CHAPTER XXXVI
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.
CHAPTER XXXVII
"WHICH OF THE TWO WAS MY MOTHER?"
The sleeper lay tranquilly forgetful of the morning hours redolent of perfumes and vocal with the songs of birds. The sunlight was gone, a deep-gray cloud having crept up to shadow the scene. All was still in the glass-room. Virdow shook his head.
"This," he said, "strange, as it may seem, is his real life. Waking brings the dreams. We will not disturb him."
Edward would have returned his violin to its case, but as he sat looking upon the face of the sleeper and revolving in mind the complications which had enslaved him, there came upon the roof of glass the unheralded fall of rain. As it rose and fell in fine cadences under the fitful discharge of moisture from the uneven cloud drifting past, a note wild but familiar caught his ear; it was the note of the waterfall. Unconsciously he lifted his bow, and blending with that strange minor chord, he filled the room with low, sweet melody.
And there as the song grew into rapture from its sadness under the spell of a new-found hope, under the memory of that last scene, when the rainbow overhung the waters and the face of the girl had become radiant with the thought she expressed, Gerald arose from his couch and stood before the easel. All the care lines were gone from his face. For the first time in the knowledge of the two men he stood a cool, rational being. The strains ran on. The artist drew, lingering over a touch of beauty, a shade of expression, a wave of fine hair upon the brow. Then he stood silent and gazed upon his work. It was finished. The song of the violin trembled – died away.
He did not for the moment note his companions; he was looking upward thoughtfully. The sun had burst open the clouds and was filling the outer world with yellow light, through the water-seeped air. Far away, arching the mellow depths of a cloud abyss, its colors repeated upon the wet grass around him, was a rainbow. Then he saw that Virdow and Edward were watching him. The spell was broken. He smiled a little and beckoned to Edward.
"Here is a new face," he said. "It is the first time it has come to me. It is a face that rests me." Edward approached and gazed upon the face of Mary! Speechless with the rush of feeling that came over him, he turned and left the room.
To Virdow it meant nothing except a fine ideal, but, impressed with the manner of the musician, he followed to the great hall. The girl of the picture stood in the doorway. Before he had time to speak, he saw the martial figure of Evan overshadow hers and heard the strong, manly voice asking for Edward.
Edward came forward. Confused by his recent experience, and the sudden appearance of the original of the picture, he with difficulty managed to welcome his guest and introduce his friend.
"I thought best to come," said Evan when Virdow, with easy courtesy, was engaging the attention of the lady. "I have passed a sleepless night. Where can we speak privately?" Edward motioned to the stairway, but hesitated.
"Never mind Mary," said the general, divining his embarrassment.
"I took her away from the colonel on the road; she and the professor will take care of themselves." She heard the remark and smiled, replying gayly:
"But don't stay too long. I am afraid I shall weary your friend."
Virdow made his courtliest bow.
"Impossible," he said. "I have been an untiring admirer of the beautiful since childhood."
"Bravo!" cried Evan. "You will do!" Virdow bowed again.
"I would be glad to have you answer a question," he said, rather abruptly, gazing earnestly into her eyes. She was astonished, but managed to reply assuringly. "It is this: Have you ever met Gerald Morgan?"
"Never. I have heard so much of him lately, I should be glad to see him."
"Has he ever seen you?"
"Not that I am aware of – "
"Certainly not face to face – long enough for him to remember your every feature – your expression?"
"Why, no." The old man looked troubled and began to walk up and down the hall, his head bent forward. The girl watched him nonplussed and with a little uneasiness.
"Pardon me – pardon me," he said, finally, recalling the situation. "But it is strange, strange!"
"May I inquire what troubles you, sir?" she asked, timidly.
"Yes, certainly, yes." He started, with sudden resolution, and disappeared for a few moments. When he returned, he was holding a large sheet of cardboard. "It is this," he said. "How could a man who has never seen you face to face have drawn this likeness?" He held Gerald's picture before her. She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"And did he draw it – did Mr. Gerald – "
"In my presence."
"He has never seen me."
"Yes," said a musical voice; "as you were then, I have seen you." She started with fright. Gerald, with pallid face and hair upon his shoulders, stood before her. "So shall I see you forever." She drew nearer to Virdow.
"This, my young friend, is Mary." It was all he could remember. And then to her: "This is Gerald."
"Mary," he said, musingly, "Mary? What a pretty name! It suits you. None other would." She had extended her hand shyly. He took it and lifted it to his lips. It was the first time a girl's hand had rested in his. He did not release it; she drew away at last. Something in his voice had touched her; it was the note of suffering, of unrest, which a woman feels first. She knew something of his history. He had been Edward's friend. Her father had pictured the scene wherein he had cornered and defied Royson.
"I am sure we shall be friends, Mr. Gerald. Mr. Morgan is so fond of you."
"We shall be more than friends," he said, gently; "more than friends." She misunderstood him. Had he divined her secret and did Edward promise him that?
"Never less," she said. He had not removed his eyes from her, and now as she turned to speak to Virdow, he came and stood by her side, and lifting gently one of her brown curls gazed wonderingly upon it. She was embarrassed, but her good sense came to the rescue.
"See the light upon it come and go," he said. "We call it the reflected light; but it is life itself glimmering there. The eye holds the same ray."
"You have imagination," she said, smiling, "and it is fortunate. Here you must be lonely." He shook his head.
"Imagination is often a curse. The world generally is happy, I think, and the happiest are those who touch life through the senses alone and who do not dream. I am never alone! Would to God sometimes I were." A look of anguish convulsed his face. She laid her hand upon his wrist as he stood silently struggling for self-possession.
"I am so sorry," she said, softly; "I have pained you." The look, the touch, the tender voice – which was it? He shuddered and gazed upon the little hand and then into her eyes. Mary drew back, wondering; she read him aright. Love in such natures is not a growth. It is born as a flash of light. Yet she did not realize the full significance of the discovery. Then, oh, wonderful power of nature, she turned upon him her large, melting eyes and gave him one swift message of deepest sympathy. Again he shuddered and the faintest crimson flushed his cheeks.
They went with Virdow to see the wing-room, of which she had heard so much, to look into the little cabinets, where he made his photographs, to handle his weapons, view his favorite books and all the curious little surroundings of his daily life; she went with an old man and a child. Her girlish interest was infectious; Virdow threw off his speculations and let himself drift with the new day, and Gerald was as a smiling boy.
They even ventured with unconventional daring to peep into the glass-room. Standing on the threshold, the girl gazed in with surprise and delight.
"How novel and how simple!" she exclaimed; "and to think of having the stars for friends all night!" He laughed silently and nodded his head; here was one who understood.
And then her eyes caught a glimpse of the marble bust, which Gerald had polished and cleared of its discolorations. She made them bring it and place it before her. A puzzled look overspread her face as she glanced from Gerald to the marble and back again.
"Strange, strange," she said; "sit here, Mr. Gerald, sit here, with your head by this one, and let me see." White now as the marble itself, but controlled by the new power that had enthralled, he obeyed; the two faces looked forward upon the girl, feature for feature. Even the pose was the same.
"It was well done," she said. "I never saw a more perfect resemblance, and yet" – going to one side – "the profile is that of Mr. Edward!" The young man uttered no sound; he was, in the swift passing of the one bright hour of his life, as the marble itself. But as he remained a moment under the spell of despair that overran him, Gen. Evan stood in the door. Only Mary caught the words in his sharp, half-smothered exclamation as he started back. They were: "It is true!" He came forward and, taking up the marble, looked long and tenderly into the face, and bowing his head gave way to his tears.
One by one they withdrew – Virdow, Mary, Edward. Only Gerald remained, gazing curiously into the general's face and thinking. Then tenderly the old man replaced the bust upon the table, and, standing above his head, and said with infinite tenderness:
"Gerald, you do not know me; if God wills it you will know me some day! That marble upon the table is the carved face of my daughter – Marion Evan."
"Then you are Gen. Evan." The young man spoke the words coolly and without emotion.
"Yes. Nearly thirty years ago she left me – without a farewell until too late, with no human being in all the world to love, none to care for me."
"So Rita told me." The words were little more than a whisper.
"I did not curse her; I disowned her and sought to forget. I could not. Then I began to cry out for her in the night – in my loneliness – do you know what that word means?"
"Do I know?" The pathos in the echo was beyond description.
"And then I began a search that ended only when ten years had buried all hopes. No tidings, no word after her first letter ever reached me. She is dead, I believe; but recently some of the mystery has been untangled. I begin to know, to believe that there has been an awful error somewhere. She did come back. Her child was born and Rita cared for it. As God is my judge, I believe that you are that child! Tell me, do you remember, have you any knowledge that will help me to unravel this tangled – "
"You are simply mistaken, general," said the young man, without moving other than to fold his arms and sink back into his chair. "I am not the son of Marion Evan." Speechless for a moment, the general gazed upon his companion.
"I thought I was," continued Gerald; "I hoped I was. My God! My God! I tried to be! I have exhausted almost life itself to make the truth a lie, and the lie a truth! I have struggled with this secret here for twenty years or more; I have studied every phase of life; I well-nigh broke Rita's heart. Poor honest Rita!
"She told me what they claimed – she was too honest to conceal that – and what she believed; she was too human to conceal that; and then left me to judge. The woman they would have me own as my mother left me, a lonely babe, to the care of strangers; to grow up ill-taught, unguided, frail and haunted with a sickening fear. She has left me twenty-seven years. Rita stayed. If I were sick, Rita was by me. If I was crazed, Rita was there to calm. Sleepless by night, sleepless by day, she loved and comforted and blessed me." He had risen in his growing excitement. "I ask you, General, who have known life better than I, which of the two was my mother? Let me answer; you will not. The woman of thirty years ago is nothing to me; she was once. That has passed. When Rita lay dead in her coffin I kissed her lips at last and called her mother. I would have killed myself afterward – life seemed useless – but not so now. It may be a terrible thing to be Rita's son; I suppose it is, but as before God, I thank Him that I have come to believe that there are no ties of blood between me and the woman who was false to both father and child, and in all probability deserted her husband."
Gen. Evan turned abruptly and rushed from the room. Edward saw his face as he passed out through the hall and did not speak. With courtly dignity he took Mary to the buggy and stood with bowed head until they were gone. He then returned to the glass-room. Gerald stood among the ruins of a drawing and the fragments of the marble bust lay on the floor. One glance at this scene and the blazing eyes of the man was sufficient. Evan had failed.
"Tell them," exclaimed Gerald, "that even the son of a slave is dishonored, when they seek to link him to a woman who abandons her child."
"What is it," asked Virdow, in a whisper, coming to Edward's side. Edward shook his head and drew him from the room.
"He does not know what he is saying."