GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.
Geoffrey Huntress arrived in Santa Fe late one evening, and in the midst
of a driving storm, about a week after parting from Jack and Margery
Henly.
He was glad to seek shelter in the nearest public house, which proved to
be an adobe, and was kept by a goodnatured Spaniard and his wife, both
of whom could speak English passably well.
Everything was in the most primitive style, yet comfortable, and the
house was a most acceptable refuge from the raging tempest without.
Geoffrey slept well, and awoke to find a bright, beautiful 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 postmaster was a man only
about thirty-five years of age, and, upon inquiry, learned that he had
served in that capacity not more than five or six years.
Of course he knew at once that he could tell him nothing 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 appointment?” 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 find old Abe Brown, doubtless he could tell him
something interesting about Lock Box 43.
“Is he living?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, and hale and hearty, too,” and going to the door, the
obliging postmaster pointed out the rude dwelling 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 invitation, and pushing
open the door, which was already ajar, Geoffrey saw an old man of
perhaps sixty seated on a rude bench, weaving hats from a bundle of
tough grass that lay beside him, while his wife, a woman somewhat
younger, sat near him, sewing bands around and putting coarse linings
into a pile of finished hats.
“Come in, stranger, come in!” repeated the man, as Geoffrey paused upon
the threshold; “don’t stand on ceremony, ’cause we can’t, for we’ve got
to get this case of hats off before dinner, and we’ll have 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 younger one a searching glance
from a pair of keen eyes that gleamed beneath his shaggy, overhanging
brows.
“No, sir, I do not belong here; I am a stranger,” Geoffrey answered, as
he entered the room and took the chair indicated. “I was directed hither
to make inquiries regarding some circumstances connected with your
services as postmaster several years ago.”
“Eh!” ejaculated Mr. Brown, 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 relate to a
gentleman for whom I am searching,” he explained to relieve their
anxiety.
“All right; fire away then, 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 dis-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
years in succession during your term, and who had his letters, or at
least, some of them, directed simply with that inscription?”
“Yes, sir, I do remember him—a tall, handsome chap, with blue eyes, and
brown hair, and he had the finest beard I ever saw on a man, 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 drooped 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 said, I remember him; I don’t often forget anybody that I’ve
ever had any dealings with,” Mr. Brown resumed. “He was a generous
fellow, too; had plenty of money, and scattered it right and left like a
prince. It was a curious conceit, though, his having his letters sent
just to the box—some of ’em; they didn’t all come that way.”
“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—unless somebody happens to be owing me”—he interposed, 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?” Geoffrey asked.
Mr. Brown shook his head doubtfully.
“I couldn’t swear ’twas, or ’twasn’t,” he said. “Somehow, that don’t
strike me as sounding just natural—I’ve 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, anxiously.
“I don’t believe 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 you, 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 occurred 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 toward 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 going to
get the gentleman into any trouble,” he said; “he was a good friend to
me, and I should hate to do him an ill turn.”
“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 strong
reasons for believing so; he disappeared 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 drawers, and took an
old leather wallet from it.
Unstrapping this, he laid it open before him, and after searching some
time in its various pockets, he drew forth something wrapped in brown
paper.
This he carried to Geoffrey, and laid it in his hand.
“There you have it, and it’s the best 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.
[Illustration]
It had been broken diagonally across, the left and lower arms comprising
the portion which the postmaster had found.
Geoffrey turned it over and found the 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 young man sighed wearily, for if this was all the information which
he 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, turning to Mr. Brown.
“On the floor, just under his box.”
“Was he in the habit of wearing an emblem of this kind?”
“Yes, sir; he had a fine one on his 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 else.”
“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 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 he tucked it into his pocket and it
fell out when he 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 gentleman 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 if you’ll believe it, I’ve never set eyes on him
from that day to this.”
“Did he never come again?” Geoffrey asked, surprised.
“Yes, twice, though there was a good while between; but, as it chanced,
I was away both times, and of 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 keys.”
“How long ago was that?”
“That must have been as many as fifteen years ago, I should say; 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.
“Did he ever reside here in Santa Fe?” he asked.
“I don’t think he did, sir—he always looked as 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 mountains.”
“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,” mused Geoffrey, as he sat turning over that little
piece of gold and enamel.
“If it could but speak,” he 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.
“Bless you! no, sir. I shouldn’t think of selling it to anybody; but if
you’re that man’s son, as you say, it’s yours by right, and you can have
it and welcome.”
Geoffrey thanked the honest old gentleman heartily for it and his
kindness in answering his inquiries, and then arose to take his leave.
He picked up one of the hats that Mrs. Brown had just completed, asking
if she could make him one and have it ready by the time he got around to
Santa Fe again.
She said she would, and at his request named the price.
Geoffrey dropped a golden coin into her hand, remarking, with a smile,
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 it. He took this 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 was 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-postmaster could not remember the name which it
was so important he should learn.
He attached very little significance to the finding of the broken cross,
for it proved nothing; still he put it carefully 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 Saratoga again, where he
found Mr. and Mrs. Huntress and Gladys, all impatient over his long
absence, and overjoyed at his return. They had remained there far beyond
the date they had intended, and they had only waited for his coming to
go home.
They left immediately and arrived in Brooklyn the twentieth of the
month, and were all delighted to be beneath their 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 my 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 toward
you.”
All this was very pleasant to Geoffrey, but he knew 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 Brooklyn, 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, eagerly. “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 long 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 cost 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 it?”
“Well, you see, the firm wants me to go to Europe,” began Mr. Huntress,
“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 sea, 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 screw my courage
up to 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 salary
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 and the European trip, which had always been a
coveted pleasure.
“I should like the trip, and more than all, I should like the business,
if you think me competent to transact it,” he said. “Here I have been
racking my brains all summer to try to think of something to set myself
about, and now it comes to me without an 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 undertake it. The only drawback,” he added, growing
serious, “is that Gladys may object to your running off in this
unceremonious style, and 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 he knew well enough that Gladys
would be very much opposed to it.
“True,” he began, and then stopped.
“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 galvanized, and shot a
look of astonishment at his companion.
“Uncle August! you know that wouldn’t do at all, unless—Aunt Alice
should accompany us,” he said, in confusion.
Mr. Huntress burst into a hearty laugh.
“I imagine it could be managed without depriving me of my wife as well
as my daughter. How would it do to have that young lady go along as—as
Mrs. Geoffrey Dale Huntress?”