CHAPTER XIX
BROUGHT TO BAY
Col. Montjoy was apprised of the unexpected result in the backwoods at an early hour. He read the announcement quietly and went on his usual morning ride undisturbed. Then through the family spread the news as the other members made their appearance.
Mrs. Montjoy said, gently: "All happens for the best. If Mr. Montjoy had been elected he would have been exposed for years to the Washington climate, and he is not very well at any time. He complained of his heart several times last night."
But Mary went off and had a good cry. She could not endure the thought of the slightest affront to her stately father. She felt better after her cry and kissed the old gentleman as he came in to breakfast.
"I see you have all heard the news," he said, cheerily. "Well, it lifts a load from me. I spent four very trying years up in the neighborhood of Washington, and I am not well disposed toward the locality. I have done my duty to the fullest extent in this matter. The people who know me have given me an overwhelming indorsement, and I have been beaten only by people who do not know me! Swearingen will doubtless make a good representative, after all. I am sorry for Evan," he added, laughing. "It will be news to him to find out that the old Fire-Eaters have been worsted at last." He went to breakfast with his arms around wife and daughter. "All the honors of public life cannot compensate a man for separation from his home," he said, "and Providence knows it."
Annie was silent and anxious. She made a feeble effort to sympathize with the defeated, but with poor success. During the morning she started at every sound and went frequently to the front door. She knew her cousin, and something assured her that his hand was in this mischief. How would it affect her? In her room she laughed triumphantly.
"Vain fools!" she exclaimed; "let them stay where they belong!" In the afternoon there was the sound of buggy wheels, and a servant brought to the veranda, where they were sitting, a package. Adjusting his glasses, the colonel opened it to find one of the extras. At the head of this was written: "Thinking it probable that it may be important for this to reach you to-day, and fearing it might not otherwise, I send it by messenger in buggy. Use them as you desire." To this was signed the name of a friend.
Annie, who watched the colonel as he read, saw his face settle into sternness, and then an expression of anxiety overspread it. "Anything serious, Norton?" It was the voice of his wife, who sat knitting.
"A matter connected with the election calls me to town," he said; "I hope it will be the last time. I shall go in with the driver who brought the note." He went inside and made his few arrangements and departed hurriedly. After he was gone, Annie picked up the paper from the hall table, where he had placed it, and read the fatal announcement. Although frightened, she could scarcely conceal her exultation. Mary was passing; she thrust the paper before her eyes and said: "Read that! So much for entertaining strangers!"
Mary read. The scene whirled about her, and but for the knowledge that her suffering was bringing satisfaction to the woman before her she would have fallen to the floor. She saw in the gleeful eyes, gleaming upon her, something of the truth. With a desperate effort she restrained herself and the furious words that had rushed to her lips, and laid aside the paper with unutterable scorn and dignity.
"The lie is too cheap to pass anywhere except in the backwoods," was all she said.
A smile curled the thin lips of the other as she witnessed the desperate struggle of the girl. The voice of Col. Montjoy, who had returned to the gate, was heard calling to Mary:
"Daughter, bring the paper from the hall table."
She carried it to him. Something in her pale face caused him to ask: "Have you read it, daughter?"
She nodded her head. He was instantly greatly concerned and began some rambling explanation about campaign lies and political methods. But he could not disguise the fact that he was shocked beyond expression. She detained him but a moment. Oh, wonderful power of womanly intuition!
"Father," she said faintly, "be careful what you do. The whole thing originated back yonder," nodding her head toward the house. She had said it, and now her eyes blazed defiance. He looked upon her in amazement, not comprehending, but the matter grew clearer as he thought upon it.
Arriving in the city he was prepared for anything. He went direct to Royson's office, and that gentleman seeing him enter smiled. The visit was expected and desired. He bowed formally, however, and moving a chair forward locked the door. Darkness had just fallen, but the electric light outside the window was sufficient for an interview; neither seemed to care for more light.
"Amos," said the old man, plunging into the heart of the subject, "you have done a shameful and a cruel thing, and I have come to tell you so and insist upon your righting the wrong. You know me too well to suspect that personal reasons influence me in the least. As far as I am concerned the wrong cannot be righted, and I would not purchase nor ask a personal favor from you. The man you have insulted so grievously is a stranger and has acted the part of a generous friend to those who, although you may not value the connection, are closely bound to you. In the name of God, how could you do it?" He was too full of indignation to proceed, and he had need of coolness.
The other did not move nor give the slightest evidence of feeling. He had this advantage; the part he was acting had been carefully planned and rehearsed. After a moment's hesitation, he said:
"You should realize, Col. Montjoy, that I have acted only after a calm deliberation, and the matter is not one to be discussed excitedly. I cannot refuse to talk with you about it, but it is a cold-blooded matter of policy only." The manner and tone of the speaker chilled the elder to the heart. Royson continued: "As for myself and you – well, it was an open, impersonal fight. You know my ambition; it was as laudable as yours. I have worked for years to keep in the line of succession; I could not be expected to sit silent and while losing my whole chance see my friend defeated. All is fair in love and war – and politics. I have used such weapons as came to my hand, and the last I used only when defeat was certain."
Controlling himself with great effort, Col. Montjoy said:
"You certainly cannot expect the matter to end here!"
"How can it proceed?" A slight smile lighted the lawyer's face.
"A demand will be made upon you for your authority."
"Who will make it – you?"
A light dawned upon the elder. The cool insolence of the man was more than he could endure.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, rising. "As God is my judge, if he comes to me I shall make the demand! Ingratitude was never charged against one of my name. This man has done me a lasting favor; he shall not suffer for need of a friend, if I have to sacrifice every connection in the world."
Again the lawyer smiled.
"I think it best to remember, colonel, that we can reach no sensible conclusion without cool consideration. Let me ask you, then, for information. If I should answer that the charges in my letter, so far as Morgan's parentage is concerned, were based upon statements made by a member of your immediate family, what would be your course?"
"I should denounce you as a liar and make the quarrel my own."
Royson grew pale, but made no reply. He walked to his desk, and taking from it a letter passed it to the angry man. He lighted the gas, while the colonel's trembling hands were arranging his glasses, and stood silent, waiting. The note was in a feminine hand. Col. Montjoy read:
"My Dear Amos: I have been thinking over the information I gave you touching the base parentage of the man Morgan, and I am not sure but that it should be suppressed so far as the public is concerned, and brought home here in another way. The facts cannot be easily proved, and the affair would create a great scandal, in which I, as a member of this absurd family, would be involved. You should not use it, at any rate, except as a desperate measure, and then only upon the understanding that you are to become responsible, and that I am in no way whatever to be brought into the matter. Yours in haste,
"Annie."
The reader let the paper fall and covered his face with his hands a moment. Then he arose with dignity.
"I did not imagine, sir, that the human heart was capable of such villainy as yours has developed. You have stabbed a defenseless stranger in the back; have broken faith with a poor, jealous, weak woman, and have outraged and humiliated me, to whom you are personally indebted financially and otherwise. Unlock your door! I have but one honorable course left. I shall publish a card in the morning's paper stating that your letter was based upon statements made by a member of my family; that they are untrue in every respect, and offer a public apology."
"Will you name the informant?"
"What is that to you, sir?"
"A great deal! If you do name her, I shall reaffirm the truth of her statements, as in the absence of her husband I am her nearest relative. If you do not name her, then the public may guess wrong. I think you will not do so rash a thing, colonel. Keep out of the matter. Circumstances give you a natural right to hands off!"
"And if I do!" exclaimed the old man, passionately, "who will act for him?" The unpleasant smile returned to the young man's lips.
"No one, I apprehend!"
Montjoy could have killed him as he stood. He felt the ground slipping from under him as he, too, realized the completeness and cowardliness of the plot.
"We shall see; we shall see!" he said, gasping and pressing his hand to his heart. "We shall see, Mr. Royson! There is a just God who looks down upon the acts of all men, and the right prevails!"
Royson bowed mockingly but profoundly.
"That is an old doctrine. You are going, and there is just one thing left unsaid. At the risk of offending you yet more, I am going to say it."
"I warn you, then, to be careful; there is a limit to human endurance and I have persistently ascribed to me the worst of motives in this matter, but I have as much pride in my family as you in yours. There are but few of us left. Will you concede that if there is danger, in her opinion, that she will become the sister-in-law of this man, and that she believed the information she has given to be true, will you concede that her action is natural, if not wise, and that a little more selfishness may after all be mixed in mine?" Gradually his meaning dawned upon his hearer. For a second he was dumb. And all this was to be public property!
"I think," said Royson, coolly opening the door, "it will be well for you to confer with friends before you proceed, and perhaps leave to others the task of righting the wrongs of strangers who have taken advantage of your hospitality to offer the deadliest insult possible in this southern country. It may not be well to arm this man with the fact that you vouch for him; he may answer you in the future."
He drew back from the door suddenly, half in terror. A man, pale as death itself, with hair curling down upon his shoulders, and eyes that blazed under the face before him, whose eyes never for a moment left his, broke the seal. Then he read aloud:
"Mr. Amos Royson, I inclose for your inspection a clipping from an extra issue this day, and ask if you are the author of the letter it contains. If you answer yes, I hereby demand of you an unconditional retraction of and apology for the same, for publication in the paper which contained the original. This will be handed to you by my friend, Gerald Morgan.
"Edward Morgan."
Royson recovered himself with evident difficulty.
"This is not customary – he does not demand the name of my informant!" he said.
"We do not care a fig, sir, for your informant. The insult rests in the use you have made of a lie, and we propose to hold you responsible for it!"
Gerald spoke the words like a sweet-voiced girl and returned the stare of his opponent with insolent coolness. The colonel had paused, as he perceived the completeness of the lawyer's entrapping. Amos could not use his cousin's name before the public and the Montjoys were saved from interference. He was cornered. The colonel passed out hurriedly with an affectionate smile to Gerald, saying:
"Excuse me, gentlemen; these are matters which you will probably wish to discuss in private. Mr. Royson, I had friends wiser than myself at work upon this matter, and I did not know it."
CHAPTER XX
IN THE HANDS OF THEIR FRIENDS
It was not sunset when Col. Montjoy left home. Mary went to her room and threw herself upon her bed, sick at heart and anxious beyond the power of weeping. Unadvised, ignorant of the full significance of the information that had been conveyed to them, she conjured up a world of danger for her father and for Edward. Tragedy was in the air she breathed. At supper she was laboring under ill-concealed excitement. Fortunately for her, the little mother was not present. Sitting in her room, with the green glasses to which she had been reduced by the progress of her disease, she did not notice the expression of the daughter's face when she came as usual to look after the final arrangement of her mother's comfort.
By 8 o'clock the house was quiet. Throwing a light wrap over her shoulders and concealing in its folds her father's army pistol, Mary slipped into the outer darkness and whistled softly. A great shaggy dog came bounding around from the rear and leaped upon her. She rested her hand on his collar, and together they passed into the avenue. Old Isam stood there and by him the pony phaeton and mare.
"Stay up until I return, please, Uncle Isam, and be sure to meet me here!" The old man bowed.
"I'll be hyar, missy," he said. "Don't you want me to go, too?"
"No, thank you; I am going to Gen. Evan's and you must stay and look after things. Nero will go with me." The dog had already leaped into the vehicle. She sprang in also, and almost noiselessly they rolled away over the pine straw.
The old man listened; first he heard the dogs bark at Rich's then at Manuel's and then at black Henry's, nearly a mile away. He shook his head.
"Missy got somep'n on her mind! She don't make no hoss move in de night dat way for nothin'! Too fast! Too fast!"
He went off to his cabin and sat outside to smoke. And in the night the little mare sped away. On the public roads the gait was comparatively safe, and she responded to every call nobly. The unbroken shadows of the roadside glided like walls of gloom! The little vehicle rocked and swayed, and, underneath, the wheels sang a monotonous warning rhyme.
Now and then the little vehicle fairly leaped from the ground, for when Norton, a year previous, had bid in that animal at a blooded-stock sale in Kentucky, she was in her third summer and carried the blood of Wilkes and Rysdyk's Hambletonian, and was proud of it, as her every motion showed.
The little mare had the long route that night, but at last she stood before the doorway of the Cedars. The general was descending the steps as Mary gave Nero the lines.
"What! Mary – "
He feared to ask the question on his lips. She was full of excitement, and her first effort to speak was a dismal failure.
"Come! Come! Come!" he said, in that descending scale of voice which seems to have been made for sympathy and encouragment. "Calm yourself first and talk later." He had his arms around her now and was ascending the steps. "Sit right down here in this big chair; there you are!"
"You have not heard, then?" she said, controlling herself with supreme effort.
"About your father's defeat? Oh, yes. But what of that? There are defeats more glorious than victories, my child. You will find that your father was taken advantage of." She buried her face in her hands.
"It is not about that, sir – the means they used!" And then, between sobs, she told him the whole story. He made no reply, no comment, but reaching over to the rail secured his corn-cob pipe and filled it. As he struck a match above the tobacco, she saw that his face was as calm as the candid skies of June. The sight gave her courage.
"Do you not think it awful?" she ventured.
"Awful? Yes! A man to descend to such depths of meanness must have suffered a great deal on the way. I am sorry for Royson – sorry, indeed!"
"But Mr. Morgan!" she exclaimed, excitedly.
"That must be attended to," he said, very gravely. "Mr. Morgan has placed us all under heavy obligations, and we must see him through."
"You must, General; you must, and right away! They have sent for poor papa, and he has gone to town, and I – I – just could not sleep, so I came to you." He laughed heartily.
"And in a hurry! Whew! I heard the mare's feet as she crossed the bridge a mile away. You did just right. And of course the old general is expected to go to town and pull papa and Mr. Morgan out of the mud, and straighten out things. John!"
"Put the saddle on my horse at once. And now, how is the little mamma?" he asked, gently.
He held her on this subject until the horse was brought, and then they rode off down the avenue, the general following and rallying the girl upon her driving.
"Don't expect me to hold to that pace," he said. "I once crossed a bridge as fast, and faster, up in Virginia, but I was trying to beat the bluecoats. Too old now, too old."
"But you will get there in time?" she asked, anxiously.
"Oh, yes; they will be consulting and sending notes and raising points all night. I will get in somewhere along the line. When a man starts out to hunt up trouble he is rarely ever too late to find it." He saw her safely to where Isam was waiting, and then rode on to the city. He realized the complication, and now his whole thought was to keep his neighbor from doing anything rash. It did occur to him that there might be a street tragedy, but he shook his head over this when he remembered Royson. "He is too much of a schemer for that," he said. "He will get the matter into the hands of a board of honor." The old gentleman laughed softly to himself and touched up his horse.
In the meantime affairs were drawing to a focus in the city. After the abrupt departure of Gerald, Royson stood alone, holding the demand and thinking. An anxious expression had settled upon his face. He read and reread the curt note, but could find no flaw in it. He was to be held responsible for the publication; that was the injury. He was forced to confess that the idea was sound. There was now no way to involve the Montjoys and let them hush it up. He had expected to be forced to withdraw the card and apologize, but not until the whole city was informed that he did it to save a woman, and he would have been placed then in the position of one sacrificing himself. Now that such refuge was impossible he could not even escape by giving the name of his informant. He could not have given it had there been a demand.
He read between the lines that his authority was known; that he was dealing with some master mind and that he had been out-generaled somewhere. To whom had he talked? To no one except Barksdale. He gave vent to a profane estimate of himself and left the office. There was no danger now of a street assault.
Amos Royson threw himself into a carriage and went to the residence of Marsden Thomas, dismissing the vehicle. The family of Marsden Thomas was an old one, and by reason of its early reputation in politics and at the bar had a sound and honorable footing. Marsden was himself a member of the legislature, a born politician, capable of anything that would advance his fortune, the limit only being the dead-line of disgrace.
He had tied to Royson, who was slightly his elder, because of his experience and influence.
He was noted for his scrupulous regard for the code as a basis of settlement between honorable men, and was generally consulted upon points of honor.
Secure in Thomas' room, Royson went over the events of the day, including Montjoy's and Gerald's visits, and then produced the demand that had been served upon him.
Thomas had heard him through without interruption. When Royson described the entrance of Gerald, with the unlooked-for note, a slight smile drew his lips; he put aside the note, and said:
"You are in a very serious scrape, Amos; I do not see how you can avoid a fight." His visitor studied him intently.
"You must help me out! I do not propose to fight." Thomas gravely studied the note again.
"Of course, you know the object of the publication," continued Royson; "it was political. Without it we would have been beaten. It was a desperate move; I had the information and used it."
"You had information, then? I thought the whole thing was hatched up. Who gave you the information?" Royson frowned.
"My cousin, Mrs. Montjoy; you see the complication now. I supposed that no one but the Montjoys knew this man intimately, and that their hands would be tied!"
"Ah!" The exclamation was eloquent. "And the young man had another friend, the morphine-eater; you had forgotten him!" Thomas could not restrain a laugh. Royson was furious. He seized his hat and made a feint to depart. Thomas kindly asked him to remain. It would have been cruel had he failed, for he knew that Royson had not the slightest intention of leaving.
"Come back and sit down, Amos. You do us all an injustice. You played for the credit of this victory, contrary to our advice, and now you have the hot end of the iron."
"Tell me," said Royson, reverting to the note, "is there anything in that communication that we can take advantage of?"
"Nothing! Morgan might have asked in one note if you were the author of the published letter and then in another have demanded a retraction. His joining the two is not material; you do not deny the authorship."
After a few moments of silence he continued: "There is one point I am not satisfied upon. I am not sure but that you can refuse upon the ground you alleged – in brief, because he is not a gentleman. Whether or not the burden of proof would be upon you is an open question; I am inclined to think it would be; a man is not called upon in the south to prove his title to gentility. All southerners with whom we associate are supposed to be gentlemen," and then he added, lazily smiling, "except the ladies; and it is a pity they are exempt. Mrs. Montjoy would otherwise be obliged to hold her tongue!"
Royson was white with rage, but he did not speak. Secretly he was afraid of Thomas, and it had occurred to him that in the event of his humiliation or death Thomas would take his place.
This unpleasant reflection was interrupted by the voice of his companion.
"Suppose we call in some of our friends and settle this point." The affair was getting in the shape desired by Royson, and he eagerly consented. Notes were at once dispatched to several well-known gentlemen, and a short time afterward they were assembled and in earnest conversation. It was evident that they disagreed.
While this consultation was going on there was a knock at the door; a servant brought a card. Gen. Evan had called to see Mr. Thomas, but learning that he was engaged and how, had left the note.
Thomas read it silently, and then aloud:
"Marsden Thomas, Esq. – Dear Sir: I have read in to-day's paper the painful announcement signed by Mr. Royson, and have come into the city hoping that a serious difficulty might thereby be averted. To assist in the settlement of this matter, I hereby state over my own signature that the announcement concerning Edward Morgan is erroneous, and I vouch for his right to the title and privileges of a gentleman.
"Respectfully,"Albert Evan."
The silence that followed this was broken by one of the older gentlemen present.
"This simplifies matters very greatly," he said. "Without the clearest and most positive proof, Mr. Royson must retract or fight."
They took their departure at length, leaving Royson alone to gaze upon the open note. Thomas, returning, found him in the act of drawing on his gloves.
"I am going," said Royson, "to send a message to Annie. She must, she shall give me something to go on. I will not sit quietly by and be made a sacrifice!"
"Write your note; I will send it."
"I prefer to attend to it myself!" Thomas shook his head.
"If you leave this room to-night it is with the understanding that I am no longer your adviser. Arrest by the police must not, shall not – "
"Do you mean to insinuate – "
"Nothing! But I shall take no chances with the name of Thomas!" said the other proudly. "You are excited; a word let fall – a suspicion – and we would be disgraced! Write your note; I shall send it. We have no time to lose!" Royson threw himself down in front of a desk and wrote hurriedly:
"Annie: I am cornered. For God's sake give me proofs of your statements or tell me where to get them. It is life or death; don't fail me.
"A. R."
He sealed and addressed this. Thomas rang the bell and to the boy he said: "How far is it to Col. Montjoy's?"
"Seven miles, sah!"
"How quickly can you go there and back?"
"On Pet?"
"Yes."
"One hour an' a half, sah."
"Take this note, say you must see Mrs. Norton Montjoy, Jr., in person, on important matters, and deliver it to her. Here is a $5 bill; if you are back in two hours, you need not return it. Go!"
There was a gleam of ivory teeth and the boy hurried away. It was a wretched wait, that hour and a half. The answer to the demand must go into the paper that night!
One hour and thirty-two minutes passed. They heard the horse in the street, then the boy upon the stairway. He dashed to the door.
"Miss Mary was up and at de gate when I got deir! Reck'n she hear Pet's hoof hit de hard groun' an' hit skeered her. I tole her what you say, and she sen' word dat Mrs. Montjoy done gone to sleep. I tell her you all mighty anxious for to get dat note; dat Mr. Royson up here, waitin', an' gentlemen been comin' an' goin' all night. She took de note in den and putty soon she bring back the answer!"
He was searching his pockets as he rambled over his experience, and presently the note was found. It was the same one that had been sent by Royson, and across the back was written:
"Mr. Thomas: I think it best not to awaken Annie. Papa is in town; if the matter is of great importance call upon him. I am so certain this is the proper course that it will be useless to write again or call in person to-night.
"Respectfully,"M. M."
He passed the note to Royson in silence and saw the look of rage upon his face as he tore it into a thousand pieces.
"Even your little Montjoy girl seems to be against you," he said.
"She is!" exclaimed Royson; "she knew that my note to Annie was not in the interest of Edward Morgan, and she is fighting for him. She will follow him to the altar or the grave!"
"Ah," said Thomas, aside, drawing a long breath; "'tis the old story, and I thought I had found a new plot! Well," he continued aloud, "what next?"
"It shall not be the altar! Conclude the arrangements; I am at your service!"
"He will stick," said Thomas to himself; "love and jealousy are stronger then fear and ambition!"