CHAPTER XI.
IN THE CRIMSON OF SUNSET.
Edward left the house without any definite idea of how he would carry onthe search for the truth of his own history, but his determination wascomplete. He did not enter the dining-room, but called for his buggy anddrove direct to the city. He wished to see neither Rita nor Gerald untilthe tumult within him had been stilled. His mind was yet in a whirl whenwithout previous resolution he turned his horse in the direction of "TheHall" and let it choose its gait. The sun was low when he drew up beforethe white-columned house and entered the yard. Mary stood in the doorwayand smiled a welcome, but as he approached she looked into his face inalarm.
"You have been ill?" she said, with quick sympathy.
"Do I look it?" he asked; "I have not slept well. Perhaps that showsupon me. It is rather dreary work this getting acquainted." He tried todeceive her with a smile.
"How ungallant!" she exclaimed, "to say that to me, and so soon after wehave become acquainted."
"We are old acquaintances, Miss Montjoy," he replied with moreearnestness than the occasion justified. "I knew you in Paris, in Rome,even in India--I have known you always." She blushed slightly and turnedher face away as a lady appeared leading a little girl.
"Here is Mr. Morgan, Annie; you met him for a moment only, I believe."
The newcomer extended her hand languidly.
"Any one whom Norton is so enthusiastic about," she said, withoutwarmth, "must be worth meeting a second time."
Her small eyes rested upon the visitor an instant. Stunned as he hadbeen by large misfortunes, he felt again the unpleasant impression oftheir first meeting. Whether it was the manner, the tone of voice, theglance or languid hand that slipped limply from his own, or allcombined, he did not know; he did not care much at that time. The youngwoman placed the freed hand over the mouth of the child begging for abiscuit, and without looking down said:
"Mary, get this brat a biscuit, please. She will drive me distracted."Mary stooped and the Duchess leaped into her arms, happy at once. Edwardfollowed them with his eyes until they reached the end of the porch andMary turned a moment to receive additional directions from the youngmother. He knew, then, where he had first seen her. She was a littlemadonna in a roadside shrine in Sicily, distinct and different from allthe madonnas of his acquaintance, in that she seemed to have stepped updirect from among the people who knelt there; a motherly little woman intouch with every home nestling in those hills. The young mother by himwas watching him with curiosity.
"I have to thank you for a beautiful picture," he said.
"You are an artist, I suppose?"
"Yes; a dilletante. But the picture of a woman with her child in herarms appeals to most men; to none more than those who never knew amother nor had a home." He stopped suddenly, the blood rushed to hisface and brain, and he came near staggering. He had forgotten for themoment.
He recovered, to find the keen eyes of the woman studying him intently.Did she know, did she suspect? How this question would recur to him inall the years! He turned from her, pale and angry. Fortunately, Maryreturned at this moment, the little one contentedly munching upon itsbiscuit. The elder Mrs. Montjoy welcomed him with her motherly way,inquiring closely into his arrangements for comfort out at Ilexhurst.Who was caring for him? Rita! Well, that was fortunate; Rita was a goodcook and good housekeeper, and a good nurse. He affected a carelessinterest and she continued:
"Yes, Rita lived for years near here. She was a free woman and as aprofessional nurse accumulated quite a sum of money, and then herhusband dying, John Morgan had taken her to his house to look after ayoung relative who had been left to his care. What has become of thisyoung person?" she asked. "I have not heard of him for many years."
"He is still there," said Edward, briefly.
And then, as they were silent, he continued: "This woman Rita had ahusband; how did they manage in old times? Was he free also? You see,since I have become a citizen your institutions have a deal of interestfor me. It must have been inconvenient to be free and have someone elseowning the husband."
He was not satisfied with the effort; he could not restrain aninclination to look toward the younger Mrs. Montjoy. She was leaningback in her chair, with eyes half-closed, and smiling upon him. He couldhave strangled her cheerfully. The elder lady's voice recalled him.
"Her husband was free also; that is, it was thought that she had boughthim," and she smiled over the idea.
A slanting sunbeam came through the window; they were now in thesitting-room and Mary quickly adjusted the shade to shield her mother'sface.
"Mamma is still having trouble with her eyes," she said; "we cannotafford to let her strain the sound one."
"My eyes do pain me a great deal," the elder Mrs. Montjoy said. "Did youever have neuralgia, Mr. Morgan? Sometimes I think it is neuralgia. Imust have Dr. Campbell down to look at my eyes. I am afraid----" she didnot complete the sentence, but the quick sympathy of the man helped himto read her silence aright. Mary caught her breath nervously.
"Mary, take me to my room; I think I will lie down until tea. Mr. Morganwill be glad to walk some, I am sure; take him down to the mill." Shegave that gentleman her hand again; a hand that seemed to him eloquentwith gentleness. "Good-night, if I do not see you again," she said. "Ido not go to the table now on account of the lamp." He felt a lump inhis throat and an almost irresistible desire to throw himself upon hersympathy. She would understand. But the next instant the idea of such athing filled him with horror. It would banish him forever from theportals of that proud home.
And ought he not to banish himself? He trembled over the mentalquestion. No! His courage returned. There had been some horriblemistake! Not until the light of day shone on the indisputable fact, notuntil proof irresistible had said: "You are base-born! Depart!" Whenthat hour came he would depart! He saw Mary waiting for him at the door;the young mother was still watching him, he thought. He bowed and strodefrom the room.
"What is it?" said the girl, quickly; "you seem excited." She wasalready learning to read him.
"Do I? Well, let me see; I am not accustomed to ladies' society," hesaid, lightly; "so much beauty and graciousness have overwhelmed me." Hewas outside now and the fresh breeze steadied him instantly.
There was a sun-setting before them that lent a glow to the girl's faceand a new light to her eyes. He saw it there first and then in theskies. Across a gentle slope of land that came down from a mile away onthe opposite side into their valley the sun had gone behind a shower.Out on one side a fiery cloud floated like a ship afire, and behind itwere the lilac highlands of the sky. The scene brought with it a strangesolemnity. It held the last breath of the dying day.
The man and girl stood silent for a moment, contemplating the wonderfulvision. She looked into his face presently to find him sadly andintently watching her. Wondering, she led the way downhill to where alittle boat lay with its bow upon the grassy sward which ran into thewater. Taking one seat, she motioned him to the other.
"We have given you a Venetian water-color sunset," she said, smilingaway her embarrassment, "and now for a gondola ride." Lightly andskillfully plying the paddle the little craft glided out upon the lake,and presently, poising the blade she said, gayly:
"Look down into the reflection, and then look up! Tell me, do you floatupon the lake or in the cloudy regions of heaven?" He followed herdirections. Then, looking steadily at her, he said, gently:
"In heaven!" She bent over the boat side until her face was concealed,letting her hand cool in the crimson water.
"Mr. Morgan," she said after awhile, looking up from under her lashes,"are you a very earnest man? I do not think I know just how to take you.I am afraid I am too matter-of-fact."
He was feverish and still weighed down by his terrible memory. "I amearnest now, whatever I may have been," he said, softly, "and believeme, Miss Montjoy, something tells me that I will never be less thanearnest with you."
She did not reply at once, but looked
off into the cloudlands.
"You have traveled much?" she said at length, to break the awkwardsilence.
"I suppose so. I have never had what I could call a home and I havemoved about a great deal. Men of my acquaintance," he continued,musingly, "have been ambitious in every line; I have watched them inwonder. Most of them sacrifice what would have been my greatest pleasureto possess--mother and sister and home. I cannot understand that phaseof life; I suppose I never will."
"Then you have never known a mother?"
"Never." There was something in his voice that touched her deeply.
"To miss a mother's affection," she said, with a holy light in her browneyes, "is to miss the greatest gift heaven can bestow here. I suppose awife somehow takes a mother's place, finally, with every man, but shecannot fill it. No woman that ever lived can fill my mother's place."
Loyal little Mary! He fancied that as she thought upon her own remarkher sensitive lips curved slightly. His mind reverted to the sinisterface that they had left in the parlor.
"Your mother!" he exclaimed, fervently; "would to heaven I had such amother!" He paused, overcome with emotion. She looked upon him withswimming eyes.
"You must come often, then," she said, softly, "and be much with us. Iwill share her with you. Poor mamma! I am afraid--I am afraid for her!"She covered her face with her hands suddenly and bowed her head.
"Is she ill, so ill as all that?" he asked, greatly concerned.
"Oh, no! That is, her eyesight is failing; she does not realize it, butDr. Campbell has warned us to be careful."
"What is the trouble?" He was now deeply distressed.
"Glaucoma. The little nerve that leads from the cornea to the brainfinally dies away; there is no connection, and then----" she could notconclude the sentence.
Edward had never before been brought within the influence of such acircle. Her words thrilled him beyond expression. He waited a littlewhile and said:
"I cannot tell you how much my short experience here has been to me. Thelittle touch of motherly interest, of home, has brought me more genuinepleasure than I thought the world held for me. You said just now thatyou would share the dear little mamma with me. I accept the generousoffer. And now you must share the care of the little mamma with me. Donot be offended, but I know that the war has upset your revenues here inthe south, and that the new order of business has not reached a payingbasis. By no act of mine I am independent; I have few responsibilities.Why may not I, why may not you and I take the little mamma to Paris andlet the best skill in the world be invoked to save her from sorrow?" He,too, would not, after her failure, say "blindness."
She looked at him through tears that threatened to get beyond control,afraid to trust her voice.
"You have not answered me," he said, gently. She shook her head.
"I cannot. I can never answer you as I would. But it cannot be, itcannot be! If that course were necessary, we would have gone long ago,for, while we are poor, Norton could have arranged it--he can canarrange anything. But Dr. Campbell, you know, is famous for his skill.He has even been called to Europe in consultation. He says there is nocure, but care of the general health may avert the blow all her life.And so we watch and wait."
"Still," he urged, "there may be a mistake. And the sea voyage----"
She shook her head. "You are very, very kind, but it cannot be."
It flashed over Edward then what that journey would have been. He, withthat sweet-faced girl, the little madonna of his memory, and the patientmother! In his mind came back all the old familiar places; by his sidestood this girl, her hand upon his arm, her eyes upturned to his.
And why not! A thrill ran through his heart: he could take his wife andher mother to Paris! He started violently and leaned forward in theboat, his glowing face turned full upon her, with an expression in itthat startled her.
Then from it the color died away; a ghastly look overspread it. Hemurmured aloud:
"God be merciful! It cannot be." She smiled pitifully.
"No," she said, "it cannot be. But God is merciful. We trust Him. Hewill order all things for the best!" Seeing his agitation she continued:"Don't let it distress you so, Mr. Morgan. It may all come out happily.See, the skies are quite clear now; the clouds all gone! I take it as ahappy augury!"
Ashamed to profit by her reading of his feelings, he made a desperateeffort to respond to her new mood. She saw the struggle and aided him.But in that hour the heart of Mary Montjoy went out for all eternity tothe man before her. Change, disaster, calumny, misfortune, would nevershake her faith and belief in him. He had lost in the struggle of thepreceding night, but here he had won that which death only could end,and perhaps not death.
Slowly they ascended the hill together, both silent and thoughtful. Hetook her little hand to help her up the terraces, and, forgetting, heldit until, at the gate, she suddenly withdrew it in confusion and gazedat him with startled eyes.
The tall, soldierly form of the colonel, her father, stood at the top ofthe steps.
"See," said Edward, to relieve her confusion, "one of the old knightsguarding the castle!"
And then she called out, gayly:
"Sir knight, I bring you a prisoner." The old gentleman laughed andentered into the pleasantry.
"Well, he might have surrendered to a less fair captor! Enter, prisoner,and proclaim your colors," Edward started, but recovered, and, lookingup boldly, said:
"An honorable knight errant, but unknown until his vow is fulfilled."They both applauded and the supper bell rang.