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 <ake twelve feet 
 below. Long and patient was the search, but at last the others saw 
 him lay aside his glass and let the boat drift a few moments. Then 
 very gently, only a ripple of the surface marking the action, he lower 
 ed the weighted jar until the slackening wire indicated that it wa 
 upon the bottom. He reached out his hand quickly and drew the bat 
 tery to him, firmly grasping the cross-handle lever. The next instant 
 there was a rumbling, roaring sound, accompanied by a fierce, white 
 light, and the end of the boat was in the air. In a brief moment Ed 
 ward saw the slender form of the enthusiast bathed in the flash, his 
 face as white as chalk, his eyes afire with excitement the incarna 
 tion of insanity, it seemeB to him. Then there was a deluge of spray, 
 a violent rocking of the boat and the water in it went over their shoe- 
 tops. Instantly all was inky blackness, except where in the hands of 
 the fearless man in the stern the lantern, its slide changed, was now 
 casting a stream of red light upon the surface of the lake. Suddenly 
 Gerald uttered a loud cry. 
 
 "Look! Look! There he is!" And floating in that crimson path, 
 with small fishes rising around him, was the dead body of a gigantic 
 bass. Lifting him carefully by the gills, Gerald laid him in a box 
 drawn from under the rear seat. 
 
 "What is it?" broke from Virdow. "We have risked our lives and 
 ruined our clothes for what?" 
 
 "For a photograph upon a living substance! On the side of this
 
 170 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 fish, which was exposed to the flashlight, you will find the outlines of 
 the grasses in this lake, or the whole film destroyed. If the outlines 
 are there then there is no reason why the human brain, infinitely 
 more sensitive and forever excluded from light, cannot contain the 
 pictures of those twin cameras the human eyes." He turned the 
 boat shoreward and seizing his box disappeared in the darkness, his 
 enlarged pupils giving him the visual powers of a night animal. Vir- 
 dow and Edward, even aided by the lantern, found their way back 
 with difficulty. 
 
 The two men entered the wing-room to find it vacant. Virdow, how 
 ever, pointed silently to the red light gleaming through the glass of 
 the little door to the cabinet. The sound of trickling water was heard. 
 
 At that instant a smothered half-human cry came from within, and 
 trembling violently, Gerald staggered into the room. They took hold 
 of him, fearing he would fall. Straining their eyes, they both saw for 
 an instant only the half -developed outlines of a human profile extended 
 along the broad side of the fish. As they watched, the surface grew 
 into one tone and the carcass fell to the floor. 
 
 Gazing into their faces as he struggled for ^freedom, Gerald cast 
 off their hands. The lithe, sinewy form seemed to be inbued at the 
 moment with the strength of a giant. Before they could speak he had 
 seized the lantern and was out into the night. Without a moment's 
 hesitation, Edward, bareheaded, plunged after him. Well trained to 
 college athletics though he was, yet unfamiliar with the grounds, it 
 taxed his best efforts to keep him in sight. He divined that the wild 
 race would end at the lake, and the thought that on a few seconds might 
 hang the life of that strange being was all that held him to the pro 
 longed and dangerous strain. He reached the shore just in time, by 
 plunging waist deep into the water, to throw himself into the boat. 
 His own momentum thrust it far out upon the surface. Gerald had 
 entered. 
 
 With unerring skill and incredible swiftness, the young man car 
 ried the boat over its former course and turned the glare of the lamp 
 downward. Suddenly he uttered a loud cry, and, dropping the latern 
 in the boat, stood up and leaped into the water. The light was now 
 out and all was as black as midnight. 
 
 Edward slipped off his shoes, seized the paddle and waited for a 
 sound to guide him. It seemed as though nothing human could sur 
 vive that prolonged submergence; minutes appeared to pass; with a 
 groan of despair he gave up hope.
 
 THE FLASHLIGHT PHOTOGRAPH 171 
 
 But at that moment, with a gasp, the white face of Gerald burst 
 from the waters ten feet away, and the efforts he made showed that 
 he was swimming with difficulty. With one mighty stroke Edward 
 sent the boat to the swimmer and caught the floating hair. Then with 
 great difficulty he drew him over the side. 
 
 "Home!" The word escaped from Gerald between his gasps, but 
 when he reached the shore, with a return of energy and a total dis 
 regard of his companion, he plunged into the darkness toward the 
 house, Edward this time keeping him in view with less difficulty. 
 
 They reached the door of the wing-roow almost simultaneously and 
 rushed in side by side, Gerald dripping with water and exhausted. He 
 leaned heavily against the table. For the first time Edward was 
 conscious that he carried a burden in his arms. In breathless silence, 
 he with Virdow approached, and then upon the table Gerald placed an 
 object and drew shuddering back. It was a half life-size bust of 
 darkened and discolored marble, and for them, though trembling with 
 excitement, it seemed to have no especial significance until they were 
 startled by a cry so. loud, so piercing, so heartrending, that they felt 
 the flesh creep upon their bones. 
 
 Looking from the marble to the face of the young man they saw 
 that the whiteness of death was upon every feature. Following the 
 direction of his gaze, they beheld a silhouette upon the wall ; the clear- 
 cut profile of a woman, cast by the carved face before them. To Ed 
 ward it was an outline vaguely familiar; to Virdow a revelation, for 
 it was Edward's own profile. Had the latter recognized it there would 
 have been a tragedy, for, without a word after that strange, sad, de 
 spairing cry, Gerald wrenched a dagger from the decorated panel, and 
 struck at his own heart. It was Edward's quickness that saved him; 
 the blade made but a trifling flesh wound. Seizing him as he did from 
 the rear he was enabled to disturb his equilibrium in time. 
 
 "Morphine," he said to Virdow. The latter hurried away to secure 
 the drug. He found with the pellets a little pocket case containing 
 morphine powders and a hypodermic injector. Without a struggle, 
 Gerald lay breathing heavily. In a few minutes the drug was ad 
 ministered, and then came peace for the sufferer. Edward released 
 his hold and looked about him. Virdow had moved the bust and was 
 seated lost in thought. 
 
 "What does it mean?" he asked, approaching, awed and saddened 
 by his experience. Virdow held up the little bust. 
 
 "Have you ever seen that face before?"
 
 172 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "It is the face of the young woman in the picture!" 
 
 "And now," said Virdow, again placing the marble so as to cast its 
 
 outlines upon the wall, "you do not recognize it, but the profile is your 
 
 own!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 THE TRADE WITH SLIPPERY DICK. 
 
 Amos Royson, in the solitude of his room, had full time for reflec 
 tion upon the events of the week and upon his position. His face, 
 always sinister, had not improved under its contact with the heavy 
 dueling pistol driven so savagely against it. The front teeth would 
 be replaced and the defect concealed under the heavy mustache he 
 wore, and the cut and swollen lips were resuming their normal con 
 dition. The missing finger, even, would inconvenience him only until 
 he had trained the middle one to discharge its duties but the nose ! He 
 trembled with rage when for the hundredth time he studied his face 
 in the glass and realized that the best skill of the surgeon had not 
 been able to restore its lines. 
 
 But this was not the worst. He had carefully scanned the state 
 press during his seclusion and awoke from his personal estimate to 
 find that public opinion was overwhelmingly against him. He had 
 slandered a man for political purposes and forced a fight upon a 
 stranger to whom, by every right of hospitality, the city owed a wel 
 come. The general public could not understand why he had entered 
 1 upon the duel if his charges were true, and if not true why he had 
 { not had the manliness to withdraw them. 
 
 Moreover, he had incurred the deadly enmity of the people who had 
 been deceived in the lost county. One paper alluded to the unpleasant 
 fact that Edward Morgan was defending and aiding Mr. Royson's con 
 nections at the time of the insult. 
 
 He had heard no word from Swearingen, who evidently felt that 
 the matter was too hot at both ends for him to handle safely. That 
 gentleman had, on the contrary, in a brief card to cne of the papers, 
 disclaimed any knowledge of the unfortunate letter and declined all 
 responsibility for it. This was sufficient, it would seem, to render al-
 
 THE TRADE WITH SLIPPERY DICK 173 
 
 most any man unhappy, but the climax was reached when he received 
 a letter from Annie, scoring him unmercifully for his clumsiness and 
 informing him that Edward Morgan, so far from being destroyed m a 
 certain quarter, was being received in the house as a friend to whom 
 all were indebted, and was petted and made much of. 
 
 "So far as I can judge," she added, maliciously, "it seems settled 
 that Mary is to marry him. He is much with Col. Montjoy and is now 
 upon a confidental footing with everyone here. Practically he is al 
 ready a member of the family." It contained a request for him to in 
 form her when he would be in his office. 
 
 He had not replied to this; he felt that the letter was aimed at 
 his peace of mind and the only satisfaction he could get out of this 
 affair was the recollection that he had informed her father-in-law of 
 her perfidy. 
 
 "I would be glad to see the old gentleman's mind at work with Annie 
 purring around him," he said to himself, and the idea brought the first 
 smile his face had known for many a day. But a glimpse of that face 
 in the glass, with the smile upon it, startled him again. 
 
 What next? Surrender? There was no surrender in the make-up 
 of the man. His legal success had hinged less upon ability than upon 
 dogged pertinacity. In this way he had saved the life of more than 
 one criminal and won a reputation that brought him practice. He 
 had made a charge, had been challenged and had fought. With al 
 most any other man the issue would have been at an end as honorably 
 settled, but his habit of mind was opposed to accepting anything as set 
 tled which was clearly unsettled. The duel did not give Morgan the 
 rights of a gentleman if the main charge were true, and Royson had 
 convinced himself that it was true. He wrote to Annie, assured that 
 her visit would develop his next move. 
 
 So it was that one morning Royson found himself face to face with 
 his cousin, in the office. There was no word of sympathy for him. He 
 had not expected one, but he was hardly prepared for the half-smile 
 which came over her face when he greeted her, and which, during 
 their interview, returned from time to time. This enraged him be 
 yond endurance, and nothing but the remembrance that she alone held 
 the key to the situation prevented his coming to an open breach with 
 her. She saw and read his struggle aright, and the display put her 
 in the best of humor. 
 
 "When shall we see you at The Hall again?" she asked, coolly. 
 
 "Never," he said, passionately, "until this man Morgan is exposed
 
 174 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 and driven out." She arched her brows. 
 
 "Never, then, would have been sufficient." 
 
 "Annie, this man must be exposed; you have the proofs you have 
 information; give it to me." She shook her head, smiling. 
 
 "I have changed my mand, Amos; I do not want to be on bad terms 
 with my brother-in-law of the future; the fact is, I am getting fond 
 of him. He is very kind to everybody. Mother is to go to Paris to have 
 her eyes attended to, and Mary is to accompany her. Mr. Morgan 
 has been accepted as their escort." 
 
 The face of the man grew crimson with suppressed rage. By a su 
 preme effort he recovered and returned the blow. 
 
 "What a pity, Annie, it could not have been you! Paris has been 
 your hobby for years. When Mary returns she can tell you how to 
 dress in the best form and correct your French." It was a successful 
 counter. She was afraid to trust herself to reply. Royson drew his 
 chair nearer. 
 
 "Annie," he said, "I would give ten years of life to establish the 
 truth of what you have told me. So far as Mary is concerned, we 
 will leave that out, but I am determined to crush this fellow Morgan 
 at any cost. Something tells me we have a common cause in this mat 
 ter. Give me a starting point you owe me something. I could have 
 involved you; I fought it out alone." She reflected a moment. 
 
 "I cannot help you now as much as you may think. I am convinced 
 cf what I told you, but the direct proof is wanting. You can imagine 
 how difficult such proof is. The man is thirty years old, probably, and 
 witnesses of his mother's times are old or dead." 
 
 "And what witnesses could there have been?" 
 
 "Few. John Morgan is gone. The next witness would be Rita. Rita 
 is the woman who kept Morgan's house for the last thirty years. She 
 owned a little house in the neighborhood of The Hall and was until 
 she went to Morgan's a professional nurse. There may be old negroes 
 who can give you points." 
 
 "And Rita where is she?" 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 A shade of disappointment swept over his face. He caught her eyes 
 fixed upon him with the most peculiar expression. "She is the wit 
 ness on whom I relied," she said, slowly. "She was, I believe, the only 
 human being in the world who could have furnished conclusive testi 
 mony as to the origin of Edward Morgan. She died suddenly the day 
 your letter was published!" She did not look away as she concluded, 
 your letter was published!" She did not look away as she paused,
 
 THE TRADE WITH SLIPPERY DICK 175 
 
 but continued with her eyes fixed upon his ; and gradually, as he watch 
 ed her, the brows contracted slightly and the lids tightened under them. 
 A gleam of intelligence passed to him. His face grew white and his 
 hands closed convulsively upon the arms of his chair. 
 
 "But that would be beyond belief," he said, at last, in a whisper. 
 "If what you think is true, he was her son!" She raised her brow 
 as she replied: 
 
 "There was no tie of association! With him everything was at 
 stake. You can probably understand that when a man is in love he 
 will risk a great deal." 
 
 Royson arose and walked the room. No man knew better than he 
 the worst side of the human heart. There is nothing so true in the 
 history of crime as that reputation is held higher than conscience. And 
 in this case there was the terrible passion of love. He did not reply 
 to her insinuation. 
 
 "You think, then," he said, stopping in front of the woman, "that, 
 reading my letter, he hurried home and in this you are correct since 
 I saw him across the street reading the paper, and a few minutes 
 later throw himself into a hack and take that direction that he 
 rushed into the presence of this woman, demanded the truth, and, re 
 ceiving it, in a fit of desperation, killed her!" 
 
 "What I may think, Amos, is my right to keep to myself. The only 
 witness died that day! There was no inquest! You asked me for a 
 starting point." She drew her gloves a little tighter, shook out her 
 parasol and rose. "But I am giving you too much of my time. I 
 have some commissions from Mary, who is getting ready for Paris, and 
 I must leave you." 
 
 He neither heard her last remark nor saw her go. Standing in the 
 middle of the room, with his chin upon his chest, he was lost to all con 
 sciousness of the moment. When he looked to the chair she had occu 
 pied it was vacant. He passed his hand over his brow. The scene 
 seemed to have been in a dream. 
 
 But Amos Royson knew it was real. He had asked for a starting 
 point, and the woman had given it. 
 
 As he considered it, he unconsciously betrayed how closely akin he 
 was to the woman, for every fact that came to him was in that legal 
 mind, trained to building theories, adjusted in support of the hypoth 
 esis of crime. He was again the prosecuting attorney. How natural 
 at least was such a crime, supposing Morgan capable of it. 
 
 And no man knew his history!
 
 176 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 With one blow he had swept away the witness. That had done a 
 thousand times in the annals of crime. Poison, the ambush, the street 
 encounter, the midnight shot through the open window, the fusillade 
 at the form outlined in its own front door; the press had recorded it 
 since the beginning of newspapers. Morgan had added one more in 
 stance. And if he had not, the suspicion, the investigation, the doubt 
 would remain! 
 
 At this point by a perfectly natural process the mind of the man 
 reached its conclusion. Why need there be any suspicion, any doubt? 
 Why might not an inquest develop evidences of a crime? This idea 
 involved action and decision upon his part, and some risk. 
 
 At last he arose from the desk, where, with his head upon his hand, 
 he had studied so long, and prepared for action. At the lavatory he 
 caught sight of his own countenance in the glass. It told him that 
 his mind was made up. It was war to the knife, and that livid scar 
 upon the pallor of his face was but the record of the first failure. 
 The next battle would not be in the open, with the skies blue above 
 him and no shelter at hand. His victim would never see the knife de 
 scend, but it would descend nevertheless, and this time there would 
 be no trembling hand or failure of nerve. 
 
 From his office he went direct to the coroner's and examined the 
 records. The last inquest was of the day previous; the next in line 
 more than a month before. There was no woman's name upon the 
 list. So far Annie was right. 
 
 Outside of cities in the south no burial permits are required. Who 
 was the undertaker? Inquiry would easily develop the fact, but this 
 time he himself was to remain in the dark. If this crime was fasten 
 ed upon Morgan, the motive would be self-evident and a reaction of 
 public opinion would re-establish Royson high in favor. His ex 
 perience would rank as martyrdom. 
 
 But a new failure would destroy him forever, and there was not 
 a great deal left to destroy, he felt. 
 
 In the community, somewhere, was a negro whose only title was 
 "Slippery Dick," won in many a hotly contested criminal trial. It had 
 been said of this man that the entire penal code was exhausted in ef 
 forts to convict him, and always without success. He had been pros 
 ecuted for nearly every offense proscribed by state laws. Royson's 
 first experience with the man was as prosecuting attorney. Afterward 
 and within the preceding year he had defended him in a trial for 
 body-snatching and had secured a verdict by getting upon the jury
 
 THE FACE OF THE BODY-SNATCHER 177 
 
 one man who was closely kin to the person who purchased the awful 
 merchandise. This negro, plausible and cunning, hesitated at noth 
 ing short of open murder or such was his reputation. It was to find 
 him that Roy son went abroad. Nor was it long before he succeeded. 
 
 That night, in a lonely cabin on the outskirts of the city, a trade was 
 made. Ten dollars in hand was paid. If upon an inquest by the cor 
 oner it was found that there was a small wound on the back of the 
 head of the woman and the skull fractured, Slippery Dick was to re 
 ceive $100 more. 
 
 This was the only risk Royson would permit himself to take, and 
 there were no witnesses to the trade. Dick's word was worth noth 
 ing. Discovery could not affect the plot seriously, and Dick never 
 confessed. The next day he met Annie upon the road, having seen 
 her in the city, and posted himself to intercept her. 
 
 "I have investigated the death of Rita," he said, "and am satisfied 
 that there are no grounds for suspecting murder. We shall wait!" 
 The woman looked him in the face. 
 
 "Amos," she said, "if you were not my cousin, I would say that 
 you are an accomplished liar!" Before he replied there was heard 
 the sound of a horse's feet. Edward Morgan drove by, gravely lifting 
 his hat. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 THE FACE OF THE BODY-SNATCHER. 
 
 The methods of Royson's emissary were simple and direct- One 
 day he wandered in among the negroes at Ilexhurst in search of a lost 
 hound puppy, for Dick was a mighty hunter, especially of the mid 
 night 'possum. 
 
 No one had seen the puppy, but all were ready to talk, and the 
 death of Rita had been the latest sensation. From them he obtained 
 every detail from the time Edward had carried the body in his arms 
 to the little house, until it had been buried under the crooked cedar in 
 the plantation burying-ground. 
 
 The body had been dressed by two of the women. There had been 
 a little blood on her head, from a small wound in the left temple,
 
 178 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 where she had cut herself against the glass when she was "taken with 
 a fit." 
 
 The coffin was a heavy metal one and the top screwed on. That was 
 all. 
 
 When Royson received the report of the cut in the head and the 
 blood, his breath almost forsook him. Morgan might have been in 
 nocent, but what a chain of circumstantial evidence! If Dick should 
 return to tell him some morning that the false wound he was to make 
 was already on the spot selected, he would not be surprised. So far 
 he could show a motive for the crime, and every circumstance nec 
 essary to convict his enemy with it. All he needed was a cause of death. 
 
 Dick's precautions in this venture were novel, from the Caucasian 
 standpoint. His supersition was the strongest feature of his de 
 praved mind. The negro* has an instinctive dread of dead bodies, but 
 a dead and buried cadaver is to him a horror. 
 
 In this instance, however, Dick's superstition made his sacrilege 
 possible; for while he believed firmly in the reappearance and power 
 of departed spirits, he believed equally in the powers of the voodoo 
 to control or baffle them. Before undertaking his commission, he 
 went to one of these voodoo "doctors," who had befriended him in more 
 than one peril, and by the gift of a fat 'possum secured a charm to 
 protect him. 
 
 The dark hour came, and at midnight to the little clump of trees 
 came also Slippery Dick. His first act was to bore a hole with an 
 auger in the cedar, insert the voodoo charm and plug the hole firmly. 
 This chained the spirit of the dead. Then with a spade and work 
 ing rapidly, he threw the mound aside and began to toss out the earth 
 from above the coffin. In half an hour his spade laid the wooden case 
 bare. Some difficulty was experienced in removing the screws, but 
 down in that cavity, the danger from using matches was reduced to 
 a minimum, and by the aid of these he soon loosened the lid and re 
 moved it. To lift this out, and take off the metal top of the burial 
 case, was the work of but a few minutes longer, and the remains of 
 poor Rita were exposed to view. 
 
 In less than an hour after his arrival Slippery Dick had executed 
 his commission and was filling up the grave. With the utmost care 
 he pressed down the earth and drew up the loosened soil. 
 
 There had been a bunch of faded flowers upon the mound; he re 
 stored these and with a sigh of relief shouldered his spade and auger 
 and took his departure, glad to leave the grewsome spot.
 
 THE FACE OF THE BODY-SNATCHER 179 
 
 But a dramatic pantomime had been enacted near him which he 
 never saw. While he was engaged in marking the head of the lifeless 
 body, the slender form of a man appeared above him and shrank 
 back in horror at the discovery. This man turned and picked up the 
 heavy spade and swung it in air. If it had descended the negro would 
 have been brained. But thought is a monarch ! Slowly the arm de 
 scended, the spade was laid upon the ground, and the form a moment 
 before animated with an overwhelming passion stood silent and motion 
 less behind the cedar. 
 
 When the negro withdrew, this man followed, gliding from cover to 
 cover, or following boldly in the open, but at all times with a tread 
 as soft as a panther's. Down they went, the criminal and his shadow, 
 down into the suburbs, then into the streets and then into the heart 
 of the city. Near the office of Amos Royson the man in front uttered 
 a peculiar whistle and passed on. At the next corner under the elec 
 tric lamp he turned and found himself confronted by a slender man, 
 whose, face shone white under the ghastly light of the lamp, whose 
 hair hung upon his shoulders, and whose eyes were distended with ex 
 citement. Uttering a cry of fright, the negro sprang from the side 
 walk into the gutter, but the other passed on without turning except 
 to cross the street, where in a friendly shadow he stopped. And as he 
 stood there the negro retraced his steps and paused at the door of the 
 lawyer's office. A dimly outlined form was at the window above. 
 They had no more than time to exchange a word when the negro went 
 on and the street was bare, except that a square away a heavy-footed 
 policeman was approaching. 
 
 The man in the shadow leaned his head against a tree and thought. In 
 his brain, standing out as distinct as if cut from black marble, was 
 the face of the man he had followed. 
 
 Gerald possessed the reasoning faculty to an eminent degree, but 
 it had been trained altogether upon abstract propositions. The small 
 affairs of life were strange and remote to him, and the passions that 
 animate the human breast were forces and agencies beyond his knowl 
 edge and calculations. 
 
 Annie Montjoy, with the facts in his possession, would have reached 
 instantly a correct conclusion as to their meaning. He could not 
 handle them. His mind was absolutely free of suspicion. He had 
 wandered to the little graveyard, as he had before when sleepless and 
 harassed, and discovered that some one was disfiguring the body of 
 his lifelong friend. To seize the spade and wreak vengeance upon the
 
 180 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 intruder was his first impulse, but at the moment that it should have 
 fallen he saw that the head of the woman was being carefully replaced 
 in position and the clothing arranged. He paused in wonder. The 
 habitual opium-eater develops generally a cunning that is incompre 
 hensible to the normal mind, and curiosity now controlled Gerald. The 
 moment for action had passed. He withdrew behind the tree to witness 
 the conclusion of the drama. 
 
 His following the retreating figure was but the continuance of his 
 new mood. He would see the affair out and behold the face of the 
 man. Succeeding in this he went home, revolving in mind the strange 
 experience he had gained. 
 
 But the excitement would not pass away from him, and in the sol 
 itude of his studio, with marvelous skill he drew in charcoal the scene 
 as it shone in memory the mart in the grave, the sad, dead face of 
 the woman, shrinking into dissolution, and then its every detail per 
 fect, upon a separate sheet the face of the man under the lamp. The 
 memories no longer haunted him. They were transferred to paper. 
 
 Then Gerald underwent the common struggle of his existence ; he lay 
 down and tossed upon his pillow ; he arose and read and returned again. 
 At last came the surrender, opium and oblivion. 
 
 Standing by the easel next morning, Virdow said to Edward: "The 
 brain cannot survive this many years. When dreams of memories such 
 as these, vivid enough to be remembered and drawn, come upon it, 
 when the waking mind holds them vivid, it is in a critical condition." 
 He looked sadly upon the sleeper and felt the white wrist that overlay 
 the counterpane. The flesh was cold, the pulse slow and feeble. "Vi 
 tality small," he said. "It will be sudden when it comes; sleep will 
 simply extend into eternity." 
 
 Edward's mind reverted to the old general. What was his own duty? 
 He would decide. It might be that he would return no more, and if he 
 did not, and Gerald was left, he should have a protector. 
 
 Virdow had been silent and thoughtful. Now he turned with sudden 
 decision. 
 
 "My experiments will probably end with the next," he said. "The 
 truth is, I am so thoroughly convinced that the cultivation of this 
 singular power which Gerald possesses is destructive of the nervous 
 system I cannot go on with them. In some way the young man has 
 wound himself about me. I will care for him as I would a son. He 
 is all gold." The old man passed out abruptly, ashamed of the feel 
 ing which shook his voice.
 
 THE GRAVE IN THE PAST 181 
 
 But Edward sat upon the bed and taking the white hand in his own, 
 smoothed it gently, and gave himself up to thought. What did it 
 mean? And how would it end? The sleeper stirred slightly. "Mother," 
 he said, and a childish smile dwelt for a moment upon his lips. Ed 
 ward replaced the hand upon the counterpane and withdrew. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 THE GRAVE IN THE PAST. 
 
 When Col. Montjoy rode over to Gen. Evan's, a few mornings after 
 the operation upon his wife's eyes, it was with but ill-defined notions 
 of what he. would say or what would be the result of the interview. 
 Circumstances had placed him in a strange and unpleasant position. 
 
 Col. Montjoy felt that the Paris trip could not be well avoided. He 
 realized that the chances of accomplishing any real good for his wife 
 were very small, but Dr. Campbell had distinctly favored it, and the 
 hesitancy had evidently only been on account of the cost. 
 
 But could he accept the generous offer made by Morgan? That was 
 the embarrassing question. He was not mentally blind; he felt as 
 sured that the real question for him to decide then was what he should 
 answer when a demand for the hand of his daughter was made. For 
 in accepting the loan and escort of Edward Morgan, he accepted him. 
 Could he do this? 
 
 So far as the rumors about the young man were concerned, he never 
 entertained them seriously. He regarded them only as a desperate 
 political move, and so did the public generally. But a shadow ought 
 not to hang over the life of his daughter. 
 
 The old general was at home and partially read his visitor's predic 
 ament in his face as he approached the veranda. 
 
 "Come in, Norton," he said without moving from his great rocker; 
 "what is troubling you?" And he laughed maliciously. "But by the 
 way," he added, "how is the madam to-day? Mary told me yesterday 
 she was getting along finely." 
 
 "Well, we can't tell, Evan," said his visitor, drawing his chair next 
 to the rail; "we can't tell. In fact, nothing will be known until the 
 bandages are removed. I came off without my tobacco " He was 
 holding his pipe. The general passed him his box.
 
 182 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "Oh, well, she will come through all right; Campbell is never mis 
 taken." 
 
 "That is true, and that is what troubles me. Campbell predicts a 
 return of the trouble and thinks in the near future her only chance 
 for vision will lie in the eye which has been blind for several years. 
 He is willing to admit that Moreau in Paris is better authority and 
 would be glad for Caroline to see him and have his opinion." 
 
 "Ah, indeed!" It was expressive. The colonel knew that Evan com 
 prehended the situation, if not the whole of it. If there had been any 
 doubt, it would have been dispelled by the next words: 
 
 "A great expense, Norton, in these days, but it must be attended 
 to." Col. Montjoy ran his hand through his hair and passed it over 
 his brow nervously. 
 
 "The trouble is, Evan, the matter has been attended to, and too easily. 
 Edward Morgan was present during the operation and has offered 
 to lend me all the money necessary for the trip with or without security 
 and with or without interest." The general shook with silent laughter 
 and succeeded in getting enough smoke down his throat to induce a 
 disguising cough. 
 
 "That is a trouble, Norton, that hasn't afflicted us old fellows much 
 of late extra ease in money matters. Edward is rich and will not 
 be in any way embarrassed by a matter like this. I think you will 
 do well to make it a business transaction and accept." 
 
 "You do not understand. I have noticed marked attentions to Mary 
 on the part of the young man, and Mary," he said, sadly, "is, I am 
 afraid, interested in him." 
 
 "That is different. Before you decide on accepting this offer, you 
 feel that you must decide on the young man himself, I see. What do 
 you think?" 
 
 "I haven't been able to think intelligently, I am afraid, upon that 
 point. What do you think, Evan? Mary is about as much your prop 
 erty as mine." 
 
 "I think," said the general, throwing off his disguise, "that in Ed 
 ward Morgan she will get the only man I ever saw to whom I would 
 be willing to give her up. He is as straight and as brave as any man 
 that ever followed me into battle." Montjoy was silent awhile. 
 
 "You know," he said, presently, "I value your opinion more than 
 any man's and I do not wish to express or to intimate a doubt of Mr. 
 Morgan, who, I see, has impressed you. I believe the letter of Roy- 
 con's was infamous and untrue in every respect, but it has been pub-
 
 THE GRAVE IN THE PAST 183 
 
 lished and she is my daughter. Why in the name of common sense 
 hasn't he come to me and given me something to go upon?" 
 
 "It has occurred to me," said the general, dryly, "that he will do 
 o when he comes for Mary. In the meantime, a man isn't called up 
 on to travel with a family tree under his arm and show it to every 
 one who questions him. Morgan is a gentleman, sans peur et sans 
 reprcche. If he is not, I do not know the breed. 
 
 "So far as the charge of Royson is concerned," continued the gen 
 eral, "let me calm your mind on that point. I have never entered 
 upon this matter with you because the mistakes of a man's kindred 
 are things he has no right to gossip about, even among friends. The 
 woman, Rita Morgan, has always been free; she was given her free 
 dom in infancy by John Morgan's father. Her mother's history is 
 an unfortunate one. It is enough to say that she was sent out from 
 Virginia with John Morgan's mother, who was, as you know, a blood 
 relative of mine; and I know that this woman was sent away with 
 an object. She looked confoundedly like some of the family. Well, 
 John Morgan's father was wild; you can guess the result. 
 
 "Rita lived in her own house, and when her husband died John took 
 her to his home. He told me once in so many words that his father 
 left instructions outside his will to that effect, and that Rita's claims \ 
 upon the old man, as far as blood was concerned, were about the same 
 as his. You see from this that the Royson story is an absurdity. I 
 knew it when I went in and vouched for our young friend, and I would 
 have proved it to Thomas the night he called^ but Rita dropped dead 
 that day." 
 
 Montjoy drew a long breath. 
 
 "You astonish me," he said, "and relieve me greatly. I had never 
 heard this. I did not really doubt, but you have cleared up all pos 
 sibility of error." 
 
 "Nor has any other man heard the story. My conversation with 
 John Morgan grew out of his offer to buy of me Alec, a very handsome 
 mulatto man I owned, to whom Rita had taken a fancy. He wanted 
 to buy him and free him, but I had never bought or sold a slave, and 
 could not bring myself to accept money for Alec. I freed him myself. 
 John was not willing for her to marry a slave. They were married 
 and he died in less than a year. That is Rita's history. When AleC 
 died Rita went to John Morgan and kept house for him. 
 
 "When it was that Gerald came in I do not know," pursued the gen 
 eral musingly. "The boy was nearly grown before I heard of him.
 
 I 
 
 184 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 He and Edward are children of distant relatives, I am told. John 
 never saw the latter at all, probably, but educated him and, finding 
 Gerald incapacitated, very wisely left his property to the other, with 
 Gerald in his charge. 
 
 "No, I have taken the greatest fancy to these two young fellows, 
 although I only have known one a few weeks and the other by sight 
 and reputation." He paused a moment, as though his careless tone 
 had desecrated a sacred scene ; the face of the sleeper rose to his mind. 
 "But they are game and thoroughbreds. Accept the proposition and 
 shut your eyea to the future. It will all work out rightly." Montjoy 
 shook his head sadly. 
 
 "I will accept it," he said, "but only because it means a chance for 
 Caroline which otherwise she would not have. Of course you know 
 Mary is going with her, and Morgan is to be their escort?" 
 
 The general uttered a prolonged whistle and then laughed. "Well, 
 confound the little darling, to think she should come over here and 
 tell me all the arrangements and leave herself out; Montjoy, that is 
 the only one of your family born without grit; tell her so. She is 
 afraid of one old man's tongue." 
 
 "Here she comes, with Morgan," said Montjoy, smiling. "Tell her 
 yourself." 
 
 Edward's buggy was approaching rapidly and the flushed and hap 
 py face of the girl could be seen within. 
 
 "Plotting against me," she called out, as she descended, "and I dare 
 you to own it." The general said: 
 
 "On the contrary, I was about telling your father what a brave 
 little woman you are. Come in, Mr. Morgan," he added, seeing from 
 her blushes that she understood him. 
 
 "Mr. Morgan was coming over to see the general," said Mary, "and 
 I came with him to ride back with papa." And, despite the protests 
 of all the others, he presently got Mary into the buggy and carried 
 her off. "You will stop as you come by, Mr. Morgan," he called out. 
 "I will be glad to see you on a matter of business." 
 
 The buggy was yet in sight when* Edward turned to his old friend 
 and said: 
 
 "Gen. Evan, I have come to make a statement to you, based upon 
 long reflection and a sense of justice. I am about to leave the state 
 for France, and may never return. There are matters connected with 
 my family which I feel you should know, and I prefer to speak rather 
 than write them." He paused to collect his thoughts, the general
 
 THE GRAVE IN THE PAST 185 
 
 looking straight ahead and recalling the conversation just had with 
 Col. Montjoy. "If I seem to trespass on forbidden grounds or stir 
 unpleasant memories, I trust you will hear me through before con 
 demning me. Many years ago you lost a daughter " 
 
 "Go on," said the general as Edward paused and looked doubtfully 
 toward him. 
 
 "She was to have married my uncle, I am informed, but she did not. 
 On the contrary, she married a foreigner her music teacher. Is thi 
 not true?" 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "She went abroad, but unknown to you she came back and her chili 
 was born." 
 
 "Ah." The sound that came from the old man's lips was almost a 
 gasp. For the first time since the recital was begun he turned his 
 eyes upon his companion. 
 
 "At this birth, which took place probably at Ilexhurst, possibly in 
 the house of Rita Morgan, whose death you know of, occurred the 
 birth of Rita's child also. Your daughter disappeared. Rita was de 
 lirious, and when she recovered could not be convinced that this child 
 was not her own; and she thought him her son until the day of her 
 death." 
 
 "Where is this child?" Why was I not informed" The old general's 
 voice was hoarse and his words scarcely audible. Edward, looking 
 him full in the face, replied: 
 
 "At Ilexhurst! His name, as we know it, is Gerald Morgan." 
 
 Evan, who had half arisen, sank back in his chair. 
 
 "And this is your belief, Mr. Morgan?" 
 
 "That is the fact, as the weight of evidence declares. The woman 
 in health did not claim Gerald for her son. In the moment of her death 
 she cried out: 'They lied!' This is what you heard in the yard and 
 I repeated it at that time. I was, as you know, laboring under great 
 excitement. There is a picture of your daughter at Ilexhurst and 
 and the resemblance it strong. You yourself were struck with the 
 family resemblance. 
 
 "I felt it my duty to speak, even at the risk of appearing to trespass 
 upon your best feelings. You were my friend when I needed friends, 
 and had I concealed this I would have been ungrateful." Edward rose, 
 but the general, without looking up, laid his hand upon his arm. 
 
 "Sit down, Mr. Morgan. I thank you. You could not have done 
 less. But give me time to realize what this means. If you are cor-
 
 186 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 rect, I have a grandson at Ilexhurst" Edward bowed slightly "whom 
 my daughter abandoned to the care of a servant." Again Morgan 
 bowed, but by the faintest motion of his head. 
 
 "I did not say abandoned," he corrected. 
 
 "It cannot be true," said the old man; "it cannot be true. She 
 was a good girl and even infatuation would not have changed her char 
 acter. She would have come back to me." 
 
 "If she could," said Edward. He told him the story of the unfinished 
 manuscript and the picture drawn by Gerald. He was determined to 
 tell him all, except as related to himself. That was his own and Vir- 
 dow's secret. "If that story is true, she may not have been able to get 
 to you; and then the war came on; you must know all before you can 
 judge." The old soldier was silent. 
 
 He got up with apparent difficulty and said formally: "Mr. Morgan, 
 I will be glad to have you join me in a glass of wine. I am not as vig 
 orous as I may appear, and this is my time o' day. Come in." Ed 
 ward noticed that, as he followed, the general's form had lost some 
 thing of its martial air. 
 
 No words were exchanged over the little southern ceremony. The 
 general merely lifted his glass slightly and bowed. 
 
 The room was cool and dark. He motioned Edward to a rocker and 
 sank into his leather-covered easy-chair. T % here was a minute's sil 
 ence broken by the elder man. 
 
 "What is your belief, Mr. Morgan, as to Gerald?" 
 
 "The facts as stated are all " 
 
 "Nevertheless, as man to man your belief." 
 
 "Then, in my opinion, the evidence points to Gerald as the child of 
 this woman Rita. I am sure also that it is his own belief. The only 
 disturbing evidence is the likeness, but Virdow says that the children 
 of servants very frequently bear likeness to a mistress. It is a delicate 
 question, but all of our ancestors were not immaculate. Is there any 
 thing in the ancestry of Rita Morgan is there any reason why her 
 child should bear a likeness to to " 
 
 The general lifted his hand in warning. But he said: "What be 
 came of the other child?" The question did not disturb or surprise 
 the young man. He expected that it would be asked. It was natural. 
 Yet, prepared as he was, his voice was unsteady when he replied: 
 
 "That I do not know." 
 
 "You do not know!" The general's tone of voice was peculiar. Did 
 he doubt?
 
 THE PLEDGE THAT WAS GIVEN 187 
 
 "I had two objects in view when I brought up this subject," said 
 Edward, when the silence grew embarrassing; "one was to acquaint 
 you with the possibilities out at Ilexhurst, and to ask your good offices 
 for Gerald in the event my absence is prolonged or any necessity for 
 assistance should arise. The other is to find the second child if it is 
 living and determine Gerald's status; and, with this as my main ob 
 ject, I venture to ask you if, since her disappearance, you have ever 
 heard of Marion Evan?" 
 
 "God help me," said Evan, brokenly; "yes. But it was too soon; too 
 soon; I could not forgive her." 
 
 "And since then?" The old man moved his hand slowly and let it fall. 
 
 "Silence oblivion." 
 
 "Can you give me the name of her husband?" Without reply the 
 veteran went to the secretary and took from a pigeonhole a well-worn 
 letter. 
 
 "No eye but mine has ever read these lines," he said, simply. "I 
 do not fear to trust them to you! Read! I cannot now!" 
 
 Edward's hand trembled as he received the papers. If Rita Morgan 
 spoke the truth he was about to look upon lines traced by his moth 
 er's hand. It was like a message from the dead. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 THE PLEDGE THAT WAS GIVEN. 
 
 Edward opened the letter with deep emotion. The handwriting was 
 small and unformed, the writing of schoolgirl. It read: 
 
 "Jan. 3, 18 . My Darling Papa: When you read thig I will be 
 far away upon the ocean and separated from you by circumstances 
 compared with which leagues are but trifles. You probably know them 
 by telegram before now, but I cannot leave you and my native land 
 without a farewell. Papa, I am now the wife of an honorable, lov 
 ing man, and happy as I could be while remembering you and your 
 loneliness. Why I have done this, why I have taken this step without 
 coming to you first and letting you decide, I cannot tell, nor do I 
 know. I only know that I love my husband as I have never loved be-
 
 188 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 fore; that I have his whole affection; that he wanted me to go with 
 blindly, and that I have obeyed. That is all. There is no ingratitude 
 in my heart, no lessening of affection for you; you still are to me the 
 one man in my old world; but my husband had come in and made a 
 new world of it all, and I am kis. You will blame me, I am afraid, 
 and perhaps disown me. If so, God is merciful to women who suffer 
 for those they love. I would lay down my life for Gaspard; I have laid 
 down everything dear to life. We go to his childhood's home in Silesia, 
 where with the money he has saved and with his divine art, we hope 
 to be happy and face the world without fear. Oh, papa, if you could 
 only forgive me; if you could remember your own love for that beauti 
 ful mamma of whom you never tired telling, and who, I am sure, is 
 near me now; if you could remember and forgive me, the world would 
 hold nothing that I would exchange a thought for. Gaspard is noble 
 and manly. You would admire him and he would adore you, as do I, 
 your only child. Papa, you will write to me; a father can never for 
 sake his child. If I am wrong, you cannot forsake me; if I am right, 
 you cannot. There is no arrangement in all God's providence for such 
 a contingency, and Christ did not turn even from the woman whom 
 others would stone. Can you turn from me, when if I have erred it 
 ia through the divine instinct that God has given me? No! You can 
 not, you will not! If you could, you would not have been the noble 
 patient, brave man whom all men love. Write at once and forgive and 
 bless your child. "Marion." 
 
 On a separate slip, pinned to the letter, was: 
 
 "My address will be Mrs. Gaspard Levigne, Breslau, Silesia. If wo 
 change soon, I will write to you. God bless and care for you. M." 
 
 Edward gently replaced the faded letter upon the table; his eyes 
 were wet and his voice changed and unnatural. 
 
 "You did not write?" 
 
 The general shook his head. 
 
 "You did not write?" Edward repeated the question; this time his 
 voice almost agonized in the weight of emotion. Again the general 
 shook his head, fearing to trust his voice. The young man gazed up 
 on him long and curiously and was silent. 
 
 "I wrote five years later," said Evan, presently. "It was the best 
 I could do. You cannot judge the antebellum southern planter by 
 him to-day. I was a king in those times! I had ambition. I looked 
 to the future of my child and my family! All was lost; all perished 
 in the act of a foolish girl, infatuated with a music master. I can
 
 THE PLEDGE THAT WAS GIVEN 189 
 
 forgive now, but over me have rolled waves enough in thirty years to 
 wear away stone. The war came on; I carried that letter from Ma- 
 nassas to Appomattox and then I wrote. I set inquiries afoot through 
 consuls abroad. No voice has ever raised from the silence. My child 
 is dead." 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Edward, gently; "perhaps not. If there is any 
 genius in European detective bureaus that money can command, we 
 shall know we shall know." 
 
 "If she lived she would have written. I cannot get around that. I 
 know my child. She could not remain silent nearly thirty years." 
 
 "Unless silenced by circumstances over which she had no control." 
 continued Edward, "and every side of this matter has presented itself 
 to me. Your daughter had one firm, unchanging friend my uncle, 
 John Morgan. He has kept her secret perhaps her child. Is it not 
 possible that- he has known of her existence somewhere; that she has 
 been all along informed of the condition and welfare of the child and 
 of you?" Evan did not reply; he was intently studying the young man. 
 
 "John offered to find her a year after she was gone. He came and 
 pleaded for her, but I gave him conditions and he came no more." 
 
 "It is not only possible that she lives," said Edward, "but probable. 
 And it is certain that if John Morgan knew of her existence and then 
 that she had passed away, that all pledges would have been suspended 
 in the presence of a father's right to know that his child was dead. I 
 go to unravel the mystery. I begin to feel that I will succeed, for now, 
 for the first time I have a starting point. I have name and address." 
 He took down the information in his memorandum book. 
 
 Edward prepared to take his departure, when Evan, throwing off 
 his mood, stood before him thoughtful and distressed. 
 
 "Say it," said Edward, bravely, reading a change in the frank face. 
 
 "One moment, and I shall bid you farewell and godspeed." He laid 
 his hand upon Edward's shoulder and fixed a penetrating gaze upon 
 him. "Young man, my affairs can wait, but yours cannot. I have no 
 questions to ask of yourself; you came among us and earned our grati 
 tude. In time of trouble I stood by you. It was upon my vouching 
 personally for your gentility that your challenge was accepted. We 
 went upon the field together; your cause became mine. Now this; I 
 I have yet a daughter, the young woman whom you love not a word 
 now she is the pride and idol of two old men. She is well disposed 
 toward you, and you are on the point of going upon a journey in her 
 company under circumstances that place her somewhat at a disad-
 
 190 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 vantage. I charge you that it is not konorable to take advantage of 
 this to win from her a declaration or a promise of any kind. Man 
 to man, is it not true?" 
 
 "It is true," said Edward, turning pale, but meeting his gaze fear 
 lessly. "It is so true that I may tell you now that from my lips no 
 word of love has ever passed to her; that if I do speak to her upon 
 that subject it will be while she is here among her own people and 
 free from influences that would bias her decision unfairly." The hands 
 of the two men met impulsively. A new light shone in the face of 
 the soldier. 
 
 "I vouched for you, and if I erred then there is no more faith to be 
 put in manhood, for if you be not a true man I never have seen one. 
 Go and do your best for Gerald and for me. I must reflect upon these 
 matters I must reflect ! As yet their full import has failed me. You 
 must send me that manuscript." 
 
 Deeply impressed and touched, Edward withdrew. The task waa 
 finished. It had been a delicate and trying one for him. 
 
 At The Hall Edward went with Mary into the darkened room and 
 took the little mother's hand in his and sat beside her to tell of th 
 proposed journey. He pictured vividly the scenes to be enjoyed and 
 life in the gay capital, and all as a certainty for her. She did not 
 doubt; Dr. Campbell had promised sight; it would return. But this 
 journey, the expense, they could not afford it. 
 
 But Mary came to the rescue there; her father had told her he was 
 entirely able to bear the expense, and she was satisfied. This, how 
 ever, did not deceive the mother, who was perfectly familiar with the 
 family finances. She knitted away in discreet silence, biding her time. 
 
 The business to which Col. Montjoy had referred was soon finished. 
 He formally accepted the very opportune offer and wished to know 
 when they should meet in the city to arrange papers. To this Edward 
 objected, suggesting that he would keep an accurate account of expens 
 es incurred and arrange papers upon his return; and to this, the only 
 reasonable arrangement possible, Col. Montjoy acceded. 
 
 One more incident closed the day. Edward had nearly reached the 
 city, when he came upon a buggy by the roadside, drawn up in the 
 shade of a tree. His own animal, somewhat jaded, was leisurely walk 
 ing. Their appoach was practically noiseless, and he was alongside the 
 vehicle before either of the two occupants looked up. He saw them 
 both start violently and the face of the man flush quickly, a scar up-
 
 THE PLEDGE THAT WAS GIVEN 191 
 
 on the nose becoming at once crimson. They were Royson and his 
 cousin. 
 
 Greatly pained and embarrassed, Edward was at a loss how to act, 
 but unconsciously he lifted his hat, with ceremonious politeness. Roy- 
 son did not respond, but Annie, with more presence of mind, smiled 
 sweetly and bowed. This surprised him. She had studiously avoided 
 meeting him at The Hall. 
 
 The message of Mary, "Royson is your enemy," flashed upon him. 
 He had felt intuitively the enmity of the woman. Why this clandestine 
 interview and to what did it tend? He knew in after days. 
 
 Arriving at home he found Virdow writing in the library and for 
 bore to disturb him. Gerald was slumbering in the glass-room, his 
 deep breathing betraying the cause. Edward went to the little room 
 upstairs to secure the manuscript and prepare it for sending to Gen. 
 Evan. Opening the desk he was surprised to see that the document 
 was not where he placed it. A search developed it under all the frag 
 mentary manuscript, and he was about to inclose it in an envelope 
 when he noticed that the pages were reversed. The last reader had 
 not slipped the pages one under another, but had placed them one on 
 another, probably upon the desk, thus bringing the last page on top. 
 
 Edward remembered at that moment that in reading the manuscript 
 he had carefully replaced each page in its proper position and had 
 left the package on top of all others. Who could have disturbed them? 
 Not Virdow, and there was none else but Gerald! 
 
 He laid aside the package and reflected. Of what use could this 
 unexplained manuscript be to Gerald? None that he could imagine; 
 and yet only Gerald could have moved it. Greatly annoyed, he re 
 stored the leaves and placed them in an envelope. 
 
 He was still thinking of the singular discovery he had made, and 
 idly glancing over the other fragments, when from one of them fell a 
 newspaper clipping. He would not in all probability have read it 
 through, but the name "Gaspard," so recently impressed upon his 
 mind, caught his eye. The clipping was printed in French and was 
 headed "From our Vienna correspondent." Translated, it read as 
 follows : 
 
 "To-day began the trial of Leon Gaspard for the murder of Otto 
 Schwartz in this city on the 18th ult. The case attracts considerable 
 attention, because of the fact that Gaspard has been for a week play 
 ing first violin in the orchestra of the Imperial Theater, where he has 
 won many admirers and because of the peculiar circumstances of the
 
 W2 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 case. Schwartz was a stranger and came to this city only upon the 
 day of his death. It seems that Gaspard, so it is charged, some years 
 previously had deserted a sister of Schwartz after a mock marriage, 
 but this he denies. The men met in a cafe and a scuffle ensued, dur 
 ing which Schwartz was stabbed to the heart and instantly killed. 
 Gaspard claims that he had been repeatedly threatened by letter, and 
 that Schwartz came to Vienna to kill him, and that he (Schwartz) 
 struck the first blow. He had upon his face a slight cut, inflicted, he 
 claims, by a seal ring worn by Schwartz. Bystanders did not see the 
 blow, and Schwartz had no weapons upon his body. Gaspard declares 
 that he saw a knife in the dead man's hand and that it was picked up 
 and concealed by a stranger who accompanied him into the cafe. Un 
 less he can produce the threatening letters, and find witnesses to prove 
 the knife incident, the trial will go hard with him." 
 
 Another clew! And the husband of Marion Evan was a murderer! 
 Who sent that clipping to John Morgan? Probably a detective bureau. 
 Edward folded it sadly, and gave it place by the memoranda he had 
 written in his notebook. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 "WHICH OF THE TWO WAS MY MOTHER?" 
 
 The sleeper lay tranquilly forgetful of the morning hours redolent 
 of perfumes and vocal with the songs of birds. The sunlight was gone, 
 a deep-gray cloud having crept up to shadow the scene. All was still 
 in the glass-room. Virdow shook his head. 
 
 "This," he said, "strange, as it may seem, is his real life. Wak 
 ing brings the dreams. We will not disturb him." 
 
 Edward would have returned his violin to its case, but as he sat 
 looking upon the face of the sleeper and revolving in mind the com 
 plications which had enslaved him, there came upon the roof of glass 
 the unheralded fall of rain. As it rose and fell in fine cadences under 
 the fitful discharge of moisture from the uneven cloud drifting past, 
 a note wild but familiar caught his ear; it was the note of the waterfall. 
 Unconsciously he lifted his bow, and blending with that strange minor 
 chord, he filled the room with low, sweet melody.
 
 "WHICH OF THE TWO WAS MY MOTHER?" 193 
 
 And there as the song grew into rapture from its sadness under the 
 spell of a new-found hope, under the memory of that last scene, when 
 the rainbow overhung the waters and the face of the girl had become 
 radiant with the thought she expressed, Gerald arose from his couch 
 and stood before the easel. All the care lines were gone from his face. 
 For the first time in the knowledge of the two men he stood a cool, 
 rational being. The strains ran on. The artist drew, lingering over 
 a touch of beauty, a shade of expression, a wave of fine hair upon the 
 brow. Then he stood silent and gazed upon his work. It was finished. 
 The song of the violin trembled died away. 
 
 He did not for the moment note his companions ; he was looking up 
 ward thoughtfully. The sun had burst open the clouds and was fill 
 ing the outer world with yellow light, through the water-seeped air. 
 Far away, arching the mellow depths of a cloud abyss, its colors re 
 peated upon the wet grass around him, was a rainbow. Then he saw 
 that Virdow and Edward were watching him. The spell was broken. 
 He smiled a little and beckoned to Edward. 
 
 "Here is a new face," he said. "It is the first time) it has come to 
 me. It is a face that rests me." Edward approached and gazed upon 
 the face of Mary ! Speechless with the rush of feeling that came over 
 him, he turned and left the room. 
 
 To Virdow it meant nothing except a fine ideal, but, impressed with 
 the manner of the musician, he followed to the great hall. The girl 
 of the picture stood in the doorway. Before he had time to speak, he 
 saw the martial figure of Evan overshadow hers and heard the strong, 
 manly voice asking for Edward. 
 
 Edward came forward. Confused by his recent experience, and the 
 sudden appearance of the original of the picture, he with difficulty man 
 aged to welcome his guest and introduce his friend. 
 
 "I thought best to come," said Evan when Virdow, with easy cour 
 tesy, was engaging the attention of the lady. "I have passed a sleep 
 less night. Where can we speak privately?" Edward motioned to 
 the stairway, but hesitated. 
 
 "Never mind Mary," said the general, divining his embarrassment. 
 
 "I took her away from the colonel on the road; she and the professor 
 will take care of themselves." She heard the remark and smiled, re 
 plying gayly: 
 
 "But don't stay too long. I am afraid I shall weary your friend." 
 
 Virdow made his courtliest bow. 
 
 "Impossible," he said. "I have been an untiring admirer of the
 
 194 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 beautiful since childhood." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Evan. "You will do!" Virdow bowed again. 
 
 "I would be glad to have you answer a question," he said, rather 
 abruptly, gazing earnestly into her eyes. She was astonished, but man 
 aged to reply assuringly. "It is this: Have you ever met Gerald 
 Morgan?" 
 
 "Never. I have heard so much of him lately, I should be glad to see 
 him." 
 
 "Has he ever seen you?" 
 
 "Not that I am aware of " 
 
 "Certainly not face to face long enough for him to remember your 
 every feature your expression?" 
 
 "Why, no." The old man looked troubled and began to walk up and 
 down the hall, his head bent forward. The girl watched him nonpluss 
 ed and with a little uneasiness. 
 
 "Pardon me pardon me," he said, finally, recalling the situation. 
 "But it is strange, strange!" 
 
 "May I inquire what troubles you, sir?" she asked, timidly. 
 
 "Yes, certainly, yes." He started, with sudden resolution, and dis 
 appeared for a few moments. When he returned, he was holding a 
 large sheet of cardboard. "It is this," he said. "How could a man 
 who has never seen you face to face have drawn this likeness?" He 
 held Gerald's picture before her. She uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise. 
 
 "And did he draw it did Mr. Gerald " 
 
 "In my presence." 
 
 "He has never seen me." 
 
 "Yes," said a musical voice; "as you were then, I have seen you." 
 She started with fright. Gerald, with pallid face and hair upon his 
 shoulders, stood before her. "So shall I see you forever." She drew 
 nearer to Virdow. 
 
 "This, my young friend, is Mary." It was all he could remember. 
 And then to her: "This is Gerald." 
 
 "Mary," he said, musingly, "Mary? What a pretty name! It suits 
 you. None other would." She had extended her hand shyly. He 
 took it and lifted it to his lips. It was the first time a girl's hand had 
 rested in his. He did not release it; she drew away at last. Some 
 thing in his voice had touched her; it was the note of suffering, of 
 unrest, which a woman feels first. She knew something of his history. 
 He had been Edward's friend. Her father had uicturcd the scena
 
 "WHICH OF THE TWO WAS MY MOTHER?" 195 
 
 wherein he had cornered and defied Royson. 
 
 "I am sure we shall be friends, Mr. Gerald. Mr. Morgan is so fond 
 of you." 
 
 "We shall be more than friends," he said, gently; "more than friends." 
 She misunderstood him. Had he divined her secret and did Edward 
 promise him that? 
 
 "Never less," she said. He had not removed his eyes from her, and 
 now as she turned to speak to Virdow, he came and stood by her side, 
 and lifting gently one of her brown curls gazed wonderingly upon it. 
 She was embarrassed, but her good sense came to the rescue. 
 
 "See the light upon it come and go," he said. "We call it the reflected 
 light; but it is life itself glimmering there. The eye holds the same 
 ray." 
 
 "You have imagination," she said, smiling, "and it is fortunate. Here 
 you must be- lonely." He shook his head. 
 
 "Imagination is often a curse. The world generally is happy, I 
 think, and the happiest are those who touch life through the senses 
 alone and who do not dream. I am never alone! Would to God some 
 times I were." A look of anguish convulsed his face. She laid her 
 hand upon his wrist as he stood silently struggling for self-possession. 
 
 "I am so sorry," she said, softly; "I have pained you." The look, the 
 touch, the tender voice which was it? He shuddered and gazed up 
 on the little hand and then into her eyes. Mary drew back, wonder 
 ing; she read him aright. Love in such natures is not a growth. It 
 is born as a flash of light. Yet she did not realize the full significance 
 of the discovery. Then, oh, wonderful power of nature, she turned 
 upon him her large, melting eyes and gave him one swift message of 
 deepest sympathy. Again he shuddered and the faintest crimson flush 
 ed his cheeks. 
 
 They went with Virdow to see the wing-room, of which she had 
 heard so much, to look into the little cabinets, where he made his pho 
 tographs, to handle his weapons, view his favorite books and all the 
 curious little surroundings of his daily life ; she went with an old man 
 and a child. Her girlish interest was infectious; Virdow threw off 
 his speculations and let himself drift with the new day, and Gerald 
 was as a smiling boy. 
 
 They even ventured with unconventional daring to peep into the 
 glass-room. Standing on the threshhold, the girl gazed in with sur 
 prise and delight. 
 
 "How novel and how simple!" she exclaimed; "and to think of hav-
 
 *U9 
 
 yi 
 * 
 
 196 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 ing the stars for friends all night!" He laughed silently and nodded 
 his head; here was one who understood. 
 
 And then her eyes caught a glimpse of the marble bust, which Ger 
 ald had polished and cleared of its discolorations. She made them 
 bring it and place it before her. A puzzled look overspread her face 
 as she glanced from Gerald to the marble and back again. 
 
 "Strange, strange," she said; "sit here, Mr. Gerald, sit here, with 
 your head by this one, and let me see." WhfE(Tnow~lis the marble it 
 self, but controlled by the new power that had enthralled, he obeyed; 
 the two faces looked forward upon the girl, feature for feature. Even 
 the pose was the same. 
 
 "It was well done," she said. "I never saw a more perfect resem 
 blance, and yet" going to one side "the profile is that of Mr. Ed 
 ward!" The young man uttered no sound; he was, in the swift pass 
 ing of the one bright hour of his life, as the marble itself. But as he 
 remained a moment under the spell of despair that overran him, Gen. 
 Evan stood in the door. Only Mary caught the words in his sharp, 
 half-smothered exclamation as he started back. They were : "It is 
 true!" He came forward and, taking up the marble, looked long and 
 tenderly into the face, and bowing his head gave way to his tears. 
 
 One by one they withdrew Virdow, Mary, Edward. Only Gerald 
 remained, gazing curiously into the general's face and thinking. Then 
 tenderly the old man replaced the bust upon the table, and, standing 
 above his head, and said with infinite tenderness : 
 
 "Gerald, you do not know me; if God wills it you will know me 
 some day! That marble upon the table is the carved face of my 
 daughter Marion Evan." 
 
 "Then you are Gen. Evan." The young man spoke the words coolly 
 and without emotion. 
 
 "Yes. Nearly thirty years ago she left me without a farewell until 
 too late, with no human being in all the world to love, none to care 
 for me." 
 
 "So Rita told me." The words were little more than a whisper. 
 
 "I did not curse her; I disowned her and sought to forget. I could 
 not. Then I began to cry out for her in the night in my loneliness 
 do you know what that word means?" 
 
 "Do I know?" The pathos in the echo was beyond description. 
 
 "And then I began a search that ended only when ten years had 
 buried all hopes. No tidings, no word after her first letter ever reached 
 me. She is dead, I believe; but recently some of the mystery has been
 
 "WHICH OF THE TWO WAS MY MOTHER?" 197 
 
 untangled. I begin to know, to believe that there has been an awful 
 error somewhere. She did come back. Her child v/as born and Rita 
 cared for it. As God is my judge, I believe that you are that child! 
 Tell me, do you remember, have you any knowledge that will help me 
 to unravel this tangled " 
 
 "You are simply mistaken, general," said the young man, without 
 moving other than to fold his arms and sink back into his chair. "I am 
 not the son of Marion Evan." Speechless for a moment, the general 
 gazed upon his companion. 
 
 "I thought I was," continued Gerald; "I hoped I was. My Gcd! 
 My God ! I tried to be ! I have exhausted almost life itself to make 
 the truth a lie, and the lie a truth ! I have struggled with this secret 
 here for twenty years or more; I have studied every phase of life; I 
 well-nigh broke Rita's heart. Poor honest Rita! 
 
 "She told me what they claimed she was too honest to conceal that 
 and what she believed; she was too human to conceal that; and then 
 left me to judge. The woman they would have me own as my mother 
 left me, a lonely babe, to the care of strangers; to grow up ill-taught, 
 unguided, frail and haunted with a sickening fear. She has left me 
 twenty-seven years. Rita stayed. If I were sick, Rita was by me. If 
 I was crazed, Rita was there to calm. Sleepless by night, sleepless by 
 day, she loved and comforted and blessed me." He had risen in his 
 growing excitement. "I ask you, General, who have known life better 
 than I, which of the two was my mother? Let me answer; you will 
 not. The woman of thirty years ago is nothing to me; she was once. 
 That has passed. When Rita lay dead in her coffin I kissed her lips 
 at last and called her mother. I would have killed myself afterward 
 life seemed useless but not so now. It may be a terrible thing to le 
 Rita's son; I suppose it is, but as before God, I thank Him that I have 
 come to believe that there are no ties of blood between me and the 
 woman who was false to both father and child, and in all probability 
 deserted her husband." 
 
 Gen. Evan turned abruptly and rushed from the room. Edward saw 
 his face as he passed out through the hall and did not speak. With 
 courtly dignity he took Mary to the buggy and stood with bowed head 
 until they were gone. He then returned to the glass-room. Gerald 
 stood among the ruins of a drawing and the fragments of the marble 
 bust lay on the floor. One glance at this scene and the blazing eyes 
 of the man was sufficient. Evan had failed. 
 
 "Tell them," exclaimed Gerald, "that even the son of a slave is dii-
 
 I 
 
 198 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 honored, when they seek to link him to a woman who abandons her 
 child." 
 
 "What is it," asked Virdow, in a whisper, coming to Edward's side. 
 Edward shook his head and drew him from the room. 
 
 "He does not know what he is saying." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 UNDER THE SPELL. 
 
 The autumn days ran out and in the depth of the southern woods, 
 here and there, the black gums and sweet gums began to flame. And 
 with them came the day when the bandages were removed from the 
 eyes of the gentle woman at the hall. Tha family gathered about the 
 little figure in the sitting-room. Edward Morgan with them, and Col. 
 Montjoy lowered the bandage. The room had been darkened and all 
 light except what came through one spen shutter had been excluded. 
 There was a moment of painful silence; Mary tightly clasping her 
 mother's hands. The invalid turned her face to the right and left, and 
 then to the window. 
 
 "Light," she said gently. "I see." 
 
 "Thank God!" The words burst from the old man's lips and his 
 arms went around mother and daughter at once. For quicker than 
 he the girl had glided in between them and was clasping the beloved 
 form. Edward said a few words of congratulation and passed out 
 side. The scene was sacred. 
 
 Then came days of practice. The eyes so long darkened must be 
 accustomed to the light and not strained. Upon that weak vision, little 
 by little, came back the world, the trees and flowers, the faces of hus 
 band and daughter and friends. It was a joyful season at the hall. 
 
 A little sadder, a little sterner than usual, but with his fine face 
 flushed in sympathetic feeling, the old general came to add his con 
 gratulations. Now nothing remained but to prepare for Paris, and 
 all was bustle. 
 
 A few more nights and then departure! 
 
 Mary was at the piano, playing the simple music of the south and 
 singing the songs which were a part of the air she had breathed all 
 her life the folk songs of the blacks.
 
 UNDER THE SPELL 199 
 
 Col. Montjoy had the Duchess on his lap to hear "the little boy in 
 his watch crack hickory nuts" and the monotonous cracking of the 
 nuts mingling with the melody of the musician had put both asleep. 
 
 Mary and Edward went to the veranda, and to them across the field 
 came the measured tread of feet, the call of the fiddler, and now and 
 then strains of music, such as the negro prefers. 
 
 Edward proposed an excursion to witness the dance, and the girl as 
 sented gladly. She was herself a born dancer; one whose feet were 
 set to rhythm in infancy. 
 
 They reached the long house, a spacious one-room edifice, with low 
 rafters but a broad expanse of floor, and stood at the door. Couple 
 after couple passed by in the grand promenade, the variety and incon 
 gruities of colors amusing Edward greatly. Every girl in passing 
 called repeatedly to "missy," the name by which Mary was known on 
 the plantation, and their dusky escorts bowed awkwardly and smiled. 
 
 Suddenly the lines separated and a couple began to dance. Ed 
 ward, who had seen the dancers of most nations, was delighted with 
 the abandon of these. The man pursued the girl through the ranks, 
 she eluding him with ease, as he was purposely obstructed by every 
 one. His object was to keep as near her as possible for the final scene. 
 At last she reappeared in the open space and hesitating a mment, 
 her dusky face wreathed in smiles, darted through the doorway. There 
 was a shout as her escort followed. If he could catch her before she 
 reentered at the opposite door she paid the penalty. Before Edward 
 realized the situation the girl was behind him. He stepped the wrong 
 way, there was a collision, and ere she could recover, her pursuer had 
 her in his arms. There was a moment's struggle; his distinct smack 
 proved his success, and if it had not, the resounding slap from the 
 broad hand of his captive would have betrayed matters. 
 
 On went the dance. Mary stood patting time to the music of the 
 violin in the hands of old Morris, the presiding genius of the festival, 
 who bent and genuflected to suit the requirements of his task. As the 
 revel grew wilder, as it always does under the stimulus of a specta 
 tor's presence, she motioned to Edward, and entering, stood by the 
 player. 
 
 "In all your skill," she said, "you cannot equal this." For reply the 
 young man, taking advantage of a pause in the rout, reached over and 
 took the well-worn instrument from the hands of the old man. There 
 was a buzz of interest. Catching the spirit of the scene he drew the 
 bow and gave them the wild dance music of the Hungarians. They
 
 200 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 responded enthusiastically and the player did not fail. 
 
 Then, when the tumult had reached its climax, there was a crash, 
 and with bow in air Edward, flushed and excited, stood gazing upon 
 the crowd. Then forty voices shouted: 
 
 "Missy! Missy!" On the impulse of the moment they cheered and 
 clapped their hands. 
 
 All eyes were turned to Mary. She looked into the face of the player; 
 his eyes challenged hers and she responded, instinctively the dusky 
 figures shrank to the wall and alone, undaunted, the slender girl 
 stood in the middle of the deserted floor. Edward played the gypsy 
 dance, increasing the time until it was a passionate melody, and Mary 
 began. Her lithe form swayed and bent and glided in perfect response 
 to the player, the little feet twinkling almost unseen upon the sandy 
 boards. Such grace, such allurements, he had never before dreamed 
 of. And finally, breathless, she stood one moment, her hand uplifted, 
 the triumphant interpreter of his melody. With mischievous smile, 
 she sprang from the door, her face turned backward for one instant. 
 
 Releasing the instrument, Edward followed in perfect forgetfulness 
 of self and situation. But when, puzzled, he appeared alone at the 
 opposite door, he heard her laugh in the distance and memory over 
 whelmed him with her tide. 
 
 He was pale and startled and the company was laughing. He cast 
 a handful of money among them and in the confusion that followed 
 made his escape. Mary was waiting demurely in the path. 
 
 "It was perfect," he said, breaking the awkward silence. 
 
 "Any one could dance to that music," was her reply. 
 
 Silently they began their return. An old woman sat in her cabin 
 door, a fire of chunks making a red spot in the gloom behind. 
 
 "We go to-morrow, Aunt Sylla. Is it for good or ill?" The woman 
 was old and wrinkled. She was the focus of all local superstiton; one 
 of the ante-bellum voodoos. If her pewter spoons had been gold, her 
 few beads diamonds, she might have left the doors unbarred without 
 danger. 
 
 Mary had paused and asked the question to draw out the odd char 
 acter for her friend. 
 
 "In the woods the clocks of heaven strike 11! Jeffers, who was 
 never born, speaks out," was the strange reply. 
 
 "In the woods," said Mary, thoughtfully, "the dew drips tinkling 
 froan the leaves; Jeffers, the redbird, was never born, but hatched. 
 What does he say, Aunt Sylla?" The woman was trying to light her
 
 UNDER THE SPELL 201 
 
 pipe. Absence of tobacco was the main cause of her failure. Edward 
 crushed a cigar and handed it to her. When she had lighted it she 
 lifted the blazing chunk and her faded eyes looked steadily upon the 
 young man. 
 
 "He says the gentleman will come some day and bring much to 
 bacco." The girl laughed, but the darkness hid her blushes. 
 
 "In the meantime," said Edward cheerfully, placing a silver coin 
 in her hand, "you can tell your friend Jeffers that you are supplied." 
 
 The negro's prophecy is usually based on shrewd guesses. Sylla 
 grasped the coin with the eagerness of a child receiving a new doll. 
 She pointed her finger at him and looked to the girl. Mary laughed. 
 
 "Keep still a moment, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I must rob you." 
 She took a strand or two of his hair between her little fingers and 
 plucked them out. Edward would not have flinched had there been 
 fifty. "Now something you have worn what can it be? Oh, a button." 
 She took his penknife and cut from his coat sleeve one of its buttons. 
 "There, Aunt Sylla, if you are not successful with them I shall never 
 forgive you." The old woman took the hair and the button and re 
 lapsed into silent smoking. 
 
 "I am a little curious to know what she is going to do with those 
 things," said Edward. Mary looked at him shyly. 
 
 "She is going to protect you," she said. "She will mix a little ground 
 glass and a drop of chicken blood with them, and sew all in a tiny bag. 
 No negro alive or dead would touch you then for the universe, and 
 should you touch one of them with that charm it would give them cat 
 alepsy. You will get it to-morrow." 
 
 "She is arming me with a terrible power at small cost," he replied, 
 dryly. 
 
 "Old Sylla is a prophetess," said the girl, "as well as a voodoo, and 
 there is with us a tradition that death in the family will follow her 
 every visit to the house. It is strange, but within our memory it has 
 proved true. My infant brother, my only sister, mamma's brother, 
 papa's sister, an invalid northern cousin spending the winter here 
 all their deaths were preceded by the appearance of old Sylla " 
 
 "And is her success in prophecy as marked?" 
 
 "Yes, so far as I know." She hesitated a moment. "Her prediction 
 as to myself has not had time to mature." 
 
 "And what was the prediction?" 
 
 "That some day a stranger would carry me into a strange land," 
 she said, smiling; "and break my heart."
 
 202 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 They had reached the gate; except where the one light burned in 
 the sitting-room all was darkness and silence. Edward said gently, 
 as he stood holding open the gate: 
 
 "I am a stranger and shortly I will take you into a strange land, 
 but may God forget me if I break your heart." She did not reply, but 
 with face averted passed in. The household was asleep. She carried 
 the lamp to his door and opened it. He took it and then her hand. 
 For a moment they looked into each other's eyes; then, gravely lifting 
 the little hand, he kissed it. 
 
 "May God forget me," he said again, "if I break your heart." He 
 held the door open until she had passed down the stairs, her flushed 
 face never lifted again to his. 
 
 And then with the shutting of the door came darkness. But in the 
 gloom a white figure came from the front door- way, stood listening at 
 the stairs and then as noiseless as a sunbeam glided down into the 
 hall below. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 BARKSDALE'S WARNING. 
 
 Edward was awakened by a cowhorn blown just before the peep of 
 day and the frantic baying of the hounds that Charlie Possum was 
 bringing to the house. As he dressed and came forth the echos of 
 horses' feet were heard in the distance upon the public roads and the 
 cry of other hounds, and as the gray dawn lighted the east the outer 
 yard presented an animated scene. About a dozen riders were dis 
 mounting or dismounted were trying to force a place between the mul 
 titude of dogs, great and small, that were settling old and new disputes 
 rough and tumble, tooth and toe nail. 
 
 There was little of the holiday attire that is usually seen at club 
 
 meets; the riders wore rough clothing and caps and their small slender 
 
 horses were accoutered with saddles and bridles that had been distinctly 
 
 "worn." But about all was a business air and promise of genuine 
 
 sport. Many of the dogs were of the old "July" stock, descendants of 
 
 I a famous Maryland dog of 40 years before, whose progeny scattered 
 
 | throughout Georgia constitute canine aristocracy wherever found p. 
 
 \ slender-flanked, fullchested animal, with markings of black and tan.
 
 BARKSDALE'S WARNING 203 
 
 Among them were their English rivals of larger form and marked 
 with blotches of red and white. 
 
 The servants were busy getting light refreshments for the riders. 
 Mary was the superintendent of this, but at the same time she was 
 presiding over a ceremony dear to the old south at all hours of the day. 
 Into each generous cut glass goblet that lined her little side table 
 she poured a few spoonsful of sweetened water, packing them with 
 crushed ice. Down through the little arctic heaps, a wineglassful of 
 each, she poured a ruby liquor grown old in the deep cellar, and planted 
 above the radiated pyramids little forests of mint. Nothing but silver 
 is worthy to hold such works of art, and so getting out an old, well- 
 worn Montjoy silver, its legend and crest almost faded into the gen 
 eral smoothness of their background, she placed them there and began 
 her ministry in the long dining room. She made a pretty picture as 
 she passed among the men, her short, narrowskirted riding dress and 
 little felt hat setting off her lithe, active form perfectly. The ceremony 
 was simple and short. Everybody was eager to be off. 
 
 Just as they mounted and rode out, Mary appeared from somewhere, 
 (mounted upon a half broken colt, that betrayed a tendency to curve 
 herself into a half-moon, and gallop broadside against fences and trees 
 that were inconveniently located. 
 
 Edward viewed the mount with alarm. Though a fairly good rider, 
 he was not up to cross country runs and he questioned his ability to 
 be of much assistance should the half broken animal bolt, with its 
 fair burden. He proposed an exchange, but Mary laughed at the idea. 
 
 "Lorna is all right" she said, "but you could never get her out of 
 the yard. She will steady up after awhile, and the best of horses can't 
 beat her in getting round corners and over fences." 
 
 "Daughter", said the colonel, checking his horse as he prepared to 
 follow, "are you sure of Lorna?" 
 
 "Perfectly. She is going to do her worst for a while and then her 
 best. Steady girl; don't disgrace yourself before company." Lorna 
 danced and tossed her head and chewed upon her bit with impatience. 
 At that moment Barksdale rode into the yard, mounted upon a tall 
 throughbred, his equipments perfect, dress elegant, seat easy and car 
 riage erect. He seemed to Edward a perfect horseman. He gravely 
 saluted them both. 
 
 "I see that I am in the nick of time, Miss Mary; I was afraid it 
 was late." 
 
 "It is late," said the girl, "but this time it is a cat and doesn't mat-
 
 204 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 ter. The scent will lie long after sun-up. "They were following then 
 and the conversation was difficult. Already the dark line of men was 
 disappearing down the line in its yet unbroken shadow. A mile away 
 the party turned into the low grounds and here the general met them 
 riding his great roan and, as always when mounted, having the ap 
 pearance of an officer on parade. He came up to the three figures in 
 the rear and saluted them cheerily. His old spirits seemed to have 
 returned. 
 
 They entered into a broad valley that had been fallow for several 
 years. Along the little stream that threaded its way down the mid 
 dle with zigzag indecision, grew the southern cane from 6 to 15 feet 
 high; the mass a hundred yards broad in places, and at others nar 
 rowing down to fords. This cane growing erect is impenetrable for 
 horses. The rest of the valley, half a mile wide, was grown up in 
 sage, broomstraw, little pines and briars. 
 
 The general shape of the ground was that of the letter Y, the stem 
 being the creek, and the arms its two feeders leading in from the 
 hills. To start at the lower end of the letter, travel up and out one 
 arm to its end, and return, to the starting point, meant an eight mile 
 ride, if the cat kept to the cane as was likely. It was a mile across 
 from arm to arm, without cover except about an acre of sparse, low 
 cane half way between. When Mary came up to the leading riders, 
 with her escort, they were discussing a fact that all seemd to re 
 gard as significant. One of the old dogs, "Leader," had uttered a 
 sharp, quick yelp. All other dogs were focusing toward her; their 
 dark figures visible here and there as they threaded the tangled way. 
 Suddenly an angry, excited baying in shrill falsetto was heard, and 
 Evan shouted: "That's my puppy Carlo! Where are your English 
 dogs?" 
 
 "Wait", said one of the party. "The English dogs will be in at 
 start and finish." Suddenly "Leader" opened fullmouthed, a second 
 ahead of her puppy, and the next instant, pandemonium broke loose. 
 Forty-seven dogs were racing in full cry up the stream. A dozen 
 excited men were following, with as much noise and skill as they 
 could command. 
 
 "A cat, by " exclaimed one of the neighbors. "I saw him!" 
 
 Barksdale led the way for the little group behind. Edward could 
 have closed in, but his anxiety for the girl was now developed into 
 genuine fear. The tumult was the signal for Lorna to begin a series 
 of equine calisthenics, more distinguished for violence than beauty.
 
 BARKSDALE'S WARNING 205 
 
 For she planted her heels in the face of nature repeatedly, seemingly 
 in an impartial determination to destroy all the cardinal points of 
 the compass. This exercise she varied with agile leaps upward, and 
 bunching of feet as she came down. 
 
 Edward was about to dismount to take hold of her when Lorna, 
 probably discerning that it was unnecessary to get rid of her rider be 
 fore joining the rout, went past him like a leaf upon a hurricane. 
 He planted spurs in his horse's side and followed with equal speed, 
 but she was now far ahead. He saw her skim past Barksdale, and 
 that gentleman with but a slight motion of his knees increased his 
 speed. And then Lorna and the thoroughbred went straight into 
 the wall of cane, but instead of a headlong plunge and a mixture of 
 human being and struggling animal floundering in the break, he 
 simply saw nothing. The pair went out of sight like an awkwardly 
 snuffed candle. 
 
 He, had no time to wonder; the next instant he was going through 
 a hog path in the cane, the tall stems rattling madly against his knees, 
 his eyes dazed by /the rushing past of so many near and separate 
 points of vision. Then he rose in air. There was a flash of water 
 underneath and down he came into the path. The open world burst 
 upon him again like a beautiful picture. He only saw the flying figure 
 of the girl upon a ijtnad colt. Was she trying in vain to hold it? 
 Would she lose her head? Would her nerve forsake her? Heavens!! 
 She is plying her whip with might and main, and the man on the 
 thoroughbred at her heels looks back over his shoulder into Edward's 
 white face and smiles. Then they disappear into the green wall 
 again and again the world is reborn on the other side. 
 
 The pace tells. One by one Edward passes the riders. The old 
 general comes up at last. As Mary goes by, he gives what Edward 
 supposes to be the old rebel yell of history and then they are out of 
 the end of one arm of the Y and heading for the clump of cane. 
 
 There has been little dodging. With so many dogs plunging up 
 both sides of the creek, and picking up its trail as he crossed and re- 
 crossed, the cat had finally to adopt a straightaway program as the 
 cover would permit. If it dodged once in this little bit of small cane 
 it was lost. It did not dodge. It went, straight into the end of the 
 other arm of the Y and to the astonishment of all the hunters ap 
 parently went out again and across a sedge field toward the hills. 
 
 It was then a straight race of half a mile and the dogs won. They 
 snarled and pulled and fought around the carcass, whert Lorna went
 
 206 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 directly over them and was "sawed up" at the edge of the woods 50 
 yards further. One of the hunters jumped down and plucked the 
 carcass from the dogs and held it up. It was a gray fox. The dogs 
 had run over him in the little cane and indulged in a view chase. The 
 cat was elsewhere ! 
 
 Exclamations of disgust were heard on all sides and Evan looked 
 anxiously among the gathering dogs. 
 
 "Where is Carlo?'' he asked of several. "Has anybody seen Carlo?" 
 Nobody had, apparently; but at that moment in the distance, down 
 the arm of the Y which Reynard had crossed, they heard a sharp, 
 puppyish cry, interspersed with the fuller voicings of an old dog. 
 
 "There is Carlo!" shouted the old gentleman in a stentorian, voice. 
 "And Leader," interpolated Montjoy 
 
 "Come on with your English dogs! Ha, ha, ha!" and Evan was 
 gone. But Lorna was done for the day. She distinctly refused to 
 become enthused any more. She had carried her rider first in at the 
 death in one race and the bush had been handed to Mary. Lorna re 
 sponded to the efforts to force her, by indulging in her absurd half- 
 moon antics. Barksdale and Edward turned back. 
 
 "It will come around on the same circuit," said Barksdale, speaking 
 of the cat; "let us ride out into the open space and see it." They 
 took position and listened. Two miles away, about at the fork of the 
 Y, they could hear the echo of the tumult. If the cat went down the 
 main stem the day was probably spoiled; if it came back up the other 
 branch as before, they were in good position. 
 
 Nearer and nearer came the rout and then the dogs swarmed all 
 over the lone acre of cane. The animal had dodged back from the 
 horsemen standing there and was now surrounded. 
 
 The dogs ran here and there trotting along outside the cane care 
 less and fagged suddenly became animated again and sprang upon 
 a crouching form, whose eyeballs could even from a distance, be seen 
 to roll and glare frightfully. There was one motion, the yelping puppy 
 went heels over head with a wound from neck to hip, and Carlo had 
 learned to respect the wild cat. But the next instant a dozen dogs 
 were rolling in horrid combat with the animal and then a score were 
 pulling at the gray and tan form that offered no more resistance. 
 
 "Thirty-five pounds," said an expert, holding up the dead cat. A 
 front foot was cut off and passed up for examination. It was as large 
 M a man's fist and the claws were like the talons of a condor. 
 
 The general was down, examining the wound of poor Carlo, and,
 
 BARKSDALE'S WARNING 207 
 
 all rivalry cast aside, the experienced hunters closed in to help him. 
 It was not a question now of Maryland or England; a puppy that 
 would hold a trail when abandonded by a pack of old dogs whom it 
 was accustomed to follow and rely upon its own judgment as to 
 wherein lay its duty, and first of all, after a 16 mile run, plants its 
 teeth in the quarry was now more than a puppy. Ask any old fox 
 hunter and he will prophesy that from the day of the killing of the 
 cat, whenever Carlo opened in a hunt, no matter how much the other 
 dogs might be interested, they would suspend judgment and and flock 
 to him. That day made Carlo a Napoleon among canines. 
 
 Edward was an interested observer of the gentle surgery being 
 practiced upon the dog. At length he ventured to ask a question. 
 "What is his name, General?" 
 
 "Carlo." 
 
 "And I presume he is not what you call an English dog?" 
 
 The general looked at him fiercely; then his features relaxed. "Go 
 away, Edward, go away and give the dog a chance." 
 
 Barksdale had ridden to one side with Mary and was gravely study 
 ing the scene. Presently he said abruptly: 
 
 "When is it you leave for Europe?" 
 
 "Tomorrow." 
 
 "There is a matter pending," he said quietly, "that renders it pecul 
 iarly unfortunate." She regarded him with surprise. "What I say 
 is for you alone. I know Mr. Morgan has been out here for several 
 days and has probably not been made aware of what is talked in 
 town." Briefly he acquainted her with the rumors afloat and seeing 
 her deep concern and distress added: "The affair is trivial with Mr. 
 Morgan; he can easily silence the talk, but in his absence, if skill 
 fully managed, it can affect his reputation seriously." 
 
 "Skillfully managed?" 
 
 "Do you suppose that Mr. Morgan is without enemies?" 
 
 "Who could be his enemy?" She asked quickly, then flushed and 
 was silent. 
 
 "I will not risk an injustice to innocent people," he said slowly, 
 but he has enemies, I leave it to you to decide whether to acquaint 
 him with what is going on or not. I do not even advise you. But I 
 came on this hunt to acquaint you with the situation. If the man 
 whom I suspect is guilty in this matter he will not leave a stone un 
 turned to destroy his rival. It is nearer home from this point than 
 from the hall and I have business waiting. Goodbye."
 
 208 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 He saluted Morgan, who was approaching, and went rapidly away. 
 Mary rode home in silence, returning only monosyllables to her escort. 
 But when she spoke of being doubtful of their ability to get ready by 
 morning and Edward proposed to cancel his order for berths, she 
 hesitated. After all the affair was ridiculus. She let it pass from 
 her mind. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 THE HIDDEN HAND. 
 
 It matters little what kind of seed is planted, it finds its proper 
 elements in the soil. So with rumors. There ia never a rumor so 
 wild, but that finds a place for its roots. 
 
 It soon reached the coroner, that zealous officer whose compensation 
 is based upon fees, that his exchequer had been defrauded by the 
 improper burial of a woman out at Hexhurst. She 'had dropped dead, 
 and there had not been a witness. An inquest was proper; was nec 
 essary. He began an investigation. And then appeared in the bre 
 vity columns of one of the papers the incipient scandal : 
 
 "It is whispered that suspicions of foul play are entertained in 
 connection with Rita, the housekeeper of the late John Morgan at 
 Hexhurst. The coroner will investigate." 
 
 And the next day the following: 
 
 "Our vigilant coroner has made inquiry into the death and burial 
 of Rita Morgan, and feels that the circumstances demand a disinter- 
 ment and examination of the body. So far the rumors of foul play 
 come from negroes only. It seems that Mr. Edward Morgan found 
 the woman lying in his yard, and that she died almost immediately 
 after the discovery- It was upon the night but one preceding his 
 meeting with Mr. Royson on the field of honor, and during his absence 
 next day the body was hurriedly interred. There is little doubt that 
 the woman came to her death from natural causes, but it is known that 
 ahe had few if any friends among her race, and other circumstances 
 attending her demise are such that the body will be disinterred and 
 examined) for evidence." 
 
 Even this did not especially interest the public. But when next
 
 THE HIDDEN HAND 209 
 
 day the morning papers came out with triple headlines the first of 
 which was "Murdered," followed by a succinct account of the dis- 
 intermenti of Rita Morgan, as she was called, with the discovery of a 
 cut on the left temple and a wound in the back of the head that had 
 crushed in the skull, the public was startled. No charge was made 
 against Edward Morgan, no connection hinted at, but it was stated in 
 the history of the woman that she was the individual referred to in 
 Royson's famous letter on which the duel had been fought, and that 
 she died suddenly upon the day it was published. The paper said that 
 it was unfortunate that Mr. Morgan had left several days before for 
 Paris, and had sailed that morning from New York. 
 
 Then the public tongue began $o wag and the public mind to wait 
 impatiently for the inquest. 
 
 The inquest was held in due form. The surgeons designated to ex 
 amine the supposed wounds reported them genuine, the cut in the 
 temple trifling, the blow in the back of the head sufficient to have 
 caused death. 
 
 A violent discussion ensued when the jury came to make up its 
 verdict, but the conservative members carried the day. A verdict of 
 "death by a blow upon the head by a weapon in the hands of a person 
 or persons unknown to the jury" was rendered; the body reinterred 
 and the crowds of curiosity seekers withdrew from Ilexhurst. 
 
 Unfortunately during the era of excitement Gerald was locked in 
 his room, lost in the contemplation of some question of memory that 
 had come upon him, and he was not summoned as a witness, from the 
 fact that in no way had he been mentioned in the case, except by Gen. 
 Evan, who testified that he was asleep when the death occurred. The 
 German professor and Gen. Evan were witnesses and gave their testi 
 mony readily. 
 
 Evan explained that, although present at the finding of the body, 
 he left immediately to meet a gentleman who had called, and did not 
 return. When asked as to Edward's actions he admitted that they 
 were excited, but stated that other matters, naming them briefly, were 
 engaging them at the same time and that they were of a disturbing 
 nature. The woman, he said, had first attracted Edward's attention 
 by falling against the glass, which she was evidently looking through, 
 and which she broke in her fall. If she was struck, it was probably 
 at that moment. 
 
 He was positive in his belief that at the time the sound of falling 
 glass was heard Edward was in the room, but he would not state it
 
 210 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 under oath as a fact. It was this evidence that carried the day. 
 
 When asked where was Edward Morgan and the reason for his ab 
 sence, he said that he had gone as the escort of Mrs. Mont joy to Paris, 
 where her eyes were to be examined, and that the trip had been con 
 templated for several weeks. Also that he would leturn in less than 
 a month. 
 
 Nevertheless, the gravest of comments began to be heard upon the 
 streets, and prophecies were plenty that Edward would never return. 
 
 And into these began to creep a word now and then for Royson. 
 "He knew more than he could prove," "was the victim of circum 
 stances," "a bold fellow," etc., were fragments of conversation con 
 nected with his name. 
 
 "We fought out that issue once," he said, briefly, when asked directly 
 about the character of the woman Rita, "and it is settled so far as I 
 am concerned." And the public liked the answer. 
 
 No charge, however, had been brought against Edward Morgan; 
 the matter was simply one that disturbed the public; it wanted his 
 explanation and his presence. But behind it all, behind the hesitancy 
 which the stern, open championship of Evan and Montjoy commanded, 
 lay the proposition that of all people in the world only Edward Mor 
 gan could have been benefited by the death or the woman; that he was 
 the only person present and that she died a violent death. And people 
 would talk. 
 
 Then came a greater shock. A little paper, the Tell-Tale, published 
 in an adjoining city and deriving its support from the publication of 
 scandals, in which the victim was described without naming, was 
 cried upon the street. Copies were sold by the hundreds, then thous 
 ands. It practically charged that Edward Morgan was the son of 
 Rita Morgan; that upon finding Royson possessed of his secret he 
 first killed the woman and then tried to kill that gentleman in a duel 
 into which Morgan went with everything to gain and nothing to lose; 
 that upon seeing the storm gathering he had fled the country, under 
 the pretense of escorting a very estimable young lady and her mother 
 abroad, the latter going to have her eyes examined by a Parisian ex 
 pert, the celebrated Moreau. 
 
 It proceeded further; the young man had completely hoodwinked and 
 deceived the family to which these ladies belonged, and, it was gen 
 erally understood, would some day become the husband and son-in- 
 law. Every sensational feature that could be imagined was brought 
 out even Gerald did not escape. He was put in as the legitimate
 
 THE HIDDEN HAND 211 
 
 heir of John Morgan; the child of a secret marriage, a non compos 
 mentis whose property was being enjoyed by the other. 
 
 The excitement in the city reached white heat. Col. Montjoy and 
 Gen. Evan came out in cards and denounced the author of the letter 
 an infamous liar, and made efforts to bring the editor of the sheet into 
 court. He could not be found. 
 
 Days slipped by, and then came the climax! One of the sensational 
 papers of New York published a four-column illustrated article headed 
 "A Southern Tragedy," which pretended to give the history of all the 
 Morgans for fifty years or more. In this story the writer displayed 
 considerable literary ability, and the situations were dramatically 
 set forth. Pictures of Ilexhurst were given; the murder of a negro 
 woman in the night and a fancy sketch of Edward. The crowning 
 shame was bold type. No such sensation had been known since the 
 race riots of 1874. 
 
 In reply to this Montjoy and Evan also telegraphed fiery denuncia 
 tions and demanded the author's name. Their telegrams were pub 
 lished, and demands treated with contempt. Norton Montjoy, in New 
 York, had himself interviewed by rival papers, gave the true history 
 of Morgan and denounced the story in strong terms. He consulted 
 lawyers and was informed that the Montjoys had no right of action. 
 
 Court met and the grand jury conferred. Here was evidence of 
 imurder, and here was a direct published charge. In vain Evan and 
 Virdow testified before it. The strong influence of the former could 
 not carry the day. The jury itself was political. It was part of the 
 Swearingen ring. When it had completed its labors and returned 
 its batch of bills, it was known in a few hours that Edward Morgan 
 had been indicted for the murder of Rita Morgan. 
 
 Grief and distress unspeakable reigned in the houses of Gen. Evan 
 and Col. Montjoy, and in his bachelor quarters that night one man sat 
 with his face upon his hands and thought out all of the details of the 
 sad catastrophe. An unspeakable sorrow shone in his big eyes. Bark3- 
 dale had been touched in the tenderest part of his life. Morgan he 
 admired and respected, but the name of the woman he loved had been 
 bespattered with mud. With him there rested no duty. Had the cir 
 cumstances been different, there would have been a tragedy at the 
 expense of his last dollar and he was rich. 
 
 At the expense even of his enterprise and his business reputation, 
 he would have found the author of those letters and have shot him 
 to death at the door of a church, if necessary. There is one point on
 
 212 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 which the south has suffered no change. 
 
 Morgan, he felt, would do the same, but now, alas, Morgan was in 
 dicted for another murder, and afterward it would be too late. Too 
 late ! He sprang to his feet and gave vent to a frightful malediction ; 
 then he grew calm through sheer astonishment. Without knock or 
 inquiry his door was thrown open and Gerald Morgan rushed into the 
 room. 
 
 When Barksdale had last seen this man he doubted his ability to 
 stand the nervous strain put* upon him, but here was evidence of an 
 excitement tenfold greater. Gerald quivered like an overtaxed engine, 
 and deep in the pale face the blazing eyes shone with a horrible fierce 
 ness. The cry he uttered as he paused before Barksdale was so un 
 earthly that he unconsciously drew back. The young man was unroll 
 ing some papers. Upon them were the scenes of the grave as he drew 
 them the open coffin, the shrunken face of the woman and then, 
 in 'all its repulsive exactness, the face of the man who had turned up 
 on the artist under the electric light ! 
 
 "What does it mean, my friend?" said Barksdale, seeking by a forced 
 calmness to reduce the almost irrational visitor to reason again. 
 
 "What?" exclaimed Gerald; "don't you understand? The man un 
 covered that coffin; he ; struck that blow upon poor dead Rita's head! 
 I saw him face to face and drew those pictures that night. There 
 is the date." 
 
 "You saw him?" Barksdale could not grasp the truth for an in 
 stant. 
 
 "I saw him!" 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 "I do not know; I do not know!" A thrill ran through the now eager 
 man, and he felt that instead of calming 'the excitement of his visitor 
 he was getting infected by it. He sat down deliberately. 
 
 "Take a seat, Mr. Morgan, and tell me about it." But Gerald drop 
 ped the pictures and stood over them. 
 
 "There was the grave," he said, "and the man was down in it; I 
 stood up here and lifted a spade, but then he had struck and was 
 arranging her hair. If he had struck her again I would have killed 
 him. I wanted to see what it was about. I wanted to see the man. 
 He fled, and then I followed. Downtown I saw him under an electric 
 light and got his face. He was the man, the infamous, cowardly 
 scoundrel who struck poor Rita in her coffin; but why why should 
 any one want to strike Rita? I can't see. I can't see. And then to
 
 THE HIDDEN HAND 213 
 
 charge Edward with it!" 
 
 Barksdale's blood ran cold during the recital, the scene so vividly 
 pictured, the uncanny face before him. It was horrible. But over 
 all came the realization that some hidden hand was deliberately strik 
 ing at the life of Edward Morgan through the grave of the woman. 
 The cowardliness, the infamy, the cruelty was overpowering. He 
 turned away his face. 
 
 But the next instant he was cool. It was a frail and doubtful bar 
 rier between Edward and ruin, this mind unfolding its secret. If 
 it failed there was no other witness. 
 
 "What became of the man, did you say?" 
 
 "I do not know. I wanted his face; I got it." 
 
 "Where did you last see him?" 
 
 "On the street." Barksdale arose deliberately. 
 
 "Mr. Morgan, how did you come here?" 
 
 "I suppose I walked. I want you to help me find the man who struck 
 the blow." 
 
 "You are right, we must find the man. Now, I have a request to 
 (make. Edward trusted to my judgment in the other affair, and it 
 came out right, did it not?" 
 
 "Yes. That is why I have come to you." 
 
 "Trust me again. Go home now and take that picture. Preserve 
 it as you would your life, for on it may hang the life of Edward Mor 
 gan. You understand? And do not open your lips on this subject to 
 any one until I see you again." 
 
 Gerald rolled up the paper and turned away abruptly. Barksdale 
 followed him down the steps and called a hack. 
 
 "Your health," he said to Gerald, as he gently forced him into the 
 carriage, "must not be risked. And to the driver, slipping a fee in 
 his hand: "Take Mr. Morgan to Ilexhurst. Remember, Mr. Morgan," 
 he called out. 
 
 "I remember," was the reply. "I never forget. Would to God I 
 could." 
 
 Barksdale walked rapidly to the livery stable.
 
 214 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 WITH THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM 
 
 Edward Morgan gave himself up to the dream. The flying train 
 speok onward, out of the pine forest, into the hills and the shadow of 
 mountains, into the broad world of life and great cities. 
 
 They had the car almost to themselves, for the northward travel 
 is small at that season. 
 
 Before him was the little woman of the motherly face and smooth, 
 soft hand, and behind her, lost in the contemplation of the light litera 
 ture with which he had surrounded her, was the girl about whom all 
 the tendrils of his hungry life were twining. He could see her half- 
 profile, the contour of the smooth cheek, the droop of eyelid, the fluff 
 of curly hair over her brow, and the shapely little head. He was 
 content. 
 
 It was a novel and suggestive situation. And yet only a dream. 
 No matter how far he wandered, how real seemed the vision, it always 
 ended there it was but a dream, a waking dream. He had at last 
 no part in her life; he would never have. 
 
 And yet again, why not? The world was large; he felt its large 
 ness as they rushed from center to center, saw the teeming crowds 
 here, the far-stretching farms and dwellings there. The world was 
 large, and they were at best but a man and a woman. If she loved 
 him what did it matter? It meant only a prolonged and indefinite stay 
 abroad in the land he best knew; all its pleasures, its comforts, his 
 and hers. 
 
 If only she loved him! He lived over every minute detail of their 
 short companionship, from the hour he saw her, the little madonna, 
 until he kissed her hand and promised unnecessarily that he would 
 never break her heart. A strange comfort followed this realization. 
 Come what might, humiliation, disgrace, separation, she loved him! 
 
 His fixed gaze as he dreamed had its effect; she looked up from her 
 pictures and back to him. 
 
 A rush of emotions swept away his mood; he rose almost angrily; 
 it was a question between him and his Savior only. God had made the 
 world and named its holiest passion love, and if they loved blindly, 
 foolishly, fatally, God, not he, was to blame. He went and sat by her.
 
 WITH THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM 215 
 
 "You puzzle me sometimes," she said. "You are animated and 
 bright and well, charming often and then you seem to go back in 
 to your shell and hide. I am afraid you are not happy, Mr. Morgan." 
 
 "Not happy? Hardly. But then no bachelor can be quite happy," 
 he added, returning her smile. 
 
 "I should think otherwise," she answered. "When I look about 
 among my married friends I sometimes wonder why men ever marry. 
 They seem to surrender so much for so little. I am afraid if I were 
 a bachelor there isn't a woman living whom I would marry not if 
 she had the wealth of Vanderbilt." 
 
 Edward laughed outright. 
 
 "If you were a bachelor," he answered, "you would not have such 
 thoughts." 
 
 "I don't see why," she said trying to frown. 
 
 "Because you are not a bachelor." 
 
 "Then," she said, mockingly, "I suppose I never will since I can't 
 be a bachelor." 
 
 "The mystery to me," said Edward, "is why women ever marry." 
 
 "Because they love," answered the girl. "There is no mystery about 
 that." 
 
 "But they take on themselves so much care, anxiety, suffering." 
 
 "Love can endure that." 
 
 "And how often it means death!" 
 
 "And that, too, love does not consider. It would not hesitate if it 
 knew in advance." 
 
 "You speak for yourself?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed. If I loved, I am afraid I would love blindly, reck 
 lessly. It is the way of Montjoy women and they say I am all Mont- 
 joy." 
 
 "Would you follow barefooted and in rags from city to city behind 
 a man, drunken and besotted, to sing upon the streets for a crust and 
 sleep under a hedge, his chances your chances, and you with no claim 
 upon him save that you loved him once? I have seen it." She shook 
 her head. 
 
 "The man I loved could never sink so low. He would be a gentle 
 man, proud of his name, of his talents, of his honor. If misfortune 
 came h$ would starve under the first hedge before he would lead me 
 out to face a scornful world. And if it were misfortune only I would 
 sing for him yes, if necessary, beg, unknown to him for money to 
 help him in misfortune. Only let him keep the manliness within him
 
 216 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 undimmed by act ofi his." He gazed into her glowing face. 
 
 "f thank you," he said. "I never understood a true woman's heart 
 before." 
 
 The express rushed into new and strange scenes. There were battle 
 fields pointed out by the conductor mere landscapes only the names 
 of which were thrilling. Manassas glided by, the birthplace of a 
 great hope that perished. How often she had heard her father and 
 the general tell of that battle! 
 
 And then the white shaft or the Washington monument, and the 
 capitol dome rose in the distance. 
 
 As they glided over the long bridge across the Potomac and touched 
 the soil of the capital city and the street lights went past, the young 
 woman viewed the scenes with intense interest. Washington! But 
 for that infamous assault upon her father, through the man who had 
 been by her side, he would have walked the streets again, a Southern 
 congressman ! 
 
 They took rooms to give the little mamma a good night's rest, and 
 then, with the same unconventional freedom of the hall, Mary wandered 
 out with Edward to view the avenue. They went and stood at the foot 
 of that great white pile which closes one end of the avenue, and were 
 awed into silence by its grandeur. 
 
 She would see grander sights, but never one that would impress her 
 more. She thought of her father alone, away back in Georgia, at the 
 old home, sitting just then upon the porch smoking his pipe. Perhaps 
 the Duchess was asleep in his lap, perhaps the general had come over 
 to keep him company, and if so they were talking of the absent ones. 
 Edward saw her little hand lightly laid upon her eyes for a moment, 
 and comprehended. 
 
 Morning! And now the crowded train sweeps northward through 
 the great cities and opens up bits of marine views. For the first time 
 the girl sees a stately ship, with wings unfurled, "go down into the 
 seas," vanishing upon the hazy horizon, "like some strain of sweet 
 melody silenced and made visible," as Edward quoted from a far-away 
 poet friend. 
 
 "And if you will watch it intently," he added, "and forget yourself 
 you will lose sight of the ship and hear again the melody." And then 
 came almost endless streets of villages and towns, the smoke of fac 
 tories, the clamor and clangor of life massed in a small compass, a 
 lull of the motion, hurrying crowds and the cheery, flushed face of 
 Norton pressed to his mother's and to hers.
 
 THE SONG THE OCEAN SANG 217 
 
 The first stage of the journey was over. Across the river rose, in 
 dizzy disorder and vastness, New York. 
 
 The men clasped hands and looked each other in the eyes, Mont- 
 joy smiling, Morgan grave. It seemed, to the latter that the smile of 
 his friend meant nothing; that behind it lay anxiety, questioning. 
 He did not waver under the look, and in a moment the hand that held 
 his tightened again. Morgan had answered. Half the conversation of 
 life is carried on without words. Morgan had answered, but he could 
 not forget his friend's questioning gaze. Nor could he forget that 
 his friend had a wife. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 THE SONG THE OCEAN SANG. 
 
 The stay of the party in New York was short. Norton was busy 
 with trade that could not wait. He stole a part of a day, stuffed the 
 pocketbooks of the ladies with gold, showed them around and then 
 at last they looked from the deck of a "greyhound" and saw the slopes 
 of Staten island and the highlands sink low upon the horizon. 
 
 The first night at sea! The traveler never forgets it. Scenes of 
 the past may shine through it like ink renewed in the dimmed lines 
 of a palimpsest through later records, but this night stands supreme 
 as if it were the sum of all. For in this night the fatherland behind 
 and the heart grown tender in the realization of its isolation, coone 
 back again the olden experiences. Dreams that have passed into 
 the seas of eternity meet it and shine again. Old loves return and 
 fold their wings, and hopes grown wrinkled with disappointment 
 throw off dull Time's imprints and are young once more. 
 
 To the impressionable heart of the girl, the vastness and the solem. 
 nity brought strange thoughts. She stood by the rail, silenced, sad, 
 but not with the sadness that oppresses. By her was the man who 
 through life's hidden current had brought her all unknowing into 
 harmony with the eternal echos rising into her consciousness. 
 
 At last she came back to life's facts. She found her hand in his 
 again, and gently, without protest, disengaged it. Her face was white 
 and fixed upon nothingness.
 
 218 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "Of what are your thinking?" she asked, gently. He started and 
 drew breath with a gasp. 
 
 "I do not know of you, I suppose." And then, as she was silent 
 and embarrassed: "There is a tone in the ocean, a note I have never 
 heard before, and I have listened on all seas. But here is the new 
 song different from all. I could listen forever." 
 
 "I have read somewhere," she said, "that all the sound waves escape 
 to the ocean. They jostle and push against each other where men 
 abound, the new crowding out the old; but out at sea there is room 
 for all. It may be that you hear only as your heart is attuned." 
 
 He nodded his head, pleased greatly. 
 
 "Then I have heard to-night," he said, earnestly, "a song of a wo 
 man to the man she loves." 
 
 "But you could not have heard it unless your heart was attuned to 
 love's melodies. Have you ever loved a woman, Mr. Morgan?" 
 
 He started and his hand tightened upon the guard. 
 
 "I was a boy in heart when I went abroad," he said. "I had never 
 known a woman's love and sympathy. In Switzerland a little girl 
 gave me a glass of goat's milk at a cottage door in the mountains. 
 She could not have been more than 12 years old. I heard her singing 
 as I approached, her voice marvelous in its power and pathos. Her 
 simple dress was artistic, her face frank and eyes confiding. I loved 
 her. I painted her picture and carried her both in my heart and my 
 satchel for three years. I did not love her and yet I believed I did. 
 But I think that I must have loved at some time. As you say, I could 
 not have heard if it were not so." He drew her away and sought the 
 cabin. But when he said good-night he came and walked the deck 
 for an hour, and once he tossed his arms above him and cried out in 
 agony: "I cannot! I cannot! The heart was not made for such 
 a strain!" 
 
 * * * 
 
 Six times they saw the sun rise over the path ahead, ascend to the 
 zenith and sink away, and six times the endless procession of stars 
 glinted on the myriad facets of the sea. The hundreds of strange 
 faces about them grew familiar, almost homelike. The ladies made 
 acquaintances; but Edward none. When they were accessible he never 
 left their presence, devoting himself with tender solicitude to their 
 service, reading to them, reciting bits of adventure, explaining the 
 phenomena of the elements, exhibiting the ship and writing in their 
 journals the record for the father at home. When they were gone
 
 THE SONG THE OCEAN SANG 219 
 
 he walked the deck silent, moody, sad; alone in the multitude. 
 
 People had ceased to interest him. Once only did he break the silence; 
 from the ship's orchestra he borrowed a violin, and standing upon 
 the deck, as at first, he found the love-song again and linked it for 
 ever with his life. It was the ocean's gift and he kept it. 
 
 He thought a great deal, but from the facts at home he turned 
 resolutely. They should not mar the only summer of his heart. "Not 
 now," he would say to these! trooping memories. "After a while you 
 may come and be heard." 
 
 But of the future he thought and dreamed. He pictured a life 
 with the woman he loved, in every detail; discounting its pleasures, 
 denying the possibility of sorrow. There were times when with her 
 he found himself wishing to be alone that he might review the dream 
 and enlarge it. It ceased to be a dream, it became a fact, he lived 
 with it and he lived by it. It was possible no longer; it was certain. 
 Some day he would begin it; he would tell it to her and make it so 
 beautiful she would consent. 
 
 All this time the elder lady thought, listened and knitted. She was 
 one of those gentle natures not made for contentions, but for sooth 
 ing. She was never idle. Edward found himself watching the busy 
 needles as they fought for the endless thread, and marveled. What 
 patience! What continuity! What endurance! 
 
 The needles of good women preach as they labor. He knew the 
 history of these. For forty years they had labored, those bits of 
 steel in the velvet fingers. Husband, children, slaves, all had felt 
 upon their feet the soft summings of their calculations. One whole 
 company of soldiers, the gallant company her husband had led into 
 Confederate service, had threaded the Wilderness in her socks, and 
 died nearly all at Malvern Hill. Down deep under the soil of the old 
 Mother State they planted her work from sight, and the storms of 
 winter removed its imprints where, through worn and wasted leather, 
 it had touched virgin soil as the bleeding survivors came limping home. 
 Forty years had stilled the thought on which it was based. It was 
 strong and resolute still. Some day the needles would rust out of 
 sight, the hands be folded in rest and the thought would be gone. Ed 
 ward glanced from the woman to the girl. 
 
 "Not so," he said, softly; "the thought will live. Other hands 
 trained under its sweet ministry will take up the broken threads; 
 the needles will flash again. Woman's work is never done, and never 
 will be while love and faith and courage have lodgment upon earth.
 
 220 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "Did you speak, Mr. Morgan?" 
 
 "Possibly. I have fallen into the habit of thinking aloud. And I 
 was thinking of you; it must have been a great privilege to call you 
 mother, Mrs. Montjoy." She smiled a little. 
 
 "I am glad you think so." 
 
 "I have never called any by that name," he said, slowly, looking 
 away. "I never knew a mother." 
 
 "That will excuse a great many things in a man's life," she said, 
 in sympathy. "You have no remembrance, then?" 
 
 "None. She died when I was an infant, I suppose, and I grew up, 
 principally, in schools." 
 
 "And your father?" 
 
 "He also died." He was reckless for the moment. "Sometimes I 
 think I will ask you to let me call you mother. Itf is late to begin, 
 but think of a man's living and dying without once speaking the name 
 to a woman." 
 
 "Call one that if you will. You are certainly all that a son could 
 be to me." 
 
 "Mother," he said, reflectively, "mother," and then looking toward 
 Mary he saw that, though reading, her face was crimson; "that gives 
 me a sister, does it not?" he added, to relieve the situation. She 
 glanced toward him, smiling. 
 
 "As you will, brother Edward how natural." 
 
 "I like the mother better," he said, after a pause. "I have ob 
 served that brothers do not wear well. I should hate to see the day 
 when it would not be a pleasure to be with you, Miss Montjoy." He 
 could not control nor define his mood. 
 
 "Then," she said, with eyes upon the book, "let it not be broth 
 er. I would be sorry to see you drift away we are all your friends." 
 
 "Friends!" He repeated *the wofrd contemplatively. "That is 
 another word I am not fond of. I have seen so many friends not 
 my own, but friends of others! Friends steal your good name, your 
 opportunities, your happiness, your time and your salvation. Oh, 
 friendship!" 
 
 "What is the matter with you to-day, Mr. Morgan?" said Mary. "I 
 don't think I ever saw you in just such a frame of mind. What has 
 made you cynical?" 
 
 "Am I cynical? I did not know it. Possibly I am undergoing a 
 metamorphosis. Such things occur about us every day. Have you 
 ever seen the locust, as he is called, come up out of the earth and attach
 
 221 
 
 himself to a tree and hang there brooding, living an absolutely worth 
 less life? Some day a rent occurs down his own back and out comes 
 the green cicada, with iridescent wings; no longer a dull plodder, 
 but now a swift wanderer, merry and musical. So with the people 
 about you. Useless and unpicturesque for years, they some day suffer 
 a change; a piece of good luck, success in business; any of these can 
 furnish sunlight, and the change is born. Behold your clodhopper is 
 a gay fellow." 
 
 "But," said the girl, laughing, "the simile is poor; you do not see the 
 cicada go back from the happy traveler stage and become a cynic." 
 
 "True. What does become of him? Oh, yes; along comes the ic- 
 neumon fly and by a skillful blow on the spine paralyzes him and then 
 thrusts under his skin an egg to be warmed into life by its departing 
 heat. That is the conclusion; your gay fellow and careless traveler 
 gets an overwhelming blow; an idea or a fact, or a bit of information 
 to brood upon; and some day it kills him." 
 
 She was silent, trying to read the meaning in his words. What 
 idea, what fact, what overwhelming blow were killing him? Some 
 thing, she was sure, had disturbed him. She had felt it for weeks. 
 
 Mrs. Montjoy expressed a desire to go to her stateroom, and Edward 
 accompained her. The girl had ceased reading and sat with her chin 
 in hand, revolving the matter. After he had resumed his position 
 she turned to find his gaze upon her. They walked to the deck; the 
 air was cold and bracing* 
 
 "I am sorry you are so opposed to sisters," she said, smiling. "If 
 I were a sister I would ask you to share your trouble with me." 
 
 "What trouble?" 
 
 "The trouble that is changing the careless traveler to a cynic is 
 killing his better self." 
 
 He ceased to speak in metaphor. "There is a trouble," he said, after 
 reflection; "but one beyond your power to remedy or lighten. Some 
 day I will tell it to you but not now." 
 
 "You do not trust me." 
 
 "I do not trust myself." She was silent, looking away. She said 
 no more. Pale and trembling with suppressed emotion, he stood up. 
 A look of determination came into his eyes, and he faced her. At that 
 moment a faint, far cry was heard and every one in sight looked for 
 ward. 
 
 "What is it?" asked a passenger, as the captain passed. 
 
 "The cliffs of England," he said. Edward turned and walked away,
 
 222 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 leaving her leaning upon the rail. He came back smoking. His mood 
 had passed. 
 
 The excitement had begun at once. On glided the good ship. Taller 
 grew the hills, shipping began to appear, and land objects to take 
 shape. And then the deep heart throbbing ceased and the glad voy 
 agers poured forth upon the shore. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE. 
 
 Paris ! 
 
 With emotions difficult to appreciate Edward found himself at home, 
 for of all places Paris meant that to him. He went at once to his 
 old quarters; a suite of rooms in a quiet but accessible street, where 
 was combined something of both city and suburban life. The con 
 cierge almost overwhelmed him with his welcome. 
 
 In obedience to his letters, everything had been placed in order, 
 books and furniture dusted, the linen renewed, the curtains laundered 
 and stiffened anew, and on the little center table was a vase of crim 
 son roses a contribution for madame and mademoiselle. 
 
 His own, the larger room, was surrendered to the ladies; the smaller 
 he retained. There was the little parlor between, for common use. 
 Outside was the shady vista of the street and in the distance the 
 murmur of the city. 
 
 Mrs. Montjoy was delighted with the arrangement and the scene. 
 Mary absorbed all the surroundings of the owner's past life; every 
 picture, every book and bit of bric-a-brac, all were parts of him and 
 full of interest. The very room seemed imbued with his presence. 
 Here was his shaded student's lamp, there the small upright piano, 
 with its stack of music and, in place ready for the player, an open 
 sheet. It might have been yesterday that he arose from its stool, 
 walked out and closed the door. 
 
 It was a little home, and when coming into the parlor from his 
 dressing room, Edward saw her slender figure, he paused, and then 
 the old depression returned.
 
 THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE 223 
 
 Shei found him watching her, and noted the troubled look upon hia 
 face. 
 
 "It is all so cozy and beautiful," she said. I am so glad that you 
 brought us here rather than to a hotel." 
 
 "And I, too, if you are pleased." 
 
 "Pleased! It is simply perfect I" 
 
 A note lay upon the center table. He noticed that it was addressed 
 to him, and, excusing himself, opened it and read: 
 
 "M. Morgan. Benoni, the maestro, is ill and! desires monsieur. It 
 will be well if monsieur comes quickly. "Annette." 
 
 He rang the bell hurriedly and the concierge appeared. 
 
 "This note," said Edward, speaking rapidly in French; "has it 
 been long here?" 
 
 "Since yesterday. I sent it back, and they returned it. Monsieur 
 is not disappointed, I trust." Edward shook his head and was seek 
 ing his hat and gloves. 
 
 "You recall my old friend, the maestro, who gave me the violin," 
 he said, remembering Mary. "The note says he is very ill. It was 
 sent yesterday. Make my excuses to your mother; I will not stay 
 long. If I do not see you here, I will seek you over yonder in the 
 park, where the band may be playing shortly; and then! we will find 
 a supper." 
 
 Walking rapidly to a cab stand he selected one with a promising 
 horse, and gave directions. He was carried at a rapid rate into the 
 region of the Quartier Latin and in a few moments found the maes- 
 tro's home. 
 
 One or two persons were by him when he entered the room, and 
 they turned and looked curiously. "Edward!" exclaimed the old man, 
 lifting his sightless eyes toward the door; "there is but one who steps 
 like that!" 
 
 Edward approached and took his hand. The sick man was sitting 
 In his arm-chair, wrapped in his faded dressing-gown. "My friends," 
 he continued, lifting his hand with a slight gesture of dismissal, 
 "you have been kind to Benoni; God will reward you; farewell!" 
 
 The friends, one a woman of the neighborhood, the other the wife 
 of the concierge, came and touched his hand, and, bowing to Edward, 
 withdrew, lifting their white aprons to their faces as they passed 
 from the room. 
 
 "You are very ill," said Edward, placing his hand upon the old man's 
 arm ; "I have just returned to Paris and came at once."
 
 224 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "Very ill, indeed." He leaned back his head wearily. "It will soon 
 be over." 
 
 "Have you no friends who should know of this, good Benoni; no 
 relatives? You have been silent upon this subject, and I have never 
 questioned you. I will bring 1 them if you will let me." Benoni shook 
 his head. 
 
 "Never. I am to them already dead." A fit of coughing seized 
 him, and he became greatly exhausted. Upon the table was a small 
 bottle containing wine, left by one of the women. Edward poured out 
 a draught and placed it to the bloodless lips. 
 
 "One is my wife," said the dying man, with sudden energy, "my 
 own wife." 
 
 "I will answer that she conies ; she cannot refuse." 
 
 "Refuse? No, indeed! She has been searching for me for a life 
 time. Many times she has looked upon me without recognition. She 
 would come; she has been here she has been here!" 
 
 "And did not know you? It isi possible?" 
 
 "She did not know." 
 
 "You told her, though?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You never told her " There was a pause. The sick man said, 
 gasping: 
 
 "I am a convict!" A cry of horror broke from the lips of the young 
 man. The old violinist resented his sudden start and exclamation. 
 "But a convict innocent. I swear it before my Maker!" Edward was 
 deeply touched. 
 
 "None can doubt that who knows you, Benoni." 
 
 "He threatened my life; he struck at me with his knife; I turned 
 it on him, and he fell dead. I did what I could; I was stanching the 
 wound when they seized me. His ring jewel had cut my face; but for 
 that I would have been executed. I had no friends, even my name 
 was not my own. I went to prison and labor for twenty years." 
 
 He named the length of his sentence in a whisper. It was a horror 
 he could never understand. He stretched out his hand. "Wine." 
 Again Edward restored something of the fleeting strength. 
 
 "She came," he said, "searching for me. I was blind then; they 
 had been careless with their blasting my eyes were gone, my hair 
 white, my face scarred. She did not know me. Her voice was divine ! 
 Her name has been in the mouths of all men. She came and sang at 
 Christmas, to the prisoners, the glorious hymns of her church, and
 
 THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE 225 
 
 she sang to me. It was a song that none there knew but me my song! 
 Had she watched my face, then, she would have known; but how could 
 she suspect me, the blind, the scarred, the gray? She passed out 
 forever. And I, harmless, helpless, soon followed pardoned. I knew 
 her name; I made my way to Paris to be near that voice; and the 
 years passed; I was poor and blind. It cost money to hear her." 
 
 Trembling with emotion, Edward whispered: "Her name?" Benoni 
 shook his head and slowly extended his withered arms. The woolen 
 wristlets had been removed, there were the white scars, the marks of 
 the convict's long-worn irons. 
 
 "I have forgiven her; I will not bring her disgrace." 
 
 "Gambia?" said Edward, unconsciously. There was a loud cry; the 
 old man half-rose and sank back, baffled by his weakness. 
 
 "Hush! Hush!" he gasped; "it is my secret; swear to me you will 
 keep it; swear to me, swear!" 
 
 "I swear it, Benoni, I swear it." The old man seemed to have 
 fallen asleep; it was a stupor. 
 
 "She came," he said, "years ago and offered me gold. It was to be 
 the last effort of her life. She could not believe but that her husband 
 was in Paris and might be found. She believed the song would find him. 
 I had been suggested to her because my music and figure were known 
 to all the boulevards. I was blind and could never know her. But I 
 knew her voice. 
 
 "She went, veiled to avoid recognition; she stood by me at a certain 
 place on the boulevard where people gather in the evening and sang. 
 What a song. The streets were blocked, and men, I am told, uncovered 
 before the sacred purity of that voice, and when all were there who 
 could hear she sang our song; while I, weeping, played the accompani 
 ment, ay, as no man living or dead could have played it. Always in 
 the lines 
 
 "Oceans may roll between 
 Thy home and thee." 
 
 her voice gave way. They called it art. 
 
 "Well, I thought, one day I will tell; it was always the next day, 
 but I knew, as she sang, in her mind must have arisen the picture 
 of that husband standing by her side ah, my God, I could not, I could 
 not; blind, scarred, a felon, I could not; I was dead! It was bitter! 
 
 "And then she came to me and said: 'Good Benoni, your heart 
 IB true and tender; I thank you; I have wealth and plenty; here Ss 
 gold, take it in memory of a broken heart you have soothed.' I said:
 
 226 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 " 'The voice of that woman, her song, are better then gold. I have 
 them.' I went and stood in the door as she, weeping, passed out. She 
 lifted her veil and touched the forehead of the old musician with her 
 lips, and then I hardly knew ! I was lying on the floor when Annette 
 came to bring my tea." 
 
 For a long time he sat without motion after this recital. Edward 
 loosened the faded cords of his gown. The old man spoke again in 
 a whisper: 
 
 "Come closer; there is another secret. I knew then that I had never 
 before loved her. My marriage had been an outrage of heart-faith. 
 I mistook admiration, sympathy, memory, for love. I was swept 
 from my feet by her devotion, but it is true as God is my judge, I 
 never loved her until then until her sad^ ruined life spoke to me in 
 that song on the streets of Paris." Edward still held his hand. 
 
 "Benoni," he said, simply, "there is no guilt upon your soul to have 
 deserved the convict's irons. Believe me, it is better to send for her 
 and let her come to you. Thinly of the long years she has searched; 
 of the long years of uncertainty that must follow. You cannot, you 
 cannot pass away without paying the debt; it was your fault in the 
 beginning " 
 
 The old man had gradually lifted his head; now he bowed it. "Then 
 you owe her the admission. Oh, believe me, you are wrong if you 
 think the scars of misfortune can shame away love. You do not know 
 a true woman's heart. You have not much time, I fear; let me send 
 for her." There was no reply. He knelt and took one withered hand 
 in his. "Benoni, I plead for you as for her. There will come a last 
 moment you will relent; and then it will be too late." 
 
 'Send!" It was a whisper. The lips moved again; it was an ad 
 dress. Upon a card Edward wrote hurriedly: 
 
 "The blind musician who once played for you is dying. He has the 
 secret of your life. If you would see your husband alive lose no 
 minute. "A Friend." 
 
 He dashed from the room and ran rapidly to a cab stand. 
 
 "Take this," he said, "bring an answer in thirty minutes, and get 
 100 francs. If the police interfere, say a dying man waits for his 
 friend." 
 
 The driver lashed his horses, and was lashing them as he faded into 
 the distance. 
 
 Edward returned; he called for hot water and bathed the dying 
 man's feet; he rubbed his limbs and poured brandy down his throat.
 
 THE DEATH OF GASPARD LEVIGNE 227 
 
 He laid his watch upon the little table; five, ten, fifteen, twenty, 
 five would she never come?" 
 
 Death had already entered; he was hovering over the doomed man. 
 
 The door opened ; a tall woman of sad but noble countenance stepped 
 in, thrusting back her veil. Edward was kneeling by Benoni's side. 
 Gambia's eyes were fastened upon the face of the dying man. 
 
 Edward passed out, leaving them alone. A name escaped her. 
 
 "Gaspard." 
 
 Slowly, leaning upon the arm of his chair, the old man arose and 
 listened. 
 
 "It was a voice from the past," he said, clearly. "Who calls Gas 
 pard Levinge?" 
 
 "Oh, God in heaven 1'* she moaned, dropping to her knees. "Is it 
 true? What do you know of Gaspard Levigne?" 
 
 "Nothing that is good; but I am he, Marie!" The woman rushed 
 to his side; she touched his face and smoothed the disordered hair. 
 She held his Hand after he had sunk into his chair. 
 
 "Tell me, in God's name," she said. "Tell me where are the proofs 
 of our marriage? Oh, Gaspard, for my sake, for the sake of your 
 posterity! You are dying; do not deny me!" 
 
 "Ah," he said, in a whisper. "I did not know there was another 
 I did not know. The woman she wrote that it died!" He rose 
 again to his feet, animated by a thought that gave him new strength. 
 Turning his face toward her in horror, he said: 
 
 "It is for you that you search, then not for me!" 
 
 "Speak, Gaspard, my husband, for my sake, for the sake of your 
 Marie, who loved and loves you, speak !" His lips moved. She placed 
 her ear to them: 
 
 "Dear heaven," she cried in despair. "I cannot hear him! I can 
 not hear him! Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard! Ah " The ap 
 peal ended in a shriek. She was staring into his glazing eyes. Then 
 over the man's face came a change. Peace settled there. The eyes 
 closed and he whispered: "Freda!" 
 
 Hearing her frantic grief, Edward rushed in and now stood looking 
 down in deep distress upon the scene. 
 
 "He is dead, madame," he said, simply. "Let me see you to your 
 home." She arose, white and calm, by a mighty effort. 
 
 "What was he to you? Who are you?" she asked. 
 
 "He was my friend and master." He laid his hands lovingly on 
 the eyes, closing them. "I am Edward Morgan!" Her eyes never
 
 228 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 left him. There was no motion of her tall figure ; only her hand upon 
 the veil closed tightly and her features twitched. They stood in silence 
 but a moment; it was broken by Gambia. She had regained some 
 thing of the bearing of the dramatic soprano. With a simple dignity 
 she said: 
 
 "Sir, you have witnessed a painful scene. On the honor of a gentle 
 man give me your pledge to secrecy. There are tragedies in all 
 lives; chance has laid bare to you the youth of Gambia." He pointed 
 downward to where the still form lay between them. 
 
 "Above the body of your husband my friend I swear to you that 
 your secret is safe." 
 
 "I thank you." 
 
 She looked a moment upon the form of the sleeper, and then her 
 eyes searched the face of the young man. Will you leave me alone 
 with him a few moments?" He bowed and again withdrew into the 
 little hall. 
 
 When he was gone she knelt above the figure a long time in prayer, 
 and then, looking for the last time upon the dead face, sadly with 
 drew. The young man took her to the carriage. A policeman was 
 guarding it. 
 
 "The driver broke the regulation by my 1 orders," Edward said; "he 
 was bringing this lady to the bedside of a dying friend. Here is 
 enough to pay his fine." He gave a few napoleons to the cabman 
 and his card on which he placed his address. 
 
 "Adieu, madame. I will arrange everything, and if you will attend 
 the funeral I will notify you." 
 
 "I will attend," said Gambia; "I thank you. Adieu." 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 THE HEART OF GAMBIA. 
 
 It was a simple burial. Edward sent a carriage for Gambia, one 
 for the concierge and his wife, and in the other he brought Mrs. Mont- 
 joy and Mary, to whom he had related a part of the history of Ben- 
 oni, as he still called him. Out in Pere la Chaise they laid away the 
 body of the old master, placed on it their flowers and the beautiful
 
 THE HEART OF GAMBIA 229 
 
 wreath that Gambia brought, and were ready to return. 
 
 As they approached their carriage, Edward introduced the ladies, 
 to whom he had" already told of Gambia's career. 
 
 They looked with sympathetic pleasure upon the great singer and 
 were touched by her interest in and devotion to the old musician, 
 "whom she had known in happier days." 
 
 Gambia studied their faces long and thoughtfully and promised 
 to call upon them. They parted to meet again. 
 
 When Edward went to make an engagement for Mrs. Montjoy with 
 Moreau, the great authority on the eye, he was informed that the 
 specialist had been called to Russia for professional services in the 
 family of the Czar, and would not return before a date then a week 
 off. The ladies accepted the delay philosophically. It would give 
 them time to see something of Paris. 
 
 And see it- they did. To Edward it was familiar in every feature. 
 He took them to all the art centers, the historical points, the great 
 cathedral, the environments of Malmaison and Versailles, to the prom 
 enades, the palaces and the theaters. This last feature was the delight 
 of both. For the dramatic art in all its perfection both betrayed a 
 keen relish, and just then Paris was at its gayest. They were never 
 jostled, harassed, nor disappointed. They were in the hands of an 
 accomplished cosmopolitan. 
 
 To Mary the scenes were full of never-ending delight. The mother 
 had breathed the same atmosphere before, but to Mary all was novel 
 and beautiful. 
 
 Throughout all Edward maintained the sad, quiet dignity peculiar 
 to him, illumined at times by flashes of life, as he saw and gloried in 
 the happiness of the girl at his side. 
 
 Then came Gambia! Mary had gone out with Edward, for a walk, 
 and Mrs. Montjoy was knitting in the parlor in silent reverie when 
 a card was brought in, and almost immediately the sad, beautiful face 
 of the singer appeared in the door. 
 
 "Do not arise, madame," she said, quickly, coming forward upon 
 seeing the eldery lady beginning to put aside her knitting, "nor cease 
 your work. I ask that you let me forget we are almost strangers and 
 will sit here by your side. You have not seen Moreau yet?" 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Montjoy, releasing the white hand that had clasped 
 hers; "he is to return to-day." 
 
 "Then he will soon relieve your anxiety. With Moreau everything 
 is possible."
 
 230 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "I am sure I hope your trust is not misplaced; success, will lift a 
 great weight from my family." Gambia was silent, thinking; then 
 he arose and, sinking upon the little footstool, laid her arms upon 
 the knees of her hostess, and with tearful eyes raised to her face 
 she said: 
 
 "Mrs. Montjoy, do you not know me? Have I indeed changed so 
 much?" 
 
 The needles ceased to contend and the work slipped from the smooth 
 little hands. A frightened look overspread the gentle face. 
 
 "Who is it speaks? Sometime I must have known that voice." 
 
 "It is Marion Evan." The visitor bent her head upon her own arms 
 and gave way to her emotion. Mrs. Montjoy had repeated the name 
 unconsciously and was silent. But presently, feeling the figure bent 
 before her struggling in the grasp of its emotion, she placed both 
 hands upon the shapely head and gently stroked its beautiful hair, 
 now lined with silver. 
 
 "You have suffered," she said simply. "Why did you leave us? 
 Why have you been silent all these years?" 
 
 "For my father's sake. They have thought me cold, heartless, 
 abandoned. I have crucified my heart to save his." She spoke with 
 vehement passion. 
 
 "Hush, my child," said the elder lady; "you must calm yourself. 
 Tell me all; let me help you. You used to tell me all your troubles 
 and I used to call you daughter in the old times. Do you remember?" 
 
 "Ah, madame, if I did not I would not be here now. Indeed you 
 were always kind and good to Marion." 
 
 And so, living over the old days, they came to learn again each 
 other's heart and find how little time and the incidents of life had 
 changed them. And sitting there beneath the sympathetic touch and 
 eyes of her lifetime friend, Gambia told her story. 
 
 "I was not quite 17, madame, you remember, when it happened. 
 How, I do not know; but I thought then I' must have been born for 
 Gaspard Levinge. From the moment I saw him, the violin instructor 
 in our institution, I loved him. His voice, his music, his presence, 
 without effort of his, deprived me of any resisting power;' I did not 
 seek to resist. I advanced in my art until its perfection charmed him. 
 I had often seen him watching me with a sad and pensive air and 
 and he once told me that my face recalled a very dear friend, long 
 dead. I sang a solo in a concert; he led the orchestra; 1 sang to him. 
 The audience thought it was the debutante watching her director, but
 
 THE HEART OF GAMBIA 231 
 
 it was a girl of 17 singing to the only man the world held for her. 
 He heard and knew. 
 
 "From that day we loved; before, only I loved. He was more than 
 double my age, a handsome man, with a divine art; and I well, they 
 called me pretty made him love me. We met at every opportunity, 
 and when opportunities did not offer we made them, those innocent, 
 happy trysts. 
 
 "Love is blind not only to faults but to all the world. We were 
 discovered and he was blamed. The great name of the institution 
 might be compromised its business suffer. He resigned. 
 
 "Then came the terrible misstep; he asked me to go with' him and 
 I consented. We should have gone home; he wag afraid of the legal 
 effects of marrying a minor, and so we went the other way. Not 
 stopping in New York we turned northward, away from the revenge 
 ful south; from police surveillance, and somewhere we were married. 
 I heard them call us man and wife, and then I sank again into my 
 dream. . 
 
 "It does not seem possible that I could not have known the name 
 of the place, but I was no more than a child looking from a car win 
 dow and taken out for meals here and there. I had but one thought 
 my husband. 
 
 "We went to Canada, then abroad. Gaspard had saved considerable 
 money; his home was in Silesia and thither we went; and that long 
 journey was the happiest honeymoon a woman could know." 
 
 "I spent mine in Europe wandering from point to point. I under 
 stand," said Mrs. Montjoy, gently. 
 
 "Oh, you do understand ! We reached the home and then my troubles 
 began. My husband, the restraints of his professional engagement 
 thrown off, fell a victim to dissipation again. He had left his country 
 to break up old associations and this habit. 
 
 "His people were high-class but poor. He was Count Levigne. 
 Their pride was boundless. They disliked me from the beginning. 
 I had frustrated the plans of the family, whose redemption was to 
 come from Gaspard. Innocent though I was, and soon demanding 
 the tenderness, the love, the gentleness which almost every woman 
 receives under like circumstances, I received only! coldness and petty 
 persecution. 
 
 "Soon came want; not tRe want of mere food, but of clothing and 
 minor comforts. And Gaspard had changed he who should have 
 defended me left me to defend myself. One night came the end. He
 
 232 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 reproached me he was intoxicated with having ruined his life and 
 his prospects." The speaker paused. With this scene had come an 
 emotion she could with difficulty control; but, calm at last, she con 
 tinued with dignity: 
 
 "The daughter of Gen. Albert Evan could not stand that. I sold 
 my diamonds, my mother's diamonds, and came away. I had resolved 
 to come back and work for a living in my own land until peace could 
 be made with father. At that time I did not know the trouble. I 
 found out, though. 
 
 "Gaspard came to his senses then and followed me. Madame, can 
 you imagine the sorrow of the coming back? But a few months before 
 I had gone over the same route the happiest woman in all the to me 
 beautiful world, and now I was the most miserable; life had lost its 
 beauty ! 
 
 "We met again he had taken a shorter way, and, guessing my 
 limited knowledge correctly, by watching the shipping register found 
 ime. But all eloquence could not avail then; there had been a revul 
 sion. I no longer loved him. He would never reform; he would work 
 by fits and starts and he could not support me. At that time he had 
 but one piece of property in the world a maginficient Stradivarius 
 violin. The sale of that would have brought many thousand francs to 
 spend, but on that one thing he was unchanging. It had come to him 
 by many generations of musicians. They transmitted to him their 
 divine art and the vehicle of its expression. A suggestion of sale 
 threw him into the most violent of passions, so great wasi the shock 
 to his artistic nature and fa.rr.ily pride. If he had starved to death 
 that violin would have been found by his side. 
 
 "I believe it was this heroism in his character that touched me at 
 last; I relented. We went to Paris and Gaspard secured employment. 
 But, alas, I had not been mistaken. I was soon penniless and prac 
 tically abandoned. I had no longer the ability to do what I should 
 have done at first; I could not go home for want of means." 
 
 "You should have written to us." 
 
 "I would have starved before I would have asked. Had you known, 
 had you offered, I would have received it. And God sent me a friend, 
 one of His noblemen the last in all the 1 , world of whom I could ask 
 anything. When my fortunes were at their lowest ebb John Morgan 
 came back into my life." 
 
 "John Morgan!" 
 
 "He asked no questions. He simply did all that was necessary. And
 
 THE HEART OF GAMBIA 233 
 
 then he went to see my father. I had written him, but he had never 
 replied; he went, as I learned afterward, simply as a man of business 
 and without sentiment. You can imagine the scene. No other man 
 witnessed it. It was, he told me, long and stormy. 
 
 "The result was that I would be received at home when I came with 
 proofs of my marriage. 
 
 "I was greatly relieved at first; I had only to find my husband and 
 get them. I found him but I did not get' them. It happened to be a 
 bad time to approach him. Then John Morgan tried, and that was 
 unfortunate. In my despair I had told my husband of that prior en 
 gagement. An insane jealousy now seized him. He thought it was 
 a plot to recover my name and marry me to Mr. Morgan. He held 
 the key to the situation and swore that in action for divorce he would 
 testify there had been no marriage! 
 
 "Then we went forward to find the record. We never found it. 
 If years of search and great expense could have accomplished it, we 
 would have succeeded. It was, however, a fact; I remember stand- -'"\^ 
 ing before the officiating officer and recalled my trembling responses, 
 but that was all. The locality, the section, whether it was the first 
 or second day, I do not recall. But, as God is my judge, I was mar 
 ried." 
 
 She became passionate. Her companion soothed her again. 
 
 "Go on, my child. I believe you." 
 
 "I cannot tell you a part of this sad story; I have not been perfectly 
 open. Some day I will, perhaps, and until that time comes I ask you 
 to keep my secret, because there are good reasons now for silence; 
 you will appreciate them when you know. Gaspard was left our 
 only chance. Mr. Morgan sought him, I sought him; he would have 
 given him any sum for his knowledge. Gaspard would have sold it, 
 we thought; want would have made him sell, but Gaspard had van 
 ished as if death itself had carried him off. 
 
 "In this search I had always the assistance of Mr. Morgan, and at 
 first his money defrayed all expense; but shortly afterward he in 
 fluenced a leading opera master to give me a chance, and I sang in 
 Paris as Gambia, for the first time. From that day I was rich, and 
 Marion Evan disappeared from the world. 
 
 "Informed weekly of home affairs and my dear father, my separa 
 tion was lessened of half its terrors. But year after year that un 
 changing friend stood by me. The time came when the stern face 
 was the grandest object) on which my eyes could rest. There was no
 
 234 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 compact between us; if I could have dissolved the marriage tie I 
 would have accepted him and been happy. But Gambia could take 
 no chances with herself nor with Gen. Evan ! Divorce could only have 
 been secured by three months' publication of notice in the papers and 
 if that reached Gaspard his terrible answer would have been filed 
 and I would have been disgraced. 
 
 "The American war had passed and then came the French war. 
 And still no news from Gaspard. And one day came John Morgan, 
 with the proposition that ten years of abandonment gave me liberty, 
 and offered me his hand and fortune. But there were reasons- 
 there were reasons. I could not. He received my answer and said 
 simply: 'You are right!' After that we talked no more upon the 
 subject. 
 
 "Clew after clew was exhausted; some led us into a foreign prison. 
 I sang at Christmas to the convicts. All seemed touched; but none 
 was overwhelmed; Gaspard was not among them. 
 
 "I sang upon the streets of Paris, disguised ; all Paris came to know 
 and hear the veiled singer,' whose voice, it was said, equaled the 
 famous Gambia's. A blind violinist accompanied me. We man 
 aged it skillfully. He met me at a new place every evening, and we 
 parted at a new place, I alighting from the cab we always took, at 
 some unfrequented place, and sending him home. And now, madame, 
 do you still believe in God?" 
 
 "Implicitly." 
 
 "Then tell me why, when, a few days since, I was called by your 
 friend Mr. Morgan to the bedside of Gaspard Levigne, the old music 
 ian, who had accompanied me on the streets of Paris, why was it that 
 God in His mercy did not give him breath to enable his lips to answer 
 my pitiful question; why, if there is a God in heaven, did He not " 
 
 "Hush, Marion!" The calm, sweet voice of the elder woman rose 
 above the excitement and anguish of the singer. "Hush, my child; 
 you have trusted too little in Him ! God is great, and good and merci 
 ful. I can say it now; I will say it when His shadows fall upon my 
 eyes as they must some day." 
 
 Awed and touched, Gambia looked up into the glorified face and was 
 silent. 
 
 Neither broke that stillness,, but as they waited a violent step was 
 heard without, and a voice: 
 
 "Infamous! Infamous!" Edward rushed into the room, pale and 
 horrified, his bursting heart finding relief only in such words.
 
 THE MAN WITH THE TORCH 235 
 
 "What is it, my son Edward!" Mrs. Montjoy looked upon him re 
 proachfully. 
 
 "I am accused of the murder of Rita Morgan!" he cried. He did 
 not see Gambia, who had drawn back from between the two, and was 
 looking in horror at hini as she slowly moved toward the door. 
 
 "You accused, Edward? Impossible! Why, what possible mo 
 tive " 
 
 "Oh, it is devilish!" he exclaimed, as he tore the American paper 
 into shreds. "Devilish! First I was called her son, and now her 
 murderer. I murdered her to destroy her evidence, is the charge!" 
 The white face of Gambia disappeared through the door. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 THE MAN WITH THE TORCH. 
 
 The startling news had been discussed in all its phases in the little 
 parlor, Mary taking no part. She sat with averted face listening, 
 but ever and anon when Edward's indignation became unrestrainable 
 she turned and looked at him. She did not know that the paper con 
 tained a reference to her. 
 
 The astounding revelation, aside from the accusation, was the 
 wound. Strange that he had not discovered it. Who could have 
 murdered poor Rita? Positively the only person on the immediate 
 premises were Virdow, Evan and Gerald. Virdow was of course 
 out of the question, and the others were in the room. It was the blow 
 that had driven her head through the glass. What enemy could the 
 woman have had? 
 
 So far as he was concerned, the charge could amount to nothing; 
 Evan was in the room with him; the general would surely remember 
 that. 
 
 But the horror, the mortification he, Edward Morgan, charged 
 with murder, and the center of a scandal in which the name of Mary 
 Montjoy was mentioned. 
 
 The passion left him; depressed and sick from reaction he sat alone 
 in the little parlor, long after the ladies had retired; and then came 
 the climax. A cablegram reached the house and was handed in to
 
 236 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 him. It was signed by Evan and read: 
 
 "You have been indicted. Return." 
 
 "Indicted," and for murder, of course. It gave him no uneasi 
 ness, but it thrust all light and sweetness from life. The dream was 
 over. There could now be no search for Marion Evan. That must 
 pass, and with it hope. 
 
 He had builded upon that idea castles whose minarets wore the 
 colors of sunrise. They had fallen and his life lay among the ruins. 
 
 He threw himself upon the bed to sleep, but the gray of dawn was 
 already over the city; there came a rumbling vehicle in the street; 
 he heard the sound of a softly closing door and then he arose and 
 went out. The early morning air and exercise brought back his physi 
 cal equipoise. He returned for breakfast, with a good appetite, and 
 though grave, was tranquil again. 
 
 Neither of the ladies brought up the painful subject; they went 
 with him to see the learned oculist and came back silent and oppressed. 
 There was no hope. 
 
 The diagnosis corresponded with Dr. Campbell's; the blind eye 
 might have been saved years ago, but an operation would not have 
 been judicious under the circumstances. Continued sight must de 
 pend upon general health. 
 
 All their pleasures and hopes buried in one brief day, they turned 
 their backs on Paris and started homeward. 
 
 Edward saw Gambia no more; Mrs. Montjoy called alone and said 
 farewell. The next day they sailed from Havre. 
 
 In New York Norton met them, grave and embarrassed for once 
 in his life, and assisted in their hurried departure for the far southern 
 home. There was no exchange of views between the two men. The 
 paper Norton had sent was acknowledged; that was all. The subject 
 was too painful for discussion. And so they arrived in Georgia. 
 They mere met by the Montjoy carriage at a little station near the 
 city. It was the 11:20 p. m. train. Gen. Evan was waiting for Ed 
 ward. 
 
 The handshaking over, they rapidly left the station. Evan had se 
 cured from the sheriff a temporary exemption from arrest for Ed 
 ward, but it was understood that he was to remain out of sight.' 
 
 They arrived within a couple of miles of the Cedars, having only 
 broached commonplace subjects, traveling incidents and the like, when 
 a negro stopped them. In the distance they heard a hound trailing. 
 
 "Boss, kin air one er you gentlemen gi' me a match? I los' my light
 
 THE MAN WITH THE TORCH 237 
 
 back yonder, and hit's too putty er night ter go back without a pos 
 sum." Evan drew rein. He was a born sportsman and sympathetic. 
 
 "I reckon so," he said; "and well, I can't," he concluded, having 
 tried all pockets. "Mr. Morgan, have you a match?" Edward had 
 one and one only. He drew all the little articles of his pockets into 
 his hand to find it. 
 
 "Now, hold," said the general; "let's light our cigars. If it's to be 
 the last chance." The negro touched the blazing match to splinters 
 of lightwood, as the southern pitch pine is called when dry, and in 
 stantly he stood in a circle of light, his features revealed in every 
 detail. Edward gazed into it curiously. Where had he seen that 
 face? It came back like the lines of some unpleasant dream the 
 thick lips, the flat nose, the retreating forehead, full eyes and heavy 
 eyelids, and over all a look of infinite stupidity. The negro had fixed 
 his eyes a moment upon the articles in Edward's hand and stepped 
 back quickly. But he recovered himself and with clumsy thanks, hold 
 ing up his flaming torch, went away, leaving only the uncertain 
 shadows dancing across the road. 
 
 At home Gen. Evan threw aside all reserve. He drew their chairs 
 up into the sheltered corner of the porch. 
 
 "I have some matters to talk over," he said, "and our time is short. 
 Yours is not a bailable case and we must have a speedy trial. The 
 law winks at your freedom to-night; it will not do to compromise our 
 friends in the court house by unnecessary delay. Edward, where 
 was I when you discovered the body of the woman, Rita Morgan?" 
 Edward looked through the darkness at his friend, who was gazing 
 straight ahead. 
 
 "You were standing by Gerald's bed, looking upon him." 
 
 "How did you discover her? It never occurred 1 to me to ask; were 
 you not in the room also?" 
 
 "I certainly was. She broke the glass by pressing against it, as I 
 thought at the time, but now I see she was struck. I rushed out and 
 picked her up, and you came when I called. 
 
 "Exactly. And you both talked loudly out there." 
 
 "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Because," said Evan, slowly, "therein lies the defect in our defense. 
 I cannot swear you were in the room upon my own knowledge. I had 
 been astounded by the likeness of Gerald to those who had been dear 
 to me I was absorbed. Then I heard you cry out, and found you in 
 the yard." There was a long pause. Edward's heart began to beat
 
 238 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 with sledge-hammer violence. 
 
 "Then," he said with a strange voice, "as the case would be pre 
 sented, I was found with the body of the woman; she had been mur 
 dered and I was the only one who had a motive. Is that it?" 
 
 "That is it." The young man arose and walked the porch in silence. 
 
 "But that is not all," said Gen. Evan. "If it were, I would have 
 cabled you to go east from Paris. There is more. Is there any one 
 on earth who could be interested in your disgrace or death?" 
 
 "None that I know of that is, well, no; none that I know of. You 
 remember Royson; we fought that out. He cannot cherish enmity 
 against a man who) fought him in an open field." 
 
 "Perhaps you are mistaken. 
 
 "From what do you speak?" 
 
 "You had been in Paris but a few days when one night as I sat 
 here your friend Barksdale great man that Barksdale; a trifle heady 
 and confident, but true as steel Barksdale came flying on his sorrel 
 up the avenue and landed here. 
 
 " 'General,' said he,' I have discovered the most damnable plot that 
 a man ever faced. All this scandal about Morgan is not newspaper 
 sensation as you suppose, it is the first step in a great tragedy.' And 
 then he went on to tell me that Gerald had invaded his room and 
 shown him pictures of an open grave, the face of a dead woman and 
 also the face of the man who opened that grave, drawn with every 
 detail perfect. Gerald declared that he witnessed the disinterment 
 and drew the scene from memory " 
 
 "Hold a minute," said Edward; he was now on his feet, his hand 
 uplifted to begin a statement; "and then and then " 
 
 "The object of that disinterment was to inflict the false wound and 
 charge you with murder." 
 
 "And the man who did it who made that wound was the man who 
 begged a match, from us on the road. I will swear it, if art is true. 
 I have seen the picture." Evan paused a moment to take in the 
 vital fact. Then there rung out from him a half-shout: 
 
 "Thank God! Thank God!" The chairs that stood between him 
 and the door were simply hurled out of the way. His stentorian 
 voice called for his factotum. "John!" and John did not wait to dress, 
 but came. 
 
 "Get my horse and a mule saddled and bring that puppy Carlo. 
 Quick, John, quick!" John fled toward the stable. "Edward, we win 
 if we get that negro we win!" he exclaimed, coming back through
 
 THE MAN WITH THE TORCH 239 
 
 the wreck of his furniture. 
 
 "But why should the negro have disinterred the body and have 
 made a wound upon her head? There can be no motive." 
 
 "Heavens, man, no motive! Do you know that you have come 
 between two men an4 Mary^Morgan?" 
 
 "I have never suspected if, even." 
 
 "Two have sought her with all the energy of manhood," said Evan. 
 "Two men as different as the east from the west. Royson hates you 
 and will leave no stone unturned to effect your ruin; Barksdale loves 
 her and will leave no stone unturned to protect her happiness ! There 
 you have it all. Only one man in the world could have put that black 
 devil up to his infamous deed and that man is Royson. Only one 
 man in the world could have grasped the situation and have read the 
 riddle correctly- and that man is Barksdale." Edward was dazed. 
 Gradually the depth and villainy of the conspiracy grew clear. 
 
 "But to prove it " 
 
 "The negro." 
 
 "Will he testify?" 
 
 "Will he? If I get my hands on him, young man, he will testify! 
 Or he will hang by the neck from a limb as his possum hangs by the 
 tail." 
 
 "You propose to capture him?" 
 
 "I am going to capture him." He disappeared in the house and 
 when he came out he had on his army belt, with sword and pistol. 
 The mounts were at the door and for the first time in his life Edward 
 was astride a mule. To his surprise the animal bounded along after 
 the gray horse, with a smooth and even gait, and kept up without 
 difficulty. 
 
 Evan rode as a cavalryman and carried across his saddle the puppy. 
 With unerring skill he halted at the exact spot where the matchh had 
 been struck, and lowered the dog gently to the ground. The intelli 
 gent, excited animal at once took up the trail of man or dogs, and 
 opening loudly glided into the darkness. They followed. 
 
 Several miles had been covered, when they saw in the distance a 
 glimmer of light among the trees and Evan drew rein. 
 
 "It will not do," he said, "to ride upon him. At the sound of horses' 
 feet he will extinguish his light and escape. The dog, he will sup 
 pose, is a stray one led off by his own and will not alarm him." They 
 tied their animals and pressed on. 
 
 The dog ahead had openel and Carlo's voice could be heard with
 
 240 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 the rest, as they trailed the fleeing possum. The general was ex 
 hausted. "I can't do it, Edward, my boy go on. I will follow as 
 fast as possible." Without a word Edward obeyed. The dogs were 
 now furious, the man himself running. In the din and clamor he 
 could hear nothing of pursuit. The first intimation he had of danger 
 was a grip on his collar and a man's voice exclaiming excitedly: 
 
 "Halt! You are my prisoner!" 
 
 The torch fell to the ground and lay sputtering. The negro was 
 terrified for the moment, but his quick eye pierced the gloom and 
 measured his antagonist. He made a fierce effort to break away, and 
 failing, threw himself with immense force upon Edward. Then began 
 a frightful struggle. No word was spoken. The negro was power 
 ful, but the white man was inspired by a memory and consciousness 
 of his wrongs. They fell and writhed, and rose and fell again. Slip 
 pery Dick had got his hand upon Edward's throat. Suddenly his 
 grasp relaxed and he lay with the white of his eyes rolled upward. 
 The muzzle of a cavalry pistol was against his head and the stern 
 face of the veteran was above him. 
 
 "Get up!" said the general, briefly. 
 
 "Certainly, boss," was the reply, and breathless the two men arose. 
 
 The defense had its witness! 
 
 "Ef he had'n conjured me," said the negro doggedly, "he couldn't 
 'er done it." He had recognized among the little things that Edward 
 drew from his pocket on the road the voodoo's charm. 
 
 Edward, breathless, took up the torch and looked into Dick's count 
 enance. "I am not mistaken, general, this is the man." 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 WHAT THE SHEET HID. 
 
 Slippery Dick was puzzled as well as frightened. He knew Gen. 
 Evan by sight, and his terror lost some of its wildness; the general 
 was not likely to be out upon a lynching expedition. But for what 
 was he wanted? He could not protest until he knew that, and in his 
 past were many dark deeds, for which somebody was wanted. So he 
 was silent.
 
 WHAT THE SHEET HID 241 
 
 His attention was chiefly directed to Edward; he could not account 
 for him, nor could he remember to have seen him. Royson had long 
 since trained him to silence; most men convict themselves while 
 under arrest. 
 
 Evan stood in deep thought, but presently he prepared for action. 
 
 "What is your name, boy?" The negro answered promptly: 
 
 "Dick, sah." 
 
 "Dick who?" 
 
 "Just Dick, sah." 
 
 "Your other name?" 
 
 "Slippery Dick." The general was interested instantly. 
 
 "Oh, Slippery Dick." The career of the notorious negro was par 
 tially known to him. Dick had been the reporter's friend for many 
 years and in dull times more than the truth had been told of Slippery 
 Dick. "Well, this begins to look probable, Edward; I begin to think 
 you may be right." 
 
 "I am not mistaken, general. If there is a mistake, it is not mine." 
 
 "What dey want me for, Marse Evan? I ain't done nothin'." 
 
 "A house has been broken into, Dick, and you are the man who did 
 it." 
 
 "Who, me? Fo' Gawd, Marse Evan, I ain't broke inter no man's 
 house. It warn't me no sah, no sah." 
 
 "We will see about that. Now I will give you your choice, Dick; 
 you can go with me, Gen. Evan and I will protect you. If the person 
 who accuses you says you are innocent I will turn you loose; if you 
 are not willing to go there I will take you to jail; but, willing or un 
 willing, if you make a motion to escape, I will put a bullet through 
 you before you can take three steps." 
 
 "I'll go with you, Marse Evan; I ain't de man. I'll go whar you 
 want me to go." 
 
 "Get your dogs together and take the road to town. I will show 
 you when we get there." They went with him to where his dogs, 
 great and small, were loudly baying at the root of a small persimmon 
 tree. Dick looked up wistfully. 
 
 "Marse Evan, deir he sots; you don't spect me ter leave dat possum 
 up dere?" The lod man laughed silently. 
 
 "The ruling passion strong in death," he quoted to Edward, and then 
 sternly to Dick: "Get him and be quick about it." A moment more 
 and they were on the way to the horses. 
 
 "I had an object," said Evan , "in permitting this. As we pass
 
 242 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 through the city we present the appearance of a hunting party. Turn 
 up your coat collar and turn down your hat to avoid the possibility of 
 recognition." 
 
 They reached the city, passed through the deserted streets, the 
 negro carrying his 'possum and surrounded by the dogs preceding the 
 riders, and, without attracting more than the careless notice of a 
 policeman or two, they reached the limits beyond. 
 
 Still Dick was not suspicious; the road was his own way home; but 
 when finally he was ordered to turn up the long route to Ilexhurst, 
 he stopped. This was anticipated; the general spurted his horse 
 almost against him. 
 
 "Go on!" he said, sternly, "or by the Eternal you are a dead man! 
 Edward, if he makes a break, you have the ex " 
 
 "Marse Evan, you said breakin' in 'er house." Dick still hesitated. 
 
 "I did; but it was the house of the dead." 
 
 The 'possum came suddenly to the ground, and away went Dick 
 into an open field, the expectation of a bullet lending speed to his legs. 
 But he was not in the slightest danger from bullets; he was the last 
 man, almost, that either of his captors would have slain, nor was it 
 necessary. The great roan came thundering upon him; he lifted his 
 arm to ward off the expected blow and looked up terrified. The next 
 instant a hand was on his coat collar, andf he was lifted off his feet. 
 Dragging his prisoner into the road, Evan held his pistol over his wet 
 forehead, while, with the rein, Edward lashed his elbows behind his 
 back. The dogs were fighting over the remains of the unfortunate 
 'possum. They left them, there. 
 
 The three men arrived at Ilexhurst thoroughly tired; the white men 
 more so than the negro. Tying their animals, Edward led the may 
 around to the glass-room, where a light was burning, but to his di- 
 appointment on entering he found no occupant. Slippery Dick was 
 placed in a chair and the door locked. Evan stood guard over him, 
 while Edward searched the house. The wing-room was dark and 
 Gerald was not to be found. From the door of the professor's room 
 came the cadenced breathing of a profound sleeper. Returning, Ed 
 ward communicated these facts to his companion. They discussed 
 the situation. 
 
 Evan, oppressed by the memory of his last two visits to these scenes, 
 was silent and distrait. The eyes of the negro were moving restlessly 
 from point to point, taking in every detail of his surroundings. The 
 scene, the hour, the situation and the memory of that shriveled face
 
 WHAT THE SHEET HID 243 
 
 in its coffin all combined to reduce Dick to a state of abject terror. 
 Had he not been tied he would have plunged through the glass into 
 the night; the pistol in the hands of the old man standing over him 
 would have been forgotten. 
 
 What was to be done? Edward went into the wing-room and light 
 ed the lamps preparatory to making better arrangements for all 
 parties. Suddenly his eyes fell upon the lounge. Extended upon It 
 was a form outlined through a sheet that covered it from head to 
 foot. So still, so immovable and breathless it seemed, he drew back 
 in horror. An indefinable fear seized him. White, with unexpressed 
 horror, he stood in the door of the glass-room and beckoned to the 
 general. The silence of his appearance, the inexpressible terror that 
 shone in his face and manner, sent a thrill to the old man's heart 
 and set the negro trembling. 
 
 Driving the negro before him, Evan entered. At sight of the cover 
 ed form Dick made a violent effort to break away, but, with nerves 
 now at their highest tension and muscles drawn responsive, the gen 
 eral successfully resisted. Enraged at last he stilled his captive by a 
 savage blow with his weapon. 
 
 Edward now approached the apparition and lifted the cloth. Pre 
 pared as he was for the worst, he could not restrain the cry of hor 
 ror that rose to his lips. Before him was the face of Gerald, white 
 with the hue of death, the long lashes drooped over half-closed eyes, 
 the black hair drawn back from the white forehead and clustering 
 about his neck and shoulders. He fell almost fainting against the 
 outstretched arm of his friend, who, pale and shocked, stood with 
 eyes riveted upon the fatal beauty of the dead face. 
 
 It was but an instant; then the general was jerked with irresistible 
 force and fell backward into the room, Edward going nearly pros 
 trate over him. There was the sound of shattered glass and the negro 
 was gone. 
 
 Stunned and hurt, the old man rose to his feet and rushed to the 
 glass-room. Then a pain seized him; he drew his bruised limb from 
 the floor and caught the lintel. 
 
 "Stop that man! Stop that man!" he said in a stentorian voice; 
 "he is your only witness now!" Edward looked into his face a mo 
 ment and comprehended. For the third time that night he plunged 
 into the darkness after Slippery Dick. But where? Carlo was telling! 
 Down the hill his shrill voice was breaking the night. Abandoned by 
 the nogro's dogs accustomed to seek their home and that not far awaj ,
 
 244 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 he had followed the master's footsteps with unerring instinct and 
 whined about the glass door. The bursting glass, the fleeing form of 
 a strange negro, were enough for his excitable nature; he gave voice 
 and took the trail. 
 
 The desperate effort of the negro might have suceeded, but the 
 human arms were made for many things; when a man stumbles he 
 needs them in the air and over-head or extended. Slipery Dick went 
 down with a crash in a mass of blackberry bushes, and when Edward 
 reached him he was kicking wildly at the excited puppy, prevented 
 from rising by his efforts and his bonds. The excited and enraged 
 white man dragged him out of the bushes by his collar and brought 
 reason to her throne by savege kicks. The prisoner gave up and 
 begged for mercy. 
 
 He was marched back, all breathless, to the general, who had limp 
 ed to the gate to meet him. 
 
 Edward was now excited beyond control; he forced the prisoner, 
 shivering with horror, into the presence of the corpse, and with the 
 axe in hr.nd confronted him. 
 
 "You infamous villain!" he cried; "tell me here, in the presence 
 of my dead friend, who it) was that put you up to opening the grave 
 of Rita Morgan and breaking her skull, or I will brain you! You have 
 ten seconds to speak!" He meant it, and the axe flashed in the air. 
 Gen. Evan caught the vpraised arm. 
 
 "Softly, softly, Edward; this won't do; this won't do! You defeat 
 your own purpose!" It was timely; the blow might have descended, 
 for the reckless man was in earnest, and the negro was by this time 
 dumb. 
 
 "Dick," said the general, "I promised to protect you on conditions, 
 and I will. But you have done this gentleman an injury and endan 
 gered his life. You opened Rita Morgan's grave and broke her skull 
 an act for which the law has no adequate punishment; but my young 
 friend here is desperate. You can save yourself but I cannot save you 
 except over my dead body. If you refuse I will stand aside, and when 
 I do you are a dead man." He was during this hurried speech still 
 struggling with the young man. 
 
 "I'll tell, Marse Evan! Hold 'im. I'll tell!" 
 
 "Who, then?" said Edward, white with his passion; "who was the 
 infamous villain that paid you for the deed?" 
 
 "Mr. Royson, Mr. Royson, he hired me." The men looked at each 
 other. A revulsion came over Edward; a horror, a hatred of the
 
 ON THE MARGINS OF TWO WORLDS 245 
 
 human race, of anything that bore the shape of man but no; the kind, 
 sad face of the old gentleman was beaming in triumph upon him. 
 
 And then from somewhere into the scene came the half-dressed 
 form of Virdow, his face careworn and weary, amazed and alarmed. 
 
 Virdow wrote the confession in all its details, and the general wit 
 nessed the rude cross made by the trembling hand of the negro. And 
 then they stood sorrowful and silent before the still, dead face of 
 Gerald Morgan! 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 ON THE MARGINS OF TWO WORLDS. 
 
 The discovery of Gerald's death necessitated a change of plans. 
 The concealment of Slippery Dick and Edward must necessarily be 
 accomplished at Ilexhurst. There were funeral arrangements to be 
 imade, the property cared for and Virdow to be rescued from his sol 
 itary and embarrassing position. Moreover, the gray dawn was on 
 ere the confession was written, and Virdow had briefly explained the 
 circumstances of Gerald's death. Exhausted by excitement and anxiety 
 and the depression of grief, he went to his room and brought Edward 
 a sealed packet which had been written and addressed to him during 
 the early hours of the night. 
 
 "You will find it all there," he said; "I cannot talk upon it." He 
 went a moment to look upon the face of his friend and then, with a 
 single pathetic gesture, turned and left them. 
 
 One of the eccentricities of the former owner of Ilexhurst had been 
 a granite smoke-house, not only burglar and fireproof but cyclone 
 proof, and with its oaken door it constituted a formidable jail. 
 
 With food and water, Dick, freed of his bonds, was ushered into 
 this building, the small vents in the high roof affording enough light 
 for most purposes. A messenger was then dispatched for Barksdale 
 and Edward locked himself away from sight of chance callers in his 
 upper room. The general, thoughtful and weary, sat by the dead man. 
 
 The document that Virdow had prepared was written in German. 
 "When your eye reads these lines, you will be grieved beyond endur 
 ance ; Gerald is no more ! He was killed to-night by a flash of lightning
 
 246 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 and his death was instantaneous. I am alone, heartbroken and utterly 
 wretched. Innocent of any responsibility in this horrible tragedy I 
 was yet the cause, since it was while submitting to some experiment! 
 of mine that he received his death stroke. I myself received a fright 
 ful electric shock, but it now amounts to nothing. I would to God 
 that I and not he had received the full force of the discharge. He 
 might have been of vast service to science, but my work is little and 
 now well-nigh finished. 
 
 "Gerald was kneeling under a steel disk, in the glass-room, you will 
 remember where we began our sound experiments, and I did not know 
 that the steel wire which suspended it ran up and ended near a metal 
 strip, along the ridge beam of the room. We had just begun our in 
 vestigation, when the flash descended and he fell dead. 
 
 "At this writing I am here under peculiar circumstances ; the butler 
 who came to my call when I recovered consciousness assisted me in 
 the attempt at resuscitation of Gerald, but without any measure of 
 success. He then succeeded in getting one or two of the old negroes 
 and a doctor. The latter declared life extinct. There was no dis 
 figurement only a black spot in the crown of the head and a dark 
 line down the spine, where the electric fluid had passed. That was 
 all." 
 
 Edward ceased to read; his chin sank upon his breast and the lines 
 slipped from his unfocused eyes. The dark line down the spinel Hit 
 heart leaped fiercely and he lifted his face with a new light in his 
 eyes. For a moment it was radiant; then shame bowed his head again. 
 He laid aside the paper and gave himself up to thought, from time to 
 time pacing the room. In these words lay emancipation. He resumed 
 the reading: 
 
 "We arranged the body on the lounge and determined to wait un 
 til morning to send for the coroner and undertaker, but one by one 
 your negroes disappeared. They could not seem to withstand their 
 superstition, the butler told me, and as there was nothing to be done 
 I did not worry. I came here to the library to write, and when I re 
 turned, the butler, too, was gone. They are a strange people. I sup 
 pose I will see none of them until morning, but it does not matter; 
 my poor friend is far beyond the reach of attention. His rare mind 
 has become a part of cosmos; its relative situation is our mystery. 
 
 "I will, now, before giving you a minute description of our last 
 evening together, commit for your eye my conclusions as to some of 
 the phenomena and facts you have observed. I am satisfied as far
 
 ON THE MARGINS OF TWO WORLDS 247 
 
 as Gerald's origin is concerned, that he is either the son of the woman 
 Rita or that they are in some way connected by ties of blood. In 
 either case the similarity of their profiles would be accounted for. No 
 matter how remote the connection, nothing is so common as this re 
 appearance of tribal features in families. The woman, you told me, 
 claimed him as her child, but silently waived that claim for his sake. 
 I say to you that) a mother's instinct is based upon something deeper 
 than mere fancy, and that intuitions are so nearly correct that I class 
 them as the nearest approach to mind memory to be observed. 
 
 "The likeness of his full face to the picture of the girl you call Mar 
 ion Evan may be the result of influences exerted at birth. Do you 
 remember the fragmentary manuscript? If that is a history, I am 
 of the opinion that it is explanation enough. At any rate, the pro 
 file is a stronger evidence the other way. 
 
 "The reproduction of the storm scene is one of the most remarkable 
 incidents I have ever known, but it is not proof that he inherited it 
 as a memory. It is a picture forcibly projected upon his imagination 
 by the author of the fragment and in my opinion he had read that 
 fragment. It came to him as a revelation, completing the gap. I 
 am sure that from the day that he read it he was for long periods 
 convinced that he was the son of Rita Morgan; that she had not lied 
 to him. In this I am confirmed by the fact that as she lay dead he 
 bent above her face and called her 'mother'. I am just as well assured 
 that he had no memory of the origin of that picture; no memory, in 
 fact, of having read the paper. This may seem strange to you, but 
 any one who has had the care of victims of opium will accept the 
 proposition as likely. 
 
 "The drawing of the woman's face was simple. His hope had been 
 to find himself the son of Marion Evan; his dreams were full of her. 
 He had seen the little picture; his work was an idealized copy, but 
 it must be admitted a marvelous work. Still the powers of concen 
 tration in this man exceeded the powers of any one I have ever met. 
 
 "And that brings me to what was the most wonderful demonstration 
 he gave us. Edward, I have divined your secret, although you have 
 never told it. When you went to secure for me the note of the water 
 fall, the home note, you were accompanied by your friend Mary. I 
 will stake my reputation upon it. It is true because it is obliged to 
 be true. When you played for us you had her in your mind, a vivid 
 picture, and Gerald drew it. It was a case of pure thought trans 
 ference a transference of a mental conception, line for line. Ger-
 
 248 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 aid received his conception from you upon the vibrating air. To me 
 it was a demonstration worth' my whole journey to America. 
 
 "And here let me add, as another proof of the sympathetic chord 
 between you, that Gerald himself had learned to love the same woman. 
 You gave him that, my young friend, with the picture. 
 
 "You have by this time been made acquainted with the terrible ac 
 cusation against you false and infamous. There will be little trouble 
 in clearing yourself, but oh, what agony to your sensitive nature! I 
 tried to keep the matter from Gerald, as I did the inquest by keeping 
 him busy with investigations; but a paper fell into his hands and his 
 excitement was frightful. Evading me he disappeared from the pre 
 mises one evening, but while I was searching for him he came to the 
 house in a carriage, bringing the picture of that repulsive negro, 
 which you will remember. Since then he has been more calm. Mr. 
 Barksdale, your friend, I suppose, was with him once or twice. 
 
 "And now I come to this, the last night of our association upon 
 earth; the night that has parted us and rolled between us the mystery 
 across which our voices cannot reach nor our ears hear. 
 
 "Gerald had long since been satisfied with the ability of living sub 
 stance to hold a photograph, and convinced that these photographs 
 lie dormant, so to speak, somewhere in our consciousness until awak 
 ened again that is, until made vivid. He was proceeding carefully 
 toward the proposition that a complete memory could be inherited, 
 and in the second generation or even further removed; you know his 
 theory. There were intermediate propositions that needed confirma 
 tion. When forms and scenes come to the mind of the author, pure 
 harmonies of color to that of the artist, sweet co-ordinations of harmo 
 nies to the musician, whence come they? Where is the thread of con 
 nection? Most men locate the seat of their consciousness at the top of 
 the head ; they seem to think in that spot. And strange, is it not, that 
 when life passes out and all the beautiful structure of the body claimed 
 by the frost of death, that heat lingers longest at that point! It is 
 material in this letter, because explaining Gerald's idea. He wished 
 me to subject him to the finest vibrations at that point. 
 
 "The experiment was made with a new apparatus, which had been 
 hung in place of the first in the glass-room; or, rather, to this we 
 made an addition. A thin steel plate was fixed to the floor, directly 
 under the wire and elevated upon a small steel rod. Gerald insisted 
 that as the drum and membrane I used made the shapes we secured 
 a new experiment should be tried, with simple vibrations. So we hung
 
 ^ 
 
 ON THE MARGINS OF TWO WORLDS 249 
 
 in its place a steel disk with a small projection from the center under 
 neath. Kneeling upon the lower disk Gerald was between two plates 
 subject to the finest vibration, his sensitive body the connection. There 
 was left a gap of one inch between his head and the projection under 
 the upper disk and we were to try first with the gap closed, and then 
 with it opened. 
 
 "You know how excitable he was. When he took his position he 
 was white and his large eyes flashed fire. His face settled into that 
 peculiarly harsh, fierce expression, for which I have never accounted 
 except upon the supposition of nervous agony. The handle to his 
 violin had been wrapped with fine steel wire, and this, extending a yard 
 outward, was bent into a tiny hook, intended to be clasped around the 
 suspended wire that it might convey to it the full vibrations from 
 the sounding board of the instrument. I made this connection, and, 
 with the violin against my ear, prepared to strike the 'A' note in the 
 higher octave, which if the vibrations were fine enough should suggest 
 in his mind the figure of a daisy. 
 
 "Gerald, his eyes closed, remained motionless in his kneeling posture. 
 Suddenly a faint flash of light descended into the room and the thunder 
 rolled. And I, standing entranced by the beauty and splendor of 
 that face, lost all thought of the common laws of physics. A look of 
 rapture had suffused it, his eyes now looked out upon some vision, 
 and a tender smile perfected the exquisite curve of his lips. There 
 was no need of violin outside, the world was full of the fine quiverings 
 of electricity, the earth's invisible envelope was full of vibrations! 
 Nature was speaking a language of its own. What that mind saw 
 between the glories of this and the other life as it trembled on the 
 margins of both, is not given to me to know; but a vision had come 
 to him of what? 
 
 "Ah, Edward, how different the awakening for him and me! I re 
 member that for a moment I seemed to float in a sea of flame; there 
 was a shock like unto nothing I had ever dreamed, and lying near me 
 upon the floor, his mortal face startled out of its beautiful expression, 
 lay Gerald dead!" 
 
 The conclusion of the letter covered the proposed arrangements for 
 interment. Edward had little time to reflect upon the strange docu 
 ment. The voice of Gen. Evan was heard calling at the foot of the 
 stair. Looking down he saw standing by him the straight, manly 
 figure of Barksdale. The hour of dreams had ended; the hour of act 
 ion had arrived!
 
 250 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIIL. 
 WAR TO THE KNIFE. 
 
 Barksdale heard the events of the night, as detailed by the general, 
 without apparent emotion. He had gone with them to look upon the 
 remains of Gerald. He brought from the scene only a graver look in 
 his face, a more gentle tone in his voice. These, however, soon passed. 
 He was again the cold, stern, level-headed man of affairs, listening to 
 a strange story. He lost no detail and his quick, trained mind gave 
 the matter its true position. 
 
 The death of Gerald was peculiarly unfortunate for Edward. They 
 had now nothing left but the negro, and negro testimony could be 
 bought for little money. He would undertake to buy just such evi 
 dence as Dick had given, from; a dozen men in ten days and the first 
 man he would have sought was Slippery Dick, and the public 
 would be thrown into doubt as to Royson by the fact of deadly enmity 
 between the men. To introduce Dick upon the stand to testify and 
 not support his testimony would be almost a confession of guilt. The 
 negro was too well known. Gerald's statement would not be admis 
 sible, though his picture might. But of what avail would the picture 
 be without the explanation? 
 
 Barksdale pointed out this clearly but briefly. Gen. Evan was amaz 
 ed that such a situation had not already presented itself. The court 
 case would have been Dick's word against Royeon's; the result would 
 have been doubtful. The least that could be hoped for, if the State 
 made out a case against Edward, was imprisonment. 
 
 But there was more; a simple escape was not sufficient; Edward 
 must not only escape but also show the conspiracy and put it where 
 it belonged. He, Barksdale, had no doubt upon that point. Royson 
 was the guilty man. 
 
 This analysis of the situation, leaving as it did the whole matter 
 open again, and the result doubtful, filled Evan with anxiety and 
 vexation. 
 
 "I thought," said he, walking the floor, "that we had everything fixed ; 
 that the only thing necessary would be to hold to the negro and bring 
 him in at the right time. If he died or got away we had his confession 
 witnessed. Barksdale smiled and shook his head.
 
 WAR TO THE KNIFE 251 
 
 "It is of the utmost importance," he said, "to hold the negro and 
 bring him in at the right time, but in my opinion it is vital to the 
 case that the negro be kept from communicating with Royson, and 
 that the fact of his arrest be concealed. Where have you got him?" 
 
 "In the stone smoke-house," said Edward. 
 
 "Tied." 
 
 "No." 
 
 '"Then," said Barksdale, arising at once, "if not too late you must 
 tie him. There is no smoke-house in existence and no jail in thia 
 section that can hold Slippery Dick if his hands are free." Thoroughly 
 alarmed, Gen. Evan led the way and Edward followed. Barksdale 
 waved the latter back. 
 
 "Don't risk being seen; we can attend to this." They opened the 
 door and looked about the dim interior; it was empty. With a cry 
 the general rushed in . 
 
 "He is gone!" Barksdale stood at the door; the building was a 
 square one, with racks overhead for hanging meat. There was not 
 the slighest chance; of concealment. A mound of earth in one corner 
 aroused his suspicions. He went to it, found a burrow and, running 
 his arm into this, he laid hold of a human leg. 
 
 "Just in time, General, he is here!" With a powerful effort he 
 drew the negro into the light. In one hour more he would have been 
 under the foundations and gone. Dick rose and glanced at the open 
 door as he brushed the dirt from his eyes, but there was a grip of 
 steel upon his collar, and a look in the face before him that suggested 
 the uselessness of resistance. The general recovered the strap and 
 bound the elbows as before. 
 
 "I will bring up shackles," said Barksdale, briefly. "In the mean 
 time, this will answer. But you know the stake ! Discharge the house 
 servant, and I will send a man of my own selection. In the meantime 
 look in here occasionally." They returned to the house and into the 
 library, where they found Edward and informed him of the arrange 
 ments. 
 
 "Now," said Barksdale, "this is the result of my efforts in another 
 direction. The publication of libelous article is almost impossible, with 
 absolute secrecy as to the authorship. A good detective, with time and 
 money, can unravel the mystery and fix the responsibility upon the 
 guilty party. I went into this because Mr. Morgan was away, and the 
 circumstances were such that he could not act in the simplest man 
 ner if he found the secret. He had drawn from his pocket a number
 
 252 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 of papers, and to these, as he proceeded, he from time to time referred. 
 
 "We got our first clew by purchase. Sometimes in a newspaper office 
 there is a man who is keen enough to preserve a sheet of manuscript 
 that he 'set up,' when reflection suggests that it may be of future 
 value. Briefly, I found such a man and bought this sheet" lifting it 
 a moment "of no value except as to the handwriting. 
 
 "The first step toward discovering the name of the Tell-Tale cor 
 respondent was a matter of difficulty, from the nature of the paper. 
 There was always in this case the dernier ressort; the editor could 
 be forced at the point of a pistol. But that was hazardous. The 
 correspondent's name was discovered in this way. We offered and 
 paid a person in position to know, for the addresses of all letters 
 from the paper's office to persons in this city. One man's name was 
 frequently repeated. We got a specimen of his handwriting and 
 compared it with the sheet of manuscript; the chirography was iden 
 tical. 
 
 "A brief examination of the new situation convinced me that the 
 writer did not act independently ; he was a young man not long in the 
 city and could not have known the facts he wrote of nor have obtained 
 them on his own account without arousing suspicion. He was being 
 used by another party by some one having confidential relations or 
 connections with certain families, Col. Montjoy's included. I then 
 began to suspect the guilty party. 
 
 "The situation was now exceedingly delicate and I called into con 
 sultation Mr. Dabney, one of our shrewdest young lawyers, and one, 
 by the way, Mr. Morgan, I will urge upon you to employ in this de 
 fense; in fact, you will find no other necessary, but by all means hold 
 to him. The truth is," he added, "I have already retained him for 
 you, but that does not necessarily bin3 you." 
 
 "I thank you," said Edward. "We shall retain him." 
 
 "Very good. Now we wanted this young man's information and we 
 did not wish the man who used him to know that anything was being 
 done or had been done, and last week, after careful consultation, I 
 acted. I called in this young fellow and appointed him agent at an 
 important place upon our road, but remote, making his salary a good 
 one. He jumped at the chance and I did not give him an hour's time 
 to get ready. He was to go upon trial, and he went. I let him enjoy 
 the sensation of prosperity for a week before exploding my mine. 
 Last night I went down and called on him with our lawyer. We took 
 him to the hotel, locked the door and terrorized him into a confession,
 
 WAR TO THE KNIFE 253 
 
 first giving him assurance that no harm should come to him and that 
 his position would not be affected. He gave away the whole plot and 
 conspiracy. 
 
 "The man we want is Amos Royson!" 
 
 "The old general was out of his chair and jubilant. He was recalled 
 to the subject by the face of the speaker, now white and cold, fixed 
 upon him. 
 
 "I did not have evidence enough to convict him of conspiracy, nor 
 would the evidence help Mr. Morgan's case, standing alone as it did. 
 The single witness, and he in my employ then, could not have convicted, 
 although he might have ruined, Royson. I am now working upon the 
 murder case. I came to the city at daylight and had just arrived 
 home when your note reached me. My intention was to go straight 
 to Royson's office and give him an opportunity of writing out his ac 
 knowledgement of his infamy and retraction. If he had refused 
 I would have killed him as surely as there is a God in heaven." 
 
 Edward held out his hand silently and the men understood each other. 
 
 "Now," continued Barksdale, "the situation has changed. There 
 is evidence enough to convict Royson of conspiracy, perhaps. We must 
 consult Dabney, but I am inclined to believe that our course will be to 
 go to trial ourselves and spring the mine without having aroused 
 suspicion. When Slippery Dick goes upon the stand he must find 
 Royson confident and in my opinion he will convict himself in open 
 court, if we can get him there. The chances are he will be present. 
 The case will attract a great crowd. He would naturally come. But 
 we shall take no chances; he will come! 
 
 "Just one thing more now; you perceive the importance, the vital 
 importance, of secrecy as to your prisoner; under no consideration 
 must his presence here be known outside. To insure this it seems 
 necessary to take one trusty man into our employ. Have you con 
 sidered how we would be involved if Mr. Morgan should be arrested?" 
 
 "But he will not be. Sheriff " 
 
 "You forget Royson. He is merciless and alert. If he discovers 
 Mr. Morgan's presence in this community he will force an arrest. The 
 sheriff will do all in his power for us, but he is an officer under oath, 
 and with an eye, of course, to re-election. I would forestall this; I 
 would let the man who comes to guard Dick guard Mr. Morgan also. 
 In other words, let him go under arrest and accept a guard in his 
 own house. The sheriff can act in this upon his own discretion, but 
 the arrest should be made." Edward and the general were for a mo-
 
 254 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 ment silent. 
 
 "You are right," said the former. "Let the arrest be made." Barks- 
 dale took his departure. 
 
 The butler appeared and was summarily discharged for having 
 abandoned Virdow during the night. 
 
 And then came the deputy, a quiet, confident man of few words, 
 who served the warrant upon Edward, and then, proceeding with 
 his prisoner to the smoke-house, put shackles upon Slippery Dick, 
 and supplemented them with handcuffs. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 PREPARING THE MINE. 
 
 This time the coroner was summoned. He came, examined the body 
 of Gerald, heard Virdow's statement and concluded that he could not 
 hold an inquest without subjecting himself to unpleasant criticism 
 and giving candidates for his office something to take hold of. 
 
 The funeral was very quiet. Col. Montjoy, Mrs. Montjoy and Mary 
 came in the old family carriage and the general on horseback. 
 
 The little group stood around the open coffin and gazed for the last 
 time upon the pale, chaste face. The general could not endure more 
 than the one glance. As it lay exposed to him, it was the perfect 
 image of a face that had never dimmed in his memory. Mary's tears 
 fell silently as she laid her little cross of white autumn rosebuds upon 
 the silent breast and turned away. Edward was waiting for her; she 
 took his arm and went upon the portico. 
 
 "It is a sad blow to you, Mr. Morgan," she said. 
 
 "It removes the only claim upon me," was his answer. "When all 
 is over and this trial ended, It shall very likely return to Europe for 
 good!" They were silent for a while. "I came here full of hope," he 
 continued; "I have met distrust, accusation, assaults upon my char 
 acter and life, the loss of friends, disappointments and now am ac 
 cused of murder and must undergo a public trial. It it enough to 
 satisfy most men with the south." 
 
 "And do you count your real friendi as nothing?" 
 
 "My real friends are few, but they count for much," he said, earnest-
 
 PREPARING THE MINE 255 
 
 ly; "it will be hard to part with them with you. But fate has laid 
 an iron hand upon me. I must go." He found her looking at him 
 with something of wonder upon her face. 
 
 "You know best," she said, quietly. There was something in her 
 manner that reminded him of the calm dignity of her father. 
 
 "You do not understand me," he said, earnestly, "and I cannot ex 
 plain, and yet I will go this far. My parents have left me a mystery 
 to unfathom; until I have solved it I shall not come back, I cannot 
 come back." He took her hand in both of his. "It is this that re 
 strains me; you have been a true friend; it grieves me that I cannot 
 share my troubles with you and ask your woman's judgment, but I 
 cannot I cannot! I only ask that you keep me always in your mem 
 ory, as you will always be the brightest spot in mine." She was now 
 pale and deeply affected by his tone and manner. 
 
 "You cannot tell me, Mr. Morgan?" 
 
 "Not even you, the woman I love; the only woman I have ever loved. 
 Ah, what have I said?" She had withdrawn her hand and was look 
 ing away. "Forgive me; I did not know what I was saying. I, a 
 man under indictment for murder, a possible felon, an unknown!" 
 
 The young girl looked at him fearlessly. 
 
 "Ycu are right. You can rely upon friendship, but under the circum 
 stances nothing can justify you in speaking of love to a woman you 
 do not trust." 
 
 "Do not trust! You cannot mean that!" She had turned away 
 proudly and would have left him. 
 
 "I have seen so little of women," he said. "Let that be my excuse. 
 I would trust you with my life, my honor, my happiness but I shall 
 not burden you with my troubles. I have everything to offer you but 
 a name. I have feared to tell you ; I have looked to see you turn away 
 in suspicion and distrust in horror. I could not. But anything, 
 even that, is better than reproach and wrong judging. 
 
 "I tell you now that I love you as no woman was ever loved before; 
 that I have loved you since you first came into my life, and that though 
 we be parted by half a world of space, and through all eternity, I still 
 shall love you. But I shall never, so help me heaven, ask the woman 
 I love to share an unknown's lot! You have my reasons now; it is 
 because I do love you that I go away." He spoke the words passion 
 ately. And then he found her standing close to his side. 
 
 "And I," she said, looking up into his face through tearful but 
 smiling eyes, "do not care enything for your name or your doubts,
 
 256 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 and I tell you, Edward Morgan, that you shall not go away; you shall 
 not leave me." He caught his breath and stood looking into her brave 
 face. 
 
 "But .your family it is proud " 
 
 "It will suffer nothing in pride. We will work out this little 
 mystery together." She extended her hand and, taking it, he took her 
 also. She drew back, shaking her head reproachfully. 
 
 "I did not mean that." 
 
 He was about to reply, but at that moment a scene was presented 
 that filled them both with sudden shame. How true it is that in the 
 midst of life we are in death. 
 
 The hearse had passed the gate. Silently they entered the house. 
 
 He led her back to the side of the dead man. 
 
 "He loved you," he said slowly. "I shall speak the truth for him." 
 Mary bent above the white face and left a kiss upon the cold brow. 
 
 "He was your friend,' 4 she said, fearing to look into his eye. 
 
 He comprehended and was silent. 
 
 It was soon over. The ritual for the dead, the slow journey to the 
 city of silence, a few moments about the open grave, the sound of dirt; 
 falling upon the coffin a prayer and Gerald, living and dead, was 
 no longer a part of their lives. 
 
 The Montjoys were to go home from the cemetery. Edward said 
 farewell to them separately and to Mary last. Strange paradox, 
 this human life. He came from that new-made grave almost happy. 
 
 The time for action was approaching rapidly. He went with Dab- 
 ney and the general to see Slippery Dick for the last time before the 
 trial. There was now but one serious doubt that suggested itself. They 
 took the man at night to the grave of Rita and made him go over every 
 detail of his experience there. Under the influence of the scene he 
 began with the incident of the voodoo's "conjure bag" and in reply to 
 queries showed where it had been inserted in the cedar. Edward 
 took his knife and began to work at the plug, but this action plunged 
 Dick into such terror that Dabney cautioned Edward in a low voice 
 to desist. 
 
 "Dick," said the young man finally, with sudden decision, "if you 
 fail us in this matter not only shall I remove that plug but I shall put 
 you in jail and touch you with the bag." Dick was at once voluble 
 with promises. Edward, his memory stirred by the incident, was 
 searching his pockets. He had carried the little charm obtained for 
 him by Mary because of the tender memories of the night before their
 
 PREPARING THE MINE 257 
 
 journey abroad. He drew it out now and held it up. Dick had not 
 forgotten it; he drew back, begging piteously. Dabney was greatly 
 interested. 
 
 "That little charm has proved to be your protector, Mr.< Morgan," 
 he said aloud for the negro's benefit. "You have not been in any 
 danger. Neither Dick nor anyone else could have harmed you. You 
 should have told me before. See how it has worked. The woman who 
 gave you the bag came to you in the night out on the ocean and 
 showed you the face of this man; you knew him even in the night, 
 although he had never before met you nor you him." 
 
 A sound like the hiss of a snake came from the negro; he had 
 never been able to guess why this stranger had known him so quickly. 
 He now gazed upon his captor with mingled fear and awe. 
 
 "Befo' Gawd, boss," he said, "I ain't goin' back on you, boss!" 
 
 "Going back on him!" said Dabney, laughing. "I should think not. 
 I did not know that Mr. Morgan had you conjured. Let us return; 
 Dick cannot escape that woman in this world or the next. Give me 
 the little bag, Mr. Morgan no, keep it yourself. As long as you have 
 it you are safe." 
 
 Edward was a prisoner, but in name only. Biarksdale had not come 
 again, for more reasons than one, the main reason being extra pre 
 caution on account of the watchful and suspicious Royson. But he 
 acted quietly upon the public mind. The day following the interview 
 he caused to be inserted in the morning paper an announcement of 
 Edward's return and arrest, and the additional fact that although 
 his business in Paris had not been finished, he had left upon the first 
 steamer sailing from Havre. At the club, he was outspoken in his 
 denunciation of the newspaper attacks and his confidence in the in 
 nocence of the man. There was no hint in any quarter that it had 
 been suspected that Rita Morgan was really not murdered. It was 
 generally understood that the defense would rely upon the State's 
 inability to make out a case. 
 
 But Edward did not suffer greatly from loneliness. The day after 
 the funeral Mrs. Montjoy and Mary, together with the colonel, paid 
 a formal call and stayed for some hours; and the general came fre 
 quently with Dabney and Eldridge, who had also been employed, and 
 consulted over their plans for the defense. Arrangements had been 
 made with the solicitor for a speedy trial and the momentous day 
 dawned.
 
 258 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 SLIPPERY DICK RIGHTS A WRONG. 
 
 The prominence of the accused and of his friends, added to the 
 sensational publication, made the case one of immense interest. The 
 court house was crowded to its utmost and room had to be made 
 within the bar for prominent citizens. There was a "color line" fea 
 ture in the murder, and the gallery was packed with curious black 
 faces. Edward, quiet and self-contained, sat by his lawyers, and 
 near him was the old general and Col. Mont joy. Slightly in the rear 
 was Barksdale, calm and observant. The State had subpoenaed Roy- 
 son as a witness, and, smilingly indifferent, he occupied a seat as a 
 member of the bar, inside the rail. The case was called at last. 
 
 "The State versus Edward Morgan, murder. Mr. Solicitor, what 
 do you say for the State?" asked the court. 
 
 "Ready." 
 
 "What do you say for the defense, gentlemen?" 
 
 "Ready." 
 
 "Mr. Clerk, call the jury." The panel was called and sworn. The 
 work of striking the jury then proceeded. Eldridge and Dabney were 
 clever practitioners and did not neglect any precaution. The jury 
 list was scanned and undesirable names eliminated with as much care 
 as if; the prisoner had small chance of escape. 
 
 This proceeding covered an hour, but at last the panel was com 
 plete and sworn. The defendant was so little known that this was 
 a simple matter. 
 
 The witnesses for the State were then called and sworn. They con 
 sisted of the coroner, the physician who had examined the wound, 
 and others, including Gen. Evan, Virdow and Royson. Gen. Evan 
 and Virdow had also been summoned by the defense. 
 
 As Royson took the oath it was observed that he was slightly pale 
 and embarrassed, but this was attributed to the fact of his recent 
 conflict and the eager state of the great crowd. No man in the 
 room kept such watch upon him as Barksdale; never once did he take 
 his eyes from the scarred face. Witnesses for the defense were then 
 called Gen. Evan and Virdow. They had taken the oath. The 
 defense demanded that witnesses for the State be sent out of the
 
 SLIPPERY DICK RIGHTS A WRONG 259 
 
 room until called. As Royson was rising to comply with the require 
 ment common in such cases, Dabney stood up and said: 
 
 "Before Mr. Royson goes out, may it please Your Honor, I would 
 respectfully ask of the solicitor what it is expects to prove by him?" 
 
 "We expect to prove, Your Honor, that Mr. Royson wrote a certain 
 letter which charged the prisoner with being a man of mixed blood, 
 and that Rita Morgan, the woman who was killed, was the woman 
 in question and the only authority; an important point in the case. 
 Mr. Royson, I should say, is here by subpoena only and occupying a 
 very delicate situation, since he was afterward, by public report, en 
 gaged in a conflict with the prisoner, growing out of the publication 
 of that letter." 
 
 "The solicitor is unnecessarily prolix, Your Honor. I asked the 
 question/ to withdraw our demand in his case as a matter of cour 
 tesy to a member of the bar." Royson bowed and resumed his seat. 
 
 "I now ask," said Dabney, "a like courtesy in behalf of Gen. Evan 
 and Prof. Virdow, witnesses for both State and defense." This was 
 readily granted. 
 
 There was no demurrer to the indictment. The solicitor advanced 
 before the jury and read the document, word for word. "We expect 
 to prove, gentlemen of the jury, that the dead woman, named in 
 this indictment, was for many years housekeeper for the late John 
 Morgan, and more recently for the defendant in this case, Edward 
 Morgan; that she resided upon the premises with him and his cousin, 
 Gerald Morgan; that on a certain night, to wit, the date named in 
 the indictment, she was murdered by being struck in the head with 
 some blunt implement, and that she was discovered almost immedi 
 ately thereafter by a witness; that there was no one with the deceased 
 at the time of her death but the defendant, Edward Morgan, and that 
 he, only, had a motive for her death namely, the suppression of 
 certain facts, or certan publicly alleged facts, which she alone pos 
 sessed; that after her death, which was sudden, he failed to notify the 
 coroner, but permitted the body to be buried without examination. 
 And upon these facts, we say, the defendant is guilty of murder. 
 The coroner will please take the stand." 
 
 The officer named appeared and gave in his testimony. He had, 
 some days after the burial of the woman, Rita Morgan, received 
 a hint from an anonymous letter that foul play was suspected in the 
 case, and acting under advice, had caused the body to be disinterred 
 and he had held an inquest upon it, with the result as expressed
 
 260 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 in the verdict which he proceeded to read and which was then intro 
 duced as evidence. The witness was turned over to the defense; they 
 consulted and announced "no questions". 
 
 The next witness was the physician who examined the wound. He 
 testified to the presence of a wound in the back of the head that 
 crushed the skull and was sufficient to have caused death. Dabney 
 asked of this witness if there was much of a wound in the scalp, and 
 the reply was "No". 
 
 "Was there any blood visible?" 
 
 "No." The defense had no other questions for this officer, but 
 announced that they reserved the right to recall him if the case re 
 quired it. 
 
 The next witness was Virdow. He had seen the body after death, 
 but had not examined the back of the head; had seen a small cut upon 
 the temple, which the defendant had explained to him was made by 
 her falling against the glass in the conservatory. There was a pan* 
 broken at the point indicated. 
 
 And then Evan was put up. 
 
 "Gen. Evan," asked the solicitor, "where were you upon the night 
 that Rita Morgan died?" 
 
 "At the residence of Edward Morgan, sir." 
 
 "Where were you when you first discovered the death of Rita 
 Morgan?" 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury, at the time indicated, I was standing in 
 the glass-room^ occupied by the late Gerald Morgan, in the resi 
 dence of the defendant in this county " 
 
 "And state?" interrupted the solicitor. 
 
 "And state. I was standing by the bedside of Gerald Morgan, who 
 was ill. I was deeply absorbed in thought and perfectly oblivious to 
 my surroundings, I suppose. I am certain that Edward Morgan 
 was in the room with me. I was aroused by hearing him cry out and 
 then discovered that the door leading into the shrubbery was open. 
 I ran out and found him near the head of the woman." 
 
 "Did you notice any cuts or signs of blood?" 
 
 "I noticed only a slight cut upon the forehead." 
 
 "Did you examine her for other wounds?" 
 
 "I did not. I understood then that she had, in a fit of some kind, 
 fallen against the glass, and that seeing her from within, Mr. Mor 
 gan had run out and picked her up." 
 
 "Did you hear any sound of breaking glass?"
 
 SLIPPERY DICK RIGHTS A WRONG 261 
 
 "I think I did. I cannot swear to it; my mind was completely 
 absorbed at that time. There was broken glass at the place pointed 
 out by him." 
 
 "That night pointed out that night?" 
 
 "No. I believe some days later." 
 
 "Did you hear voices?" 
 
 "I heard some one say 'They lied!' and then I heard Edward Mor 
 gan cry aloud. Going out I found him by the dead body of the woman." 
 
 The defense cross-questioned. 
 
 "You do not swear, General Evan, that Mr. Morgan was not in the 
 room at the time the woman Rita was seized with sudden illness?" 
 
 "I do not. It was my belief then, and is now " 
 
 "Stop," said the solicitor. 
 
 "Confine youself to facts only," said the court. 
 
 "You are well acquainted with Mr. Morgan?" 
 
 "As well as possible in the short time I have known him." 
 
 "What is his character?" 
 
 "He is a gentleman and as brave as any man I ever saw on the 
 field of battle." There was slight applause as the general came 
 down, but it was for the general himself. 
 
 "Mr. Royson will please take the stand," said the solicitor. "You 
 were the author of the letter concerning the alleged parentage of 
 Edward Morgan, which was published in an extra in this city a few 
 weeks since?" Royson bowed slightly. 
 
 "From whom did you get your information?" 
 
 "From Rita Morgan," he said, calmly. There was a breathless 
 silence for a moment and then an angry murmurs in the great 
 audience. All eyes were fixed upon Edward, who had grown pale, 
 but he maintained his calmness. The astounding statement had filled 
 him with a sickening horror. Not until that moment did he fully 
 comprehend the extent of the enmity cherished against him by the 
 witness. On the face of Barksdale descended a look as black as 
 night. He did not, however, move a muscle. 
 
 "You say that Rita Morgan told you when?" 
 
 "About a week previous to her death. She declared that her own 
 son had secured his rights at last, I had been consulted by her soon 
 after John Morgan's death, looking to the protection of those rights, 
 she being of the opinion that Gerald Morgan would inherit. When it 
 was found that this defendant here had inherited she called, paid my 
 fee and made the statement as given."
 
 262 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "Why did you fight a duel with the defendant, then knowing, or 
 believing you knew, his base parentage?" 
 
 "I was forced to do so by the fact that I was challenged direct 
 and no informant demanded; and by the fact that while my frieds 
 were discussing my situation, General Evan, acting under a mistaken 
 idea, vouched for him." 
 
 These ingenuous answers took away the general's breath. He had 
 never anticipated such plausible lies. Even Dabney was for the mo 
 ment bewildered. Edward could scarcely restrain his emotion and 
 horror. As a matter of fact, Rita was not dead when the challenge 
 was accepted. Royson had lied under oath! 
 
 "The witness is with you," said the solicitor, with just a tinge 
 of sarcasm in his tones. 
 
 "Were the statements of Rita Morgan in writing?" asked Dabney. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then, may it please Your Honor, I move to rule them out." A 
 debate followed. The statements were ruled out. Royson was suf 
 fered to descend, subject to recall. 
 
 "The State closes," said the prosecuting officer. 
 
 Then came the sensation of the day. 
 
 The crowd and the bar were wondering what the defense would 
 attempt with no witnesses, when Dabney arose. 
 
 "May it please Your Honor, we have now a witness, not here when 
 the case was called, whom we desire to bring in and have sworn. 
 We shall decide about introducing him within a few moments and 
 there is one other witness teregraphed for who has just reached 
 the city. We ask leave to introduce him upon his arrival." And 
 then turning 1 to the sheriff, he whispered direction. The sheriff went 
 to the hall and returned with a negro. Royson was engaged in con 
 versation, leaning over the back of his chair and with his face avert 
 ed. The witness was sworn and took the, stand facing the crowd. A 
 murmur of surprise ran about the room, for there, looking out 
 upon them, was the well-known face of Slippery Dick. The next 
 proceedings were irregular but dramatic. Little Dabney drew him 
 self up to his full height and shouted 'in a shrill voice: 
 
 "Look at that man, gentlemen of the jury." At the same time 
 his finger was pointed at Royson. All eyes were at once fixed upon 
 that individual. His face was as chalk, and the red scar across the 
 nose flamed as so much fiery paint. His eyes were fastened on the 
 witness with such an expression of fear and horror that those near
 
 SLIPPERY DICK RIGHTS A WRONG 263 
 
 him shuddered and drew back slightly. And as he gazed his left 
 hand fingered at his collar and presently, with sudden haste, tore 
 away the black cravat. Then he made an effort to leave, but Barks- 
 dale arose and literally hurled him back in his chair. The court 
 rapped loudly. 
 
 "I fine you $50, Mr. Barksdale. Take your seat!" 
 
 Dick, unabashed, met that wild, pleading, threatening, futile gaze 
 of Royson, who was now but half-conscious of the proceedings. 
 
 "Tell the jury, do you know this man?" shouted the shrill voice 
 again, the finger still pointing to Royson. 
 
 "Yes, sah; dat's Mr. Royson." 
 
 "Were you ever hired by him?" 
 
 "Yes, sah." 
 
 "When the last time?" 
 
 "'Bout three weeks ago." 
 
 "To do what?" 
 
 "Open 'er grave." 
 
 "Whose grave?" 
 
 "Rita Morgan's." 
 
 "And what else?" 
 
 There was intense silence; Dick twisted uneasily. 
 
 "And what else?" repeated Dabney. 
 
 "Knock her in de head." 
 
 "Did you do it?" 
 
 "Yes, sah." 
 
 "Where did you knock her' in the head?" 
 
 "In de back of de head." 
 
 "Hard?" 
 
 "Hard enough to break her skull." 
 
 "Did you see Mr. Morgan that night?" 
 
 "Yes, sah." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Downtown, jus' fo' I tole Mr. Royson 'all right'." 
 
 "Where did you next see him?" 
 
 "After he was killed by de lightnin'." 
 
 "The witness is with you," said Dabney, the words ringing out 
 in triumph. He faced the solicitor defiantly. His questions had fol 
 lowed each other with astounding rapidity and the effect on every 
 hearer ,'was profound. The solicitor was silent; his eyes were upon 
 Royson. Some one had handed the latter a glass of water, which he
 
 264 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 was trying to drink. 
 
 "I have no questions," said the solicitor gravely. 
 
 "You can come down, Dick." The negro stepped down and started 
 out. He passed close to Royson, who was standing in the edge of the 
 middle aisle. Their eyes met. It may have been pure devilishness 
 or simply nervous facial contortion, but at that moment the negro's 
 face took on a grin. Whatever the cause, the effect was fatal to 
 him. The approach of the negro had acted upon the wretched Roy- 
 son like a maddening stimulant. At the sight of that diabolical coun 
 tenance, he seized him with his left hand and stabbed him frantically 
 a dozen times before he could be prevented. With a moan of anguish 
 the negro fell dead, bathing the scene in blood. 
 
 A great cry went up from the spectators and not until the strug 
 gling lawyer and the bloody corpse had been dragged out did the court 
 succeed in enforcing order. 
 
 The solicitor went up and whispered to the judge, who nodded 
 immediately, but before he announced that a verdict of acquittal 
 would be allowed, the defendant's attorneys drew him aside, and made 
 an appeal to him to let them proceed, as a mere acquittal was not 
 full justice to the accused. 
 
 Then the defense put up the ex-reporter and by him proved the 
 procurement by Royson of the libels and his authorship and gave his 
 connection with the affair from the beginning, which was the recep 
 tion of* an anonymous card informing him that Royson held such in 
 formation. 
 
 Gen. Evan then testified that Rita died while Royson's second was 
 standing at the front door at Ilexhurst, with Royson's note in his 
 pocket. 
 
 The jury was briefly charged by the court and without leaving 
 the box returned a verdict of not guilty. The tragedy and dramatic 
 denouement had wrought the audience to the highest pitch of excite 
 ment. The revulsion of feeling was indicated by one immense cheer, 
 and Edward found himself surrounded by more friends than he 
 thought he had acquaintances, who shook his hand and congratulated 
 him. Barksdale stalked through the crowd and laid $50 upon the 
 clerk's desk. Smiling up at the court he said: 
 
 "Will Your Honor not make it a thousand? It is too cheap!" 
 
 But that good-natured dignitary replied: 
 
 "The fine is remitted. You couldn't help it."
 
 A WOMAN'S WIT CONQUERS 265 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 A WOMAN'S WIT CONQUERS. 
 
 Gambia was greatly disturbed by the sudden departure of the 
 Montjoys. She shut herself up and refused all visitors. Was the 
 great-hearted yet stern Gambia ill or distressed? The maid did not 
 know. 
 
 She had called for the "Figaro," to see the passenger list of the 
 steamer. The names were there; the steamer had sailed. And then 
 as she sat gazing upon the sheet another caught her attention in an 
 adjoining column, "Gaspard Levinge." It was in the body of an ad 
 vertisement, which read: 
 
 "Reward A liberal reward will be paid for particulars of the death 
 of Gaspard Levigne, which, it is said, occurred recently in Paris. 
 Additional reward will be paid for the address of the present owner 
 of the Stradivarius violin lately owned by the said Gaspard Levigne 
 and the undersigned will buy said violin at full value, if for sale." 
 
 Following this was a long and minute description of the instru 
 ment. The advertisement was signed by Louis Levigne, Breslau, 
 Silesia. 
 
 Gambia read and reread this notice with pale face and gave her 
 self to reflection. She threw off the weight of the old troubles 
 which had swarmed over her again and prepared for action. Three 
 hours later she was on her way to Berlin; the next day found her in 
 Breslau. A few moments later and she was entering the house of 
 the advertiser. 
 
 In a dark, old-fashioned living-room,, a slender, gray-haired man 
 came forward rather cautiously to meet her. She knew his face de 
 spite the changes of nearly thirty years; he was the only brother of 
 her husband and one of her chief persecutors in those unhappy days. 
 It was not strange that in this tall, queenlike woman, trained to face 
 great audiences without embarrassment, he should fail to recognize 
 the shy and lonely little American who had invaded the family circle. 
 He bowed, unconsciously feeling the influence of her fine presence 
 and commanding eyes. 
 
 "You, I suppose, are Louis Levigne, who advertised recently for 
 information of Gaspard Levigne?" she said.
 
 266 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "Yes, madame; my brother was the unfortunate Gaspard. We 
 think him dead. Know you anything of him?" 
 
 "I knew him years ago; I was then a singer and he was my accom 
 panist. Recently he died." The face of the man lighted up with a 
 strange gleam. She regarded him curiously and continued: "Died 
 poor and friendless." 
 
 "Ah, indeed! Hq should have communicated with us; he was not 
 poor and would not have been friendless." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "You know, madame, the new age is progressive. Some lands we 
 had in northern Silesia, worthless for 200 years, have developed iron 
 and a company has purchased." The woman smiled sadly. 
 
 "Too late," she said, "for poor Gaspard. This is why you have 
 advertised?" 
 
 "Yes, madame. There '.can be no settlement until we have proofs 
 of Gaspard's death." 
 
 "You are the only heir aside from Gaspard?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." The count grew restless under these questions, 
 but circumstances compelled courtesy to this visitor. 
 
 "Excuse my interest, Count, but Gaspard was my friend and I 
 knew of his affairs. Did he not leave heirs?" The man replied with 
 gesture in, which was mingled every shade of careless contempt that 
 could be expressed. 
 
 "There was a woman a plaything of Gaspard's calling herself his 
 wife but they parted nearly thirty years ago. He humored her and 
 then sent her back where she came from America, I believe." 
 
 "I am more than ever interested, Count. Gaspard did not impress 
 me as vicious." 
 
 "Oh, well, follies of youth, call them. Gaspard was wild; he 
 first left here because of a mock-marriagei escapade; when two 
 years after he came back with this little doll we supposed it was an 
 other case; at any rate, Gaspard was once drunk enough to boast 
 that she could never prove the marriage." Gambia could restrain 
 herself only with desperate efforts. These were knife blows. 
 
 "Were there no heirs?" 
 
 "I have never heard It matters little here. But, madame, you 
 know of Gaspard's death; can you not give me the facts so that I 
 may obtain proofs?" She looked at him steadily. 
 
 "I saw him die." 
 
 "Ah, that simplifies it all," said 'the count, pleasantly. "Will you
 
 A WOMAN'S WIT CONQUERS 267 
 
 be kind enough to go before an attesting officer and complete the 
 proofs? You have answered the advertisment do I insult you by 
 speaking of reward?" He looked critically at her simple but ele 
 gant attire and hesitated. 
 
 "No. But I do not care for money. I will 'furnish positive proof 
 of the death of Gaspard Levigne for the violin mentioned in the 
 advertisement." The man was now much astounded, 
 
 "But madame, it is an heirloom; that is why I have advertised for it." 
 
 "Then get it. And let me receive it direct from the hands of the 
 present holder or I shall not furnish the proofs." Some doubt of 
 the woman's sanity flashed over the count. 
 
 "I have already explained, madame, that it is an heirloom " 
 
 "And I have shown you that I do not consider that as important." 
 
 "But of what use can it possibly be to you? There are other 
 Cremonas I will buy " 
 
 "I want this one because it is the violin of Gaspard Levigne, and 
 he was my husband." 
 
 The count nearly leaped from the floor. 
 
 "When did he marry you, madame?" 
 
 "That is a long story; but he did; we were bohemians in Paris. 
 I am heir to his interests in these mines, but I care little for that 
 very little. I am independent. My husband's violin is my one wish 
 now." The realization of how completely he had been trapped be 
 trayed the forced courtesy of th man. 
 
 "You married him. I presume you ascertained that the Ameri 
 can wife was dead?" 
 
 "You have informed me that the American was not his wife." 
 
 "But she was, and if she is living today madame's claims are very 
 slender." 
 
 "You speak positively!" 
 
 "I do. I saw the proofs. We should not have given the girl 
 any recognition without them, knowing Gaspard's former escapade." 
 
 "Then," said the woman, her face lighting up with a sudden joy, 
 and growing stern again instantly, "then you lied just now, you 
 cowardly hound." 
 
 "Madame"' The count had retreated behind a chair and looked 
 anxiously at the bell, but she was in, the way. 
 
 "You lied, sir, I say. I am the wife, and now the widow, of 
 Gaspard Levigne, but not a second wife. I am that 'plaything,' as 
 you called her, the American, armed now with a knowledge of my
 
 268 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 rights and your treachery. You may well shiver and grow pale, 
 sir; I am no longer the trembling child you terrified with brutality, 
 but a woman who could buy your family with its mines thrown in, 
 and not suffer because of the bad investment. From this room, upon 
 the information you have given, I go to put my case in 'the hands 
 of lawyers and establish my claim. It is not share and share in 
 this country; my husband was the first born, and I am his heir!" 
 
 "My God!" 
 
 "It is too late to call upon God; He is,) on my side now! I came 
 to you, sir, a woman to be loved, not a pauper. My father was more 
 than a prince in his country. His slaves were numbered by the 
 hundreds., and his lands would have sufficed for a dozen of your 
 counts. I was crushed and my life was ruined, and my husband 
 turned against me. But he repented he repented. There was no 
 war between Gaspard and me when he died." The man looked on 
 and believed her. 
 
 "Madame," he said, humbly, "has been wronged. For myself, it 
 matters little, this new turn of affairs, but I have others." She had 
 been looking beyond him into space. 
 
 "And yet," she said, "it is the violin I would have. It was the 
 violin that first spoke our love; it is a part of me; I would give 
 my fortune to possess it again." He was looking anxiously at her, 
 not comprehending this passion, but hoping much from it. 
 
 "And how much will, you give?" 
 
 "I will give the mines and release all claims against you and your 
 father's estate.'' 
 
 "Alas, madame I can give you the name of the holder of that 
 violin but not the violin itself. You can make terms with him, and 
 I will pay whatever price is demanded." 
 
 "How will I know you are not deceiving me?" 
 
 "Madame is harsh, but she will be convinced if she knows the hand 
 writing of her husband." 
 
 "It is agreed," she said, struggling to keep down her excitement. 
 Count Levigne reached the coveted bell and in a few minutes secured 
 a notary, who drew up a formal agreement between the two parties. 
 Gambia then gave an affidavit setting forth the death of Gaspard 
 Levigne in proper form for use in court. Count Levigne took from 
 his desk an evelope. 
 
 "You have read my advertisement, madame. It was based on this :
 
 A WOMAN'S WIT CONQUERS 269 
 
 "Count L. Levigne, Breslau: When you receive this I will be 
 dead. Make no effort to trace me; it will be useless; my present 
 name is an assumed one. We have been enemies many years, but 
 everything changes in the presence of death, and I do not begrudge 
 you the pleasure of knowing that your brother is beyond trouble 
 and want forever and the title is yours. The Cremona, to which 
 I have clung even when honor was gone, I have given to a young 
 American named Morgan, who has made my life happier in its winter 
 than it was in its summer. 
 
 "Gaspard Levigne." 
 
 The count watched the reader curiously as she examined the letter. 
 Her face was white, but her hand did not tremble as she handed back 
 the letter. 
 
 "It is well," she said. "I am satisfied. Good morning, gentlemen." 
 
 In Paris, Gambia's mind was soon made up. She privately arranged 
 for an indefinite absence, and one day she disappeared. It was the 
 sensation of the hour; the newspapers got hold of it, and all Paris 
 wondered. 
 
 There had always been a mystery in the life of Gambia. No man 
 had ever invaded it beyond the day when she put herself in the hands 
 of a manager and laid the foundation for her world-wide success 
 upon the lyric stage. 
 
 And then Paris forgot; and only the circle of her friends watched 
 and waited. 
 
 Meanwhile the swift steamer had carried Mrs. Gaspard Levigne 
 across the Atlantic and she had begun that journey into the south 
 land, once the dream of her youth the going back to father and to 
 friends ! 
 
 The swift train carried her by towns and villages gorgeous with 
 new paint and through cities black with the smoke of factories. 
 The negroes about the stations were not of the old life, and the 
 rushing, curt and slangy young men who came and went upon the 
 train belonged to a new age. 
 
 The farms, with faded and dingy houses, poor fences, and uncared- 
 for fields and hedges, swept past like some bad dream. All was 
 different; not thirty years but a century had rolled its changes over 
 the land since her girlhood. 
 
 And then came the alighting. Here was the city, different and 
 yet the same. But where was the great family carriage, with fold 
 ing steps and noble bays, the driver in livery, the footman to hold
 
 270 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 the door? Where were father and friends? No human being came 
 to greet her. 1 
 
 She went to the hotel, locked herself in hei< room, and then Gambia 
 gave way for the first time in a generation to tears. 
 
 But she was eminently a practical woman. She had not come to 
 America to weep. The emotion soon passed. At her request a file 
 of recent papers was laid before her, and she went through them 
 carefully. She found that which she had not looked for. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 DEATH OF COL. MONTJOY. 
 
 It was the morning succeeding the trial, one of those southern days 
 that the late fall steals from summer and tempts the birds to sing 
 in the woodlands. Gen. Evan had borne Virdow and Edward in 
 triumph to The Cedars and, after breakfast. Edward had ridden 
 over to The Hall, leaving the two old men together. Virdow interested 
 his host with accurate descriptions of the great battles between the 
 Germans and the French; and Evan in turn gave him vivid accounts 
 of the mighty Virginia struggles between Federals and Confederates. 
 
 When they finally came to Edward as a topic the German was 
 eloquent. He placed him beside himself in learning and ahead of 
 all amateurs as artist and musician. 
 
 "Mr. Morgan agreed with me in his estimate of Edward," Virdow 
 said. "They were warm friends. Edward reciprocated the affection 
 bestowed upon him; in Europe they traveled much " 
 
 "Of what Mr. Morgan do you speak?" The general was puzzled. 
 
 "The elder, Mr. John Morgan, I think. But what am I saying^ 
 I mean Abingdon." 
 
 "Abingdon? I do not know him." Virdow reflected a moment. 
 
 "Abingdon was the name by which Edward new John Morgan in 
 Europe. They met annually and were inseparable companions." 
 
 "John Morgan our John Morgan?" 
 
 "Yes. I am told he was very eccentric, and this was probably a 
 whim. But it enabled him to study the character of his relative. 
 He seems to have been satisfied, and who wouldn't?"
 
 DEATH OF COL. MONTJOY 271 
 
 "You astound me. I had never heard 'that John Morgan went to 
 Europe. I did hear that he went annually to Canada, for the summer 
 months; that is all." 
 
 "Edward never knew of the connection until he came here and saw 
 a picture of John Morgan, drawn by Gerald. We both recognized it 
 instantly." Evan was silent, thinking upon this curious information. 
 At last he asked: 
 
 "Was Edward Mr. Morgan's only intimate companion?" 
 
 "The only one." 
 
 "Did you ever hear why Mr. Morgan concealed his\ identity under 
 an assumed name?" 
 
 "No. We did not connect Abingdon with John Morgan until 
 letters were returned with information that Abingdon was dead; 
 and then Gerald drew his picture from memory." 
 
 And as these two old gentlemen chattered about him, Edward 
 himself was approaching the Montjoys. 
 
 He found Mary upon the porch; his horse's feet had announced 
 his coming. Her face was flushed and a glad light shone in her 
 eyes. She gave him her hand without words; she had intended 
 expressing her pleasure and her congratulations, but when the time 
 came the words were impossible. 
 
 "You have been anxious." he said, reading her silence. 
 
 "Yes, she replied; "I could not doubt 1 you. but there a r e so mar^ 
 things involved, and I had no one to talk with. It was a long sus 
 pense, but women have to learn such lessons," and then she added, 
 seeing that he was silent: "It was the most unhappy day of my 
 life: papa was gone, and poor mamma's eyes have troubled her so 
 .nuch. She has bandaged them again and stays in her room. The 
 day seemed never-ending. When papa came he was pale and hag 
 gard, and his face deceived me. I thought that something had gone 
 wrong some mistake had occurred and you were in trouble, but 
 papa was ill,, and the news " She turned her face away suddenly, 
 feeling the tears starting. 
 
 Edward drew her up to a settee under a spreading oak, and seat 
 ing himself beside her told her much of his life's story his doubts, 
 his hopes, his fears. She held her breath as he entered upon his 
 experience at Ilexhurst and Gerald's life and identity were dwelt 
 upon. 
 
 "This," said he at last, "is your right to know, fit is due to me. 
 I cannot let you misjudge the individual. While I am convinced,
 
 272 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 that does not make a doubt a fact and on it I cannot build a future. 
 You have my history, and you know that in the heart of Edward 
 Morgan you alone have any part. The world holds no other woman 
 for me, nor ever will; but therq is the end. 'If I stayed by you the 
 day would come when this love would sweep away every resolu 
 tion, every sense of duty, every instinct of my mind, except the 
 instinct to love you, and for this reason I have come to say that 
 until life holds no mystery for Edward Morgan he will be an 
 exile from, you." . 
 
 The girl's head was sunk upon her arms as it rested upon the 
 settee. She did not lift her face. What could she i answer to such 
 a revelation, such a declaration? After a while he ceased to walk 
 the gravel floor of their arbor, and stood by her. Unconsciously he 
 let his hand rest upon the brown curls. "This does not mean," he 
 said, very gently, "that I am going away to mope and wear out life 
 in idle regrets. Marion Evan lives; I will find her. And then and 
 then if she bids me, I will come back, and with! a clean record ask 
 you to be my wife. Answer me, my love, my only love let me 
 say these words this once answer me; is this the course that an 
 honorable man should pursue?" 
 
 She rose then and faced him proudly. His words had thrilled 
 her soul. 
 
 "It is. I could never love you, Edward, if you could offer less. I 
 have no doubt in my mind none. A woman's heart knows without 
 argument, and I knowv that you will come to me some day. God be 
 with you till we meet again and for all time and eternity. This 
 will be my prayer." 
 
 Without object, the silent couple, busy with their thoughts, entered 
 the living-room. The colonel was sitting in his arm-chair, his paper 
 dropped from his listless hand, his eyes closed. The Duchess in his 
 lap had fallen asleep, holding the old open-faced watch and its 
 mystery of the little boy within who cracked hickory nuts. They 
 made a pretty picture youth and old age, early spring and late 
 winter. Mary lifted her hand warningly. 
 
 "Softly," she said; "they sleep; don't disturb them." Edward 
 looked closely into the face of the old man, and then to the surprise 
 of the girl placed his arm about her waist. 
 
 "Do not cry out," he said; "keep calm and remember that the 
 little mamma's health " 
 
 "What do you mean?" she said, looking with wonder into his
 
 DEATH OF COL. MONTJOY 273 
 
 agitated face as she sought gently to free herself. "Have you 
 forgotten " 
 
 "This is sleep indeed but the sleep of eternity." 
 
 She sprang from him with sudden terror and laid her hand upon 
 the cold forehead of her father. For an instant she stared into his 
 face, with straining eyes, and then with one frightful scream she 
 sank by his side, uttering his name in agonized tones. 
 
 Edward strove tearfully to calm her; it was too late. Calling 
 upon husband and daughter frantically, M'rs. Mont joy rushed from 
 her room into the presence of death. She was blindfolded, but with 
 unerring instinct she found the still form and touched the dead 
 face. The touch revealed the truth; with one quick motion she tore 
 away the bandages from her face, and then in sudden awe the words 
 fell from her: 
 
 "I am blind!" Mary had risen to her side and was clinging to 
 her, and Edward had assisted, fearing she might fall to the floor. 
 But with the consciousness of her last misfortune had soon come 
 calmness. She heeded not the cries of the girl appealing to her, but 
 knelt with her white face lifted and said simply: 
 
 "Dear Father, Thou art merciful ; I have not seen him dead ! Blest 
 forever be Thy Holy name!" Edward turned his back and stood 
 with bowed head, the silence broken now only by the sobs of the 
 daughter. Still sleeping in the lap of the dead, her chubby hand 
 clasping the wonderful toy, was the Duchess, and at her feet the 
 streaming sunlight. The little boy came to the door riding the old 
 man's gold-headed cane for a horse and carrying the cow horn, which 
 he had pushed from its nail upon the) porch. 
 
 "Grandpa, ain't it time to blow the horn?" he said. "Grandma, why 
 don't grandpa wake up?" She drew him to her breast and silenced 
 his queries. 
 
 And still with a half-smile upon his patrician face the face that 
 women and children loved and all men honored sat the colonel; one 
 more leaf from the old south blown to earth. 
 
 The little girl awoke at last, sat up and caught sight of the watch. 
 
 "Look, gamma. Little boy in deir cackin' hickeynut," and she 
 placed the jewel against the ear of the kneeling woman. 
 
 That peculiarly placid expression, driven away in the moment of 
 dissolution, had returned to the dead man; he seemed to hear the 
 Duchess prattle and the familiar demand for music upon the horn. 
 
 Isham had responded to the outcry and rushed in. With a sob
 
 274 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 he had stood by the body a moment and then gone out shaking his 
 head and moaning. And then, as they waited, there rang out upon 
 the clear morning' air the plantation bell not the merry call to 
 labor and the sweet summons to rest, which every animal on the 
 plantation knew and loved, but a solemn tolling, significant in its 
 measured volume. 
 
 And over the distant fields where the hands were finishing their 
 labors, the solemn sounds came floating. Old Peter lifted his head. 
 "Who dat ring dat bell dis time er day?" he said, curiously; and 
 then, under the lessening volume of the breeze, the sound fell to 
 almost silence, to rise again stronger than before and float with 
 sonorous meaning. 
 
 At long intervals they had heard it. It always marked a change 
 in their lives. 
 
 One or two of the men began to move doubtfully toward the house, 
 and others followed, increasing their pace as the persistent alarm was 
 sounded, until some were running. And thus they came to where old 
 Isham tolled the bell, his eyes brimming over with tears. 
 
 "Old marster's gone! Old marster's gone!" he called to the first, 
 and the words went down the line and were carried to the "quarters," 
 which soon gave back the death chant from excited women. The 
 negroes edged into the yard and into the hall, and then some of the 
 oldest into the solemn presence of the dead, gazing in silence upon 
 the sad, white face and closed eyes. 
 
 Then there was a tumult in yard and hall; a shuffling of feet 
 announced a newcomer. Mammy Phyllis, walking with the aid of a 
 staff, entered the room and stood by the side of the dead man. Every 
 voice was still; here was the woman who had nursed him and who 
 had raised him; hers was the right to a superior grief. She gazed 
 long and tenderly into the face of her foster-child and master and 
 turned away, but she came again and laid her withered hand upon 
 his forehead. This time she went, to come no more. In the room of 
 the bereaved wife she took her seat, to stay a silent comforter for 
 days. Her own grief found never a voice or a tear. 
 
 One by one the negroes followed her; they passed in front of the 
 sleeper, looked steadily, silently, into his face and went out. Some 
 touched him with the tips of their fingers, doubtfully, pathetically. 
 For them, although not realized fully, it was the passing of the old 
 regime. It was the first step into that life where none but strangers 
 dwelt, where there was no sympathy, no understanding. Some would 
 drift into cities to die of disease, some to distant cabins, to grow old
 
 275 
 
 alone. One day the last of the slaves would lie face up and the 
 old south would be no more. 
 
 None was left but one. Edward came at last and stood before 
 his host. Long and thoughtfully he gazed and then passed out. He 
 had place in neither the old nor the new. But the dead man had 
 been his friend. He would not forget it. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 THE ESCAPE OF AMOS ROYSON. 
 
 When Amos Royson's senses returned to him he was standing in 
 the middle of a room in the county jail. The whirl in his head, 
 wherein had mingled the faces of men, trees, buildings and patches 
 of sky illumined with flashes of intensest light and vocal with a 
 multitude of cries these, the rush of thoughts and the pressure 
 upon his arteries, had ceased. He looked about him in wonder. Was 
 it all a dream? From the rear of the building, where in their cage 
 the negro prisoners were confined came a mighty chorus, "Swing 
 low, sweet chariot," making more intense the silence of his own 
 room. That was not of a dream, nor were the bare walls, nor the 
 barred windows. His hands nervously clutching his lapels touched 
 something cold and wet. He lifted them to the light; they were 
 Woody! He made no outcry when he saw this, but stood a long 
 minute gazing upon them, his face wearing in that half shadow a 
 confession of guilt. And in that minute all the facts of the day stood 
 forth, clear cut and distinct, and his situation unfolded itself. He 
 was a murderer, a perjurer and a conspirator. Not a human being 
 in all that city would dare to call him friend. 
 
 The life of this man had been secretly bad; he had deluded him 
 self with maxims and rules of gentility. He was, in fact, no worse 
 at that moment in jail than he had been at heart for years. But 
 now he had been suddenly exposed; the causes he had set in motion 
 had produced a natural but' unexpected climax, and it is a fact that 
 in all the world there was no man more surprised to find that Amos 
 Royson was a villain than Royson himself. He was stunned at 
 : then came rage; a blind, increasing rebellion of spirit unused
 
 276 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 to defeat. He threw himself against the facts that hemmed him in 
 as a wild animal against its cage, but he could not shake them. They 
 were still facts. He was doomed by them. Then a tide of grief 
 overwhelmed him; his heart opened back into childhood; he plunged 
 face down upon his bed; silent, oblivious to time, and to the jailer's 
 offer of food returning no reply. Despair had received him! A 
 weapon at hand then would have ended the career of Amos Royson. 
 
 Time passed. No human being from the outer world called upon 
 him. Counsel came at last, in answer to his request, and a line of 
 defense had been agreed upon. Temporary insanity would be set 
 up in the murder case, but even if this were successful, trials for 
 perjury and conspiracy must follow. The chances were against his 
 acquittal in any, and the most hopeful view he could take was 
 imprisonment for life. 
 
 For life ! How often, as solicitor, he had heard the sentence descend 
 upon the poor wretches he prosecuted. And not one was as guilty 
 as he. This was the deliberate verdict of the fairest judge known 
 to man the convicting instincts of the soul that tries its baser self. 
 
 At the hands of the jailer Royson received the best possible 
 treatment. He was given the commodious front room and allowed 
 every reasonably freedom. This officer was the sheriff's deputy, and 
 both offices were political plums. The prisoner had largely shaped 
 local politics and had procured for him the the sheriff's bondsmen. 
 Officeholders are not ungrateful when the office is elective. 
 
 The front room meant much to a prisoner; it gave him glimpses 
 into the free, busy world outside, with its seemingly happy men 
 and women, with its voices of school children and musical cries of 
 street vendors. 
 
 This spot, the window of his room^ became Royson's life. He 
 stood there hour after hour, only withdrawing in shame when he saw 
 a 'familiar face upon the street. And standing there one afternoon, 
 just before dark, he beheld Annie's little vehicle stop in front of the 
 jail. She descended, and as she came doubtfully forward she caught 
 sight of his face. She was dressed in deep black and wore a heavy 
 crepe veil. There was a few minutes' delay, then the room door 
 opened and Annie was coming slowly toward him, her veil thrown 
 back, her face pale and her hand doubtfully extended. He looked 
 upon her coldly without changing his position. 
 
 "Are you satisfied?" he said, at length, when she stood silent before 
 him.
 
 THE ESCAPE OF AMOS ROYSON 277 
 
 Whatever had been the emotion of the woman, it, too, passed with 
 the sound of his sentence. 
 
 "I would not quarrel with you, Amos, and I might do so if I an 
 swered that question as it deserves. I have but a few minutes to stop 
 here and will not waste them upon the past. The question is now 
 as to the future. Have you any plan?" 
 
 "None," he replied, with a sneer. "I am beyond plans. Life is not 
 worth living if I were out, and the game is now not worth the candle." 
 The woman stood silent. 
 
 "What are your chances for acquittal?" she asked, after a long 
 silence. 
 
 "Acquittal! Absolutely none! Life itself may by a hard struggle 
 be saved. After that, it is the asylum or the mines." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "And then? Well, then I shall again ask my loving cousin to bring 
 me a powder. I will remind her once more that no Royson ever wore 
 chains or a halter, however much they may have deserved them. And 
 for the sake of her children she will consent." She walked to the 
 corridor door and listened and then came back to him. He smiled 
 and stretched out his hand. 
 
 "Amos," she whispered, hurriedly; "God forgive me, but I have 
 brought it. I am going to New York tomorrow, and the chance may 
 not come again. Remember, it is at your request." She was fumbling 
 nervously at the bosom of her dress. "The morphine I could not get 
 without attracting attention, but the chloroform I had. I give it to 
 you for use only when life " He had taken the bottle and was 
 quietly looking upon the white liquid. 
 
 "I thank you, cousin," he said, quietly, with a ghastly little laugh. 
 "I have no doubt but that I can be spared from /the family gather 
 ings and that in days to come perhaps some one will occasionally say 
 'poor Amos,' when my fate is recalled. Thanks, a thousand thanks! 
 Strange, 'but the thought of death actually gives me new life." He 
 looked upon her critically a moment and then a new smile dawned 
 upon his face. 
 
 "Ah," he said, "your note about Morgan; it will be unfortunate if 
 that ever comes to light. You were not smart, Annie. You could 
 have bought that with this bottle." She flushed in turn and bit her 
 lip. The old ;Annie was still dominant. 
 
 "It would have been better since Mr. Morgan is to be my brother- 
 in-law. Still if there is no love between us it will not matter greatly.
 
 278 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 Mary seems to be willing to furnish all the affection he will need." 
 
 "Where is he?" he asked, hoarsely, not attempting to disguise his 
 suffering. She was now relentless. 
 
 "Oh, at Ilexhurst, I suppose. The general is to care for the old 
 German until the household is arranged again and everything made 
 ready for the bride." 
 
 "Is the marriage certain?" 
 
 She smiled cheerfully. "Oh, yes. It is to take place soon, and then 
 they are going to Europe for a year." And then as, white with rage, 
 he steadied himself against the window, she said: "Mary insisted upon 
 writing a line to you; there it is. If you can get any comfort from 
 it, you are welcome." 
 
 He took the note and thrust it in his pocket, never removing his 
 eyes from her face. A ray had fallen into the blackness of his 
 despair. It grew and brightened until it lighted his soul with a splen 
 dor that shone from his eyes and trembled upon every lineament of 
 his face. Not a word had indicated its presence. It was the silent 
 expression of a hope and a desperate resolve. The woman saw it 
 and drew back in alarm. A suspicion that he was really insane 
 came upon her mind, and she was alone, helpless and shut in with 
 a maniac. A wild desire to scream and flee overwhelmed (her; she 
 turned toward the door and in a 'minute would have been gone. 
 
 But the man had read her correctly. He seized her, clapped his 
 hand over her mouth, lifted her as he would a child and thrust her 
 backward on the bed. Before she could tear the grip from her mouth, 
 he had drawn the cork with his teeth and drenched the pillow-case 
 with chloroform. There was one faint cry as he moved his hand, 
 but the next instant the drug was in her nostrils and lungs. She 
 struggled frantically, then faintly, and then lay powerless at the 
 mercy of the man bending over her. 
 
 Hardly more than two minutes had passed, but 'In that time Amos 
 Royson was transformed. He had a chance for life and that makes 
 men of cowards. He stripped away the outer garments of the woman 
 and arrayed himself in them, adding the bonnet and heavy veil, and 
 then turned to go. He was cool now and careful. He went to the 
 bed and drew the cover over the prostrate form. He had occupied the 
 same place in the same attitude for hours. The jailer would come, 
 offer supper from the door and go away. He would, if he got out, 
 have the whole night for flight. And he would need it. The morn 
 might bring 1 - no waking to the silent form. The thought chilled his
 
 n U"" 
 
 THE ESCAPE OF AMOS ROYSON 279 
 
 blood, but it also added speed to his movements. He drew off the 
 pillow-case, rolled it into a ball and dropped it out of the window. 
 He had seen the woman approach with veil down and handkerchief to 
 her face. It was his cue. He bent his head, pressed his handkerchief 
 to his eyes beneath the veil and went below. The jailer let the bent, 
 sob-shaken figure in and then out of the office. The higher class sel 
 dom came there. He stood bareheaded until the visitor climbed into 
 the vehicle and drove awey. 
 
 It was with the greatest difficulty only that Royson restrained him 
 self and suffered the little mare to keep a moderate pace. Fifteen 
 minutes ago a hopeless prisoner, and now free! Life is full of 1 sur 
 prises. But where? Positively the situation had shaped itself so 
 rapidly he had not the slightest plan in mind. He was free and hurry 
 ing into the country without a hat and dressed in a woman's garb! 
 
 The twilight had deepened into gloom. How long would it be before 
 pusuit began? And should he keep on the disguise? He slipped out 
 of it to be ready for rapid flight, and then upon a second thought put 
 it on again. He might be met and recognized. His whole manner had 
 undergone a change; he was now nervous and excited, and the horse, 
 unconciously urged along, was running, at full speed. A half -hour at 
 that rate would bear him to The Hall. Cursing his imprudence, he 
 checked the animal and drove on more moderately and finally stopped. 
 He could not think intelligently. Should he go on to The Hall and 
 throw himself upon the mercy of his connections? They would be 
 bound to save him. Mary ! Ah, Mary ! And then the note thrust it 
 self in mind. With feverish haste he searched for and drew it out. 
 He tore off the envelope and helped by a flickering match he read: 
 
 "You must have suffered before you could have sinned so, and I am 
 sorry for you. Believe me, however others may judge you, there is no 
 resentment but only forgiveness for you in the heart of Mary." 
 
 Then the tumult within him died away. No man can say what that 
 little note did for Amos Royson that night. He would go to her, to this 
 generous girl, and ask her aid. But Annie ! What if that forced sleep 
 should deepen into death ! Who could extricate her? How would Mary 
 arrange that? She would get Morgan. He could not refuse her any 
 thing. He could not falter when the family name and family honor 
 were at stake. He could not let his wife his wife ! A cry burst from 
 the lips of the desperate , man. His wife! Yes, he would go to him, 
 but not for help. Amos Royson might die or escape but the triumph 
 of this man should be short-lived.
 
 280 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 The mare began running again; he drew rein with a violence that 
 brought the animal's front feet high in air and almost threw her to 
 the ground. A new idea had been born; he almost shouted over it. 
 He tore off the woman's garb, dropped it in the buggy, sprang out 
 and let the animal go. In an instant the vehicle was out of sight in 
 the dark woods, and Royson was running the other way. For the idea 
 born in his mind was this: 
 
 "Of all the places in the world for me the safest is Ilexhurst if " 
 He pressed his hand to his breast. The bottle was still safe! And 
 Annie! The horse returning would lead to her release. 
 
 Amos Royson had a general knowledge of the situation at Ilexhurst. 
 At 12 o'clock he entered through the glass-room and made his way 
 to the body of the house. He was familiar with the lower floor. The 
 upper he could guess at. He must first find the occupied room, and 
 so, taking off his shoes, he noiselessly ascended the stairway. He 
 passed first into the boy's room and tried the door to that known as 
 the mother's, but it was locked. He listened there long and intently, 
 but heard no sound except the thumping of his own heart. Then he 
 crossed the hall and there, upon a bed in the front room, dimly visible 
 in the starlight, was the man he sought. 
 
 The discovery of his vjctim, helpless and completely within his power, 
 marked a crisis in the mental progress of Royson. He broke down and 
 trembled violently, not from conscience, but from a realization of the 
 fact that his escape was now an accomplished fact. This man before 
 him disposed of, Ilexhurst was his for an indefinite length of time. 
 Here he could rest and prepare for a distant flight. No one, probably, 
 would come, but should anyone come, why, the house was unoccupied. 
 The mood passed; he went back to the hall, drew out his handkerchief 
 and saturated it with liquid from the bottle in his pocket. A distant 
 tapping alarmed him, and he drew deeper into the shadow. Some one 
 seemed knocking at a rear door. Or was it a rat with a nut in the 
 wall? All old houses have them. No; it was the tapping of a friendly 
 tree upon the weather boards, or a ventilator in the garret. So he 
 reasoned. There came a strange sensation upon his brain, a sweet, 
 sickening taste in his mouth and dizziness. He cast the cloth far away 
 and rushed to the stair, his heart beating violently. He had almost 
 chloroformed himself while listening to his coward fears. 
 
 The dizziness passed away, but left him unnerved. He dared not 
 walk now. He crawled to the cloth and thence into the room. Near 
 the bed he lifted his head a little and saw the white face of the sleeper
 
 THE ESCAPE OF AMOS ROYSON 281 
 
 turned to him. He raised the cloth and held it ready; there would 
 be a struggle, and it would be desperate. Would he fail? Was he 
 not already weakened? He let it fall gently in front of the sleeper's 
 face, and then inch by inch pushed it nearer. Over his own senses 
 he felt the languor stealing; how was it with the other? The long 
 regular inspirations ceased, the man slept profoundly and noiselessly 
 the first stage of unconsciousness. The man on the floor crawled 
 to the window and laid his pale cheek upon the sill. 
 
 How long Royson knelt he never knew. He stood up at last with 
 throbbing temples, but steadier. He went up to the sleeper and 
 shook him gently at first, then violently. The drug had done its 
 work. 
 
 Then came the search for more matches and then light. And 
 there upon the side table, leaning against the wall, was the picture 
 that Gerald had drawn; the face of Mary, severe and noble, the fine 
 eyes gazing straight into his. 
 
 He had not thought out his plans. It ig true that the house was 
 his for days, if he wished it, but how about the figure upon the bed? 
 Could he occupy that building with such a tenant? It seemed to him 
 the sleeper moved. Quickly wetting the handkerchief again he laid 
 it upon the cold lips, with a towel over it Jo lessen evaporation. 
 And as he turned, the eyes of the picture followed him. He must have 
 money to assist his escape; the sleeper's clothing was there. He lifted 
 the garments. An irresistible power drew his attention to the little 
 table, and there, still fixed upon him, were the calm, proud eyes of the 
 girl. Angrily he cast aside the clothing. The eyes still held him In 
 their power, and now they were scornful. They seemed to measure 
 and weigh him: Amos Royson, murderer, perjurer, conspirator thief ! 
 The words were spoken somewhere; they became vocal in that still 
 room. Terrified, he looked to the man upon the bed and there he ?aw 
 the eyes, half-open, fixed upon him and the towel moving above the 
 contemptuous lips. With one bound he passed from the room, down 
 the steps, toward the door. Anywhere to be out of that room, that 
 house !
 
 282 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 * > 
 
 HOW A DEBT WAS PAID. 
 
 On went the spirited mare to The Hall, skillfully avoiding obstruc 
 tions, and drew up at last before the big gate. She had not been 
 gentle in her approach, and old Isham was out in the night holding 
 her bit and talking to her before she realized that her coming had not 
 been expected. 
 
 "De Lord bless yer, horse, whar you be'n an' what you done wid 
 young missus?" Mary was now out on the porch. 
 
 "What is it, Isham?" 
 
 "For Gawd's sake, come hyar, missy. Dis hyar fool horse done 
 come erlong back 'thout young missus, an' I spec' he done los' her out 
 in de road somewhar " Mary caught sight of the dress and bonnet 
 and greatly alarmed drew them out. What could have happened? 
 Why was Annie's bonnet and clothing in the buggy? For an instant 
 her heart stood still. 
 
 Her presence of mind soon returned. Her mother had retired, and 
 so, putting the maid on guard, she came out and with Isham beside 
 her, turned the horse's head back toward the city. But as mile after 
 mile passed nothing explained the mystery. There was no dark 
 form by the roadside. At no place did the intelligent animal scent 
 blood and turn aside. It was likely that Annie had gone to spend the 
 night with a friend, as she declared sne would if the hour were too 
 late to enter the jail. But the clothing! 
 
 The girl drove within sight of the prison, but could not bring her 
 self, at that hour, to stop there. She passed on to Annie's friends. 
 She had not been there. She tried others with no better success. And 
 now, thoroughly convinced that something terrible had occurred, she 
 drove on to Ilexhurst. As the tired mare climbed the hill and Mary 
 saw the light shining from the upper window, she began to realize 
 that the situation was not very much improved. After all, Annie's 
 disappearance might be easily explained and how she would sneer 
 at her readiness to run to Mr. Morgan! It was the thought of a 
 rery young girl. 
 
 But it was too late to turn back. She drew rein before the iron 
 gate and boldly entered, leaving Isham with the vehicle. She rapidly
 
 HOW A DEBT WAS PAID 283 
 
 traversed the walk, ascended the steps and was reaching out for the 
 knocker, when the door was suddenly thrown open and a man ran 
 violently against her. She was almost hurled to the ground, but 
 frightened as she was, it was evident that the accidental meeting 
 had affected the other more. He staggered back into the hall and 
 stood irresolute and white with terror. She came forward amazed 
 and only half believing the testimony of her senses. 
 
 "Mr. Royson!" The man drew a deep breath and put his hand 
 upon a chair, nodding his head. He had for the moment lost the 
 power of speech. 
 
 "What does it mean?" she asked. "Why are you here? Where 
 is Mr. Morgan?" His ghastliness returned. He wavered above the 
 chair and then sank into it. Then he turned his face toward hers in 
 silence. She read something there, as in a book. She did not cry 
 out, but went and caught his arm and hung above him with white face. 
 "You have not oh, no, you have not " She could say no more. 
 She caught his hand and looked dumbly upon it. The man drew it 
 away violently as the horror of memory came upon him. 
 
 "Not that way!" he said. 
 
 "Ah, not that way! Speak to me, Mr. Royson tell me you do not 
 
 mean it he is not " The whisper died out in that dim hall. He 
 
 turned his face away a moment and then looked back. Lifting his 
 hand he pointed up the stairway. She left him and staggered up the 
 steps slowly, painfully, holding by the rail; weighed upon by the 
 horror above and the horror below. Near the top she stopped and 
 looked back; the man was watching her as if fascinated. She went 
 on ; he arose and followed her. He found her leaning against the door 
 afraid to enter; her eyes riveted upon a form stretched upon the 
 bed, a cloth over its face; a strange sweet odor in the air. He came 
 and paused by her side, probably insane, for he was smiling now. 
 
 "Behold the bridegroom," he said. "Go to him; he is not dead. He 
 has been waiting for you. Why are you so late?" She heard only two 
 words clearly. "Not dead!" 
 
 "Oh, no," he laughed; not dead, He only sleeps, with a cloth and 
 chloroform upon his face. He in not dead!" With a movement swift 
 as a bounding deer, she sprang across the room, seized the cloth and 
 hurled it from the window. She added names that her maiden cheeks 
 would have paled at, and pressed her face to his, kissing the still and 
 silent lips and moaning piteously. 
 
 The man at the door drew away suddenly, went to the stairway
 
 284 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 and passed down. No sound was heard now in the house except the 
 moaning of the girl upstairs. He put on a hat in the hall below, 
 closed the door cautiously and prepared to depart as he had come, 
 when again he paused irresolute. Then he drew from his pocket a 
 crumpled paper and read it. And there, under that one jet which fell 
 upon him in the great hall, something was born that night in the 
 heart of Amos Royson something that proved him for the moment 
 akin to the gods. The girl had glided down the steps and was fleeing 
 past him for succor. He caught her arm. 
 
 "Wait," he said gently. "I will help you!" She ceased to struggle 
 and looked appealingly into his face. "I have not much to say, but 
 it is for eternity. The man upstairs is now in no immediate danger. 
 Mary, I have loved you as I did not believe myself capable of loving 
 anyone. It is the glorious spot in the desert of my nature. I have 
 been remorseless with men; it all seemed war to me, a war of Ishmae- 
 lites civilized war is an absurdity. Had you found anything in me 
 to love, I believe it would have made me another man, but you did 
 not. And none can blame you. Tonight, for every kind word you 
 have spoken to Amos Royson, for the note you sent him today, he 
 will repay you a thousandfold. Come with me." He half-lifted her 
 up the steps and to the room of the sleeper. Then wringing out 
 wet towels he bathed the face and neck of the unconscious man, rubbed 
 the cold wrists and feet and forced cold water into the mouth. It 
 was a doubtful half-hour, but at last the sleeper stirred and moaned. 
 Then Royson paused. 
 
 "He will awaken presently. Give me half an hour to get into a 
 batteau on the river and then you may tell him all. That " he said, 
 after a pause, looking out of the window, through which was coming 
 the distant clamor of bells "that indicates that Annie has waked and 
 screamed. And now good-by. I could have taken your lover's life." 
 He picked up the picture from the table, kissed it once and passed out. 
 
 Mary was alone with her lover. Gradually under her hand con 
 sciousness came back and he realized that the face in the light by 
 him was not of dreams but of life itself that life which, but for 
 her and the gentleness of her woman's heart, would have passed out 
 that night at Ilexhurst. 
 
 And as he drifted back again into consciousness under the willows 
 of the creeping river a little boat drifted toward the sea. 
 
 Dawn was upon the eastern hills when Mary, with her rescued 
 sister-in-law, crept noiselessly into The Hall. It was in New York
 
 THE UNOPENED LETTER 285 
 
 that the latter read the account of her mortification. Norton was 
 not there. She had passed him in her flight. 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 THE UNOPENED LETTER. 
 
 Soon it became known that Col. Montjoy had gone to his final judg 
 ment. Then came the old friends of his young manhood out of 
 their retreats; the country for twenty miles about gave them up to 
 the occasion. They brought with them all that was left of the old 
 times courtesy, sympathy and dignity. 
 
 There were soldiers among them, and here and there an empty 
 sleeve and a scarred face. There was simply one less in their ranks. 
 Another would follow, and another; the morrow held the mystery for 
 the next. 
 
 Norton had returned. He was violently affected, after the fashion 
 of mercurial temperaments. On Edward by accident had fallen the 
 arrangements for the funeral, and with the advice of the general he 
 had managed them well. Fate seemed to make him a member of that 
 household in spite of himself. 
 
 The general was made an honorary pall-bearer, and when the pro 
 cession moved at last into the city and to the church, without fore 
 thought it fell to Edward there was no one else to support and 
 sustain the daughter of the house. It seemed a matter of course that 
 he should do this, and as they followed the coffin up the aisle, be 
 tween the two ranks of people gathered there, the fact was noted in 
 silence to be discussed later. This then, read the universal verdict, 
 was the sequel of a romance. 
 
 But Edward thought of none of these things. The loving heart 
 of the girl was convulsed with grief. Since childhood she had been 
 the idol of her father, and between them had never come a cloud. To 
 her that white-haired father represented the best of manhood. Ed 
 ward almost lifted her to and from the carriage, and her weight was 
 heavy upon his arm as they followed the coffin. 
 
 But the end came; beautiful voices had lifted the wounded hearts 
 to heaven and the minister had implored its benediction upon them.
 
 286 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 The soul-harrowing sound of the clay upon the coffin had followed 
 and all was over. 
 
 Edward found himself alone in the carriage with Mary, and the 
 ride was long. He did not know how to lead the troubled mind away 
 from its horror and teach it to cling to the unchanging rocks of 
 faith. The girl had sunk down behind her veil in the corner of 
 the coach; her white hands lay upon her lap. He took these in his 
 own firm clasp and held them tightly. It seemed natural that he 
 should; she did not withdraw them; she may not have known it. 
 
 And so they came back home to where the brave little wife, who 
 had promised "though He slay me yet will I trust in Him," sat among 
 the shadows keeping her promise. The first shock had passed and 
 after that the faith and serene confidence of the woman were never 
 disturbed. She would have died at the stake the same way. 
 
 The days that followed were uneventful, Norton had recovered his 
 composure as suddenly as he had lost it, and discussed the situation 
 freely. There was now no one to manage the place and he could not 
 determine what was to be done. In the meantime he was obliged to 
 return to business, and look after his wife. He went first to Edward 
 and thanking him for his kindness to mother and sister, hurried back 
 to New York. Edward had spent one more day with the Montjoys at 
 Norton's request, and now he, too, took his departure. 
 
 When Edward parted from Mary and the blind mother he had 
 recourse to his sternest stoicism to restrain himself. He escaped an 
 awkward situation by promising to be gone only two days before 
 coming again. At home he found Virdow philosophically composed 
 and engaged in the library, a new sevanti having been provided, and 
 everything proceeding smoothly. Edward went to him and said, 
 abruptly : 
 
 "When is it your steamer sails, Herr Virdow?" 
 
 "One week from today," said that individual, not a little surprised 
 at his friend's manner. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Because I go with you, never again in all likelihood to enter Ameri 
 ca. From today, then, you will excuse my absences. I have many 
 affairs to settle." 
 
 Virdow heard him in silence, but presently he asked: 
 
 "Are you not satisfied now, Edward." 
 
 "I am satisfied that I am the son of Marion Evan, but I will have 
 undoubted and unmistakable proof before I set foot in this community 
 again! There is little chance to obtain it. Nearly thirty years it
 
 THE UNOPENED LETTER 287 
 
 is a long time, and the back trail is covered up." 
 
 "What are your plans?" 
 
 'To employ the best detectives the world can afford, and give them 
 carte blanche." 
 
 "But why this search? Is it not better to rest under your belief 
 and take life quietly? There are many new branches of science and 
 philosophy you have a quick mind, you are young why not come with 
 mp and put acide the mere details of existence? There are greater 
 truths worth knowing, Edward, than the mere truth of one's an 
 cestry." Edward looked long and sadly into his face and shook his 
 head. 
 
 "These mere facts," he said at length, "mean everything with me." 
 He went to his room; there were hours of silence and then Virdow 
 heard in the stillness of the old house the sound of Gerald's violin, 
 for Edward's had been left in Mary's care. His philosophy could not 
 resist the Fatherland appeal that floated down the great hall and 
 filled the night with weird and tender melody. For the man who 
 played worshipped as he drew the bow. 
 
 But silence came deep over Ilexhurst and Virdow slept. Not so 
 Edward; he was to begin his great search that night. He went to 
 the wing-room and the glass-room and flooded them with light. 
 A thrill struck through him as he surveyed again the scene and 
 seemed to see the wild face of his comrade pale in death upon the 
 divan. There under that rod still pointing significantly down to the 
 steel disk he had died. And outside in the darkness had Rita also 
 died. He alone was left. The drama could not be long now. There 
 was but one actor. 
 
 He searched among all the heaps of memoranda and writings upon 
 the desk. They were memoranda and notes upon experiments and 
 queries. Edward touched them one by one to the gas jet and saw 
 them flame and blacken into ashes, and now nothing was left but 
 the portfolio and that contained but four pictures the faces of 
 Slippery Dick, himself and Mary and the strange scene at the church. 
 One only was valuable the face of the girl which he knew he had 
 given to the artist upon the tune he had played. This one he took, 
 and restored the others. 
 
 He had turned out the light in the glass-room, and was approaching 
 the jet in the wing-room to extinguish it, when upon the mantel he saw 
 a letter which bore the address "H. Abingdon, care John Morgan," 
 unopened. How long it had been there no one was left to tell. The
 
 288 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 postman, weary of knocking, had probably brought it around to the 
 glass- room; or the servant had left it with Gerald. It was addressed 
 by a woman's hand and bore the postmark of Paris, with the date 
 illegible. It was a hurried note: 
 
 "Dear Friend: What has happened? When you were called home 
 so suddenly, you wrote me that you had important news to communi 
 cate if you could overcome certain scruples, and that you would re 
 turn immediately, or as soon as pressing litigation involving large 
 interests was settled, and in your postscript you added 'keep up your 
 courage.' You may imagine how I have waited and watched, and 
 read and reread the precious note. But months have passed and I 
 have not heard from you. Are you ill? I will come to you. Are 
 you still at work upon my interests? Write to me and relieve the 
 strain and anxiety. I would not hurry you, but remember it is a 
 mother who waits. Yours, Gambia." 
 
 "Gambia 1" Edward repeated the name aloud. Gambia. A flood 
 of thoughts rushed over him. What was Gambia John Morgan to 
 him? The veil was lifting. And then came a startling realization. 
 Gambia, the wife of Gaspard Levigne! 
 
 "God in heaven," he said, fervently, "help me now!" Virdow was 
 gone; only the solemn memories of the room kept him company. He 
 sank upon the divan and buried his face in his hands. If Gambia was 
 the woman, then the man who had died in his arms the exile, the 
 iron-scarred, but innocent, convict, the hero who passed in silence was 
 her husband! And he? The great musician had given him not only 
 the violin but genius! Gambia had begged of his dying breath proofs 
 of marriage. The paling lips had moved to reply in vain. 
 
 The mystery was laid bare; the father would not claim him, because 
 of his scars, and the mother she dared not look him in the face with 
 the veil lifted! But he would face her; he would know the worst; 
 nothing could be more terrible than the mystery that was crushing 
 the better side of his life and making hope impossible. He would 
 face her and demand the secret.
 
 "WOMAN, WHAT WAS HE TO YOU!" 289 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 "WOMAN, WHAT WAS HE TO YOU?" 
 
 Edward had formed a definite determination and made his arrange 
 ments at once. There had been a coolness between him and Eldridge 
 since the publication of the Royson letter, but necessity drove him to 
 that lawyer to conclude his arrangements for departure. It was a 
 different man that entered the lawyer's office this time. He gave 
 directions for the disposition of Ilexhurst and the conversion of other 
 property into cash. He would never live on the place again under 
 any circumstances. 
 
 His business was to be managed by the old legal firm in New York. 
 
 The memoranda was completed and he took his departure. 
 
 He had given orders for flowers and ascertained by telephone that 
 they were ready. At 3 o'clock he met Mary driving in and took 
 his seat beside her in the old family carriage. Her dress of black 
 brought out the pale, sweet face in all its beauty. She flushed slightly 
 as he greeted her. Within the vehicle were only the few roses she 
 had been able to gather, with cedar and uonimous. But they drove 
 by a green house and he filled the carriage with the choicest produc 
 tions of the florist, and then gave the order to the driver to proceed 
 at once to the cemetery. 
 
 Within the grounds, where many monuments marked the last rest 
 ing-place of the old family, was the plain newly made mound cover 
 ing the remains of friend and father. At sight if it Mary's calmness 
 disappeared and her grief overran its restraints. Edward stood 
 silent, his face averted. 
 
 Presently he thought of the flowers and brought them to her. In 
 the arrangement of these the bare sod disappeared and the girl's grief 
 was calmed. She lingered long about the spot, and before she left it 
 knelt in silent prayer, Edward lifting his hat and waiting with bowed 
 head. 
 
 The sad ceremony ended, she looked to him and he led the way to 
 where old Isham waited with the carriage. He sent him around toward 
 Gerald's grave, under a wide-spreading live oak, while they went 
 afoot by the direct way impassable for vehicles. They reached the 
 parapet and would have crossed it, when they saw kneeling at the head
 
 290 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 of the grave a woman dressed in black, seemingly engaged in prayer. 
 Edward had caused to be placed above the remains a simple marble 
 slab, which bore the brief inscription: 
 
 GERALD MORGAN. 
 Died 1888. 
 
 They watched until the woman arose and laid a wreath upon the 
 slab. When at last she turned her face and surveyed the scene they 
 saw before them, pale and grief-stricken, Gambia. Edward felt the 
 scene whirling about him and his tongue paralyzed. Gambia, at 
 sight of them gave way again to a grief that had left her pale and 
 haggard, and could only extend the free hand, while with the other 
 she sought to conceal her face. Edward came near, his voice scarcely 
 audible. 
 
 "Gambia!" he exclaimed in wonder; "Gambia!" she nodded her 
 head. 
 
 "Yes, wretched, unhappy Gambia!" 
 
 "Then, madame," he said, with deep emotion, pointing to the 
 grave and touching her arm, "what was he to you?" She looked 
 him fairly in the face from streaming eyes. 
 
 "He was my son! It cannot harm him now. Alas, poor Gambia!" 
 
 "Your son!" The man gazed about him bewildered. "Your son, 
 madame? You are mistaken! It cannot be!" 
 
 "Ah!" she exclaimed; "how little you know. It can be it is true!" 
 
 "It cannot be; it cannot be!" the words of the; horrified man were 
 now a whisper. 
 
 "Do you think a mother does not know her offspring? Your talk 
 is idle; Gerald Morgan was my son. I have known, John Morgan 
 knew " 
 
 "But Rita," he said, piteously. 
 
 "Ah, Rita, poor Rita, she could not know!" 
 
 The manner, the words, the tone overwhelmed him. He turned 
 to Mary for help in his despair. Almost without sound she had sunk 
 to the grass and now lay extended at full length. With a fierce excla 
 mation Edward rushed to her and lifted the little figure in his arms. 
 Gambia was at his side. 
 
 "What is this? What was she to him?" some explanation was 
 necessary and Edward's presence of mind returne.d 
 
 "He loved her," he said. The face of Gambia grew soft and tender
 
 "WOMAN, WHAT WAS HE TO YOU!" 291 
 
 and she spread her wrap on the rustic bench. 
 
 "Place her here and bring water. Daughter," she exclaimed, kneel 
 ing by her side, "come, come, this will never do " The girl's eyes 
 opened and for a moment rested in wonder upon Gambia. Then she 
 remembered. A strange expression settled upon her face as she gazed 
 quickly upon Edward. 
 
 "Take me home, madame," she said; "take me home. I am deathly 
 ill." 
 
 They carried her to the carriage, and, entering, Gambia took the 
 little head in her lap. Shocked and now greatly alarmed, Edward gave 
 orders to the driver and entered. It was a long and weary ride, and 
 all the time the girl lay silent and speechless in Gambia's lap, now 
 and then turning upon Edward an indescribable look that cut him to 
 the heart. 
 
 They would have provided for her in the city, but she would not 
 hear of it. Her agitation became so great that Edward finally direct 
 ed the driver to return to The Hall. All the way back the older 
 woman murmured words of comfort and cheer, but the girl only wept 
 and her slender form shook with sobs. And it was not for herself 
 that she grieved. 
 
 And so they came to the house, and Mary, by a supreme effort, 
 was able to walk with assistance and to enter without disturbing the 
 household. Gambia supported her as they reached the hall to the 
 room that had been Mary's all her life the room opposite her mother's. 
 There in silence she assisted the girl to the bed. From somewhere 
 came Molly, the maid, and together using the remedies that women 
 know so well they made her comfortable. No one in the house had 
 been disturbed, and then as Mary slept Gambia went) out and found 
 her way to the side of Mrs. Montjoy and felt the bereaved woman's 
 arms about her. 
 
 "You have reconsidered, and wisely," said Mrs. Montjoy, when 
 the first burst of emotion was over. "I am glad you have come where 
 is Mary?" 
 
 "She was fatigued from the excitement and long drive and is in 
 her room. I met her in town and came with her. But madame, think 
 not of me; you are now the sufferer; my troubles are old. But you 
 what can I say to comfort you?" 
 
 "I am at peace, my child ; God's will be done. When you can say 
 that you will not feel even the weight of your sorrows. Life is not 
 long, at best, end mine) must necessarily be short. Some 'day I will
 
 292 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 see again." Gambia bowed her head until it rested upon the hand 
 that clasped hers. In the presence of such trust and courage she 
 was a child. 
 
 "My daughter," said Mrs. Montjoy, after a silence, her mind revert 
 ing to her visitor's remark; "she is not ill?" 
 
 "Not seriously, madame, but still she is not well." 
 
 "Then I will go to her 1 if you will lend me your aid. I am not yet 
 accustomed to finding my way. I suppose I will have no trouble after 
 a while." The strong arm of the younger woman clasped and guided 
 her upon the little journey, and the mother took the place of the maid. 
 Tea was brought to them and in the half-lighted room they sat by 
 the now sleeping figure on the bed, and whispered of Gambia's past 
 and future. The hours passed. The house had grown still and Molly 
 had been sent to tell Edward of the situation and give him his lamp. 
 
 But Edward was not alone. The general had ridden over to inquire 
 after his neighbors and together they sat upon the veranda and 
 talked, and Edward listened or seemed to listen. The rush of thoughts, 
 the realization that had come over him at the cemetery, now that 
 necessity for immediate action had passed with his charge, returned. 
 Gambia had been found weeping over her son, and that son was 
 Gerald. True or untrue, it was fatal to him if Gambia was convinced. 
 
 But it could not be less than true; he, Edward, was an outcast upon 
 the face of the earth; his dream was over; through these bitter re 
 flections the voice of the general rose and fell monotonously, as he 
 spoke feelingly of the dead friend whom he had known since child 
 hood and told of their long associations and adventures in the war. 
 And then, as Edward sought to bring himself back to the present, 
 he found himself growing hot and cold and his heart beating violently; 
 the consequences of the revelation made in the cemetery had extended 
 no further than himself and his own people, but Gambia was Marion 
 Evan! And her father was there, by him, ignorant that in the house 
 was the daughter dead to him for more than a quarter of a century. 
 He could not control an exclamation. The speaker paused and 
 looked at him. 
 
 "Did you speak?" The general waited courteously. 
 
 "Did I? It must have been involuntarily a habit! You were say 
 ing that the colonel led his regiment at Malvern Hill." Evan regarded 
 him seriously. 
 
 "Yes, I mentioned that some time ago. He was wounded and re 
 ceived the praise of Jackson as he was borne past him. I think Mont-
 
 "WOMAN, WHAT WAS HE TO YOU!" 293 
 
 joy considered that the proudest moment of his life. , When Jackson 
 praised a man he was apt to be worthy of it. He praised me once," 
 he said, half-smiling over the scene in mind. 
 
 But Edward had again lost the thread of the narrative. Gambia 
 had returned; a revelation would follow; the general would meet his 
 daughter, and over the grave of Gerald the past would disappear from 
 their lives. What was to become of him? He remembered that John 
 Morgan had corresponded with her, and communicated personally. 
 She must know his history. In the coming denouement there would 
 ba a shock for him. He would see these friends torn from him, not 
 harshly nor unkindly, but between them and him would fall the iron 
 rule of caste, which has never been broken in the south the race law, 
 which no man can override. With something like a panic within he 
 decided! at once. He would not witness the meeting. He would give 
 them no chance to touch him by sympathetic pity and by aversion. 
 It should all come to him by letter, while he was far away! His 
 affairs were in order. The next day he would be gone. 
 
 "General," he said, "will you do me a favor? I must return to the 
 city ; my coming was altogether a matter of accident, and I am afraid 
 it will inconvenience our friends here at this time to send me back. 
 Let me have your horse, and, I will send him to you in the morning." 
 
 The abrupt interruption filled the old man with surprise. 
 
 "Why, certainly, if you must go. But I thought you had no idea 
 of returning is it imperative?" 
 
 "Imperative. I am going away from the city tomorrow, and there 
 are yet matters you understand, and Virdow is expecting me. I 
 trust it will not inconvenience you greatly. It would be well, probably, 
 if one of us stayed tonight; this sudden illness the family's con 
 dition " 
 
 "Inconvenience! Nonsense! If you must go, why, the horse is 
 yours of course as long as you need him." But still perplexed the 
 general waited in silence for a more definite explanation. Edward 
 was half-facing the doorway and the lighted hall was exposed to him, 
 but the shadow of the porch hid him from anyone within. It was 
 while they sat thus that the old man felt a hand upon his arm and 
 a grasp that made him wince- Looking up he saw the face of his 
 companion fixed on some object in the hall, the eyes starting from 
 their sockets. Glancing back he became the witness of a picture that 
 almost caused his heart to stand still.
 
 294 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 FRAGMENTARY LIFE RECORDS. 
 
 The records of John Morgan's life are fragmentary. It was only 
 by joining the pieces and> filling in the gaps that his friends obtained 
 a dear and rounded conception of his true character and knew at 
 last the real man. 
 
 Born about 1820, the only son of a wealthy and influential father, 
 his possibilities seemed almost unlimited. To such a youth the pecu 
 liar system of the South gave advantages not at that time afforded 
 by any other section. The South was approaching the zenith of its 
 power; its slaves did the field work of the whole people, leaving their 
 owners leisure for study, for travel and for display. Politics fur 
 nished the popular 1 field for endeavor; young men trained to the bar, 
 polished by study and foreign travel and inspired by lofty ideals of 
 government, threw themselves into public life, with results that have 
 become now a part of history. 
 
 At 22, John Morgan was something more than a mere promise. He 
 had graduated with high honors at the Virginia University and re 
 turning home had engaged in the practice of law his maiden speech, 
 delivered in a murder case, winning for him a wide reputation. But 
 at that critical period a change came over him. To the surprise of 
 his contemporaries he neglected his growing practice, declined legisla 
 tive honors and gradually withdrew to the quiet of Ilexhurst, re 
 maining in strict retirement with his mother. 
 
 The life of this gentlewoman had never been a very happy one; 
 refined and delicate she was in sharp contrast to her husband, who, 
 from the handsome, darkhaired gallant she first met at the White 
 Sulphur Springs, soon developed into a generous liver, with a marked 
 leaning towards strong drink, fox-hunting and cards. As the wife, in 
 the crucible of life, grew to pure gold, the grosser pleasures developed 
 the elder Morgan out of all likeness to the figure around which clung 
 her girlish memories. 
 
 But Providence had given to her a boy, and in him there was a 
 promise of happier days. He grew up under her care, passionately 
 devoted to the beautiful mother, and his triumphs at college and at 
 the bar brought back to her something of the happiness she had
 
 FRAGMENTARY LIFE RECORD 295 
 
 known in dreams only. 
 
 The blow had come with the arrival of Rita Morgan's mother. , 
 From that time John Morgan devoted himself to the lonely wife,' 
 avoiding the society of both sexes. His morbid imagination pictured ; 
 his mother and himself as disgraced in the eyes of the public, uncon- / 
 scious of the fact that the public had but little interest in the domes 
 tic situation at Ilexhurst, and no knowledge of the truth. He lived his 
 quiet life by her side in the little room at home, and when at last, 
 hurt by his horse, the father passed away, he closed up the house 
 and took his mother abroad for a stay of several years. When they 
 returned life went on very much as before. 
 
 But of the man who came back from college little was left, aside 
 from an ' indomitable will and a genius for work. He threw himself 
 into the practice of his profession again, with a feverish desire for 
 occupation, and, bringing to his aid a mind well stored by long years 
 of reflection and reading, soon secured a large and lucrative practice. 
 
 His fancy was for the criminal law. No pains, no expense was too 
 great for him where a point was to be made. Some of his witnesses 
 in noted cases cost him for traveling expense and detectives double 
 his fee. He kept up the fight with a species of fierce joy, his only 
 moments of elation, as far as the public knew, being the moments 
 of victory. 
 
 So it was that at 40 years of age John Morgan found himself with 
 a reputation extending far beyond the state and with a practice 
 that left him but little leisure. It was about this time he accidentally 
 met Marion Evan, a mere* girl, and felt the hidden springs of youth 
 rise in his heart. Marion Evan received the attentions of the great 
 criminal lawyer without suspicion of their meaning. 
 
 When it developed that he was deeply interested in her she was 
 astonished and then touched. It was until the end a matter of wonder 
 to her that John Morgan should have found anything in her to admire 
 and love, but those who looked on knowingly were not surprised. Of 
 gentle ways and clinging, dependent nature, varied by flashes of her 
 father's fire and spirit, she presented those variable moods well cal- 
 culated to dazzle and impress a man of Morgan's temperament. He 
 entered upon his courtship with the same carefulness and determi 
 nation that marked his legal practice, and with the aid of his wealth 
 and reborn eloquence carried the citadel of her maiden heart by storm. 
 With misgivings Albert Evan yielded his consent. 
 
 But Marion Evan's education was far from complete. The matur*
 
 296 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 lover wished his bride to have every accomplishment that could add 
 to her pleasure in life; he intended to travel for some years and she 
 was not at that time sufficiently advanced in the languages to inter 
 pret the records of the past. Her art was of course rudimentary. 
 Only in vocal music was she distinguished; already that voice which 
 was to develop such surprising powers spoke its thrilling message to 
 those who could understand, and John Morgan was one of these. 
 
 So it was determined that Marion should for one year at least de 
 vote herself to study and then the marriage would take place. Where 
 to send her was the important question, and upon the decision hinges 
 this narrative. 
 
 Remote causes shape our destinies. That summer John Morgan 
 took his mother abroad for the last time and in Paris chance gave 
 him acquaintance with Gaspard Levigne, a man nearly as old as him 
 self. Morgan had been touched and impressed by the unchanging 
 sadness of a face that daily looked into his at their hotel, but it is 
 likely that he would have carried it in memory for a few weeks only 
 had not the owner, who occupied rooms near his own, played the 
 violin one night while he sat dreaming of home and the young girl 
 who had given him her promise. He felt that the hidden musician 
 was saying for him that which had been crying out for expression 
 in his heart all his life. Upon the impulse of the moment he entered 
 this stranger's room and extended his hand. Gaspard Levigne took 
 it. They were friends. 
 
 During their stay in Paris the two men became almost inseparable 
 companions. One day Gaspard was in the parlor of his new friend, 
 when John Morgan uncovered upon the table a marble bust of his 
 fiancee and briefly explained the situation. The musician lifted it 
 in wonder and studied its perfections with breathless interest. From 
 that time he never tired of the beautiful face, but always his 'admi 
 ration was mute. His lips seemed to lose their power. 
 
 The climax came when John Morgan, entering the dim room one 
 evening, found Gaspard Levigne with his face in his hands kneeling 
 before the marble, convulsed with grief. And then little by little he 
 told his story. He was of noble blood, the elder son of a family, poor 
 but proud and exclusive. Unto him had descended, from an Italian 
 ancestor, the genius of musical composition and a marvelous technique, 
 while his brother seemed to inherit the pride and arrogance of the 
 Silesian side of the house, with about all the practical sense and 
 business ability that had been won and transmitted.
 
 FRAGMENTARY LIFE RECORD 297 
 
 He had fallen blindly in love with a young girl beneath him in 
 the social scale, and* whose only dowry was a pure heart and! singu 
 larly perfect beauty. The discovery of this situation filled the family 
 with alarm and strenuous efforts were made to divert the infatuated 
 man, but without changing his purpose. Pressure was brought to bear 
 upon the girl's parents, with better success. 
 
 Nothing now remained for Gaspard but an elopement, and this he 
 planned. He took his brother into his confidence and was pleased to 
 find him after many refusals a valuable second. The elopement took 
 place and assisted by the brother he came to Paris. There his wife 
 had died leaving a boy, then nearly two years old. 
 
 Then came the denouement; the marriage arranged for him had 
 been a mockery. 
 
 It was a fearful blow. He did not return to his home. Upon him 
 had been saddled the whole crime. 
 
 When the story was ended Gaspard went to his room and brought 
 back a little picture of the girl, which he placed by the marble bust. 
 Morgan read his meaning there; the two faces seemed identical. The 
 picture would have stood for a likeness of Marion Evan, in her 
 father's hands. 
 
 The conduct of Gaspard Levigne upon the discovery of the cruel 
 fraud was such as won the instant sympathy of the American, whose 
 best years had been sacrificed for his mother. The musician had not 
 returned to Breslau and exposed the treachery of the brother who 
 was the idol of his parents; he sufferred in silence and cared for the 
 child in an institution near Paris. But John Morgan went and quietly 
 verified the facts. He engaged the ablest counsel and did his best to 
 find a way to right the wrong. 
 
 Then came good Mrs. Morgan, who took the waif to her heart. 
 He passed from his father's arms, his only inheritance a mother's 
 picture, of which his own face was the miniature. 
 
 Months passed; Gaspard Levigne learned English readily, and one 
 more result of the meeting in Paris was that John Morgan upon re 
 turning to America had, through influential friends, obtained for 
 Levigne a lucrative position in a popular American institution, where 
 instrumental and vocal music were specialties. 
 
 It was to this institution that Marion Evan was sent, with results 
 already known. 
 
 The shock to John Morgan, when he received from Marion a piti 
 ful letter, telling of her decision and marriage, well-nigh destroyed
 
 298 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 him. The mind does not rally and reactions are uncertain at 40. 
 In the moment of his despair he had torn up her letters and* hurled 
 her likeness in marble far out to the deepest part of the lake. Pride 
 alone prevented him following it. And in this hour of gloom the 
 one remaining friend, his mother, passed from life, 
 
 The public never knew his sufferings ; he drew the mantle of silence 
 a little closer around him and sank deeper into his profession. He 
 soon became known as well for his eccentricities as for his genius; 
 and presently the inherited tendency toward alcoholic drinks found 
 him an easy victim. Another crisis in his life came a year after the 
 downfall of his air castle, and just as the south was preparing to 
 enter upon her fatal struggle. 
 
 The mother of Rita had passed away, and so had the young woman's 
 husband. Rita had but recently returned to Ilexhurst, when one night 
 she came into hisj presence drenched with rain and terrorized by the 
 fierceness of an electrical storm then raging. Speechless from exhaus 
 tion and excitement she could only beckon him to follow. Upon the 
 bed in her room, out in the broad back yard, now sharing with its 
 occupant the mud and water of the highway, her face white and her 
 disordered hair clinging about her neck and shoulders, lay the in 
 sensible form of the only girl he had ever loved Marion Evan, as he 
 still thought of her. He approached the bed and lifted her cold hands 
 and called htr by endearing names, but she did not answer him. Rita, 
 the struggle over had sunk into semi-consciousness upon the floor. 
 
 When the family physician had arrived John Morgan had placed 
 Rita upon the bed and had borne the other woman in his arms to the 
 mother's room upstairs, and stood waiting at the door. While the 
 genial old practitioner was working to restore consciousness to the 
 young woman there, a summons several times repeated was heard at 
 the front door. Morgan went in person and admitted a stranger, 
 who presented a card that bore the stamp of a foreign detective 
 bureau. Speaking in French the lawyer gravely welcomed him and 
 led the way to the library. The detective opened the interview: 
 
 "Have you received my report of th 14th inst., M. Morgan?" 
 
 "Yes. What have you additional?" 
 
 "This. Mme. Levigne is with her husband and now in this city." 
 Morgan nodded his head. 
 
 "So I have been informed." He went to the desk and wrote out 
 a check. "When do you purpose returning?" 
 
 "As soon as possible, monsieur; to-morrow, if it pleases you."
 
 FRAGMENTARY LIFE RECORD 299 
 
 "I will call upon you in the morning; to-night I have company 
 that demands my whole time and attention. If I fail, here is your 
 check. You have been very successful." 
 
 "Monsieur is very kind. I have not lost sight of Mine. Levigne 
 in nearly a year until to-night. Both she and her husband have left 
 their hotel; temporarily only I presume." The two men shook hands 
 and parted. 
 
 Upstairs the physician met Morgan returning. "The lady will 
 soon be all right; she has rallied and as soon as she gets under the in 
 fluence of the opiate I have given and into dry clothes, will be out 
 of danger. But the woman in the servant's house is, I am afraid, 
 in a critical condition." 
 
 "Go to her, please," said Morgan quickly. Then entering the room 
 he took a seat by the side of the young woman her hand in his., 
 Marion looked upon his grave face in wonder and confusion. Neither 
 spoke. Her eyes closed at last in slumber. 
 
 Then came Mamie Hester, the old woman who had nursed him, 
 one of those family servants of the old South, whose lips never learned 
 how to betray secrets. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The sun rose grandly on the morning that Marion left Ixlehurst. 
 She pushed back her heavy veil, letting its splendor light up her 
 pale face and gave her hand in sad farewell to John Morgan. Its 
 golden beams almost glorified the countenance of the man; or was 
 it the light from a great soul shining through? 
 
 "A mother's prayers," she said brokenly. "They are all that I 
 can give." 
 
 "God bless and protect you till we meet again," he said, gently. 
 
 She looked long and sadly toward the eastern horizon in whose 
 belt of gray woodland lay her childhood home, lowered her veil and 
 hurried away. A generation would pass before her feet returned 
 upon that gravel walk.
 
 300 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 "THE LAST SCENE OF ALL" 
 
 Mary slept. 
 
 The blind woman, who had for awhile sat silent by her side, slowly 
 stroking and smoothing the girl's extended arm, nodded, her chin 
 resting upon her breast. 
 
 Gambia alone was left awake in the room, her mind busy with its 
 past. The light was strong; noiselessly she went to the little table to 
 lower it. There, before her, lay a violin's antique case. As her gaze 
 fell upon it, the flame sank under her touch, leaving the room almost 
 in the shadow. The box was rounded at the ends and inlaid, the 
 central design being a curiously interwoven monogram. Smothering 
 an exclamation, she seized it in her arms and listened, looking cau 
 tiously upon her companions. The elder woman lifted her head and 
 turned sightless eyes toward the light, then passed into sleep again. 
 
 She went back eagerly to the box and tried its intricate fasten 
 ings; but in the dim light they resisted her fingers, and she dare not 
 turn up the flame again. 
 
 From the veranda in front came the murmur of men's voices; the 
 house was silent. Bearing the precious burden Gambia went quick 
 ly to the hallway and paused for a moment under the arch that di 
 vided it. Overhead, suspended by an invisible wire, was a snow-white 
 pigeon with wings outspread; behind swayed in the gentle breeze the 
 foliage of the trees. She stood for a moment, listening; and such was 
 the picture presented to Edward as he clutched the arm of his 
 companion and leaned forward with strained eyes into the light. 
 
 Guided by the adjuncts of the scene he recognized at once a familiar 
 dream. But in place of the girl's was now a woman's face. 
 
 Another caught a deeper meaning at the same instant, as the 
 general's suppressed breathing betrayed. 
 
 Gambia heard nothing; her face was pale, her hand trembling. 
 In the light descending upon her she found the secret fastenings and 
 the lid opened. 
 
 Then the two men beheld a strange thing; the object of that ner 
 vous action was not the violin itself. A string accidentally touched 
 by her sparkling ring gave out a single minor note that startled her,
 
 "THE LAST SCENE OF ALL." 301 
 
 but only for a second did she pause and look around. Pressing firm 
 ly upon a spot near the inner side of the lid she drew out a little 
 panel of wood and from the shallow cavity exposed, lifted quickly 
 several folded papers, which she opened. Then, half rising, she 
 wavered and sank back fainting upon the floor. The silence was 
 broken. A cry burst from the lips of the old general. 
 
 "Marion! My child." In an instant he was by her side lifting and 
 caressing her. Speak to me, daughter," he said. "It has been long, 
 so long. That face, that face! Child, it is your mother's as I saw 
 it last. Marion, look up; it is I, your father." And then he ex 
 claimed despairingly, as she did not answer him, "She is dead!" 
 
 "It is not serious, General," said Edward hurriedly. "See, she 
 is reviving." Gambia steadied herself by a supreme effort and 
 thrust back the form that was supporting her. 
 
 "Who calls Marion?" she cried wildy. "Marion Evan is dead! 
 Gambia is dead! I am the Countess Levigne." Her voice rang out 
 in the hall and her clenched hand held aloft, as though she feared they 
 might seize them, the papers she had plucked from the violin case. 
 Then her eyes met the general's; she paused in wonder and looked 
 longingly into his aged face. Her voice sank to a whisper: "Father, 
 father! Is it indeed you? You at last?" Clinging to the hands ex 
 tended toward her she knelt and buried her face in them, her form 
 shaking with sobs. The old man's tall figure swayed and trembled. 
 
 "Not there, Marion, my child, not there 'Tis I who should kneel! 
 God forgive me, it was I who " 
 
 "Hush, father, hush ! The blame was mine. But I have paid for it 
 with agony, with the better years of my life. 
 
 "But I couldi not come back until I came as the wife of the man 
 I loved; I would not break your heart. See! I have the papers. It 
 was my husband's violin." She hid her face in his bosom and let the 
 tears flow unchecked. 
 
 Edward was standing, white and silent, gazing upon the scene; he 
 could not tear himself away. The general, his voice unsteady, saw 
 him at last. A smile broke through his working features and shone 
 in his tearful eyes: 
 
 "Edward, my boy, have you no word? My child has come home!" 
 Marion lifted her face and drew herself from the sheltering arms 
 with sudden energy. 
 
 "Edward," she said, gently and lovingly. "Edward!" Her eyes 
 grew softer and seemed to caress him with their glances. She went up
 
 302 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 to him and placed both hands upon his shoulders. "His child, and 
 your mother!" 
 
 "My mother, my mother!" The words were whispers. His voice 
 seemed to linger upon them. 
 
 "Yes! Gambia, the unhappy Marion, the Countess Levigne and 
 your mother! No longer ashamed to meet you, no longer an exile! 
 Your mother, free to meet your eyes without fear of reproach !" 
 
 She was drawing his cheek to hers as she spoke. The general had 
 come nearer and now she placed the young man's hand in his. 
 
 "But," said Edward, "Gerald! You called him your son!" She 
 clasped her hands over her eyes and turned away quickly. "How can 
 it be? Tell me the truth?" She looked back to him then in a dazed way. 
 Finally a suspicion of his difficulty came to her. "He was your twin 
 brother. Did you not know? Alas, poor Gerald!" 
 
 "Ah!" said the old man, "it was then true!" 
 
 "Mother," he said softly, lifting her face to his, "Gerald is at 
 peace. Let me fulfill all the hopes you cherished for both!" 
 
 "God has showered blessings upon me this night," said the gen 
 eral brokenly. "Edward!" The two men clasped hands and looked 
 into each other's eyes. And, radiant by their side, was the face of 
 Gambia! 
 
 At this moment, Mary, who had been awakened by their excited 
 voices, her hand outstretched toward the wall along which she had 
 crept, came and stood near them, gazing in wonder upon their beam 
 ing faces. With a bound Edward reached her side and with an arm 
 about her came to Gambia. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "here is your daughter." As Gambia clasped 
 her lovingly to her bosom he acquainted Mary with what had oc 
 curred. And then, happy in her wonder and smiles, Edward and 
 Mary turned away and discussed the story with the now fully awaken 
 ed little mother. 
 
 "And now," said he, "I can ask of you this precious life and be your 
 son indeed!" Mary's head was in her mother's lap. 
 
 "She has loved you a long time, Edward; she is already yours." 
 
 Presently he went upon the veranda, where father and daughter 
 were exchanging holy confidences, and, sitting by his mother's side, 
 heard the particulars of her life and bitter experience abroad. 
 
 "When Mr. Morgan went to you, father, and stated a hypothetical 
 case and offered to find me, and you, outraged, suffering, declared 
 that I could only return when I had proofs of my marriage, I was
 
 "THE LAST SCENE OF ALL." 303 
 
 without them. Mr. Morgan sent me money to pay our expenses home 
 Gaspard's and mine and we did come, he unwilling and fearing 
 violence, for dissipation had changed his whole nature. Then, he 
 had been informed of my one-time engagement to Mr. Morgan, and 
 he was well acquainted with that gentleman and indebted to him 
 for money loaned upon several occasions. He came to America 
 with me upon Mr. Morgan's guaranty, the sole condition imposed upon 
 him being that he should bring proofs of our marriage; and had he 
 continued to rely upon that guaranty, had he kept his word, there 
 would have been no trouble. But on the day we reached this city 
 he gave way to temptation again and remembered all my threats to 
 leave him. In our final interview he became suddenly jealous, and 
 declared there was a plot to separate us, and expressed a determina 
 tion to destroy the proofs. 
 
 "It was then that I determined to act, and hazarded everything 
 upon a desperate move. I resolved to seize my husband's violin, not 
 knowing where his papers were, and hold it as security for my proofs. 
 I thought the plan would succeed; did not his love for that instru- 
 iment exceed all other passions? I had written to Rita, engaging 
 to meet her on a certain night at a livery stable, where we were to 
 take a buggy and proceed to Ilexhurst. The storm prevented. Gas- 
 pard had followed me, and at the church door tore the instrument from 
 my arms and left me insensible. Rita carried me in her strong 
 arms three miles to Ilexhurst, and it cost her the life of the child 
 that was born and died that night. 
 
 "Poor, poor Rita! She herself had been all but dead when my 
 boys were born a week later, and the idea that one of them was her 
 own was the single hallucination of her mind. The boys were said to 
 somewhat resemble her. Rita's mother bore a strong resemblance 
 to Mrs. Morgan's family, as you have perhaps heard, and Mrs. 
 Morgan was related to our family, so the resemblance may be ex 
 plained in that way. Mr. Morgan never could clear up this halluci 
 nation of Rita's, and so the matter rested that way. It could do 
 no harm under the circumstances, and might " 
 
 "No harm?" Edward shook his head sadly. 
 
 "No harm. You, Edward, were sent away, and it was early seen 
 that poor Gerald would be delicate and probably an invalid. For 1 
 my troubles, my flight, had . The poor woman gave her life to the 
 care of my children. Heaven bless her forever!" 
 
 Gambia waited in silence a moment and then continued:
 
 304 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 "As soon as I could travel I made a business transaction of it, and 
 borrowed of my friend, John Morgan. He had acquainted me with 
 the conditions upon which I should be received at home; and now it 
 was impossible for me to meet them. Gaspard was gone. I thought 
 I could find him; I never did, until blind, poor, aged and dying, he 
 sent for me." 
 
 "John Morgan was faithful. He secured vocal teachers for me in 
 Paris and then an engagement to sing in public. I sang, and from 
 that night my money troubles ended. 
 
 "Mr. Morgan stayed by me in Paris until my career was assured. 
 Then, in obedience to his country's call he came back here, running the 
 blockade, and fought up to Appomattox." 
 
 "As gallant a fire-eater," said the general, "as ever shouldered 
 a gun. And he refused promotion on three occasions." 
 
 "I can readily understand that," said Gambia. "His modesty was 
 only equaled by his devotion and courage. 
 
 "He visited me again when the war ended, and we renewed the 
 search. After that came the Franco-Prussian war, the siege of Paris 
 and the commune, destroying all trails. But I sang on and search 
 ed on. When I seemed to have exhausted the theaters I tried the 
 prisons. And so the years passed by. 
 
 "In the meantime Mr. Morgan had done a generous thing; never 
 for a moment did he doubt me." She paused, struggling with a sudden 
 emotion, and then: "He had heard my statement it was not like 
 writing, Father, he had heard it from my lips and when the position 
 of my boys became embarrassing he gave them his own name, formal 
 ly adopting them while he was in Paris." 
 
 '*God bless him!" It was the general's voice. 
 
 "And after that I felt easier. Every week, in all the long years 
 that have passed, brought me letters; every detail in their lives was 
 known to me; and of yours, Father. I knew all your troubles. Mr. 
 Morgan managed it. And," she continued softly, "I felt your embar 
 rassments when the war ended. Mr. Morgan offered you a loan " 
 
 "Yes, but I could not accept from him " 
 
 "It was from me, Father; it was mine; and it was my money that 
 cared for my boys. Yes," she said, lifting her head proudly, "Mr. 
 Morgan understood; he let me pay back everything, and when he 
 died it was my money, held in private trust by him, that constituted 
 the bulk of the fortune left by him for my boys. I earned it before 
 the footlights, but honestly!
 
 "THE LAST SCENE OF ALL." 305 
 
 "Well, when poor Gaspard died " 
 
 "He is dead, then?" 
 
 "Ah! of course you do not know. To-morrow I will tell you his 
 story. I stood by his body and at his grave, and I knew Edward. 
 I had seen him many times. Poor Gerald! My eyes have never 
 beheld him since I took him in my arms that day, a baby, and kissed 
 him good " She broke down and wept bitterly. "Oh, it was pitiful, 
 pitiful!" 
 
 After awhile she lifted her face. 
 
 "My husband had written briefly to his family just before death, 
 the letter to be mailed after; and thus they knew of it. But they 
 did not know the name he was living under. His brother, to inherft 
 the title and property, needed proof of death and advertised in Eurb- 
 pean papers for it. He also advertised for the violin. It was this 
 that suggested to me the hiding place of the missing papers. Before 
 my marriage Gaspard had once shown me the little slide. It had 
 passed from my memory. But Gambia's wits were sharper and the 
 description supplied the link. I went to Silesia and made a trade 
 with the surviving brother, giving up my interest in certain mines 
 for the name of the person who held the violin. Gaspard had de 
 scribed him to me in his letter as a young American named Morgan. 
 The name was nothing to the brother; it was everything to roe. I 
 came here determined, first to search for the papers, and, failing 
 in that, to go home to you, my father. God has guided me." 
 
 She sat silent, one hand in her father's* the other clasped lovingly 
 in her son's. It was a silence none cared to break. But Edward, 
 from time to time,, as his mind reviewed the past, lifted tenderly to 
 
 his lips the hand of Gambia. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Steadily the ocean greyhound plowed its way through the dark 
 swells of the Atlantic. A heavy bank of clouds covered the eastern 
 sky almost to the zenith, its upper edges paling in the glare of the 
 full moon slowly ascending beyond. 
 
 The night was pleasant, the decks crowded. A young man and 
 a young woman sat by an elderly lady, hand in hand. They had been 
 talking of a journey made the year previous upon the same vessel, 
 when the ocean sang a new sweet song. They heard it again this 
 night and were lost in dreams, when the voice of a well-known novel 
 ist, who was telling a story to a charmed circle, broke in: 
 
 "It was my first journey upon the ocean. We had been greatly
 
 306 SONS AND FATHERS. 
 
 interested in the little fellow because he was a waif from the great 
 Parisian world, and although at that time tenderly cared for by the 
 gentle woman who had become his benefactress, somehow he seemed 
 to carry with him another atmosphere, of loneliness of isolation. 
 Think of it, a motherless babe afloat upon the ocean. It was the 
 pathos of life made visible. He did not realize it, but every heart 
 there beat in sympathy with his, and when it was whispered that the 
 little voyager was dead, I think every eye was wet with tears. Dead, 
 almost consumed by fever. With him had come the picture of a 
 young and beautiful woman. He took it with him beneath the 
 little hands upon his breast. That night he was laid to rest. Never 
 had motherless babe such a burial. Gently, as though there were 
 danger of waking him, we let him sink into the dark waters, there 
 to be rocked in the lap of the ocean until God's day dawns and the 
 seas give up their dead. That was thirty years ago; yet tonight I 
 aeem to see that little shrouded form slip down and down and 
 down into the depths. God grant that its mother was dead." 
 
 When he ceased the elder woman in the little group had bent her 
 head and was silently weeping. 
 
 **It sounds like a page from the early life of Gaspard Levigne," she 
 said to her companions. 
 
 And then to the novelist, in a voice brimming over with tender 
 ness: "Grieve not for the child, my friend. God has given wings 
 to love. There is no place in all His universe that can hide a baby 
 from its mother. Love will find a way, be the ocean as wide and deep 
 as eternity itself." 
 
 And then, as they sat wondering, the moon rose above the clouds. 
 Light flashed upon the waves around them, and a golden path, stretch 
 ing out ahead, crossed the far horizon into the misty splendors of the 
 sky. 
 
 THE END.
 
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