"THE LAST SCENE OF ALL"
Mary slept.
The blind woman, who had for awhile sat silent by her side, slowly
stroking and smoothing the girl's extended arm, nodded, her chin resting
upon her breast.
Cambia alone was left awake in the room, her mind busy with its past.
The light was strong; noiselessly she went to the little table to lower
it. There, before her, lay a violin's antique case. As her gaze fell
upon it, the flame sank under her touch, leaving the room almost in the
shadow. The box was rounded at the ends and inlaid, the central design
being a curiously interwoven monogram. Smothering an exclamation, she
seized it in her arms and listened, looking cautiously upon her
companions. The elder woman lifted her head and turned sightless eyes
toward the light, then passed into sleep again.
She went back eagerly to the box and tried its intricate fastenings; but
in the dim light they resisted her fingers, and she dare not turn up the
flame again.
From the veranda in front came the murmur of men's voices; the house was
silent. Bearing the precious burden Cambia went quickly to the hallway
and paused for a moment under the arch that divided it. Overhead,
suspended by an invisible wire, was a snow-white pigeon with wings
outspread; behind swayed in the gentle breeze the foliage of the trees.
She stood for a moment, listening; and such was the picture presented to
Edward as he clutched the arm of his companion and leaned forward with
strained eyes into the light.
Guided by the adjuncts of the scene he recognized at once a familiar
dream. But in place of the girl's was now a woman's face.
Another caught a deeper meaning at the same instant, as the general's
suppressed breathing betrayed.
Cambia heard nothing; her face was pale, her hand trembling. In the
light descending upon her she found the secret fastenings and the lid
opened.
Then the two men beheld a strange thing; the object of that nervous
action was not the violin itself. A string accidentally touched by her
sparkling ring gave out a single minor note that startled her, but only
for a second did she pause and look around. Pressing firmly upon a spot
near the inner side of the lid she drew out a little panel of wood and
from the shallow cavity exposed, lifted quickly several folded papers,
which she opened. Then, half rising, she wavered and sank back fainting
upon the floor. The silence was broken. A cry burst from the lips of the
old general.
"Marion! My child." In an instant he was by her side lifting and
caressing her. "Speak to me, daughter," he said. "It has been long, so
long. That face, that face! Child, it is your mother's as I saw it last.
Marion, look up; it is I, your father." And then he exclaimed
despairingly, as she did not answer him, "She is dead!"
"It is not serious, General," said Edward hurriedly. "See, she is
reviving." Cambia steadied herself by a supreme effort and thrust back
the form that was supporting her.
"Who calls Marion?" she cried wildly. "Marion Evan is dead! Cambia is
dead! I am the Countess Levigne." Her voice rang out in the hall and her
clenched hand held aloft, as though she feared they might seize them,
the papers she had plucked from the violin case. Then her eyes met the
general's; she paused in wonder and looked longingly into his aged face.
Her voice sank to a whisper: "Father, father! Is it indeed you? You at
last?" Clinging to the hands extended toward her she knelt and buried
her face in them, her form shaking with sobs. The old man's tall figure
swayed and trembled.
"Not there, Marion, my child, not there. 'Tis I who should kneel! God
forgive me, it was I who--"
"Hush, father, hush! The blame was mine. But I have paid for it with
agony, with the better years of my life.
"But I could not come back until I came as the wife of the man I loved;
I would not break your heart. See! I have the papers. It was my
husband's violin." She hid her face in his bosom and let the tears flow
unchecked.
Edward was standing, white and silent, gazing upon the scene; he could
not tear himself away. The general, his voice unsteady, saw him at last.
A smile broke through his working features and shone in his tearful
eyes:
"Edward, my boy, have you no word? My child has come home!" Marion
lifted her face and drew herself from the sheltering arms with sudden
energy.
"Edward," she said, gently and lovingly. "Edward!" Her eyes grew softer
and seemed to caress him with their glances. She went up to him and
placed both hands upon his shoulders. "His child, and your mother!"
"My mother, my mother!" The words were whispers. His voice seemed to
linger upon them.
"Yes! Cambia, the unhappy Marion, the Countess Levigne and your mother!
No longer ashamed to meet you, no longer an exile! Your mother, free to
meet your eyes without fear of reproach!"
She was drawing his cheek to hers as she spoke. The general had come
nearer and now she placed the young man's hand in his.
"But," said Edward, "Gerald! You called him your son!" She clasped her
hands over her eyes and turned away quickly. "How can it be? Tell me the
truth?" She looked back to him then in a dazed way. Finally a suspicion
of his difficulty came to her. "He was your twin brother. Did you not
know? Alas, poor Gerald!"
"Ah!" said the old man, "it was then true!"
"Mother," he said softly, lifting her face to his, "Gerald is at peace.
Let me fulfill all the hopes you cherished for both!"
"God has showered blessings upon me this night," said the general
brokenly. "Edward!" The two men clasped hands and looked into each
other's eyes. And, radiant by their side, was the face of Cambia!
At this moment, Mary, who had been awakened by their excited voices, her
hand outstretched toward the wall along which she had crept, came and
stood near them, gazing in wonder upon their beaming faces. With a bound
Edward reached her side and with an arm about her came to Cambia.
"Mother," he said, "here is your daughter." As Cambia clasped her
lovingly to her bosom he acquainted Mary with what had occurred. And
then, happy in her wonder and smiles, Edward and Mary turned away and
discussed the story with the now fully awakened little mother.
"And now," said he, "I can ask of you this precious life and be your son
indeed!" Mary's head was in her mother's lap.
"She has loved you a long time, Edward; she is already yours."
Presently he went upon the veranda, where father and daughter were
exchanging holy confidences, and, sitting by his mother's side, heard
the particulars of her life and bitter experience abroad.
"When Mr. Morgan went to you, father, and stated a hypothetical case and
offered to find me, and you, outraged, suffering, declared that I could
only return when I had proofs of my marriage, I was without them. Mr.
Morgan sent me money to pay our expenses home--Gaspard's and mine--and
we did come, he unwilling and fearing violence, for dissipation had
changed his whole nature. Then, he had been informed of my one-time
engagement to Mr. Morgan, and he was well acquainted with that gentleman
and indebted to him for money loaned upon several occasions. He came to
America with me upon Mr. Morgan's guaranty, the sole condition imposed
upon him being that he should bring proofs of our marriage; and had he
continued to rely upon that guaranty, had he kept his word, there would
have been no trouble. But on the day we reached this city he gave way to
temptation again and remembered all my threats to leave him. In our
final interview he became suddenly jealous, and declared there was a
plot to separate us, and expressed a determination to destroy the
proofs.
"It was then that I determined to act, and hazarded everything upon a
desperate move. I resolved to seize my husband's violin, not knowing
where his papers were, and hold it as security for my proofs. I thought
the plan would succeed; did not his love for that instrument exceed all
other passions? I had written to Rita, engaging to meet her on a certain
night at a livery stable, where we were to take a buggy and proceed to
Ilexhurst. The storm prevented. Gaspard had followed me, and at the
church door tore the instrument from my arms and left me insensible.
Rita carried me in her strong arms three miles to Ilexhurst, and it cost
her the life of the child that was born and died that night.
"Poor, poor Rita! She herself had been all but dead when my boys were
born a week later, and the idea that one of them was her own was the
single hallucination of her mind. The boys were said to somewhat
resemble her. Rita's mother bore a strong resemblance to Mrs. Morgan's
family, as you have perhaps heard, and Mrs. Morgan was related to our
family, so the resemblance may be explained in that way. Mr. Morgan
never could clear up this hallucination of Rita's, and so the matter
rested that way. It could do no harm under the circumstances, and
might--"
"No harm?" Edward shook his head sadly.
"No harm. You, Edward, were sent away, and it was early seen that poor
Gerald would be delicate and probably an invalid. For my troubles, my
flight, had--. The poor woman gave her life to the care of my children.
Heaven bless her forever!"
Gambia waited in silence a moment and then continued:
"As soon as I could travel I made a business transaction of it, and
borrowed of my friend, John Morgan. He had acquainted me with the
conditions upon which I should be received at home; and now it was
impossible for me to meet them. Gaspard was gone. I thought I could find
him; I never did, until blind, poor, aged and dying, he sent for me."
"John Morgan was faithful. He secured vocal teachers for me in Paris and
then an engagement to sing in public. I sang, and from that night my
money troubles ended.
"Mr. Morgan stayed by me in Paris until my career was assured. Then, in
obedience to his country's call he came back here, running the blockade,
and fought up to Appomattox."
"As gallant a fire-eater," said the general, "as ever shouldered a gun.
And he refused promotion on three occasions."
"I can readily understand that," said Cambia. "His modesty was only
equaled by his devotion and courage.
"He visited me again when the war ended, and we renewed the search.
After that came the Franco-Prussian war, the siege of Paris and the
commune, destroying all trails. But I sang on and searched on. When I
seemed to have exhausted the theaters I tried the prisons. And so the
years passed by.
"In the meantime Mr. Morgan had done a generous thing; never for a
moment did he doubt me." She paused, struggling with a sudden emotion,
and then: "He had heard my statement--it was not like writing, Father,
he had heard it from my lips--and when the position of my boys became
embarrassing he gave them his own name, formally adopting them while he
was in Paris."
"God bless him!" It was the general's voice.
"And after that I felt easier. Every week, in all the long years that
have passed, brought me letters; every detail in their lives was known
to me; and of yours, Father. I knew all your troubles. Mr. Morgan
managed it. And," she continued softly, "I felt your embarrassments when
the war ended. Mr. Morgan offered you a loan--"
"Yes, but I could not accept from him--"
"It was from me, Father; it was mine; and it was my money that cared for
my boys. Yes," she said, lifting her head proudly, "Mr. Morgan
understood; he let me pay back everything, and when he died it was my
money, held in private trust by him, that constituted the bulk of the
fortune left by him for my boys. I earned it before the footlights, but
honestly!
"Well, when poor Gaspard died--"
"He is dead, then?"
"Ah! of course you do not know. To-morrow I will tell you his story. I
stood by his body and at his grave, and I knew Edward. I had seen him
many times. Poor Gerald! My eyes have never beheld him since I took him
in my arms that day, a baby, and kissed him good--" She broke down and
wept bitterly. "Oh, it was pitiful, pitiful!"
After awhile she lifted her face.
"My husband had written briefly to his family just before death, the
letter to be mailed after; and thus they knew of it. But they did not
know the name he was living under. His brother, to inherit the title and
property, needed proof of death and advertised in European papers for
it. He also advertised for the violin. It was this that suggested to me
the hiding place of the missing papers. Before my marriage Gaspard had
once shown me the little slide. It had passed from my memory. But
Cambia's wits were sharper and the description supplied the link. I went
to Silesia and made a trade with the surviving brother, giving up my
interest in certain mines for the name of the person who held the
violin. Gaspard had described him to me in his letter as a young
American named Morgan. The name was nothing to the brother; it was
everything to me. I came here determined, first to search for the
papers, and, failing in that, to go home to you, my father. God has
guided me."
She sat silent, one hand in her father's, the other clasped lovingly in
her son's. It was a silence none cared to break. But Edward, from time
to time, as his mind reviewed the past, lifted tenderly to his lips the
hand of Cambia.
* * * * *
Steadily the ocean greyhound plowed its way through the dark swells of
the Atlantic. A heavy bank of clouds covered the eastern sky almost to
the zenith, its upper edges paling in the glare of the full moon slowly
ascending beyond.
The night was pleasant, the decks crowded. A young man and a young woman
sat by an elderly lady, hand in hand. They had been talking of a journey
made the year previous upon the same vessel, when the ocean sang a new
sweet song. They heard it again this night and were lost in dreams, when
the voice of a well-known novelist, who was telling a story to a charmed
circle, broke in:
"It was my first journey upon the ocean. We had been greatly interested
in the little fellow because he was a waif from the great Parisian
world, and although at that time tenderly cared for by the gentle woman
who had become his benefactress, somehow he seemed to carry with him
another atmosphere, of loneliness--of isolation. Think of it, a
motherless babe afloat upon the ocean. It was the pathos of life made
visible. He did not realize it, but every heart there beat in sympathy
with his, and when it was whispered that the little voyager was dead, I
think every eye was wet with tears. Dead, almost consumed by fever. With
him had come the picture of a young and beautiful woman. He took it with
him beneath the little hands upon his breast. That night he was laid to
rest. Never had motherless babe such a burial. Gently, as though there
were danger of waking him, we let him sink into the dark waters, there
to be rocked in the lap of the ocean until God's day dawns and the seas
give up their dead. That was thirty years ago; yet to-night I seem to
see that little shrouded form slip down and down and down into the
depths. God grant that its mother was dead."
When he ceased the elder woman in the little group had bent her head and
was silently weeping.
"It sounds like a page from the early life of Gaspard Levigne," she said
to her companions.
And then to the novelist, in a voice brimming over with tenderness:
"Grieve not for the child, my friend. God has given wings to love. There
is no place in all His universe that can hide a baby from its mother.
Love will find a way, be the ocean as wide and deep as eternity itself."
And then, as they sat wondering, the moon rose above the clouds. Light
flashed upon the waves around them, and a golden path, stretching out
ahead, crossed the far horizon into the misty splendors of the sky.
THE END.
Writings of Harry Stillwell Edwards
"Two Runaways" and other stories
"His Defense" and other stories
"The Marbeau Cousins"
"Sons and Fathers"
"Eneas Africanus"
"Eneas Africanus, Defendant"
"Just Sweethearts"
"How Sal Came Through"
"Brother Sim's Mistake"
"Isam's Spectacles"
"The Adventures of a Parrot"
"Shadow"--A Christmas Story
"The Vulture and His Shadow"
"On the Mount"
"Mam'selle Delphine"
_Others of Our Interesting Books_ Not by Edwards
"Another Miracle," by John D. Spencer
"July"--A sketch of a real negro, by Bridges Smith
"Sam Simple's First Trip to New Orleans"
"B-Flat Barto"--A Saturday Evening Post Story
"Big-Foot Wallace"--A Texas Story
"Young Marooners," for boys and girls
"Marooner's Island," for boys and girls
"Reminiscences of Sidney Lanier," by George Herbert Clarke