TWO LETTERS.
The portfolio was not locked, and within it Everet discovered numerous
letters, all of which were addressed to “Miss Annie Dale.” Most of them
were in ladies’ handwriting, and a glance sufficed to show that they
were from schoolmates and girlish friends.
There were also several essays, which had evidently been written by
Annie herself, when she was at school, and these were carefully tied
together with a narrow and faded blue ribbon. A package of little
billets contained locks of hair of various colors and shades, fancifully
braided and glued to the paper, each with the name of the donor written
underneath. There were a few drawings, very neatly done, some of
landscapes, others of flowers, ferns, and grasses, and one that brought
a startled cry from Everet Mapleson’s lips, for it was a faithful
representation of that very house in the mining village of New Mexico,
that he had visited only a few weeks since. The same hand had done this
that had drawn the others, there could be no doubt, even if the initials
“A. D.” at the bottom had not testified to the fact.
“‘A. D.,’” murmured the young man. “The puzzle is slowly unweaving
itself. This trunk must have been brought here after she died; but _by
whom_?”
His face was very grave and troubled, for disagreeable thoughts and
suspicions came crowding thick and fast upon him.
He put the drawings carefully back into the pocket from which he had
taken them, and then continued his examination of the portfolio. But he
found nothing in the other pockets, save a goodly supply of stationery,
and he finally came to the conclusion that if there _had_ been any
papers of importance in the receptacle they had probably been removed by
his father that very day.
He began listlessly turning over the blotting leaves that were attached
to the middle of the portfolio; there was now and then a half sheet of
paper between them, but nothing else, until he came to the last two,
when a scrap of paper with some writing upon it in a bold, masculine
hand, fell fluttering to the floor.
Everet stooped and picked it up to return it to its place, but the
instant the writing met his eye, the hot blood mounted to his brow, and
he exclaimed, in a startled tone:
“At last I have found it!”
It was the _other half_ of that letter, which had been torn in two, and
which he had found caught in the writing-desk during his previous visit
to the cottage. And this is how it appeared:
“SANTA FE, June 10, 18—.
NIE:
It is with deep pain and
just learned of the death of
se I know that this leaves
annuity which was hers
se and your future is
tle friend! I can say
n how vain and
me; but, believe me, my
you, and were it pos-
and strive to cheer
I am now going to ask a
e been friends during all our
not refuse me.
the cottage. Let it be still
as it has been in the
any restrictions.
alone, for it would
secure some com-
n yourself who will
. Do not mind the
that we are relatives
in this extremity.
ck sufficient for
when I return
ent arrangement
I shall be very
you.
our friend,
“WILLIAM MAPLESON.”
Everet merely glanced at this, then taking his wallet from one of his
pockets, he drew from it a folded paper.
It was the other half of the torn letter.
He laid the two portions together; the ragged edges fitted exactly, the
writing was identical, and the epistle was complete, and read thus:
“SANTA FE. June 10, 18—.
“MY DEAR ANNIE:
“It is with deep pain and
regret that I have just learned of the death of
your mother. Of course I know that this leaves
you alone, and that the annuity which was hers
for life only must now cease, and your future is
unprovided for. My poor little friend, I can say
nothing to comfort you, for I know how vain and
cold words are at such a time; but, believe me, my
heart is with you. I sorrow with you, and were it pos-
sible I would come to you and strive to cheer
you in this sad hour. But I am now going to ask a
favor of you, Annie—we have been friends during all our
life, and surely you will not refuse me.
“I want you to remain in the cottage. Let it be still
your home for the future as it has been in the
past—_it is yours_ without any restrictions.
“You must not, however, stay there alone, for it would
not be safe, and I want you to secure some com-
panion—some one older than yourself, who will
be a sort of protector to you. Do not mind the
expense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives.
I have a right to care for you in this extremity.
“Inclosed you will find check sufficient for
your present necessities, and when I return
I will make some permanent arrangement
for you. Write me at once, for I shall be very
anxious until I hear from you.
“Ever your friend,
“WILLIAM MAPLESON.”
“I _thought_ the writing was familiar to me. I suspected my father wrote
it from the first, and yet his hand has changed very much since this was
written. But surely there is nothing in this merely friendly epistle to
warrant such dreadful suspicions as have nearly driven me wild during
these last few weeks. I have believed the very worst—that it was _he_
who enticed her away, and then betrayed her confidence. I know that he
was in New Mexico at that time; I know that she went there and lived
with some one for a year; and then that ring seemed to prove everything
to me. Still, this is not a lover’s letter; it is simply a friendly
expression of sympathy and interest, and a desire to provide for a
relative who had no one to rely upon. Heavens! will this mystery _never_
be solved?” he concluded, rising and shutting the portfolio, but
retaining the scrap of paper he had found.
He replaced everything in the trunk, closed it, though he could not lock
it again, then pushed it back under the bed; after which he went quickly
out of the house, feeling depressed and bitterly disappointed that he
had discovered nothing tangible, either to prove or dissipate his
suspicions.
As he stepped off the veranda, something white fluttered in the tall
grass at his feet.
It was another letter.
A thrill went tingling all along his nerves, as he stooped and picked it
up.
It was addressed to “Miss Annie Dale, Richmond, Va.,” and bore the date
of July 15th, of the same year as the other one already in his
possession.
It was also in the same handwriting, and had been mailed from Santa Fe.
“This is one of the things that _he_ came hither to secure, and he must
have dropped it as he passed out,” Everet murmured, as he sat down upon
a step, drew the letter from its envelope, and began to read it.
“MY DEAR ANNIE,” it began, like the other, “your reply to my former
letter has hurt me keenly. I cannot bear the thought of your going out
into the world alone to earn your own living. I hoped that you would
be content to remain in your own home, and let me provide for you as a
brother would do. But since you refuse—how cold and dignified your
refusal was, too!—I am forced to break all barriers down and make a
confession that for years I had yearned to make and dare not. Annie,
you _must not_ become a governess; I should be wretched to think of
you in such a situation. If you will not let me take care of you there
at home, in a friendly way, you _must come to me here_; for, darling,
I love you. I have always loved you, ever since we played together, as
children by the brook near the old mill, sailing our tiny ships side
by side, and promised each other that, when we were older, we would be
married, and make a voyage round the world together. Come and redeem
that promise to me _now_, Annie, darling. Do not hesitate because it
will involve the sacrifice of the fortune bequeathed to me, under
certain conditions, for I cannot—I _will_ not—marry my Cousin Estelle
while I love another as I love you; and what is all the wealth of the
world compared with our happiness? I am doing finely here in the
mines. In a few years, at this rate, I shall be worth even more than I
shall have to forfeit by this step, so I will gladly relinquish every
dollar to Estelle for you, my darling.
“Annie, I believe that you love me—I have long believed it—and I have
yearned to make this confession, and to hear a similar one from your
lips, for a long, long time. Had I not been hampered by Uncle Jabez’s
will, and an unworthy vacillation on account of it, I should have told
you this that last delightful summer we spent together. But I have
passed the Rubicon now, so do not ruin all my hopes. I am sorry that I
cannot come to you, my own love. But my presence is absolutely
necessary here, and I cannot leave for such a long trip; but if your
heart responds to mine—if you will come to me and give yourself to me,
I will meet you on the way, at Kansas City, and from there I will take
my little wife to her own home among the mountains of New Mexico,
where we will be all in all to each other. You will not mind the
isolation for a little while, will you, love, until I can make my
fortune, when we will return again to our own dear sunny South? Annie,
_will_ you trust me? _Will_ you come? If you do not, I believe my life
will be ruined. Do not think, for a moment, that I shall ever regret
Jabez Mapleson’s money. I _shall_ not if I can have you. Judge me by
your own heart.
“Inclosed you will find the route you are to take, carefully mapped
out, and the check that you would not keep before—my proud little
woman! I feel sure that you can come with perfect safety alone as far
as Kansas City, where I shall be surely waiting to receive you. Send a
telegram naming the day and the hour when you will start.
“One thing more, love—say nothing to any one of your plans; leave that
to me, to explain after we are one. Annie, you _will_ not fail me. I
could not bear it now, for I have set all my hopes upon you. I shall
not rest until I receive your telegram.
“Ever your own, WILL.”
Everet Mapleson’s face was as white as that of the dead as he finished
reading this epistle.
“It is all true, after all,” he said, with blazing eyes and through his
tightly locked teeth. “It _was_ he who enticed her away in secret,
hiding her in that out-of-the-way place—literally burying her alive. I
have been convinced of it ever since I found that ring with those
initials—‘W. M. to A. D.’—engraved within it, and yet I kept hoping it
could not be proved. So she went to him—foolish girl!—believing that
he’d marry her and give up his money; and she only lived one short year!
“Now Geoffrey Huntress’ strange resemblance to me is all accounted for,”
he went on, after a fit of musing; “he is my father’s son and—_my half
brother_, and to him will belong all Robert Dale’s fortune if he should
ever learn the secret of his birth. Now I understand why he was given
into Jack and Margaret Henly’s care. It would have been very awkward for
the heir of half Jabez Mapleson’s fortune if that New Mexican escapade
had leaked out. But I cannot comprehend how the boy became an
imbecile—an accident, Mr. Huntress said—and I suppose those people got
tired of caring for him and cast him off. No; that can’t be, either, for
that woman seemed terribly upset about it. It’s all a wretched puzzle,
anyhow.
“Zounds!” he continued, with sudden energy, “the governor is a wonderful
actor. He never betrayed himself by so much as the quiver of an eyelid,
this morning, when we talked about this girl’s disappearance. I wonder
what he will do about that money? Will he _dare_ keep it? or will he try
to find the boy and make it over to him in some roundabout way? No; I do
not believe he will ever run any risk of having that New Mexican
escapade revealed. He couldn’t quite stand that, and my haughty mamma
would never forgive him. He will keep the money, and say nothing.
Geoffrey Huntress will _never_ get his fortune, for _I_ shall keep the
secret that I have this day discovered closely locked in my own breast.
Neither he nor my father shall _ever_ learn through _me_ that he is an
heir of the houses of Dale and Mapleson.
“He loved her, though—I am sure he loved her!” he resumed, his eyes
falling upon that still open letter. “This shows it in almost every
line; and his face to-day, as I caught a glimpse of it through the
window, as he bent over that trunk, looked as if he had just buried the
dearest object of his life. It must have been hard to look at all her
pretty fixings and remember that one short, happy year; for they were
very happy, according to Bob Whittaker’s story. That is the reason he
keeps this house, and all in it, so sacred. Why couldn’t he have married
her, like a man? Money! money! I believe it is only a curse to half the
people in the world.”
He arose, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket; then going to the
old mill, he unfastened his horse, mounted, and rode back to Vue de
l’Eau, looking stern, and grave, and unhappy.