CHAPTER XVII.
"IF I MEET THE MAN!"
When Edward opened the morning paper, which he did while waiting for thereturn of the professor, who had wandered away before breakfast, he wasshocked by the announcement of Montjoy's defeat. The result of the votein the remote county had been secured by horseback service organized byan enterprising journal, and telegraphed. The official returns weregiven.
Already the campaign had drifted far into the past with him; yearsseemed to have gone by when he arose from the sick-bed and now itscarcely seemed possible that he, Edward Morgan, was the same man wholabored among the voters, shouted himself hoarse and kept theheadquarters so successfully. It must have been a dream.
But Mary! That part was real. He wrote her a few lines expressing hisgrief.
And then came the professor, with his adventure! He had met a young manout making photographs and had interested him with descriptions ofrecent successful attempts to photograph in colors. And then they hadgone to the wing-room and examined the results of the young man'sefforts to produce pictures upon living substances. "He has some of themost original theories and ideas upon the subject I have heard," saidthe German. "Not wild beyond the possibilities of invention, however,and I am not sure but that he has taught me a lesson in common sense.'Find how nature photographs upon living tissue,' said the young man,'and when you have reduced your pictures to the invisible learn tore-enlarge them; perhaps you will learn to enlarge nature's invisibles.'
"He has discovered that the convolutions of the human brain resemble anembryo infant and that the new map which indicates the nerve linescentering in the brain from different parts of the body shows thementering the corresponding parts of the embryo. He lingers upon thestartling idea that the nerve is a formative organ, and that bysensations conveyed, and by impressions, it actually shapes the brain.When sensations are identical and persistent they establish a familyform. The brain is a bas-relief composite picture, shaped by all thenerves. Theoretically a man's brain carefully removed, photographed andenlarged ought to show the outlines of a family form, with all themodifications.
"You will perceive that he is working along hereditary lines and notpsychologic. And I am not sure but that in this he is pursuing thewisest course, heredity being the primer."
"You believe he has made a new discovery, then?"
"As to that, no. The speculative mind is tolerant. It accepts nothingthat is not proven; it rejects nothing that has not been disproved. Theoriginal ideas in most discoveries in their crude forms were not lesswild than this. All men who observe are friends of science."
The incident pleased Edward. To bring the professor and Gerald togetherhe had feared would be difficult. Chance and the professor's tact hadalready accomplished this successfully.
"I shall leave you and Gerald to get thoroughly acquainted. When youhave learned him you can study him best. I have business of importance."
He at once went to the city and posted his letter. Norton's leave hadbeen exhausted and he had already departed for New York.
At the club and at the almost forsaken headquarters of the Montjoy partyall was consternation and regret. The fatal overconfidence in thebackwoods county was settled upon as the cause of the disaster. And yetwhy should that county have failed them? Two companies of Evan's oldbrigade were recruited there; he had been assured by almost everyprominent man in the county of its vote. And then came the crushingblow.
The morning paper had wired for special reports and full particulars,and at 12 o'clock an extra was being cried upon the streets. Everybodybought the paper; the street cars, the hotels, the clubs, the streetcorners, were thronged with people eagerly reading the announcement.Under triple head lines, which contained the words "Fraud" and "Slander"and "Treachery," came this article, which Edward read on the street:
"The cause of the fatal slump-off of Col. Montjoy's friends in this county was a letter placed in circulation here yesterday and industriously spread to the remotest voting places. It was a letter from Mr. Amos Royson to the Hon. Thomas Brown of this county. Your correspondent has secured and herewith sends a copy:
"'My Dear Sir: In view of the election about to be held in your county, I beg to submit the following facts: Against the honor and integrity of Col. Montjoy nothing can be urged, but it is known here so positively that I do not hesitate to state, and authorize you to use it, that the whole Montjoy movement is in reality based upon an effort to crush Swearingen for his opposition to certain corporation measures in congress, and which by reason of his position on certain committees, he threatens with defeat! To this end money has been sent here and is being lavishly expended by a tool of the corporation. Added to this fact that the man chosen for the business is one calling himself Edward Morgan, the natural son of a late eccentric bachelor lawyer of this city. The mother of this man is an octoroon, who now resides with him at his home in the suburbs. It is certain that these facts are not known to the people who have him in tow, but they are easy of substantiation when necessary. We look to you and your county to save the district. We were "done up" here before we were armed with this information. Respectfully yours,
'Amos Royson.'
"Thousands of these circulars were printed and yesterday put in thehands of every voter. Col. Montjoy's friends were taken by surprise andtheir enthusiasm chilled. Many failed to vote and the county was lost bytwenty-three majority. Intense excitement prevails here among thesurvivors of Evan's brigade, who feel themselves compromised."
Then followed an editorial denouncing the outrage and demanding proofs.It ended by stating that the limited time prevented the presentation ofinterviews with Royson and Morgan, neither of whom could be reached bytelephone after the news was received.
There are moments when the very excess of danger calms. Half the letter,the political lie alone, would have enraged Edward beyond expression. Hecould not realize nor give expression. The attack upon his blood was toofierce an assault. In fact, he was stunned. He looked up to find himselfin front of the office of Ellison Eldridge. Turning abruptly he ascendedthe steps; the lawyer was reading the article as he appeared, but wouldhave laid aside the paper.
"Finish," said Edward, curtly; "it is upon that publication I have cometo advise with you." He stood at the window while the other read, andthere as he waited a realization of the enormity of the blow, itscowardliness, its cruelty, grew upon him slowly. He had nevercontemplated publicity; he had looked forward to a life abroad, withthis wearing mystery forever gnawing at his heart, but publication andthe details and the apparent truth! It was horrible! And to disproveit--how? The minutes passed! Would the man behind him never finish whathe himself had devoured in three minutes? He looked back; Eldridge wasgazing over the paper into space, his face wearing an expression ofprofound melancholy. He had uttered no word of denunciation; he wasevidently not even surprised.
"My God," exclaimed Edward, excitedly; "you believe it--you believe it!"Seizing the paper, he dashed from the room, threw himself into a hackand gave the order for home.
And half an hour after he was gone the lawyer sat as he left him,thinking.
Edward found a reporter awaiting him.
"You have the extra, I see, Mr. Morgan," said he; "may I ask what youwill reply to it?"
"Nothing!" thundered the desperate man.
"Will you not say it is false?"
Edward went up to him. "Young man, there are moments when it isdangerous to question people. This is one of them!" He opened the doorand stood waiting. Something in his face induced the newspaper man totake his leave. He said as he departed: "If you write a card we shall beglad to publish it." The sound of the closing door was the answer hereceived.
Alone and locked in his room, Edward read the devilish letter over andover, until every word of it was seared into his brain forever. It couldnot be denied that more than once in his life the possibility of hisbeing the son of J
ohn Morgan had suggested itself to his mind, but hehad invariably dismissed it. Now it came back to him with the forcealmost of conviction. Had the truth been stated at last? It was the onlyexplanation that fitted the full circumstances of his life--and itfitted them all. It was true and known to be true by at least one other.Eldridge's legal mind, prejudiced in his favor by years of associationwith his benefactor, had been at once convinced; and if the statementmade so positively carried conviction to Eldridge himself, to his legalfriend, how would the great sensational public receive it?
It was done, and the result was to be absolute and eternal ruin forEdward Morgan. Such was the conclusion forced upon him.
Then there arose in mind the face of the one girl he remembered. Hethought of the effect of the blow upon her. He had been her guest, herassociate. The family had received him with open arms. They must sharethe odium of his disgrace, and for him now what course was left? Flight!To turn his back upon all the trouble and go to his old life, and letthe matter die out!
And then came another thought. Could any one prove the charge?
He was in the dark; the cards were held with their backs to him. Supposehe should bring suit for libel, what could he offer? His witness hadalready spoken and her words substantiated the charge against him. Not awitness, not a scrap of paper, was to be had in his defense. A libelsuit would be the rivet in his irons and he would face the public,perhaps for days, and be openly the subject of discussion. It wasimpossible, but he could fight.
The thought thrilled him to the heart. She should see that he was a man!He would not deal with slander suits, with newspapers; he would make thescoundrel eat his words or he would silence his mouth forever. The mansoul was stirred; he no longer felt the humiliation that had renderedhim incapable of thought. The truth of the story was not the issue; theinjury was its use, false or true. He strode into Gerald's room andbroke into the experiments of the scientists, already close friends.
"You have weapons here. Lend me one; the American uses the revolver, Ibelieve?"
Gerald looked at him in astonishment, but he was interested.
"Here is one; can you shoot?"
"Badly; the small sword is my weapon."
"Then let me teach you." Gerald was a boy now; weapons had been hishobby years before.
"Wait, let me fix a target!" He brushed a chalk drawing from ablackboard at the end of the room and stood, crayon in hand. "What wouldyou prefer to shoot at, a tree, a figure----"
"A figure!"
Gerald rapidly sketched the outlines of a man with white shirt front andstepped aside. Five times the man with the weapon sighted and fired. Thefigure was not touched. Gerald was delighted. He ran up, took the pistoland reloaded it and fired twice in succession. Two spots appeared uponthe shirt front; they were just where the lower and center shirt studswould have been.
"You are an artist, I believe," he said to Edward.
The latter bowed his head. "Now, professor, I will show you one of themost curious experiments in physics, the one that explains the chancestroke of billiards done upon the spur of the moment; the one rifle shotof a man's life, and the accurately thrown stone. Stand here," he saidto Edward, "and follow my directions closely. Remember, you are adraftsman and are going to outline that figure on the board. Draw itquickly with your pistol for a pen, and just as if you were touching theboard. Say when you have finished and don't lower the pistol." Edwarddrew as directed.
"It is done," he said.
"You have not added the upper stud. Fire!"
An explosion followed; a spot appeared just over the heart.
"See!" shouted Gerald; "a perfect aim; the pistol was on the stud whenhe fired, but beginners always pull the muzzle to the right, and let thebarrel fly up. The secret is this, professor," he continued, taking apencil and beginning to draw, "the concentration of attention is soperfect that the hand is a part of the eye. An artist who shoots willshoot as he draws, well or badly. Now, no man drawing that figure willmeasure to see where the stud should be; he would simply put the chalkspot in the right place."
Edward heard no more; loading the pistol he had departed. "If I meet theman!" he said to himself.
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