CHAPTER LV.
THE UNOPENED LETTER.
Soon it became known that Col. Montjoy had gone to his final judgment.Then came the old friends of his young manhood out of their retreats;the country for twenty miles about gave them up to the occasion. Theybrought with them all that was left of the old times--courtesy, sympathyand dignity.
There were soldiers among them, and here and there an empty sleeve and ascarred face. There was simply one less in their ranks. Another wouldfollow, and another; the morrow held the mystery for the next.
Norton had returned. He was violently affected, after the fashion ofmercurial temperaments. On Edward by accident had fallen thearrangements for the funeral, and with the advice of the general he hadmanaged them well. Fate seemed to make him a member of that household inspite of himself.
The general was made an honorary pall-bearer, and when the processionmoved at last into the city and to the church, without forethought itfell to Edward--there was no one else--to support and sustain thedaughter of the house. It seemed a matter of course that he should dothis, and as they followed the coffin up the aisle, between the tworanks of people gathered there, the fact was noted in silence to bediscussed later. This then, read the universal verdict, was the sequelof a romance.
But Edward thought of none of these things. The loving heart of the girlwas convulsed with grief. Since childhood she had been the idol of herfather, and between them had never come a cloud. To her thatwhite-haired father represented the best of manhood. Edward almostlifted her to and from the carriage, and her weight was heavy upon hisarm as they followed the coffin.
But the end came; beautiful voices had lifted the wounded hearts toheaven and the minister had implored its benediction upon them. Thesoul-harrowing sound of the clay upon the coffin had followed and allwas over.
Edward found himself alone in the carriage with Mary, and the ride waslong. He did not know how to lead the troubled mind away from its horrorand teach it to cling to the unchanging rocks of faith. The girl hadsunk down behind her veil in the corner of the coach; her white handslay upon her lap. He took these in his own firm clasp and held themtightly. It seemed natural that he should; she did not withdraw them;she may not have known it.
And so they came back home to where the brave little wife, who hadpromised "though He slay me yet will I trust in Him," sat among theshadows keeping her promise. The first shock had passed and after thatthe faith and serene confidence of the woman were never disturbed. Shewould have died at the stake the same way.
The days that followed were uneventful, Norton had recovered hiscomposure as suddenly as he had lost it, and discussed the situationfreely. There was now no one to manage the place and he could notdetermine what was to be done. In the meantime he was obliged to returnto business, and look after his wife. He went first to Edward andthanking him for his kindness to mother and sister, hurried back to NewYork. Edward had spent one more day with the Montjoys at Norton'srequest, and now he, too, took his departure.
When Edward parted from Mary and the blind mother he had recourse to hissternest stoicism to restrain himself. He escaped an awkward situationby promising to be gone only two days before coming again. At home hefound Virdow philosophically composed and engaged in the library, a newservant having been provided, and everything proceeding smoothly. Edwardwent to him and said, abruptly:
"When is it your steamer sails, Herr Virdow?"
"One week from to-day," said that individual, not a little surprised athis friend's manner. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I go with you, never again in all likelihood to enter America.From to-day, then, you will excuse my absences. I have many affairs tosettle."
Virdow heard him in silence, but presently he asked:
"Are you not satisfied now, Edward."
"I am satisfied that I am the son of Marion Evan, but I will haveundoubted and unmistakable proof before I set foot in this communityagain! There is little chance to obtain it. Nearly thirty years--it is along time, and the back trail is covered up."
"What are your plans?"
"To employ the best detectives the world can afford, and give them carteblanche."
"But why this search? Is it not better to rest under your belief andtake life quietly? There are many new branches of science andphilosophy--you have a quick mind, you are young--why not come with meand put aside the mere details of existence? There are greater truthsworth knowing, Edward, than the mere truth of one's ancestry." Edwardlooked long and sadly into his face and shook his head.
"These mere facts," he said at length, "mean everything with me." Hewent to his room; there were hours of silence and then Virdow heard inthe stillness of the old house the sound of Gerald's violin, forEdward's had been left in Mary's care. His philosophy could not resistthe Fatherland appeal that floated down the great hall and filled thenight with weird and tender melody. For the man who played worshipped ashe drew the bow.
But silence came deep over Ilexhurst and Virdow slept. Not so Edward; hewas to begin his great search that night. He went to the wing-room andthe glass-room and flooded them with light. A thrill struck through himas he surveyed again the scene and seemed to see the wild face of hiscomrade pale in death upon the divan. There under that rod stillpointing significantly down to the steel disk he had died. And outsidein the darkness had Rita also died. He alone was left. The drama couldnot be long now. There was but one actor.
He searched among all the heaps of memoranda and writings upon the desk.They were memoranda and notes upon experiments and queries. Edwardtouched them one by one to the gas jet and saw them flame and blackeninto ashes, and now nothing was left but the portfolio--and thatcontained but four pictures--the faces of Slippery Dick, himself andMary and the strange scene at the church. One only was valuable--theface of the girl which he knew he had given to the artist upon the tunehe had played. This one he took, and restored the others.
He had turned out the light in the glass-room, and was approaching thejet in the wing-room to extinguish it, when upon the mantel he saw aletter which bore the address "H. Abingdon, care John Morgan," unopened.How long it had been there no one was left to tell. The postman, wearyof knocking, had probably brought it around to the glass-room; or theservant had left it with Gerald. It was addressed by a woman's hand andbore the postmark of Paris, with the date illegible. It was a hurriednote:
"Dear Friend: What has happened? When you were called home so suddenly, you wrote me that you had important news to communicate if you could overcome certain scruples, and that you would return immediately, or as soon as pressing litigation involving large interests was settled, and in your postscript you added 'keep up your courage.' You may imagine how I have waited and watched, and read and reread the precious note. But months have passed and I have not heard from you. Are you ill? I will come to you. Are you still at work upon my interests? Write to me and relieve the strain and anxiety. I would not hurry you, but remember it is a mother who waits. Yours,
"Cambia."
"Cambia!" Edward repeated the name aloud. Cambia. A flood of thoughtsrushed over him. What was Cambia--John Morgan to him? The veil waslifting. And then came a startling realization. Cambia, the wife ofGaspard Levigne!
"God in heaven," he said, fervently, "help me now!" Virdow was gone;only the solemn memories of the room kept him company. He sank upon thedivan and buried his face in his hands. If Cambia was the woman, thenthe man who had died in his arms--the exile, the iron-scarred, butinnocent, convict, the hero who passed in silence--was her husband! Andhe? The great musician had given him not only the violin but genius!Cambia had begged of his dying breath proofs of marriage. The palinglips had moved to reply in vain.
The mystery was laid bare; the father would not claim him, because ofhis scars, and the mother--she dared not look him in the face with theveil lifted! But he would face her; he would know the worst; nothingcould be more terrible than the mystery that was crushing the betterside of
his life and making hope impossible. He would face her anddemand the secret.