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 postman 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 prestige
as a man of honor, he was--nobody; an accident of fate; a whim of an
eccentric 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 if 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, sympathetic woman;
one of those who have made the South a fame as far 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 began 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 surprise 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 political
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 working feverishly,
furiously, and upon defined 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
uncertainty--which has haunted you for weeks, has been wearing upon him
since childhood. Of the events that preceded it I have little or no
information."
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 adjoining
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 associations--"
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.
"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 suppose 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 conscious
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 between 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 degree, 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 interest? 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 portrait of John Morgan, drawn years before from memory by Gerald. It
was the face of the man known only to the two 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.