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. “I do not believe it will be exactly safe for you
to go there by yourself, 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 particularly 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 reason for making the request,
which I will explain when I return,” and Gladys had three of them nicely
rooted before she returned to Brooklyn, at the end 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 alone to visit Jack Henly’s former
home, and to try to discover the grave of his wife.
He 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.
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 perhaps 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, coming, in a few minutes,
to a large and comfortable farmhouse, 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 three-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 invited 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 am in this locality chiefly to ascertain something of the people who
once occupied that house over yonder,” he said, indicating Jack Henly’s
deserted dwelling, “and thought my best way would be to apply to some
one living 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 here for the last thirty-five
years, and I can tell you all about that sad story—at least all that
anybody hereabouts ever knew; though it isn’t a cheerful subject.”
“I am very fortunate, then, in having come to you,” Geoffrey said, in a
tone of satisfaction. Then 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 Henlys came here nigh about
twenty-two or three years ago, 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 each 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 got 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 neighbors 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 the 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 stepped in, as she had often done,
when she saw Mrs. Henly lying on the floor, a terrible bruise and gash
on her forehead. My wife was 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 lying as my wife had described her,
only instead of being dead, as she thought, she was now rolling her head
from side to side and moaning as if in great pain.”
“Not dead!” interrupted Geoffrey, in a startled tone.
“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 my son
back home to bring his mother, while I got some water and bathed the
poor woman’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 doubtful if the poor thing could
live; the blow on the head had been a fearful one, and it was a wonder
that it had not killed her outright. Besides that, there was the print
of three fingers on her throat, showing that there had been a struggle
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 his track. But nothing has ever been heard of him or the
child from that day to this; at least not to my knowledge. 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 disappearance 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,
believing he had killed her, and then taken the boy and fled. I suspect
there was something more to it, but that was all we could ever get out
of her.”
“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 get 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 when he should come again and find that he had disappeared.
She sold all her household goods, offered a reward of a thousand
dollars—having deposited that amount in a bank in San Francisco for the
purpose—to any one who should find her husband or secure 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 be inserted in certain papers
in the leading cities of the country by those who had charge of the
affair,” replied the farmer, “but I guess it has never been printed.
Their house has never been occupied since. A good many people believe
that Henly murdered the boy also, and concealed the body somewhere on
the farm, so 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.
“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 years?” the farmer
urged, in an eager tone. Geoffrey felt that he was warranted in so
doing, since Margery Henly had lived, and there was no longer any need
of concealment on Jack’s part.
“Jack escaped all pursuit,” he said, “wandering from place to place;
went to Texas on a sheep ranch for a few years, and finally turned up in
New York, where I became 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 for
Australia.”
“Poor fellow,” said the farmer, sympathetically, “he must have suffered
keenly. But this is the 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 here to try to solve,” Geoffrey
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 on 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 doing, and, finding that I
had disappeared, would leave his 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 circumstances 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 who had been Margery’s joy and pride.
He was touched, too, by the evidence of his father’s interest 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 communication 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 was 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 you no more,” said the man,
evidently feeling for his visitor’s discomfiture, “and it really must be
a great trial to you to have such a mystery enshrouding your parentage.”
“It is, but—it must be solved sooner or later,” 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.