CHAPTER LII.
DEATH OF COL. MONTJOY.
It was the morning succeeding the trial, one of those southern days thatthe late fall steals from summer and tempts the birds to sing in thewoodlands. Gen. Evan had borne Virdow and Edward in triumph to TheCedars and, after breakfast, Edward had ridden over to The Hall, leavingthe two old men together. Virdow interested his host with accuratedescriptions of the great battles between the Germans and the French;and Evan in turn gave him vivid accounts of the mighty Virginiastruggles between Federals and Confederates.
When they finally came to Edward as a topic the German was eloquent. Heplaced him beside himself in learning and ahead of all amateurs asartist and musician.
"Mr. Morgan agreed with me in his estimate of Edward," Virdow said."They were warm friends. Edward reciprocated the affection bestowed uponhim; in Europe they traveled much--"
"Of what Mr. Morgan do you speak?" The general was puzzled.
"The elder, Mr. John Morgan, I think. But what am I saying? I meanAbingdon."
"Abingdon? I do not know him." Virdow reflected a moment.
"Abingdon was the name by which Edward knew John Morgan in Europe. Theymet annually and were inseparable companions."
"John Morgan--our John Morgan?"
"Yes. I am told he was very eccentric, and this was probably a whim. Butit enabled him to study the character of his relative. He seems to havebeen satisfied, and who wouldn't?"
"You astound me. I had never heard that John Morgan went to Europe. Idid hear that he went annually to Canada, for the summer months; that isall."
"Edward never knew of the connection until he came here and saw apicture of John Morgan, drawn by Gerald. We both recognized itinstantly." Evan was silent, thinking upon this curious information. Atlast he asked:
"Was Edward Mr. Morgan's only intimate companion?"
"The only one."
"Did you ever hear why Mr. Morgan concealed his identity under anassumed name?"
"No. We did not connect Abingdon with John Morgan until letters werereturned with information that Abingdon was dead; and then Gerald drewhis picture from memory."
And as these two old gentlemen chattered about him, Edward himself wasapproaching the Montjoys.
He found Mary upon the porch; his horse's feet had announced his coming.Her face was flushed and a glad light shone in her eyes. She gave himher hand without words; she had intended expressing her pleasure and hercongratulations, but when the time came the words were impossible.
"You have been anxious," he said, reading her silence.
"Yes," she replied; "I could not doubt you but there are so many thingsinvolved, and I had no one to talk with. It was a long suspense, butwomen have to learn such lessons," and then she added, seeing that hewas silent: "It was the most unhappy day of my life: papa was gone, andpoor mamma's eyes have troubled her so much. She has bandaged them againand stays in her room. The day seemed never-ending. When papa came hewas pale and haggard, and his face deceived me. I thought that somethinghad gone wrong--some mistake had occurred and you were in trouble, butpapa was ill, and the news--" She turned her face away suddenly, feelingthe tears starting.
Edward drew her up to a settee under a spreading oak, and seatinghimself beside her told her much of his life's story--his doubts, hishopes, his fears. She held her breath as he entered upon his experienceat Ilexhurst and Gerald's life and identity were dwelt upon.
"This," said he at last, "is your right to know. It is due to me. Icannot let you misjudge the individual. While I am convinced, that doesnot make a doubt a fact and on it I cannot build a future. You have myhistory, and you know that in the heart of Edward Morgan you alone haveany part. The world holds no other woman for me, nor ever will; butthere is the end. If I stayed by you the day would come when this lovewould sweep away every resolution, every sense of duty, every instinctof my mind, except the instinct to love you, and for this reason I havecome to say that until life holds no mystery for Edward Morgan he willbe an exile from you."
The girl's head was sunk upon her arms as it rested upon the settee. Shedid not lift her face. What could she answer to such a revelation, sucha declaration? After a while he ceased to walk the gravel floor of theirarbor, and stood by her. Unconsciously he let his hand rest upon thebrown curls. "This does not mean," he said, very gently, "that I amgoing away to mope and wear out life in idle regrets. Marion Evan lives;I will find her. And then--and then--if she bids me, I will come back,and with a clean record ask you to be my wife. Answer me, my love, myonly love--let me say these words this once--answer me; is this thecourse that an honorable man should pursue?"
She rose then and faced him proudly. His words had thrilled her soul.
"It is. I could never love you, Edward, if you could offer less. I haveno doubt in my mind--none. A woman's heart knows without argument, and Iknow that you will come to me some day. God be with you till we meetagain--and for all time and eternity. This will be my prayer."
Without object, the silent couple, busy with their thoughts, entered theliving-room. The colonel was sitting in his arm-chair, his paper droppedfrom his listless hand, his eyes closed. The Duchess in his lap hadfallen asleep, holding the old open-faced watch and its mystery of thelittle boy within who cracked hickory nuts. They made a prettypicture--youth and old age, early spring and late winter. Mary liftedher hand warningly.
"Softly," she said; "they sleep; don't disturb them." Edward lookedclosely into the face of the old man, and then to the surprise of thegirl placed his arm about her waist.
"Do not cry out," he said; "keep calm and remember that the littlemamma's health--"
"What do you mean?" she said, looking with wonder into his agitated faceas she sought gently to free herself. "Have you forgotten----"
"This is sleep indeed--but the sleep of eternity."
She sprang from him with sudden terror and laid her hand upon the coldforehead of her father. For an instant she stared into his face, withstraining eyes, and then with one frightful scream she sank by his side,uttering his name in agonized tones.
Edward strove tearfully to calm her; it was too late. Calling uponhusband and daughter frantically, Mrs. Montjoy rushed from her room intothe presence of death. She was blindfolded, but with unerring instinctshe found the still form and touched the dead face. The touch revealedthe truth; with one quick motion she tore away the bandages from herface, and then in sudden awe the words fell from her:
"I am blind!" Mary had risen to her side and was clinging to her, andEdward had assisted, fearing she might fall to the floor. But with theconsciousness of her last misfortune had soon come calmness. She heedednot the cries of the girl appealing to her, but knelt with her whiteface lifted and said simply:
"Dear Father, Thou art merciful; I have not seen him dead! Blest foreverbe Thy Holy name!" Edward turned his back and stood with bowed head, thesilence broken now only by the sobs of the daughter. Still sleeping inthe lap of the dead, her chubby hand clasping the wonderful toy, was theDuchess, and at her feet the streaming sunlight. The little boy came tothe door riding the old man's gold-headed cane for a horse and carryingthe cow horn, which he had pushed from its nail upon the porch.
"Grandpa, ain't it time to blow the horn?" he said. "Grandma, why don'tgrandpa wake up?" She drew him to her breast and silenced his queries.
And still with a half-smile upon his patrician face--the face that womenand children loved and all men honored--sat the colonel; one more leaffrom the old south blown to earth.
The little girl awoke at last, sat up and caught sight of the watch.
"Look, gamma. Little boy in deir cackin' hickeynut," and she placed thejewel against the ear of the kneeling woman.
That peculiarly placid expression, driven away in the moment ofdissolution, had returned to the dead man; he seemed to hear the Duchessprattle and the familiar demand for music upon the horn.
Isham had responded to the outcry and rushed in. With a sob he had stoodby the body a moment and th
en gone out shaking his head and moaning. Andthen, as they waited, there rang out upon the clear morning air theplantation bell--not the merry call to labor and the sweet summons torest, which every animal on the plantation knew and loved, but a solemntolling, significant in its measured volume.
And over the distant fields where the hands were finishing their labors,the solemn sounds came floating. Old Peter lifted his head. "Who datring dat bell dis time er day?" he said, curiously; and then, under thelessening volume of the breeze, the sound fell to almost silence, torise again stronger than before and float with sonorous meaning.
At long intervals they had heard it. It always marked a change in theirlives.
One or two of the men began to move doubtfully toward the house, andothers followed, increasing their pace as the persistent alarm wassounded, until some were running. And thus they came to where old Ishamtolled the bell, his eyes brimming over with tears.
"Old marster's gone! Old marster's gone!" he called to the first, andthe words went down the line and were carried to the "quarters," whichsoon gave back the death chant from excited women. The negroes edgedinto the yard and into the hall, and then some of the oldest into thesolemn presence of the dead, gazing in silence upon the sad, white faceand closed eyes.
Then there was a tumult in yard and hall; a shuffling of feet announceda newcomer. Mammy Phyllis, walking with the aid of a staff, entered theroom and stood by the side of the dead man. Every voice was still; herewas the woman who had nursed him and who had raised him; hers was theright to a superior grief. She gazed long and tenderly into the face ofher foster-child and master and turned away, but she came again and laidher withered hand upon his forehead. This time she went, to come nomore. In the room of the bereaved wife she took her seat, to stay asilent comforter for days. Her own grief found never a voice or a tear.
One by one the negroes followed her; they passed in front of thesleeper, looked steadily, silently, into his face and went out. Sometouched him with the tips of their fingers, doubtfully, pathetically.For them, although not realized fully, it was the passing of the oldregime. It was the first step into that life where none but strangersdwelt, where there was no sympathy, no understanding. Some would driftinto cities to die of disease, some to distant cabins, to grow oldalone. One day the last of the slaves would lie face up and the oldsouth would be no more.
None was left but one. Edward came at last and stood before his host.Long and thoughtfully he gazed and then passed out. He had place inneither the old nor the new. But the dead man had been his friend. Hewould not forget it.