WITH THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM.
Edward Morgan gave himself up to the dream. The flying train sped
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 literature
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 largeness 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.
"You puzzle me sometimes," she said. "You are animated and bright
and--well, charming often--and then you seem to go back into 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, recklessly.
It is the way of Montjoy women--and they say I am all Montjoy."
"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 gentleman, proud
of his name, of his talents, of his honor. If misfortune came he 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 undimmed by act
of his." He gazed into her glowing face.
"I thank you," he said. "I never understood a true woman's heart
before."
The express rushed into new and strange scenes. There were battlefields
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 of 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 factories,
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 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, Montjoy
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.