"IN ALL THE WORLD, NO FAIRER FLOWER THAN THIS!"
The city was in a whirl on election day; hacks and carriages darted here
and there all day long, bearing flaming placards and hauling voters to
the polls. Bands played at the Montjoy headquarters and everything to
comfort the inner patriot was on hand.
Edward had taken charge of this department and at his own expense
conducted it. He was the host. All kinds of wines and liquors and malt
drinks, a constantly replenished lunch, that amounted to a banquet, and
cigars, were at all hours quickly served by a corps of trained waiters.
In all their experience, old election stagers declared never had this
feature of election day been so complete. It goes without saying that
Montjoy's headquarters were crowded and that a great deal of the
interest which found expression in the streets was manufactured there.
It was a fierce struggle; the Swearingen campaign in the county had been
conducted on the "still-hunt" plan, and on this day his full strength
was polled. It was Montjoy's home county, and if it could be carried
against him, the victory was won at the outset.
On the other hand, the Montjoy people sought for the moral effect of an
overwhelming victory. There was an expression of general relief in the
form of cheers, when the town clocks struck five and the polls windows
fell. Anxiety followed, and then bonfires blazed, rockets exploded and
all night long the artillery squad fired salutes. Montjoy had won by an
unlooked-for majority and the vote of the largest county was secure.
Edward had resolutely refused to think upon the discovery unfolded to
him. With reckless disregard for the future he had determined to bury
the subject until the arrival of Virdow. But there are ghosts that will
not come down at the bidding, and so in the intervals of sleep, of
excitement, of politics, the remembrance of the fearful fate that
threatened him came up with all the force and terror of a new
experience.
Ilexhurst was impossible to him alone and he held to Norton as long as
he could. There was to be a few days' rest after the home election, and
the younger Montjoy seized this opportunity to run home and, as he
expressed it, "get acquainted with the family." Edward, without
hesitation, accepted his invitation to go with him. They had become firm
friends now and Edward stood high in the family esteem. Reviewing the
work that had led up to Col. Montjoy's magnificent opening and oration,
all generously conceded that he had been the potent factor.
It was not true, in fact; the younger Montjoy had been the genius of the
hour, but Edward's aid and money had been necessary. The two men were
received as conquering heroes. As she held his hand in hers old Mrs.
Montjoy said:
"You have done us a great service, Mr. Morgan, and we cannot forget it,"
and Mary, shy and happy, had smiled upon him and uttered her thanks.
There was one discordant note, the daughter-in-law had been silent until
all were through.
"And I suppose I am to thank you, Mr. Morgan, that Norton has returned
alive. I did not know you were such high livers over at Ilexhurst," she
smiled, maliciously. "Were you not afraid of ghosts?"
Edward looked at her with ill-disguised hatred. For the first time he
realized fully that he was dealing with a dangerous enemy. How much did
she know? He could make nothing of that serenely tranquil face. He bowed
only. She was his friend's wife.
But he was not at ease beneath her gaze and readily accepted Mary's
invitation to ride. She was going to carry a note from her father to a
neighbor, and the chance of seeing the country was one he should not
neglect. They found a lazy mule and ancient country buggy at the door.
He thought of the outfit of the sister-in-law. "Annie has a pony phaeton
that is quite stylish," said Mary, laughingly, as they entered the old
vehicle, "but it is only for town use; this is mine and papa's!"
"Certainly roomy and safe," he said. She laughed outright.
"I will remember that; so many people have tried to say something
comforting about my turnout and failed; but it does well enough." They
were off then, Edward driving awkwardly. It was the first time he had
ever drawn the reins over a mule.
"How do you make it go fast?" he asked, finally, in despair.
"Oh, dear," she answered, "we don't try. We know the mule." Her laugh
was infectious.
They traveled the public roads, with their borders of wild grape,
crossed gurgling streams under festoons of vines and lingered in shady
vistas of overhanging boughs. Several times they boldly entered private
grounds and passed through back yards without hailing, and at last they
came to their destination.
There were two huge stone posts at the entrance, with carved balls of
granite upon them. A thick tangle of muscadine and Cherokee roses led
off from them right and left, hiding the trail of the long-vanished rail
fence. In front was an avenue of twisted cedars, and, closing the
perspective, a glimpse of white columns and green blinds.
The girl's face was lighted with smiles; it was for her a new
experience, this journeying with a man alone; his voice melodious in her
hearing; his eyes exchanging with hers quick understandings, for Edward
was happy that morning--happy in his forgetfulness. He had thrown off
the weight of misery successfully, and for the first time in his life
there was really a smile in his heart. It was the dream of an hour; he
would not mar it. Her voice recalled him.
"I have always loved 'The Cedars.' It wears such an air of gentility and
refinement. It must be that something of the lives gone by clings to
these old places."
"Whose is it?" She turned in surprise.
"Oh, this is where we were bound--Gen. Evan's. I have a note for him."
"Ah!" The exclamation was one of awe rather than wonder. She saw him
start violently and grow pale. "Evan?" he said, with emotion.
"You know him?"
"Not I." He felt her questioning gaze and looked into her face. "That
is, I have been introduced to him, only, and I have heard him speak."
After a moment's reflection: "Sometime, perhaps, I shall tell you why
for the moment I was startled." She could not understand his manner.
Fortunately they had arrived at the house. Confused still, he followed
her up the broad steps to the veranda and saw her lift the antique
knocker.
"Yes, ma'am, de general's home; walk in, ma'am; find him right back in
the liberry." With that delightful lack of formality common among
intimate neighbors in the south, Mary led the way in. She made a pretty
picture as she paused at the door. The sun was shining through the
painted window and suffused her form with roseate light.
"May I come in?"
"Well! Well! Well!" The old man rose with a great show of welcome and
came forward. "'May I come in?' How d'ye do, Mary, God bless you, child;
yes, come clear in," he said, laughing, and bestowed a kiss upon her
lips. At that moment he caught sight of the face of Edward, who stood
behind her, pale from the stream of light that came from a white crest
in the window. The two men gazed steadily into each other's eyes a
moment only. The girl began:
"This is Mr. Morgan, general, who has been such a friend to father."
The rugged face of the old soldier lighted up, he took the young man's
hands in both of his and pressed them warmly.
"I have already met Mr. Morgan. The friend of my friend is welcome to
'The Cedars'." He turned to move chairs for them.
The face of the young man grew white as he bowed gravely. There had been
a recognition, but no voice spoke from the far-away past through his
lineaments to that lonely old man. During the visit he was distrait and
embarrassed. The courtly attention of his host and his playful gallantry
with Mary awoke no smile upon his lips. Somewhere a barrier had fallen
and the waters of memory had rushed in. Finally he was forced to arouse
himself.
"John Morgan was a warm friend of mine at one time," said the old
general. "How was he related to you?"
"Distantly," said Edward quietly. "I was an orphan, and indebted to him
for everything."
"An eccentric man, but John had a good heart--errors like the rest of
us, of course." The general's face grew sad for the moment, but he
rallied and turned the conversation to the political campaign.
"A grand speech that, Mr. Morgan; I have never heard a finer, and I have
great speakers in my day! Our district will be well and honorably
represented in Congress. Now, our little friend here will go to
Washington and get her name into the papers."
"No, indeed. If papa wins I am going to stay with mamma. I am going to
be her eyes as well as her hands. Mamma would not like the city."
"And how is the little mamma?"
She shook her head. "Not so well and her eyes trouble her very much."
"What a sweet woman she is! I can never forget the night Norton led her
to the altar. I have never seen a fairer sight--until now," he
interpolated, smiling and saluting Mary with formal bow. "She had a
perfect figure and her walk was the exposition of grace." Mary surveyed
him with swimming eyes. She went up and kissed him lightly. He detained
her a moment when about to take her departure.
"You are a fortunate man, Morgan. In all the world you will find no
rarer flower than this. I envy you your ride home. Come again, Mary, and
bring Mr. Morgan with you." She broke loose from him and darted off in
confusion. He had guessed her secret and well was it that he had!
The ride home was as a dream. The girl was excited and full of life and
banter and Edward, throwing off his sadness, had entered into the hour
of happiness with the same abandon that marked his campaign with Norton.
But as they entered the long stretch of wood through which their road
ran to her home, Edward brought back the conversation to the general.
"Yes," said Mary, "he lives quite alone, a widower, but beloved by every
one. It is an old, sad story, but his daughter eloped just before the
war broke out and went abroad. He has never heard from her, it is
supposed."
"I have heard the fact mentioned," said Morgan, "and also that she was
to have married my relative."
"I did not know that," she said, "but it is a great sorrow to the
general, and a girl who could give up such a man must have been wrong at
heart or infatuated."
"Infatuated, let us hope."
"That is the best explanation," she said gently.
He was driving; in a few moments he would arrive at the house. Should he
tell her the history of Gerald and let her clear, honest mind guide him?
Should he tell her that Fate had made him the custodian of the only
being in the world who had a right to that honorable name when the
veteran back yonder found his last camp and crossed the river to rest in
the shade with the immortal Jackson? He turned to her and she met his
earnest gaze with a winning smile, but at the moment something in his
life cried out. The secret was as much his duty as the ward himself and
to confess to her his belief that Gerald was the son of Marion Evan was
to confess to himself that he was the son of the octoroon. He would not.
Her smile died away before the misery in his face.
"You are ill," she said in quick sympathy.
"Yes," he replied, faintly; "yes and no. The loss of
sleep--excitement--your southern sun----" The world grew black and he
felt himself falling. In the last moment of his consciousness he
remembered that her arm was thrown about him and that in response to her
call for help negroes from the cotton fields came running.
He opened his eyes. They rested upon the chintz curtains of the room
upstairs, from the window of which he had heard her voice calling the
chickens. Some one was bathing his forehead; there were figures gliding
here and there across his vision. He turned his eyes and saw the anxious
face of Mrs. Montjoy watching him.
"What is it?" He spoke in wonder.
"Hush, now, my boy; you have been very ill; you must not talk!" He tried
to lift his hand. It seemed made of lead and not connected with him in
any way. Gazing helplessly upon it, he saw that it was thin and
white--the hand of an invalid.
"How long?" he asked, after a rest. The slight effort took his strength.
"Three weeks." Three weeks! This was more than he could adjust in the
few working sections of his brain. He ceased to try and closed his eyes
in sleep.