned away abruptly.

"I will occupy an upper room to-night," he said, "and will send new
furniture to-morrow." His baggage had come and he went back with the
express to the city. He would return, he said, after supper.

Sometimes the mind, after a long strain imposed upon it, relieves itself
by a refusal to consider. So with Edward Morgan's. That night he stood
by his window and watched the lessening moon rise over the eastern
hills. But he seemed to stand by a low picket fence beyond which a girl,
with bare arms, was feeding poultry. He felt again the power of her
frank, brown eyes as they rested upon him, and heard her voice, musical
in the morning air, as it summoned her flock to breakfast.

In New York, Paris and Italy, and here there in other lands, were a few
who called him friend; it would be better to wind up his affairs and go
to them. It did not seem possible that he could endure this new life.
Already the buoyancy of youth was gone! His ties were all abroad.

Thoughts of Paris connected him with a favorite air. He went to his
baggage and unpacked an old violin, and sitting in the window, he played
as a master hand had taught him and an innate genius impelled. It was
Schubert's serenade, and as he played the room was no longer lonely;
sympathy had brought him friends. It seemed to him that among them came
a woman who laid her hand on his shoulder and smiled on him. Her face
was hidden, but her touch was there, living and vibrant. On his cheek
above the mellow instrument he felt his own tears begin to creep and
then--silence. But as he stood calmer, looking down into the night, a
movement in the shrubbery attracted him back to earth; he called aloud:

"Who is there?" A pause and the tall figure of the octoroon crossed the
white walk.

"Rita," was the answer. "The gate was left open."




CHAPTER V.

THE STRANGER IN THE LIBRARY.


Edward was up early and abroad for exercise. Despite his gloom he had
slept fairly well and had awakened but once. But that once! He could not
rid himself of the memory of the little picture and it had served him a
queer trick. He had simply found himself lying with open eyes and
staring at the woman herself; it was the same face, but now anxious and
harassed. He was not superstitious and this was clearly an illusion; he
rubbed his eyes deliberately and looked again. The figure had
disappeared. But the mind that entertains such fancies needs
something--ozone and exercise, he thought; and so he covered the hills
with his rapid pace and found himself an hour later in the city and with
an appetite.

The day passed in the arrangement of those minor requirements when large
estates descend to new owners. There was an accounting, an examination
of records. Judge Eldridge gave him assistance everywhere, but there was
no time for private and past histories. In passing he dropped in at
Barksdale's office and left a card.

One of the distinctly marked features of the day was his meeting with a
lawyer, Amos Royson by name. This man held a druggist's claim of several
hundred dollars against the estate of John Morgan for articles purchased
by Rita Morgan, the charges made upon verbal authority from the
deceased. John Morgan had been absent many months just previous to his
death and the account had not been presented.

Edward was surprised to find, upon entering this office, that the lawyer
was the man who had collided with Montjoy's horse the night before.
Royson saluted him coldly but politely and produced the account already
sworn to and ready for filing. It had been withheld at Eldridge's
request. As Edward ran his eye over the list he saw that chemicals had
been bought at wholesale, and with them had been sent one or two
expensive articles belonging to a chemical laboratory. Just what use
Rita Morgan might have for such things he could not imagine. He was
about to say that he would inquire into the account when he saw that
Royson, with a sardonic smile upon his face, was watching him. He had a
distinct impression that antipathy to the man was stirring within him;
he was about to pay the account and rid himself of the necessity of any
further dealings with the man, when, angered by the impudent, irritating
manner, he decided otherwise.

"Have you ever shown this account to Rita Morgan?"

"Oh, yes!"

"And she pronounced it correct, I suppose?"

"She did not examine it; she said that you would pay it now that John
Morgan is dead."

"If the account is a just charge upon the Morgan estate I certainly
will," said Morgan, pocketing the written statement.

"I think after you examine into the matter it will be paid," said
Royson, confidently. Edward thought long upon the man's manner and the
circumstance, but could make nothing out of them. He would see Rita, and
with that resolution he let the incident pass from his mind.

The shadows were falling when he returned to take his first meal in his
new home. He descended to the dining-room to find it lighted by the
fifty or more jets in the large gilt chandeliers. The apartment
literally blazed with light. The sensation under the circumstances was
agreeable, and in better spirits he took the single seat provided. Here,
as afterward ascertained, had been the lawyer's one point of contact
with the social world, and it was here that he had been accustomed, at
intervals varying from weeks to years, to entertain his city
acquaintances.

The room was not American but continental from its Louvre ceiling of
white and gold to its niched half life-size statuary and pictures of
fishing and hunting scenes in gilded frames. But the foreign effects
ended in this room. Outside all else was American.

Edward was silently served by the butler and was pleased to find his
dinner first class in every respect. Then came a box of choice cigars
upon a silver tray.

Passing into the library, he seated himself by the reading light near
the little side table where a leather chair had been placed, and sought
diversion in the papers; but, alas, the European finds but little of
home affairs in one parliament, a regatta, a horse race, a German-army
review, a social sensation--these were all.

He turned from the papers; the truth is the one great overwhelming fact
at that moment was that he, a wanderer all of his life, without family
or parents, or knowledge of them, had suddenly been transplanted among a
strange people and made the master of a household and a vast fortune. On
this occasion, as ever since entering the house, he could not rid
himself of a suggestion so indefinite as to belong to the region of
subconsciousness that he was an interloper, an inferior, and that
jealous, unseen eyes were watching him. The room seemed haunted by an
unutterable protest. He was not aware then that this is a peculiarity of
all old houses.

Something like an oppression seized upon him and he was wondering if
this should continue, would it be possible for him to endure the
situation long? Upstairs was the little desk, the keys to which he held,
and in it information that would lay bare the secret of his life and
reveal the mystery of years ago; which would give him the same chance
for happiness that other men have. All that was left now for him to do
was to ascend the stairs, open the desk and read. He had put it off for
a quiet and convenient moment, and that time had come.

But what was contained in that desk? He remembered Hamlet and understood
his doubts for the first time. It was the gravity of this doubt, the
weight of the revelation to come that caused him to smoke on, cigar
after cigar, in silence. It flashed upon him that it might be wiser to
take his fortune and return to Europe as he was. But as he smoked his
mind rejected the suggestion as cowardly.

It was at this stage in his reverie that Edward Morgan received the
severest shock of his life. Without having noticed any sound or
movement, he presently became conscious that some one besides himself
was in the room, and instantly, almost, his eyes rested on a man
standing before the open bookcase. It was a figure, slender and tall,
clad in light, well-worn trousers, and short smoking jacket. The face
turned from him was lifted toward the shelves, and long black hair fell
in shining masses upon his shoulders. The right hand extended upward,
touching first one, then another of the volumes as it searched along the
line, was white as paraffine and slender as a girl's and a fold of
linen, edged with lace, lay upon the wrists. All the other details of
the figure were lost in the shadow. While thus Edward sat, his brain
whirling and eyes riveted upon the strange figure, the visitor paused in
his search as if in doubt, turned his profile and listened, then faced
about suddenly and the two men gazed into each other's eyes.

Edward had gained his first full view of the visitor's face. Had it been
withdrawn from him in an instant he could at any time thereafter have
reproduced it in every line, so vividly was it impressed upon his
memory. It was new, and yet strangely, dimly, vaguely familiar! It was
oval, pale and lighted by eyes with enormously distended pupils. It
seemed to him that they were not mirrors at that moment, but
scintillating lights burning within their cavities.

But the first effect, startling though it was, passed away immediately;
nothing could have withstood the gentle pleading entreaty that lurked in
all the face lines; an expression childish and girlish. The stranger
gazed for a moment only on the man sitting bolt upright now in his
chair, his hands clutching the arms, and then went quickly forward.

"You are Edward Morgan?" he said, encouragingly. "My uncle told me you
would come some day." The deep, indrawn breath that had made the new
master's figure rigid for the moment escaped back slowly between the
parted lips. He was ashamed that he should have been so startled.

"Yes," he said, presently, "I am Edward Morgan. And you are----"

"Gerald Morgan. But I must say good-bye now. I have a matter of upmost
importance to conclude." He smiled again, returned to the shelves and
this time without hesitation selected a volume and passed out toward the
dining-room.

A faint odor of burning material attracted Edward's attention. He looked
for his cigar; it lay upon the matting, in a circle as large as his hat.
He must have sat there watching the door for fifteen minutes after the
singular visitor had passed through. He stamped out the creeping circle
of fire and rang the bell. The octoroon entered and stood waiting, her
eyes cast down.

"A young man came here a few minutes since and went out through that
door," said he, with difficulty suppressing his excitement: "who is he?"

She looked to him astonished.

"Why, that was Mr. Gerald, sir. Don't you know of him? Mr. Gerald
Morgan?"

"Absolutely nothing. I have never seen him before nor heard of him--no
mention of him has been made in my presence." The woman was clearly
amazed.

"Is it possible! Your uncle never wrote you about Gerald Morgan--the
lawyers have never told you?"

"No one has told me, I say; the man is as new to me as if he had dropped
from the clouds."

She thought a moment. "He must have left papers----"

"Oh!" exclaimed Edward, starting suddenly; "I have not read the papers!
I see! I see!"

"You will find it there," she said, relieved. "I thought you knew
already. It did not occur to me to tell you about him, sir! We have
grown used to not speaking of him. He never goes out anywhere now."
Edward was puzzled and then an explanation flashed upon him.

"He is insane!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, no, sir! But he has always been delicate--not like other children;
and then the medicine they gave him when he had the pains and was a
baby--he has been obliged to keep it up. It is the morphine and opium,
sir, that has changed him." Edward nodded his head; the explanation was
sufficient.

"He has lived here a long time, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He smokes and reads and paints and does many curious things,
but he never goes out. Sometimes he walks about the place, but generally
at night; and once or twice in the last ten years he has gone down-town,
but it excites him too much and he is apt to die away."

"Die away?"

"Yes, sir; the attacks come on him at any time, and so we let him live
on as he wants to and no one sees him. He cannot bear strangers, but he
is not insane, sir. One trouble is, he knows more than his head can
hold--he studies too much." She said this very tenderly and her voice
trembled a little as she finished and turned her face to work nervously.

"You have not told me who he is."

"I do not know, sir," and then she added: "He was a baby when I came,
and I have done my best by him." She did not meet his eyes. Her
suffering and embarrassment touched Edward.

"I will read the papers," he said, gently; "they will tell me all."
Taking this as a dismissal the woman withdrew.




CHAPTER VI.

"WHO SAYS THERE CAN BE A 'TOO LATE' FOR THE IMMORTAL MIND?"


Something like fear, a superstitious fear, arose in Edwards' heart as he
turned down the lid of the old-fashioned desk in the little room
upstairs and saw the few papers pigeon-holed there with lawyer-like
precision. On the top lay a long envelope sealed and bearing his name.
His hand shook as he held it and studied the chirography. The moment was
one to which he had looked forward for a lifetime and should contain the
explanation of the singular mystery that had environed him from infancy.

As he held the letter, hesitating over the final act, his life passed in
review as, it is said, do the lives of drowning persons. The thought
that Edward Morgan was dying came in that connection. The orphan, the
lonely college boy, the wandering youth, the bohemian of a dozen
continental capitals, the musician and half-way metaphysicist and
theosophist, the unformed man of an unformed age, new sphere, one of
quick, earnest, feverish action, the new man, was to spring armed, or
hampered by--what? At that moment, by a strange revulsion, the life that
he had worn so hardly, so bitterly, even its sadness seemed dear and
beautiful. After all it had been a life of ease and many scenes. It had
no responsibilities--now it would pass! He tore open the envelope
impatiently and read:

     "Edward Morgan--Sir: When this letter comes to your knowledge
     you will have been acquainted with the fact that my will has
     made you heir to all my property, without legacy or
     restriction. That document was made brief and simple, partly to
     avoid complications, and partly to conceal facts with which the
     public has no reasonable interest. I now, assured of your
     character in every particular, desire that you retain during
     the lifetime of Gerald Morgan the residence which has always
     been his home, providing for his wants and pleasures freely as
     I have done and leaving him undisturbed in the manner of his
     life. I direct, further, that you extend the same care and
     kindness to Rita Morgan, my housekeeper, seeing that she is not
     disturbed in her home and the manner of her life. My object is
     to guard the welfare of the only people intimately connected
     with me by ties of friendship and association, whom I have not
     already provided for. Carrying out this intention, you will as
     soon as possible, after coming into possession, take
     precautions looking to the future of Gerald Morgan and Rita
     Morgan, my housekeeper, in the event of your own death; and the
     plan to be selected in this connection I leave to your own good
     sense and judgment, only suggesting as adviser for you Ellison
     Eldridge, one of the few lawyers living whose heart is outside
     of his pocketbook, and whose discretion is perfect.

     "John Morgan."

That was all.

The young man, dumfounded, turned over the single sheet of paper that
contained the whole message, examined again the envelope, read and
reread the communication, and finally laid it aside. Not one word of
explanation of his own (Edward's) existence no claim of relationship, no
message of sympathy, only the curt voice of an eccentric old man,
echoing beyond the black wall of mystery and already sunk into eternal
silence. The old life no longer seemed dear or beautiful. It returned
upon him with the dull weight of oppression he had known so long. It was
a bitter ending, a crushing, overwhelming disappointment.

He smiled at length and lighted another cigar. His mind reverted to the
singular character whose final expression lay upon the desk. His last
act had been to guard against the curious, and that had included the
beneficiary. He had succeeded in living a mystery, in dying a mystery,
and in covering up his past with a mystery.

"It was well done." Such was Edward's reflection spoken aloud. He
recalled the lines: "I now, assured of your character in every
particular." Every word in that laconic letter, as also every word in
the few communications made to him in life by this man, meant something.
What did these mean? "Assured" by whom? Who had spied upon his actions
and kept watch over him to such an extent as would justify the sweeping
confidences? But he knew that the testator had read him right. A faint
wave of pleasure flushed his cheek and warmed his heart when he realized
the full significance of this tribute to his true character. He no
longer felt like an intruder.

And yet, "assured" by whom? And who was Gerald Morgan? Not a relative or
he would have said so; he would have said "my nephew, Gerald Morgan."
The same argument shut him (Edward) out. Why this suspicious absence of
relationship terms?--and they, both of them, Morgans and heirs to his
wealth?

Again he dragged the papers from the desk and ran them over. Manuscripts
all, they contained detached accounts of widely separated people and
incidents, and moreover they were clearly briefed. "A Dramatic Trail,"
"The Storm," "A Midnight Struggle," etc. They had no bearing upon his
life; they were the unpublished literary remains of John Morgan.

Every paper lay exposed; the mine was exhausted. He again read the
letter slowly, idly lifted each paper and returned all to the desk.

The cigar was out again; he tossed it from the window, locked the desk
and passed into the mother's room. The action was without forethought,
but his new philosophy had taught him the value of instinctive human
actions as index fingers. What cause then had drawn him into that
long-deserted room? As he reflected, his eyes rested upon the picture of
the girl in the little frame on the mantel. He started back, amazed and
overwhelmed. It was the face that had been turned to him in the
library--the face of Gerald Morgan!

Edward was surprised to find himself standing by the open window when he
had exhausted the train of thought that the recognition put in motion,
and counting his heart-beats, ninety to the minute. By that curious
power or weakness of certain minds his thoughts ran entirely from the
matter in hand along the lines of a lecture his friend Virdow as Jean
had delivered, the theory of which was that organic heart disease,
unless fastened to its victim by inheritance, is always a mental result.
If a mere thought or combination of thoughts could excite, a thought
could depress. It was plain; he would write to Virdow confirming his
theory.

Then he became conscious that the moon hung like a plate of silver in
the vast sky space of the east and that her light was flashed back by
many little points in the city beneath him--a gilt ball, a vane, a set
of window glasses, and the dew-wet slates of a modern roof. One white
spot was visible in the yard in front, white and pale as the moon when
the vapor had dispersed but set immovably. As he idly sought to unravel
its little secret, it simply became a part of the shadow and invisible,
but he felt that some one was looking up at him; and suddenly he saw the
slender figure of a man pass, cross the gravel walk and vanish in the
shrubbery on the left.

Edward did not cry out; he stood musing upon the fact, and lo, there
came a glitter of rosy light along the horizon; the moon had vanished
overhead, and sound arose in confused murmurs from the dull heaps of
houses in the valley. He saw again at the moment, over the eastern
hills, the face of a girl as she stood calling her pets, and felt her
eyes upon him.

When he awoke that day he found the sun far beyond the zenith and he lay
revolving in his mind the events of the night; to his surprise much of
the weight was gone and in its place was interest, the like of which he
had never before known. An object in life had suddenly been developed
and instinctively he felt that the study of this new mystery would lead
to a knowledge of himself and his past.

The first thing to be done was to again see the stranger who had invaded
his library, and carry his investigation as far as this person would
permit. This in mind, he dressed himself with care and descended into
the dining-room. In a few moments his breakfast was served. Upon hearing
his inquiry for Rita, Ben, the butler, retired and presently the woman,
grave, and after a few words quiet, took his place. Before speaking
Edward noticed her closely again. About fifty years of age, perhaps
less, she stood as erect and rigid as an Indian, her black hair without
a kink. There was an easy dignity in her attitude, hardly the pose of a
slave, or one who had been. But in her face was the sadness of personal
suffering, and in her voice a tone he had noticed at first, an echo of
some depressing experience, it seemed to him.

Where was Gerald's room? There! He had not noticed the door; it led out
from the dining-room. It was the wing intended for billiards, but now
the retreat of her poor young master and had been all his life. He did
not like to be disturbed, but perhaps the circumstances would make a
difference.

Edward knocked on the door. Receiving no answer, he opened it
hesitatingly and looked in. Then he entered. Gerald greeted him with an
encouraging smile and closing the door behind him, he viewed the
interior with interest. The walls were hung with pictures, swords, guns,
pistols and other weapons, and between them on every available spot were
books, books, books and periodicals. A broad center table held writing
materials and manuscripts, and upon a long table by two open windows
were bottles of many colors and all the queer paraphernalia of a
chemical laboratory. Against the opposite wall was a spacious divan, and
seated upon it, wrapped in a singular-looking dressing-gown, fez upon
his head and smoking a shibouk as he read, was the strange being for
whom Edward searched.

"I was expecting you," the young man said; "where have you been?" The
naturalness of the words confused the visitor for a moment. No seat had
been offered him, but he drew one near the divan.

"I suppose I may smoke?" he said, smiling, ignoring the query, but the
intent look of Gerald caused him to add: "I slept late; how did you
rest?"

"Do you know," said Gerald, his expression changing, "strange as it may
seem, I have seen you before, but where, where----" The long lashes
dropped above the eyes; he shook his head sadly, "but where, no man may
say."

"It hardly seems possible," said Edward, gravely. "I have never been
here before, and you, I believe, have never been absent."

"So they say; so they say. Mere old-nurse talk! I have been to many
places." Edward turned his head in sadness. Man or woman the person was
crazy. He looked again; it was the face of the girl in the picture
frame, grown older, with time and suffering.

"It is an odd room," he said, presently; "do you sleep here?"

Gerald nodded to the other door.

"Would you like to see? Enter."

To Edward's amazement he found himself in a conservatory, a glass house
about forty by twenty feet, arranged for sliding curtains at sides and
top. There was little to be seen besides a small bed and necessary
furniture. But an easel stood near the center and on it a canvas ready
for painting. In a corner was a large portfolio for drawings, closed.

"I cannot sleep unless I see the stars," said Gerald, joining him. "And
there is an entrance to the grounds!" He threw open a glass door,
exposing an oleander avenue. "This is my favorite walk." The scene
seemed to strike him anew. He stood there lost in thought a moment and
returned to his divan. Edward found him absorbed in a volume. He had
studied him there long and keenly and reached a conclusion that would,
he felt, be of value in his future associations with this eccentric
mind; it was a mind reversed, living in abstract thought. Its visions of
real life were only glimpses. Therefore, he reasoned, to keep company
with such a mind, one must be prepared for its eccentricities and avoid
discord.

It was a keen diagnosis and he acted upon it. He went about noiselessly
examining the furnishings of the room without further speech. The young
man was writing as he passed him. Looking over his shoulder, Edward read
a few lines of what was evidently a thesis;

     "The mind can therefore have no conscious memory. Memory being
     a function of the brain and physical structure, and mind being
     endowed with a capacity for wandering, it follows that it can
     bring back no record of its experience since no memory function
     went with it. It may, indeed, be true that the mind can itself
     be shaped and biased anew by its detached experiences, but who
     can ever read its history backwards? Unless somewhere arises a
     mind brilliant enough to find the alphabet, to connect the
     mind's hidden storehouse with consciousness, the mystery of
     mind--life (that is, higher dream life)--must remain forever
     unread."

"It has been found," said Edward, as though Gerald had stated a
proposition aloud.

"How? Where?" Gerald did not look up, but merely ceased writing a
moment.

"Music is the connecting link. Music is the language of the mind.
Vibration is the secret of creation and along its lines will all secrets
be revealed." The book closed slowly in the reader's hands, his thesis
slipped to the floor. He sat in deep thought. Then a light gleamed in
his face and eyes.

"It is true," he said, with agitation, as he arose. "It is a great
thought; a great discovery. I must learn once" and Rita stood waiting.
"Bring me musical instruments--what?" He turned impatiently to Edward.
The latter shook his head.

"'Tis a lifetime study," he said, sadly, "and then--failure. No man has
yet reached the end."

"I will reach it."

"It calls for labor day and night--for talent--for teachers."

"I will have all."

"It calls for youth, for a mind young and fresh and responsive. You are
old in mind. It is too late."

"Too late. Too late. Never, never, never too late. Who says there can be
a 'too late' for the immortal mind? I will begin. I will labor! I will
succeed! If not in this life, then in the next, or the next; aye, at the
foot of Buddha, if need be, I will press to read all to the strains of
music. Oh, blind! Blind! Blind!" He strode about the room in an ecstasy
of excitement.

"Prove to me it is too late here," shrieked the unhappy being, "and I
will end this existence; will go back a thousand cycles, if necessary,
carrying with me the impression of this truth, and begin, an infant, to
lisp in numbers."

He had snatched a poniard from the wall and was gesticulating
frantically. Edward was about to speak when he saw the enthusiast's eyes
lose their frenzy and fix upon the woman's. He dropped the weapon and
plunged face downward in despair among the pillows. Like a statue the
woman stood gazing upon him.

"My violin," said Edward. She disappeared noiselessly.




CHAPTER VII.

"BACK! WOULD YOU MURDER HER?"


When Edward Morgan went to Europe from Columbia college it was in
obedience to a mandate of John Morgan through the New York lawyers. He
went, began there the life of a bohemian. Introduced by a chance
acquaintance, he fell in first with the art circles of Paris, and,
having a fancy and decided talent for painting, he betook himself
seriously to study. But the same shadow, the same need of an
overpowering motive, pursued him. With hope and ambition he might have
become known to fame. As it was, his mind drifted into subtleties and
the demon change came again. He closed his easel. Rome, Athens,
Constantinople, the occident, all knew him, gave him brief welcome and
quick farewells.

The years were passing; as he had gone from idleness to art, from art to
history, and from history to archaeology by easy steps, so he passed
now, successively to religion, to philosophy, and to its last broad
exponent, theosophy.

The severity of this last creed fitted the crucifixion of his spirit.
Its contemplation showed him vacancies in his education and so he went
to Jena for additional study. This decision was reached mainly through
the suggestion of a chance acquaintance named Abingdon, who had come
into his life during his first summer on the continent. They met so
often that the face of this man had became familiar, and one day, glad
to hear his native tongue, he addressed him and was not repelled.

Abingdon gave to Edward Morgan his confidence; it was not important; a
barrister in an English interior town, he crossed the channel annually
for ramble in the by-ways of Europe. It had been his unbroken habit for
many years.

From this time the two men met often and journeyed much together, the
elder seeming to find a pleasure in the gravity and earnestness of the
young man, and he in turn a relief in the nervous, jerky lawyer, looking
always through small, half-closed eyes and full of keen conceptions. And
when apart, occasionally he would get a characteristic note from
Abingdon and send a letter in reply. He had so much spare time.

This man had once surprised him with the remark:

"If I were twenty years younger I would go to Jena and study vibration.
It is the greatest force of the universe. It is the secret of creation."
The more Edward dwelt upon this remark, in connection with modern
results and invention, the more he was struck with it. Why go to Jena to
study vibration was something that he could not fathom, nor in all
probability could Abingdon. America was really the advanced line of
discovery, but nevertheless he went, and with important results; and
there in the old town, finding the new hobby so intimately connected
with music, to which he was passionately devoted, he took up with
renewed energy his neglected violin. With feverish toil he struggled
along the border land of study and speculation, until he felt that there
was nothing more possible for him--in Jena.

In Jena his solitary friend had been the eminent Virdow and to him he
became an almost inseparable companion.

The confidence and speculations of Virdow, extending far beyond the
limits of a lecture stand, carried Edward into dazzling fields. The
intercourse extended through the best part of several years. On leaving
Jena he was armed with a knowledge of the possibilities of the vast
field he had entered upon, with a knowledge of thorough bass and
harmony, and with a technique that might have made him famous had he
applied his knowledge. He did not apply it!

His final stand had been Paris. Abingdon was there. Abingdon had
discovered a genius and carried Edward to see him. He had been passing
through an obscure quarter when he was attracted by the singular pathos
of a violin played in a garret. To use his expression, "the music
glorified the miserable street." Everybody there knew Benoni, the blind
violinist. And to this man, awed and silent, came Edward, a listener.

No words can express the meaning that lay in the blind man's
improvisations; only music could contain them. And only one man in Paris
could answer! When having heard the heart language, the heart history
and cravings of the player expressed in the solitude of that
half-lighted garret, Edward took the antique instrument and replied, the
answer was overwhelming. The blind man understood; he threw his arms
about the player and embraced him.

"Grand!" he cried. "A master plays, but it is incomplete; the final note
has not come; the harmony died where it should have become immortal!"
And Edward knew it.

From that meeting sprang a warm friendship, the most complete that
Morgan had ever known! It made the old man comfortable, gained him
better quarters and broadened the horizon toward which his sun of life
was setting. It would go down with some of the colors of its morning.

It became Edward's custom to take his old friend to hear the best operas
and concerts, and one night they heard the immortal Cambia sing. It was
a charity concert and her first appearance in many years.

When the idol of the older Paris came to the footlights for the sixth
time to bow her thanks for the ovation given her, she smiled and sang in
German a love song, indescribable in its passion and tenderness. It was
a burst of melody from the heart of some man, great one moment in his
life at least. Edward found himself standing when the tumult ceased.
Benoni had sunk from his chair to his knees and was but half-conscious.
The excitement had partially paralyzed him. The lithe fingers of the
left hand were dead. They would never rest again upon the strings of his
great violin--the Cremona to which in sickness and poverty, although its
sale would have enriched him, he clung with the faith and instinct of
the artist.

There came the day when Edward was ready to depart to America. He went
to say good-bye, and this is what happened: The old man held Edward's
hands long in silence, but his lips moved in prayer; then lifting the
instrument, he placed it in the young man's arms.

"Take it," he said. "I may never meet you again. It is the one thing
that I have been true to all my life. I will not leave it to the base
and heartless." And so Edward, to please him, accepted the trust. He
would return some day; many hours should the violin sing for the old
man. As he stood he drew the bow and played one strain of Cambia's song
and the blind man lifted his face in sudden excitement. As Edward paused
he called the notes until it was complete. "Now again," he said,
singing:

    If thou couldst love me
    As I do love thee,
    Then wouldst thou come to me,
    Come to me.
    Never forsaking me,
    Never, oh, never
    Forsaking me.
    Oceans may roll between,
    Thine home and thee
    Love, if thou lovest me
    Lovest me,
    What care we, you and I?
    Through all eternity,
    I love thee, darling one,
    Love me; love me.

"You have found the secret," said Benoni; "the chords on the lower
octaves made the song."

And so they had parted! The blind man to wait for the final summons; the
young man to plunge into complications beyond his wildest dreams.

"A man," said Virdow once, "is a tribe made up of himself, his family
and his friends." And this was the history in outline of the man to whom
Rita Morgan handed the violin that fateful day when Gerald lay face down
among the pillows of his divan.

Recognizing in the delicate and excitable organism before him the
possibilities of emotion and imagination, Edward prepared to play.
Without hesitation he drew the bow across the strings and began a solemn
prelude to a choral. And as he played he noticed the heaving form below
him grow still. Then Gerald lifted his face and gazed past the player,
with an intensity of vision that deepened until he seemed in the grasp
of some stupendous power or emotion. Edward played the recital; the
story of Calvary, the crucifixion and the mourning women, and the march
of soldiers. Finally there came the tumult of bursting storm and riven
tombs. The climax of action occurred there; it was to die away into a
movement fitted to the resurrection and the peaceful holiness of
Christ's meeting with Mary. But before this latter movement began Gerald
leaped upon the player with the quickness and fury of a tiger and by the
suddenness of the onset nearly bore him to the floor. This mad assault
was accompanied by a shriek of mingled fear and horror.

"Back--would you murder her?" By a great effort Edward freed himself and
the endangered violin, and forced the assailant to the divan. The
octoroon was kneeling by his side weeping.

"Leave him to me," she said. Stunned and inexpressibly shocked Edward
withdrew. The grasp on his throat had been like steel! The marks
remained.

"I have," he wrote that night in a letter to Virdow, "heard you more
than once express the hope that you would some day be able to visit
America. Come now, at once! I have here entered upon a new life and need
your help. Further, I believe I can help you."

After describing the circumstances already related, the letter
continued: "The susceptibility of this mind to music I regard as one of
the most startling experiences I have ever known, and it will afford you
an opportunity for testing your theories under circumstances you can
never hope for again. Let me say to you here that I am now convinced by
some intuitive knowledge that the assault upon me was based upon a
memory stirred by the sound of the violin; that vibration created anew
in the delicate mind some picture that had been forgotten and brought
back again painful emotions that were ungovernable. I cannot think but
that it is to have a bearing upon the concealed facts of my life; the
discovery of which is my greatest object now, as in the past. And I
cannot but believe that your advice and discretion will guide me in the
treatment and care of this poor being, perhaps to the extent of
affecting a radical change, and leave him a happier and a more rational
being.

"Come to me, my friend, at once! I am troubled and perplexed. And do not
be offended that I have inclosed exchange for an amount large enough to
cover expenses. I am now rich beyond the comprehension of your
economical German mind, and surely I may be allowed, in the interests of
science, of my ward and myself to spend from the abundant store. I look
for you early. In the meantime, I will be careful in my experiments.
Come at once! _The mind has an independent memory and you can
demonstrate it._"

Edward knew that there was more on that concluding sentence than in the
rest of the letter and exchange combined, and half-believing it, he
stated it as a prophecy. He was preparing to retire, when it occurred to
him that the strange occupant of the wing-room might need his attention.
Something like affection had sprung up in his heart for the unfortunate
being who, with chains heavier than his own, had missed the diversion of
new scenes, the broadening, the soothing of great landscapes and
boundless oceans. A pity moved him to descend and to knock at the door.
There was no answer. He entered to find the apartment deserted, but the
curtain was drawn from the doorway of the glass-room and he passed in.
Upon the bed in the yellow light of the moon lay the slender figure of
Gerald, one arm thrown around the disordered hair, the other hanging
listless from his side.

He approached and bent above the bed. The face turned upward there
seemed like wax in the oft-broken gloom. The sleeper had not stirred. It
was the vibration of chords in harmony, that had moved him. Would it
have power again? He hesitated a moment, then returned quickly to the
wing-room and secured his instrument. Concealing himself he waited. It
was but a moment.

The wind brought the branches of the nearest oleanders against the frail
walls, and the play of lightning had become continuous. Then began in
earnest the tumult of the vast sound waves as they met in the vapory
caverns of the sky. The sleeper tossed restlessly upon his bed; he was
stirred by a vague but unknown power; yet something was wanting.

At this moment Edward lifted his violin and, catching the storm note,
wove a solemn strain into the diapason of the mighty organ of the sky.
And as he played, as if by one motion, the sleeper stood alone in the
middle of the room. Again Edward saw that frenzied stare fixed upon
vacancy, but there was no furious leap of the agile limbs; by a powerful
effort the struggling mind seemed to throw off a weight and the sleeper
awoke.

The bow was now suspended; the music had ceased. Gerald rushed to his
easel and, standing in a sea of electric flame, outlined with swift
strokes a woman's face and form. She was struggling in the grasp of a
man and her face was the face of the artist who worked. But such
expression! Agony, horror, despair!

The figure of the man was not complete from the waist down; his face was
concealed. Between them, as they contended, was a child's coffin in the
arms of the woman. Overhead were the bare outlines of an arch.

The artist hesitated and added behind the group a tree, whose branches
seemed to lash the ground. And there memory failed; the crayon fell from
his fingers; he stood listless by the canvas. Then with a cry he buried
his face in his hands and wept.

As he stood thus, the visitor, awed but triumphant, glided through the
door and disappeared in the wing-room. He knew that he had touched a
hidden chord; that the picture on the canvas was born under the
flashlight of memory! Was it brain? Oh, for the wisdom of Virdow!

Sympathy moved him to return again to the glass-room. It was empty!




CHAPTER VIII.

ON THE BACK TRAIL.


Edward found himself next day feverish and mentally disturbed; but he
felt new life in the morning air. There was a vehicle available; a roomy
buggy, after the fashion of those chosen by physicians, with covered
tops to keep out the sun, and rubber aprons for the rain. And there was
a good reliable horse, that had traveled the city road almost daily for
ten years.

He finished his meal and started out. In the yard he found Gerald pale
and with the contracted pupils that betrayed his deadly habit. He was
taking views with a camera and came forward with breathless interest.

"I am trying some experiments with photographs on the line of our
conversation," he said. "If the mind pictures can be revived they must
necessarily exist. Do they? The question with me now is, can any living
substance retain a photographic impression? You understand, it seems
that the brain can receive these impressions through certain senses, but
the brain is transient; through a peculiar process of supply and waste
it is always coming and going. If it is true that every atom of our
physical bodies undergoes a change at least once in seven years, how can
the impressions survive? I have here upon my plate the sensitized film
of a fish's eyes; I caught it this morning. I must establish, first, the
proposition that a living substance can receive a photographic image; if
I can make an impression remain upon this film I have gained a little
point--a little one. But the fish should be alive. There are almost
insuperable difficulties, you understand! The time will come when a new
light will be made, so powerful, penetrating as to illumine solids.
Then, perhaps, will the brain be seen at work through the skull; then
may its tiny impressions even be found and enlarged; then will the past
give up its secrets. And the eye is not the brain." He looked away in
perplexity. "If I only had brain substance, brain substance--a living
brain!" He hurried away and Edward resumed his journey to the city, sad
and thoughtful.

"It was not wise," he said, "it was not wise to start Gerald upon that
line of thought. And yet why not as well one fancy as another?" He had
no conception of the power of an idea in such a mind as Gerald's.

"You did not mention to me," he said an hour later, sitting in
Eldridge's office, "that I would have a ward in charge out at Ilexhurst.
You naturally supposed I knew it, did you not?"

"And you did not know it?" Eldridge looked at him in unaffected
astonishment.

"Positively not until the day after I reached the house! I had never
heard of Gerald Morgan. You can imagine my surprise, when he walked in
upon me one night."

"You really astound me; but it is just like old Morgan--pardon me if I
smile. Of all eccentrics he was the most consistent. Yes, you have a
charge and a serious one. I am probably the only person in the city who
knows something of Gerald, and my information is extremely limited. With
an immense capacity for acquiring information, a remarkable memory and a
keen analysis, the young man has never developed the slightest capacity
for business. He received everything, but applied nothing. I was
informed by his uncle, not long since, that there was no science exact
or occult into which Gerald had not delved at some time, but his mind
seemed content with simply finding out."

"Gerald has been a most prodigious reader, devouring everything,"
continued the judge, "ancient and modern, within reach, knows literature
and politics equally well, and is master of most languages to the point
of being able to read them. I suppose his unfortunate habit--of course
you know of that--is the obstacle now. For many years now I believe, the
young man has not been off the plantation, and only at long intervals
was he ever absent from it. Ten or fifteen years ago he used to be seen
occasionally in the city in search of a book, an instrument or something
his impatience could not wait on."

"Ten or fifteen years ago! You knew him then before he was grown?"

"I have known him ever since his childhood!" An exclamation in spite of
him escaped from Edward's lips, but he did not give Eldridge time to
reflect upon it.

"Is his existence generally known?" asked he, in some confusion.

"Oh, well, the public knows of his existence. He is the skeleton in
Morgan's closet, that is all."

"And who is he?" asked Edward, looking the lawyer straight into the
eyes.

"That," said Eldridge, gravely, "is what I would ask of you." Edward was
silent. He shook his head; it was an admission of ignorance, confirmed
by his next question.

"Have you no theory, Judge, to account for his existence under such
circumstances?"

"Theory? Oh, no! The public and myself have always regarded him simply
as a fact. His treatment by John Morgan was one of the few glimpses we
got of the old man's rough, kind nature. But his own silence seemed to
beg silence, and no one within my knowledge ever spoke with him upon the
subject. It would have been very difficult," he added, with a smile,
"for he was the most unapproachable man, in certain respects, that I
ever met."

"You knew him well? May I ask if ever within your knowledge there was
any romance or tragedy in his earlier life?"

"I do not know nor have I ever heard of any tragedy in the life of your
relative," said the lawyer, slowly; and then, after a pause: "It is
known to men of my age, at least remembered by some, that late in life,
or when about forty years old, he conceived a violent attachment for the
daughter of a planter in this county and was, it is said, at one time
engaged to her. The match was sort of family arrangement and the girl
very young. She was finishing her education at the north and was to have
been married upon her return; but she never returned. She ran away to
Europe with one of her teachers. The war came on and with it the
blockade. No one has ever heard of her since. Her disappearance, her
existence, were soon forgotten. I remember her because I, then a young
lawyer, had been called occasionally to her father's house, where I met
and was greatly impressed by her. But I am probably one of the few who
have carried in mind her features. She was a beautiful and lovable young
woman, but, without a mother's training she had grown up self-willed and
the result was as I have told you." Edward had risen and was walking the
floor. He paused before the speaker.

"Judge Eldridge," he said, his voice a little unsteady, "I am going to
ask you a question, which I trust you will be free to answer--will
answer, and then forget." An expression of uneasiness dwelt on the
lawyer's face, but he answered:

"Ask it; if I am free to answer, and can, I will."

"I will ask it straight," said Edward, resolutely: "Have you ever
suspected that Gerald Morgan is the son of the young woman who went
away?"

Eldridge's reply was simply a grave bow. He did not look up.

"You do not know that to be a fact?"

"I do not."

"What, then, is my duty?"

"To follow the directions left by your relative," said Eldridge,
promptly.

Edward reflected a few moments over the lawyer's answer.

"I agree with you, but time may bring changes. May I ask what is your
theory of this strange situation--as regards my ward?" He could not
bring himself to betray the fact of his own mystery.

"I suppose," said Eldridge, slowly, "that if your guess is correct the
adventure of the lady was an unfortunate one, and that, disowned at
home, she made John Morgan the guardian of her boy. She, more than
likely, is long since dead. It would have been entirely consistent with
your uncle's character if, outraged in the beginning, he was forgiving
and chivalrous in the end."

"But why was the silence never broken?"

"I do not know that it was never broken. I have nothing to go upon. I
believe, however, that it never was. The explanations that suggest
themselves to my mind are, first, a pledge of silence exacted from him,
and he would have kept such a pledge under any circumstances. Second, a
difficulty in proving the legitimacy of the boy. You will understand,"
he added, "that the matter is entirely suppositious. I would prefer to
think that your uncle saw unhappiness for the boy in a change of
guardianship, and unhappiness for the grandfather, and left the matter
open. You know he died suddenly."

There was silence of a few moments and Eldridge added: "And yet it does
seem that he would have left the old man something to settle the doubt
which must have rested upon his mind; it is an awful thing to lose a
daughter from sight and live out one's life in ignorance of her fate."
And then, as Edward made no reply, "you found nothing whatever to
explain the matter?"

"Nothing! In the desk, to which his note directed me, I found only a
short letter of directions; one of which was that I should arrange with
you to provide for Gerald's future in case of my death. The desk
contained nothing else except some manuscripts--fragmentary narratives
and descriptions, they seemed." Eldridge smiled.

"His one weakness," he said. "Years ago John Morgan became impressed
with the idea that he was fitted for literary work and began to write
short stories for magazines, under _nom de plume_. I was the only person
who shared his secret and together we told many a good story of bench,
bar and practice. Neither of us had much invention and our career--you
see I claim a share--our career was limited to actual occurrences. When
our stock of ammunition was used up we were bankrupt. But it was a
success while it lasted. Mr. Morgan had a rapid, vivid style of
presenting scenes; his stories were full of action and dramatic
situations and made quite a hit. I did not know he had any writings left
over. He used to say, though, as I remember now, speaking in the
serio-comic way he often affected, that the great American novel, so
long expected, lay in his desk in fragments. You have probably gotten
among these.

"And by the way," continued the judge, impressively, "he was not far
wrong in his estimate of the literary possibilities of this section. The
peculiar institutions of the south, its wealth, its princely planters,
and through all the tangle of love, romance, tragedy and family secrets.
And what a background! The war, the freed slaves, the old
regime--courtly, unchanged, impractical and helpless. Turgeneff wrote
under such a situation in Russia, and called his powerful novel 'Fathers
and Sons.' Mr. Morgan used to say that he was going to call his 'Sons
and Fathers.' Hold to his fragments; he was a close observer, and if you
have literary aspirations they will be suggestive." Edward shook his
head.

"I have none, but I see the force of your outline. Now about Gerald; I
trust you will think over the matter and let me know what your judgment
suggests. I promised Mr. Montjoy to drop in at the club. I will say
good-morning."

"No," said Eldridge, "it is my lunch hour and I will go with you."

Together they went to a business club and Edward was presented to a
group of elderly men who were discussing politics over their glasses.
Among them was Col. Montjoy, in town for a day, several capitalists, a
planter or two, lawyers and physicians. They regarded the newcomer with
interest and received him with perfect courtesy. "A grand man your
relative was, Mr. Morgan, a grand man; perfect type, sir, of the
southern gentleman! The community, sir, has met with an irreparable
loss. I trust you will make your home here, sir. We need good men, sir;
strong, brainy, energetic men, sir."

So said the central figure, Gen. Albert Evan.

"Montjoy, you remember cousin Sam Pope of the Fire-Eaters--died in the
ditch at Marye's Heights near Cobb? Perfect likeness of Mr. Morgan here;
same face same figure--pardon the personal allusion, Mr. Morgan, but
your prototype was the bravest of the brave. You do each other honor in
the resemblance, sir! Waiter, fill these glasses! Gentlemen," cried the
general, "we will drink to the health of our young friend and the memory
of Sam Pope. God bless them both."

Such was Edward's novel reception, and he would not have been human had
he not flushed with pleasure. The conversation ran back gradually to its
original channel.

"We have been congratulating Col. Montjoy, Mr. Morgan," said one of the
party in explanation to Morgan, "upon the announcement of his candidacy
for congress."

"Ah," said the latter, promptly bowing to the old gentleman, "let me
express the hope that the result will be such as will enable me to
congratulate the country. I stand ready, colonel, to lend my aid as far
as possible, but I am hampered somewhat by not knowing my own politics
yet. Are you on the Democratic or Republican ticket, colonel?"

This astonishing question silenced the conversation instantly and drew
every eye upon him. But recovering from his shock, Col. Montjoy smiled
amiably, and said:

"There is but one party in this state, sir--the Democratic. I am a
candidate for nomination, but nomination is election always with us."
Then to the others present he added: "Mr. Morgan has lived abroad since
he came of age--I am right, am I not, Mr. Morgan?"

"Quite so. And I may add," continued Edward, who was painfully conscious
of having made a serious blunder, "that I have never lived in the south
and know nothing of state politics." This would have been sufficient,
but unfortunately Edward did not realize it. "I know, however, that you
have here a great problem and that the world is watching to see how you
will handle the race question. I wish you success; the negro has my
sympathy and I think that much can be safely allowed him in the
settlement."

He remembered always thereafter the silence that followed this earnest
remark, and he had cause to remember it. He had touched the old south in
its rawest point and he was too new a citizen. Eldridge joined him in
the walk back, but Edward let him talk for both. The direction of his
thoughts was indicated in the question he asked at parting.

"Judge Eldridge, did you purposely withhold the girl's name--my uncle's
fiancee? If so, I will not ask it, but----"

"No, not purposely, but we handle names reluctantly in this country. She
was Marion Evan, and you but recently met her father."




CHAPTER IX.

THE TRAGEDY IN THE STORM.


Edward returned to Ilexhurst that evening conscious of a mental
uneasiness. He could not account for it except upon the hypothesis of
unusual excitement. His mind had simply failed to react. And yet to his
sensitive nature there was something more. Was it the conversation with
Eldridge and the sudden dissipation of his error concerning Gerald, or
did it date to the meeting in the club? There was a discord somewhere.
He became conscious after awhile that he had failed to harmonize with
his new acquaintances and that among these was Col. Montjoy. He seemed
to feel an ache as though a cold wind blew upon his heart. If he had not
made that unfortunate remark about the negro! He acquitted himself very
readily, but he could not forget that terrible silence. "I have great
sympathy for the negro," he had said. What he meant was that, secure in
her power and intelligence, her courage and advancement, the south could
safely concede much to the lower class. That is what he felt and
believed, but he had not said it that way. He would say it to-morrow to
Col. Montjoy and explain. Relief followed the resolution.

And then, sitting in the little room, which began to exert a strange
power over him, he reviewed in mind the strange history of the people
whose lives had begun to touch his. The man downstairs, sleeping off the
effects of the drug, taken to dull a feverish brain that had all day
struggled with new problems; what a life his was! Educated beyond the
scope of any single university, Eldridge had said, and yet a child, less
than a child! What romance, what tragedies behind those restless eyes!
And sleeping down yonder by the river in that eternal silence of the
city of the dead, the old lawyer, a mystery living, a mystery dead! What
a depth of love must have stirred the bosom of the man to endure in
silence for so many years for the sake of a fickle girl! What
forgiveness! Or was it revenge? This idea flashed upon Edward with the
suddenness of an inspiration. Revenge! What a revenge! And the woman,
was she living or dead? And if living, were her eyes to watch him,
Edward Morgan, and his conduct? Where was the father and why was the
grandfather ignorant or silent? Then he turned to his own problem. That
was an old story. As he sat dreaming over these things his eyes fell
upon the fragmentary manuscripts, and almost idly he began to read the
briefs upon them.

One was inscribed, "The Storm," and it seemed to be the bulkiest.
Opening it he began to read; before he knew it he was interested. The
chapter read:

"Not a zephyr stirred the expectant elms. They lifted their arms against
the starlit sky in shadowy tracery, and motionless as a forest of coral
in the tideless depths of a southern sea.

"The cloud still rose.

"It was a cloud indeed. It stretched across the west, far into north and
south, its base lost in the shadow, its upper line defined and advancing
swiftly, surely, flanking the city and shutting out the stars with its
mighty wings. Far down the west the lightning began to tear the mass,
but still the spell of silence remained. When this strange hush is
combined with terrific action, when the vast forces are so swift as to
outrun sound, then, indeed, does the chill of fear leap forth.

"So came on the cloud. Now the city was half surrounded, its walls
scaled. Half the stars were gone. Some of the flying battalions had even
rushed past!

"But the elms stood changeless, immovable, asleep!

"Suddenly one vivid, crackling, tearing, defending flash of intensest
light split the gloom and the thunder leaped into the city! It awoke
then! Every foundation trembled! Every tree dipped furiously. The winds
burst in. What a tumult! They rushed down the parallel streets and
alleys, these barbarians; they came by the intersecting ways! They
fought each other frantically for the spoils of the city, struggling
upward in equal conflict, carrying dust and leaves and debris. They were
sucked down by the hollow squares, they wept and mourned, they sobbed
about doorways, they sung and cheered among the chimneys and the
trembling vanes. They twisted away great tree limbs and hurled them far
out into the spaces which the lightning hollowed in the night! They
drove every inhabitant indoors and tugged frantically at the city's
defenses! They tore off shutters and lashed the housetops with the poor
trees!

"The focus of the battle was the cathedral! It was the citadel! Here was
wrath and frenzy and despair! The winds swept around and upward, with
measureless force, and at times seemed to lift the great pile from its
foundations. But it was the lashing trees that deceived the eye; it
stood immovable, proud, strong, while the evil ones hurled their
maledictions and screamed defiance at the very door of God's own heart.

"In vain. In a far up niche stood a weather-beaten saint--the warden.
The hand of God upheld him and kept the citadel while unseen forces
swung the great bell to voice his faith and trust amid the gloom!

"Then came the deluge, huge drops, bullets almost, in fierceness,
shivering each other until the street-lamps seemed set in driving fog
through which the silvered missiles flashed horizontally--a storm
traveling within a storm.

"But when the tempest weeps, its heart is gone. Hark! 'Tis the voice of
the great organ; how grand, how noble, how triumphant! One burst of
melody louder than the rest breaks through the storm and mingles with
the thunder's roar.

"Look! A woman! She has come, whence God alone may know! She totters
toward the cathedral; a step more and she is safe, but it is never
taken! One other frightened life has sought the sanctuary. In the grasp
of the tempest it has traveled with wide-spread wings; a great white sea
bird, like a soul astray in the depths of passion. It falls into the
eddy, struggles wearily toward the lights, whirls about the woman's head
and sinks, gasping, dying at her feet. The God-pity rises within her,
triumphing over fear and mortal anguish. She stands motionless a moment;
she does not take the wanderer to her bosom, she cannot! The winds have
stripped the cover from the burden in her arms! It is a child's coffin,
pressed against her bosom. The moment of safety is gone! In the next a
man, the seeming incarnation of the storm itself, springs upon her,
tears the burden from her and disappears like a shadow within a shadow!

"Within the cathedral they are celebrating the birth of Christ, without,
the elements repeat the scene when the veil of the temple was rended.

       *       *       *       *       *

"The storm had passed. The lightning still blazed vividly, but silently
now, and at each flash the scene stood forth an instant as though some
mighty artist was making pictures with magnesium. A tall woman, who had
crouched, as one under the influence of an overpowering terror near the
inner door, now crept to the outer, beneath the arch, and looked
fearfully about. She went down the few steps to the pavement. Suddenly
in the transient light a face looked up into hers, from her feet; a face
that seemed not human. The features were convulsed, the eyes set. With a
low cry the woman slipped her arms under the figure on the pavement,
lifted it as though it were that of a child and disappeared in the
night. The face that had looked up was as white as the lily at noon; the
face bent in pity above it was dark as the leaves of that lily scattered
upon the sod."

Edward read this and smiled, as he laid it aside, and continued with the
other papers. They were brief sketches and memoranda of chapters;
sometimes a single sentence upon a page, just as his friend De
Maupassant used to jot them down one memorable summer when they had
lingered together along the Riviera, but they had no connection with
"The Storm" and the characters therein suggested. If they belonged to
the same narrative the connections were gone.

Wearied at last he took up his violin and began to play. It is said that
improvisers cannot but run back to the music they have written.
"Calvary" was his masterpiece and soon he found himself lost in its
harmonies. Then by easy steps there rose in memory, as he played, the
storm and Gerald's sketch. He paused abruptly and sat with his bow idle
upon the strings, for in his mind a link had formed between that sketch
and the chapter he had just read. He had felt the story was true when he
read it. The lawyer had said John Morgan wrote from life. Here was the
first act of a drama in the life of a child, and the last, perhaps, in
the life of a woman.

And that child under the influence of music had felt the storm scene
flash upon his memory and had drawn it. The child was Gerald Morgan.

Edward laid aside the violin for a moment, went into the front room,
threw open the shutters and loosened his cravat. Something seemed to
suffocate him, as he struggled against the admission of this
irresistible conclusion. Overwhelmed with the significance of the
discovery, he exclaimed aloud: "It was an inherited memory."

But if the boy had been born under the circumstances set forth in the
sketch, who was the man, and why should he have assaulted the woman who
bore the child's coffin? And what was she doing abroad under such
circumstances? The man and the woman's object was hidden perhaps
forever. But not so the woman; the artist had given her features, and as
for the other woman, the author had said she was dark. There was in
Gerald's mind picture no dark woman; only the girl with the coffin, the
arch above and the faint outlines of bending trees!




CHAPTER X.

"GOD PITY ME! GOD PITY ME!"


Edward was sitting thus lost in the contemplation of the circumstances
surrounding him, when by that subtle sense as yet not analyzed he felt
the presence of another person in the room, and looked over his
shoulder. Gerald was advancing toward him smiling mysteriously. Edward
noticed his burning eyes and saw intense mental excitement gleaming
beyond. The man's mood was different from any he had before revealed.

"So you have been out among the friends of your family," he said, with
his queer smile. "How did you like them?" Edward was distinctly offended
by the supercilious manner and impertinent question, but he remembered
his ward's condition and resentment passed from him.

"Pleasant people, Gerald, but I am not gifted with the faculty of making
friends easily. How come on your experiments?"

The visitor's expression changed. He looked about him guardedly. "They
advance," he replied, in a whisper; "they advance!"

Whatever his motive for entering that room--a room unfamiliar to him,
for his restless eyes had searched it over and over in the few minutes
he had been in it--was forgotten in the enthusiasm of the scientist. "I
have mapped out a course and am working toward it," he said; and then
presently: "You remember that pictures can now be transmitted by
electricity across great stretches of space and flashed upon a disc? So
goes the scene from the convex surface of the eye along a thread-like
nerve, so flashed the picture in the brain. But somewhere there it
remains. How to prove it, to prove it, that is the question! Oh, for a
brain, a brain to dissect!" He glared at Edward, who shuddered under the
wildness of the eyes bent upon him. "But time enough for that; I must
first ascertain if a picture can be imprinted upon any living substance
by light, and remain. This I can do in another way."

"How?" Edward was fascinated.

"It is a great idea. The fish's eye will not do; it is itself a camera
and the protecting film is impression-proof. It lacks the gelatine
surface, but over some fish is spread the real gelatine--in fact, the
very stuff that sensitive plates rely upon. In our lake is a great bass,
that swims deep. I have caught them weighing ten and twelve pounds. They
are pale, greenish white until exposed to the light, when they darken.
If the combined action of the light and air did not actually destroy
this gelatine, they would turn black. The back, which daily receives the
downward ray direct, is as are the backs of most fishes, dark; it is a
spoiled plate. But not so the sides. It is upon this fish I am preparing
to make pictures."

"But how?" Gerald smiled and shook his head.

"Wait. It is too important to talk about in advance."

Edward regarded him long and thoughtfully and felt rising within him a
greater sympathy. It was pitiful that such a mind should die in the
embrace of a mere drug, dragged down to destruction by a habit. "Beyond
the scope of any single university," but not beyond the slavery of a
weed.

"I have been thinking, Gerald," he said, finally, fixing a steady gaze
upon the restless eyes of his visitor, "that the day is near at hand
when you must bring to your rescue the power of a great will."

Gerald listened, grew pale and remained silent. Presently he turned to
the speaker.

"You know, then. Tell me what to do."

"You must cease the use of morphine and opium."

Gerald drew a deep breath and smiled good-naturedly.

"Oh, that is it," he said; "some one has told you that I am a victim of
morphine and opium. Well, what would you think if I should tell you he
is simply mistaken?"

His face was frank and unclouded. Edward gazed upon him, incredulous.
After a moment's pause, during which Gerald enjoyed his astonishment, he
continued:

"I was once a victim; there is no doubt of that; but now I am cured. It
was a frightful struggle. A man who has not experienced it or witnessed
it can form no conception of what it means to break away from habitual
use of opium. Some day you may need it and my experience will help you.
I began by cutting my customary allowance for a day in half, and day
after day, week after week, I kept cutting it in half until the time
came when I could not divide it with a razor. Would you believe it, the
habit was as strong in the end as the beginning? I lay awake and thought
of that little speck by the hours; I tossed and cried myself to sleep
over it! I slept and wept myself awake. The only remedy for this and all
habits is a mental victory. I made the fight--I won!

"I can never forget that day," and he smiled as he said it; "the day I
found it impossible to divide the speck of opium; a breath would have
blown it away, but I would have murdered the man who breathed upon it. I
swallowed it; the touch of that atom is yet upon my tongue; I swallowed
it and slept like a child; and then came the waking! For days I was a
maniac--but it passed.

"I grew into a new life--a beautiful, peaceful world. It had been around
me all the time but I had forgotten how it looked; a blissful world! I
was cured.

"Years have passed since that day, and no taste of the hateful drug has
ever been upon my tongue. Not for all the gold in the universe, not for
any secrets of science, not for a look back into the face of my mother,"
he cried, hoarsely, rising to his feet; "not for a smile from heaven
would I lay hands upon that fiend again!"

He closed abruptly, his hand trembling, the perspiration beading his
brow. His eyes fell and the woman Rita stood before them, a look of
ineffable sadness and tenderness upon her face.

"Will you retire now, Master Gerald?" she said, gently. Without a word
he turned and left the room. She was about to follow when Edward,
excited and touched by the scene he had witnessed and full of
discoveries, stopped her with an imperious gesture.

For a moment he paced the room. Rita was motionless, awaiting with
evident nervousness his pleasure. He came and stood before her, and,
looking her steadily in the face, said, abruptly:

"Woman, what is the name of that young man, and what is mine?"

She drew back quickly and her lips parted in a gasp.

"My God!" he heard her whisper.

"I demand an answer! You carry the secret of one of us--probably both.
Which is the son of Marion Evans?"

She sank upon her knees and hid her face in her apron.

It was all true, then. Edward felt as though he himself would sink down
beside her if the silence continued.

"Say it," he said, hoarsely; "say it!"

"As God is my judge," she answered, faintly, "I do not know."

"One is?"

"One is."

"And the other--who is he?"

"Mine." The answer was like a whisper from the pines wafted in through
the open window. It was loud enough. Edward caught the chair for
support. The world reeled about him. He suffocated.

Rita still knelt with covered head, but her trembling form betrayed the
presence of the long-restrained emotions. He walked unsteadily to the
mantel, and, drawing the cover from the little picture, went to the
mirror and placed it again by his face. At length he said in despair:

"God pity me! God pity me!"

The woman arose then and took the picture and gazed long and earnestly
upon it. A sob burst from her lips. Lifting it again to the level of the
man's face, she looked from one to the other.

"Enough!" he said, reading it aright.

Despair had settled over his own face. She handed back the little
likeness, and, clasping her hands, stood in simple dignity awaiting his
will. He noticed then, as he studied her countenance closely, the lines
of suffering there; the infallible record that some faces carry, which,
whether it stands for remorse, for patience, for pure, unbroken sorrow,
is always a consecration.

"Master, it must have come some time," she said, at length, "but I have
hoped it would not be through me." Her voice was just audible.

"Be seated," said Morgan. "If your story is true, and it may be so, you
should not stand." He turned away from her and walked to the window; she
was seeking for an opening to begin her story. He began for her:

"You crouched in a church door to avoid the storm; a woman seeking
shelter there appeared just outside. She was attacked by a man and fell
to the ground unconscious; you carried her off in your arms; her child
was born soon after, and what then?"

Amazed she stared at him a moment in silence.

"And mine was born! The fright, the horror, the sickness! It was a
terrible dream; a terrible dream! But a month afterward, I was here
alone with two babies at my breast and the mother was gone. God help me,
and help her! But in that time Master John says I lost the memory of my
child! Master Gerald I claimed, but his face was the face of Miss
Marion, and he was white and delicate like her. And you, sir, were dark.
And then I had never been a slave; John Morgan's father gave me my
liberty when I was born. I lived with him until my marriage, then after
my husband's death, which was just before this storm, they brought me
here and I waited. She never came back. Master Gerald was sickly always
and we kept him, but they sent you away. Master John thought it was
best. And the years have passed quickly."

"And General Evan--did he never know?"

"No, sir; I would not let them take Master Gerald, because I believed he
was my child; and Master John, I suppose, would not believe in you. The
families are proud; we let things rest as they were, thinking Miss
Marion would come back some day. But she will not come now; she will not
come!"

The miserable secret was out. After a long silence Edward lifted his
head and said with deep emotion: "Then, in your opinion, I am your son?"
She looked at him sadly and nodded.

"And in the opinion of John Morgan, Gerald is the son of Marion Evans?"
She bowed.

"We have let it stand that way. But you should never have known! I do
not think you were ever to have known." The painful silence that
followed was broken by his question:

"Gerald's real name?"

"I do not know! I do not know! All that I do know I have told you!"

"And the child's coffin?" She pressed her hand to her forehead.

"It was a dream; I do not know!"

He gazed upon her with profound emotion and pity.

"You must be tired," he said, gently. "Think no more of these troubles
to-night."

She turned and went away. He followed to the head of the stairs and
waited until he heard her step in the hall below.

"Good-night," he had said, gravely. And from the shadowy depths below
came back a faint, mournful echo of the word.

When Edward returned to the room he sat by the window and buried his
face upon his arm. Hour after hour passed; the outer world slept. Had he
been of the south, reared there and a sharer in its traditions, the
secret would have died with him that night and its passing would have
been signaled by a single pistol shot. But he was not of the south, in
experience, association or education.

It was in the hush of midnight that he rose from his seat, took the
picture and descended the steps. The wing-room was never locked; he
entered. Through the drawn curtains of the glass-room he saw the form of
Gerald lying in the moonlight upon his narrow bed. Placing the picture
beside the still, white face of the sleeper, he was shocked by the
likeness. One glance was enough. He went back to his window again.

One, two, three, four o'clock from the distant church steeple.

How the solemn numbers have tolled above the sorrow-folds of the human
heart and echoed in the dewless valleys of the mind, the depths to which
we sink when hope is gone!

But with the dawn what shadows flee!

So came the dawn at last; the pale, tremulous glimmer on the eastern
hills, the white light, the rosy flush and then in the splendor of
fading mists the giant sun rolled up the sky.

A man stood pale and weary before the open window at Ilexhurst. "The
odds are against me," he said, grimly, "but I feel a power within me
stronger than evidence. I will match it against the word of this woman,
though every circumstance strengthened that word. The voice of the
Caucasian, not the voice of Ethiopia, speaks within me! The woman does
not believe herself; the mother's instinct has been baffled, but not
destroyed!"

And yet again, the patrician bearing, the aristocrat! Such was Gerald.

"We shall see," he said, between his teeth. "Wait until Virdow comes!"

Nevertheless, when, not having slept, he arose late in the day, he was
almost overwhelmed with the memory of the revelation made to him, and
the effect it must have upon his future.

At that moment there came into his mind the face of Mary.




CHAPTER XI.

IN THE CRIMSON OF SUNSET.


Edward left the house without any definite idea of how he would carry on
the search for the truth of his own history, but his determination was
complete. He did not enter the dining-room, but called for his buggy and
drove direct to the city. He wished to see neither Rita nor Gerald until
the tumult within him had been stilled. His mind was yet in a whirl when
without previous resolution he turned his horse in the direction of "The
Hall" and let it choose its gait. The sun was low when he drew up before
the white-columned house and entered the yard. Mary stood in the doorway
and smiled a welcome, but as he approached she looked into his face in
alarm.

"You have been ill?" she said, with quick sympathy.

"Do I look it?" he asked; "I have not slept well. Perhaps that shows
upon me. It is rather dreary work this getting acquainted." He tried to
deceive her with a smile.

"How ungallant!" she exclaimed, "to say that to me, and so soon after we
have become acquainted."

"We are old acquaintances, Miss Montjoy," he replied with more
earnestness than the occasion justified. "I knew you in Paris, in Rome,
even in India--I have known you always." She blushed slightly and turned
her face away as a lady appeared leading a little girl.

"Here is Mr. Morgan, Annie; you met him for a moment only, I believe."

The newcomer extended her hand languidly.

"Any one whom Norton is so enthusiastic about," she said, without
warmth, "must be worth meeting a second time."

Her small eyes rested upon the visitor an instant. Stunned as he had
been by large misfortunes, he felt again the unpleasant impression of
their first meeting. Whether it was the manner, the tone of voice, the
glance or languid hand that slipped limply from his own, or all
combined, he did not know; he did not care much at that time. The young
woman placed the freed hand over the mouth of the child begging for a
biscuit, and without looking down said:

"Mary, get this brat a biscuit, please. She will drive me distracted."
Mary stooped and the Duchess leaped into her arms, happy at once. Edward
followed them with his eyes until they reached the end of the porch and
Mary turned a moment to receive additional directions from the young
mother. He knew, then, where he had first seen her. She was a little
madonna in a roadside shrine in Sicily, distinct and different from all
the madonnas of his acquaintance, in that she seemed to have stepped up
direct from among the people who knelt there; a motherly little woman in
touch with every home nestling in those hills. The young mother by him
was watching him with curiosity.

"I have to thank you for a beautiful picture," he said.

"You are an artist, I suppose?"

"Yes; a dilletante. But the picture of a woman with her child in her
arms appeals to most men; to none more than those who never knew a
mother nor had a home." He stopped suddenly, the blood rushed to his
face and brain, and he came near staggering. He had forgotten for the
moment.

He recovered, to find the keen eyes of the woman studying him intently.
Did she know, did she suspect? How this question would recur to him in
all the years! He turned from her, pale and angry. Fortunately, Mary
returned at this moment, the little one contentedly munching upon its
biscuit. The elder Mrs. Montjoy welcomed him with her motherly way,
inquiring closely into his arrangements for comfort out at Ilexhurst.
Who was caring for him? Rita! Well, that was fortunate; Rita was a good
cook and good housekeeper, and a good nurse. He affected a careless
interest and she continued:

"Yes, Rita lived for years near here. She was a free woman and as a
professional nurse accumulated quite a sum of money, and then her
husband dying, John Morgan had taken her to his house to look after a
young relative who had been left to his care. What has become of this
young person?" she asked. "I have not heard of him for many years."

"He is still there," said Edward, briefly.

And then, as they were silent, he continued: "This woman Rita had a
husband; how did they manage in old times? Was he free also? You see,
since I have become a citizen your institutions have a deal of interest
for me. It must have been inconvenient to be free and have someone else
owning the husband."

He was not satisfied with the effort; he could not restrain an
inclination to look toward the younger Mrs. Montjoy. She was leaning
back in her chair, with eyes half-closed, and smiling upon him. He could
have strangled her cheerfully. The elder lady's voice recalled him.

"Her husband was free also; that is, it was thought that she had bought
him," and she smiled over the idea.

A slanting sunbeam came through the window; they were now in the
sitting-room and Mary quickly adjusted the shade to shield her mother's
face.

"Mamma is still having trouble with her eyes," she said; "we cannot
afford to let her strain the sound one."

"My eyes do pain me a great deal," the elder Mrs. Montjoy said. "Did you
ever have neuralgia, Mr. Morgan? Sometimes I think it is neuralgia. I
must have Dr. Campbell down to look at my eyes. I am afraid----" she did
not complete the sentence, but the quick sympathy of the man helped him
to read her silence aright. Mary caught her breath nervously.

"Mary, take me to my room; I think I will lie down until tea. Mr. Morgan
will be glad to walk some, I am sure; take him down to the mill." She
gave that gentleman her hand again; a hand that seemed to him eloquent
with gentleness. "Good-night, if I do not see you again," she said. "I
do not go to the table now on account of the lamp." He felt a lump in
his throat and an almost irresistible desire to throw himself upon her
sympathy. She would understand. But the next instant the idea of such a
thing filled him with horror. It would banish him forever from the
portals of that proud home.

And ought he not to banish himself? He trembled over the mental
question. No! His courage returned. There had been some horrible
mistake! Not until the light of day shone on the indisputable fact, not
until proof irresistible had said: "You are base-born! Depart!" When
that hour came he would depart! He saw Mary waiting for him at the door;
the young mother was still watching him, he thought. He bowed and strode
from the room.

"What is it?" said the girl, quickly; "you seem excited." She was
already learning to read him.

"Do I? Well, let me see; I am not accustomed to ladies' society," he
said, lightly; "so much beauty and graciousness have overwhelmed me." He
was outside now and the fresh breeze steadied him instantly.

There was a sun-setting before them that lent a glow to the girl's face
and a new light to her eyes. He saw it there first and then in the
skies. Across a gentle slope of land that came down from a mile away on
the opposite side into their valley the sun had gone behind a shower.
Out on one side a fiery cloud floated like a ship afire, and behind it
were the lilac highlands of the sky. The scene brought with it a strange
solemnity. It held the last breath of the dying day.

The man and girl stood silent for a moment, contemplating the wonderful
vision. She looked into his face presently to find him sadly and
intently watching her. Wondering, she led the way downhill to where a
little boat lay with its bow upon the grassy sward which ran into the
water. Taking one seat, she motioned him to the other.

"We have given you a Venetian water-color sunset," she said, smiling
away her embarrassment, "and now for a gondola ride." Lightly and
skillfully plying the paddle the little craft glided out upon the lake,
and presently, poising the blade she said, gayly:

"Look down into the reflection, and then look up! Tell me, do you float
upon the lake or in the cloudy regions of heaven?" He followed her
directions. Then, looking steadily at her, he said, gently:

"In heaven!" She bent over the boat side until her face was concealed,
letting her hand cool in the crimson water.

"Mr. Morgan," she said after awhile, looking up from under her lashes,
"are you a very earnest man? I do not think I know just how to take you.
I am afraid I am too matter-of-fact."

He was feverish and still weighed down by his terrible memory. "I am
earnest now, whatever I may have been," he said, softly, "and believe
me, Miss Montjoy, something tells me that I will never be less than
earnest with you."

She did not reply at once, but looked off into the cloudlands.

"You have traveled much?" she said at length, to break the awkward
silence.

"I suppose so. I have never had what I could call a home and I have
moved about a great deal. Men of my acquaintance," he continued,
musingly, "have been ambitious in every line; I have watched them in
wonder. Most of them sacrifice what would have been my greatest pleasure
to possess--mother and sister and home. I cannot understand that phase
of life; I suppose I never will."

"Then you have never known a mother?"

"Never." There was something in his voice that touched her deeply.

"To miss a mother's affection," she said, with a holy light in her brown
eyes, "is to miss the greatest gift heaven can bestow here. I suppose a
wife somehow takes a mother's place, finally, with every man, but she
cannot fill it. No woman that ever lived can fill my mother's place."

Loyal little Mary! He fancied that as she thought upon her own remark
her sensitive lips curved slightly. His mind reverted to the sinister
face that they had left in the parlor.

"Your mother!" he exclaimed, fervently; "would to heaven I had such a
mother!" He paused, overcome with emotion. She looked upon him with
swimming eyes.

"You must come often, then," she said, softly, "and be much with us. I
will share her with you. Poor mamma! I am afraid--I am afraid for her!"
She covered her face with her hands suddenly and bowed her head.

"Is she ill, so ill as all that?" he asked, greatly concerned.

"Oh, no! That is, her eyesight is failing; she does not realize it, but
Dr. Campbell has warned us to be careful."

"What is the trouble?" He was now deeply distressed.

"Glaucoma. The little nerve that leads from the cornea to the brain
finally dies away; there is no connection, and then----" she could not
conclude the sentence.

Edward had never before been brought within the influence of such a
circle. Her words thrilled him beyond expression. He waited a little
while and said:

"I cannot tell you how much my short experience here has been to me. The
little touch of motherly interest, of home, has brought me more genuine
pleasure than I thought the world held for me. You said just now that
you would share the dear little mamma with me. I accept the generous
offer. And now you must share the care of the little mamma with me. Do
not be offended, but I know that the war has upset your revenues here in
the south, and that the new order of business has not reached a paying
basis. By no act of mine I am independent; I have few responsibilities.
Why may not I, why may not you and I take the little mamma to Paris and
let the best skill in the world be invoked to save her from sorrow?" He,
too, would not, after her failure, say "blindness."

She looked at him through tears that threatened to get beyond control,
afraid to trust her voice.

"You have not answered me," he said, gently. She shook her head.

"I cannot. I can never answer you as I would. But it cannot be, it
cannot be! If that course were necessary, we would have gone long ago,
for, while we are poor, Norton could have arranged it--he can can
arrange anything. But Dr. Campbell, you know, is famous for his skill.
He has even been called to Europe in consultation. He says there is no
cure, but care of the general health may avert the blow all her life.
And so we watch and wait."

"Still," he urged, "there may be a mistake. And the sea voyage----"

She shook her head. "You are very, very kind, but it cannot be."

It flashed over Edward then what that journey would have been. He, with
that sweet-faced girl, the little madonna of his memory, and the patient
mother! In his mind came back all the old familiar places; by his side
stood this girl, her hand upon his arm, her eyes upturned to his.

And why not! A thrill ran through his heart: he could take his wife and
her mother to Paris! He started violently and leaned forward in the
boat, his glowing face turned full upon her, with an expression in it
that startled her.

Then from it the color died away; a ghastly look overspread it. He
murmured aloud:

"God be merciful! It cannot be." She smiled pitifully.

"No," she said, "it cannot be. But God is merciful. We trust Him. He
will order all things for the best!" Seeing his agitation she continued:
"Don't let it distress you so, Mr. Morgan. It may all come out happily.
See, the skies are quite clear now; the clouds all gone! I take it as a
happy augury!"

Ashamed to profit by her reading of his feelings, he made a desperate
effort to respond to her new mood. She saw the struggle and aided him.
But in that hour the heart of Mary Montjoy went out for all eternity to
the man before her. Change, disaster, calumny, misfortune, would never
shake her faith and belief in him. He had lost in the struggle of the
preceding night, but here he had won that which death only could end,
and perhaps not death.

Slowly they ascended the hill together, both silent and thoughtful. He
took her little hand to help her up the terraces, and, forgetting, held
it until, at the gate, she suddenly withdrew it in confusion and gazed
at him with startled eyes.

The tall, soldierly form of the colonel, her father, stood at the top of
the steps.

"See," said Edward, to relieve her confusion, "one of the old knights
guarding the castle!"

And then she called out, gayly:

"Sir knight, I bring you a prisoner." The old gentleman laughed and
entered into the pleasantry.

"Well, he might have surrendered to a less fair captor! Enter, prisoner,
and proclaim your colors," Edward started, but recovered, and, looking
up boldly, said:

"An honorable knight errant, but unknown until his vow is fulfilled."
They both applauded and the supper bell rang.




CHAPTER XII.

THE OLD SOUTH VERSUS THE NEW.


Edward had intended returning to Ilexhurst after tea, but every one
inveighed against the announcement. Nonsense! The roads were bad, a
storm was possible, the way unfamiliar to him! John, the stable boy, had
reported a shoe lost from the horse! And besides, Norton would come out
and be disappointed at having missed him!

And why go? Was the room upstairs not comfortable? He should have
another! Was the breakfast hour too early? His breakfast should be sent
to his room!

Edward was in confusion. It was his first collision with the genuine,
unanswerable southern hospitality that survives the wreck of all things.
He hesitated and explained and explaining yielded.

Supper over, the two gentlemen sat upon the veranda, a cool breeze
wandering in from the western rain area and rendering the evening
comfortable. Mary brought a great jar of delicious tobacco, home raised,
and a dozen corn-cob pipes, and was soon happy in their evident comfort.
As she held the lighter over Edward's pipe he ventured one glance upward
into her face, and was rewarded with a rare, mysterious smile. It was a
picture that clung to him for many years; the girlish face and tender
brown eyes in the yellow glare of the flame, the little hand lifted in
his service. It was the last view of her that night, for the southern
girl, out of the cities, is an early retirer.

"The situation is somewhat strained," said the colonel; they had reached
politics; "there is a younger set coming on who seem to desire only to
destroy the old order of things. They have had the 'new south' dinged
into their ears until they had come to believe that the old south holds
nothing worth retaining. They are full of railroad schemes to rob the
people and make highways for tramps; of new towns and booms, of
colonization schemes, to bring paupers into the state and inject the
socialistic element of which the north and west are heartily tired. They
want to do away with cotton and plant the land in peaches, plums,
grapes," here he laughed softly, "and they want to give the nigger a
wheeled plow to ride on. It looks as if the whole newspaper fraternity
have gone crazy upon what they call intensive and diversified farming.
Not one of them has ever told me what there is besides cotton that can
be planted and will sell at all times upon the market and pay labor and
store accounts in the fall.

"And now they have started in this country the 'no-fence' idea and are
about to destroy our cattle ranges," continued the colonel, excitedly.
"In addition to these, the farmers have some of them been led off into a
'populist' scheme, which in its last analysis means that the government
shall destroy corporations and pension farmers. In national politics we
have, besides, the silver question and the tariff, and a large element
in the state is ready for republicanism!"

"That is the party of the north, I believe," said Edward.

"Yes, the party that freed the negro and placed the ballot in his hands.
We are so situated here that practically our whole issue is 'white
against black.' We cannot afford to split on any question. We are
obliged to keep the south solid even at the expense of development and
prosperity. The south holds the Saxon blood in trust. Regardless of law,
of constitution, of both combined, we say it is her duty to keep the
blood of the race pure and uncontaminated. I am not prepared to say that
it has been done with entire success; two races cannot exist side by
side distinct. But the Spaniards kept their blue blood through
centuries!

"The southern families will always be pure in this respect; they are
tenderly guarded," the colonel went on. "Other sections are in danger.
The white negro goes away or is sent away; he is unknown; he is changed
and finds a foothold somewhere. Then some day a family finds in its
folds a child with a dark streak down its spine--have you dropped your
pipe? The cobs really furnish our best smokers, but they are hard to
manage. Try another--and it was known that somewhere back in the past an
African taint has crept in."

"You astound me," said Edward, huskily; "is that an infallible sign?"

"Infallible, or, rather, indisputable if it exists. But its existence
under all circumstances is not assured."

"And what, Mr. Montjoy, is the issue between you and Mr. Swearingen--I
understand that is his name--your opponent in the campaign for
nomination?"

"Well, it is hard to say. He has been in congress several terms and
thinks now he sees a change of sentiment. He has made bids for the
younger and dissatisfied vote. I think you may call it the old south
versus the new--and I stand for the old south."

"Where does your campaign open? I was in England once during a political
campaign, about my only experience, if you except one or two incipient
riots in Paris, and I would be glad to see a campaign, in Georgia."

"We open in Bingham. I am to speak there day after to-morrow and will be
pleased to have you go with us. A little party will proceed by private
conveyance from here--and Norton is probably detained in town to-night
by this matter. The county convention meets that day and it has been
agreed that Swearingen and I shall speak in the morning. The convention
will assemble at noon and make a nomination. In most counties primary
elections are held."

"I shall probably not be able to go, but this county will afford me the
opportunity I desire. By the way, colonel, your friends will have many
expenses in this campaign, will they not? I trust you will number me
among them and not hesitate to call upon me for my share of the
necessary fund. I am a stranger, so to speak, but I represent John
Morgan until I can get my political bearings accurately adjusted." The
colonel was charmed.

"Spoken like John himself!" he said. "We are proud, sir, to claim you as
one of us. As to the expenses, unfortunately, we have to rely on our
friends. But for the war, I could have borne it all; now my
circumstances are such that I doubt sometimes if I should in perfect
honor have accepted a nomination. It was forced on me, however. My
friends named me, published the announcement and adjourned. Before
heaven, I have no pleasure in it! I have lived here since childhood,
barring a term or two in congress before the war and four years with Lee
and Johnston, and my people were here before me. I would be glad to end
my days here and live out the intervening ones in sight of this porch.
But a man owes everything to his country."

Edward did not comment upon the information; at that moment there was
heard the rumble of wheels. Norton, accompanied by a stranger, alighted
from a buggy and came rapidly up the walk. The colonel welcomed his son
with the usual affection and the stranger was introduced as Mr. Robley
of an adjoining county. The men fell to talking with suppressed
excitement over the political situation and the climax of it was that
Robley, a keen manager, revealed that he had come for $1,000 to secure
the county. He had but finished his information, when Norton broke in
hurriedly:

"We know, father, that this is all outside your style of politics, and I
have told Mr. Robley that we cannot go into any bargain and sale
schemes, or anything that looks that way. We will pay our share of
legitimate expenses, printing, bands, refreshments and carriage hire,
and will not inquire too closely into rates, but that is as far----"

"You are right, my son! If I am nominated it must be upon the ballots of
my friends. I shall not turn a hand except to lessen their necessary
expenses and to put our announcements before the public. I am sure that
this is all that Mr. Robley would consent to."

"Why, of course," said that gentleman. And then he looked helpless.
Edward had risen and was pacing the veranda, ready to withdraw from
hearing if the conversation became confidential. Norton was excitedly
explaining the condition of affairs in Robley's county, and that
gentleman found himself at leisure. Passing him Edward attracted his
attention.

"You smoke, Mr. Robley?" He offered a cigar and nodded toward the far
end of the veranda. "I think you had better let Mr. Montjoy explain
matters to his father," he said. Robley joined him.

"How much do you need?" said Edward; "the outside figure, I mean. In
other words, if we wanted to buy the county and be certain of getting
it, how much would it take?"

"Twenty-five hundred--well, $3,000."

"Let the matter drop here, you understand? Col. Montjoy is not in the
trade. I am acting upon my own responsibility. Call on me in town
to-morrow; I will put up the money. Now, not a word. We will go back."
They strolled forward and the discussion of the situation went on.
Robley grew hopeful and as they parted for the night whispered a few
words to Norton. As the latter carried the lamp to Edward's room, he
said:

"What does this all mean; you and Robley----"

"Simply," said Edward, "that I am in my first political campaign and to
win at any cost."

Norton looked at him in amazement and then laughed aloud.

"You roll high! We shall win if you don't fail us."

"Then you shall win." They shook hands and parted. Norton passing his
sister's room, paused in thought, knocked lightly, and getting no reply,
went to bed. Edward turned in, not to sleep. His mind in the silent
hours rehearsed its horrors. He arose at the sound of the first bell and
left for the city, not waiting for breakfast.




CHAPTER XIII.

FEELING THE ENEMY.


Edward Morgan plunged into the campaign with an energy and earnestness
that charmed the younger Montjoy and astonished the elder. Headquarters
were opened, typewriters engaged, lists of prominent men and party
leaders obtained and letters written. Col. Montjoy was averse to writing
to his many personal friends in the district anything more than a formal
announcement of his candidacy over his own signature.

"That is all right, father, but if you intend to stick to that idea the
way to avoid defeat is to come down now." But the old gentleman
continued to use his own form of letter. It read:

     "My Dear Sir: I beg leave to call your attention to my
     announcement in the Journal of this city, under date of July
     13, wherein, in response to the demands of friends, I consented
     to the use of my name in the nomination for congressman to
     represent this district. With great respect, I am, sir, your
     obedient servant,

     "Norton L. Montjoy."

He dictated this letter, gave the list to the typewriter, and announced
that when the letters were ready he would sign them. The son looked at
him quizzically:

"Don't trouble about that, father. You must leave this office work to
us. I can sign your name better than you can. If you will get out and
see the gentlemen about the cotton warehouses you can help us
wonderfully. You can handle them better than anybody in the world." The
colonel smiled indulgently on his son and went off. He was proud of the
success and genius of his one boy, when not grieved at his departure
from the old-school dignity. And then Norton sat down and began to
dictate the correspondence, with the list to guide him.

     "Dear Jim," he began, selecting a well-known friend of his
     father, and a companion in arms. "You have probably noticed in
     the Journal the announcement of my candidacy for the
     congressional nomination. The boys of the old 'Fire-Eaters' did
     eat. I am counting on you; you stood by me at Seven Pines,
     Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville and a dozen other tight
     places, and I have no fear but that your old colonel will find
     you with him in this issue. It is the old south against the
     riffraff combination of carpetbaggers, scalawags and jaybirds
     who are trying to betray us into the hands of the enemy! My
     opponent, Swearingen, is a good man in his way, but in devilish
     bad company. See Lamar of Company C, Sims, Ellis, Smith and all
     the old guard. Tell them I am making the stand of my life! My
     best respects to the madam and the grandchildren! God bless
     you. Do the best you can. Yours fraternally,

     "N. L. Montjoy."

     "P. S. Arrange for me to speak at your court house some day
     soon. Get an early convention called. We fight better on a
     charge--old Stonewall's way.

     "N. L. M."

This letter brought down the house; the house in this instance standing
for a small army of committeemen gathered at headquarters. Norton was
encouraged to try again.

     "The Rev. Andrew Paton, D. D.--Dear Andrew: I am out for
     congress and need you. Of course we can't permit you to take
     your sacred robes into the mire of politics, but, Andrew, we
     were boys together, before you were so famous, and I know that
     nothing I can bring myself to ask of you can be refused. A word
     from you in many quarters will help. The madam joins me in
     regards to you and yours. Sincerely.

     "N. L. Montjoy."

     "P. S. Excuse this typewritten letter, but my hand is old, and
     I cannot wield the pen as I did when we put together that first
     sermon of yours.

     "M."

This was an addendum in "the colonel's own handwriting" and it closed
with "pray for me." The letter was vociferously applauded and passers-by
looked up in the headquarters windows curiously. These addenda in the
colonel's own handwriting tickled Norton's fancy. He played upon every
string in the human heart. When he got among the masons he staggered a
little, but managed to work in something about "upright, square and
level." "If I could only have got a few signals from the old gentleman,"
he said, gayly, "I would get the lodges out in a body."

Norton was everywhere during the next ten days. He kept four typewriters
busy getting out "personal" letters, addressing circulars and marking
special articles that had appeared in the papers. One of his sayings
that afterward became a political maxim was: "If you want the people to
help you, let them hear from you before election." And in this instance
they heard.

Within a few days a great banner was stretched across the street from
the headquarters window, and a band wagon, drawn by four white horses,
carried a brass band and flags bearing the legend:

    "Montjoy at the Court House
    Saturday Night."

Little boys distributed dodgers.

Edward, taking the cue, entered with equal enthusiasm into the comedy.
He wanted to do the right thing, and he had formed an exaggerated idea
of the influence of money in political campaigns. He hung a placard at
the front door of the Montjoy headquarters that read:

"One thousand dollars to five hundred that Montjoy is nominated."

He placed a check to back it in the secretary's hands. This announcement
drew a crowd and soon afterward a quiet-appearing man came in and said:

"I have the money to cover that bet. Name a stake-holder."

One was named. Edward was flushed with wine and enthused by the friendly
comments his bold wager had drawn out.

"Make it $2,000 to $1,000?" he asked the stranger.

"Well," was the reply, "it goes."

"Make it $10,000 to $5,000?" said Edward.

"No!"

"Ten thousand to four thousand?"

"No!"

"Ten thousand to three thousand?"

"No!" The stranger smiled nervously and, saluting, withdrew. The crowd
cheered until the sidewalk was blockaded. The news went abroad: "Odds of
300 to 100 have been offered on Montjoy, and no takers."

Edward's bet had the effect of precipitating the campaign in the home
county; it had been opening slowly, despite the rush at the Montjoy
headquarters. The Swearingen men were experienced campaigners and worked
more by quiet organization than display. Such men know when to make the
great stroke in a campaign. The man who had attempted to call young
Morgan's hand had little to do with the management of the Swearingen
campaign, but was engaged in a speculation of his own, acting upon a
hint.

But the show of strength at the Montjoy headquarters was at once used by
the Swearingen men to stir their friends to action, lest they be bluffed
out of the fight. Rival bands were got out, rival placards appeared and
handbills were thrown into every yard.

And then came the first personalities, but directed at Edward only. An
evening paper said that "A late citizen, after half a century of
honorable service, and although but recently deceased, seemed to have
fallen into betting upon mundane elections by proxy." And elsewhere: "A
certain class of people and their uncle's money are soon divorced." Many
others followed upon the same line, clearly indicating Edward Morgan,
and with street-corner talk soon made him a central figure among the
Montjoy forces. Edward saw none of these paragraphs, nor did he hear the
gossip of the city.

This continued for days; in the meantime Edward took Norton home with
him at night and generally one or two others accompanied them. Finally
it came to be settled that Norton and Edward were old friends, and the
friends of Montjoy senior looked on and smiled.

The other side simply sneered, swore and waited.

Information of these things reached Mary Montjoy. Annie, the
sister-in-law, came into the city and met her cousin, Amos Royson, the
wild horseman who collided with the Montjoy team upon the night of
Edward's first appearance. This man was one of the Swearingen managers.
His relationship to Annie Montjoy gave him entrance to the family
circle, and he had been for two years a suitor for Mary's hand.

Royson took a seat in the vehicle beside his cousin and turned the
horse's head toward the park. Annie Montjoy saw that he was in an ugly
mood, and divined the reason. She possessed to a remarkable degree the
power of mind-reading and she knew Amos Royson better than he knew
himself.

"Tell me about this Edward Morgan, who is making such a fool of
himself," he said abruptly. "He is injuring Col. Montjoy's chances more
than we could ever hope to, and is really the best ally we have!"

She smiled as she looked upon him from under the sleepy lids, "Why,
then, are you not pleased?"

"Oh, well, you know, Annie, the unfortunate fact remains that you are
one of the family. I hate to see you mixed up in this matter and a
sharer in the family's downfall."

"You do not think enough of me to keep out of the way."

"I cannot control the election, Annie. Swearingen will be elected with
or without my help. But you know my whole future depends upon
Swearingen. Who is Edward Morgan?"

"Oh, Edward Morgan! Well, you know, he is old John Morgan's heir, and
that is all I know; but," and she laughed maliciously, "he is what
Norton calls 'a rusher,' not only in politics, but elsewhere. He has
seen Mary, and--now you know why he is so much interested in this
election." Amos turned fiercely upon her and involuntarily drew the
reins until the horse stopped. He felt the innuendo and forgot the
thrust.

"You cannot mean----" he began, and then paused, for in her eyes was a
triumph so devilish, so malicious, that even he, knowing her well, could
not bring himself to gratify it. He knew that she had never forgiven him
for his devotion to Mary.

"Yes, I mean it! If ever two people were suddenly, hopelessly, foolishly
infatuated with each other that same little hypocritical chit and this
stranger are the two. He is simply trying to put his intended
father-in-law into congress. Do you understand?"

The man's face was white and only with difficulty could he guide the
animal he was driving. She continued, with a sudden exhibition of
passion: "And Mary! Oh, you should just hear her say 'Ilexhurst'! She
will queen it out there with old Morgan's money and heir, and we----"
she laughed bitterly, "we will stay out yonder, keep a mule boarding
house and nurse sick niggers--that is all it amounts to; they raise corn
half the year and hire hands to feed it out the other half; and the
warehouses get the cotton. In the meantime, I am stuck away out of sight
with my children!" Royson thought over this outburst and then said
gravely:

"You have not yet answered my question. Who is Edward Morgan--where did
he come from?"

"Go ask John Morgan," she said, scornfully and maliciously. He studied
long the painted dashboard in front of him, and then, in a sort of awe,
looked into her face:

"What do you mean, Annie?" She would not turn back; she met his gaze
with determination.

"Old Morgan has educated and maintained him abroad all his life. He has
never spoken of him to anybody. You know what stories they used to tell
of John Morgan. Can't you see? Challenged to prove his legal right to
his name he couldn't do it." The words were out. The jealous woman took
the lines from his hands and said, sneeringly: "You are making a fool of
yourself, Amos, by your driving, and attracting attention. Where do you
want to get out? I am going back uptown." He did not reply. Dazed by the
fearful hint he sat looking ahead. When she drew rein at a convenient
corner he alighted. There was a cruel light in his gray eyes.

"Annie," he said, "the defeat of Col. Montjoy lies in your information."

"Let it," she exclaimed, recklessly. "He has no more business in
congress than a child. And for the other matter, I have myself and my
children's name to protect."

And yet she was not entirely without caution. She continued:

"What I have told you is a mere hint. It must not come back to me nor
get in print." She drove away. With eyes upon the ground Royson walked
to his office.

Amos Royson was of the new south entirely, but not its best
representative. His ambition was boundless; there was nothing he would
have left undone to advance himself politically. His thought as he
walked back to his office was upon the words of his cousin. In what
manner could this frightful hint be made effective without danger of
reaction? At this moment he met the man he was plotting to destroy,
walking rapidly toward the postoffice with Norton Montjoy. The latter
saluted him, gayly, as he passed:

"Hello, Amos! We have you on the run, my boy!" Amos made no reply to
Norton, nor to Edward's conventional bow. As they passed he noted the
latter's form and poetical face, then somewhat flushed with excitement,
and seemed to form a mental estimate of him.

"Cold-blooded devil, that fellow Royson," said Norton, as he ran over
his letters before mailing them; "stick a knife in you in a minute."

But Royson walked on. Once he turned, looked back and smiled
sardonically. "They are both in a bad fix," he said, half-aloud. "The
man who has to look out for Annie is to be pitied."

At home Annie gave a highly colored account of all she had heard in town
about Edward, made up chiefly of boasts of friends who supposed that her
interest in Col. Montjoy's nomination was genuine, of Norton's report
and the sneers of enemies, including Royson. These lost nothing in the
way of color at her hands. Mary sought her room and after efforts sealed
for Edward this letter:

     "You can never know how grateful we all are for your interest
     and help, but our gratitude would be incomplete if I failed to
     tell you that there is danger of injuring yourself in your
     generous enthusiasm. You must not forget that papa has enemies
     who will become yours. This we would much regret, for you have
     so much need of friends. Do not put faith in too many people,
     and come out here when you feel the need of rest. I cannot
     write much that I would like to tell you. Your friend,

     "Mary Montjoy."

     "P. S. Amos Royson is your enemy and he is a dangerous man."

When Edward received this, as he did next day by the hand of Col.
Montjoy, he was thrilled with pleasure and then depressed with a sudden
memory. That day he was so reckless that even Norton felt compelled,
using his expression, "to call him down."




CHAPTER XIV.

THE OLD SOUTH DRAWS THE SWORD.


When Royson reached his office he quietly locked himself in, and,
lighting a cigar, threw himself into his easy-chair. He recalled with
carefulness the minutest facts of his interview with Annie Montjoy, from
the moment he seated himself beside her, until his departure. Having
established these in mind he began the course of reasoning he always
pursued in making an estimate of testimony. The basis of his cousin's
action did not call for much attention; he knew her well. She was as
ambitious as Lucifer and possessed that peculiar defect which would
explain so many women if given proper recognition--lack of ability to
concede equal merit to others. They can admit no uninvited one to their
plane; not even an adviser. They demand flattery as a plant demands
nitrogen, and cannot survive the loss of attention.

And, reading deeper, Royson saw that the steadfast, womanly soul of the
sister-in-law had, even in the knowledge of his cousin, over-shadowed
hers until she resented even the old colonel's punctilious courtesy;
that in her heart she raged at his lack of informality and accused him
of resting upon the young girl. If she had been made much of, set up as
a divinity, appealed to and suffered to rule, all would have been fair
and beautiful. And then the lawyer smiled and said aloud to that other
self, with whom he communed: "For a while." Such was the woman.

Long he sat, studying the situation. Once he arose and paced the floor,
beating his fist into his hand and grinding his teeth.

"Both or none!" he cried, at last. "If Montjoy is nominated I am
shelved; and as for Mary, there have been Sabine women in all ages."

That night the leaders of the opposition met in secret caucus, called
together by Royson. When, curious and attentive, they assembled in his
private office, he addressed them:

"I have, gentlemen, to-day found myself in a very embarrassing position;
a very painful one. You all know my devotion to our friend; I need not
say, therefore, that here to-night the one overpowering cause of the
action which I am about to take is my loyalty to him. To-day, from a
source I am not at liberty to state here, I was placed in possession of
a fact which, if used, practically ends this campaign. You must none of
you express a doubt, nor must any one question me upon the subject. The
only question to be discussed is, shall we make use of the fact--and
how?" He waited a moment until the faces of the committee betrayed their
deep interest.

"Whom do you consider in this city the most powerful single man behind
the movement to nominate Montjoy?"

"Morgan," said one, promptly. It was their unanimous judgment.

"Correct! This man, with his money and zeal, has made our chances
uncertain if not desperate, and this man," he continued, excitedly, "who
is posing before the public and offering odds of three to one against us
with old Morgan's money, is not a white man!"

He had leaned over the table and concluded his remarks in almost a
whisper. A painful silence followed, during which the excited lawyer
glared inquiringly into the faces turned in horror upon him. "Do you
understand?" he shouted at last. They understood.

A southern man readily takes a hint upon such a matter. These men sat
silent, weighing in their minds the final effect of this announcement.
Royson did not give them long to consider.

"I am certain of this, so certain that if you think best I will publish
the fact to-morrow and assume the whole responsibility." There was but
little doubt remaining then. But the committee seemed weighed upon
rather than stirred by the revelation; they spoke in low tones to each
other. There was no note of triumph in any voice. They were men.

Presently the matter took definite shape. An old man arose and addressed
his associates:

"I need not say, gentlemen, that I am astonished by this information,
and you will pardon me if I do say I regret that it seems true. As far
as I am concerned I am opposed to its use. It is a very difficult matter
to prove. Mr. Royson's informant may be mistaken, and if proof was not
forthcoming a reaction would ruin our friend." No one replied, although
several nodded their heads. At length Royson spoke:

"The best way to reach the heart of this matter is to follow out in your
minds a line of action. Suppose in a speech I should make the
charge--what would be the result?"

"You would be at once challenged!" Royson smiled.

"Who would bear the challenge?"

"One of the Montjoys would be morally compelled to."

"Suppose I convince the bearer that a member of his family was my
authority?" Then they began to get a glimpse of the depth of the plot.
One answered:

"He would be obliged to withdraw!"

"Exactly! And who else after that would take Montjoy's place? Or how
could Montjoy permit the duel to go on? And if he did find a fool to
bring his challenge, I could not, for the reason given in the charge,
meet his principal!"

"A court of honor might compel you to prove your charge, and then you
would be in a hole. That is, unless you could furnish proof."

"And still," said Royson, "there would be no duel, because there would
be no second. And you understand, gentlemen," he continued, smiling,
"that all this would not postpone the campaign. Before the court of
honor could settle the matter the election would have been held. You can
imagine how that election would go when it is known that Montjoy's
campaign manager and right-hand man is not white. This man is
hail-fellow-well-met with young Montjoy; a visitor in his home and is
spending money like water. What do you suppose the country will say when
these facts are handled on the stump? Col. Montjoy is ignorant of it, we
know, but he will be on the defensive from the day the revelation is
made.

"I have said my action is compelled by my loyalty to Swearingen, and I
reiterate it, but we owe something to the community, to the white race,
to good morals and posterity. And if I am mistaken in my proofs,
gentlemen, why, then, I can withdraw my charge. It will not affect the
campaign already over. But I will not have to withdraw."

"As far as I am concerned," said another gentleman, rising and speaking
emphatically, "this is a matter upon which, under the circumstances, I
do not feel called to vote! I cannot act without full information! The
fact is, I am not fond of such politics! If Mr. Royson has proofs that
he cannot use publicly or here, the best plan would be to submit them to
Col. Montjoy and let him withdraw, or pull off his lieutenant." He
passed out and several with him. Royson argued with the others, but one
by one they left him. He was bursting with rage.

"I will determine for myself!" he said, "the victory shall rest in me!"

Then came the speech of the campaign at the court house. The relations
of Col. Montjoy, his family friends, people connected with him in the
remotest degree by marriage, army friends, members of the bar,
merchants, warehousemen and farmers generally, and a large sprinkling of
personal and political enemies of Swearingen made up the vast crowd.

In the rear of the hall, a smile upon his face, was Amos Royson. And yet
the secret glee in his heart, the knowledge that he, one man in all that
throng, by a single sentence could check the splendid demonstration and
sweep the field, was clouded. It came to him that no other member of the
Montjoy clan was a traitor. Nowhere is the family tie so strong as in
the south, and only the power of his ambition could have held him aloof.
Swearingen had several times represented the district in Congress; it
was his turn when the leader moved on. This had been understood for
years by the political public. In the meantime he had been state's
attorney and there were a senatorship, a judgeship and possibly the
governorship to be grasped. He could not be expected to sacrifice his
career upon the altar of kinship remote. Indeed, was it not the duty of
Montjoy to stand aside for the sake of a younger man? Was it not true
that a large force in his nomination had been the belief that
Swearingen's right-hand man would probably be silenced thereby? It had
been a conspiracy.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he stood watching the gathering.

On the stage sat Edward Morgan, a prominent figure and one largely
scanned by the public; and Royson saw his face light up and turn to a
private box; saw his smile and bow. A hundred eyes were turned with his,
and discovered there, half concealed by the curtains, the face of Mary
Montjoy. The public jumped to the conclusion that had previously been
forced on him.

Over Royson's face surged a wave of blood; a muttered oath drew
attention to him and he changed his position. He saw the advancing
figure of Gen. Evan and heard his introductory speech. The morning paper
said it was the most eloquent ever delivered on such an occasion; and
all that the speaker said was:

"Fellow-citizens, I have the honor to introduce to you this evening Col.
Norton Montjoy. Hear him."

His rich bass voice rolled over the great audience; he extended his arm
toward the orator of the evening, and retired amid thunders of applause.
Then came Col. Montjoy.

The old south was famous for its oratory. It was based upon personal
independence, upon family pride and upon intellect unhampered by
personal toil in uncongenial occupations; and lastly upon sentiment.
Climate may have entered into it; race and inheritance undoubtedly did.
The southern orator was the feature of congressional displays, and back
in congressional archives lie orations that vie with the best of Athens
and of Rome. But the flavor, the spectacular effects, linger only in the
memory of the rapidly lessening number who mingled deeply in ante-bellum
politics. No pen could have faithfully preserved this environment.

So with the oration that night in the opening of the Montjoy campaign.
It was not transmissible. Only the peroration need be reproduced here:

"God forbid!" he said in a voice now husky with emotion and its long
strain, "God forbid that the day shall come when the south will
apologize for her dead heroes! Stand by your homes; stand by your
traditions; keep our faith in the past as bright as your hopes for the
future! No stain rests upon the honor of your fathers! Transmit their
memories and their virtues to posterity as its best inheritance! Defend
your homes and firesides, remembering always that the home, the family
circle, is the fountain head of good government! Let none enter there
who are unclean. Keep it the cradle of liberty and the hope of the
English race on this continent, the shrine of religion, of beauty, of
purity!"

He closed amid a tumult of enthusiasm. Men stood on chairs to cheer;
ladies wept and waved their handkerchiefs, and then over all arose the
strange melody that no southern man can sit quiet under. "Dixie" rang
out amid a frenzy of emotion. Veterans hugged each other. The old
general came forward and clasped hands with his comrade, the band
changing to "Auld Lang Syne." People crowded on the stage and outside
the building the drifting crowd filled the air with shouts.

The last man to rise from his seat was Edward Morgan. Lost in thought,
his face lowered, he sat until some one touched him on the shoulder and
called him back to the present. And out in the audience, clinging to a
post, to resist the stream of humanity, passing from the aisles, his
eyes strained forward, heedless of the banter and jeers poured upon him,
Royson watched as best he could every shade upon the stranger's face. A
cry burst from his lips. "It was true!" he said, and dashed from the
hall.




CHAPTER XV.

"IN ALL THE WORLD, NO FAIRER FLOWER THAN THIS!"


The city was in a whirl on election day; hacks and carriages darted here
and there all day long, bearing flaming placards and hauling voters to
the polls. Bands played at the Montjoy headquarters and everything to
comfort the inner patriot was on hand.

Edward had taken charge of this department and at his own expense
conducted it. He was the host. All kinds of wines and liquors and malt
drinks, a constantly replenished lunch, that amounted to a banquet, and
cigars, were at all hours quickly served by a corps of trained waiters.
In all their experience, old election stagers declared never had this
feature of election day been so complete. It goes without saying that
Montjoy's headquarters were crowded and that a great deal of the
interest which found expression in the streets was manufactured there.

It was a fierce struggle; the Swearingen campaign in the county had been
conducted on the "still-hunt" plan, and on this day his full strength
was polled. It was Montjoy's home county, and if it could be carried
against him, the victory was won at the outset.

On the other hand, the Montjoy people sought for the moral effect of an
overwhelming victory. There was an expression of general relief in the
form of cheers, when the town clocks struck five and the polls windows
fell. Anxiety followed, and then bonfires blazed, rockets exploded and
all night long the artillery squad fired salutes. Montjoy had won by an
unlooked-for majority and the vote of the largest county was secure.

Edward had resolutely refused to think upon the discovery unfolded to
him. With reckless disregard for the future he had determined to bury
the subject until the arrival of Virdow. But there are ghosts that will
not come down at the bidding, and so in the intervals of sleep, of
excitement, of politics, the remembrance of the fearful fate that
threatened him came up with all the force and terror of a new
experience.

Ilexhurst was impossible to him alone and he held to Norton as long as
he could. There was to be a few days' rest after the home election, and
the younger Montjoy seized this opportunity to run home and, as he
expressed it, "get acquainted with the family." Edward, without
hesitation, accepted his invitation to go with him. They had become firm
friends now and Edward stood high in the family esteem. Reviewing the
work that had led up to Col. Montjoy's magnificent opening and oration,
all generously conceded that he had been the potent factor.

It was not true, in fact; the younger Montjoy had been the genius of the
hour, but Edward's aid and money had been necessary. The two men were
received as conquering heroes. As she held his hand in hers old Mrs.
Montjoy said:

"You have done us a great service, Mr. Morgan, and we cannot forget it,"
and Mary, shy and happy, had smiled upon him and uttered her thanks.
There was one discordant note, the daughter-in-law had been silent until
all were through.

"And I suppose I am to thank you, Mr. Morgan, that Norton has returned
alive. I did not know you were such high livers over at Ilexhurst," she
smiled, maliciously. "Were you not afraid of ghosts?"

Edward looked at her with ill-disguised hatred. For the first time he
realized fully that he was dealing with a dangerous enemy. How much did
she know? He could make nothing of that serenely tranquil face. He bowed
only. She was his friend's wife.

But he was not at ease beneath her gaze and readily accepted Mary's
invitation to ride. She was going to carry a note from her father to a
neighbor, and the chance of seeing the country was one he should not
neglect. They found a lazy mule and ancient country buggy at the door.
He thought of the outfit of the sister-in-law. "Annie has a pony phaeton
that is quite stylish," said Mary, laughingly, as they entered the old
vehicle, "but it is only for town use; this is mine and papa's!"

"Certainly roomy and safe," he said. She laughed outright.

"I will remember that; so many people have tried to say something
comforting about my turnout and failed; but it does well enough." They
were off then, Edward driving awkwardly. It was the first time he had
ever drawn the reins over a mule.

"How do you make it go fast?" he asked, finally, in despair.

"Oh, dear," she answered, "we don't try. We know the mule." Her laugh
was infectious.

They traveled the public roads, with their borders of wild grape,
crossed gurgling streams under festoons of vines and lingered in shady
vistas of overhanging boughs. Several times they boldly entered private
grounds and passed through back yards without hailing, and at last they
came to their destination.

There were two huge stone posts at the entrance, with carved balls of
granite upon them. A thick tangle of muscadine and Cherokee roses led
off from them right and left, hiding the trail of the long-vanished rail
fence. In front was an avenue of twisted cedars, and, closing the
perspective, a glimpse of white columns and green blinds.

The girl's face was lighted with smiles; it was for her a new
experience, this journeying with a man alone; his voice melodious in her
hearing; his eyes exchanging with hers quick understandings, for Edward
was happy that morning--happy in his forgetfulness. He had thrown off
the weight of misery successfully, and for the first time in his life
there was really a smile in his heart. It was the dream of an hour; he
would not mar it. Her voice recalled him.

"I have always loved 'The Cedars.' It wears such an air of gentility and
refinement. It must be that something of the lives gone by clings to
these old places."

"Whose is it?" She turned in surprise.

"Oh, this is where we were bound--Gen. Evan's. I have a note for him."

"Ah!" The exclamation was one of awe rather than wonder. She saw him
start violently and grow pale. "Evan?" he said, with emotion.

"You know him?"

"Not I." He felt her questioning gaze and looked into her face. "That
is, I have been introduced to him, only, and I have heard him speak."
After a moment's reflection: "Sometime, perhaps, I shall tell you why
for the moment I was startled." She could not understand his manner.
Fortunately they had arrived at the house. Confused still, he followed
her up the broad steps to the veranda and saw her lift the antique
knocker.

"Yes, ma'am, de general's home; walk in, ma'am; find him right back in
the liberry." With that delightful lack of formality common among
intimate neighbors in the south, Mary led the way in. She made a pretty
picture as she paused at the door. The sun was shining through the
painted window and suffused her form with roseate light.

"May I come in?"

"Well! Well! Well!" The old man rose with a great show of welcome and
came forward. "'May I come in?' How d'ye do, Mary, God bless you, child;
yes, come clear in," he said, laughing, and bestowed a kiss upon her
lips. At that moment he caught sight of the face of Edward, who stood
behind her, pale from the stream of light that came from a white crest
in the window. The two men gazed steadily into each other's eyes a
moment only. The girl began:

"This is Mr. Morgan, general, who has been such a friend to father."

The rugged face of the old soldier lighted up, he took the young man's
hands in both of his and pressed them warmly.

"I have already met Mr. Morgan. The friend of my friend is welcome to
'The Cedars'." He turned to move chairs for them.

The face of the young man grew white as he bowed gravely. There had been
a recognition, but no voice spoke from the far-away past through his
lineaments to that lonely old man. During the visit he was distrait and
embarrassed. The courtly attention of his host and his playful gallantry
with Mary awoke no smile upon his lips. Somewhere a barrier had fallen
and the waters of memory had rushed in. Finally he was forced to arouse
himself.

"John Morgan was a warm friend of mine at one time," said the old
general. "How was he related to you?"

"Distantly," said Edward quietly. "I was an orphan, and indebted to him
for everything."

"An eccentric man, but John had a good heart--errors like the rest of
us, of course." The general's face grew sad for the moment, but he
rallied and turned the conversation to the political campaign.

"A grand speech that, Mr. Morgan; I have never heard a finer, and I have
great speakers in my day! Our district will be well and honorably
represented in Congress. Now, our little friend here will go to
Washington and get her name into the papers."

"No, indeed. If papa wins I am going to stay with mamma. I am going to
be her eyes as well as her hands. Mamma would not like the city."

"And how is the little mamma?"

She shook her head. "Not so well and her eyes trouble her very much."

"What a sweet woman she is! I can never forget the night Norton led her
to the altar. I have never seen a fairer sight--until now," he
interpolated, smiling and saluting Mary with formal bow. "She had a
perfect figure and her walk was the exposition of grace." Mary surveyed
him with swimming eyes. She went up and kissed him lightly. He detained
her a moment when about to take her departure.

"You are a fortunate man, Morgan. In all the world you will find no
rarer flower than this. I envy you your ride home. Come again, Mary, and
bring Mr. Morgan with you." She broke loose from him and darted off in
confusion. He had guessed her secret and well was it that he had!

The ride home was as a dream. The girl was excited and full of life and
banter and Edward, throwing off his sadness, had entered into the hour
of happiness with the same abandon that marked his campaign with Norton.

But as they entered the long stretch of wood through which their road
ran to her home, Edward brought back the conversation to the general.

"Yes," said Mary, "he lives quite alone, a widower, but beloved by every
one. It is an old, sad story, but his daughter eloped just before the
war broke out and went abroad. He has never heard from her, it is
supposed."

"I have heard the fact mentioned," said Morgan, "and also that she was
to have married my relative."

"I did not know that," she said, "but it is a great sorrow to the
general, and a girl who could give up such a man must have been wrong at
heart or infatuated."

"Infatuated, let us hope."

"That is the best explanation," she said gently.

He was driving; in a few moments he would arrive at the house. Should he
tell her the history of Gerald and let her clear, honest mind guide him?
Should he tell her that Fate had made him the custodian of the only
being in the world who had a right to that honorable name when the
veteran back yonder found his last camp and crossed the river to rest in
the shade with the immortal Jackson? He turned to her and she met his
earnest gaze with a winning smile, but at the moment something in his
life cried out. The secret was as much his duty as the ward himself and
to confess to her his belief that Gerald was the son of Marion Evan was
to confess to himself that he was the son of the octoroon. He would not.
Her smile died away before the misery in his face.

"You are ill," she said in quick sympathy.

"Yes," he replied, faintly; "yes and no. The loss of
sleep--excitement--your southern sun----" The world grew black and he
felt himself falling. In the last moment of his consciousness he
remembered that her arm was thrown about him and that in response to her
call for help negroes from the cotton fields came running.

He opened his eyes. They rested upon the chintz curtains of the room
upstairs, from the window of which he had heard her voice calling the
chickens. Some one was bathing his forehead; there were figures gliding
here and there across his vision. He turned his eyes and saw the anxious
face of Mrs. Montjoy watching him.

"What is it?" He spoke in wonder.

"Hush, now, my boy; you have been very ill; you must not talk!" He tried
to lift his hand. It seemed made of lead and not connected with him in
any way. Gazing helplessly upon it, he saw that it was thin and
white--the hand of an invalid.

"How long?" he asked, after a rest. The slight effort took his strength.

"Three weeks." Three weeks! This was more than he could adjust in the
few working sections of his brain. He ceased to try and closed his eyes
in sleep.




CHAPTER XVI.

BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT.


It had been brain fever. For ten days Edward was helpless, but under the
care of the two loving women he rapidly recovered. The time came when he
could sit in the cool of the evening upon the veranda and listen to the
voices he had learned to love--for he no longer disguised the truth from
himself. The world held for him but one dream, through it and in the
spell of his first home life the mother became a being to be reverenced.
She was the fulfilled promise of the girl, all the tender experiences of
life were pictured in advance for him who should win her hand and heart.

But it was only a dream. During the long hours of the night as he lay
wakeful, with no escape from himself, he thought out the situation and
made up his mind to action. He would go to Col. Montjoy and confess the
ignorance of his origin that overwhelmed him and then he would provide
for his ward and go away with Virdow to the old world and the old life.

The mental conclusion of his plan was a species of settlement. It helped
him. Time and again he cried out, when the remembrance came back to him,
but it was the honorable course and he would follow it. He would go
away.

The hours of his convalescence were the respite he allowed himself. Day
by day he said: "I will go to-morrow." In the morning it was still
"to-morrow." And when he finally made his announcement he was promptly
overruled. Col. Montjoy and Norton were away, speaking and campaigning.
All primaries had been held but two. The colonel's enemies had conceded
to him of the remaining counties the remote one. The other was a county
with a large population and cast four votes in the convention. It was
the home of Swearingen, but, as frequently happens, it was the scene of
the candidate's greatest weakness. There the struggle was to be titanic.
Both counties were needed to nominate Montjoy.

The election took place on the day of Edward's departure for Ilexhurst.
That evening he saw a telegram announcing that the large county had
given its vote to Montjoy by a small majority. The remote county had but
one telegraph office, and that at a way station upon its border. Little
could be heard from it, but the public conceded Col. Montjoy's
nomination, since there had been no doubt as to this county. Edward
hired a horse, put a man upon it, sent the news to the two ladies and
then went to his home.

He found awaiting him two letters of importance. One from Virdow, saying
he would sail from Havre on the 25th; that was twelve days previous. He
was therefore really due at Ilexhurst then. The other was a letter he
had written to Abingdon soon after his first arrival, and was marked
"returned to writer." He wondered at this. The address was the same he
had used for years in his correspondence. Although Abingdon was
frequently absent from England, the letters had always reached him. Why,
then, was this one not forwarded? He put it aside and ascertained that
Virdow had not arrived at the house.

It was then 8 o'clock in the evening. By his order a telephone had been
placed in the house, and he at once rang up the several hotels. Virdow
was found to be at one of these, and he succeeded in getting that
distinguished gentleman to connect himself with the American invention
and explained to him the situation.

"Take any hack and come at once," was the message that concluded their
conversation, and Virdow came! In the impulsive continental style, he
threw himself into Edward's arms when the latter opened the door of the
carriage.

Slender, his thin black clothes hanging awkwardly upon him, his trousers
too short, the breadth of his round German face, the knobs on his
shining bald forehead exaggerated by the puffy gathering of the hair
over his ears, his candid little eyes shining through the round,
double-power glasses, his was a figure one had to know for a long time
in order to look upon it without smiling.

Long the two sat with their cigars and ran over the old days together.
Then the professor told of wondrous experiments in sound, of the advance
knowledge into the regions of psychology, of the marvels of heredity.
His old great theme was still his ruling passion. "If the mind has no
memory, then much of the phenomena of life is worse than bewildering.
Prove its memory," he was wont to say, "and I will prove immortality
through that memory."

It was the same old professor. He was up now and every muscle working as
he struggled and gesticulated, and wrote invisible hieroglyphics in the
air about him and made geometrical figures with palms and fingers. But
the professor had advanced in speculation.

"The time will come, my young friend," he said at last, "when the mind
will give us its memories complete. We shall learn the secrets of
creation by memory. In its perfection we shall place a man yonder and by
vibration get his mind memory to work; theoretically he will first write
of his father and then his grandfather, describing their mental lives.
He will go back along the lines of his ancestry. He will get into Latin,
then Greek, then Hebrew, then Chaldean, then into cuneiform
inscriptions, then into figure representation. He will be an artist or
musician or sculptor, and possibly all if the back trail of his memory
crosses such talents. Aye," he continued, enthusiastically, "lost
nations will live again. The portraits of our ancestors will hang in
view along the corridors of all times! This will come by vibratory
force, but how?"

Edward leaned forward, breathless almost with emotion.

"You say the time is come; what has been done?"

"Little and much! The experiments----"

"Tell me, in all your experiments, have you known where a child,
separated from a parent since infancy, without aid of description, or
photograph, or information derived from a living person, could see in
memory or imagination the face of that parent, see it with such
distinctness as to enable him, an artist, to reproduce it in all
perfection?"

The professor wiped his glasses nervously and kept his gaze upon his
questioner.

"Never."

"Then," said Edward, "you have crossed the ocean to some purpose! I have
known such an instance here in this house. The person is still here! You
know me, my friend, and you do not know me. To you I was a rich young
American, with a turn for science and speculation. You made me your
friend and God bless you for it, but you did not know all of that
mystery which hangs over my life never to be revealed perhaps until the
millennium of science you have outlined dawns upon us. The man who
educated me, who enriched me, was not my parent or relative; he was my
guardian. He has made me the guardian of a frail, sickly lad whose
mystery is, or was, as complete as mine. Teach us to remember." The
words burst from him. They held the pent-up flood that had almost
wrecked his brain.

Rapidly he recounted the situation, leaving out the woman's story as to
himself. Not to his Savior would he confess that.

And then he told how, following his preceptor's hints about vibration,
he had accidentally thrown Gerald into a trance; its results, the second
experiment, the drawing and the woman's story of Gerald's birth.

During this recital the professor never moved his eyes from the
speaker's face.

"You wish to know what I think of it? This: I have but recently ventured
the proposition publicly that all ideal faces on the artist's canvas are
mind memories. Prove to me anew your results and if I establish the
reasonableness of my theory I shall have accomplished enough to die on."

"In your opinion, then, this picture that Gerald drew is a mind memory?"

"Undoubtedly. But you will perceive that the more distant, the older the
experience, we may say, the less likelihood of accuracy."

"It would depend, then, you think, upon the clearness of the original
impression?"

"That is true! The vividness of an old impression may also outshine a
new one."

"And if this young man recalls the face of a woman, who we believe it
possible--nay, probable--is his mother, and then the face of one we know
to be her father, as a reasonable man, would you consider the story of
this negro woman substantiated beyond the shadow of a doubt?"

"Beyond the shadow of a doubt."

"We shall try," said Edward, and then, after a moment's silence: "He is
shy of strangers and you may find it difficult to get acquainted with
him. After you have succeeded in gaining his confidence we shall settle
upon a way to proceed. One word more, he is a victim of morphia. Did I
tell you that?"

"No, but I guessed it."

"You have known such men before, then?"

"I have studied the proposition that opium may be a power to effect what
we seek, and, in connection with it, have studied the hospitals that
make a specialty of such cases."

There was a long silence, and presently Edward said:

"Will you say good-night now?"

"Good-night." The professor gazed about him. "How was it you used to say
good-night, Edward? Old customs are good. It is not possible that the
violin has been lost." He smiled and Edward got his instrument and
played. He knew the old man's favorites; the little folk-melodies of the
Rhine country, bits of love songs, mostly, around which the loving
players of Germany have woven so many beautiful fancies. And in the
playing Edward himself was quieted.

The light from the hall downstairs streamed out along the gravel walk,
and in the glare was a man standing with arms folded and head bent
forward. A tall woman came and gently laid her hand upon him. He started
violently, tossed his arms aloft and rushed into the darkness. She
waited in silence a moment and then slowly followed him.




CHAPTER XVII.

"IF I MEET THE MAN!"


When Edward opened the morning paper, which he did while waiting for the
return of the professor, who had wandered away before breakfast, he was
shocked by the announcement of Montjoy's defeat. The result of the vote
in the remote county had been secured by horseback service organized by
an enterprising journal, and telegraphed. The official returns were
given.

Already the campaign had drifted far into the past with him; years
seemed to have gone by when he arose from the sick-bed and now it
scarcely seemed possible that he, Edward Morgan, was the same man who
labored among the voters, shouted himself hoarse and kept the
headquarters so successfully. It must have been a dream.

But Mary! That part was real. He wrote her a few lines expressing his
grief.

And then came the professor, with his adventure! He had met a young man
out making photographs and had interested him with descriptions of
recent successful attempts to photograph in colors. And then they had
gone to the wing-room and examined the results of the young man's
efforts to produce pictures upon living substances. "He has some of the
most original theories and ideas upon the subject I have heard," said
the German. "Not wild beyond the possibilities of invention, however,
and I am not sure but that he has taught me a lesson in common sense.
'Find how nature photographs upon living tissue,' said the young man,
'and when you have reduced your pictures to the invisible learn to
re-enlarge them; perhaps you will learn to enlarge nature's invisibles.'

"He has discovered that the convolutions of the human brain resemble an
embryo infant and that the new map which indicates the nerve lines
centering in the brain from different parts of the body shows them
entering the corresponding parts of the embryo. He lingers upon the
startling idea that the nerve is a formative organ, and that by
sensations conveyed, and by impressions, it actually shapes the brain.
When sensations are identical and persistent they establish a family
form. The brain is a bas-relief composite picture, shaped by all the
nerves. Theoretically a man's brain carefully removed, photographed and
enlarged ought to show the outlines of a family form, with all the
modifications.

"You will perceive that he is working along hereditary lines and not
psychologic. And I am not sure but that in this he is pursuing the
wisest course, heredity being the primer."

"You believe he has made a new discovery, then?"

"As to that, no. The speculative mind is tolerant. It accepts nothing
that is not proven; it rejects nothing that has not been disproved. The
original ideas in most discoveries in their crude forms were not less
wild than this. All men who observe are friends of science."

The incident pleased Edward. To bring the professor and Gerald together
he had feared would be difficult. Chance and the professor's tact had
already accomplished this successfully.

"I shall leave you and Gerald to get thoroughly acquainted. When you
have learned him you can study him best. I have business of importance."

He at once went to the city and posted his letter. Norton's leave had
been exhausted and he had already departed for New York.

At the club and at the almost forsaken headquarters of the Montjoy party
all was consternation and regret. The fatal overconfidence in the
backwoods county was settled upon as the cause of the disaster. And yet
why should that county have failed them? Two companies of Evan's old
brigade were recruited there; he had been assured by almost every
prominent man in the county of its vote. And then came the crushing
blow.

The morning paper had wired for special reports and full particu

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