SONS AND FATHERS.

Press, Volume LV, Issue 10060, 11 June 1898, Page 2

SONS AND FATHERS.

By Harry Stiluvkll Edwards

CHAPIER LI—A Woman's Wit

COKQCEKS

Gambia was greatly disturbed by the amitkn departure of the Montjoys. " She shut hemelt up, and refused all visitors Her intimates found themselves without accexs to her presence for the ftr«t time in their memory Was| the grcat-hoarted, vet stem, Cuinbia ill or distressed? The maid did not enow.

She had called for the Figaro to see the passenger list of the steamer. The names were there; the steamer had sailed. And then, as she sat gazing upon the sheet another caught her in an ing column, " Uc.sp:ird Levigne. ' ft v,;>» in the body of an cdvsrtiscaienl. which read.- —

"Reward.— A liber.;] rc-.vr.rd will be paid for particulars of the do?.th of Gaspare! LeVigne. which occurred recently in Pari.«. Additional reward will be paid for the ;iddr:.;s of the present owner of the .Slradivaritis violin, lately owned by the said Gaspard Levigne, and the undersigned will buy -said Violin at full value, if for sale."

Following this was a long and minute description of the instrument. The advertisement was signed by Louis Levigne, Breslau, Silesia.

Cambia read and re-read this notice with pale face, and gave herself up to reflection. Jt had tho effect of changing her mood. She threw off the weight oi' the old troubles which had swarmed over her again, and prepared for action. To the maid who answered tho bell she gave orders for a trunk, and at once- began to consult the time-tables. Three hours Liter she was on her way to Berlin.; tho next day found her in Brealau.

If there had been great changes since her last visit she did not realise it. At that time sho was hardly rnoro than a child. And now she was a woman seeking, with renewed hope, a long-deferred success. She ascertained the address of the advertiser, and found herself ushered into one of those pretentious dwellings formerly—and even yet— affected by the small noblesse, a term which seemed to include everyone of the nation not actually lost in toil. In a dark, old-fashioned parlour or livingroom a slender, grey-haired man came forward ruther suspiciously to meet her. She knew his face, despite tho changes of nearly thirty years ; ho was the only brother of her husband, and one of her chief persecutors in those unhappy days. It had lost its youth, but the linos of cruelty and cunning were deeper. It was not strange that in this tall, quceuliko woman, trained to face great audiences without embarrassment, he should fail to recognise tho ahy and lonely little 'American who had invaded the family circle. He bowed, unconsciously feeling the influence of her fine presence and commanding eyes. " You, I suppose, arc Louis Levigne, who advertised recently for information of Gaspard Lovigno," she said. Her German was faultless.

" Yes, madame; my brother was the unfortunate Gaspard. We think him dead. Know you anything of him?" " I knew him years ago; I was then a singer and he was my accompanist. Recently he died." The face of tho man lighted up With a strange gleam. She regarded him curiously, and continued: " Died poor and {friendless."

" You know, madame, tho new age is progressive. Some lands we had in Northern Silesia, worthless for 200 years, have developed iron, and a company has purchased." Tho woman smiled sadly. " Too l&te," she said, " for poor Gaspard. tThis is why you have advertised." "Yes, madame. There can be no settlement until we have proofs of Gaspard's death."

" You are the only heir aside from Gas pard." "Yes, madame."

The Count, for so he called himself, grew restless under these questions, but circumstances compelled courtesy to this visitor. "Excuse my interest, Count, but Gaspard was my friend, and I knew something of his affairs. Did he not leave heirs?"

The man replied, with a thoroughly French gesture, in wnich 1 was mingled every shade of careless contempt that could be expressed. " There was a woman—a plaything of Gaspard's, calling herself his wife—but they parted nearly thirty years ago. He humoured her, and then sent her back where she came from—America, I believe."

" I nm more than ever interested, Count. Gaspnxd did not impress mc as vicious." "Oh, well, follies of youth, call them, Gaspard was wild. Hβ first left here because of a mock marriage escapade. When two years after ho came back with this doll we supposed it was another case. At any rate, Gftspard was once drunk enough to boast that he could never prove the marriage." Cambift could restrain herself only with desperate efforts. These were knife blows. " Were there no heirs?" " I have never heard. It matters little here. But, madame, you know of Gaspard's death; can you not give mc the facts, so that I may obtain proofs?" She looked at him steadily. " I saw him die." "Ah, that simplifies it all,' said the Count, pleasantly. " Will you be kind enough to go before an attesting, officer and complete the proofs? You have answered the advertisement—do I insult you by speaking of reward?" Hβ looked critically at her simple but elegant attire and hesitated. " No. But Ido not care for money. I ."will furnish positive proof of the death of CSaspard Levigne for the violin mentioned in the advertisement." The man was now much astonished. " But, madame, it is an heirloom; that is "why 1 advertised for it. I have not got it." " Then get it! And let mc receive it dirent from the hands of the present holder or I will not furnish the proofs." Some doubt of the woman's sanity flashed over the Count.

" I have already explained, madame, that Vas an heirloom "

" And I have shown you that I do not consider that as important." " But of what use can it possibly be to yon? There are other Cremonas I will Buy f " ■' '"I want this one because it is the violin of Gaspard Levigne, and he was my husband !"

The Count nearly leapt from the floor. "When did he niarry you, madame?" "That is a long story; but he did. We •were Bohemians in Paris. lam heir to his interests m these mines; but I care little for that—very little. lam independent. Mv husband's violin is my one wish now." The realisation of how completely he had been trapped did not add additional courtesy to the brusque old man. " You married Turn? I presume you ascertained that tho American wife was dead?"

" You have informed mc that the American was not his wife."

"But she was. If she is living to-day, madame's claims are very slender.' She could have killed him for the wicked leer that accompanied this statement, but she only said coldly— " You speak positively!" " I do. I saw the proofs. We would not liave giveu the girl any recognition without them. Knowing (.laspard's former escapade." " Then," said the woman, her face lighting up with a sudden 103-, and growing stern again instantly, " then you lied just now, you cowardly hound I" "Madame!"

The count had retreated behind a chair, and looked anxiously at the bell. But she was in the way.

"You lied, sir, I say. lam the wife, and now the widow, of Gaspard Levigne; but not a second wife. I am that 'plaything,' as you called her, the American, armed now with a knowledge of my rights and your treachery. You may well shiver and grow pale, sir. lam no longer the trembling child you terrified with brutality, but a woman who could buy your family with its mines thrown in, and not suffer because of the bad investment. From fchjs room, upon the information you have given, I go to put my case in the hands of lawyers and establish my cl&im. I f . is not share and share in this country; my husband was the first born, and I am fib heir."

"My God T "It is too late to call upon God; He is on my side now! I came to you, sir, a woman to be loved, not a pauper. My father was more than a prince in his country. His

• Copyrjirht.—Thin story-out of 816 competing B»l 1 the .Ohteigo Record-, »30.000d0h to Auttaon"

slaves were numbered by the hundreds, and his lands would have sufficed for a dozen of your counts. I was crushed, and my life ruined, and my husband turned against mc. But he repented—he repented. There was no war between Gaspard and mc when he died." The man looked on and believed her.

"Madame,"' he said humbly, "has been wronged. For myself, it matters little, this new turn of affairs.but I have others." She had been locking beyond him into space. "And yet," she said, "it is the violin I ■would hive. It was the violin that first spoke our love; it is a part of mc; I would give my fortune to possess it again." He was looking anxiously at her, not comprehending tliis passion, but hoping much from it.

".And how much will you give?" "I will give the mines and release all ckinis against you and your father's estate." "Alas, madame. I tan give you the name of the holder of that violin, but not the violin itself. You can make terms witn him, and I will pay whatever price is demanded." i'How shy 11 I know you are not deceiving mc? ,.

"3fan.ime is harsh, but she wis be convinced if she knows the handwriting of her— lr.;'b:-Tid."

"It i.s agreed." she said, struggling to keep down her excitement. Count Levigne reached the coveted bell, and in a few minutes secured a notary, who drew up a formal agreement between the two parties. Cambia then gave an affidavit setting forth the death of Oaspavd Levigne in proper form for use in court. Count Levigne took from his desk an envelope. "You have read my advertisement, madame. It was based on this: —

"Count L. Levigne, Breslau: When you receive this I shall be dead. Make no effort to trace mc; it will be useless; my present name is an assumed one. We have been enemies many years, but everything changes in the presence of Death, and I do not begrudge you the pleasure of knowing that your Drother is beyond trouble and want for ever, and the title yours. The Cremona, to which I have clung even when honour was gone, I have given to a young American named Morgan, who has made my life happier in its winter than it was in its summer. GASPARD LEVIGNE. ,,

The count watched the reader curiously as she examined the letter. Her face was white, but her hand did not tremble as she handed back the letter.

"It is well," she said. "I am satisfied, good morning, gentlemen." In Paris, Gambia's mind was soon made up. She privately arranged for an indefinite absence and one day she disappeared. It was the sensation of the hour; the newspapers got hold of it and all Paris wondered. There had always been a mystery in the life of Cambia. No man had ever invaded it beyond the day when she put herself in the hands of a manager and laid the foundation for her world-wide success upon the lyric stage. And then Paris forgot; and only the circle of her friends watched and waited.

Meanwhile the swift steamer had carried Mrs Gaspard Levigne across the Atlantic, and she had begun the journey into the southland, once the dream of her youth— the going back to father and to friends! She was now a middle-aged woman; most of the people she had known or who had known her had departed upon a longer journey, and the south as she would find it would be changed from the south a3 she had known it. War Ifyad peopled its hills and valleys with graves, and slavery was dead, too.

The swift train carried her by towns and villages gorgeous with new paint, and through cities black with the smoke of factories. The negroes about the stations were not of the old life, and tho rushing, curt, and slangy young men who came and went upon the train belonged to a new age. Now and then, only, a sad-faced, whiteihaired old man came into her little world, and with him some gentle, motherly old woman and divided their frugal lunch and read the great daily papers. The farms with faded and dingy houses, poor fences, and uncared-for fields and hedges swept past like some bad dream. All was different; not thirty years but a century had rolled its changes over the land since her girlhood. And then comes the alighting. There was the city, different and yet the same. • But whero the great family carriage, with folding steps and noble bays, the driver in livery, the footman to hold the door! Where were father and friends? No human being came to greet her. She went to the hotel, locked herself in her room, and then Cambia gave way for the first timo in » generation to tears. But she was eminently a practical woman. She had not come to America to weep. The emotion was soon past. At her request a file of recent was laid before her and she went through them carefully. She found that which she had not looked for.

CHAPTER Lll.—Death of Colonel Montjoy. ! It was the morning succeeding the trial, one of those southern days that the late fall steals from summer and tempts the birds to sing in the woodlands. General Evan had borne Virdow and Edward in triumph to the Cedars and, after a good night's sleep and a restless hour following breakfast, Edward had ridden over to the hall, leaving the two old men together. Virdow, conscious of the general's intimate relations with bygone members of the Morgan family, drew away from that subject discreetly and interested his host with accurate descriptions of the great battles between the Germans and the French; and Evan in turn gave mm vivid accounts of the mighty Virginia struggles between Federals and Confederates. Barring a difference of opinion touching the comparative merits of Lee and Bismarck, they harmonised in their views exactly. Virdow was also initiated into the mysst«ries of the Great American cocktail, in the preparation of which' the old soldier was an expert. When they did finally come to Edward as a topic the German was eloquent. He placed him beside himself in learning and ahead of all amateurs as artist and musician. "Mr Morgan agreed with mc in his estimate of Edward," Virdow said. "They were warm friends. Edward reciprocated tho affection bestowed upon ".ji: in Europe they travelled much •" "Of what Mr Morgan do you speak i The General was puzzled. "Tho elder. Mi- Jolm Morgan, I think. But what am I saying? I mean Abingdon. "Abingdon? I do not know him." Virdow reflected a moment. "Abingdon Avas the name by which Edward knew John -uorgan in Europe. They met .annually and were inseparable companions." "John Morgan—our John Morgan.' "Yes. I am told he was very eccentric and this was probably a whim. But it enabled him to study the character of his relative. He seems to have been satisfied, and who wouldn't."

Virdow's tongue was wagging in unwonted volubility, but then the American cocktail was an unwonted stimulant. "Yoa astound mo. 1 bad never heard that John Morgan went to Europe. I did beer that he went annually to Canada, for the summer months; that is all." "Edward never knew of the connection until he came here and saw a picture of John Morgan, drawn by Gerald. We both recognisedjit instantly ?' Evan was silent, thinking Upon this curious information. At last he asked: , "Was Edward Mr Morgan's only intimate companion?" "The only one." "Did you ever hear why Mr Morgan concealed his identity under an assumed name?" "No. We did not connect Abingdon with John Morgan until letters were returned with information that Abingdon was dead; and then Gerald drew his picture from

memory." Virdow fell into the anecdotal stage, and gave many little incidents illustrating the fife of Edward in the Old Country. And as these two old gentlemen chattered about him Edward himself was approaching the Slontjoys*. 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 eves. She gave him her hand without words; she had intended expressing her pleasure and her congratulations, 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 yon, but there are so many things involved, and I had no one to talk with. It was a long suspense, but women have to learn such lessons," and then she added, seeing that he I vu silent: "It was the most unhappy day

of my life; papa was gone and poor mamma's eyes have troubled her so much. She has bandaged them again and stays in her room. We did not tell her of your trial, for fear the worry would be harmful to her general health; so much depends upon that. The day >seemed never-ending. When papa came he was pale and haggard and his face deceived mc. I thought that something had gone wrong—some mistake had occurred, and you were in trouble, but papa was ill, and the news " She turned her face away suddenly, feeling the tears starting. Edward drew her up to a settee under a spreading oak. and seating* himself be&ide her told her much of bis life story—his doubts, his hopes, his fears. She held her breath as he entered upon his experience at Ilexhurst and Gerald's life and identity were dwelt upon. The scene brought back to him the old agitation. His biography at this stage was told with lips, with gestures, with eyes and changing face. In Gerald's death he felt the chain was broken. After the recital, which began as a confidential relation from friend to friend, but which grew to be painful and dramatic, she was silent and overwhelmed with her thoughts. She could not find a phrase to fit the situation. • "This," said he at last, "is your right to know. It* is due to mc. I cannot let you misjudge the individual. While lam convinced, that does not make a doubt a fact and on it I cannot build a future. You have mv history, and you know that in the heart of" Edward Morgan you alone have any part. The world holds no other woman for mc, nor ever will; but there is the end. "Until I am free to say to you that my name and my lineage are unsullied I have no riyht to ask you to yield up a name honoured by all men and share my doifbts and sorrow. Nor can I, loving you, see you day by day and keep my faith and honour. If I stayed* by you the day would come when this love would sweep away every resolution, every sense of duty, every instinct of my mind, except the instinct to love you, and for this reason I have come to say that until life holds no mystery for Edward Morgan lie will be an exile from you." The girl's head was sunk upon her arms as it rested upon the settee. She did not lift her face. * What could she answer to such a revelation, such a declaration V After awhile he ceased to walk the gravel floor of their arbour, and stood by her. Unconsciously he let hi a hand rest upon the brown curb. "This does not mean," he said, very gently, "that I am going away to mope and wear out life in idle regrets. Marion Evan lives : I will find her. And then—and then—if she bids mc, I will come back, and with a clean record ask you to be my wife. Answer mc, my love; my only love—let mc say these words this once—answer mc; is this the course that an honourable 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 have no doubt in my mmd —none. A woman's heart knows without argument, and I know that you will come to mc some day. God be with you till we meet again—and for all time and eternity. This will be my prayer." They went forth into the sunlight and tfien into a shadow.

Without object, tlie silent couple, busy with their thoughts, entered the sittingroom. The Colonel was sitting in his armchair, the paper hud fallen from his listless hand, his eyes closed. The Duchess in his lap had fallen asleep, holding the old openfaced watch and its mystery of the little boy within who cracked hickory nuts. They made a pretty picture—youth and old age, early spring and late winter. Maiy lifted her hand warningly. "Softly," she said; "they sleep; don't disturb them." Edward glanced into the face of the old man, and then to the surprise of the girl placed his arm about her waist. "Do not cry out," he said; "keep calm and remember that the little mamma's health

"What do you mean?" she s?id, looking with wonder into his agitated face as she sought gently to free herself. ''Have you forgotten " "This is sleep indeed—but the sleep of eternity." She sprung from him with sudden terror and laid her hand upon the cold forehead of her father. For an instant she stared into his face, with straining eyes, and then with one frightful scream she sunk by his side uttering his name in agonised tones. Edward strove tearfully to calm her; it was too late. Calling upon husband and daughter frantically, Mrs Montjoy rushed from her room into the presence of death. She was blindfolded, but with unerring instinct she found the stilled form and touched the dead face. The touch revealed the truth ; with one quick motion she tore away the bandages from her face, and then in sudden awe the words fell from her: —

"I am blind I" Mary had risen to her side and was clinging to her, and Edward had assisted, fearing she might fall to the floor. But with the consciousness of her last misfortune had soon come calmness. She heeded not the cries of the girl appealing to her, but knelt with her white face lifted and said, simply: — "Dear Father, Thou art merciful; I have not seen him dead! Blest be for ever Thy holy name!" Edward turned his back and stood with bowed head. The woman knelt, the silence broken now only by the sobs of the daughter. Still sleeping in the lap of the dead, her chubby hand clasping the wonderful toy, was the Duchess, and at her feet the streaming sunlight in golden splendour. The little boy came to the door riding the old man's gold-headed cane for a horse and carrying the 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't grandpa 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 wonien and children loved and all men honoured —sab the Colonel; one more leaf from the old South blown to earth.

The little girl woke up at last/sat up and caught sight of the watch. "Look, gamma. Little boy in deir cackin' hickey-nut," and she placed the jewel against the ear of the kneeling woman. The peculiarly placid expression, driven away in the moment of dissolution, had returned to the dead man; he seemed to hear the Duchess prattle and the familiar demand for music upon the horn. Isam had responded to the outcry and rushed in. With a sob he had stood by the body a moment and then gone out shaking his head and moaning. And then, as they waited, there rung out upon the clear morning air the plantation bell—not the merry call to labour and the sweet summons to rest, which every animal on the plantation knew and loved, but a solemn tolling, significant in its measured volume.

And over the distant- fields where the hands were finishing their labours, the solemn sound came floating. Old Peter lifted his head. "Whb dat ring dat bell dis time er day?" he said, curiously; and then, under the lessening volume of the breeze, the sound fell to almost silence, to rise again stronger than before and float with sonorous meaning. At long intervals they have heard it. It always marked a change" in their lives. One or two of the men began to move doubtfully toward the house, and others followed, increasing their pace as the persistent alarm sounded, until some were running. And thus they came to where old Isam tolled bhe bell, his eye 3 brimming over with tears.

"Old marster's gone! Old marster's gone!" he called to the first, and the words went down the line and were carried to the 'quarters.' which soon gave back the death chant from excited women. The negroes edged into the yard and into the hall, and then some of the oldest into the solemn presence of the dead, gazing in silence upon the sad, white face and closed eves.

Then there was a tumult in yard and hall; a shuffling of feet announced a newcomer. Mammy Phyllis, walking with the aid of a staff, entered the room and stood by the side of the dead man. Every voice was still; here was the woman who had nursed him, and who had raised him; hers was the right to a superior grief. She gazed long and tenderly into the face of her foster-child and master, and turned away, but she came again and laid her withered hand upon his forehead. This time she went, to come no more. In the room of the bereaved wife she took her seat, to stay a silent comforter for days. Her own grief found never a voice or a tear.

Some of the negroes followed her example; they passed in front of the sleeper, looked steadily, silently into his face and went out. Some touched him with the tips of their fingers, doubtfully, pathetically. For them, although not realised fully, it was the passing of the old regime. It was the first step into that life where none but strangers dwelt,

where there was no sympathy, no understanding. Some would drift into citiee to die of disease, some to distant cabins, to grow old alone! One day the last of the slaves would lie face up and the old South be do 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 in neither the old nor the new. But the dead man had been I" 8 friend. He would not forget it.

(To be continued.)