CHAPTER XV.
"IN ALL THE WORLD, NO FAIRER FLOWER THAN THIS!"
The city was in a whirl on election day; hacks and carriages darted hereand there all day long, bearing flaming placards and hauling voters tothe polls. Bands played at the Montjoy headquarters and everything tocomfort the inner patriot was on hand.
Edward had taken charge of this department and at his own expenseconducted it. He was the host. All kinds of wines and liquors and maltdrinks, a constantly replenished lunch, that amounted to a banquet, andcigars, were at all hours quickly served by a corps of trained waiters.In all their experience, old election stagers declared never had thisfeature of election day been so complete. It goes without saying thatMontjoy's headquarters were crowded and that a great deal of theinterest which found expression in the streets was manufactured there.
It was a fierce struggle; the Swearingen campaign in the county had beenconducted on the "still-hunt" plan, and on this day his full strengthwas polled. It was Montjoy's home county, and if it could be carriedagainst him, the victory was won at the outset.
On the other hand, the Montjoy people sought for the moral effect of anoverwhelming victory. There was an expression of general relief in theform of cheers, when the town clocks struck five and the polls windowsfell. Anxiety followed, and then bonfires blazed, rockets exploded andall night long the artillery squad fired salutes. Montjoy had won by anunlooked-for majority and the vote of the largest county was secure.
Edward had resolutely refused to think upon the discovery unfolded tohim. With reckless disregard for the future he had determined to burythe subject until the arrival of Virdow. But there are ghosts that willnot come down at the bidding, and so in the intervals of sleep, ofexcitement, of politics, the remembrance of the fearful fate thatthreatened him came up with all the force and terror of a newexperience.
Ilexhurst was impossible to him alone and he held to Norton as long ashe could. There was to be a few days' rest after the home election, andthe younger Montjoy seized this opportunity to run home and, as heexpressed it, "get acquainted with the family." Edward, withouthesitation, accepted his invitation to go with him. They had become firmfriends now and Edward stood high in the family esteem. Reviewing thework that had led up to Col. Montjoy's magnificent opening and oration,all generously conceded that he had been the potent factor.
It was not true, in fact; the younger Montjoy had been the genius of thehour, but Edward's aid and money had been necessary. The two men werereceived as conquering heroes. As she held his hand in hers old Mrs.Montjoy said:
"You have done us a great service, Mr. Morgan, and we cannot forget it,"and Mary, shy and happy, had smiled upon him and uttered her thanks.There was one discordant note, the daughter-in-law had been silent untilall were through.
"And I suppose I am to thank you, Mr. Morgan, that Norton has returnedalive. I did not know you were such high livers over at Ilexhurst," shesmiled, maliciously. "Were you not afraid of ghosts?"
Edward looked at her with ill-disguised hatred. For the first time herealized fully that he was dealing with a dangerous enemy. How much didshe know? He could make nothing of that serenely tranquil face. He bowedonly. She was his friend's wife.
But he was not at ease beneath her gaze and readily accepted Mary'sinvitation to ride. She was going to carry a note from her father to aneighbor, and the chance of seeing the country was one he should notneglect. They found a lazy mule and ancient country buggy at the door.He thought of the outfit of the sister-in-law. "Annie has a pony phaetonthat is quite stylish," said Mary, laughingly, as they entered the oldvehicle, "but it is only for town use; this is mine and papa's!"
"Certainly roomy and safe," he said. She laughed outright.
"I will remember that; so many people have tried to say somethingcomforting about my turnout and failed; but it does well enough." Theywere off then, Edward driving awkwardly. It was the first time he hadever drawn the reins over a mule.
"How do you make it go fast?" he asked, finally, in despair.
"Oh, dear," she answered, "we don't try. We know the mule." Her laughwas infectious.
They traveled the public roads, with their borders of wild grape,crossed gurgling streams under festoons of vines and lingered in shadyvistas of overhanging boughs. Several times they boldly entered privategrounds and passed through back yards without hailing, and at last theycame to their destination.
There were two huge stone posts at the entrance, with carved balls ofgranite upon them. A thick tangle of muscadine and Cherokee roses ledoff from them right and left, hiding the trail of the long-vanished railfence. In front was an avenue of twisted cedars, and, closing theperspective, a glimpse of white columns and green blinds.
The girl's face was lighted with smiles; it was for her a newexperience, this journeying with a man alone; his voice melodious in herhearing; his eyes exchanging with hers quick understandings, for Edwardwas happy that morning--happy in his forgetfulness. He had thrown offthe weight of misery successfully, and for the first time in his lifethere was really a smile in his heart. It was the dream of an hour; hewould not mar it. Her voice recalled him.
"I have always loved 'The Cedars.' It wears such an air of gentility andrefinement. It must be that something of the lives gone by clings tothese old places."
"Whose is it?" She turned in surprise.
"Oh, this is where we were bound--Gen. Evan's. I have a note for him."
"Ah!" The exclamation was one of awe rather than wonder. She saw himstart violently and grow pale. "Evan?" he said, with emotion.
"You know him?"
"Not I." He felt her questioning gaze and looked into her face. "Thatis, I have been introduced to him, only, and I have heard him speak."After a moment's reflection: "Sometime, perhaps, I shall tell you whyfor the moment I was startled." She could not understand his manner.Fortunately they had arrived at the house. Confused still, he followedher up the broad steps to the veranda and saw her lift the antiqueknocker.
"Yes, ma'am, de general's home; walk in, ma'am; find him right back inthe liberry." With that delightful lack of formality common amongintimate neighbors in the south, Mary led the way in. She made a prettypicture as she paused at the door. The sun was shining through thepainted window and suffused her form with roseate light.
"May I come in?"
"Well! Well! Well!" The old man rose with a great show of welcome andcame forward. "'May I come in?' How d'ye do, Mary, God bless you, child;yes, come clear in," he said, laughing, and bestowed a kiss upon herlips. At that moment he caught sight of the face of Edward, who stoodbehind her, pale from the stream of light that came from a white crestin the window. The two men gazed steadily into each other's eyes amoment only. The girl began:
"This is Mr. Morgan, general, who has been such a friend to father."
The rugged face of the old soldier lighted up, he took the young man'shands in both of his and pressed them warmly.
"I have already met Mr. Morgan. The friend of my friend is welcome to'The Cedars'." He turned to move chairs for them.
The face of the young man grew white as he bowed gravely. There had beena recognition, but no voice spoke from the far-away past through hislineaments to that lonely old man. During the visit he was distrait andembarrassed. The courtly attention of his host and his playful gallantrywith Mary awoke no smile upon his lips. Somewhere a barrier had fallenand the waters of memory had rushed in. Finally he was forced to arousehimself.
"John Morgan was a warm friend of mine at one time," said the oldgeneral. "How was he related to you?"
"Distantly," said Edward quietly. "I was an orphan, and indebted to himfor everything."
"An eccentric man, but John had a good heart--errors like the rest ofus, of course." The general's face grew sad for the moment, but herallied and turned the conversation to the political campaign.
"A grand speech that, Mr. Morgan; I have never heard a finer, and I havegreat speakers in my day! Our district will be well and honorablyreprese
nted in Congress. Now, our little friend here will go toWashington and get her name into the papers."
"No, indeed. If papa wins I am going to stay with mamma. I am going tobe her eyes as well as her hands. Mamma would not like the city."
"And how is the little mamma?"
She shook her head. "Not so well and her eyes trouble her very much."
"What a sweet woman she is! I can never forget the night Norton led herto the altar. I have never seen a fairer sight--until now," heinterpolated, smiling and saluting Mary with formal bow. "She had aperfect figure and her walk was the exposition of grace." Mary surveyedhim with swimming eyes. She went up and kissed him lightly. He detainedher a moment when about to take her departure.
"You are a fortunate man, Morgan. In all the world you will find norarer flower than this. I envy you your ride home. Come again, Mary, andbring Mr. Morgan with you." She broke loose from him and darted off inconfusion. He had guessed her secret and well was it that he had!
The ride home was as a dream. The girl was excited and full of life andbanter and Edward, throwing off his sadness, had entered into the hourof happiness with the same abandon that marked his campaign with Norton.
But as they entered the long stretch of wood through which their roadran to her home, Edward brought back the conversation to the general.
"Yes," said Mary, "he lives quite alone, a widower, but beloved by everyone. It is an old, sad story, but his daughter eloped just before thewar broke out and went abroad. He has never heard from her, it issupposed."
"I have heard the fact mentioned," said Morgan, "and also that she wasto have married my relative."
"I did not know that," she said, "but it is a great sorrow to thegeneral, and a girl who could give up such a man must have been wrong atheart or infatuated."
"Infatuated, let us hope."
"That is the best explanation," she said gently.
He was driving; in a few moments he would arrive at the house. Should hetell her the history of Gerald and let her clear, honest mind guide him?Should he tell her that Fate had made him the custodian of the onlybeing in the world who had a right to that honorable name when theveteran back yonder found his last camp and crossed the river to rest inthe shade with the immortal Jackson? He turned to her and she met hisearnest gaze with a winning smile, but at the moment something in hislife cried out. The secret was as much his duty as the ward himself andto confess to her his belief that Gerald was the son of Marion Evan wasto confess to himself that he was the son of the octoroon. He would not.Her smile died away before the misery in his face.
"You are ill," she said in quick sympathy.
"Yes," he replied, faintly; "yes and no. The loss ofsleep--excitement--your southern sun----" The world grew black and hefelt himself falling. In the last moment of his consciousness heremembered that her arm was thrown about him and that in response to hercall for help negroes from the cotton fields came running.
He opened his eyes. They rested upon the chintz curtains of the roomupstairs, from the window of which he had heard her voice calling thechickens. Some one was bathing his forehead; there were figures glidinghere and there across his vision. He turned his eyes and saw the anxiousface of Mrs. Montjoy watching him.
"What is it?" He spoke in wonder.
"Hush, now, my boy; you have been very ill; you must not talk!" He triedto lift his hand. It seemed made of lead and not connected with him inany way. Gazing helplessly upon it, he saw that it was thin andwhite--the hand of an invalid.
"How long?" he asked, after a rest. The slight effort took his strength.
"Three weeks." Three weeks! This was more than he could adjust in thefew working sections of his brain. He ceased to try and closed his eyesin sleep.