DEATH OF COL. MONTJOY.
It was the morning succeeding the trial, one of those southern days that
the late fall steals from summer and tempts the birds to sing in the
woodlands. Gen. Evan had borne Virdow and Edward in triumph to The
Cedars and, after breakfast, Edward had ridden over to The Hall, leaving
the two old men together. Virdow interested his host with accurate
descriptions of the great battles between the Germans and the French;
and Evan in turn gave him vivid accounts of the mighty Virginia
struggles between Federals and Confederates.
When they finally came to Edward as a topic the German was eloquent. He
placed him beside himself in learning and ahead of all amateurs as
artist and musician.
"Mr. Morgan agreed with me in his estimate of Edward," Virdow said.
"They were warm friends. Edward reciprocated the affection bestowed upon
him; in Europe they traveled much--"
"Of what Mr. Morgan do you speak?" The general was puzzled.
"The elder, Mr. John Morgan, I think. But what am I saying? I mean
Abingdon."
"Abingdon? I do not know him." Virdow reflected a moment.
"Abingdon was the name by which Edward knew John Morgan in Europe. They
met annually and were inseparable companions."
"John Morgan--our John Morgan?"
"Yes. I am told he was very eccentric, and this was probably a whim. But
it enabled him to study the character of his relative. He seems to have
been satisfied, and who wouldn't?"
"You astound me. I had never heard that John Morgan went to Europe. I
did hear that he went annually to Canada, for the summer months; that is
all."
"Edward never knew of the connection until he came here and saw a
picture of John Morgan, drawn by Gerald. We both recognized it
instantly." Evan was silent, thinking upon this curious information. At
last he asked:
"Was Edward Mr. Morgan's only intimate companion?"
"The only one."
"Did you ever hear why Mr. Morgan concealed his identity under an
assumed name?"
"No. We did not connect Abingdon with John Morgan until letters were
returned with information that Abingdon was dead; and then Gerald drew
his picture from memory."
And as these two old gentlemen chattered about him, Edward himself was
approaching the Montjoys.
He found Mary upon the porch; his horse's feet had announced his coming.
Her face was flushed and a glad light shone in her eyes. She gave him
her hand without words; she had intended expressing her pleasure and her
congratulations, but when the time came the words were impossible.
"You have been anxious," he said, reading her silence.
"Yes," she replied; "I could not doubt you but there are so many things
involved, and I had no one to talk with. It was a long suspense, but
women have to learn such lessons," and then she added, seeing that he
was silent: "It was the most unhappy day of my life: papa was gone, and
poor mamma's eyes have troubled her so much. She has bandaged them again
and stays in her room. The day seemed never-ending. When papa came he
was pale and haggard, and his face deceived me. I thought that something
had gone wrong--some mistake had occurred and you were in trouble, but
papa was ill, and the news--" She turned her face away suddenly, feeling
the tears starting.
Edward drew her up to a settee under a spreading oak, and seating
himself beside her told her much of his life's story--his doubts, his
hopes, his fears. She held her breath as he entered upon his experience
at Ilexhurst and Gerald's life and identity were dwelt upon.
"This," said he at last, "is your right to know. It is due to me. I
cannot let you misjudge the individual. While I am convinced, that does
not make a doubt a fact and on it I cannot build a future. You have my
history, and you know that in the heart of Edward Morgan you alone have
any part. The world holds no other woman for me, nor ever will; but
there is the end. If I stayed by you the day would come when this love
would sweep away every resolution, every sense of duty, every instinct
of my mind, except the instinct to love you, and for this reason I have
come to say that until life holds no mystery for Edward Morgan he will
be an exile from you."
The girl's head was sunk upon her arms as it rested upon the settee. She
did not lift her face. What could she answer to such a revelation, such
a declaration? After a while he ceased to walk the gravel floor of their
arbor, and stood by her. Unconsciously he let his hand rest upon the
brown curls. "This does not mean," he said, very gently, "that I am
going away to mope and wear out life in idle regrets. Marion Evan lives;
I will find her. And then--and then--if she bids me, I will come back,
and with a clean record ask you to be my wife. Answer me, my love, my
only love--let me say these words this once--answer me; is this the
course that an honorable man should pursue?"
She rose then and faced him proudly. His words had thrilled her soul.
"It is. I could never love you, Edward, if you could offer less. I have
no doubt in my mind--none. A woman's heart knows without argument, and I
know that you will come to me some day. God be with you till we meet
again--and for all time and eternity. This will be my prayer."
Without object, the silent couple, busy with their thoughts, entered the
living-room. The colonel was sitting in his arm-chair, his paper dropped
from his listless hand, his eyes closed. The Duchess in his lap had
fallen asleep, holding the old open-faced watch and its mystery of the
little boy within who cracked hickory nuts. They made a pretty
picture--youth and old age, early spring and late winter. Mary lifted
her hand warningly.
"Softly," she said; "they sleep; don't disturb them." Edward looked
closely into the face of the old man, and then to the surprise of the
girl placed his arm about her waist.
"Do not cry out," he said; "keep calm and remember that the little
mamma's health--"
"What do you mean?" she said, looking with wonder into his agitated face
as she sought gently to free herself. "Have you forgotten----"
"This is sleep indeed--but the sleep of eternity."
She sprang from him with sudden terror and laid her hand upon the cold
forehead of her father. For an instant she stared into his face, with
straining eyes, and then with one frightful scream she sank by his side,
uttering his name in agonized tones.
Edward strove tearfully to calm her; it was too late. Calling upon
husband and daughter frantically, Mrs. Montjoy rushed from her room into
the presence of death. She was blindfolded, but with unerring instinct
she found the still form and touched the dead face. The touch revealed
the truth; with one quick motion she tore away the bandages from her
face, and then in sudden awe the words fell from her:
"I am blind!" Mary had risen to her side and was clinging to her, and
Edward had assisted, fearing she might fall to the floor. But with the
consciousness of her last misfortune had soon come calmness. She heeded
not the cries of the girl appealing to her, but knelt with her white
face lifted and said simply:
"Dear Father, Thou art merciful; I have not seen him dead! Blest forever
be Thy Holy name!" Edward turned his back and stood with bowed head, the
silence broken now only by the sobs of the daughter. Still sleeping in
the lap of the dead, her chubby hand clasping the wonderful toy, was the
Duchess, and at her feet the streaming sunlight. The little boy came to
the door riding the old man's gold-headed cane for a horse and carrying
the cow horn, which he had pushed from its nail upon the porch.
"Grandpa, ain't it time to blow the horn?" he said. "Grandma, why don't
grandpa wake up?" She drew him to her breast and silenced his queries.
And still with a half-smile upon his patrician face--the face that women
and children loved and all men honored--sat the colonel; one more leaf
from the old south blown to earth.
The little girl awoke at last, sat up and caught sight of the watch.
"Look, gamma. Little boy in deir cackin' hickeynut," and she placed the
jewel against the ear of the kneeling woman.
That peculiarly placid expression, driven away in the moment of
dissolution, had returned to the dead man; he seemed to hear the Duchess
prattle and the familiar demand for music upon the horn.
Isham had responded to the outcry and rushed in. With a sob he had stood
by the body a moment and then gone out shaking his head and moaning. And
then, as they waited, there rang out upon the clear morning air the
plantation bell--not the merry call to labor and the sweet summons to
rest, which every animal on the plantation knew and loved, but a solemn
tolling, significant in its measured volume.
And over the distant fields where the hands were finishing their labors,
the solemn sounds came floating. Old Peter lifted his head. "Who dat
ring dat bell dis time er day?" he said, curiously; and then, under the
lessening volume of the breeze, the sound fell to almost silence, to
rise again stronger than before and float with sonorous meaning.
At long intervals they had heard it. It always marked a change in their
lives.
One or two of the men began to move doubtfully toward the house, and
others followed, increasing their pace as the persistent alarm was
sounded, until some were running. And thus they came to where old Isham
tolled the bell, his eyes brimming over with tears.
"Old marster's gone! Old marster's gone!" he called to the first, and
the words went down the line and were carried to the "quarters," which
soon gave back the death chant from excited women. The negroes edged
into the yard and into the hall, and then some of the oldest into the
solemn presence of the dead, gazing in silence upon the sad, white face
and closed eyes.
Then there was a tumult in yard and hall; a shuffling of feet announced
a newcomer. Mammy Phyllis, walking with the aid of a staff, entered the
room and stood by the side of the dead man. Every voice was still; here
was the woman who had nursed him and who had raised him; hers was the
right to a superior grief. She gazed long and tenderly into the face of
her foster-child and master and turned away, but she came again and laid
her withered hand upon his forehead. This time she went, to come no
more. In the room of the bereaved wife she took her seat, to stay a
silent comforter for days. Her own grief found never a voice or a tear.
One by one the negroes followed her; they passed in front of the
sleeper, looked steadily, silently, into his face and went out. Some
touched him with the tips of their fingers, doubtfully, pathetically.
For them, although not realized fully, it was the passing of the old
regime. It was the first step into that life where none but strangers
dwelt, where there was no sympathy, no understanding. Some would drift
into cities to die of disease, some to distant cabins, to grow old
alone. One day the last of the slaves would lie face up and the old
south would be no more.
None was left but one. Edward came at last and stood before his host.
Long and thoughtfully he gazed and then passed out. He had place in
neither the old nor the new. But the dead man had been his friend. He
would not forget it.