THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SONS AND FATHERS SONS AND FATHERS BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS. PUBLISHED BY THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY MACON, GEORGIA PS THE FIRST-PRIZE STORY In THE CHICAGO RECORD'S series of "Stories of Mystery" SONS AND FATHERS BY HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS This story out of 816 competing was awarded the FIRST PRIZE $10,000 in THE CHICAGO RECORD'S "$30,OOO to Authors" competition. Copyright. 1896, by Harry Stillwell Edwards. 1921 " " SONS AND FATHERS CHAPTER I. TWO SONS At a little station in one of the gulf states, where the east and west j trains leave and pick up a few passengers daily, there met in the sum- 00 mer of 1888 two men who since they are to appear frequently in this ^ record, are worthy of description. One who alighted from the west- ~J bound train was about 29 years of age. Tall and slender, he wore the j 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- <\j moroccos, and his head protected by the regulation derby of that year. o 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 O umbrella in lieu of a cane. This man paced the platform patiently. * His neighbor was about the same age, dressed in a plain gray cassi- > mer 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 452587 8 SONS AND FATHERS passed each other the difference was both noticed and felt. The impres sions 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 travel ing 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 con tinued: "You must excuse iv> ~nestion ^" A I am a Quarantine officer and Charleston has quarantined against all points that have been ex posed 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 e.nbarrassed. 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 TWO SONS 9 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 in fantry 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 ef fort she recovered herself. Montjoy had shaken off his father's ad mirer 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 havn'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 10 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 dothing for a New York house and am away from home i 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 STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD 11 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 prac tice. He was a heavy drinker, but with all that you could rely implic itly upon what he said. He left a large property, I presume?" "So I infer." Edward looked out of the window, but presently re sumed 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 pre ferable 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." 12 SONS AND FATHERS. A four-seated vehicle stood outside and by it a little old negro, who laughed as Mont joy 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 mis take 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 some- THE STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD 13 thing 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 con versation 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 introduc tion, wearing away. The man was tall, dark and straightly built, prob ably thirty years of age, with fine eyes and unchanging countenance. He did but little talking, and when he spoke it was with great delibera tion and positiveness. If there were an unpleasant shading of charac ter 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 when ever 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-niyht 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 thing's 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 14 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 at 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 de velopment 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 planta tion 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. THE STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD 15 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. 16 SONS AND FATHERS. "I understand," said the colonel to his guest presently, when con versation 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. A BREATH FROM THE OLD SOUTH 17 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 breakfast ing 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 multi tude 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" 18 SONS AND FATHERS. "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. A BREATH FROM THE OLD SOUTH 19 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 bare footed, 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. Pres ently there was a clatter on the stairs and the little boy came down and climbed into his high chair. He was bare-footed 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 out side 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 re plied, promptly: "Very well, madam; let him say grace and stay, under those cir cumstances." 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-heared, 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 watch ing 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 dread fully at times from the same trouble." Presently the elder lady excused herself, the daughter watching her anxiously as she slowly disappeared. 20 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 docu ments, 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 A BREATH FROM THE OLD SOUTH 21 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 amuse ments. 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. 22 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 open ing 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 unconciously. "Come, my good woman, what is it? Where are the keys?" She THE MOTHER'S ROOM 23 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 stair way, 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 collec tion 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 protraits 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 south ern 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 24 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 'o^k of the unopened door; the bolt turned easily. As he crossed the threshold a thrill went through him; he seemed to tres pass- Here had the boy grown up by his mother, here had been his reireat at all li-.ries 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 moist 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 THE MOTHER'S ROOM 25 son found the charm of a bygone life, delighting in those "vague feel ings" 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 fol lowed 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 alwas 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 roomi 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 26 SONS AND FATHERS. voice, musical in the morning air, as it summoned her flock to break fast. 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 STRANGER IN THE LIBRARY 27 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 ac count 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 28 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 accus tomed, at intervals varying from weeks to years, to entertain his city acquaintainces. 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 overwhelm ing fact at that moment was that he, a wanderer all of his life, with out family or parents, or knowledge of them, had suddenly been trans planted 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 haunt ed 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 THE STRANGER IN THE LIBRARY 29 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 move ment, 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 exended 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 there after 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 dis tended pupils. It seemed to himi 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 immedi ately; 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 30 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 min utes 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 throngh that door," said he, with difficulty suppressing his excitement: "whn 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 himi. 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?" "WHO SAYS THERE CAN BE A 'TOO LATE'?" 31 "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 mo ment 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 32 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 docu ment 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 relation ship, 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 disappoint ment. 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 in cluded the beneficiary. He had succeeded in living a mystery, in dying a mystery, and in covering up his past with a mystery. "WHO SAYS THERE CAN BE A 'TOO LATE?'" 33 "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 lpH*r. 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 testa tor 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 re mains 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 fore thought, but his new philosophy had taught him the value of instinc tive 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 looture his friend Virdow as Jean had delivered, the theory of which was thati organic heart desease, unless fastened to its victim by inheritance, is always a mental result. If a mere thought or combination of thoughts could 34 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 waa 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 de scended 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 bil liards, but now the retreat of her poor young master and had been "WHO SAYS THERE CAN BE A 'TOO LATE?'" 35 all his life. He did not like to be disturbed, but perhaps the circum stances 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 op posite 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 mioment. 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?' 1 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. 36 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 andnd life (that is, higher dream life) must remain forever unread.' 1 "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 wait ing. "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." "BACK! WOULD YOU MURDER HER?" 37 "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 1 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?' 1 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. Intro duced by a chance acquaintance, he fell in first with the art circles of Paris, and, having a fancy and decided talent for painting, he be took 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. 452587 38 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 im portant; a barrister in an English interior town, he crossed the chan nel 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 con ceptions. 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 connect ion 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 passion ately devoted, he took up with renewed energy his neglected violin. With feverish toil he struggled along the border land of study and speculation, uptil 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 "BACK! WOULD YOU MURDER HER?" 39 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 ex pression, "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 1 man's im provisations; 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 be come 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 Gambia 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 stand ing 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 40 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 Gambia's song and the blind man lifted his face in sudden excitement. As Edward paused he called the notes until it was com plete. "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 sum mons; 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 "BACK! WOULD YOU MURDER HER?" 41 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 mourn ing 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 accompained 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 con tinued: "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 vibra tion created anew in the delicate mind some picture that had been forgotten and brought back again painful emotions that were ungov ernable. I cannot think but that it is to have a bearing upon the con cealed 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 tide 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. 42 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 compre hension of your economical German mind, and surely I may be al lowed, 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 -believ ing 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. Con cealing 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 lone in the middle of the room. Again Edward saw t.iat 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 ON THE BACK TRAIL 4* 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, whoso 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 flash-light 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 avail able ; 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 breath less interest. "I am trying some experiments with photographs on the line of 44 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 insuper able 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 Garald 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 &s 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 Ilex- hurst. 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 consisent. 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 informa tion, a remarkable memory and a keen analysis, the young man has never developed the slightest capacity for business. He received ON THE BACK TRAIL 45 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 beeen a most prodigious reader, devouring everything." continued the judge, "ancient and modern, within reach, knows lit erature and politics equally well, and is master of most languages to the point of being able to read themu 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 ignor ance, 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 diffi cult," 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 46 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 educa tion at the north and was to have been married upon her re turn; 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 straigEt," 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 consis tent 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?" ON THE BACK TRAIL 47 "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 circum stances. Second, a difficulty in proving the legitimacy of the boy. You will understand," he added, "that the matter is entirely sup- positious. I would prefer to think that your uncle saw unhap- piness 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 igno rance 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 fragmen tary 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 48 SONS AND FATHERS. 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. 5 ' "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 al lusion, 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 THE TRAGEDY IN THE STORM 49 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. Mont- joy 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, ami 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 50 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 re mark 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 liv ing, 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 fragmen tary 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 THE TRAGEDY IN THE STORM 51 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 battal ions had even rushed past! "But the elms stood changeless, immovable, asleep! "Suddenly one vivid, crackling, tearing, defending flash of inten- sest light split the gloom and the thunder leaped into the city! It awoke then ! Every foundation trembled ! Every tree dipped furi ously. The winds burst in. What a tumult! They rushed down the parallel streets and alleys, these barbarians; they came by the inter secting 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 in doors 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 de ceived 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 travel ing within a storm. 52 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 incar nation 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 over powering 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 fea tures 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 sum mer when they had lingered together along the Riviera, but they had "GOD PITY ME! GOD PITY ME!" 53 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 circum stances surrounding him, when by that subtle sense as yet not ana lyzed he felt the presence of another person in the room, and looked 54 SONS AND FATHERS over his shoulder. Gerald was advancing toward him smiling mys teriously. 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 dis tinctly 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 i* upon this fish I am preparing to make pictures." "But how?" Gerald smiled and shook his head. "GOD PITY ME! GOD PITY ME!" 55 "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, 1 ' 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, in credulous. 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 al lowance 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,' 1 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 56 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 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 prob ably 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 "GOD PITY ME! GOD PITY ME!" 57 the level of the man's face, she looked from one to the othr. "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 seek ing shelter there appeared just outside. She was attacked 1 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 be lieved he was my child; and Master John, I suppose, would not be lieve 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 58 SONS AND FATHERS. your son?" She looked at him sadly and nodded. "And in the opinion of John Morgan, Gerald is the son of Marion Evans? 1 ' She bowed. "We have let it stand that way. But you should never have known 1 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. Plac ing 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 east ern 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. IN THE CRIMSON SUNSET 59 "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, Ihe 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 deter mination 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 hig 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." HP 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 60 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 impres sion 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 in tently. 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 con tentedly 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 : IN THE CRIMSON SUNSET 61 "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 be come 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 in clination 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 it neuralgia. I must have Dr. Campbell down to look at my eyes- I am af riad " she did not complete the sentence, but the quick sympa thy 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 62 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 wa 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, smil ing 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 con cealed, 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. IN THE CRIMSON SUNSET 63 "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 contin ued, 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 takees 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. J acceot the generous offer. And now you must share the care of the 64 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 in dependent; 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 consulation. 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 for ward in the boat, his glowing face turned full upon her, with an ex pression 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 con tinued: "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 des perate 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, 65 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 66 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 evi dent comfort. As she held the lighter over Edward's pipe he ven- turned 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 de sire 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 in tensive 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 nat ional 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 hi 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. Regard less 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 pre pared to say that it has been done with entire success ; two races can- THE OLD SOUTH VERSUS THE NEW 67 not 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 s ; .gn?" "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. Swear- ingen 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 pro ceed by private conveyance from here and Norton is probably de tained 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 68 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 rne, however. My friends named me, published the announcement and adjourned. Before heaven, I have no pleasure in it ! I have lived here since child hood, 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 in formation, 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 ex citedly 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?' 1 "Twenty-five hundred well, $3,000." FEELING THE ENEMY 69 "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 get ting 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 pro minent 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 announce ment 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 servent, "Norton L. Montjoy." 70 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 Jour nal the announcement of my candidacy for the congressional nom ination. The boys of the old 'Fire-Eaters' did eat. I am counting on you; you stood by me at Seven Pines, Fredericksburg, Chancel- lorsville 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 con gress 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 to gether, before you were so famous, and I know that nothing I can bring myself to ask of you can be refused. A wx>rd from you in many quarters will help. The madam joins me in regards to you and yours. Sincerely. "N. L. Montjoy." FEELING THE ENEMY 71 "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.' 1 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 ex aggerated 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 an nouncement 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. 72 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 Mont- joy 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 Swear ingen managers. His relationship to Annie Montjoy gave him entrance FEELING THE ENEMY 73 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 remark able 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 uptil 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; 74 SONS AND FATHERS. 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!" Roy son thought over this outburst and then said gravely: "You have not yet answered my question. Who is Edward Mor gan 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 attract ing attention. Where do you want to get out? I am going back up town." 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 informa tion.'' "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 repre sentative. 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 THE OLD SOUTH DRAWS ITS SWORD 75 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 Roy son,'' said Norton, as he ran over his letters before mailing them; "stick a knife in you in a min- nute." 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 sup posed 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 en thusiasm. 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 Mont joy, from the moment he seated himself beside her, until his departure. 76 SONS AND FATHERS. 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, THE OLD SOUTH DRAWS ITS SWORD 77 "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 lawer 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 announce ment. Roy son 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!' 1 "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." 78 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 defen sive 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, 1 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,' 1 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 lieutentant." He passed out and several with him. Royson argued with the others, but one by one they left him. He was burst ing 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 dem onstration 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. THE OLD SOUTH DRAWS ITS SWORD 79 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 largly 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 morn ing 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 per sonal 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 cam paign. It was not transmissible. Only the peroration need be re produced here: "God forbid!'' he said in a voice now husky with emotion and its 80 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 com rade, 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 ex pense conducted it. He was the host. All kinds of wines and liquors "IN ALL THE WORLD NO FAIRER FLOWER." 81 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 Mont joy people sought for the moral effect of an overwhelming victory. There was an expression of general re lief in the form of cheers, when the town clocks struck five and the polls windows fell. Anxiety followed, and then bonfires blazed, rockets ex ploded and all night long the artillery squad fired salutes. Mont joy 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." Ed ward, 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 mag nificent 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 necessarv. 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 82 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 Ilex- hurst," 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 tran quil 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, laugh ingly, 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 out-right. "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 hail ing, 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 experi ence, 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 "IN ALL THE WORLD NO FAIRER FLOWER." 83 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 gen tility 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 under stand his manner. Fortunately they had arrived at the house. Con fused 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 shin ing 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 be stowed 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 84 SONS AND FATHERS. was distrait and embarrassed. The courtly attention of his host and his playful gallantry with Mary awoke no smile upon his lips. Some where 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 "IN ALL THE WORLD NO FAIRER FLOWER" 85 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 cus todian of the only being in the world who had a right to that honor able 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 excite ment your southern sun " The world grew black and he felt himself falling. In the last moment of his consciousness he remem bered 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. 86 SONS AND FATHERS. "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 ver anda 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. Mont- joy 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 fol low it. He would go away. The hours of his convalescence were the respite he allowed him self. Day by day he said: "I will go to-morrow.'' In the morning it was still "to-morrow." And when he finally made his announce ment 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 pop ulation and cast four votes in the convention. It was the home of Swearingen, but, as frequently happens, it was the scene of the can- BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT 87 didate'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 Ilex- hurst. That evening he saw a telegram announcing that the largo 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 corre spondence. 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 his, 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 to gether. Then the professor told of wondrous experiments in sound, of the advance knowledge into the regions of psychology, of the mar vels of heredity. His old great theme was still his ruling passion. "If the mind has no memory, then much of the phenomena of life 88 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 hier oglyphics 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, enthu siastically, "lost nations will live again. The portraits of our an cestors 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 periec- tion?" 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 specu lation. 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 out lined dawns upon us. The man who educated me, who enriched me, was not my parent or relative; he was my guardian. He has made BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT 89 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 vibra tion, 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 out shine 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." 90 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 wait ing 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 horse back 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 express ing 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 "IF I MEET THE MAN!" 91 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 re semble 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, pho tographed 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 noth ing 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.' 1 The incident pleased Edward. To bring the professor and Gerald together he had feared would be difficult. Chance and the pofessor'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 leav had been exhausted and he had already departed for New York. At the club and at the almost forsaken headquarters of the Mont- joy 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 92 SONS AND FATHERS. 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 lars, and at 12 o'clock an extra was being cried upon the streets. Everybody bought the paper; the street cars, the hotels, the clubs, the street corners, were thronged with people eagerly reading the an nouncement. Under triple head lines, which contained the words "Fraud" and "Slander" and "Treachery,'' came this article, which Edward read on the street: "The cause of the fatal slump-off of Col. Montjoy's friends in this county was a letter placed in circulation here yesterday and in dustriously spread to the remotest voting places. It was a letter from Mr. Amos Royson to the Hon. Thomas Brown of this county. Your correspondent has secured and herewith sends a copy: " 'My Dear Sir: In view of the election about to be held in your county, I beg to submit the following facts: Against the honor and integrity of Col. Montjoy nothing can be urged, but it is known here so positively that I do not hesitate to state, and authorize you to use it, that the whole Montjoy movement is in reality based upon an effort to crush Swearingen for his opposition to certain corpora tion measures in congress, and which by reason of his position on certain committees, he threatens with defeat! To this end money has been sent here and is being lavishly expended by a tool of the corpo ration. Added to this fact that the man chosen for the business is one calling himself Edward Morgan, the natural son of a late eccentric bachelor lawyer of this city. The mother of this man is an octoroon, who now resides wifn him at his home in the suburbs. It is certain that these facts are not known to the people who have him in tow, but they are easy of substantiation when necessary. We look to you and your county to save the district. We were "done up" here before we were armed with this information. Respectfully yours, 'Amos Royson.' "Thousands of these circulars were printed and yesterday put in the hands of every voter. Col. Montjoy's friends were taken by sur prise and their enthusiasm chilled. Many failed to vote and the county was lost by twenty-three majority. Intense excitement pre vails here among the survivors of Evan's brigade, who feel them selves compromised.'' Then followed an editorial denouncing the outrage and demanding "IF I MEET THE MAN!" 93 proofs. It ended by stating that the limited time prevented the pre sentation of interviews with Royson and Morgan, neither of whom could be reached by telephone after the news was received. There are moments when the very excess of danger calms. Half the letter, the political lie alone, would have enraged Edward beyond expression. He could not realize nor give expression. The attack up on his blood was too fierce an assault. In fact, he was stunned. He looked up to find himself in front of the office of Ellison Eldridge. Turning abruptly he ascended the steps ; the lawyer was reading the article as he appeared, but would have laid aside the paper. "Finish," said Edward, curtly; "it is upon that publication I have come to advise with you." He stood at the window while the other read, and there as he waited a realization of the enormity of the blow, its cowardliness, its cruelty, grew upon him slowly. He had never contemplated publicity; he had looked forward to a life abroad, with this wearing mystery forever gnawing at his heart, but publication and the details and the apparent truth! It was horrible! And to disprove it how? The minutes passed! Would the man behind him never finish what he himself had devoured in three minutes? He looked back; Eldridge was gazing over the paper into space, his face wearing an expression of profound melancholy. He had uttered no word of denunciation; he was evidently not even surprised. "My God." exclaimed Edward, excitedly; "you believe it you be lieve it!" Seizing the paper, he dashed from the room, threw himself into a hack and gave the order for home. And half an hour after he was gone the lawyer sat as he left him, thinking. Edward found a reporter awaiting him. "You have the extra, I see, Mr. Morgan," said he; "may I ask what you will reply to it?'' "Nothing!" thundered the desperate man. "Will you not say it is false?" Edward went up to him. "Young man, there are moments when it is dangerous to question people. This is one of them!" He opened the door and stood waiting. Something in his face induced the news paper man to take his leave. He said as He departed: "If you write a card we shall be glad to publish it." The sound of the closing door was the answer he received. Alone and locked in his room, Edward read the devilish letter over and over, until every word" of it was seared into his brain forever. 94 SONS AND FATHERS. It could not be denied that more than once in his life the possibility of his being the son of John Morgan had suggested itself to his mind, but he had invariably dismissed it. Now it came back to him with the force almost of conviction. Had the truth been stated at last? It was the only explanation that fitted the full circumstances of his life and it fitted them all. It was true and known to be true by at least one other. Eldridge's legal mind, prejudiced in his favor by years of association with his benefactor, had been at once convinced; and if the statement made so positively carried conviction to Eldridge himself, to his legal friend, how would the great sensational public receive it? It was done, and the result was to be absolute and eternal ruin for Edward Morgan. Such was the conclusion forced upon him. Then there arose in mind the face of the one girl he remembered. He thought of the effect of the blow upon her. He had been her guest, her associate. The family had received him with open arms. They must share the odium of his disgrace, and for him now what course was left? Flight! To turn his back upou all the trouble and go to his old life, and let the matter die out! And then came another thought. Could any one prove the charge? He was in the dark; the cards were held with their backs to him. Suppose he should bring suit for libel, what could he offer? His witness had already spoken and her words substantiated the charge against him. Not a witness, not a scrap of paper, was to be had in his defense. A libel suit would be the rivet in his irons and he would face the public, perhaps for days, and be openly the subject of discussion. It was impossible, but he could fight. The thought thrilled him to the heart. She should see that he was a man! He would not deal with slander suits, with newspapers; he would make the scoundrel eat his words or he would silence his mouth forever. The man soul was stirred; he no longer felt the humiliation that had rendered him incapable of thought. The truth of the story was not the issue; the injury was its use, false or true. He strode into Gerald's room and broke into the experiments of the scientists, already close friends. "You have weapons here. Lend me one; the American uses the revolver, I believe?'* Gerald looked at him in astonishment, but he was interested. "Here is one; can you shoot?" "Badly; the small sword is my weapon." "IF I MEET THE MAN!" 95 "Then let me teach you." Gerald was a boy now; weapons had been his hobby years before. "Wait, let me fix a target!" He brushed a chalk drawing from a blackboard at the end of the room and stood, crayon in hand. "What would you prefer to shoot at, a tree, a figure " "A figure!'' Gerald rapidly sketched the outlines of a man with white shirt front and stepped aside. Five times the man with the weapon sighted and fired. The figure was not touched. Gerald was delighted. He ran up, took the pistol and reloaded it and fired twice in succession. Two spots appeared upon the shirt front; they were just where the lower and center shirt studs would have been. "You are an artist, I believe," he said to Edward. The latter bowed his head. "Now, professor, I will show you one of the most curious experiments in physics, the one that explains the chance stroke of billiards done upon the spur of the moment; the one rifle shot of a man's life, and the accurately thrown stone. Stand here," he said to Edward, "and follow my directions closely. Remem ber, you are a draftsman and are going to outline that figure on the board. Draw it quickly with your pistol for a pen, and just as if you were touching the board. Say when you have finished and don't lower the pistol. Edward drew as directed. "It is done," he said. "You have not added the upper stud. Fire !" An explosion followed; a spot appeared just over the heart. "See!"' shouted Gerald; "a perfect aim; the pistol was on the stud when he fired, but beginners always pull the muzzle to the right, and let the barrel fly up. The secret is this, professor," he continued, tak ing a pencil and beginning to draw, "the concentration of attention is so perfect that the hand is a part of the eye. An artist who shoots will shoot as he draws, well or badly. Now, no man drawing that figure will measure to see where the stud should be; he would simply put the chalk spot in the right place." Edward heard no more; loading the pistol he had departed. "If I meet the man!" he said to himself. 96 SONS AND FATHERS. CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THE CHALLENGE WAS WRITTEN. The search for Royson was unavailing. His determined pursuer tried his office door; it was locked. He walked every business street, entered every restaurant and billiard saloon, every hotel lobby. The politician was not to be found. He himself attracted widespread at- tention wherever he went. Had he met Royson he would have killed him without a word, but as he walked he did a great deal of thinking. He had no friend in the city. The nature of this attack was such that few people would care to second him. The younger Montjoy was away and he was unwilling to set foot in the colonel's house again. Through him, Edward Morgan, however innocently it may be, had come the fatal blow. He ran over the list of acquaintances he had formed among the younger men. They were not such as pleased him in this issue, for a strong, clear head, a man of good judgment and good balance, a determined man, was needed. Then there came to his memory the face of one whom he had met at supper his first night in town the quiet, dignified Barksdale. He sought this man's office. Barksdale was the organizer of a great rail road in process of construction. His reception of Edward was no more nor less than would have been accorded under ordinary circum stances. Had he come on the day before he would have been greeted as then. "How do you do, Mr. Morgan? Be seated, sir." This with a wave of his hand. Then, "What can I do for you?'' His manner affected Edward in the best way; he began to feel the business atmosphere. "I have called, Mr. Barksdale, upon a personal matter and to ask your assistance. I suppose you have read to-day's extra?" "I have." "My first inclination, after fully weighing the intent and effect of that famous publication," said Edward, "was to seek and kill the author. For this purpose I have searched the town. Royson is not to be found. I am so nearly a stranger here that I am. forced to come to my acquaintances for assistance, and now I ask that you will ad vise me as to my next proceeding." "Demand a retraction and apology at once I" HOW THE CHALLENGE WAS WRITTEN 97 "And if it is refused?'' "Challenge him!" "If he refuses to fight?" "Punish him. That is all you can do." "Will you make the demand for me will you act for me?" Barksdale reflected a moment and then said: "Do not misunder stand my hesitation; it is not based upon the publication, nor upon unwillingness to serve you. I am considering the complications which may involve others; I must, in fact, consult others before I can reply. In the meantime will you be guided by me?" "I will." "You are armed and contemplating a very unwise act. Leave your weapon here and take a hack home and remain there until I call. It is now 3:30 o'clock. I will be there at 8. If I do not act for you I will suggest a friend, for this matter should not lie over-night. But under no circumstances can I go upon the field; my position here involves interests covering many hundreds of thousands of invested funds, which I have induced. Dueling is clearly out of vogue in this country and clearly illegal. For the president of a railroad to go pub licly into a duel and deliberately break the law would lessen public confidence in the north in both him and his business character and affect the future of his enterprise, the value of its stocks and bondte. You admit the reasonableness of this, do you not?" "I do. There is my weapon ! I will expect you at 8. Good evening, Mr. Barksdale." The hours wore slowly away at home. Edward studied his features in the cheval glass; he could not find in them the slightest resemblance to the woman in the picture. He had not erred in that. The absence of any portrait of John Morgan prevented his making a comparsion there. He knew from descriptions given by Eldridge that he was not very like him in form or in any way that he could imagine, but fam ily likeness is an elusive fact. Two people will resemble each other, although they may differ in features taken in detail. He went to Gerald's room, moved by a sudden impulse. Gerald was demonstrating one of his theories concerning mind pictures and found in the professor a smiling and tolerant listener. He was saying: "Now, let us suppose that from youth up a child has looked into its mother's face, felt her touch, heard her voice; that his senses carried to that forming brain their sensations, each nerve touching the brain, and with minute force setting up day by day, 98 SONS AND FATHERS. month by month, and year by year a model. Yes, go back further and remember that this was going on before the child was a distinct individual; we have the creative force in both stages! Tell me, is it impossible then that this little brain shall grow into the likeness it carries as its most serious impression, and that forced to the effort would on canvas or in its posterity produce the picture it has made " "How can you distinguish the mind picture from the memory picture? What is the difference?" "Not easily, but if I can produce a face which comes to me in my dreams, which haunts my waking hours, which is with me always, the face of one I have never seen, it must come to me as a mind picture; and if that picture is the feminine of my own, have I not reason to believe that it stands for the creative power from which I sprang? Such a picture as this." He drew a little curtain aside and on the wall shone the fair face of a woman; the face from the church sketch, but robbed of its terror, the counterpart of the little painting upstairs. The professor looked grave, but Edward gazed on it in awe. "Now a simple brain picture,'' he said, almost in a whisper; "draw me the face of John Morgan." The artist made not more than twenty strokes of the crayon upon the blackboard. "Such is John Morgan, as I last saw him," said Gerald; "a mere photograph; a brain picture!" Edward gazed from one to the other; from the picture to the artist astounded. The professor had put on his glasses; it was he who broke the silence. "That is Herr Abingdon," he said. Gerald smiled and said: "That is John Morgan." Without a word Edward left the room. Under an assumed name, deterred from open recognition by the sad facts of the son's birth, his father had watched over and cherished him. No wonder the letter had come back. Abingdon was dead! The front door was open. He plunged directly into the arms of Barksdale as he sought the open air. Barksdale was one of those men who seem to be without sentiment, because they have been trained by circumstances to look at facts from a business standpoint only. Yet the basis of his whole life was sentiment. In the difficulty that had arisen his quick mind grasped at once the situation. He knew Royson and was sure that he shielded himself HOW THE CHALLENGE WAS WRITTEN 99 behind some collateral fact, not behind the main truth. In the first place he was hardly in position to know anything of Morgan's history more than the general public would have known. In the second, he would not have dared to use it under any circumstances if those cir cumstances did not protect him. What were these? First there was Morgan's isolation; only one family could be said to be intimate with him, and they could not, on account of the younger Montjoy, act for Edward. The single controlling idea that thrust itself into Barks- dale's mind was the proposition that Royson did not intend to fight. Then the position of the Montjoy family flashed upon him. The blow had been delivered to crush the colonel politically and upon a man who was his unselfish ally. Owing to the nature of the attack Col. Montjoy could ask no favors of Royson, and owing to the rela tionship, he could not proceed against him in Morgan's interest. He could neither act for nor advise, and in the absence of Col. Montjoy, who else co.uld be found? Before replying to Edward, a plan of action occurred to him. When he sent that excited individual home he went direct to Royson's office. He found the door open and that gentleman serenely engaged in writ ing. Even at this point he was not deceived; he knew that his ap proach had been seen, as had Edward's, and preparations made accordingly. Royson had been city attorney and in reality the tool of a ring. His ambition was boundless. Through friends he had broached a sub ject very dear to him; he desired to become counsel for the large corporations that Barksdale represented, and there was a surprised satisfaction in his tones as he welcomed the railroad president and gave him a seat. Barksdale opened the conversation on this line and asked for a writ ten opinion upon a claim of liability in a recent accident. He went further and stated that perhaps later Royson might be relied upon frequently in such cases. The town was talking of nothing else at that time but the Royson card. It was natural that Barksdale should refer to it. "A very stiff communication, that of yours, about Mr. Morgan," he said, carelessly; "it will probably be fortunate for you if your in formant is not mistaken." "There is no mistake," said Royson, leaning back in his chair, glad that the subject had been brought up. "It does seem a rough card to write, but I have reason to think there was no better way out of a 100 SONS AND FATHERS. very ugly complication." "The name of your informant will be demanded, of course.'' "Yes, but I shall not give it!" "Then will come a challenge." "Hardly!" Royson arose and closed the door. "If you have a few moments and do not mind hearing this, I will tell you in confidence the whole business. Who would be sought to make a demand upon me for the name of my informant?" "One of the Montjoys naturally, but your relationship barring them they would perhaps find Mr. Morgan a second." "But suppose that I prove conclusively that the information came from a member of the Montjoy family? What could they do? Under the circumstances which have arisen their hands are tied. As a matter of fact I am the only one that can protect them. If the matter came to that point, as a last resort I could refuse to fight, for the reason given in the letter." Barksdale was silent. The whole devilish plot flashed upon him. He knew in advance the person described as a member of the Montjoy family, and he knew the base motives of the man who at that moment was dishonoring him with his confidence. His blood boiled within him. Cool and calm as he was by nature, his face showed emotion as he arose and said: "I think I understand.'' Royson stood by the door, his hand upon the knob, after his visitor had gone. "It was a mistake; a great mistake," he said to himself in a whisper. "I have simply acted the fool!" Barksdale went straight to a friend upon whose judgment he relied and laid the matter before him. Together they selected three of the most honorable and prominent men in the city, friends of the Montjoys, and submitted it to them. The main interest was now centered in saving the Montjoy family. Edward had become secondary. An agreement was reached upon Barksdale's suggestion and all was now complete unless the aggrieved party should lose his case in the correspondence about to ensue. Barksdale disguised his surprise when he assisted Edward at the door to recover equilibrium. "I am here sir, as I promised," he said, "but the complications ex tend further than I knew. I now state that I cannot act for you in HOW THE CHALLENGE WAS WRITTEN 101 any capacity and ask that I be relieved of my promise." Edward bowed stiffly. "You are released." "There is but one man in this city who can serve you and bring about a meeting. Gerald Morgan must bear your note!'' Edward repeated the name. He could not grasp the idea. "Gerald Morgan," said Barksdale again. "He will not need to go on the field. Good night. And if that fails you here is your pistol; you are no longer under my guidance. But one word more my telephone is 280; if during the night or at any time I can advise you, purely upon formal grounds, summon me. In the meantime see to it that your note does not demand the name of Royson's informant. Do not neglect that. The use he has made of his information must be made the basis of the quarrel; if you neglect this your case is lost. Good-night." The thought flashed into Edward's mind then that the world was against him.- This man was fearful of becoming responsible himself. He had named Gerald. It was a bruised and slender reed, but he would lean upon it, even if he crushed it in the use. He returned to the wing-room. "Professor," he said, "you know that under no possible circumstances would I do you a discourtesy, so when I tell you, as now, that for to-night and possibly a day, we a~re obliged to leave you alone, you will understand that some vital matter lies at the bottom of it." "My young friend,'' exclaimed that gentleman, "go as long as you please. I have a little world of my own, you know," he smiled cheer fully, "in which I am always amused. Gerald has enlarged it. Go and come when you can; here are books what more does one need?" Edward bowed slightly. "Gerald, follow me." Gerald, without a word, laid aside his crayon and obeyed. He stood in the library a moment later looking with tremulous excitement upon the man who had summoned him so ab ruptly. By reflection he was beginning to share the mental disturb ance. His frail figure quivered and he could not keep erect. "Read that!" said Edward, handing him the paper. He took the sheet and read. When he finished he was no longer trembling, but to the astonishment of Edward, very calm. A look of weariness rested upon his face. "Have you killed him?'' he asked, laying aside the paper, his mind at once connecting the incident of the pistol with this one. "No, he is in hiding." 102 SONS AND FATHERS. "Have you challenged him?" "No! My God, can you not understand? I am without friends! The whole city believes the story." A strange expression came upon the face of Gerald. "We must challenge him at once," he said. "I am, of course, the proper second. I must ask you in the first place to calm yourself. The records must be perfect." He seated himself at a desk and pre pared to write. Edward was walking the room. He came and stood by his side. "Do not demand the name of his informant,'' he said; "make the publication and circulation of the letter the cause of our grievance." "Of course," was the reply. The letter was written rapidly. "Sign it if you please," said Gerald. Edward read the letter and noticed that it was written smoothly and without a break. He signed it. Gerald had already rung for the buggy and disappeared. "Wait here," he had said, "until I return. In the meantime do not converse with anyone upon this subject." The thought that flashed upon the mind of the man left in the drawing-room was that the race courage had become dominant, and for the time being was superior to ill-health, mental trouble and environment. It was in itself a confirmation of the cruel letter. The manhood of Albert Evan had become a factor in the drama. CHAPTER XIX. BROUGHT TO BAY. Col. Mont joy was apprised of the unexpected result in the backwoods at an early hour. He read the announcement quietly and went oix his usual morning ride undisturbed. Then through the family spread the news as the other members made their appearance. Mrs. Montjoy said, gently: "All happens for the best. If Mr. Mont- joy had been elected he would have been exposed for years to the Washington climate, and he is not very well at any time. He com plained of his heart several times last night.' 1 But Mary went off and had a good cry. She could not endure the thought of the slightest affront to her stately father. She felt bet- BROUGHT TO BAY 103 ter after her cry and kissed the old gentleman as he came in to break fast. "I see you have all heard the news," he said, cheerily. "Well, it lifts a load from me. I spent four very trying years up in the neigh borhood of Washington, and I am 1 not well disposed toward the locality. I have done my duty to the fullest extent in this matter. The people who know me have given me an overwhelming indorsement, and I have been beaten only by people who do not know me! Swearingen will doubtless make a good representative, after all. I am sorry for Evan," he added, laughing- "It will be news to him to find out that the old Fire-Eaters have been worsted at last." He went to breakfast with his arms around wife and daughter. "All the honors of public life cannot compensate a man for separation from his home," he said, "and Providence knows it." Annie was silent and anxious. She made a feeble effort to sympa thize with the defeated, but with poor success. During the morning she started at every sound and went frequently to the front door. She knew her cousin, and something assured her that his hand was in this mischief. How would it affect her? In her room she laughed triumphantly. "Vain fools!" she exclaimed; "let them stay where they belong!'' In the afternoon there was the sound of buggy wheels, and a servant brought to the veranda, where they were sitting, a package. Adjust ing his glasses, the colonel opened it to find one of the extras. At the head of this was written: "Thinking it probable that it may be im portant for this to reach you to-day, and fearing it might not other wise, I send it by messenger in buggy. Use them as you desire." To this was signed the name of a friend. Annie, who watched the colonel as he read, saw his face settle into sternness, and then an expression of anxiety overspread it. "Anything serious, Norton?" It was the voice of his wife, who sat knitting. "A matter connected with the election calls me to town," he said; "I hope it will be the last time. I shall go in with the driver who brought the note." He went inside and made his few arrangements and depart ed hurriedly. After he was gone, Annie picked up the paper- from the hail table, where he had placed it, and read the fatal announce ment. Although frightened, she could scarcely conceal her exultation. Mary was passing; she thrust the paper before her eyes and said: "Read that! So much" for entertaining strangers!" Mary read. The scene whirled about her, and but for the knowledge 104 SONS AND FATHERS. that her suffering was bringing satisfaction to the woman before her she would have fallen to the floor. She saw in the gleeful eyes, gleam ing upon her, something of the truth. With a desperate effort she restrained herself! and the furious words that had rushed to her lips, and laid aside the paper with unutterable scorn and dignity. "The lie is too cheap to pass anywhere except in the backwoods," was all she said. A smile curled the thin lips of the other as she witnessed the des perate struggle of the girl. The voice of Col. Montjoy, who had re turned to the gate, was heard calling to Mary: "Daughter, bring the paper from the hall table." She carried it to him. Something in her pale face caused him to ask: ''Have you read it, daughter?" She nodded her head. He was instantly greatly concerned and be gan some rambling explanation about campaign lies and political meth ods. But he could not disguise the fact that he was shocked beyond expression. She detained him but a moment. Oh, wonderful power of womanly intuition! "Father," she said faintly, "be careful what you do. The whole thing originated back yonder," nodding her head toward the house. She had said it, and now her eyes blazed defiance. He looked upon her in amazement, not comprehending, but the matter grew clearer as he thought upon it. Arriving in the city he was prepared for anything. He went direct to Roy son's office, and that gentleman seeing him enter smiled. The visit was expected and desired. He bowed formally, however, and moving a chair forward locked the door. Darkness had just fallen, but the electric light outside the window was sufficient for an inter view; neither seemed to care for more light. "Amos,'' said the old man, plunging into the heart of the subject, "you have done a shameful and a cruel thing, and I have come to tell you so and insist upon your righting the wrong. You know me too well to suspect that personal reasons influence me in the least. As far as I am concerned the wrong cannot be righted, and I would not pur chase nor ask a personal favor from you. The man you have insulted so grievously is a stranger and has acted the part of a generous friend to those who, although you may not value the connection, are closely bound to you. In the name of God, how could you do it?" He was too full of indignation to proceed, and he had need of coolness. The other did not move nor give the slightest evidence of feeling. BROUGHT TO BAY 105 He had this advantage; the part he was acting had been carefully planned and rehearsed. After a moment's hesitation, he said: "You should realize, Col. Montjoy, that I have acted only after a calm 1 deliberation, and the matter is not one to be discussed excitedly. I cannot refuse to talk with you about it, but it is a cold-blooded mat ter of policy only." The manner and tone of the speaker chilled the elder to the heart. Royson continued : "As for myself and you well, it was an open, impersonal fight. You know my ambition; it was as laudable as yours. I have worked for years to keep in the line of succession; I could not be expected to sit silent and while losing my whole chance see my friend defeated. All is fair in love and war and politics. I have used such weapons as came to my hand, and the last I used only when defeat was certain." Controlling himself with great effort, Col. Montjoy said: "You certainly cannot expect the matter to end here!" "How can it proceed?" A slight smile lighted the lawyer's face. "A demand will be made upon you for your authority." "Who will make it you?" A light dawned upon the elder. The cool insolence of the man was more than he could endure. "Yes!" he exclaimed, rising. "As God is my judge, if he comes to me I shall make the demand ! Ingratitude was never charged against one of my name. This man has done me a lasting favor; he shall not suffer for need of a friend, if I have to sacrifice every connection in the world." Again the lawyer smiled. "I think it best to remember, colonel, that we can reach no sensible conclusion without cool consideration. Let me ask you, then, for in formation. If I should answer that the charges in my letter, so far as Morgan's parentage is concerned, were based upon statements made by a member of your immediate family, what would be your course?'' "I should denounce you as a liar and make the quarrel my own." Royson grew pale, but made no reply. He walked to his desk, and taking from it a letter passed it to the angry man. He lighted the gas, while the colonel's trembling hands were arranging his glasses, and stood silent, waiting. The note was in a feminine hand. Col. Montjoy read: "My Dear Amos: I have been thinking over the information I gave you touching the base parentage of the man Morgan, and I am not sure but that it should be suppressed so far as the public is con- 106 SONS AND FATHERS. cerned, and brought home here in another way. The facts cannot be easily proved, and the affair would create a great scandal, in which I, as a member of this absurd family, would be involved. You should not use it, at any rate, except as a desperate measure, and then only upon the understanding that you are to become responsible, and that I am in no way whatever to be brought into the matter. Yours in haste, "Annie." The reader let the paper fall and covered his face with his hands a moment. Then he arose with dignity. "I did not imagine, sir, that the human heart was capable of such villainy as yours has developed. You have stabbed a defenseless stranger in the back; have broken faith with a poor, jealous, weak woman, and have outraged and humiliated me, to whom you are per sonally indebted financially and otherwise. Unlock your door! I have but one honorable course left. I shall publish a card in the morn ing's paper stating that your letter was based upon statements made by a member of my family; that they are untrue in every respect, and offer a public apology." "Will you name the informant?" "What is that to you, sir?'' "A great deal! If you do name her, I shall reaffirm the truth of her statements, as in the absence of her husband I am her nearest relative. If you do not name her, then the public may guess wrong. I think you will not do so rash a thing, colonel. Keep out of the matter. Circumstances give you a natural right to hands off!" "And if I do!!' exclaimed the old man, passionately, "who will act for him?" The unpleasant smile returned to the young man's lips. "No one, I apprehend!" Montjoy could have killed him as he stood. He felt the ground slip ping from under him as he, too, realized the completeness and coward liness of the plot. "We shall see; we shall see!" he said, gasping and pressing his hand to his heart. "We shall see, Mr. Royson! There is a just God who looks down upon the acts of all men, and the right prevails!'' Royson bowed mockingly but profoundly. "That is an old doctrine. You are going, and there is just one thing left unsaid. At the risk of offending you yet more, I am going to say it." "I warn you, then, to be careful; there is a limit to human endur ance and I have persistently ascribed to me the worst of motives in BROUGHT TO BAY 107 this matter, but I have as much pride in my family as you in yours. There are but few of us left. Will you concede that if there is danger, in her opinion, that she will become the sister-in-law of this man, and that she believed the information she has given to be true, will you concede that her action is natural, if not wise, and that a little more selfishness may after all be mixed in mine?" Gradually his mean ing dawned upon his hearer. For a second he was dumb. And all this was to be public property! "I think," said Royson, coolly opening the door, "it will be well for you to confer with friends before you proceed, and perhaps leave to others the task of righting the wrongs of strangers who have taken advantage of your hospitality to offer the deadliest insult possible in this southern country. It may not be well to arm this man with the fact that you vouch for him; he may answer you in the future." He drew back from the door suddenly, half in terror. A man, pale as death itself, with hair curling down upon his shoulders, and eyes that blazed under the face before him, whose eyes never for a moment left his, broke the seal. Then he read aloud: "Mr. Amos Royson, I inclose for your inspection a clipping from an extra issue this day, and ask if you are the author of the letter it contains. If you answer yes, I hereby demand of you an uncon ditional retraction of and apology for the same, for publication in the paper which contained the original. This will be handed to you by my friend, Gerald Morgan. "Edward Morgan." Royson recovered himself with evident difficulty. "This is not customary he does not demand the name of my in formant!'' he said. "We do not care a fig, sir, for your informant. The insult rests in the use you have made of a lie, and we propose to hold you re sponsible for it!" Gerald spoke the words like a sweet-voiced girl and returned the stare of his opponent with insolent coolness. The colonel had paused, as he perceived the completeness of the lawyer's entrapping. Amos could not use his cousin's name before the public and the Montjoys were saved from interference. He was cornered. The colonel pas sed out hurriedly with an affectionate smile to Gerald, saying: "Excuse me, gentlemen; these are matters which you will prob ably wish to discuss in private. Mr. Royson, I had friends wiser than myself at work upon this matter, and I did not know it." 108 SONS AND FATHERS. CHAPTER XX. IN THE HANDS OF THEIR FRIENDS. It was not sunset when Col. Montjoy left hime. Mary went to her room and threw herself upon her bed, sick at heart and anxious beyond the power of weeping. Unadvised, ignorant of the full sig nificance of the information that had been conveyed to them, she conjured up a world of danger for her father and for Edward. Trag edy was in the air she breathed. At supper she was laboring under ill-concealed excitement. Fortunately for her, the little mother was not present. Sitting in her room, with the green glasses to which she had been reduced by the progress of her disease, she did not notice the expression of the daughter's face when she came as usual to look after the final arrangement of her mother's comfort. By 8 o'clock the house was quiet. Throwing a light wrap over her shoulders and concealing in its folds her father's army pistol, Mary slipped into the outer darkness and whistled softly. A great shaggy dog came bounding around from the rear and leaped upon her. She rested her hand on his collar, and together they passed into the ave nue. Old Isam stood there and by him the pony phaeton and mare. "Stay up until I return, please, Uncle Isam, and be sure to meet me here!'' The old man bowed. "I'll be hyar, missy," he said. "Don't you want me to go, too?" "No, thank you; I am going to Gen. Evan's and you must stay and look after things. Nero will go with me." The dog had already leaped into the vehicle. She sprang in also, and almost noiselessly they rolled away over the pine straw. The old man listened; first he heard the dogs bark at Rich's then at Manuel's and then at black Henry's, nearly a mile away. He shook his head. "Missy got somep'n on her mind! She don't make no hoss move in de night dat way for nothin'! Too fast! Too fast!" He went off to his cabin and sat outside to smoke. And in the night the little mare sped away. On the public roads the gait was compar atively safe, and she responded to every call nobly. The unbroken shadows of the roadside glided like walls of gloom ! The little vehicle rocked and swayed, and, underneath, the wheels sang a monotonous warning rhyme. IN THE HANDS OF THEIR FRIENDS 109 Now and then the little vehicle fairly leaped from tthe ground, for when Norton, a year previous, had bid in that animal at a blooded- stock sale in Kentucky, she was in her third summer and carried the blood of Wilkes and Rysdyk's Hambletonian, and was proud of it, as her every motion showed. The little mare had the long route that night, but at last she stood before the doorway of the Cedars. The general was descending the steps as Mary gave Nero the lines. "What! Mary" He feared to ask the question on his lips. She was full of excite ment, and her first effort to speak was a dismal failure. "Come! Come! Come!" he said, in that descending scale of voice which seems to have been made for sympathy and encouragment. "Calm yourself first and talk later." He had his arms around her now and was ascending the steps. "Sit right down here in this big chair; there you are!" "You have not heard, then?" she said, controlling herself with su preme effort. "About your father's defeat? Oh, yes. But what of that? There are defeats more glorious than victories, my child. You will find that your father was taken advantage of. She buried her face in her hands. "It is not about that, sir the means they used!" And then, between sobs, she told him the whole story. He made no reply, no comment, but reaching over to the rail secured his corn-cob pipe and filled it. As he struck a match above the tobacco, she saw that his face was as calm as the candid skies of June. The sight gave her courage. "Do you not think it awful?" she ventured. "Awful? Yes! A man to descend to such depths of meanness must have suffered a great deal on the way. I am sorry for Royson sorry, indeed!" "But Mr. Morgan!'' she exclaimed, excitedly. "That must be attended to," he said, very gravely. "Mr. Morgan has placed us all under heavy obligations, and we must see him through." "You must, General; you must, and right away! They have sent for poor papa, and he has gone to town, and I I just could not sleep, so I came to you." He laughed heartily. "And in a hurry! Whew! I heard the mare's feet as she crossed 110 SONS AND FATHERS. the bridge a mile away. You did just right. And of course the old general is expected to go to town and pull papa and Mr. Morgan out of the mud, and straighten out things. John!" "Put the saddle on my horse at once. And now, how is the little mamma?" he asked, gently. He held her on this subject until the horse was brought, and then they rode off down the avenue, the general following and rallying the girl upon her driving. "Don't expect me to hold to that pace," he said. "I once crossed a bridge as fast, and faster, up in Virginia, but I was trying to beat the bluecoats. Too old now, too old." "But you will get there in time?" she asked, anxiously. "Oh, yes; they will be consulting and sending notes and raising points all night. I will get in somewhere along the line. When a man starts out to hunt up trouble he is rarely ever too late to find it." He saw her safely to where Isam was waiting, and then rode on to the city. He realized the complication, and now his whole thought was to keep his neighbor from doing anything rash. It did occur to him that there might be a street tragedy, but he shook his head over this when he remembered Royson. "He is too much of a schemer for that," he said. "He will get the matter into the hands of a board of honor." The old gentleman laughed softly to himself and touched up his horse. In the meantime affairs were drawing to a focus in the city. After the abrupt departure of Gerald, Royson stood alone, holding the de mand and thinking. An anxious expression had settled upon his face. He read and reread the curt note, but could find no flaw in it. He was to be held responsible for the publication; that was the injury. He was forced to confess that the idea was sound. There was now no way to involve the Montjoys and let them hush it up. He had ex pected to be forced to withdraw the card and apologize, but not until the whole city was informed that he did it to save a woman, and he would have been placed then in the position of , one sacrificing him self. Now that such refuge was impossible he could not even escape by giving the name of his informant. He could not have given it had there been a demand. He read between the lines that his authority was known; that he was dealing with some master mind and that he had been out generaled somewhere. To whom had he talked? To no one except IN THE HANDS OF THEIR FRIENDS 111 Barksdale. He gave vent to a profane estimate of himself and left the office. There was no danger now of a street assault. Amos Royson threw himself into a carriage and went to the resi dence of Marsden Thomas, dismissing the vehicle. The family of Marsden Thomas was an old one, and by reason of its early reputation in politics and at the bar had a sound and honorable footing. Mars den was himself a member of the legislature, a born politician, cap able of anything that would advance his fortune, the limit only be ing the dead-line of disgrace. He had tied to Royson, who was slightly his elder, because of his experience and influence. He was noted for his scrupulous regard for the code as a basis of settlement between honorable men, and was generally consulted up on points of honor. Secure in Thomas' room, Royson went over the events of the day, including Montjoy's and Gerald's visits, and then produced the de mand that had been served upon him. Thomas had heard him through without interruption. When Roy- son described the entrance of Gerald, with the unlooked-for note, a slight smile drew his lips; he put aside the note, and said: "You are in a very serious scrape, Amos; I do not see how you can avoid a fight." His visitor studied him intently. "You must help me out! I do not propose to fight." Thomas gravely studied the note again. "Of course, you know the object of the publication," continued Royson; "it was political. Without it we would have been beaten. It was a desperate move; I had the information and used it." "You had information, then? I thought the whole thing was hatch ed up. Who gave you the information?" Royson frowned. "My cousin, Mrs. Mont joy; you see the complication now. I sup posed that no one but the Montjoys knew this man intimately, and that their hands would be tied!'' "Ah!" The exclamation was eloquent. "And the young man had another friend, the morphine-eater; you had forgotten him!" Thomas could not restrain a laugh. ROY son was furious. He seized his hat and made a feint to depart. Thomas kindly asked him to remain. It would have been cruel had he failed, for he knew that Royson had not the slightest intention of leaving. "Come back and sit down, Amos. You do us all an injustice. You played for the credit of this victory, contrary to our advice, and now 112 SONS AND FATHERS. you have the hot end of the iron." "Tell me," said Roy son, reverting to the note, "is there anything in that communication that we can take advantage of?" "Nothing! Morgan might have asked in one note if you were the author of the published letter and then in another have demanded a retraction. His joining the two is not material; you do not deny the authorship." After a few moments of silence he continued: "There is one point I ami not satisfied upon. I am, not sure but that you can refuse upon the ground you alleged in brief, because he is not a gentleman. Whether or not the burden of proof would be upon you is an open question; I am inclined to think it would be; a man is not called upon in the south to prove his title to gentility. All southerners with whom we associate are supposed to be gentlemen," and then he added, lazily smiling, "except the ladies; and it is a pity they are exempt. Mrs. Montjoy would otherwise be obliged to hold her tongue!" Royson was white with rage, but he did not speak. Secretly he was afraid of Thomas, and it had occurred to him that in the event of his humiliation or death Thomas would take his place. This unpleasant reflection was interrupted by the voice of his com panion. "Suppose we call in some of our friends and settle this point." The affair was getting in the shape desired by Royson, and he eagerly consented. Notes were at once dispatched to several well-known gentlemen, and a short time afterward they were assembled and in earnest conversation. It was evident that they disagreed. While this consulation was going on there was a knock at the door; a servant brought a card. Gen. Evan had called to see Mr. Thomas, but learning that he was engaged and how, had left the note. Thomas read it silently, and then aloud: "Marsden Thomas, Esq. Dear Sir: I have read in to-day's paper the painful announcement signed by Mr. Royson, and have come into the city hoping that a serious difficulty might thereby be averted. To assist in the settlement of this matter, I hereby state over my own signature that the announcement concerning Edward Morgan is erroneous, and I vouch for his right to the title and privileges of a gentleman. Respectfully, "Albert Evan." The silence that followed this was broken by one of the older gentlemen present. IN THE HANDS OF THEIR FRIENDS 113 "This simplifies matters very greatly," he said. "Without the clear est and most positive proof, Mr. Royson must retract or fight.'' They took their departure at length, leaving Royson alone to gaze upon the open note. Thomas, returning, found him in the act of drawing on his gloves. "I am going," said Royson, "to send a message to Annie. She must, she shall give me something to go on. I will not sit quietly by and be made a sacrifice!" "Write your note; I will send it." "I prefer to attend to it myself!" Thomas shook his head. "If you leave this room to-night it is with the understanding that I am no longer your adviser. Arrest by the police must not, shall not "Do you mean to insinuate " "Nothing! But I shall take no chances with the name of Thomas!" said the other proudly. "You are excited; a word let fall a sus picion and we would be disgraced! Write your note; I shall send it. We have no time to lose!" Royson threw himself down in front of a desk and wrote rurriedly: "Annie: I am cornered. For God's sake give me proofs of your statements or tell me where to get them. It is life or death; don't fail me. "A. R." He sealed and addressed this. Thomas rang the bell and to the boy he said: "How far is it to Col. Montjoy's?" "Seven miles, sah!" "How quickly can you go there and back?'' "On Pet?" "Yes." "One hour an' a half, sah." "Take this note, say you must see Mrs. Norton Montjoy, Jr., In person, on important matters, and deliver it to her. Here is a $5 bill; if you are back in two hours, you need not return it. Go !" There was a gleam of ivory teeth and the boy hurried away. It was a wretched wait, that hour and a half. The answer to the demand must go into the paper that night! One hour and thirty-two minutes passed. They heard the horse in the street, then the boy upon the stairway. He dashed to the door. "Miss Mary was up and at de gate when I got deir! Reck'n she hear Pet's hoof hit de hard groun' an' hit skeered her. I tole her what you say, and she sen' word dat Mrs. Montjoy done gone to sleep. 114 SONS AND FATHERS. I tell her you all mighty anxious for to get dat note; dat Mr. Roy- son up here, waitin', an' gentlemen been comnv an' goin' all night. She took de note in den and putty soon she bring back the answer!" He was searching his pockets as he rambled over his experience, and presently the note was found. It was the same one that had been sent by Royson, and across the back was written: "Mr. Thomas: I think it best not to awaken Annie. Papa is in town; if the matter is of great importance call upon him. I am so certain this is the proper course that it will be useless to write again or call in person to-night. Respectfully, "M. M." He passed the note to Royson in silence and saw the look of rage upon his face as he tore it into a thousand pieces. "Even your little Montjoy girl seems to be against you,' 1 he said. "She is!" exclaimed Royson; "she knew that my note to Annie was not in the interest of Edward Morgan, and she is fighting for him. She will follow him to the altar or the grave!" "Ah," said Thomas, aside, drawing a long breath; "'tis the old story, and I thought I had found a new plot! Well," he continued aloud, "what next?" "It shall not be the altar! Conclude the arrangements; I am at your service!'' "He will stick," said Thomas to himself; "love and jealousy are stronger then fear and ambition!" CHAPTER XXI. "THE WITNESS IS DEAD." In his room at the hotel Col. Montjoy awaited the return of his friend Evan, who had gone to find out how, as he expressed it the boys were getting on with their fight. "I will strike the trail somewhere," he said, lightly. But he was greatly disturbed over Col. Montjoy's concern, and noticed at once the bad physical effect it had on him. His policy was to make light of the matter, but he knew it was serious. To force Royson to back down was now his object; in the event of that failing, to see that Morgan had a fair show. THE WITNESS IS DEAD 115 The colonel had removed his shoes and coat and was lying on the bed when Evan returned. "I think I have given them a basis of settlement," said the general. "I have vouched for the fact that the statements in Royson's letter are erroneous. Upon my declaration he can retract and apologize, or he must fight. I found him consulting with Thomas and others, and I took it for granted he was looking for some way to dodge." The colonel looked at him in surprise. "But how could you?" "Upon my faith in John Morgan! He was a man of honor! He would never have left his property to this man and put him upon the community if there had been a cloud upon his title to gentility," and then he added, with emotion: "A man who was willing to give his daughter to a friend can risk a great deal to honor that friend's memory." "There is but one Albert Evan in the world," said Montjoy, after a long silence. The general was getting himself a glass of wine. "Well, there is but one such Montjoy, for that matter, but we two old fellows lose time sitting up to pay each other compliments! There is much to be done. I am going out to see Morgan; he is so new here he may need help ! You stay and keep quiet. The town is full of excitement over this affair, and people watch me as if I were a curiosity. You can study on politics if you will; consider the proposition that if Royson retracts we are entitled to another trial over yonder in the lost county; that or we will threaten them 1 with an independent race." "No! I am too gled to have a chance to stay out honorably. I know now that my candidacy was a mistake. It has weakened me here fatally. Col. Montjoy placed his hand over his heart wearily. The general brought him the glass of wine he held. "Nonsense! Too many cigars! Here's to long life, old friend, and to the gallant Fire-Eaters." He laughed lightly over his re membrance of the checkmate he had accomplished, buttoned the blue coat over his broad chest and started. "I am going now to look in upon my outpost and see what arrangements have been made for the night. So far we hold the strong positions. Look for me about daylight!" And, lying there alone, his friend drifted back in thought to Mary. He was not satisfied. The door stood open at Ilexhurst when the general alighted. There was no answer to his summons; he entered the lighted hall and went 116 SONS AND FATHERS. to the library. Edward was sleeping quietly upon a lounge. "What!" exclaimed the general, cheerily, "asleep on guard! 1 ' Ed ward sprang to his feet. "Gen. Evan!" "Exactly; and as no one answered my summons to surrender I took possession." Apologizing, Edward drew a chair, and they be came seated. "Seriously, my young friend," began the old soldier. "I was in the city to-night and have learned from Col. Montjoy of the infamy perpetrated upon you. My days of warfare are over, but I could not sit by and see one to whom we all owe so much imposed upon. Let me add, also, that I was very much charmed with you, Mr. Mor gan. If there is anything I can do for you in the way of advice and guidance in this matter kindly command me. I might say the same thing for Montjoy, who is at the hotel, but unfortunately, as you may not know, his daughter-in-law is Mr. Royson's cousin, and acting upon my advice he is silent until the necessity for action arises. I know him well enough to add that you can rely upon his sympathy, and if needed, his aid. I have advised him to take no action, as in the first place he is not needed, and in the second it may bring about an estrangement between his son and himself." Edward was very grateful and expressed himself earnestly, but his head was in a whirl. He was thinking of the woman's story, and of Gerald. "Such a piece of infamy as is embraced in that publication," said the general, when finally the conversation went direct to the heart of the trouble, "was never equaled in this state. Have they replied to your note?' "Not yet. I am waiting for the answer!" "And your cousin is he here to receive it?" "Gerald? Yes, he is here that is, excuse me, I will see!" Somewhat alarmed over the possibility of Gerald's absence, he hurried through the house to the wing, and then into the glass-room. Gerald was asleep. The inevitable little box of pellets upon his table told the sad story. Edward could not awaken him. "It is unfortunate, very," he said, re-entering the library hurriedly, "but Gerald is asleep and cannot be aroused. The truth is, he is a victim of opium. The poor fellow is now beyond cure, I am afraid; he is frail, nervous, excitable, and cannot live without the drug. The THE WITNESS IS DEAD 117 day has been a very trying one for him, and this is the first time he has been out in years!'' "He must be awakened," said the general. "Of course he cannot, in the event that these fellows want to fight, go on the field ; and then his relationship! But to-night! To-night he must be aroused! Let me go with you." Edward started almost in terror. "It might not be well, General it is not necessary " "On the contrary, a strange voice may have more effect than yours no ladies about? Of course not! Lead on, I follow." Greatly con fused, Edward led the way. As they reached the wing he exclaimed the fact of the glass-room, the whim, the fancy of an imaginative mind, and then they entered. Gerald was sleeping, as was his habit, with one arm extended, the other under his head; his long hair clustering about his face. The light was burning brightly, and the general aproached. Thrilled to the hea'rt, Edward steeled himself for a shock. It was well he did. The general bent forward and laid his hand on the sleeper's shoulder. Then he stepped quickly back, seized Edward with the strength of a giant and stood there trembling, his eyes riveted upon the pale face on the pillow. "Am I dreaming?'' he asked, in a changed voice. "Is this the young man you spoke of?" "It is Gerald Morgan." "Strange! Strange! That likeness! The likeness of one who will never wake again, my friend, never! Excuse me; I was startled, overwhelmed! I would have sworn I looked upon that face as I did in the olden time, when I used to go and stand in the moonlight and dream above it!" "Ah," said Edward, his heart turning to ice within him, 'wluse was it?" The answer came in a whisper. "It was my wife's face first, and then it was the face of my daught er!" He drew himself up proudly, and, looking long upon the sleeper, said, gently: "They shall not waken you, poor child. Albert Evan will take your place!" With infinite tenderness he brushed back a lock of hair that fell across the white brow and stood watching him. Edward turned from the scene with a feeling that it was too sacred for intrusion. Over the sleeping form stood the old man. A gener ation of loneliness, of silence, of dignified, uncomplaining manhood lay between them. What right had he, an alien, to be dumb when a word might bring hope and interest back to that saddened life? Was 118 SONS AND FATHERS. he less noble than the man himself than the frail being locked in the deathlike slumber? He glanced once more at Gerald. How he had risen to the issue, and in the face of every instinct of a shrinking nature had done his part until the delicate machinery gave way! Suppose their positions were reversed; that he lay upon the bed, and Gerald stood gazing into the night through the dew-gemmed glass, possessed of such a secret. Would he hesitate? No! The answer formed itself instantly not unless he had base blood in his veins. It was that taint that now held back him, Edward Morgan; he was a coward. And yet, what would be the effect if he should burst ont in that strange place with his fearful secret? There would be an out cry ; Rita would be dragged in, her story poured forth, and on him the old man's eyes would be turned in horror and pity. Then the pub lished card would stand a sentence of social degradation, and he In a foreign land would nurse the memory of a woman and his disgrace. And Royson! He ground his teeth. "I will settle thatf first," he said in a hoarse whisper, "and then if it is true I will prove, God helping me, that His spirit can animate even the child of a slave!" He bowed his head upon his breast and wept. Presently there came to him a consciousness that the black shadow pressing against the glass almost at his feet was more than a shad ow. It took the form of a human being and moved; then the glass gave way and through the shivered fragments as it fell, he saw the face of Rita sink from view. With a loud cry he dashed at the door and sprang into the darkness ! Her tall form lay doubled in the grass. He drew her into the path of light that streamed out and bent above her. The woman struggled to speak^ moving her head from side to side and lifting it. A groan burst from her as if she realized that the end had come and her effort would be useless. He, too, realized It. He pointed upward quickly. "There is your God," he said, earnestly, "waiting! Tell me in His name, am I your child? You know! A mother never forgets! Answer close your eyes give me a sign if they have lied to you!'* She half-rose in frantic struggle. Her eyes seemed bursting from their sockets, and her lips framed her last sentence in almost a shriek. "They lied!" Edward was on his feet in an instant; his lips echoing her words. THE WITNESS IS DEAD 119 "They lied!" The gaslight from within illumined his features, now bright with triumph, as he looked upward. The old general rushed out. He saw the prostrate form and fixed eyes of the corpse. "What is it?" he asked, horrified. Edward turned to him, dizzily; his gaze followed the old man's. "Ah!" he said, "the nurse! She h.is died of anxiety and watching!" A loud summons from the ponderous knocker echoed in the house. Edward, excited, had already begun to move away. "Hold!'' exclaimed the general, "where now?" "I go to meet the slanderer of my race ! God have mercy upon him now, when we come face to face!" His manner alarmed the general. He caught him by the arm. "Easy now, my young friend; the poor woman's fate has unnerved you; not a step further." He led Edward to the wing-room and forced him down -to the divan. "Stay until I return!" The summons with out had been renewed; the general responded in person and found Marsden Thomas at the door, who gazed in amazement upon the stately form before him, and after a moment's hesitation said, stiffly: "I have a communication to deliver to Gerald Morgan. Will you kindly summon him, general?" "I know your errand," said Evan, blandly, "and you need waste no ceremony on me. Gerald is too ill to act longer for Edward Mor gan. I take his place to-night.'' "You! Gen. Evan!" "Why not? Did you ever hear that Albert Evan left a friend up on the field? Come in, come in, Thomas; we are mixed up in this matter, but it is not our quarrel. I want to talk with you." Thomas smiled; the matter was to end in a farce. Without realizing it, these two men were probably the last in the world to whom should have fallen an affair of honor that might have been settled by concessions. The bluff old general defeated Thomas' efforts to stand on formal ground, got him into a seat, and went directly at the matter. "It must strike you, Thomas, as absurd that in these days men can not settle their quarrels peacefully. There is obliged to be a right and a wrong side always, and sometimes the right side has some fault in it and the wrong side some justice. No man can hesitate, when this adjustment has been made, to align himself with one and re pudiate the other. Now, we both represent friends, and neither of 120 SONS AND FATHERS. us can suffer them to come out of this matter smirched. I would not be willing for Royson to do so, and certainly not for Morgan. If we can bring both parties out safely, is it not our duty to do so? You will agree with me!" Thomas said without hesitation: "I waive a great deal, General, on your account, when I discuss this matter at all; but I certainly cannot enter into the merits of the quarrel unless you withdraw your demand upon us. You have demand ed a retraction of a charge made by us or satisfaction. You cannot expect me to discuss the advisability of a retraction when I have here a note " "Which you have not delivered, and which I, an old man sick of war and quarrels, beg that you will not deliver until we have talked over this matter fully. Why cannot Royson retract, when he has my assurance that he is in error?" "For the reason, probably, General, that he does not believe your statements although his friends do!'' Evan arose and paced the room. Coming back he stood over the young man. "Did he say so? By the eternal " "General, suppose we settle one affair at a time; I as Royson's friend, herewith hand you, his reply to the demand of Mr. Morgan. Now, give me your opinion as to the locality where this correspondence can be quietly and successfully concluded, in the event that your prin cipal wishes to continue it-" Trembling with rage the old man opened tlie message; it read: "Mr. Edward Morgan Sir. I have your communication of this date handed to me at 8 o'clock to-night by Mr. Gerald Morgan. I have no retraction or apology to make. "Amos Royson." Gen. Evan looked upon the missive sadly and long. He placed it upon the table and resumed his seat, saying: "Do you understand, Mr. Thomas, that what I have said is entirely upon my own responsibility and as a man who thinks his age and record have given him a privilege with his young friends?" "Entirely, General. And I trust you understand that I am without the privilege of age and record, and cannot take the same liberties." The general made no reply, but was looking intently upon the face of the young man. Presently he said, earnestly: "Your father and I were friends and stood together on many a bloody field. I bore him in my arms from Shiloh and gazed upon his dead face an hour later. No braver man ever lived than William Thomas. I believe you are the worthy son 61 a noble sire and incap- THE WITNESS IS DEAD 121 able of any act that could reflect disgrace upon his name." The general continued: "You cannot link yourself to an unjust cause and escape censure; such a course would put you at war with yourself and at war with those who hope to see you add new honors to a name already dear to your countrymen. When you aid and abet Amos Royson, in his attempt to put a stigma upon Edward Morgan, you aid and abet him in an effort to do that for which there is no excuse. Everything stated in Royson's letter, and especially the per sonal part of it, can be easily disproved." Thomas reflected a moment. Finally he said: "I thank you, General, for your kind words. The matter is not one within my discretion, but give me the proofs you speak of, and I will make Royson withdraw, if possible, or abandon the quarrel myself 1" "I have given my word; is that not enough?" "On that only, Mr. Royson's friends require him to give Mr. Mor gan the recognition of a gentleman; without it he would not. The trouble is, you can be mistaken.'' Evan reflected and a look of trouble settlpd upon his face. "Mr. Thomas, I am going to make a revelation involving the honor and reputation of a family very dear to me. I do it only to save blood shed. Give me your word of honor that never in any way, so long as you may live, will you reveal it. I shall not offer my unsupported word; I will produce a witness." "You have my word of honor that your communication will be kept sacred," said Thomas, greatly interested. The general bowed his head. Then he raised his hand above the call bell; it did not de scend. The martial figure for a moment seemed to shrink and age. When the general looked at length toward his visitor, he said in a whisper: "The witness is dead!" Then he arose to his feet. "It is too late!" he added, with a slight gesture; "we shall fight!" 122 SONS AND FATHERS. CHAPTER XXII. THE DUEL AT SUNRISE. From that moment they discussed the arrangements formally. These were soon made and Thomas departed. Edward, regaining his coolness in the wing-room, with the assist ance of Virdow, who had been awakened by the disturbance, carried the body of Rita to the house in the yard and sent for a suburban phy sician near at hand. The man of medicine pronounced the woman dead. Negroes from the quarters were summoned and took the body in charge. These arrangements completed, he met the general in the hall. "A settlement is impossible,'' said the latter, sadly. "Get your buggy! Efforts may be made by arrests to stop this affair. You must go home with me to-night." Virdow was put in charge of the premises and an excuse made. Alone, Edward returned to the side of the dead woman. Long and earnestly he studied her face, and at last said: "Farewell!" Then he went to Gerald's room and laid his lips upon the marble brow of the sleeper. Upstairs he put certain papers and the little picture in his pocket, closed the mother's room door and locked it. He turned and looked back upon the white-columned house as he rode away. Only eight weeks had passed since he first entered its doors. Before leaving, the general had stabled his horse and telephoned Montjoy at the hotel. Taking a rear street he passed with Edward through the city and before day-light drew up in front of the Cedars. Dueling at the time these events transpired was supposed to be dead in the south, and practically it was. The press and pulpit, the changed system of business and labor, state laws, but, above all these, occupation had rendered it obsolete; but there was still an element that resorted to the code for the settlement of personal grievances, and sometimes the result was a bloody meeting. The new order of things was so young that it really took more courage to refuse to fight than to fight a duel. The legal evasion was the invitation to con clude the correspondence outside the state. The city was all excitement. The morning papers had columns and black head lines setting forth all the facts that could be obtained, and more besides. There was also a brief card from Edward Morgan, THE DUEL AT SUNRISE 123 denouncing the author of the letter which had appeared in the extra and denying all charges brought against him, both personal and political. At Mr. Royson's boarding place nothing had been seen of him since the publication of the card, and his office was closed. Who it was that acted for Edward Morgan was a matter of surmise, but Col. Mont- joy and Gen. Evan were in the city and quartered at the hotel. The latter had gone to Ilexhurst and had not returned. Peace warrants for Morgan and Royson had been issued and placed in the hands of deputies, and two of them had watched outside a glass room at Ilexhurst waiting for a man who was asleep inside, and who had been pointed out to them by a German visitor as Mr. Morgan, to awaken. The sleeper, however, proved to be Gerald Morgan, an invalid. At noon a bulletin was posted to the effect that Thomas and Royson had been seen on a South Carolina train; then another that Gen. Evan and Edward Morgan were recognized in Alabama; then came Tennessee rumors. The truth was, so far as Edward Morgan was concerned, he was awakened before noon, given a room in a farmhouse, remote from the Evan dwelling, and there settled down to write important letters. One of these he signed in the presence of witnesses. The last one contained the picture, some papers and a short note to Gen. Evan; also Edward's surmises as to Gerald's identity. The other letters were for Virdow, Gerald and Mary. He had not signed the last when Evan entered the room, but was sitting with arms folded above it and his head resting on them. "Letter writing!" said the general. "That is the worst feature of these difficulties.'' He busied himself with a case he carried, turn ing his back. Edward sealed his letter and completed his package. "Well," he said, rising. "I am now at your service, Gen. Evan!" "The horses are ready. We shall start at once and I will give you instructions on the way." The drive was thirty miles, to a remote station upon a branch road, where the horses were left. Connection was made with the main line, yet more distant, and the next dawn found them at a station on the Florida border. They had walked to the rendezvous and were waiting; Edward stood in deep thought, his eyes fixed upon vacancy, his appearance suggesting profound melancholy. The general watched him furtively 124 SONS AND FATHERS. and finally with uneasiness. After all, the young man was a stranger to him. He had been drawn into the difficulty by his sympathies, and based his own safety upon his ability to read men. Experience upon the battle field, however, had taught him that men who have never been under fire sometimes fail at the last moment from a physical weakness unsuspected by even themselves. What if this man should fail? He went up to Edward and laid a hand upon his shoulder. "My young friend, when you are as old as I you will realize that in cases like this the less a man thinks the better for his nerves. Circumstances have removed you from the realm of intellect and heart. You are now simply the highest type of an animal, bound to preserve self by a formula, and that is the blunt fact." Edward seemed to listen without hearing. "General," he said, presently, "I do not want your services in this affair under a misapprehension. I have obeyed directions up to this moment, but before the matter goes further I must tell you what is in my mind. My quarrel with Amos Royson is because of his injury to me and his injury to my friends through me. He has made charges, and the customs of this country, its traditions, make those charges an injury. I believe the man has a right to resent any injury and punish the spirit behind it." Gen. Evan was puzzled. He waited in silence. "I did not make these fine distinctions at first, but the matter has been upon my mind and now I wish you to understand that if this poor woman were my mother I would not fight a duel even if I could, simply because someone told me so in print. If it were true, this story, there would be no shame to me in it; there would be no shame to me unless I deserted her. If it were true I should be her son in deed and truth. I would take her by the hand and seek her happi ness in some other land. For, as God is my judge, to me the world holds nothing so sacred as a mother, and I would not exchange the affections of such were she the lowliest in the land, for all the priv ileges of any society. It is right that you should know the heart of the man you are seconding. If I fall my memory shall be clear of the charge of unmanliness.'' Gen. Evan's appearance, under less tragic circumstances, would have been comical. For one instant, and for the first time in his life, he suffered from panic. His eyes, after a moment of wide-open amaze ment, turned helplessly toward the railroad and he began to feel for his glasses. When he got them adjusted he studied his companion critically. But the explosion that should have followed when the THE DUEL AT SUNRISE 125 situation shaped itself in the old slaveholder's mind did not come. He saw before him the form of his companion grow and straighten, and the dark eyes, softened by emotion, shining fearlessly into his. It was the finest appeal that could have been made to the old soldier. He stretched out his hand impulsively. "Unorthodox, but, by heavens, I like it!" he said. The up-train brought Royson and Thjomas and a surgeon from a Florida town. Evan was obliged to rely upon a local doctor. At sunrise the two parties stood in the shadow of live oaks, not far apart. Evan and Thomas advanced and saluted each other formally. Evan waited sadly for the other to speak; there was yet time for an honorable settlement. Men in the privacy of their own rooms think one way, and think another way in the solemn silence of a woodland sunrise. And preceding it all in this instance there had been hours for re flection and hours of nervous apprehension. The latter told plainly upon Amos Royson. White and haggard, he moved restlessly about his station, watching the seconds and ever and anon stealing side long glances at Morgan. Why, he asked himself, did the man stare at him with that fixed, changeless expression? Was he seeking to destroy his nerves, to overpower him with superior will? No. The gaze was simply contemplative; the gaze of one looking upon a land scape and considering its features. But it was a never-ending one to all appearances . Hope died away from the general's heart at the first words of Thomas. "We are here, Gen. Evan. What is your pleasure as to the arrange ments? I would suggest that we proceed at once to end this affair. I notice that we are beginning to attract attention and people are gathering." The general drew him aside and they conversed. The case of pistols was opened, the weapons examined and carefully loaded and then the ground was stepped off fifteen paces upon a north and south line, with the low, spreading mass of live oaks behind each station. There were no perpendicular lines, no perspective, to influence the aim of either party. There were really no choice of positions, but one had to be chosen. A coin flashed in the sunlight as it rose and descended. "We win," said Thomas, simply, "and choose the north stand. Take your place." The general smiled grimly. 126 SONS AND FATHERS. "I have faced north before,'' he said. He stood upon the point designated, and pointed to Edward. Then the latter was forced to speak. He still gazed fixedly upon his antagonist. The general looked steadily into his pale face, and, pointing to his own track as he pioved aside, said: "Keep cool, now, my boy, and fire instantly. These pistols are heavier than revolvers; I chose them because the recoil of a revolver is destructive of an amateur's aim. These will shoot to the spot. Keep cool, keep cool, for God's sake, and remember the insult!" "Have no fear for me," said Morgan. "I will prove that no blood of a slave is here!" He took the weapon and stood in position. He had borne in mind all the morning the directions given by Gerald; he knew every detail of that figure facing him in the now bright sunlight; he had sketched it in detail to the mouth that uttered its charge against him. The hour might pass with no disaster to him; he might fall a corpse or a cripple for life; but so long as life lasted this picture would remain A man with a hard, pale face, a white shirt front, dark trousers, hand clasping nervously a weapon, and behind all the deep green of the oaks, with their chiaroscuro. Only one thing would be missing; the picture in mind, clear cut and perfect in every other detail, lacked a mouth! Some one is calling to them. "Are you ready, gentlemen?" 'Twas the hundredth part of a second, but within it he answered "yes,' 1 ready to put the pencil to that last feature to complete the picture for all time! "Fire!" He raised his brush and touched the spot; there was a crash, a shock, and what were they doing? His picture had fallen from its frame and they were lifting it. But it was complete; the carmine was spattered all over the lower face. He heard the gen eral's voice: "Are you hurt, Edward?" and the pistol was taken from his grasp. "Hurt! No, indeed! But I seemed to have spoiled my painting, General. Look! My brush must have slipped; the paint was too thin." The general hurried away. "Keep your place; don't move an inch! Can I be of assistance, gentlemen?" he continued to the opposite party; our surgeon can aid you, my principal being uninjured. He paused: an exclamation of horror escaped him. The mouth and nose of Royson seemed crushed in, and he was frantically spitting broken teeth from a bloody gap THE SHADOW OVER THE HALL 127 where his mouth had been. The surgeons worked rapidly to stay the flow of crimson. While thus busy the general in wonder picked up Royson's pistol. Its trigger and guard were gone. He looked at the young man's right hand; the forefinger was missing. "An ugly wound, gentlemen," he said, "but not fatal, I think. The ball struck the guard, cut away a finger, and drove the weapon against the mouth and nose." The surgeon looked up. "You are right, I think. A bad disfigurement of those features, but not a dangerous wound." Thomas saluted. "I have to announce my principal disabled, General." "We are then satisfied." Returning to Edward, who was quietly contemplating the scene with little apparent interest, he said, almost gayly: "A fine shot, Edward; a fine shot! His pistol saved him! If he had raised it an instant later he would have been struck fairly in the mouth by your bullet! Let us be going.'' "It is perhaps fortunate that my shot was fired when it was," said Edward. "I have a bullet hole through the left side of my shirt." The general looked at the spot and then at the calm face of the speaker. He extended his hand again. CHAPTER XXIII. THE SHADOW OVER THE HALL. Col. Montjoy returned home early. He rode into the yard and entered the house with as much unconcern as he could affect. Annie met him at the door with an unusual display of interest. Had he rested well? Was not the hotel warm, and was there anything of interest stirring in the city? To all these questions he responded guardedly and courteously. Mary's white face questioned him. He put his arm about her. "And how is the little mamma to-day have her eyes given her any more trouble?" 128 SONS AND FATHERS. "She is staying in the darkened room to avoid the light," said the girl. He went to her and the two* young women were left alone. Annie was smiling and bent upon aggravation. "I think I shall ride in," she said at length. "There is something afoot that is being kept from me. Amos Royson is my cousin and I have a right to know if he is in trouble.'' Mary did not reply for a moment. At last she said: *A man having written such a letter must expect to find himself in trouble and danger, too." The other laughed contemptuously. "I did not say danger! Amos has little to fear from the smooth faced, milk-and-water man he has exposed." "Wait and see," was the reply. "Amos Royson is a coward; he will not only find himself in danger, but if necessary to save himself from a cowhiding will involve other people even a woman !" "What do you mean? You have not always thought him a coward; you have accepted his attentions and would have married him if you had had the chance." Mary looked up quickly. "I treated him with politeness because he was your cousin; that is all. As for marriage with him, that is too absurd to have even occurred to me." Annie ordered Isam to bring her pony carriage, and as she waited Mary watched her in silence and with a strange expression upon her face. When her father returned she said, resolutely: "Annie, I was awake last night and heard a horse coming. Think ing it might be papa, although the pace was rather fast for him, I went out to the gate. There was a negro with a note for you from Mr. Royson. Mamma had just got to sleep and I was afraid of wak ing her, so I sent Mr. Royson word to see papa at the hotel.' 1 The sister-in-law seized her by the shoulder. "By what right, miss, do you meddle with my business! It may have been a question of a man's life! You have ruined everything!" She was trepibling with rage. Mary faced her resolutely. "And it may have been a question of a man's honor. In either case, my father is the one to consult!" "Sit down, both of you ! Annie Mary, I desire this matter to end at once!" Col. Montjoy spoke calmly but firmly. He retained his clasp upon his daughter's hand and gradually as he talked drew her to his knees. "There is a serious difficulty pending between Mr. Morgan and Amos Royson, as you both probably know," he said, quietly. "The THE SHADOW OVER THE HALL 129 matter is in good hands, however, and I think will be satisfactorily arranged. I do not know which were better, to have delivered Amos' note or not. It was a question Mary had to decide upon the spur of the moment. She took a safe course, at least. But it is unseemly, my children, to quarrel over it! Drop the matter now and let affairs shape themselves. We cannot take one side or the other.'' Annie made no reply, but her lips wore their ironical smile as she moved away- Mary hid her face upon her father's breast and wept softly. She knew that he did not blame her, and she knew by intuition that she had done right, but she was not satisfied. No shadow should come be tween her father and herself. "I was certain," she said, "that there was something wrong in that note. You remember what I told you. And I was determined that those two people should not hatch up any more mischief in this house. Mr. Morgan's safety might have depended upon keeping them apart." The colonel laughed and shook his head. But he only said: "If it will help clear up your skies a little, I don't mind telling you that I would not have had that note delivered last night for half this plantation." She was satisfied then. "Who ordered the cart, Isam?" The negro was at the gate. "Young mis', sah. She goin' to town." "Well, you can put it back. It will not be necessary for her to go now. Annie," he said, turning to that lady, as she appeared in the door, "I have sent the cart back. I prefer that none of my family be seen upon the streets to-day." There was an unwonted tone in his voice which she did not dare disregard. With a furious look, which only Mary saw, she returned to her rooim. A negro upon a mule brought a note. It read: "Dear Norton: All attempts at settlement have failed. I should like to see you, but think you had better maintain strict neutrality, will wire you to-morrow. "A. E." "There is no answer," he said to the boy. And then, greatly de pressed, he went to his room. Mary, who read every thought cor rectly, knew that the matter was unsettled and that her father was hopeless. She went about her duties steadily, but with her heart breaking. The chickens, pigeons, the little kids, the calves none of them felt the tragedy in their lives. Their mistress was grave and unappreciative; nothing more. But her eyes were not closed. She saw little Jerry armed with a note go out on the mare across the lower- 130 SONS AND FATHERS. creek bridge, and the expectant face of Annie for two hours or more in every part of the house that commanded a view of that unused approach. Then Jerry came back and went to the sister-in-law's door. He had not reached his quarters before Mary called him to help her catch a fractious hen. Then she got him into the dining-hoom and cut an enormous slice of iced cake. "Jerry," she sai'd, "how would you like that?" Jerry's white eyes and teeth shone resplendent. He shifted himself to his left foot and laughed. "Tell me where you have been and it is yours." Jerry looked abashed and studied a silver quarter he held in his hand, then he glanced around cautiously. "Honest, missy?" "Honest ! Quick, or I put the cake back." She made a feint. "Been to town." "Of course. Who was the note for?" "Mr. Royson.'' "Did he answer it?" "No'm. Couldn't find him. Er nigger tole me he gone ter fight wid Mr. Morgan, and everybody waitin' ter hear de news." "You can go Jerry. There," she handed him the cake, and, walking unsteadily, went to her room. She did not come out until supper time and then her face was proof that the "headache" was not feigned. And so into the night. She heard the doors open and shut, the sound of her father's footsteps on the porch as he came and went. She went out and joined him, taking his arm. "Papa,'' she said, after awhile, "you need not keep it from me. I know all. They did not settle it. Mr. Morgan and Mr. Royson have gone to fight." She could not proceed. Her father laid his hand upon hers. "It will all come out right, Mary; it will all come out right." Pres ently he said: "Amos used to come here. I hope you are not inter ested in him." "No," she said bitterly, "I could never think much of Annie's rela tives. One in the family is enough." "Hush, my child; everything must give way now on Norton's ac count. Don't forget him. But for Norton I would have settled this matter in another way." "Yes, and but for him there would never have been a necessity. THE SHADOW OVER THE HALL 131 Amos depended upon his relationship to keep you out of it." Col. Montjoy had long unconsciously relied upon the clear mind of the girl, but he was not prepared for this demonstration of its wisdom. He wondered anew as he paced the floor in silence. She continued: "But Amos is only the tool, papa; all of us have an enemy here in the house. Annie " "Hush! Hush!" he whispered, "don't say it. It seems too awful j to think of! Annie is foolish! She must never know, on Norton's j account, that she is in any way suspected of complicity in this mat ter." And then in silence they waited for dawn. At last the merciful sun rolled away the shadows. Breakfast was a sad affair. All escaped from it as soon as possible. It was a fateful day 7, 8, 9 o'clock. The matter was ended; but how? Mary's haggard face questioned her father at every turn. He (put his arm about her and went to see her pets and charges, but still no word between them. She would not admit her interest in Ed ward Morgan, nor would he admit to himself that she had an inter est at stake. And then toward noon there came a horseman, who placed a mes sage in his hands. He read it and handed it to Mary. If he had not smiled she could not have read it. One word only was there: "Safe!" Her father was at the moment upfolding an 'extra." She read it with him in breathless interest. Following an unusual display of head lines came an accurate account of the duel. Only a small part of the padded narrative is reproduced here: "Royson was nervous and excited and showed the effects of unrest. But Morgan stood like a statue. For some reason he never moved his eyes from his adversary a moment after they reached the field. Both men fired at the command, their weapons making but one report* Some think, however, that Morgan was first by the hundredth part of a second, and this is possible, as the single report sounded like a crash or a prolonged explosion. Royson fell, and it was supposed was certainly killed. He presented a frightful appearance instantly, being covered with blood. It was quickly ascertained, however, that he was not dangerously hurt, his opponent's shot having cut off a finger and the pistol guard, had hurled the heavy weapon into his face. He escaped with a broken nose and the loss of his front teeth. "Morgan, who had preserved his wonderful coolness from the first, 132 SONS AND FATHERS. received a bullet through a fold of his shirt that darkened the skin to the left of his heart. It was a narrow escape. Parties took the up train." The extra went on to say that since the first reading of the original card the public mind had undergone a revulsion in Morgan's favor; a feeling greatly stimulated by the fact that Gen. Evan had come to the rescue of that gentleman; had vouched for him in every respect and was acting as his second. When the colonel had finished the thrilling news he noticed that Mary's head was in his lap, and felt tears upon his hand above which her own were clasped. Annie was looking on, cold and white. "There has been a duel, my daughter,'' he said to her kindly, "and, fortunately, without alarming results. Mr. Royson lost a finger, I believe, and received a bruise in the face; that is all. Nothing serious. It might have been much worse. Here is the paper," he concluded, "probably an exaggerated account." She took it in silence and re turned to her room. She ran here eye through every sentence with out reading and at last threw the sheet aside. Only those who knew the whole character of Annie Mont joy would have understood. She was looking for her name; it was not there. Her smiling face was proof enough. Long they sat, father and daughter, his hand still stroking lightly her bowed head. At last he said, very gently, the hand trembling a little: "This has been a hard trial for us both for us both! I am glad it is over! Morgan is too fine a fellow to have been sacrificed to this man's hatred and ambition." She looked up, her face wet and flushed. "There was more than that, papa." "More? How could there be?" She hesitated, and then said, bravely: "Mr. Royson has more than once asked me to marry him 1 ." The colonel's face grew black with sudden rage. "The scoundrel!" "And he has imagined that because Mr. Morgan came to help your election oh, I cannot." She turned hastily and went away in con fusion. And still the colonel sat and thought with clouded face. "I must ask Evan," he said. "Colonel, Mis' Calline says come deir, please." A servant stood by him. He arose and went into his wife's room. She was standing THE PROFILE ON THE MOON 133 by the open window, its light flooding the apartment, her bandages removed. "Why, Caroline, you are imprudent, don't you know? What is it ; my dear? She was silent and rigid, a living statue bathed in the glory of the autumn sun. She waited until she felt his hand in hers. "Norton," she said, simply, but with infinite pathos, "I am afraid that I have seen your loved face for the last time. I am blind!" He took her in his arms the form that even age could not rob of its girl- ishness and pressed her face to his breast. It had come at last. His tears fell for the first time since boyhood. CHAPTER XXIV. THE PROFILE ON THE MOON. Virdow felt the responsibility of his position. He had come on a scientific errand and found himself plunged into a tragedy. And there were attendant responsibilities, the most serious of which was the revelation to Gerald of what had occurred. The young man precipitated the crisis. The deputies gone, he wanted his coffee; it had not failed him in a lifetime. Again and again he rang his bell, and finally from the door of his wing-room called loudly for Rita. Then the professor saw that the time for action had come. The watchers about the body were consulting. None cared to face that singular being of whom they felt a super stitious dread, but if they .did not come to him he would finally go to them. What would be the result of his unexpected discovery of the tragedy? It might be disastrous. As he spoke, he removed his glasses from time to time, carefully wiping and replacing them, his faded eyes beaming in sympathy and anxiety upon his young acquaintance. "Herr Gerald," he bagan, "you know the human heart?" Gerald frowned and surveyed him with impatience. "Sometimes at last the little valve, as you call it sometimes the little valve grows weak, and when the blood leaps out too quickly and can't run on quickly enough you understand it comes back suddenly again and drives the valve lid back the wrong way." "Then it is a ruined piece of machinery-" 134 SONS AND FATHERS. "So," said the professor, sadly; "you have stated it correctly. So, Rita she had an old heart and it is ruined!" Gerald gazed upon him in doubt, but fearful. "You mean Rita is dead?" "Yes," said Virdow. "Poor Rita!" Gerald studied the face before him curiously, passed his hand across his brow, as if to clear away a cloud, and then went out across the yard. The watchers fled at his approach. In the little room he came upon the body. The woman, dressed in her best but homely attire, lay with her hands crossed upon her bosom, her face calm and peaceful. Upon her lips was that strange smile which sometinres comes back over a gulf of time from forgotten youth. He touched her wrist and watched her. Virdow was right; she was dead. As if to converse with a friend, he took a seat upon the couch and lifting one cold hand held it while he remained. This was Rita, who had always come to wake him when he slept too late; had brought his meals, had answered whenever he called, and found him when he wandered too long under the stars and guided him back to his room. Rita, who, when his moods distracted him, had only to fix her eye on his and speak his name, and all was peace again. This was Rita. Dead! How could it be? How could anything be wrong with Rita? It wai impossible! He put his hand above the heart; it was silent. He spoke her name. She did not reply. Gradually, as he concentrated his attention upon the facts, his mind emerged from its shadows. Yes, Rita, his friend, was dead. And then slowly, his life, with its haunting thoughts, its loneliness, came back, and the significance of these facts overwhelmed him. He knew now who Rita was; it was an old, old story. He knelt and laid his cheek upon that yellow chilled hand, the only hand that had ever lovingly touched him. She had been a mother indeed; humoring his every whim. She had never scolded ; not Rita ! The doctors had said he could sleep without his opium; they shut him up and he suffered torments. Rita came in the night. Her little store of money had been drawn on. They, together, deceived the doctors. For years they deceived them, he and Rita, until all her little savings were gone. And then she had worked for the gentlemen down town; had schemed and plotted and brought him comfort, until the doctors gave up the struggle. 135 Now she was gone forever! Strange, but this contingency had never once occurred to him. How egotistical he must have been; how much a child a spoiled child ! He looked about him. Rita had years ago told him a secret. In the night she had bent over him and called him fond names; had wept upon his pillow. She had told him to speak the word just once, never again but that one time, and then to forget it. Wondering he said it "Mother." He could not forget how she fell upon him then and tear fully embraced him; he the heir and nephew of John Morgan. But it pleased good Rita and he was happy. Dead! Rita! Would it waken her if he spoke that name again? He bent to her cheek to say it, but first he looked about him cautiously. Rita would not like for any one to share the secret. He bent until his lips were touching hers and whispered it again: "Mother!" She did not move. He spoke louder and louder. "Mother-." How strange sounded that one word in the deserted room. A fear seized him; would she never speak again? He dropped on his knees in agony; and, with his hand upon her forehead, almost screamed the word again. It echoed for the last time "Mother!" Just then the face of Virdow appeared at tHe door, to be withdrawn instantly. Then Gerald grew cool. "She is dead," he said, sadly to himself. "She would have answered that!" A change came over him! He seemed to emerge from a dream; Virdow stood by him now. Drawing himself up proudly he gazed upon the dead face. "She was a good nurse a better no child ever had. Were my uncle living he would build her a great monument. I will speak to Edward about it. It is not seemly that people who have served the Morgans so long and faithfully should sleep in unmarked graves. Farewell, Rita; you have been good and true to me." He went to his room. An hour later Virdow found him there, crying as a child. With a tenderness that rose superior to the difficulties of language and the differences of race and customs, Virdow comforted and con soled him. And then occurred one of those changes familiar to the students of nature but marvelous to the unobservant. To Virdow, who had seen the vine of his garden torn from the supporting rod about which it had tied itself with tendrils, attach itself again by the gluey points of new ones to the smooth face of the wall itself, coiling them into springs to resist the winds, the change that came upon 136 SONS AND FATHERS. Gerald was natural. The broken tendrils of his life touched with quick intelligence the sympathetic old German and linked the simple being of the child-man to him. By an intuition, womanly in its swift com prehension, Virdow knew at once that he had become in some ways necessary to the life of the frail being, and he was pleased. He gave himself up to the mission without effort, disturbing in no way the new process. Watching Gerald, he appeared not to watch; present at all times, he seemed to keep himself aloof. Virdow called up an undertaker from the city in accordance with the directions left with him and had the body of Rita prepared for the burial, which was to take jplace upon the estate, and then left all to the care of the watchers. During the day from time to time Gerald went to the little rotim, and on such visits those in attendance withdrew. There was little excitement among the negroes. The singing, shout ing and violent ecstasies which distinguished the burials of the race were wanting; Rita had been one of those rare servants who keep aloof from her color. Gradually withdrawn from all contact with the world, her life had shrunk into a little round of duties and the care of the Morgan home. It was only natural that the young master should find himself alone with the nurse on each return to her coffin. During one of these visits Virdow at a distance beheld a curious thing. Gerald had gazed long and thoughtfully into the silent face and returning to his room had secured paper and crayon. Kneeling, he drew carefully the profile of his dead friend and went away to his studio. Standing in his place a moment later, Virdow was surprised to note the change that had come over the face; the relaxing power of death seemed to have rolled back the curtain of age and restored for the hour a glimpse of youth. A woman of twenty-five seemed lying there, her face noble and serene, a glorified glimpse of what had been. The brow was smooth and young, the facial angle high, the hair, now no longer un der the inevitable turban, smooth and black, with just a suspicion of frost above the temples. The lips were curved and smiling. Why had the young man drawn her profile? What real position did this woman occupy in that strange family? As to the latter he could not determine; he would not try. He had nothing to do with the domestic facts of life. There had been a deep significance in the first scene at the bedside. And yet "Mother" under the circumstances might after all mean nothing. He had heard that southern children were taught this, or something like it, by all black nurses. But as to the THE PROFILE ON THE MOON 137 profile, there was a phenomenon possibly, and science was his life. The young man had drawn the profile because it was the first time he had within his recollections ever seen it. In the analysis of his dreams that profile might be of momentous importance. The little group that had gathered followed the coffin to a clump of trees not far removed. The men who bore it lowered it at once to the open grave. An old negro preacher lifted his voice in a homely prayer, the women sang a weird hymn, and then they filled up the cavity. The face and form of Rita were removed from human vision, but only the face and form. For one of that concourse, the young white man who had come bareheaded to stand calm and silent at the foot of the grave, she lived clear and distinct upon the hidden film of memory. Virdow was not deceived by that calmness; he knew and feared the reaction which was inevitable. From time to time during the even ing he had gone silently to the wing-room and to the outer yard to gaze in upon his charge. Always he found him calm and rational. He could not understand it. Then, disturbed by the suspense of Edward's absence, and the un certainty of his fate, he would forget himself and surroundings in con templation of the possible disasters of an American duel exagger ated accounts of which dwelt in his memory. He resolved to remain up until the crisis came. It was midnight when, for the twentieth time, probably, he went to look in upon Gerald. The wing-room, the glass-room, the little house deprived by death of its occupant, the outer premises he searched them all in vain. Greatly troubled, he stood revolving the new per plexity in his mind when his eye caught in the faint glow of the east, where the moon was beginning to show its approach, the outline of the cemetery clump of trees. It flashed upon him then that, drawn by the power of association, the young man might have wandered off to pay a visit to the grave of his friend. He turned his own feet in the same direction, and approached the spot. The grave had been dug under the widespread limbs of cedar, and there he found the object of his quest. Slowly the moon rose above the level field beyond, outlining a form. In his dressing gown stood Gerald, with folded arms, his long hair fall ing upon his shoulders, lost in deep thought. Thrilled by the scene, Virdow was about to speak, when, in the twinkling of an eye, there was flashed upon him a vision that sent his blood back to his heart and left him speechless with emotion. For in 138 SONS AND FATHERS. that moment the half-moon was at the level of the head, and outlined against its silver surface he saw the profile of the face he had studied in the coffin. Appalled by the discovery, he turned silently and sought his room. CHAPTER XXV. THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH. It was late in the day when Virdow awoke. The excitement, the unwonted hours which circumstances forced him to keep, brought at last unbroken rest and restored his physical structure to its normal condition. He dressed himself and descended to find a brief telegram announc ing the safety of Edward. It was a joyful addition to the conditions that had restored him. The telegram had not been opened. He went quickly to Gerald's room and found that young man at work upon a painting of Rita as he had seen her last the profile sketch. His emotional nature had already thrown off its gloom, and with absorbed interest he was pushing his work. Already the face had been sketched in and the priming completed. Under his rapid and skillful hands the tints and contours were growing, and Virdow, accustomed as he was to the art in all its completeness and technical perfection, mar veled to see the changed face of the woman glide back into view, the counterpart he knew of the vivid likeness clear cut in the sensitive brain that held it. He let him work undisturbed. A word might affect its correctness. Only when the artist ceased and laid aside his brush for a brief rest did he speak. Gerald turned to him as to a co-laborer, and took the yellow slip of paper, so potent with intelligent lettering. He read it in silence; then putting it aside went on with his painting. Virdow rubbed his brow and studied him furtively. Such lack of interest was inconceiv able under the conditions. He went to work seriously to account for it and this he did to his own satisfaction. In one of his published lec tures on memory, years after, occured this sentence, based upon that silent reverie: THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH 139 "Impressions and forgetfulness are measurable by each other; in deed, the power of the mind to remember vividly seems to be measured by its power to forget." But afterward Gerald picked up the telegram, read it intently and seemed to reflect over the information it contained. Later in the day the postman brought the mail and with it one of the "extras." Virdow read it aloud in the wing-room. Gerald came and stood before him, his eyes revealing excitement. When Virdow reached the part where in Edward was described as never removing his eyes from his antag onist, his hearer exclaimed: "Good! He will kill him!" "No," said Virdow, smiling; "fortunately he did not. Listen." "Fortunately!" cried Gerald; "fortunately! Why? What right has such a man to live? He must have killed him!" Virdow read on. A cry broke from Gerald's lips as the explanation appeared. "I was right! The hand becomes a part of the eye when the mind wills it; or, rather, eye and hand become mind. The will is every thing. But why he should have struck the guard " He went to the wall and toolc down two pistols. Handing one to Virdow and step ping back he said: "You will please sight at my face a moment; I cannot understand how the accident could have happened." Virdow held the weapon gingerly. "But, Herr Gerald, it may be loaded." "They are empty," said Gerald, breeching his own and exposing the cylinder chambers, with the light shining through. "Now aim!" Virdow obeyed ; the two men stood at ten paces, aiming at each other's faces. "Your hand," said the young man, "covers your mouth. Ed ward aimed for the mouth." There was a quick, sharp explosion; Virdow staggered back, drop ping his smoking pistol. Gerald turned his head in mild surprise and looked upon a hole in the plastering behind. "I have no recollection of loading that pistol," he said. And then: "If your mind had been concentrated upon your aim I would have lost a finger and had my weapon driven into my face." Virdow was shocked at the narrow escape and pale as death. "It is nothing," t said Gerald, replacing the weapon; "you would not hit me in a dozen trials, shooting as you do." At 10 o'clock that night Edward, pale and weary, entered. He re turned with emotion the professor's enthusiastic embrace, and thanked him for his care and atttention of Gerald and the household and for 140 SONS AND FATHERS. his services to the dead. Gerald studied him keenly as he spoke, and once went to one side and looked upon him with new and curious inter est. The professor saw that he was examining the profile of the speak er by the aid of the powerful lamp on the table beyond. The discovery set his mind to working in the same direction, and soon he saw the profiles of both. Edward's did not closely resemble the other. That this was true, for some reason, the expression that had settled upon Gerald's face attested. The portrait had been covered and removed. Edward, after concluding some domestic arrangements, went di rectly to his room and, dressed as he was, threw himself upon his bed and slept. And as he slept there took place about him a drama that would have set his heart beating with excitement could he have witnessed it. The house was silent; the city clock had tolled the midnight hour, when Gerald came into the room, bearing a shaded lamp. The sleeper lay on his back, locked in the slumber of exhaustion. The visitor, mov ing with the noiselessness of a shadow, glided to the opposite side of the bed, and, placing the lamp on a chair, slowly turned up the flame and tilted the shade. In an instant the strong profile of the sleeper flashed upon the wall. With suppressed excitement Gerald unwrapped a sheet of cardboard, and standing it on the mantel received upon it the shadow. As if by a supreme effort, he controlled himself and traced the profile on his paper. Lifting it from the mantel he studied it for a moment intently and then replaced it. The shadow filled the tracing. Taking it slowly from its position he passed from the room. Fortun ately his distraction was too great for him to notice the face of Vir- dow, or to perceive it in the deep gloom of the little room as he passed out. The German waited a few moments; no sound came back from the broad carpeted stair; taking the forgotten lamp, he followed hinj silent ly. Passing out into the shrubbery, he made his way to the side of the conservatory and looked in. Gerald had placed the two profiles, one on each side of the mirror, and with a duplex glass was studying his own in connection with them. He stood musing, and then, as if for getting his occupation, he let the hand-glass crash upon the floor, tossed his arms in an abandonment of emotion, and, covering his face with his hands, suddenly threw himself across the bed. Virdow was distressed and perplexed. He read the story in the pantomime, but what could he do? No human sympathy could com fort such a grief, nor could he betray his knowledge of the secret he THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH 141 had surreptitiously obtained. He paced up and down outside until presently the moving shadow of the occupant of the room fell upon his path. He saw him then take from a box a little pill and put it in his mouth, and he knew that the troubles of life, its doubts, distress and loneliness, would be forgotten for hours. Forgotten? Who knows? Oh, mystery of creation; that invisible intelligence that vanishes in sleep and in death; gone on its voyage of discovery, appalling in its possibilities; but yet how useless, since it must return with no memory of its experience! And he, Virdow, what a dreamer! For in that German brain of subtleties lived, with the clearness of an incandescent light in the depths of a coal mine, one mighty purpose; one so vast, so potent in its possibilities, as to shake the throne of reason, a resolution to fol low upon the path of mind and wake a memory never touched in the history of science. It was not an ambition; it was a leap toward the gates of heaven ! For what cared he that his name might shine for ever in the annals of history if he could claim of his own mind the re cord of its wanderings? The future was not his thought. What he sought was the memory of the past! He went in now, secure of the possibility of disturbing the sleeper, and stood looking down into the room's appointments; there were the two profiles on either side of the mirror; upon the floor the shivered fragments of the hand-glass. Virdow returned to his room, but before leaving he took from the little box one of the pellets and swallowed it. If he was to know that mind, he must acquaint himself with its conditions. He had never before swallowed the drug; he took this as the Frenchman received the attenuated virus of hydrophobia from the hands of Pasteur in the interest of science and the human race. As he lay upon his bed he felt a languor steal upon hinr, saw in far dreams cool meadows and flowery slopes, felt the solace of perfect re pose envelop him. And then he stood beside a stream of running water under the shade of the trees, with the familiar hills of youth along the horizon. A young woman came and stood above the stream and looked intently upon its glassy surface. Her feature were in distinct. Drawing near he, too, looked into the water, and there at his feet was the sad, sweet face of Marion Evan. He turned and then looked closer at the woman; he saw in her arms the figure of an in fant, over whose face she had drawn a fold of her gown. She shook her head as he extended his hand to remove this and pointed behind 142 SONS AND FATHERS. her. There the grass ran out and only white sand appeared, with no break to the horizon. Toiling on through this, with a bowed head, was a female figure. He knew her; she was Rita, and the burden she, too, carried in her arms was the form of a child. The figures disappeared and a leaf floated down the stream; twenty-six in succession followed, and then he saw a man descending the mountains and coming forward, his eyes fixed on something beyond him. It was Edward. He looked in the same direction ; there was a frail man toiling toward him through the deep sands in the hot sunlight. It was Gerald. And then the figures faded away. There memory ceased to record. Whatever else was the experience of that eager mind as it wandered on through the mystery, and phantasmagoria has no place in science. He remembered in the morning up to one point only. It was his last experience with the drug. CHAPTER XXVI. GATHERING THE CLEWS. Edward drifted for several days upon the tide of the thoughts that came over him. He felt a singular disinclination to face the world again. He knew that as life goes he had acquitted himself manfully and that nothing remained undone that had been his duty to perform. He was sensible of a feeling of deep gratitude to the old general for his active and invaluable backing; without it he realized then that he would have been drawn into a pitfall and the opportunity for defense gone. He did not realize, however, how complete the public reaction had been until card after card had been left at Ilexhurst and the post man had deposited congratulatory missives by the score. One of these contained notice of his election to the club. Satisfactory as was all this he put aside the social and public life into which he had been drawn, conscious that, while the affront to him had been resented and rendered harmless, he himself was as much in the dark as ever; that as a matter of fact he was without name and family, without right to avail himself of the generous offers laid at his door. Despite his splendid residence, his future, his talents and his GATHERING CLUES 143 prestige as a man of honor, he was nobody; an accident of fate; a whim of an accentric old man. He should not involve any one else in the possibility of ruin. He should not let another share his danger. There could be no happiness with this mystery hanging over him. Soon after his return, while his heart was yet sore and disturbed, he had received a note from Mary. She wrote: "We suffer greatly on your account. Poor papa was bound down by circumstances with which you are familiar, though he would gone to you at any cost had it been necessary. In addition his health is very delicate and he has been facing a heavy sorrow now realized at last! Poor little mamma's eyesight is gone forever, probably. We are in deep distress, as you may imagine, for, unused as yet to her misfortune, she is quite helpless and needs our constant care, and It is pitiful to. see her efforts to bear up and be cheerful. "I need not tell you how I have sorrowed over the insult and wrongs inflicted upon you by a cowardly connection of our family, nor how anxious I was until the welcome news of your safety reached us. We owe you much, and more now since you were made the innocent victim of a plot aimed to destroy papa's chances. "It is unbearable to think of your having to stand up and be shot at in our behalf; but oh, how glad I am that you had the old general with you. Is he not noble and good? He is quite carried away with you and never tires of talking of your coolness and courage. He says everything has ended beautifully but the election, and he could remedy that if papa would consent, but nothing in the world could take papa away from us now, and it he had been elected his resignation would have speedily followed. "I know you are yet weary and bitter, and do not even care to see your friends, but that will pass and none will give you a more earnest welcome when you do come than "Mary." He read this many times, and each time found in it a new charm. Its simplicity and earnestness impressed him at one reading and its personal interest at another; its quick discerning sympathy in another. It grew upon him, that letter. It was the only letter ever penned by a woman to him. Notes he had had by the score; rich young men in the great capitals of Europe do not escape nor seek to escape these, but this was straight from the heart of an earnest, self-reliant, sym pathetic woman; one of those who have made the South a fame as far 144 SONS AND FATHERS. as her sons have traveled. It was a new experience and destined to be a lasting one. Its effect was in the end striking and happy. Gradually he roused himself from the cynical lethargy into which he was sinking and be gan to look about him. After all he had much to live for, and with peace came new manhood. He would fight for the woman who had faith in him such a fight as man never dared before. He looked up to find Virdow smiling on him- through his tears. He stood up. "I am going to make a statement now that will sur prise and shock you, but the reason will be sufficient. First I ask that you promise me, as though we stood before our Creator, a witness, that never in this life nor the next, if consciousness of this goes with you, will you betray by word or deed anything of what you hear from my lips to-night. I do not feel any uneasiness, but promise." "I promise," said Virdow, simply, "but if it distresses you, if you feel bound to me " "On the contrary, the reason is selfish entirely. I tell you because the possession of this matter is destroying my ability to judge fairly; because I want help and believe you are the only being in the world who can give it." He spoke earnestly and pathetically. "Without it, I shall become a wreck." Then Virdow seized the speaker's hand. "Go on, Edward. All the help that Virdow can give is yours in advance." Edward related to him the causes that led up to the duel the poli tical campaign, the publication of Royson's card, and the history of the challenge. "You call me Edward," he said; "the world knows me and I know myself as Edward Morgan. I have no evidence whatever to believe myself entitled to bear the name. All the evidence I have points to the fact that it was bestowed upon me as was my fortune itself in pity. The mystery that overspreads me envelops Gerald also. But fate has left him superior to misfortune." "It has already done for him what you fear for yourself it has wrecked his life, if not his mind!" The professor spoke the words sadly and gently, looking into the night through the open window. Edward turned toward him in wonder. "I am sure. Listen and I will tell you why. To me it seems fatal to him, but for you there is consolation." Graphically he described then the events that had transpired during the few days of his stay at Ilexhurst; his quick perception that the mind of Gerald was work- GATHERING CLUES 145 ing feverishly, furiously, and upon denned lines to some end; that something haunted and depressed him. His secret was revealed in his conduct upon the death of Rita. "It is plain," said Virdow finally, "that this thought this uncer tainty which has haunted you for weeks, has been wearing upon him since childhood. Of the events that preceded it I have little or no in formation." Edward, thrilled to the heart by this recital and the fact to which it seemed to point, walked the floor greatly agitated. Presently he said : "Of these you shall judge also." He took from the desk in the ad joining room the fragmentary story and read it. "This," he said, as he saw the face of the old man beam with intelligence, " is confirmed as an incident in the life of Gerald or myself; in fact, the beginning of life." He gave the history of the fragmentary story and of Rita's confession. "By this evidence," he went on, "I was led to believe that the woman erred in the recognition of her own child; that I am in fact that child and that Gerald is the son of Marion. This in her last breath she seemed to deny, for when I begged her to testify upon it, as before her God, and asked the question direct, she cried out: 'They lied!' In this it seems to me that her heart went back to its secret belief and that in the supreme moment she affirmed forever his nativity. Were this all I confess I would be satisfied, but there is a fatal fact to come !" He took from his pocket the package prepared for Gen. Evan, and tore from it the picture of Marion. "Now," he exclaimed excitedly, "as between the two of us, how can this woman be other than the mother of Gerald Morgan? And, if I could be mistaken as to the resemblance, how could her father fall into my error? For I swear to you that on the night he bent over the sleeping man he saw upon the pillow the face of his wife and daughter blended in those features!" Virdow was looking intently upon the picture. "Softly, softly," he said, shaking his head; "it is a true likeness, but it does not prove anything- Family likeness descends only surely by profiles. If we could see her profile, but this ! There is no reason why the child of Rita should not resemble another. It would depend upon the impression, the interest, the circumstances of birth, of associa tions " He paused. "Describe to me again the mind picture which Gerald under the spell of music sketched give it exactly." Edward gave it in detail. 146 SONS AND FATHERS. "That, said Virdow, "was the scene flashed upon the woman who gazed from the arch. It seems impossible for it to have descended to Gerald, except by one of the two women there the one to whom the man's back was turned. Had this mental impression come from the other source it seems to me he would have seen the face of that man, and if the impression was vivid enough to descend from mother to child it would! have had the church for a background, in place of the arch, with storm-lashed trees beyond. This is reasonable only when we sup pose it possible that brain pictures can be transmitted. As a man I am convinced. As a scientist I say that it is not proved." Edward, every nerve strained to its utmost tension, every faculty of mind engaged, devoured this brief analysis and conclusion. But more proof was given ! Over his face swept a shadow. "Poor Gerald! Poor Gerald!" he muttered. But he became con scious presently that the face of Virdow wore a concerned look; there was something to come. He could not resist the temptation to clear up the last vestige of doubt if doubt could remain. "Tell me," he said, "what do you require to satisfy you that be tween the two I am the son of Marion Evan?" "Two things," said Virdow, quickly. "First, proof that Rita was in no way akin to the Evan family, for if she was in the remotest de gree, the similarity of profiles could be accounted for. Second, that your own and the profile of Marion Evan were of the same angle. Satisfy me upon these two points and you have nothing to fear." A feeling of weakness overwhelmed Edward. The general had not seen in his face any likeness to impress him. And yet, why his marked in terest? The whole subject lay open again. And Marion Evan! Where was he to obtain such proof? Virdow saw the struggle in his mind. "Leave nothing unturned," said Edward, "that one of us may live free of doubt, and just now, God help me, it seems my duty to strive for him first." "And these efforts when " "To-night! Let us descend." "We go first to the room of the nurse," said Virdow. "We shall begin there." Edward led the way and with a lighted lamp they entered the room. The search there was brief and uneventful. On the wall in a simple frame was a protrait of John Morgan, drawn years before from mem ory by Gerald. It was the face of the man known only to the two THE FACE THAT CAME IN DREAMS 147 searchers as Abingdon, but its presence there might be significant. Her furniture and possessions were simple. In her little box of trinkets were found several envelopes addressed to her from Paris, one of them in the handwriting of a man, the style of German. All were empty, the letters having in all probability been destroyed. They, however, constituted a clew, and Edward placed them in his pocket. In another envelope was a child's golden curl, tied with a narrow black ribbon; and there was a drawer full of broken toys. And that was all. CHAPTER XXVII. THE FACE THAT CAME IN DREAMS. Virdow was not a scientist in the strict sense of the term. He had been a fairly good musician in youth and had advanced somewhat in art. He was one of those modern scientists, who are not walled in by past conclusions, but who, like Morse, leap forward from a vantage point and build back to connect with old results. Early in life he had studied the laws of vibration, until it seemed revealed to him that all forms, all fancies, were born of it. Gradually as his beautiful demon strations were made and all art co-ordinated upon this law, he saw in dreams a fulfillment of his hopes that in his age, in his life, might bloom the fairest flower of science, a mind memory opened to mortal consciousness. Dreaming further along the lines of Wagner, it had come to him that the key to this hidden, dumb and sleeping record of the mind was vibra tion; that the strains of music which summon beautiful dreams to the minds of men were magic wands lifting the vision of this past; not its immediate past, but the past of ages; for in the brain of the subtle German was firmly fixed the belief that the minds of men were in their last analysis one and indivisible, and older than the molecules of physi cal creation. He held triumphantly that "then shall you see clearly," was but one way of saying "then shall you remember." To this man the mind picture which Gerald had drawn, the church, with its tragic figures, came as a reward of generations of labor. He had followed many a false trail and failed in hospital and asylum. In 148 SONS AND FATHERS. Gerald he hoped for a sound, active brain, combined with the faculty of expression in many languages and the finer power of art; an organ ism sufficiently delicate to carry into that viewless vinculum between body and soul, vibrations, rhymes and co-ordinations delicate enough to touch a new consciousness and return its reply through organized form. He had found these conditions perfect, and he felt that if failure was the result, while still firmly fixed in his belief, never again would opportunity of equal merit present itself. If in Gerald his the ory failed of demonstration, the mind's past would be, in his lifetime, locked to his mortal consciousness. In brief he had formed the con ditions so long sought and upon these his life's hope was staked. Much of this he stated as they sat in the wing-room. Gerald lay upon the divan when he began talking 1 , lost in abstraction, but as the theory of the German was gradually unfolded Edward saw him fix his bright eye upon the speaker, saw him becoming 1 restless and excited. When the explanation ended he was walking the floor. "Experiments with frogs," he said, abruptly; "accidents to the human brain and" vivisection have proved the separateness of memory and consciousness. But I shall do better; I shall give to the world a complete picture descended from parent to child an inherited brain picture of which the mind is thoroughly conscious." His listeners waited in breathless suspense; both knew to what he referred. "But," he added, shaking his head, "that does not carry us out of the material world." His ready knowledge of this subject and its quick grasp of the prop osition astonished Virdow beyond expression. "Go on," he said, simply. "When that fusion of mind and matter occurs," said Gerald, posi tively; "when the consciousness is put in touch with the mind's un conscious memory there will be no pictures seen, no records read; we shall simply broaden out, comprehend, understand, grasp, know! That is all! It will not come to the world, but to individuals, and, lastly, it has already come! Every so called original thought that dawns upon a human, every intuitive conception of the truth, marks the point where mind yielded something of a memory to human consciousness." The professor moved uneasily in his seat; both he and Edward were overwhelmed with the surprise of the demonstration that behind the sad environment of this being dwelt a keen, logical mind. The speaker paused and smiled; his attention was not upon his company. "So," he said, softly, "come the song into the mind of the poet, so THE FACE THAT CAME IN DREAMS 149 the harmonies to the singer and so the combination of colors to the artist; so the rounded periods of oratory and so the conception that makes invention possible. No facts appear, because facts are the re sults of laws, the proofs of truths. The mind-memory carries none of these; it carries laws and the truth which interprets it all; and when men can hold their consciousness to the touch of mind without a fall ing apart, they will stand upon the plane of their Creator, because they will then be fully conscious of the eternal laws and in harmony with them." "And you," said Virdow, greatly affected, "have you ever felt the union of consciousness and mind-memory?" "Yes," he replied; "what I have said is the truth; for it came from an inner consciousness without previous determination and in tention. I am right, and you know I am right!" Virdow shook his head, "I have hoped," he said, gently, "that in this mind-memory dwelt pictures. We shall see, we shall see." Gerald turned away impatiently and threw himself upon his couch. Presently in the silence which en sued rose the solemn measure of Mendelssohn's heart-beat march from Edward's violin. The strange, sad, depressing harmony filled the room; even Virdow felt its wonderful power and sat mute and disturbed. Suddenly he happened to gaze toward Gerald. He lay with ashen face and rigid eyes fixed upon the ceiling, to all appear ances a corpse. Virdow bounded forward and snatched the bow from Edward's hand. "Stop!" he cried; "for his sake stop, or you will kill him!" They dragged the inanimate form to the window and bathed the face. A low moan escaped the young man, and then a gleam of in telligence came into his eyes. He tried to speak, but without success; an expression of surprise and distress came upon his face as he rose to his feet. For a moment he stood gasping, but presently his breath came normally. "Temporary aphasia," he said, in a low tone. Going to the easel he drew rapidly the picture of a woman kneeling above the prostrate form of another, and stood contemplating it in silence. Edward and Virdow came to his side, the latter pale with excitement. Gerald did not notice them. Only the back of the kneeling woman was shown, but the face of the other was distinct, calm and beautiful. It was the girl in the small picture. "That face that face," he whispered. "Alas! I see it only as my 150 SONS AND FATHERS. ancestors saw it." He resumed his lounge dejectedly. "You have seen it before, then?" said Virdow, earnestly. "Before! In my dreams from childhood! It is a face associated with me always. In the night, when the wind blows, I hear a voice calling Gerald, and this vision comes. Shall I tell you a secret " His voice had become lower and now was inaudible. Placing his hand upon the white wrist, Virdow said : "He sleeps; it is well. Come away, my young friend; I have learned much, but the experience might have been dearly bought. Sometime I will explain." Noiselessly they withdrew to Edward's room. Ed ward was depressed. "You have gained, but not I," he said. "The back of the kneeling woman was toward him." "Wait," said Virdow; "all things cannot be learned in a night. We do not know who witnessed that scene." CHAPTER XXVIII. THE THREE PICTURES. Virdow had arisen and been to town when Edward made his ap pearance late in the morning. After tossing on his pillow all night, at daylight he had fallen into a long, dreamless sleep. Gerald was looking on, and the professor was arranging an experi mental apparatus of some kind. He had suspended a metal drum from the arch of the glass-room by steel wires, and over the upper end of the drum had drawn tightly a sheet of rubber obtained from a toy balloon manufacturer. In the base of this drum he inserted a hollow stem of tin, one end of which was flared like a trumpet. The whole machine when completed presented the appearance of a gigan tic pipe; the mouthpiece enlarged. When Edward came in the Ger man was spreading upon the rubber surface of the drum an almost impalpable powder, taken from one of the iron nodules which lay about on the surrounding hills and slightly moistened. "I have been explaining to Gerald," said Virdow, cheerily, "some of my bases for hopes that vibration is the medium through which to effect that ether wherein floats what men call the mind, and am get- THE THREE PICTURES 151 ting ready to show the co-ordinations of force and increasing steadily and evenly. Try what you Americans call 'A' in the middle register and remember that you have before you a detective that will catch your slightest error." He was closing doors and openings as he spoke. Edward obeyed. Placing his mouth near the trumpet opening he began. The simple note, prolonged, rang out in the silent room, in creasing in strength to a certain point and ending abruptly. Then was seen a marvelous thing; animated, the composition upon the disk rushed to the exact center and then tremulously began to take definite shape. A little medallion appeared, surrounded by minute dots, and from these little tongues ran outward. The note died away, and only the breathing of the eager watchers was heard. Before them in bas- relief was a red daisy, as perfect, aye, more nearly perfect, than art could supply. Gerald after a moment turned his head and seemed lost in thought. "From "that we might infer," said Virdow, "that the daisy is the 'A' note of the world; that of it is born all the daisy class of flowers, from the sunflower down all vibrations of a standard." Again and again the experiment was repeated, with the same result. "Now try 'C," said the German, and Edward obeyed. Again the mass rushed together, but this time it spread into the form of a pansy. And then with other notes came fern shapes, trees and figures that re sembled the scale armor of fish. And finally, from a softly sounded and prolonged note, a perfect serpent in coils appeared, with every ring distinctly marked. This form was varied by repetition to shells and cornucopias. So through the musical scale went the experiments, each yielding a new and distinct form where the notes differed. Virdow enjoyed the wonder of Edward and the calm concentration of Gerald. He continued: "Thus runs the scale in colors; each of the seven red, orange, yel low, green, blue, indigo and violet is a note, and as there are notes in music that harmonize, so in colors there are the same notes, the hues of which blend harmoniously. What have they to do with the mind memory? This: As a certain number of vibrations called to life in music the shell, in light the color, and in music the note, so once found will certain notes, or more likely their co-ordinations, awaken the mem ories of the mind, since infallibly by vibrations were they first born. "This is the border land of speculation, you think, and you are partly correct. What vibration could have fixed the form of the daisy and the shape we have found in nature is uncertain, but remember that the 152 SONS AND FATHERS. earth swings in a hollow drum of air as resonant and infinitely more sensitive than rubber; and the brain there is a philosophic necces- sity for the shape of a man's head." "If," said Gerald, "you had said these vibrations awakened the mem ories of the brain instead of the mind, I could have agreed with you. Yours are on the order of the London experiments. I am familiar with them, but only through reading." Again Virdow wondered, but he continued: "The powers of vibration are not understood in fact, only dreamed of. Only one man in the world, your Keely, has appreciated its pos sibilities, and he is involved in the herculean effort to harness it to modern machinery. It was vibration simply that affected Gerald so deeply last night; a rhythm co-ordinating with his heart. I have seen vast audiences and you have, too, Edward painfully depressed by that dangerous experiment of Mendelssohn ; for the heart, like a clock, will seek to adjust itself to rhythms. Your tempo was less than sev enty-two to the minute; Gerald's delicate heart caught time and the brain lacked blood. A quick march would have sent the blood faster and brought exhilaration. Under the influence of march time men cheer and do deeds of valor that they would not otherwise attempt, though the measure is sounded only upon a drum; but when to this time is added a second, a third and a fourth rhythm, and the harmon ies of tone against tone, color against color, in perfect co-ordination, they are no longer creatures of reason, but heroes. The whole mat ter is subject to scientific demonstration. "But back to this Tieart-beat march.' The whole nerve system of man since the infancy of the race has been subject to the rhythm of the heart, every atom of the human body is attuned to it; for while length of life, breadth of shoulders, chest measure and stature have changed since the days of Adam we have no evidence that the solemn measure of the heart, sending its seventy-two waves against all the minute divisions of the human machine, has ever varied in the normal man. Lessen it, as on last night, and the result is distressing. And as you increase it, or substitute for it vibrations more rapid against those myriad nerves, you exhilarate or intoxicate. "But has any one ever sent the vibration into that 'viewless vin- culum' and awakened the hidden mind? As our young friend testifies, yes! There have been times when these lower co-ordinations of song and melodies have made by a momentary link mind and matter one, and of these times are born the world's greatest treasures jewels THE THREE PICTURES 153 wrested from the hills of eternity! What has been done by chance, science should do by rule." Gerald had listened, with an attention not hoped for, but the con clusion was anticipated in his quick mind. Busy with his portfolio, he did not attend, but upon the professor's conclusion he turned with a picture in his hand. It was the drawing of the previous night. "What is it?" he asked. "A mind picture, possibly," said Virdow. "You mean by that a picture never impressed upon the brain, but living within the past experience of the mind?" "Exactly." "And I say it is simply a brain picture transmitted to me by heredity." "I deny nothing; all things are possible. But by whom? One of those women?" Gerald started violently and looked suspiciously upon his questioner. Virdow's face betrayed nothing. "I do not know," said Gerald; "you have gaps in your theory, and this is the gap in mine. Neither of these women could have seen this picture; there must have been a third person." Virdow smiled and nodded his head. "And if there was a third person he is my missing witness. From him comes your vision a true mind picture." "And this?" Gerald drew from the folio a woman's face the face that Edward had shown, but idealized and etherealized. "From whom comes this?" cried the young man with growing excitement. "For I swear to you that I have never, except in dreams, beheld it, no tongue has described it! It is mine by memory alone, not plucked from subtle ether by a wandering mind, but from the walls of memory alone. Tell me." Virdow shook his head ; he was silent for fear of the excitement. Gerald came and stood by him with the two pictures; his voice was strained and impassioned, and his tones just audible: "The face in this and the sleeper's face in this are the same; if you were on the stand to answer for a friend's life would you say of me, this man descends from the kneeling woman?" Virdow looked upon him unflinchingly. "I would answer, as by my belief in God's creation, that by this tes timony you descend from neither, for the brain that held those pic tures could belong to neither woman. One could not hold an ether- alized picture of her own face, nor one a true likeness of her own back." Gerald replaced the sheets. "You have told me what I knew," he said; "and yet from one of 154 SONS AND FATHERS. them I am descended, and the pictures are true!" He took his hat and boat paddle and left them abruptly. The portfolio stood open. Virdow went to close it, but there was a third drawing dimly visible. Idly he drew it forth. It was the picture of a white seagull and above it was an arch; be yond were the bending trees of the first picture. Both men studied It curiously, but with varying emotions. CHAPTER XXIX. "HOME SWEET HOME." Edward approached the hall that afternoon with misgivings. A charge had been brought against him, denied, and the denial defended with his life; but the charge was not disproved. And in this was the defect of the "code of honor." It died not because of its bloodiness but of inadequacy. A correct aim could not be a satisfactory sub stitute for good character nor good morals. Was it his duty to furnish proof to his title to the name of gentle man? Or could he afford to look the world in the face with disdain and hold himself above suspicion? The latter course was really his only choice. He had no proofs. This would do for the world at large, but among intimates would it suffice? He knew that nowhere in the world is the hearthstone more sacred than in the south, and how long would his welcome last, even at The Hall, with his past unexplained? He would see! The first hesitancy of host or hostess, and he would be self -banished ! There was really no reason why he should remain in America; agents could transact what little business was his and look after Gerald's affairs. Nothing had changed within him; he was the same Edward Morgan, with the same capacities for enjoyment. But something had changed. He felt it with the mere thought of absence. What was it? As in answer to his mental question, there came behind him the quick breath of a hors:? and turning he beheld Mary. She smiled in response to his bow. The next instant he had descended from his buggy and was waiting. "May I ride with you?" Again the face of the girl lighted with pleasure. "HOME SWEET HOME." 155 "Of course. Get down, Jerry, and change places with Mr. Morgan." Jerry made haste to obey. "Now, drop behind," she said to him, as Edward seated himself by her side. "You see I have accepted your invitation," he began "only I did not come as soon as I wished to, or I would have answered your kind note at once in person. All are well, I trust?" Her face clouded. "No. Mamma has become entirely blind probably for all time. I have just been to telegraph Dr. Campbell to come to us. We will know to-morrow." He was greatly distressed. "My visit is inopportune J will turn back. No, I was going from The Hall to the general's; I can keep straight on." "Indeed, you shall not, Mr. Morgan. Mamma is bearing up bravely, andj you can help so much to divert her mind if you tell her of your travels." He assented readily. It was a novel sensation to find himself useful. "To-morrow morning," she continued, "perhaps I can find time to go to the general's if you really want to go " "I do," he said. "My German friend, Virdow, has a theory he wishes to demonstrate and has asked me to find the dominate tones in a water fall; I remembered the general's little cascade, and owing him a visit am going to discharge both duties. What a grand old man the gen eral is!" "Oh, indeed, yes. You do not know him, Mr. Morgan. If you could have seen how he entered into your quarrel " she blushed and hesi tated. "Oh, what an outrage was that affair!" "It is past, Miss Montjoy; think no more upon it. It was I who cost your father his seat in Congress. That is the lamentable feature." "That is nothing," said the young girl, "compared with the morti fication and peril forced upon you. But you had friends more than you dreamed of. The general says that the form of your note to Mr. Royson saved you a grave complication." "You mean that I am indebted to Mr. Barksdale for that?" "Yes. I love Mr. Barksdale; he is so manly and noble." Edward smiled upon her; he was not jealous of that kind of love. "He is certainly a fine character the best product of the new south, I take it. I have neglected to thank him for his good offices. I shall call upon him when I return." "And," she said in a low tone, "of course you will assure the gen eral of your gratitude to-morrow. You owe him more than you sus pect. I would not have you fail there." 156 SONS AND FATHERS. "And why would you dislike to have me fail?" She blushed furious ly when she realized how she had become involved, but she met his questioning gaze bravely. "You forget that I introduced you as my friend, and one does not like for friends to show up in a bad light." He fell into moody silence, from which with difficulty only he could bring himself to reply to questions as she led the way from personal grounds. The Hall saved him from absolute disgrace. In the darkened sitting-room was Mrs. Montjoy when the girl and the young man entered. She lifted her bandaged eyes to the door as she heard their voices in the hall. "Mamma, here is Mr. Morgan," said Mary. The family had instinct ively agreed upon a cheerful tone; the great oculist was coming; it was but a question of time when blessed sight would return again. The colonel raised himself from the lounge where he had been dozing and came forward. Edward could not detect in his grave courtesy the slightest deviation of manner. He welcomed him smilingly and inquired of Gerald. And then, continuing into the room, the young man took the soft hand of the elder woman. She placed the other on his and said with that singular disregard of words peculiar to the blind : "I am glad to see you Mr. Morgan. We have been so distressed about you. I spent a wretched day and night thinking of your worry and danger." "They are all over now, madam; but it is pleasant to know that my friends were holding me up all the time. Naturally I was somewhat lonesome," he said, forcing a smile, "until the general came to my rescue." Then recollecting himself, he added: "But those hours were as nothing to this, madam. You cannot understand how distressed I was to learn, as I have just now, of your illness." She patted his hand affectionately, after the manner of old ladies. "Oh, yes, I can. Mary has told us of your offer to take us to Paris on that account. I am sure sometimes that one's misfortunes fall heaviest upon friends." "It is not too late," he said, earnestly. "If the colonel will keep house and trust you with me, it is not too late. Really, I am almost obliged to visit Paris soon, and if " he turned to the colonel at a loss for words. That gentleman had passed his hand over his forehead and was looking away. "You are more than kind, my young friend," he said, sadly: "more "HOME SWEET HOME." 157 than kind. We will see Campbell. If it is necessary Mrs. Montjoy will go to Paris." Mary had been a silent witness of the little scene. She turned away to hide her emotion, fearful that her voice, if she spoke, would betray her. The Duchess came in and climbed to grandma's lap and wound her arms around the little woman. The colonel had resumed his seat when Mary brought in from the hall the precious violin and laid it upon the piano, waiting there until the conversation lagged. "Mamma," she said, then, "Mr. Morgan has his violin; he was on his way through here to the general's when I intercepted him. I know you can rely upon him to play for us." "As much and as often as desired," said Edward heartily. "I have a friend at home, an old professor with whom I studied in Germany, who is engaged in some experiments with vibration, and he has as signed me- rather a novel task that is, I am to go over to the gen eral's and determine the tone of a waterfall, for everything has its tone your window glass, your walking stick, even and these will respond to the vibrations which make that tone. Young memories are born of vibration, and old airs bring back old thoughts." He arose and took the violin as he talked. If the presence of the silent sufferer was not sufficient to touch his heart, there were the brown, smiling eyes of the girl whose fingers met his as he took the instrument. He played as never before. Some thing went from him into the ripe, resonant instrument, something that even Virdow could not have explained, and through the simple melodies he chose, affected his hearers deeply. Was it the loneliness of the man speaking to the loneliness of the silent woman, whose ban daged forehead rested upon one blue-veined hand? Or was it a new spring opened up by the breath, the floating hair, the smooth contour of cheeks, the melting depths of brown eyes, the divine sympathy of the girl who played his accompaniments? All the old music of the blind woman's girlhood had been carefully bound and preserved, as should all old music be when it has become a part of our lives; and as this man with his subtle power awoke up on that marvelous instrument the older melodies he gave life to the dreams of her girlish heart. Just so had she played them if not so true, yet feelingly. By her side had stood a gallant black-haired youth, looking down into her face, reading more in her upturned eyes than her tongue had ever uttered; eyes then liquid and dark with the light of love beaming from their depths; alas, to beam now no more for- 158 SONS AND FATHERS. ever! Love must find another speech. She reached out her hand and in eloquent silence it was taken. Silence drew them all back to earth. But behind the players, an old man's face was bent upon the smooth soft hand of the woman, and eyes that must some day see for both of them, left their tender tribute. Edward Morgan linked himself to others in that hour with strands stronger than steel. Even the little Duchess felt the charm and power of that violin in the hands of the artist. Wondering, she came to him and stretched up her little hands. He took her upon his knee then, and, holding the instrument under her chin and her hands in his, awoke a little lullaby that had impressed him. As he sang the words, the girl smiled into the faces of the company. "Look, gamma," she said gleefully; "look!" And she, lifting her face, said gently: "Yes, dear; gamma is looking." Mary's face was quickly averted; the hands of the colonel tightened upon the hand he held. The Duchess had learned to sing "Rockaby Baby" and now- she lifted her thin, piping voice, the player readily following, and sang sweetly all the verses she could remember. Mary took her in her arms when tired, and Edward let the strains run on slower and softer. The eyes of the little one drooped wearily, and then as the player, his gaze fixed upon the little scene, drifted away into "Home, Sweet Home," they closed in sleep. The blind woman still sat with her hand in her husband's, his head bent forward until his forehead rested upon it. CHAPTER XXX. THE RAINBOW IN THE MIST Mary had lighted his room and handed him the lamp; "sweet sleep and pleasant dreams," she had said, gravely bowing to him as she withdrew a family custom, as he had afterward learned. But the sleep was not sweet nor the dreams pleasant. Excited and disturbed he dozed away the hours and was glad when the plantation bell rang its early summons. He dressed and made his way to the veranda, whence he wandered over the flower garden, intercepting the colonel, who was about to take his morning look about. Courteously leaving THE RAINBOW IN THE MIST 159 his horse at the gate that gentleman went on foot with him. It was Edward's first experience on a plantation and he viewed with lively interest the beginning of the day's labor. Cotton was opening and numbers of negroes, old and young, were assembling with baskets and sacks or moving out with a show of industry, for, as it was explained to him, it is easy to get them early started in cotton-picking time, as the work is done by the hundred pounds and rhe morning dew counts for a great deal. "Many people deduct for that," said Montjoy, "but I prefer not to. Lazy and trifling as he is, the negro is but poorly paid." "But," said Edward, laughing, "you do not sell the dew, I suppose?" "No. Generally it evaporates, but if it does not the warehouse de ducts for it." "I noticed at one place on the way south that the people were using wheel implements, do you not find them profitable? The colonel point ed to a shed under which were a number of cultivators, revolving plows, mowing machines and a dirt turner. "I do not, the negro cannot keep awake on the cultivator and the points get into the furrows and so throw out the cotton and corn that they were supposed to cultivate. Somehow they never could learn to use the levers at the right place, with the revolving plow, and they wear its axle off. They did no bet ter with the mower; they seemed to have an idea that it would cut anything from blades of grass up to a pine stump, and it wouldn't." "The disk harrow," he continued laughingly, "was broken in a curi ous way. I sent a hand out to harrow in some peas. He rode along all right to the field and then deliberately wedged the disks to keep them from revolving, not understanding the principle. I sometimes think that they are a little jealous of these machines and do not want them to work well." "You seem to have a great many old negroes." "Too many; too many," he said, sadly; "but what can be done? These people have been with me all my life and I can't turn them adrift in their old age. And the men seem bent upon keeping mar ried," he added, goodnaturedly. "When the old wives die they get new and young ones, and then comes extravagant living again." "And you have them all to support?" "Of course. The men do a little chopping and cotton-picking, but not enough to pay for the living of themselves and families. What is it, Nancy?" "Pa says please send him some meal and meat. He ein't had er 160 SONS AND FATHERS. mouthful in four days." The speaker was a little negro girl. "Go, ee your young mistress. That is a specimen," said the old gentleman, half -laughing, half-frowning. "Four days! He would have been dead the second! Our system does not suit the new order of things. It seems to me the main trouble is in the currency. Our values have all been upset by legislation. Silver ought never have been demone tized ; it was fatal, sir. And then the tariff." "Is not overproduction a factor, Colonel? I read that your last crops of cotton were enormous." "Possibly so, but the world has to have cotton, and an organization would make it buy at our own prices. There are enormous varia tions, of course, we can't figure in advance, and whenever a low price rules, the country is broke. The result is the loan associations and cotton factors are about to own us." The two men returned to find Mary with the pigeons upon her shoul ders and a flock of poultry begging at her feet. "You are going with me to the general's," he said, pleadingly, as he stood by her. She shook her head. "I suppose not this time; mamma needs me." But at the breakfast table, when he renewed the subject, that lady from her little side table said promptly: "Yes." Mary needed the exercise and diversion, and then there was a little mending to be done for the old general. He always saved it for her. It was his whim. So they started in Edward's buggy, riding in silence until he said abruptly: "I am persevering, Miss Montjoy, as you will some day find ^ut, and I am counting upon your help." "In what?" She was puzzled by his manner. "In getting Moreau in Paris to look into the little mamma's eyes." She reflected a moment. "But Dr. Campbell is coming." "It is through him I going to accomplish my purpose; he must send her to Paris." "But," she said, sadly, "we can't afford it. Norton could arrange it, but papa would not be willing to incur such a debt for him." "His son her son!" Edward showed his surprise very plainly. "You do not understand. Norton has a family; neither papa nor mamma would borrow from him, although he would be glad to do any thing in the world he could. And there is Annie " she stopped. Edward saw the difficulty. THE RAINBOW IN THE MIST 161 "Would your father accept a loan from me?" She flushed painfully. "I think not, Mr. Morgan. He could hardly borrow money of his guest." "But I will not be his guest, and it will be a simple business trans action. Will you help me?" She was silent "It is very hard, very hard," she said, and tears stood in her eyes. "Hard to have mamma's chances hang upon such a necessity." "Supposing I go to your father and say: 'This thing is necessary and must be done. I have money to invest at 5 per cent, and am going to Paris. If you will secure me with a mortgage upon this place for the necessary amount I will pay all expenses and take charge of your wife and daughter.' Would it offend him?" "He could not be offended by such generosity, but it would distress him the necessity." "That should not count in the matter," he said, gravely. "He is al ready distressed. And what is all this to a woman's eyesight?" "How am I to help?" she asked after a while. "The objection will be chiefly upon your account, I am afraid," he said, after reflection. "You will have to waive everything and second my efforts. That will settle it." She did not promise, but seemed lost in thought. When she spoke again it was upon other things. "Ah, truant!" cried the general, seeing her ascending the steps and coming forward, "here you are at last. How are you, Morgan? Sit down, both of you. Mary," he said, looking at her sternly, "if you neglect me this way again I shall go off and marry a grass widow. Do you hear me, miss? Look at this collar." He pointed dramatically j to the offending article; one of the Byronic affairs, to which the old south clings affectionately, and which as affectionately clings to the garment it is supposed to adorn, since it is a part of it. "I have but-j toned that not less than a dozen times to-day." She laughed and, go ing in, presently returned with thread and needle and sitting upon his knee restored the buttonhole to its proper size. Then she surveyed him a moment. "Why haven't you been over to see us?" "Because " "You will have to give the grass widow a better excuse than that. Tis a woman's answer. But here is Mr. Morgan, come to see if he can catch the tune your waterfall plays if you have no objection." Edward explained the situation. "Go with him, Mary. I think the waterfall plays a better tune to a 162 SONS AND FATHERS. man when there is a pretty girl around." She playfully stopped his mouth and then darted into the house. "General," said Edward, earnestly, "I have not written to you. I preferred to come in person to express anew my thanks and appre ciation of your kindness in my recent trial. The time may come "Nonsense, my boy; we take these things for granted here in the south. If you are indebted to anybody it is to the messenger who brought me the news of your predicament, put me on horseback and sent me hurrying off in the night to town for the first time in twenty years." "And who could have done that?" Edward asked, overwhelmed with emotion. "From whom?" "From nobody. She summed up the situation, got behind the little mare and came over here in the night. Morgan, that is the rarest girl in Georgia. Take care, sir; take care, sir." He was getting himself in dignant over some contingency when the object of his eulogium ap peared. "Now, General, you are telling tales on me." "Am I? Ask Morgan. I'd swear on a stack of Bibles as high as yonder pine I have not mentioned your name." "Well, it is a wonder. Come on, Mr. Morgan." The old man watched them as they picked their way through the hedge and concluded his interrupted remark: "If you break that loyal heart if you bring a tear to those brown eyes, you will meet a different man from Royson." But he drove the thought away while he looked affectionately after the pair. Down came the little stream, with an emphasis and noise dispropor- tioned to its size, the cause being, as Edward guessed, the distance of the fall and the fact that the rock on which it struck was not a solid foundation, but rested above a cavity. Mary waited while he listened, turning away to pluck a flower and to catch in the falling mist the col ors of the rainbow. But as Edward stood, over him came a flood of thoughts; for the air was full of a weird melody, the overtone of one great chord that thrilled him to the heart. As in a dream he saw her standing there, the blue skies and towering trees above her, a bit of light in a desert of solitude. Near, but separated from him by an infinite gulf. "Forever! Forever!" all else was blotted out. She saw on his face the white desperation she had noticed once before. "You have found it," she said. "What is the tone?" THE HAND OF SCIENCE 163 "Despair," he answered, sadly. "It can mean nothing else." "And yet," she said, a new thought animating her mobile face, as she pointed into the mist above, "over it hangs the rainbow." CHAPTER XXXI. THE HAND OF SCIENCE. A feeling of apprehension and solemnity pervaded the hall when at last the old family coach deposited its single occupant, Dr. Campbell, at the gate. The colonel stood at the top of the steps to welcome him. Edward arid Mary were waiting in the sitting-room. The famous practitioner, a tall, shapely figure, entered, and as he removed his glasses he brought sunshine into the room, with his cheery voice and confident manner. To Mrs. Mont joy he said: "I came as soon as the telegram was received. Anxiety and loss of rest in cases like yours are exceedingly undesirable. It is better to be informed even of the worst. Before we discuss this matter, come to the window and let me examine the eye, please." He was assisting her as he spoke. He carefully studied the condition of the now in flamed and sightless organ, and then replaced the bandage. "It is glaucoma," he said, briefly. "You will remember that I feared it when we fitted the glasses some years ago. The slowness of its advance is due to the care you have taken. If you are willing I would prefer to operate at once." All were waiting in painful silence. The brave woman replied: "Whenever you are ready I am," and resumed her knitting. He had been deliberate in every word and action, but the occasion was already robbed of its terrors, so potent are confidence, decision and action. Edward was introduced and would have taken his leave, but the oculist detained him. "I shall probably need you," he said, "and will be obliged if you remain. The operation is very simple." The room was soon prepared; a window was thrown open, a lounge drawn under it and bandages prepared. Mary, pale with emotion, when the slender form of her mother was stretched upon the lounge hurriedly withdrew. The colonel seated himself and turned away his face. There was no chloroform, no lecture. With the simplicity of 164 SONS AND FATHERS. of a child at play, the great man went to work. Turning up the eyelid, he dropped upon the cornea a little cocaine, and selecting a minute scalpel from his case, with two swift, even motions cut downward from the center of the eye and then from the same starting point at right angles. The incisions extended no deeper than the transparent epider mis of the organ. Skillfully turning up the angle of this, he exposed a thin, white growth a minute cloud it seemed to Edward. "Another drop of cocaine, please," the pleasant voice of the oculist recalled him, and upon the exposed point he let fall from the dropper the liquid. Lifting the little cloud with keen pinchers, the operator removed it, restored the thin epidermis to its place, touched it again with cocaine, and replaced the bandage. The strain of long hours was ended; he had not been in the house thirty minutes. "I felt but the scratch of a needle," said the patient; "it is indeed ended?" "All over," he said, cheerfully. He then wrote out a prescription and directions for dressing, to be given to the family physician. Mary was already by her mother's side, holding and patting her hand. The famous man was an old friend of the family, and now entered into a cheerful discussion of former times and mutual acquaintances. The little boy had entered, and somehow had got into his lap, where all children usually got who came under his spell. While talking on other subjects he turned down the little fellow's lids. "I see granulation here, colonel. Attend to it at once. I will leave a prescription." And then with a few words of encouragement, he went off to the porch to smoke. After dinner the conversation came back to the patient. "She will regain her vision this time," said Dr. Campbell, "but the desease can only be arrested; it will return. The next time it will do no good to operate. It is better to know these things, and prepare for them." The silence was broken by Edward. "Are you so sure of this, doctor, that you would advise against further consultation? In Paris, for instance, is Moreau. In your opin ion, is there the slightest grounds for his disagreeing with you?" "In my opinion, no. But my opinion never extends to the point of neglecting any means open to us. Were I afflicted with this disease I would consult everybody within reach who had had experience." Ed ward glanced in triumph at Mary. Dr. Campbell continued: "I would be very glad if it were possible for Mrs. Montjoy to see Moreau about the left eye. You will remember that I expressed a THE HAND OF SCIENCE 165 doubt as to the hopelessness of restoring that one when it was lost. It . was not affected with glaucoma; there is a bare possibility that some thing might be done for it with success. If the disease returns upon the right eye, the question of operating upon the other might then come up again." Edward waited a moment and then continued his questions : "Do you not think a sea voyage would be beneficial, doctor?" "Undoubtedly, if she is protected from the glare and dust while ashore. We can only look to building up her general health now." Ed ward turned away, with throbbing pulses. "But," continued the doctor, "of course nothing of this sort should be attempted until the eye is perfectly well again; say in ten days or two weeks." Mary sat with howed head. She did not see why Dr. Campbell arose presently and walked to where Edward was standing. She looked upon them there. Edward was talking with eager face and the other studying him through his glasses. But somehow she con nected his parting words with that short interview. "And about the sea voyage and Moreau, colonel; I do not know that I ought to advise you, but I shall be glad if you find it convenient to arrange that, and will look to you to have Moreau send me a writ ten report. Good-bye." But Edward stopped him. "I am going back directly, doctor, and can take you and the carriage need not return again. I will keep you waiting a few moments only." He drew Col. Montjoy aside and they walked to the rear veranda. "Colonel," he said, earnestly, "I want to make you an offer, and I do it with hesitancy only because I am afraid you cannot understand me thoroughly upon such short acquaintance. I believe firmly in this trip and want you to let me help you bring it about. Without having interested myself in your affairs, I am assured that you stand upon the footing of the majority of southerners whose fortunes were staked upon the Confederacy, and that just now it would inconvenience you greatly to meet the expense of this experience. I want you to let me take the place of John Morgan and do just as he would have done in this situation advance you the necessary money upon your own terms." As he entered upon the subject the old gentleman looked away from him, and as he proceeded Edward could see that he was deeply affected. He extended his hand impulsively to the young man at last and shook it warmly. Tears had gathered in his eyes. Edward continued : "I appreciate what you would say, Colonel; you think it too much 166 SONS AND FATHERS. for a comparative stranger to offer, or for you to accept, but the matter is not one of your choosing. The fortunes of war have brought about the difficulty, and that is all. You have risked your all on that issue and have lost. You cannot risk the welfare of your wife upon an issue of pride. You must accept. Go to Gen. Evan, he will tell you so." "I cannot consider the offer, my young friend, in any other than a business way. Your generosity has already put us under obligations we can never pay and has only brought you mortification." "Not so," was the reply. "In your house I have known the first home feeling I ever experienced. Colonel, don't oppose me in this. If you wish to call it business, give it that term." "Yours will be the fourth mortgage on this place; I hesitate to offer it. The hall is already pledged for $15,000." "It is amply sufficient." "I will consider the matter, Mr. Morgan," he said after a long si lence. "1 will consider it and consult Evan. I do not see my way clear to accept your offer, but whether or not, my young friend" putting his arm over the other's shoulder, his voice trembling "whether I do or not you have in making it done me an honor and a favor that I will remember for life. It is worth something to meet a man now I and then who is worthy to have lived in nobler times. God bless you ' and now you must excuse me." He turned away abruptly. Thrilled by his tone and words, Edward went to the front. As he shook hands with Mary he said: "I cannot tell yet. But he cannot refuse. There is no escape for him." At the depot in the city the doctor said: "Do not count too hope fully upon Paris, my young friend. There is a chance, but in my opin ion the greatest good that can be achieved is for the patient to store in memory scenes upon which in other days she may dwell with pleasure. Keep this in mind and be governed accordingly." He climbed aboard the train and waved adieu. Edward was leaving the depot when he overtook Barksdale. Put ting his buggy in the care of a boy, he walked on with the railroader at his request to the club. Barksdale took him into a private room and over a choice cigar Edward gave him all the particulars of the duel and then expressed his grateful acknowledgments for the friendly services rendered him. "I am assured by Gen. Evan," he said, "that had my demand been made in a different form I might have been seriously embarrassed." "Roy son depended upon the Mont joys to get him out of the affair; THE HAND OF SCIENCE 167 he had no idea of fighting." "But how could the Mont joys have helped him?" "They could have appealed to him to withdraw the charges he had made, and he would have done so because the information came really from a member of the Montjoy family. I do not think you will need to ask her name. I mention it to you because you should be informed." Edward comprehended his meaning at once. Greatly agitated, he exclaimed : \ "But what object could she have had in putting out such slander? I do not know her nor she me." Barksdale waved his hand depre- catingly : "You do not know much of women." "No. I have certainly not met this kind before." Barksdale reflected a few moments, and then said, slowly: "Slander is a curious thing, Mr. Morgan. People who do not believe it will re peat it. I think if I were you I would clear up all these matters by submitting to an interview with a reporter. In that you can place your own and family history before the public and end all talk." Ed ward was pale, but this was the suggestion that he had considered more than once. He shook his head quickly. "I disagree with you. I think it beneath the dignity of a gentleman to answer slander by the publication of his family history. If the people of this city require such statements from those who come among them, then I shall sell out my interest here and go abroad, where I am known. This I am, however, loath to do; I have a few warm friends here." Barksdale extended his hand. "You will, I hope, count me among them. I spoke only from a de sire to see you fairly treated." "I have reason to number you among them. I am going to Paris shortly, I think, with Mrs. Montjoy. Her eyesight is failing. I will be glad to see you again before then." "With Mrs. Montjoy?" exclaimed Barksdale. "Yes; the matter is not entirely settled yet, but I do not doubt that she will make the trip. Miss Montjoy will go with us." Barksdale did not lift his eyes, but was silent, his hand toying with his glass. "I will probably call upon you before your departure," he said, as he arose. 168 SONS AND FATHERS. CHAPTER XXXII. THE FLASHLIGHT PHOTOGRAPH. Twilight was deepening over the hills and already the valleys were in shadow when Edward reached Ilexhurst. He stood for a moment looking back on the city and the hills beyond. He seemed to be lay ing aside a sweeter life for something less fair, and the old weight descended upon him. After all was it wise to go forth, when the re turn to the solitude of a clouded life was inevitable? There was no escape from fate. In the east the hills were darkening, but memory flashed on him a scene a fair-faced girl, as he had seen her, as he would always see her, floating upon an amethyst stream, smiling upon him, one hand parting the waters and over them the wonders of a southern sunset. In the wing-room Virdow and Gerald were getting ready for an ex periment with flashlight photography. Refusing to be hurried in his scientific investigations, Gerald had insisted that until it had been proven that a living substance could hold a photographic imprint he should not advance to the consideration of Virdow's theory. There must be brain pictures before there could be mind pictures. At least, so he reasoned. None of them knew exactly what his experiment was to be, except that he was going to test the substance that envelopes the body of the bass, the micopterus salmoides of southern waters. That sensitive plate, thinner than art could make it, was not only spoiled by exposure to light, but by light and air combined was abso lutely destroyed. And the difficulty of controlling the movements of this fish seemed absolutely insuperable. They could only watch the experimenter. Into a thin glass jar Gerald poured a quantity of powder, which he had carefully compounded during the day. Virdow saw in it 'he silvery glimmer of magnesium. What the combined element was could not be determined. This compound reached only a third of ihe dis tance up the side of the glass. The jar was then stopped with cork pierced by a copper wire that touched the powder, and hermetically sealed with wax. With this under one arm, and a small galvanic bat tery under the other, and restless with suppressed excitement, Ger ald, pointing to a small hooded lantern, whose powerful reflector was THE FLASHLIGHT PHOTOGRAPH 169 lighting one end of the room, bade them follow him. Virdow and Edward obeyed. With a rapid stride Gerald set out across fields, through strips of woodlands and down precipitous slopes until they stood all breathless upon the shore of the little lake. There they found the flat-bottom bateau, and although by this time both Edward and Virdow had begun seriously to doubt the wisdom of blind ly following such a character, they resigned themselves to fate and entered. Gerald propelled the little craft carefully to a stump that stood up distinct against the gloom under the searchlight in the bow, and reach ing it took out his pocket compass. Turning the boat's head north east, he followed the course about forty yards until at the left the re flector showed him two stakes in line. Here he brought the little craft to a standstill, and in silence, which he invoked by lifting his hand warningly,- turned the lantern downward over the stern of the boat, and with a tube, whose lower end was stubbed with a bit of glass and inserted in the water, examined the bottom of the