“HE IS NOT NAMELESS.”
October and November passed without any event of special interest
occurring in connection with any of our characters.
In Brooklyn, in the home of August Huntress, these were very busy days,
but every member of the household was full of hope and happiness.
Gladys and Geoffrey saw but comparatively little of each other, except
during the evening, for Geoffrey went early to the office in New York
every morning, and did not return until dinner time at six; but both
were looking forward to the thirtieth of December, the date set for
their union with all the fond anticipations of young and loving hearts.
Their engagement was formally announced immediately after it was decided
that Geoffrey was to go abroad, and cards for the wedding were issued by
the first of December.
Congratulations poured in upon the young couple from all quarters, and,
the winter being an exceptionally gay one, invitations abroad were
numerous and pressing, their friends urging their presence, since they
were to lose their society entirely during their long absence in Europe.
Everet Mapleson, while reading the fashionable items in a New York paper
one morning, came across the announcement of this approaching marriage.
He bounded from his chair with a muttered imprecation.
“So soon!” he said, with a frowning brow. “They are in a great hurry, it
seems to me; but perhaps the trip abroad explains it. Let me see—they
are to be married on the thirtieth,” he continued, referring to the
paper again, “and will sail the next day on the Scythia. The Scythia?
That is not a New York steamer—that sails from Boston; so, of course,
they will have to leave New York immediately after their marriage to be
in season for it.”
He paced up and down the room, with bent head and sullen, thoughtful
brow.
All at once he gave a violent start.
“I wonder,” he muttered, stopping short in his pacing; “I wonder if it
would be possible to manage it?”
He tossed back the disheveled hair from his forehead; his eyes blazed
with some sudden purpose, his lips were set in a firm, livid line.
“_I shall try for it_,” he said, in a low, hoarse whisper. “I have
everything to win or lose, and I will not yield without a desperate
struggle.”
Two hours later his portmanteau was packed, and he was taking leave of
his father and mother.
They expressed great surprise over his sudden departure, and protested
against his leaving home before the holidays, since they had made
arrangements for a gay time at Christmas, chiefly on his account.
But he was resolute, and would not be turned from his purpose.
“There is to be a great wedding in New York on the thirtieth, for which
I am booked,” he explained, though he did not say who was to be married;
“and I would not miss it for anything.”
“Well, but you could easily reach New York in season for this wedding,
even if you do not leave until after Christmas,” his mother pleaded, for
she was greatly disturbed to have him leave home at this time, while she
suspected, from his gloomy face, who was to be married, and felt sure he
was only heaping up misery for himself in going to New York.
“Perhaps I will come back just for your grand party at Christmas,” he
said, to appease her and be allowed to get off without further
objections; “but I must run up North for a week or two, anyhow.”
He reached the city on the morning of the sixth, and proceeded directly
to the club, of which he was a member, and where he soon learned all
that was going on among the _bon ton_.
During the following day he called upon Gladys’ friend, Miss Addie
Loring, from whom he meant to get all the particulars of the approaching
wedding.
Miss Loring received him with evident pleasure.
“Where have you kept yourself all winter, Mr. Mapleson?” she questioned,
brightly, as she cordially gave him her hand. “I feared you had deserted
us altogether since leaving college.”
“I have been in the South most of the time, but something, more powerful
than home influence, constrained me to come to New York for a little
taste of society and city life,” Everet returned, in a tone and with a
look that made the young lady’s bright eyes droop consciously.
“Will you remain until the end of the season?”
“That depends,” he replied, with a significant smile, which made her
heart flutter strangely.
“New York is very gay this winter, and there will be plenty to entertain
you for as long as you choose to remain,” Miss Loring promised, with a
charming smile. “I suppose,” she added, “you have heard of the great
wedding that is to come off on the thirtieth?”
“The great wedding! Whose?” Everet questioned, feigning ignorance,
although the chief object of his call was to learn all he could about
it.
“Why, that of your classmate and double, Mr. Geoffrey Huntress, and my
dear friend, Gladys. I am astonished that you have not heard of it,”
said Miss Addie, really surprised that he should not have received cards
for the marriage.
“Ah! So Huntress is going to marry Miss Gladys, is he? Pray, what _name_
will he bestow upon the lady?” the young man asked, with a curl of his
handsome lips.
“Why, of course, there will be no change of name—Geoff was legally
adopted by Mr. Huntress, so that makes everything all right,” returned
Miss Loring, looking a trifle displeased at the slur that had been cast
at her friend’s betrothed.
“Then the groom-elect has never been able to discover the secret of his
parentage?” Everet remarked, inquiringly.
“I think not.”
“Are _you_ pleased with this match, Miss Loring?”
“Of course I am—I think Geoffrey Huntress is a magnificent man,” she
affirmed, emphatically. “It would, doubtless, be a great comfort to him
to have the mystery of his birth solved; but it doesn’t matter,
really—they love each other devotedly, and will make a splendid couple.”
Everet winced under these last words, but deemed it wiser to keep his
sneers and slurs to himself.
“I suppose it—the wedding—will be a very grand affair?” he remarked.
“Very; there are to be six bridesmaids, of whom I am to be the chief,”
responded Miss Addie, with animation. “They will be married in Plymouth
Church.”
“In _church_!” interposed Everet, with an eager look. “Will it be in the
evening?”
“Yes, in the early evening—at five o’clock—and they will receive from
six until eight. Mr. Huntress has spared no expense to make it a very
brilliant affair. But I am surprised—I supposed, having been a
classmate, you would have received cards for the wedding, Mr. Mapleson,”
Miss Loring concluded.
“No, I have not been honored. Will the happy couple settle in New York?”
“Really, Mr. Mapleson, you _are_ behind the times,” laughed his
companion. “No, indeed, they sail the next day, at twelve, for Europe,
to be gone for six months. Will not that be delightful? If the course of
true love never ran smoothly before, it has done so in this case, for
there has been nothing to mar it from the beginning.”
Everet Mapleson’s eyes gleamed strangely at this, and a spot of bright
color leaped into his cheeks.
“On what steamer do they sail?” he inquired.
“On the Scythia, from Boston, owing to some business connected with that
city. That is why the marriage and reception are set so early; they
leave New York on an evening train, and will arrive in Boston early the
next morning. Oh!” concluded the young lady, with a sigh, “I shall miss
Gladys more than I can tell you.”
“No doubt,” Everet observed; and then, after conversing a few moments
longer upon indifferent topics, having obtained all the points he
wished, he arose to take his leave.
His chief object in calling had been to assure himself that he had not
been misinformed regarding any of the details of the approaching
marriage.
His next plan was to meet Gladys somewhere, if possible.
It was easy enough to do this, by securing invitations to the receptions
among the _elite_, and a few evenings later he found her at a
fashionable party on Lexington avenue.
She seemed lovelier than ever, with the rosy glow of perfect health on
her face, her beautiful eyes gleaming with happiness, and her lips
wreathed with smiles.
Her dress, on this occasion, was vastly becoming, consisting of a deep
shade of ecru, embroidered with a delicate shade of blue intermingled
with silver. Ornaments of silver in filigree, and set with diamonds,
were on her neck and arms, while a graceful _aigrette_ of blue and white
was fastened in her hair by a star, to match her other ornaments.
She started slightly as she met Everet Mapleson’s glance fixed upon her.
He was so much like Geoffrey that it was almost impossible, even now,
for her to distinguish them apart.
The next moment he was bowing before her, with extended hand.
“It seems a long time since we met, Miss Huntress,” he said, in a tone
which deepened the color in her cheeks, for it reminded her vividly of
not only their last meeting, but also their parting.
But she thought best to ignore it all, and so returned his greeting with
lady-like courtesy.
“I suppose you have been in your Southern home, Mr. Mapleson,” she said.
“I should think you would hardly like to leave its genial climate for
our rigorous winter here.”
“There are sometimes stronger attractions than a genial climate in
winter,” he replied, with an earnest look into her lovely eyes.
“Yes, New York is very attractive just now,” she returned, determined
not to appropriate his significant remark to herself, “Do you remain
here long?”
“I think I may stay through _this month_,” he answered, with an emphasis
upon the last two words that brought the quick blood again to her
cheeks, for she knew that he was thinking of her approaching marriage.
Still, she was willfully obtuse.
“What!” she exclaimed, archly. “Can you content yourself away from home
during the holidays?”
“Yes—at least for _this_ year. Miss Huntress, will you give my name a
place upon your dancing-list?” he asked, glancing at the card that was
suspended by a silken cord from her corsage.
Gladys opened and held it up before him, with a smile.
It was full, and she was glad it happened so.
His face fell, for his quick glance detected Geoffrey’s name against
several dances.
“I am too late, I perceive,” he said, with a bow; “but, _perchance_ I
may be more fortunate before the month is out.”
Something in his tone more than the words made her regard him closely,
and a sort of chill smote her heart as she marked the peculiar gleam in
his eye and the resolute lines about his mouth.
Some one claimed her just then, and, with a polite bow, she excused
herself and left him, glad to get away from his presence.
The next time they met was more than a week later, at the opera.
Gladys was spending a few days with her friend, Addie Loring. It was to
be her last visit before her marriage, and the two girls were making the
most of it.
Mr. Loring invited them to accompany him to hear Parepa Rosa, and sent
word to Geoffrey to join them; but he had an engagement for the first
half of the evening, and could not; he would, however, join them later,
he said in the note that he sent his betrothed.
Mrs. Loring was not well, and did not feel equal to going out, and so
her husband had to be both chaperon and escort for the young ladies.
Everet Mapleson saw them the moment they entered their box, while it was
not long before Miss Loring discovered his vicinity, when she bowed and
smiled most cordially. A moment later she leaned forward and whispered
to her father, who nodded assent, and then made a signal for Everet to
come and join his party.
The young man needed no second invitation, and was soon seated between
the two young ladies, gayly parrying Miss Loring’s witty shots at his
having come to the opera all alone, when there were so many belles and
beauties who would have been delighted to share the pleasure with him.
Gladys drew herself a little apart. She felt uncomfortable to have him
there, under any circumstances, while, too, she was interested in the
opera, and it annoyed her to have those around her conversing, even
though it was scarcely above their breath.
When the curtain went down, after the second act, Addie Loring raised
her glass and began gazing about her.
Suddenly her face lighted, and, bending forward, she waved her hand to
some one in the audience near them.
“Oh papa,” she said, turning eagerly to her father, “there is Sadie
Nutting! She must have returned on the last steamer. See! she is
beckoning to me. Will you take me to her just for a few moments, while
the curtain is down? I am sure Gladys and Mr. Mapleson will excuse us
and entertain each other while we are gone, and we won’t be five
minutes.”
Mr. Loring glanced at Everet, hoping he would offer to escort his
daughter, for he was too comfortably seated to care to be disturbed.
But the young man had no such intention; this was just the opportunity
he had been wanting, ever since he came to New York, and he meant to
improve it, even though he should have only “five minutes.” He said:
“Certainly, certainly,” to Miss Loring, “go, by all means, to see your
friend, if you wish,” and he watched the father and daughter with a
secret thrill of triumph as they went out, leaving him alone with
Gladys.
She was greatly disturbed by the incident.
She could not blame Addie, for she knew that she was ignorant of her
feelings toward Everet Mapleson; but she wished, with all her heart,
that Geoffrey would come, so that she need not be alone with Everet.
The moment the doors closed upon Mr. Loring and his daughter, Everet
turned smilingly toward his companion, and drew his chair nearer to her.
“Thank the fates, and that giddy girl, for this supreme moment,” he
began, in a low, passionate tone; adding: “Gladys, have you forgotten
our last private interview at Vassar?”
Gladys looked up at him, both startled and indignant.
“I should be glad to forget it, Mr. Mapleson, if you would allow me to
do so, for your sake as well as my own,” she returned, with cold
dignity.
“I do not _wish_ you to forget it, Gladys,” he returned, with increasing
fervor, “for I love you a hundred fold more to-night, and I must
unburden my heart to you, or it will burst.”
“Mr. Mapleson!” Gladys said, half rising from her chair, a flash of
anger in her eyes, “you shall not say such things to me; you know you
have no right——”
“I _have_ a right,” he interposed, hotly; “a right because of my
deathless love and my indomitable purpose to win yours in return.”
“You cannot! how dare you?” Gladys began again, but he would not let her
go on.
“I dare, because I _must_ dare or _die_! oh! Gladys, I love you so! have
pity on me!” he said, and his voice died away in an agonized whisper,
showing how terribly in earnest he was.
The young girl was deathly pale now, and trembling in every limb; but
she faced him with blazing eyes and curling lips, her perfect form
proudly erect.
“You are no gentleman,” she said, scornfully, “to say such words to one
who, in less than two weeks, will be the wife of another man; to take
advantage of me during the absence of my friends, and in a place like
this force such a declaration upon me.”
“I could not help it; I had no other time; you avoid me upon every
occasion,” he returned, the blood flushing his face hotly at her scorn.
“I have no choice; your looks, your acts all compel me to——”
“I cannot help them—when I am near you I forget everything but that I
love you!” he pleaded in excuse.
“Shame! Where is your sense of honor, that you persist in such language
to the affianced of another?” she panted.
“Twice you have thrown that in my teeth,” he retorted, fiercely, and
fast losing control of himself. “Have you no shame, that you confess
yourself the affianced of a nameless outcast?”
“He is not nameless, and you have no authority for calling him an
outcast,” retorted Gladys, proudly, all her spirit rising to arms at
this attack upon her absent lover.
“Haven’t I?” sneered the hot-headed young man. “Listen. I have been
looking up Geoffrey Dale’s pedigree, since I saw you last. I have traced
him to his birthplace. His mother was a poor, but beautiful girl,
without a home, without friends. She had a rich lover, who could not
marry her without sacrificing a fortune, and he loved his money too well
to do that, so he sacrificed the girl instead. He took her to a remote
mining district, where, hidden away from every one who ever knew her,
she lived with him for one short year, and died when her child was only
a month old. That child was Geoffrey Dale; his mother’s name was Annie
Dale, and he has no right to any other, except the one that has been
given him for charity’s sake. You have a right to be proud of your
betrothed, Miss Huntress.”
“I am proud of him!” Gladys returned, in a firm, even tone. Astonishment
at Everet Mapleson knowing so much about Geoffrey had contributed more
toward calming her excited nerves than almost anything else could have
done. “Yes, I am _proud_ of him,” she repeated, with a change of
emphasis, “and you have told me nothing _new_, Mr. Mapleson. excepting
that this young girl had no home or friends, and that the man who took
her to New Mexico was rich, and willfully wronged her. Indeed, I know
even more than you have told me.”
“_More!_ Do you know who his father was?” Everet Mapleson exclaimed,
with a start.
“No, nor do I wish to, if he was guilty of the atrocious act you have
named,” Gladys returned, with withering scorn, “But the sin will some
day recoil upon his own head: it can never change my regard for one who
is innately noble and true.”
“And you do not shrink from becoming the wife of one upon whom shame has
rested from the hour of his birth?” demanded Everet Mapleson, regarding
the beautiful girl with astonishment.
“No,” she replied, steadfastly; “no shame rests upon _him_; that all
belongs to the preceding generation; but I should shrink with loathing
from the man who betrayed Annie Dale, as you represent, were he lord or
prince—he is only worthy of my contempt, and I would scorn him as I
would the veriest blackleg in this city.”
The young man flushed hotly. It was not pleasant to listen to such
words, believing what he did; they touched a sensitive spot.
“But this man of whom I have told you is a gentleman, nevertheless,” he
said.
“_A gentleman?_”
The words were uttered in the quietest possible tone, but the contempt
which trembled through it was matchless, and made the young man wince as
under a lash.
“Your distinctions are more nice than wise, Miss Huntress; but, mark my
words, you shall never marry this man’s illegitimate son!” he hissed,
driven almost to a frenzy by her words, her look, and tone.
She turned upon him, her face colorless, but with eyes gleaming like two
points of fire.
“You insult me, sir! You insult one who is a hundred fold more noble
than yourself, by the use of such vile language. But,” and she raised
one daintily gloved hand to enforce her words, “were his name doubly
tainted by the sin of others, it could not smirch the man I honor—the
man I _love_. It will be the proudest day of my life when I wed Geoffrey
Dale Huntress, _as I shall_, in spite of all that you have told me
to-night, ay, even though you should do your worst, and proclaim it from
every house-top in this city.”
She was glorious, in her haughty pride and indignation, as she gave
utterance to these loyal sentiments, and Everet Mapleson instinctively
shrank before her with a sense of shame and humiliation. At that moment
the doors behind them swung open, and Geoffrey himself entered the box.