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 this 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, loving 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 before; that I have his
whole affection; that he wanted me to go with him 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 his. 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 beautiful 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 forsake 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 is through the divine instinct that God
has given me? No! You cannot, 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
we 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 upon 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 ante-bellum 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 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 Manassas 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 gratitude. 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 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 disadvantage. I charge you that it is not honorable 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
fearlessly. "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 was 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 the 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, however,
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 expenses 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 walking. Their
approach 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 upon 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. Royson 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 forbore 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 fragmentary 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 restored 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 playing first
violin in the orchestra of the Imperial Theater, where he has won many
admirers and because of the peculiar circumstances of the 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, during 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. Unless 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.