CHAPTER XL
THE HIDDEN HAND
It matters little what kind of seed is planted, it finds its proper elements in the soil. So with rumors. There is never a rumor so wild, but that finds a place for its roots.
It soon reached the coroner, that zealous officer whose compensation is based upon fees, that his exchequer had been defrauded by the improper burial of a woman out at Ilexhurst. She had dropped dead, and there had not been a witness. An inquest was proper; was necessary. He began an investigation. And then appeared in the brevity columns of one of the papers the incipient scandal:
"It is whispered that suspicions of foul play are entertained in connection with Rita, the housekeeper of the late John Morgan at Ilexhurst. The coroner will investigate."
And the next day the following:
"Our vigilant coroner has made inquiry into the death and burial of Rita Morgan, and feels that the circumstances demand a disinterment and examination of the body. So far the rumors of foul play come from negroes only. It seems that Mr. Edward Morgan found the woman lying in his yard, and that she died almost immediately after the discovery. It was upon the night but one preceding his meeting with Mr. Royson on the field of honor, and during his absence next day the body was hurriedly interred. There is little doubt that the woman came to her death from natural causes, but it is known that she had few if any friends among her race, and other circumstances attending her demise are such that the body will be disinterred and examined for evidence."
Even this did not especially interest the public. But when next day the morning papers came out with triple headlines the first of which was "Murdered," followed by a succinct account of the disinterment of Rita Morgan, as she was called, with the discovery of a cut on the left temple and a wound in the back of the head that had crushed in the skull, the public was startled. No charge was made against Edward Morgan, no connection hinted at, but it was stated in the history of the woman, that she was the individual referred to in Royson's famous letter on which the duel had been fought, and that she died suddenly upon the day it was published. The paper said that it was unfortunate that Mr. Morgan had left several days before for Paris, and had sailed that morning from New York.
Then the public tongue began to wag and the public mind to wait impatiently for the inquest.
The inquest was held in due form. The surgeons designated to examine the supposed wounds reported them genuine, the cut in the temple trifling, the blow in the back of the head sufficient to have caused death.
A violent discussion ensued when the jury came to make up its verdict, but the conservative members carried the day. A verdict of "death by a blow upon the head by a weapon in the hands of a person or persons unknown to the jury" was rendered; the body reinterred and the crowds of curiosity seekers withdrew from Ilexhurst.
Unfortunately during the era of excitement Gerald was locked in his room, lost in the contemplation of some question of memory that had come upon him, and he was not summoned as a witness, from the fact that in no way had he been mentioned in the case, except by Gen. Evan, who testified that he was asleep when the death occurred. The German professor and Gen. Evan were witnesses and gave their testimony readily.
Evan explained that, although present at the finding of the body, he left immediately to meet a gentleman who had called, and did not return. When asked as to Edward's actions he admitted that they were excited, but stated that other matters, naming them briefly, were engaging them at the same time and that they were of a disturbing nature. The woman, he said, had first attracted Edward's attention by falling against the glass, which she was evidently looking through, and which she broke in her fall. If she was struck, it was probably at that moment.
He was positive in his belief that at the time the sound of falling glass was heard Edward was in the room, but he would not state it under oath as a fact. It was this evidence that carried the day.
When asked where was Edward Morgan and the reason for his absence, he said that he had gone as the escort of Mrs. Montjoy to Paris, where her eyes were to be examined, and that the trip had been contemplated for several weeks. Also that he would return in less than a month.
Nevertheless, the gravest of comments began to be heard upon the streets, and prophecies were plenty that Edward would never return.
And into these began to creep a word now and then for Royson. "He knew more than he could prove," "was the victim of circumstances," "a bold fellow," etc., were fragments of conversation connected with his name.
"We fought out that issue once," he said, briefly, when asked directly about the character of the woman Rita, "and it is settled so far as I am concerned." And the public liked the answer.
No charge, however, had been brought against Edward Morgan; the matter was simply one that disturbed the public; it wanted his explanation and his presence. But behind it all, behind the hesitancy which the stern, open championship of Evan and Montjoy commanded, lay the proposition that of all people in the world only Edward Morgan could have been benefited by the death of the woman; that he was the only person present and that she died a violent death. And people would talk.
Then came a greater shock. A little paper, the Tell-Tale, published in an adjoining city and deriving its support from the publication of scandals, in which the victim was described without naming, was cried upon the street. Copies were sold by the hundreds, then thousands. It practically charged that Edward Morgan was the son of Rita Morgan; that upon finding Royson possessed of his secret he first killed the woman and then tried to kill that gentleman in a duel into which Morgan went with everything to gain and nothing to lose; that upon seeing the storm gathering he had fled the country, under the pretense of escorting a very estimable young lady and her mother abroad, the latter going to have her eyes examined by a Parisian expert, the celebrated Moreau.
It proceeded further; the young man had completely hoodwinked and deceived the family to which these ladies belonged, and, it was generally understood, would some day become the husband and son-in-law. Every sensational feature that could be imagined was brought out – even Gerald did not escape. He was put in as the legitimate heir of John Morgan; the child of a secret marriage, a non compos mentis whose property was being enjoyed by the other.
The excitement in the city reached white heat. Col. Montjoy and Gen. Evan came out in cards and denounced the author of the letter an infamous liar, and made efforts to bring the editor of the sheet into court. He could not be found.
Days slipped by, and then came the climax! One of the sensational papers of New York published a four-column illustrated article headed "A Southern Tragedy," which pretended to give the history of all the Morgans for fifty years or more. In this story the writer displayed considerable literary ability, and the situations were dramatically set forth. Pictures of Ilexhurst were given; the murder of a negro woman in the night and a fancy sketch of Edward. The crowning shame was bold type. No such sensation had been known since the race riots of 1874.
In reply to this Montjoy and Evan also telegraphed fiery denunciations and demanded the author's name. Their telegrams were published, and demands treated with contempt. Norton Montjoy, in New York, had himself interviewed by rival papers, gave the true history of Morgan and denounced the story in strong terms. He consulted lawyers and was informed that the Montjoys had no right of action.
Court met and the grand jury conferred. Here was evidence of murder, and here was a direct published charge. In vain Evan and Virdow testified before it. The strong influence of the former could not carry the day. The jury itself was political. It was part of the Swearingen ring. When it had completed its labors and returned its batch of bills, it was known in a few hours that Edward Morgan had been indicted for the murder of Rita Morgan.
Grief and distress unspeakable reigned in the houses of Gen. Evan and Col. Montjoy, and in his bachelor quarters that night one man sat with his face upon his hands and thought out all of the details of the sad catastrophe. An unspeakable sorrow shone in his big eyes. Barksdale had been touched in the tenderest part of his life. Morgan he admired and respected, but the name of the woman he loved had been bespattered with mud. With him there rested no duty. Had the circumstances been different, there would have been a tragedy at the expense of his last dollar – and he was rich.
At the expense even of his enterprise and his business reputation, he would have found the author of those letters and have shot him to death at the door of a church, if necessary. There is one point on which the south has suffered no change.
Morgan, he felt, would do the same, but now, alas, Morgan was indicted for another murder, and afterward it would be too late. Too late! He sprang to his feet and gave vent to a frightful malediction; then he grew calm through sheer astonishment. Without knock or inquiry his door was thrown open and Gerald Morgan rushed into the room.
When Barksdale had last seen this man he doubted his ability to stand the nervous strain put upon him, but here was evidence of an excitement tenfold greater. Gerald quivered like an overtaxed engine, and deep in the pale face the blazing eyes shone with a horrible fierceness. The cry he uttered as he paused before Barksdale was so unearthly that he unconsciously drew back. The young man was unrolling some papers. Upon them were the scenes of the grave as he drew them – the open coffin, the shrunken face of the woman – and then, in all its repulsive exactness, the face of the man who had turned upon the artist under the electric light!
"What does it mean, my friend?" said Barksdale, seeking by a forced calmness to reduce the almost irrational visitor to reason again.
"What?" exclaimed Gerald; "don't you understand? The man uncovered that coffin; he struck that blow upon poor dead Rita's head! I saw him face to face and drew those pictures that night. There is the date."
"You saw him?" Barksdale could not grasp the truth for an instant.
"I saw him!"
"Where is he now?"
"I do not know; I do not know!" A thrill ran through the now eager man, and he felt that instead of calming the excitement of his visitor he was getting infected by it. He sat down deliberately.
"Take a seat, Mr. Morgan, and tell me about it." But Gerald dropped the pictures and stood over them.
"There was the grave," he said, "and the man was down in it; I stood up here and lifted a spade, but then he had struck and was arranging her hair. If he had struck her again I would have killed him. I wanted to see what it was about. I wanted to see the man. He fled, and then I followed. Downtown I saw him under an electric light and got his face. He was the man, the infamous, cowardly scoundrel who struck poor Rita in her coffin; but why – why should any one want to strike Rita? I can't see. I can't see. And then to charge Edward with it!"
Barksdale's blood ran cold during the recital, the scene so vividly pictured, the uncanny face before him. It was horrible. But over all came the realization that some hidden hand was deliberately striking at the life of Edward Morgan through the grave of the woman. The cowardliness, the infamy, the cruelty was overpowering. He turned away his face.
But the next instant he was cool. It was a frail and doubtful barrier between Edward and ruin, this mind unfolding its secret. If it failed there was no other witness.
"What became of the man, did you say?"
"I do not know. I wanted his face; I got it."
"Where did you last see him?"
"On the street." Barksdale arose deliberately.
"Mr. Morgan, how did you come here?"
"I suppose I walked. I want you to help me find the man who struck the blow."
"You are right, we must find the man. Now, I have a request to make. Edward trusted to my judgment in the other affair, and it came out right, did it not?"
"Yes. That is why I have come to you."
"Trust me again. Go home now and take that picture. Preserve it as you would your life, for on it may hang the life of Edward Morgan. You understand? And do not open your lips on this subject to any one until I see you again."
Gerald rolled up the paper and turned away abruptly. Barksdale followed him down the steps and called a hack.
"Your health," he said to Gerald, as he gently forced him into the carriage, "must not be risked." And to the driver, slipping a fee in his hand: "Take Mr. Morgan to Ilexhurst. Remember, Mr. Morgan," he called out.
"I remember," was the reply. "I never forget. Would to God I could."
Barksdale walked rapidly to the livery stable.
CHAPTER XLI
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.