Itt
VICTORY
BY
MRJGIORGIE SH
THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
LOS ANGELES
By MRS. 6EOR6IE SHELDON.
Geoffrey's Victory;
OR,
THE DOUBLE DECEPTION.
BY
MRS. G-EOBG-IE SHELDON,
AUTHOB OP
"STELLA ROSEVELT," "TlNA," "EDRIE's LEGACY," "WlTCH HAZEL,"
"MAX," "RUBY'S REWARD," "VIRGIE'S INHERITANCE,"
"Two KEYS," "THRICE WEDDED," "A TRUE
ARISTOCRAT," "TRIXY," "THAT
DOWDY," "SIBYL'S IN
FLUENCE," ETC.
NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
1 81 Fulton Street.
Entered according to Act of Con press, in the year 1888,
Br STKEKT & SMITH,
Jntbe Office of the Librariau of Congress, at WaHkiiigton, D. CL
GEOFFREY'S VICTORY.
CHAPTER I.
A STRANGE ADVENTURE. "
It was a beautiful winter night. The sky was brilliant
with millions of beautiful stars that glowed and scintil
lated as if conscious that their light had never before
penetrated an atmosphere so rarefied and pure. The
earth was covered with a glaring coat of ice above newly
fallen snow.
Trees and shrubs bent low and gracefully beneath
the weight of icy jewels which adorned every twig and
branch.
Every roof and spire, chimney and turret, gleamed like
frosted silver beneath the star-lit heavens, while the over
hanging eaves below were -fringed with myriads of glis
tening points that seemed like pendulous diamonds, catch
ing and refracting every ray of light from the glittering
vault above and the gas-lit streets beneath.
But it was a night, too, of intense cold. Never within
the remembrance of its oldest inhabitant had the mercury
fallen so low in the city of Boston, as on this nineteenth
of January, 185 .
So severe was the weather that nearly every street was
deserted at an early hour of the evening; scarcely a
pedestrian was to be soen at nine o'clock, and the bril
liantly lighted thoroughfares had a lonely and desolate
appearance without thnir accustomed flow of life and
humanity. The luckless policemen, who alone paraded
6 A STRANGE ADVENTURE,
the slippery sidewalks on their round of duty, would nowr
and then slink into sheltered nooks and door-ways for a
brief respite Irom. the stinging, frosty air, where they
would vainly strive to excite a better circulation by the
active swinging of arms and the vigorous stamping of
feet.
Even the horse-cars and omnibuses were scantily pa
tronized, while the poor drivers, mutfled to their eye
brows in fur coats and comforters, seemed like dark,
grim specters, devoid of life and motion, save for the
breath that issued from their mouths and nostrils, and,
congealing, formed iu frozen globules among their
beards.
At ten o'clock on this bitter night, Thomas Turner, M.
D., was arranging his office preparatory to retiring, and
feeling profoundly thankful that he had no patients who
demanded his attention, and believing, too, that no ona
would venture forth to call him, when, to his annoyance
and dismay, his bell suddenly rang a clanging and im
perative peal.
With a shiver of dread at the thought of having to
leave the warmth and comfort of his home, to face the
fearful cold, yet Avith a premonition that the summons
would result in something out of the ordinary course of
events, he laid down the case of instruments that he had
been carefully arranging, and went to answer the call.
He found a lad of perhaps fifteen years standing outside
the door.
Without a word he thrust a card into the physician's
hand.
"Come in, boy ! come in," said the doctor, pitying the
poor fellow, whose teeth were chattering at such a rate it
was doubtful whether he could have spoken if he wished..
He obeyed the invitation with alacrity, however, and
made directly for the radiator, toward which Dr. Turner
pointed, telling him to "go and warm himself."
The physician then stepped beneath the hall light to
examine the card he had received.
It proved to be the business card of a first-class, though
small, hotel in the city, and on the blank side of it there
had been hastily written these words :
"Come at once to the House. An urgent case demands your
immediate attention. A. FAYSON, Clerk."
Dr. Turner frowned, and hung his head in thought for
a moment.
A STRANGE ADVEXTURE. 7
He had had a hard day ; he was very weary, and would
have hesitated about answering a strange call even in
mild weather, and the temptation to send the boy and his
card to some one else, and remain in the genial warmth of
his own home, was very strong.
Still, the man was conscientious. The summons was
urgent, and it might be a case of life and death. Perhaps
the delay of sending to some other physician might re
sult in the loss of a human life.
This thought decided him.
He turned quickly on his heel and passed down the
ball to his office, remarking to the waiting messenger as
he went :
"Wait here. I will be ready to return with you in a
few moments."
He looked into his medicine case to see that he had
everything that he Avlshed, wrapped himself in a long
ulster with an ample cape, drew a fur cap down over his
ears, and a pair of seal-skin gloves upon his hands, and
then went forth with his youthful guide to face the pene
trating air of this bitterly co'd night.
When he reached the ---- House, he was conducted
directly to a handsome suite of rooms in the third story,
and ushered into the presence of a magnificenth r beautiful
woman, who was reclining upon a luxurious couch.
Dr. Turner had never seen a lovelier woman. She was,
apparently, about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age.
Her hair was very dark, almost black ; her eyes were
also very dark, with straight, beautiful brows.
She was deathly pale the pillow on which she lay was
scarcely whiter but her complexion was faultless, her
skin as fine and smooth as an infant's, while her features
were remarkable for their delicacy and loveliness.
Beside her, in a low rocker, and holding one fair white
hand in both her own, there sat another woman, some
two or three yenrs older, but scarcely less beautiful. ;il-
though of a different type, and looking anxious and dis-
A few direct inquiries enabled the physician to com
prehend the nature of the case, after which he rapidly
wrote a few lines upon a card, and, ringing fora servant,
dispatched it to the clerk below.
An hour later a middle-aged woman, of respectable and
motherly appearance, was conducted to the sick-room,
and when morning broke there was still another presence
in that chamber a tiny baby girl, with rings cf golden
8 A STRANGE ADVENTURE.
brown hair clustering about her little head, with eyes of
heaven's own blue, and delicate patrician features, which,
however, wero not like those of her mother, who lay pale
and weak among her pillows, and who, strange to say,
had betrayed no sign of joy or maternal love at the com
ing of the little stranger.
Three weeks previous two ladies had arrived, late one
evening, at the House, where the younger had regis
tered as "Mrs. E. E. Marston and maid."
The clerk, as he read the entry, had glanced with aston
ishment at the lovely blonde who had been thus desig
nated as "maid," for her manner and bearing were every
whit as stately, cultivated, and prepossessing as that of
her supposed mistress.
Both ladies spoke French and German, as well as Eng
lish, fluently, and it was impossible to determine to what
nationality they belonged. The younger seemed almost
like a Spanish beauty of high degree, while her com
panion had mo^e the appearance of an Anglo-Saxon.
Both were richly and fashionably attired, and evidently
belonged to the wealthy class, for Mrs. Marston wore
jewels of the purest water in the richest of settings. Sho
selected the most elegant suite of rooms that were un
occupied, and orlered all meals to be served in her private
parlor; consequently but very little was seen or known
of either mistress or maid after their arrival, although
th 1 " very fact of their so closely secluding themselves
served to excite a good deal of curiosity on the part of
the other inmates of the house.
After the birth of Mrs. Marston's little daughter, Dr.
Turner made his usual number of visits to see that his
patient was doing well, and then he discontinued them,
although his curiosity and interest were so excited re
garding the mysterious woman and her attendant that
he would have been glad of an excuse to attend her even
longer.
Three weeks passed, and he was considering the pro
priety of presenting his bill, since the lady was a stranger
in the city, and would doubtless leave as soon as she
could do so with safety to herself and her child, when,
one morning, he received a note from Mrs. Marston, re
questing him to cnll upon her o,t his earliest convenience.
That evening found him knocking at her door, his heart
beating with something of excitement, and with a sense
of constraint upon him such as he had never before ex
perienced.
A 8TRANG3 ADVENTURE. 9
"The maid" admitted him, a dainty flush tinging her
fair cheek as she encountered his earnest glance, and he
thought her more heautiful than ever, while he was firmly
convinced that she was in reality no servant, but con
nected by some tie of blood to the woman whom she pro
fessed to serve, although there was no resemblance be
tween them.
Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered.
He iiad never seen her dressed until now, and he was
almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty.
She was tall, with a symmetrical figure. She was queenly
and self-possessed in her carriage, and betrayed in every
movement the well-bred lady, accustomed to the very
best of society.
She was dressed in a heavy black silk, which fitted her
perfectly, and fell ia graceful folds around her splendid
form.
She wore no colors, and might have been in mourning,
judging from the simplicity of her dress, and she might
not he could not determine. Her only ornaments were
several rings of great value, and an elegant brooch,
which fastened the rich lace, fine as a cobweb, about her
throat.
"I am very glad to see you, Dr. Turner," she said,
graciously, as she extended her white, jeweled hand to
him ; "and I thank you for responding: so promptly to my
request. Nellie, please bring that rocker for the gentle
man," she concluded, indicating a willow chair in another
portion of the room.
The maid obeyed, and then quietly withdrew.
"You are looking remarkably well, Mrs. Marston," Dr.
Turner observed, hardly able to believe that she could be
the same woman who had been so pale and wan when
he had first seen her.
Her complexion was almost dazzling in its purity, while
the flush on her cheek told of perfect health and a vigor
ous constitution.
"I am very well, thank you," she responded, some
what coldly, as if her physical condition were not a ques
tion that, she cared to discuss with him "so well that I
am contemplating leaving Boston by the end of another
week, and I have asked you to come to me in order that
I may consult you upon a matter of great importance.
But first, do you think I shall run any risk in traveling
by that time?"
"If any one else had asked me thai, I should have said
10 A STRANGE ADVENTURE.
at once, 'Impossible!' " returned the physician, smiling.
"But you have so rapidly recuperated that I should not
fear a change so much for you as for many others. It
depends somewhat, however, upon where you are going."
Mrs. Marston flushed slightty at this, but, after an in
stant of hesitation, she said, composedly :
"Oh, I intend to go to a warmer climate. I shall prob
ably spend the rest of the winter in the South.' 1
"Then I think you may go with perfect safety, if you
are quite sure you teel well and strong."
"As to that, I never felt more vigorous in mv life ;
but-
The lody bent her shapely head in thought, a shadow
of perplexity and doubt crossing her beautiful face.
"Perhaps you fear to take the little one; the weather
is rather severe for a tender infant," suggested the doc
tor.
"Oh, no. I do not intend to take the child at all," re
turned the mother, quickly, a nervous tremor running
through her frame as she spoke.
"You do not intend to take your child with you? 1 ' re
peated the physician, astonished, while he searched the
downcast face before him with a suspicious loos.
"No ; and that was what I wished to consul*- with you
about," replied Mrs. Marston, shifting uneasily for an in
stant beneath his glance.
Then she lifted her head proudly and met his eyes with
calm hauteur.
"You wish to leave it out to nurse, perhaps, and desire
me to suggest some proper person," observed Dr. Turner,
trying to explain her conduct thus.
"No," answered the lady, coldly. "I wished to ask if
you could recommend some institution in the city where
I could put her, and where she would receive proper
care.' 1
Dr. Turner regarded the woman with amazement.
"Institution, madame ! What kind of an institution?"
he asked, aghast.
"Some public institution, or some home for homeless
children," she answered, not a muscle of her beautiful
face moving.
"I really do not comprehend you," the physician said,
almost ready to believe that he was in the presence of a
lunatic, for surely no mother in her right mind could
think of abandoning her child in such a heartless way.
"Indeed, I thought I made an explicit statement," re-
A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 11
marked Mrs. Marston, haughtily. "However the child is
not to go with me. There are reasons imperative reasons
that compel me to dispose of her
"Abandon her, do you mean ?" questioned the physician,
sternly.
The lady shrugged her shapely shoulders and made an
impatient gesture, as if the subject and object were alike
distasteful to her.
"If you choose to put it in that disagreeable way, I
suppose I shall have to accept the term," she replied,
coldly. "But you have not answered my question. Do
you know of a home for orphans where she would be re
ceived and where I might safely leave her? I would make
it an object for any such institution to take her."
CHAPTER. II.
A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
Dr. Turner did not immediately reply.
He was so indignant, so overcome by the startling and
unnatural proposition that he was rendered speechless.
The knowledge that this woman, so beautiful and
gifted, and who had, to all appearance, unlimited wealth
at her command, should desire to cast her offspring
adrift upon the world, coldly throwing her upon the in
different care of strangers, was simply horrible to him.
The mystery, which, from the first, he had instinctively
recognized as attaching itself to this woman, was thicken
ing about her.
There must, he thought, be some terrible secret con
nected with her life, which she was anxious and bound
to conceal, or she never could have contemplated such an
unfeeling act, and he could think of but one contingency
that would compel her to adopt such extreme measures.
"Madame," he at last said, and speaking with dignified
reserve, "I cannot refrain from expressing my surprise
at your startling and I am compelled to say it heart
less proposal. It would be a most unnatural a most rep
rehensible proceeding. My whole nature recoils at the
mere mention of it, and I can think of but one reason
that would seem to make it necessary for you to abandon
your child in the way you propose."
The physician paused a moment, as if in doubt as to
the propriety of saying more.
"Well, and what may that be?" briefly demanded his
12 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
companion, in a tone that should have warned him not to
give expression to his thought.
"Perhaps your little one has come into the world un
protected by the tie of wedlock, and therefore you desire
to conceal from every one the evidence of
She checked the words upon his lips with an imperious
gesture.
A vivid crimson rushed to her brow, suffused her neck,
and seemed to extend to the very tips of her fingers;
then the color as quickly receded, leaving her patrician
face ghastly pale.
She threw up her proud head with a movement of ex-^
quisite grace ; an angry fire leaped into her dusky eyes;"
an expression of scorn curled her beautiful lips.
" How dare you say such a thing to me ?" she demanded,
in a passionate tone that had a thrill of pain in it as well.
"But for your former kindness to me, I would never par
don you ! You have a suspicion that I am not a married
woman."
"I could think of no other excuse for what you pro
posed regarding your child," replied the physician, meet
ing her flashing glance calmly, and with a note of con
tempt in his voice, although he half regretted having
spoken as he had.
He believed even now that she was acting a part.
She saw it, and again her face flamed scarlet.
Then she drew from the third finder of her left hand a
superb solitaire diamond ring, and passed it to him.
"Examine that if you please," she commanded, briefly
and icily.
He took it, and upon its inner surface found engraved
in tiny characters, " C. to E. Sept. 10th, 185 . Omnia
Vincit Amor."
It had evidently been given to her in September of the
previous year
"An engagement ring," be remarked, as he passed it
back to her with an air that plainly said : "That proves
nothing to your advantage."
Madame bowed and then quietly but proudly drew from
the same finger a massive circlet of gold which she also
handed to him.
A dusky red surged to the physician's brow as he re
ceived it and realized what he had done. He felt as if he
had offered the fair woman an unpnrdonable insult.
This ring was marked C. 8. to E. B., Paris, March ISfh,
185."
A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 13
Both circlets proved an honorable engagement and a
lawful marriage, the latter occurring some seven months
subsequent to the former, and Dr. Turner felt that ho had
got himself into a very unpleasant predicament.
"I beg your pardon, madame," he said, with visible con
fusion, but in a grave, respectful tone; "but your very
extraordinary proposition must be my apology for my
unjurat and offensive suspicion."
For a moment the lady regarded him gravely, but with
a little gleam of triumph in her dark eyes ; then with a
shrug of her shapely shoulders, she replied :
"Perhaps it was but natural ; let it pass. I became a
lawful wife, as you have seen, nearly a year ago, and
my child has had honorable birth : but, for reasons
which I cannot explain to you, I can never acknowledge
her, and it becomes necessary for me to make some other
provision for her."
"But it is such an unnatural thing to do," persisted the
doctor, with a deprecating gesture.
"Granted; but it cannot be helped," replied the
mother, firmly, an inflexible purpose written on her fait
young face.
"Allow me to inquire if your husband is living?" Dr.
Turner asked, after a moment of silence.
"Excuse me; I cannot answer that question," replied
his companion with pale, compressed lips.
"Ah! there has b-sen some trouble and a separation,
perhaps," thought the doctor ; then he asked :
"Do you think that he would uphold you in thus sacri
ficing your little one his little one, to your selfish pur
pose to abandon her, as you propose, to the doubtful
charity of a cold world."
An icy shiver seemed to run throughout the woman's
frame at this. She shifted uneasily in her chair, her
white lids quivered, her hands were locked in a rigid,
painful clasp.
"I tell you there are circumstances which make it ab
solutely necessary for me to give her away," she said, in
a strained, unnatural voice, after an evident effort at
self control. "My husband would is as helpless in the
matter as myself."
"I can conceive of no circumstances which should make
the well-beincr of your child. of secondary importance, es
pecially since you have assured me that you are a lawful
wife, and it is evident that you have abundant means at
your command. She is your own flesh and blood, and it
14 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
becomes your duty, as a mother, to give her a mother's
love and care. I care not what fancied or real obstacle
stands in the way, it should be resolutely swept aside
for the sake of both duty and humanity," Dr. Turner
argued, with impressive earnestness.
" You simply do not know anything about the matter,
eir," retorted his patient, with an angry flash in her
eyes, "and, if you please, we will not discuss that point
any further."
Dr. Turner bowed a cold assent ; then, as he returned
the wedding-ring, which he had retained until now, he re
marked :
"The name you have given here does not correspond
with your husband's initials upon this ring."
The lady's lips curled in a little scornful smile.
" Did you imagine that I would use my true name in
such a venture as this ?" she asked. "But that is neither
here nor there," she added, with an impatient toss of her
head. "Do you know of any institution in this city where
my child would be received ?"
"No: there is no public institution that would so far
countenance your conduct as to open its doors to her, and
I would not designate it if there were. Such places are
for children who have no parents, or for those whose
parents are too poor to care for them," the physician in
dignantly replied.
Then, after a short pause, he continued, with great
earnestness :
" Let me make one last appeal to you, madame. You
have given birth to a lovely little daughter, who bids fair
to be a child of whom any parent might well be proud.
It would be a continual delight to watch her grow and
develop into womanhood, and she would no doubt be of
the greatest, comfort to you years hence, when you begin
to descend the hill of life. Keep your child, Mrs. Marston,
do not cast her off upon the doubtful care of strangers, to
become you know not what in the future. Love and
cherish her, nourish her innocence and purity, and do
not, I beseech you, commit the irreparable wrong which
you are contemplating."
The woman before him threw out her white jeweled
hands in a spasmodic gesture in which impatience, pain,
and anger were commingled.
"Spare your importunities, Dr. Turner," she said,
ecolly, " for I assure you it is only a waste of breath and
sentiment on your part."
A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION. 15
"Have you no love for your innocent babe ?" he de
manded, sternly.
" I have not dared I will not allow myself to become at
tached to her." was the low, constrained reply.
"Have you no pity, then., that you thrust her thus re
morselessly from your sheltering care?"
" I should become an object far more pitiable if I should
keep her with me," returned the incomprehensible
mother.
"I cannot understand it. Poor child! poor child!"
sighed the sympathetic and perplexed physician.
"Doctor," said his companion, with a sudden start, her
face lighting with eagerness, "have you children of your
own?"
"No, rnadame. I should consider myself blessed, in
deed, if I had," he sighed.
"Then will you adopt my daughter? I can assure you
that there is not the slightest taint upon her parentage,
and it is only the force of hard, obstinate circumstances
that compels me to give her up. Your sympathies seem
to have been enlisted for her. I am sure you are a good
man, and I know that she would find a kind parent in
you."
The man flushed, and tears rose to his eyes at this ap
peal.
"Mrs. Marston," he said, sadly, "if your child had
been born six months earlier, and you had asked me this
question at that time, I should have answered you with
eagerness in the affirmative ; but she who would have
given the little one a mother's care is no longer in my
home. She died five months ago this very day, and I
have no one else in my family to whom I could commit
the babe."
"Then what shall I do?" murmured the woman, with
knitted brows and sternly compressed lips.
"I can think only of one alternative that I should be
willing to suggest," replied the doctor.
"What is that?" she demanded, eagerly.
"Advertise for some young couple to adopt the child.
You will then have an opportunity to select a permanent
home for her, and escape the anxiety which her uncer
tain fate in a charitable institution would entail upon
you. I should suppose the mere thought of it would be
torture to you."
"It is," replied the mother, with a quick, indrawn
breath, while a nervous shiver ran over her. "I will do
16 A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
it," she added, the look of care vanishing from her face,
which had now become to the high-minded physician
more like the face of a beautiful fiend than that of a ten
der-hearted woman. " I will advertise in the Transcript
to-morrow morning, and will offer the sum of rive hun
dred dollars to any respectable couple who will take the
babe and promise to rear and educate her as their own. I
wonder why I did not think of that plan myself," she
concluded, with a sigh of relief.
44 1 should propose omitting the reward from the adver
tisement," observed the doctor, with a slight curl of his
lips.
"Why so?"
"Because in that case you would be sure that whoever
applied for her was actuated by a real desire to have the
little one ; while, if money were offered, cupidity might
be the main object in the application."
"Perhaps you are right," Mrs. Marston observed,
thoughtfully ; "and yet I believe I shall offer it. I shall,
at all events, give that amount to whoever adopts the
child."
She then adroitly changed the subject, plying the phy
sician with numerous questions regarding Boston, its at
tractions and advantages, and so effectually led his mind
in another direction, charming him with her rare con
versational gifts, her evident culture and familiarity
with both America and Europe, that he spent a delightful
hour with her, and temporarily forgot the contempt and
repulsion which he had previously entertained for her.
When the clock upon the mantel struck four, he started
up in surprise, at which a sly smile curved his fair en
tertainer's red lips, for she knew that she had held him
by the magic of her fascinations, as she had meant to do.
But she arose also, and cordially extended her hand to
him at parting, while she remarked, smilingly :
"I have neglected a very important item of business,
and came very near forgetting it altogether. If you have,
with you, the bill for your services to me, I shall be very
happy to settle it."
Dr. Turner flushed, and began to search his pockets,
without appearing to notice the proffered hand.
At length he drew a Blip of paper from his diary, and
handed it to her.
She smiled again as she noticed the figures upon it ; but
unlocking a drawer in the table near which they were
standing, she took from it an elegant purse, in which
A XON8TROU8 PROPOSITION. 17
there appeared to be a plentiful supply of both gold nnd
paper money.
She selected a bill and extended it to him.
" I am not able to change that for you, madame," ho
said, as ha glanced at it and saw that it was a hundred-
dollar note.
"I do not wish it changed. Please take it. Even then
I shall feel that I am deeply indebted to you," she re
turned, with an earnestness such as she had not betrayed
before during the interview.
Again the dusky red rushed to the doctor's temples.
"If it is not convenient for you to hand me just the
amount of my bill, you can send me a check for the sum
later," he said, coldly.
She bit her lips with mortification, and then tears
rushed into her eyes.
"Oh, it is perfectly convenient. Excuse me ; I did not
intend to offend you, but I am truly grateful for the kind
attention you have bestowed upon me, and I shall always
entertain friendly memories of you."
Dr. Turner returned a courteous bow for the promise
of "friendly memories," but remarked, briefly :
"I have but done my duty as a physician, madams. "
An angry flush mounted to her brow as she counted
five golden eagles from her purse and laid them in hia
hand.
"I know," she said, "that you think I am a heartless
monster in woman's form ; but you would not, I am sure,
if you could understand the strait that I am in."
Another bow was his only reply to this.
He could not gainsay her statement regarding his es
timate of her character, and he would not presume to in
quire further into the mystery sui'rounding her.
"I should be glad to retain your good opinion," she re
sumed, with a slight, deprecating gesture, "for you have
been a good friend to me in my necessity, but a stern fate
compels me to forego that. I trust, however, that I
shall see you again before I leave your city."
And she again extended her hand to him in farewell.
"If you need mo if I can serve you in any way, com
mand me," Dr. Turner returned, politely, but with an em
phasis which plainly indicated that he should not volun
tarily seek her society.
He bowed again, but barely touched the hand held out
to him, and then went his way, wondering what mys
terious circumstance, or combination of circumstances,
18 THE LITTLE STRANQEK ADOPTED.
could have forced this beautiful and gifted woman to
abandon her child thus at the very beginning of its life.
CHAPTER III.
THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.
The next morning there appeared an advertisement in
the Boston Transcript, offering five hundred dollars to
suitable pai ties who would adopt a female in taut, and
stating tiiat applications were to be made by letter, ad
dressed to the office of the paper.
Of course a great many answers were received, for
there were hosts of people who would agres to almost
anything for five hundred dollars, while there were
others who were really anxious to adopt the little baby
girl that was to be so strangely thrown upon the world.
One alone out of these many epistles pleased Mrs.
Marston. It was written in a clear, elegant hand, signed
"August and Alice Damon."
It was from a young couple, and stated that only a
month previous they had lost their own little daughter
a babe of few weeks and their hearts were so sore
over their loss, their home so lonely and sad, that they
would gladly take a little one to fill, as far as might be
possible, the place of their lost darling, and if the child
in question pleased them and there was nothing objec
tionable connected with her birth or antecedents, they
would gladly adopt her without the payment of the
premium that had been offered.
Mrs. Marston, after reading this communication, imme
diately dashed off a note asking the young people to call
upon her at their earliest convenience in case they were
at liberty to do so, the next morning at ten o'clock ; she
would reserve that hour for them.
Promptly at that time a young gentleman and lady of
prepossessing appearance were ushered into Mrs. Mars-
ton's private parlor, and one glance into their kind and
intelligent faces convinced her that shfi had found the
right parties to whom to intrust her child.
"Mr. and Mrs. Damon," Mrs. Marston said, graciously
receiving them, and glancing at the cards that had been
sent up before them to announce their arrival, "I am very
much pleased to meet you."
THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED. 19 -
She invited them to be seated, and then entered at once
the object of their visit.
"I have appointed an interview with you in preference
to ail other applicants," she said, "because of the real
interest and feeling evinced in your letter to me. But
before we decide upon the matter under consideration, I
would like to know sometbiiig about you and your pros
pects for the future."
Mr. August Damon, a fine-looking young man of per
haps twenty-five years, frankly informed the lady that
their home was in Boston ; that he was a clerk in a large
wholesale boot and shoe house ; his salary was a fair one,
and there was a prospect that he might become a me.ii her
of the firm at no very distant date, if all went well with
the business. He said that both he and his wife were
very fond of children, and had been almost heart-broken
over the loss of their own child. They had resolved, if
they could find one to whom their hearts turned, to
adopt another, and bestow upon it. as far as might be,
the love and care that the^r own child would have re
ceived if it had lived. They had seen her advertisement
in the Transcript, and had determined to respond to it,
hoping thus to succeed in their object.
"Nothing could be better," Mrs. Marston eagerly said,
in reply. u This is just the opportunity that I desire. I
feel sure that you will give my little one the kindest
care, and I shall relinquish her to you most willingly.
I shall expect you will do by her exactly as you
would have done by your own ; that you will give her
your name, educate her, and give her such advantages as
your means will allow. This must be your part in our
contract, while mine will be to renounce all claim upon
her, and make over to you the amount which I specified
in my advertisement."
August Damon never once took his eyes from the face
of that proud, beautiful woman while she was speaking.
They burned with a strange fire, an indignant flush
mantled his cheek, and an expression of contempt curled
his fine lips.
His wife viewed the apparently heartless mother with
speechless wonder, her eyes fastened upon her in a sort
of horrible fascination.
Her sweet, delicate face was colorless as the snowy
ruffle about her white neck, and she trembled visibly as
she listened to her abrupt and apparently unfeeling dis
posal of a human soul.
20 THE LITTLE STRAXQER ADOPTED.
There was an awkward pause after Mrs. Marston con
cluded, and she seemed to become suddenly conscious of
the very unpleasant impression which lier strange words
and proceedings had produced upon her visitors, and a
rush of vivid color mantled her cheeks.
iihe could not fail to realize that her guests were well-
bred, even cultivated people ; the stamp of true gentility
was upon them, and it was extremely galling to her
haughty spirit to ieel that they had been weighing her in
the balance of their own refined and noble natures, and
had found her sadly wanting in all thos gentler qualities
and attributes which naturally belong to a woman, and
especially to a mother.
But she was impatient of all restraint and discomfort.
She threw off the feeling with the usual shrug of her
shapely shoulders, and raising her handsome head with a
haughty air she continued, somewhat imperiously :
'' Do you accede to the conditions that I have mentioned ;
and you, madarne?" turning her great dark eyes full upon
the gentle but shocked wite.
"Oh, how can you bear to part thus with your little
one, the darling whose pulses are throbbing with your
own life-blood?" exclaimed sweet Alice Damon, tears
starting: to her earnest, gray-blue eyes, her delicate lips
trembling with emotion.
"That is a question that I cannot allow myself to con
sider," responded Mrs. Marston, with a peculiar gesture
of her jeweled hands, which might have meant either
pain or repugnance, "neither can I enter into any ex
planation upon that point; the fact remains, T must part
with her, and it is my wish to make the best possible pro
vision for her."
"We should be glad to see the child, madam," Mr.
Damon gravely remarked.
"Of course. I will have her brought in immediately ;"
and Mrs. Marston arose to ring a bell.
A moment later a portly matron entered the room
bearing in her arms a lovely babe about a month old, ar
rayed in a richly embrodiered robe, and wrapped in the
softest and whitest of flannels
Alice Damon uttered an eager cry, in which the ten-
derest mother-love and the keenest pain were blended, as
she caught sight of the beautiful child who recalled so
vividly her own lost treasure.
Starting from her seat she glided swiftly over the soft
carpet, and the next moment the tiny creature was
THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED. 21
clasped close to her aching heart, while a scb burst from
her us she pressed her quivering lips to its velvet cheek.
Then she turned to her husband with ii still in her arms.
"Oh, August, she is lovely !" she murmured, in husky,
unsteady tones. "And, dear, my heart longs for her!"
Mr. Damon stood looking down upon the two for a mo
ment, while he seemed struggling with some deep emo
tion.
He took one of the little soft hands that lay outside
the heavily wrought blanket tenderly in his own, and
bent for a nearer view of the small face.
"Her eyes are blue," he said, under his breath.
"Yes, like our own darling's. Oh, August, we will take
her, will we not?" pleaded his wife, eagerly.
A look of fondest love leaped into his eyes as they met
hers, but he did not reply to her just then.
He turned again to Mrs. Marston.
"I have an important question vrhich I feel it neces-
earj to ask you?" he began.
"In a moment," he returned, and signed to the nurse
to withdraw.
"Now, if you please," she added, as the door closed
after the woman.
"Is your child legitimate ? If you can assure me of that,
and that nothing of dishonor can ever touch her in the
future, and that, as far as you know, she inherits no
taint of insanity or incurable disease, I see no reason
why we should not accede to your conditions and adopt
the babe as our own."
Mrs. Marston's face had grown crimson during this
speech, and her eyes flamed with anger.
Twice that week she had been ol-liged to meet this
humiliating suspicion, and it was more than her proud
spirit could endure.
"Do you presume " she began, haughtily.
"Madame," August Damon interrupted, gravely, but
with the utmost respect, "pray do n< I accuse me of pre
sumption when I have only the well-being of your own
child at heart. If you will but consider a moment you
cannot fail to realize that it is both natural and proper I
should wish to be assured that the child I contemplate
taking as my own is of honorable parentage, and with
no heritage of future misery hanging over her. "We shrill,
of course, use every precaution to prevent her from ever
realizing that she is not our very own ; but there may
ouie a time when unforeseen erenti will lead her to sus-
22 THE LITTLE STRANUER ADOPTED.
pect the truth, and then she will demand to be told her
history. I must have it in my power to tell her that no
story of shame, no stain, was attached to her birth."
The gentleman's tone was firm but courteous, and the
proud woman before him realized a pride as deep-seated
as her own, and that she had no common character to
deal with.
He had a perfect right to ask her these questions, she
knew, and she was bound to answer them in all sincer-
ity.
The anger died out of her eyes ; the color left her face,
and there was more humility in her manner than she had
before displayed, as she rpelied :
"Mr. Damon, I assure you that you need never fear
even a breath against the fair fame or parentage of my
child. I was legally marriod to a noble, high-minded
gentleman, on the 15th of last March, although the cere
mony was not performed in this country. More I cannot
tell you regarding my private history. As to the little
one's constitution, she inherits no taint of disease or
imnfcil trouble that I am aware of. T have always en
joyed vigorous health, as my physique at the present
time ought to prove to you.
"I know," she continued, after a moment of thoughtful
silence, "that the giving away of my child, when to all
appearance there is no necessity for such an unusual act,
appears like a monstrous proceeding ; but I am so
situated that I cannot help myself; the need is impera
tive a relentless fate compels me to the unnatural act. I
can tell you nothing more ; if you see fit to adopt the
babe, after hearing this,, well and good ; if not. I must
replv to some others application, and make other ar
rangements for her."
"T am satisfied with what you have told me, and the
child shall come to us. Alice, sfoe is yours if you so wish."
said the young husband, turning with a fond smile to his
fair wife.
"I do wish it, August. I could not give her tip now.
See ! how content she is !" and the sweet ^womnn looked
lovingly down at the little face lying so peacefully upon
her bosom.
"You are willing to make the gift a legal one. I sup
pose," said Mr. Damon, turning again to Mrs. Marston,
who, with a look of intense relief upon her face, was
closely watching the young couple.
"If you mean by that that I will sign papers to ratify
THE LITTLE STKAXGER ADOPTED. 23
the bond, I must say, No !" the woman replied, -with de
cision.
"Of what use would such papers be, "she vrent on,
"since I could not place my real signature upon them,
and the name, by which I am known to you to-day, would
amount to nothing, legally. I can only give her to you
here, now, in this informal way. Take her she is yours ;
and may she be a great comfort to you during your future
lives."
"I see," replied Mr. Damon, "papers of adoption would
amount to nothing ;" but, nevertheless, he did not appear
very well satisfied with this conclusion.
"And here is the future little Miss Damon's dowry,"
continued Mrs. Marston, with a smile, as she took a roll
of bills from the same drawer whence she had paid Dr.
Turner, "and I cannot begin to tell you how much of
gratitude goes with it."
"Madame, I cannot accept your money," August Damon
said, flushing hotly, as he drew back from the proffered
bribe ; for such it seemed to him.
"I am rich ; I wish yon to have it," said the lady.
"It is the child that we want, for her own sake, not, for
what you offer as an inducement to adopt her," returned
the young man, with cligm'ty.
"But I must insist," Mrs. Marston replied. "If you
have no immediate use for it, put it at interest some
where for her, and let it accumulate for a marriage por
tion. You will have to name her," she resumed, with a
glance at the little one. "Call her whatever you wish,
and may she prove a real blessing to you.""
She approached Alice Damon as she spoke, laid the r^ll
of bills between the soft, pinlt hands of the now sleeping
bahp, bent over her and imprinted a light kiss upon her
cheek, then turning quicklv away, she bowed to the hus
band and wife and walked abruptly from the room.
A half-hour later the mysterious little stranerer was
sleeping peacefully in the daintv cradle that had once
held Alice Damon's namesake, while two tender, earnest
faces bent fondly over her, as huhsand and wife prayed
that she might long be spared to be a comfort and a bless
ing to them, and never realize the shadow that rested
upon her birth
The next morning, at an parly hour, Mrs. Marston and
her "maid" quietly left the House, and the city,
leaving no address, nor any clew to their destination be
hind them.
84 A GRANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.
CHAPTER IV.
A CHANGE OP RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.
Thus the stranger's cliild found a home, with loving
hearts and willing hands to care for hr.
But August and Alice Damon Huntress had for certain
reasons withheld their surname from the mother of the
hild they had adopted.
" I shall never put myself in the power of this woman,"
he had said to his wife, while discussing the question.
"If we adopt this little one we must so arrange matters
that she can never be taken from us ; so that she can
never even be found by those who give her to us, or b
told that she is not our own flesh and blood."
So he had called himself August Damon, which waft the
truth, as far as it went, but no one in Boston knew him by
any other uame than Huntress, and he did not intend that
the mother of the little one should ever know what be
came of the child after it was given into his hands.
They gave her the name of Gladys, for, as Alice Hunt
ress said, she began to brighten and gladden their sad
dened hearts and lives from the moment of her coming to
them.
The Huntresses lived in a very quiet way, on an unpre
tentious street in the city of Boston. Mr. Huntress had a
good salary, but they were people of simple tastes, and
had more of a desire to lay by a snug sum for declining
years than to live extravagantly and make a show in the
world.
For several years nothing occurred either to entice or
drive them out of the beaten track ; then, all at once, Au
gust Huntress conceived a brill ; ant idea, put it in prac
tical use. secured a patent, and became a rich man.
No other children came to share the love and care be
stowed upon Glndys, and the hearts of her adopted par
ents were litprally bound up in her.
Every possible advantage was lavished upon her. and
at the age of twelve years she was a brigrht, beautiful lit
tle maiden with glossy brown hair, lovely dark blue eyes,
and regular features, and gave promise of rare beauty
when she should reach maturity a few years hence.
A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN AD VENTURE. 25
About this time it appeared necessary for the interests
of the house with which Mr. Huntress was connected,
that he should remove to New York city.
Accordingly, the beginning of Gladys Huntress' thir
teenth year found the family established in a well-fur
nished mansion in Clinton avenue, one of the pleasantest
portions of Brooklyn, while Mr. Huntress' office was lo
cated in Dey street, New York.
Here Gladys at once entered the high school, having
passed her examinations most creditably, and giving
promise of becoming a brilliant scholar.
She dearly loved study, and asserted that as soon as
she should complete the high-school course, she should
" make papa send her to Vassar for another four years, to
finish her off."
And now there occurred an incident destined to have a
wonderful influence on the young girl's whole future life.
One afternoon in May, after school was over for the day,
Gladys persuaded her mother to allow their coachman to
drive her over to New York to meet and bring her father
home to dinner.
She had not, as yet, ever been allowed to go out alone
in this way ; but Mrs. Huntress could not accompany her
that day, having an important engagement with some
friends ; but she knew her driver was perfectly trust
worthy, he was very fond of the young girl, and she was
sure that no harm could befall her, so the desired permis
sion was given, and the youthful maiden drove off in high
glee, and full of importance at being permitted to go by
herself to the prreat metropolis.
The Fulton Ferry was safely crossed, and the carriage
was rolling slowly up toward Broadway, when Gladys'
attention was arrested by a group of street gamins, who
had surrounded a boy whom they appeared to be jeering
and tormenting in n, cruel manner, and who seemed com
pletely dazed by his position, and greatly distressed by
the ill-treatment to which he was subjected.
HP was a peculiar looking boy, having a slender though
perfect form, a delicate, rather aristocratic face, and a
finely shaped head, crowned with masses of light, waving
hair, in which there were rich tints of gold and brown.
He was very pale and his full, large blue eyes had a
etrange expression in their depths half wild, half pa
thetic which went straight to our young heroine's heart.
He was neatly but plainly clad, though his garment!
bad become somewhat disarranged by the rude handling
26 A CHANGE Ot RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.
of his tormentors, and he was making ineffectual efforts
to recover a very good-looking straw hat that had been
snatched from his head and was being ruthlessly tossed
about by the vicious gamins, who were triumphing in his
distress with a sort of fiendish joy.
"John, what are they doing to that poor boy?" Gladys
asked, leaning forward, and speaking to the coachman.
"They're a set of imps, miss, and as usual up to some
of their infernal tricks," replied the man. "It looks to me
as if the lad is half-foolish, and they're making game of
him."
"It is a shame," cried the little lady, flushing indig
nantly. "See what a nice-looking boy he is so different
from those coarse, rude children. Stop John, and let us
help him to get away from them."
"Indeed miss, I can't; it wouldn't be at all proper," re
turned the dignified driver. "It's the business of the po
lice to look after such cases, not for a young lady in your
position."
At this instant a mischievous ragamuffin seized the
strange lad by the hair, giving it such a savage pull that
he cried out with fright and pain, while a shout of mock
ing delight rang out from the motley crew about him.
Gladys Huntress sprang ut> in her carriage, an angry
flush surging over her pretty face.
"John, stop !" she cried, imperiously. "Stop !" she re
peated, laying her gloved hand upon his arm, with a
touch which he involuntarily obeyed, and, drawing his
reins, his well-trained horses came to a stand close beside
the group we have described.
"Boys, what are yon doing? Let him alone. Aren't you
ashamed to torment a boy who is weaker than your
selves?" the young girl exclaimed, in a tone of authority
and scorn which for a moment arrested their cruel sport,
while they gazed open-mouthed with astonishment at the
elegant equipage and its fair occupant, who had so nobly
espoused the cause of their luckless victim.
But it was only for a moment.
Everybody knows what lawless creatures the street
urchins of New York are, and the next instant a derisive
shout rent the air at this strange and unlooked-for inter
ference.
" Hi !" cried one, who appeared to be the leader in the
fray. " Mr. Chalkface must be some prince in disguise,
and 'ere comes the princess with 'er coach and span to the
rescue."
A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 27
Another shout more deafening than the preceding one
rent the air at this sarcastic speech, and Gladys shrank
back \vitn a look of disgust on ner young face.
"Pretty little Miss Uppercrust," the young rascal inso
lently resumed, encouraged by the applause around him.
"I guess it 1 !! take more'n you and your fine feathers to
squelch Nick Tower. See 'ere now, how d'ye like that?"
wherewith he gave the poor boy a brutal punch in the
ribs which elicited a shriek of agony from him.
Gladys' eyes blazed wrathfully. For a moment she
gazed straight into the face of the impudent urchin, her
beautiful lips quivering with contempt, while every eye
was fixed upon her with wonder and curiosity.
It was a new departure for a young and delicate girl to
face them like that. It was their experience to have every
one ot the better class shrink from them in disgust, and
get out of their way as soon as possible.
Gladys saw that their attention was all concentrated
upon her, and that the boy, upon whom they had been
venting their malice, was for the time unheeded.
She saw, too, that he was stealthily edging his way to
ward the carriage, and a sudden bright thought flashed
into her mind.
She bent forward as if to speak again, and the interest
deepened on those youthful faces beneath her.
Quick as a flash she turned the handle of the carriage
door, threw it open, and with a significant gesture, she
cried out, in clear, ringing tones :
"Come here, boy, quick ! quick !"
The lad needed no second bidding.
With one bound he was outside the circle of his tor
mentors ; another brought him to the side of the carriage,
and the next instant he had sprung within the vehicle,
where he sank panting and trembling upon a rug at the
young lady's feet.
The door was immediately shut and fastened. Gladys'
face was glowing with triumph over the success of her
ruse, while, at an authoritative chirrup from the coach
man, who, sooth to say, had keenly enjoyed the spirited
and courageous attitude assumed by his young mistress
in defense of the persecuted boy, the horses started on,
leaving the group of gamins speechless and spell-bound
with amazement at this unexpected master-stroke.
It was only for a minute, however ; the next rage, at
having been outwitted by a girl, and that one of the hated
favorites of fortune, superseded their astonishment,
28 A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVEA'TUltK
a succession of frantic yells burst upon their ears, while
as witn one mind they stooped to gather mud from the
gutter, rolled it into balls, and then sent their filthy mis
siles flying after the receding carriage and its occu
pants.
Gladys did not pay the slightest heed to this attack,
though one vile mass came plump against her pretty sun
shade where it adhered for a moment and then rolled into
the street, but leaving an unsightly stain where it had
Struck upon the rich, glossy silk.
The irate little wrenches would have followed up their
assault had not a policeman suddenly made his appear
ance upon the scene, when they took to their heels, scat
tering and disappearing around a corner, like a flock of
frightened sheep, quicker than it has taken to relate the
occurrence.
Gladys gave a sigh of relief as the noise and pelting
ceased, and then she turned her attention to the luckless
wait whom she had befriended in his hour of need.
"Get up, boy," she said, kindly, "they cannot hurt you
now."
But as he still crouched, trembling and frightened, at
her feet, she turned to the coachman and said :
"John, help him up, he is too frightened to move."
"Come, my lad, you've nothing to fear now," the driver
remarked, encouragingly, and reaching over the back of
his seat he took the boy by the arm and lifted him from
the floor, placing him opposite his young mistress.
He glared wildly about him at first, but as his eyes fell
upon Glad 3*8' sympathetic face the fear faded from them,
and he seemed reassured.
Then all at once he put his hand to his head in a dis
tressed way, and called out :
"M'ha! m'ha!"
"What does he mean, John? Can they have hurt him,
do you think?" Gladys asked, looking perplexed, and re
garding the boy's blank, though beautiful, face with anx
iety.
"I don't know, miss ; perhaps it's his hat he's troubled
about."
The lad turned quickly at the word hat, nodded hig
head emphatically, and showed two rows of white, hand
some teeth in a broad, satisfied pmile.
"M'ha ! m'ha !" he repeated, and then there followed a
lot of gibberish that was wholly unintelligible to his list
eners.
A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE. 29
"How strangely he appears!" Gladys exclaimed, re
garding him curiously.
"He do, indeed, miss. The poor chap is an idiot, or I'm
much mistaken."
"An idiot ! Oh, how dreadful ! Poor boy," cried GlaJys,
pityingly. Then she added, soothingly: "Never mind
your hat, papa shall buy you another."
The young stranger nodded contentedly, as if he under
stood ner, while his great blue eyes were fixed earnestly
and confidingly on her face.
" What is your name and where do you live?" contin
ued the young girl, wondering what she should do with
him now that she had rescued him from his persecutors,
if he could not tell where he belonged.
The only answer to this query was a senseless smile,
accompanied by a low crooning sound of contentment.
"Oh, dear ! can't you talk at all? What is your name?
you must tell me or I shall not know where to take you,"
said Gladys, beginning to look greatly disturbed, and
wondering what would be the result of this strange ad
venture.
The boy reached out a white, slender hand and touched
the girl caressingly on the cheek, at the same time mak
ing a sound indicative of pleasure and admiration, but
uttering no intelligible word.
It was evident that he was not only simple-minded, but
that there must be some paralysis of the vocal organs as
well, that prevented his talking.
A flush sprang to the young girl's face, and a strange
thrill pervaded her at the touch of thoso delicate fingers.
"He is the most beautiful boy I ever saw," she said,
"but, oh ! how dreadful for him not to know anything ! I
wonder who he is, John !"
"I'm sure I can't say, miss," repleid the man, looking
perplexed and somewhat annoyed.
"How old do you think he nan be?"
John gave a long look at the young stranger.
"He's small of his age, miss, but I reckon he must be
older than yourself."
"Older than I! Oh! I do not think that can be possi
ble," Gladys exclaimed, attentively studying the strangely
attractive yet vacant countenance before her.
"What shall wo do with him, John?" she inquired,
after a moment of thoughtful silence.
"I think we'd best take him straight to the office, tell
the master all about him, and he'll settle the matter."
30 A QUA VE CONS UL TA TI029.
"Yes, I believe that will be the best plan," Gladys re
turned, looking greatly relieved. "Papa will know just
what to do. But," bending forward and laying her hand
on the boy's arm to attract his attention more fully, while
she spoke slowly and very distinctly, "can't you tell me
where you live, boy? Do try, and then we can take you
directly to your home."
The lad looked up with a most confiding smile at her,
gently took her hand from his arm, clasped it tenderly in
both his own, and murmured, in an exceedingly rich and
mellow tone, some strange sounds.
"Oh, how sorry lam for him !" Gladys said, with start
ing tears: "I wonder if he has any father or mother,
brothers or sisters. It would break my heart to have a
lovely brother like this, and not have him know any
thing. Hurry on, John, please ; I am anxious to know
what papa can do for him."
CHAPTEE V.
A GRAVE CONSULTATION.
Arriving at Mr. Huntress' office in Dey street, Gladys
alighted, bidding John detain the boy in the carriage un
til she could bring her father.
She ran lightly up the stairs, and found that gentleman
just on the point of leaving to return home, but evidently
very much pleased to have his daughter come for him.
She related what had occurred on her way over to the
city, and he listened attentively to her story ; but his
face grew grave as she proceeded, for he was so fond and
careful of her, that he could not endure the thought of
her running into any danger.
"I fear you have been unwise, my darling, in taking
this boy into the carriage with you," he said, drawing her
fondly toward him, and bending down to kiss the bright,
eager face upturned to him. "He may have come from
some fever-infested locality ; you should have given him
into the care of a policeman."
"But, papa, there was no policeman near at the time,
and the poor boy was so frightened and distressed I hadn't
the heart to make him get out of the carriage, at least un
til we could get beyond the reach of those rude boys. I
supposed, of course, he would tell us where he lived, so
A OKA VE CONS UL TA TION. 31
that we could take him home, but we could not under
stand a word that he said."
" Perhaps he is some foreigner, " suggested Mr. Hunt
ress.
" No, I think not, for he seemed to know what we said
to him. He isn't like thoae other boys he looks as if he
must belong to very nice, respectable people. His clothes
are very plain, but as clean as can be even his hands
and nails are as white and cloan as mine, which is not
usual in a boy, you know. Come and see him, papa. I
know you will pity him," pleaded Gladys, with a very
sweet and sympathetic face.
She slipped her hand within her father's arm and drew
him with gentle force out of his office and down the stairs
to the carriage, where John sat, looking a trifle anxious
and as if he feared a reproof for allowing a strange child
in his master's elegant equipage with his idolized
daughter. >
Mr. Huntress was struck with the refined, even aristo
cratic appearance of the boy the moment his eyes fell
upon him.
He instantly recognized the wonderful beauty of his
face, remarked the shape and color of his eyes, which,
had they been lighted by the fire of intelligence, would
have been his chief charm. His frame was slight, but he
was finely formed, with shapely hands and feet. His
head was rather massive for his body and of that square
structure, with a broad, full brow and an unusual height
above the ears, which generally proclaims a large brain
and rare intellectual capacity, and yet he was unmistak
ably an idiot ! one look into those blank, expressionless
eyes but too plainly told that.
M>\ Huntress entered the carriage, after assisting
Gladys to her seat, and spoke kindly and cheerfully to
the boy.
He made no answer, but fixed his great eyes earnestly
upon the gentleman's face while he shrank close to Gladys,
as if he instinctively realized that she was his stanch
friend, and would protect him against all evil.
" I do not wonder that you were interested in him,
Gladys," said Mr. Huntress, regarding the stranger
gravely, "he is peculiarly winning in appearance, though
evidently very simple in mind.''
"Do you suppose he was always so, papa" GJcdyi
asked.
"It does not seem possible, for, aside from tl:;.; vnti it
33 A GRAVE CONSULTATION.
look in his eyes, his face has a wonderfully intelligent
expression, especially when it is in repose. Can't you
make him say anything?"
"No, sir; he tries to talk, but I cannot understand
what he means."
"Ask him a question, Gladys," said her father.
"Boy, you have lost your hat would you like a new
one?" the young girl questioned.
"M'ha! m'ha !" he instantly answered, putting his
hand to his head, thus showing as before that he had
comprehended something of what was said to him.
Mr. Huntress' face lighted.
"Try something else,'" he commanded.
" Where do you live, boy ?" Gladys inquired.
This query, like the previous one, only elicited a per
fect storm of unintelligible pounds.
" Do you wish to go home to your friends?" Gladys con
tinued, making another effort.
But the only response was a short, sharp ejaculation of
pain, while the lad seized her hand and laid his cheek
affectionately against it, looking appealingly into her
face, as if thus to signify that he did not wish to leave
her.
"I cannot understand him at all, papa, only it seems
as if he wishes to stay with me," said Gladys, with a sigh.
Mr. Huntress thought a moment, then he turned to the
coachman and said :
"Drive home, John."
"Oh, papa, are you going to take him home with us?"
cried Gladys, eagerly.
"Yes; for to-night. I find myself strangely interested
in him, and I have not the heart to turn him adrift upon
the street. He evidently belongs to a good family, and
has probably strayed from home and got lost. We will
care for him until we can learn who his friends are, and
can return him to them," Mr. Huntress replied, and they
then proceeded directly home with their strange protege,
where Mrs. Huntress received them with considerable
aurprisa, although her sympathies were also soon enlisted
in behalf of their charge, and she bestowed the kindest
of care and attention upon the unfortunate waif so singu
larly thrown into her family.
Mr. Huntress caused an advertisement to be inserted
in the papers the next morning, inquiring for the friends
of the wanderer.
But a week passed and he received not one word in re-
A GRAVE CONSULTATION. 33
ply, and thus his identity remained a profound mystery.
Meantime, the object of these inquiries was so docile
and tractable, so affectionate in his manner toward
every member of the household ; ho was so trustful,
appearing to recognize instinctively that they were kind
friends ; he was so exceptionally nice about his person
and habits, and so gentle in his manner, that they all be
came greatly attached to him, and they felt more and
more convinced that he belonged to some family of good
blood and high position, in spite of the very com
mon clothing which he wore, and his imbecile condi
tion.
There vras nothing about him to give the least clew to
his identity. Every article he had on was thoroughly
examined to try to find some name ; every pocket was
searched with the same purpose, and at last Mr. Huntress
began to believe that he must hare been brought from a
distance to New York by some person or persons, and
there willfully deserted for some secret reason, with the
hope, perhaps, that the authorities would care for him
and have him sent to some institution for weak-minded,
people.
This view of the affair made him very indignant toward
the supposed perpetrato r s of the deed, and tenfold more
tender toward the unfortunate victim of such an in
human transaction, and one day, upon returning from
his business in New York, he was accompanied by one of
the most skillful physicians in the city.
To him the pitiable but interesting innocent was sub
mitted for examination.
The noted M. D. at once became absorbed in and enthus
iastic over the peculiar case.
"He would be a remarkable boy but for the torpidity
of his intellect," he asserted. " He was not born so. Hia
present condition was caused either by some acute dis
ease of the brain, or by some injury to it the latter,
most probably."
"Possibly a great wrong has been perpetrated, and he
has been deserted in this mysterious way to conceal the
deed," suggested Mr. Huntress, gravely.
"I should not be at all surprised." returned the physi
cian. "He may be t,h heir to some 1 '\rsro property, and
jealousy has brought him to this pass. Everything about
him. save his idiocy, betrays that he came of a refined
parentage. His physical condition is sound, although he
is not fully developed as he should be, but that is owing
34 A GRAVE CONSULTATION.
undoubtedly, to his mental incapacity. He is evidently
about fifteen years of age."
All this was the result of but a superficial examination.
A more critical one confirmed one of the doctor's the
ories : there proved to be a depression of the skull which
must have been caused by some accident to or violent
blow upon the head.
"It was done a number of years ago," the learned ian
affirmed, "and that produced a paralysis of the brain
and also of the nerves that control his organs of speech.
"Is there any help for him can he be restored ?" Mr.
Huntress inquired, eagerly.
"Possibly, by an operation ; but it would be attended
with considerable risk."
" Would the risk be so great, that were the boy your
own son, you would hesitate to attempt it ?"
"No; I should have it done at once. Still, the trouble
is of such long standing that I could not answer for the
success of the operation in restoring the boy to his nor
mal condition, even should he survive the shock to his
system ; and yet "
"Well ?" almost impatiently questioned Mr. Huntress.
He was becoming greatly excited over the matter.
Somehow a conviction had taken possession of his
heart that such an operation would result favorably, and
he longed to have his hopes confirmed.
"It would be a great triumph of science if the trial
could be made, and he should have his reasoning powers
restored," returned the physician, gravely.
" Would he be able to talk ? Would his power of speech
be regained ?"
"Yes, I believe so. I suspect that a portion of the
skull, which was broken at the time of his injury, is
pressing upon his brain, causing not only loss of memory,
but also a partial paralysis of the hypoglossal nerve. If
this pressure can be relieved, and the piece of skull lifted
to its place, or removed altogether, and the aperture
trepanned, I see no reason why he should not recover the
full use of all his faculties" the doctor explained.
"I wish it might be done. Doctor, I wonder if it would
be right for me to assume the responsibility of ordering
this operation to be performed, " said Mr. Huntress,
reflectively.
"It would be a great blessing to the boy."
"Yes ; provided all went well."
"And an otherwise inexplicable mystery might thus be
A GRAVE CONSULTATION.' 35
solved ; he would doubtless be able to tell who he is,
an<i thus you could restore him to his friends."
"Dr. Scherz, will you share the responsibility sim
ply that of this matter with me?" Mr. Huntress gravely
asked, after thinking deeply for several moments.
"I feel rather delicate about giving you an affirmative
answer to that question," the physician replied, "if lam
expected to have charge of the case. I might be severely
criticised and accused or' a desire to experiment for the
benefit of my profession, if there should be a fatal result."
""Yea, perhaps; but, on the other hand, you would ac
quire fame if the boy was restored.* 1
"Undoubtedly." And the eminent physician's eyes
glowed with eagerness.
"Well, the matter stands like this," said Mr. Huntress,
after another thoughtful pause. "I have done my best to
find the lad's friends, but there is evidently no one, at
least in Brooklyn or New York who will claim him. I
am unaccountably interested in him. I will not send him
to an insane asylum. I cannot cast him forth again upon
the street to wander about at the mercy of the rabble.
I have resolved to care for him as I would wish a son of
mine cared for under similar circumstances, and yet his
presence, in this imbecile state, is a constant pain to me.
What shall I do?"
"If you intend to give him a father's care, I see no rea
son why you should not exercise a parent's judgment
and authority in the matter of his possible restoration,"
Dr .Scherz responded, thoughtfully.
"Then will yon take charge of the case and treat it as
your judgment and skill dictate? The expense and risk
shall all be mine, yours the reward and fame if a cure is
effected."
Dr. Scherz did not reply to this request for several
minutes. He appeared to be considering and reviewing
the matter in all its points, and evidently regarded the
undprtaking as one of grave responsibility and im
portance.
At length he looked up, and Mr. Huntress was more
encouraged by the expression on his pale, thoughtful
fare, than he had yet been over anything that he had snid
about the case. He felt sure that the man would act con
scientiously, and exert himself to the extent of his skill.
"I think I will atterrpt it." he paid, slowly. "But be
fore I do, T would like to consult with a friend in the pro
fession, and get his opinion upon the undertaking. I wiH
,i6 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVEHAL YEAVS.
see you again in a few days ; meantime, do your best to
build up the boy's strength with a nourishing diet."
With this, the two men separated.
CHAPTEK VI.
THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS.
A full week passed before Mr. Huntress heard any
thing further from Dr. Scherz, and it was a week of
anxiety and unrest for him.
At the erd of that time the physician went again to see
the Huntress protege, taking a noted hospital surgeon
with him.
After another protracted and critical examination, the
two gentlemen decided to undertake the operation to
gether.
The boy was removed to a hospital where diseases of
the brain were treated, and there the delicate and hazard
ous operation was performed.
The result proved that Dr. Scherz had thoroughly
understood the case that his theory was the correct one.
A severe blow upon the head, years previous, fractured'
the skull, a portion of which was crowded in upon the
brain, the pressure causing temporary paralysis and
idiocy, also loss of energy in the hypoglossal or lingual
nerve.
This piece of bone was removed, the brain relieved of
the unnatural pressure, and the result was both wonder
ful and startling.
Before the patient had fully recovered from the effects
of the ether which had been administered to him, memory
and speech both reasserted their functions by completing
a sentence which had evidently been interrupted at the
time of the accident which had deprived the boy of their
use.
" tell my papa !" were the words which fell upon
the ears of the startled surgeons, while the large blue
eyes of their patient slowly unclosed and gazed up into
the faces bending over him, the light of reason once more
gleaning in their azure depths.
"What will you tell papa?" asked Dr. Scherz, in a
quiet tone, while the other surgeon drew quickly out of
eight.
TEE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 37
"Jack struck Margery," was the instant reply.
" Who is your papa, my boy?"
"Why, he's papa; don't you know? my good papa."
was the response, while a puzzled look shot over the lad's
pale t'aco.
Dr. Scherz knew from his manner of speech that he
must have been very young not more than five years of
age at the time of his injury, and when that great dark-'
ness had so suddenly enveloped him.
"Yes, your good papa," said the doctor, soothingly.
"Now go to sleep like a man."
"I'm Margery's little man where is Margery?" he
questioned, drowsily, and closing his eyes, he was soon
in a profound slumber.
The two physicians watched him in silence for a few
moments, then they looked up into each other's face ; eye
held eye for an instant with an eloquent glance, the next
their hands met in a prolonged and hearty clasp across
their patient, for they knew that, if all went well, they
had succeeded in an operation that would give them a
famous reputation for all time.
When the boy awoke again he called lustily for "Mar
gery," and a kind and motherly nurse was at once ap
pointed to care for him.
He seemed to know, however, that she was not "Mar
gery," although he appeared to take to her and was con
tent to have her attend him.
"Where's Jack?" he asked of Dr. Scherz, who still
remained with him, determined to watch him most care
fully.
"Jack who?" he asked.
"Why, Margery's Jack ; but he isn't good like Margery,"
from which the physician inferred that "Jack" must have
been Margery's husband, and not an over kind one either.
"Oh, Jack has gone away," he anwered, carelessly.
"What is your name, my boy?"
"I'm Geoffrey, sir."
"Geoffrey what?"
"Why, Geoffrey Dale don't you knew ? I'm papa Dale's
own boy."
"Where is papa?"
"Gone away off," was the reply, accompanied by a
grieved look, "and he won't come again for ever so long.* 1
Dr. Sehorz would not press him further; he knew
that they must be patient. Memory had lain dormant for
so long, and the child had been so young at the time of
38 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.
losing it, that it was doubtful if they could ever learn
very much regarding his history.
Weeks passed, and Geoffrey was at last pronounced
well enough to return to the beautiful home awaiting
him in Brooklyn.
He had recovered without a single drawback. The
light of reason gleamed in his eyes, and he had the full
use of all the organs of speech.
But, although the doctors had decided that he must be
fully fifteen years of age, notwithstanding his growth
had been somewhat stunted by the effects of his injury,
mentally he was little better than an infant.
He talked like a child of five years, and acted like
one.
But very little could be learned of his previous life.
It was evident that he had been living with a woman
named Margery who, probably, was his nurse and a
man named Jack, possibly the woman's husband.
Margery he had loved, and he often called for her now.
Jack he had feared, and looked frightened whenever his
name was mentioned.
Of the injury which had deprived him of his memory
he seemed to be able to tell nothing, although he affirmed
that Jack had struck and tried to choke Margery, and he
wanted to "lick the naughty man."
Of his mother he knew absolutely nothing ; his father
was not much more than a name to him, although he
spoke of him as his "good pnpa," while he could not tell
anything whatever about the place where his former
home had been, and kneAv nothing of the circumstances of
his being in New York.
He was very quick to comprehend, however, now that
be once more had his reason, and readily adapted him
self to his new surroundings.
Mr. Huntress resolved to adopt him legally, and do all
in his power to atone for the long interval of darkness
and mental incapacity to which he had been so strangely
doomed.
Geoffrey beeran at once to regard his new friends with
the greatest confidence and affection, while toward Gladys
he manifested the most devoted love.
She, on her part, regarded him with tenderest com
passion and sympathy, for, in spite of his remarkable
beauty and natural ability, he was truly a pitiable object,
with the simple mind and manners of a child five years
of age in a body of fifteen ; for he soon began to develop
THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS. 39
rapidly, physically, after his restoration, and bade fair to
be. a man of splendid physique.
He was not long in realizing that he was far from be
ing like other boys of his age, and he began to be very
sensitive over the fact to grow grave and thoughtful,
and sometimes positively unhappy.
"Why can't I be like other boys?" he once asked of Mr.
Huntress, with a perplexed look on his fine face, and the
gentleman kindly explained that, when he had been very
young, some one or something must have struck him a
blow on the head which had injured his brain, so that for
years it had been the same as if sound asleep, and had
only just waked up again ; that his body had grown, but
his mind had not.
"Oh, I know," Geoffrey returned, with a startled look,
a new light coming into his eyes. "Jack threw a great
stick of wood at me."
"What made him do that?" Mr. Huntress asked,
eagerly.
The boy bent his head, and seemed trying to recall the
events of that dim past.
"He came into the kitchen with a dreadful red face,"
he said, " and he was very ugly to Margery I can't think
about what. He put his hands around%her nf ck, and she
screamed. I ran up and struck him, and told him I'd tell
my papa, and that's all I know," he concluded, with a
sigh.
Mr. Huntress could imagine that the man was intoxi
cated, and being in a frenzy, he had perhaps seized a
stick of wood from the hearth, thrown it at the child, and
knocked him senseless.
" What was Jack's other name ?" he asked.
"Jack Jack " Geoffrey began, then shook his head
hopelessly. "I can't tell," he concluded ; and Mr. Hun
tress felt that it only annoyed him, and it would be use
less to try to find out anything definite from him, so he
let the matter drop.
One day, after Geoffrey had been with the family some
three months, he came in from the street looking flushed
and angry.
Seeking Gladys he besought her most piteously to teach
him to read.
Upon inquiring what prompted the request, she found
that Geoffrey had been attracted by a glaring placard
that had been pasted up somewhere on a building, and
had asked some boys what it was.
40 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS.
This had at once betrayed his woeful ignorance, for if
he had even known his letters, he could at least have
made out something of the nature of the bill, and they
had tormented him unmercifully for being a simpleton.
Gladys at once procured a primer and set herself at
work to teach him.
He proved to be a most diligent pupil, with great per
severance and a wonderful power for memorizing, for in
a month he had mastered the whole of its contents.
Mr. Huntress was astonished at his progress, and
wanted to put him at once into school.
But Geoffrey, who was developing rapidly in every
way, shrank from the proposal, and begged his Uncle
August, as he had been taught to call Mr. Huntress, to
allow him to study at home.
"They Avill laugh at me at school, for I shall have to go
into classes with little boys only five or six years old,"
he pleaded, with a crimson face.
" But you must go to school some time, and you will
have to begin with boys younger than yourself," Mr.
Huntress replied.
"Won't you keep on teaching me, Gladys?" Geoffrey
asked, appealingly. " I will study hard and never trouble
you by not having my lessons, and perhaps I can catch
up with big boys by and by."
Gladys said she would keep on with him. But she was
not allowed to do so, although she often gave him help
in many ways.
She had her own studies to attend to and was working
hard at them, therefore Mr. Huntress would not allow
her to tax herself any further, and so a tutor was engaged
to come to the house every day to attend to Master
Geoffrey's lessons.
The boy was true to his promise. He studied dili
gently, and his tutor never had occasion to utter a word
of complaint over ill-prepared lessons. Geoffrey seemed
to realize more and more how far behind other boys of
his own age he was, and with his pride and ambition
thus aroused, no task seemed too difficult to accomplish,
if it would only serve to help him to overtake them.
Another thing troubled him exceedingly. He had
learned that Gladys was two years younger than himself,
and yet she was nearly half through the high school,
while he was simply learning his alphabet. The thought
overwhelmed him with shame and pain.
" Gladys is a girl younger than I, and I am years and
THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS. 41
years behind her, when I should be ever so far beyond
her," he said one day to Mrs. Huntress, when he had be-
eome almost discouraged over one of his lessons, and had
gone to her for help and sympathy.
"But Gladys has always been at school and you have
not, Geoff," returned his aunt, kindly. "Go and ask her
to show you about these problems ; she can help you
much better than 1, for they are fresher in her mind."
But the proud boy had all at once grown keenly sensi
tive, and would not seek the young girl's aid. He pre
ferred to fight the battle out by himself, rather than be
coached by a girl younger than he was.
Of course this was the better way ; he gained in mental
strength and self-reliance by it, and he accomplished
more in three years than the ordinary school-boy would
in six.
Aside from his pride and sensitiveness in this respect,
he was ever ready and eager to be with Gladys.
Wherever she went, after school hours, he was her
constant and devoted attendant, and no service was too
hari or disagreeable to be performed for her.
And she enjoyed having him with her. He was out
growing the delicate, almost effeminate look which he
had had when he first came to them ; an air of manliness
and strength had taken its place, while there was a nat
ural gallantry and manliness about him that made him
a very agreeable escort.
Another year passed, and he made even more rapid
strides in his studies than before ; still it was a great
trial to him that he had only completed the studies of the
second year of the high school course, and Gladys was
ready to graduate.
He was present at her examination, and also at the ex
ercises of the class when it graduated, and it was evi
dent, from his 'flushed cheek and glittering eye, that
gome bitter struggle was going on within him.
He watched the beautiful girl's every movement, he
eagerly drank in every word that she uttered, and was
as proud of her as he could be, yet all the time miserably
conscious of his own deficiency.
That evening he shut himself within his own room
and fought a terrible battle out with his pride and wretch
edness.
"I am nineteen years old, and she is seventeen," he
said, bitterly. "I am two years behind her, and I should
be two years in advance there are four years of my life
42 THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL TEARS.
lost; no, not lost, either," be added, with sudden energy,
"for I will make them up, I will gain them. Can I do
six years work in four 2 Harder work, too, than I have
ever done before ? Yes, I will !"
He sat down to his table and began to look over his
books, making calculations as to how much ground he
could get over in a given time, while every few moments
he would consult son:ie catalogues that lay beside him.
The next morning he walked down to the Fulton Ferry
with Mr. Huntress, and on the way he remarked, with
more than hia accustomed gravity :
" Uncle August, Gladys is going to Vassar next year,
isn't she?"
"Yes ; she is ambitious to take an advanced course, and
there is no reason why she should not do so, i.f she desires.
"Will you allow me to continue my studies during the
summer with Mr. Riverd, and enter some institute in the
fall where I can advance more rapidly?''
Mr. Huntress turned and looked searchingly into the
young man's flushed face, as he asked this question.
He was a tall, manly fellow of nineteen, strong and
stalwart of frame, his fine, massive head crowned with
waving hair a few shades darker than it was when we
first saw him ; his eyes full of fire and intelligence, his
whole face glowing with strength of character, and a
certain something which gave one an idea of great re
serve power, and it was no wonder that the countenance
of Mr. Huntress lighted with a took of pride, as he real
ized that, under God, he had been instrumental in giving
to the world this noble specimen of manhood.
Then a sudden smile broke over his face.
"Why, Geoff, are you envious of Gladys, because she
is going to college?" he asked, in a bantering tone.
A. deeper flush suffused the young man's handsome
face. Then he replied, in low but intense tones :
"I hope I am not envious of any good that comes to
her; 1 am more proud of her than I can express, and I
would not have her anything but just what she is, the
kindest, the smartest, and loveliest of girls ; but I can't
quite stand it to be so far behind her, to have her look
down upon me and despise me for being so ignorant."
"I do not think that Gladys would ever be guilty of
anything so unkind. Geoff ; she loves yon far too well for
that," returned Mr. Huntress, gravely, but still closely
watching his protege, for he could well understand the
pain he was suffering.
THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS. 43
Geoffrey's face kindled, and his companion could see
his temples throbbing as the blood coursed more quickly
through his veins at his words.
"Thank you, Uncle August, for assuring me of
Gladys' affection; but! want her respect as well," b-e
said, with a slight quiver in hip tone.
August Huntress started at that reply, for it betrayed a
great deal.
It told him that the devotion and affection which he
had manifested for Gladys from the first had now grown
into a strong, deep passion, which would either make or
mar his whole future, and' he was strangely moved by
this discovery.
How would it be with Gladys if she should discover it?
Would her heart respond to this wealth of love? Would
she ever be willing to link her fate with his?
She was far in advance of Geoffrey, mentally, but he
was making such rapid and resolute strides after her,
that, at the rate he had been gaining on her of late, it
could not be very long before he would reach the plane
on which she was standing, even if he did not distance
her altogether.
Well, well, it would be a romantic ending to the story
of their lives, he thought, if these two, so strangely
thrown upon his care with so much of mystery sur
rounding their birth and parentage, and likely always to
envelope them should some day unite their fates and
wed each other.
-But he allowed nothing of all this musing to appear ; he
simply said, with his accustomed kindness and genial
smile :
"You are worthily ambitious, Geoff, but I don't know
how you will stand it to apply yourself so closely all
summer and then go right on in the fall. I cannot
allow you to sacrifice your health to your love for
study."
"But I am well and strong as a giant ; will you let me
try, sir?" he pleaded, earnestly.
"Yes, indeed, with all my heart. It is a pleasure to
give you advantages when you improve them so eagerly.
I will make it an object to Mr. Rivers to remain with you
during the vacation, and then we can decide later where
you will go in the fall."
"Thank you, Uncle August, you are like a dear father
to me, and I could not love you better if you really were.
I hope some day to prove, in some tangible way, how
4* GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLAGE.
grateful I am for your goodness," Geoffrey said, with
deep feeling.
"Tut, tut, my boy, don't burden yourself with any
sense of obligation. I am getting my pay as I go along,
in the enjoyment I get out of having a fine, manly fellow
like yourself in the house. I don't believe I could be
prouder of my own son than I am of you, and, taking us
all in all, I imagine there "isn't a happier family in all
Brooklyn than the one residing at No. Clinton ave
nue. Eh, Geoff ?''
CHAPTER VII.
GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.
August Huntress and his gentle wife, Alice, deserved
to be happy, for they had devoted the best of their lives
to the work of rearing the two children who had been so
strangely thrown upon their care.
Of course it was but natural that their love for Gladys
should be deeper, stronger, and more sacred than for
Geoffrey, for they had taken her to their hearts as their
very own when she was but a tiny babe, and having had
no other children sent them to share their affection, their
every hope had long been centered in hei % .
But they felt very tenderly toward the hapless boy who
had first aroused their sympathy for his misfortune, and
subsequently won their love by his gentleness and con
fidence in them.
Mr. Rivers, Geoffrey's tutor, was very glad of the op
portunity to remain with his pupil during the summer
vacation, for it was simply a pleasure to teach one so
eager for knowledge ; while, too, being in limited circum
stances, he needed the pecuniary benefit accruing from
the arrangement.
Mr. Huntress sent them both into the country upon a
farm, where they could have fresh air and country liv
ing to strengthen their bodies, while storing their minds
with knowledge.
Mr. Rivers was most faithful in fulfilling his duties as
a tutor, while Geoffrey was indefatigable as a student.
He applied himself early and late ; he dug to the very
root of every problem and question, while he possessed
the power of concentration to such a degree that he got
over the ground much more rapidly than most students.
At the beginning of September he was pronounced
GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE. 45
qualified to enter a private institution for young men,
where the principal, after learning the circumstances
regarding his early misfortune and inability to study, al
lowed .him special privileges.
Here he remained for a year, overcoming every ob
stacle with an iron will and unflagging perseverance, and
surprising every one by his progress.
He developed in other ways also, becoming more mature
physically, and acquired a dignity and thoughtfulnesa
almost beyond his years, yet at the same time possessing
a peculiar gentleness and courtesy of manner that won
every one.
At the end of the year he was qualified to enter col
lege.
Mr. Huntress told him that he might remain where he
was if he felt the least sensitiveness about entering a
university ; but he was ready and eager now to take hig
place in the world with young men of his own age. Geof
frey had a consciousness within him that he could hold
his own anywhere, and he decided that he would go to
Yale.
He passed his examinations, and was received without
a condition, and he could not help experiencing a feeling
of triumph that at last he was on the "home stretch," so
to speak, for the goal toward which he had for years so
longinerly and enviously looked.
Now he was only one year behind Gladys, and he hoped
to be able to lessen the distance between them before he
was through with his course. At all events, i* his health
was spared, he would now have a finished education, and
would not need to feel that he was beneath her in point
of intellect.
As for Gladys herself, she was as proud as she could
be when Geoffrey told her of his success.
"Just to think of it," she cried, with shining ej'es and
flushod cheeks, though a little mischievous smile played
over her red lips ; "only six years ago I taught you your
letters, and now you are almost at the top of the ladder!
Oh, Geoffrey. I'm afraid you are very smart !"
"Afraid, Gladys?"
"Yes, and please don't drive your chariot too fast, even
now. Why, if you had had the opportunities that have
fallen to my lot, you would have been so far above me
by this time that I should never have dared so much as
to lift my eyes to you," the young girl returned with
mock humility.
46 GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.
He bent and looked earnestly into her eyes.
"Gladys," he cried, under his breath, " I am sometimes
almost glad that I was cast adrift upon the world."
"Glad ! Why, Geoff!" she exclaimed, astonished, and
wondering at his intense mood.
"You think that rather an extravagant statement," he
said, smiling, "but if my life had run along smoothly in
my own home, like chat of other boys, I might never
have learned what mettle there was within me, and be
sides, I might never have known you you who have
been my good genius and my inspiration."
Gladys shot one startled glance up into those earnest
eyes looking into hers, then her own quickly dropped,
and a vivid scarlet shot up to her brow.
Geoffrey had never spoken like this to her before,
and the suppressed passion in his voice betrayed vol
umes.
The unexpected glimpse of his heart set her own to
beating with strange emotions.
She had always been fond of him in a sort of tender,
compassionate way, which of late had developed into
something of pride for his smartness, and the character
he exhibited ; but she had never dreamed that she could
ever learn to regard him other than as a dear friend or
brother, or that he would ever entertain but fraternal
affection for her.
She was strangely affected by this discovery of a
deeper sentiment.
Geoffrey entered Yale the first of September, and be
gan his four years' course there with the greatest of en
thusiasm.
He had been hard at work at college a little over a week
when, one evening, while he was deeply absorbed in the
preparation of the morrow's lessors, there came a quick,
sharp rap upon his door.
He glanced up as the door opened, and was astonished
to see half a dozen fellows from the sophomore class en
ter and station themselves at different points in the room,
while one, who appeared to be the leader of the company,
slowly advanced toward him.
In an instant it flashed upon Geoffrey that he was
about to be subjected to that terror of all freshmen haz
ing it being before the days when the practice fell into
such disfavor as at present.
For a moment he was indignant at this intrusion ; then
he said to himself :
.GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE. 47
"If thy ara not unreasonable I'll make the best of it, .
and let them have their fun."
He arose from his table and turned to meet the young
man approaching him, a genial smile on his handsome face.
But, as if suddenly arrested by some supernatural
power, both young men stopped transfixed, and gazed at
each other with undisguised astonishment, while expres
sions of wonder passed from lip to lip among those who
were looking on.
And it was no wonder, for those two standing in the
center of the room might well have been twin brothers
instead of utter strangers, for they appeared to be exactly
alike in form, and feature, and bearing.
Both were fair, with nut-broAvn hair and blue eyes.
Both were tall and well-developed, with a proud bearing
that would have made them conspicuous anywhere, al
though a critical observer might have noticed that Geof
frey was more firmly built, more muscular, perhaps ; thus
showing greater strength than the other.
The intruder was the first to recover himself, however,
and remarked, with a toss of his fine/ head and a long
drawn breath :
"I say, Huntress, this is downright queer! We came
to give you a little surprise party, and you've completely
taken the wind out of our sails to begin with. I could
almost swear that I was looking at my own reflection in
a glass. Who are you, anyway? Give us a history of your
antecedents."
"Gentlemen, you have the advantage of me," Geoffrey
politely returned, as he glanced from face to face. " You
appear to know me by name be good enough to tell me
whom I have the honor to entertain, then I shall be happy
to answer your questions."
"Well, I must say you're a cool one for a 'fresh,'" re
turned the other, with a light laugh, "but we can't stop
for formal introductions all round. Since I am master of
ceremonies for the evening, I will introduce myself as
Everet Mapleson at your service. I am a Southerner by
birth son of Col. William Mapleson, of ' Vue de 1'Eau,'
Virginia. Now, for your genealogy, young man."
Geoffrey colored.
Young Mapleson's tone was offensive in the extreme,
while his manner said as plainly as manner could say, "I
belong to one of the F. F. V's beat that record if you
can," and Geoffrey's first impulse was to refuse to comply
with his authoritative demand.
48 9HE EAZBR HAZED,
But he had heard something of the indignities which
sophomores sometimes heaped upon unlucky freshmen,
and after a moment of thought he quietly replied :
"My genealogy is not a remarkable one. I am an
orphan, having lost my parents at a very early age, but I
have been reared and educated by an uncle, Mr. Hun
tress, of Brooklyn, New York."
"Is that so?" drawled the young Southerner, with lan
guid insolence. "Then it's a very singular coincidence,
our being the double of each other. Why, one would be
almost tempted to swear that the Mapleson blood flows
in your veins; but since my governor and I are the very
last of our race, that can't be possible, and it can only be
accounted for, I suppose, as a strange freak of nature."
Geoffrey simply bowed in reply to these remarks ; his
blood ^egan to boil at his visitor's assumption of superior
ity, and his fingers began to tingle to take him by the
collar and walk him out of the room.
"However," young Mapleson resumed, rubbing his
white hands and winking at his comrades, "we must not
be diverted from the object of our visit. We have called
upon you, Mr. Huntress, to test your powers of oratory ;
you will kindly favor us with a speech. Be seated, my
fellow sophs."
Everet Mapleson helped himself to the easiest chair in
the room, and waved his hand toward his companions as
a signal for them to do likewise.
Geoffrey saw by the expectant faces around him that
there would be no reprieve for him, and though he in-
wardly rebelled against having his privacy thus uncere
moniously invaded, and at being peremptorily ordered
about by a conceited fellow younger than himself, as
Mapleson evidently was, yet he knew he would get off
easier if he made light of his uncomfortable situation and
indulged their caprice, at least to a reasonable extent.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HAZER HAZED.
Accordingly Geoffrey smiled and bowed, remarking, in
an off-hand way t
"I fear that my powers as orator will be somewhat dis
appointing to you, gentlemen ; nevertheless, I will favor
you to the extent of my ability."
TH 3 HAZR HAZED. 49
Assuming a somewhat exaggerated attitude of dig
nity, he began reciting one of Cicero's orations, rendering
it in the original with perfect ease and fluency, while his
audience listened as if spell-bound to the smoothly rolling
sentences.
But this display did not satisfy Mapleson. He insisted
that Geoffrey should give a recitation in a reversed posi
tion the speaker standing on his head.
This proposal was received with shouts of" Shame 1"
"No, no !" "You are going too far, Everet !"
Geoffrey's eyes glowed with indignation, and a spot of
vivid scarlet settled on each cheek. He saw that the
young Southerner intended to degrade him.
"I think you have made a serious mistake," said Geof
frey, boldly approaching Everet Mapleson, "if you ex
pect to humiliate me. If you are sure that these gentle
men will not be satisfied until they see how I woura look
standing in a reversed attitude "
"Quite sure, ami we'll soon prove it if you don't get
about it," was the satirical interruption.
"Then I will give you a text from the ancient Phcedrus,
and at the same time gratify your friends by proxy."
Geoffrey made a sudden spring as he uttered those last
words, seized the young Southerner about the waist,
whirled him to the floor quick as a flash, and grasping
him by the legs, held him aloft in this reversed position
with a grip of iron, while he repeated, in a voice of thun
der, that Latin maxim :
" Scepe intereunt aliis meditantes necem. Often they
who plot the destruction of others become the victims of
their own machinations."
Then he released his hold upon the young man, politely
assisted him to rise to his feet, and making a profound
bow before him, gravely remarked :
" I think I hare satisfied all requirements. I have showm
your friends, if not you, how I should look standing oa
my head, while I have given you a quotation which may
prove useful to you in the future."
It had all been done so quickly and so resolutely that
there had scarcely been time for the others to interfere
had they been so disposed ; hardly time, even, for Maple-
son himself to resist, he had been so completely taken by
surprise, while every one was amazed at the wonderful
strength and dexterity that Geoffrey displayed.
But once more on his feet, Mapleson flew into a white
heat of rage.
60 THE HAZER HAZED.
All his hot Southern blood was up, and he dashed at
Geoffrey with blazing eyes, crimson face, and with fists
clenched and uplifted as if to smite him to the floor.
But Geoffrey caught him by the wrists, with a grip that
rendered him instantly powerless, while he said, with the
utmost good nature :
"Mr. Mapleson, you are no match for me; I measured
you well before I touched you ; my muscles and sinewa
are like iron from long gymnastic training, so I advise
you not to waste your strength. I am sorry to have of
fended you, but this affair was none of my seeking, and
you tried my patience altogether too far. I have simply
acted in self-defense."
But Mapleson had lost his head entirely, and blustered
and swore in the most passionate manner, while his com
rades .,were so struck with admiration for Geoffrey and
his masterly self-control in the face of such excessive
provocation, that not one of them was disposed to meddle
in the quarrel.
" Let go ! you cold-blooded Yankee !" Everet Mapleson
cried, hoarsely, through his tightly locked teeth.
"I will release you, Mapleson, but you must not try the
same thing again," Geoffrey returned, with quiet firm
ness, and instantly loosed his hold upon the young man's
wrists.
With another violent oath, quick as a flash, and before
any one suspected his intention, Mapleson whipped out a
pistol from an inner pocket, cocked and pointed it at
Geoffrey.
What might have been the result no one can tell, if a
young man named Abbott had not dashed forward, and
thrown up his arm.
The next instant he had wrenched the weapon from his
grasp.
"Are you mad, Mapleson?" he cried; "we shall have
the whole faculty down upon us if you trifle with such a
plaything, and then there will be a fine row."
The other sophomores now gathered around and tried
to pacify their enraged leader, but he only grew the more
furious and vowed that he would yet have the Yan
kee's heart's blood for his insolence in laying hands upon
him.
"No, no, Mape, you drove him to it," interposed one;
"you can't blame him, and you would have done the
same had you been in his place."
"Who ever heard of a 'fresh' getting the upper hand
A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 51
of a half-dozen 'sophs' before?" he retorted, angrily.
"You're a set of cowards, every one of you."
Two of the students seized Maplesou by the arms, and
he was forced from the room, muttering threats of ven
geance as he passed out.
When Geoffrey was at length left alone, he closed and
locked his door, and then sat down and fell into troubled
thought.
He was sure that he had made a- bitter and lasting
enemy of the young man, and he regretted it, for Geoff rey
Huntress was one who loved to be at peace with all
mankind ; but he could only wait patiently to see how the
matter would end, and having reached this conclusion,
he resumed his interrupted studies. But he could not put
his mind upon them, for all at once the remarkable re
semblance between himself and the young Southerner be
gan to haunt him.
Could it be possible that any of the same blood flowed
in their veins? If so, how?
Why was Everet Mapleson the favored son of a proud
and wealthy father, while had been a poor, demented
outcast, abandoned in the streets of a large city and left
to his fate.
CHAPTER IX.
A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.
Several days went by, and Geoffrey heard nothing
more either of or from the sophomores who had attempted
to haze him
Neither did he happen to meet any of them on his way
to or from his recitations, and he hoped that the occur
rence would gradually be forgotten and occasion no more
trouble.
He did not mention it to any one, and he bore none of
the actors any ill-will, for he well knew that hazing had
been an established custom in many colleges, and that
every freshman was liable to be subjected to the ordeal.
But the affair was destined to be more serious, eventu
ally, than he imagined an occurrence of that kind could
ever become.
Young Mapleson realized, as soon as his passion began
to cool somewhat, that he should be obliged to relinquish
all thoughts of retaliation for a season, for none of hia
62 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.
comrades would bear him out in any plan for revenge ;
but he vowed in his heart that there should yet come a
day of reckoning between himself and Huntress for the
indignity to which he had been subjected before his
companions.
He was furious with them for not having come to his
release, and he raved over the affair all the way back to
his room after leaving Geoffrey's.
But they made light of it, and tried to pass the whole
thing off as a joke. This only enraged him the more, al
though he began to see the wisdom of keeping still about
it, since he could get no sympathy from them.
Tuere is no telling what rash act he might not have
committed if he had been allowed to go and come as
usual while this fierce mood lasted. But he had wrought
himself into an excessive perspiration, and then going out
into the chill night air afterward, he had taken a violent
cold, and for three weeks he was confined to his room
with a threatened fever.
At the end of that time, although his anger had not
abated one whit toward Geoffrey, and he was no less de
termined to have his revenge, he had come to see the
wisdom of refraining from all rashness which might re
bound injuriously upon himself, and he resolved to con
ceal his purpose in his own breast and watch his oppor-
tunity to strike his foe down at some time in the future,
when the blow would be felt with bitter force.
So, upon recovering his usual health, he resumed his
studies and his intercourse with his fellow-students as if
nothing had occurred to ruffle him, and those who had
participated in the hazing of Geoffrey Huntress imagined
that the unpleasant affair had blown safely over and be
come a thing of the past.
Thus the fall and winter passed.
Meantime Gladys was winning golden opinions for her
self at Vassar.
Study was a perfect delight to her, consequently excel
lence in every department was but a natural result.
The name of Gladys Huntress became the synonym
for all that was learned and brilliant in her class, and
there was not one who did not predict that the first honor
should be conferred upon her at the end of the course.
No one appeared to be jealous of her, either, on ac
count of it, for she was a general favorite with both
teachers and scholars, always having a pleasant word and
a kiiid smile for everybody.
A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 63
During the recess, which occurred between the winter
and spring terms of her second year at Vassar, she was
in New York city for a few days with her chosen friend
and roommate, Addie Loring.
There was considerable shopping to be done to prepare
for the warm weather, dress-making to atiend to, besides
a gay round of social duties, and the two girls were all
the time in a delightful flutter of business and pleas
ure.
One morning, after a long siege of shopping, feeling
both weary and hungry, they entered an up-town cafe to
obtain a lunch and rest a little before going home.
At the cashier's desk near the door, as they stepped in
side, there stood a tall, handsome young n:an in the act
of paying for his dinner.
Gladys caught sight of him in an instant, and she
Started and flushed a vivid crimson.
Then a smile of joy illumined her whole face as ghe
sprang forward, and, laying her hand lightly on the
young man's arm, exclaimed in delighted tones :
"Why, Geoffrey, where did you drop from ? I imagined
you a solitary recluse at Yale, and hard at work over
Latin and Greek, 'to gain time' as you wrote in your last
letter."
The young man turned quickly as the sweet, lady-like
voice fell upon his ear, his whole body thrilling at that
light touch upon his arm, and found himself face to lace
with the most beautiful girl be had ever seen.
A tall, slender, perfect form, clad in a bewitching suit
of modest gray, stood before him. Her emJl head was
proudly poised on a pair of graceful shoulders, and
crowned with a jaunty turban of gray velvet in which
there gleamed a scarlet feather. The face v as delicate in
outline, with lovely features and a c< mplexion of pure
white and rose. Her eyes of dark blue were lighted with
surprise and gladness, her lips wreathed with a tender
smile of welcome which parted them just enough to re
veal the small, milk-white teeth between.
A look of admiration shot into the young man's eyes,
and then they began to gleam with an>uptnicnt.
He raised his hat with all the gallantry of which he
was master, and bowed low, as be replied :
"You have made a slight mistake, lady. I do not an
swer to the name by which you have addressed me, al
though I might be tempted to do so, perhaps, if I could
thereby secure the pleasure of your acquaintance. Allow
54 A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.
me," he concluded, drawing a card from his pocket-book,
and respectfully presenting it to her.
At the first sound of his voice Gladys was conscious
that she had made a dreadful blunder, and she was in
stantly covered with confusion.
She knew at once that this man could not be Geoffrey,
and yet who was he? So like him in face and form, with
his very eyes and hair, and that familiar way of throw
ing up his head when suddenly addressed !
"Everet Mapleson, Richmond, Virginia," she read upon
the card that he had given her, and instantly the startled
thought shot through her mind : "Can it be possible that
he and Geoffrey are related ?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Mapleson," she said, recover
ing herself somewhat, while she searched his face for
something by which she could distinguish him from Geof
frey. " I perceive that I have made a mistake, but you
so strangely resemble my Mr. Geoffrey Huntress ihat I
mistook you for him."
She had been about to say " my brother," but suddenly
checked herself, for, since Geoffrey had shown so much of
his heart to her and she had begun to analyze her own
feelings toward him, she had been very shy about calling
him brother.
"Ah! Mr. Geoffrey Huntress," repeated Everet Maple-
son, with a quick flash from his eyes, while his keen mind
at once made a shrewd guess, and argued therefrom that
this beautiful girl must be either the sister or the cousin
of his enemy. "I have met that gentleman, for I also am
a student at Yale." he continued, "and pardon my bold
ness I presume I now have the pleasure of meeting his
sistor. Miss Huntress."
"No, I am not his sister, Mr. Mapleson," Gladys re
plied, her color coming and going in soft, little sunrise
flushes, ''but we are members of the same family, and
I am Miss Huntress."
" Ah, yes excuse me you are cousins, I presume.
Huntress once told mp that he was reared by an uncle. I
am sorrv, upon my word," he went on, with an appealing
look, " if our singular resemblance has caused you any
annoyance to-day; pray think no more of it since it was
a very natural mistake. We are often addressed by each
other's name indeed, we are known at Yale as 'the mys
terious double. 1 "
All the time the young man was speaking he was closely
observing the young girl.
A ZTRASGE ENCOUNTER. 55
He had noticed her fluctuating color when she spoke
of Geoffrey ; he remarked the tender inflection of her
voice as she uttered his name, and how eager she. had been
to correct his mistake in supposing them to be brother
and sister.
"They are cousins perhaps not first cousins, either,
and the girl loves him," he said to himself. "Of course
he returns her affection no fellow in his senses could
help it. I wonder how it would work if I should try my
own luck in this direction. I have never paid off that old
grudge against him, and this would be a fine way to set
tle it."
But Gladys, all unconscious of this secret plotting
against her own and Geoffrey's happiness, looked up with
a merry smile at his words to her, and remarked :
"The resemblance is surely very striking, although your
voices are unlike. I knew the moment you spoke that I
had made a mistake, and my apparent rudeness must
have been quite startling to you," she concluded, color
ing again as she remembered how eagerly she had ap
proached him and laid her hand upon his arm.
' : ' No, indeed ; you are very hard upon yourself, Miss
Huntress. Believe me I shall consider the incident a most
fortunate circumstance if I may be allowed to consider it
as a formal introduction to you, and thus secure the
pleasure of your acquaintance."
He was so gentlemanly and affable, so refined in his
language and manner, that Gladys thought him very
agreeable, and, since he claimed to know Geoffrey, she
thought there could be no possible harm in receiving him
as an acquaintance.
Still she was not quite sure that it would be proper,
end this made her a little guarded in her reply.
"I am always glad to meet any of Geoffrey's friends,"
she said, with one of her charming smiles; bur if she
could have known how he cringed under her words, and
what venomous hatred was rankling in his heart against
him who was her ideal of all manly excellence, she would
have fled from him in dismay.
But. nothing of this nor of the miserable plot which was
rapidly taking form in his mind appeared on the surface,
while before he could frame a suitable reply Gladys
turned quickly and drew Addie Loring to her side. Rav
ine: :
" Allow me to introduce my friend Miss Loring, Mr.
Mapleson."
56 MRS. BREVORT'S RECEPTION.
He lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the presenta
tion while he was still inwardly chafing over that last
guarded speech of hers.
"She wouldn't look at me if she knew the truth," he
thought, "and that clever cousin will be letting it all out
when he learns that we have met. Never mind. I'll make
hay while the sun shines, and do my best to ingratiate
myself with her before he finds it out ; she's dusedly pretty
and it would suit me finely if I could cut him out."
He detained the young ladies for a few moments longer
for he had the power of making himself very agreeable
when he chose then Addie Loring pulled forth a little
gem of a watch and remarked, with a look of surprise :
"Gladys, dear, we promised mamma to be at home by
four, and it is nearly three now, while we have flowers
yet to get for Mrs. Brevort's reception."
Everet Mapleson's heart gave a great bound at these
last words, for the friends at whose house he was visit
ing also had cards for Mrs. Brevort's reception, and he
mentally resolved that he would grace that lady's elegant
drawing-room with his presence that evening, although
he and Al Vanderwater had previously planned for some
thing entirely different.
He took pretty Miss Loring's hint, however, begged
pardon for having detained them so long, then made hia
adieus and passed out of the cafe, while the young girls
moved forward to an empty table, where they chatted
over the strange encounter as they ate their '"-earn and
cake.
CHAPTER X.
MRS. BREVORT'S RECEPTION.
Gladys Huntress was very beautiful that evening when
she entered Mrs. Brevort's drawing-room, leaning on the
arm of Mrs. Loring, who was to present her to their
hostess, while Addie and her mother followed close
behind.
Her dress was blue, of elegant surah, which fell in soft,
graceful folds around her, its long train making her
most perfect figure seem almost regal.
Tt was cut. front and back, with a V shaped bodice, and
this was filled in with a profusion of soft filmv lno,
gathered close about her white throat, and fastened with
a string of rare, gleaming pearls.
MRS. BRsroRra RECEPTION. 87
Her beautiful arms, round and as smooth as marble,
were also covered, but not concealed, by sleeves of lace.
Her nut-brown hair, which shone like finest satin, had
all been drawn up and coiled around the top of her head
like a gleaming coronet, while a few soft, silken rings
curled charmingly about her pure forehead.
There was not a flower nor an ornament about her any
where excepting that string of pearls, but the very sim
plicity of her toilet was artistic and just adapted to en
hance her beauty of face and form.
Everet Mapleson saw her the moment that she entered
the room ; indeed, he had been watching her for a half-
hour or more, and his eyes glowed with admiration.
" She is a hundred fold more lovely than I thought her
this afternoon," he said, under his breath. "I shall love
that girl, if I allow myself to see much of her. And why
not? I believe I will set myself regularly at work to win
her; thus I shall not only secure a, charming little wife,
but accomplish my revenge, also, for the indignity that I
have received from Tits hands."
He watched Gladys, while she was presented to the
hostess, and was charmed with the ease and grace of her
manners.
"She belongs, evidently, to a good family; she has
been well reared," he continued, "even my critical and
aristocratic mamma could not fail to be satisfied with her
as a daughter, although she is not particularly partial to
Northern women. She reminds me of some one, too. I
wonder who it can be? There is something strangely
familiar in the proud way that she carries herself."
He moved toward another portion of the room, as he
saw Gladys and her friends pass on, and, seeking Mrs.
"Vanderwater, who, by the way, was the mother of Albert
Van der water, Everet Mapleson's chum and especial
fnVnd at Yale, he asked :
"Do you know the party of people who have just en- j
tered that gentleman with three ladies?"
"Oh, yes; they are the Lorings. Mr. Loring is a
wealthy Wall stroet broker. His wife is a daughter of
the late Colonel Elwell, and their daughter, Miss Addfo, ?s
a charming voung lady, not to mention the fart that sh is
the only child and the heiress to a great deal of money."
"Introduce me, will you?" asked Everet, eagerly.
"To be sure I will ; but is it the money or the beauty
that attract* you most?" queried the ladv. roguishly.
"I will tell you later," retorted the young man, in the
68 MRS. BREVORTS RECEPTION.
same vein ; "but you did not say who that young lady is
who accompanies them," he concluded, as it his attention
had but just been drawn toward her.
"No, I do not know myself; she is a stranger, but a
very lovely one," is she not ? Really, I do not believe there
is another lady in the room so beautiful. Come, I have a
curiosity to know who she is myself, and we will beg
Mrs. Loring for an introduction."
Thus Everet Mapleson managed to secure a formal in
troduction to the Lorings and Gladys through one of the
leaders of New York society.
He knew that there could be no exceptions taken to
any one whom Mrs. Vanderwater vouched for, and there
fore the young girl would have no excuse for avoiding
him on the score of not having been properly presented to
him.
But she received him very graciously, even referring in
a laughing way to their previous meeting earlier in the
day, thus showing him she would not have been the least
hit prudish about recognizing him, even without Mrs.
Vanderwater's reassuring presence.
He soon after searched out his friend Al, whom he
presented to Miss Loring, and then left him to be enter
tained by her while he devoted himself exclusively to
Gladys.
They danced together several times, and he managed to
pecure her company during supper, while afterward they
had a social chat in Mrs. Brevort's charming little pic
ture-gallery, where there were several works of rare
value.
But the only picture which Everet Mapleson seemed to
consider worthy of his regard was an exquisite face,
framed in lustrous brown hair, with the bluest eyes that
he had ever seen, and whose every expression only served
to wind the silken chain of his bondage, the chain of love,
more closely about him.
Gladys, on her part, was strangely moved by the young
man's presence.
He was Geoffrey a.nd yet he was not.
Several times she almost forgot herself and was on the
point of addressing him in the old familiar way which she
had always adopted toward her father's protege, and only
restrained herself in season to prevent herself from ap
pearing bold and forward.
Everet Mapleson found her eyes fixed upon him with
great earnestness several times, and he knew that she
MRS. BREVORT'S RECEPTION. 69
was measuring him by her estimate of Geoffrey Huntress.
It nettled him exceedingly, for he was only too con
scious of hi own inferiority.
"Well, Miss Huntress, are you, like many others, try
ing to solve within yourself the mystery of my resem
blance to your cousin, that you observe me so closely,"
he asked, with an amused smile, upon finding her gaze
riveted upon his face instead of the picture betore which
they were standing.
Gladys blushed slightly.
"I shall have to plead guilty, Mr. Mapleson," she con<
fessed. " I trust you will excuse me if I have appeared
rude, but, really, to me it seems the strangest thing im
aginable."
"It is, indeed," he said, and added to himself :" and
dusedly uncomfortable to me, too."
" I wonder if you are not in some way related," Gladys
said, musingly, and more to herself than to him.
Everet Mapleson's face darkened.
"I do not think so," he answered, curtly. "He is a
Northerner I was born at the South. My father is a
{Southern gentleman, and has always resided near Rich-
mon, Virginia, excepting during the war, when he was in
the field or camp most of the time, and a year or two
that he spent traveling in Europe."
Gladys was conscious of a slight feeling of resentment
toward her companion during this speech. The emphasis
which he had, perhaps unconsciously, expended upon his
personal pronouns, and the fact of his father being a
"Southern gentleman," implied a sense of superiority
which grated harshly upon her ear.
" Is your mother also a native of the South ?" she asked.
"Oh, yes ; and my mother is a most magnificent woman,
too, Miss Huntress," the young man returned, with a
kindling face.
Gadys ? heart softened a trifle toward him at this. If
he loved his mother like that there must be some good in
him, she thought.
" Have you brothers and sisters?" she inquired.
u No, I am the only child. I was born within a year
after my parents' marriage, and there have been no other
children."
"Do you resemble your father or mother?"
" My father. My mother has often told me that I am very
like what he was at my age ; but there is a portrait of
my grandfather Mapleson at home, which, but for the
60 MRS. BREVORT 8 RECEPTION.
ancient style of dress, you would believe had been taken
for me ; tiie resemblance is every bit as striking as that
between Huntress and me."
"Has your father no brothers or sisters?" Gladys
asked.
Everet Mapleson looked surprised.
He knew ihat she was trying to account in some way
for Geoffrey Huntress' likeness to himself ; but, surely,
he thought, she must know all about her cousin's par
entage and their connections, and it was a little singular
that she should be so persistent in her inquiries regarding
the Mapleson genealogy.
"No, "he replied; "my father was an only son. He
had a sister, but she died while very young. The only
other connections that I know anything about were an
uncle who made my father his heir, and a distant cousin
a very eccentric sort of person. Both, however, are
long since dead, and both died single. The Mapleson
family was never a numerous one, and it is now almost
extinct. I see, Miss Huntress," he added, with a slight
smile in which Gladys thought she detected something of
scorn, "that you are trying to account for this resem
blance upon natural principles; but it is simply impos
sible that we are in any way connected. The fact can
only be attributable to a strange freak of nature."
"Possibly," Gladys returned, thoughtfully, and yet she
was impressed that there was more in it than Mr. Maple-
son appeared willing to allow.
She did not feel well enough acquainted with him to
speak of the mystery surrounding Geoffrey's parentage
and his early life. It is doubtful if she would have told
him, under any circumstances, because of Geoffrey's
sensitiveness upon the subject, still she was strangely
impressed by their resemblance.
The evening was one of keen enjoyment to Everet
Mapleson, and when at length Gladys withdrew with her
friends, he accompanied her to the carriage and assisted
her to enter.
"I have rarely enjoyed a pleasanter evening, Miss
Huntress, and I hope we shall meet again before I leare
the city," he said, as he handed her the extra wrap which
hung over his arm and stood a moment beside the car
riage door.
"Then come and call upon us, Mr. Mapleson ; the young
ladies will be together for a few days longer," said Mrs.
Loring, who had overheard this remark ; and having
MARGHlY. 61
learned from some source that he belonged to one of the
F. F. V's, she was anxious to cultivate his acquaintance
for Addie's sake.
CHAPTER XI.
MARGERY.
Everet Mapleson availed himself of Mrs. Loring's invi
tation, and called the second morning afier Mrs. Brevort's
reception, to pay his respects to the young ladies.
He was fortunate enough to liud them both at home,
and both were charmingly entertaining.
Addie Loring was a merry little body, and no one could
ever be dull wiien in her society.
Gladys was more reserved and dignified in her bearing,
but she possessed a peculiar fascination which instantly
attracted everybody, and, taking the two together, it
would have been difficult, go the world over, to have
found a more entertaining couple than they.
Everet Mapleson was beguiled into a call of a full hour
a delightful hour it was, too, to them all and looked his
dismay when finally, glancing at his watch, he found how
the time had slipped away.
Addie Loring laughed merrily, when she saw the ex
pression on his face, and caught his well-bred, " I had no
idea it was so late."
"Pray, Mr. Mapleson, do not look so disturbed," she
cried ; " there is no fine for such an offense, and you are
absolved even before confession, for this time."
vi But I have overstepped all bounds. I have been here
a whole hour, and this my first call, too."
"How dreadful!'' laughed the litlle lady, roguishly.
"Pray, tell me, what is the Southern rule for first calls?"
"Twenty minutes, or half an hour, at most."
" I am glad I do not live at the South then Why, one
would hardly get through talking about the weather in
that time."
" Miss Loring, I protest ; there has not been one word
said about the weather this morning," retorted the young
man, thinking that she was very nearly as pretty as
Gladys, as she stood before him in that graceful attitude,
her head perched saucily on one side, a mocking smile
on her red lips.
"True; but this wasn't a formal call, you know, for
which *ve both feel very much obliged to you, I am sure.
62 MAEQERT.
People usually begin upon the weather when they make
ceremonious visits, and that is about all there is to say.
It is really refreshing to have had such a breezy hour as
this. Pray come again, Mr. Mapleson, and don't bring
your watch next time ; at least, don't IOOK at it if it is
going to make you uncomfortable," replied Miss Loring,
with charming cordiality.
"Thank you ; you are so indulgent and your invitation
is so alluring that 1 am sure I shall not be able to resist
it," he answered, as he shook hands with her. Then he
turned to Gladys, and added: ' May I assume that you
indorse all that your friend has said, Miss Huntress?"
a It has, indeed, been a very pleasant hour, Mr. Maple-
eon if an hour has really slipped by since you came in
and I shall be happy to meet you again, although I re
main only a very few days longer with Miss Loring," she
replied.
Mr. Mapleson's face clouded at this.
"Surely your vacation is not nearly over yet?" he
Buid.
" Oh, no ; but I only promised Addie a week ; there are
but two, and papa and mamma will want me at home the
other."
"Allow me to ask where is your home, Miss Huntress?"
"In Brooklyn."
" True ; I had forgotten. I remember that Huntress
told me he resided in Brooklyn," Everet said, aware that
the " City of Churches" was quite convenient to New
York, and that he could run over there as easily as to
come way up town to the Lorings.
" We are not going to give Gladys up until Saturday,
Mr. Mapleson," Miss Loring here interposed, "for Thurs
day evening we give a reception in her-honor ; the cards
were issued several days ago. It is rather late to offer
you one, but if you will accept it, we shall be glad to see
you with our other guests."
Everet Mapleson was only too glad to get it, even at
?.hat late date, and, with thanks, he took the envelope
tvhich Miss Loring proffered him, and expressed the pleas
ure it would afford him to accept her invitation.
He then bowed himself out, more than ever in love
with beautiful Gladys Huntress, and more than ever de
termined to win her love in return.
He took a car down town, leaving it near Grace Church,
on Broadway, to go to a certain club-house, where he was
to meet his friend Vanderwater.
MARGEliY. 63
On his way thither he passed a flower-stand behind
which there sat a woman who appeared to be about titty
years of age.
fcihe was an unusually tidy and lespectable looking per
son to be a street vender ot flowers, and she Lad a rare
and choice collection for that season of the year, and they
were arranged in a really artistic manner.
It was this! arrangement which attracted Everet luaple-
son's attention, for he was a great adnriier ot : iiouers,
and was rarely seen anywhere without some bud or spiay
in his button-hole.
He bad worn heliotrope to-day during his call, but it
was wilted and discolored, and be paused now before tbe
stand to replace it with something else.
He selected one exquisite rosebud nestling between its
dark green leaves, and taking out a piece of silver, ne
tossed it over the vases into the woman's lap, and then
would have passed on without waiting /or h;s change, but
that she had put out her hand to detain him.
t5he had given a start of surprise and uttered a low cry
the moment he had stopped befoie her, but be had not
noiiced it, and she had not taken her eyes ficm his luce
during all the time that he was making his selectic iJ.
As nhe looked she began to tremble, her lij H quivered,
her eyes filled with tears, and she breathed with cifli-
culiy, as if overcome with some powerful emotion.
Her face was wrinkled and sad, showing that she must
have passed through some terrible grief. Her hair was
very gray, and there was a white seam or sc?tr til.ove her
right temple, the mark of an injury received years bffrre.
"Oh,' 1 she ciied, putting out her I'nnd to detain him as
he was turning away. "Oh, Geoffrey, have you forgotien
Marge i y :'
Everet stopped short, looked back, and attentiv ( ]y
scanned the woman's face.
"'^Inrgery !'" he repeated. "J never know anybody of
that name, nnd mine isn't ("Jeoflrey, either, my w( n;;m,"
he said, somewhat brusquely, for it i ettled him when
ever ho heard that nanu, which 1 e h,-;d prown to dit-like
so much.
" Hurely my eyes cfin't dereix e n o. 1 ' rctui-ned the ilower-
vender, oni-nestly. "J could never loiget tho (ieir boy
tlifit I nursed nnd tended during the first five years of his
life. Can't you r n ( n 1 <T nu-, dpnrie? HRV<
ton Lhe chickens rno tie r; 1 I il old Chuck, the
iii (1 the t\vo iitt.. Kittens. Ah ! try to tliink, Master
64 MARGERY.
Geoffrey, and tell me what became of Jack after he gave
you that dreadful blow and then ran away with you when
he left me for dead, so many years ago."
"What under the sun is the old creature talking about ?"
murmured Everet, with a perplexed look.
"I'd readily forgive him for the hurt that he gave me,"
the woman went on, unheeding him, "and overlook the
past, if I could only set eyes on him once more and feel
that I wasn't all alone in the world in rny old age ; it's
hard not to hare a single soul to care for you. Sure, I
can't see how you could forget Margery, when you were
BO fond of her in those old days."
"I tell you my name is not Geoffrey," repeated Maple-
eon. "You are thinking of some one else. I do not know
anything about Jack, or his striking anybody, and then
running away, and I never saw you until this mo
ment. "
The poor woman was weeping now, and moaning in a
low, heart-broken way that made the young man pity
her, in spite of his irritability.
"You must have forgotten," she responded, wiping her
fast falling tears. "Perhaps the cruel blow Jack gave you
hurt your memory and whatever could he have done
with you after he took you away from the old home that
night? It breaks my heart that -you don't know me,
dearie, for I served your poor mother so faithfully when
you were a wee baby. She was the sweetest little body
that the sun ever shone on so gentle, and kind, too, with
a face like a lily and eyes as blue as heaven. Poor boy !
You never realized your loss when she died, for Margery
promised to care for you as if you were her very own,
and she did. You were the pride of my heart during all
those five blessed years."
"You have made a mistake, my good woman," Everet
said, more gently, for her grief and pathetic rambling
touched him.
He believed that he had run across an old nurse of
Geoffrey Huntress, for he remembered now that he had
said he lost his parents when very young, and he did not
wonder that she had mistaken him for her former nurs
ling.
But it angered him so to talk of his enemy that he
would not take the trouble to tell her anything about him,
and he never dreamed how near he was to discovering
what had been a sealed mystery for many long years.
"My name is Everet," he went on, "and my mother is
MARGERY. C*
not dead, neither has she a face like a lily she is dark,
with a rich color and brilliant black eyes."
The woman appeared still more perplexed and troubled
by this statement.
She wagged her head slowly from side to side, as if she
could not reconcile his assertions with her belief.
"Your mother's name was Annie " she began.
"No, my mother's name is Estelle."
"Estelle," she repeated, searching his face keenly;
"that might have been her other name. Didn't she have
bright, beautiful brown hair, and a sweet, gentle way
with her ?"
"No ; her hair is as black as a raven's wing, and no
one would ever think of describing her as 'sweet and gen
tle,'" the young Southerner replied, with a smile, as a
vision of the magnificent woman who reigned in his home
arose before him, " but proud and imperious. She is like
some beautiful queen."
" And is she your own mother?" questioned the flower-
vender, eagerly.
"Yes, my own mother, and I am her only child."
"Well, well, it is very strange," sighed the poor wo
man, tears of disappointment again filling her eyes. "I
was so sure that I had found my boy at last. I've been
hunting for him these eighteen years. It isn't much won
der that I mistook you, though, for you couldn't be more
like him if you were his twin ; and yet he mayn't look
like you at all, now that he's grown up. Ah, Jack, peace
to your soul if you've gone the way of all the earth, but
where under heaven did you leave the child ?"
She dropped her head upon her breast and kept on with
her muttering, apparently convinced at last that she had
made a mistake.
Everet Mapleson stood irresolute a moment, half
tempted to tell her where she could find Geoffrey, and yet
obstinately averse to doing anything for one whom he so
disliked.
He was in a hurry, too, for it was already past the time
that he had appointed to meet young Vandewater, and he
was unwilling to be detained any longer to answer the
questions of a garrulous old woman, so he went unheeded
on his way.
All the way to the club-house she was in his thoughts.
Without doubt, he reasoned, she had been a servant in
the Huntress family, and probably after Geoffrey's adop
tion by his uncle she had lost track of her charge,
66 THK RECEPTION.
perhaps by a change of residence on her part or
his.
He could not seem to understand her reference to the
dreadful blow that Jack had given the boy, nor to his
running away with him afterward and leaving his wife,
as he evidently believed, dead.
The more he thought it over the more strange it ap
peared, and the more interested he became regarding
the matter. Possibly there might be something connected
with Geoffrey Huntress' history which he might be able
to use against him in his future scheming.
"1 will go back by and -by and question her some
more," he muttered, as he reached the club-house, ran up
the steps, and entered the elegant vestibule.
He did not return that day, however, but the next he
made it in his way to pass the spot where Margery had
had her flower-stand the previous morning.
But she was no longer there. Flowers, stand, and ven
der had all disappeared, and although Everet sought her
several times after that he did not see her again during
his stay in the city.
He was greatly disappointed, for the more he consid
ered the affair the more he became convinced that there
was something which he might have learned of Geoffrey
Huntress' life and parentage that would ha,ve been to his
T\vn advantage, and he blamed himself severely for hav
ing neglected his opportunity.
CHAPTER XII.
THE RECEPTION.
Mrs. Loring's reception on Thursday evening proved to
be a, very brilliant one.
It was given nominally in honor of Gladys, but it really
was as much for the sake of the daughter of the house,
who was the pride and darling of her fond parents'
hearts, rmd her taste was consulted, her lightest wish
gratified, in every arrangement.
The elegant mansion was beautifully decorated for the
occasion.
A platform had been extended fifty feet from the broad
south balcony and inclosed like a, pavilion for dancing,
while one of the finest ba,nds in New York had been se
cured to discourse sweet music to entice tripping feet, and
THE RECEPTION. 67
an elaborate supper had been ordered from Deimonico's.
Mr. and Mrs. Huntress were, of course, among the in
vited guests, and Geoffrey had also been sent for and
pressed to honor the occasion with his presence, for
Gladys' sake.
He had sent a telegram in reply, saying that he would
come if possible, but at nine o'clock he had not appeared,
and Gladys turned eagerly toward the door at every
fresh arrival, hoping to see him enter.
Mr. Mapleson had not failed to present himself at an
early hour, when he immediately constituted himself
Gladys' most devoted attendant, and was so persistent
and marked in his attentions that the young girl began
to feel a trifle uncomfortable and anxious, lest matters
should grow more serious than she desired.
" Papa, where do you suppose Geoff is?" she inquired,
with a troubled face, as Mr. Huntress ame up to her,
while Everet 7-taplesoii was doing his utmost to be agree
able.
Mr. Huntress had been introduced to the young man
earlier in the evening, and had been startled, as everyone
elso v,-ns, by his singular resemblance to the boy whom
he had reared, and he had resolved to make some inqui
ries of him regarding his connections, hoping thus to gain
some light upon Geoffrey's early life.
"I do not know, dear," the erentleman replied to his
daughter s question ; "it is surely time that he was here.
Possibly something detained him at the last moment, and
he could not leave."
"Oh, I hope not ; the evening will be spoiled if he does
not come," Gladys cried, in a tone that made the blood
surge angrily to Everet Mapleson's brow, for it told him
how little hope there was of his retaining Gladys' com
panionship if his fortunate rival should make his appear
ance.
" I shall be sorry myself not to see Geoff ; he needs the
change and recrention, too, for he is working very hard,"
responded Mr. Huntress, glancing wistfully toward the
door himself. "But you must trv to en.loy yourself, nil
the same, if he does not come. Mr. and Mrs. Loring will
be disappointed if their reception does not prove a pleas
ant one, after all their effort."
Gladys 1 glance was b^nt upon her fan. with which she
was nervously tovinf : VIP r cheeks were flushed, her brow
slight! v clouded, h<>r lips compressed, and it was evident
that she was greatly disturbed.
68 THE RECEPTION.
All at once she turned her gaze again toward the door.
She gave a sudden start.
"Why ! there he is now ! Oh ! I am so glad," she cried
in a joyous tone, her beautiful face growing radiant with
undisguised delight, as she saw Geoffrey, looking more
handsome and manly than ever, just entering the
room.
She instantly darted toward him without even thinking
to excuse herself to her companions, thus leaving Mr.
Huntress and young Mapleson to entertain each other.
The latter watched that graceful figure, a lurid fire in
his eye, his lips compressed until they were colorless, his
heart throbbing with jealous anger.
He saw her steal softly up to Geoffrey, who was look
ing in another direction, and slip one white hand within
his arm, while she looked up at him, with a rogueish but
happy glance, and addressed some bright words of wel
come to him.
He saw, too, how Geoffrey's countenance lighted, how
his eyes glowed as he turned to look down upon that fair,
upturned face, while the glad smile that wreathed his
handsome mouth, told something of the joy which this
meeting afforded him also.
Everet Mapleson read these signs as plainly as he
would have read a printed page, and he knew that the
young man loved the fair girl with all the strength of his
manly natwe, and the knowledge made him grind his
teeth in silent rage.
But Mr. Huntress spoke to him just then, and he was
obliged to turn his glance away from those two central
figures, which were now moving out of the room together,
and answer him.
Mr. Huntress was more and more impressed every
moment that there must be kindred blood in the veins of
these two young men, and he was resolved to I'earn the
truth.
But he was destined to he disappointed, for Everet
Mapleson repeated about the same story, with some ad
ditions, that he bad already told Gladys, and there seemed
no possibility of there being any relationship between
them.
"My father was a colonel in the Confederate Army dur
ing the war," Everet said, in reply to his companion's
query, "and my home, with the exception of a short resi
dence abroad, has always been in the South."
"And is your mothor also a Southerner?"
RECEPTION. 69
Everet smiled, for he knew well enough what these
questions meant.
"Oh, yes; she and my father were second cousins, and
they were married in 1853."
"Ah! in '53," remarked Mr. Huntress, reflectively;
"and was that Colonel Mapleson's first marriage?"
"Yes, sir; and it was a somewhat romantic affair.
They had an uncle who was very wealthy, and when he
died it was found that he had made a very singular will.
He divided his fortune equally between them, but ex
pressed a wish that they should unite it again by mar
riage ; indeed, he made the possession of it conditional,
and in this way. My father was about twenty, my
mother seventeen, at the time of his death. Both were
to come into their share of the property at once, but if
either married some one else before my mother reached
the age of twenty-five, he or she would forfeit that por
tion and it should go to the other. If both refused to
carry out the conditions of the will and married contrary
to his wishes, or remained single after my mother, who
was tlie younger, reached the age of twenty-five, the whole
fortune was to be made over to a bachelor cousin of the
testator, and who was also a very singular character."
"That was an exceedingly strange will," observed Mr.
Huntress.
" Very, though it was not more eccentric than the man
who made it ; but my father and mother chose to fulfill
the conditions of the will ; thus the property was all kept
in the family."
" And are you their only child ?"
"Yes, sir. I never had either brother or sister."
"It is very strange, 1 ' murmured Mr. Huntress, mus*
ingly.
Everet Mapleson regarded him curiously.
"You are thinking of my resemblance to Mr. Geoffrey
Huntress," he said, somewhat stiffly, after a brief pause.
"Yes, lam."
"Surely you can have no idea that we are in any way
related."
"I do not know, of course ; but "
"You do not know !" interrupted the young Southerner.
"Why, you surely ought to be able to trace his genealogy,
since he is your nephew."
"But he is not my nephew."
" How ?"
"I never saw the boy until about eight years ago."
70 THE RECEPTION.
Everet Mapleson turned a look of blank astonishment
upon his companion, while a strange pallor settled over
his own face.
Mr. Huntress then related to him the circumstances
which brought Geoffrey to his notice, telling of his unac
countable interest in him, of the experiment which had
resulted in the restoration of the boy's reason, and-of his
subsequent adoption of the lad.
Everet Mapleson grew very grave as he listened, and a
hundred conflicting thoughts came crowding into his mind.
Could it be possible, after all, that this young man whom
he had so disliked, and was fast loarning to hate from a
feeling of jealousy, was in some mysterious way con
nected with the proud family of Mapleson ?
He did not know of a relative by that name, and yet
there might be.
He resolved that he would sift the matter the very next
time he went home.
"And you know absolutely nothing about him previous
to that time?" he asked of Mr. Huntress.
"No, nothing; while he was evidently so young at the
time he received the injury which deprived him of his
reason that there was comparatively little that he could
remember about himself. Of his father or mother he
knew nothing; 'Margery' and 'Jack' are the only names
that he has been able to recall, while his memories of
them are very vague. I imagine, however, that the
woman Margery must have been a sort of nurse who had
the care of him."
Everet Mapleson started and colored as he heard these
names.
He instantly recalled the incident that had occurred a
few days previous, on Broadway, when the poor old
flower-vender had detained him, believing that she had at
last found the boy whom she had nursed so many years
ago.
His first impulse was to tell Mr. Huntress of this ad
venture, but he checked the inclination, resolving that he
would himself try to find old Margery again and glean
all that he could from her regarding Geoffrey's early
history.
He began to realize that there was something very
much more mysterious about their strange resemblance
than had at first appeared.
It might not be so much a "freak of nature" as he
had tried to think it, and if there was any important
THE BECEI'TIVN. 71
secret connected with the affair, he meant to ferret it out
alone, and possibly it might give him an advantage over
his rival in the future if he should stand in the way of
his winning Gladys for his wife.
A little later, when he went in search of her, and found
her pacing up and down the great hall leaning on
Geoffrey's arm, chatting with him in a free and unre
strained way, and saw both their faces so luminous and
happy, and knew that already they had become all in all
to each other, he ground his teeth savagely, and vowed
that he would destroy their confidence and peace before
another twelve months should elapse.
He stationed himself behind some draperies where he
could see without being seen, and continued to watch
them, although it drove him almost to a frenzy to see how
happy and unreserved Gladys was with his rival.
Her face was eager and animated it never had lighted
up like that when in his presence her eyes glowed, her
lips were wreathed with smiles, and she chattered like a
magpie. She seemed to have forgotten where she was, by
whom surrounded, everything, save that she was with
Geoffrey.
He knew well enough when she began to tell him about
encountering his double in the cafe, for he saw Geoffrey
start, change color, and then grow suddenly grave.
"Is Everet Mapleson here in New York?" he heard him
ask, as they drew near where he was standing.
"Yes; and oh, Geoff, he is so like you. Even I could
hardly detect any difference."
Geoffrey smiled at the reply.
It implied a great deal ; it told him that she could dis
tinguish between them if any one could, and that her
eyes, sharpened by affection, had been able to detect
something unlike in them.
"Do you think you would always be able to tell us
apart, Gladys?" Geoffrey eagerly asked.
"Of course I should, you dear old Geoff," she affirmed,
with a toss of her bright head.
" How ?"
"Why, I only need to look into your eyes to know
you," she said, with a fond upward glance.
At this reply, Geoffrey hugged close to his side the
small hand that lay on his arm, and his heart thrilled
with a sweet hope.
"What is there in my eyes, Gladys, that is different
from Everet Mapleson's?" he asked.
72 "FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!"*
She blushed crimson at the question, for she knew that
it was only in their expression that she could detect any
difference.
"Perhaps strangers could not tell you apart," she ad
mitted, with drooping lids; "probably it is because we
have lived together so long that I know your every ex
pression ; then, too, there is a certain little quiver about
your lips when you smile that he does not have. Your
voices, though, are entirely different."
"Yes ; any one could distinguish between us to hear ua
speak," Geoffrey assented; but his heart was bounding
with joy, for he knew well enough that .only the eye of
love could have detected the points that she had men
tioned.
Yet, in spite of all, he experienced a feeling of uneasi
ness over the fact that Everet Mapleson was spending
his recess in New York and was cultivating the acquaint
ance of Gladys.
He had never mentioned him in any of his letters
had never spoken of that hazing experience, simply be
cause his mind had been so engrossed with other things
that he had not thought to do so.
"There is the band, Geoff," Gladys exclaimed, as the
music came floating in from the south balcony. "Mr.
Loring has had the loveliest pavilion erected for dancing,
and you know that I cannot keep still a moment within
ear-shot of such enticing strains. Come, let us go out."
"Which means, of course, that I am to have the first
set with you," he said, smiling.
"It does mean just that. You know I always like to
dance with you, for you suit your step to mine so nicely.
There ! I'm so glad you asked me, for here comes Mr.
Mapleson, this minute, doubtless to make the same re
quest," Gladys concluded, under her breath, as she saw
the young man step out from among the draperies, where
he had been watching them, and approach them.
CHAPTER XIII.
"FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!"
Everet Mapleson advanced toward the young couple
with all the assurance imaginable.
He nodded indifferently to Geoffrey, simply saying, in a
patronizing tone :
12f T1MJS, FIRST BY RIGHT!" ' 73
"How are you, Huntress?" and then turned to Gladys
with his most alluring smile. "The signal for dancing has
been given, Miss Huntress ; may I have the pleasure of
doing the opening set with you *"
Gladys' cheeks were very red, for she resented his
manner toward Geoffrey. What right had he to assume
such insolent superiority over him, who she knew pos
sessed by far the nobler nature of the two.
But she said politely, though with a little secret feeling
of triumph in refusing him :
"You are a trifle late, Mr. Mapleson, as I have already
promised the first dance ; but if you will come to me
later, you shall Write your name upon my card."
The young man frowned slightly, for he could never
endure to have his wishes denied, but he was obliged to
bow acquiescence, and turned away to seek a partner
elsewhere.
But he managed to station himself where he could
watch the young couple incessantly, and not a move
ment, not a smile or glance escaped him.
"They love each other," he mutte.red, "at least he loves
her, and it would not take much to make them acknowl
edged lovers. I shall be both watchful and dilligent. I
wish I knew the secret of the fellow's life. It can't be
possible that he is anything to our family, and yet I am
dusedly annoyed by the mystery."
When he went later, to claim Gladys' promise to dance
with him, he exerted himself more than he had ever done
to be entertaining and agreeable.
He told her about his Southern home, and the life he
led when there. He described the luxuriant beauty which
surrounded "Vue de 1'Eau," his father's estate, and so
called from the broad, sweeping view which they had of
the beautiful James River, which lay right beneath them.
He told her something of his courtly father and his stately,
beautiful mother, and was really eloquent in his de
scription of the spot that had given him birth.
"I wish you could come to 'Vue de 1'Eau' sometime,
Miss Huntress ; I am sure you would agree with me that
there is nothing finer in the way of scenery, even on your
far-famed Hudson," he said, in conclusion.
"Thank you, Mr. Mapleson ; your discriptions are
surely very enticing," Gladys replied, with a smile. "I
suppose your parents are both natives of the South ?"
44 Yes, they were both born in Richmond, and my father
was a colonel in the Confederate army at the time of our
74 "FIRST IX TIME, FIRST BY HIGfllT!"
civil war ; but, as it happened, his estate was not harmed,
and it has since increased greatly in beauty and value."
"Do you remember much about the war?" Gladys in
quired.
"No, I knew very little about it at the time, of course,
I was very young only about eight years of age and
besides, my father sent my mother and me abroad, where
we remained until the war was over."
" I suppose some of your people still feel antagonistic
toward us Northerners?" Gladys remarked.
" I presume there is a feeling of bitterness to some ex
tent among the veterans, but, as to the generation that has
been growing up since, I think we all feel that we are one
nation, and our interests are with and for the Union. But
if I had been ever so bitter toward Northern people,
that feeling could rot have possibly continued to exist
after my present experience with them," and Everet Map-
leson's glance told the young girl that for her sake alone
he would have been willing to waive all past grievances,
however aggravating.
Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes drooped.
"It is better to put aside all bitterness the war was a
terrible thing, and there were mistakes on both sides, and
now that neace has been restored, it is far better to let
by-gones be by-gones. Have your parents ever been
North ?"
Gladys tried to speak in a general and unconscious
way, but it was very hard with those admiring eyes
fixed so earnestly upon her.
"No; they have been in Europe, and my father has
been on the Pacific coast several times, but they have yet
to visit this portion of the country."
"Without doubt, then, they will improve the opportun
ity to do so when you leave college. It Avould be natural
for them to desire to be present when you take your
honors."
"Those will be very few, I fear," young Mapleson re
plied, with a flush. "I am not a good student."
He did not love study, although he was quick to learn,
and brilliant in recitation, when he chose to apply him
self.
"I do not believe you really mean that," Gladys sr.id.
She could not believe that anybody could be a poor
student who so closely resembled Geoffrey, who ex
celled. She imagined that he must be like him mentally
as well as physically.
' "FIRST IN TIMS, FIRST BY RIGHT!" 75
"Do you think it pays to get a reputation for good
sholarship?" he asked.
"Perhaps not the reputation alone, but the knowl
edge pays. If I was a college boy I believe I should strive
to attain the top round of the ladder."
"It is not every one who can do that."
"True, but every one can at least try to excel, and even
if one does not, he has the satisfaction of knowing that
he has done his best."
"Are you sroing to be first in your class at Vassar, Miss
Huntress?" Everet Mapleson asked, studying her eager
face earnestly.
Gladys flushed again, and laughed.
"I am doing my utmost, Mr. Mapleson, to come forth
from my school an honor to my class ; and Geoffrey is
bending all his energies toward the same object ; indeed,
I surmise that he is trying to gain a year, by his'being so
zealous for study during the recesses."
A startled look shot into Everet Mapleson's eyes.
If Geoffrey Huntress did gain a year he would gradu
ate at the same time with himself, and the thought was
anything but pleasant to him.
"He will have to be very smart to do that," he said,
with a skeptical curve of his lips.
"Geoffrey is smart ; he has achieved wonders during
the last few*years, and I predict for him a brilliant col
lege career. I am very proud of him."
The beautiful girl's face glowed, and her eyes gleamed
as she said this, while her glance rested more fondly
than she was aware, on the manly form that was stand
ing beside his hostess, quietly conversing with her while
they watched the dancers.
Her companion was so nettled by this, that for a mo
ment he could not control his voice to reply.
"I should judge that the young man must be a
prodigy," he said, at length, with a covert sneer.
Gladys lifted her eyes searchingly to his face.
His tone was not pleasant to her, but he looked as in
nocent as if he had spoken in all sincerity.
"Why !" she said, after a moment's thought, "if Geof-
froy does gain a year he will take his degree when you
take yours !"
"Yes."
A little ripple of roguish laughter issued from the fair
girl's red lips.
"Then let me warn you," sbe said, with a merry glance.
76 "FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIOHT!"
"to look out for your honors, Mr. Mapleson, for Geoffrey
is bound to go to the front, and I have fully made up my
mind to hear him deliver the valedictory at Yale two
years hence."
Again the young Southerner had to pause for self-con
trol ; it was very hard for him to conceal the rage that
was well nigh overmastering him.
But all at once he bent toward Gladys, and, speaking in
a low, resolute tone, said :
"Miss Huntress, you have inspired me with an ambition
which I never before possessed. I would give more than
you can conceive to merit such praise from your lips as
you have just bestowed upon another, and from this
hour, my purpose shall be to 'go to the front,' as you
have expressed it. I shall deliver the valedictory two
years from next summer."
Gladys laughed gleefully.
She never dreamed of the fierce enmity and jealousy
that lay beneath all this, and she was delighted to think
that she had aroused his desive to excel in his class.
"It will be a worthy contest," she said ; "and I honor
you for your resolution. I shall watch the rivalry with
a great deal of interest, I assure you."
"Will you wear my colors if I succeed, Miss Huntress?"
the young man asked, in a low, almost passionate tone.
"that depends "
"Upon what?"
"Upon whether Geoffrey takes his degree at the same
time ; if he gains his year and leaves with your class, I
think I shall have to be loyal to Hm, even though he
should suffer defeat," Gladys replied, though in her heart
she felt sure that he would not fail to do himself honor.
"That is hardly fair," urged her companion; '"to the
victor belongs the spoils,' you know."
"Yes; but you will have your own friends to rejoice
with you, and I could not desert dear old Geoff, though
he should fail a hundred times, "she returned, a tender
glow overspreading her face.
"Happy Huntress!" sneered the exasperated young
man, for a moment forgetting himself.
" W"hy, Mr. Mapleson, I hope you are not offended with,
me," Gladys said, with surprise, and not once suspecting
that this venom was aimed at the object of their conver
sation ; then she added : "Perhaps, however, his colors
and yours will be the same, and then I can honor you
both'."
" FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!" 77
Everet Mapleson was glad that supper was announced
just at that moment, which saved him the necessity of re
plying.
The mere thought of sharing any honors with his rival
made him white with anger, and her praise of him had
driven him nearly frantic.
He saw Geoffrey approaching them, and surmised that
he contemplated taking Gladys in to supper.
He resolved that he should not ; so, turning to her with
a smile, as he laid her hand upon his arm, he re
marked :
"That is no doubt a pleasing announcement to every
body. Shall we follow the hungry crowd?"
"Thanks ; but I see Geoffrey coming for me ; pray find
some one else, Mr. Mapleson ; I have already occupied
more of your time and attention this evening than I
ought," the fair girl responded.
"I could not bestow it more acceptably to myself any
where else/ 1 he replied, in a low, earnest cone, and de
taining the hand which she would have withdrawn from
his arm.
At that instant Geoffrey bowed before them.
"Excuse me for interrupting your chat," he said,
courteously ; "but are you ready to go in to supper,
Gladys?''
"Excuse me. Huntress," voting Mapleson interposed be
fore Gladys could reply, and bestowing a haughty, glance
upon his rival, "but I must claim the privilege of taking
Miss Huntress in by virtue of the old saw ' prior tempore,
prior jure' 'first in time, first by right."
Geoffrey colored more at his tone and look than at his
words, but returned, with a genial smilp :
"That will apply to my case exactly, Mr. Mapleson, since
I secured Miss Huntress' promise, more than an hour ago,
that she would give me the privilege you claim."
"But possession is nine points in law. Miss Huntress,"
saul Everet, addressing Gladys, and ignoring Geoffrey en-
tirplv.
"Rpally, Mr. Maplpson, you will have to excuse me. I
have given my promise, as Geoffrey says, and since he
loaves for New Haven ngain to-morrow morning, I must
say all I have to say to him to-nisrht."
Everet Mnpleson instantly released her, with a low
bow of acquipscence.
"Your wish is sufficient," he said, with significant em
phasis, and he turned abruptly away to seek some one
78 "FIRST IN TIME, 1IR&T BY EIGHT!"
else; but not before he had shot a revengeful glance at
his successful rival.
"He shall have his pay some day," he muttered, as he
moved down the room; "he maddens me beyond all en-
dm-ance with his assumption of affability and his high
bred civility. He go^s back to New Haven to-morrow,
does he? Well, I'll improve the remainder of this recess
to cultivate to the utmost my acquaintance with ma belle
Gladys."
He found a young lady to whom he had been intro
duced early in the evening, and solicited her companion
ship during; supper, but he was careful to station himself
where he could watch every look and movement of the
pirl whom he was fast learning to adore.
After supper Gladys and Geoffrey stole away to a quiet
corner, where they could have a little confidential chat be
fore they separated, for each had much to tell the other
about school and various other matters.
Geoffrey had been much disturbed inwardly to see how
devotedly attentive young Mapleson appeared to Gladys.
He did not benr him any ill-will on account of the haz
ing to which he had been subjpcted so long ago, but ho
instinctively telt that he could not be a very noble-
minded man to allow himself to be so controlled by pas
sion as he had been at that time, and Gladys was too
precious a treasure to be willingly yielded to one un
worthy of her.
He wondered what opinion she had formed of him, and
he meant to find out before he left her ; and after they
had chatted awhile he asked, smilingly :
"Well, Gladys, what do you think of my double?"
"I think it the most remarkable resemblance in the
world ; but why have you never written us anything
about him?" she asked.
"I have had so many other things to write and think
about, that I suppose it escaped my memory ; besides, I
seldom meet Mapleson, as he is not in my class. I am
veiy jrlad,. though, that he does not belong in New York,"
Geoffrey concluded, with a wistful glance at his com
panion.
"Why?"
"Because I fear you might often make the same mis-
take that you did the other day in the cafe, and I think I
should hardly like to share your favors with him."
Gladys shot a quick, inquiring glance into the young
man's face, and saw it was clouded.
A CONFESSION. 79
"Isn't he nice, Geoff?"
"I have heard that he belongs to a good family, and
feel that I have no right to say one word agairist nini ;
still, where you are concerned, Gladys, I feel very jeal
ous lest any ill should come to you," he returned,
earnestly.
"I think I could never again mistake him for you,"
Gladj's said, thoughtfully.
"What makes you think that?" was the eager query.
"There are certain expressions in your face that I do
not find in his, and vice versa ; while somehow a feeling
of antagonism, a barrier, almost amounting to distrust,
comes between us when I am with him. Perhaps it is
because I do not know him as well as I know you ; it
would be natural to differently regard one who had al
ways been like a brother," Gladys replied, gravely.
A painful thrill shot through Geoffrey's heart at those
last words.
"Does she feel nothing but sisterly affection for me ?"
bethought; "and I love her oh! not with a brother's
love ; Heaven help me if I fail to win her by and by ! She
is dearer than my own life, and yet I dare not tell her
so ; I have no right to win the heart of the child of my
benefactor until I can make a name and position worthy
of her acceptance."
But he alknved nothing of this conflict to appear. Ho
changed the subject, and they chatted pleasantly of other
matters until Mr. and Mrs. Huntress came to tell him
that they were going home.
He then bade her good-night and good-by, and went
away, loving her more fondly than ever, but ^i*h a heavy
burden on his heart.
CHAPTER XIV.
A CONFESSION.
There was not much sleep for Geoffrey that night. He
lay through the long hours thinking of his love for
Gladys, and half believing, yet hardly daring to hope,
that she was beginning to return it.
Her manner toward him during the evening, her glad,
even joyful greeting when he entered Mrs. Loring's
drawing-room, her shy, sweet glances, while talking with
I'im, and the ever ready color which leaped into h^i
80 A CONFESSION.
checks beneath his fond gaze, all thrilled him with the
blissful conviction that she was not in different to him.
And- yet this only increased his unhappiness to feel
that he might win her, and yet could not without being
guilty of both treachery and ingratitude toward the man
froTfi whom he had received such lasting benefits, and
who had stood in the place of a father to him.
"But my life will b ruined if I cannot win her," he
said, a sort of dull despair settling down upon his heart
at the mere thought. "I have alwaj^s been determined to
make the most of my advantages for her sake that I
might be worthy of her ; I have resolved from the first
that no one should excel me, and that when I should be
through with my college course I would battle, with all the
energy i possess, for a high position in the world to offer
her. But what will it all amount to if, in the meantime,
some one else steals my darling from me ! if, while my
own lips are sealed, from a sense of honor, some other
man wins the heart I covet, and I have to see her become
his wife? Good heavens! I could not bear it it would
destroy my ambition it would make a wreck of me."
He tossed and turned upon his pillow in an agony of un
rest and apprehension, the future looking darker and
more hopeless to him with every waning hour, and when
at l3st morning dawned he arose looking haggard and
almost ill from the conflict through which he had passed.
When the breakfast bell rang he shrank, with positive
pain, from going below to meet his kind friends with this
harden on his heart.
But he stopped suddenly while in the act of crossing the
threshold of his room, his eye lightin'g, a vivid flush ris
ing to his brow, as some thought flashed upon his
mind.
"I will do it," he murmured, resolute lines settling
about his mouth. "I will go directly to Uncle August and
confess my love for Gladys in a manly, straightforward
way, and if he does not oppose me if he betrays no re-
pugnanco to such a union, I will no longer conceal my
feelings from her, although it may be years before I shall
dare to ask her to share my fortunes. I know if I can
have before me the hope that she will some day become
my wife, that no goal will be too difficult for me to attain.
I shall be able to remove mountains, for her dear sake.
But if he shrinks in the least from giving me his only
child, I will sacrifice every hope I will go'away and hide
myself and my despair from every eye, rather than he
A CONFESSION. 81
should think me ungrateful for all that he has done for
me."
Having made these resolutions, a new hope seemed to
animate him. the clouds cleared from his brow, his
heart grew lighter, and he descended to the dining-rooin
looking more like himself.
Still Mr. Huntress noticed his paleness and the un
usual gravity of his manner, and wondered at it, for ho
had seemed remarkably cheerful, even gay, the previous
evening at Mrs. Loring's.
"The boy is working too hard," he said to himself,
anxiously : "he has too much ambition for his strength,"
and he resolved to caution him anew before he left.
As they arose from the table Geoffrey looked at his
watch.
"Uncle August," he said, a hot flush mantling his
cheek, "I have an hour just before I need to go. Can I
see you alone for a little while on a matter of business?"
"Business, Geoff!" laughed his uncle. "I imagined
that your mind was filled with literary pursuits, to the
exclusion of all else. I had no idea you could combine the
two."
"I should not have called it business ; the matter upon
which I wish to speak is far more vital than any business
could possibly be," Geoffrey replied, gravely.
"I'll wager the boy is borrowing trouble over his re
semblance to that chap whom we met last evening; h
doubtless believes that he is on the verge of some im
portant discovery, and wants me to help him ferret out
the truth," Mr. Huntress mused, aa he led the way to his
library.
"Now, Geoff, I'm ready to listen to whatever you may
have on your mind," he said, seating himself comfort
ably, and motioning the young man to another chair.
"Uncle August," Geoffrey began, after pausing a mo
ment to collect his thoughts, "you know, do you not,
tint I am truly grateful to you for the unexampled kind
ness which you have shown mo ever since you'found me,
such ;\ pitiable object, in the streets of Now York?"
"Why, my boy !" said Mr. Huntress, looking astonished
over this unexpected speech, "I have never stopped to
think whether you were grateful or not ; j*ou have always
shown that you loved me and desired to please me, and
that was enough."
"I have loved you I do lovo you ; if I should ever dis
cover my own father I do not believe that I could give
82 A CONFESSION.
him the deep affection which I cherish for you. But,
Uncle August, I have a confession to make to you this
morning which may cause something of a change in your
feelings toward rne."
"A confession?" repeated Mr. Huntress, looking up
quickly and anxiously. "Surely, Geoff, you haven't been
getting into any trouble at college?"
"No, sir; what I have to tell you, you may regard as
far more serious than any college scrape it may alienate
your affection for me far more, but
"Out with it, Geoff, don't beat about the bush ; I fancy
you won't find me very obdurate, no matter what you
have done," Mr. Huntress interrupted, although he be
lieved Geoffrey was making a mountain out of some mole-
bill.
"I will, sir; confession is the only honorable course
open to me, and yet if I offend you I shall dread to look
my future in the face."
"Good heavens, Geoffrey ! you begin to frighten me;
speak out what have you been doing that is so dread
ful?" exclaimed his friend, now looking thoroughly
alarmed.
"I have dared to love Gladys, sir."
" You have dared to love Gladys ! Well, of course, who
could help it?" said August Huntress, his astonishment
increasing, and not, on the instant, comprehending the
full import of the words.
"But but Uncle August, you do nor understand; I
love her as a man loves tho woman whom he wishes to
make his wife," said Geoffrey, with a very pale face, for
the die was cast now, and he waited the result with fear
and trembling.
"Humph! and this is your confession?"
"Yes, sir; I hope you will not regard me as a viper
that turns and stings the hand that nourishes it," the
young man pleaded, with emotion.
August Huntress did not reply for a moment. He
thoroughly comprehended the situation now, and a great
sigh of relief came welling up from his deep chest, for he
had imagined from Geoffrey's grave looks and ominous
words that he had got into some difficulty at college
which might hamper him through the remainder of his
course. But it was only a love affair, after all, and he
had long ago surmised that some such result might follow
the intimate association of these two who were so dear
to him.
4 CONFESSION. 83
His eyes began to twinkle as he regarded the handsome
fellow, sitting there before him with downcast eyes and
troubled countenance, and yet he knew that the struggle
which had driven him to this confession must have been
a severe one, and he appreciated, too, the sense of honor
and the nobility which had also prompted it.
"Have you told Gladys anything of this?" he asked.
"No, sir ; it was my duty to come to you first, for your
approval or rejection of my suit. I could not forget that
I am a nameless waif, whom your goodness alone has re
deemed from a blighted life. I could not forget, either,
the fact, that when I shall have finished my education I
shall have nothing to offer her whom I love, save my
heart, an empty hand, and a name that is mine only by
adoption."
Mr. Huntress was touched by his frankness and honor.
"I can vouch for the heart, Geoff," he said; "it is
large, and generous, and noble. Empty hands are no dis
grace if they are honest and willing hands, backed by
energy and a resolute spirit, both of which I know you
possess. As for the name, it is above reproach, but not
more so than the manly fellow upon whom I have be
stowed it, ami of whom I am very proud ; I know he will
never dishonor it."
"Thank you, Uncle August," Geoffrey replied, with a
suspicious tremor in his voice ; " but heart, hands, name,
and even life itself will not amount to much with me if I
am denied the love I crave the world would be nothing
to me without Gladys."
"It would be rather dark to all of us without her; she
has been the light of our home and the pride of our
hearts for a good many years ; and, Geoff, to speak the
truth, I believe nothing would please me better than to
have you two marry, if you love each other well enough."
Geoff rey looked up with a transfigured face.
"Oh, Uncle August, do you mean that?" he cried.
"Of course I mean it, or I should not have said it.
Your confession, although it startled me a trifle at first,
as it would any father, to be asked to give a "way his only
child, was r.ot wholly unanticipated, for I have not been
blind during the last few years, and it has proved your
nobility better than almost anything else could have done,
and if you can win Gladys, I shall give her to you with
my sincere blessing. You have grown very dear to me,
Geoff. I have been building great hopes upon you ever
since I adopted you as my son, and now nothing would
81 A CONFESSION.
satisfy me so well as to have you become more closely
allied to me, and thus cement evert more strongly the
bonds that already unite us."
"But," Geoffrey began, then stopped short, a burning
flush rising to the roots of his hair, although his heart
had thrilled with joy to every word his uncle had uttered.
"Well, out with it ; surely you are not going to argue
against your own cause, when you can have everything
your own way- -that is, as far as I am concerned," Mr.
Huntress said, laughingly.
"But I wish you to consider the matter in all its bear
ings," the young man responded, very seriously. "You
must not forget that you are utterly ignorant of my
parentage. I may even be the child of some unfortunate
woman, that was cast adrift in order to conceal the story
of her shame. If we should ever make such a discovery,
and you should then regret having given me my heart's
desire, it might make misery for us all in the future.' 1
"Geoffrey," August Huntress responded, in just as
serious a tone, " I confess that such a discovery would
pain me exceedingly, but- more on your account than my
own. Still, if I knew at this moment that you could honor
ably call no man father, if I knew that your mother had
committed an irremediable error, it could not detract
from my affection for you nor my pride in you. I hope,
however, if such is the story of your origin, that you will
never know it. The name that I have given you will he
sufficient to aid you to an honorable position in the
world ; it is your character, what you are yourself, that
is chiefly to be considered, and I could e:ive you Gladys-
provided she was willing to give herself to you without
a demur. Heaven bless you, Geoff! Go and win your
bride, if you can !"
He held out his hand as he concluded, and Geoffrey
seized it in a transport of joy.
" Uncle August, you are a royal gentleman," he cried,
earnestly ; "and now you have crowned all your past good
ness to me with this great, this priceless gift, I am the
happiest fellow in Christendom I"
"Well, then, don't come to me with any more con
fessions," returned his companion, jocosely, though there
were tears in his eyes. "I declare my blood actually ran
cold when I looked into your solemn face and thought,
perhaps, you had been sent home from college in dis
grace for some unheard of misdemeanor. Still," he
added, more seriously, " I might have known better, for
A CONFESSION. 85
you have been studying too hard to have much time for
mischief."
"Indeed I have; and, Uncle August, I am going to
gain my year without any difficulty," the young man
said, with shining eyes.
"Well, I like to have you smart, only don't work so
hard that you will break down ; I'd much prefer to have
it take you a year longer to get through than to have you
injure your health."
"I shall not; I am as strong as a giant, and nov, with
this new hope to brighten my life, I believe 1 could ac
complish almost any thing. I want to get through with
my course in the next two years, and then I mvtst turn
my mind to business, for I have my fortune yet to make,
you know. 1 '
"Yen, I should advise you to choose something to do
when you got through college ; it is better for every man
to have some business or profession, no matter how much
money he may have. I may as well tell you, Geoff, and I
do not believe it will do you any harm to know it, that I
have madp a handsome provision for you. and if you de
sire to get into something promising by and by, I shall be
glad to anticipate my will and help you do it. I have
plenty, my b^n*," he continued, confidentially, "and if it
were not for this habit of business that is on me, like a
eon of second nature, I might retire and take my ease
for the remainder of my life."
"I think you deserve to take your ease," Geoffrey re
plied ; " you at least might have a few years of travel and
sight seeing."
"I should enjoy that if I could do all my traveling by
land. I don't take to the water very well, and perhaps, by
the time you and Gladys are through college, we will all
like to run about a little. But," he added, looking at his
watch, "if you '.re g ing on that nine o'clock train you
will have to be off, and," with a sly smile, "since you are
absolved from all your sins, you can go with a light heart
and an easy conscience."
Geoffrey smiled and flushed.
"I think, Uncle August, I can manage to spare another
day," he said, "and if you do not object, I believe I will
run over to New York again, and escort Gladys home.
She said something about returning to-day."
August Huntress laughed aloud at this change in the
young man's plans.
44 You do not intend to lose any time in your wooing, I
00 A DECLARATION.
perceive," he said, then added, more thoughtfully : "A3 a
rule, I should say it was better not to mix love with Latin,
Greek, and the sciences; but you and Gladys are so set
upon your studies, i imagine it won't hurt you to season
them with a little sentiment. Go along, you rogue, and
good, luck go wifti you ! However, I imagine you need
not tremble very much for your fate."
"Do you think that Gladys cares for me? 1 ' Geoffrey
asked, eagerly.
"Go and find out for yourself. I'm not going to betray
any of Gladys' secrets," Mr. Huntress retorted, with an
assumption of loyalty, but with such a mischeivous gleam
in his eyes, that Geoffrey set off for New York with a
strangely light heart.
CHAPTER XV.
A DECLARATION.
Arriving at Mr. Loring's, Geoffrey sent his name up to
the young ladies, and a few minutes later Gladys came
down alone.
How his heart bounded as she came tripping into the
room, looking as fresh and lovely as the morning itself.
She was dressed in a morning robe of white flannel, re
lieved by quilted facings of pale blue silk, and fastened at
the waist with a cascade of ribbons of the same hue.
Her hair was carelessly knotted at the back of her
head, where it was pinned with a small shepherd's crook
of silver, while a few light rings clustered lovingly about
her forehead.
,In spite of the dissipation of the previous evening, her
eyes were bright as stars, her cheeks flushed, and her
manner animated.
"Dear old Goff," she cried, springing forward with a
glad smile to meet him, "I imagined you were on your
way back to New Haven, to bury yourself in Greek
verbs and Latin nouns! What good fairy has sent you
here instead ?"
"Love !" was on Geoffrey's lips as he gathered both her
hands in his, but he restrained the wo~d, and replied :
"Oh, T Canted to have a little talk with Uncle August,
and so concluded to remain over another day. I 'have
come to act as your escort home."
" How good of you 1 I was dreading to go alone."
A DECLARATION. 87
"How is your friend this morning?"
"Addie? poor child ! she is laid up with a wretched
headache : the dancing and excitement \vere too much
for her. Mrs. Loring was obliged to go out early to her
dress-Maker, and as Addie is compelled to keep very quiet
in a darkened room, I was having quite a solitary time
of it when you were announced," Gladys explained.
Geoffrey was secretly delighted at this, although sorry
for Miss Loring's indisposition.
The coast was clear, so to speak, for him, and yet, now
that everything seemed so propitious for his suit, he al
most feared to put his fate to the test.
"I regret your friend's illness," he said, "but you are
as bright and fresh as if you had not lost an hour of
sleep."
"Yes, I do net feel in the least wearied," Gladys re
turned, "and I had a most delightful time. But the best
of all was to have you here, Geoff. I began to fear my
evening was to be spoiled, you were so late.''
" Was my presence so necessary to your enjoyment?"
the young man earnestly questioned, a quick flush rising
to his brow, as he searched her lovely face.
" Indeed it was ; I had set my heart upon having you
here it was almost my first appearance in society, you
know. How did I behave, Geoffrey? like a novice?"
Gladys asked, archly.
"No, indeed ; you were quite the woman of the world,
and entertained your admirers as composedly as if you
had been accustomed to such homage fop many a season.
Do you imagine that you would enjoy a fashionable life,
Gladys?"
"I think I would enjoy social life, to a certain extent,
but I would not care to devote all my time to keeping
up style, or to live in a fashionable whirl continually," she
replied, thoughtfully.
" And yet you are eminently fitted for just that kind
of a life," Geoffrey said, thinking how few there were
who could compare with her.
'How so?" she asked, flushing slighter.
"You are beautiful and graceful; you have winning
manners and a cultivated mind ; you would shine any
where," he answered, an earnest thrill in his voice.
"Flatterer ! not one of my 'admirers,' last night, paid
mo such a tribute as that," retorted the fair girl, with a
merry laugh, "and it is quite unusual, I believe, for
one's brother to be so complimentary."
68 A DECLARATION.
"You forget, Gladys, that I am not your brother,"
Geoffrey returned, gravely, and wondering that she
should have spoken thus, for she had very rarely as
sumed that there was any kindred tie between them.
She could not have told herself what made her use the
word, and she remembered how she had repudiated Mr.
Mapleson's assumption of such a relationship ; but some
how, though her own heart thrilled to Geoffrey's asser
tion that he was not her brother, a sort of perverseness
took possession of her, and she continued, in the same
strain, with a half-injured air and a bewitching pout :
"One would think that you were rejoiced over the fact,
to remind me of it in such a way."
"I am rejoiced over the fact.' 1
"Why, Geoff! After all these years!" and Gladys
.'ooked up in genuine surprise, for the restraint that he
had been imposing upon himself had made his tone al
most stern.
"Yes, after all these years; Gladys," he went on,
eagerly, toeling that the supreme moment of his life had
come, ''can you conceive of no reason why I should be
glad? As a boy, before T realized what you would be
come in the future, I was proud and happy to be allowed
the privilege of regarding you as my sister ; but as a
man I exult in the fact that no kindred ties bind us to
each other, for in that case I should have no right to love
you as I do, and my life would be bereft of its sweetest
hopes."
Gladys darted one quick, searching glance into hia
face as he uttered these impassioned words; then a burn
ing blush suffused her face, and her eyes drooped in con
fusion before the ardent light in his.
"Have I startled you, my darling, by this confession?"
Geoffrey went on. "Have you never suspected howl
have been growing to love 3-011 day by day ? At first, as I
told you, T regarded you in a brotherly way. I was de
lighted with your beauty, I was proud of your intellect.
I loved and reverenced you for your goodness and gen
tleness to me, and your patience with me ae an ignorant,
simple-minded boy ; but, as I grew older, a deeper, more
sacred love took possession of me, until I came to realize
that my future would be a miserable blank unless I could
win your own heart's best love. I do not forget that I
arn nameless, dear, that I am only a stray waif whom
your father rescued from a hapless fate. I ha,ve nothing
to offer you save my great love and an energy and reso-
A DECLARATION. 89
lution which will enable me to overcome every obstacle
for your dear sake. Does your heart respond to my plea,
my darling? .Can you give me a deeper and holier love
than that of a sister for a brother, and some day, when
vre are both through with our studies, when I can obtain
a position worthy of your acceptance, become my^ cher
ished wife?"
He reached out, took the hands that lay clasped upon
her lap, and drew her gently toward him.
She lifted her sweet face to him for one brief instant,
and their glances met, soul answering to soul.
"Geoffrey! you have fairly taken my breath away,"
Gladys whispered, "and yet and "
His clasp tightened about her hands.
"'And yet' Gladys what?" he breathed, eagerly.
Her bright head drooped lower to hide the crimson in
her cheeks, but there was no shrinking from him, aa
there must have been had not her heart responded to hia
appeal.
"And yet, I know that you are far dearer to me than a
brother could ever be," she confessed.
He dropped her hands, and the next moment his arms
were around her.
He drew her close to his wildly bounding heart and
laid her head upon his breast.
" My own darling ! that means that you love me even aa
I love you ! Oh, Gladys, how I have longed to hear thia
confession from your lips, and yet I have never dared to
betray the affection that has become a part of iny very life."
"Haven't you, Geoff?" Gladys asked, a mischievous
smile wreathing her red lips, which, however, he could
not see.
"No; for I felt that it would not be right to do so. I
feared that Uncle August would feel that I had betrayed
his confidence, and taken an unfair advantage of hia
kindness. Besides, it galled me to feel that I had nothing
to offer you save my nameless self, without any definite
expectations for the future."
" You imagine that you have been exceedingly circum
spect, don't you, dear?" and now a pair of merry eyes
were raised to meet his.
"Have I not? Have you suspected anything of this be
fore, Gladys?" he asked, quickly, a vivid crimson suffua-
ing his face.
"I shall have to confess that I have in a measure,"
he replied.
90 A DECLARATION.
"When? What made you?"
"Just before you went to college, when you told me
that you were glad vou had been case adrift upon the
world."
"I remember when I said but for that I should never
have known you. It was very hard for me, then, not to
tell you how well I loved you, but I believed I did conceal
it. Did it trouble you, Gladys?"
" N o ; still I was taken by surprise. I had never
thought of loving you in that way, or of your regarding
me other than as a sister, 1 ' Gladys replied, gravely.
"Then it set you thinking and you have been learning
to love me since that time ?" Geoffrey asked, fondly.
"Not exactly 'learning to love,' Geofl', but I began then
to realize the fact that 1 did love you," the young girl
confessed, with brilliant cheeks.
Geoffrey bent and kissed her red lips.
"Darling, I am glad I did not dare tell you then I
should have been very premature," he said, tenderly.
"How does it happen that you have 'durea' even now?"
she asked, roguishly.
"Because I confessed everything to Uncle August this
morning, and he bade me come and win my bride if I
could," was the smiling retort.
"Geoff ! did papa say that," cried the young girl, grow
ing crimson again.
"Yes, those very words. Uncle August is a kingly
man, and his permission to let me speak to you has raised
me from the depths of despair to the very heights of joy."
"Oh, Geoffrey, what an ardent figure of speech!"
laughed the happy girl.
"Indeed it is not a figure at all, you sweet, brown-eyed
fay. I did not sleep a wink last night for wretchedness
of mind."
"And all for nothing, Geoff."
"It was the fear of losing you, my darling. When I
saw you so admired in these very rooms last night, 1 said
to myself, 'some one else Avill win her before I shall have
any right to speak ;' so, after lying awake all night, I
desperately resolved to make a clean breast of everything
to Uncle August. If he had told me he was unwilling to
give you to me I should never have come to Brooklyn
again."
"Geoffrey," cried Gladys, clinging to him, "you would
not have left us like that."
"I should, dear," he answered, firmly ; "I could not
A DECLAMATION. 91
have remained in the same house with you and know
that I must never, by either word or look, reveal the love
I bear you. But all that is past. Uncle August seems
even happy in the prospect of our union. You love me
you are sure you love me well enough, Gladys, to be
come my wife, with no regret for anything?" he pleaded,
bending to look searchingiy into her eyes.
"Yes, I am sure, Geoii'rey. I have never tried to
analyze the affection which I have always cherished for
you, but I Know, now, that it has not been ot that calm
nature which a sister would feel for her brother. I have
been happier at your coming, I have been lonely and have
drooped whenever you went from home, and I can un
derstand now why it has been so," Gladys answered, drop
ping her head again upon her lover's breast.
"My own darling! How wonderful it is that this price
less boon should be granted me to crown all tne other
good gifts that I have received," he paid, in a thrilling
voice ; then added : " But, Gladys, I must remind you, as,
I have already reminded your father, that you will have
to become the wife of a nameless man. "Will that never
trouble you ?"
"Surely, the name that my father has bestowed upon
you will do very well, will it not?"
"That was just what he also said, dear; but. will the
mystery that enshrouds me never make you uncomfort
able or unhappy!"
"No ; I am well content with you just as you are."
" But have you never thought that there may be some
story of wrong of shame, even connected with my
early life? If we should discover it to be so, some time in
the future, would you not regret having given yourself to
me. Gladys, dear as you are to me, I could better face a
separation now, than such a regret by and by."
"Such a story of wrong could never harm you, dear
Geoff. All the shame or guilt, if any, would rest upon
others the perpetrators of it. But I have no fear that
you will ever be troubled by any such discovery. I be
lieve you will yet l^arn your parentage and feel honored
by it. However, it will nver change or mar my love
for you," Gladys replied, with grave earnestness.
Geoffrey's face was luminous.
"This noble spirit is just what I might have expected
from you, Gladys ; yet, I confess, I am very sensitive
over the mystery of my birth, and I should never havs
been fully satisfied without knowing just how you feel
02 A DECLARATION.
about it. Oh, my love, the future looks very bright be
fore us, though the next tvvo years will seem very long
to me."
"Why, Geoff! I thought study was a positive delight
to you,' Gladys returned, in surprise.
"And so it is, but it frets me to feel that, even after I
get through college, it will perhaps be years before I can
attain a position that will warrant me in asking Uncle
August to give you to me finally."
" Wiiat kind of a position would satisfy your conscien
tious scruples, Geoffrey ?" Gladys asked, demurely.
"1 would not feel willing to take you from a home of
affluence to one of poverty you must never miss the
luxuries to which you have been accustomed," he said,
thoughtfully.
"Do you expect to find the treasure of a Monte Cristo
somewhere?" his companion asked, in the same tone as
before.
"Oh, no; I expect to provide a home and competence
by my brains and hands ; but it will take time "
"How much?"
"Years perhaps."
"How many '*"
"Five or six, maybe, if I am successful ; more if I am
not ; I shall start off to 'seek my fortune' just as soon as
I can take my degree."
" Meantime, what is to become of your humble servant ?"
"You? why, Gladys, you will have your home and
friends the same as now."
"And you will be out in the world, somewhere, working
for me?" she said, sitting erect and turning her gaze full
upon him.
"Of course; that is to be expected; doesn't it please
you ?"
"No. I am no hot-house plant that requires n tem
pered atmosphere in order to thrive and grow ' Do you
think that I can afford to let you spend the best years of
your life away from me, toiling to give me luxuries,
while you deny yourself even the comforts and com
panionship of a home? My father and mother began life
in an humble way, and built up their fortune together. I
am of no finer clay than they or you ; if I am not calcu
lated to share your burdens as well ns your pleasures, I
am not worthy to be your wife at all," Gladvs concluded,
with an energy and decison that made Geoffrey regard
her with surprise.
OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 93
"Why, Gladys, what would people think of mo if I
should ask you to inarrj' me before I could provide you
with a comfortable home?" lie asked.
"I do not expert you will do that; but comfort and
elegance a>-e not necessarily one and the same. With
the comfortable home provided, we will begin life to
gether, and win our luxuries and elegance hand and
hand ; it is not a mutual love where one gives all and
the other nothing."
"My darling, 1 had no idea there were such intensely
practical ideas in this small head of yours," said Geoffrey,
laughing, hut with a very tender face.
"Had you not? Well, then, perhaps, I may astonish
you again some time," she returned, laughing, too.
"But." she added, "I think we are both rather premature
in our plans, considering that we have two years more of
school before us. Besides, it is time I was getting ready
to go home with you, and we must not sit here talking
longer."
Later in the day the lovers returned to Brooklyn, where
they were received with many smiles and significant
glances, for both August Huntress and his good wife were
greatly delighted by the prospect of a union between
these two, upon whom all their fondest hopes had so long
been centered.
CHAPTER XVI.
OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
Two years sped rapidly away, but they were improved
to the utmost by both Gladys and Geoffrey in their efforts
to secure a solid education. They saw but comparative
ly little of each other during this time, for Geoffrey was
so bent upon gaining his year that he made the most he
could of every recess and vacation.
But they corresponded regularly, each hearing from
the other every week, and their letters were a source of
great comfort and joy to them.
Everet Maplcson, too, worked harder during these two
years than he had evor done before.
His ambition had been fired by what Gladys had said
to him that evening at Mrs. Loring's reception, and he
had determined then that he would bend all his energies
toward securing the first honors of his class.
94 OOT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
He was more strenuous in this, perhaps, than he would
have been if Geoffrey Huntress had not succeeded in
gaining his year ; for when the juniors became seniors
our young hero took his place in the class with a record
to show that he would be no mean antagonist.
Young Mapleson flushed an angry red the first time
they met in the class, and returned Geoffrey's courteous
greeting with a haughty, supercilious nod.
They had not met until then since the evening of Mrs.
Lot-ing's reception, and the present year did not promise
anything very pleasant in the fact that they would be
members of the same class.
During these two years Everet Mapleson had seen con
siderable of Gladys, for he had resolved that he would
cultivate her acquaintance upon every possible occasion.
During his long vacations he had managed to follow the
Huntresses to the sea-shore or mountains, where, ming
ling in the same circles, they had been thrown much to
gether. His shorter recesses always found the young
Southerner- in New York city, where, being a favorite in
society, besides diligently cultivating Miss Loring's ac
quaintance, he managed to see a good deal of the beauti
ful girl upon whom he had set his affections.
But as yet he had not succesded in establishing himself
upon very intimate terms with her.
Gladys alwavs treated him courteously and in a friend
ly way, but still managed to hold him at a distance, and
lie had, as yet, never presumed to address one word of
love to her.
It chafed him that he had not been able to do so. It
galled him to think that he could not conquer her un
varying reserve, and make her yield to the fascinations
that had never failed to win wherever he had made up his
mind to win.
He still cherished his secret hatred for Geoffrey, and
was always on the alert for some way to vont it upon him ;
but no opportunity had presented itself, and he was
forced to conceal his feelings as best he could.
He had tried several times, when in New York, to find
the flower-woman, Margery. Indeed he never passed a
flower-stand now without peering beneath the hat or bon
net of the vender in senrch of that sorrowful and wrink
led visage. But he had never seen it since that first time
on Broadway, and he began to fear that she was dead,
and thus he would never be able to learn the secret of
Geoffrey Huntress' early life.
OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 95
The first of April drew near.
There were now only about three months before com
mencement at Yale, and every ambitious senior was do
ing his best to acquit himself honorably.
Geoffrey, however, had not been obliged to work nearly
so hard this year as durine: the two previous ones ; those
had been the test of his course, and he had strained
every nerve.
It had been a little doubtful at the clos3 of his last year
about his entering the senior class.
The professors, fearing tor his health, had advised him
to relinquish his purpose to do so. Mrs, Huntress, too,
was anxious about him, for he had been losing flesh and
color for several months, but Geoffrey very quietly re
marked, in the presence of the professors, that he would
do his best during the summer vacation to prepare for his
examinations for the senior class, and if he failed in them
he would cheerfully remain the extra year.
Mr. Huntress would not curtail hi -i in any of his privi
leges, and so again sent him to a pleasant spot in the
country with a tutor, a boat, and a couple of saddle-
horses, and the coaching went on as faithfully as ever.
The result was that Geoffrey passed his examinations
without a condition, and then felt that his hardest work
was over ; he would need to burn no more midnight oil,
and when there came a recess he would feel at liberty to
enjoy it as others did and gain a little of the rest he so
much needed.
He was not idle, however.
Gladys bad told him that she would expect great thinjrs
of him, and "great things" he meant to accomplish, if it
were possible, for her sake.
At the beginning of the year Huntress and Mapleson
were dubbed "the twins" of their class, and not long
afterward it was whispered that they stood about equal in
the race for first honors. Some were inclined to think
that Huntress would win the day. others that Mapleson
would be the favored one.
When the verdict was finally rendered in favor of
Geoffrey, Everet Mapleson swore an angry oath, although
his own name stood second on the list.
"He has seemel like some bad spirit pursuing me with
some evil purpose in view, ever since he entered college,"
he muttered, distorting facts that would have seemed
just the reverse to any one else. "If I could only find
out the secret of his life I might ruin him, even now, be-
96 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
fore the year is ended. I'd give half of my expectations
if I could find that old woman ; but I'm afraid she's
dead, and all that mystery buried with her.
" Well, I must calmly submit to his good fortune in
excelling all his competitors," he continued. "I've done
my best to win and I stand next, which is some comfort.
If I could have stood first I would have gone to Gladys
and told her that I worked for her sake, and perhaps he
might have listened to me. I wonder if she will stand
firsc in her class. I must run up to Poughkeepsie to see
the little lady graduate ; the commencement there comes
a few days earlier than ours this year."
However much Everet Mapleson inwardly regretted the
loss o f the first honors, he betrayed it to no one else he
appeared to take the appointments as a matter of course,
and spared no pains to make his own oration worthy and
briMiant. But underneath all this outward calm there
lay a relentless purpose to some day have ample revenge
upon his rival for his disappointment.
As soon as Geoffrey learned of his good fortune he has
tened to telegraph the news to Gladys.
"I shall not disappoint you the first honor is mine,"
were the words which went flying over the wires to the
beautiful girl aft Vassar.
Gladys had just come in from a walk when she re-
ceivod it, and the principal, as he handed it to her, mar
veled at her exceeding beauty.
The rich glow of perfect health, deepened a little by ex
ercise, was on her cheeks; a happy smile wreathed her
lips. Her hair had been tossed about a trifle by the
breeze, and lay in a light, fluffy network low on her
brow, which gleamed white as ivory beneath it.
Her hand trembled a little as she took the telegram and
opened it, but as she caught sight of the cheering words
within she sepmed almost transfigured.
Her eyes lighted and sparkled with unusual brilliancv ;
the vivid color ran swiftly up to her temples and she
laughed a clear, musical, happy laugh, that rang through
the great hall like some sweet silver bell.
"You evidently have some good news, Miss Huntress."
the principal remarked, his usually grave face involunta
rily relaxing into a svmpathic smile at her delight.
"Indeed. I have, sir ;" she returned. "My a friend
has taken the first honors for this year at Yale."
She flushed again, for she had almost forgotten to
whom she was speaking, and nearly said, " My dear old
OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST. 9T
Geoffrey," but checked herself and called him a
friend.
"You need not have corrected yourself," replied the
professor, with a twinkle of his eyes. "If the 'friend' is
your brother you should not allow your modesty to pre
vent your acknowledging it."
Gladys 1 eyes drooped half guiltily at this.
She could not explain that Geoffrey was not her broth
er, but something far dearer, and yet her sense of truth'
fulness made her shrink from giving a wrong impression.
"You will be able to send him as pleasant tidings in re
turn, will you not? You have also been appointed vale
dictorian, I believe?" the gentleman continued.
"Yes, sir."
" I am almost inclined to think that two valedictorians
out of one household are more than a fair allowance, espe
cially for one year ; your parents must be very proud
over two such brilliant children. Are there any more of
you to keep UD the credit of the family?" the principal in
quired, laughing.
"No, sir, Geoffrey and I are all there are," Gladys an
swered, and then tripped away to reply to Geoffrey's tel
egram with a jubilant letter.
"I rim delighted with yon, dear Geoff," she wrote. "Your telegram
has made me the happiest givl at Vassal", though my heart failed me a
trifle before I opened it, fearing that it might contain bad news. Hovr
prond I am of yon ! for you have climbed mountains of difficulties to
attain yonr goal.
"Now let me whisper a little bit of news in yonr ear. I have won
my spurs, too if I may be allowed to use lhat expression and aa I
shall graduate a few days before yon take yonr degree, can't yon c,>me
to Vassnr to honor the occasion with your presence? Papa and mamma
will be here, but the day will not be complete without you."
Geoffrey replied that, nothing shauld keep him away ;
that he would bo with her bright and early on commence
ment day. but would have to return to New Haven at
throe in the afternoon, as lie still had much to do to pre
pare for the final exercises of his own class.
"Rnt notwithstanding his promise, the train on which
he Ifft New Haven wns delayed two hours, and he did not
arrive nt Vnssnr until after the exercises were opened,
and so had no opportunity to see Gladys before, as he in
tended to do.
An usher led him into the crowded room, but the only
available seat fvas far in the rear, and so situated that he
could scarcely see or be seen.
98 OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
One of the graduating class was singing as he entered,
and for a few moments his attention was arrested by the
young amateur who gave promise of becoming something
more by and by.
But presently his eyes began to wander about in search
of Gladys, for she, of course, was the center of attraction
for him.
She was sitting near one end of the platform, at the
head of her class, and looking fairer than he had ever
seen her, in her virgin white.
Her dress was of finest Indian mull, sheer and fleecy
as a summer cloud. It was very simple, yet daintily
made, one gauzy thickness alone shading her snowy neck
and rounded arms, which gleamed fair as alabaster be
neath.
She wore no ornaments save a string of costly pearls
around her neck and a bunch of snow-balls in her silken
belt.
Her face was slightly flushed, her eyes glowed with ex
citement, and her lips were like polished coral.
Ever and anon her eyes wandered wistfully over the
sea of faces before her, as if in search of some one.
All at once they rested upon a familiar face and form.
She gave a slight start, her countenacne lighted for an in
stant, then she gave utterance to a sigh of disappoint
ment, although a little smile curved her lips and she
bowed in a friendly way to some one in the audience.
She had seen Everet Mapleson, and at the first glance
had thought he was Geoffrey, but catching his eager look
of recognition, she realized her mistake, and felt almost
angry with him for being there, while she feared that
Geoffrey would not ccme at all.
She did not catch sight of her lover until just a moment
before she was called up to deliver the farewell address
to class and faculty.
Geoffrey saw that she v- s anxiously looking for him,
and shifting his position lie leaned forward and fixed a
fond, magnetic look upon her.
She seemed to feel it, and turning her glance in that
direction, their eyes met ; a rosy flood swept up to her
brow, a brilliant smile wreathed her lips with one glad
look of welcome, and the next moment she was standing
before the audience, her whole being thrilling with de
light, and with the determination to do her best for Geof
frey's sake.
And she did ; her effort was the crowning seb
A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 99
of the day. The rapt and breathless attention of the hun
dreds before her testified to that, and when she concluded,
a perfect storm of applause showed their approbation
and how completely she had swayed them by her elo
quence.
More than this, numerous floral tributes were borne
forward and laid at her feet. These she acknowledged
with blush, and smile, and bow ; but when at the very last
an exquisite bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley followed the
more pretentious offerings, she eagerly stretched forth her
white-gloved hand and took it from the bearer.
They were her favorite flowers, arid she knew that
Geoffrey had sent them, even without the evidence of the
tiny note that lay twisted in their midst and concealed
from every eye but hers.
Everet Mapleson's card was attached to an elaborate
basket of japonicas, roses, and heliotrope. Mr. Huntress
had sent up a harp of pansies and smilax, and two or
three of Gladys' admiring classmates had contributed
lovely bouquets, but her little bunch of lilies, tied with
snow-white ribbon, was prized above them all.
It was all over at last; diplomas were presented, the
usual remarks made and advice given, and then admiring
friends crowded about to offer congratulations and ex
press their pride and pleasure in their loved ones.
In the midst of this confusion Gladys stepped aside a
moment to ascertain what her little billet contained.
"My darling," she read. "I would not have missed this hour to
have secured a fortune, and yet I came very near it. I will be in the
reception-room below after the exercises are over. Come and receive
my verdict there. GEOFF."
CHAPTER XVII.
A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
Gladys stole away from the crowd as soon as she could
do so without attracting attention, and sped down to the
reception-room to find her lover.
He was there and alone, fortunately, as nearly all the
guests were still in the hall above, and his face lighted
with a luminous smile as she sprang toward him, glad
ness beaming through every feature.
"Dear old Geoff!"
" My darling !" was all the salutation that passed be-
100 A DISAPPOINTED LOVHR.
ween them, and then for an instant Gladys was folded
close to her lover's breast in a fond embrace.
"Oh, Geoff, I thought you had not come ; I never got a
glimpse of you until almost the last minute, and was so
disappointed that I was about ready to break down,"
Gladys said, with a little nervous shiver, as she remem
bered how nearly her courage had failed her.
"I was late, dear, and I knew you would feel it ; but I
do not believe you would have failed even if you had not
seen me at all," he answered, as he fondly smoothed back
the clustering rings of hair from her throbbing temples.
"No, I do not think I should, really; but I could not
have done as Avell ; it was like a sudden inspiration to me
when I found you at last."
"Then I am thankful I was here, dear, for your effort
was the grand event of the day," Geoffrey said, smiling.
"You are very good to say so, Geoff," Gladys replied,
modestly.
"Very good to say so," he repeated, laughing. "Why
should I not say it, when your praises are on every lip,
and a pin might have been heard, if one had dropped,
while you were addressing the faculty and bidding >our
classmates farewell. Poor girls ! the crystal drops were
plentiful over the thought of parting."
"It is a little hard to leave school, Geoff, and all the
pleasant friends one has made ; don't you think so?"
"Perhaps," he replied. " I presume it is harder for you
than it will be for me, because I am so eager to make a
place for myself in the world, and a nest for somebody
else."
Gladys blushed at this reference to coming events.
"Did I not see Mapleson here?" Geoffrey asked, after a
mpment.
" Yes ; and at first I thought he was you ; but I soon
discovered my mistake."
"I wonder what he is here for?" mused the young
lover.
"To see me graduate, of course," Gladys responded,
roguishly.
'' Did you invite him ?" ?
"No. A long time ago he asked me to exchange tickets
with him for commencement, and I think he has spokan
of it every time that we have met since ; so, of course, I
could hardly help sending him one."
"You have seen a good deal of him during the last two
years, haven't you, Gladys?"
A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 101
"Yes, he has appeared at almost every place that we
have visited the last two summers, and he was always
in Ne\v York during the shorter recesses. I met him con-
Btaiitly in society, and I didn't like it very well, either."
W ny ?"
"Because it rather annoyed me to receive his atten
tions," Gladys confessed.
"Then he has been attentive to you?" the young man
asked, studying the face he loved very closely.
"Yes, quite so,'" Gladys answered; then noticing her
lover's grave, anxious look, she added : "You do not like
it, either, do you, Geoff?"
"No, dearest, I do not," Geoffrey replied, frankly, then
continued : "Pray, do not misunderstand me do not sup
pose that I am disturbed by a petty feeling of jealousy,
but there are some traits in Mapleson's character which
make me feel that he is not a proper companion or escort
for you."
"Then, Geoff, I will never accept any attention again
from him," Gladys said, quickly. "He has never been
very congenial to me in any way, and somehow I have al
ways resented his resemblance to you."
" Why should you?"
" 1. do not know I cannot account for the feeling, but I
have always had it. It mny be because I have detected
something not quite true in him, and did not Jike to have
him look like you on that account, while it almost seems
sometimes as if he were usurping a place that rightfully
belongs to you." ,
"That is impossible, dear, and I am afraid, a sort of
morbid fancy," Geoffrey replied, with gentle reproof.
U I have never had such a thought, nor envied him either
his high position in the world, or the immense wealth
which I have heard will some time be his."
Gladys raised herself on tiptoe and softly touched her
lips to her lover's cheek.
"How noble you are !" she whispered, "and I'd rather
have my Geoff without a penny !"
"You will have your 'rather,' then," the young man re
turned, laughing, although he fondly returned her caress,
"for he hasn't even a penny that is rightfully his own.
But," he added, drawing himself up resolutely, " that
shall not be said of me long another year, I trust, will
find me established in something that need not make m
ashamed to take my place among other men."
102 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
"Oh, Geoffrey! who is indulging in morbid fancies
iiow?" queried Gladys, chidiugly.
"I do not mean to do so," he replied, cheerfully, "but I
long to begin to do something for myself and for you, my
darling. But I must not keep you here people will be
wondering what has become of the fair valedictorian.
There!" as steps were heard approaching the door, "I'll
venture that some one is looking for you now.
It proved to be even so, and Gladys was in gieat de
mand during the next few hours. Indeed, Geoffrey saw
but comparatively little of her after that one interview,
for he was obliged to leave at an early hour in order to
reach New Haven that night.
There was to be a brilliant reception that evening for
the graduating class, and it was quite a disappointment
to Gladys that Geoffrey could not be present, but she
strove to make the best of it, knowing that they would
meet again in a few days ; besides Mr. and Mrs. Huntress
were to remain to accompany her when she should leave
the next day.
Everet Mapleson also remained.
He had hardly been able to get a word with Gladys all
day, and when he found that Geoffrey was obliged to
leave, he resolved that he would attend the reception arid
devote himself to the fair girl whom he was learning
every hour to love more devotedly.
When he presented himself in the evening before her a
slight frown contracted her brow, and for a moment she
was tempted to pass on and leave him to himself. But he
made that impossible by instantly taking his stand by
her side, and devoting himself exclusively to her, and
thus it was out of her power to avoid him without being
positively rude.
"Well, all this will soon end," she said to herself, with a
sigh of resignation, "and for once I may as well surrender
myself to the inevitable ; after he leaves college we shall
probably not meet again, and I should not like to have
it on my conscience that I had been rude even to him."
She introduced him to several of her classmates, and
tried thus to attract his attention from herself and slip
away unobserved ; but at her first movement he was at
her side.
During the latter part of the evening he managed to
draw her into the circle of promenaders who were pacing
up and down the main hall, to the delicious strains of a
fine band, where, after a few turns he led her, almost be-
A DISAPPOINTED LOVER. ica
fore she was aware of his intention, to a balcony at one
end, and out of the hearing of the crowd within.
"Perhaps I am taking a great liberty, Miss Huntress,"
he began, before she could utter a word of protest, "but I
must Did you good-night presently, and I have something
very important which I wish to say to you first."
Gladys shivered at his words, although the night was
intensely warm, for instinctively she knew why he had
brought her there.
But she could not help herself now, and she thought
perhaps it would be best to have their future relations
definitely settled once for all.
" I am obliged to return to New York on the midnight
train," the young man continued, " but I could not go with
out first telling you what has long been burning on my
lips for utterance. Gladys, I love you, and all my future
happiness depends upon my winning you to be my wife.
Will you give me your love in return? will you give me
yourself?"
It was a manly, straightforward declaration, and wor
thy a better man than Everet Mapleson was at that time.
It impressed Gladys as being earnest and genuine, and
she was grieved to know that she must wound and disap
point him.
"I cannot tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Mppleson, that
you should have said this to me," she returned, in a low,
pained tone, "for I cannot respond as you desire ; my an
swer must be a decided refusal of your suit."
"Do not say that !" he burst out in an agonized tone.
"Oh, my darling, you nuist not ruin my life with one fa
tal blow. Let me wait ever so long, if I may only hope
that some day you will be mine."
"I cannot let you hope," Gladys replied, greatly agi
tated, "what I have said must be final. I do not love
you I can never become your wife."
"Perhaps you do not love me now, but you can lenrn to
do so ; I will teach you. I will be very patient ; I will not
press you. Oh, Gladys, my beautiful, brown-haired dar
ling, do not break my lu art ! do rot ruin my life !"
A quivering sigh burst trom the young girl's pale lips.
No one can tell how painful the interview had become to
her. for she saw that he was a lover in deadly earnest,
and that his affection for her was deep and true.
She impulsively reached out her hand and laid it upon
bis arm.
"Mr. Mapleson," she pleaded, "pray do not importune
104 A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
me further ; for, truly, I can give you no other answer ;
my feelings can never change ; I do not love you I can
never love you."
He seized her hand in an eager, trembling grasp, and
bent his proud head until his forehead rested upon it.
"Why do you say that?" he cried, "that you can never
love me? You do not know. I will serve for you I will
prove my devotion ; oh ! give me time, Gladys, before
you discard me utterly, and no slave ever served more
faithfully for the coveted gift of freedom, than I will
serve, in any way, to win you, my fair love."
"No, no; please say no more, it is useless," she mur
mured, brokenly.
He raised bin head and looked eagerly into her face.
"There can be but one reason for such a persistent re
fusal, such a decided answer," he said, in a low, concen
trated tone ; "you have given the wealth of your love to
another !"
Even by the dim light of the moon which came strug
gling in upon them through the network of vines upon
the balcony, he could see the vivid color which shot up
over her cheek and brow, and dyed even the fair shoul
ders, beneath their gauzy covering, at this direct charge.
He grew pale as death.
" It is true ! I know it must be true !" he said, in the
tones of one who has suddenly been calmed or benumbed
by a terrible shock.
"You never could have resisted an appeal like mine,"
he weni on, between his tightly shut teeth, "if it were
not so. Tell me," he continued, growing excited again,
"is it so? have I guessed rightly?"
There was so much of concentrated passion in his voice,
and such an authoritative ring in his tone, that it aroused
something of resentment and antagonism in Gladys'
heart, in spite of her sympathy for him.
She turned and faced him, standing straight and tall
and calm before him.
"You have no right to speak in this way to me, Mr.
Mapleson," she said, with quift dignity, "and T am under
no obligation to explain why I do not favor your suit.
The chief reason in nny such case. T think, is that per
sons are not congenial to each other."
"Do you mean to tell me that I am not congenial to
you. Miss Huntress?" the young man interrupted, almost
fiercely.
"You have it in your power to be a very pleasant
A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 105
friend, Mr. Mapleson ; but more than that you could
never be to me under any circumstances," Gladys an
swered, coldly. Her tone more than her words drove
him almost to despair.
"Tell me, is it because you love another?" he persisted.
"I could not truthfully give that as the reason."
"That does not answer me. Do you love some one
else ?"
" Yes," answered the beautiful girl, briefly and proudlv.
" Are you betrothed ?"
Gladys lifted her head haughtily.
"Mr. Mapleson," she said, "I question your right to
interrogate me in this authoritative manner, but if a plain
answer Avill convince you that there can be no change in
my decision, I am willing to acknowledge to you that I
am pledged to another."
"To Geoffrey Huntress?" Everet Mapleson demanded,
hoarsely.
"Yes, to Geoffrey," she repeated, with a tender intona
tion of the name that betrayed how dear it was to her."
At this confession the young man dropped the hand
that he had clung to in spite of her efforts to release it,
as if it had been a coal of fire, all the evil in his nature
aroused by this triumph of his enemy over him.
"That low-born beggar !" he hissed.-
"Sir!"
He shrank for an instant beneath the word ns if she had
smitten him. Then his passion swept all before it once
more.
" He has opposed and thwarted me from the first mo
ment of our meeting. He offered me an indignity om-e,
which I have never forgotten or forgiven ; he has robbed
me of my honors at college and now he has robbod me of
you ! 7 hate him! and he shall yet feel the force of my
hatred in a way to make him wish that he had never
crossed my path."
CHAPTER XVIII.
A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
It is impossible to convey any idea of the anger, malice,
and venom contained in these fiercely uttered words, and
before Gladys could collect herself sufficiently to make
any reply before she was even aware of his intention
he had sprung past her and disappeared within the hall,
106 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
leaving her alone upon the balcony, and ehe saw him no
more that night.
"Mercy ! what a volcanic nature," she murmured, with
a sigh of relief over his departure. " I should pra} r to be
delivered from a life with such a person, let alone trying
to learn to love him No, there can be no relationship
between Geoffrey and Everet Mapleson, as I have some
times imagined there might be. My Geoff is a noble-
hearted gentleman ; he could never forget himself and
give the rein to passion as this fiery young man has done
to-night. I hope I shall never meet him again."
She sat down a moment on the low railing of the bal
cony to recover herself a little more fully before return
ing to the company.
"I wonder," she mused, "what he meant by Geoffrey
thwarting him, and what imaginary indignity for it
could have been nothing more than that he offered
him ; and how could he have robbed him of his honors at
college? I will ask him when we go to New Haven."
A little later she rejoined her friends, but all enjoy
ment had been spoiled for her, and seeking Mr. and Mrs.
Huntress, she intimated that she was very weary after
the excitement of the day, and they were quite willing to
retire with her, knowing well thnt she needed rest.
The next morning Gladys bade a long farewell to her
classmates and teachers, and then, with Mr. and Mrs.
Huntress, left for New Haven to attend the commence
ment exercises at Yale.
We cannot linger over these, or even particularize
much. Suffice it to say that Geoffrey acquitted himself
most nobly, and Mr. Huntress was as proud of him as if
he had really been his own son.
His oration was one that was long remembered by his
class with great pleasure, and was highly commended by
the faculty.
Everet Mapleson also shone upon this occasion. He
had worked harder during this last year than hn had ever
worked before during his college life. A feeling: of an
tagonism against Geoffrey, and a desire to win Gladys 1
favor, had spurred him on to strive for the post of honor
in his class, and the disappointment at his failure was a
bitter one.
It created a good deal of surprise and comment that
two young men so nearly resembling each other, and yet
in no way related, should stand so high in their class, and
be such brilliant scholars.
A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 107
Mrs. Mapleson, who had come on from the South to be
present upon the occasion, was strangely impressed by
the circumstance.
Colonel Mapleson had been called out West on business,
and could not return in season to accompany her, so she
had been forced to come alone.
She was a magnificent-looking woman ; tall, with a
stately figure, a brilliant brunette complexion, with dark
hair and eyes, and beautiful teeth, such as a youthful
belle of twenty might envy.
"It is the strangest thing in the world, Everet," she
remarked to her son after the exercises of the day were
concluded. "Iriean this wonderful resemblance between
you and that young man. If I had not known the Maple-
eons all my life, and that our family is the last of the
race, I should be tempted to believe that he belonged to
us in some way."
"Pshaw ! mother, that is all nonsense !" her son re
plied, a hot flush of resentment rising to his brow.
"Don't, for pity's sake, suggest that any of our blood
flows in his veins !"
"Why, Everet? Reappears like a fine fellow hand,
some, manly, and he is certainy extremely clever," re
turned Mrs. Mnpleson, with some surprise.
"Granted; though that may sound rather egotistical,
since we are considered the counterparts of each other;
but for all that he has been a thorn in the flesh and a
marplot to me ever since he entered college, and I detest
him !"
"That is not a very good spirit, I'm afraid, Ev.," Mrs.
Mapleson said, chidingly. "But who is he? Geoffrey D.
Huntress, I believe, was the name on the programme,
but where does he belong, and what is his family?"
"Nobody knows who or what he is; there is a queer
story connected with his life. I heard, while I was in
New York, that this Mr. Huntress found him several
years ago wandering in the streets of the city in a de-
mentod condition. He became interested in him, took
him to some hospital, and had an operation performed a
piece of bone was pressing upon the brain, and was re
moved, I believe, and he recovered his senses immedipte-
Iv. but appeared more like a child five years old rather
than like a boy in bin teens."
"Row very strange !" exclaimed Mrs. Mapleson, deeply
interested ; "but rould he tell nothing about himself after
his mind was restored ?"
108 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
"No, nothing of any consequence; all that he could re
member of his previous life was that he had lived with
some people named Margery and Jack, and that his name
was Geoffrey Dale "
"Dale! D.ile!" repeated Mrs. Mapl<snn, with a start.
"There used to he a family of Dales Irvine near Vue de
1'Eau before I was iraivitd ; at least tl.f re was a widow
and her daughter, a girl named Annie. They were poor
people; they lived in one of those cottrgf s near the old
mill, and after the mother died thepiil suddenly disap
peared, and was never heard of again."
"Mother, what is this you are telling ire?" cried young
Mapleson, a strange look fl: siring over his face. "The
girl went awav and never came hack?''
"Yes."
"Where did she go? She must have had some especial
place in view when she started."
"She said she was going to "Richmond to serve as por-
erness in some family ; that was the last I ever heard of
her."
Everet Mapleson's eyes glowed.
"Aha!" he thought; "who knows but what I have at
last found a clew to the fellow's birth?
"Dale, Dale," he, too, repeated thoughtfully, "wasn't
that the name of that queer old codger who was to have
had Uncle Jahez's fortune, if you and father didn't fulfill
the conditions of his will ?"
."Yes, Robert Dale. He was a cousin of Uncle' Jabez,
and considerably younger than he, and I suppose he
would have had all the money, if your father and I had
been contrary."
"It was the most eccentric will I ever heard of," said
Everet, rmi singly.
"It was indeed."
"What could have prompted him to make it?"
"Your father was his bi-olher's only son. and the last of
the Maplesons. I was a favorite niece, the dciuphter of
his sister, and I suppose he did not wish the wealth which
it had tnken so many years to accumulate, to be divided,
yet he desired to have it benefit his relatives, and so took
this way to accomplish it."
A little sigh escaped Mrs. Mapleson as she con
cluded.
Her son noticed it, and shot a searching glance into her
face.
"Mother," he said, as if some strange thought had sud-
A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 109
denly come to him, " it has never occurred to me before,
but were the conditions of that will obnoxious to you?"
Mrs. Mapleson colored a vivid red at this unexpected
question.
"You are touching upon rather delicate ground, Everet,
and this is hardly the time or place for the discussion of
such a matter," she replied, gravely ; "but since you
have asked the question, I will tell you the truth
about it."
" You need not tell me anything if the subject is painful
to you," interrupted her son, whose love for his mother
was the noblest trait in his character.
"No, the pain is all a thing of the past, if, indeed,
there ever was any connected with my marriage with
your father. Wnen the conditions of the will we~e first
made known to us, neither of us were willing to carry
them out, not that we had any especial dislike to each
Other; we simply did not seem to be in perfect sympathy,
we had no real affection for one another, and on that ac
count we both shrank from assuming the intimate rela
tions of husband and wifa. William Mapleson was a
handsome and noble gentleman, and I admired and
liked him in a cousinly way. His own feelings were sim
ilar to mine, so you perceive it was not easy to comply
with the wishes of your Uncle Jabez. The property, as
you perhaps know, was divided equally between us, and
Ve werer free to use the income of it as we chose, until I
should be twenty -five years of age, provided neither of 113
married any one else before that time ; in that case,
whichever of us violated the conditions of the will was to
forfeit his or her share, and it was to go to the other, Avho
was then free to marry, and would have the whole for
tune. If both of us remained single after I reached the
age of twenty-five, than all was to go to Robert Dale."
"It was an abominable will!" Everet Mapleson ex
claimed, indignantly.
"Yes, it was, and it made me very antagonistic at first.
I was extremely high spirited as a girl, and I resented the
presumption of any one choosing my husband for rne,"
Mrs. Mapleson replied, a flush dyeing her whole face at
the memory of her girlish indignation.
"Of course, any one would. Besides this, Robert Dalo
had plenty of money of his own, hadn't he?"
"Yes, he was worth a great deal. He was a bachelor
and a sort of miser and hermit."
"What if he had died before you were twenty -five?"
110 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
"That would have ended all our difficulties the money
woufr! have been ours without restrictions."
"What finally induced you to change your mind ?" Ev-
eret asked, searching his mother's handsome face ear
nestly.
She did not reply for a moment, and seemed to be
struggling with an inward emotion.
"I shall have to confess, Everet, that it. was the love of
money," she at last said, with a sigh, although a slight
smile played over her brilliant lips. ' I had known what
poverty was as a girl, and I, hated it. I had struggled
during my youthtul years for even the necessaries of life,
for, "as you know, my father was poor and an invalid.
After I came into the possession of my share of Uncle Ja-
bez's money I enjoyed every luxury and w r as enabled to
provide all the family with comforts such as they had
never known before. Do you think it would have been
easy to have gone back to the hardships of my early life ?"
"I suppose it would not have been easy."
"Your father was situated somewhat the same. He
had been dependent upon Uncle Jabez's bounty ever since
the death of his parents, and, although he was as indig
nant as I, at first, over this will, and vowed he would not
Submit to any such arbitrary conditions, yet. after years
of luxurious living, when he began to realize what it
would be to be deprived of it, he came to me and asked if
I was willing to revoke my early decision, and become his
wife."
"But, mother, was there no one else in all the world
whom you would have preferred to marry ? no one
whom you had met and loved ? Was there no romance in
either of your lives that would conflict with such a pro
ceeding?" Everet anxiously asked.
"No, there wap no one whom I loved better no one
whom I would have been as willing, even, to marry."
"That seems very strange ! How old were you at that
time !"
"Twenty-four it was my last year of grace," replied
Mrs. Mapleson, with a little laugh.
" Have you never met any one since who has made you
regret the step ?"
"No, Everet; and if I had, I had too much respect for
myself and for your father to ever have yielded to any
such sentiment. More than that, I have become deeply
attached to my husband, and oirr life, as you well know,
has been a remarkably peaceful and uncheckered one."
A LQbQ AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. Ill
"And father " the young man began, and then hesi
tated.
"He told me frankly when he asked me to marry him,
that he had no other attachment," interposed Mrs. Maple-
son ; "in fact we mutually confessed that, athough we did
not possess any rozrantic love for each other, such as
lovers usually entertain, we had none for any one else ;
that we did admire and esteem each other, and we be
lieved that a marriage would, under the circumstances,
be best for us both."
"It is the strangest union I ever heard of, and I believe
it was a very dangerous thing to do."
"Dangerous? Why?"
u You might have met some one later, whom you would
have learned to love, and unhnppiness must have result
ed from it to all parties."
"That was hardly probable, for we had both been much
in society and had seen a great deal of the world. At all
events we have been a very contented couple. Our early
admiration and simple liking have ripened into a deep
and lasting affection, and we have been as quietly happy
as most married people, I believe."
The young man regarded his mother curiously. It
seemed very strange to him that such a beautiful woman
as she was and must have been in her youth, should have
missed that sweetest of all experiences youthful loving
and being loved.
She was just the person, he thought, to have inspired
the most ardent passion in the heart of some strong, true-
minded man ; and just the woaian to have loved such a
man most fervently and devotedly.
He almost wondered that his father had not fallen mad
ly in love with her at the very outset, and yet he could
understand how the spirit of antagonism had been
aroused in them, from the fact of not having been al-
lo'.ved to choose for themselves in a matter so vital to
their interests and happiness.
"You say that this cousin, Robert Dale, was an old
bachelor?" ho asked, after a few moments of thought.
"Yes, and he was every bib as eccentric as Uncle Jabez
himself."
"Are you sure that he never married? Somehow,
what you have toLi me has created a suspicion in my
mind that this Geoffrey Dale Huntress, after all,
may bo in some way connected with these Dales ai;
home."
112 A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
Mrs. Mapleson gave vent to a silvery ripple of amuse
ment at her son's question.
"I am very sure that Robert Dale was never married,"
she said. " He despised all women, even disliked to eat
what a woman's hands hud cooked."
"How old was he when he died?"
"Forty. I should judge."
"Do you imagine that he could have had a secret al
liance \\itli any one, and that this Geoffrey Dale is a de
scendant of his?"
"No, indeed !" Mrs. Mapleson returned, her face dim
pling all over at this suggestion. ".If you could have
geen him 3*ou would never ask such a question. No
woman would have dared approach him ; 110 woman
would have lived with such a creature, or as he lived.
He built himself a small stone house in the woods a few
miles from Vue de 1'Eau. It was as rude as it could be,
and furnished with only what was actually necessary,
and there he lived a kind of hermit's life, with an old ne
gro servant, who was cook, housemaid, and everything
else you ma}' choose to call him."
"But during his earlier life be may have been different
he may have loved some one, and been secretly mar
ried, and then disappointed in some way in his hopes,
which might have embittered him and made him the
woman-hater he was," responded Everet, thoughtfully.
"No, I do not think that is possible ; and even if it were,
this young man could not be a son of his ; he is not old
enough ; he belongs to the same generation as yourself."
"True. T did not think of that. How long did Robert
Dale live after you were married ?"
"Just one month."
Everet looked up quickly into his mother's face.
"Before your twenty-fifth birthday?"
"Yes."
"And were you sorry that you did not wait a little
longer? You would have been free from the conditions
of that will, and could have kept your money."
"No, Everet, I have never regretted my marriage,"
Mrs. Mapleson calmly replied. "I think I have been far
happier than I should have been had I remained single."
"What became of Robert Dale's money?"
" That has been a mystery to everybody, and one that
has remained unsolved to this day. He was known to
have given twenty thousand dollars to a blind asylum in
Philadelphia several years previous to his death ; but
A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION. 113
what became of the remainder of his fortune, which
must have been very large, has been a question that has
puzzled ull who knew him. I think, however, he must
have given away large sums at different times, and it
was all distributed before he died, for no papers of any
kind and no will were ever found."
" Was Miss Annie Dale a relative of this eccentric old
bachelor?" Everet inquired.
" Yes ; she was his niece, his own brother's child ; but
he never had anything to do with the family. There was
some trouble between himself and his brother during
their youth, and he never forgot or forgave the grudge.
Even after the girl's father died, he refused to have any
thing to do with either mother or daughter, although I
have heard that they were at times very needy."
"Did you ever see the girl?"
"No; my home, as you know, was in Richmond. I
was not married, and did not go to Vue de 1'Eau until
some three years or more after she disappeared."
" Do you know the name of the family to whom she
went as governess?"
u No."
Mrs. Mapleson seemed to grow somewhat weary of the
conversation.
"It is very strange what became of her," her son mur
mured, reflectively. "Do you imagine there was any foul
play about her disappearance ?"
"Oh, no, indeed. She probably met some clever young;
man who fell in love with her and married her. I do not
know much about the matter anyway, only that she waa
entirely alone in the world, and I do not know as there
was anything so very remarkable about her going off and
never coming back again. But, mercy ! Everet, I do not
care to sit here all day ani talk about the Dales, oven for
the sake of making out your handsome orator to belong
to them, which is not at all probable. Come, I want to
look about a little."
Mrs. Mapleson arose as she spoke, thus putting an end
to their long talk, and her son dutifully attended her
wherever she wished to go; but he become more and
more convinced that Annie Dale, who had so mysterious
ly disappeared many years ago, and Geoffrey Dale
Huntress were in some way connected with each
other.
He knew that there was some Mapleson blood in the
Dale veins, although it was a good way back, and he be-
114 EVJSRET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DJS L'SAU.
lieved that accounted for Geoffrey's singular resemblance
to himself.
"I'll wager that there is some story of shame at the
bottom of Annie Dale's disappearance," he thought;
"and if I can ferret it out and fasten it upon him, Gladys
Huntress will never marry him, I'll look into this mat
ter as soon as I go home."
CHAPTER XIX.
EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EAU.
Everet Mapleson conducted his mother to Sheffield
Hall, thence to the Divinity Collages, the Marquand
Chapel and Library, and finally to the Peabody Museum.
In this latter place they lingered for some time, exam
ining various objects of interest, Mrs. Mapleson appear
ing to be greatly attracted by the valuable collection of
curiosities on exhibition there.
While they were standing before a cabinet of curious
stones, one of Everet's classmates came to him and drew
him aside for a moment of private conversation.
He then turned to his mother and exciised himself, say
ing that he was wanted elsewhere upon a matter of class
business, but would shortly return to her.
"Very well," she replied. "I will look about by my
self until you come back, and you will find me here."
She wandered leisurely from case to case, looking over
their contents, until suddenly her attention was attracted
by a peculiarly pleasant voice, and, glancing up, she saw
her pon's "double" standing near her, with a beautiful
girl leaning upon his arm.
She knew that it was Geoffrey Huntress from some tri-
flins: difference in his dress, although, even to her keen
mother's eye, it was almost impossible to otherwise dis
tinguish him from her son.
But after a passing glance at him, her attention was
riveted upon the exquisitely beautiful girl at his side,
whose face was all aglow with health and happiness.
"They are lovers," Mrs. Mapleson said to herself, as she
saw how oblivious they were of all save each other. "I
wonder who the young girl is? How graceful she is in
every movement ! how animated ! and I have rarely seen
such a lovely complexion, or such beautiful, expressive
eyes 1"
EVERET WAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE VEAU. 115
She stood beside one of the cabinets, partially shielded
by it, and watched the young couple all the time they re
mained in the room, and \vould gladly have followed
them as they passed on to another, so interested did she
become in them, if she had not promised that she would
remain where she was until Everet returned.
When at length he did come back to her, his face was
pale and lowerng. He had passed Gladys and Geoffrey
on his way, and the sight of them together had wrought
him up to the highest pitch of passion and suffer
ing.
" What is the matter, Everet ?" his mother asked. " Are
you in trouble?"
"No," he answered, briefly, and then added: "Have
you seen enough here?"
"Yes, I have been ready to go for some time; I have
only been waiting for you. I have been quite interested
in a young couple who have just gone out your 'double,'
as you call him, and a lovely young girl. Perhaps you
met fhem."
"Yes, I passed them as I came in."
"Who is she?"
"She is the daughter of the man who adopted him;
her name is Gladys Huntress."
"Gladys? What an appropriate name. She is a veri
table sunbeam. Do you know her?"
"Yes ; I have met her a great many times in New York
society," the youne man returned, but with a face so
pale and pained that his mother could not fail to notice it.
"Everet, T believe that you have fallen in love with
her, yourself !" she said, in a startled tone.
"It would not be a very difficult thing for any man to
do, would it?" he asked, trying to smile, yet with a ring
of pain in his voice.
"Is the family a good one?"
"They stand well ; they are received in the best society
in New York, and I hive been told that Mr. Huntress is
a wealthy man."
"Well, he has a charming daughter, anyway. I'd like
you to win a pretty girl like that for a wife, Everet," said
Mrs. Manleson, wistfully.
"I assure you it would give me a great deal of pleasure
to gratify you, ma chere," he responded, his lips curling
with a bitter smile, as he thought of how he had tried
and failed ; then he abruptly changed the subject. "But;
time is flying, and if \ve are to be in New York to-night,
116 EVEEET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EAU.
we must bo thinking about trains, while I have some
packing to attend to yet."
Mrs. Mapleson signified her readiness to go, and they
passed out of the museum and repaired to Everet's
rooms.
That evening they Avere en route to the great metropo
lis, whence they were to go to Newport.
Mrs. Mapleson had arranged to spend the greater por
tion of the season at this fashionable resort, where she
expected to meet some friends, who were also coming
from the South
But Everet had other plans for himself.
He attended his mother to Newport, saw her comforta
bly and pleasantly settled there, and then informed her
that he was going homo to Virginia.
She was amazed at this information, and protested in
dignantly against his departure.
"Why, I am a total stranger here, Everet," she said,
"and it is too bad of you to desert me in this unceremoni
ous fashion.''
"But the Ainslies and Worthingtons will he here in a
day or two, and then you will have plenty of company,"
he told her.
" But I want you for an escort. I do not like to be left
alone."
"Then I'll try and persuade father to con.e on, if he is
at home when I reach Vue do 1'Eau," Everet returned,
but without relenting in the least from his purpose.
"But what is your object? It seems inexplicable to
me. I supposed, of course, you wre going to remain
with me,' 1 his mother said, searching his face curiously,
and with some anxiety as well.
" I have an object, but "
"But you do not wish to tell me what it is," she inter
posed. "Everet, you shall! I suspect it is some love
affair."
He colored crimson, and then was enraged at himself
for doing so.
"Well, and what if it is?" he demanded, somewhat de
fiantly.
" Who is there at home in whom you are so deeply in
terested ?"
"No one; I am going to trace out that Annie Dnle's
history, if you must know. I'beliove Geoffrey Bale Hun
tress is in some way connected with her, and," he hurst
out excitedly, "I am going to know 1"
JSVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUS DB L'EAJT. 111
"Nonsense! What good will ifc do you? Everet," she
added, as a sudden thought came to her, "you are in love
with that girl, Gladys Huntress, and you are jealous of
him. "
u Wt 11 ?"
"You have conceived the idea that Annie Dale disap
peared because of some wrong that she had done, and
that this Geoffrey Huntress may be her child, and not of
honorable birth. You believe, if you can prove ttiis, that
Miss Huntress will never marry him, and you will thetf
be able to win her."
Mrs. Mapleson had said this looking: s f raight into hei
son's eyes, and seeming to read his soul like an oper
book.
"Mother, your penetration is something remarkable. J
could almost believe you to be a mind-reader," he replied
half guiltily.
Then, after a moment of thought, he continued, e*
Citfdly :
"Yes, I may as well confess it I am madly in lovd
with Gladys Huntress, and have been for more than 9
year. I have vowed that I will win her if it can be ao
complished, even though I know that she loves this fel
low, who has been nothing but a stumbling-block in my
path since the day T first met him. I am going to Rich
mond, as you surmise, to trace Annie Dale's history from
the time of her disappearance, and I fully believe that 1
shall discover that this Geoffrey Dale is her son. If he is
a child of shame r I do not believe that Gladys Huntresi
will marry him, and T may yet be happy."
Mrs. Mapleson looked deeply troubled over this confes
cion.
"Everet," she said, gravely, "I am afraid that you ar<
building upon a false foundation, and your hopes will
come to naught,. If this srirl truly loves that young man.
and he is worthy of her, she will marry him, or I am verj
mu oh mistaken in my estimate of her character."
Everet Mapleson's brow darkened.
"I am going home, anyhow," he said, doggedly.
"It will be a wild-goose chase, I warn you," returned
his mother.
"I cannot help it. I shall go mad if I sit idly down,
and Gladys is lost to me forever," he retorted, with quiv
ering lips.
Mrs. Mapleson seemed very unhappy.
She loved her son ns she loved no one else in the world,
118 EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EA CT.
and she could not bear to think that he had learned to
love unwisely, and was risking his future happiness in
pursuit of an ignis fatuus.
She did not believe he would ever win Gladys Hun
tress. The young girl's face had haunted her ever since
she had seen her witn her lover, in the museum at Yale,
and she knew, by the way she had looked up into Geof
frey's eyes, that she loved him with her whole soul, and
that no dishonor, save that of his own making, would
ever alienate her fiom him.
"Oh, Everet, pray give up this foolish infatuation," she
pleaded, laying her hand beseechingly on his arm.
"Foolish infatuation, indeed I" he retorted, with an
angry flush. "What can you know about it you who
never knew what it was to love a man as I love this
peerless girl ?"
Mrs. Mapleson crimsoned to her brow, then grew white
as the snowy lace about her neck ; her lips quivered pain
fully, and hot tears rushed to her eyes.
"Are you not somewhat harsh in your judgment of me,
Everet? Surely, whatever else you may say of me. you
cannot accuse me of lacking in affection for my son," she
said, sadly and tremulously.
"Forgive me, mother," he pleaded, conscience-smitten,
"but, indeed, it nearly drives me distracted to think
that I may not be able to win Gladys ; while he, that
beggar without even a name, has won her without an
effort."
"Has won? Then they are engaged ?"
"Yes."
"What folly, Everet? I would respect myself too much
to cry after a girl who was already pledged," said Mrs.
Mapleson, scornfully, and with flashing eyes.
His face flamed angrily.
"I tell you, you cannot understand !" he cried. "At
all events, whether I win or not, I will do my utmost to
separate them. I detest him so thoroiiehly, I will never
allow him to triumph where I have failed."
He stole from the room with these words, and that
night he left Newport for Vue de 1'Eau, where he arrived
three days later, and found his father at home keeping
bachelors' hall in fine style, with half a dozen servants to
attend him..
Colonel Mapleson greeted his son with a heartiness
which testified to the deep affection which he bore him,
though he expressed some surprise that he should have
EVEliET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EA U. 119
returned at that season, when he might have been enjoy
ing the cool breezes of Newport, and had his pick of the
fashionable belles who thronged the place.
" I have not been at home for a long time, you know,"
Everet responded, carelessly, "and somehow had a pecu
liar longing to get back to the old place. Mother rebelled
at being left, but I promised to send you on to take my
place."
Colonel Mapleson shrugged his shoulders.
He was not particularly fond of gay society, and was
never anxious to dance attendance upon his fashionable
wife, although he was proud of her beauty, and the admi
ration and attention she received wherever she went.
"I have not been in Newport for a good many years,"
he remarked, as he passed his coffee-cup to be filled for
the third time; for they were at breakfast.
"Surely ydu would enjoy the trip then," Everet re
plied. "Newport has changed greatly; it has become,
literally, an island of palaces. You ought to run up there
for a little change during mother's stay."
"Well. I'll think about it; but you will be lonely if I
run off just as you come home."
"Never mind me ; mother needs and wants you, and I
have been in so much excitement of late that I shall be
glad to be quiet for awhile," the young man remarked,
carelessly.
This was such a strange desire on the part of one who
had been accustomed to frequent all the gay resorts dur
ing the summer holida3 r s, while, too, he was looking far
from well or happy, that Colonel Mapleson shot a search
ing glance into his son's face, and began to suspect thnt
he had been disappointed in some affair of the heart, and
had come home to conceal it.
"That is a new freak, isn't it?" he asked, quietly.
"You can call it so if you like ; but I have been working
pretty hard this last year, and am tired. Besides, I have
not had a really good chance to fish, hunt, and ride since
I entered Yale, and I mean to improve my opportunity
now to my heart's content. By the way," he continued,
after a slight pause, "isn't there a place called the 'Her<
mitage' somewhere in this vicinity, whore a relative of
ours, who was a sort of recluse, used to live? In some of
my roaminga I may like to visit it."
"Yes ; Robert Dale, a distant cousin, built it and lived
there for years. I suppose your mother has been telling
you about him ; she always invested him with a grout
120 EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L'EAU.
deal of romance," his father replied, with a slight smile
of amusement. "He was a queer old codger, too, and
lived a regular hermit's life for nearly a quarter of a cen
tury. The house is still standing, about ten miles from
here, in a lonely spot surrounded by a dense growth of
pines. He kept one servant Uncle Jake, he was called
who was housekeeper and steward all in one cooking,
washing, and ironing, taking care of their one horse and
cow, and the chickens. He also attended to all the
marketing and errands, and his master was rarely
seen."
"How did Mr. Dale occupy his time?" Everet inquired.
"With reading and writing. He had a choice library,
the only luxury of which he was guilty ; and he left piles
of manuscripts, some of which were quite valuable, treat
ing chiefly upon geology and ornithology. He had al
ways been a great student of those subjects. 1
"What became of his library ana manuscripts?"
"One of the trustees cf Richmond College claimed that
they had been promised to that institution, and although
there was no writing of any kind found after his death to
verify that claim, the books and papers were all made
over to the college."
"What of his servant, Uncle Jake?"
"He died only a few mont-hs after his master. He
lived on at the Hermitage in the same way, refusing to
leave the place, and was found dead in his bed, one day,
by some sportsmen, who stopped there to fill their can
teens with water. He was buried there in the woods,
the house was shut up, and has remained so ever since."
"This Robert Dale was a relative of vours, wasn't he,
father?"
"Well, yes, I suppose he was, though the relationship
is very distant. He was own cousin to my Uncle Jabez,
who was my father's half-brother, if you can make thai
out." said Colonel Mapleson, laughing.
"Humph! There was another family of Dales, who
lived somewhere in this region, if I remember right, that
is, I remember hearing something about them, 5 ' Everet
remarked, after another pause.
Colonel Mapleson bent a look of questioning surprise
on his son.
"It appears to me that you manifest an unusual interest
in the Dales this morning," Colonel Mapleson said.
"What has aroused it? I did not suppose you were even
aware of their existence."
&VERET MAPLESON RETDKN8 TO VUE DE L'EAU. 121
"Mother related something of their history to me. But
you have not answered my question."
"Yes, there was another family of Dales; at least,
there was a widow, and her daughter, who lived in a cot
tage not far from Vue de 1'Eau, a good many years ago.
They came here in a very destitute condition, after Mr.
Henry Dale's death, and supported themselves by teach
ing and sewing."
"And yet this old hermit, Robert Dale, had plenty, and
lei them toil for the necessities of life," said Everet, in
dignantly.
"They were his own brother's wife and child, too;
but " began Colonel Mapleson, musingly, while he
seemed to bo busy with some memory of the past.
"Well, mother told me they were bitter enemies.
What was the cause of it?" asked the young man,
eagerly.
"Robert and Henry Dale both loved the same woman
when they were young men. Henry won her, and Robert
hated him ever afterward ; that is the secret of his lead
ing such a singular life, I suppose," explained his father.
Everet flushed.
He was thinking of two other young men who loved the
same woman, one of whom hated the other for having
won, where he had failed.
"What became of the two women? 1 ' he asked, wishing
to hear his father's version of Annie Dale's disappear
ance.
"Mrs. Dale died many years ago, and the daughter, I
believe, went somewhere to be a governess. But, gra
cious ! Everet, it is nearly ten o'clock !" suddenly inter
jected Colonel Mapleson, looking at his watch in sur
prise, "and I promised to meet Major Winterton in town,
at a quarter before eleven, to look at his sorrel mare. I
am talking of buying her for a saddle horse. I must be
off at once. Will you come with me?"
"Thanks, no. I think I will lounge about home for to
day," the young man replied, but feeling somewhat dis
appointed at having their conversation so abruptly termi
nated.
Colonel Mapleson bade his son good-morning, and hur
ried from the room to order his horse, while Everet sak
musing upon what he had learned, and wondering* what
his next step would be to ascertain what Annie Dale's
fate had been, after going to Richmond to seek her for
tune.
122 A2f INTJiiliJSSTIlW D WMLL1SG.
CHAPTER XX.
AN INTERESTING DWELLING.
Colonel Mapleson received a letter from his wife, a
day or two after Everet 's return to Vue de 1'Eau begging
him to come to Newport to join herself and friends.
She wrote that she was an odd one in the party, and
although every one was very kind, she feit rather embar
rassed to be without an escort, which marred her enjoy
ment very much ; if he could not come she should return
home.
Everet urged his father to go, and the colonel, feeling
that it would be too bad to have his wife's holiday spoiled,
decided that he would gratify her, packed his portman
teau, and started off at once.
Everet accompanied him to the station, and gave a
sigh of relief as he watched out of sight the train that
bore his father northward, for he felt that he could now
pursue the investigations he was contemplating indepen
dently, and without fear of criticism.
With his thoughts full of this purpose, he turned his
horse's head again toward home, but on his way he made
a detour, taking a road which would lead him around by
the old mill.
He had not traversed this way since he was a boy, and
had almost forgotten how the place looked, though he
used to row upon the pond and play about the dilapidated
wheel, which once had turned the mill, while he had fol
lowed the stream that fed it for miles, in search of the
pretty speckled trout that lay hidden in their dark
haunts beneath the tangled roots of the overhanging
trees.
The day was excessively warm, but the trees with their
luxuriant foliage made a perfect arch above his head, arid
afforded a delightful shade, through which the sunlight
only came in checkered gleams, making quaint shadows
on the grass-grown path beneath. Hundreds of birds on
every hand made the woods ring with their sweet melo
dies ; myriads of flies buzzed lazily about ; tha beetles
hummed among the bushes, and gayly painted butterflies
fluttered among the many-failed flowers that grew by ths
AN INTERESTING DWLLLlbb. i_3
wayside. Now and then a squirrel would spring out,
chattering from some gnarled and moss-grown trunk,
and dart across the path or along the zigzag Virginia
fence on either hand, while occasionally a nut-brown par
tridge, startled from its covert, darted deeper into the
forest, followed by its timid and clamorous mate.
It was a perfect summer day, and remote from the busy
haunts of men, with th6 tender blue of the sky above,
and the waves of golden ligi't, that streamed softly on
him between the interlacing branches over his head, Ev-
eret thoroughly enjoyed his solitrry ride, and the lazy,
peaceful life of bird and insect all about him.
By and by he heard the rushing of the brook that fed
the pond farther on, and presently he came to the rhal-
low ford where, as a boy, he had often played and sailed
his miniature boats.
He rode his horse into the middle of the stream, where
he gave hi K the bridle, and let him drink his fill, while
he absently watched the ripples and eddies which he
made with every swallow.
Then he passed on, and coming up on the opposite
bank, he saw not far distant the smooth, glassy pond,
and the old mill still standing on its margin.
It was an ancient and dilapidated building, black from
age and neglect, but picturesque withal, for it was almost
covered with a luxuriant growth of glossy, dark-green
woodbine, intermingled with the deadly nightshade,
whose bright purple blossoms made spots of rich color
here and there among the foliage.
Passing this, he came to the miller's house, which was
also empty and falling to decay, while still farther on he
came upon a small cottage fairly embowered in vines,
and brilliant with great clusters of the scarlet trumpet-
honeysuckle and pin pie wisteria.
This also appeared to be deserted, and there was no sign
of life anywhere about it ; still it was not dilapidated like
the other buildings which he had passed, and it looked aa
if, from time to time, some careful hand had trained and
primed the vines, and kept the place from falling to ruin.
It had originally been painted white, with green
blinds, and a neat fence surrounded the spacious garden ;
but time and the elements had robbed it of its once spot
less coat, and but for the vines it would have looked
naked and forlorn.
Everet rode up to the hitching-post, dismounted and
tied his horse to it, unfastened the low gate and walked
124 AN INTERESTING DWELLING.
up the grass-grown path to the broad veranda that ran
entirely around the house.
Every window was curtained, and every curtain was
down, and the front door was securely fastened.
The young man stood irresolute a moment as he ob
served this.
"It cannot be that any one lives here," he muttered ; "I
am quite sure that this must be the Dale cottage, and yet
it looks as if it were inhabited."
He walked slowly around the veranda, trying to peer
in at the side of the curtains as he passed the windows,
but not a glimpse of the interior could he obtain.
There was another door at the back of the house.
He tried this also, but it was evidently bolted on the
inside, for he could hear the bolt rattle in its socket.
He shook it gently back and forth a few times, in an
impatient way, for he was very anxious to know what
was behind all those closely drawn curtains, when, to his
surprise, the door suddenly yielded and opened.
The iron had rattled from its place.
Stepping within, he found himself in what appeared to
be a kitchen, for there was a cooking stove under the
mantel; a dresser filled with dishes stood on the east
side, and there was a small table, with one or two chairs
opposite.
There was a door on his left.
Crossing the floor, which was covered with dust, and
showed the print of every step, he passed into a small
bedroom.
A faded carpet lay upon the floor. A bed, covered with
a canopy of musquito netting, which once had been blue,
but was now faded and discolored with age and dust,
stood in one corner.
Pretty lace draperies fell over the window shades, and
were looped back with broad satin ribbons, which were
also blue. A cherry table and a couple of wicker chairs
completed the furnishing of the apartment.
A second door led into another room from this. This
stood open, and, passing through, Everet found himself
in what must have been the parlor, for it extended the
whole width of the house, and had been both richly and
tastefully furnished, although, of course, everything was
now faded and covered with dust, and had a look of neg
lect that was forlorn and cheerless.
There were pretty easy-chairs and tempting rockers
scattered about ; a luxurious aofa in one corner, and a
AN INTERESTING DWELLING. 125
handsome table in the center of tlie floor, covered with a
richly embroidered cloth, evidently the work of a skillful
pnir of hands, and the young man wondered if Annie
Dale had wrought the beautiful thing. There was a small
piano between the two front windows, a book-case, filled
with books by standard authors, in a corner, and at one
end there was a lovely writing-desk, containing numer
ous drawers and pigeon-holes, and every convenience for
writing. A small work-basket, on an elaborate stnnd,
stood beside a pretty rocker by one of the low front win
dows. It was a dainty affair, lined with crimson satin
and garnished with bows of ribbon to match ; and Everet
Mapl^son could imagine just how the graceful figure of
the fair girl to whom it had belonged, had looked an she
sat beside it, intent upon some delicate bit of sewing or
embroidery.
He turned again to the writing-desk, as if he instinct
ively felt that this was more likely than anything else to
contain soive information regarding the former occupants
of the pretty house.
It was not locked.
He opened it, laying the cover out flat, and then bogan
pulling out the drawers and peering into the various
pigeon-holes and compartments.
They were all empty so far there had not been even a
ecra,p of paper to tell who, in davs gone by, had made tise
of the convenient and elegant affair and he shut them up
again with a sigh of impatience nnd regret, while a feel
ing of gloom began to oppress him ; there was something
very dreary in this house, so completely furnished, yet?
so silent and deserted.
A sensation of guilt, too, began to intrude uncomfort*
ably upon him. It almost, seemed as if the former occu
pants of this home, although perhaps long since dead and
passod beyond all things earthly, were yet spiritually
present at that moment, and were viewing, with a re
proachful eye, this wanton invasion of the place that had
once been sacred to them.
He put up the cover, and was pushing in the little
side rests that had held it, when a scrap of paper, wedged
in hesMe one of thorn, caught his eye.
Something very like an electric shock ran along his
nerves at this discovery.
He tried to dislodge the paper, but it was very firmly
caught, while the raprged edges did not protrude suffi
ciently to allow him to grasp it with his fingers.
126 AN INTERESTING D WELLING.
He drew forth his knife, and, working very carefully,
finally succeeded in detaching it from its position.
Upoji examining it he found it to be a portion of a letter
that had probably been caught some time, when the slide
was being pushed in, and the other part had been hastily
torn away, doubtless by some one trying to remove it
from the crevice.
He smoothed it out with an eager, trembling hand,
while his face grew white from the excitement of the mo
ment.
"Can it be possible that I have found a clew at last?" he
muttered, in a repressed tone. "I am afraid it will prove
but a faint one, but it may be something to begin upon."
The following is what he read from that torn sheet of
paper, Avhich had been torn lengthwise in a very irregular
manner :
AN
regret that I have
your mother. Of cotir
you alone, and that the
for life only must now cea
nnnrovided for. My poor lit
nothing to comfort yon, for I kno
cold words are at snch a ti
heart is with yon. I sorrow with
sihle I would come to yon
yon in this sad hour. T?nt
favor of yon, Annie. We hav
life, and surely yon will
I want, yon to remain in
yonr home for the future
past. It is yonrs without
"Yon mnst not. however, stay there
not be safe, and I want you to
panion ; some one older tha
be a sort of protector to von.
expense, Annie, for yon know
I have a. right to care for you
Inclosed yon will find che
yonr present necessities, and
will make some perm an
for yon. Write me at once
anxions until I hear from
"Ever y
Such was the fragment which Everet Mapleson found,
and he read 't over severa.1 times, his fnoe growing 1
whiter, graver, and more thoughtful Avith each perusal.
"At last!" he cried, striking his clenched hand upon
the desk before him. "I have felt it coming, and now I
AN INTERESTING D WELLING. 127
will follow it up. I will leave no stone unturned until T
get to the bottom of the whole matter. How tenderl>
affectionate this letter must have been," he continued,
with curling lips. " He sorrows with her. and would have
come to her 'had it been possible'. He evidently wanted
her to remain here after her mother died until he could
come. Meantime he ad vises a companion and pi-otector,
and does not wish her to 'mind the expense,' because he
has a ' right to care' for her, and incloses a check as sub
stantial evidence of the fact.
"Why didn't she stay here, I wonder?" he pursued,
musingly. " Why did she go to Richmond to look for a
situation as governess, or was that only a blind to cover
her flight to deceive him. There is a mystery about it.
Can it be possible "
He sprang to his feet with the sentence unfinished on
his lips, and began pacing the floor with a clouded brow,
and his mouth drawn into a stern, resolute line.
"She is dead, though, if she was Geoffrey Dale Hun
tress' mother and I'm as certain of that as that I am the
heir of Vue de 1'Eau for that woman, Margery, said that
be could not realize his loss when she died. But who
was his father? why was he named Geoffrey Dale? by
whom and why was he abandoned in the streets of New
York? There is some dark secret connected with Annie
Dale's life and her disappearance from Richmond, and I
shall never rest until I know th6 whole story from begin
ning to end."
He continued his pacings and mutterinsrs for a long
while, growing more and more excited over the matter.
His face wore a dark and troubled look as evf r nnd anon
he raised that scran of paper which he still held in his
hand and scanned those disjointed lines.
At last he folded it very carefully and put it safely
away in his wallet.
"It may come handy some day even if the other half is
wanting," he said, an evil smile curling his lips.
Then he set about finishing the exploration of the little
cottage.
There was a little hall leading from one end of the par
lor and a flight of stairs conducted to the second story.
Ascending these Evoret found two comfortably fur
nished chambers above, one of which had evidently been
usorl for a servant's room.
Retracing his steps he came to the front door, which he
found fastened with a spring lock. He then went back to
138 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.
the kitchen, where he securely bolted the door, after
which he passed out the front way, the lock springing
into place with a sharp snap after him, as if in vigorous
protest at his intrusion upon the mysteries which it had
guarded for so many years.
Passing out of the little gate, he fastened it after him,
then mounted his horse and rode slowly and thoughtfully
back to Vue de 1'Eau.
CHAPTER XXI.
AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.
The following morning, bright and early, Everet Maple-
eon was en route to Richmond.
His object was to visit an old lady who resided there,
and who knew all about the Maple-sons for the last three
generations, for he believed she would be able to throw
some light on Annie Dale's history.
She resided in a quiet, old-fashioned street, and her
family consisted of one servant, her cat, dog, canary and
parrot.
Everet found her in her dining-room, surrounded by
her pets, and looking as contented and benignant as if she
had been in the midst of as many children.
"Aha!" she exclaimed, looking at his card as Everet
followed the servant into the room, "you must be the son
of William Mapleson ; he married Estelle Everet, and I
Bee they have combined the two names : quite a good idea,
young man, and not a badly sounding title, either. And
how is my friend, the colonel, your handsome lady
mother, too? at least she was handsome the last time I
saw her."
The young man informed the loquacious old lady that
both his parents were well, and were at present enjoying
the gayeties of a season at Newport.
"And they've left you at home to look after the planta
tion, eh ? That is rather reversing the order of things,
isn't it? Most young people think they must have the
good times, while the old people stay at home."
"No, I have not been left ; it was my own preference to
remain," Everet told her. "You know, Miss Southern, I
have not been at Vue de 1'Eau very much during the last
four years, and so it is quite a relief to be at home for
a little while. 71
"Vue de 1'Eau is a grand place, Mr. Mapleson, and I
AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. 128
think anybody ought to be happy there," the old lady ob
served ; "and I'm sure," she added, with an appreciative
glance, "it was very good of you to call upon your father's
old friend. I do not see many young people nowadays.'*
Everet colored slightly at this reference to his visit,
and it made it a trifle awkward for him, since he did not
like to tell her outright, after that, that a selfish interest
alone had brougtit him there.
He bowed, and murmured something about being par
tial to elderly people ; and then, after chatting a while
longer upon indifferent topics, he asked her, casually, if
she had known the Dales, with whom the Maplesons were
distantly connected.
il Bless your heart ! yes ; I knew them as well as I knevr
my own brothers and sisters," replied Miss Southern, her
eyes lighting with interest. " I suppose you are more par
ticularly interested in Robert Dale, who was to have had
the whole of the Mapleson fortune if your father and
mother had not married according to the conditions of Ja-
bez Mapleson's will."
"Well, yes. I am interested in him; but he had a
brother named Henry, hadn't he?" Everet asked.
"Yes; Robert and Henry Dale were brothers, and were
left orphans when they were about twelve and fourteen
years of age. After completing their education, they both
started in life with a comfortable fortune, for their father
died a rich man. Henry was all business, and went at
once to speculating, determined to increase his patrimo
ny ; while Robert, who was a great student, settled
quietly down to his studies, content with what he had.
But, unfortunately, both fell in love with the same girl,
Nannie Davenport, and she was about the sweetest girl
that I ever knew. She, however, preferred the gay,
dashing Henry, and Robert never forgave neither his
brother for being his successful rival, nor her for marry
ing him. It just ruined his life, for he withdrew f*om nil
society, made a recluse of himself, in fact, and finally
ended his days in a little stone hut not far from your
own house, young gentleman."
11 Yes, so I have been told," Everet replied, "find I in
tend to visit the place some day soon. But what became
of the other brother?"
"Poor Henry was unfortunate in his speculations; he
lost every dollar of his money, and though he struggled
along for a few years, he finally died, broken-hearted,
leaving his wife and child almost destitute."
130 AN OOTOUSNARIAN INTERVIEWED.
"This child was a daughter, I have heard, and there is
some romantic story connected with her, I believe," in-
torp>,sed Everet, \vho could hardly restrain his impa
tience to learn Annie Dale's history.
" Yes, yes ; 1 will tell you all about it, only you must
let me do it in my own way, if you please," returned Miss
Southern, who, like many other garrulous old ladies, did
not enjoy being interrupted.
" Nannie Davenport," she resumed, " was, as I have told
you, a very beautiful girl, and her little daughter inherit
ed all her mother's loveliness, which was of the golden-
haired, rose-and-liiy type, and much of her father's en
ergy and love of business. Jabez Mapleson, whose moth
er was a sinter of Annie Dale's father, supported them
after Henry Dale's death until the girl was fifteen years
of age, when she insisted that she and her mother were
able to take care of themselves, and they opened a small
private school, to which some of the wealthiest families
of the section where they lived sent their children. In
this way the mother and daughter managed to get a com
fortable and independent living. But this proud spirit on
their part offended old Jabez Mapleson, who never left
them .anything at his death, but made that queer will,
which you, of course, know all about."
"Yes," Everet returned, with a slight smile.
"It was the most absurd ana arbitrary affair that lever
heard of," Miss Southern asserted, indignantly, "to divide
his great fortune between those two young people one
the son of a sister, the other a daughter of a brother-
giving them a taste of the luxuries and pleasures of life
for several years, and then dooming them to poverty
again if they refused to marry each other at the end of a
given time. It all turned out well enough, though, as it
happened, only I always thought it a little queer that
your lather and mother fought shy of each other until al
most the last moment, when they concluded to comply
with the terms of the will. They were wonderfully suited
to each other ; there was no question about that ; and they
made a handsome, noble couple ; but I've always won
dered if there was really any true love between them, o?
whether they had become so accustomed to the life of
luxury they were living that they could not give it up,
and so married to secure the fortune."
This last, seemed to have been uttered in an absent way,
as if the old lady were simply musing upon what had al
ways been a mysterious question with her.
AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED- 131
Everet colored resentfully at the implied reflection
upon the lovo of his parents for each other ; but he saw
that she had spoken thoughtlessly, as if hardly aware of
his presence, and, respecting the infirmities of age, ho
concealed his feelings, although he hastened to sec her
right upon the matter.
"My mother once told me," he said, a trifle coldly,
"that her married life has been a very happy one, and
that there was no one else whom she would have pre
ferred to marry at the time she was united to my father.
There was something rather mysterious about the dis
posal of Rob rt Dale's fortune, was there not?" Everet
asiced, anxious to change the rather delicate subject, and
determined to find out all that he could about the Dale
family.
"You are right," replied the old lady; "and it is a
matter that has never been cleared up to this day, and is
never likely to be, according to my way of thinking. Pie
died very suddenly, and that may perhaps account for it,
for I believe the old miser hid his money, and it has been
rusting itself away all these years and doing nobody any
good. lie gave quite a sum to some charitable associa
tion, I've been told ; but that could not have been a tithe
of his possessions, for, the way he lived, his income must
have accumulated very rapidly."
Everet Mapleson looked interested at this view of the
mystery. He had never thought of such an explanation.
" I say it is a shame !" the old lady continued, excitedly,
"that his brother's widow and child could not have had
the benefit of some of his money. Charity begins at home,
and he had no business to give oven a blind asylum hia
thousands and hide away the rest, while they were toil
ing: early and late for the bare necessities of life."
Everet thought of the richly a,nd daintily furnished
rooms that he had visited only the previous day, and
came to the conclusion that perhaps Miss Southern did
not know just how they had lived.
"Did they own the cottage where they resided?" ho
asked.
"Bless you, no ! Old Jabez Mapleson owned that;
didn't you know it? And it fell to your father, with the
rest of the estate, after he died."
The young man started at this information.
He had never known just the extent of his father's es
tate.
He had been at the North in different schools during
132 AN OCTOUENAEIAN INTERVIEWED.
the last eight years, and previous to that he never had
felt interested enough in the properly to ask any informa
tion about tne boundaries of Vue de 1'Eau.
Colonel Mapleson, in speaking of the Dales, had said
they lived not tar from tnat place ; but now it appeared
that his estate included the little vine-clad cottage, the
old mill, and other buildings in that vicinity.
Did the furniture oil tnat little house also belong to him,
or had he simply let it remain there after the mysterous
disappearance of Annie Dale, thinking, perhaps tnat some
time she might return to the home she had so strangely
left? Or had the writer of that letter,, a portion of which
he had found, had something to do with the rich garnish-
ings of that cozy home?
The mystery seemed to be thickening, rather than be
ing explained.
" I have been at home so little that I have had no op
portunity to learn much about the estate," Everet re
marked, in reply to Miss -Southern's look of astonish
ment. " But do you know how old this girl was when her
mother died?"
"Annie was in her eighteenth year. Poor child! She
seemed to be entirely alone in the world then, and came
here, to Richmond, to try to earn her living. She made
me a call, while looking about for a nituation, and I pitied
her from the bottom of my heart," said the old lady,
with a sigh.
" Where did she make her home while searching for a
place?" Everct inquired.
"With her old nurse- -a free colored woman, who was
very fond of her. Mauma Gregory was her name. I
begged her to come to me, and would have been glad of
her company, for her mother and I were great friends
during our youth ; but she feared to hurt her nurse's feel
ings, while she hoped to obtain a situation in a few days,
and thought it best not to change her address."
" Is that old nurse living now ?" Everet eagerly asked.
"I am sure I cannot tell. If she is, she must be very
aged, and I think it doubtful.''
11 Where did she live at that time?"
Miss Southern told him the street and number, direct
ing him, as well as she could, how to find it.
"I never saw the girl again," she went on, sadly. "Af
ter her call I did not hear anything of her, and, feeling
interested to know how she had succeeded, I went one
day to see Maurua Gregory, and make inquiries about her.
AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED. Ic3
The woman was herself in deep trouble on account of
her. She told me that Annie had remained with h?r
about two weeks, and during that time she received t\vo
applications to go into families as a governess, and about
the same tiine Mie also received a leiter that appeared to
agitate her considerably. A day or two later, she told
Minima Gregory that she was going to a situation out of
town she would not tell where, but said she would write
about it as soon as she was settled in it. But she never
did at least, her nurse had not heard anything from her
at the end of another year, and in great grief told me she
was sure that Miss Annie must be dead, or she would
never have treated her so."
"It seems vt-ry strange that a young and beautiful girl
should drop suddenly out of the world like that, and no
one ever learn her fate," Everet remarked, though tiuliy.
'It does indeed," said Miss Southern, "and yet the
had no near friends to interest themselves for her ; there
appeared to be no one, sa v e her nurse and myself, who
had any special interest in her, and what could two weak
women do, with no tangible facts to work upon? I have
a theory of my own about the matter, however, though it
may be far from the truth."
u What is it? Tell me, please,'' the young man urged,
eagerly.
The old lady regarded him curiously.
" You seem strangely interested in a generation of the
past," she dryly observed.
"I am," he acknowledged, frankly. "I have only
very recently learned this story about the Dales, and
their connection with my ow family. Yesterday, while
I was out riding, I came to a small cottage which attracted
my attention. I dismounted and went to peer in nt one
of the windows, but every curtain was down. I finally
forced an entrance by a back door, and found the house
furnished just as its occupants had left it many years
ago. I was convinced from what I had already heard that
it was the Dale cottage."
"Was it a small white cottage, standing near an old
mill, and not far from the pond? "Was there a low orna
mental fence around the yard, ai <i a veranda entirely sur
rounding the house?" Miss Southern asked.
"Yes; you havo described it exactly."
"And is it still furnished ?"
"1 should judge it remains just as they left it."
"That is strange, for it is more than twenty years since
134 AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.
Annie Dale left it to come to Richmond," mused Miss
Southern. " Tt was very good of Colonel Mapleson to
leave it. so," she added ; "perhaps he disliked to disturb
anything, hoping that the wanderer might some time re
turn."
Everet did not say what he thought, but his face wore
a troubled look.
"You were going to tell me what your theory is regard
ing Miss Dale's disappearance," he remarked.
"I think there was a lover in the case," she replied. "I
believe she must have made the acquaintance of some
young man, who was enamored of her beauty, and who,
having won her heart, enticed her to go away with him to
some place, promising to marry her, and who then be
trayed her confidence."
"Then you think she was never married?" said the
young man, flushing with excitement to find how like her
theory his own was.
"If she had been a lawful wife I think she would have
written of the fact to h^r nurse ; for she promised to let
Mauma Gregory hear from her when she was settled, and
there has never come a word from her."
"She may have written and the letter miscarried,"
Everet suggested.
"In that case she would have written again, for
Mauma could write, and if Annie did not get an answer
to her letter she would have sought a reason. Besides,
what you have told me confirms my suspicion ; if she had
been a happy wife, with a home of her own, she surely
would have wanted the articles of furniture belonging to
her, and which must have beon sacred to her because of
their associations. No ; I firmly believe that the poor girl
met with some crushing sorrow and lins either died of a
broken heart, or is still hiding herself and her misery
from all who ever knew hor."
Miss Southern wiped a tear of regret from her eyes as
she concluded.
Everet Mapleson felt that be could have settled the fate
of the unfortunate girl for her by telling what Margery,
the flower vender, had told him ; but he did not care to
say anything about it then, and believing be had
learned all that Miss Southern could tell him, he changed
the sob./ecfr, and after a few minutes took bis leave, prom
ising to come again to see his father's old friend upon an
other visit to Richmond.
He went immediately to seek Mauma Gregory, bu*
A E EM A EKABLE DISCO VER T. 135
learned that the faithful old nurse had died nearly two
years previous.
He was deeply disappointed in having his way thus
hedged about, for he was puzzled to knew what step to
take next.
He regretted more than ever that he had neglected to
question Margery at the time of his encounter v, r ith her
in New York. Had he done so, he felt as if he might
have now held the key to this perplexing riddle.
He turned his face homeward, more miserable and
troubled over the matter than he would have cared to
own.
CHAPTER XXII.
A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY
"I shall hunt up that old hermit's retreat k^day,"
Everet Mapleson said, as he awoke the next morning.
" I want to see for myself just how and where he lived. I
begin to find these researches into the past somewhat in
teresting, if perplexing. I enjoy real romances, but not
unfinished ones. I like to be able to complete a story,
and have all the characters definitely disposed of. It be
gins to look, though, as if Miss Annie Dale was a lost
heroine, and like the celebrated 'Lost Chord,' never
likely to be recovered or accounted for.
"So this queer old character, Robert Dale, was her
mother's lover?" he resumed, as he began to dress. "How
strangely things get mixed in this world. Why can't
people always love the right ones, and escape all this
jealousy and disappointment? Nannie Davenport's story
is likelv to be repeated in this generation. Oh, Gladys,
why couldn't you have loved me instead of that mysteri
ous personage who seems to have won your favor? I
could have given you an honorable name, wealth, and a
proiH position in life, while he has literally nothing to
offer you. But," his face assuming a stony expression,
"I will not give you up even now ! I will move mountains
to nrcomplish my purpose, and you shall yet be Gladys
Mapleson !"
Aft.pr breakfasting, the young man ordered his horse to
bo s.nddjprl. and. after inquiring of HIP eroom the way to
the "Dale Hermitage," as the rpelnspv ^ornp was called,
he mounted and rode away toward the fo.'est, in the depths
185 A REMARKABLE DISCOVERT.
of which Robert Dale had spent BO many years of his
life.
It was a long ride, though a delightful one, through
the spicy pine woods and over the grass-grown cart-path,
where only mule teams passed now and then in hauling
great logs to market.
It Avas nearly noon when Everet came in sight of the
Hermitage, and he found it not such a rude affair, after
all. as he had pictured in his imagination from the de
scriptions he had heard of ft.
He saw that it must have been quite an expensive
structure, for it was built mostly of stone, while every
bit of the work had been done in the most thorough man
ner.
It made quite a pretty picture, standing there beneath
two huge pine trees, and with the glossy ivy climbing
thickly all about its rough walls, hanging in graceful fes
toons from the overlapping eaves and the mullioned win
dows.
It was composed of but one story, and a couple of*
granite steps led up to the one door, which was set in the
center of the structure. This was not locked, and enter
ing, Everet found himself in a narrow hall, Avhich divided
the building through the middle, and was lighted by a
window at the other end.
On each side there were two rooms.
On the rieht was what appeared to have been the cook
ing and eating-room, for a great dresser had been built
upon one side ; a wide fire-place, Avith andirons and an
old-fashioned crane, Avas opposite th entrance, and a
small table, with two chairs, stood in the center of the
room.
Back of this there was a smaller apartment, probably
the servants' quarters, and on the opposite side of the
hall there Avere two similar rooms.
In the front one there stood a plain but solid desk, and
a large arm-chair before it. Near it was an iron safe, but
the door was swung partly open, and EA-eret could see
that it was empty, and he thought that it had probably
been used as a receptacle for the valuable manuscript of
which his father ha,d spoken. A couple of book-cases,
reaching from floor to ceiling, had been built into the Avail
upon two sides of the room, like the dresser in the kitchen.
Back of tbip there was another bedroom, its only furni
ture consiph'ng of a single bedstead of iron.
The walls were all of rough stone, the crevices being
A EEMARKABLE DISCOVERY. 187
filled in with cement, while all the floors were of red
brick, laid in zigzag pattern.
The furniture was of soli 3 oak, but plain to clumsiness,
and everything about the place betrayed how utterly in
different to the comforts and elegancies of life the owner
had been, and Everet could not help contrasting it with
the luxuries that were stored away in that little cottage
which he had visited only a few days previous.
The book-cases alone possessed any claim to elegance.
They were also of oak, like the other articles of furniture,
but somewhat ornamented, and glazed with heavy plate
glass, showing how tenderly the recluse had guarded the
books that he had loved so well.
There was a spacious fire-place at one end of the room,
in which there were a pair of rude andirons, and a clumsy
pair of tongs, with a shovel, stood beside it.
The apartment was light and pleasant, for there were
four windows in it two on the front, which looked toward
the east, and two more on the south.
It was just the nook for a student and a recluse, and,
in snite of its isolation from all the world, there was a
aort of charm about the place, even to the gay and
eociety-loving Everet Mapleson.
At the back of the house there was a small wooden
structure, now fast fallng to decay, and a yard fenced in,
where, evidently, Robert Dale had kept his one horse,
cow, and hens, while beyond this there was a patch of
cleared ground, which, doubtless, had once been a kitchen
garden.
Everet sat down in the great chair before the desk,
after completing his round of investigation, and fell to
musing upon what he had seen.
He triod to imagine what the appearance of Robert
Dale had been what his temperament and disposition.
Bitter and vindictive he must have been, to have so
hated his brother that he allowed him to die in poverty,
and his family to struggle on for years afterward for a
mere pittance, while he had thousands lying idle and
useless ; purly and churlish, too, he surmised, to have
biddon himself away from all society there in the depths
of the forest.
The place seemed invested with an unearthly mystery,
and it was not Rtmnge, taking into consideration the life
its owner had livod. nnd th? dpnth he had died, leaving
no trace behind him of the vast possessions that had been
bis.
138 A' KEMRABlE DISCO VERY.
"If he did not dispose of his wealth while he lived, and
made no will before his death ; if there is money con
cealed anywhere and should ever be found, it would be
long to Annie Dale's heirs, for she was his nearest kin,"
Everet Mapleson murmured, as he leaned both arms on
the desk before him, and looked thoughtfully out of one
of the south windows.
"If Geoffrey Dale Huntress proves to be her son, as I
am more and more inclined to believe, he will be the heir
to Robert Dale's missing thousands. This place would
be his, anyhow, if the relationship could be proved. I
wonder how much land belongs with it ! Zounds ! I wish
I knew what has become of the old chap's money ! The
more I seek to penetrate this mystery, the more tantaliz
ing it becomes ; but I swear that I will never rest until I
get to the bottom of it !"
He struck the desk a terrific blow with his fist, in the
heat of his excitement, as he uttered this vow; and the
weight and force of it jarred it so that something was
displaced, and clattered noisily to the floor.
The young man leaned forward to see what he had
done, and found that a panel, about twelve inches long
and six wide, had fallen from one end of the desk,
"Well, I should think it was about time for this truck
to be falling to pieces, solid as it is," he said, as he
stooped to pick it up.
Upon examining it, he found that there were some
hinges upon one end, and that time and dampness had
caused them to rust until they had fallen apart, while
upon the opposite end there was a socket for a spring.
"Aha! a secret compartment !" he exclaimed, his face
lighting with eagerness.
Bending to inspect the place from which the panel had
fallen, he saw that his surmise was correct.
There was a cavity, about four inches deep, in the end
of the desk, just under the molding that ran around the
top of it, with the other portions of the hinges attached
to the top, and a small spring at the bottom.
"Ye gods ! there is something in it, too !" he cried, in a
startled voice, and his hand actually trembled with ner
vous excitement as he drew forth a small black morocco
case, and a package of papers, tied with red tape, which
lay underneath.
The case was an old-fashioned miniature case, and
doubtless contained a likeness.
Everet instinctively shrank from opening it for a mo-
A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY. 139
raent, for he felt as if he were trenching upon some secret
almost too sacred to be revealed.
" There must have been a soft spot somewhere in the
old fellow's heart, to have kept a thing like this," he mut
tered, turning it over and over in his hands.
"But, 'to -the victor belong the spoils;'! have made
this discovery after everybody else has failed, and so I
have a right to know what I have found.''
He touched the spring and the case flew open, revealing
the likeness of a young girl of exquisite beauty.
"Nannie Davenport ! I'll wager a ten-dollar note,' 1 he
ejaculated, in a breathless tone.
The face was a pure oval, crowned with a wealth of
hair that was twined in a massive coronet about the
small, beautifully-shaped head. The eyes, Everet felt
sure, must have been a deep, dark blue, and their ex
pression was lovely beyond description ; the nose was
small and straight, with delicate nostrils, the mouth full
and sweet, with a slight smile just curving the tender
lips.
"What a bewitching little fairy she must have been.
No wonder Robert Dale buried himself here and ate his
heart out with grief arid jealousy at losing her. Poor old
man ! I reckon I know something of your feelings, but I
Bhall never sit tamely down and bear it. I'll conquer or
die in the struggle," he concluded, between his set teeth.
The?i he grew deadly pale. i
"Perhaps he didn't give up either until after she was
married," he said, "and then he couldn't help himself.
Bah ! Gladys Huntress shall never marry Geoffrey Dale !"
He shook himself impatiently, as if these reflections
were too painful and disagreeable to dwell upon, closed
the miniature with a snap, and turned his attention to the
package that he had also found.
He carefully untied the tape that bound it, removed
the wrapper, and several certificates, representing a large
amount of bank stock, fell out.
Examining them closely, Everet found that they were
dated several years previous to his own birth, and all
were made out in the name of Annie Dale.
"Good gracious! she was his heiress !" he exclaimed,
in amazement. "The old chap had to give in at last. He
loved that woman to the death, though he was too proud
to show it by helping her while she lived, and so left his
money to her child.
"Let me see," he went on; "these are dated just about
HO EVtiRET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINT AX VE.
the time the girl's mother died, I should judge, or a little
before ; so it is evident he did not mean sue should have
anything until he was gone. How strange ! these papers
have lain here all these years and no one the wiser fur it,
while, of course, the stock has been accumulating ail tnat
time. It is remarkable that tne directors of the banks
represented have not taken measures to find the holder
of the certificates. Possibly they have, and failed to do
so. I wonder father has not been applied to; but, then,
Eobert Dale was such a secretive character, he may
never have revealed his residence, and it would have
been a very easy matter to give orders to let the stocJ
accumulate until called for."
Ho fell to musing again over his wonderful discovery,
until all at once he gave a violent start, and a vivid flush
mounted to his brow.
"Blast it !" he muttered, "if my theory is correct all
this money belongs to Geoffrey Dale, What in thunder-
am I going to do about it, anyway ?"
JH AFTER XXIII.
EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
Evei'et Mapleson spent the next week mostly in hunt
ing and fishing, occupj'ing, however, a portion of one day
in looking over the Hermitage again, although without
the slightest return for his labor in finding anything new.
, At the end of that time he began to grow very restless,
and a fooling of depression and loneliness took possession
of him.
A few days more of the same kind of life and he de
clared he could stand it no longer.
Still, he could not make up his mind what he really
wanted to do, and was miserable and discontented.
He would have been glad to go to Brooklyn, ascertain
where Gladys had gono for the summer, and then follow.
But he reasoned that Geoffrey would be with her this
year, and knowing it would be simply maddening to see
them together, he felt it was best that he should keep
away.
But something he must do to kill time and amuse him
self ; he had an unaccountable distaste for gay society,
and yet longed for some excitement.
r MAKES A mw ACVAnrTAXcx. HI
"I believe I will take a Western trip," he suddenly said,
one -muming. alter liavmg read in his paper an interest
ing' account ot a certain route taken by a party of
travelers going to California and the Yosemite Valley.
Acting upon tne impulse of the moment, he packed
his portmanteau, dashed off a few lines to his mother in
forming her of his project, and was westward bound be
fore noon.
lie readied Chicago the second morning after starting,
and took a room at tne Palmer Mouse, to rest for a f aw
days while he was deciding what direction he would take
from that point.
The following day, after a good night's sleep and a fine
breakfast, he strolled into the smoking-room with a
morning paper to idle away an hour or so and read the
news.
There were several people in the room, but he paid no
attention to them more than to cast a sweeping glance
around ; then, seating himself by a window, he lighted a
cigar and was soon buried in the contents of his paper.
He looked through one half of it, and then laid it aside,
taking up the other, when a deep, gruff voice just behind
him remarked :
" I say, stranger, could you spare a part of that there
paper? I've read yesterday's Inter-Ocean about through,
and would like something a trifle fresher."
Everet turned to see who was addressing him, and
found a man, every hit as rough looking as his voice had
sounded, sitting near him.
He was evidently a niinar or ranger, but had an honest,
open face which at once attracted the young Southerner.
He passed him that portion of his paper which he had
read, receiving his brief thanks with a courteous bow,
and then resumed his interrupted reading.
He sat there for perhaps an hour longer, until he grew
tired of keeping still, and was contemplating going out
for a stroll, when the man addressed him again :
"I take it you're a stranger in these parts," he re
marked, with a keen, comprehensive glance over the
young man.
" Yes, I am from the South," Everet replied, politely.
"Travelin' for pleasure?"
"Y-e-s partly!"
"Any special route laid out?"
"No; I thought I'd like to eee something of the far
West. I think I shall visit the principal cities on my
112 E VERET MAKES A NEW A C Q UAINTANCK
way, and the chief points, of interest, and perhaps take a
look at some of uie mines ; I've always had something of
a curiosity regarding mining."
"Have you now tf" asked tne man with delighted em
phasis, his face briglitening with pleasure. " Perhaps I
can be ot use to you in that line then, for I've been a
miner all my life and know all the ins and outs about as
well as any man living. I'll be glad to give you any
points ubouc the business."
"Thank you," Everet returned, looking* interested.
"What mines have you been connected with?"
"I've been in Nevada, Colorado, New Mexico, and Cali
fornia," answered the man, with an air of pride.
"Indeed, you have surely seen a good deal of that kind
of life," remarked Everet, smiling. " When were you in
NewMfcxico? I know a man who once owned stock in
some mines there."
"I went to New Mexico in 18 ," replied the stranger,
in answer to Everet's question, "and did tip-top for ten
years, and after that I tried Nevada. What was your
friend's name, sir?"
" Mapleson."
"Mapleson?" repeated the miner, reflectively. "I don't
think I ever heard the name before, leastwise not in the
diggings. What mine did he work?"
"He had some shares in the Moreno mines on the east
side of the Rocky Mountains."
"Wall, 1 wasn't located in the Moreno mines myself.
I was rather up among the mountains, though I've been
there ; but I never met a man by the name of Mapleson ;
though there's nothing strange about that, where so
many people own shares. I worked for a man named
Dale "
"Dale !" interrupted Everet, with a sudden shock.
"Yes, and a fine man he was handsome chap, too; al
together too much of a fine gentleman to be roughing it as
a miner, I used to think. ' ;
"Where did he come from?" the young man inquired,
trying to repress the eagerness that possessed him.
"I couldn't tell you. I was in Santa Fe one day look
ing for a job and he was looking for a man, to sort of
superintend a claim. We took to each other, struck a
bargain on the spot, and I went back to his diggings
Ttfith him that very night. He couldn't or wouldn't wait
till the next day, though I'd been glad to, and afterward
I found out the reason he had the trappiest little wife up
ZVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUA1NTAXC& 143
there that I ever set eyes on a sweet, white-livered little
thing, with eyes as blue as the sky and hair as bright as
the gold we dug out of the bowels of the earth."
The miner was waxing eloquent over the reminiscence.
" "Tisn't often that a man cares to take such a dainty
piece of humanity into such a wild, outlandish place as a
miner's camp, and goodness knows that it's rare enough
for a rough set like us to see a beautiful woman,
let alone having her right among us all the time. But
there wasn't a soul that wouldn't have risked his life to
defend her from any evil or danger, for she always f.iad a
kind smile and a gentle word for the worst of us."
Everet Mapleson sat suddenly erect and looked the
astonishment he felt.
His face had grown as white as his shirt front, while
his companion was speaking r and his heart was beating
with great heavy throbs that almost suffocated him ; for
a wild suspicion had suddenly taken possession of him.
"You say the man's name vias Dale?" he asked.
"Yes, William Dale or Captain Dale, as we all
called him. You see he was cnly newly married, and
had just brought the little won an there, and that was
the reason he didn't like to leave her alone over night in
that wild region," the miner explained, beginning to
notice his listener's strange manner.
"You are sure that they we:e married that she was
really his wife?" eaid Everet, in an excited tone.
The miner looked the surprise he felt at such a question.
"Why, yes; at least everybody supposed she was his
wife; he said she was; whille they seemed to set the
world by each other, and the poor captain giieved like
one bereft of his reason when she died."
"Died?" gasped his listener.
"Yes, poor little lady ! she was in the camp just one
blessed year, then tlie little shaver came, and the mother
never got up again."
"There was a child !-" ejaculated Everet Mapleson, los
ing his self-possession mere and n-ore.
"Strange," said the man, \\ith a curious stare, "you
seem wonderfully moved over my story did you ever
hear of these people before ?"
"I'll tell you 'by and by. But go on tell me about
this child," Everet eagerly urged.
"Well, there w;-.s a fine boy," continued the miner,
"and he was the pride of the can p ; you see it was a
rare thing for a set of rough miners to have a baby
144 JSVEEBT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
among us, and every man Jack of us took as much inter
est in him as if he'd been our very own; but it cast a
gloom over the whole lot when it came to be known that
the gentle little mother had to go. I never saw a fellow
so upset as Dale was over it ; he went about with a face
as white as u sheet, and all bowed down like an old man.
Not one of us dared to speak to him he looked so awful,
and we all kept out of his way as much as we could. It
came at last the final blow; the captain's lovely wife
pretty Annie Dale was dead, and the only baby in the
place was motherless.
" Annie Dale !" breathed Everet Mapleson, actually
growing dizzy as he caught the name.
"Yes, that was her name," the man answered, with a
sigh, "and I shall never forget the day they buried her.
They had a parson over from Port Union, a grave-spoken
bub pleasant-faced man, and he almost took us right into
heaven where that sweet -woman had gone, with the
beautiful, solemn words he spoke. The coffin was solid
rosewood, and came from Santa Fe, with another great
box of sweet smelling flowers. The captain never showed
himself that clay ; he just sat alone by the coffin in the
front room of his house and never made a sound until the
men went in to take it away, when he gave a groan, that
I shall never forget as long as I live, and fell on his face
to the floor where he was picked up in a dead faint. Poor
fellow ! he was worn-out with watching, to say nothing
of his grief. I tell you that was a sorry day for the camp,
for there wasn't more'n a half-dozen woir>en in the place,
and most of them were none of the best ; though after
the captain's wife came there they seemed to take more
pride in being kind of decent. Well, she was buried Tin
der a great cypress tree where she loved to sit on warm
days, and the captain had it all fenced off, after a while,
and put a white stone tip by the grave with just her first
name on it, and the miners rough as they were, never
let the flowers wither on that grave as long as I staid
there. I don't know how it was afterward, for it's more
than twenty years since the poor thing ried."
The man had to stop and use his handkerchief vigor
ously just here, and Everet could see that he was deeply
moved over the memory of that sad time.
"What became of the child?" the young man asked,
after a moment.
"Well, when the Dales first went there to live, they
hired a girl to serve Mrs. Dale, for she was delicate, and
EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.^ H6
the captain wouldn't permit her to do any work, and she
the girl had the care of the boy after the mother died.
But they didn't stay long in the place, only about a
month. The captain didn't seem to have any heart for
anything ; appeared wretched and half-crazed, and
finally, when the girl was married to a man named Jack
Henly, who was going to California, to be a farmer, the
cottage was shut up, its furniture sold, and they all went
away together."
"What was this girl's name?" Everet demanded.
"Margery something. I can't remember her other
name just now," said the miner.
Even though Everet Mapleson had been expecting just
this reply it gave him a shock when he heard that name
pronounced.
He had, at last, he believed, traced Geoffrey Huntress 1
birth ! It was proved that Annie Dale AVP.B his mother.
When she left Richmond she had doubtless gone to the
man whom she loved, and who had enticed her, with
smooth words and fair promises, to go with him to that
wild mining region where they had lived together as
husband and wife.
That they were not really so, Everet felt quite sure,
else the man would never have taken the girl's name, in
stead of giving her his own.
"What did they name the child?" he asked.
The miner looked perplexed.
"I'll be dashed if lean think," he said, after a mo
ment's reflection, as he scratched his head. "'Twas a sort
of queer, high sounding name Jeff Gof or something
after that sort with a tail to it."
Everet had heard enough to confirm all his sus
picions, hut he did not enlighten his companion, as to the
rest of the name ; he did not care to seem to know too
niurh.
"Did Captain Dale ever return to his mine after that,* 1
he inquired.
"Not while I was there ; an agent came once or twice,
to not for him, and finally bought him out. I've never
seer, him since, though I've often wondered what became
of the little motherless chap that we were all so fond of."
Tho young Southerner sat with bowed head and
thoucrhtful mien for several moments, then taking a case
from his pocket, he opened it, and hold it before the
Biiner.
"Did Annie Dale look anything like this?" he asked.
146 EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
The man gave his companion a look of questioning sur
prise as he took the picture, and turning it toward the
light, examined it critically for a moment.
"It does, and it doesn't," ho said, at last. "It ain't so
delicate like as she v/as ; the eyes are a little smaller, and
the face fuller and rounder. I should say this might be a
sister or some relation, but it ain't the captain's wife. I
say, youngster," he added, looking Everet full in the eye ;
"it's mighty queer that you should have this picture, and
it strikes me thr.t I've been firing arrows at a mark I'd
no notion of hitting. Who be you, anyway ?"
"My name is Mapleson," Everet returned, "and the
name of the young lady, whose picture I have shown
you, was Miss Dannie Davenport. She married a man by
the name of Dale, a distant connection of my father's
family. They had one child, a daughter, whom they
named Annie. After her parents' death, she suddenly
left the place where she had lived, and no ono ever
heard anything of her afterward, and her disappearance
was a matter of mystery to all who had ever known
her.''
"You don't say! Well, I am beat!" exclaimed the
miner, in astonishment. "Things do come about queer
enough sometimes, and I reckon there ain't much doubt
that the woman I've been telling you of was the daugh
ter of the one in the picture. But you say her own
name was Annie Daley he concluded, looking puzzled.
"Yes."
"That's queer, too. Then v ho was Captain Dale?"
"I do not know; possibly some relative," Everet
said, not caring to destroy the man's romance by arous
ing his suspicions that there had been a story of shame
enacted in that mountain camp.
Further conversation developed the facts that the
stranger was in comfortable circumstances, the owner of
two or three mining claims in New Mexico, and was on
his way there to try to dispose of them.
Everet Mapleson manifested a great interest in New
Mexico, and intimated his desire to accompany his new
acquaintance thither.
The stranger gladly assented, and said : "I can give
you some points about the country, and the mining busi
ness, too, that you couldn't find out for yourself."
"Thank you ; but if we are to be traveling companions,
it would perhaps be pleasant^r for both of us if AVC could
know each other's name. Mine is Everet Mapleson, and I
EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERT. U7
am from Richmond, Virginia," and the young Southerner
smiled as he thus introduced himself.
"Well, I'm beat ! Here I've been talking to you for
more'n an hour and neve* told you who I be !" said the
miner, looking blank. "There ain't nothing high-sound
ing about my name, but Bob Whittaker is an honest one,
and I'm not ashamed of it ; and I'm from most anywhere,
just as it happens. I guess now we can hitch bosses and
go along without any more ceremony."
CHAPTER, XXIV.
EVEBET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
It was settled that Everet Mapleson was to accom
pany Bob Whittaker, the miner, to the mines of New
Slexico, and two days after the conversation related in
the previous chapter found them on their way thither.
Arriving at their destination, about a week later, they
found that what had been a small camp in those early
days, when Bob Whittaker had worked for Captain Dale,
was now a thriving village, or "city," as the place was
designated in that region, and the miner could hardly
realize that it was the same place which had once been so
familiar to him.
Everet looked about the town with a great deal of
interest, after which he visited the tiny plot where,
overshadowed by a venerable cypress tree, all that re
mained of beautiful Annie Dale rested.
There was no sign of any grave there now ; every trace
of it had disappeared. There was nothing save a simple
head-stone of pure. Italian marble, with the single name
"Annift" inscribed upon it, standing in the center of the
inolosure, to mark ttir> spot where she had been laid.
Two or three varieties of ivy had been planted by some
loving hand beside the feive which surrounded it, nnd
a luxuriant growth now almost concealed it from view,
and embowered the little plot of ground in a frame-work
of living green.
Tho small house, where the beautiful cirl had lived
during that short, happy year, and where her child wns
born where, as Everet Mapleson firmly believed. Geof
frey Dnle Huntress was born stood near this spot, and
was still empty.
148 EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERT.
No one had ever lived in it ;ince (he poor young
mother died, one of the older inhabitants of the village
told him. Il was believed that the fan.e genthn an ovned
it still, though he had not been seen tlitie lor 3 ears, and
would not allow any one else to ccciij y it. It seen ed as
if he deemed the place too pacitd to be invaded hy
strangers, and so had preferred 1o sacrifice it to desola
tion and decay.
Everet passed through the small yard, now thickly
overgrown with vines and bi;.n V,]< s, to the tiny pouh,
and looked in through the fide-lights of the front door.
The doors on each side of the MI all 1 all A\ere all open,
and the place was laie and forlorn in the extren-e, aro in
strange and gloomy contrast with that luxuiious little
nest near the old mill at home, that had been Annie
Dale's rormer home..
He went around the house, perpirg in at each window;
but there was nothing to be peen fave hare floors, ;.nd
walls from which the rich payer, that hrd rnce adoii ed
them, was falling away, "while every nook and coiner
was infested with dust and cobwebs.
He came hack again, after a tnre. to the front porch,
where he sat down upon one of the steps, wondering
where he should turn next to pick up the t lire ad \\ 1 ich
seemed to have suddenly broken ai d vanished from sight
again here.
He sat there a long time pondering the mystery who
was the man who had called hinsdf \Villiam Dale?
whither had he gone after leaving that place, and which
way should he Everet Mapleson turn now to hunt him
down ?
But he could arrive at no definite conclusion ; thrre
wag only one thing that he could think of to do to satisfy
himself regarding the truth of a suspicion that, haunted
him continually, and that he shrank from with a feeling
that was akin to horror; while it might result in nothing
save making a fool of himself and becoming an object of
ridicule and scorn.
He arose at last, with a sigh of weariness and discour
agement to return to the public bouse where he was
staying and to seek his new friei'id. Bob Whittaker.
But, owing to the cramped posi ion in wich he had been
sitting, cne of his feet had "gone to sleep," and he found
he could not walk a step.
He stamped vigorously, and impatiently, too, for the
intense prickling sensation witb which circulate began
EVEHET HAKES A KTAHTLING DISCOVERT. 149
to reassert itself irritated him, when, without the slight
est warning, tne step on which he was standing gave
way and he was unceremoniously precipitated into the
rank grass and among the brambles which grew ail about
it.
He picked himself up, after giving vent to a somewhat
unrefined expression of annoyance, rescued his hat,
which had lodged in a prickly cactus near-by, and then
turned to see how much damage he had done.
The step was a complete wreck, the top board being
split entirely across, while the rotten supports beneath
were wholly demolished, and lay in a crumbled heap ou
the ground.
He gave the mass a kick with his foot, scattering it
right and left, when suddenly a gleam of light from
something among it, flashed into his eye.
He stooped to see what had caused it, when, to his in
tense surprise, he found a small ring, the gold all black
ened and tarnished, but with a beautiful diamond, clear
and brilliant as a drop of dew in the sunlight, set in its
delicate crown.
" Well, I imagine I have found a treasure now," Everefc
exclaimed, eagerly, as he turned it over and over to ex
amine it more closely.
He saw that there was some inscription upon its inner
surface, but it was so blackened with age and so filled
with dirt that he could not make it out.
"Aha!" he cried, exultantly, "I'll wager almost any
thing that I have at last found the end of the broken
thread that will unravel the mystery."
He sat down again upon the upper step of the porch,
deliberately drew a cigar from his pocket, lighted it, and
began to smoke.
Tho first ashes that he datached from it he carefully
saved upon a piece of wood, and, using his handkerchief,
began to polish the discolored ring with them.
It was not long before his efforts were rewarded the
inner surface of the ring began to take on its original
color and the inscription to stand out more plainly.
"It is evidently an engagement-ring with only some in
itials and a date engraven upon it," the young man mur
mured, as he held it up to inspect it more closely.
The next instant he lifted his head with an air of
triumph, though his face was as white as a sheet.
"It is the icey to the whole mystery," he said. "This
will take me straight to the heart of the secret."
1JO EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
While Everet Mapleson was following the trail of tha
mystery that possessed such a power of fascination over
him, August Huntress and his family were luxuriating
at {Saratoga.
Mr. Huntress had obstinately insisted that Geoffrey
should have a long holiday alter the clo.se application of
the last three years, although the young man himself
wouiri have much preferred, and was very eager to begin
the real business of his life at once.
"It is time that I was at work for myself, "he had
pleaded, "and if ^ou will only use your influence, Uncle
August, to help me into some good position, my con
science would be easier."
"Your conscience needn't trouble you, and I won't
hear a word about business for three months to come," re
plied iiis friend, decisively. "You've given yourself no
rest during all your college course, and now, my boy,
I'm determined that we shall all have a jolly good time
together to celebrate your own and Gladys' release from
school-life."
So, by the middle of July, they were settled for the
summer in pleasant rooms at the Grand Union, and were
as happy and united a party as ever visited that resort of
gayety and fashion.
Gladys was very much admired from the first ; her
beauty and charming manners winning her legions of
friends.
But none of them were to be compared to Geoffrey,
and the lovers managed to be much by themselves, in
spite of the fact that " that delightful Miss Huntress was
such a favorite with everybody."
One morning they were leisurely strolling through one
of the shady avenues of Congress Park, when they saw a
distinguished-looking gentleman advancing toward them.
He did not appear to notice them, however, until he
was almost upon them, when, suddenly looking up, ho
gave a violent start of surprise ; then he advanced, with
an eager smile and extended hand, exclaiming :
"Why, Everet Mapleson ! Where on earth did you drop
from? I should as soon have thought of seeing the Em
peror of Russia as yourself this morning."
Geoffrey lifted his hat and bowed politely to the speaker,
as he replied :
u You have made a slight mistake, sir ; I am not Evsret
Mapleson, although this is not the first time that I have
been taken for him."
XVERET MAKEH A STARTLING DISCOVERT. 151
"Nonsense; don't try to play such a joke on me
I've known you too many years for you to palm your
self oil us any one else," returned the gentleman, laugh
ingly, while ne shot an amused glance at the yount; man's
companion, as it' he suspected that she was the cause of
his wishing to remain incog.
"I assure you, sir, I am speaking the truth. I am not
Everet Mupleson," Geoffrey reiterated.
Tiie stranger's face grew suddenly overcast.
"Then wno in thunder are you? 11 he demanded, in
sharp, excited accents.
"My name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress, at your service,
sir,'' Geoffrey responded, courteously, although he had
flushed hotly at the curt question.
"Geoffrey Dale ! Good heavens !" cried the man, shrink
ing back as if he had been dealt a violent blow, and grow
ing deathly pale.
Geoffrey himself turned white at this.
He was ever on the alert to gain some knowedge of his
parentage, and this man's strange manner made him think
that perhaps he might know something of his early his
tory.
" Yes, sir ; I perceive that the name affects you
strangely. Did you ever hear it before?" he asked,
earnestly, searching the stranger's face.
"Ah years ago a friend excuse me I am very much
overcome," the man murmured, incoherently, as he stag
gered to a rustic bench near by, where, sinking upon it
and bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned aloud.
Geoffrey stood transfixed, his face plainly betraying
anxiety, dread, and perplexity, while he was inwardly so
excited over this strange meeting that Gladys, as she
leaned upon his arm, could feel him trembling in every
limb.
"Will you explain yourself, sir?" Geoffrey said at
length, and feeling that the silence and mystery were be
coming intolerable. "Do you know aught of me of any
person named Dale?"
The gentleman shivered, as if the question had jarred
upon some sensitive chord.
"Yea," he answered, after a moment of hesitation,
while he lifted a haggard face to his questioner ; "years
fcgo I had a friend by that name ; but but
"Will you relate the history of that friend to me?"
Geoffrey asked, with white lips, and speaking with an
effort.
152 EVEBET MAKES A STARTLING DISCO VERY,
Something seemed to tell him that he was standing on
the very threshold of the revelation which he had longed
for so many years.
Again the stranger shrank as if he had been smitten.
"Why do you ask me that?" be huskily demanded.
"Because," Geoffrey returned, with grave earnestness,
"there is a mystery connected with my own life bo-
cause, when I was a child I was abandoned in the most
cruel manner, and but for the goodness of the man who
found me an outcast in the streets of New York "
"New York! How came you there?" interrupted his
listener, amazed.
"That is more than I can tell you, sir. This gentleman
found me in a state of imbecility, took me to his home,
cared for me until I was restored to my right mind, and
then adopted and educated me as hia own son; but for-
him I should still have been an imbecile, and more piti
able than the lowest paupers that wander about the
streets ot that city."
"What ! what is this that you are telling me? An im
becile I I cannot understand," cried the man, looking
bewildered.
"I do not know how I came to be in such a state,"
Geoffrey continued; "the physicians said it was caused
by some injury while I was very young, so my life before
that time has remained a mystery to myself and those
who have befriended me. If you can throw any light
upon it, sir, I entreat you to do so."
The man quickly arose from his seat at this appeal,
but staggei'ed like a person who had been drinking deeply,
and seemed like one who had sustained a terrible mental
shook.
"I cannot tell you anything now," he said, putting hia
hand to his head. "I shall have to ask you to excuse rie.
1 cannot think ; I must have time to recover my
self."
" I do not understand your excessive emotion, sir. I d-i
not understand your desire to avoid explaining your verj
strange words and manner," Geoffrey interposed, looking
both pained and anxious ; "but I am terribly in earnest
about this matter, and if you know anything about my
family or antecedents, I beg that you will not keep me in.
suspense."
"Some other time I will talk with you again, " mur
mured the stranger, turning aside, and striving to keep
his eyes averted.
GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 1&5
'When? name any place and hour, and I will come to
you," said Geoffrey, eagerly.
The man thought a moment, then said :
"Come to me at five o'clock this afternoon, at the
'United States,' and inquire for room forty-five."
He turned abruptly away, and would have passed on,
but Geoffrey detained him.
"What is your name, please?" he asked.
"That you shall know when we meet again," was the
evasive reply.
"Tell me one thing," pleaded the young man, greatly
agitated; "did this friend of yours, have a son bearing
the name that I have given you /"
A groan of pain escaped the man.
"Come to me at five this afternoon. I am not fit to talk
more with you now," was the tremulous reply, and the
man moved weakly away, seeming more like a person
eighty years of age than like the upright, distinguished-
looking individual of fifty, whom the young couple had
met a few moments before.
CHAPTER XXV.
GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.
41 Who can he be? How strangely he acts," Gladys
said, as she gazed after the retreating form. "One would
almost believe he has some personal connection with
your history, he TV as so agitated on learning your name."
"I am sure that he has, Gladys ; 1 believe that man is
my father I" Geoffrey replied, with quivering lips.
"Oh, Geoff!"
"I do, dear; and I fear, too, that there is some miser
able secret connected with my early life."
"Do not think that," the beautiful girl pleaded;"!
will not believe it without the strongest proof ; and even
if it should be so, the fact cannot harm you."
"Gladys," Geoffrey said, in a stern, repressed tone,
while his face was dreadful to look upon in its ghastli-
ness, "if there is sin connected with my life if I find
that my birthright is one of shame I can never ask you
to share it."
Gladys clasped both hands closely about her lover's
arm.
154 GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.
"Geoffrey, surely you will not ruin both our lives by
any such rash decision ?" she pleaded, lifting her trou
bled face to his. " It is you whom I love, not an illus
trious pedigree. As far as my future with you is con
cerned, I care not who or what your parents may have
been. Do not let anything of that nature come between
us ; it is false pride, and unworthy of you."
The young man regarded her with exceeding tender
ness, but he was still greatly disturbed by his recent
interview with the stranger, and could not readily regain
his composure.
He believed that he was on the verge of an important
discovery, and he was at the same time impressed that it
would only bring him shame and sorrow.
"Gladys, would you not shrink from marrying a man
whose mother had never been a wife?" he asked, a hot
flush mounting to his brow.
"I could never shrink from you, Geoff ery, and I would
not accept the proudest position in the land in exchange
for your love. I might deeply regret such a circumstance,
on your account ; but, dear, my affection for you is far
too strong to be weakened by a mere accident of birth.
Let us put all such dismal thoughts away from our
minds. I will not believe that dishonor has ever touched
you or yours," Gladys concluded, looking up with a fond
smile.
"Dear little comforter," murmured the young man,
trying to return it, though it Avas but the ghost of one.
"Do not go near that man, Geoff," Gladys continued.
"Let us be happy as we are, and not trouble ourselves
about the past."
The poor fellow sighed, as if it would be a great relief
to let it go, to consign it to oblivion, but the anxious look
did not leave his face.
"I cannot, Gladys," he said, with pale, compressed lips.
"I shall never rest until all the dark mystery of my past
life is explained. I must keep my appointment with that
man this afternoon, and I will not leave him iintil I have
wrung from him every scrap of information that he may
possess regarding me and mine, and if
"Geoff, what?" cried the young girl, breathlessly,
alarmed by his unusual tone, and tho look upon his face.
"If I find that that man is my fnther, and that he
wronged my mother, he shall have reason to regret both
those facts for the remainder of his life," was the stern
reply.
GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 155
"Geoffrey, surely you will do nothing to compromise
yourself?" Gladys pleaded, anxiously.
u No, dear, for your sake as well as my own, I will do
nothing to make myself disagreeably conspicuous. But
he will not forget if I find my suspicions are true. You
will say nothing to Uncle August or Aunt Alice regard
ing this encounter, please, until after I have seen him."
"No, certainly not, if you prefer I should not tell
them," Gladys readily promised.
They turned to retrace their way to the hotel, both too
much disturbed by the occurrence of the morning and
by forebodings regarding the afternoon's appointment, to
care to prolong their stroll.
They parted at the ladies entrance, Gladys going up
stairs to her mother's apartments, where she tried to.
busy herself with some fancy work until lunch time,
although her heart was in a continual flutter of appre
hension and miserable suspense.
Geoffrey shut himself up in his own room, alone, for a
season, but was too wretched to remain there inactive,
and soon went out again.
When the family went down to luncheon he was still
absent, and his seat vacant.
This was such nn unprecedented occurrence that Mr.
Huntress left the table to ascertain the reason.
He soon returned with the information that Geoffrey
had gone rut, but had left word with the clerk, in case
inquiries should be made for him, that he might not be
back for several hours.
Mrs. Huntress glanced at Gladj r s as her husband made
this report, but she gave no sign of either surprise or
disappointment. She had noticed an unusual reserve and
quietness about her, ever since her return from her
walk, and a suspicion crossed her mind that perhaps
there might be some misunderstanding or lover's quar
rel, that had caused this unwonted break in the family
party.
She kept her suspicions to herself, however, resolving;
to await further developments.
It was after PI'X o'clook when Geoffrev returned.
Gladys was watching for him, at one end of the veranda,
and sprang from the chair to ero to meet him, as he came
up the steps and then stopped short as she caught sight
of his face.
It was as colorless as marble, and there was a look in
his eye that actually made her tremble.
156 . GEOFF1USY PICKS UP A THREAD.
He did not speak, or even smile, as lie came tip to her,
but quietly drew her hand through his arm, led her within
the house, and to a small reception-room, carefully shut-
tine: the door behind them.
Then he turned again and faced her.
"Gladys," he said, in a hollow, unnatural tone, "it
is as I feared "
"Geoffrey !" she cried, in a shocked voice, all her own
bright color fading.
"The worst is true," he concluded, not heeding her
interruption.
"Have you seen him? did he tell you so?" she asked.
"No, I have not seen him. ::
"Then how do you know s*'
"He has fled."
"Fled?"
"Yes. I went to the 'United States' at five this after
noon. I called a servant to show me the way to room
number forty-five, and was told that the gentleman who
had occupied it left at twelve to-day."
"How very strange!" said Gladys, astonished.
"No, it is not strange," Geoffrey returned, bitterly;
"the man is a miserable coward, and he dare not meet
me ; his history is doubtless one of shame and wrong he
knew that I would force it from him, and he fears to
remain and confess it. But, Gladys, I shall find him yet
some day I will compel him to face me and own the
truth. I will hunt him down ! he shall not escape me !"
"Oh, Geoffrey, pray do not let it trouble you so there
may have been some other reason for his going," said
the young girl, laying her hand sympathetically on his
arm.
"No I tell you he was afraid to meet me, and his guilt
is evident in his flight; he never would have run away
like this, if there had been no guilty secret in his life
which he was anxious to conconl from me."
"Did you learn his name?" Gladys inquired.
A deep flush arose to Geoffrey's brow, and he gave a
Start of annoyance.
"No," he said, "I was so wretched and angiythat I
never thought to ask his name. When the servant told
me he was gone, T turned on my heel and walked out of
the house and have been walking ever since, trying to
recover my composure."
"That was an oversight, dear," said his betrothed, gent
ly ; "you should have secured his name and address."
GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. 157
"You are right ; I will go back immediately and ascer
tain it."
"Oh, Geoffrey, perhaps it will be better for you to
leave it all just here," the fair girl urged. "'Where ig
norance is bliss' you know the rest."
" But I know too much already ; I can never rest until
I sift tin's matter to the very bottom. Could you, dar
ling? If you were not Ucle August's own child, and
knew tliere was some mystery connected with your
birth, would you be satisfied until you knew the truth?"
"No, Geoff, I don't believe I should," Gladys replied,
thoughtfully, "and I know that such a discovery would
make me very unhappy," she concluded, with starting
tears.
Geoffrey stoopod and kissed her fondly, then turned
abruptly and left the room.
The young girl sighed wearily as she slowly followed
him.
"I am afraid there is trouble in store for him, for my
heart is heavy with forebodings," she murmured.
Half an hour later, Geoffrey returned, and there was
now a savage glitter in his eyes, although his face was
pale and full of pain.
He found Gladys watching for him as before.
He went up behind her chair, leaned down, and whis
pered in her ear :
"The man's name is William Dale, and he registered
from Fort Union, New Mexico."
Gladys looked around, a startled expression on her
face.
"William Dale !" she repeated ; "then he must be "
"My father, and a parent to be proud of, surely," the
young man interposed, with exceeding bitterness. "Oh,
Gladys!" he continued, in an angonized whisper, "I feel
OR if I should go mad I can bear anything better than
dishonor."
Gladys turned and laid her soft cheek for an instant
against the hand that was resting on the back of her
chm'r.
The involuntary and sympathetic caress comforted him
moro than any words could have, done, for it seemed to
say. no matter what lay away bnrk among those early
years before she knew birr., nothing could chancre her
love for him, and he would always be the same to her.
"I wish I could knoAv the story of my mother's life,**
Geoffrey continued, with a sigh, while a moisture gath-
15S GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.
ered in his eyes. "Poor woman ' I am afraid that her
fate must have been a sorrowful one. Darling, I believe
I shall go to New Mexico ai d see what I can learn about
this man who registered from Fort Union."
"Oh, Geoff/ I fear it will only be chasing a ' will-o'-the-
whisp !'" Gladys said, looking distressed.
" I cannot help it. I must go. I shall be wretched and
good for nothing until I learn all there is to know. I am
going now to tell Uncle August about it."
He sought Mr. Huntress, and laid ihe whole matter
before him, making known his desire, too, to go to New
.VIexico to see if he could gain any further clew.
Mr. Huntress sympathized heartily vith him, and fav
ored the project. He could well understand how restless
and miserable Geoffrey would be until he had used every
possible means to discover his parentage.
So he did all that he could to hasten and facilitaie his
departure, and even offered to accompany him ; but
Geoffrey frankly told him that he preferred to go alone.
He felt that if he must learn that any stigma rested on
his birth, he could not bear to have any one, not even his
kind friend, witness the struggle that must come with
the knowledge. He could fight it best by himself.
He left the next day but one, but owing to delays both
by rail and coach, he did not reach Fort Union until ten
days later.
He made inquiries here for a man named William Dale,
but for several days could gain no intelligence whatever
regarding such a person.
At last he fell in with an old miner, by the merest acci
dent, who had known a man by that name many years
previous, and who directed him to that mining village
already described.
Thither Geoffrey hastened at once, reaching it one
evening just at sundown, and only a week after Everet
Mapleson's visit to the same place.
Here he learned something of Annie Dale's story, for
Everet's inquiries and interest in the same person had
revived memories regarding that sad romance, and it had
become a common theme since.
Annie Dale's g>ave, and the house where she had lived,
were pointed out to Geoffrey, and he went by himself to
visit them.
He came to the dismantled home first, and walked
round and round it, as Everet Mapleson had done, peer
ing in through the windows, noting the position of the
GEOFFREY PICK'S UP A THREAD. 159
rooms, and wondering if he should ever know if this had
really been the home of his mother, and under what cir
cumstances she had lived there ; whether stie had been a
loved and honored wife, or whether her early death had
been caused by some secret sorrow that had broken her
heart.
He knew there had been another visitor there before
him although he had been told nothing regarding the
stranger's visit of the week previous for the broken
step and the trampled grass gave ample evidence of that
fact.
He wondered if it could have been the man who had so
suddenly fled from Saratoga after meeting him, who had,
perhaps, been driven there by sorrow and remorse to
look once more upon the ruin he had wrought.
He grew more and more fearful that the story of his
birth must be a sorrowful one, for it was evident that no
one bearing the name of William Dale had ever resided
in Fort Union.
He would not have been able to trace the man beyond
that point at all, but for his accidental meeting with the
old miner, who had worked in the mines where he had
owned an interest, and thus been able to direct him to
this remote village.
If William Dale had never lived at Fort Union, why
had he registered from that place if If he was now living
at Fort Union, and his name was not William Dale, why
had he used that address again after the lapse of so many
years?
Thore was something very mysterious about the whole
matter, and it began to seem like a hopeless puzzle to
the young man.
He finally left the house and bent his steps toward that
small inclosure where, in the gathering dusk, he could
just see the pure white head-stone gleaming among the
vines that grew all around it.
He entered the place and approached the spot, noting
that here, too, there were signs of a recent visitor, and
knelt down to read the name that had been inscribed
upon the spotless marble.
"Annie, "he read, and the single name sent a thrill
through every fiber of his being.
Here, too, there seemed evidence that there was some
sad tale of wrong and suffering connected with the life of
the girl who had been buried there, for had she bean a
wife and with nothing to conceal., would not a fond hus-
160 A THRILLING STORY.
band have wished the name that he had given her also
chiseled there?
"Oh, if I could only know !" Geoffrey groaned within
himself, as he bowed his head upon the stone, feeling
completely baffled, and as if all trace must end here.
"Was this woman my mother? She was something to
William Dale, and William Dale is something to me, or
he would never have betrayed so much emotion upon
meeting me, and then fled from me. Was she his lawful
wife? Am I her child, and had I honorable birth?
"Good heavens!" he added, aloud, "there must be
some way to solve these questions. Oh, if the Fates
would but guide me to some one who could tell me how
to unravel this mystery !"
"Ahem ! Well, youngster, I shouldn't wonder if I was
yer man. What'll ye give to hear a prettier love-story
than ever was writ? 1 '
CHAPTER XXVI.
A THRILLING STORY.
Geoffrey starred to his feet as if electrified, as these
unexpected words fell upon his ears, and found himself
face to face with a man of perhaps fifty yeaz's, his face
seamed and browned by hardships and exposure, rough
in appearance, uncouth in dress, and with an anxious,
alert air about him, which conveyed the impression that
he feared being identified and apprehended for some rea
son or other.
"Who are you?" Geoffrey sternly demanded, for he
knew that country was not the safest place in the world,
and it flashed upon his mind that the man might be a
robber, and had followed him there with some evil in
tent.
"I'm all right. I've no wish to harm ye, sir," was the
reassuring response, as the new-comer appeared to read
his thought, "and I guess it don't matter much who I be,
provided I can tell ye what ye seem to want to know
about this here grave."
u No," replied Geoffrey, his suspicions instantly van
ishing. "If you can give me the history of the poor lady
who lies here, and tell .me where I can find the man who
brought her here, I'll pay you ^ell, and ask no further
A THRILLING STORY. 161
questions about yourself. But how came you to follow
me to thin place ?"
"I didn't fuller ye. I was sittin' yonder, behind that
clump of spruce, when ye hove in sight. I didn't mean
to show up at all, but when I saw ye so eager by this
here tombstone, I was kind o' curious to know what yer
game was, and crept on ye unawares. But, I say, young
ster," the man added, suddenly taking a step forward,
and peering eagerly into Geoffrey's face, "who are you?"
The rough fellow had actually grown pale, and his
breath came in gasps through his tightly locked teeth.
"I am an Eastern man," answered Geoffrey, evasively.
"Is is your name Geoffrey?" the man demanded, in a
hoarse whisper.
"Yes."
" Ha ! Geoffrey Dale ?"
"Yes."
u Great Christopher ! I I thought so. Something
about yer sent a chill over me the minute I laid eyes on
ye," said the man, trembling and terribly agitated. ""Boy
boy," he continued, in a tone of fear, "how on earth
came ye and me to turn up together here, of all places in
the world ?"
Geoffrey was amazed at his words.
Evidently the man knew something about him, and
with that knowledge there was connected some incident
that caused him personal fear.
Instantly the young man's mind reverted to the condi
tion in which Mr. Huntress had first found him a poor
abandoned imbecile. Had this rough creature known of
that, or had anything to do with it?
His next words enlightened him somewhat.
"You're all right, too, in the upper story, and ye can
talk," he muttered. " Where ye been all these years?"
"'All these years,' How many years?" queried
Geoffrey, with a rapidly beating heart.
"It's eight years ago, last spring, since I set eyes on
ye, and little thought I should ever see you again ; never
with that look on yer face. Where ye been, I say ?"
"Eight years ago, last spring," began Geoffrey,
gravely, while ha closoly watched every expression on
his companion's countenance, " I was one day wander
ing, a poor, demented boy, in the streets of Now York
city. My strange appearance and actions attracted a
mob of urchins, who began to make sport of me. They
were in tho midst of their cruelty when a carriage
162 A THRILLING STORY.
stopped near me, and a beautiful little girl beckoned to
me, at the same time opening the door of the carriage. I
darted away from my tormentors, sprang in beside her,
and the next moment was driven away in safety, much
to the rage of the boys. The girl's father took an interest
in me, consulted a physician, who made an examination
of my case, and reported that my demented state had been
caused by a heavy blow on the head several years
before."
Geoffrey saw the man shudder, as he made this state
ment, while a low exclamation of pain or fear escaped
him, and a dim suspicion began to dawn on his
mind.
il It was found," he resumed, still watching the man,
"that my skull had been fractured, and that a portion of
the bone was pressing on my brain, which caused tem
porary paralysis, and made me an imbecile."
Another shudder, more violent than the other, strength
ened his suspicion.
"This physician and another, 1 ' he went on, "believed
that an operation might be performed which would im
prove my condition, if it did not fully restore me to my
right mind. Mr. Huntress, the man who had taken me
under his protection, authorized the doctors to undertake
the operation. They did so it was successful, and I was
restored."
"Heaven be praised !" ejaculated his listener, heartily
but tremulously. "I haven't that quite so heavy on my
conscience any longer."
Geoffrey started, and bis face brightened.
He was gaining light, ittle by little.
"The first words that 1 uttered on coming to myself,"
he continued, "were something about a woman named
Margery "
At the sound of that name, the man before him
bounded from his feet as if he had been shot.
"Margery !" he repeated, in an agonized voice, his face
twitching, his hands clenching themselves convulsively,
while his eyes rolled in every direction, a look of wildest
fear in them. "Do you remember Margery !"
He leaned breathlessly toward the young man, while
he awaited his answer with trembling eagerness.
"I remember only this and it is only a confused re
membrance, too," Geoffrey replied, "that some one by
that name was kind and good to me that she was called
Margery, and I loved he 1 " I have a dim recollection that
A THRILLIXQ STOUT. 163
something happened to her that she was hurt cr
struck '
On hearing this, the man stretched out his hand with a
quick, appealing gesture.
"Don't don't,'' he pleaded, hoarsely. "Do do you
remember anything any one else?"
"Yes, I recollect that there was a man named Jack"
another violent start confirmed Geoffrey's suspicious
"who was not always good to me, and whom Ifeaic-d
and you are Jack !"
This was something of a shot at random, but it told
instantly .
The man sank to the ground, trembling and urnerved,
his face blanched with fear, while great beads of perspir
ation started out upon his forehead.
"Good Heaven! lam lost ! Havel comeback after
all these years, just to get caught like a rat in a. crap?"
he cried, brokenly. " But," he went on, crouching lower
among the tall grass and weeds, "I never meant jeany
harm, Master Geoffrey. It was the drink that did :t; it
crazed my brain, and I never really knew I done ye such
injury, or that I'd killed the girl I loved, till hours tfter
twas all over."
Geoffrey grew pale now, at this revelation.
It was far more than he dreamed of extorting when he
had charged the man with his identity.
He was so excited that it was with difficulty he could
compose himself (sufficiently to speak. But after a mo
ment or two he said :
"Well, Jack, since it is you, and we have recognized
each other, you may as well make a clean breast of the
whole story. Owing to the kindness which I bad re
ceived, the injury which you did me has not resulted so
seriously as it might have done ; but poor Margery !"
"Boy boy ye will drive me crazy if ye talk like
that," Jack cried, in a voice of horror. "I tell ye, I loved
the girl, and I'd never have lifted my hand agin her I'd
have cut it off first, though we didn't always agree but
for the drink ; and if I could only look into her good face
once more, and hear her say, 'Jack, I forgive ye!' I'd
be willin' to lay down in the grave beside her, though
Heaven knows I've never even seen the spot where she's
buried."
Great sobs choked the man's utterance, while tears
rolled over his weather-beaten cheeks and dropped upon
the ground.
164 A THRILLING STORY.
Geoffrey pitied him sincerely, while at the same time a
feeling of horror crept ov<>r him as he began to realize
that the mmi had been making a confession of murder.
Had lie killed Margery, and attempted his life also?
And was that the secret of his having been abandoned in
the great city of Mew York?
He was burning with eagerness to learn all the truth.
"I do not \visli to pain you, Jack," he said, "but 1 want
you to tell me all thero is to tell. Begin at the beginning,
here in this peaceful spot, where no one will come to dis
turb us, and ease your conscience of its burden. 1 '
Jack looked up quickly as he referred to that sacred
inclosure.
"How came ye to know where to find yer mother's
grave ?" he asked.
Geoffrey's h^art bounded within him at this question.
"Annie" had been his mother, then. It was a great
thing to have that point settled, and he Celt sure now that
the rest would all be explained.
"Never mind that just now, Jack," he replied, with
what calmness lie could assume; "when you have told
me all your story I will answer any question you may
ask."
"Ye'll not give me over to the officers, lad?" the man
plended, pitifully.
"'No, jack, you need have no fear of me; as far as I
am concerned, ymi may go free for the rest of your life ; if
you have wronged any one else, you will have to settle
that with your own conscience. All I nsk of. you is to
tell me the iiislory of my early life, and what you know
regarding my father and mother."
''Thank ye. Master Geoffrey," returned Jack, humbly.
"I don't deserve that ye should be so considerate. I've
had to skulk and hide for more'n twenty years, and
though ther* 1 ain't much in th world that. 1 care to live
for, yet a feller don't exactly like the idee of bein' put
out, of it afore his time. I'll tell ye all I know about yer-
self and your folks, and welcome.''
"Come over to yonder lotr and let us sit down,"
Geoffrey snid. indicating a fallen tree, but he was very
white, and felt weak and trembling as he moved toward
it.
At last he believed the mystery of his life was to be
revealed .
"T came here to work in thf mines about a year afore
Captain Dale that's your dad bought his claim," Jack
A THRILLING STORY. 165
began, after they were seated. "He bought out old
Waters all of a sudden, and, about a fortnight after, he
brought the prettiest little woman I ever set eyes on to
live in that house yonder "
"His wife?" eagerly queried Geoffrey.
"Of course, lad leastwise he said she was, and she
was called Mrs. Dale ; and if ever a man set his life by a
woman, the captain was that one. He dressed her like a
doll, and wouldn't let her do a thing except make little
fancy knicknacks, and was forever pettin' and makin'
of her as if she was a child. Wai, they kep' two maids
at least after a while one in the kitchen and one to
wait on Mrs. Dale, who was kind of ailin'. Margery
Brown was the waitin' maid, and she and me had been
keepin' company for quite a while, and it was agreed
between us that we'd marry afore long and try our luck
together in California, for I'd scraped together a snug
little sum and was tired of mine's. But after she went
to the cap's house she began to put me off she grew so
fond of his wife that she wouldn't hear a word about
marryin' and leavin' her. At the end of a year ye were
born a cute little nine-pounder ye was, too, and a
prouder man ye never see than the captain \vas after ye
came. But it didn't last long, for j-er mother began to
fail afore ye were a month old, and in another week or
t\vn she was dead.
"It just broke the captain's heart. He seemed half
crazed, didn't pay any heed to his business, and finally
said he couldn't stay here where everything kept his
mind stirred up with the past. He told Margery he was
goin' to break up, only he didn't know what he should
do with you, for he hadn't any place or any folks to take
you to.
"I thought my time to speak up had come then, and I
told Margery she must take me then or nevpr, and if the
captain were will in' we'd take the baby alone: with ra,
until he could do better by it. This pleased her, and she
said she'd speak to the master about it. He was clad
enough to let ye come with us, for he knew my girl loved
ye and would take better care of ye than any stranger.
He said he'd pay well for it until ye were old enough to
go to school, whon he'd take you to some good one to
begin yer edication.
"Well, Margery and I were married, and went to Cali
fornia to live on a small farm I'd leased, just out of
Frisco, which I worked part of the time and let out the
166 A THRILLING STORY.
rest, at odd jobs, to get a little ready money. The
shipped all his fine furniture off somewhere to be sold,
shut up the house yonder, and left for parts unknown,
though for the first two years he came every six months
to see how his boy was gettin' on. After that he didn't
come so often, though he sent money regular.
"Ye were the smartest little chap I ever did see. Mar
gery couldn't have loved ye any better if ye'd been her
own, and she made more on ye than I relished, and 1 got
jealous sometimes. We got on finely for three years, then
hard times came, the crops didn't turn out good, odd
jobs gave out, and I la;y idle for weeks at a time. I
wasn't long gettin' into bad company those times, and I
came home wild with drink sometimes, and Margery
would cry and beg me to mend my ways. But! didn't;
and at last she got riled, and threatened to give me the
slip, which only made me wicked and sullen.
"One night I came home worse than ever Heaven for
give me ! I'd been at the bottle all day long, and the
very OM Bo> had got into me. I staggered into the house
ugly enough for anything. Margery had the table all
laid, the kettle was steaming in on the stove, and she was
settin' with yerself in her arms ye were about five then
laughin' and playin' with ye as happy as a cat with one
kitten. The sight angerod me somehow; I couldn't get
reconciled that we'd no tots of our own, and I gave ye a
cuff on the ear with an oeth.
"Margery sprang up, as mad as a hornet, and shoved
ye behind her.
'"Let the child alone, you sot !' she said.
'"I'll sot ye !' I yelled, and pushed her roughly into a
chair by the stove.
"This roused all yer bad blood, small as ye were. Ya
flew at me, peltin' me with yer little fists that couldn't
have hurt a flea. Ye called me 'a bad, wicked man,'
ordered me to 'let Marerery alone, or ye'd tell '
"Ye never finished that sentence, for every word had
put me in a worse rage, and I grabbed a stick of wood
from the hearth, flung it at ve, and ye dropped without a
word, for it hit ye square in the head.
"My girl gave a shriek I'll never forget.
'"Oh, ye drunken wretch !' she cried. 'I'll hate ye all
my life if ye've killed my darlinV
"She gave me a push and sprang toward ye, but she
never reached ye, for I grabbed her by the throat
frightened at what I'd already done, and the heat of the
JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 167
room had made a madman of mo and choked her till
she grew purple in the face, and then threw her from
me. She stumbled, caught her foot in a rug, and fell. I
laughed as she went over. Her head hit on the sharp
corner of the stove with a sound I'll never forget till I
die, and then she, too, lay still and white on the floor
afore me."
CHAPTER XXVII.
JACK'S STORY CONTINUED.
When the man had reached the part of his story re
corded in the preceding chapter, he was greatly agitated
for several moments, as if the memory of that dreadful
time was even now, after the lapse of more than twenty
year, more than he could bear, while Geoffrey, too, felt
as if he ^ould hardly sit there and listen to the remainder
of the fearful tale.
'The horror of it all sobered me a'most as quick as if
I'd been struck by lightning," Jack at length resumed,
pulling himself together with an effort. "I don't know
how long I stood there, lookin' down on them two that I
believed I'd sent out o' world without a moment's warn
ing. Then I slunk out o' the house, hardly knowin' what
I did, and went and hid myself in the barn. I must have
gone to sleep, or fell into a stupor from the liquor I'd
drank, for I didn't know anything more till the roosters
set up such a crowing that nobody could have slept. I
never could tell ye what the horror of that wakin' was,
sir, and it's a'most like livin' it over again to tell it,"
groaned the man, with a shudder. "It was only about
two in the mornin', but the moon was shinin', and it
was most as light as day. I crept out into the yard and
listened ; there wasn't a sound except those roosters, and
every crow sounded like a knell o' doom in my ears, and
made my flesh creep with fear.
" T stole up to the house and looked in at the kitchen
window. I couldn't help it something drove me to it,
thouerh I shivered at every step. There tlu-y Iny, just as
they Ml. with the light still burnin', and pvorvt^ing just
as I'd left it. Bur, while I stood there the little shaver
stirred and moaned, and my heart lenpod straight into
my throat, near about chokin' me at the sight. It gave
me hope p'raps after all I hadn't murdered 'em, and
168 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED.
they might be brought to. I rushed in, took the boy up,
and laid him on the bed in the bedroom just off the
kitchen. He moaned all the time, till I got a wet cloth
and put it on his head, when he grew o,uiet and dropped
off into a stupor again. Then I went to her my girl
Margery the woman I'd sworn to love and take care of
till I died, and who had done me nothin' but kindness
ever since we first met.
"I lifted her up. but she hung limp and lifeless over my
arm. I laid her head on my breast and begged her to
come back to me, to call me her Jack once more, and say
she'd forgive me, and I'd never lift my hand ag'in her
agMn, nor touch another dron as long as I lived. But
'twan't no use. She lay there quiet and peaceful enough,
but there was that dreadful purple mark and cut on her
forehead where it had hit the stove. She wa'n't cold or
stiff as I thought dead people always were, but there
wa'n't no sign of life about her either and I laid her
down again, my heart a-breakin', and feelin' like another
Cain, only worse, for I'd killed a woman, and she my
own wife !
"Then I began to think what would happen if I was
found there, and I grew frightened. I couldn't makeup
my mind to stay and confess what I'd done, and hang
like a dog for it, so I got together a few things and all the
money that Margery had in her own little box, and the
boy's safe, and Avrappin' him in a shawl for I daren't
leave him while there was a breath o' life in him and a
chance of savin' him ! stole out of the house, without
even darin' to give my girl a kiss after the ill I'd done
her. ard made for a station a mile or more away.
"I had an awful time of it, for the boy moaned every
minute of the time ; but I told people on the cars that
he'd had a fall and I was takin' him to a doctor. I trav
eled all day in the fastest trains, and got to a town just
about dusk. H>re I called a doctor to the boy. He
doubted if he could save him ; but he pulled through after
five weeks of terrible fever and pain, though when he
got up ngain, lookin' more like a spirit than l*ke flpsh
Bnd blood, he didn't know me or remember anything that
bad happened. The doctor said he was a fool, and always
would be one."
Tt seemed very strange to Geoffrey to be sitting there
in his right mind and listening to this dreadful svory
about himself. It seemed almost like a case of dual exist
ence.
J ICE'S STORY CONTINUED. 169
* As soon as he was well enough," Jack went on, "I felt
that we ought to be gettiii' out of that place ; it was too
near home to be safe, and the police were liable to get on
my track any day. So I began my roamin'. First we
went to Texas, where I got work on a cattle and sheep
ranch. After a time I scraped together a little money,
and started out to raise sheep for myself. It wa'n't easy
t 1 ) be with any one, lest somebody should come along who
had heard about what I'd done, and I might get snapped
up. The boy and me lived in a cabin by ourselves, away
from everybody else, but I never let him out of my sight,
and I grew that fond of him I would have died rather
than let harm come to him, and I'd vowed I'd do the best
1 could by him as long as I lived, and get together some-
tiling handsome to leave him, to make up as far as I could
for the deadly wrong I'd done him. As soon as I could
get enough together, I meant to take him to some place
where they care for them that have lost their mind.
"My eheep turned out wonderful ; in five years money
began to come in right fast, and I might have kep' oil
an' been a rich man by this time, if it hadn't been that a
man I knew came down that way about that time. I saw
him first at the village, where I went to lay in a stock of
provisions. He didn't see me, but I heard him say he was
goin' to buy out a cattle ranch ten miles away, and that
was enough to give me a scare and unsettle me. 1 feared
I'd be recognized and seized as the murderer of my girl,
and though life wa'n't much to me with the heavy con
science and the grief I had to carry around with me all
the time, j'et, for the boy's sake, I was bound to stick to
it as long as I could there was nobody else to take care
of him, and I knew he'd fare hard without me.
"The man who owned the ranch next to mine had
offered to buy me out the year before, so I went to him
and told him I'd made up my mind to go North and see if
the doctors couldn't do something for the boy, and if he'd
taka everything off my hands I'd sell out cheap.
" He took me up quick as a wink, and in less than a
week the money was in my pocket and the boy and me
were on our way to New York. I bought a email farm
just across the river in New Jersey. There was a good
house and barn on it, and I stocked it well, hired a good
strong woman to do the inside work and a man to help
me outside, and then settled down to a quiet life ; for I
didn't believe anybody would think of lookin' for me
there.
170 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED.
"1 took the name of '.John Landers,' and tried to mako
the boy call himself 'George Landers' ; but he didn't
know enough to learn it, and seemed to have forgotten
how to talk at all ; so I hadn't much to fear from his let-
tin' anything out. We lived here for almost five years
more, and I got ahead a little every season. But, sir, the
horror of that dreadful deed never left me for a minute.
My Margery's dead face was always before me, and my
heart heavy with its load of guilt and loneliness. If ever
a man paid for an evil deed in torment, I paid for mine a
hundred times over.
" But the worst of my troubles was yet to come. The
world's a small place to hide in when a man has commit
ted a crime. I went to town one day on business, and
stepped into the post-office which was in the same
buildin' with the railway station to send a letter for the
woman at home, when I heard two men talking in a low
tone of voice, and one of them spoke the name of Jack
Henly.
" My blood ran cold in a minute. My back was to
them, for I was payin' for the postage on the letter, and
they hadn't seemed to notice me. I didn't hurry, fright
ened as I felt, but took my own time and listened.
" It was me they were after, sure enough ; they had
tracked me all the way from Texas to that place, but,
somehow, couldn't get any farther. Nobody had heard of
a man named Jack Henly, and no one answered to their
description. It was no wonder, for I \vas greatly changed,
looking like an old man, for my grief had whitened my
hair, wrinkled my face, and bent my form. I walked
straight by them on goin' out of the office, but they never
suspected me. I'd got another scare, though, that I
couldn't get over, and made up my mind that I'd quit the
country So I sold off my stock, drew what money I'd
laid by in the bank my farm I couldn't sell at such short
notice shut up my huose, and, takin' the boy, went to
New York, intendin' to take passage in a vessel goin' to
Australia, where I meant to go to sheep raisin' again,
since I had done so well in Texas, while I thought I
needn't fear any man in that country. I took passage,
and bought a comfortable outfit for both of us, but the
vessel wan't to sail for a week, so I kep' very quiet in a
room I'd hired on a by-street, fearin' those men might
still be lookin' me up.
"But I let the boy play out, for he pined in the house,
while I sat by a window to watch that he did not get out
JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 171
of sight. Wall, one day I must have fallen asleep, for I
woice with a start, ami lookiii' out, couldn't see hide nor
hair of the boy. I went to the door, but he wasn't no
where in sight. I started out to find him, never thinkin'
of danger then. I walked for nours, askin' people about
him, but nobody could tell me anything of him.
"Three days I kep' this up, until I nigh about went
crazy, and wore myself out with loss or sleep, travelin'
about, and with my grief for the little fellow.
" On t.he last day before we were to sail, while I was
rovin' about the streets in seaich of him, I ran against
those two men again the ones who were lookin' for me.
I knew by their quick, keen glances at me that they had
got a suspicion I might be their man, and I got out of
thnir way in a hurry. I was discouraged about fiudin'
the boy. I didn't dare to look for him any more. I was
afraid to go to the police about nim, lest they had been
notified to be on the lookout, and should snap me up ; so,
half crazed with tear and grief, I staggered on board the
vessel I was to sail in, crawled into my berth, and lay
there till we were well out to sea.
"Wall, sir, my heart was broke. I thought I never
could hold up my head again, and I wouldn't have turned
over my hand to have saved myself from goin' to the
bottom ; for I got to lovin' that poor little chap with my
whole soul, and I didn't know how to get on without him.
"But we had a good passage. I was hale and hearty
when we landed, and seemed likely to live my lonely life
for many a year. I went into the interior, bought a sheep
ranch, and set myself to do the work of three men;
nothin' else would ease the pain and worry that was
oatin' my heart out.
"Well, sir, to make a long story short, I've been on
that sheep ranch ever since, until about six months ago,
when a longin' seized me to come home and take a last
look at my own land. I've grown to be a well-to-do
farmer ; I've plenty of money, and no one to spend it on
or leave it to, unless I give it to you, Master Geoffrey,
now that I have found you. Heaven be praised for that,
and that you've got your mind back ! I've been to New
Jersey, found my place there neglected and all out of
repair, but still a thrifty little farm if 'twas well taken
care of. I've been to Texas for a look at my old ranch
there. The man that bought it got rich, sold out, and
then went North to live on his money. Then I came on
here to see the place where I first found my Margery,
172 JACK'S STOKY CONTINUED.
and it was nigh this very spot just there by that clump
of spruce, wnere I was hid when you came that we
plighted our troth. Ah ! my gill ! my girl !"
The poor man broke down completely here, and sobbed
like a child, and Geoffrey's eyes were full of tears, loo,
as he witnessed his emotion and realized what he must
have suffered during the checkered life that he had
led.
He had been deeply touched by the faithfulness and de
votion which he had exhibited in his care of him during
all those years while he was such a helpless burden,
mentally, on his hands.
He saw that the man was naturally honorable and kind-
hearted, and that he would never have been guilty of the
crime which he had just confessed, but for the misfor
tunes that led him into evil company and to the use of
intoxicating drinks.
"I'm a broken-down old man, sir," Jack said, after
struggling hard for self-control, "or I never should blub
ber like this; but this place brings back those old days
when my conscience was free when life was bright and
full of hope before me and my girl, and it seems more'n
I can bear. It's wonderful, though, that I should run
across ye here! Oh, sir, I did ye a woeful wrong, in my
anger and jealous fit, Avhen ye were a child. I've no
right to expect it, but 'twould comfort my poor old heart
more'n I could tell ye, if I could hear ye say ye don't lay-
it up ag'in me."
Geoffrey turned frankly toward the humble suppliant
beside him.
"I do not, Jack," he said, heartily ; "you were the vic
tim of drink, and were hardly accountable for the deeds
of that night ; you condemn yourself more than you
really deserve, for if you have told me everything just as
it occurred, your wife did not die by your hand her
death was caused by an accident."
The man shook his head sadly.
"No, no," he said; "I can't get it off my conscience
that it was murder : for if I hadn't laid hands on her she
might have been living to-day."
"Still it was not willful or premeditated," Geoffrey per
sisted. "However," he added, "I freely forgive you for
your share in my misfortune, if that will be any comfort
to you."
"Thank ye, sir; thank ye; and if there is a, God, I
thank Him, too, that I've been allowed to set eyes on ye
JACK'S STORY CONTINUED. 173
once more, and in yer right mind, too," was the fervent
response.
"I reckon," he continued, after a moment of thought,
"it might be called tlie work of Providence that I lost ye
there in Mew York, for if ye'd gone with me to Australia,
I doubt that ye'd ever been curtd, and I'm right sure ye'd
never been the gentleman that 3 e are. I'd thank ye to
tell me about the good man that befriended ye.''
"I will, Jack, piesently, but I first want to ask you a
few more questions about the past."
"All riglu, sir: anything I can tell ye, ye shall know.
"Well, then, I'd like you to detciibe the man vho was
my father," Geoflrey said, giavtly.
Jack turned to look \\} on the jci;rg n an beside him.
"The best description ye could get of him'd be to go
and look at yers-elf in the glass, 1 ' he said, studying
Geoffrey's face and form, u h r ye're ae nigh like bin> afi
another man could be, -when 1 first taw him after he
brought that pretty little won an to live here. He'd been
off to meet her somewhere, and he'd shaved off all his
heavy beard, had his hair trin.med up in the fashion, and
wore a dandy suit o 1 clothes."
"His name was Dale, you say? Are you sure that was
his true name?" the youi g man asked.
"I couldn't take my oath as to that, sir, but everybody
bore knew him as Captain William Dale, though 1 don't
know how he came to be a captain. She used to call him
'Will,' in a way that made his eyes shine enough to do ye
good."
Geoffrey's ej'es lighted at this.
It was evident that Captain Dale had truly loved the
girl whom hH had brought there, whether she had been
his legal wife or not.
"Do you know what her name was before be married
ber?" he asked.
"No, sir ; that is one of the things I can't tell ye ; even
Margery never found out that. They was both very shy
of talkin' about themselves afore folks, anc nobody ever
knew where they came from, either."
"Did they never have visitors was there no friend
whoever came to see them ?"
"No, sir; and they didn't seem to want anybody ; she
was just his world, and he her'n. My girl used to tl ink
it was kind of strange, though, that they never pot ; i y
letters; but she never did, and never writ any, either."
"Did she seem happy?" Geoffrey asked, in a hushed
174 JACK'S STORY CONTINUED.
tone, as if this was ground he hardly liked to trespass
upon.
" As chipper as a bird," Jack returned ; "and she could
sing like one, too. Many's the night the boys have stolen
to yonder house to listen while she sang and played to
the cap ; he had a pianer sent up from Santa Fe ; and
she was always bright and smilin' ; she was like a streak
o' sunshine in a dark place, for there wasn't anybody
like her anywhere about."
Geoffrey felt his heart yearn \vistfully for this sweet
and gentle woman, who had been his mother, and who
had brightened that wild and dreary place with her pres
ence for one short year.
Still the mystery regarding his father, and her rela
tions to him, seemed as dark as ever.
If he could not learn whence they came, it would be im
possible to trace his history any farther, and a feeling of
depression and discouragement began to settle upon him.
It seemed as if those two lovers had hidden themselves
there, cut themselves adrift from all previous associa
tions, and then lived simply for and in each other.
"Did Captain Dale's mine here pay him well?" he
asked.
"No, sir, it did not; and that is something that always
seemed strange to me," Jack said, reflectively. "He
couldn't much more'n paid expenses here, but he never
seemed to care, and I've always had a notion that be had
an interest in other mines."
'^"hat other mines?" Geoffrey inquired, eagerly.
"I couldn't say, sir: he was very close, and never
talked business afore his help."
"What made you think he had other claims?"
"Well, after the first month or two he used to be away
considerable not long at a time ; but he went often, and
was always so chipper when he came back, I reasoned
'twas only good luck could make him so."
"What arrangements did he make with you when he
left me in your wife's care?"
"There wa'n't anv bargain," Jack said. "Margery was
that fond of ye she'd been willin' to kep' ye for nothin'
rather than let ye go; but the cap was always generous
he gave her two hundred dollars to start with, besides
a handsome present on her own account, for what she did
for his wife while she lay dyin'. Then, for the first two
years he came once in six months to see ye, and always
left a good round sum for ye there wa'n't nothin' mean
GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 175
about Captain Dale and when he didn't come he sent it."
"Did he never mention where he spent his time?' 1
Geoffrey asked, " or speak of ever taking me away with
him?"
"No, sir, never a word ; the most he ever said was that
he should put ye to some school as soon as ye were old
enough."
"Did he did he appear to be fond of me?" Geoffrey in
quired, hesitatingly, a hot flush rising to his cheek.
"That he were, sir ; it was as much as ever he'd let ye
out of his arms from the time he came till he went,
though he never staid very long, and I've seen the tears
a-standin' in his eyes when he parted from ye."
"How long before my accident was his last visit?"
"It must have been more'n a year, if I remember right ;
but the money came regular, and Margery seemed hap
pier when he didn't come she was always afraid he'd
take ye away from her. I've often wondered what he did
when he came again and found ye gone it must have
been a mortal blow to him," Jack concluded, and then
dropped into a fit of musing.
CHAPTER xxvrn.
GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
"Where do you intend to go from here, Jack ?" Geoffrey
asked at length, breaking a silence of several minutes,
during which both had been busy with various thoughts
and emotions.
"To California, sir. I'm bound to have a last look at
all the places I've ever been in, though it'll be a sad day
that lands me there. My poor girl and I saw many
happy days on that little farm just out of San Francisco.
I didn't own it, we only hired it, for we hadn't money
enough then to pay for a home; but I'd gladly give up
every dollar I've earned since if I could only have my
girl back again," Jack concluded, with another heart
broken sob.
His grief and remorse were painful to witness. His
face was almost convulsed, great drops came out upon
his forehead, and he trembled with emotion.
"I believe I will go to California with you, Jack,"
Geoffrey said, after a season of thought. M I do not be-
176 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
lieve it will be exactly safe for you to go there by your,
self, to visit your old home. Suspicion might be aroused
immediately, and you would be liable to get into trouble;
but no one would think it at all strange if I should return
to make inquiries regarding my old nurse."
"Wall, but everybody knew we went off together,"
said Jack.
"Very true ; but if unpleasant questions were asked, I
could explain that you escaped to Australia, while I was
cared for by friends in New York ; all of which would be
true," Geoffrey responded.
"Thank ye, sir; ye're kinder to me than I deserve ;
but even if I knew they'd snap me up, I reckon I should
go. I can never rest till I know where they've laid my
girl," Jack returned, with a heavy sigh.
"You shall," Geoffrey answered, "we will find out all
there is to know ; but I particuarly wish to learn if my
father ever visited the place after we left. If he did he
probably left some address so that information could be
found, in case any trace of us was discovered."
Jack appeared to be very grateful to have his path thus
smoothed for him, and the next morning the two men
left the mining village and proceeded directly to San
Francisco.
Before leaving, however, Geoffrey had cut several slips
from the ivy that grew all about his mother's grave, and
inclosing them wrapped in wet paper, in a small tin box,
mailed them to Gladys.
"My darling," he wrote, "if you can coax any of these
to live, pray do so, for my sake. I have a particular rea
son for making the request, which I will explain when I
return," and Gladys had three of them nicely rooted be
fore she returned to Brooklyn, at the rnd of the season.
Geoffrey and his companion reached the small town,
near which Jack Henly had once lived, and only a few
miles from San Francisco, about noon one warm August
day.
They had their dinner, and rested for several hours,
then when the day grew cooler, Geoffrey started out to
alone to visit Jack Henly's former home, and to try to
discover the gra.ve of his wife.
Tie found the place without any difficulty, a small house
and barn standing in a lonely location, about two miles
from the town, while there were only one or two other
dwellings in sight. There was no sign of life about the
place, and the buildings were fast falling into decay.
'GEOFFREY VISITS TEE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 177
Weeds and vines and wild flowers grew all about the
yard, and everything looked desolate and forlorn.
Geoffrey shivered as he stepped up to a window and
looked into that small kitchen, and recalled the dark
deed which had been perpetrated there.
He did not believe the place had ever been inhabited
since; it had a look of having been shunned, and per
haps regarded as a haunted house. He wondered how
Margery had been found, and what measures had been
taken to discover the author of the crime.
He did not remain there long ; it was not an attractive
spot, and there were no means of learning anything that
he wished to find out.
He resolved to visit some of the neighbors, and try to
ascertain what had been done with Mrs. Henly's body,
and if Captain Dale had ever visited the place since the
tragedy occurred.
The nearest neighbor was at least a quarter of a mile
away ; he could just discern the roof and chimneys over
a little rise of ground to the south.
He mounted his horse again and rode toward it, com
ing, in a few minutes, to a large and comfortable farm
house, where peace and plenty seemed to reign.
He found the farmer just driving up his cows from
pasture. He was a man apparently sixty years of age,
with a kind and genial face, quick and energetic in his
movements in spite of his there-score years.
Geoffrey saluted him courteously, introduced himself,
and asked if he could spare the time to answer a few
questions.
The man called a boy to attend to his cows, then in
vited Geoffrey to dismount and come with him to the
wide, pleasant veranda, where they could converse at
their leisure, assuring him that he should be glad to give
him any information he might possess.
Geoffrey accepted his invitation, and then entered at
once upon the business that had brought him there.
"I arn in this locality chiefly to ascertain something of
the people who once occupied that house over yonder,"
he said, indicating Jack Henly's deserred dwelling, "nnd
thought my best way would be to apply to some one liv
ing in the neighborhood."
The farmer's face fell at this. Evidently the subject
was not a pleasant one to him.
"You couldn't have come to a better place to find out
what you want to know, sir," he replied, "for I've lived
178 QEOtmEY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
here for the last thirty-five years, and I can tell you all
about that sad story at least all that anybody here
abouts ever knew ; though it isn't a cheerful subject."
"lam very fortunate, then, in having come to you,"
Geoffrey said, in a tone of satisfaction, 'ihen glancing at
his watch, he added : "I find it is later than I thought,
and as I would like to get back to town before dark, I
will ask you to relate in your own way all that you know
about the family, and I will restrain all questions until
you get through."
"Well, sir," began the farmer, "the Uenlys came here
nigh about twenty-two or three years ego, and we thought
we were fortunate in having such thrifty neighbors as
they seemed to be. There were only three of them, Jack
and" his wife, and a baby only a few months old, that the
woman had taken to nurse, its mother being dead.
Everything went along smoothly, and they appeared to
be doing well for four or five years, when Jack got into
bad company and began to drink. Before this he and his
wife seemed to think a great deal of eacl other, and in
bad weather he would help her about the house, while in
good weather she would work with him out of doors. In
this way he gained time to do many odd jobs outside, and
made considerable money by so doing.
"After Henly pot in with his -wild companions, we
now and then heard that things were not very pleasant
between him and his wife, but no one ever dreamed how
serious the trouble was until the terrible tragedy burst
like a thunderbolt upon us. My wife and Mrs. Henly
had been great friends from the first; and had got in the
way of borrowing little messes from each other, as neigh
bors often do, when they came short and could not get
into town to buy what was wanted. So one afternoon my
wife said she was out of tea, and would run over to see
Mrs. Henly for a little while, and borrow enough for
supper.
"It didn't seem as if she'd been gone long enough to
get there, when she came flying back as pale as death,
wringing her hands and seeming half-frightened out of
her senses. I rushed to ihe door to meet her, when she
fell into my arms in a dead faint. When she came to she
was so unnerved by what she had seen that we had hard
work to get the truth out of her, but we finally made out
that upon reaching Henly's she had knocked on the
door. No one answered, and she stepppd in, as she had
often done, when she saw Mrs. Henly lying on the floor,
GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCEXE OF THE TRAGEDY. 179
a terrible bruise and gash on her forehead. My wife wag
so frightened and shocked that she dropped her cup on
the floor, where it broke in a dozen pieces, and then, with
a scream, turned and ran, as fast as her trembling limbs
would carry her, toward home. I called my son and one
of my men, and we started at once for the place. We
found the woman Ij'ing as my wife had described her,
only instead of being dead, as she thought, she was now
rolling her head from side to sideband moaning as if in
great pain."
"Not dead !" interrupted Geoffrey, in a startled tons.
"No, sir, praise the Lord ! not dead. We lifted her and
laid her on her bed just off the kitchen, when I sent my
man for a doctor, and rny son back home to bring his
mother, while I got some water and bathed the poor
woma'n's head. My wife was too sensible to nurse her
own feelings when she found she was needed, and that
her friend was not dead, and she came immediately to do
what she could for her.
" When the doctor came he said it was doubt nl if the
poor thing could live ; the blow on the head had bee a a
fearful one, and it was a wonder that it had not killed her
outright. Besides that, there was the print of three fin
gers on her throat, showing that there had been a strug
gle with some one, and pointing to foul play.
"Of course when we found that Henly had decamped^
taking the boy with him, we suspected him of having
done the deed, and the authorities were at once set on hia
track. But nothing has ever been heard of him or the
child from that day to this; at least not to my knowl
edge. His wife had a tough time of it. We had her
brought over here, and my wife and daughter took care
of her through a three month's illness, and when she did
get up again she was but the shadow of her former self."
"Did she get well?" Geoffrey exclaimed, amazed.
"Yes; she recovered her health, though she was not as
strong as she had been, and her head was apt to trouble
her at times. But her heart was broken over the disap
pearance of her husband and the boy. It was a long time
before we could make her tell how she had been injured,
and then she excused Henly. She said he had come
home the worse for liquor, and did not know what he
was about. She said he must have been frightened, be
lieving ho had killed her, and then taken the boy and
tied. I suspect there was something more to it, but that
was all we could ever get out of her."
180 GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
"Ah !" thought Geoffrey, "she shielded him from the
suspicion of having murdered me also, and she must have
suffered torture on my account as well as his."
"As soon as she was able to gee about," resumed the
farmer, "she insisted upon going away altogether from
the place. She could not go back to her home and live
there alone, she said, and she wanted to search for her
husband, to let him know that he had not killed her, as
he must believe. I imagined, too, that she couldn't bear
to meet the boy's father wiien he should come again and
find that he had disappeared. She sold all her household
goods, offered a reward of a thousand dollars having de
posited that amount in a bank in San Francisco tor the
purpose to anv one who should find her husband or se
cure any definite information regarding him, and then
she left the place herself. We have never seen her since,
nor heard what became of her/'
" Did she leave no address ?" Geoffrey inquired. "If not,
how could she expect to be communicated with in case
any tidings of her husband were obtained ?"
"I believe a personal of some kind was to he inserted in
certain papers in the leading cities of the count7-y by
those who had charge of the affair," replied the farmer,
"but I guess it iias never been printed. Their house has
never been occupied since. A good many people believe
that Henly murdered the hoy also, and concealed the
body somewhere on the farm, PO the place has had the
reputation of being haunted, therefore we have never
had any neighbors there."
"Since Mrs. Henly was not murdered, I am at liberty
to set your heart at rest upon that subject," Geoffrey
responded. "The boy is alive and well. I am that boy !"
The farmer started from his chair and stared at him in
open-mouthed astonishment at this electrifying statement.
U I can't believe it," he said, at last, and bending to look
more closely into his visitor's face, "and yet you said
your name was Huntress."
"Yes, my name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress," Geoffrey
replied, with a smile at his host's astonishment.
"That was the child's name, Geoffrey Dale it must be
true; do tell me how you happen to come back here after
all these yearn?" the farmer urged, in an eager tone.
Geoffrey felt that he was warranted in so doinjr, since
Margery Henly had lived, and there was no longer any
need of concealment on Jack's part.
" Jacli escaped all pursuit," he said, "wandering from
GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY. 181
place to place ; went to Texas on a sheep ranch for a, few
years, and finally turned up in New York, where 1 be
came separated from him, and could not be found. Just
about this time he became convinced that the officers*
were on his track they must have been those who were
working for Mrs. Henly's thousand-dollar reward and
he was so frightened he suddenly shipped lor Austra
lia."
"Poor fellow," said the farmer, sympathetically, ' he
must have suffered keenly. But this is tne strangest part
of the whole story. I never imagined that we should get
the sequel to that tragedy over yonder. Was the man
kind to you? I used to think he was not over fond of you
when you were a little fellow."
"No one could have been more kind than he was, as
long as I was with him," Geoffrey said, gravely, as-he
recalled all that Jack had so recently told him.
He thought, too, as long as Margery had kept the secret
of his having been nearly murdered also, it would be best
to still preserve silence upon that point.
"It was my own fault," he continued, "that I was lost,
for I wandered away without his knowledge, and he was
not able to find me, although he labored faithfully to do
so, until driven to desperation by the belief that he was
being tracked."
"How did you learn that he had sailed for Australia, if
you were lost before he went?"
"I learned that later," Geoffrey briefly replied.
"And what became of you?"
"A philanthropic gentleman became interested in me,
adopted me, and has given me a good education."
" Well, well, well ! wonders will never cease ! It's a
strangely romantic tale, young man. But how about
your own father?" questioned the farmer.
"That is a mystery which I came h^re to try to solve,"
Gfoffrey returned, looking troubled, for he seemed to be
no nearer the solution than ever. "All that I really know
about my father is that he was called Captain William
Dale, and that he at one time owned shares in some of
the mines of New Mexico, where my mother died. I have
been there trying to gain some trace of him, but without
success. Then I came o?i here, hoping to learn something
of him through people who had known the Henlys. I
thought it probable that he would come here, sometime,
to see me, as he had previously been in the habit of do
ing, and, finding that I had disappeared, would leave his
18J UEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
address so that he could be informed if anything was
learned of my fate."
"He has been here," the farmer replied ; "he came only
about two months after Mrs. Henly left. I saw him and
conversed with him. He appeared to be overwhelmed with
grief upon learning of your strange disappearance. He
instituted inquiries, offering a reward of five thousand
dollars for your recovery, living, or one thousand for
positive proof of your death, and under these circum
stances I have often wondered why some clew to your
fate was not ascertained."
Geoffrey did not think it strange. He knew that no one
would have recognized in the poor little imbecile whom
Jack Henly had cared for, the bright, happy child wiio
had been Margery's joy and pride.
He was touched, too, by the evidence of his father's in
terest in and love for him, and yet it seemed inexplicable:
for, if the man whom he had met at Saratoga was his
father, and he was anxious to find him, as the farmer
said, why should he have avoided him as he had done.
"But did he leave no address?" he eagerly questioned.
"There was something a little queer about that," said
the farmer, "for he did not give any, really. I asked him
where a communciation would reach him, and he replied
that anything directed simply to Lock Box 43, Santa Fe,
would be all that was necessary."
Geoffrey's face fell at this.
He Avas terribly disappointed, for he had confidently
expected that he would find something tangible through
this man, by which he could trace Captain William Dale.
"Lock Box 43, Santa Fe," he repeated, thoughtfully,
"and that was all?"
"That was all; but perhaps the man didn't want his
name known all over the country, in connection with this
tragedy here," suggested his host.
"That is so," Geoffrey returned, brightening, but he
said to himself that he would yet know who had held
that post-office box in Santa Fe twenty years ago, if it
was in the power of man to discover it.
"Has he ever been here since?" he asked, after a pause.
"Yes, twice: and the last time he remarked, 'I shall
never see the child again I believe he is dead.'"
"What was the date of his last visit?"
"It was about ten years ago, and I have never seen
him since. I am very sorry, Mr. Huntress, that I can tell
TOU no more," said the man, evidently feeling for his
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. Ib3
Visitor's discomfiture, "and it really must be a great trial
to you to have such a mystery enshrouding your par
entage."
"It is, but it must be solved sooner or later,* 1 Geoffrey
said, resolutely.
He arose to go as he spoke, thanked the farmer heartily
for his kindness in telling what he wished to know, then
mounted his horse and rode back toward the town,
greatly perplexed and somewhat disheartened.
"Lock Box 43 is a slender thread to lead to much, but
I'll follow it until it breaks," he said to himself, as he
went on his way.
CHAPTER XXIX.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
The sun had long since gone down, and darkness was
rapidly settling over the country, as Geoffrey pursued
his way, grateful indeed that he had such good news to
take back to JacK, but well-nigh discouraged on his own
account.
It had been agreed that he should learn all he could
about Henly's old home, and where Margery was bur
ied, and that Jack should himself revisit the place after
nightfall, upon his return, since he did not dare to make
his appearance there by daylight.
The road to the town lay through a heavy growth of
timber, and, as Geoffrey came into it. the darkness was
BO intensified that at first he could hardly distinguish the
way, when, suddenly, his horse gave a slartled snort and
shied one side, nearly throwing bis rider from the sad
dle.
"Gently, gently, sir," he said, reassuringly, as he
quickly recovered himself. "What is the trouble, mv
boy ?"
He glanced searchingly about him, and saw a murtled
figure sitting upon a rock under the shadow of a gn-jit
tree.
Geoffrey's hand instinctively caught the handle of the
revolver that he always carried when traveling, and then
he rode directly up to the figure.
"Who are you?" he demanded, "and why are you sit
ting here alone in the darkness?"
"Do not fear, sir," responded a quiet, honest voice. "I
184 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
am only a woman on my way home from town, and sat
down here to rest for a moment."
"I beg your pardon, madame, for accosting you as I
did," Geoffrey returned, apologetically, "but I confess I
was startled, as well as my horse, for a moment, ^re
you not afraid to be traveling this lonely way at this
time of the evening?"
"No, sir, I am not afraid. I know every step of the
road, but I am not so young as I was once, and it tires
me to walk," the woman replied, with a weary note in
her voice, accompanied by a hea^y sigh.
"Have you far to go?" the young man asked.
"No, only to the second house from here to Farmer
Bruce's."
" Ah ! You are going to Mr. Bruce's. I have just come
from there. I will turn about and see yru safely to the
house; or, if you could manage to sit on a man's saddle,
you shall ride, and I will lead my horse," Geoffrey said,
kindly; for now that he had been accustomed to the dim
light he could discern that the woman looked worn and
weary, and his sympathies were enlisted for her.
"No, no; thank you, sir, I will not trouble you," the
woman returned. "But tell me," she continued, rising
and coming toward his side, "is Farmer Bruce still
alive? Is tha family well?"
Something in her anxious tone and her agitated man
ner, as well as these questions, sent a sudden thrill
through the young man's heart.
He bent and looked searchingly into her face, which
was upraised to his.
"Yes, Farmer Bruce is living. You said you were on
your way home. Do you belong to the family?" he
asked.
"No T T used to live near them ; I have come for a
visit," was the confused replv.
Geoffrey bent still nearer to her, when the woman sud
denly uttered a startled cry, and laid her hand upon his
arm.
"Oh, sir! who are you?" she cried. "I am sure you
must be Master Geoffrey. You are so like your father.
T. should know you anywhere, and I never could forjret
the boy I loved. You are Geoffrey, aren't you? and don't
you remember Margery?"
She pndert with a sob, and her hold tightened on his
arm as if she fpnrpo" to lose him.
Geoffrey had half-suspected her identity when she had
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING, 185
inquired so eagerly about Farmer Bruce ; but it was a
shock to him, neverthel2ss, to find his suspicions thus
verified, and be felt that, if he should never learn any
thing more definite regarding his father, he should feel
more than repaid for his journey hither, just to have
found Jack and Margery, seen them restored to each
other, and the shadow removed from their lives.
He seized the trembling hand that lay upon his arm,
and shook it heartily.
"Yes, I am Geoffrey, and I do remember Margery," he
said, in a glad, earnest tone.
The poor, long-suffering, wandering creature dropped
her head against his horse's neck, and burst into a pas
sion of tears.
"Heaven bless you, Master Geoffrey, for owning it at
last my heart's been well-nigh crushed since you denied
it, and ran away from me in New York," she said, bro
kenly, between her sobs.
" Denied it, and ran away from you in New York I"
repented the young man, astonished.
"Yes, sir; sure you haven't fogotten that day when
you bought the roses of me, and I asked you if you
wasn't Geoffrey Dale? You told me no your name was
Everet, and you didn't know anything about Jack, nor
about any of the other things I talked of."
A light broke upon Geoffrey's mind.
She had seen Everet Mapleson, and made a very nat
ural mistake ; she had believed him to be the child she
had loved and cared for, and it was no wonder she was
pained by his refusal to recognize her.
"I never bouerht any roses of you in New York, Mar
gery," he said, kindly. "I have never seen you until
now since I was a small boy of five years."
The woman looked up at him amazed.
Geoffrey smiled frankly into her upturned face.
"The young man whom you met was a Mr. Everet
Mapleson ; we were in college together, and we look so
much alike that we are often mistaken for each other,"
be explained.
"Ah ! dearie, my heart is lighter now you've told me
this," Margery said, with a long-drawn sigh. "I was
cruelly hurt when I thought you wouldn't own me, and
I was so sure, too, that you could tell me something
about Jack can't you tell me where he is? Where,
where have you been all these years. Master Gooff rey.
Ah, I feared that cruel blow that Jack .r,v" you had
186 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
killed you, and I'd never see you again ; but poor man !
he'd never have lifted his hand against you if he'd been
himself. Heaven pity him ! wherever he is, if he's living
at all."
She had rambled on in this disconnected way without
even waiting for a reply to any of her questions, and
Geoffrey felt the tears rise to his eyes, as he realized
something of the burden that lay so heavy on her her.rt,
and had made the long, long years so dreary and oppres
sive to her.
He dismounted from his horse, and taking her by the
arm. said, gently :
"Come back to the rock, Margery, where you were sit
ting, and I will tell you all you wish to know. It is a
long story, and you will be weary with standing."
She looked up appealingly.
"One word, Master Geoffrey. Jack "
Her trembling lips refused to utter another word, and
the young man thought he might as well tell her at once
about her husband and sot her heart at rest.
"Jack is living and well, and within a mile of you at
this very moment," he said, in a cheerful tone.
"Oh, dearie! Heaven reward you for those blessed
words," Margery murmured ; then her head sank upon
her breast, and, tottering weakly forward, she dropped
upon the rock where Geoffrey had first seen her, &nd fell
to sobbing like a tired child.
Geoffrey waited until she had grown somewhat calmer,
and then told her, as briefly as he could, something of his
own and Jack's history during the last eighteen years.
She never interrupted him during the recital, but
seemed to drink in every word, as one perishing from
thirst would drink in pure, life-giving water.
When at last he had told her all, she lifted her face,
and, while she wiped the streaming tears from her eyes,
she exclaimed :
"Ah ! Master Geoffrey, I feel almost as if I was draw
ing nigh to heaven, after all the waiting, the wandering,
the loneliness, and misery, to find my Jack again, and
know that he has been true to his love for me all the
time. Poor fellow ! his fate has been harder than mine,
after all. for he's had to carry a burden of guilt with
h m ; but it is all over now, thank Heaven ! You will
take me straight to hirn ?" she concluded, eagerly.
"Of course I will," Geoffrey replied, heartily, "he is
waiting at the public house in the town for me ; waiting
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 187
for me to come and tell him about his old home, from
which he fled so many years ago, and about a certain
grave, which he has imagined has lain lonely and neg
lected all that time, and which he was to go to visit,
under cover of the darkness, upon my return."
"Poor man ! poor man !" sobbed Margery, all unmind
ful of her own long suffering, in her sympathy for her
erring husband, "but, praise the Lord, there's no grave
for him to weep over, and he can walk the earth
once more and fear no man."
She arose and drew her cloak about her preparatory to
going back to the town with her companion.
Geoffrey insisted that she should ride, while he walked
beside her and guided the horse.
He saw that she was very weary, as well as weak, from
her recent agitation, and not fit to walk the long dis
tance.
She demurred at first, but he would listen to no objec
tions, and she permitted him to put her into the saddle,
and then they started on their way.
Geoffrey questioned her about her life during the past
eighteen years, and he maveled, as he listened to her
story, at the woman's unwavering dev.otion and love for
the man whose hand so nearly deprived hor of life.
She told him, as Mr. Bruce had already done, that, as
soon as she was able, she had sold off all her household
goods and the farm-stock, and realized over a thousand
dollars. She deposited all but enough for her immediate
needs in a bank of San Francisco, where she already had
some money laid by, and instructed a lawyer there to
use it as a reward for the discovery of her husband.
She then began her own tiresome pilgrimage to search
for him herself. She roved from one large city to an
other, stopping some time in each, now taking in wash
ing and ironing to support herself and earn money to
continue her search in the next place where she should
go ; going out as a servant in other places, or selling
flowers or confectionery upon the corners of the streets
for the same purpose, while she eagerly scanned every
face she saw in the hope of somewhere and sometime
coming across either Jack or the boy ; she had never
believed, as others did, that the latter was dead. She felt
Bure that Jaek must have discovered some sign of life
about him, and taken him away with the hope of having
him restored.
In this way she had visited every large city in the
188 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
United States. She had been in different mining districts
also, thinking that perhaps her husband might have gone
back to his old business, hoping thus to hide himself
more securely. She had even been in Canada and other
British provinces, but had never met with the least
encouragement in her search, until that day when she
had seen Everet Mapleson in New Yoik and believed him
to he Geoffrey. Her disappointment and grief, at his per
sistent denial of all knowledge of her, had actually pros
trated her for the first lime during all her tireless search,
and she had not been able to leave her lied for several
weeks, which accounts for young Mapleson's inability to
find her.
At length, during the last few months, she had relin
quished all hope ; but an insatiable longing seized her to
visit her old home once more, and the kind family who
had befriended her in the hour of her soi-e need. After
that, she meant to draw her money from the bank in San
Francisco, and with it purchase a ri^ht in some home
for the agod. where she could peacefully spend the re
mainder of her life.
The woman was not old, being only about forty-five
years of age, but her sorrow and the laborious existence
she bad led had aged her far more than even another
decade could have done.
She could tell Geoffrey nothing more regarding the
identity of his father than he already knew. She had
never seen him sin^e his last visit to her home, more
than a year previous to the tragedy, and she had never
known any other address than the one of wbich Mr.
Bruce had spoken. He had told her to send a letter to
"Lock Box 43, Santa Fe," if anything should ever happen
to his boy, and she wished to summon him.
But she had gone away without communicating with
him; she had been eager to get away before he could
come again, for she had not courage to meet him and tell
him the dreadful story about his child, which she alone
knew.
"Margery," Geoffrey said, gravely, after she had con
cluded her account, "have you never thought that there
was something very strange in thf> fact that my father
should have been so reserved about himsplf, and kppt his
only child so remote and concealed from all his
friend s ? r
"Yes, Master Geoffrey, it did strike me as queer, at
times; but I reasoned that perhaps he hadn't any very
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. 189
near friends, for he talked of putting you to some school
as soon as you were old enough to go away from me."
"Do you think that everything was all right between
him and my mother?"
"How right, sir?' the woman asked, with surprise.
"Do you think that they were legally married!? Did
you never see or hear anything while you lived with
them, to make you suspnct that they might not he hus
band and wife? It is a hard question for a son to ask,
but the secrecy, with which my father lias seemed to
h'-dire himself about, has led me to foar that there was
some grave reason why he could not, or wouid not, have
me with him and openly recognize me. Why was he
unwilling to have you use his name if you had occasion
to write to him, but instead gave you n blind address,
which no one could recognize, and to which, doubtless,
he alone had the key?"
"Good lord, Master Geoffrey, never have any such
thoughts entered my head before!" Margery exclaimed,
in a tone of startled amazement. "I never saw a man
fonder of his wife than Captain Dale was of your mother;
and he had reason to be fond of her, too, for she wor
shiped the very air he breathed, and was always so sweet
and mei'ry that a man would have been a brute not to
have loved her. But "
"Well?" queried Geoffrey, eagerly, the hot Mood surg
ing to his brow, with a feeling of dread, as she stopped,
a note of sudden conviction in her tone.
" Well, I do remember, once, that she did not seem
quife happy, but I have never given it a second thought
until now." Margery said, reflectively.
"Tell me about it," the young man commanded, briefly.
"They had be<n out for a walk one night after tea, and
it was quite dark when they returned. They stopped a
moment on the steps, before coming in, and I Was at an
open window up stairs just above them. Your mother
had boon crying I could tell by tho sound of her voice
all at once she turned and threw her arms around the
captain's neck and sobbed :
''Oh, Will, I wish you would, for my sake and for our
baby's sake.'
"'I will, my darling,' the captain told her, 'it shall be
done just as soon as 1 can turn mysolf, but it would ruin
me to do it now. Have patience, my pet. and it will be
all right in a few months more, at tho furthest.'
"She didn't say another word, only uttered a tired
190 A STARTLING RECOGNITION.
kind of sigh, kissed him softly, and then they went in.
But I never thought much about i*< afterward. I didn't
know but what she had been coaxing him to leave the
mines and go back to where they came from, foi' I'm
sure it couldn't have been nice for her to live there where
there wasn't hardly another woman fit to associate with
her," Margery concluded, thoughtfully.
But Geoffrey believed his gentle mother bad been ask
ing for something far more important than a change of
residence ; that would have been of comparatively little
consequence to her, loving his father as she did. He
imagined that sue had been pleading to be recognized
as Captain Dale's lawful wife, so that her child might
have Honorable birth.
He sighed heavily, for the farther he went in his search
the darker and more perplexijig grew the way.
CHAPTER XXX.
A STARTLING RECOGNITION.
Reaching the public house where he had Left Jack,
Geoffrey quietly drew Margery into the small parlor,
where he made her lay aside her bonnet and cloak, put
her into a comfortable rocker to rest, and then went out
to break the g!ad tidings of her existence and return to
her husband.
He found him sitting alone on the porch outside the
bar-room nothing ever tempted him inside such a place
nowadays looking wistfully out toward the east, where
the full August moon was just rising above the horizon
in all i4s splendor.
"Well, Jack, has the time seemed very long to you?"
Geoffrey asked, in a cheerful tone, as he sat down beside
him.
" It has, sir ; I've had hard work to wait. I've a
strange hankerin' after the old home to-night. If I could
only wake up and find I'd been dreamin' all these years,
and the old place just as it was, with my girl wait-in' at
the door for me, I'd almost be willin' to give up my hope
o' heaven. But when I think it's only an empty house
a cold hearth-stone, and a grave somewhere nigh, that
I'm goin' to find, 1 feel a'most like givin' up the battle."
The man's head sank upon his breast in a disconsolate
A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 191
way, while i-t seemed as if he had no heart to ask Geoffrey
anything about the trip from \vhich he had just returned.
The young man waited a lew moments, hoping he
would question him ; but as he still remained absorbed
in his own sad thoughts, he at length remarked :
"Well, Jack, I found Farmer Bruce."
" Ay ! then he's alive yet ; he must be nigh on to sixty,"
the man replied, looking up now with a gleam of inter
est.
u I should judge him to be about that ; but he's hale
and hearty, and seems like a very kind-hearted man,
too."
"A better never lived!" Jack affirmed; "rnany's the
good turn he and his wife has done me, and ah ! "
A shiver completed the sentence, as if those by-gone
days were too painfu.l to dwell upon.
Geoffrey pitied the poor fellow from the depths of his
heart, and yet he hardly knew where to begin, or how
to break his good news to him.
"Shall I tell you what Mr. Bruce told me, Jack?" he
at length asked.
The man nodded, and, by the light of the moon, his
companion saw a gray pallor sett.le over his face, which
seemed to have grown almost rigid in its outlines.
Geoffrey began by telling him how Mrs. Bruce had gone
over to borrow some tea of Mrs. Henly, the day follow
ing Jack's flight; how she knocked and there came no
response, when she stepped into the kitchen and found
Margery lying on the floor, and becoming so frightened
at the sight, she had turned and fled back to her home,
with hardly more than a glance at the prostrate woman.
"Farmer Bruce," he went on, "at once went back to
your house, taking his son and a hired man with him.
They lifted Margery and laid her on her bed, and then
John Bruce rode off with all his might after a doctor
"Doctor! What could they want of a doctor? a cor
oner, ye mean," interrupted Jack, in a thick, hoarse
voice.
"No, a doctor, Jack she needed one ; she didn't need
a coroner."
u Ha !"
The man started wildly to his feet as the hoarse cry
burst from njui ; th*n he sank back again, pressing his
hands hard against his temples and scaring 1 about him in
a half-dazed way, as if he had not comprehended what he
had heard.
192 A STAKTL1XG RECOGNITION.
"Master Geoffrey, don't don't tell me no more," he
pleaded, in an agonized tone, "I can't bear it; they
didn't need tiny doctor to tell tliem that she was dead
jast leli me where to find her grave. I'll go and take one
look at it ; then I'll make tracics again for Australia; I
can't slop lit- re."
The man's tone was so despairing, his attitude so hope
less, and his words so heart-broken, that Geoffrey had
hard work to preserve his own composure.
"But, Jack, there there isn't any grave," he said at
last.
Jack lifted another vacant look to the young man's
face.
"No grave! no coroner! a doctor!" lie muttered, then
suddenly he seemed to comprehend, and was galvanized
into Hie.
He sprang up ; he seized Geoffrey by the shoulder.
" B;>y ! boy!" lie cried, in a strained, unnatural voice,
M ye can't mean it! ye can't mean that she didn't die!
that that i didn't kill herafierall! Teil me tell me
quick! if ye'vo brought me such blessed truth as that,
I'm yer slave as long as I live."
He was terribly agitated. He shook as if he had sud
denly been attacked with violent ague, and Geoffrey
could see his broad client rise and fall \\ith the heavy
throbbing of Ins startled neart.
"Sit down, Jack," he commanded, rising and putting
him back into his chair; "you must be more cnlm, or 1
cannot tell you anything. Margery was not dead, but
she \Vas dreadfully hurt, and was ill for a long time, so
ill that for more than a month they thought every day
that she must die."
" And she didn't r
The words were almost inarticulate, but Geoffrey
understood him by the motion of his lips.
"Don't tell me," lie continued, catching his breath in
a spasmodic wa> , a look of horror in his eyes, "don't tell
me that she lived to be like ns you was."
"No, no, Jack, she got well," Geoffrey replied, but his
own voice shook over the words.
"O-h ! my girl :"
Jack Henly slipped from his chair, falling upon his
knees beside his companion, while his head dropped a
dead weight Mgainst his arm.
"Lock here, icy man," Geoffrey now said, with gruff
kindness, though he was nearly unmanned himself, "this
A STARTLING RECOGNITION. 193
isn't going to do at all. You must brace up, for there is
a lung siory to be told yet."
He lifted him to his feet by main force, drew his arm
within his own, and compelled him to v\alk up and clown
the porch two ur three times. Then he seated him again,
ami began at once to tell poor Margery's story.
The man listened as if spell-bound ; he scarcely seemed
to breathe, so intent was he to catch every woid. He did
not move, even, until Geoffrey mentioned meeting the
strange woman in tlie wood, when lie looked up, a wild
gleam in his eye, a cry of joy on his lips.
\Vhen Geoffrey repeated what she had told him about
her traveling from city to city, searching tor her hus
band, working at whatever her hand could find to do, to
earn the money necessary to ktepupher tireless quest,
he could control himself no longer. Great sobs broke
from him.
"My girl ! my girl ! I never deserved it of her ! Where
is she, Master Geoffrey? tell me and I'll creep on my
knees to her feet and ask her forgiveness!" he wildly
Cried.
"Jack, she is here !"
"Here! "Where?" and he glanced about him in fear
and awe.
"Here, in this very house ! waiting, longing to Fee you !
to ease .your conscience of its burden, and tell you that
phe freely forgives everything !"
"Can she?" the trembling husband breathed in an awed
tone.
"Come and see," Geoffrey returned, and taking him by
the arm, he led him toward the parlor where Margery
was anxiously awaiting him, her patience neaily ex
hausted by the long delay.
Reaching the door Geoffrey opened it, pushed Jack
inside the room, then shut the two in together.
"Jack!"
'Madge ! my girl !"
The glad, fond cry of the wife, restored at last to her
long-sought loved one, the pleading, repentant intona
tion of the erring husband, were the only sounds that he
caught, as he turned away, and with tears in his eyes,
went out alone into the quiet summer night leaving them
in their joy.
Two hours later, Jack came to seek him, but he v alked
like a drunken man, weakly and unsteadily.
His unexpected happiness was almost more than he
194 A STARTLING RECOGNITION.
had strength to bear, and he seemed weak and shaken as
if f-om a long illness ; but on his rough and weather-
beaten face there was a look of peace and joy that
Geoffrey never forgot.
"Master Geoffrey," he said, in an humble tone, though
there was a ring of gratitude and gladness in it ; "it's all
right at last, thank God ! I'll never say there ain't a
God again. I can face the whole world, now that my
Mad go lives and loves me the same as ever. I can breathe
free once more, since I know her blood ain't on my hands
oh i it's too good a'most to be true !" he continued, dra\v-
insr a long, full breath, "and bless ye, sir, all I've got in
the world wouldn't pay ye what I owe ye."
"Jack, you owe me nothing," Geoffrey responded,
grasping him heartily by the hand. '*! do not forget who
cared for me during the first few yeais of my life, and
if I have helped in any way to restore peace to you and
happiness to Margery, I am more than paid already."
"Thank ye, sir; but won't ye come in and sup with
us that is if ye haven't had something already."
Juck pleaded with an air of humility.
"No. I've br>en too busy with my thoughts to care
anything for eating, and I'll join you with pleasure,' 1
Geoffrey answered, cordially.
He returned to the parlor with Jack, where he found
Margery with a beaming face, and the landlady laying
the table for three.
It was two hours later before they separated for the
night, and during that time many plans for the future
were discussed by the reunited couple.
Neither Jack nor Mar.erery felt inclined to remain in
tha West, where they had suffered so much, and where
there would be constant reminders of the painful past,
and it was finally decided that they should proceed at
once to the farm which Jack still owned in Nf\v J -rsf-y,
and if Margery was pleased with the place they would
settle ^here and spend the remainder of their lives upon
it. The next morning they wpnt to pay Farmer "Bruce a
visit, and inform him of the happy ending to all their
trouble.
The following day thev went to San Francisco, whore
thev drew Margery's money from tho bank, in which it
had remained so loner, and a snug little sum it was, too,
having accumulated for so many years. A week Inter
t hey all turned their backs upon the Pacific coast and set
their faces toward the East. Geoffrey accompanied them
A STARTLING RECOGNITION. i 1
as far as Cheyenne, Wyoming, where he took leave of
them, as he was going southward into New Mexico again.
But he promised to pay them an early visit when he
should return to Brooklyn.
While these events were transpiring in the far West,
an interesting incident occurred in the far East in no
other city than Boston which has its bearing on ouf
story and properly belongs here.
On a bright, beautiful summer morning, in the month
of July, a lady entered a handsome drug store on Wash
ington street, and asked permission to look at a city
directory.
She was a finely formed, brilliant-looking woman, ele
gantly dressed, and bearing herself with the ease and
self-possession of one accustomed to the most cultured
circles of society.
A portly gentleman, with a wealth of white hair
crowning his shapely head, and wearing gold-bowed spec
tacles, stepped from behind his desk as the Jady marie
her request, and politely laid the hook before her. As
he did so, and his keen glance fell m on her face, lie
started slightly, but was far too well-bred to betray his
surprise at her appearance, if he experienced any, and
immediately returned to his post at his desk.
But he managed to place himself where he could sc-e
his Adsitor, without being himself observed.
The woman turned to the D's in the directory, and
ran her neatly gloved finger slowly down the line, paus
ing here and there as a name appeared to attract her
special attention.
After carefully searching several pages, she turned
back and began to go over the same ground again, while
a faint line of perplexity and annoyance appeared
between her finely-arched brows.
This second search seemed to be as unsuccessful as the
previous one had been, and for the third time she re
viewed the list of names under the letter D. It was use
less, however; the name she sought WHS not there. Shn
Stood musing for a few moments, then opening her
pooket-book an elegant affair of Russia leather with
clasps of gold she took from it a card to which aba
referred.
"The name is surely not in the directory," she mur
mured.
J96 A STARTLING RECOGNITION.
There was a moment of silence, then the distinguished-
loolting gentleman behind the desk stepped forward
again.
"Did you speak to me, madame?" he inquired, blandly.
The lady 8tarted and looked up quickly, the color on
her cheek deepening a trifle at his query.
"I did not know that I spoke at al), v she replied, with
a brilliant smile, which revealed two rows of white,
handsome teeth, every one of them her own.
"I beg your pardon," said the druggist, with a bow
and M backward step, as if to beat a retreat again.
Madame made a motion with her faultlessly gloved
hand to detain him.
"I was looking for the name of August Damon," she
Baid, her eyes wandering again to the directory : "but I
do not find it there."
"Ah ! some one whose residence you wished to find in
the city?" the gentleman remarked.
"Yes. I imagined .1 should find him here," said the
lady, thoughtfully.
The druggist drew the book toward him, ran his eyea
through the names under the D's.
"The name is not here," he said at last, as he raised
his glance and fixed it with keen scrutiny upon that
beautiful face before him.
Madame tapped her foot impatiently and somewhat
nervously on tlie floor.
"I am greatlv disappointed," she said.
"You are sure that you have the correct name you
have made no mistake?" the gentleman inquired, glanc
ing at the card in her hand.
"Yes : but you can see for yourself," and she passed it
to him, with a smile.
It was a common visiting card, yellow, and defaced
with age and handling, and it bore the name of "August
Damon," written with ink in a fine, gentlemanly haftd.
"Do you know that your friend resides in Boston, mad
ame?" the pharmacist asked, as his keen eyes rixed them
selves again upon her countenance.
"They used to ; it is some years since I last visited
th city, and it is possible they have removed to some
other place. They must have done so," she concluded,
with a sigh, "or I should surely have found their name
in the directory."
"Were Mr. and Mrs. Da tn on the parties to whom you
gave your child, Mrs. Marston?"
A RETROSPECTIVE Gl <FCE. 197
The question was very quietly, very politely put, but it
was like the application of a powerful galvanic battery
to the woman on the other side of the counter.
A shock a shiver ran through her entire frame.
She grew deadly Avhite, and for a moment seemed
ready to drop to the floor.
Then she rallied.
" Sir 1" she said, with a haughty uplifting of her proud
head .
"Madame!"
"I do not understand you."
"Did you not? Shall I repeat my question?" was the
quiet query.
She made a gesture of impatience.
"You have made a mistake," the lady returned, but
her eyes were searching the druggist's fare with a light
ning glance, while that deadly paleness again overspread
her own.
"Nay, madame," was the bland rejoinder; "I am one
of the few men in the world who never forget either a
face or a name! Mrs. Marston, surely you have not for
gotten Doctor Thomas Turner who waited upon you at
the House one bitter night in the winter of 18 ."
CHAPTER XXXI.
A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.
It was indeed Doctor Turner, although twenty years or
more had changed him greatly.
They had given portliness to bin form, turned his dark
brown hair to a silvery whiteness, and seamed his face
with many^a line of thought and care.
He now wore, too, a full beard, which was also very
gray, although not as white a,s his hair, while the gold-
bowed spectacles, which had become a constant neces
sity, added to the strangeness of his appearance.
Ho had given up his practicp some ten years previous,
and was now the sole proprietor of the handsome drug
etoro on Washington street, already mentioned.
But, although Doctor Turner had spoken with the ut
most confidence in addressing the lady before him, charg
ing her with her idontitv, he wag nevertheless somewhat
staggered when she looked him calmly in the eye and
replied, without a tremor, in her full, rich tones :
tVy A HKTHOXPECTIVE OLA'ffCE.
"You are mistaken, Doctor Turner if that is your
name mine is not 'Mrs. Mnrston,' and never was."
"I know that your true name is not Mrs. Marston and
never was," the physician replied, after a moment's quiet
Study of his companion; ''but you are nevertheless the
woman whom I attended at the House on the
date I have mentioned. You are ve'y little changed, and
I could not fail to recognize you anywhere.''
The woman's face prew crimson, then startlingly white
again ; her eyes drooped beneath his steady gaze, her lips
trembled from inward excitement.
"You have a remarkable memory," she murmured,
and stood confessed before him.
"No better than your own, mad am e, if! had changf d as
little as yourself. Time has dealt, far less kindly with
me. Not a thread of your hair has silvered, your color is
as fresh, your face as fair as on the day of our last meet
ing. Pardon me," continued the doctor, with a deprecat
ing gesture, "for reminding you so abruptly of the past,
but 1 have never ceased to feel a deep interest in the
mysterious case to which I have referred, and I could not
refrain from renewing the acquaintance."
"With what object?" queried ir.adarne, with cold
dignity.
"I cannot say that 1 have any definite object in mind,"
responded the physician, suavely : "possibly I imagined
I might be on the brink of a discovery. However, that is
neither here nor there ; if you are desirous of finding the
gentleman who adopted your child, it may be thai I can
assist you, if, after you confide in rre .your reasons for
seeking him, I shall drem it advisable."
Mrs. Marston started slightly at this.
"Do yon know August Damon?'' she asked.
Doctor Turner smiled.
i; Madame," he said, "did you imagine that the gentle
man who took your babe would be ar-y less caution R than
yourself in such a transaction? You wf-re known ns Mrs.
Marston, bxit frankly confessed that the name was an as
sumed one. Your object was to find the child a good
home and then drop out of sight altogether, so that those
who took it should never be able to identify yon after
ward. Did you suppose it was to be a one-sided affair,
that you were to have all the power and advantage in
your own hands? that if you withheld your true nrme
they would give you theirs?"
Mrs. Marston, as we must still call her, flushed hotly.
A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE. 199
"Then Tamon was not the true surname of those peo
ple," she said, in a crest-fallen tone.
"No, nmdame."
"What was it?"
Doctor Turner did not reply for a moment.
Finally lie said :
"Mrs. Marston, pray do not let me keep you standing;
corne into my private office and be seated ; we can con
verse much morn comfortably there and be free from
intrusion, if customers should come in.'
Mrs. Marston shivered slightly, although the day was
an unusually warm one. She did not wish to talk over
the long-buried past, and this recognition had been a bit
ter blow to hor ; but her curiosity regarding her child's
fate was so great that she could not resist the physician's
invitation, and she followed him to a small room beauti
fully fitted up as a consulting office, at the rear of the
store.
Doctor Turner politely handed her a luxurious chair,
and then seated himself opposite her.
" It is doubtless a great surprise to you to find me situ
ated as I am," the physician remarked, by way of open
ing the conversation ; "but some years ago my health
gave out under the strain of a large and constantly in
creasing practice, and I was forced t~> relinquish it, al
though I still receive some office patients."
Mrs. Marston merely bowed in reply to this informa
tion, her manner indicating that she cared very little
about Doctor Turner's personal history.
She glanced at August Damon's card, which she had
recovered when Doctor Turner relinquished it.
"You were going to tell me the real name of the per
son whom this card represents, I believe," she said.
The druggist amiled, yet bit his lip with vexation at
himself for having intruded his own affairs upon her,
even for the purpose of making her feel more at her ease.
He might have spared himself that trouble.
"That will depend entirely upon your motive in seeking
them," he replied.
Mrs. Marston flushed again.
She was an exceedingly high-spirited woman, one
could perceive at a glance, and it galled her beyond ex
pression to have any one make conditions for her like this.
"How can it matter to you what my motives are?" she
demanded, imperiously.
'A physician has no right to betray the confidence of
200 A HETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.
his patients," cal'nly responded the doctor; "and unless
you Have some urgent re<ison tor y(ur request, 1 shall not
feel at liberty to give you the information you desire."
"Are you their physician ?"
"1 was, for a time. 1. was first called to the child not
three davs after it had been given to them."
"How co.ilcl you r-ell Miat it was the same child? Babes
of that age look much alike."
"Do you suppose that a man in my profession could be
so lacking in ooservution as not to recognize a babe at
whose birth he had officiated, and in which so much of
unusual interest seemed to center?" queried Doctor
Turner, with a slight curl of his lips. "1 knew her the
moment I saw her ; but they do iiot know, to this day,
that I had evtii a suspicion that she was not their own
flesh and blood."
"You never told them?" said Mrs. Marston, quickly.
"Madame." returned the gentleman, with dignity, "need
I remind you again that an honorable physician never
betrays the confidence of his patients. You confided in
me to a certain extent, and I knew that you wished to
drop entirely out of existence, as far as your relation with
the child and its adopted parents were concerned. I knew
also that they wished its adoption to remain a secret
Consequently my lips were sealed."
The lady's eyes drooped and all the haughtiness van
ished at these words.
"Thank you, Doctor Turner, for your consideration for
me, and 1 am glad. too. that one so conscientious has
been intrusted with the care of the child," she said, earn
estly. "Is she still living?"
"Yes, and as beautiful a young lady as any one would
wish to see."
Mrs. Marston's face clouded, and a sigh escaped her
red lips. Her companion thought it one or regret and
yearning.
" Has she been well reared ? Has she had advantages?"
"The very best that money could piocureor fondest
affection could suggest. Mr. August ah Damon
the doctor caught himself just in season, for the gentle
man's true namo h:d almost escaped him, "has become a
rich min, and no parents could have done more for the
welfare of their own child than they have done for
yours."
"Are there otlun 1 children?"
"No ; that in. they have none of their own, though I be-
A RETROSPECTIVE GLAKCK 201
lieve. they havo been giving a poor boy of great promise a
home and an education during the last eight or ten
years." .
Does she the daughter know that she is an adopted
child?" Mrs. Marston inquired.
"I cannot say positively fis to that," Doctor Turner re
plied. "She did not know it a fe\v years ago, and 1 imag
ine she has never been told. I hope not, at all events ; it
would be better for her never to know it," he concluded,
with significant emphasis.
"Yes," returned his companion, "I suppose it would.
But you have not yet told me the name.'"
"And you have not told me your motive in wishing to
learn it.' 1
"1 do not know that I have any special motive, other
than a curiosity and a natural desire to know how n-y
child is living, and how lite has dealt with her," the lady
answered, musingly. "I was traveling this summer and
thought I would take Boston in on my route, ascertain, if
I could, the residence of the people 10 whom my babe
had been given, and perhaps obtain a glimpse of her."
"That is your only motive, your only reason?" the doc
tor asked, bending a searching glance upon her handsome
face.
"It is."
"Then pardon me, madame, if I tell you that I do not
consider it of sufficient importance to gratify your de
sire," Doctor Turner returned, gravely. "1 can under
stand and sympathize with you it is but natural that a
mother should yearn for her child, even after a separa
tion of more than twenty years; but I know well enough
that Mr. Da'non would not have "withheld his true name
from you unless he desired to cut you off from all future
knowledge of the child whom you had given him. You
also wished to drop entirely out of their orbit, to leave
no trace by which they could ever find yon, to learn the
secret you were so careful to preserve, and they have
only aided you by concealing their own identity. If you
should put yourself in their way and try to see their
daughter, they could not fail to recognize you, as I have
done, and it would greatly disturb their peace; while i
anything should occur to arouse the young lady's suspi
cions that she does not really belong to the parents whom
she so fondly loves, I am mire it would cnupe her a great
deal of unhappinesR, while it might result in inquiries
mid discoveries t hftf would b<* embarrassing to yourself."
202 A HETUOSPECTIVE (JLAXCE.
Mrs. Marston sat proudly erect at this, her eyes flash
ing w ami ugly.
"Such inquiries might be embarrassing, it is true, but
they could result in nothing that would bring discredit
upon either the child or me," she said, with conscious dig
nity.
"I do not question that, madame, yet it would seem to
be the wiser course to let everything rest just as it is,"
said the physician, thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you are right," responded his companion,
with a sigh, "but I would like to see her."
"Allow me to ask, Mrs. Marston," Doctor Turner re
sumed, after a minute of silence, "is your husband still
living?"
The woman flushed, a startled, painful crimson, to her
brow ; then she straightened herself haughtily.
"Yes, my husband is living,'' she icily replied.
"And, excuse me, but having been your medical at
tendant, I feel something of an interest in the case how
vras he affected by the the loss of his child ?"
Doctor Turner knew that he was trespassing on danger
ous ground, but, under the circumstances, he felt that he
might be pardoned for asking the question.
"I do not feel that you have aright to interrogate me
thus," Mrs. Marston responded, with some excitement,
"nevertheless, I am somewhat in your power, and "
"Madame," interrupted the physician, with an air of
pride, "you need not go on ; if a little bit of your life is
in my keeping, I assure you it is in the keeping of a con
scientious man. Whatever I may possess regarding any
patient, I could never use it in a dishonorable way."
"I beg your pardon," his companion said, instantly dis
armed and secretly ashamed of her sudden anger. " I am
very quick, and you touched a sensitive nerve. Doctor
Turner, my husband never knew of the birth of that
child, and he can never know of it.
"You look at me with horror," she proceeded hastily,
as she met his astonished gaze, " as if you imagine that I
must ha T - .3 been guilty of some great crimft ; but I have
not, unless giving away my babe was one. I was a lawful
wife, as I convinced you at the time, and the child had
honorable birth ; but there were reasons which made it
absolutely necessary that I should conceal m.y maternity
from every one who knew me. I did, from all but my sis
ter, who has since died."
*' Ah ! then 'he lady who was with you at the time was
A RETROSPECTIVE QLAKUE. 203
your sister. I could not believe her to be simply a maid,"
the doctor interposed.
Mrs. Marstou bit her lips with vexation at having thus
thoughtlessly committed herself even in so small a
point.
"Yes," she said, after considering a moment, "she alone
knew my secret, and I believed it safe from all the world
until I stumbled upon you to-day."
"It is safe even now," the physician hastened to assure
her. " believe me, I shall never betray it you may set
your heart wholly at rest upon that point."
"Thank you I am very grateful for your past silence,
Doctor Turner, and your assurance of future secrecy. I
am not a heartless woman, nor devoid of maternal affec
tion,'* she went on, her lips quivering painfully. ''I could
have loved my baby as fondly as any mother ever loved
her child, if I had been allowed to open my heart to her;
but I could not. I had to steel it aeainst her. I never
dared even to allow myself to kiss her until the moment
they took her away for fear that I should begin to love
her and refuse to part with her. I cannot tell you why I
can never explain it to any living being. I am hedged I
have always been hedged about by circumstances that
made it impossible, and as long as I live I must carry the
secret locked within my own heart."
She stopped for a moment, overcome by the sad memo
ries and emotions which this retrospective glance aroused,
while the good doctor felt more genuine sympathy than
he had ever experienced for her over that mysterious oc
currence so many years ago.
"I will try to be content with what you have told me
to-day," she resumed, presently, "although it wns my in
tention, when I came here, to see for myself how my
child had been reared I am glad to know that she has
been tenderly shielded by parental love that life lias
been made bright and beautiful for her ; may it ever he
so, and perhaps, some time, in the great future, whore
there can be no secrets, I may be allowed to recognize nnd
love the daughter which stern fate decreed I could not
have in this life."
Tears actually arose to the physician's eyes at this little
glimpse of the innermost sanctuary of the beautiful wo
man's heart ; but he marveled more than ever at the ter
rible secret which must have well-nigh blighted her early
life.
She looked up, c^uc-ht his sympathetic glance, and was
204: GEOFFREY FINDS A RKLTC.
instantly the proud, self-possessed woman of the world
again.
u And now, Doctor Turner," she said, rising and drawing;
her elegant lace mantle about her shapely shoulders, "I
trust wo may never meet again. If chance should throw
us together in the presence of others, I be<r, as a personal
favor, that you will not recognize me without a formal
introduction."
"I will not, madame ; and for the sake of your peace of
mind, I, too, hope that our paths may never ugain cross,"
he replied.
lie accompanied her to the door, where they bow^d po
litely and formally to each other, and then the handsome
woman swept out upon the street, as composed and self-
possessed as if she had merely been purchasing some tri
fling article for th toilet, instead of rolling away the
stone from a sepulcher where, for more than twenty
years, a corroding secret had lain concealed.
Doctor Turner went hack to his private office, where he
sat a long time, musing over the wonderful mystery
which had stood the test of nearly a quarter of a century,
and wondering if he should ever learn the solution to it.
"It was the most perplexing, yet romantic, incident
connected with my whole life as a physician." he mur
mured. "If I could but get at the inside history of it I
could write a book worth reading.
"It was almost too bad," he added, some minutes after
ward, "not to tell her about Huntress it is possible no
harm would havo resulted from the knowledge : but if
there had I should have blamed myself. It was better
not."
He watched the passers in the street for several days,
hoping to get another glimpse at his visitor.
But he did not he never saw her again.
CHAPTER XXXTI.
GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.
Geoffrey Huntress arrived in Santa Fe late one even-
Ing, and in the mid^r of n driving storm, about a week
after parting: from Jack and Margery Henlv.
Ho was glad to peek shelter in the nearest public house,
which proved to be an adobe, and was kept by a good-
GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC. 905
naturcd Spaniard and his wife, both of whom could speak
English passably well.
Everything was in the most primitive style, yet com
fortable, and the house was a most acceptable refuge
from the raging temnest without.
Geoffrey slept well, and awoke to find a bright, beauti
ful morning breaking, and all nature fresh and attractive
in its newly washed attire.
He ate heartily of the savory breakfast that had been
prepared for him, and then started forth in search of the
post-office to learn what he could regarding the history of
Lock Box 43.
He was somewhat disappointed to find that the post
master was a man only about thirty -five years of age,
and, upon inquiry, learned that he had served in that ca
pacity not more than five or six years.
Of course he knew at once that he could tell him noth
ing that he wished to know, and he began to fear that his
journey hither had been all for naught.
"Who was postmaster here before you received your ap
pointment?" he inquired, after making some general talk
about, the city.
"Old Abe Brown, sir, and I only hope I may be as lucky
as he was; he held it for more'n fifteen years."
Geoffrey felt his courage rise at this information.
If he could only finl old Abe Brown, doubtless he could
tell him something interesting about Lock Boz 43.
"Is he living? 1 ' he asked.
"Yes. sir. and hale and hearty, too," and going to the
door, the obliging postmaster pointed out the rude dwell
ing which his predecessor occupied.
Geoffrey at, once bent his steps thither, and was soon
knocking at Mr. Brown's door.
"Come in," was the somewhat gruff, but hearty invita
tion, and pushing open the door, which was already aiar,
Geoffrey saw an old man of perhaps sixty seated on a
rudo bench, weaving hats from a bundle of touch gras
that lay beside him, while his wife, a woman somewhat
younger, sat near him. sewing bands around nnd putting
coarse linings into a pile of finished hat.
"Come in, stronger, come in !" repeated the man, as
Geoffrey paused upon the threshold: "don't stand on
ceremony, 'ennse we can't, for we've got to get this cn^e
of hats off before dinner, and we'll hnv^ to work right
smart to do it. too. Have a chair, sir ; guess, though, you
don't belong in these parts," and the old man gave the
20fi GEOFFREY FIXDS A RELIC.
younger one a searching glance from a pair of keen eyes
that gleamed benoath his sha.ggy, overhanging brows.
"No, sir, I do not belong here; I am a stranger,"
Geoffrey answered, as he entered the room and took the
chair indicates]. "I was directed hither to make inquiries
regarding some circumstances connected with your serv
ices as postmaster several years ago."
"Eh !" ejac:;lalrd Mr. Bro\vn, in an astonished tone,
and suspending his employment to eye his visitor with
an indignant glance, while his wife turned a pale, startled
face to him.
Geoffrey smiled, as he realized that they imagined he
had come in an official capacity.
"My inquiries are of a strictly private nature, and re
late fo a gentleman for whom lam searching," he ex
plained to relieve their anxiety.
"All right, ; fire away tnen, lad," returned Mr. Brown,
coolly resuming his work. "I thought if them chaps at
Washington had sent any one down here at this late day
to rake over old coals it was mighty queer, for there
wasn't, a single dts-crip-ancy from the time I went into
the office till I came out. Old Abe Brown is honest if he
ain't handsome," he concluded, with a. merry twinkle in
his eye.
"I do not doubt it. sir," Geoffrey replied, with a quiet
laugh, " but I wish to ask you if you remember a man
who hired Lock Box 43 for several vears in succession
during your term, and who had his letters, or at least,
some of them, directed simplv with that inscrip
tion ?"
"Yes, sir, I do remember him a tall, handsome chap,
with blue eyes, and brown hair, and he had the finest beard
1 ever saw on a mnn, the first time I saw him ; he had it
all shaved off, though, after a while. I say, stranger, I
reckon he must have been something to you, for I'm
bless'd if you don't look like him !"
The man dropped his hat. upon this discovery, and
leaned forward for a better view of Geoffrey.
"Go on, if you please," the young man said, briefly.
"Well, as I snid, I remember him : I don't often forget
anybody that I've ever had any dealings with," Mr.
Brown resumed. "He was a generous follow, too : had
plenty of money, and scattered it right and left like a
prince. It wn,s r> curious conceit, though, his having bis
letters sent j-ist to the box some of 'em ; they didn't all
come that way."
OEOFtKEY F1XDS A RELIC. 207
"No?" cried Geoffrey, eagerly. "To whom were they
directed? What was his name?"
"Well, now,'' said the old man, again laying down his
hat, and scratching his head meditatively. " I shouldn't
wonder if you'd got me this time. I'm pretty good at
spotting a face, but when it comes to names and figures
un'ess somebody happens to be owing me" he inter
posed, with a sly smile, "I don't amount to much. 'Pears
to me. though, his first name was William William
hum ! I don't know William something; and there was
a general or captain I can't remember which tacked
on to it besides."
"Was his last name Dale, do you think?" Geoff re j
asked.
Mr. Brown shook his head doubtfully.
"I couldn't swear 'twas, or 'twasn't," he said. "Some
how, that don't strike me as sounding just natural I'\e
a notion there was more to it."
"I am very anxious to know it, and would be willing to
give a great deal to be sure of it. Could you find out in
any way what it was?" the young man inquired, anx
iously.
"I don't beieve there's a single soul in Santa Fe to day
who was here as long ago as that, except my wife here.
Maria, do you remember that handsome gentleman who
used to have Lock Box 43?" the old man asked, turning to
his wife.
"I used to see him now and then when I helped yon. in
the office, but I've forgotten his name, if I ever heard it,"
the woman replied, in a quiet tone. "But," she added,
a moment later, as if some thought had suddenly oc
curred to her, "didn't you find something once that he
lost ?"
"Lor'! yes; so I did. But I'd never thought of it
again if you hadn't mentioned it, and there's something
marked on it, too. Perhaps that'll tell the young man
what he wants to know."
Mr. Brown laid down his work, and rising, turned to
ward an old-fashioned secretary that stood in one corner
of the room.
But he suddenly stopped, and looked searchingly at
Geoffrey.
"I hope, if you find out what you want to know here,
it ain't, goinrr to get tho gentleman into any trouble." he
said ; "he wn a pood friend to me, and I should hate to
do him an ill turn."
208 GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.
"You need not fear." Geoffrey answered, thinking it
best to deal frankly with these honest people; "the man
was my father at least, I have stroner reasons for believ
ing so; he disappered several years ago, and my object
in coming to you is simply to try to get some clew that
will help me to trace him."
"I'm afraid, sir, you've come to a poor place to find
out very much,'' Mr. Brown remarked, and apparently
satisfied with his visitor's explanation.
He proceeded to the secretary, opened one of its draw
ers, and took an old leather wallet from it.
Unstrapping this, he laid it open before him, and after
searching son e time in its various pockets, he drew forth
something wrapped in hrown paper.
This he carried to Geoffrey, and laid it in his hand.
"There you have it, and it's the be^t I can do for you,"
he said.
The young man quickly removed the paper, and found
a portion of a golden charm or emblem ; in the form of a
knight-templar's cross; very handsomely enameled and
engraven.
It had been broken diagonally acrops.
the left and lower arms comprising the
portion which the postmaster had found.
Geoffrey turned it over and found Ibe
name "William" all but the last letter
engraved on the back, something after
the fashion of the accompanying diagram.
The "m." and probably the surname of the owner was
to be found on the other half of the cross, wherever that
might be.
The roung man sighed wearily, for if this was all the
information which be was to obtain from his visit to
Santa Fe, he would be as much in the dark as ever.
"Where did you find this?" he asked, at length, turn
ing to Mr. Brown.
"On the floor, just Tinder his box."
"Was he in the habit of wearing an emblem of this
kind ?"
"Yes, sir; he bar! a fine one on hie watch-chain, but it
wasn't like that." said Mr. Brown.
"Then how do you know that he lost this? It might
have belonged to some one el^e.'*
"No ; I am sure it was his, for I found it just after he'd
been into the office to look after his letters, and there
G EOFFR ET F1XDS A R EL 1C. 209
hadn't been another soul in the room for nigh an hour. I
reckon it was one of them things like what he wore, that
had been broken, and lie tucked it into his pockec and it
fell out when lie took out his keys to unlock his box," Mr.
Brown explained.
"That might have been the way of it," Geoffrey said,
thoughtfully.
"I went to the door to call him back," the old gentle
man continued; "but he'd got out of sight, so I put it
away, thinking I'd give it to him the next time he came,
and it you'll believe it, I've never set eyes ou him from
that day to this. 1 '
"Did he never come again?" Geoffrey asked, surprised.
"Yes, twice, though there was a good while beuveeu ;
but, as it chanced, I was away both times, and or course
the boy I hired to help me and take my place at such
times the same one that's there now didn't know him.
The last visit he made he gave up his key?."
"How long apco was that?"
"That must have been as many a fifteen years ago. I
hotildsay; I can't just remember, though," replied Mr.
Brown.
Geoffrey reasoned that probably his father had visited
the place while on his way back from California, after he
had been to make inquiries regarding his own mysterious
disappearance, and having despaired of ever gaining any
knowledge of him through Lock Box 43, had surrendered
his keys.
"Dili he ever reside here in Santa Fe?" he asked.
"I don't think he did, sir he always looked s if he
came from, a distance, and he didn't come regular, either.
I used to think he was up among the mines in the moun
tains."
"Did he receive many letters through this office?"
"At first he did, but not more'n three or four the last
year or two, and I was to let them lay until they were
come for. When he come last he said he was goin' to
leave this country altogether."
"It is very strange," nu.sed Geoffrey, ,is he sat turning
over that little piece of gold and enamel.
"If ib could but speak," ho thought, "all my trouble
and search would be over."
"Will you sell me this little relic?" he asked, at last,
turning to the ex-postmaster.
"Bl^ssyou! no, sir. I shouldn't think of selling it to
anybody ; but if you're that man's son, as you say, it's
210 GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.
yours by right, and you can have it and welcome."
Geoffrey thanked ihe honest old gentleman hearuiy for
it and his kindness in answering his inquiries, and then
arose to take his leave.
lie picked up one of the hats that Mrs. Brown had just
completed, asking if she \\ould make him one and have it
read v by the time he got around to Santa Fe again.
Sue said she would, and at his request named the price.
Geoffrey dropped a golden coin into her hand, remark
ing, with a SMiile, that she could give him the change
when he came for the hat, or if he didn't come by the end
of six weeks she would be entitled to the whole of ic. He
took tiiis way to make these good people a little present
without wounding their feelings, for he had no intention
of ever returning to Santa Fe.
He WHS very much depressed by his failure to obtain
any definite information regarding his father, and he
found it hard to be reconciled to the fact that the ex-poet-
master could not remember the name which it was so im
portant he should learn.
He attached vry little significance to the finding of the
broken cross, for it proved nothing; still he put it care
fully away, resolving to keep it as a curious relic.
- But it was destined, insignificant as it seemed, to play
an important part in the chain of evidence that was
eventually to prove his identity.
It was the middle of September when he reached Sara
toga again, \\here he found Mr. and Mrs. Huntress and
Gladys, all impatient over his long absence, and over
joyed at his return. They had remained there far beyond
the date they had intended, and they had only waited for
his coining to go home.
They left immediately and arrived in Brooklyn the
twentieth of the month, and were all delighted to be be
neath (heir own "vine and fig tree" once more.
When Geoffrey told Mr. Huntress how fruitless had
been his search, except for what he had learned from the
Henlys, he replied, as he laid his hand affectionately on
the young man's shoulder :
" For your sake, Geoff, I am sorry, for I know that you
are sensitive regarding the subject of your parentage;
but for rny part, my boy, I am content, for I am free to
own that I should feel a trifle jealous of any other man
who should claim you and occupy the place of a father to
ward you."
All this was very pleasant to Geoffrey, but he knew
GEOFFREY FINDS A KEL1C. 211
that nothing would ever satisfy him until he could learn
the whole secret; and he was now convinced that there
was a carefully guarded secret regarding his birth.
The week following the return of the family to Brook
lyn, Mr. Huntress came home from his office somewhat
earlier than usual, and drawing Geoffrey into the library,
he said :
"Geoff, you have had a good deal to say about business
this summer; how would you like to get into something
right away ?"
The young man's face was instantly all aglow.
"First rate," he replied, eager!}-. "I don't care how
soon I begin to do something for myself. I've been an
idler long enough."'
'"An idler !' good gracious ! Geoff, I wonder what your
idea of work is, if you have been idle during the last
four years !" exclaimed Mr. Huntress, with elevated
brows.
"Well, I mean that I've been dependent lonjr enough,"
Geoffrey corrected.
"Now, my boy, you couldn't hurt me worse than to talk
like that. I have been paid a dozen times over, for all
you have cot me, in the pride I've taken in you," his
friend replied, reproachfully.
"My debt is a heavy one all the same, Uncle August-
one that I can never pay though I shall never cease to
be grateful for your kindness. But about this business
prospect, what is itf
"Well, you see, tho firm wants me to go to Europe," be
gan Mr. Huntress, u to look after some of our interests
there, which have been causing us some anxiety of late ;
but I have a perfect horror of the Sf a, and can't make up
my mind to take the voyage. No one else can be spared,
and so, if I cannot get a substitute, I suppose I shall
have to sere vr my courage tip tt> it somehow. Now, any
man of ordinary intelligence can transact the business
the chief requisites are energy, honesty, and interest
and I want you to go in my place, Geoff. Your business
career and your salnry shall commence from the moment
you give me your decision."
Geoffrey was all enthusiasm at the proposition, most
delightful to him both as regarded business r.r;d the Euro
pean trip, which hud always been a coveted pleasure.
k l should like the trip, and m<>rf than nil. I .-hould lifce
tho business, if yon think me competent to tr;-, ::sact it,"
he said. " Here I have been racking my br.n : all sum-
212 'A WEDDING IN PKOSPJSCT.
mer to try to think of something to set myself about, and
How it comes to me without aw effort."
"You'll find that it will require effort enough before
you get through," returned Mr. Huntress, smiling ; ''but
it is a great relief to my mind to have you willing to un
dertake it. The only drawback," he added, growing seri
ous, "is that Gladys may object to your running off in
this unceremonious style, antt for such a long trip ; it
would take five or six months to do all we want done."
Geoffrey's face fell at this.
In the enthusiasm of the moment over having some
real business, he had not thought of this separation, and
be knew well enough that Gladys would be very much op
posed to it.
"True," he began, and then stopped.
11 Gladys will surely oppose it with all her will," said
Mr. Huntress, observing him closely.
Geoffrey made no reply, he was schooling himself to do
his duty. He believed that he had no right to refuse this
golden opportunity.
" I wonder," mused Mr. Huntress, a sly smile curling
the corners of his mouth, "how it would do to let Gladys
go with you ; she has always been sighing for European
travel."'
Geoffrey sat erect in his chair, as if suddenly galvan
ized, and shot a look of astonishment at bis companion.
"Uncle August! you know that wouldn't do at all, un
less Aunt Alice should accompany us," he said, in con
fusion.
Mi . Huntress burst into a hearty laiigh.
"I imagine it could be managed without depriving me
of my wife as well as my daughter. How would it do to
liave that young lady go along as as Mrs. Geoffrey Pale
Huntress ?"
CHAPTER XXXITI.
A WEDDING IN PROSPECT.
At that moment a servant appeared at the door and
was about to enter upon some trifling errand. Seeing the
eager, intent look upon the faces of both men, she quietly
withdrew, unobserved.
Geoffrey sat up, amazed.
"Surely you cannot mean that that Gladys is to go as
my wife i" he exclaimed, flushing hotly.
A WEDD1SG IN PROSPECT. 213
"And why not? You expect to marry Gladys some
tinie," was the calm reply.
"Yes, I hope so, Uncle August ; but I am not now in a
position to properly take care of a wite."
"But we are going to pay you a good salary and defiay
your traveling expenses also, it you go abroad for us."
said Mr. Huntress. " You will have to be aw a 3* for sev
eral months, and I know that Gladys will grieve sadly
over the separation. I have given the subject a good deal
of thought; and I have talked it over with mother.
Gladys wants a trip abroad, we want her to have it, too,
and neither of us feels like crossing the ocean ; therefore
we have decided that the best arrangement, for all parties,
will be to have a wedding and send you two off together
on a bridal trip. Of course we shall rr.iss our daughter
we shall miss you both for that matter; but the earlier
you go the sooner we shall have you back again. "What
do you think of the proposition *"
"Nothing coul'i give me greater happiness than to have
my dearest hopes realized in tins unexpected manner;
but I had made up my mind not to claim the fulfillment
of Gladys 1 promise to me until I could make a place for
myself in the world, and provide a generous support for
her,'' Geoffrey replied, with still heightened color.
"Nonsense!" began Mr. Huntress, and then j-uddenly
checked himself. "No, it isn't nonsense, either," he added,
"such a resolve was both a wise and a noble one, ard
worthy of you, Geoff. Under different circumstances I
fih on Id feel that it would be wiser for you to wait i ntil
you were established in some profitable business. Seme-
body, however, must go abroad for the firm. I do not
want to, neither of the other partners can leave, and so
we have agreed to send some one in my place. Besides
this, I am what would be termed a rich man, thouuh I
haven't as mu<-h as the Astors or Vanderbilts, and all
that I have will some day belong to Gladys except a lit-
'tle slice that I had made up my mind to lay aside for > cii
and she may as well begin to reap the benefit of it now.
I want her to see tho old country : she is just fresh from
school, and in the right trim and mood to enjoy it; she
would grieve and mops to have you go and leave her be
hind, so I want you to go together. I know that you
would have a jolly time of it. So wo will have a littlo
knot tied beforehand, to make everything all right and
proper, and then you may emov your honeymoon tc
your heart's content."
211 A WEDDIX& IN PROSPECT.
Geoffrey's heart was beating with great, heavy throbs
of joy over these plans.
No thought of any such delightful scheme had for an
instant entered his mind ; indeed, he had feared that it
would be a long time before he should feel that he had a
right to ask Gladys to be his wife, and now every obstacle
had been removed, and an easy path to the very summit
of his hopes laid out for him.
"Well, Geoff, 1 ' continued Mr. Huntress, who had been
watching him while something of this was passing
through his brain, "what lies heavy on your mind now?
You look as somber as if I had beem plotting to separate a
pair of lovers, instead of giving them to each other with
my fondest blessing."
Geoffrey looked up with gleaming eyes.
"lam anything: but 'somber' over your proposition,
Uncle August. I am simply trying to realize my great
happiness, 1 ' he snid, in a voice that vibrated with joy;
"but what will Gladys herself say to this plan ?"
"Go ask her, my boy. I'll bet a big apple she won't say
no," returned the gentleman, with a sly wink and a
chuckle. "Hold on a minute, though, Geoff," he added, as
the young man sprang to his feet to obey him, "I want
to tell you a l\ttle more about the business part of the
plan, before you get immersed in the love-ly part of it.
YouVe three months yet before you, as we do not want
you to sail before the last of December, or the first of
January rather cold weather for a pleasure trip across
the Atlantic;, eh ?" and he shivered at the thought ; " but
we can't have everything just as we want it. Another
thing; owing to some details connected with our Boston
house, you will bo obliged to sail from that city instead
of going direct from New York."
" We occasionally have some very pleasant weather in
January ; perhaps the fates will be propitious and give us
a pleasant passage," said Geoffrey, smiling ; "besides, I
think T have heard that some of those Boston steamers
are fully as comfortable and safe as those running from
New York."
"Well, comfort yourself all you can, my boy. I don't
envy you, however." retorted the elder gentleman, with
a grimace. "Meantime," he continued, "we shall want
you over at the office to receive instructions and gnin a
little knowledge regarding your duties on the ot':er
si do."
'' T do. not care how soon you set me at work," Geoffrey
IX PftoSFEVT. 215
eagerly replied, for he was longing with all his heart to
become a man of business, and to feel that he \\ as really
doing something toward providing for his bride.
"I imagine that we shall all have enough to do if there
is to be a wedding." said Mr. Huntress, smiling, "for
mother and I want to marry our only daughter off in good
shape, you know. There, that is all just now ; you may
go and find out how Gladys feels about it. 1 '
Geoffrey departed with a bounding heart, yet hardly able to
realize the good fortune that Lad so unexpectedly fallen to his
lot.
He fonnd Gladys in the music-room, running through some
Dew pieces which lie liad purchased for her the day before.
He went, np to her. cnptnred <he two small hands that were
evoking such sweet strains from the piano, and drew her to a
small sofa, that stood near.
"My darling. I have a very important communication to make
to yon," he said, bending toward her and fondly touching ber
forehead with his lips.
" ' Very important?' " she repeated, archly. "You look as if it
was very pleasant, too."
"Tt is to me, and I hope it will prove the same to yon. What
do yon suppose onr paterfamilias IIPS been proposing to me this
morning?" the young man asked, with a luminous face.
The beautiful girl thought a moment before replying, the
quick color leaping to her cheeks.
'I believe I can gup*n it!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands
with a gesture of delight. "Oh, Geoffrey, is he poing to take
us all to Europe? That is it!" she added, exultantly. "I know
by yonr tell-tale face. How perfectly charming!"
Geoffrey smiled wisely.
"You have guessed too much and too little, my sunbeam," he
said.
"What a paradoxical statement, my learned Bachelor of
Arts! I expected better things of you," retorted Gladys,
merrily.
"You have yet, to find my statement. t7-ue, in spite of fhe
seeming paradox." he replied, with mock dignity. "Somebody
is going to Europe we are not all going, however."
"Ol>. Geoff! you are not to be left at home, are yon?" cried
his betrothed, in a disappointed tone, her face paling at the
thought.
"Gu^ss again, my Indy," he said, teas.. :< crly.
"Well, I know that papa would not go without mamma, and I
am snre she would never cross the ocean without him, and they
certninly would not lake such a trip and leave me behind," re
sponded Gladys, with a puzzled air.
" 'Plato, thou reasoned well,' " quoted Geoffrey, an amused
216 A WEDDING IN PROSPECT.
twinkle in his eyes ; "and not fo keep yon longer in suspense,
I will inform you that Uuele Angnst lias some business abroad,
which, as ho cannot make up his mind to the voyage, he thinha
I can attend to, nnd 1 e lins proposed tlmt I tnke yon nlong with
me. We are to have a six months' trip, combine l>nsiness with
pleasure, sii)d get all tlie enjoyment we can ont of it."
Gladys gave one startled, astonished plnnco at he* lover's
face as he concluded, and then her face, clouded and her eyes
dropped I'eneath his.
"Did papa, pr'-pos* that to yon?" she asked, in a low tcne, a
burning Hush suffusing her face.
''Yea, dear He said YOU l:ad long wanted to po abroad, nnd
he thought tin's would b<- a tine opportunity for both of us.
Doesn't the idea please you?"
Geoffrey 1<new well enough what was passing in her mind,
but, lie was HO jnliilant :nnl so confident of the issue of the inter
view that :> spirit of mischief possessed him to tease her a liltlo.
''I should love to po abroad I have always longed to po. as
papa says," Gladys answered, gravely, and with still downcast
eyes ; "but I do not think I can go without papa and
mamma."
"Why?" returned Geoffrey, in a pretended surprise. "Uncle
August thought, as you nnd I were both fresh from school, we
should appreciate and enjoy the sight-seeing much better to go
together."
"It would be lovely, but Geoff, yon know I cannot go so,"
she persisted, with a crimson face, and a suspicious tremor in
Ler voice.
Be gathered her close in his arms, and laid hir head against
liis b'-pnst.
; Darling, forgive mo for tensing yon," lie said. "Of course,
you cannot go 'so'; but, Gladvs, will yon go witji me as my
wife ?"
He could feel the quid? bounding of her heart at this unex
pected proposition, and he knew well enough that she would
raise no moiv objections to the trip j?broid.
He then repented the conversation that had passed between
her father and himself that morning, telli.ig hf r how surprised
he ha<! been at the plan. f nd how. at first, he had hardly feH it
richt to ndo^t it, considering his rather doubtful position in
life Still, he had reasoned, if he could save Mr. Huntress
from a dreaded journey in the dead of winter, and if his services
we-e to be worth the generous sum he had named as Irs salarv,
he might feel justified in waving his own scruples and in ac
cepting the prent happiness offered him. thonsrh he never would
have dreamed of proposing such a measure himself.
"Mv Gladys," V< --nid. in conclusion, "it is verv sudden, and
there is ordv a 'o time, before I must go. Will yon come
with me, or rmist I yo by myself?"
A WEDDISG IN PROSPECT. 217
Thr-re was a minute of silence, then Gladvs raised her head,
and laid her lips softly against her lover's chrek.
"Under such circumstances, von may lie -very snre that. I shall
not lot you go alone," she murmured, with a happy little
hutch.
His arms closed more fondly about her. He bent and kissed
her lips, his f;iee radinnt with joy.
'Oli! my darling, wlio would have believed eight or nine
years ago that such happiness could fall to the lot of the poor
boy wliom yon rescued from a mob in the fctieet," he said, in a
tremulous tone.
They discussed their anticipated trip fully an:1 freely after
this, laid out their route, and formed main u pleasunt plan for
the coming years.
The whole family held a council that evening, and it was
decided that preparation* for the wedding should be entered
tipon immediately, and that the marriage should occur just pre-
TIOUS to the sailing of the steamer ou which the young couple
would embark for Europe.
Mr. and Mrs. Huntress found it somewhat trying to contem
plate the loneliness which they knew would follow the de
parture, of their children, but they believed that the arrange
ment would be for their interest and happiness, and they would
not mar their joy by giving expression to any feeling of sorrow
or regret.
Geoffrey at once entered upon his duties, and with an enthus
iasm and ener<ry that promised well for the future; while. Mrs.
Huntress and Gladys busied themselves about, the interesting
mysteries of a wedding trousseau and preparations for the prrand
reception, that was to follow the marriage ceremony in Plym
outh Church somewhere about tha last of December or the first
of January.
While all these events were transpiring in Brooklyn, Everet
Manlesou was living in a state of depression and unrest in his
beautiful home near Richmond.
After his trip to thnt mining district in New Mexico, where
l)e had visited the grave nnd former home of Annie Dale, he
returned immediately to Vue de 1'Enu, where he remained,
appearing very little like the free and ea^y student who had
been so full of life and hope at the conclusion of his college
Colonel Maploson nnd his wife returned from Newport about
the a mo time, and both wondered what could have occurred to
change their POM thus in so short a time.
Mrs. Maoleson attributed it to his hopeless nftnrhment to
the beautiful girl whom she had seen at Yn'e. nnd for whom
Everet had confessed his love; bat she could not get one word
218 A WEDDING IN PEOSPECT.'
from him on the subject, although she had tried to gain his
confidence upon several occasions.
"Father, 1 ' said the voung man, coming into the library one
morning, after the household had settled into its usual routine,
"while von were away I visited the Hermitage, and made a
singular discovery there."
"All! I imagined everything of a singular character had
disappeared from that place when Robert Dale departed this
life. "What was the nature of your discovery, pray?" Colonel
Mapleson remarked, looking up from the newspaper that he was
reading, and removing his spectacles.
Everet described his visit to the place, told of his energetic
blow upon the desk and its results, and then produced the pack
age of certificates and the picture which he had found, to prove
his statements.
"Well, this is a singular discovery, I confess," paid his father,
when he had finished. "Let me have a look at that picture."
He held out his hand, and upon receiving it he turned to
the light to examine it.
"Yes, this must be a likeness of Mrs. Dale; it resembles her
Striking! v, although she was greatly changed, and this must
have been taken many years previous to my acquaintance with
her."
"Then you knew her?" said his son.
"Oh, yes; I've eaten many a fine cookie baked by her hands
during my boyhood," replied Colonel Mapleson, musingly.
"Poor Robert Dale! so he treasured his love for her as long as
he lived !"
"And he has left all his money to her daughter," said Everet,
touching the package of certificates that lay on the table.
"It would have been more to the purpose if he had given the
famifv some of it while they were suffering the stings of pov
erty," Colonel Mapleson remarked, jis attention still riveted
Upon the picture.
"Did you know the daughter?" Everet inquired.
"Yes; I had some acquaintance with her."
"Were they so very poor?"
"Well, they had a pretty hard time of it, I reckon, for a
while; bnt I did not realize it at the time, for I was very young,
only visited Uncle Jabez during my vacation; you know he ^ent
nie to Baltimore to school. Uncle Jabez gave them a cottage
rent, free, and g?ve them something besides to help eke cut a
small annuity that Mrs. Dale had, and that was all they had to
live upon until they opened a small private school. After I came
into possession of the estate T allowed them to remain in the
cottage, the same as before, although they would not accept
from me the money that they had received from Uncle Jabez;
thev were very proud.
"Then that cottage belongs to you?" Everet remarked.
A WEDDING IN PROSPECT. 219
( Yes."
'Has it ever been occupied since the Dales left it?"
'No."
'To whom does the furniture belong?"
'How do you know that it is furnished?" Colonel Mapleson
asked, turning around and glancing sharply at his son.
Everet colored.
"I was riding by there, one day, and felt a curiosity to look
inside the house "
"But the curtains are all drawn," interrupted his father.
"True; but I managed to get a glimpse for all that, "the young
man returned, lightly, although he did not care to tell just how
he had learned that thehouse was furnished. "By the way," he
continued, "there is some strange story about the disappearance
of Mrs. Dale's daughter, isn't there?"
"Yes, I believe so ; she went away somewhere to get a place
as governess, and, as she never came back, people imagined there
was some mystery about it."
"What is your theory regarding it?" Everet asked.
"My theory? I don't know as I have any ; I was away travel
ing at the time. She may have gone as governess into some
family, who afterward went abroad, taking her with them ; or,
what is more likeJy, she in ay have married and removed to some
distant portion of the country."
"One would suppose that she would have wished to dispose of
the furniture in her home before going away permanently,"
Everet observed.
"Oh, the furniture belongs with the cottage didn't I tell
you?" replied his father.
"No, you didn't," said Everet, dryly, and thinking old Jazeb
Mapleaon must have been pretty lavish with his money to have
furnished the cottage in such a luxurious style for his poor rela
tives. "At all events," he continued, "it is strange that ske did
not communicate her plans, whatever they were, to some one
whom she had known, isn't it?"
"Well, perhaps; but it seems to me that you are strangely in
terested in the fate of this girl, Ev," and his father turned
about again and looked him squarely in the face, as he said
this.
Again the young man colored.
"I don't see anything very remarkable about it, when I have
just discovered a fortune for her," he replied, after a moment
of hesitation.
"Well, no; there is something in that argument, surely," re
turned his father, in a tone of conviction. "How much does.it
amount to?" and Colonel Mapleson took up the certificates and
began to examine them.
220 KOSJCRT VALE'S WILL BEOUQUT TO LIGHT.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.
He looked each paper cai'afnllj throngh, writing down tha
amounts represented, ami finally adding them to liud the sum.
"Well, it makes quit ) a handsome little fortune, when we
take into consideration the fact th;it it has been accumulating all
theso years," he said, as he pushed toward his son the paper
upon which he had been figuring. "And yet," lie added, "I
know that this cannot represent one-half of Robert Dale's for
tune. What can have become of the rest?'*
'He may have given it away during his life," Everet sug
gested.
"Possibh : and yet I do not believe it," said Colonel Mr pie-
son, thoughtfully. "He \vas a strange character, .is the hiding
of these documents proves, and I am convinced there are ruoro
concealed somewhere else."
"I do not see what the man cnnld have been thinking of, if he
\vas in his right mind, to hide his property in such a way, with
out leaving some clew to it! How could he expect his heir
would ever be benefited by his money, when what represented
it was concealed in that secret compartment?" said Everet, im
patiently.
"That is a question, and the aofc was only one of the many
queer tilings that made the man what he was," replied hi3 fa
ther.
"What will you do with these papers?" the young man in
quired.
"1 do not know what to do with them," returned the colonel,
a perplexed frown on his brow.
"Who would inherit the property in case the direct legatee
cannot be found?"
"I suppose I am the nearest of kin," said Colonel Maploson.
"It was so decided when thu question as to who should inherit
the Hermitage and laud belonging to him, came up after his
cleat li."
"Then all this money will be yours also, if neither Annie Dale
nor any of her heirs can be found?" said Everet, with suppressed
eagerness.'
"I suppose it will; but "
"But what?"
"I do not want it, Everet; I have enough without it. I would
much prefer that the rightful heir should have it."
"I suppose jou will advertise for Annie Dale, or for her near
est of kin?'' Everet said, bonding a keeu look upon his father.
ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 221
"I don't know. I shall have to think the matter over first
perhaps consult my lawyer about it," Colonel Mapleson replied,
meditatively.
He fell into deep thought, and neither spoke for several min
utes.
At length the colonel glanced np at the clock.
"Well," lie retuurked, with a sigh, "I have business to attend
to, and I must be off."
He arose, gathered up the papers, carefully wrapping them all
together, then, locking them iuto a drawer of Ins desk, he
abruptly left the room.
Everet sat there for more than an hour afterward, his head
bowed upon his hand, thinking deeply, his brow contracted, his
whole face we<tri.>g a perplexed and troubled look.
At length, lie, too, left tlie house, ordered his horse, uud rode
away in tiie direction of the old mill.
Reaching the Dale cottage, which was evidently his destina
tion, he dismounted, fastened liis horse, and then bent his steps
around to the back door, intending to force an nitrance, as be
fore; and yet, if any one had asked the question, he could not
have told why he had come there again.
But, as he was passing the window of the little bedroom, he
was sure that he saw one of the curtains move.
"Aha!" he said to himself; "either a mouse or some human
being was the cause of that. 1 do not believe there is anything
inside that empty house to attract a hungry mouse, so 1 will be
cautious in my movements, and maybe I shall make a discov
ery of some kind."
He slipped off his low shoes, stepped noiselessly upon the
Veraiid.i, keeping out of the range of the window so as not to
cast a shallow within the room, and crept clo.se up to the low
sill.
The curtain had been thrust aside a trifle, so that he could
easily see the interior of the room, and he beheld that which
riveted him, spell-bound, to the spot, and drove every drop of
blood to his heart.
He saw his father sitting close beside the window, so close,
that his lightest movement caused one of his arras to hit the
curtain.
On the floor, before him, there stood an open trunk, of medium
size, which, apparent.lv, !iad been pulled from beneath the bed,
and from which Colonel Mapleson had taken it portfolio, while
he wan ohsorbed in looking over a package of letters which it
contained.
He was very pale, and his son could perceive traces of deep
emotion on his face, which seemed to have grown strangely old.
during the last two hours.
The young man drew hack, after that one look, the color all
jont. from his own face, and his lips strangely compressed.
222 ROBERT DALPTS WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.
Without making tho slightest noise, he stole from the veranda
picked up his shoes, and hurried from the place.
Outside the gate, he paused long enough to replace his shoes
on his feet, when he again mounted his horse, and rode quietly
away.
Half an hour later Colonel Mapleson emerged from the front
door of the cottage, and, after looking cautiously around, as if
he was afraid of being observed, he passed quickly down tha
steps, out of the gate, carefully closing it after him, and then
strode rapidly toward a thick growth of trees and bushes, behind
"which he had fastened his horse.
Springing into his saddle, he spoke sharply to the animal, and
rode away at a brisk trot in the opposite direction from that
which Everet had taken a little while before.
Bnt at the end of a mile or so, he turned abruptly into an
other cart path, and, after nearly an hour's ride, came in sight
of the Hermitage.
Dismounting, he led his horse behind the house into the di
lapidated ptable, where he would be sheltered and concealed
from sight, if any one chanced to pass that way, and then he
made his own way inside the Hermitage.
It was evident, from all his movements, that he had come
there with some settled purpose, for he drew a hammer and
chisel from one of his pockets, and then commenced a system
atic examination of the room that had been Robert Dale's
sanctum.
Bnt it proved to be a rather discouraging undertaking, for
there was very little about the room to suggest a place of con
cealment for anything of a valuable character.
There was so little wood-work about the house that there was
not much chance for secret panels or closets. The doors were
of oak solid oak, for he tested them thoroughly with his ham
mer. The book-cases offered not the slightest evidence of any
hiding-place; the desk he examined several times, finding the
compartment of which Everet had told him, but no other, al
though he critically examined every portion of it.
The floor was of brick, paved in herring-bone patterns, bnt
there was no indication that a single brick had ever been removed
for any purpose whatever, although he inspected the whole sur
face with the utmost care. At last, wearied out with his fruitless
efforts, he sat down in the chair before the desk, to rest and to
think.
"I am confident," he muttered, "that the man must have
made a will, and that there are other papers existing, represent
ing a large amount of property. I believe he cunningly con
cealed them during his lifetime, thinking that, when he came to
die he would have warning enough to enable him to confide his
Becret to some trustworthy person."
He looked up at the ceiling; he closely scrn tin i:;pd tho window
ROBERT DAL fTJi WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 223
casings and tlie fire place. Bnt there wasn't a crack nor a
crevice that promised revelation of any kind.
Suddenly au idea struck him, aud he hastily arose from his
chair.
It as a stout office chair, cushioned with leather tht \vaa
nailed to the frame. He turned it bottom side np. Nothing
but solid wood met his gaze.
He set it upright atrain and passed his hand over the cushion.
It was springiest* and to all appearance had never been dis
turbed since it was first nailed to the chair.
After thinking a moment, Colonel Mapleson took his jack-
knife from his pocket and deliberately cut the cover entirely off.
Only a scant layer of curled hair lay beneath, closely matted
and tilled with dust. H^ removed this, and instantly an ex
clamation of satisfaction escaped him, for there, in the bottom
of the chair, he had discovered a square lid, so cunningly and
smoothly fitted in its place that no one would ever have sus
pected it was there.
A tiny leather strap indicated how it was to be lifted from its
place. He eagerly removed it, and, underneath, discovered a
small japanned trunk about twelve inches .square.
It was the work of but a moment to take it from its cunning
place of concealment, where it had lain undisturbed for so many
years, and set it upon the desk before him.
Then he sat down again, and gravely looked at it, while he
actually trembled with excitement, and drops of perspiration,
stood all over his face.
It was strange that the unearthing of another man's secrets
should affect bin; thus, and it almost seemed ns if be shrank
with a sort of supen-titious terror from examining the contents
of that inoffensive-looking trunk.
At length he raised the hasp, and threw back the lid. The
first tiling that met his eye was a document lal>eled, " Will of
Robert Dale," with the date, showing that it had been made only
a few years previous to the man's death.
With a slight shiver of repugnance, Colonel Mapleson laid it
unopened on the desk.
Underneath he found several bank-books and certificates, all
in Robert Dale's name. Then, to his astonishment, he found a
lady's kid glove that once had been white; a handkerchief, h'na
and sheer, edged with soft lace, and marked with the initials,
"N. D. ," worked in with hair. A little package, containing a
few faded flowers, lay at the bottom of the trunk, and the secret
of Robert Dale's hermit life, and of the disposal of bis property,
was a secret no longer.
An examination of the bank-books and certificates revealsd
the fact that many thousands of dollars would fall to Robert
Dale's heir or heirs, whoever they might be, and that point
doubtless the will would settle.
224 ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.
Colonel Mapleson iv placed the contents of the trunk just nci he
had found them, until he came to the will, whicli lie hold irres
olutely in his hands for a long time, and apparently absorbed in
thought.
"Somebody has to know first or last,*' he at length muttered,
with a long-drawn sigh, but lie shivered with a sort of nervous
dread as he unfolded the document, whicli was not sealed,
and began to rea;l it.
It was verr brief and comprehensive, bequeathing all that the
testator possessed, unreservedly, to "Annie Dale and her heirs
forever," and naming us lii.s executor a certain man residing iu
Richmond Richard Douglas, to whom alone had been con
fided the secret of the concealment of the will and other papers.
"Ah!"' said Colonel Miipleson, "this accounts for their never
having been discovered before. Richard Douglas was very ill
at the time of Robert Dale's death, and was himself buried only
a week later."
There was a codicil to the will, mentioning some later depo*its
which had been made in the name of Annie Dale, "certificates
of which would be found beneath a movable panel in one end of
the writer's desk, there being no room for them iu the trunk
with the others.' 1
Colonel Mapleson looked greatly disturbed when he finished
reading the document.
^ "It would have been better for me had a mountain fallen
upon me, than the duty whicli this discovery imposes." he
groaned, as he laid it back in its place and closed the trunk.
"I must either do it, or commit a crime by withholding a for
tune from the lawful heir."
He fell into a pr-.. found reverie, which lasted until the sun
went down and the light began to grow dim and the air chil)
within that lonely dwelling. -
An impatient and prolonged whinnv from his horse at length
aroused him from his painful musings, when he arose, and,
taking the trunk with him, he left the house, brought forth his
horse from his long fast, and started on his homeward way.
It was quite dark when he reached Vue de 1'Eau, and, by
exercising a little caution, he managed to effect an entrance to
his library unobserved, where he immediately concealed the
trophy which he had that day discovered.
While Colonel Mapleson had been engaged with his laborious
search at the Hermitage, his son was earnestly pursuing investi
gations elsewhere.
Aft?r stealing noiselessly away from the cottage, where he
hail discovered his father within it looking over that trunk, he
only proceeded as far as the old mill, where heagain dismounted,
and leading his horse beneath a shed that was attached to it, and
ROBERT DALE'S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 226
which was so thickly overgrown witli vines that it made a very
secure hiding-place, he fastened him to a pout, after which he
dimmed the stairs to the main |>oriin of t lie crnzy structure,
and remained there, watching until lie saw Colonel Maplesou
leave the cottage, and when he was well out of sight lie stole
back to the mysterious little house, r :sol\ed not to leave it again
until he, too, had Keen the contents of that hitherto unsuspected
trunk, and learned the secn-t of its being there.
He effected an entrance the same way that he had done before
by shaking loose tne bolt on the kitchen door made his war
to the bedroom, lifted the valance of the couch and looked
eagerly beneath it.
Tiie truuk was there.
It was the work of but a moment to pull it forth from its hiding-
place, but it was not so easy to open it.
He pried patiently at the lock for a h>ng time before be suc
ceeded in forcing it ; but it. gave way at last, and. with a thrill
of expectation, mingled with something of awe and dread, he
laid back the lid to examine the contents.
It. was packed full of clothing.
Thers were dainty dresses of different materials silk, and
\vnol. and muslin. There wer<* mantels and jackets, with under
clothing, finely embroidered >md tiimmed with lace, besides
many other accessories of a refined lady's toilet. There were
] -rettv boxes filled with laces, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and
ploves. Tlisire was n small jewel casket, in which there were a
few but expensive articles of jewelrv-- a wntch case, containing
a small enameled and jeweled watch and chain, and many other
articles in that closely-packed trunk.
Hut Evereb cnr^d tor none of these tilings; he wa bunting
for. and at last he found, that, portfolio over which his father
lind been so much absorbed, and IIP seized it with an air of tri
umph, for he believed it mu*t contain th solution of the secret
which of late bad caused him many sleepless nights and anxious
days.
226 TWO LETTERS.
CHAPTER XXXV.
TWO LETTERS.
The portfolio was not locked, and within it Everet discovered
numerous letters, nil of which were addressed to "Miss Annie
Dale." Most of them were in ladies' handwriting, and a planoe
sufficed to show that they were from schoolmates and girlish
friends.
There were also several essays, which had evidently been writ
ten bv Annie herself, when she was at school, and these were
carefully tied together with a narrow and faded bine ribbon. A
package of little billets contained locks of hair of various colors
and shades, fancifully braided and glued to the paper, each with
the name of the donor written underneath, liiere were a few
drawings, very neatly done, some of landscapes, others of
flowers, ferns, and grasses, and one that brought a startled cry
from Everet Mapleson's lips, for it was a faithful representation
of that very house in the mining village of New Mexico, that he
had visited only a few weeks since. The same hand had done
this that had drawn the others, there could be no doubt, even
if the initials "A. D." at the bottom had not testified to the
fact.
" 'A. D.,' " murmured the young man. "The puzzle is slowly
unweaving itself. This trunk must have been brought here
after she died ; but by whom?"
His face was very grave and troubled, for disagreeable
thoughts and suspicions came crowding thick and fast upon
him.
He put the drawings carefully back into the pocket from
which ho had taken them, and then continued his examination
of the portfolio. But he found nothing in the other pockets,
save a goodly supply of stationery, and ha finally came to the
conclusion that if there had been any papers of importance in
the receptacle they had probably been removed by his father
that very day.
He began listlessly turning over the blotting leaves that were
attached to the middle of the portfolio ; there was now and
then a half sheet of paper between them, but nothing else, until
he came to the last two, when a scrap of paper with some writ
ing upon it in a bold, masculine hand, fell fluttering to the
floor.
Everet stooped and picked it up to return it to its place, but
the instant the writing met his eye, the hot blood mounted to
his brow, and he exclaimed, in a startled tone :
"At last I have found it!"
TWO LETTERS. 227
It was the* other half of that letter, which had been torn in
two, and which lie had found caught in the writing-desk during
his previous visit to the cottage. And this is how it appeared :
"SANTA FE, June 10, 18 .
NIE:
It is with deep pain and
just learned of the death of
se I know that this leaves
annuity which was hers
se and your future is
tie friend ! I can say
n how vain and
me; but, believe me, my
you, and were it pos-
and strive to cheer
I am now going to ask a
6 been friends during all our
not refuse me.
the cottage. Let it be still
as it has been in the
any restrictions .
alone, for it would
secnre some com-
n yourself who will .
. Do not mind the
that we are relatives
in this extremity
ck sufficient for
when I return
ent arrangement
I shall be very
you.
our friend,
" WILLIAM MAPLESON."
Everet merely glanced at this, then taking his wallet from
one of his pockets, he drew from it a folded paper.
It was the other half of the torn letter.
He laid the two portions together; the nigged edges fitted ex
actly, the writing was identical, and the epistle was complete,
and read thus:
"SANTA FB. June 10, 18.
"My DBAB ANNIE:
"It is with deep pain and
regret that I have just learned of the death of
your mother. Of course I know that this leaves
you alone, and that the annuity which was here
for life only must now cease, and your future is
unprovided for. My poor little friend, I can say
nothing to comfort you, for I know how vain and
cold words are at such a time; but, believe me, my
TWO LETTERS.
heart is with you. I sorrow with yon, and were it pos
sible I would come to yon and strive to cheer
yon iu this sad hour. .but I am now going to ask a
favor of you, Annie we have been friends during all imr
life, and surely you will not refuse me.
"I want yoo to remain in the cottage. Let it be still
your home for the future us it has been in the
past It is yours without any restrictions.
"You must not, however, stay there alone, for it would
not be safe, and I want you to secure some com
panion - some one older than yourself, who will
be a sort of protector to you. Do not mind the
expense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives.
1 have a right to care for you in this extremity.
"Inclosed you will find check sufficient for
your present necessities, and when I return
I will make some permanent arrangement
for you. Write me at once, for I shall be very
anxious until I hear from you.
"Ever your friend,
" WILLIAM MAPLESON."
"I thought the writing was familiar to me. I suspected my
father wrote it from the first, and yet his hand has changed very
iniiv-li since this was written. But surely there is nothing in this
merely friendly epistle to warrant swell dreadful suspicions as
liave nearly driven me wild during these last few weeks. I have
believed tlie wry worst that it was he wno enticed her away,
and then betrayed her confidence. I know that he was in New
Mexico at that time; I know that she went there and lived with
Borne one for a year; and then that ring seemed to prove every
thing to me. Still, this is not a lover's letter; it is simply a
friendly expression of sympathy and interest, and a desire to
provide for a relative who had no one to rely upon. Heavens!
will this mystery never lie solved?" he concluded, rising and
shutting Hie portfolio, but retaining the scrap of paper he had
found.
He replaced everything in the trunk, closed it, though he
could not lock it again, then pushed it back under the bed; after
which lie went quickly out of the house, feeling depressed anfl
bitterly disappointed that he had discovered nothing tangible,
either to prove or dissipate his supicions.
As he stepped off the veranda, something white fluttered ill
the tall grass at his feet.
It was another letter.
A thrill went tingling all along his nerves, as lie stooped and
picked it up.
It was addressed to "Mi*s Annie Dale, Richmond, Va.," and
bore the date of Ju'y 15tli, of the same year as the other one
already in his possession.
TWO LETTERS. 229
It was also in the flame handwriting, and had been mailed from
Santa Fe.
'This is one of the things that he came hither to secure, and
jbe must have dropped it as he passed ont," Everet mnnnmvd,
as lie sat down upon a step, drew the letter from iU envelope,
aud began to read it
"My DEAB ANNIE," it began, like the other, "your reply to my for-
mer letter has hurt me keenly. I cannot bear the thought of yoni
going ont into the world alone to earn your own living. I hoped that
you would be content to remain in your own home, and let me pro
vide for you as a brother would do. But since you refuse how cold
and dignified your refusal was, too! I am forced to break all barriers
down and make a confession that for years I had yearned to make and
dare not. Annie, you must not become a governess; I should be
wretched to think of yoii in such a situation. If you will not let nie
take care of you there at home, in a friendly way, you must come to me
here; for, darling, I love you I have always loved you, ever since we
played together, as childrec by the brook near the old mill, sailing
our tiny ships side by side, ani premised each other that, when we
were older, we would 'be married, and make a voyage round the world
together.' Come and redeem that promise to me now, Annie, darling.
Do not hesitate because it wi 1 involve the sacrifice of the fortune be
queathed to me, under certaia conditions, for I cannot- I will not
marry my Cousin Estelle while I love another as I love you; and what
is all the wealth of the world compared with our happiness? I am
doing finely here in the mines. ia,a few years, at this rate, I shall be
worth even more than I shill have to forfeit by this step, BO I will
gladly relinquish every dollaj to Estelle for you, my darling.
"Annie, I believe that you .ove me I have long believed it- and I
have yearned to make this confession, and to hear a similar one from
Jorr lips, for a long, long time. Had I not been hampered by Uncl
abez's will, and an unworthy vacillation on account of it, I should have
tolJ you this that last delightful summer we spent together. But I
have passed the Rubicon now, so do not ruin all my hopes. I am
iorry that I cannot come to yon, my own love. But my presence is ab
solutely necessary here, and I cannot leave for such a long trip; but if
your heart responds to mine if you will come to me and give your
self to me, I will meet you on the way, at Kansas City, and from there
I will take my little wife to her own home among the mountains of
New Mexico, where we will be all in all to each other. You will not
mind the isolation for a little while, will you, love, until I can make
my fortune, when we will return again to our own dear sunny South?
Annie, will you trust me? Will you come? If you do not, I believe
my life will be ruined. Do not think, for a moment, that I shall ever
regret Jabez Mapleson's money. I shall not if I can have you. Judge
me by your own heart.
"Inclosed you will find the route you are to take, carefully mapped
aut, and the check that you would not keep before my proud little
woman! I feel sure that you can come with perfect safety alone as far
as Kansas City, where I shall be surely waiting to receive you. Send
a telegram naming the day and the hour when you will start.
"One thing more, love -say nothing to any one of yonr plans; leave
230 TWO LETTERS.
that to me, to explain after we are one. Annie, you will not fail me. I
could not bear it now, for I have set all my hopes upon you, I shall
not rest until i receive your telegram.
"Ever your own, WILL."
Everet Mapleson's face was as white as that of the dead as he
finished reading this epistle.
"It is all true, after all," he said, with blazing eyes and through
his tightly locked teeth. "It was he who enticed her away in
secret, hiding her in that ont-of-the- way place literally burying
her alive. I have been convinced of it ever since I found that ring
with those initials 'W. M. to A. D.' engraved within it, and
yet I kept hoping it could riot be proved. So she went to him
foolish girl! believing that he'd marry her and give up his
money; and she only lived one short year!
"Now Geoffrey Huntress* strange resemblance to me is all ac
counted for," he went on, after a fit of musing; "he is my father's
sou and my half broiher, and to him will belong all Robert
Dale's ' fortune if he should ever learn the secret of his birth.
Now I understand why he was given into Jack and Margaret
Henly's cnre. It would have been very awkward for the heir
of half Jabez Mapleson's fortune if that New Mexican escapade
Lad leaked out. But I cannot comprehend how the boy became
an imbecile an accident, Mr. Huntress said and I suppose
those people got tired of caring for him and cast him off. No;
that can't be, either, for that woman seemed terribly upset about
it. It's all a wretched puzzle, anyhow.
"Zounds!" he continued, with sudden energy, "the governor
is a wonderful actor. He never betrayed himself by so much as
the quiver of an eyelid, this morning, when we talked about this
girl's disappearance. I wonder what he will do about that
money? Will he dare keep it? or will he try to find the boy and
make it over to him in some roundabout way? No; I do not be
lieve he will ever run any risk of having that New Mexican es
capade revealed. He couldn't quite stand that, and my hatightr
mamma would never forgive him. He will keep the money, ami
say nothing. Geoffrey Huntress will never get his fortune, fop
/ shall keep the secret that I have this day discovered closely
locked in my own breast. Neither he nor ray father shall ever
learn through me that he is an heir of the houses of Dale aud
Maplsson.
"He loved her, though I am sure he loved her!" he resumed,
his eyes falling upon that still open letter. "This shows it in
almost every line; aud his face to-day, as I caught a glimpse of
it through the window, as he bent over that trunk, looked as if
he hud just buried the dearest object of his life. It must have
been hard to look at all her pretty fixings and remember that one
short, happy year; for they were very happy, according to Bob
Whittaker's story. That is the reason he keeps this house, aud
"HE IS NOT NAMH.LES&" 231
all in it, so sacred. Why couldn't lie htive married her, like a
man? Money! money! 1 believe it is only a curse to half the
people in tlie world."
He arose, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket; then
going to thoold mill, he unfabtened his horse, mounted, and rode
back to Vue de 1'Eau, looking stern, aud grave, aud unhappy.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
''HE IS NOT NAMELESS.'
October and November passed without any event of special
interest occurring in connection with any of our characters.
In Brooklyn, in the home of August Huntress, these were very
busy days, but every member of the household was full of hope
and happiness.
Gladys and Geoffrey saw but comparatively little of eacli other,
except during the evening, for Geoffrey went early to the office
in New York every morning, and did not return until dinner
time at nix; but both were looking forward to the thirtieth of
December, the date set for their uniou, with all the fond antici
pations of young and loving hearts.
Their engagement was formally announced immediately after
it was decided that Geoffrey was to go abroad, aud cards for the
wedding were issued by the first of December.
Congratulations poured in upon the young couple from all
quarters, and, the winter being an exceptionally gay one, invi
tations abroad were numerous and pressing, their friends urging
their presence, since they were to lose their society entirely dur
ing their long absence in Europe.
Everet Maploson, while reading the fashionable items in a
New York paper one morning, came across the announcement
of this approaching marriage.
He bounded from his chair with a muttered imprecation.
"So soon!" he said, with a frowning irow. "They are in a
great hurry, it seems to me; but perhaps the trip abroad explains
it. Let me see they are to be married on the thirtieth," he
continued, referring to the paper again, "and will sail the next
day on the Scythia. The Scythia? That is not a New York
steamer that sails from Boston; so, of course, they will have to
leave New York immediately after their marriage to be in season
for it."
He paced up and down the room, with bent head and ullen,
thoughtful brow.
All at once he gave a violent start.
"I wonder," he muttered, stopping short in bis pacing; "I
wonder if it would be possible to manage it?"
He tossed back the disheveled hair from bis forehead; his
232 "HE IS NOT NAMELESS."
eyes blazed with some sudden purpose, his lips were Bet in a
lii in. liviil line.
"/ sludl tru for it," he said, in a low, hoarse whisper. "I have
everv tiling to \vm or lose, and I will not yield without a desper-
ate struggle."
Two hours later his portmanteau was packed, and he was tak
ing leave of his father and mother.
They expressed great surprise over his sudden departure, and
protested against his leaving home before the holidays, since they
had uiiidf arrangements for u gay time at Christmas, chiefly oa
bis account.
But he was resolute, and would not be turned from his pur
pose.
'There is to be a great wedding in New York on the thirtieth,
for which 1 am booked," he explained, though lie did not say
who was to be married; "and 1 would not miss it for anything.'*
"Weil, but you could easily reach New York in season for this
wedding, even if you do not leave until alter Christmas." his
mother pleaded, for she was greatly disturbed to have him leave
Lome at this time, while she suspected, from his gloomy face,
who was to be married, and felt sure he was only heaping up
misery for himself in going to New York.
"Perhapn I will come back just for your grand party at
Christmas," he said, to appease her and be allowed to get off
without further objections; "but I must run up North fora
week or two, anyhow."
He readied the city on the morning of the sixth, and proceed
ed directly to the club, of which he was a member, and where
be KOOII learned all that was going on among the bon ton.
During the following day lie called upon Gladys' friend, Miss
Ad die Loring, from whom he meant to get all the particulars
of the approaching wedding.
Miss Loring received him with evident pleasure.
"Where have you kept yourself nil winter, Mr. Mnpleson?"
ghe questioned, brightly, as she cordially grve him her hand.
"J feared you had deserted us altogether since leaving college."
"1 have been in the South most of the time, but something,
more powerful than home influence, constrained me to come to
New York for a little taste of society and city life," Everet re
turned, in a tone and with a look that made the young lady's
bright eyes droop consciously.
"Will you remain until the end of the season?"
"That depends," he replied, with a significant smile, which,
made her hcsut flutter strangely.
"New York is very gay this winter, and there will be plenty
to entertain you for as long as you choose to remain," Miss Lor
ing promised, wi'.h a charming smile. "I suppose," she added,
"you have heard of the great wedding that is to come off on
'the thirtieth?"
IIS IS NOT NAMELESS." 233
"The great wedding' Whose?" Everet questioned, feigning
ignor.uu-e, ulthungh the chief object of his call was lu learn all
he ciuild about it.
"Why, thut of your classmate and double, Mr. Geoffrey Hunt
ress, and my dear friend, Gladys. I am astonished that you have
Dot heard of it," said MissAddie, really surprised that he should
not iiave received cards for the marriage.
"All! So Huntress is going to marry Miss Gladys, is lie?
Pray, what name will he bestow npon the lady?" the young uinn
asked, with a curl of his handsome lips.
"Why, of course, there will be no change of name Geoff was
legally adopted by Mr. Huntress, so that makes everything all
right," returned Miss Loru,g, looking a trifle displeased at the
slur that had been cast at her friend's betrothed.
"Then the groom-elect has never been able to discover the
secret of his parentage?" Everet remarked, inquiringly.
"1 think not."
"Are you pleased with this match, Miss Loving?"
"Of course I am I tbi;k Geoffrey Huntress is a magnificent
man," she affirmed, emphatically. "It would, doubtless, be a
great comfort to him to have the mystery of his birth solved ;
but it doesn't matter, really they love each other devotedly,
and \\ill make a splendid couple."
Evei-et winced under these last words, but deemed it wiser
to keep his s'-eers and slurs to himself.
"I suppose it the welding will be a very grand affair?" be
remarked.
'Very ; there are to be six bridesmaids, of whom I am to be
the chief," responded Miss Addie, with animation. "They will
be married in Plymouth Church."
"In church!*' interposed Everet, with an eager look. "Will it
be in the evening?"
'Yes, in the early evening at five o'clock and they will re
ceive from six until eight. Mr. Huntress lias spared no expense
to make it a very brilliant affair. But I am surprised I sup
posed, having been a classmate, yon would have received cards
for the wedding, Mr. Mapleson," Miss Ijoring concluded.
"No, I have not been honored. Will the happy couple settle
in N-\v York? '
"R'-ally, Mr. Mapleson, you are behind the times," laughed his
companion. "No, indeed, they sail the next day, at twelve, for
Europe, to be gone for six months. Will not that he delight
ful? If the con rue of true love never ran smoothly before, it has
done so in this rase, for there has been nothing to mar it from
the beginning."
Everet Mapleson's eyes gleamed sfrangely at this, and a spot
of bright color leaped into his cheeks.
'On what steamer do they sail?" he inquired.
"Ou the Scythia, from Boston, owiug to Borne business con-
234: "HE IS NOT NAMELESS."
nected with that city. That is why tlio marriage and reception
are set so early ; they leave New York on an evening train, and
will arrive in Boston early the next, morning;. Oh!" conc-lniled
the young lady, with a sigh, "1 shall miss Gladys more than I
can tell you."
"No doubt." Everet observed; and then, after conversing a
few moments longer upon indifferent topit-.-, huviug obtained all
the points he wished, he arose to take his leave.
His chief object in calling had been to assure himself that, ha
had not been misinformed regarding any of the details of the ap
proaching marriage.
His next plan was to meet Gladys somewhere, if possible.
It was easy enough to do this, by securing invitations to the
receptions among the elite, and a few evenings later he found
her at a fashionable party on Lexington avenue.
She seemed lovelier than ever, with the rosy glow of perfect
health on her face, her beautiful eyes gleaming with happiness,
and her lips wreathed with smiles.
Her dress, on this occasion, was vastly becoming, consisting
of a deep shade of ecru, embroidered with a delicate shaiie of
blue intermingled with silver. Ornaments of silver in rilijrree,
and set with diamonds, were on her neck and arms, while a
graceful aigrette of blue and white was fastened in her hair by a
Star, to mate! i her other ornaments.
She started slightly as she met Everot Mapleson's glance fixed
upon her. He was HO much like Geoffrey that it was almost im
possible, even now, for her to distinguish them apart.
The next moment he was bowing before her, with extended
hand.
"It seems a long time since we met, Miss Huntress," he said,
in a tone which deepened the color in her checks, for it reminded
her vividly of not only their last meeting, but also their part
ing.
But she thought best to ignore it all, and so returned his greet
ing with lady-like courtesy.
"i suppose you have been in yonr Southern home, Mr. Ma-
pleson," she said. "I should think yon would hardly like to
leave its genial climate for our rigorous winter here."
"There are sometimes stronger attractions than a genial cli
mate in winter," he replied, with an earnest look into her lovely
eyes.
"Yes, New York is very attractive just now," she returned, de
termined not to appropriate his significant remark to herself.
"Do you remain here long?"
"I think I may stav through this inonfh " he answered, with
an emphasis upon the last two words that brought the quick
blood again to h^r cheeks, for she knew that he was thinking of
her approaching marriage.
Still, she waa willfully obtuse.
"HE IS NOT NAMELESS." 236
"What!" she exclaimed, archly. "Can you content yourself
away from home during the holidays?"
"Yes at least for this year. Miss Huntress, will yon give my
name a place upon your dancing-list?" he asked, glancing at the
card that was suspended by a silken cord from her corsage.
Gladys opened and held it up before him, with a smile.
It was full, and she was glad it happened so.
His face fell, for his quick glance detected Geoffrey's name
against several dances
"I am too late, I perceive," he said, with a bow; '-but, per
chance I may be more fortunate before the month is out."
Something in his tone more than the words made her regard
him closely, and a sort of chill smote her heart as she marked the
peculiar gleam in his eye and the resolute lines about his mouth.
Some one claimed her just then, and, with a polite bow, sbe
excused herself and left him, glad to get awav from his presence.
The next time they met was more than a week later, at the
opera.
Gladys was spending a few days with her friend, Addie Lor-
ing. It was to be her last visit before her marriage, and the two
girls were making the most of it.
Mr. Loving invited them to accompany him to bear Parepa
Rosa, and sent word to Geoffrey to join them; but he had an en
gagement for the first half of the evening, and could not; he
would, however, joiu them later, he said in the note that he sent
his betrothed.
Mrs. Loring was not well, and did not feel equal to going out,
and so her husband had to be both chaperon and escort for the
young ladies.
Everet Mapleson saw them the moment they entered their box,
while it was not long before Miss Loring discovered iiis vicinity,
when she bowed and smiled most cordially. A moment later she
leaned forward and whispered to hrr father, who nodded assent,
and then made a signal for Everet to come and join his party.
The voting man needed no second invitation, and was soon
seated between the two young ladies, payly parrying Miss Lor-
ing's witty shots at his having come to the opera nil alone, when
there were so many belles and beauties who would have been de
lighted to share the pleasure with him.
Gladys drew herself a little apar 1 :. 'She felt uncomfortable to
have him there, under any circum stances, while, too. she w;is in
terested in the opera, and it annoyed her to have those around
her conversing, even though it wns scarcely above their breath.
When the curtain went down, after the second act, Addie Lor-
inc raided her gl-.iss and began gazing about her.
Suddenly her face lighted, and^ending forward, she waved
her hand to some one in the audience near them.
'Oh. papa," she said, turning eagerly to her father, "thero is
Sadie Nutting! She must have. "returned on the last steam, r.
236 "HE IS NO T If A MELES?. "
See! she is beckoning to me. Will yon take me to her just, fora
few moments, while tlie curtain is down? 1 am sure Gladys
and Mr. Mapleson will exsnse us and entertain each other while
we are gone, and we won't be five minutes."
Mr, Loring glanced nt Everet, hoping he would offer to es
cort liis daughter, for he was too comfortably seated to care ti>
be disturbed,
But the young man had HO such intention; this was just the
opportunity he had been wanting, ever since he came to New
York, inn! lie meant to improve it, even though he should have
only "live minutes." He said:
"Certainly, certainly," to Miss Loring, "go, by all means, to
Bee your friend, if yon wish," and he watched the father anil
daughter with a secret thrill of triumph as they weufc out, leav
ing him alone with Gladys.
She was greatly disturbed by the incident.
She could not blame Addie, for she knew that she was ignor
ant of her feelings toward Everet Mapleson; but she wished,
with all her heart, that Geoffrey would come, so that she need
not be alohe with Everet.
The moment the doors closed upon Mr. Loring and his
daughter, Everet turned smilingly toward his companion, and
drew his chair nearer to her.
"Thank the fates, and that giddy girl, for this supreme mo
ment," lie began, in a low, passionate tone; adding: "Gladys,
Lave yon forgotten our last private interview at Vassar?"
Ghvdvs looked up ut him, .both startled and indignant.
"I should be ghid to lorget it, Mr. Mapleson, if you would
allow me to do so, for your sake as well as niy own," she re
turned, with cold dignity.
"I do not wish you to forget it, Gladys," he returned, with
increasing fervor, "for I love you a hundred fold more to-night,
and I must unburden my heart to you, or it will burst."
"Mr. Maplesou!" Gladys said, half rising from her chair, a
flash of anger in her eyes, "you shall not say such things to me;
you know you have no right '*
"I have a right,'' he interposed, hotly; "a right because of my
deathless love and my indomitable purpose to win yours in re
turn."
"Y<>u cannot! how dare you?" Gladys began again, but he
Would not 1ft her go on.
"I dare, because I must dare or die! oh! Gladys, I love you
so! have pity on me!' he said, and his voice died away in aa
agonized whisner, showing how terribly in earnest he was.
The yoi.ng gill was deathly pale now, and trembling in every
limb; but she faced him witk blazing eyes and curling lips, her
perfect form proudly erect.
"Yon are no gentleman," she said, scornfully, "to fmy such
words to one who, in less thau two weeks, will be the wife of an-
"HE IS NOT NAMELESS" 257
other man; to take advantage of roe during the absence of nay
friends, and in a place like this force such a declaration up
on me."
"I conld not help it; I had no other time; you avoid me upon
every occasion," he returned, the blood flushing his face hotly
at her scorn.
"I have uo choice; your looks, your acts all compel ma
to "
"I cannot help them when I nm near you I forget every
thing l>nt that I love you!" he pleaded in excuse.
"Shame! Where is your sense of honor, that you persist in
such language to the affianced of another?" she panted.
"Twice you have thrown that in my teeth," he retorted,
fiercely, and fast losing eou*rol of himself. "Have you no
shame, that you confess yourself the affianced of a nameless out
cast?"
"He is not nameless, and you have no authority for calling
him an outcast," retorted Gladys, proudly, all her spirit rising
to arms at this attack upon her absent lover.
"Haven t I?" sneered the hot-headed young man. "Listen.
I have been looking up Geoffrey Dale's pedigree, since 1 saw
you last. I have traced him to his Uirthplt.ce. His mother
was a poor, but beautiful girl, without a home, without friends.
She had a rich lover, who could not marry her without sacrific
ing a fortune, and he loved his money t<>o well to do that, so ha
sacrificed the girl instead. Ho took her to a remote mining
district, where, hidden away from every one who ever knew her,
ehu lived with him for one short year, nnd died when her child
was only a month old. That child was Geoffrey Dale; his moth
er's name was Annie Dale, and he has no right to nny other, ex
cept the one that has been given him for charity's sake. You
have a right to be proud of your betrothed, Miss Huntress."
"I am proud of him! ' Gladys returned, in a firm, even tone.
Astonishment at Ev^ret Mapleson knowing so much about Gof-
frey had contributed more toward calming her excited nerves
than almost anything else could have done. "Yes, I am proud
of him, "she repeated, with a change of emphasis, "and you Iniva
told me nothing new, Mr. Mapleson. excepting that this young
girl had no home or friends, and that the man who took her to
New Mexico was rich, and willfully wronged her. Indeed, I
know- even more than you have told me."
"Mora! Do you know who his father was?" Everet Mapleson
exclaimed, with a start.
"No, nor do I wish to, if he was guilty of the atrocious act you
have named," Gladys returned, with 'itluM'ing scorn. "But tha
Bin will some day recoil upon hw o vn head; it can never change
my regard for one who is innately no 1 le and true."
"And you do not shrink from In-coming the wife of one upon
whom shame has rested from the hour of his birth?" demanded
238 A THREAT AND A WH.DDING-RJNG.
Everet Mapleson, regarding the beautiful girl with astonish
ment.
"No," she replied, steadfastly; "no shame restsupon him; that
all belongs to the preceding generation; but I should shrink
with loathing from the man who betrayed Annie Dale, as you
represent, were he lord or prince he is only worthy of my con
tempt, and I would scorn him as I would the veriest blackleg in
this city."
Thp young man flushed hotly. It was not pleasant to listen to
such words, believing what he did; they touched a sensitive
Bpot.
"But this man of whom I have told you is a gentleman, never
theless," he said.
"A gentleman ?"
The words were uttered in the quietest possible tone, but the
contempt which trembled through it was matchless, and made
the young man wince as under a lash.
"Your distinctions are more nice than wise, Miss Huntress;
but, mark my words, yon shall never marry this man's illegiti
mate son!" he hissed, driven almost to a frenzy by her words,
her look, and tone.
She turned upon him, her face colorless, but with eyes gleam
ing like two points of tire.
"Yon insult me, sir! Yon insult one who is a hundred fold
more noble than yourself, by the use of such vile language.
Bnt." and she raised one daintily gloved hand to enforce her
words, "were his name doubly tainted by the sin of others, it
could not smirch the man I honor the man I love. It will he
the proudest day of my life when I wed Geoffrey Dale Huntress,
a.s Ishall, in spite of all that you have told me to-night, ay, even
though you should do your worst, and proclaim it from every
house-top in this city."
She was glorious, in her haughty pride and indignation, as she
gave utterance to these loyal sentiments, and Everet Mapleson
instinctively shrank before her with a sense of shame and humil
iation. At that moment the doors behind them swung open,
and Geoffrey himself entered the box.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
A THREAT AND A WEDDING KINO.
Gladys' first impulse, upon beholding her lover, was to spring
toward him, denounce the man who had so insulted her and
him, and demand to be conducted from his presence.
But her judgemnt told her that this would- ho very unwise;
there must be no scene in that public place; there must be no
quarrel between these two men, and perhaps it would be bettar
A THREAT AND A WEDDING-KING. 239
that Geoffrey should never know tliat Everet Mapleson held the
secret of his birth. She knew that he would never vest until he
hail wrung it from him, and that, she believed, would never be
done without bitter feelings, and perhaps strife.
So, with a mighty effort, sue controlled herself, drew her
cloak a'-KMit her shoulders to hide the heaving of her bosom, as
sliw aro.se and turned a smiling, though still pale face, toward
her lover.
"You have come, Geoffrey; I am very glad. You will recog
nize an old classmate iu Mr. Mapleson," she said, as she moved
her chair farther into the shadow of the draperies and made
room for Geoffrey between herself and her other companion.
Everet tegarded the girl with wondering admiration. He
knew that she was laboring under intense excitement, and that
it required no light effort on her part to conceal it. He under
stood her motives that she wished to avoid a quarrel and a
scene, mid he thought her tact inimitable.
Geoffrey greeted his former college-mate courteously, which,
greeting Mapk-son returned with a cold, rather supercilious
bow. He was always conscious of his own moral inferiority
when iu Geoffrey's presence, and the feeling galled him exces
sively.
Geoffrey saw at once, in spite of Gladys' efforts to conceal it,
thut something had gone wrong with her, and he rightly guessed
that Everet Mapleson had been the cause of it. He gently seat
ed her, and then placed himself beside her, while Mr. Loring
and his daughter returned at that moment, and the party settled
themselves very comfortably for the remainder of the evening.
Everet devoted himself exclusively to Miss Loring, much to
that young lady's secret delight; her father gave his attention
entirely to the stage, thus leaving Geoffrey and Gladys to them
selves.
"What is it, dear? what has troubled you?" Geoffrey asked,
bending tenderly toward his betrothed, as he became more con
scious of the difficulty she was laboring under to retain her com
posure.
Gladys stole one little hand confidingly into his, under cover
of her opera cloak.
"Never mind, Geoff, now that I have you here; I will tell yon
some other time," she whispered, as she involuntarily turned
her still flashing eyes toward young Mapleson, while a slight
shiver ran through her frame.
Geffrey's glance followed hers, and his face clouded.
"Has he dared " he began, sternly.
"Hush!" she returned; "it is all past; he will never dare
again."
She saw that Geoffrey needed but a word to make him de
mand an explanation of his riv:il, and sue I'enred the worst from
a meeting between them; so sue resolved that she would not u 11
240 A THREAT AND A
Lira what Everet had told her regarding liia parentage; at least,
not until after their marriage; perhaps, when they were on the
ocean, where it would lie impossible for him to take any aggres
sive measures until time liad served to cool his anger, bhe might
reveal to him what she hud learned.
So she tried to smile and appear interested in the opera, while
every moment she wished it \vonld end so that she might be re
leased from that terrible constraint.
It was over at last, to her intense relief.
Everet Mapleson escorted Miss Loring from the building,
but when the party readied the sidewalk they found Mich a
crowd before them that they were obliged to step back and wait
lor it to disperse before they could get to their carriage.
In doing this, Eve'vt Maplesou had managed so that ho should
Btand close beside Gladys, for he had determined to fire a part-
lug shot at her.
He luul been covertly watching her ever since their interview,
aud her attidude of trust and confidence toward Geoffrey had
been almost maddening to him.
She was beautiful beyond comparison when she faced him in
ber indignation, defending hei absent lover, and resenting the
insult offered to herself; he had never seen her so spirited be
fore, and it lent an added charm to her fascinations, while he
was filled with impotent rage that he was powerless to awaken
any feelings in her heart for him, tave those of scorn and cou-
teiupt.
"Why should he win?" he cried within himself, as lie. marked
Geoffrey's air of tender proprietorship; "he who has not, even a
name to otter her, while I, who am heir to the proud escutcheon
of Mapleson, and to a double fortune, perhaps a triple one, if he
never discovers who lie is, am able to excite nothing but aversion
and contempt. I swear I will not submit to it. and 1 wi'l fi,id
Borne wuy to part them, ev n now. He has crossed my path too
ui:inv times. 1 have never forgiven iiirn on the old score, and I
Vrill never forgive him for being an interloper in my mc>."
All this was in his mind us lie stood close beside the young
bride-elect, while waiting for Mr. Loring's carriage, and some
evil spirit possessed him to nsai! her again.
"Miss Huntress," he whispered, so close to her ear that no one
could possibly hear him in (lie tumult around them, "doubtless
you have heard that old saving. 'There is many a slip 'twixt cup
and lip.' '
Gladys never noticed hii by go much as a glance. She might
liave been some beautiful statue, and deaf to all sounds, for any
evidence that she gave of having heard him. And y t he knew
Bhe could not have failed to catch every word that he Lad ot
tered.
His blood began to boil at bring thus ignored.
"Do you imagine that I shall tamely submit to see anothcv
A Til HEAT AND A WS.UDlXG-mKO. 241
man win you, and he so far beneath von ? It shall never
be f"
Gladys tnnieil at this, anl looked straight into his eyes, and
actually stuiled a smile that tiro.'e him almost to a fnjiizy ; it
was like a winter's sunbeam reflected from ice sharp, dazzling,
chilling.
'The/o/Mre tense is not applicable in this case. Mr. Mapleson,"
she ivtoited, in as icy a tone, while tin* air \\it.i which she set
tied tier small hand more firmly within her lover's arm plainly
said, 4> I am already won!"
Everet Maplesim ground his teeth in haffl.M rage. It was evi
dent that in uu open battle Miss Huntress was too much for
him.
"Wait," lie whispered again ; "th<> thirtieth may tell a different
Story ; at all events, you are warned."
She did not deign to notice his threat, and, an opening now
presenting itself, Mr. Loriug led the way to the carriage, where,
alter assisting his companion to enter, Mr. Majdesou took his
leave of the purty and went his way.
Geoffrey was very much disturbed when Gladys told him that
Everet Mapleson had again presumed to address words of love
to her for she had decided that this was all the explanation of
the affair at the opera that she would give him at present and
it required all her power of persuasion to prevent him from dt-
niiiiiding an apology for the insult.
"Let it puss, dear; pray let us have no trouble at this time,"
she had urged.
'But you are almost ray wife, Gladys, and it is a terrible
affront to me as well as to you," Geoffrey returned, hotly.
"He is so far beneath you, Geoff, morally, that I cannot bar
to have you lower yourself enough to notice him. and believe
me, he received a lesson that he will not soon forget," Gladys
concluded, with a spirit and energv that both amused and de
lighted Geoffrey, who well knew what his betrothed was capable
of when once thoroughly aroused, and he could imagine some
thing of the scorn which the offender in question had called
down upon his devoted head b\ his presumption. So he finally
promised that he would not agitate too matter further, and he
realized that it might result in a scandal that would prove very
annoying just at that time.
It seemed, too, as if Everet Mapleson himself had no desire to
come iu contact with his successful rival, for he suddenly
dropped out of society, and was seen no more during the inter
val between that odMrreuoa at the opera and the thirtieth.
He was greatly missed, however, by ma .y of the languishing
l>elles. for he was esteemed "a great catch." and had been most
industriously angled for by numerous anxious mammas, and
scheming fathers with a doubtful bank account.
Miss Addie Loring, perhaps, really took his sudden and unao*
242 A THREAT AND A WEDDISQ-RINQ.
countable absence more to heart than tvny one else, for she had
secretly began to entertain a tender liking lor him.
During the last week before the wedding, that event became
the chief topic <*f the day in the circle in winch Gladys and
Geoffrey moved, for the match was considered a most nanautio
one, aud both parties were especial favorites, while for brilliancy
and magnitude it was to be the affair of the season.
Gifts of every description poured in upon the young couple,
for whom their friends seemed unable to do enough to manifest
their regard for them.
"Mamma, I have silver and china enough to set up four estab
lishments ; what shall I do with it all V" Gladys laughingly
remarked, one morning, after the arrival of numerous packages
and cases. ''While as for jewelry, brie a br<ic, and ornaments,"
she continued, ''I shall never have room nor opportunity to dis
play them all."
"You have been most lavishly remembered, dear," returned
Mrs. Huntress ; but she sighed while she smiled over the
evidences of her daughter's popularity, as she thought of -the
care and responsibility which it would entail upon her in
the future.
"It is very, very nice to be remembered by one's friends, and
pleasant to know that one has so many." Gladvs said, thought
fully taking up a delicate vase, which rude handling would have
crushed to atoms, but which she knew represented a large
amount of money, "but if they would only give me some simple
little token, just to show that they really care for me, I should
not feel quite so overwhelmed. Perhaps I am too sensitive and
notional, but I think the weight of obligation which is some
times imposed upon brides is almost frightful, that is, unless
they marry as I am not doing naea who can enable them to in
dulge in similar extravagance in return later on."
"There is a good deal of sense in what you sav, Gladys," re
turned her mother, "but these beautiful and expensive things
represent branches of industries, and somebody must purchase
them in order that certain classes of artisans may live. It is
bard to know where to draw the line in these tilings. It would
not \i so questionable, though, if people would be really honest
in their gifts and offer only what they could afford, instead of
trying to outdo others from a feeling of vanity."
But, in spite of these practical discussions, there seemed to be
no end to the accumulation of wedding gifts up to the last mo
ment.
The wedding-day dawned, a bright, mild winter morning, and
every hour was filled with preparations for the important cere
mony that was to occur early i;i the evening.
Geoffrey saw but little of his betrothed that day, for he had
many duties to attend to relating to their departure, and lst
instructions to receive regarding the business he had under-
A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING. 243
taken. But about two in the afternoon he came home to find
Gladys just going to her room, from which she would not come
forth again until she was prepared for her marriage.
"I am only just in time, I perceive, to take leave of Miss
Glayds Huntress," he said, smiling fondly upon her, as he drew
her into the music-room, and shut the door, for a few moments'
private chat with her.
"You do not look more than sixteen," he continued, touching
the light rings of hair that lay on her forehead, and smoothing
the great satiny braid, that had been allowed to hang, like a
schoolgirl's, down her back, uutil the hair-dresser should come,
"a.nd very little as if a few hours would make you somebody's
wife."
Gladys flushed at that last word, though a happy little laugh
rippled from her lips.
"Perhaps I shall appear more matronly by and by," she said.
"I!, is possible that putting 'Mrs.' before my name may make
quite a change. How queer it will seem to be married and yet
be Gladys Huntress still?"
Geoffrey's face clouded, and a pang shot through his heart.
"I wish it could be otherwise, darling, I wish I had an hon
ored name to give you," he said, regretfully.
Gladys put up her hand and drew down his head until their
lips met.
"Dear Geoff, forgive me," she pleaded, in a tone of self-re
proach, "I was very thoughtless to make such a speech. I shall
be just as happy to be called Mrs. Geoffrey Dale Huntress, as
anything else; my pride will not consist in my name, but in my
husband."
His arms closed about her more fondly.
He knew that sho loved him with all the strength of her pure
and noble nature that she had chosen him from among the
many admirers who would gladly have bestowed a proud name,
as well as fortune, upon her, and that ho ought to be content.
But he was not; it raiTktad, like a thorn in his heart, that he
had no name to give her that for want of one he was compelled
to assume hers.
Neither he nor Gladys had ever been told of her adoption;
both believed that she was August and Alice Huntress' own
child, and, somehow, a feeling of obligation, that was almost de
gradation, would now and then assail him, that he was obliged
to identify himself in this way.
"Geoffrey," Gladys continued, seeing the cloud still on his
face, "do not allow so slight a thing to cast a shadow over our
joy to-day. I am so happy life looks so bright to me, that I am
almost afraid it is all a dream, and I shall wake up to find it all
gone from my grasp."
He could not resist her bright, tender face, nor the beautiful,
trustful eyes as they were raised to his.
244 A THREAT AND A WEDDIbG-RISQ.
"My own love," he replied, bis face clearing, "it is no dream
to either of us it is ill a delightful reality, and anticipation of
the happiness before us. during the coming six months, is like a
poein to me. But," he added, "I suppose I must not detain you
here have you everything that yon need or wish for to
night?"
"I believe so; but truly. Geoff. I wish it were nil over,"
Gladys confessed, clinging to him. ''Sometimes I have been
Borry that we agreed to have all this fuss and excitement. I feel
as if the occasion is almost too sacred for the gaze of the curi
ous, and to be mixed np s*> with show, dress, and so many ot'.mr
petty details. If we could only have just a few of our especial
friends with us, and say our vows quietly and solemnly, right
here at home, I believe I should like it much better."
This had been Geoffrey's feeling all along; but it was Mr.
Huntress' desire to have a brilliant wedding, and he could not
find it in his heart to oppose any reasonable wish of one who
had been so kind to him.
"Well," he answered, "we can comfort ourselves with one
thought; the 'fuss and excitement' will not last long, then we
shall liava each other all to ourselves. But, darling, see here."
He drew a tiny case from his pocket, ami, opening it, disclosed
a heavy gold circlet resting in its bed of velvet "have you any
idea how strong this little fetter is going to be? only death will
ever break the tie that it will cement."
Gladys bent forward to look at the mystio symbol, the vivid
color surging to her brow.
"Oil, Geofl! what a heavy one; is it marked?" she said.
"Yes, and that i.s wh\ I slio-v it to you it may not be marked
in a way to please you," au;l he held it toward her for examina
tion.
"Please take it out yourself and let me see I do not want to
touch it," she said, drawing slightly away.
He laughed.
"Why, you dear little goose! are yon superstitious?"
"N o; but somehow I do not wish to touch it until after yon
have put it where it belongs," she answered, softly.
He removed it from the case, holding it so ihut she could
see the engraving on its inside surface, and she read, "G. D. to
G. H. Dec. 30, 18."
"G. D. !" she repeated, locking tip questioningly.
"Yes," he replied, gravely. "Forgive me for referring again
to an unpleasant topic, but I could not bring my mind to add
another H. there. If I have a right to an honored name, and
find it out sometime, then I will have the initial inserted you
Bee, I have had space left for it. Do you mind?"
"No, Geoff," Gladys returned, after a, moment's thought,
though her 'heart sank at his words, as she remembered what
Everet Mapleson Lad told her, "you Lave done perfectly right
THE WEDDING. 2
to mark the ring as you wish, and, of course, no one save our-
Belve* ever need know anything about it."
He ]ut it away with a sigh of relief.
"1 am glad that you approve, dear," he said, smiling, "and
BOW mind that your glove is properly arranged, ami no other
ring on tin's, my especial finger; for i,his ring must never come
off after 1 have once put it on, unless we find another initial to
ndd to the others. Now, good-by, love, for the next three
Lours. I shall not see you again uutil we meet at church."
CHAPTER XXXVIIL
THE WEDDINO.
went to her room with a sweet and tender gravity on
her beautiful face.
Every passing moment made her feel more sensibly the sa-
credness of the vows that she was about to take upon herself,
and the responsibilities she was so soon to assume.
"I know this great joy is far more than I deserve," she mur
mured. "1 cannot understand why no shadow has ever been
Allowed to cloud my life, when so many are born to a lot of
Borrow, trial, and toil. I will try to lift the burden from some
hearts in the future; I will not live all tcr self, but reflect some
of ray own happiness, if I can, to brighten other lives less favored
than mine."
Could any bride, on the eve of her marriage, have made a
holier resolve than this?
Very lovely she looked, when she came forth from her chamber,
in her spotless wedding attire.
Her simple, yet elegant dress, of white ottoman silk, was made
en train, and its only garnishing was the voluminous vail, which
covered her from head to foot, and was caught, here and there,
in graceful draperies, with clusters of orange blossoms and lilies
of the valley.
Unlike many brides, she was not pale, but a delicate and
lovely color was on her cheek. Her eyes were brilliant and ex
pressive with the deep and hrly joy that filled her heart, and
Bhe was calm with that perfect content which an unwavering
confidence find affection alone could give.
She rode alone with her father, who was to give her away, to
Plymouth Church, where Geoffrey was to meet her. He was not
there when they arrived, although he left the house some time
previous to their own departure, and they waited for him in the
vestibule, but somewhat anxiously, as it was already five min
utes past the hour set for the ceremony.
At last there was a slight commotion about the door, and a
voice was heard to say:
246 THE WEDDING.
"He lias come! All is w>ll now!"
Gladys looked up as he carue forward, and thought he looked
a trifle pale aud excited, but it might be because the light was
dim, while her vail rendered everthing a little indistinct.
He nodded and smiled reassuringly at her, however; they
would not let him come near her, for her dress \\aa all arranged
to go in, and must not be disturbed, while her maidens were
hovering about her like a band of fairies around their queen,
and, with girlish superstition, they waved him off, saying he
must not speuk to her again until after the ceremony.
Mr. Huntress interviewed hitn regarding the delay, and then
came and told Gladys it had been caused by a change in clergy
men at the last moment. Their own pastor had been summoned
by telegraph to a brother who was lying at the point of death,
only a little more than an hour previous, and had been obliged
to send a stranger a friend who happened to be visiting in his
family to officiate in his place.
This was the only shadow that had marred the young bride's
joy that day. She dearly loved her noble pastor, and was
deeply disappointed not to have him pronounce her nuptial
benediction.
But she had no time to express it, for Mr. Huntress gave the
signal to the ushers to throw open the church doors, while the
groom, followed by his attendants, passed down oue aisle, and
Gladys, on her father's arm and attended by her maids, went
down another.
They all met at the altar, where the strange clergyman was
already awaiting thm.
Every bod v wondered at the self-possession and the lovely
bloom of the bride.
But the secret of it was that Gladys forgot herself and all her
surroundings; forgot the crowd of witnesses behind her; the
curious glances the place everything in the solemn moment
and the vows she was plighting.
The clergyman, stranger though he was, made the service
very beautiful and impressive, while the few words of kindly
advice and congratulation which he uttered at its close, when
be pronounced the young couple husband and wife, were ex
ceedingly apt and well chosen.
Then it was over, and those two, before whom life seemed
reaching out so fair and full of- promise, passed slowly down
the center aisle, every eye following them, while every lip
seemed to have something to say in praise of them.
Gladys was very quiet as her husband put her into the car
riage, for the solemnity of the service was still upon her, He,
too, seemed in a like mood, for he only gathered the hand that
wore his ring close within his own, and thus they sat, mute
from excess of joy, during their drive home.
Very tenderly the young husband helped his bride to alight,
THE WEDDING. 217
led her up the steps, iiewr relinquishing her hand until he
placed her beneath the mugnificent arch at the lower end of the
dntwing-ntou), wheie they were to receive the congratulations
of their I'riemls.
They had driven back very rapidly, and thus they had gained
several minutes to themselves before the arrival of any others.
"My darling! my wife!" said the exultant young husband, us
he stretched forth his arms to gather his beautiful bride to his
breast.
Gladys looked up with a startled, searching glance. Some
thing in his tone had struck strangely on her ears, although lie
had spoken scarcely above a whisper. She saw that he was
etill somewhat pale, but his whole face was lighted with tri
umph.
''Geoff -- " she began, then the word suddenly froze on her
lips, a bewildered look shot in her eyes, when all at once she
started away from him, flijiging out her arms with a wild ges
ture of horror and loathing, her face as white as her dress, her
eyes almost starting from her head.
'EVERET MAPLESON ! Oh! Heaven! how came you kere?"
she shrieked,
He strode up to her, the look of triumph still on his pale
face.
"Because I have a right to be here beside my wife!"
"Never! never.'" she p.mteJ, wildly. 'You have uo right I
am ?* o/ your wife !"
"But, my darling, you are. I hav never left your side for
an instant since we were pronounced, before Godaud man, to be
linsband and wife. You are mine, Gladys ! by the laws of the
land, as well as by the laws of God ! You plighted your vows
to mo in the presence of hundreds of witnesses, and I shall
claim you before all the world !'*
She never moved while he was saying this. She stood look
ing at him with that wild, incredulous light still in her
eyes, that deadly whiteness on her face, her arms still out
stretched in that attitude of horror and loathing.
She was like a beautiful piece of sculpture that had suddenly-
been transformed from a happy, living being into pulseless mar
ble by the bliphtintr influence of some concealing wand.
"Can you not believe it, and be sensible?" Everet Mapleson
for it was really he went on rapidly, for the sound of wheels
from without came to him, and he knew that the room would
be full in a few moments. "Do not make a scene. You are
mine, and no earthly power can sever the bonds that unite us!
I love you madly! I worship you! There is nothing I will
not do*to prove my devotion to you ! I have given you a proud
name ; 1 have wealth, position, influence, and I am your slave
if you will give mo but a crumb of love upon which to feast my
hungry heart. Gladys, again I implore you not to make a
248 THE WEDDING.
scene ! Receive your friends as if nothing unforeseen had Imp
pened, nnd they will never suspect; and to-morrow we. will go
away over the ocean, and leave the world to get over its aston
ishment sis best it can."
He paused, for the horror, the despair on her face, which
grew every iustant more terrible, filled him with fear and dis
may.
Site did not stir ; she was as if frozen in that attitude. She
simply stood staring into his fai;e, her own us rigid as a Ktot.e,
but with such suffering, such anguish, in that fixed gaze as he
Lad never seen depicted in human eyes before.
Steps and voices sounded in the hall. He caught a glimpse
of Mr. and Mrs. Huntress hurrying iu, to be the first to oou-
gratnhite their darling.
Another minute, and he knew there must cornea fearful dis
closure and explosfon.
He moved a step nearer the motionless girl and attempted to
take one of those outstretched hands in his.
His touch seemed to unlock those tense nerves and muscles
as if by mauic.
She shrank away from him with a low, shuddering cry, and
then, without word or warning, fell forward, and would Lava
dropped to the floor HH't he not caught her in his arms.
Mr. Huntress, who entered the room, at that moment, sprang
forward, with a cry cf alarm.
"What is the matter?" he asked, his attention all con contra ted
upon Gladys, and never suspecting the dreadful trick that had
been played upon them all.
"The excitement has been too much for her, I fear," E/eret
responded, in a low tone.
Mr. Huntress took the senseless girl from him, saying:
"Open that door behind you; we must get her away befora
that crowd comes pouring in. My poor girl ! what can have
caused this unusual fainting turn?"
Everet eagerly obeyed his command, and Glady's was bortva
into a small sitting-room, and laid upon a sofa there.
The next moment Mrs. Huutress' anxious face appeared in the
door- way.
"Oh. August, what has happened?" she cried.
"Glatly's has fainted, from some cause or other. Go, Geoff,"
he continued, turning to Everet, "and send some one ini-
mediatelv for Doctr.r Hoyt."
The young man hastened to obey, glad to get away from tUe
tight of that white, rigid face for a moment.
He found a servant in the hall, dispatched him for tl.e
family physician, and then went back to his post beside
Gladys.
He was nearly ao pale an the unconscious bride, for he kne*r
that the truth must soon oome out, and, hardened and dogged us
THE WEDDING. 249
he was, the prospect of the inevitable explosion was not a pleas-
act one.
Mrs. Huntress was on lier knees beside her daughter, bathing
her i'm;o with water, which she had poured from au ice pitcher
standing near.
She had thrown back the delicate vail, and it lay nil in aheap,
like, a fleecy cloud, about the pretty In-own head upon the sofa
pillow, while Mr. Huntress had torn off his gloves, and waa
chaffing tin- small limp hands with anxious solicitude.
"What could have been the cause of this? When was she
taken ill?" he asked, half turning toward Everet, but still keep
ing his eyes fastened npon the face he loved so well.
"Just before you entered, "Everet answered, in a clear, natural
tone.
Mr. Huntress started, and turned a questioning glance upon
him.
Their eves met, and held each other for one brief moment.
Then Mr. Huntress dropped the hands he was chaffing, arose
slowly to his feet, his own color fast receding.
"Geoffrey?" he said, in a doubtful tone, going close up to the
young man.
No, sir; Evr.ret Mapleson, if yon please." replied the young
man, haughtily, as with a mighty effort he braced himself for
the encounter.
"Jiv Heaven, it is f" August Huntress hoarsely exclaimed, and
recoiling as if lie hail been struck a heavy blow. "What what
is the meaning of this?"
"It means that your daughter has become my wife instead of
marrying Geoffrey Dale, as everybody supposed she was going
to do."
Mrs. H'intress sprang up with a faint shriek at this.
"No, no!'' she cried, ' that cannot be."
Then, as slio peered closely into his face, and realised the
truth of the fearful disclosure, she tottered feebly toward her
bus hand, meaning:
"Oli, August! h hits practiced a terrible deception npon us,
an. I it will surely kill Gladys."
Siie was almost an helpless as the unconscious girl herself, and
her husband was forced to put her into a rocker that stood near
him, simply because he, too, was so weakened and unmanned by
what, he had hei\rd that he was unable to support her.
lJut a terrible wrath began to rise witl.in him; with it came a
false kind of strength, and turning toward the wolf who had
thus stolen into his household, he commanded, in a fearful
voice;
"Young man, explain yourself !"
"Willingly, sir; the sooner the truth is out, the better it will
snit me," Everet replied, haughtily. "I have loved your daugh
ter for more than three years. Twice I have offered myself to
250 THE WEDDISQ.
her, and twice been rejected. When I learned of her engage
ment to the low-born boy whom you adopted, and whom I have
despised and hated from the very first of our acquaintance, I
vowed it should never be consummated. ] worshiped her, and
I resolved that I would win her at any cost. I have done HO; she
is mine, wedded to me this night, in the presence of yourself and
hundreds of others, and I shall assert my claim in spite of yon.
all. I hoped, in the excitement and confusion, and from my
close resemblance to Huntress, that I should escape discovery
nntil our departure from New York, If we had not reached the
honse qnite so early if the guests coald have followed close
upon ns and kept Gladys' attention from being especially culled
to me, I think 1 could have warded off detection until we were
"well on onr way to Boston. She seemed turned to stone when
she did recognize me, and realized how she had been duped, and
when I attempted to reason with Her she swooned."
For a minute after Everet concluded, Mr. Huntress stood like
one dazed by some fearful fehock, his glance wavering between
the still unconscious bride and the man whose victim she had be
come.
"It is a fraud!" he cried at last. "You have practiced a most
damnable fraud upon us all; but I hope that von do not imagine
fora moment that you can enforce your claim. The courts of
New York will promptly annul the marriage."
"Allow me to suggest, sir, that yon will first have to prove
your point regarding fraud," Everet retorted, with quiet
defiance. "Miss Huntress has been heard to affirm that she
could distinguish between Geoffrey Dale and myself without
any difficulty, and yet she went to the altar with me and pledged
herself to me without a demur."
Mr. Huntress groaned.
"Was that strange clergyman a tool of yours?" he demanded,
excitedly. "Was that all a clever device of yours al?o?"
"No. Strange as it may seem, he was substituted just as I
related to you, although it proved a most fortunate circumstance
for me; but the telegram which called your pastor from his
home was not a bonafide one. I never should have dared to face
him, who has so long known Geoffrey, for he would have de
tected the trick at once."
"Scoundrel !" said Mr. Huntress, between his teeth. "Where
is my son? where is Geoffrey?"
"I cannot tell you, sir. I think, however, he has also been
invited out of town for a few hours, at least," Everet returned,
a little smile of triumph curving his lips as he became more
accustomed to, the situation and realized his power.
Mr. Huntress caught it, and a dusky flush mounted to his
forehead.
"L'. j !ive this house instantly!'' lie commanded, unabla to con
trol himself any longer iu. the face of such effrontery.
WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. 251
"I could not think of it, sir," Everefc quietly replied, aud
composedly seating himself by a window. "My place is beside
ray wife, und here i shall stay until she shall be able to accom
pany me elsewhere."
What Mr. Huntress would have done next it is impossible to
Bay, but before he could even reply, the door opened aud Doe-
tor Hoyt entered.
"Wliut am I wanted for? Bless me! what does this mean?" he
exclaimed, glancing about him with undisguised astonishment,
and perceiving the condition of the newly made bride.
"Gladys was taken ill immediately upon returning from the
church," Mr. Huntress hastened to explain, suddenly bethinking
himself that it would be wise to avoid a scandal, at least until he
could take legal advice and see what hope there was of a release
for Gladys from the hateful bonds that bound her.
"Ah. yes a protracted swoon, caused by excitement or some
sudden shock," said the energetic little doctor, with a pro
fessional air, as he took one of the limp, white hands that lay oa
Gladys' still breast, and felt for the pulse.
He could not tind any, nor was there any movement about the
heart, and he begau to look very grave.
"She must be put to bed immediately, and there must be per
fect quiet throughout the house," he said. "Huntress, you
must explain this to your guests, and get them away as soon as
possible. It is unfortunate, but I won't answer for the conse
quences if there is any confusion when she comes to herself.
Here madame," to Mrs. Huntress, "get this finery off her head
aud loosen her corsage, and you, sir," to Everet, whom he sup
posed to be Geoffrey, "unlacn those pretty number twos, and
give the blood a c!i;iuoe to circulate in her feet."
His coming seemed to put life and confidence into the nearly
distracted parents.
Mr. Huntress tiruced himself to encounter the crowd of won
dering people in the drawing-room, and, going out, explained
as briflly us possible the sudden illness of the bride, and the
sympathetic guests, with a few well-bred expressions of regret,
immediately dispersed, and in less than fifteen minutes the
mansion was cleared and the stricken household left to itself,
while not a suspicion of the fearful truth had got abroad.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
WHAT BECAME OP GEOFFBBY.
Gladys lav so long in her swoon that, not only her friends but
the physician also became greatly alarmed lest she should
never rally; the shock which had caused this suspension of
animation might end in death.
852 WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.
Ereret Mapleson, too, as he sat alone in that small room
back of the drawing-room, waa in a very unenviable I'lvaue of
mind. He knew tliat if Gladys should die her death would lie
at his door; he would really have been her murderer, and such a
disastrous result of his reckless plot he had never contem
plated.
He had fondly hoped, as he toltl Mr. Huntress, that, in the
excitement and gayety of the evening, surrounded by friends
and receiving their cougiatnlntiona, ho could easily play Geof
frey's part, and she would not detect the imposition until tiiey
should start off alone upon their wedding journey. He had
practiced many little mannerisms that were peculiar to Geoffrey,
changing lis voice, as far as ha could, to imitate his, and had
not reckoned upon the keenness of love to discover the iraud so
readily.
He had expected that Glady's would be very unreconciled and
unreasonable at first, but he had hoped, when she realized
that there was uo help for the deed, she might resign herself to
the inevitable, and that he would gradually win tier love by the
influence of his own for her and his devotion to her. He had been
wholly unprepared, however, for the exceeding honor and loath
ing which she had evinced upon discovering him, and she had
thoroughly frightened him by her rigid despair and the terrible
lethargy which had followed it.
When they bore her away to her room he fain would have fal
lowed, his anxiety was so great upon her account; but as he es
sayed to do so, Mr. Huntress turned upon him in sudden fury.
"Stay where you ar^!" he commanded, "or, what would be
better still, .leave the house altogether."
"I shall not leave the house, sir," the young man answered,
doggedly, and he resumed his seat, resolved to brave it out to
the end, though a sickening fear was creeping over him that the
end might be such as would make him wish he Lad never been
born.
So the poor little bride was borne from his sight, her bridal
robes were removed, and everything done for her recovery that
love could do or professional skill could suggest.
Strange though it may seem, no one, save the physician, sus
pected the cause of this sudden attack.
Mr. Huntress had confided the circumstances attending it to
Doctor Hoyt, because he felt that he ought to be informed in
order that lie might work understanding!^', but not even a ser
vant dreamed that thtir beautiful young mistress had been mar
ried to the wrong man.
'August, I am nearly wild about Geoffrey, as well as Gladys,"
Mrs. Huntress said, to her husband, as together they bent over
the unconscious girl, anxiously watching for some sign of re
turning life. "Do you believe that wretch would dare to hana
him?"
'WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. 253
"No, indeed, dear. I feel sure that oar Geoff is safe enough.
I judge, from the fellow's words, that he has been decoyed to
some place, where he was to be detained uijtil the wedding was
well over, and Maplesou well on the way to Boston with Gladys.
Heavens! wliat an escape for the dear chiiii!" he concluded,
growing white over the contemplation of the young girl's sa ''. fata
if Everet had succeeded in keeping up the deception until after
the steamer had sailed.
"But is it an escape?" Mrs. Huntress whispered, with quiver
ing lips. "Can the marriage be annulled?"
"Certainly, Alice," her husband emphatically replied, "be
cause we can prove the man a scoundrel and an impostor."
"It will make a terrible scandal," sighed his wife.
"Better that than that our dear one should be doomed to a life
of misery. I will spend my last dollar to give her back her free
dom and punish that audacious wretch," said Mr. Huntress, with
firmly compressed lips. "Poor Geoff !'' he added, after a pit use,
"I wonder where he can be; he must be in a terrible state of
mind, wherever he is," concluded Mr, Huntress, with a weary
sigli.
But they could not think of much save Gladys, while she lay
in such a critical condition, and they hung over her with white
faces and sinking hearts, while they anxiously watched the phy-
siciiin's every look and movement.
After what, to them, seemed an eternity of time, a faint sign of
life began to show itself; the heart slowly resumed its motion,
the pulse gave forth a feeble throb, a faint tinge of color flickered
in the drawn lips, aud the che.st began to heave with the renewed
action of the lungs.
"She will weather it," Doctor Hoyt said, under his breath, but
in his brisk, decisive way, which instantly carried conviction aud
comfort to those parents' fond hearts.
But when she did come fully to herself, aud looked up into
those earnest faces above her, when reason and memory reasserted
themselves, thut tame look of horror came into her eyes, that
rigid settling of her features returned, aud were followed by an
other swoon, although not so frightful or prolonged us the first
one had been.
It wi.s ten o'clock before the physician succeeded in arresting
the tendency to fainting, aud she came fully to herself.
"Geoffrey!" she moaned, as soon as she could sneak, and look
ing around for the dear face, while a shudder shook her from
head to foot.
Doctor Hoyt shot a warning look at Mr. and Mrs. Huntress;
then said, in a reassuring tone:
"He is all right, and shall come to yon when you are rather
more like yourself. Now, drink this for the sake of getting a
little strength."
Ho put a glass to her lips, and she drank mechanically.
254 WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.
Then, pushing his hand away, she struggled to a half-sitting
posture, and looked fearfully about the room.
As her glance fell upon hei wedding finery, which had been
hastily thrown upon some chairs, she was seized with another
violent shivering, and fell back among her pillows, covering her
eyes with her hands, as if to shut out from sight and memory
the fearful ordeal through which she had passed a few hours pre
vious.
But the potion which the physician had administered was a
powerful narcotic, which began almost immediately to take
effect, and sleep soon locked her senses in oblivion.
Hardly had she begun to breathe regularly, and the weary
watchers about her bel to hope that the worst was over, when
the great clock in the hall bslo-.v struck the hour of midnight.
At the last stroke the door of the sick-room swung softly open,
and Geoffrey's face, pale, haggard, and anxious, appeared in tha
aperture.
It required a mighty effort on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Hunt
ress to refrain from uttering an exclamation of joy at sight of
him.
But the doctor held up a warning finger. Mrs. Huntress, who
had half started from her chair, sank back to her post beside
Gladys' pillow, while her husband, with a look of intense relief,
stole quietly from the rcom.
We must now go back to the hour when the wedding party
started from the house for the church.
Geoffrey, as has been stated, left a little in advance of the oth
ers, as he desired a few moments' interview with the clergyman
before the ceremony.
Not a thought of foul play entered his mind as he drove away,
neither had he a suspicion that a different carriage had been
substituted for the one he had ordered, that having been sud-
deuly and cunningly sent off to the station for an imaginary ar
rival on the evening express.
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not even
observe the route the driver was taking, until he suddenly no
ticed that the speed of the horses had greatly increased and he
was rolling along at a remarkable rate through quiet and almost
deserted streets.
It was quite dark, but the street-lamps gave light enough to
show him that he was a long distance from the place where he
wanted to go.
He tried to lower the window beside him.
It was immovable.
He tried the other, but it was as fast as the first one.
He tlmmped on the front of the carriage, to attract the atten
tion of the driver; but a crack of the whip was his only answer.
He shouted, commanding the man to stop, but the horses
only went on the faster.
WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY. - '>
Driven to desperation, Geoffrey drew back, and, with o.ia
powerful blow from his foot, shivered one of the windows to
atoms.
At the sound of the breaking glass, the coachman slackened
the speed of his steeds.
''Driver, where are you taking mo?" Geoffrey shouted,
thrusting his head from the window. "I want to go to Plym
outh Chnrch."
"Oil! Plymouth?" replied the man, in a tone of innocent aston
ishment, as if he had leen bound for some other church, and
was surprised to lenru that he had made a mistake.
Geoffrey was unsuspicious enough to believe this, yet he was
very much annoyed.
He desired to seo the clergyman l>efore the ceremony, and ha
knew it was already past the hour set for his marriage.
"You have no time to lose," he shouted again to the driver.
"I fear you have made me late, as it is; got rue thero as quickly
as you can."
"All right, sir," came back the answer, while the carriage
suddenly turned a corner, and the man whipped the horses to a
run.
Geoffrey had no overcoat with him; he thought he should not
need it, the day had been so mild, and he would le shut into a
close carriage; Imt now the chill night air came in through the
broken window, and he began to suffer with the cold.
On and on the carriage went, faster and faster the horses flew,
until suddenly Geoffrey discovered, to his dismay, that he was
rolling over an open country road, while the lights of the city
were gleaming far behind.
Again ho leaned forth and shouted to the driver to stop; that
he was \vrong.
But this time there came no answer, save the whiz and crack
of the lash, and th sound of tho horses' hoofs upon the road.
Ho began to f(>:u- that the man was intoxicated.
He culled, he commanded, he threatened ; all to no purpose,
except to in ike the driver nrge his hordes to go faster and
faster.
They were far out in the suburbs now, with the houses few
and far between, and Geoffrey was nesirlv in despair.
What would the wedding party think, upon rerchin!* the
church, to find no 1 -ride-groom there? What would Gladys
think? What would those hundreds of guests HIIV when they
should discover there could be no wedding? What would be
the end of this dreadful adventure?
Could it l>e possible MI.U. the man who was driving was some
ins- me creutnre, carrjijg him to destruction?
F.vt-ry possible explanation, save the right one. flashed through
his mind as he sat there, utterly powc rietss to help himself, yet
almost crazed with auxi<-ty and snsponse.
256 WHAT BECAME Of GEOFFREY.
He shouted himself hoarse, without eliciting the slightest re
sponse or attention.
He leaned as far out of the carriage as he -was able, to look at
the man on the box, but could only dimly distinguish a figure
muffled to tlie ears in a huge ulster, but as motionless as a
statue, except for that periodical swing of his right arm iu
wielding the whip.
Geoffrey dared not leap out, even though in his desperation
he was strongly tempted to do so; he realized that such a
hazardous proceeding might result in instant death, while there
was no way by which he could climb to the top of the car
riage to reach the driver; there was nothing that he could do
but submit to the inevitable, and await further developments.
So, wearied out and thoroughly chilled by the keen night air,
he first stuffed one of the cushions into the broken window,
then sank back into a corner, and surrendered himself to hia
fate.
For three long hours he sat there and was driven at a rapid
pace, knowing not whither he was going.
At last, to his infinite relief, the carriage stopped.
Taking instant advantage of this circumstance, Geoffrey leaped
to the ground, and turning furiously to the driver, he demanded
what he meant by bringing him there.
The man might have been a deaf mute for all the notice lie
took of either the young man's question or passion.
He neither spoke nor moved, except to quickly turn his horses
about and drive rapidly back in the direction from which he
had come, leaving his victim standing in the middle of a lonely
road with not a house in sight.
For a moment Geoffrey was so bewildered that he did not know
what to do; he had not the slightest idea whera he was, only he
was sure that he must be miles and miles from Brooklyn.
But his insufficient clothing but illy protected him from the
cold, and he soou began to realize that he could not stand there
long without great danger to himself.
He began to walk rapidly, and soon found himself ascending
a hill, and upon reaching the top lie saw, beneath him, the
lights of a small village gleaming through the darkness.
Quickening his steps he reached it after ten or fifteen minutes,
and, to his joy, discovered that a line of railway passed through
it.
Following this he soon came to the station, where he found a
sleepy-looking ajjent and telegraph operator, who regarded him
and his immaculate dress suit with undisguised astonishment.
He inquired when the next train went to Brooklyn, and to his
dismay learned that this was only a branch road, and that no
train was due there for an hour. It was small comfort, too, to
be told that it would bo ouly a freight train with a passenger
ear attached that it would stop at every station where there
WHAT BECAME OF OEOFFRET. 257
was freight to be delivered or taken up; that it would be a full
hour reaching the main line, where be would have to wait
another hour for a train to Brooklyn.
AH this delay he knew would prevent him from reaching home
before midnight, and then there flashed upon him, for the first
time, a suspicion that lie had been brought to that remote place
by no intoxicated driver's freak, neither had he been the victim
of i maniac's frenzy, but that his abduction had been deliber
ately and cunningly planned to prevent his appearance at his
own wedding to hinder, if possible, his marriage with Gladys.
Bat who could have perpetrated such a dastardly act, and
what could hnve been the ultimate object? It did occur to him
that Everet Mapleson might have had something to do with it,
but he quickly abandoned that idea for. much as he distrusted
aud disliked him, on many accounts, he could not think any
thing so bad as this of him little dreaming liow much worse
Le had done while, too, he believed he had left the city moro
than a week previous.
He was very cold, and he knew he could not be three hours
more on the road without a coat or wrap of some kind to protect
him; but how to procure it was a question he could not solve,
for the station-master told him there was not a clothing store in,
the nlace.
While he was hovering over the fire in the ladies' waiting,
room, shivering with the cold, and feeling inconceivably wi'etch-
ed, a tall, portly woman entered, bearing a large gripsack in
one hand, a heavy shawl and waterproof in the other.
She wore a long circular of some rough cloth, which com
pletely covered her from her neck to her heels, a knitted hood
upon her head, a pair of brown woolen mittens on her hands,
and looked so warm and comfortable that Geoffery shivered
afresh.
His eyes fastened themselves instantly and enviouslj upon th
shawl she carried.
A bright idea struck him, and, addressing her courteously, he
asked her if she would sell it to him, explaining briefly that he
tad been on his way to a wedding in a close carriage, when
accident threw him unprotected out into the cold.
"I will give you twenty dollars for that shawl, madame," he
said, knowing well, however, that it was not really worth half
that sum.
But she i-efused his offer the shawl had belonged to a sister
who had but just died, and she could not part with it; however,
she would sell him the circular she had on, she said, for half
what he had offered for the other wrap, and wear that herself.
Tins proposal pleased him even better than his own, for he
would lie f;n less conspicuous in the dark circular, and he never
had felt better over a bargain, or experienced a greater sense of
personal comfort, than when lie gave up his ten dollars aud
258 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIE-LOOM.
wrapped himself in the shabby garment, just as the lazy traiu
came puffing up to the station.
He found a seat near the stove, and strove to possess his soul
in patience nntil he should reach the main line. The waiting
at the junction, however, was even a greater tax upon his nerves,
but it was over at last, and, boarding the Brooklyn traiu the
moment it stopped, lie was soon rolling rapidly toward home.
He reached Brooklyn only a little before midnight, called a
carriage and arrived before his own door five minutes before
the hour struck. He let himself quietly in with his latch-key,
and, fearing he hardly knew what, stole up to Gladys' room,
where he had observed a light, and seen shadows ou the cur
tains befoi'e entering the house.
CHAPTER XL.
AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIB-LOOM.
"!V?y dear boy !" cried Mr. Huntress, under his breath, as he
stepped out into the hall beside Geoffrey, cautiously closing the
door after him, and then seizing him warmly by both hands,
"where on earth have you been, and what has happened to
-you?"
'The most mysterious and villainous thing that could hap
pen," replied Geoffrey, witn a gloom}' face. "I have been kid
nap ed carried miles and miles away and it has taken me
Lours to retrim. "
"I suspected as much," said Mr. Huntress, sternly.
"Thou you haven't attributed nay absence to any fault of
mine. Uncle August?"
"No. indeed, my boy. I knew better."
"What made you suspect foul play? But first tell me about
Gladys. How has she borne it?" Geoffrey asked, with a wistful
glance at tho door beyond which his darling lay.
Mr. Huntress shot an anxious look at him.
Clearly he had no suspicion of what had occurred during hia
absence.
"Gladys has suffered a great deal mentally, but she is sleeping
now," he said, gravely, and wondering how he could ever tell
him the terrible truth,
"It must have been dreadful. I can imagine the consterna
tion of everybody when they discovered there would be no wed
ding," said Geoffrey, excitedly, while he began to pace rest
lessly up and down the corridor. "How awkward! how
wretched for my darling! how uncomfortable for you and
Aunt Alice! How did you manage? What could you do or
say?"
"Come with me, Geoff, where we cau talk without fear of dis-
AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM. 259
turbing Gladys, and I will tell you. I have something very
strange to toll you, too," said Mr. Huntress, linking his arm
within that of the young man and leading him to an alcove over
the front entrance.
"Something strange," Geoffrey repeated, in a startled tone.
"Very. There has been a most villainous plot connected with
this affair."
From Mr. Huntress' manner, Geoffrey saw that something
of a very grave nature had occurred.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Tell me at once; I can boar
anything better than suspense.
"Geoff, there was a wedding!"
"Uncle August!"
"But no one save ourselves and our good doctor, as yet, sus
pects that there was anything wrong about it."
"Are you crazy? What do you mean?" cried the young man,
breathlessly. "A wedding? That could not be. Gladys could
not have been the bride."
"Gladys wets the bride, and every guest believes that you
were the groom."
Geoffrey sank upon a chair, his strength all gone, while a din*
suspicion of the horrible truth began to take form in his mind.
"What can you mean?" he gasped, hardly above a whisper, a
deadly pallor on his face, an agonized look in his eyes.
"Be calm, my boy," said his uncle, laying his hand affection
ately upon his shoulder. "A dreadful thing has occurred, but
it was all a farce a fraud, rather which the law will set right
in time, and Gladys may yet be yours "
"Heavens! Uncle August, you are driving me mad! Explain!
explain! I cannot bear these enigmas!'' cried the poor fellow,
springing to his feet in a fearful state of agitation, whilo a cold
perspiration started out all over his face.
Mr. Huntress gently forced him back into his chair and be
gan at once to tell him all that had occurred, from the moment
of the departure of the bridal party from the church, up to tha
present hour.
Geoffrey sat throughout the fearful recital as if he had sud
denly been turned to stone, and when at last it was concluded,
there were several moments of dreadful silence. He seemed
paralyzed, mentally and physically, by the blighting affliction
which had overtaken him, and by the bold daring of the enemy
who had thus ruined his dearest hopes.
Agony, however, at last broke the spell.
He arose, and stood pale and stern before his uncle.
"Where is ho?" he demanded, in an awful voice, although it
was barely audible, "where is that treacherous villain who has
robbed mn of my wife and broken her heart? Tell me, for there
must be a terrible settlement between him arid, me. Where ia
Everet Mapleson, Uncle August?"
260 AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.
"Here!*' responded a defiant voice close beside them, and,
wheeling suddenly about at the sound, Geoffrey saw his. rival
standing between the parted draperies that separated the alcove
fioni the main hall.
"I am here to answer for myself," he continued, iu the same
tone, while he looked as pule and resolute as Geoffrey himself,
"but first I demand tidings of my wife."
That word was like a blow to Geoffrey, who staggered back
with a groan of anguish.
But, he quickly rallied.
"She is not your wife!" he said, fiercely; "a farce an act of
fraud, could never make her such."
"You are a trifle premature in your statement," retorted young
Mapleson, with a sneer. "I do not deny that my purpose was
accomplished by something of strategy, but it was accomplished,
notwithstanding Gladys Huntress was married to me to-night,
and it is simply useless to contest the fact."
"You may have gone through the marriage service wita her;
but you personated me, and it was only a monk ceremony. Be
sides, there were certain preliminaries to be attended to your
intentions made known your certificate to be properly filled;
without these there could have been no legal marriage," Geof
frey returned, sternly.
Everot Mapleson smiled snperciliously.
"All that you mention was most carefully attended to, sir,"
ho said, with an air of triumph that was simply maddening to
his listeners. "The clergyman was duly apprised of my inten
tions, and received a handsome fee, fifteen minutes before the
arrival of the bridal party at the church; the ring had been
purchased and carefully marked and now adorns the hand of
the bride. Not a single detail has been omitted, I assure you,
to make my position and my claim secure."
"Bah! your audacity is astounding!" said Geoffrey, contempt
uously. "It was a barefaced fraud, and the marriage will never
stand in law," persisted Geoffrey, firmly, but. oh! with such a
sinking agony in his heart.
"Prove it if you can," retorted Mapleson, arrogantly. "You
will not find it an easy thing to do, however, for I shall make a
desperate fight to thwart you."
"Wretch! how dare you attempt such a diabolical plot?" Mr.
Huntress demanded.
"I was desperate enough to dare anything, sir," Everet re
plied, addressing him with more respect thru he had yet shown.
"With the love I bear your daughter I could not brook defeat.
I vowed that 1 would win her at any cost, and but for my own
indiscretion all this fuss might have been avoided. I was so
elated by my success in having the marriage performed that I
could not resist taking advantage of my position, and, in at
tempting to salute my bride after our return to the house, she
AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM. 261
recognized me. If I had done nothing to attract her especial
attention to me, the next two hours might have been tided over
well enough, and, once on the way to Boston, en route for
Europe, I could have laughed at any outside interference."
Geoffrey shivered. It w:is dreadful to have to listen tu these
revelations, and to realize what a narrow escape Gladys had had,
for he knew that :f Everet Maplesou had succeeded in deceiving
ber until the steamer sailed, the shock of her discovery, \vheu
alone, ami in the power of the audacious scoundrel, might have
resulted in her death. Even now they might not be able to
secure her release, and she would still have to remain his wife
in the sight of the world, but no moral obligation bound her to
him. anb no power could ever compel her to live with him.
"Could you ever hope to gain any satisfaction iu the uresenee
of a wife who would loathe the very sight of you, and whom you
knew would never cease to love another?" Mr. Huntress de
manded, with curling lips.
" 'Love begets love,' yon know, and I imagine it would not
have been such a hopeless task, after all, to win the heart of my
wife, with such devotion as 1 have to offer her," Everet Maple-
son flippantly replied.
Geoffrey's blood boiled as ranch at his confident, arrogant
tone, as at his words, and almost before he had concluded, he
walked straight up to him, seized him by the coat collar,
wheeled him about, and marching him to the head of the stairs,
pointed below and said, iu a stem, authortative tone, as he re
leased his hold of him:
"GV"
The young man was so taken aback by this snmmary act, that
he did not even offer to resist tmtil he reached the top stair,
whn he put out his hand and seized the railing.
He turned, with blazing eyes, and faced Geoffrey, but the ex
pression which he saw upon his face warned him that he had no
irresolute spirit to deal with.
"Go!" reiterated Geoffrey, inflexibly, "or I may be tempted
beyond my strength and forget one of the 'thou shalt nots.' "
'/ will not!" he returned, as resolutely, all his antagonism
aroused. "Do you imagine that, after having struggled so des
perately to attain the dearest hopes of uay life, I will fly like a
coward in the vory hour of their achievement?"
But even while he spoke, with all the bravado of which he
was master, he shifted uneasily before the terrible look in
Geoffrey Huntress' eye.
Yet it aroused all the passion in his nature; \,he hot blood
mounted to his brow, coursing in an angry tide through all his
veins, and before either of Ins companions could suspect, his
intention, he swung aloft his right arm to smite his rival to the
floor.
But the blow never descended. la his hot-headed anger ho
262 AN iCCWEST REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.
forgot the danger of his position, made a misstep, lost his bal
ance, and fell headlong down the long flight of stairs, and then
lay silent and motionless, while those two men above looked
down upon him with white, startled faces, and hearts throbbing
heavily with a sickening fear.
The stairs were carpeted and thickly padded, so that his fall
bad not been a very noisy one; yet the disturbance was suffi
cient to bring both Mrs. Huntress and the physiciau forth from
Gladys' room, ill a state of alarm and consternation.
"What is it? Oh, August, what has happened?" cried Mrs.
Huntress digging to her husband.
"Tkat villain played the spy upon us, and in attempting to
Btnke Geoffrey, lost his balance and fell," Mr. Huntress ex
plained, adding, anxiously: "But pray go back and stay with
Gladys; let her know nothing of this, eve i if she wakes, and we
will take care of this fellow."
He led her back to the young girl's room, and was greatly
relieved to see that she was still sleeping heavily, and had not
been conscious of the confusion outside.
The doctor and Geoffrey, meanwhile, had sprung down the
stairs, lifted the prostrate man, and carried him into one of the
rooms below.
A careful examination convinced Doctor Hoyt that there were
no bones broken, the thickly carpeted and padded stairs had
doubtless been his salvation in this respect; if he had suffered
no internal injury, he had surely escaped in a wonderful man
ner.
The force and shock of the fall had stunned him, but it was
not long before he began to rally and look about him.
As ho sat up, rubbing his confused head and trying to realize
what had happened to him, Doctor Hoyt glanced curiously
from him to Geoffrey.
Both were dressed in evening suits, both were very pale, and
their resemblance to each other was something wonderful.
"I do not wonder that the scamp succeeded in his villainous
scheme," the physiciau said, in an asida, to Mr. Huntress. "I
never saw twins that were more of an exact counterpart of each
other.
"Well, how do you find yourself now?" he added, in his ab
rupt, professional way, turning to Everet.
"I believe my shoulder is sprained," he replied, cringing with
pain, as he attempted to move his left arm.
"Any peculiar faiutness at the stomach any internal pain?"
"No, I reckon not; I have hardly come to myself yet,
though."
The doctor made another examination.
'You'll do," he said, as he completed it; "there are no bones
broken or out of joint, and if tltere was anything very wrong
inside it would begin to show itself. It's lucky for you that
AN ACCIDENT R&VEALZ AN HEIR-LOOM. 263
you haven't a dislocated neck. The next time you want to play
pugilist don't choose a flight of stairs for your battle-ground.
Now, if you'll take my advice, you'll make tracks for your
hotel, give yourself a good rubbing all over with alcohol, and go
to bed."
Everet glanced darkly at the man, and it was on his tongue to
tell him that he should do no such thing; but he had been too
thoroughly shaken up by his fall to feel in a very defiant state,
and he lealized, too, that he had received very good counsel,
which it might te wise to heed.
Mr. Huntress, after hearing the doctor's verdict, had slipped
quietly from the room, feeling greatly relieved; but he returned
in a few moments with several small articles in his hand, v.'hich
he had picked up in the hall and on the stairs.
There was a small pearl-handled knife, a Russia leather wal
let, two or three pieces of gold, and some of silver.
These he handed to the young man.
''They must have slipped from your pockets as you fell," he
aid.
Everet received them without even a civil acknowledgment,
and replaced them in his pockets.
"Does this belong tr you also?" Mr. Huntress asked, holding
out a small, glittering, peculiarly shaped object.
"Yes; thanks," he now had the grace to say, in an eager tone.
"It is a pocket piece and an heir-loom; I would not lose it for a
great deal," and he heid out his hand for it.
Geoffrey glanced up carelessly at these words; then he stepped
quickly forward, his eyea glittering, a strange expression on his
face.
"Lot me look at that, if you please," he said.
Mr. Huntress passed it to him, although Everet Mapleson
frowned at the act.
If Geoffrey had been pale before he was ghastly now as he
received that small object on the palm of his hand.
It was half of a knight- templar's crass, which had been broken
di(i(/onally t and was beautifully enameled and engraven!
He turned it over, holding it nearer the light to examine the
back of it.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, with a violent start, while he glanced
wonderingly at Everet, who was also regarding him with aston
ishment.
"Will you tell me how this happens to be in your possession?"
Geoffrey askei?, meeting his eye,
"Certainly," the young man returned, with mock politeness;
"it belonged to my great-grandfather, who served in the revolu
tion. He became a knight-templar just before enlisting, and
was presented with that emblem by the lodge of master masons
over which he had served as W. M. The date of the preseuta-
264 GEOFFREY LEARNS THJS TRUTH AT LAST,
tion, with my venerable relative's name, is engraved on the
back, as you perceive."
"What became of the other portion of it?" Geoffrey asked.
"My father has it."
" Your father has it ?"
"Yes,"' curtly responded Everet, annoyed by this question
ing, yet impelled to reply by something that struck him as
peculiar in Geoffrey's manner. "It was broken by accident,"
he added, "after my ancestor's return from the war, never hav
ing left his person during all that time, and he gave one half to
his son 'as a pocket piece,' he said keeping the other himself,
At his death his portion was given to my father, who had been
named for him, and, when I was of au age to appreciate it, my
grandfather's half was handed down to me."
"And your father you are sure has the other part of it now?"
Geoffrey inquired, with pale lips.
"Yes," Everet said, with a shrug of his shoulders; "we have
always regarded them as heir-looms, and have been careful not
to lose them."
"/have a 'pocket piece' which / have been 'careful not to
lose' since it came into my possession," Geoffrey remarked in a
hard, dry tone.
He took something from one of his pockets as he spoke, laid
it beside that other piece lying in his palm, aud held it out for
Everet Maplesou to see.
CHAPTER XLI.
GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
It was that portion of a knight- templar's cross which old
Abe Brown had given to Geoffrey when he was in Santa Fe the
previous summer.
It matched Everet's exactly, and the two fragments formed a
perfect cross as they lay together in Geoffrey's palm,
Everet glanced at it, then shot one quick, frightened look
into Geoffrey's stern face.
"Where did you get it?" he demanded, in husky tones, and
starting to his feet in great excitement.
"It was found in Santa Fe, where your father where my
father lost it."
"1'our father ?'* cried Everet, in a startled tone.
"Yes, Everet Mapleson, you and I are brothers /"
"It is a lie I" hoarsely shouted Everet, recoiling, yet knowing
but too well that he spoke only truth; "do you suppose I would
own "
"Stop /" commanded Geoffrey, sternly; "do not utter words
GEOFFREY LEARNS TEE TRUTH AT LAST. 265
which you may have bitter cause to regret later. This broken
emblem, which I thought BO valueless when it came into my
possession, now becomes the strongest link iu the chain of evi
dence that proves my identity, Last summer I traced this man
to Santa Fe, and there lost his trail. There was only this paltry
piece of gold, with the name William engraven upon it, to show
that he had ever been there. I believed that my father's name
was William Dale, for I learned that a man bearing that name
had lived in a certain mining district of New Mexico, where, as
I was told, I was born and my mother had died. I found my
old nurse and her husband, who related all they knew of her
life there, and into whose care my father had given rae after her
death. They, however, did not even know his place of resi
dence or address; letters, he told them, would reach him super
scribed 'Lock Box 43, Santa Fe.' At Santa Fe I was gireu this
piece of jewelry by a man who had been postmaster there many
years ago, and who remembered the man that lost it, but could
not recall his name. Upon it was engraven 'William,' which I
had been told was my father's first name, and now I find the
other half of the cross bearing that of Mapleson on it. Is
jour father's r.ame William Date Mapleson?" Geoffrey suddenly
asked, as if the thought had just couie to him.
"No," was the curt, scornful reply, although it was evident
that the speaker was striving to conceal the agitation which
Geoffrey's account had caused.
Geoffrey stood silently and thoughtfully observing the cross
tht lay in his hand and the name inscribed upon it.
He no longer had any doubt about his being able to solve the
mystery of hia birth, though lie greatly feared that the solving
would only serve to confirm his worst fears.
"Then," he said, iu a cold, hard tone, "he dropped that of
Mapleson and assumed that of Dale for purposes best known to
himself, for I know now, as well as I wish to, that your father
and mine are one and the same person. I know that he must
Lave taken a beautiful girl to the mining region of which I have
spoken that she lived there with him as his wife under tho
name of Dale. He called her Annie. I have seen her grave, and
those who knew them both claim that he loved her as his own
life, and was broken-hearted when she died. Whether she
had any legal claim upon him; whether /, the child who was
born to them there, can claim honorable birth and an honorable
name, are points which remain to be proved. Do you know
aught of this story?" Geoffrey demanded of Everet, in con
clusion.
The young man did not reply for a moment.
He seemed to be considering whether it would be best to con
ceal or proclaim what he had discovered, and denounce the
man, whom he had so long hated, as the illegitimate son of his
father-
266 GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
Suddenly lie threw back his head iu a reckless way, an evil
light in his eyes, a curl of scorn on his lips.
"Yes," he said, "I do know the story from beginning to end.
I know that a girl naraecl Annie Dale disappeared very mysteri
ously from Richmond more than twenty years ago; that she
fled to her lover, who met her at Kansas City, and then took her to
that mining village among the mountains of New Mexico, where
she lived with him as his mistress, though nominally as his wife,
until she died."
"That man was William Mapleson, your father?" said Geof
frey, in a tone that was terrible from its calmness.
"That man was William Mapleson, my father," repeated
Everet, defiantly, though the blood mounted hotly to his brow
as he said it, showing that he was not yet quite hardened
enough not to feel something of shame over the confession.
"Did he give you the history of that exceedingly honorable
portion of his life?" Geoffre? asked, with curling lips.
"No; I found it out for myself. I have never felt at ease with
your resemblance to me: it has haunted me day and night,"
Everet replied. "A slight circumstance occurred to arouse my
suspicions that there might be some natural cause for it I be
gan to trace the mystery, and followed it up until I learned the
truth that you were Aunia Dale's child, and she was what I
have already told you. I suppose, in point of fuct, that we are,
in a certain way, related to each other," he went on, with a dis
agreeable shrug. "If. undei' the circumstances, you can derive
any comfort from it, much good may it do you."
Geoffrey grew crimson, and, for a moment, his eyes blazed
wrath fully at this taunt.
"Was Mr. William Mapleson at Saratoga during any portion
of last summer?" he asked, struggling for self-control.
"I believe ho ran up there for a few days when he como North
to join my mother at Nowport," Everet returned, wondering
what the question could have to do with the point under dis
cussion
Geoffrey glanced significantly at Mr. Huntress.
"What was his object in registering there as William Dale?"
he asked.
Everet looked up, astonished.
"He did not," he said, skeptically.
"He did. I met him one morning in Congress Park. He
accosted me by your nauie, believing mo to be yourself, and
then became greatly agitated upon being informed of his mis
take and told who I was. My suspicions were aroused, for I
have always been on the alert to discover my parentage, and I
begged an interview with him. He appointed one for five
o'clock at his room, number forty- five, at the United States
Hotel. I was punctual, but when I inquired for the gentleman
who occupied room forty-five, I wr.s told that ho had left at
GEOFFREY LSARXS THE TRUTH AT LAST. 267
noon. I examined the register, and fonnd his name entered as
William Dale, from Santa Ee, New Mexico.'"
"Then it must have been some one else,' 5 Everet affirmed, per
plexed over the affair, and yet instinctively feeling that his
father must have been concerned in it, though just how he was
at a loss to imagine.
"That was the thread by which I traced him to Santa Fe, and
from there to that mining village, where I learned the story of
my birth and my mother's death; and this story will have to
be sifted to the bottom, '' Geoffrey concluded in a resolute tone.
"Really, I do not see what use there will be in raising a row
over the affair," retorted Everet, with a supercilious glare at the
young man. "There are hundreds of men who have been rather
gay and wild in their youth, and if there have been girls in the
world who were foolish enough to accept their favors, it is
nobody's business but their own, and worse than folly to rake it
over. Colonel William Mapleson is a man who occupies an
honorable position and bears a pioud name. He is a high-
tempered gentleman, too, and I warn you will brook no non
sense from any one."
Doctor Hoyt, who had been an interested listener thus far
during the interview, turned abruptly on his heel, with an ex
pression of supreme contempt at this speech.
"Honorable position proud name, forsooth! Possesses more
temper than morality, I should judge, if his sou is a specimen
of the race," he muttered, and then passed up stairs to ascertain
if all was going well with his fair patient.
The haughty heir of the house of Mapleson winced visibly be
neath the scathing words.
"Nevertheless," said Geoffrey, with deliberate emphasis, in
reply to what he had said, "Colonel William Mapleson will have
to answer to me, personally, for the wrong if wrong there was
that he did my mother. Now, sir, we have had enough of
this for to-night, and yon can go! Shall I call a carriage for you,
or do you prefer to walk ?"
Everet burned to defy him in this, but he knew it would be
Tiseless to resist the resolute purpose which he read in every line
of his stern face; so, after a moment's hesitation, he said he
would walk; and, with a sullen scowl on his face, and wrath
flaming in his heart, he left the house and bent his steps toward
the nearest hotel.
Neither Geoffrey nor Mr. Huntress thought of retiring that
night, though the physician soon after went away, saying
Gladys would do well enough for several hours, and he would
come around in the morning; while Mrs. Huntress caught a
little sleep upon the lounge in her daughter's room. They sat
together until morning, reviewing Geoffrey's life and laying
plans for future action.
When morning dawned it broke upon a saddened, yet, withal,
aes GSbffikET LJSAKNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
upon a thankful household. Saddened because of the terrible
ending of all the bright hopes which they had cherished only a
few hours previous, hut thankful because Gladys awoke once
more herself, and that no harm had befallen Geoff, as they feared,
during his long absence from home.
But Gladys was very sad, and could not refer to the events of
tbe night before without becoming greatly agitated; but her
long rest had given her strength and more of self-control, while
she had been greatly comforted upon being told that she need
never look upon Everet Mapleson's face again unless she chose,
ami that an appeal to the law would soon free her from the hate
ful tiw that bound her to him.
She nearly broke down again, however, when Geoffrey went to
her, late in the day, and clung to him almost hysterically; bufc
he spoke cheerfully, and tried to comfort her with brighter
Lopes for the future, although his own heart was terribly bur
dened by the great sorrow that had fallen so like a thunderbolt
upon them both.
"Oh! -Geoff," Gladys burst forth at one time during the inter
view, "must all Brooklyn and New York ring with this dread
ful story!"
"No, my darling. Uncle August and I have been considering
that matter, and we think that no one, save those of us who
already know the truth, need learn anything of it. I am sur
prised that your fiitlier and mother were enabled to act so dis
creetly during all the confusion last night not 'even a servant
suspects anything wrong as yet," Geoffrey said, reassur
ingly.
"Bat will he keep still about it?" Gladys asked, with a shiver
of aversion, as her mind reverted to Everet Mapleson.
"I think he will be very glad to, dear at least for the pres
ent," Geoffrey said, confidently, "until he finds out just what
steps we intend to take. It would be very mortifying to him to
Lave his villainy discovered, and become a target for everybody
to shoot at, because he failed to get possession of the bride he
Lad strained every nerve to win, while we shall do our utmost
as soon as I return."
"Return ! Where are you going?"
"Ah! has not Aunt Alice told yon? I am going South imme
diately, to try to get at the truth regarding my birth."
He then told her something of the revelations of last night,
and she was greatly astonished and shocked to learn of his
relation to the man who had so injured them both.
"Brothers, Geoff? Jnst to think of it!" she cried, wonder-
ingly.
He smiled somewhat bitterly.
"I fear if what ho says is true, that the Louse of Mapleson
will uot own me either as a son or a brother. However, I wish
to know the truth, whatever it is, aud then just as soou as I re-
GEOFFREY LtiARNS THE TUU1H AT LAST. 269
turn we will try to have that wretched fraud of last night recti
fied."
"Can it be done without publicity, Geoffrey?" Gladys asked,
anxiously.
"Yes, I believe it can be arranged so th.it very few will ever
be any wiser for what has happened."
This was one of the things that Mr. Huntress and Geoffrej
had talked of the night before, and the events of the next few
days confirmed them iu the belief that all scandal might ba
avoided.
The next morning Mr. Huntress went to the house where
Everet Maplesou had been accustomed to stop, but he was -not
to be fojnd there. Ho had left nearly two weeks previous the
day after he had met Gladys at the opera they discovered later.
Afterward they learned that he had hidden himself in a little
town a few miles out of the city, and there matured his plans,
and hired his accomplice to assist iu his miserable plot ou the
evening of the wedding.
Upon leaving the Huntress mansion, after his interview with
Geoffrey, and the discovery that he knew so ranch of his history,
he had stolen away tp the neaivst hotel, where, after thinking
every tiling quietly over, he began to realize that lie could never
compel Gladys to acknowledge herself as his wife; he believed,
too, that the courts would, upou learning the facts, annul the
marriage.
"Oh! if Iliad only kept still, and got her away before the
deception was discovered, my triumph would have been com
plete, and now I have lost everything." lie groaned in impotent
wrath; and yet ho was so furious at Geoffrey that he vowed he
would make a desperate fight aga'nst a divorce, if for nothing
but to keep the lovers apart. But until they should take some
decisive step he resolved to keep still and out of sight, for he
also was far too proud to care to become the subject of a
scandal.
It occasioned no surprise among the friends of the Huntress
family when they learned that "young Mrs. Huntress" had not
been able to sail for Europe, and that the trip was to be post
poned for at least another month possibly until spring.
Her physician also prohibited all cat tars and excitement, giv
ing as a reason that her strength had been overtaxed, and she
had barely escaped nervous prostration.
People did not wonder at this; it appeared *ery reasonable,
for they knew the season had been very gay, that the young
couple had been in great demand, and all this, together with,
the excitement and care of preparing for such a wedding, was
enough to wear out any young girl.
So Gladys and her mother remained quietly at home, hedged
about with these restrictions, while Geoffrey and Mr. linn truss
went South.
270 UEOFFREY LEARSS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
Mr. Huntress bad insisted upon accompanying the young
man, for he was determined that full justice should be done the
boy whom he had reared and loved as his own sou. It' Colonel
Mapleson had wronged his mother he should at least tell the
story kindly and courteously to her child; if h<3 Lad inherited,
anything from her it would be his business to see that he had
bis rights.
The weary travelers reached Richmond late one afternoon.
They found that Vne de 1'Eau Colonel Maplesou's estate was
a long distance from the city, and they would be obliged to hire
some conveyance thither.
Tins was not an easy thing to accomplish, for the night prom
ised to be very dark, the roads were muddy, and t!ie weather
unusually cold for that genial climate. But by offering a gener
ous sum, for he was anxious to have the ordeal before them over
as soon as possible, Mr. Huntress succeeded in getting a man
to take them to their destination.
It was seven o'clock when they at last reached tbe home of
the proud Southerner, and the two men alighted before the
door with grave faces, and nerves that were none too steady, in
contemplation of the interview before them.
"Yes, sar, Massa Maplesou's home, sah," the dusky-skinned
servant replied to Mr. Huntress' inquiry, and then obsequiously-
led the way through the magnificent hall, which divided the
stately mansion through the center, to a spacious and richly
furnished library at its lower end.
"A. D. Huntress and Son," Mr. Huntress wrote on a card,
and handed it to the servant to be given to his master, and then
they sat down to await his coming.
Five minutes later though it seemed as many hours to those
impatient men Colonel Mapleson appeared in the door-way,
opposite August Huntress.
He was a tall, rather spare man, with a finely shaped head
proudly poised above a pair of military looking shoulders, a
massive brow, surmounted by a wealth of iron-gray hair, regu
lar, handsome, yet rather haughty features, a keen, eagle-
glancing blue eye, and an energetic manner.
Geoffrey recognized him instantly. It was the same man
whom he had met in Congress Park at Saratoga.
"Ah! Mr. Huntress," remarked tlie gentleman, courteously,
as his visitor arose to greet him; "glad to see you, sir glad to
see you!"
Then espying Geoffrey whom, having been seated on his right
and a little back of him as he entered, lie had not at first seen,
lie started, his face lighted witli pleasure, and he went toward
him with outstretched hand, exclaiming, heartily:
"Holloa! Everet! where on earth did you drop from? I sup
posed you still in New York having a gay time."
Mr. Huntress came forward at this, saying:
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 271
"You have made a slight mistake, sir; this young mau is my
sou by adoption Mr. Geoffrey Dale Huntress."
Colouel Mapleson recoiled, an asheu pallor overspreading hia
face at these words, a look of fear followed by one of dismay,
then of conviction springing into his eyes, which were fastened
upon that familiar yet strange face.
Then he staggered toward a chair, sank heavily into it, his
head dropping upon his breast, while he murmured, in a tone of
awe mingled with agony:
"At last! at last it has come!"
There was an awkward silence after that, during which the
man appeared to be absorbed in painful thought.
Mr. Huntress broke il at last by remarking iu a grave tone:
"I told you, Colouel Maplesou, that this is my sou by adop
tion ; we have recently learued that he is your son by the more
sacred tie of blood, and our errand here to-night is to learn how
much or how little that may mean."
The man sat suddenly erect, as his guest concluded this speech,
and looked almost imperial as he bent his keen, flashing eye full
upon August Huntress, a firm purpose written on his face, and
a look, also, which plainly told that he had never yet turned his
back upon danger, trouble, or an enemy, and never would.
"You shall learn, that, sir," he said iu a clear, proud tone;
"Annie Dale was my lawful wife, and he," extending a haud that
trembled visibly toward Geoffrey, "is our son!"
CHAPTER XLIL
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.
Mr. Huntress was struck dumb with astonishment by this
unexpected declaration; but Geoffrey sprang forward, clasped
that extended hand, and exclaimed, in a voice that shook with
emotion:
"Oh, sir, 1 can never express my gratitude for that blessed
assurance!"
Colouel Mapleson's fingers closed almost convulsively over
the young man's hand, while he turned his gaze upon him,
searching his face with eager, hungry eyes.
"Geoffrey," he murmured, iu a trembling tone, "you are my
Annie's boy."
His lipa quivered, a great trembling seized him, and he
seemed on the point of breaking down utterly.
It was several minutes before he could collect himself suffi-
cieutly to speak, although he struggled manfully with his emo
tion.
At length he turned again to Geoffrey, to whoso hand he had
clur.g ;il! the time, saying:
272 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.
"How like you ave to Everet, my other son. I mistook you
for him when I first entered the room."
"So you did upon one other occasion, if you remember,"
Geoffrey returned.
The man made a gesture of pain.
"Ah!" he said, humbly, "you will forgive me, I hope, when I
explain why I avoided you at that time. But this meeting lias
unnerved me. I find myself unable to either think or speak
collectedly. Will you both remove your outer coats, and then,
Geoft'rey, tell me the story of your life of your adoption by
this gentleman, while I try to recover myself. But tirsi tell me
have you both dined? Shall I not order something for you?"
he concluded, with thoughtful hospitality.
They assured him that they had dined just before leaving
Richmond, and needed nothing; and then, having removed
their overcoats as requested, Geoffrey began his tale.
His face had brightened wonderfully during the last few mo
ments; the expression of tense anxiety, of doubt and apprehen
sion, had all faded from it, and he looked more like himself
than he had done since the day of his interrupted marriage; it
was such a blessed relief to know that no stigma was attached to
his birth.
He told all that he had learned of his history through Jack
and Margery Heuly, and how he had so strangely come upon
them while striving to follow up the faint clew tliat he had ob
tained of his father at Saratoga; of his having been found so
helpless and forlorn in New York by Mr. Huntress; of the res
toration of his mental faculties through his kindness and inter
est, and of the happy life that he had sincd led as a member of
his household. The only incidents that he omitted were those
in which Everet his father's other son had been concerned,
and which he would not then pain him by mentioning, though
possibly they might have to be told later.
Colonel Mapleson listened with rapt interest and attention
throughout the whole recital, and appeared deeply moved dur
ing that portion which related to his mental infirmity.
When it was all told, he seemed to fall into a painful reverie;
his face was inexpressibly sad, his attitude despondent, as if
memories of the past, which had thus been aroused, came
crowding thick and fast upon him, filling him with sorrow and
regret.
Finally he aroused himself with a long-drawn sigh, and rising,
went to a handsome desk which was in the room, in which he
unlocked a small drawer, and taking a box from it, brought
and laid.it upon the table by which Geoffrey was sitting.
"I had grown to feel almost as if this portion of my life had
been blotted out," he said; "at least until it was so suddenly re
called to me by meeting you at Saratoga last summer. But our
mistake's rise up and confront us; our sins find us out when we
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 273
least expect it. Opeu that box, Geoffrey, and draw what oonx-
fort you can from its contents."
Geoffrey's face flushed at being thns addressed.
He had come there with his heart full of bitterness toward
the man who, he believed, had done his mother an irreparable
wrong.
But now he found those feelings fast changing to pity and
sympathy for him. His manly confession had more than half
conquei'ed him at the outset, while his tender memories of tl*e
acknowledged wife of his youth, and the fond inflection with
which his voice was tilled every time he uttered his own nam-3,
told him that some of his dearest hopes had clustered around
those early days when he had been a wee infant, and stirred a
tenderness within his own heart for his father which he had nevtir
imagined he could feel.
He untied the faded blue ribbon that bound the box which
Colonel Mapleson had given him, with fingers that trembled
visibly, removed the lid and found a thin, folded paper within.
He opened it. It was an old telegram addressed to William
Mapleson, Santa Fe, New Mexico, and contained these words:
"I will come, Will. Start at ten on the eighth."
There was another paper underneath this, and his heart beak
rapidly as he drew it forth.
A blur came before his eyes, a nervous trembling seized him,
making the paper rattle in his grasp, for something seemed to
tell him, even before he looked at it, what it was.
Yes, it was even as he had surmised, for there, in black and
white, as plain and strong as the law could make it, was the
certificate which proved the legality of the bond that united
William Maplesou and Annie Dale, and dated only a few days
later than the telegram which he had just seen.
They had been married in Kansas City immediately upon the
arrivui of Miss Dale, by the Rev. Dr. A. K. Bailey, of the Epis
copal church.
A song of thanksgiving arose in Geoffrey's heart as he read
this, for it proved that his mother had been an honored wife
that no stain had ever rested on his birth; he was the legitimate
son of William and Annie Mapleson, and the burden of fear and
dread, that had so long oppressed him, was rolled away from
his heart at last.
There wa something else in one corner at the bottom of the
box a tiny case of black morocco.
Geoffrey seized it eagerly, turned back the lid, and a small,
heavy ring of gold lay before him.
His heart leaped anew at the sight of it; nothing bad been neg
lected to do honor to the beautiful girl whom William Maple-
Bon had loved.
He turned it toward the light and read on its inner surface;
"W. M. to A. D., Aug. 12th, 18 "
274 FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.
A heavy sigh, that was almost a sob, burst from him, though
it was oue of joy instead of sorrow.
"A fortune could not purchase these from me," he said, look
ing up with moist eyes, while he reverently laid back in their
place the priceless treasures he had found.
A spasm of pain contracted Colonel Mapleson's face at his
words, for he could well understand the feeling that lay behind
them, and he could not fail to realize, too, something of the
questionable position which his boy had occupied all his life.
He was very grave and thoughtful, and Mr. Huntress, as he
watched hioa, could see that he was struggling with somo
weighty matter that lay upon his conscience.
At length he lifted his head, with a quick, resolute motion,
showing that he had settled it, whatever it was.
"Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey," he said, glanciug from one to
the other; "I have a long story to tell you, and a hard one, too,
for not a soul in the world save you two and the clergyman who 1
performed the ceremony really knows that I was ever married
before the present Mrs. Maplesou became my wife. I am bound
to tell this story not only to you, but also to her; that, as you
cannot fail to understand, will be the hardest part of my con
fession."
Both his listeners sympathized with him deeply. They couldl
easily perceive how humiliating it would be to this proud man-
to make such a disclosure to his wife after having deceived her
for more than a score of years; yet both knew that it was an act
of j'istice which should be performed in order that Geoffrey
might be acknowledged as a son and heir, and thus attain his
proper position in the world.
"It is a painful story, too," the colonel went on, "for Geof
frey. I loved your mother with all the strength of my nature
as a man loves but once in his life and when I lost her the
world became a blank to me, while e^en now it is almost more
than I can bear to speak of it. T cannot tear the wound open
and live over all that experience more than once, and if you do
not object, I would like Mrs. Maplesou to be present while I
make my: confession."
Mr. Huntress urged him to act according to his own wishes
in the matter. As far as he was concerned Mrs. Mapleson's
presence would make no difference, unless the situation should
prove to be too trying for her.
"She must know it within a few hours at the farthest, and it
will also be necessary for her to meet you; so it might as well be
done at once. What do you say, Geoffrey?" Colonel Mapleson
asked, turning to his son.
"Do jnst what you think will be for the best, sir," he replied;
and his father immediately arose and left the room.
"Estelle," he. said, going into his wife's boudoir, where she
sat, haudsoxie and stately, reading the latest magazine,
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. 'i. : 5
"will you come down to the library for a little while. I havo
some callers to whom 1 wish to introduce you."
Something unnsual in her husband's tone made Mrs. Maple-
son drop her book and search his face.
He was white to his lips.
"Why, William, what ails you? Has any thing happened to Ev-
eret?" she questioned, anxiously, her motherhood aroused for
her child.
"Everet is well, RO far as I know, but "
"Surely you are ill, or you have bad news?" she inter
rupted.
"No, I am not ill, although some business of a painful nature
has upset me a trifle," be answered, knowing that he was look
ing wretched, and not attempting to conceal his agitation.
"You know I do not like to be mixed up with business trans
actions," his wife replied, with an impatient shrug of her
shapely shoulders.
"But I particularly desire your presence while I make a
statement to those gentlemen," Colonel Muplesou said, striving
to speak more calmly, though the hand that was resting on the
back of Mrs. Maplesou's chair trembled in away to really startle
her.
"Why, William," she said, facing him, "have you been get
ting into financial trouble at your time of life?"
"No; it is an error a mistake made long years ago that I wish
to rectify," he gravely answered.
"Who are these people?" she asked, still searching his face
earnestly.
"A Mr. Huntress and his son from New York."
"Huntress!" repeated the lady, reflectively. "Where have I
heard that name before?"
"Never mind now, Estelle; you can think of tlmi some other
time. Please do not keep me waiting."
He to'tk her hand, laid it on his arm, and led her from the
room, while she wondered to see her proud husband in tluifc
mood, for there was a gentleness about him, mingled with a hu
mility and a deprecatory air, that was entirely foreign to him.
Not a word was spoken by either as they passed down the
grand staircase. Colonel Mapleson was too absorbed in the
painful duty before him, while ''coming events" seemed already
to have "cast their shadows" upon the handsome face aud proud
spirit of his wife.
A painful expression almost convulsed Colonel Mapleson'a
face as lie paused irresolutely a moment before the library door.
But his hesitation was only for an instant.
The next hn turned the handle, led his wife within the room,
when hr closed and locked the door to insure freedom from in
terruption.
Then he led his companion straight to August Huntress.
276 COLONEL MAPLESON'S tiTOUY.
"Mr. Huntress, allow me to present to you my wife, Mrs,
Mapleson," he said by way of iutro<luction.
The lady glanced into the gentleman's face. Instantly her
own froze into a look of horror; u shock went quivering through
her frame like the blow of an ax upon a tree. She started wild
ly back from him, her eyes dilated, her lips apitrt.
"August Damon!" she gasped, and sank fainting to the floor.
CHAPTER XLIII.
COLONEL MAPLESON'S STOKY.
Colonel Mapleson sprang forward to lift his wife, amazement
depicted on every feature.
August Huntiess appeared like a man suddenly deprived of
his senses, and stood spell-bound, gazing with a look of awe
upon the prostrate woman before him. whom he instantly recog
nized as Mrs. Marston. the rr other of Gladys.
Geoffrey, after one astonished glance at this vivid tableau,
started forward to assist Colonel Mapleson to bear his Avife to a
sofa at one end of the room.
"Shall I ring for assistance?" Mr. Huntress asked, rousing
himself with an effort from his state of stupefaction, and reach
ing toward a bell-pall.
Colonel Maplesou turned sharply upon him, with a stern,
troubled face.
"Did you ever meet my -wife before, sir?" he demanded.
"I I think I did, once years ago," Mr. Huntress replied,
shrinking from compromising the ladv, yet forced to tell the
truth.
"Where?" was the terse query.
"Parhap 1 *," returned the gentleman addressed, while he met
his host's searching gaze frankly and steadily, yet with conscious
dignity; "perhaps it would be as well to give our immediate at
tention to the recovery of your wife, and allow her to make her
own explanations when she is able to do so."
It was a polite way of telling him that he would say nothing
more until Mrs. Mapleson gave him permission to do so.
Colonel Mapleson bowed acquiescence.
"Hand me a glass of water, if you please," he said to Geoffrey,
and glancing toward a table on which there was a water service.
"We will do what we can for her ourselves, without having any
prying servants about. I do not believe my wife ever fainted
before."
He sprinkled her face vigorously, bathing her temples, and
chafing her hands, to restore circulation.
She began to recover almost immediately, and before the ex-
COLONEL MAPLESON'S STORY. 277
piration of ten minutes was able to sit up, and called for water
to drink.
Her self- possession returned at the same time, and looking up
in her husband's face, with her usual brilliant smile, as she passed
back Iur empty glass, she remarked:
"I hope, William, that you and your guests will excuse my
Budden indisposition. It was a startling greeting, a sorry wel
come to strangers. But you did not present me to the other
gentleman."
She, glanced inquiringly about for Geoffrey, who was standing
a little back of her.
As their eyes met, she started, opening her lips as if about to
address him, believing him for the instuut to be Everet.
But her mind worked very rapidly, and she checked her-
uelf.
She remembered that she had seen a young man at Yalo
who strangely resembled her son, and that his name was Hunt
ress.
This must be he. But what could he want there in her
liome? And why had his coming so disturbed her husband,
who was usually the coolest and most collected of men?
The blood suddenly leaped to her temples, and then as quickly
receded, leaving her very pale, as the answer throbbed in her
brain: "A secret in his early life."
Colonel Mapleson was watching her every expression; he
marked the quick color, then her pallor, while lie wondered what
secret of her past life lay in her acquaintance with August Damon
Huntress.
He, however, introduced Geoffrey, whom Mrs. Maploson
greeted very graciously, remarking that she believed she haci
Been him at the last commencement of Yale, when he had taken
his degree at the same time with her son, "whom," she added,
with a covert glance at her husband, "yon resemble to a remark
able, degree."
Colonel Mapleson's heart throbbed heavily. He knew the
moment had come when ho must mi vail a portion of his life
which lie had believed was buried in oblivion.
"Estelle," he began, taking a chair and turning his face a little
from her, "my object in asking you to meet these gentlemen
was because I have a confession to make to them, and to you;
a confession of such a painful nature that I felt I could make it
only once, therefore I wish you to hear it at the same time."
Mrs. Mapleson glanced from him to Geoffrey. She was very
quick, and immediately she recalled what Dr. Turner, of Boston,
had told her only the previous summer; for it was she who had
been his visitor that day; she who had been searching for August
Damon's address in the Boston Directory. She remembered he
had told her that the man for whom she was inquiring had adopted
and was educating a boy of greart promise, and now, iu view of
278 COLONEL MAPLESON' 8 STOtiY.
his wonderful resemblance to Everet, she began to suspect some
thing of the nature of her husband's confession.
"It is the strangest tiling in the world," she thought, as she
turned her eyes upon Mr. Huntress, and realized who his chil
dren, by adoption, were.
"It is the strangest tiling in the world," was echoed in Mr.
Huntress' brain, as he met her glance, and, with a sudden heart
throb of joy, realized something that she did not.
"L will go back-as far as my boyhood," Colonel Mapleson re
sumed. "You have heard me say, Estelle, that I was in the
habit of visiting Vue de 1'Eau, often spei-ding weeks and some-
times mouths with Uncle Jabez when I was a boy. I think I
could not have been more than twelve, when, during one of
those visits, I became acquainted with a young girl just about
my own age, who resided near here with her mother. I refer to
Annie Dale."
Mrs. Mapleson gave a violent start at this; a light broke over
her face, which instantly became crimson, then grew as suddenly
white.
"We became very fond of each other," her husband pro
ceeded, without noticing her emotion, "and we were together
day after day, week after week, playing ball, hoop, battledore
and shuttlecock, sailing our boats together on the stream which
feeds the pond that used to run the old mill, riding horseback
together in fact, were scarcely separated from the beginning of
ray stay until its end. It was always the same every time I
came; I always sought my charming little companion on the day
of my arrival, and gave her my last good-by when I went away.
"This went on for several years, until I grew to love her with
all the strength of my young heart, and I fondly believed she
returned my affections, although she was so modest and shy that
she never betrayed it, at least after she grew to womanhood,
save by evincing pleasure and a sort of trustful content in my
society.
"There came a time when I resolved to confess my feelings
toward her and learn if possible if she returned them, but before
the time for my visit arrived that year, Uncle Jabez died and
everything was changed. This uncle," said Colonel Mapleson,
glancing from Mr. Huntress to Geoffrey, "made a very singular
will a very arbitrary and unnatural will. He divided the whole
of his property, which was very large, into two portions, one of
which he bequeathed to me, the othei to his niece. Miss Estelle
Everet, who is now my wife upon the condition that we would
marry each other. He gave us until Miss Everet would be
twenty-five to make up our minds; if we both refused to com
ply with his wishes at the end of that time, and each married
some one else, the whole fortune was to go to a certain Robert
Dale, who was first cousin to our uncle. If either of us died
during that time, such an event would free the other party and
COLONEL MAPLEHON'S STORY. 279
he or she "would inherit the fortune thus left; if either married
during that time the same result was to follow. I was at that
time in my twenty-first year, Miss Everet was seventeen.
"You can perhaps imagine something of my feelings upon
learning the contents of this will. I had always expected to in
herit a share of my uncle's property, for 1 was a favorite with
him, and he had hinted that I was to be his heir; but I had
never di'eamed of being hampered with any such arbitrary con
ditions. I was very indignant. So was my cousin, for, although
we had always been the best of friends, we felt that this was a
matter in which we should have been left free to choose for our
selves. However, the property was divided between us, and we
found ourselves independent. I was an orphan, and had been
entirely dependent on my uncle; I had just completed my edu
cation, and was thinking of establishing myself in some business,
when I suddenly awoke to the fact that I was rich and could
live as I chose, provided, at the expiration of eight years, I
would marry the woman my uncle had chosen for me. But I
loved Annie Dale, and I knew I could not marry any one else
while my heart belonged so entirely to her. I became so
wretched and unhappy over my situation, while at the same
time I could not make up my mind to part with my newly ac
quired fortune, that I could not come here to Vue de 1'Eau to
live, where I should have to meet her constantly: so I had the
house closed and started off on a trip through the West.
"During my wanderings I went to New Mexico, where I
heard the most wonderful stories regarding the wealth of the
Morena Mines. A bright idea suddenly came to me. I would
invest in them I would throw myself in the business of mining
during the next few years; if what I had heard was true I could
easily double, perhaps treble, what money I put into them
before I should have to give up my fortune according to the
conditions of my uncle's will the money thus earned would be
legitimately mine. 1 could then make over to my cousin my
share of Jabez Mapleson's fortune, and be in a comfortable
situation to marry the girl I loved.
"Inspired with enthusiasm over this idea, I bought largely in
the Morena Mines, and then bent all my energies toward the
one object of my life. The first three years I was very success
ful, and if my luck continued, I knew that by the end of
another three I might snap my fingers over Jabez Maplesou's
will, and secure the wife of my choice. But just at this time a
terrible temptation presented itself to me.
"Annie Dale's mother had been a widow for several years.
Her husband was a cousin of my uncle's, and when Mr. Dale
died, leaving his wife and child destitute, Uncle Jabez had
given them the use of a small cottage on his estate and increased
the small annuity, which Mrs. Dale possessed, to a Bum that
enabled them to live comfortably with economy. Afterward,
280 COLONEL MAPLESON'S STORY.
when Annie grew older, they opened a small private school, and,
having succeeded in securing all the pupils they could accom
modate, they declined receiving further aid from him. They
lived very poorly and m eagerly, however, and it galled me to
see their poverty; so, upon coming into possession of the estate,
I took advantage of their absence on a visit at one time, and had
the cottage thoroughly repaired and newly furnished in a style
to suit myself. Mrs. Dale was almost inclined to be angry with
me for this, saying it was far too elegant for their position in life;
but the deed was done, and I laughingly told her it was only a
poor return for all the trouble I had given her as a boy, when I
tracked her spotless floors with my muddy boots, and depleted
her larder with my rapacious appetite, as, day after day, I
shared Annie's lunch.
"But I am getting away from the temptation of which I be
gan telling you, which came to me after I had been three years
in the mines. Annie's mother died very suddenly after an ill
ness of only a week, and I did not learn of the fact for nearly
two mouths afterward. I wrote at once to Annie, begging her
to choose some elderly companion and remain where she was
to consider the cottage still her home and accept aid from me
until I could return and make some permanent arrangement for
her. I told myself that if I could only keep her there in seclu
sion for a couple of years longer, I should then be in a position
to return and ask her to become my wife. But in a cool, digni
fied letter she refused my request, telling me that her plans for
the future were already made, and that she was on the eve of leav
ing for Richmond, where she was going to remain with an old
nurse, until she could obtain a position as governess in some
family.
"For a week after receiving this letter I fought a terrible bat
tle with myself. I could not endure the thought of that delicate
girl going out in the world to toil for the bread she ate. On
the other hand, if I yielded to my own desire, and asked her to
marry me, it would doom her to a life of hardship almost as
severe, for I could only make over my share of Uncle Jahez's
fortune to m.\ cousin at a sacrifice that would leave me almost a
beggar. I could not force a sale of mining interests without
losing nearly all that I had made during the last three years. I
was nearly distracted, and I imagined a thousand evils and
dangers that might result from Annie becoming a governess.
Not only would such a life be a burdensome and disagreeable
one, but, worse than that, she was liable to meet some one who
would be attracted by her beauty and sweetness some one who
would win her, and thus I should lose her.
"The thought was unbearable, and I resolved upon a desper
ate measure. I wrote again to her, confessing ray love that I
had always loved her, and begging her to come to me and share
my life in the West. I told her that I would gladly give up
COLONEL MAPLESON'S STORY. 281
fortune everything if she would become my wife; and I
meaut to, by another year, or as soon as I could sell to advant
age. I told her, also, that I could not come on for her, as my
interests at the mines would not admit of my being absent long
enough for that, but I would meet her at Kansas City, Missouri,
where we would be immediately married, and then proceed to
our simple home among the mountains of Mew Mexico. I
begged her not to say anything to any one where she was going
until after our marriage, when I preferred to announce the fact
myself. I sent her a route carefully mapped out, and a check
ample for all her needs, begging her to telegraph me the day
and the hour that she would start. You have the telegram she
sent in reply there," Colonel Mapleson said, turning to Geoffrey,
and glancing at the package which still lay on the table beside
him.
"I have always kept, that precious bit of paper," he resumed,
"for its contents made me almost wild with joy when I received
it. I set out immediately to join my dear one, reaching Kansas
City only a few hours previous to her own arrival. I had
everything arranged, however, and wo drove directly from the
station to the house of a prominent clergyman of the city, where
we were married in the presence of his household, and three
Lours later we were on our way to New Mexico.
"But I knew it would never do for me to take my wife to the
Morena Mines, where I was known by men who were also from
the South, and through whom the knowledge of my marriage
would soon travel back to Virginia. Only a short time previous
I had bought out a man in another district, getting his claim
for a mere song, and not a soul in the place knew me. I re
solved to take Annie there, make just as pretty and comfortable
a home as I could for her, call myself William Dale, going back
and forth from one mine to the other, as my business demanded
it, until I was satisfied to sell out altogether and return to Vir
ginia, proclaim my marriage, and give Miss Everet the other half
of her fortune. But wheu I confessed this to Annie, as of course
I had to do in order to assume her name, she was very un
happy. She was not lacking in spirit either, and made me
almost despise myself for the part I had played.
" 'I would never have come to you if I had known this,' she
said. 'I hate deception and double-dealing of whatever nature.
You might have told me frankly how you were situated, and I
would have waited and been faithful to you until you could have
openly made me your wife.'
" 'But you would not have allowed me to take care of you,' I
replied.
" 'No,' she answered, flushing; 'my pride would not have
yielded to that, but I could have done very well for myself for a
while, and waited patiently until it was right that we should be
named.'
282 THE COLONELS tTQRY CONCLUDED.
"I had a hard task to pacify her. She was determined at first
that the whole truth should be confessed, saying she would uot
occupy a false positiou. But when I told her that it would ruin
me to for^e a Bale of ray stock; that I should lose all the hard
labor of the three years that I had spent there, and not even then
be able to replace the money frotn Uncle Jabez's fortune which
I had invested, she became more reasonable. I promised that if
she would try and be patient and happy for a year, I would
replace every dollar that was not my own, and have something
handsome besides, as a capital for myself.
"I honestly meant to do all this, for I knew that I should
never thoroughly regain the respect of my wife until I had
redeemed my positiou and hers before tiie world."
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE COLONEL'S STORI CONCLUDED.
"Annie and I were very happy," O-lonel Mapleson went on,
after a momentary pause, "during th^ year that followed
happy in spite of a little cloud that had arisen so soon after our
marriage, for our prospects were very enconraging. I was doing
finely. Every month my profits were increasing, and thus the
time of our emancipation was growing nearer If I could only
replace what now no longer properly belonged to me, Annie
said she would be content to remain in that mining country as
long as I desired. She was willing to live simply, e^en frugally,
if I would only do right, acknowledge our marriage before the
world, and not have to hide like a couple of criminals.
"Our joy was increased tenfold when, a little before our first
anniversary, a bright, handsome boy was born to us.'
Again Mrs. Maplesou started and shot another g.vauce at
Geoffrey.
"That explains it all," she murmured.
"Yes, Estelle," replied her husband, who caught the words,
"that explains why this young man resembles Everct to &uch a
wonderful degree. They are both thorough .Maplesons. My
wife," he continued, a sudden pallor settling over his face, an\I
speaking now witli visible effort, "began to recuperate abacs' 1 '
immediately after his birth, her color and strength returned, hei
spirits seemed as light as air, and she was as happy as the day
was long, in the possession of her new treasure, while she was
the most devoted little mother imaginable. She named her
baby, herself. 'Geoffrey Dale Maplesou,' she said he was to be
called, 'only we shall have to drop the Mapleson for a while, I
suppose only a little while longer, Will,' she pleaded, as sb:
twined her arms about my neck and drew my head down closft
to the little one lying beside her.
" 'My darling,' I told Iior, 'in KI\ months, at the farthest, yott
phall go back home as Mrs. William Mapleson. We will call it
THE COLONEL'S STORY CONCLUDED. 283
our real wedding journey. Estelle shall have her money, then we
will come buck here for a few years longer, after which, if all
continues to go well, we shall have no cause to regret Jabez
Mapleson's fortune.'
"I shall never forget the look of joy on her face when I made
that promise, and all during the evening she was as gay as a
child, and more lovely than I had ever seen her. The next
morning 1 was obliged to leave her for a couple of days. I had
to go to the other mines, then to Santa Fe to make a deposit.
My darling clung to me as I bade her good-by. Our boy was
just two days old then.
" 'My Will, my Will, somehow I cannot bear to let you go this
time, even for a day, and two will seem an age! 1 she said, as she
kissed me again and again. Then she laughed at her own
childishness, told me playfully, though with tears in her eyes,
to begone before she repeated her folly."
A groan burst from the lips of the narrator at this point, and
it seemed as if he would not be able to go on.
Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey both shifted their position, for
they could not bear to look upon his agonized face as he thus
laid bare this sacred page of his heart.
Mrs. Mapl'^son buried her face in her handkerchief, while
every now and then a shudder ran through her frame.
"She never kissed me again; she never called her 'Will' again;
she never knew me again," Colonel Mapleson went on, in a hol
low tone, "for she took a cold that verv day and was raving with
delirium when I returned. She grew worse and worse, and in
two weeks was dead. My bright, beautiful wife, whom I
loved better than my own life, for whom I was willing to give
np fortune, position, everything that I had hitherto held most
dear, lay a lifeless thing of clay gone from me like a breath,
leaving me broken-hearted and with my reason nearly de
throned."
It was truly pitiable to witness the man's emotion and his
struggle for self-control.
His frame shook like a tree swayed "by the wind; his lips and
his voice trembled so that it was difficult for him to articulate,
whilo his broad chest heaved convulsively with the anguished
throbbing of his heart. ,
"Well," he said, after a while, "I must not dwell upon that
Bad time, and I scarcely know how I lived during the week that
followed. We buried her in a quiet spot beneath a mammoth
tree, not a stone's throw from our home, where she used often
to sit on a warm summer's day with some dainty bit of work in
her hands. You have seen her grave, you s:iy," he interposed,
turning to Geoffrey. "Does it look sailly neglected and over
grown? Is the stone defaced or the name obliterated by the
storms of so many years?"
"No, sir," his son answered, looking up with moist eyes, for
284 THE COLONEL' 8 STORY CONCLUDED.
he had been deeply moved by bis father's story and bis evident
suffering in telling it; "the fence that surrounds the little lot
Las fallen somewhat, to decay, but a luxuriant growth of vines
bides all that. Tlio stone still stands upright in its place and
the name 'Annie' is as distinct to-day as it ever was."
"I havo never been there since we broke up our home," re
sumed the colonel, with a heavy sigh. "The girl, Margaret,
who had served my wife most faithfully ever since our marriage,
married, as you know already, a man by the name of Henly.
They were going to California to live, and she said she would
take care of my boy until I conld make some better provision
for him. I knew not what else I conld do, so I accepted her
offer. I broke up my home, gave away what I could not soil
of the furniture, and we left the place, the Henlys taking you,
Geoffrey, to California, where I planned to visit you when I
conld. I returned to my interests in the other mines where I
tried to drown my grief by working as a common min^r. But
time, instead of healing my wound, only made it rankle worse.
I grew bitter and antagonistic; the happiness of others mad
dened me; the fortune 1 had before been so willing to release,
for the sake of her I loved, I now vowed I would, keep out of
spite for my loss. I resolved to keep my marriage a secret. I
would keep all my wealth, and as my boy grew older he should
Lave the benefit of it, even though I should never be able to ac
knowledge him as mine. But I was restless, I conld not re
main long in one place at a time, and I wandered from place to
place trying to drown my sorrow in excitement. Four times,
after an interval of six months between each, I visited the Hen-
lys. My child was growing finely and doing well eveiy way,
so I decided to let him remain where he was until he should be
old enough to go to school; then something impelled me to
come back to my home. I put my affairs all into the hands of
an agent, and six years from the time of my leaving Vue de
1'Eau found me here again once more assuming the duties of ita
master. A few weeks later I met my cousin, Miss Everet.
Estelle," with a glance toward hia wife, "do you mind my tell
ing it all?"
"No," was the brief, low response.
1 "She appeared very glad to renew the acquaintance of former
years, although no allusion to our uncle's will was at that time
made by either of us.
"She had grown very beautiful, bad been much in society,
and possessed charming manners. One day, during a call
upon her, she playfully remarked that it was her birthday
and she had not been the recipient of a single gift.
" 'You should have mentioned that fact before,' I returned,
"but perhaps it is not too late even yet, for some remembrance
of the day. Tell the number of your years and you shall have
R rose for every one.'
THE COLONELS STOUT CONCLUDED. 28S
"I knew well enough, but I would not appear to know.
" 'Twenty-four,' she replied, and her face clouded as she aid it.
"I could tell well enough what she was thinking of ; in one
year more she would l> twenty-five, then Robert Dale could
claim her fortune, and a life of poverty would lie before her.
"Instantly the thought atone in my mind, 'Why has my cousin
never married?' I dii not believe that she had remained single
out of any regard for me, or from any desire to fulfill the con
ditions of our uncle's will; indeed, ahe had expressed herself so
indignantly at the time of its reading, that I imagined she would
always be adverse to any such union. Still, it seemed strange
that a young lady so attractive, and eligible in every way, should
have remained single, when 1 did not doubt, indeed I knew, she
might have chosen from among a half-dozen men whose for
tunes were even larger than her own.
" 'Perhaps,' I thought, 'she has become bitter and antago
nistic is bound to enjoy her money until the last moment, and
then pass it over to me.' I did not want it the thought was
very disagreeable to me. Perhaps ?he loved a poor man, and
was intending to make the most of her time; perhaps, I
reasoned, she has been saving her income all these years, and
will marry when her twenty-five years are past; maybe she is
even \\aitiug to tire me out and get the whole for that purpose.
But there appeared to be no one of whom she was fond. I
noticed that she treated all gentlemen alike, even receiving my
visits and attentions with no more pleasure than those of
others.
" 'Why not marry her if she will have yon?' was the thought
that shot through iny mind, ns I started out to get the roses I
Lad promised her. 'I will not give up my fortune to that miser
without a struggle. I might ak her to be my wife, and then, if
she refuses, I have fulfilled the conditions of my uncle's will.'
But, at first, a feeling of horror came over me. at the thought of
giving to another the place which my Annie had filled, and I
angrily repudiated it. I avoided my cousin's society for a time
after that, almost hating myself for contemplating for a moment
a marriage with her for mercenary reasons. But when she
eluded me gently for my neglect, seeming to feel actual pain on
account of it, those questions returned to me with even greater
force than before, and I resolved to try to learn her mind upon
the subject.
"I knew that I should lead a wretched existence in this great
house, witl* no woman to brighten it with her presence, and,
perhaps, after a time, if she should consent, I might confess the
great temptation and sorrow that had come to me, and perhaps
she would pardon it, and be willing to receive my boy and give
him a mother's care. As soon as I reached this conclusion, I
made no delay about putting my fate to the test.
"We were one day talking about my estate here, and of some
286 THE COLONEL'S STORY CONCLUDED.
improvements I was intending to make, when I suddenly
said :
" 'Estelle, Vue de 1'Eau has no mistress. I wonder if you
could regard the conditions of Uncle J;il>ez's will any more fa
vorably now than you did at the time of his death?'
'She flushed hotly, and shot a quick, keen glance at me.
" 'I believe we were mutually antagonistic to it,' she replied.
" 'People grow wiser as they grow older,' I remarked; tiien
boldly asked: 'Will you marry me now, Estelle?'
" 'Do you think it right for people who do not love each other
to marry?' she questioned.
" 'Is that equivulent to telling me that yon do not love me?' I
inquired. 'I will be frank with you, my cousin,' I continued.
'I confess that 1 have not the affection for you that young lovers
generally rave about; but I admire you; you are beautiful, cul
tured, talented, and I am free to own that yon are far more at
tractive to me now, than you were in those old days wheu wa
were both so bitter and indignant. If no one else has won your
Leart, I will do my best to make your future pleasant. We have
only one more year of grace; we must consider this subject and
reach some decision before it expires; so what say you, cousin
mine?'
".She thought a moment, then lifted her head with a resolute
air, and said:
" 'Yes, I will marry you, William, if you are willing to take
me just as I am, without very much heart to give you, but wil
ling to do my best to make you a good wife; I believe it will be
the wiser course for both of us.'
"Thus our engagement was made, and we were married the fol
lowing month. I have endeavored to keep mv promise to my
"wife to make her life a pleasant one, and until now," with a sor
rowful glance at the bowed head and shivering form of hin proud
wife, "I believe that we have been comparatively happv in our
domestic relations; at least, I have known more of quiet content
than I thought it would ever be possible for me to attain. I have
kept this secret the only one I ever kept from her until this
hour. I did not have the cournge to confess it after our mar
riage I kept putting it 'off until after my son. Everet. was born,
a little less than a year after our marriage, and when I saw
how my wife's heart was hound up in him, I could not bring my
self to it.
"Later, when I went to see how my boy was thriving, intend
ing to make some other pi-ovision for him, when I learned of
that tragedy in the Henley family and that both the man and
boy had disappeared, I was almost glad I never had spoken of
that sim episode in my life, although I spared no expense to try
to trace my child.
"Estelle, this is. my confession; you have heard the whole,
Bud know the extent of my deception. So many years had
THE COLONEL'S STORY CONCLUDED. 287
passed that I had grown to believe that it would never be un-
vailed until that day when all secrets are to be made known.
This young man, whom 1 introduced to you as Mr. Huntress'
son, is my sou, whom I believed lost to me forever; but he was
led, most strangely led to the discovery of his parentage, and
came hither to-night to claim acknowledgment. By the way,
Geoffrey, I never knew either when or how I lost that portion of
the knight-templar's cross you found. I missed it shortly
after my last visit to Santa Fe, but never expected to recover it
again. You shall keep it, my boy; it has always been regarded
as a pocket-piece for luck; may it ever prove to be such to you.
My only reason for having the Henlys' letters simply directed
to 'Lock Box 43' was to prevent my identity being discovered.
I could not give them my real name, and did not like letters ad
dressed to William Dale to come to the same box, so I just gave
the number.
"About my visit to Saratoga last summer," the colonel contin
ued, after a short pause, "I have to confess to something that I
never experienced before, either in times of peace or war, a feel
ing of cowardice. I was on my way to Newport to join Mrs.
Mapleson, and took a notion to run up to the Springs, which I
hud not visited for years. On the train from Albany to Sarato
ga an elderly gentleman accosted me, expressing great pleasure
at meeting me once more, and inquired most kindly after my
wife. He was a man whom I had known during that short hap
py year that I had spent in that mining village, and who had
known me only as Captain William Dale. He, too, was going
to Saratoga and begged the privilege of accompanying me to the
hotel where I intended stopping. At first I hardly knew what
to do. I could not bear to undeceive him regarding my name,
for it would have required explanations too painful to make to a
etranger, so I finally thought it would not matter if I registered
for once in my assumed name; therefore I wrote it and named
my place of residence as Santa Fe, since he knew that I used to
do business there. A strange fate I thought it, which threw you
in my way under just those circumstances. You remember how I
took you for Everet, at first; but I was terribly shocked when it
dawned upon me who you were, and 1 fully intended, at the
time, to keep my appointment with you for that afternoon. But
when I came to think it all over quietly, to realize all the revela
tions that must be made to my wife, my son, to yourself, I was
nearly crazed; I knew from your appearance that you had beeu
woll cared for, that life was bright and prosperous with you,
and it seemed as if I could not rake over all tho past, and in the
midst of my frenzy I packed my valise and left on the noou
train. I have bitterly regretted it since, for my heart longed
after its own; I have been ashamed that I, a Mapleson, should
have turned my back and fled from any circumstances. I have
repented of my folly, too, because a duty has fallen upou me,
288 MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION.
since then, -winch made it imperative that I should find you; but
of this I will speak again later.
"What is it, Esfelle?" he asked, as ft heavy, shuddering sigh
from his wife smote his ear; "has my story been too much for
you? I fear it has. Perhaps I have beeu selfish and thoughtless
iu bringing you here before strangers to listen to all this, but it
had to be told, and this interview must have taken place be
tween us all. Forgive me for wounding you, and let me take
you to your room; perhaps, though, you never will forgive me
for the deception which I have practiced upon you."
He went up to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder with
more of tenderness than he was in the habit of manifesting to
ward the proud, handsome woman. But she put him from her
with a passionate gesture, iu which, however, there was a pa
thetic air of appeal.
SUe arose and stood before him, her face almost convulsed
with agony.
"Oh!" she cried, wringing her hands, "if you had only told me
all this when you asked me to marry you; or, if I had been true
to my womanhood, how much we both might have saved each
other! Forgive you for your deception? oh! William, I have
beeu tenfold more guilty than you."
CHAPTER XLV.
MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION.
Colonel Mapleson regarded his wife as if he thought she had
suddenly taken leave of her senses.
'August Huntress' heart wus stirred with compassion for the
beautiful and imperious woman, for lie realized full well the
trial that lay before her, and could understand how humiliating
it must be to have her sin find her out at this late day, when she
had believed it buried forever.
All these long years she, too, had treasured her seciet, believ
ing that no one save the strange physician who had attended
her at the birth of her child, and those two who had adopted
it, knew anything of that episode iu her life, and that she had
so successfully concealed her identity at the time that it could
never be discovered.
"What can you mean, Estelle?" demanded Colonel Mapleson,
as soon as he could collect himself sufficiently to speak.
Then, as he remembered how she had greeted Mr. Huntress,
how overcome she had been at sight of him, he glanced sharply
towaAl him and knew instantly, from the look of sympathy on
his fac, that he must be in some way associated with that myste
rious deception of which his wife had spoken.
"I mean," the wretched woman returned, in a voice of despair,
while she sank weekly back into her chair, "that the secret
which you have kept concealed from me during all our marriad
MRS. MAPLESON' S CONFESSION. 289
life cannot compare with wLat I have withheld from you; von
Simply hid the fact of an earlier marriage and the existence of a
son, while I committed a monstrous crime to conceal a like
secret from you."
"Good heavens, Estelle!" cried her husband, starting back
from her with a look of horror at her appalling statement. "I
cannot believe it," and he, too, sank into the nearest cliair, over
come with consternation, and actually trembling with dread of
what was to follow.
Again he looked suspiciously at August Huntress, while a
hundred thoughts Hashed through his brain.
He fully believed that he must have been connected in some
way witSi the crime of which his wife spon.e.
Had she married him clandestinely, during those early years
while he had been away in the mines of New Mexico, and then
deserted him to wed the other half of Jabez Mapleson's fortune
and preserve her own? Had they met and loved each other in
their youth? Was that the reason why Estelle had been so
indifferent to all other suitors; why she had told him she had
"not much heart to give him," when he had asked her to marry
him? She had called him "August Damon" when brought face
to face with him, in a tone which betrayed that she had every
thing to fear from his presence there, and she confirmed this by
fainting at his feet.
But there were only sorrow and compassion written on Mr.
Huntress* face as he witnessed the proud woman's humiliation;
there was no vestige of any latent affection, no anger or harsh
ness, such as there would have been if she had wronged him or
played him false; there was no look, save one of regret and
sympathy, as for one who, he knew, had committed some great
sin tli.it had at last found her out and must be atoned for.
"What does she mean? Do you know?" Colonel Mapleson
asked, huskily, as his visitor perchance feeling the magnetism
of his glance turned his eyes from the bowed form oi Mrs.
Mapleson to the mystified husband.
"I know something, but not all," ho answered, reluctantly.
"Then you have met my wife before?"
"On<;e. and only once, as I have already told yon."
"Where under what circumstances?" demanded the colonel,
with considerable excitement.
"Pardon me," returned Mr. Huntress, with dignity, as it
suddenly occurred to him what his host's suspicions might bo.
|'l prefer that Mrs. Mapleson should herself tell you that, since
it is more her secret than mine. Perhaps, however, it would be
better for Geoffrey and mn to retire to some other room while
she speuks with you alone," and he half arose as he spoke.
But Mrs. Mapleson threw out one clenched, jeweled hand, witk
an imperative gesture, to check him.
"No," ahe cried, a quiver of agouy in her voice; "if any one
290 ffRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION.
has a right to hear my confession, my story, you have," and nt
this, Geoffrey turned a startled face upon the mau whom lie htul
always regarded as honorable and irreproachable one of na
ture's noblemen.
"Oil, the curse of gold!" the unhappy woman went on, wildly.
"What will it not tempt one to do? The love of it blunts natu
ral affection and honor, and warps the reason. It leads one to
deceive, to scheme, and to sin for the possession of it. What blind
fools men and women are to sacrifice so much love, a life-time
of innocence, parity, and happiness, for the sake of a little paltry
fellow dust! If I could but live over my life, how gladly would
endure poverty, and toil, a&d self-denial, to secure a quiet con
science and a heart free from its burden of sin and dread! Oh,
such a life as I have led is but a miserable failure from begin
ning to end!"
Colonel Mapleson began to be alarmed at his wife's increasing
excitement, while her remorse and her ominous allusions drove
him almost distracted.
He arose, and, going to her side, took her trembling hands in
his, saying:
"Estelle, if you cannot calm yourself, I shall insist upon your
going to your room; yon will surely be ill if you yield so to
nervous excitement. Whatever this matter is that seems to
weigh so heavily upon your mind, I can wait until you are in a
better state lor its recital. Come, let me take you up stairs,"
and he gently tried to force her to rise.
But she wrenched her hands from his clasp.
"No, no," she cried, with a shiver; "I will not carry this
dr*>adiul burden on my heart another hour! For more than,
twenty years I have borne the brand of an inhuman monster on
my soul, and I wonder that it has not transformed me into some
thing so repulsive and loathsome that every one would shrink
from me in fear and disgust. I have often looked at myself with
amazement to think it was possible for any one to conceal so
effectually the corruption and wretchedness and duplicity of
o/ie's nature. I believe I have realized, as no one else ever did,
what the Saviour meant by a 'whited sepulcher full of dead
men's bones.' William!" turning upon her husband, with a
vild, glittering eye, and searching his face with a glance of piti
ful appeal, "I expect that you will despise and hate me, that our
son will loathe me, when you learn what I have to tell you."
Tli>e scene was becoming very painful, and Mr. Huntress, pity
ing her from the depths of his heart, arose and walked out of her
night, feeling that he conhl not look upon her agony, while Geof
frey sat spell-bound, dreading the impending disclosure more
than he could express.
Colonel Mapleson, feeling as if he must do something to calm
her excitement, went to a closet, poured out a glass of wine, and
brought it to her.
MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 291
"Estelle, driuk tins," he said, kindly, as he put it to her lips,
though his hand shook so that he could not hold the glass
steadily.
She hastily swallowed it, and then pushed him from her; it
seemed as if she could not bear him near her while her sin was
uuconfessed until he should hear and judge her, and she could
know what her doom was to be.
For more than twenty years he had been her husband. He
had al\\ays been kind and chivalrous in his treatment of her.
At first she had been proud of him 1'or his honor and manliness,
then her pride had gradually developed into a strong, deep
affection, which, however, she had never allowed herself to
Earade before him, because of his unvarying reticence toward
er. She had tried to be a good wife to him, to win his respect
by her faithfulness to duty, her devotion as a mother, and his
admiration by preserving her beauty and shining a star in the
society they frequented; and now, after succeeding for so long a
time, it drove her nearly crazy to think that perhaps the con
fession of her early folly would undo all this and breed con
tempt for her, or worse his pity.
His own deception seemed very trivial compared with hers,
for a cruel fate alone had prevented him from acknowledging
his wife and child whom he had fondly loved and would have
cherished as long as they had been spared to him, while she
had deliberately planned to abandon her delicate babe and cast
it unloved upon the care of strangers.
The wine which she had drank, however, served to steady her
nerves, and to give her strength for the trial before her, and
after a f-w minutes she raised her white, drawn face, saying:
"Sit down, all of you, for my story is not a short one, though
for all our sakes I will make it as byief as possible.
"You will remember, William, that after I came into possession
of my half of Uncle Jabez's fortune, I went abroad. I had al
ways had an intense longing to see Europe, and when the means
to do so were at my dispos.il, I resolved to gratify that desire.
You know, too, that as a family we had always been poor. Ifc
hiid been a continual struggle with us to secure even the neces
saries of life, and the battle with poverty had been a most bitter
one to me. Now, I was bound to get the most I could out of
life, to make up for the deprivations of my youth. I indignantly
refused to marry as niy uncle desired, for I, as well as you, con
sidered that he had no right to make any such stipulations in
disposing of his money; but I was young, I had seven years i>efore
me in which to enjoy my wealth, and I said I would spend every
dollar of my income in being happy and making up to my family
for the hardships of previous years. So I settled a comfortable
income on my father and mother, and then, taking my sister
Nellie for a couipanion, I sailed for Europe to gratify my taste
for travel and sight-seeing. Wo both spoke French and Ger
292 MRS. MAPLESOXS CONZEHS10N.
man fluently, for we had been faithful students, and fitted our
selves for teaching; botli were self-reliant and courageous in
spite of our youth our conflict with our unfavorable surround
ings had made nn BO therefore we felt Competent to travel by
ourselves without a chaperon, who, we felt, would hamper our
movements. Some of the time we had a guide, but in England,
France, and Germany we were able to go about quite inde
pendently. It was perhaps a daring thing to do, l>ufc Nellie
"Was somewhat older than I, and very self-possessed and dignified
in her bearing, and we never met with the shghest incon
venience from being without an escort. We had a very pleas
ant time together; we had plenty of money, and did not need
to stint ourselves; Nell loved art, and I music, so for a year we
put ourselves under the best of masters, and gave ourselves up
to these accomplishments, and had our fill. But I am getting
somewhat ahead of my story.
"While we were in London, a few months after reaching
England, we met a literary gentlemen, a Mr. Charles Southconrt,
\vho paid me considerable attention, and to whom I was very
utrongly attracted. We met often, too, upon the Continent, for
He, also, was traveling in search of material for his writings,
Hnd our routes frequently crossed each other. Finally, during
tay second year abroad, he confessed his affection for me, and
asked me to marry him. He was brilliant, handsome, talented,
but poor. Had he been rich I would uot have hesitated a mo
ment, for I loved him; but I knew, far too well, what poverty
\vas to be willing to relinquish my fortune and the handsome in
come it brought me, the luxuries and pleasures it yielded me,
to say nothing of depriving my parents and sister of the eotv.-
forts and advantages they were enjoying, and I refused him.
He knew that I returned his affection he had not dreamed of
being rejected and demanded the reason. I told him frankly.
He then informed me that all pecuniary difficulty could soon be
removed, for there was a prospect of his soon receiving a re
sponsible appointment somewhere in the far East, which won Id
secure him an ample income which, with what he should realize
from his writings, would enaUo him to provide for the com
fortable support of my family, and secure to me every luxury
which my own fortune was then giving me. Would I become
his wife if he secured this appointment? he asked. I told him
yes, and I believe if it had uot been for depriving my delicate
and aged parents and sister of the comforts they were enjoying
if I had only had myself to consider, I should have willingly
thrown up my fortune, and become bis wife, whether he secured
the appointment or not.
"Full of hope at having won my consent, Charlie returned at
or.ce to London we were at that time in Rome to bend all his
Lergies to secure his coveted position. Two months later,
Nellie and I returned to Paris, where we were again joined by
JtfTJ.S. XAPLESON'S CONFESSION. 293
Mr. Bonthcourt, who was jubilant, for lie said be was snre of his
appointment, ami lie showed me a letter, from a person high ia
authority, which seemed to promise it beyond a doubt.
"About this time we received a letter from home telling us
that papa was falling; the physician feared the worst, and we
were told to hold ourselves in readiness to return at once if lie
should continue to grow worse. Mamma wrote that she could
not bear to shorten our pleasure, but she knew that our own
hearts would bid us come if they found that he could not rally;
that was, however, merely a warning to prepare us; she would
\vrite again if there was any change for the worse.
"I told Nellie that we must go home at once; something
might happen to make papa's disease terminate suddenly, and
he would die before we could possibly reach him, if we should
wait to hear from mamma again. Nellie agreed to this, but Mr.
Sonthcourt was very unhappy over our decision; he could not
bear the thought of separation; he said something might occur
to make it final, unless I should marry him at once and give him
the right to call me his wife before I left; in that case he would
let me go and feel sure of me. At. first I would not listen to
this proposal. I knew but too well that if my marriage was
discovered, the income from mv half of Uncle Jabex's property
would be stopped, and my sick and dying father be depiived of
everything th*t had uo\v become so necessary to him. But
Charlie was so snre that he should get his appointment, when
he would at once settle one- third of his income upon my
parents; he was so hopeful over his book, so importunate, and
distressed at the thought of my leaving, while Nellie also
thought there could La no rink, that my scruples and better
judgment were overcome, and I yielded, upon one condition
that our marriage be kept a profound secret until he actually
secured his position. He agreed to this, because he aa!d he
knew I should scarcely reach home before he would have the
wherewithal to enable me to make over my share of Uncle
Jabez's fortune to my cousin, without missing it, and so we
\cere privately married in Paris just before leaving for London.
"Upon our arrival there, we found that a steamer had just
Bailed, and no other would leave for three or four days. The
very next morning we received another letter from home say
ing that papa had rallied and was so much improved, mamma
fegretted she had written BO disconragingly before, and told ns
Dot to think of returning until we felt entirely ready to do so.
I was so happy in my new relations that I was only too glad
of tiiis respite, for the prospect of a separation from my hus
band was us painful to uie as to him. Three short, blissful
weeks after that we spent together, and then there came a
startling cable message, bidding Nellie and me to return iii-
ataiuly."
Mrs. Mapleson paused and struggled with herself at this point;
294 MRS. MAPLESON'S CONFESSION.
evidently her task was a bitter one, and almost more than she
was able to accomplish.
"I cannot tell yon of that parting," she finally resumed; "it
was almost like parting soul from body, and I shall never for
get the look that was on my Charlie's face as he stood en the
pier at Liverpool and watched the vessel that bore us away out
of sight.
"Wo reached home just in season to be recognized by
papa, to receive his dying blessing and his bidding to care
tenderly for mamma, and then he was gone. Our mother was
utterly prostrated by his death and the watching during the
long weeks of his illness, and for mouths she, too, seemed
to be upon the borders of the grave.
"Meantime, I heard regularly from Charlie, and every letter
told me of some delay regarding the decision upon his appoint
ment, but it was sure to be all right in the end, he said, and he
would let mo know the very moment it was decided.
"You can easily realize that those months were anxious ones
to me, for I feared, as the guilty always fear, detection, while,
too, the deception I was practicing was inexpressibly galling to
me. Mamma rallied after a time, and for a little while we
thought she would recover, but the improvement was not last
ing, and it soon became evident that consumption had fastened
upon her.
"It was nearly five months since my return, and I began to be
very unhappy, for there was still no favorable news from my
husband. One day I was sitting alone in my room writing to
him, and feeling very much depressed, when Nellie suddenly
burst in upon me, her face all aglow, and bearing a telegram iu
her hand.
" 'Estelle, what will yon give me for good news at last?' she
cried, gayly, and holding the telegram above her head, out of my
reach.
f> 'I will give you a hundred dollars, Nell, if it is good news,'
I answered, springing up to take it from her, my heart beating
high with hope, for I felt almost sure that the message could
contain nothing else.
"I tore it open with trembling eagerness, only to find these
words within:
" 'Lost; appointment given to a man named Wilmot. Will write
particulars.'
"It was a dreadful blow! Nellie had read the message over
my shoulder, and for a moment we were both so paralyzed that
we could only look into each other's face in dumb agcny. Then
I remembered nothing more for a week, while for a month I did
not leave my bed. During this time Charlie wrote, bitterly re
gretting that he had sent me the message, but saying he had
promised to let me know as soon as the matter was decided, and
MRS. MAPLESON '8 STORY CONCLUDED. 295
on the impulse of the moment, his judgment blunted by his
own disappointment, he had cabled what afterward he realized
must have been a cruel blow to me. He said that money had
bought up the position, while he had been so certain that the
influence at work for him was stronger than any amount of
bribery could be. 'Still,' he cheerfully concluded, 'he would
try for something else, and do his utmost to relieve me frcm my
embarrassing position.'
"All this, however, was poor consolation for me: I could not
confess my marriage and go to him a beggar in his poverty,
even though my heart longed for him with all the strength of
its deep and lasting love. My mother failing, slowly, but sure
ly, was dependent upon me for every comfort that she pos
sessed, and besides this 1 could not make up my mind to put
the ocean between us when I knew I should never see her ^gaia
if I did. My husband had spoken of my 'embarrassing posi
tion,' but he did not dream one-half the truth, for I had con
cealed from him the fact that I was soon to become a mother."
CHAPTER XLVI.
MBS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED.
"Estelle!" exclaimed Colonel Mapleson, in a shocked, yet
sympathetic tone, " of all the romances that I have ever read or
known, this is the strangest!"
"Yes," Mrs. Mapleson continued, "I had persistently re
frained from telling my husband my secret, and Nellie alone
knew it. At first I only meant to reserve it until he should
come for me, as he was to do immediately upon securing his
position. I was sure that, if he knew, he would instantly de
mand ray return to him, and an open acknowledgment of our
union, and so I kept putting it off, until now, that I had re
ceived that fatal news, it was too late. I could not send for him
to come to me, for then the secret must come out with all its
direful results, while I knew he could not take care of me
in a strange country when he was so unsuccessful in his own. I
was almost insane for a time, for I saw no way out of my diffi
culties. My mother was so feeble that she demanded tlie con
stant attendance of a nurse, and tlie most expensive luxuries, to
prolong her life. Whern would the money come from to furnish
all these, if it, should become known that I had violated the
conditions of my uncle's will? Where, too, would the money
come to meet my own expenses of maternity, and to care for the
little one that would soon be mine? All too late I realized the
terrible mistake that I had made in yielding to Charlie's impor
tunities, although I loved my husband most tenderly.
" 'What shdll I do?' I cried, in despair, to my sister, one day,
when all these facts, and the terrible fate awaiting their revela
tion, had been reviewed for the hundredth time.
296 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED.
" 'I'll tell you what I've thought of Estelle,' Nellie answered,
gravely. 'It seems a dreadful thing to do heartless, dishonor
able, and everything else tliat is bad and yet I see no alterna
tive. We must manage some way to keep your money at least,
BO long fts mamma lives: we must not let her suffer, though I'd
work my fingers to the bone ratlier tlutu do such a thing for my
own sake. William Maplesou does not need your fortune; he
Las enough already. Robert Dale, that miserable old miser,
would only 'hide it in a napkin,' if he were to get it. So wo may
as well have the benefit of it, at least until Charlie is able to d
something for you. Now for my plan. You have had a long
illness; you are drooping, failing; yon ueed, must have, a
change. Mamma is quite comfortable just now, and, with the
nurse to attend her, does not really need any one else. But that
she may not feel lonely without us, we will send for her oUl
frien-1, Miss Willford, to come for a long visit, and then we will
go off on a trip for your benefit.'
" 'Oh, Nell, will you go with me?'* I sobbed, in a burst of re
lief and gratitude,
" 'Indeed I shall. You did not suppose I would send you
off alone, I hope,' she answered, and then she further unfold
ed her plan.
"We would pretend that we both needed a change, after the
confinement of the last few months. No one would then sus
pect any secret- reason for our going. We would travel a while,
keeping as secluded as possible, aad finally go to some large
city Boston we finally decided upon, as we had never been
there, and knew not a soul living there where we would
remain until after the birth of my child. Then wo would give
it into the care of some one, paying well for it, until my hus
band was in a position to claim me; and then, as soon as I had
regained my strength, we would return home, and no one would
be the wiser for what had occurred.
"This plan gave me new courage. All my former energy
returned, and 1 immediately began my arrangements for my
proposed trip. Mamma and her nurse both favored it, and Mies
Willford was sent for. I wrote my husband of our plans or as
much regarding them as we told anybody telling him how to
address his letters; and then Nellie and I went a'.vay, without
exciting the suspicion of any one regarding our real object. We
went first to Philadelphia, where we remained in secluded lodg
ings for a few weeks, giving our names as 'Mrs. M'irston and
maid, Nellie Durham' Nellie preferring to act in that capacity.
Then we proceeded to New York, where we stopped a while,
finally going on to Boston, where my little girl was born."
Geoffrey turned abr.uptly around and faced Mr. Huntress as
Mrs. Mapleson reached this point in her story. Never until that
moment had lie suspected that Gladys was not his kind friend's
own daughter. But he kuew that he had formerly resided in
MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 297
Boston. He remembered that Mrs. Mapleson had addressed
him as August Damon, and ho\v she had been overcome upon
meeting hi in. He remembered, too, how, when he had proposed
leaving the room while she made her confession to her husband,
she had sitid ''if any one had a right to hear her story, he had,"
and putting all these things together, it flashed upon him that
Gladys might have been that little girl who was born, under
such peculiar circumstances, in Boston.
Mr. Huntress met his inquiring glance, and smiled faintly; but
be was very pale and sorrowful.
It had not been an easy matter for him to sit there and listen
to that story, and to have it revealed that Gladys was not hia
very own. He had always hoped to be able to keep the secret
of her adoption.
"Is it true, Uncle August?" Geoffrey questioned.
Mr. Huntress nodded gravely.
"How very, very strange!" said the young man, with a per
plexed face.
Then his countenance suddenly brightened!
He leaned eagerly forward, laid his hand on Mr. Huntress'
knee, and whispered, excitedly:
"Then he Eve ret Mapleson, is her half-brother, and that mar
riage teas nothing but an illegal farce I "
"That is true I have been thinking of that very thing," re
turned Mr. Huntress, grasping the hand upon his knee v^ith
cordial sympathy, "and though it has been very hard to have
the fact revealed, that our dear girl was not quite our own, yet
JEJ jy a t having that great trouble so easily wiped out of ex
istence, counteracts all the pain."
"What is it?" Mrs. Mapleson asked, wondering at their .eager
whispering and excited manner.
"1 will tell you later, madaine," Mr. Huntress replied. "Par
don the interruption, and pray go on."
"William, the worst of my story is yet to come," Mrs.
Mapleson resumed, turning with a pathetic look to her husband.
He reached forth one hand, and laid it affectionately upon
bers.
"Do not think me so hard, Estelle," he said, in a low, kind
tone; "I do not forget the 'beam' that was in my own eye, and
I have no right to criticise the 'mote' in yours, especially when
you have been so great a sufferer, and your hands were so tied
by your dependent mother and sister. Your heart was all
right you would never have concealed anything but for the
foroe of circumstances."
"Oh, wait; you have yet to learn that my heart was not all
right," she moaned, dropping her head upon her hai:d. "My
baby was a beautiful child I realized that the first time I looked
upon her, but I did not dare to let niy love go out toward her,
for I knew that I must giro her up, at least for a time. And yet,
298 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED.
what to do with her was a very trying question. At first I
thought of putting her into some institution, requiring some
plbdge that she should not be given away within a specified
time. But I found I could not do this, so I advertised for soma
one to adopt her, promising to give five hundred dollars with
the child. I received numberless letters in reply, but only one
out of them all really pleased me, and this was signed 'August
and Alice Damon.' "
"Ah! now I understand," interposed Colonel Mapleson, glanc
ing quickly at Mr. Huntress, and looking intensely relieved.
Then his eyes wandered to Geoffrey.
"How wonderful! that those two should have found a homo in
the same family!" he murmured.
"I appointed a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Damon," his wife
went on. "They came, and at once I knew that they were the
very people to whom I would confide my little girl, in preference
to all others. But you gave me an assumed name," she said,
pausing, and turning to Mr. Huntress.
"Not an assumed name, madame, but only a parb of my real
name, which is August Damon Huntress," that gentleman ex
plained.
"Why did you withhold your surname from me?"
"Madame, I knew well enough that your name was not Mars-
ton. I felt sure that no mother would give away her child, aa
you wei'e doing, and reveal her identity. On the other hand, I
did not wish the identity of the child preserved. I did not in
tend that you should have any advantage over me. If I took
her, I meant her to be mine wholly, without running any risk of
having her taken from me, or of ever learning that she had been
abandoned to the care of strangers. Consequently, I gave you
the name of Daraon."
"Well," said Mrs, Mapleson, with a sigh, "as it happened, it
made no difference, but if I had suspected it at the time, you
would not have had my child, for I meant to keep track of her.
I meant to have her again just as soon as my husband and I
were reunited."
"But you told me," began Mr. Huntress, with an amazed,
horrified face
"I know I did," the lady interrupted. "I promised you that I
would never trouble you woiild never even ask to see her. I
pretended to give her to you unreservedly, although, you re
member, I would not subscribe to any legal form of adoption. I
allowed you and others to think me a heartless, unnatural mon
ster for the sake of gaining for my little one a good home and
loving care until I could see my way clear to demand her resto
ration. It was dishonorable it was a wretched deception, but
it was all a part of that terrible secret that had to be guarded at
whatever cost. But I had to pay dearly for it, as you will soon
realize.
MRS. IfAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. 299
"My sister and I left Boston, both of us in better spirits than
we had been since leaving England, for we believed that every
thing had been so successfully concealed there was not the
slightest danger of discovery. We came back to our home to
find mamma niore comfortable than when we left her, having
had a bright, cheerful visit with her old friend, while she ap
peared delighted with the improvement which our trip had
made in us. But she lived only one short mouth after that.
She took a sudden cold, which brought on a hemorrhage that
terminated her life in a few hours.
"More than this," Mrs. Mapleson went on, hurriedly, while
she pressed her clasped hands over her heart, as if to hold in
check its painful throbbiugs, while she related the saddest
event of her whole life, "on the very day that she was buried a
bulky package was brought to me, postmarked 'London.' It
contained considerable manuscript, a Bank of England note for
one hundred and fifty pounds, my marriage certificate, anil a
letter. The letter told me oh, William!" she burst forth in a
quavering voice, "you knew that your Annie must die. You
had to face the dread fact before it really came, and you were
somewhat prepared for it; but I I had no warning; the shock
fell like a thunderbolt to crush me! My Charlie was dead long
before I knew it. He had been in his grave nearly a fortnight
when the terrible news came to me. The letter was from a
friend of my husband, and stated that he had met with an acci
dent that must result fatally, having been crushed in a falling
elevator. "
The poor woman appeared hai'dly capable of going on. It
seemea as if all the agony of that dreadful time was revived by
this recital.
'He had only a few hours to live," she went on, at last, "and,
though he could not hold a pen to write me one line, he made
up that package with his own hands, telling his frienfl that it
was to be forwarded to Miss Estelle Everet. You see, he kept
my secret even while dying, and would not send me one of the
fond messages of which I know his heart must have been full,
for fear of betraying me. He said that I would take charge of
the publishing of the manuscript, if I thought best to give it to
the world, for the expenses of which he inclosed the Bank of
England note. That, however, was only a blind, for the manu
script was in such a erode state it could not be published, and
he had simply taken that way to sai.d me, without exciting sus
picion, the only existing proof of our marriage, and what little
money he possessed.
"My fond, faithful Charlie! He deserved a better fate and a
better wife. Of course, after that, there was no fear of discov
ery, even though I mourned with the bitterness of despair over
mv lost hopes. My mother's death was excuse enough for my
grief, though people said I laid it to heart more than they
300 MRS. MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED.
imagined I could. For a long time I felt as if life waa little
better than u mockery. Mine certainly thus far Lad been a
miserable failure. My husband dead, my child lost to me
forever for, of course, I could never claim her uow what was
there in the world for me to live for?
"After a time 1 grew bitter and reckless. I told myself if I
could not have the blessings that usually crown u woman's life,
I would make the most of the fortune that 1 still possessed; I
would travel 1 would see the world I would not deny myself
a single wish or whim. My sister and I started off again. We
went to England tirst, where 1 fount! liiy husband's grave, but
did not dare even to mark it with uny expression of my love.
We went to Egypt and Palestine, joining a party of travelers
thither, and alter spending another year in roving we came back
once more to America.
"Three months after our return, Nellie, too, sickened and
died, and 1 was left utterly aloue in the world alone with tuy
ill-gotten wealth and splendor. What was my monev to me
then? like the apples of Sodom; and yet 1 experienced a grim
sort of satisfaction that the income of Uncle Jabez's propertr
was still mine, that I had outwitted the world and the lawyers
or executors of Uncle Jabez's will by my art and cunning. But
only a little more than a year remained before I should be
twenty-live, when, if my cousin and I were both unmarried,
Robert Dale would have our fortune. I grew rebellious at the
thought. I had nothing but my money to live for now. and my
money I wanted to keep. I had sacrificed truth, principle, and
all the noblest elements of my woman's nature for it, and I was
willing to make almost any sacrifice now to retain it.
"Just about this time you returned, William, and," a burning
blush now suffused the fnce of the proud woman, "I welcomed
you with secret joy, and instantly made up my mind to marry
yon if you would have me. I made myself agreeable to you
with that sole object in view. You know how well I succeeded,
although you did not dream that I was scheming for that, and
I did not experience a qualm, since I did not deceive you re
garding the state of my heart toward you; my acceptance of you
was as frank as your proposal for my hand. Neither of us
professed any love for the other: we simply decided that ifc
would be a wise union, and that we could be a very com
fortable couple. A strange, heartless arrangement, I suppose
the world would have said could it have read our motives, but
it would have seemed even more strange if the experience of our
lives had been revealed. I was hardened and reckless then, for
I felt that fate had used me very badly. I have not deserved
the quiet, peaceful years quiet and peaceful but for the stings
of conscience that have been my lot since. I have been grow
ing happier during all that time, growing to "
She broke off suddenly, flashing a quick, pained glance at
AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 301
her husband, while the blood again mounted to her brow.
"During nil these years," she continued, presently, "I have
never learned anything regarding inj child, bave once. Last
summer, alter Everet left mo at Viewport, to come home, 1 was
comparatively alune there for a few days, my friends, whom I
was expecting to meet, not having arrived, and a sudden im
pulse seized me to go to Boston and try to learn something
about my daughter. I had always kept the card you gave me,
Mr. Huntress, and I imagined if you were still iu that city I
could trace you through the directory.
"Upon uiy arrival I stepped into a drug store on Washington
street nnd asked for tiie directory, to begin my search. You cau
imagine something of my amazement and consternation when I
found mvself face to face with the physician who had attended
me at the birth of my child. Ho also recognized me. although.
I tried to deceive him regarding my identity. But he insisted
that he knew me, and finding denial useless, I appealed to him
for information regarding my child. He said he knew the maa
well who had adopted her that he hail been for years the fam
ily physician; but he would notgive me his name or address."
"That must have been Dr. Turner," said Mr. Huntress, look
ing astonished; "but how could he have known that we adopted
the child? We never told him that she was not our own."
"True; but he was called to attend her for some slight ail'
ment only a few days after you look her, and recognized her; he
would not, however, violate your confidence uor his sense of
honor by telling me anything by which 1 could trace you or the
child. He comforted me gi'eatly, though, by assuring me that
she was a beautiful and talented young lady; that she had re
ceived every advantage, and was surrounded by the fondest lova
and care. I remember now that I have seen her," Mrs. Maple-
son said, with starting tears, "and my heart yearns strongly for
her as 1 think of it. I saw her at Yale when my son graduated;
she was with you," turning to Geoffrey, "and she is truly a-
lovely girl. Mr. Huntress, you have held your trust sacred, and
I am deeply grateful to you."
CHAPTER XLV1I.
AN UNEXPECTED BETUBN.
"Surely, Estelle, your lot has been a hard one," Colonel Ma-
plesou gravely remarked, after an oppressive silence; "your
sufferings have been keener than mine, and I can only wonder
bow you have concealed them so successfully during all these
years."
"I promised that I would try to make you a good wife, and I
have striven to be agreeable and companionable to you. I knew
if you suspected that I had any secret sorrow, you would imag-
302 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
ine it was because I was unhappy with you, and so I have done
my best to appear co-.iteuted with my life."
"Done your best to appear contented," repeated Colonel
Mapleson, with some bitterness, but iu a tone that reached her
alone.
His wife looked up quickly, and a bright flush dyed her
face again.
She reached forward, and laid her hand upon his arm.
"I have been content, William," she said, under her breath;
"it was only a little while that I had to strive while my grief
was so keen and fresh. But let us not taik of this now, 1 ' she
concluded, with a glance toward their visitors.
Colonel Muplesou sighed; then he said, with an anxious look
at her face:
'Eatelle, I am afraid all this excitement will prove too much
for you, and you liad better go to rest; but, first, come aud
speak to my son, will you?"
His tone was pleading, and his unusual gentleness touched
her; it told her that he felt more of sympathy than blame for
the errors of her past. She arose with a sense of relief, such as
she had not experienced during all her married life. Her
burdensome secret that terrible barrier that had always stood
between her aud her husband was at last all swept away. She
could not tell whether it would create au impassable gulf
between them or not, but at least she had nothing uow to
conceal.
She went to Geoffrey with him, prepared to welcome him as
Ler husband's first-born, with all the cordiality of which she
was mistress.
"My boy," said the colonel, holding out his hand to him, "can
you own your father after all that you have heard? can you for
give the deception of my early years my moral cowardice in
turning my back upon you at Saratoga and let me have the
satisfaction of repairing, as far as may be, the hardships of your
youth? My debt of gratitude to your other father'' with a
glance at Mr. Huntress "I can never repay."
Geoffrej' warmly grasped that extended hand.
"You have made my heart more glad than I can tell you, sir,"
he said. "I can forget I can overlook everything, now that I
know my mother was your loved and honored wife. I came
Lere fearing the worst fearing that a dreadful stigma rested
upon my birth that I was not entitled to an honorable
name."
"You are entitled to much more than that, Geoffrey," Colonel
Mapleson returned, smiling, although his lips trembled and his
eyes were full of tears; "there is a handsome fortune awaiting
jour disposal."
"A fortune!" said the young man, wonderingly.
"Yes, inherited through your mother from that very same old
AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 303
miser Robert Dale of whom you have beard so much this
evening."
"How can that bo?" Geoffrey asked, while Mrs. Maplesun
uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"You shall know very soon; but first shake hands with my
wife," his father responded, presenting Mrs. Mapleson.
"You are, indeed, very mnch like my son," she murmured, as
she gave him her hand; "and, believe me," she added, with
touching humility, "I am rejoiced to have you restored to my
husband, even at the expense of the trying confessions and
revelations of this evening."
Geoffrey respectfully raised her hand to his lips, aud the act
conveyed, far better thuu words could have dune, the sympathy
he felt for the suffering which she had endured.
She then bade Mr. Huntress good-night, after which her hus
band led her from the room,
He accompanied her to her own door.
"Good-night, E-stelle," he said, gently, "I hope you will go
directly to bed and try to sleep."
She turned suddenly that proud, imperious woman, who,
for more t'mu twenty years, had repressed every sign of affection
for him and threw herself upon his breast.
"Oh! "William, say that you do not quite hate me for what I
have told you to-night!" she cried, in an agonized tone.
Her husband looked astonished at her act; then his face soft
ened, his eyes lighted with sudden joy.
"Why, my wife? 1 believe you almost love me after all! Do
you, Estelle?" he eagerly questioned; "do I possess any more of
your heart now thau I did when you married me, or has it been
a continual struggle all along to be a good wife to me?"
She was sobbing like a child, now; the haughty, indomitable
spirit that had upheld her so long was subdued at lust.
"I have not dared to let you see how mnch of my heart you
have won; yon know you told me you did not entertain a lover's
affection for me, and I would not force mine upon you," she
confessed, witli her fnce still hidden upon his breast.
He fr hied lii arms more closely about her.
"And / have imagined that you were holding me at arms'
length during all our life," he said, laying his cheek softly ngaiust
her still glossy hair. "Estelle, we will be lovers all the rest of
our lives, for, my wife, you have become very, very dear to me
I did not realize low ilnar until now. We will not look back
ward any more, but ior\v:ud; we have both erred greatly in the
past, and it would ill become either of us to criticise the other.
Tell me, shall wo drop i\n~ vail of charity over it all, and begin
to live our real life from this hour?"
For tht* first, time in hor life, she put her anus about his neck,
and voluntarily laid lit r lips against his cheek.
"I do not deserve; this, William," she said, humbly, "but you
804 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
have made me happier than 1 ever expected to be again."
He returned her caress with great tenderness, then said:
"I must not koep you standing here, dear, nor our guests
waiting below; but I will come to you again later."
He opened the door for her to pass in, then closed it, and re
turned to his visitors, brushing aside some truant tears as he
went.
His face, however, lighted with pleasure as he again entered
the library, and looked into Geoffrey's noble, manly face, and
realized that he was really the son of the beautiful young wife
whom lie so loved years ago.
But the young man himself was very grave.
He felt that he stood in an exceedingly delicate position.
He had come to Colonel Mapleson, believing that he had
wronged his mother, and willfully abandoned him when a child;
be had meant to denounce hiin for it, and reveal also the villainy
of which his other son had been guilty.
But he had found a father ready and eager to welcome him,
ready to acknowledge the wife of his youth, and to give his son
the place that rightfully belonged to him; and now it seemed
almost cruel to expose the wrong of which his half-brother had
been guilty. He could not endure the thought of coming be
tween the two in any way; of destroying the confidence of the
father in the son.
Something of this Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress had been con
sidering during Colonel Mapleson's absence from the room.
They had about decided to say nothing of the affair of the in
terrupted marriage, until they had seen Everet, and acquainted
him with the facts which that night had revealed. Perhaps,
they could arrange to hush up the matter altogether, if the
young man proved to be amicably inclined or reasonable; at all
events, they had concluded not to mention the affair that night
to, at least, give it a little more thought first. In explaining
about the broken cross, GooSfrey had simply said that they had
Been the other half in Everet's possession, and that he knew
nothing of their visit to Vue de 1'Eau.
It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from Colonel
Mapleson's heart when he returned.
He drew a chair near his guests, and began at once to enter
more into the details of the past. He gave them a full history
of his eccentric relative, Robert Dale; told of his long-concealed
fortune, when and how it had been discovered, together with
the will which bequeathed the whole of it to Geoffrey's mother.
"This, of course, now becomes yours," he concluded, turning
to the young man, with a smile. "Quite a fine property, it is,
too, amounting,with the accumulated interest, to upward of one
hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Besides this, yon will
inherit one-half of what I possess, the other half going to
Everet "
AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 305
"I could not take any tiling from this estate, sir," Geoffrey
Said, suddenly growing crimson.
"Why not?" questioned his father.
"Because you married contrary to the conditions of your
uncle's will, so, in that case, I do not feel that I have any real
right to any of it. If your marriage had been discovered, you
would have had to forfeit all to your cousin, Miss Everet. "
"lou are very conscientious," replied Colonel Mapleson,
gravely.
Then he suddenly looked up, with a wise smile.
"It has not occurred to you, I perceive," he added, "that
you could claim every dollar that Mrs. Mapleson and I pos
sess. We both violated the conditions of that will; conse
quently, our fortunes rightly belonged to Robert Dale, and
you, being his only heir, would inherit it all."
Geoffrey looked amazed at this. Such a thought had not
occurred to him; but now he could not fail to see the force of
his father's argument.
"I do not want it I could not take it; I shall have more
than enough from what will come to me from my mother," he
said.
"There are few people in the world who would not take all
they could get," replied Colonel Mapleson, feeling a certain
pride in this noble renunciation of his son. "But, taking
everything into consideration, it seems to me that mutters are
somewhat complicated with us. I suppose Mrs Mapleson's
daughter your adopted child, Mr, Huntress will come in for
her share of her mother's property."
August Huntress flushed.
A painful struggle had been going on in his mind ever since
his meeting with Mrs. Maplesou.
He could not endure, for a moment, the thought of ever
Laving Gladys know anything about her birth. She fully be
lieved herself to be Mr. and Mrs. Huntress' own child, and he
knew it would lie a rude shock to her to learn that she was not,
and to be told the facts regarding her parentage, and he
meant to prevent it if he could.
"Colonel Maplesou," he said, speaking very seriously, "I
hope that Gladys will never learn that she is not really my
child; I never wish her to receive anything from Mrs. Maple-
son."
The colonel's face fell.
He knew that his wife's heart was yearning after her child;
at the same time, he could understand and appreciate Mr.
Huntress' sensitiveness upon the subject; while, too, the
young girl could not fail to be painfully shocked upon learn
ing the sad, even cruel, history coimr-cted with her birth.
"I think it would be a great disappointment to my wife not to
be allowed to claim the relationship," he replied, thoughtfully.
306 AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
"I have no doubt of it, sir," returned Mr. Huntress; "but
could she not better bear the disappointment than to have her
child made unhappy, after all these years of content, by learning
that those who have hitherto occupied the place of father and
mother are nothing to her by the ties of blood? She Las not a
suspicion of the truth, and I am confident that no cue, save
Doctor Turner and ourselves, has the slightest knowledge of it,
so that it never need be revealed. Mrs. Mapleson promised
solemnly never to claim her, under any circumstances; she gave
her unreserve-dly to us, and I cannot feel willing to have our re
lations disturbed. As far as any property which she might in
herit from your wife is concerned, I would not give it a moment's
consideration. I liava an abuadance, and Gladys will have it ail
by and by. I did intend to make a division between iny two
children," turning with a smile to the young man by his side,
"but since Geoffrey is now so rich, he will not need it. How
ever, it will amount to about the same thing in the end, as they
will soon have all things in common, I trust "
' "Ah! is that so?" Colonel Mapleson inquired, with a brilliant
smile and a nod at his son.
"I hope so," Geoffrey answered; "and I, too, think it would
be wiser to keep the trutli regarding Gladys' birth still a secret.
Its revelation can do no one, save Mrs. Mapleson, the least pos
sible good, and I doubt if even she would not regret a disclosure
that would result in so much unhappiness to others."
"I believe you are right," Colonel Mapleson said, after think
ing it over for a faw moments. "I reckon it -would be the better
plan to allow things to remain just as they are."
"I beg you will not consider me selfish or unfeeling in this
matter," said Mr. Huntress, earnestly, but greatly relieved by
this decision. "I sympathize deeply with Mrs. Mapleson, but
I feel that she could not suffer a tithe of what my wife and
daughter would endure to have their relations disturbed, cot to
mention my own feelings in the matter."
"I understand," his host responded, heartily, "and I know it
is but right and just that the one should yield in order that the
many may be happy, and I believe that my wife will see it in
the same light when she comes to consider it. But," turning
again to Geoffrey, "when is this wedding trt occur?"
The young man colored and glanced at Mr. Huntress, for he
hardly knew what to say in reply to this.
"Well, I the day is not set yet. I was anxious to have my
relations witli yourself settled, and we
It was an unusual occurrence for Geoffrey Huntress to lose his
self-possession under any circumstances; but just then he felt
himself to be in a very painful position, for every moment he
shrank more and more from revealing his half-brother's wretched
plot, and he was greatly relieved by a little stir in the hall at that
moment, which attracted Colonel Mapleson 's attention from him.
AN UNEXPECTED RETURN. 307
The next instant the library door was flnng open, ami Everet,
himself, pale and travel-stained, stood before the astonished
group.
"Ha!" he cried, catching sight of Geoffrey. "So you have
stolen a march on me! trying, I suppo.se, to browbeat the gover
nor into confessing that romantic liaison of his youth."
"Evc.ret ! " exclaimed his father, turning sternly upon him, an
angry flush mounting to his brow, at this rude intrusion; -'what
do you mean by rushing in here like this, addressing my guesta
in such an abrupt way, not to mention your exceedingly dibre-
pectful language regarding myself?"
"Your guests ! Why don't you present them to me, or are yon
a trifle delicate about introducing Annie Dale's son tome?" re
torted the young man, in a nervous, unnatural manner.
"Silence, sir!" thundered Colonel Mapleson, looking perfectly
aghast at this strange behavior on the part of his usually court
eous son. "What do you know of Annie Dale?" he continued;
"and why do you speak of this young man in that sneering way?"
"I know a great deal about Annie Dale and the suspicious
life she led in a certain mining district for a year," Everet re
torted, with reckless scorn.
He had been wrought to the highest pitch of angry excite
ment by finding Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress there before him.
"I know," he went on, ''how she was enticed away by the
promise of a marriage which never took place, and how she
afterward died doubtless of a broken heart leaving a name
less brat to inherit her shame."
"Everet! you have suddenly taken leava of your senses! I
believe you <rre in the delirium of fever," returned his father,
regarding his now flushed face and glittering eyes with alarm.
"But have a care over your words. How on earth you have be
come possessed of such strange notions is more than I can ac
count for."
"I can easily enlighten you. I have a couple of letters in mr
possession that were written by Annie Dale's lover, which will
prove all that I have hinted at; and I found a very pretty
rinj?, too, last summer, during my travels not a weddinq-riitr/,
either, mind you. I doubt if she evrr had that which was
lost, on the very spot where she had lived and died."
He drew both letters and ring from one of his pockets, as he
spoke, and flung thorn upon the table, before his father.
Colonel Maplpson recognized them at once, while he was
amazed by the fact of thoir being in the possession of his son.
One of the letters he remembered losing after a visit to the cot
tage where his Annie had once lived, and lie Imd been greatly
disturbed over the fact; but the other, and the ring which
his dear wife had lost one night while sitting on the porch in
their mountain home he could not understand how he came
bv them.
808 PEA CE A T LAST.
"You found that ring?" he asked, amazed.
"Yes. I visited a certain cottage among the mountains of
New Mexico last summer, and while standing upon one of the
Bteps leading up to the door it gave way, and underneath I
found this ring."
"Ah! we never thought of looking under the step," said the
colonel, musingly. "It was a little loose for her finger just
then, and, slipping off, rolled away out of sight, and we thought
it very strange that we could not 'find it. Yes," he continued,
taking it up and regarding it tenderly, "Annie Dale never had
her engagement- ring until the day of her marriage, when this
was put on her finger as a guard to Iter wedding- ring! Annie
Dale was my loved and honored wife, Everet, and Geoffrey, my
BOU and hers," indicating the young man by a motion of his
hand, "will show you the certificate of our marriage, and the
ring with which she was wed!"
"Your wife! Annie Dale your wife!" Everet repeated, start
ing back, amazed, all his color fading again at those woids, and
shocked into more respectful speech by the unexpected ac
knowledgment.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
PEACE AT LAST.
"Yes, Annie Dale was my wife!"
Everet bent a sullen look upon Geoffrey.
"Then lie is not a "
An imperative gesture from his father silenced the obnoxious
Word that trembled on his lips.
"Geoffrey Huntress, as he has hitherto been known," he said,
"is my son, honorably entitled to my name, and an equal share
with yourself of all I possess a son whom I long mourned as
dead, but whom I have most gladly welcomed to my heart and
Lome this night, upon learning who he was."
"Would you have done so had you not been forced to it?"
Evevet rudely demanded.
"Everet, you are very disrespectful to-night," returned his
father, with a frown, "I cannot understand why yon should
manifest such a spirit of hostility. But we will not talk more
of this now; yon shall have the details of the story of my early
life later. I trust, however, that your sense of what is right and
just will prompt you to some acknowledgment for your dis
courtesy toward your brother."
"My brother!" retorted Everet, aroused afresh at the word;
"he has been nothing but a stumbling-block in my path ever
since I first saw him; he humiliated me before friends in a way
that I have never forgiven; he thwarted me in my hopes at
college and in many plans all but the last one," he concluded,
PEA CE AT LAST. 309
with a taunting laugh, turning defiantly toward Geoffrey, who
Was regarding him with move of sorrow than of anger.
"What do you mean, my son?" demanded his father, who saw
that something was very wrong between them, and was almost
in despair over his inexplicable conduct.
"Has he not told you how I cheated him out of his wife?"
Everet asked, supposing, of course, that that wretfched story
had been rehearsed.
"Cheated him out of his wife!" repeated Colonel Mapleson,
growing pale, and glancing apprehensively from one to the
other.
His son gave vent to a short, nervous laugh, but feeling con
siderably crest-fallen at having so recklessly betrayed himself,
since he saw that nothing had been said about his miserable
plot.
Mr. Huntress here interposed, seeing that the truth must
come out, and explained in a few brief sentences what had
happened.
Colonel Mapleson sank back white and nervous, as he listened,
realizing, almost at the outset, the terrible thing which his son
hau so nearly accomplished.
"Do you know what you have done, Everet Mapleson?*' he
saitl, in a solemn, impressive tone, when his visitor concluded,
and the young man was startled and awed in spite of his
bravado. "You have been upon the brink of a fearful precipice;
yon have very nearly committed a dreadful crime, for which I
could never have forgiven you, for which you would never have
forgiven yourself; the girl whom you have sought to make your
wife is your sister."
The young man grew pale, but more at his father's tone than
from any conviction of the truth of his statement. But he
rallied after a moment.
"What staff are you telling me?" he retorted, contemptuously.
"It is no 'stuff;' it is sternest truth; Gladys Huntress is an
ado />(ed daughter,"
"Ha!" and now Everet Mapleson seemed suddenly galvanized.
"Did Annie Dale have another child?" he demanded, with hue-
less lips.
"No; but she is your mother's child, by a former marriage."
"Great Heaven!"
There was no defiance or recklessness in his manner now. He
Bank breathless upon a chair, a horrified look upon his face, a
shiver shaking him from head to foot, perspiration starting from
every pore.
"My mother's child! Impossible! Who told you?" he ques
tioned, hoarsely.
"Your mother herself J She was unexpectedly brought face
to face with Mr. Huntress to-night; she recognized him and
fainted. Upon recovering she confessed to a former marriage,
310 PEACE AT LAST.
and said, in order to conceal the fact, she had been obliged to
give away her child that Mr. Huntress was the ruaii who
adopted her."
Colonel Mapleson then went on to explain more at length
something of the occurrences of the eveuiug, but he was inter
rupted in the midst of his recital by Everefc throwing himseJl
prostrate upon the floor, while a heart-rending groau burst from
him as he fell.
When they raised him he was unconscious, and a small stream
of blood was trickling from his mouth.
He was carried at once to his room, a servant was immediately
dispatched for a doctor, while his anxious friends used what
remedies there weie at hand for his relief.
When the physician arrived he said his patient had evidently
been suffering from a severe cold for several days, and that this,
with weariness of body and a sudden shock of some kind, had
brought on the hemorrhage, while there were also some indica
tions of a brain trouble, and a severe illness would doubtless
follow.
Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey proposed going away early the
next morning, but Colonel Maplesou, who seemed greatly un
nerved by the excitement of the previous evening, begged them
to remain for a few days at least, as he could not bear to give up
Geoffrey again so soon after being reunited to him.
They had not the heart to leave him in his trouble after that,
and consented to remain long enough to learn what the prospect
of Everet's recovery would be-
But he grew steadily worse, and raved in the wildest delirium,
recognizing no one, although there was no return of the hemorr
hage. At the end of four days Mr. Huntress decided that he
must go home, but Geoffrey concluded that it was his duty to
remain with his father until the crisis in Everet's illness should
be passed, for Colonel Mapleson seemed to lean upon and to
experience much comfort from hi presence.
He proved of the greatest assistance in .the sick-room, where
he attended Everet most faithfully, and endeared himself to
the whole household by his gentleness and courteous bearing.
At the end of three weeks the fever turned, and Everft was
pronounced out of danger of any further brain trouble, although
it would be a long time before he would fully recover from the
weakness of his lungs.
Geoffrey withdrew himself immediately from the sick-room as
soon as the patient recovered consciousness, realizing that his
presence might be annoying to Everet, and retard his conva
lescence; although he remained at Vuo de 1'Eau for another
week, at the earnest request of both Colonel and Mrs. Maple-
son.
Then he felt that he could not stay longer away from Gladys,
and he returned to Brooklyn, taking with him the knowledge
PEACE AT LAST. 311
of bis father's firm and lasting affection, and Mrs. Maplesou's
respect and friendship, together with the handsome fortune
which he had inherited from Robert Dale, and which Colonel
Mapleson had transferred to him.
It had been agreed by all parties that Gladys should never
be told the secret of her parentage, although Mrs. Mapleson
had wept bitterly when she consented to remain all her life
Unrecognised by the child for whom her heart yearned inex
pressibly.
She could bnt acknowledge, however, that it would be for
her daughter's happiness, and she was willing to sacrifice her
own feelings to secure that.
She had been greatly shocked upon learning of Everet's
wretched plot, and the narrow escape he had had from com
mitting a fearful crime, and she had pleaded with Geoffrey,
when parting with him, to forgive her son for the injury he had
done him, saying she felt sure that he would deeply regret it,
when he fully came to himself.
Geoffrey assured her of his full and free pardon, and actually
expressed the hope that he and his half-brother might some
time come to regard each other, at least with a friendly, if not
with brotherly, affection.
His return was a very joyous one.
Gladys had been assured by her father, long before this, that
she was free; that no tie bound her to Everet Mapleson; that
the events which had occurred upon the night set for the wed
ding had been simply a farce, the result of fraud of the worst
type, which rendered the ceremony illegal.
She was almost like her old, bright self when Geoffrey ar
rived, although not quite so strong as formerly, for she had suf
fered a fearful shock, and it was not surprising that its effects
should yet be visible.
Only a few days after Geoffrey's return, Mr. Huntress'
beloved pastor and his wife were invited to dine with the fam
ily, and later in the evening, when the servants were all below
everything having been confidentially explained to the rev
erend gentleman previous to his visit Geoffrey and Gladys
stood up in the drawing-room and were quietly made one, while
only those who were acquainted with the private history of the
young couple ever knew of this second ceremony, their fashion
able friends and the world all believing that the real marriage
had occurred at the time of the brilliant wedding before de
scribed.
No one was surprised that the European trip was postponed,
until warmer weather. "A sea voyage in the dead of winter
was a thing to bo dreaded; besides, Mr. and Mrs. Hnntross had
finally decided to brace up their courage and go with them, if
they would wait until spring."
They sailed about the middle of May, and had an unusually
312 PEACE AT LAST.
smooth passage. They spent a whole year abroad a year of
delight, and such as few experience in this world, and then re
turned to Brooklyn, where Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Dale Maplo-
sou set up their own establishment on Clinton avenue, not a
stone's throw from their former home.
The change in Geoffrey's name, together with the discovery
of his parentage, had been very easily explained, and then, of
course, everybody said "they al\vays knew that he and Everet
Mapleson must have the same blood in their veins; but it was
really a very romantic circumstance Geoffrey having been in
jured and carried off by his nurse's husband in a tit of drunk
enness, and never discovering his parentage until now."
The next fall, after the young couple's return from Europe,
Colonel Maplesou and his wile paid them a visit, and it was
noticeable that a great change had come over the strangely-
wedded pair.
The stately anil soldierly colonel was devotedly attached to
his beautiful wife, who had acquired a peculiar gentleness and
sweetness, in place of her former imperious manner, which,
made her tenfold more attractive. It was evident, too, that she
wan strongly attached to her noble husband.
When she was presented to Gladys, she folded her closely iu
her arms.
"My dear," she said, witli a thrill of tenderness in her tones
that moved the young wife strangely, "I hope we shall be very
good friends, for. although Gooffrey is not my own son, I want
to regard you both as my children!"
Tears sprang into Gladys' eyes.
She lifted her face and kissed the lovely one bending above
her.
"I am sure I shall love you very, very dearly," she said.
And she did. A tender friendship was begun during that
visit, which grew stronger and more devoted with every year,
and when, at length, two little twin girls were born to Gladys, she
named one Alice and the other Estelle.
"For our two mothers," she said to Geoffrey, with a fond
smile.
Colonel Mapleson was very proud of his Annie's boy, but his
happiness would never be quite complete, he said, until there
could be perfect harmony between his two sons. Ho hoped
that time would bring even that to pass, for Everet had shown
great remorse over the deception that he had practiced upon
Gladys, and he finally made an humble, though manly, confes
sion to her, and entreated her pardon for the injury he had
done her and her husband.
But it was not until Geoffrey was called to the death-bed of
his father, three j r ear; after his marriage, that they really became
friends.
Tho making of Colonel Maplesou's will brought it about, for
PEACE AT LAST. 313
he consulted his sons about the matter. Geoffrey refused abso
lutely to be named in it, except simply to receive an affectionate
remembrance from his father, and this attitude excited Everet's
wonder.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, coldly, and regarding his
brother with suspicion. "You are my father's elder son, and
entitled to half of his fortune."
"I do not wish it, believe me," Geoffrey answered. "1 have
enough as it is. I can never tell you," he added, earnestly,
"how much more to me than fortune, or any other inheritance,
is the name that I can legally claim from our father. Let that
be my share indeed, I will not have anything else."
Everet stood, thoughtful aad silent, for several moments.
Then, with an evident effort, he looked up in Geoffrey's face,
and said:
'I know that you might have att, had you chosen to take it,
and in that case /would have been a beggar. You have led me
to believe and not by this act alone, either that there is at
least one truly noble, nuselh'sh man in the world. If you do not
utterly despise me, will you henceforth recognize me as a
friend?"
He extended his hand as he spoke, but it shook visibly, and
he was very pale. It had not been an easy thing for this proud
young Southerner to make such a confession and appeal.
Geoffrey grasped it warmly, his manly face all aglow with
sincere joy.
"Not only my 'friend,' Everet, but, my brother, in name and
in truth," lie answered, heartily; and thus a life-long bond was
established between them, which strengthened with every suc
ceeding year, while the desire of Colonel Mapleson's heart
was granted him ere he closed his eyes upon all things
earthly.
A little later, Ad die Loring, who during all this time had
refused many nn eager suitor, became the mistress of Vne de
1'Ean, where she reigned the center of a happy and peaceful
household.
She often visited her girlhood's friend at the North, and enter
tained her, in turn, in her Southern home, where the elder Mrs.
Mapleson was supremely content in the presence of her child
and grandchildren, even though they were ignorant that no
other bond save that of mutual love and sympathy iiuited
them.
Mr. and Mrs. Huntress were also very happy in their chil
dren, and lived many years to enjoy them years which brought
with them an
"Old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland nigLt."
Mr. Huntress retired from active business s > >i :,i"ti r his r-
3 U PEA CE AT 'LAS T
turn from Europe, resigning bis place in the firm to Geoffrey,
who developed great ability as a business man, and was as ener
getic and industrious as if he had his fortune still to make,
instead of already being the possessor of a handsome com
petence.
Gladys, true to her vow upon that wedding-day, which had
ended so sadly, and yet which, they all felt, had been wisely
overruled, divided her time between the duties in her own home
and the work of lightening the burdens of others, "reflecting
some of the happiness of her own life upon those less favored;"
thus laying up treasures for herself more precious and lasting
than either silver or gold.
"Who soweth good seed shall surely reap;
The year groweth rich as it groweth old,
And life's latest sands are its sands of gold."
[THE END.]