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,
leaving her alone upon the balcony, and she saw him no more that night.
“Mercy! what a volcanic nature,” she murmured, with a sigh of relief
over his departure. “I should pray 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 sometimes
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 balcony to recover
herself a little more fully before returning 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 enjoyment 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 that 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 commencement 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 he had ever worked before during his college
life. A feeling of antagonism against Geoffrey, and a desire to win
Gladys’ 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.
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. “I mean this
wonderful resemblance between you and that young man. If I had not known
the Maplesons 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 replied, 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? He appears like a fine fellow—handsome, manly, and he is
certainly extremely clever,” returned Mrs. Mapleson, 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,
abidingly. “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 demented
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 removed, I believe, and he recovered his senses immediately, but
appeared more like a child five years old rather than like a boy in his
teens.”
“How very strange!” exclaimed Mrs. Mapleson, deeply interested; “but
could he tell nothing about himself after his mind was restored?”
“No, nothing of any consequence; all that he could remember of his
previous life was that he had lived with some people named Margery and
Jack, and that his name was Geoffrey Dale——”
“Dale! Dale!” repeated Mrs. Mapleson, with a start. “There used to be a
family of Dales living near Vue de l’Eau before I was married; at least
there was a widow and her daughter, a girl named Annie. They were poor
people; they lived in one of those cottages near the old mill, and after
the mother died the girl suddenly disappeared, and was never heard of
again.”
“Mother, what is this you are telling me?” cried young Mapleson, a
strange look flashing over his face. “The girl went away and never came
back?”
“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 governess 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 Jabez’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, musingly.
“It was indeed.”
“What could have prompted him to make it?”
“Your father was his brother’s only son. and the last of the Maplesons.
I was a favorite niece, the daughter of his sister, and I suppose he did
not wish the wealth which it had taken 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 concluded.
Her son noticed it, and shot a searching glance into her face.
“Mother,” he said, as if some strange thought had suddenly 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. When the conditions of the
will were 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 account we both shrank from assuming the intimate
relations of husband and wife. William Mapleson was a handsome and noble
gentleman, and I admired and liked him in a cousinly way. His own
feelings were similar 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 we were free to use the income of it
as we chose, until I should be twenty-five years of age, provided
neither of us 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, who was then free to marry,
and would have the whole fortune. 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 exclaimed, 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 me,” Mrs. Mapleson replied, a flush dyeing her
whole face at the memory of her girlish indignation.
“Of course, any one would. Besides this, Robert Dale 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?”
“That would have ended all our difficulties—the money would have been
ours without restrictions.”
“What finally induced you to change your mind?” Everet asked, searching
his mother’s handsome face earnestly.
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 youthful 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 Jabez’s money I enjoyed every
luxury and was 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 indignant 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
proceeding?” Everet anxiously asked.
“No, there was 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 our life, as you well
know, has been a remarkably peaceful and uncheckered one.”
“And father——” the young man began, and then hesitated.
“He told me frankly when he asked me to marry him, that he had no other
attachment,” interposed Mrs. Mapleson; “in fact we mutually confessed
that, although we did not possess any romantic 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 believed 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?”
“You might have met some one later, whom you would have learned to love,
and unhappiness must have resulted 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 woman
to have loved such a man most fervently and devotedly.
He almost wondered that his father had not fallen madly 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
allowed 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?” he asked,
after a few moments of thought.
“Yes, and he was every bit as eccentric as Uncle Jabez himself.”
“Are you sure that he never married? Somehow, what you have told me has
created a suspicion in my mind that this Geoffrey Dale Huntress, after
all, may be in some way connected with these Dales at home.”
Mrs. Mapleson gave vent to a silvery ripple of amusement 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 had
cooked.”
“How old was he when he died?”
“Forty, I should judge.”
“Do you imagine that he could have had a secret alliance with any one,
and that this Geoffrey Dale is a descendant of his?”
“No, indeed!” Mrs. Mapleson returned, her face dimpling all over at this
suggestion. “If you could have seen him you would never ask such a
question. No woman would have dared approach him; no 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 l’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 negro servant, who
was cook, housemaid, and everything else you may choose to call him.”
“But during his earlier life he may have been different—he may have
loved some one, and been secretly married, 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. I 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 what became of the remainder of his fortune, which must have been
very large, has been a question that has puzzled all 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 anything
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 l’Eau until some three years or more after she
disappeared.”
“Do you know the name of the family to whom she went as governess?”
“No.”
Mrs. Mapleson seemed to grow somewhat weary of the conversation.
“It is very strange what became of her,” her son murmured, 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 was 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
and talk about the Dales, even 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 became more and more convinced that Annie Dale, who had so
mysteriously 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 believed 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 matter as soon as I go home.”