THE MOTHER'S ROOM.
The house before which Morgan stood overlooked the city two miles away
and was the center of a vast estate now run to weeds. It was a fine
example of the old style of southern architecture. The spacious roof,
embattled, but unbroken by gable or tower, was supported in front by
eight massive columns that were intended to be Ionic. The space between
them and the house constituted the veranda, and opening from the center
of the house upon this was a great doorway, flanked by windows. This
arrangement was repeated in the story above, a balcony taking the place
of the door. The veranda and columns were reproduced on both sides of
the house, running back to two one-story wings. The house was of slight
elevation and entered in front by six marble steps, flanked by carved
newel posts and curved rails; the front grounds were a hundred yards
wide and fifty deep, inclosed by a heavy railing of iron. These details
came to him afterward; he did not even see at that time the magnolias
and roses that grew in profusion, nor the once trim boxwood hedges and
once active fountain. He sounded loudly upon the front door with the
knocker.
At length a woman came around the wing room and approached him. She was
middle-aged and wore a colored turban, a white apron hiding her dress.
The face was that of an octoroon; her figure tall and full of dignity.
She did not betray the mixed blood in speech or manner, but her form of
address proclaimed her at once a servant. The voice was low and musical
as she said, "Good-morning, sir," and waited.
Morgan studied her in silence a moment; his steady glance seemed to
alarm her, for she drew back a step and placed her hand on the rail.
"I want to see the people who have charge of this house," said the young
man. She now approached nearer and looked anxiously into his face.
"I have the care of it," she answered.
"Well," said he, "I am Edward Morgan, the new owner. Let me have the
keys."
"Edward Morgan!" She repeated the name unconsciously.
"Come, my good woman, what is it? Where are the keys?" She bowed her
head. "I will get them for you, sir." She went to the rear again, and
presently the great doors swung apart and he entered.
The hallway was wide and opened through massive folding doors into the
dining-room in the rear, and this dining-room, by means of other folding
doors, entering the wing-rooms, could be enlarged into a princely salon.
The hall floor was of marble and a heavy frieze and centerpiece
decorated walls and ceiling. A gilt chandelier hung from the center.
Antique oak chairs flanked this hallway, which boasted also a hatrack,
with looking-glass six feet wide. A semicircular stairway, guarded by a
carved oak rail, a newel post and a knight in armor, led to apartments
above. A musty odor pervaded the place.
"Open the house," said Edward; "I must have better air."
And while this was being done he passed through the rooms into which now
streamed light and fresh air. On the right was parlor and guest chamber,
the hangings and carpets unchanged in nearly half a century. On the left
was a more cheerful living-room, with piano and a rack of yellow sheet
music, and the library, with an enormous collection of books. There were
also cane furniture, floor matting and easy-chairs.
In all these rooms spacious effects were not lessened by bric-a-brac and
collections. A few portraits and landscapes, a candelabra or two, a pair
of brass fire dogs, one or two large and exquisitely painted vases made
up the ornamental features. The dining-room proper differed in that its
furnishings were newer and more elaborate. The wing-rooms were evidently
intended for cards and billiards. Behind was the southern back porch
closed in with large green blinds. Over all was the chill of isolation
and disuse.
Edward made his way upstairs among the sleeping apartments, full of old
and clumsy furniture, the bedding having been removed. Two rooms only
were of interest; to the right and rear a small apartment connected with
the larger one in front by a door then locked. This small room seemed to
have been a boy's. There were bows and arrows, an old muzzle-loading
gun, a boat paddle, a dip net, stag horns, some stuffed birds and small
animals, the latter sadly dilapidated, a few game pictures, boots, shoes
and spurs--even toys. A small bed ready for occupancy stood in one
corner and in another a little desk with drop lid. On the hearth were
iron fire dogs and ashes, the latter holding fragments of charred paper.
For the first time since entering the house Edward felt a human
presence; it was a bright sunny room opening to the western breeze and
the berries of a friendly china tree tapped upon the window as he
approached it. He placed his hand upon the knob of the door, leading
forward, and tried to open it; it was locked.
"That," said the woman's low voice, "is Col. Morgan's mother's room,
sir, and nobody ever goes in there. No one has entered that room but him
since she died, I reckon more than forty years ago."
Edward had started violently; he turned to find the sad, changeless face
of the octoroon at his side.
"And this room?"
"There is where he lived all his life--from the time he was a boy until
he died."
Edward took from his pocket the bunch of keys and applied the largest to
the lock of the unopened door; the bolt turned easily. As he crossed the
threshold a thrill went through him; he seemed to trespass. Here had the
boy grown up by his mother, here had been his retreat at all times. When
she passed away it was the one spot that kept fresh the heart of the
great criminal lawyer, who fought the outside world so fiercely and
well. Edward had never known a mother's room, but the scene appealed to
him, and for the first time he felt kinship with the man who preceded
him, who was never anything but a boy here in these two rooms. Even when
he lay dead, back there in that simple bed, over which many a night his
mother must have leaned to press her kisses upon his brow, he was a boy
grown old and lonely.
One day she had died in this front room! What an agony of grief must
have torn the boy left behind. In the dim light of the room he had
opened, objects began to appear; almost reverently Edward raised a
window and pushed open the shutters. Behind him stood ready for
occupancy a snowy bed, with pillows and linen as fresh seemingly as if
placed there at morn. By the bedside was a pair of small worn slippers,
a rocking chair stood by the east window, and by the chair was a little
sewing stand, with a boy's jacket lying near, and threaded needle thrust
into its texture. On the little center table was a well-worn Bible by a
small brass lamp, and a single painting hung upon the wall--that of a
little farmhouse at the foot of a hill, with a girl in frock and poke
bonnet swinging upon its gate.
There was no carpet on the floor; only two small rugs. It had been the
home of a girl simply raised and grown to womanhood, and her simplicity
had been repeated in her boy. The great house had been the design of her
husband, but there in these two rooms mother and son found the charm of
a bygone life, delighting in those "vague feelings" which science cannot
fathom, but which simpler minds accept as the whispering of heredity.
One article only remained unexamined. It was a small picture in a frame
that rested upon the mantel and in front of which was draped a velvet
cloth. Morgan as in a dream drew aside the screen and saw the face of a
wondrously beautiful girl, whose eyes rested pensively upon him. A low
cry escaped the octoroon, who had noiselessly followed him; she was
nodding her head and muttering, all unconscious of his presence. When
she saw at length his face turned in wonder upon her she glided
noiselessly from the room. He replaced the cloth, closed the window
again and tiptoed out, locking the door behind him.
He found the octoroon downstairs upon the back steps. She was now calm
and answered his questions clearly. She had not belonged to John Morgan,
she said, but had always been a free woman. Her husband had been free,
too, but had died early. She had come to keep house at Ilexhurst many
years ago, before the war, and had been there always since, caring for
everything while Mr. Morgan was in the army, and afterward; when he was
away from time to time. No, she did not know anything of the girl in the
picture; she had heard it said that he was once to have married a lady,
but she married somebody else and that was the end of it. John Morgan
had kept the room as it was. No, he was never married. He had no cousins
or kinfolks that she had heard of except a sister who died, and her two
sons had been killed in battle or lost at sea during the war. Neither of
them was married; she was certain of that. She herself cooked and kept
house, and Ben, a hired boy, attended to the rest and acted as butler.
Edward was recalled to the present by feeling her eyes fixed upon him.
He caught but one fleeting glance at her face before it was averted; it
had grown young, almost beautiful, and the eyes were moistened and
tender and sad. He turned away abruptly.
"I will occupy an upper room to-night," he said, "and will send new
furniture to-morrow." His baggage had come and he went back with the
express to the city. He would return, he said, after supper.
Sometimes the mind, after a long strain imposed upon it, relieves itself
by a refusal to consider. So with Edward Morgan's. That night he stood
by his window and watched the lessening moon rise over the eastern
hills. But he seemed to stand by a low picket fence beyond which a girl,
with bare arms, was feeding poultry. He felt again the power of her
frank, brown eyes as they rested upon him, and heard her voice, musical
in the morning air, as it summoned her flock to breakfast.
In New York, Paris and Italy, and here there in other lands, were a few
who called him friend; it would be better to wind up his affairs and go
to them. It did not seem possible that he could endure this new life.
Already the buoyancy of youth was gone! His ties were all abroad.
Thoughts of Paris connected him with a favorite air. He went to his
baggage and unpacked an old violin, and sitting in the window, he played
as a master hand had taught him and an innate genius impelled. It was
Schubert's serenade, and as he played the room was no longer lonely;
sympathy had brought him friends. It seemed to him that among them came
a woman who laid her hand on his shoulder and smiled on him. Her face
was hidden, but her touch was there, living and vibrant. On his cheek
above the mellow instrument he felt his own tears begin to creep and
then--silence. But as he stood calmer, looking down into the night, a
movement in the shrubbery attracted him back to earth; he called aloud:
"Who is there?" A pause and the tall figure of the octoroon crossed the
white walk.
"Rita," was the answer. "The gate was left open."