AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.
“My dear boy!” cried Mr. Huntress, under his breath, as he stepped out
into the hall beside Geoffrey, cautiously closing the door after him,
and then seizing him warmly by both hands, “where on earth have you
been, and what has happened to you?”
“The most mysterious and villainous thing that could happen,” replied
Geoffrey, with a gloomy face. “I have been kidnaped—carried miles and
miles away—and it has taken me hours to return.”
“I suspected as much,” said Mr. Huntress, sternly.
“Then you haven’t attributed my absence to any fault of mine, Uncle
August?”
“No, indeed, my boy. I _knew_ better.”
“What made you suspect foul play? But first tell me about Gladys. How
has she borne it?” Geoffrey asked, with a wistful glance at the door
beyond which his darling lay.
Mr. Huntress shot an anxious look at him.
Clearly he had no suspicion of what had occurred during his absence.
“Gladys has suffered a great deal mentally, but she is sleeping now,” he
said, gravely, and wondering how he could ever tell him the terrible
truth.
“It must have been dreadful. I can imagine the consternation of
everybody when they discovered there would be no wedding,” said
Geoffrey, excitedly, while he began to pace restlessly up and down the
corridor. “How awkward!—how wretched for my darling!—how uncomfortable
for you and Aunt Alice! How did you manage? What could you do or say?”
“Come with me, Geoff, where we can talk without fear of disturbing
Gladys, and I will tell you. I have something _very strange_ to tell
you, too,” said Mr. Huntress, linking his arm within that of the young
man and leading him to an alcove over the front entrance.
“Something strange,” Geoffrey repeated, in a startled tone.
“Very. There has been a most villainous plot connected with this
affair.”
From Mr. Huntress’ manner, Geoffrey saw that something of a very grave
nature had occurred.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Tell me at once; I can bear anything better
than suspense.
“Geoff, there _was_ a wedding!”
“Uncle August!”
“But no one save ourselves and our good doctor, as yet, suspects that
there was anything wrong about it.”
“Are you crazy? What _do_ you mean?” cried the young man, breathlessly.
“A wedding? That could not be. Gladys could not have been the bride.”
“Gladys _was_ the bride, and every guest believes that _you_ were the
groom.”
Geoffrey sank upon a chair, his strength all gone, while a dim suspicion
of the horrible truth began to take form in his mind.
“What _can_ you mean?” he gasped, hardly above a whisper, a deadly
pallor on his face, an agonized look in his eyes.
“Be calm, my boy,” said his uncle, laying his hand affectionately upon
his shoulder. “A dreadful thing has occurred, but it was all a farce—a
fraud, rather—which the law will set right in time, and Gladys may yet
be yours——”
“Heavens! Uncle August, you are driving me mad! Explain! explain! I
_cannot_ bear these enigmas!” cried the poor fellow, springing to his
feet in a fearful state of agitation, while a cold perspiration started
out all over his face.
Mr. Huntress gently forced him back into his chair and began at once to
tell him all that had occurred, from the moment of the departure of the
bridal party from the church, up to the present hour.
Geoffrey sat throughout the fearful recital as if he had suddenly been
turned to stone, and when at last it was concluded, there were several
moments of dreadful silence. He seemed paralyzed, mentally and
physically, by the blighting affliction which had overtaken him, and by
the bold daring of the enemy who had thus ruined his dearest hopes.
Agony, however, at last broke the spell.
He arose, and stood pale and stern before his uncle.
“Where is he?” he demanded, in an awful voice, although it was barely
audible, “where is that treacherous villain who has robbed me of my wife
and broken her heart? Tell me, for there must be a terrible settlement
between him and me. Where is Everet Mapleson, Uncle August?”
“_Here!_” responded a defiant voice close beside them, and, wheeling
suddenly about at the sound, Geoffrey saw his rival standing between the
parted draperies that separated the alcove from the main hall.
“I am here to answer for myself,” he continued, in the same tone, while
he looked as pale and resolute as Geoffrey himself, “but first I demand
tidings of my—_wife_.”
That word was like a blow to Geoffrey, who staggered back with a groan
of anguish.
But he quickly rallied.
“She is _not_ your wife!” he said, fiercely; “a farce—an act of fraud,
could never make her such.”
“You are a trifle premature in your statement,” retorted young Mapleson,
with a sneer. “I do not deny that my purpose was accomplished by
something of strategy, but it _was accomplished_, notwithstanding—Gladys
Huntress was married to me to-night, and it is simply useless to contest
the fact.”
“You may have gone through the marriage service with her; but you
personated me, and it was only a mock ceremony. Besides, there were
certain preliminaries to be attended to—your intentions made known—your
certificate to be properly filled; without these there could have been
no legal marriage,” Geoffrey returned, sternly.
Everet Mapleson smiled superciliously.
“All that you mention was most carefully attended to, sir,” he said,
with an air of triumph that was simply maddening to his listeners. “The
clergyman was duly apprised of my intentions, and received a handsome
fee, fifteen minutes before the arrival of the bridal party at the
church; the ring had been purchased and carefully marked and now adorns
the hand of the bride. Not a single detail has been omitted, I assure
you, to make my position and my claim secure.”
“Bah! your audacity is astounding!” said Geoffrey, contemptuously. “It
was a barefaced fraud, and the marriage will never stand in law,”
persisted Geoffrey, firmly, but oh! with such a sinking agony in his
heart.
“Prove it if you can,” retorted Mapleson, arrogantly. “You will not find
it an easy thing to do, however, for I shall make a desperate fight to
thwart you.”
“Wretch! how dare you attempt such a diabolical plot?” Mr. Huntress
demanded.
“I was desperate enough to dare anything, sir,” Everet replied,
addressing him with more respect then he had yet shown. “With the love I
bear your daughter I could not brook defeat. I vowed that I would win
her at any cost, and but for my own indiscretion all this fuss might
have been avoided. I was so elated by my success in having the marriage
performed that I could not resist taking advantage of my position, and,
in attempting to salute my bride after our return to the house, she
recognized me. If I had done nothing to attract her especial attention
to me, the next two hours might have been tided over well enough, and,
once on the way to Boston, _en route_ for Europe, I could have laughed
at any outside interference.”
Geoffrey shivered. It was dreadful to have to listen to these
revelations, and to realize what a narrow escape Gladys had had, for he
knew that if Everet Mapleson had succeeded in deceiving her until the
steamer sailed, the shock of her discovery, when alone, and in the power
of the audacious scoundrel, might have resulted in her death. Even now
they might not be able to secure her release, and she would still have
to remain his wife in the sight of the world, but no moral obligation
bound her to him, and no power could ever compel her to live with him.
“Could you ever hope to gain any satisfaction in the presence of a wife
who would loathe the very sight of you, and whom you knew would never
cease to love another?” Mr. Huntress demanded, with curling lips.
“‘Love begets love,’ you know, and I imagine it would not have been such
a hopeless task, after all, to win the heart of my wife, with such
devotion as I have to offer her,” Everet Mapleson flippantly replied.
Geoffrey’s blood boiled as much at his confident, arrogant tone, as at
his words, and almost before he had concluded, he walked straight up to
him, seized him by the coat collar, wheeled him about, and marching him
to the head of the stairs, pointed below and said, in a stern,
authoritative tone, as he released his hold of him:
“_Go!_”
The young man was so taken aback by this summary act, that he did not
even offer to resist until he reached the top stair, when he put out his
hand and seized the railing.
He turned, with blazing eyes, and faced Geoffrey, but the expression
which he saw upon his face warned him that he had no irresolute spirit
to deal with.
“Go!” reiterated Geoffrey, inflexibly, “or I may be tempted beyond my
strength and forget one of the ‘thou shalt nots.’”
“_I will not!_” he returned, as resolutely, all his antagonism aroused.
“Do you imagine that, after having struggled so desperately to attain
the dearest hopes of my life, I will fly like a coward in the very hour
of their achievement?”
But even while he spoke, with all the bravado of which he was master, he
shifted uneasily before the terrible look in Geoffrey Huntress’ eye.
Yet it aroused all the passion in his nature; the hot blood mounted to
his brow, coursing in an angry tide through all his veins, and before
either of his companions could suspect his intention, he swung aloft his
right arm to smite his rival to the floor.
But the blow never descended. In his hot-headed anger he forgot the
danger of his position, made a misstep, lost his balance, and fell
headlong down the long flight of stairs, and then lay silent and
motionless, while those two men above looked down upon him with white,
startled faces, and hearts throbbing heavily with a sickening fear.
The stairs were carpeted and thickly padded, so that his fall had not
been a very noisy one; yet the disturbance was sufficient to bring both
Mrs. Huntress and the physician forth from Gladys’ room, in a state of
alarm and consternation.
“What is it? Oh, August, what has happened?” cried Mrs. Huntress
clinging to her husband.
“That villain played the spy upon us, and in attempting to strike
Geoffrey, lost his balance and fell,” Mr. Huntress explained, adding,
anxiously: “But pray go back and stay with Gladys; let her know nothing
of this, even if she wakes, and we will take care of this fellow.”
He led her back to the young girl’s room, and was greatly relieved to
see that she was still sleeping heavily, and had not been conscious of
the confusion outside.
The doctor and Geoffrey, meanwhile, had sprung down the stairs, lifted
the prostrate man, and carried him into one of the rooms below.
A careful examination convinced Doctor Hoyt that there were no bones
broken, the thickly carpeted and padded stairs had doubtless been his
salvation in this respect; if he had suffered no internal injury, he had
surely escaped in a wonderful manner.
The force and shock of the fall had stunned him, but it was not long
before he began to rally and look about him.
As he sat up, rubbing his confused head and trying to realize what had
happened to him, Doctor Hoyt glanced curiously from him to Geoffrey.
Both were dressed in evening suits, both were very pale, and their
resemblance to each other was something wonderful.
“I do not wonder that the scamp succeeded in his villainous scheme,” the
physician said, in an aside, to Mr. Huntress. “I never saw twins that
were more of an exact counterpart of each other.
“Well, how do you find yourself now?” he added, in his abrupt,
professional way, turning to Everet.
“I believe my shoulder is sprained,” he replied, cringing with pain, as
he attempted to move his left arm.
“Any peculiar faintness at the stomach—any internal pain?”
“No, I reckon not; I have hardly come to myself yet, though.”
The doctor made another examination.
“You’ll do,” he said, as he completed it; “there are no bones broken or
out of joint, and if there was anything very wrong inside it would begin
to show itself. It’s lucky for you that you haven’t a dislocated neck.
The next time you want to play pugilist don’t choose a flight of stairs
for your battle-ground. Now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll make
tracks for your hotel, give yourself a good rubbing all over with
alcohol, and go to bed.”
Everet glanced darkly at the man, and it was on his tongue to tell him
that he should do no such thing; but he had been too thoroughly shaken
up by his fall to feel in a very defiant state, and he realized, too,
that he had received very good counsel, which it might be wise to heed.
Mr. Huntress, after hearing the doctor’s verdict, had slipped quietly
from the room, feeling greatly relieved; but he returned in a few
moments with several small articles in his hand, which he had picked up
in the hall and on the stairs.
There was a small pearl-handled knife, a Russia leather wallet, two or
three pieces of gold, and some of silver.
These he handed to the young man.
“They must have slipped from your pockets as you fell,” he said.
Everet received them without even a civil acknowledgment, and replaced
them in his pockets.
“Does this belong to you also?” Mr. Huntress asked, holding out a small,
glittering, peculiarly shaped object.
“Yes; thanks,” he now had the grace to say, in an eager tone. “It is a
pocket piece and an heir-loom; I would not lose it for a great deal,”
and he held out his hand for it.
Geoffrey glanced up carelessly at these words; then he stepped quickly
forward, his eyes glittering, a strange expression on his face.
“Let me look at that, if you please,” he said.
Mr. Huntress passed it to him, although Everet Mapleson frowned at the
act.
If Geoffrey had been pale before he was ghastly now as he received that
small object on the palm of his hand.
It was _half of a knight-templar’s cross, which had been broken
diagonally, and was beautifully enameled and engraven_!
He turned it over, holding it nearer the light to examine the back of
it.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, with a violent start, while he glanced wonderingly
at Everet, who was also regarding him with astonishment.
“Will you tell me how this happens to be in your possession?” Geoffrey
asked, meeting his eye.
“Certainly,” the young man returned, with mock politeness; “it belonged
to my great-grandfather, who served in the revolution. He became a
knight-templar just before enlisting, and was presented with that emblem
by the lodge of master masons over which he had served as W. M. The date
of the presentation, with my venerable relative’s name, is engraved on
the back, as you perceive.”
“What became of the other portion of it?” Geoffrey asked.
“My father has it.”
“_Your father has it?_”
“Yes,” curtly responded Everet, annoyed by this questioning, yet
impelled to reply by something that struck him as peculiar in Geoffrey’s
manner. “It was broken by accident,” he added, “after my ancestor’s
return from the war, never having left his person during all that time,
and he gave one-half to his son—‘as a pocket piece,’ he said—keeping the
other himself. At his death his portion was given to my father, who had
been named for him, and, when I was of an age to appreciate it, _my_
grandfather’s half was handed down to me.”
“And your father—_you are sure_—has the other part of it now?” Geoffrey
inquired, with pale lips.
“Yes,” Everet said, with a shrug of his shoulders; “we have always
regarded them as heir-looms, and have been careful not to lose them.”
“_I_ have a ‘pocket piece’ which _I_ have been ‘careful not to lose’
since it came into my possession,” Geoffrey remarked in a hard, dry
tone.
He took something from one of his pockets as he spoke, laid it beside
that other piece lying in his palm, and held it out for Everet Mapleson
to see.