CHAPTER LVI.
"WOMAN, WHAT WAS HE TO YOU?"
Edward had formed a definite determination and made his arrangements atonce. There had been a coolness between him and Eldridge since thepublication of the Royson letter, but necessity drove him to that lawyerto conclude his arrangements for departure. It was a different man thatentered the lawyer's office this time. He gave directions for thedisposition of Ilexhurst and the conversion of other property into cash.He would never live on the place again under any circumstances.
His business was to be managed by the old legal firm in New York.
The memoranda was completed and he took his departure.
He had given orders for flowers and ascertained by telephone that theywere ready. At 3 o'clock he met Mary driving in and took his seat besideher in the old family carriage. Her dress of black brought out the pale,sweet face in all its beauty. She flushed slightly as he greeted her.Within the vehicle were only the few roses she had been able to gather,with cedar and euonymus. But they drove by a green house and he filledthe carriage with the choicest productions of the florist, and then gavethe order to the driver to proceed at once to the cemetery.
Within the grounds, where many monuments marked the last resting-placeof the old family, was the plain newly made mound covering the remainsof friend and father. At sight if it Mary's calmness disappeared and hergrief overran its restraints. Edward stood silent, his face averted.
Presently he thought of the flowers and brought them to her. In thearrangement of these the bare sod disappeared and the girl's grief wascalmed. She lingered long about the spot, and before she left it kneltin silent prayer, Edward lifting his hat and waiting with bowed head.
The sad ceremony ended, she looked to him and he led the way to whereold Isham waited with the carriage. He sent him around toward Gerald'sgrave, under a wide-spreading live oak, while they went afoot by thedirect way impassable for vehicles. They reached the parapet and wouldhave crossed it, when they saw kneeling at the head of the grave a womandressed in black, seemingly engaged in prayer.
Edward had caused to be placed above the remains a simple marble slab,which bore the brief inscription:
GERALD MORGAN.
Died 1888.
They watched until the woman arose and laid a wreath upon the slab. Whenat last she turned her face and surveyed the scene they saw before them,pale and grief-stricken, Cambia. Edward felt the scene whirling abouthim and his tongue paralyzed. Cambia, at sight of them gave way again toa grief that had left her pale and haggard, and could only extend thefree hand, while with the other she sought to conceal her face. Edwardcame near, his voice scarcely audible.
"Cambia!" he exclaimed in wonder; "Cambia!" she nodded her head.
"Yes, wretched, unhappy Cambia!"
"Then, madame," he said, with deep emotion, pointing to the grave andtouching her arm, "what was he to you?" She looked him fairly in theface from streaming eyes.
"He was my son! It cannot harm him now. Alas, poor Cambia!"
"Your son!" The man gazed about him bewildered. "Your son, madame? Youare mistaken! It cannot be!"
"Ah!" she exclaimed; "how little you know. It can be--it is true!"
"It cannot be; it cannot be!" the words of the horrified man were now awhisper.
"Do you think a mother does not know her offspring? Your talk is idle;Gerald Morgan was my son. I have known, John Morgan knew----"
"But Rita," he said, piteously.
"Ah, Rita, poor Rita, she could not know!"
The manner, the words, the tone overwhelmed him. He turned to Mary forhelp in his despair. Almost without sound she had sunk to the grass andnow lay extended at full length. With a fierce exclamation Edward rushedto her and lifted the little figure in his arms. Cambia was at his side.
"What is this? What was she to him?" some explanation was necessary andEdward's presence of mind returned.
"He loved her," he said. The face of Cambia grew soft and tender and shespread her wrap on the rustic bench.
"Place her here and bring water. Daughter," she exclaimed, kneeling byher side, "come, come, this will never do--" The girl's eyes opened andfor a moment rested in wonder upon Cambia. Then she remembered. Astrange expression settled upon her face as she gazed quickly uponEdward.
"Take me home, madame," she said; "take me home. I am deathly ill."
They carried her to the carriage, and, entering, Cambia took the littlehead in her lap. Shocked and now greatly alarmed, Edward gave orders tothe driver and entered. It was a long and weary ride, and all the timethe girl lay silent and speechless in Cambia's lap, now and then turningupon Edward an indescribable look that cut him to the heart.
They would have provided for her in the city, but she would not hear ofit. Her agitation became so great that Edward finally directed thedriver to return to The Hall. All the way back the older woman murmuredwords of comfort and cheer, but the girl only wept and her slender formshook with sobs. And it was not for herself that she grieved.
And so they came to the house, and Mary, by a supreme effort, was ableto walk with assistance and to enter without disturbing the household.Cambia supported her as they reached the hall to the room that had beenMary's all her life--the room opposite her mother's. There in silenceshe assisted the girl to the bed. From somewhere came Molly, the maid,and together using the remedies that women know so well they made hercomfortable. No one in the house had been disturbed, and then as Maryslept Cambia went out and found her way to the side of Mrs. Montjoy andfelt the bereaved woman's arms about her.
"You have reconsidered, and wisely," said Mrs. Montjoy, when the firstburst of emotion was over. "I am glad you have come--where is Mary?"
"She was fatigued from the excitement and long drive and is in her room.I met her in town and came with her. But madame, think not of me; youare now the sufferer; my troubles are old. But you--what can I say tocomfort you?"
"I am at peace, my child; God's will be done. When you can say that youwill not feel even the weight of your sorrows. Life is not long, atbest, and mine must necessarily be short. Some day I will see again."Cambia bowed her head until it rested upon the hand that clasped hers.In the presence of such trust and courage she was a child.
"My daughter," said Mrs. Montjoy, after a silence, her mind reverting toher visitor's remark; "she is not ill?"
"Not seriously, madame, but still she is not well."
"Then I will go to her if you will lend me your aid. I am not yetaccustomed to finding my way. I suppose I will have no trouble after awhile." The strong arm of the younger woman clasped and guided her uponthe little journey, and the mother took the place of the maid. Tea wasbrought to them and in the half-lighted room they sat by the nowsleeping figure on the bed, and whispered of Cambia's past and future.The hours passed. The house had grown still and Molly had been sent totell Edward of the situation and give him his lamp.
But Edward was not alone. The general had ridden over to inquire afterhis neighbors and together they sat upon the veranda and talked, andEdward listened or seemed to listen. The rush of thoughts, therealization that had come over him at the cemetery, now that necessityfor immediate action had passed with his charge, returned. Cambia hadbeen found weeping over her son, and that son was Gerald. True oruntrue, it was fatal to him if Cambia was convinced.
But it could not be less than true; he, Edward, was an outcast upon theface of the earth; his dream was over; through these bitter reflectionsthe voice of the general rose and fell monotonously, as he spokefeelingly of the dead friend whom he had known since childhood and toldof their long associations and adventures in the war. And then, asEdward sought to bring himself back to the present, he found himselfgrowing hot and cold and his heart beating violently; the consequencesof the revelation made in the cemetery had extended no further thanhimself and his own people, but Cambia was Marion Evan! And her fatherwas there, by him, ignorant that in the house was the daughter dead tohim for more than a quarter of a century. He could n
ot control anexclamation. The speaker paused and looked at him.
"Did you speak?" The general waited courteously.
"Did I? It must have been involuntarily--a habit! You were saying thatthe colonel led his regiment at Malvern Hill." Evan regarded himseriously.
"Yes, I mentioned that some time ago. He was wounded and received thepraise of Jackson as he was borne past him. I think Montjoy consideredthat the proudest moment of his life. When Jackson praised a man he wasapt to be worthy of it. He praised me once," he said, half-smiling overthe scene in mind.
But Edward had again lost the thread of the narrative. Cambia hadreturned; a revelation would follow; the general would meet hisdaughter, and over the grave of Gerald the past would disappear fromtheir lives. What was to become of him? He remembered that John Morganhad corresponded with her, and communicated personally. She must knowhis history. In the coming denouement there would be a shock for him. Hewould see these friends torn from him, not harshly nor unkindly, butbetween them and him would fall the iron rule of caste, which has neverbeen broken in the south--the race law, which no man can override. Withsomething like a panic within he decided at once. He would not witnessthe meeting. He would give them no chance to touch him by sympatheticpity and by--aversion. It should all come to him by letter, while he wasfar away! His affairs were in order. The next day he would be gone.
"General," he said, "will you do me a favor? I must return to the city;my coming was altogether a matter of accident, and I am afraid it willinconvenience our friends here at this time to send me back. Let me haveyour horse and I will send him to you in the morning."
The abrupt interruption filled the old man with surprise.
"Why, certainly, if you must go. But I thought you had no idea ofreturning--is it imperative?"
"Imperative. I am going away from the city to-morrow, and there are yetmatters--you understand, and Virdow is expecting me. I trust it will notinconvenience you greatly. It would be well, probably, if one of usstayed to-night; this sudden illness--the family's condition----"
"Inconvenience! Nonsense! If you must go, why, the horse is yours ofcourse as long as you need him." But still perplexed the general waitedin silence for a more definite explanation. Edward was half-facing thedoorway and the lighted hall was exposed to him, but the shadow of theporch hid him from anyone within. It was while they sat thus that theold man felt a hand upon his arm and a grasp that made him wince.Looking up he saw the face of his companion fixed on some object in thehall, the eyes starting from their sockets. Glancing back he became thewitness of a picture that almost caused his heart to stand still.