CHAPTER XLI.
WITH THE WOMAN WHO LOVED HIM.
Edward Morgan gave himself up to the dream. The flying train spedonward, out of the pine forest, into the hills and the shadow ofmountains, into the broad world of life and great cities.
They had the car almost to themselves, for the northward travel is smallat that season.
Before him was the little woman of the motherly face and smooth, softhand, and behind her, lost in the contemplation of the light literaturewith which he had surrounded her, was the girl about whom all thetendrils 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 curlyhair over her brow, and the shapely little head. He was content.
It was a novel and suggestive situation. And yet--only a dream. Nomatter how far he wandered, how real seemed the vision, it always endedthere--it was but a dream, a waking dream. He had at last no part in herlife; he would never have.
And yet again, why not? The world was large; he felt its largeness asthey rushed from center to center, saw the teeming crowds here, thefar-stretching farms and dwellings there. The world was large, and theywere 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 bestknew; all its pleasures, its comforts, his--and hers.
If only she loved him! He lived over every minute detail of their shortcompanionship, from the hour he saw her, the little madonna, until hekissed her hand and promised unnecessarily that he would never break herheart. 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 herpictures and back to him.
A rush of emotions swept away his mood; he rose almost angrily; it was aquestion between him and his Savior only. God had made the world andnamed 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 brightand--well, charming often--and then you seem to go back into your shelland 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 mymarried friends I sometimes wonder why men ever marry. They seem tosurrender so much for so little. I am afraid if I were a bachelor thereisn't a woman living whom I would marry--not if she had the wealth ofVanderbilt."
Edward laughed outright.
"If you were a bachelor," he answered, "you would not have suchthoughts."
"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 abachelor."
"The mystery to me," said Edward, "is why women ever marry."
"Because they love," answered the girl. "There is no mystery aboutthat."
"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 knewin 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 sleepunder a hedge, his chances your chances, and you with no claim upon himsave 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, proudof his name, of his talents, of his honor. If misfortune came he wouldstarve under the first hedge before he would lead me out to face ascornful world. And if it were misfortune only I would sing forhim--yes, if necessary, beg, unknown to him for money to help him inmisfortune. Only let him keep the manliness within him undimmed by actof his." He gazed into her glowing face.
"I thank you," he said. "I never understood a true woman's heartbefore."
The express rushed into new and strange scenes. There were battlefieldspointed out by the conductor--mere landscapes only the names of whichwere thrilling. Manassas glided by, the birthplace of a great hope thatperished. How often she had heard her father and the general tell ofthat battle!
And then the white shaft of the Washington monument, and the capitoldome rose in the distance.
As they glided over the long bridge across the Potomac and touched thesoil of the capital city and the street lights went past, the youngwoman viewed the scenes with intense interest. Washington! But for thatinfamous assault upon her father, through the man who had been by herside, 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 withEdward to view the avenue. They went and stood at the foot of that greatwhite pile which closes one end of the avenue, and were awed intosilence 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 Duchesswas asleep in his lap, perhaps the general had come over to keep himcompany, and if so they were talking of the absent ones. Edward saw herlittle hand lightly laid upon her eyes for a moment, and comprehended.
Morning! And now the crowded train sweeps northward through the greatcities and opens up bits of marine views. For the first time the girlsees a stately ship, with wings unfurled, "go down into the seas,"vanishing upon the hazy horizon, "like some strain of sweet melodysilenced and made visible," as Edward quoted from a far-away poetfriend.
"And if you will watch it intently," he added, "and forget yourself youwill lose sight of the ship and hear again the melody." And then camealmost endless streets of villages and towns, the smoke of factories,the clamor and clangor of life massed in a small compass, a lull of themotion, hurrying crowds and the cheery, flushed face of Norton pressedto his mother's and to hers.
The first stage of the journey was over. Across the river rose, in dizzydisorder and vastness, New York.
The men clasped hands and looked each other in the eyes, Montjoysmiling, Morgan grave. It seemed to the latter that the smile of hisfriend meant nothing; that behind it lay anxiety, questioning. He didnot waver under the look, and in a moment the hand that held histightened again. Morgan had answered. Half the conversation of life iscarried on without words. Morgan had answered, but he could not forgethis friend's questioning gaze. Nor could he forget that his friend had awife.