Geoffrey’s Victory;
OR,
THE DOUBLE DECEPTION.
BY
MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
AUTHOR OF
“STELLA ROOSEVELT,” “TINA,” “EDRIE’S LEGACY,” “WITCH HAZEL,” “MAX,”
“RUBY’S REWARD,” “VIRGIE’S INHERITANCE,” “TWO KEYS,” “THRICE WEDDED,” “A
TRUE ARISTOCRAT,” “TRIXY,” “THAT DOWDY,” “SIBYL’S INFLUENCE,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
81 Fulton Street.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888,
BY STREET & SMITH,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A STRANGE ADVENTURE.
CHAPTER II. A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.
CHAPTER III. THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.
CHAPTER IV. A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.
CHAPTER V. A GRAVE CONSULTATION.
CHAPTER VI. THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.
CHAPTER VII. GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.
CHAPTER VIII. THE HAZER HAZED.
CHAPTER IX. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.
CHAPTER X. MRS. BREVORT’S RECEPTION.
CHAPTER XI. MARGERY.
CHAPTER XII. THE RECEPTION.
CHAPTER XIII. “FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!”
CHAPTER XIV. A CONFESSION.
CHAPTER XV. A DECLARATION.
CHAPTER XVI. OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
CHAPTER XVII. A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
CHAPTER XVIII. A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
CHAPTER XIX. EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L’EAU.
CHAPTER XX. AN INTERESTING DWELLING.
CHAPTER XXI. AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.
CHAPTER XXII. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.
CHAPTER XXIII. EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
CHAPTER XXIV. EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
CHAPTER XXV. GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.
CHAPTER XXVI. A THRILLING STORY.
CHAPTER XXVII. JACK’S STORY CONTINUED.
CHAPTER XXVIII. GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.
CHAPTER XXIX. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
CHAPTER XXX. A STARTLING RECOGNITION.
CHAPTER XXXI. A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.
CHAPTER XXXII. GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.
CHAPTER XXXIII. A WEDDING IN PROSPECT.
CHAPTER XXXIV. ROBERT DALE’S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.
CHAPTER XXXV. TWO LETTERS.
CHAPTER XXXVI. “HE IS NOT NAMELESS.”
CHAPTER XXXVII. A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE WEDDING.
CHAPTER XXXIX. WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.
CHAPTER XL. AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.
CHAPTER XLI. GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
CHAPTER XLII. FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.
CHAPTER XLIII. COLONEL MAPLESON’S STORY.
CHAPTER XLIV. THE COLONEL’S STORY CONCLUDED.
CHAPTER XLV. MRS. MAPLESON’S CONFESSION.
CHAPTER XLVI. MRS. MAPLESON’S STORY CONCLUDED.
CHAPTER XLVII. AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
CHAPTER XLVIII. PEACE AT LAST.
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 scintillated 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 overhanging eaves below were
fringed with myriads of glistening points that seemed like pendulous
diamonds, catching 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 seen at nine
o’clock, and the brilliantly lighted thoroughfares had a lonely and
desolate appearance without their accustomed flow of life and humanity.
The luckless policemen, who alone paraded the slippery sidewalks on
their round of duty, would now and then slink into sheltered nooks and
door-ways for a brief respite from 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 patronized, while the
poor drivers, muffled to their eyebrows 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 in 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 one would venture forth to call him, when, to his annoyance and
dismay, his bell suddenly rang a clanging and imperative 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 with 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. PAYSON, Clerk.”
Dr. Turner frowned, and hung his head in thought for a moment.
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 result in the loss of a human life.
This thought decided him.
He turned quickly on his heel and passed down the hall 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
wished, 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 penetrating air
of this bitterly cold 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
magnificently 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 years older, but
scarcely less beautiful, although of a different type, and looking
anxious and distressed.
A few direct inquiries enabled the physician to comprehend the nature of
the case, after which he rapidly wrote a few lines upon a card, and,
ringing for a 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
of golden brown hair clustering about her little head, with eyes of
heaven’s own blue, and delicate patrician features, which, however, were
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 coming of the little stranger.
Three weeks previous two ladies had arrived, late one evening, at the ——
House, where the younger had registered as “Mrs. E. E. Marston and
maid.”
The clerk, as he read the entry, had glanced with astonishment at the
lovely blonde who had been thus designated 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 English, 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
companion had more 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. She selected the most elegant suite of rooms that
were unoccupied, and ordered 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 the 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 regarding 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 propriety 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, requesting him
to call upon her at 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 experienced.
“The maid” admitted him, a dainty flush tinging her fair cheek as she
encountered his earnest glance, and he thought her more beautiful than
ever, while he was firmly convinced that she was in reality no servant,
but connected by some tie of blood to the woman whom she professed to
serve, although there was no resemblance between them.
Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered.
He had 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 in 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
gentleman,” 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 vigorous constitution.
“I am very well, thank you,” she responded, somewhat coldly, as if her
physical condition were not a question 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 that, I should have said 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 slightly at this, but, after an instant of
hesitation, she said, composedly:
“Oh, I intend to go to a warmer climate. I shall probably spend the rest
of the winter in the South.”
“Then I think you may go with perfect safety, if you are quite sure you
feel well and strong.”
“As to that, I never felt more vigorous in my life; but——”
The lady 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 doctor.
“Oh, no. I do not intend to take the child at all,” returned the mother,
quickly, a nervous tremor running through her frame as she spoke.
“You do not intend to take your child with you?” repeated the physician,
astonished, while he searched the downcast face before him with a
suspicious look.
“No; and that was what I wished to consult with you about,” replied Mrs.
Marston, shifting uneasily for an instant 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.”
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,” remarked 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 received and where I might safely leave her? I would make it an
object for any such institution to take her.”