A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING.
Gladys’ first impulse, upon beholding her lover, was to spring toward
him, denounce the man who had so insulted her and him, and demand to be
conduced from his presence.
But her judgement told her that this would be very unwise; there must be
no scene in that public place; there must be no quarrel between these
two men, and perhaps it would be better that Geoffrey should never know
that Everet Mapleson held the secret of his birth. She knew that he
would never rest until he had wrung it from him, and that, she believed,
would never be done without bitter feelings, and perhaps strife.
So, with a mighty effort, she controlled herself, drew her cloak about
her shoulders to hide the heaving of her bosom, as she arose and turned
a smiling, though still pale face, toward her lover.
“You have come, Geoffrey; I am _very_ glad. You will recognize an old
classmate in Mr. Mapleson,” she said, as she moved her chair farther
into the shadow of the draperies and made room for Geoffrey between
herself and her other companion.
Everet regarded the girl with wondering admiration. He knew that she was
laboring under intense excitement, and that it required no light effort
on her part to conceal it. He understood her motives—that she wished to
avoid a quarrel and a scene, and he thought her tact inimitable.
Geoffrey greeted his former college-mate courteously, which greeting
Mapleson returned with a cold, rather supercilious bow. He was always
conscious of his own moral inferiority when in Geoffrey’s presence, and
the feeling galled him excessively.
Geoffrey saw at once, in spite of Gladys’ efforts to conceal it, that
something had gone wrong with her, and he rightly guessed that Everet
Mapleson had been the cause of it. He gently seated her, and then placed
himself beside her, while Mr. Loring and his daughter returned at that
moment, and the party settled themselves very comfortably for the
remainder of the evening.
Everet devoted himself exclusively to Miss Loring, much to that young
lady’s secret delight; her father gave his attention entirely to the
stage, thus leaving Geoffrey and Gladys to themselves.
“What is it, dear? what has troubled you?” Geoffrey asked, bending
tenderly toward his betrothed, as he became more conscious of the
difficulty she was laboring under to retain her composure.
Gladys stole one little hand confidingly into his, under cover of her
opera cloak.
“Never mind, Geoff, now that I have you here; I will tell you some other
time,” she whispered, as she involuntarily turned her still flashing
eyes toward young Mapleson, while a slight shiver ran through her frame.
Geoffrey’s glance followed hers, and his face clouded.
“Has he dared——” he began, sternly.
“Hush!” she returned; “it is all past; he will never dare again.”
She saw that Geoffrey needed but a word to make him demand an
explanation of his rival, and she feared the worst from a meeting
between them; so she resolved that she would not tell him what Everet
had told her regarding his parentage; at least, not until after their
marriage; perhaps, when they were on the ocean, where it would be
impossible for him to take any aggressive measures until time had served
to cool his anger, she might reveal to him what she had learned.
So she tried to smile and appear interested in the opera, while every
moment she wished it would end so that she might be released from that
terrible constraint.
It was over at last, to her intense relief.
Everet Mapleson escorted Miss Loring from the building, but when the
party reached the sidewalk they found such a crowd before them that they
were obliged to step back and wait for it to disperse before they could
get to their carriage.
In doing this, Everet Mapleson had managed so that he should stand close
beside Gladys, for he had determined to fire a parting shot at her.
He had been covertly watching her ever since their interview, and her
attitude of trust and confidence toward Geoffrey had been almost
maddening to him.
She was beautiful beyond comparison when she faced him in her
indignation, defending her absent lover, and resenting the insult
offered to herself; he had never seen her so spirited before, and it
lent an added charm to her fascinations, while he was filled with
impotent rage that he was powerless to awaken any feelings in her heart
for him, save those of scorn and contempt.
“Why should _he_ win?” he cried within himself, as he marked Geoffrey’s
air of tender proprietorship; “he who has not even a name to offer her,
while I, who am heir to the proud escutcheon of Mapleson, and to a
double fortune, perhaps a triple one, if he never discovers who he is,
am able to excite nothing but aversion and contempt. I _swear_ I will
not submit to it, and I will find some way to part them, even now. _He_
has crossed my path too many times. I have never forgiven him on the old
score, and I will never forgive him for _being an interloper in my
race_.”
All this was in his mind as he stood close beside the young bride-elect,
while waiting for Mr. Loring’s carriage, and some evil spirit possessed
him to assail her again.
“Miss Huntress,” he whispered, so close to her ear that no one could
possibly hear him in the tumult around them, “doubtless you have heard
that old saying. ‘There is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.’”
Gladys never noticed him by so much as a glance. She might have been
some beautiful statue, and deaf to all sounds, for any evidence that she
gave of having heard him. And yet he knew she could not have failed to
catch every word that he had uttered.
His blood began to boil at being thus ignored.
“Do you imagine that I shall tamely submit to see another man win you,
and he so far beneath you? _It shall never be!_”
Gladys turned at this, and looked straight into his eyes, and actually
smiled—a smile that drove him almost to a frenzy; it was like a winter’s
sunbeam reflected from ice—sharp, dazzling, chilling.
“The _future tense_ is not applicable in this case, Mr. Mapleson,” she
retorted, in as icy a tone, while the air with which she settled her
small hand more firmly within her lover’s arm plainly said, “I am
_already won_!”
Everet Mapleson ground his teeth in baffled rage. It was evident that in
an open battle Miss Huntress was too much for him.
“Wait,” he whispered again; “the thirtieth may tell a different story;
at all events, you are warned.”
She did not deign to notice his threat, and, an opening now presenting
itself, Mr. Loring led the way to the carriage, where, after assisting
his companion to enter, Mr. Mapleson took his leave of the party and
went his way.
Geoffrey was very much disturbed when Gladys told him that Everet
Mapleson had again presumed to address words of love to her—for she had
decided that this was all the explanation of the affair at the opera
that she would give him at present—and it required all her power of
persuasion to prevent him from demanding an apology for the insult.
“Let it pass, dear; pray let us have no trouble at this time,” she had
urged.
“But you are almost my wife, Gladys, and it is a terrible affront to me
as well as to you,” Geoffrey returned, hotly.
“He is so far beneath you, Geoff, morally, that I cannot bear to have
you lower yourself enough to notice him, and believe me, he received a
lesson that he will not soon forget,” Gladys concluded, with a spirit
and energy that both amused and delighted Geoffrey, who well knew what
his betrothed was capable of when once thoroughly aroused, and he could
imagine something of the scorn which the offender in question had called
down upon his devoted head by his presumption. So he finally promised
that he would not agitate the matter further, and he realized that it
might result in a scandal that would prove very annoying just at that
time.
It seemed, too, as if Everet Mapleson himself had no desire to come in
contact with his successful rival, for he suddenly dropped out of
society, and was seen no more during the interval between that
occurrence at the opera and the thirtieth.
He was greatly missed, however, by many of the languishing belles, for
he was esteemed “a great catch,” and had been most industriously angled
for by numerous anxious mammas, and scheming fathers with a doubtful
bank account.
Miss Addie Loring, perhaps, really took his sudden and unaccountable
absence more to heart than any one else, for she had secretly begun to
entertain a tender liking for him.
During the last week before the wedding, that event became the chief
topic of the day in the circle in which Gladys and Geoffrey moved, for
the match was considered a most romantic one, and both parties were
especial favorites, while for brilliancy and magnitude it was to be the
affair of the season.
Gifts of every description poured in upon the young couple, for whom
their friends seemed unable to do enough to manifest their regard for
them.
“Mamma, I have silver and china enough to set up four establishments;
what shall I do with it all?” Gladys laughingly remarked, one morning,
after the arrival of numerous packages and cases. “While as for jewelry,
_bric a brac_, and ornaments,” she continued, “I shall never have room
nor opportunity to display them all.”
“You have been most lavishly remembered, dear,” returned Mrs. Huntress;
but she sighed while she smiled over the evidences of her daughter’s
popularity, as she thought of the care and responsibility which it would
entail upon her in the future.
“It is very, very nice to be remembered by one’s friends, and pleasant
to know that one has so many,” Gladys said, thoughtfully taking up a
delicate vase, which rude handling would have crushed to atoms, but
which she knew represented a large amount of money, “but if they would
only give me some simple little token, just to show that they really
care for me, I should not feel quite so overwhelmed. Perhaps I am too
sensitive and notional, but I think the weight of obligation which is
sometimes imposed upon brides is almost frightful, that is, unless they
marry—as I am _not_ doing—men who can enable them to indulge in similar
extravagance in return later on.”
“There is a good deal of sense in what you say, Gladys,” returned her
mother, “but these beautiful and expensive things represent branches of
industries, and somebody must purchase them in order that certain
classes of artisans may live. It is hard to know where to draw the line
in these things. It would not be so questionable, though, if people
would be really honest in their gifts and offer only what they could
afford, instead of trying to outdo others from a feeling of vanity.”
But, in spite of these practical discussions, there seemed to be no end
to the accumulation of wedding gifts up to the last moment.
The wedding-day dawned, a bright, mild winter morning, and every hour
was filled with preparations for the important ceremony that was to
occur early in the evening.
Geoffrey saw but little of his betrothed that day, for he had many
duties to attend to relating to their departure, and last instructions
to receive regarding the business he had undertaken. But about two in
the afternoon he came home to find Gladys just going to her room, from
which she would not come forth again until she was prepared for her
marriage.
“I am only just in time, I perceive, to take leave of _Miss_ Gladys
Huntress,” he said, smiling fondly upon her, as he drew her into the
music-room, and shut the door, for a few moments’ private chat with her.
“You do not look more than sixteen,” he continued, touching the light
rings of hair that lay on her forehead, and smoothing the great satiny
braid, that had been allowed to hang, like a schoolgirl’s, down her
back, until the hair-dresser should come, “and very little as if a few
hours would make you somebody’s—_wife_.”
Gladys flushed at that last word, though a happy little laugh rippled
from her lips.
“Perhaps I shall appear more matronly by and by,” she said. “It is
possible that putting ‘Mrs.’ before my name may make quite a change. How
queer it will seem to be married and yet be Gladys Huntress still?”
Geoffrey’s face clouded, and a pang shot through his heart.
“I wish it could be otherwise, darling, I wish I had an honored name to
give you,” he said, regretfully.
Gladys put up her hand and drew down his head until their lips met.
“Dear Geoff, forgive me,” she pleaded, in a tone of self-reproach, “I
was very thoughtless to make such a speech. I shall be just as happy to
be called Mrs. Geoffrey Dale Huntress, as anything else; my pride will
not consist in my name, but in my husband.”
His arms closed about her more fondly.
He knew that she loved him with all the strength of her pure and noble
nature—that she had chosen him from among the many admirers who would
gladly have bestowed a proud name, as well as fortune, upon her, and
that he ought to be content.
But he was not; it rankled, like a thorn in his heart, that he had no
name to give her—that for want of one he was compelled to assume hers.
Neither he nor Gladys had ever been told of her adoption; both believed
that she was August and Alice Huntress’ own child, and, somehow, a
feeling of obligation, that was almost degradation, would now and then
assail him, that he was obliged to identify himself in this way.
“Geoffrey,” Gladys continued, seeing the cloud still on his face, “do
not allow so slight a thing to cast a shadow over our joy to-day. I am
so happy—life looks so bright to me, that I am almost afraid it is all a
dream, and I shall wake up to find it all gone from my grasp.”
He could not resist her bright, tender face, nor the beautiful, trustful
eyes as they were raised to his.
“My own love,” he replied, his face clearing, “it is no dream to either
of us—it is all a delightful reality, and anticipation of the happiness
before us, during the coming six months, is like a poem to me. But,” he
added, “I suppose I must not detain you here—have you everything that
you need or wish for to-night?”
“I believe so; but truly. Geoff, I wish it were all over,” Gladys
confessed, clinging to him. “Sometimes I have been sorry that we agreed
to have all this fuss and excitement. I feel as if the occasion is
almost too sacred for the gaze of the curious, and to be mixed up so
with show, dress, and so many other petty details. If we could only have
just a few of our especial friends with us, and say our vows quietly and
solemnly, right here at home, I believe I should like it much better.”
This had been Geoffrey’s feeling all along; but it was Mr. Huntress’
desire to have a brilliant wedding, and he could not find it in his
heart to oppose any reasonable wish of one who had been so kind to him.
“Well,” he answered, “we can comfort ourselves with one thought; the
‘fuss and excitement’ will not last long, then we shall have each other
all to ourselves. But, darling, see here.” He drew a tiny case from his
pocket, and, opening it, disclosed a heavy gold circlet resting in its
bed of velvet—“have you any idea how strong this little fetter is going
to be?—only death will ever break the tie that it will cement.”
Gladys bent forward to look at the mystic symbol, the vivid color
surging to her brow.
“Oh, Geoff! what a heavy one; is it marked?” she said.
“Yes, and that is why I show it to you—it may not be marked in a way to
please you,” and he held it toward her for examination.
“Please take it out yourself and let me see—I do not want to touch it,”
she said, drawing slightly away.
He laughed.
“Why, you dear little goose! are you superstitious?”
“N—o; but somehow I do not wish to touch it until after _you_ have put
it where it belongs,” she answered, softly.
He removed it from the case, holding it so that she could see the
engraving on its inside surface, and she read, “G. D. to G. H. Dec. 30,
18—.”
“G. D.!” she repeated, looking up questioningly.
“Yes,” he replied, gravely. “Forgive me for referring again to an
unpleasant topic, but I could not bring my mind to add another H. there.
If I _have_ a right to an honored name, and find it out sometime, then I
will have the initial inserted—you see, I have had space left for it. Do
you mind?”
“No, Geoff,” Gladys returned, after a moment’s thought, though her heart
sank at his words, as she remembered what Everet Mapleson had told her,
“you have done perfectly right to mark the ring as you wish, and, of
course, no one save ourselves ever need know anything about it.”
He put it away with a sigh of relief.
“I am glad that you approve, dear,” he said, smiling, “and now mind that
your glove is properly arranged, and no other ring on this, my especial
finger; for this ring must never come off after I have once put it on,
_unless_ we find another initial to add to the others. Now, good-by,
love, for the next three hours. I shall not see you again until we meet
at church.”