Sons and Fathers

  CHAPTER XLIV.

  THE HEART OF CAMBIA.

  It was a simple burial. Edward sent a carriage for Cambia, one for theconcierge and his wife, and in the other he brought Mrs. Montjoy andMary, to whom he had related a part of the history of Benoni, as hestill called him. Out in Pere la Chaise they laid away the body of theold master, placed on it their flowers and the beautiful wreath thatCambia brought, and were ready to return.

  As they approached their carriage, Edward introduced the ladies, to whomhe had already told of Cambia's career.

  They looked with sympathetic pleasure upon the great singer and weretouched by her interest in and devotion to the old musician, "whom shehad known in happier days."

  Cambia studied their faces long and thoughtfully and promised to callupon them. They parted to meet again.

  When Edward went to make an engagement for Mrs. Montjoy with Moreau, thegreat authority on the eye, he was informed that the specialist had beencalled to Russia for professional services in the family of the Czar,and would not return before a date then a week off. The ladies acceptedthe delay philosophically. It would give them time to see something ofParis.

  And see it they did. To Edward it was familiar in every feature. He tookthem to all the art centers, the historical points, the great cathedral,the environments of Malmaison and Versailles, to the promenades, thepalaces and the theaters. This last feature was the delight of both. Forthe dramatic art in all its perfection both betrayed a keen relish, andjust then Paris was at its gayest. They were never jostled, harassed,nor disappointed. They were in the hands of an accomplishedcosmopolitan.

  To Mary the scenes were full of never-ending delight. The mother hadbreathed the same atmosphere before, but to Mary all was novel andbeautiful.

  Throughout all Edward maintained the sad, quiet dignity peculiar to him,illumined at times by flashes of life, as he saw and gloried in thehappiness of the girl at his side.

  Then came Cambia! Mary had gone out with Edward, for a walk, and Mrs.Montjoy was knitting in the parlor in silent reverie when a card wasbrought in, and almost immediately the sad, beautiful face of the singerappeared in the door.

  "Do not arise, madame," she said, quickly, coming forward upon seeingthe elderly lady beginning to put aside her knitting, "nor cease yourwork. I ask that you let me forget we are almost strangers and will sithere by your side. You have not seen Moreau yet?"

  "No," said Mrs. Montjoy, releasing the white hand that had clasped hers;"he is to return to-day."

  "Then he will soon relieve your anxiety. With Moreau everything ispossible."

  "I am sure I hope your trust is not misplaced; success will lift a greatweight from my family." Cambia was silent, thinking; then she arose and,sinking upon the little footstool, laid her arms upon the knees of herhostess, and with tearful eyes raised to her face she said:

  "Mrs. Montjoy, do you not know me? Have I indeed changed so much?"

  The needles ceased to contend and the work slipped from the smoothlittle hands. A frightened look overspread the gentle face.

  "Who is it speaks? Sometime I must have known that voice."

  "It is Marion Evan." The visitor bent her head upon her own arms andgave way to her emotion. Mrs. Montjoy had repeated the nameunconsciously and was silent. But presently, feeling the figure bentbefore her struggling in the grasp of its emotion, she placed both handsupon the shapely head and gently stroked its beautiful hair, now linedwith silver.

  "You have suffered," she said simply. "Why did you leave us? Why haveyou been silent all these years?"

  "For my father's sake. They have thought me cold, heartless, abandoned.I have crucified my heart to save his." She spoke with vehement passion.

  "Hush, my child," said the elder lady; "you must calm yourself. Tell meall; let me help you. You used to tell me all your troubles and I usedto call you daughter in the old times. Do you remember?"

  "Ah, madame, if I did not I would not be here now. Indeed you werealways kind and good to Marion."

  And so, living over the old days, they came to learn again each other'sheart and find how little time and the incidents of life had changedthem. And sitting there beneath the sympathetic touch and eyes of herlifetime friend, Cambia told her story.

  "I was not quite 17, madame, you remember, when it happened. How, I donot know; but I thought then I must have been born for Gaspard Levigne.From the moment I saw him, the violin instructor in our institution, Iloved him. His voice, his music, his presence, without effort of his,deprived me of any resisting power; I did not seek to resist. I advancedin my art until its perfection charmed him. I had often seen himwatching me with a sad and pensive air and he once told me that my facerecalled a very dear friend, long dead. I sang a solo in a concert; heled the orchestra; I sang to him. The audience thought it was thedebutante watching her director, but it was a girl of 17 singing to theonly man the world held for her. He heard and knew.

  "From that day we loved; before, only I loved. He was more than doublemy age, a handsome man, with a divine art; and I--well, they called mepretty--made him love me. We met at every opportunity, and whenopportunities did not offer we made them, those innocent, happy trysts.

  "Love is blind not only to faults but to all the world. We werediscovered and he was blamed. The great name of the institution might becompromised--its business suffer. He resigned.

  "Then came the terrible misstep; he asked me to go with him and Iconsented. We should have gone home; he was afraid of the legal effectsof marrying a minor, and so we went the other way. Not stopping in NewYork we turned northward, away from the revengeful south; from policesurveillance, and somewhere we were married. I heard them call us manand wife, and then I sank again into my dream.

  "It does not seem possible that I could not have known the name of theplace, but I was no more than a child looking from a car window andtaken out for meals here and there. I had but one thought--my husband.

  "We went to Canada, then abroad. Gaspard had saved considerable money;his home was in Silesia and thither we went; and that long journey wasthe happiest honeymoon a woman could know."

  "I spent mine in Europe wandering from point to point. I understand,"said Mrs. Montjoy, gently.

  "Oh, you do understand! We reached the home and then my troubles began.My husband, the restraints of his professional engagement thrown off,fell a victim to dissipation again. He had left his country to break upold associations and this habit.

  "His people were high-class but poor. He was Count Levigne. Their pridewas boundless. They disliked me from the beginning. I had frustrated theplans of the family, whose redemption was to come from Gaspard. Innocentthough I was, and soon demanding the tenderness, the love, thegentleness which almost every woman receives under like circumstances, Ireceived only coldness and petty persecution.

  "Soon came want; not the want of mere food, but of clothing and minorcomforts. And Gaspard had changed--he who should have defended me leftme to defend myself. One night came the end. He reproached me--he wasintoxicated--with having ruined his life and his prospects." The speakerpaused. With this scene had come an emotion she could with difficultycontrol; but, calm at last, she continued with dignity:

  "The daughter of Gen. Albert Evan could not stand that. I sold mydiamonds, my mother's diamonds, and came away. I had resolved to comeback and work for a living in my own land until peace could be made withfather. At that time I did not know the trouble. I found out, though.

  "Gaspard came to his senses then and followed me. Madame, can youimagine the sorrow of the coming back? But a few months before I hadgone over the same route the happiest woman in all the to me beautifulworld, and now I was the most miserable; life had lost its beauty!

  "We met again--he had taken a shorter way, and, guessing my limitedknowledge correctly, by watching the shipping register found me. But alleloquence could not avail then; there had been a revulsion. I no longerloved him. He would never reform; he would work by fits and starts andhe could not support me. At th
at time he had but one piece of propertyin the world--a magnificent Stradivarius violin. The sale of that wouldhave brought many thousand francs to spend, but on that one thing he wasunchanging. It had come to him by many generations of musicians. Theytransmitted to him their divine art and the vehicle of its expression. Asuggestion of sale threw him into the most violent of passions, so greatwas the shock to his artistic nature and family pride. If he had starvedto death that violin would have been found by his side.

  "I believe it was this heroism in his character that touched me at last;I relented. We went to Paris and Gaspard secured employment. But, alas,I had not been mistaken. I was soon penniless and practically abandoned.I had no longer the ability to do what I should have done at first; Icould not go home for want of means."

  "You should have written to us."

  "I would have starved before I would have asked. Had you known, had youoffered, I would have received it. And God sent me a friend, one of Hisnoblemen--the last in all the world of whom I could ask anything. Whenmy fortunes were at their lowest ebb John Morgan came back into mylife."

  "John Morgan!"

  "He asked no questions. He simply did all that was necessary. And thenhe went to see my father. I had written him, but he had never replied;he went, as I learned afterward, simply as a man of business and withoutsentiment. You can imagine the scene. No other man witnessed it. It was,he told me, long and stormy.

  "The result was that I would be received at home when I came with proofsof my marriage.

  "I was greatly relieved at first; I had only to find my husband and getthem. I found him but I did not get them. It happened to be a bad timeto approach him. Then John Morgan tried, and that was unfortunate. In mydespair I had told my husband of that prior engagement. An insanejealousy now seized him. He thought it was a plot to recover my name andmarry me to Mr. Morgan. He held the key to the situation and swore thatin action for divorce he would testify there had been no marriage!

  "Then we went forward to find the record. We never found it. If years ofsearch and great expense could have accomplished it, we would havesucceeded. It was, however, a fact; I remember standing before theofficiating officer and recalled my trembling responses, but that wasall. The locality, the section, whether it was the first or second day,I do not recall. But, as God is my judge, I was married."

  She became passionate. Her companion soothed her again.

  "Go on, my child. I believe you."

  "I cannot tell you a part of this sad story; I have not been perfectlyopen. Some day I will, perhaps, and until that time comes I ask you tokeep my secret, because there are good reasons now for silence; you willappreciate them when you know. Gaspard was left--our only chance. Mr.Morgan sought him, I sought him; he would have given him any sum for hisknowledge. Gaspard would have sold it, we thought; want would have madehim sell, but Gaspard had vanished as if death itself had carried himoff.

  "In this search I had always the assistance of Mr. Morgan, and at firsthis money defrayed all expense; but shortly afterward he influenced aleading opera master to give me a chance, and I sang in Paris as Cambia,for the first time. From that day I was rich, and Marion Evandisappeared from the world.

  "Informed weekly of home affairs and my dear father, my separation waslessened of half its terrors. But year after year that unchanging friendstood by me. The time came when the stern face was the grandest objecton which my eyes could rest. There was no compact between us; if I couldhave dissolved the marriage tie I would have accepted him and beenhappy. But Cambia could take no chances with herself nor with Gen. Evan!Divorce could only have been secured by three months' publication ofnotice in the papers and if that reached Gaspard his terrible answerwould have been filed and I would have been disgraced.

  "The American war had passed and then came the French war. And still nonews from Gaspard. And one day came John Morgan, with the propositionthat ten years of abandonment gave me liberty, and offered me hishand--and fortune. But--there were reasons--there were reasons. I couldnot. He received my answer and said simply: 'You are right!' After thatwe talked no more upon the subject.

  "Clew after clew was exhausted; some led us into a foreign prison. Isang at Christmas to the convicts. All seemed touched; but none wasoverwhelmed; Gaspard was not among them.

  "I sang upon the streets of Paris, disguised; all Paris came to know andhear the 'veiled singer,' whose voice, it was said, equaled the famousCambia's. A blind violinist accompanied me. We managed it skillfully. Hemet me at a new place every evening, and we parted at a new place, Ialighting from the cab we always took, at some unfrequented place, andsending him home. And now, madame, do you still believe in God?"

  "Implicitly."

  "Then tell me why, when, a few days since, I was called by your friendMr. Morgan to the bedside of Gaspard Levigne, the old musician, who hadaccompanied me on the streets of Paris, why was it that God in His mercydid not give him breath to enable his lips to answer my pitifulquestion; why, if there is a God in heaven, did He not----"

  "Hush, Marion!" The calm, sweet voice of the elder woman rose above theexcitement and anguish of the singer. "Hush, my child; you have trustedtoo little in Him! God is great, and good and merciful. I can say itnow; I will say it when His shadows fall upon my eyes as they must someday."

  Awed and touched, Cambia looked up into the glorified face and wassilent.

  Neither broke that stillness, but as they waited a violent step washeard without, and a voice:

  "Infamous! Infamous!" Edward rushed into the room, pale and horrified,his bursting heart finding relief only in such words.

  "What is it, my son--Edward!" Mrs. Montjoy looked upon himreproachfully.

  "I am accused of the murder of Rita Morgan!" he cried. He did not seeCambia, who had drawn back from between the two, and was looking inhorror at him as she slowly moved toward the door.

  "You accused, Edward? Impossible! Why, what possible motive----"

  "Oh, it is devilish!" he exclaimed, as he tore the American paper intoshreds. "Devilish! First I was called her son, and now her murderer. Imurdered her to destroy her evidence, is the charge!" The white face ofCambia disappeared through the door.