A THRILLING STORY.
Geoffrey started 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 years, 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 reason 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 intent.
“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.”
“No,” replied Geoffrey, his suspicions instantly vanishing. “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 well, and ask no
further questions about yourself. But how came you to follow me to this
place?”
“I didn’t foller 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, youngster,” 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.”
“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 condition 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 he
closely watched every expression on his companion’s countenance, “I was
one day wandering, a poor, demented boy, in the streets of New York
city. My strange appearance and actions attracted a mob of urchins, who
began to make sport of me. They were in the midst of their cruelty when
a carriage 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 statement, while a low
exclamation of pain or fear escaped him, and a dim suspicion began to
dawn on his mind.
“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 temporary paralysis, and made me an imbecile.”
Another shudder, more violent than the other, strengthened his
suspicion.
“This physician and another,” he went on, “believed that an operation
might be performed which would improve 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 his face brightened.
He was gaining light, little by little.
“The first words that I 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 remembrance, too,”
Geoffrey replied, “that some one by that name was kind and good to
me—that she was called Margery, and I loved her. I have a dim
recollection that something happened to her—that she was hurt or
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 suspicions—“who was not always good to me, and whom
I feared and—you are Jack!”
This was something of a shot at random, but it told instantly.
The man sank to the ground, trembling and unnerved, his face blanched
with fear, while great beads of perspiration started out upon his
forehead.
“Good Heaven! I am lost! Have I come back after all these years, just to
get caught like a rat in a trap?” he cried, brokenly. “But,” he went on,
crouching lower among the tall grass and weeds, “I never meant ye any
harm, Master Geoffrey. It was the drink that did it; 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 after ’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 moment 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 had received, 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.
Geoffrey pitied him sincerely, while at the same time a feeling of
horror crept over him as he began to realize that the man had been
making a confession of murder.
Had he killed Margery, and attempted his life also? And was that the
secret of his having been abandoned in the great city of New York?
He was burning with eagerness to learn all the truth.
“I do not wish to pain you, Jack,” he said, “but I want you to tell me
all there is to tell. Begin at the beginning, here in this peaceful
spot, where no one will come to disturb us, and ease your conscience of
its burden.”
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 heart bounded within him at this question.
“Annie” had been his mother, then. It was a great thing to have that
point settled, and he felt sure now that the rest would all be
explained.
“Never mind that just now, Jack,” he replied, with what calmness he
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 pleaded,
pitifully.
“No, Jack, you need have no fear of me; as far as I am concerned, you
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 ask of you
is to tell me the history 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 there ain’t much in the world that I 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 yerself and your folks,
and welcome.”
“Come over to yonder log and let us sit down,” Geoffrey said, 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.
“I came here to work in the mines about a year afore Captain Dale—that’s
your dad—bought his claim,” Jack 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 knickknacks, and was forever pettin’ and makin’ of her as
if she was a child. Wal, 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 mines. 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 was after ye came. But it
didn’t last long, for yer mother began to fail afore ye were a month
old, and in another week or two 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 never, and if the captain were willin’ we’d take
the baby along with us, until he could do better by it. This pleased
her, and she said she’d speak to the master about it. He was glad 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, when he’d take you to some good one
to begin yer edication.
“Well, Margery and I were married, and went to California to live on a
small farm I’d leased, just out of Frisco, which I worked part of the
time and let out the rest, at odd jobs, to get a little ready money. The
cap 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. Margery couldn’t have
loved ye any better if ye’d been her own, and she made more on ye than I
relished, and I 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 lay 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 I 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 forgive me! I’d been at
the bottle all day long, and the very Old Boy 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 angered 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 oath.
“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. Ye 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 Margery 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 ye, 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 darlin’.’
“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 room had made a madman of me—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.”