GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
It was that portion of a knight-templar’s cross which old Abe Brown had
given to Geoffrey when he was in Santa Fe the previous summer.
It matched Everet’s exactly, and the two fragments formed a perfect
cross as they lay together in Geoffrey’s palm.
Everet glanced at it, then shot one quick, frightened look into
Geoffrey’s stern face.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded, in husky tones, and starting to his
feet in great excitement.
“It was found in Santa Fe, where your father—where _my_ father lost it.”
“Your father?” cried Everet, in a startled tone.
“Yes, Everet Mapleson, you and I are—_brothers_!”
“It is a _lie_!” hoarsely shouted Everet, recoiling, yet knowing but too
well that he spoke only truth; “do you suppose I would own——”
“_Stop!_” commanded Geoffrey, sternly; “do not utter words which you may
have bitter cause to regret later. This broken emblem, which I thought
so valueless when it came into my possession, now becomes the strongest
link in the chain of evidence that proves my identity. Last summer I
traced this man to Santa Fe, and there lost his trail. There was only
this paltry piece of gold, with the name William engraven upon it, to
show that he had ever been there. I believed that my father’s name was
William Dale, for I learned that a man bearing that name had lived in a
certain mining district of New Mexico, where, as I was told, I was born
and my mother had died. I found my old nurse and her husband, who
related all they knew of her life there, and into whose care my father
had given me after her death. They, however, did not even know _his_
place of residence or address; letters, he told them, would reach him
superscribed ‘Lock Box 43, Santa Fe.’ At Santa Fe I was given this piece
of jewelry by a man who had been postmaster there many years ago, and
who remembered the man that lost it, but could not recall his name. Upon
it was engraven ‘William,’ which I had been told was my father’s first
name, and now I find the other half of the cross bearing that of
Mapleson on it. Is your father’s name William _Dale_ Mapleson?” Geoffrey
suddenly asked, as if the thought had just come to him.
“No,” was the curt, scornful reply, although it was evident that the
speaker was striving to conceal the agitation which Geoffrey’s account
had caused.
Geoffrey stood silently and thoughtfully observing the cross that lay in
his hand and the name inscribed upon it.
He no longer had any doubt about his being able to solve the mystery of
his birth, though he greatly feared that the solving would only serve to
confirm his worst fears.
“Then,” he said, in a cold, hard tone, “he dropped that of Mapleson and
assumed that of Dale for purposes best known to himself, for I know now,
as well as I wish to, that your father and mine are one and the same
person. I know that he must have taken a beautiful girl to the mining
region of which I have spoken—that she lived there with him as his wife
under the name of Dale. _He_ called _her_ Annie. I have seen her grave,
and those who knew them both claim that he loved her as his own life,
and was broken-hearted when she died. Whether she had any _legal_ claim
upon him; whether _I_, the child who was born to them there, can claim
honorable birth and an honorable name, are points which remain to be
proved. Do _you_ know aught of this story?” Geoffrey demanded of Everet,
in conclusion.
The young man did not reply for a moment.
He seemed to be considering whether it would be best to conceal or
proclaim what he had discovered, and denounce the man, whom he had so
long hated, as the illegitimate son of his father.
Suddenly he threw back his head in a reckless way, an evil light in his
eyes, a curl of scorn on his lips.
“Yes,” he said, “I do know the story from beginning to end. I know that
a girl named Annie Dale disappeared very mysteriously from Richmond more
than twenty years ago; that she fled to her lover, who met her at Kansas
City, and then took her to that mining village among the mountains of
New Mexico, where she lived with him as his mistress, though nominally
as his wife, until she died.”
“That man was William Mapleson, your father?” said Geoffrey, in a tone
that was terrible from its calmness.
“That man was William Mapleson, my father,” repeated Everet, defiantly,
though the blood mounted hotly to his brow as he said it, showing that
he was not yet quite hardened enough not to feel something of shame over
the confession.
“Did _he_ give you the history of that exceedingly _honorable_ portion
of his life?” Geoffrey asked, with curling lips.
“No; I found it out for myself. I have never felt at ease with your
resemblance to me: it has haunted me day and night,” Everet replied. “A
slight circumstance occurred to arouse my suspicions that there _might_
be some natural cause for it. I began to trace the mystery, and followed
it up until I learned the truth—that you were Annie Dale’s child, and
she was—what I have already told you. I suppose, in point of fact, that
we _are_, in a certain way, related to each other,” he went on, with a
disagreeable shrug. “If, _under the circumstances_, you can derive any
comfort from it, much good may it do you.”
Geoffrey grew crimson, and, for a moment, his eyes blazed wrathfully at
this taunt.
“Was Mr. William Mapleson at Saratoga during any portion of last
summer?” he asked, struggling for self-control.
“I believe he ran up there for a few days when he came North to join my
mother at Newport,” Everet returned, wondering what the question could
have to do with the point under discussion.
Geoffrey glanced significantly at Mr. Huntress.
“What was his object in registering there as William Dale?” he asked.
Everet looked up, astonished.
“He did not,” he said, skeptically.
“He did. I met him one morning in Congress Park. He accosted me by your
name, believing me to be yourself, and then became greatly agitated upon
being informed of his mistake and told who I was. My suspicions were
aroused, for I have always been on the alert to discover my parentage,
and I begged an interview with him. He appointed one for five o’clock at
his room, number forty-five, at the United States Hotel. I was punctual,
but when I inquired for the gentleman who occupied room forty-five, I
was told that he had left at noon. I examined the register, and found
his name entered as ‘William Dale, from Santa Fe. New Mexico.’”
“Then it must have been some one else,” Everet affirmed, perplexed over
the affair, and yet instinctively feeling that his father must have been
concerned in it, though just how he was at a loss to imagine.
“That was the thread by which I traced him to Santa Fe, and from there
to that mining village, where I learned the story of my birth and my
mother’s death; and this story will have to be sifted to the bottom,”
Geoffrey concluded in a resolute tone.
“Really, I do not see what use there will be in raising a row over the
affair,” retorted Everet, with a supercilious glare at the young man.
“There are hundreds of men who have been rather gay and wild in their
youth, and if there have been girls in the world who were foolish enough
to accept their favors, it is nobody’s business but their own, and worse
than folly to rake it over. Colonel William Mapleson is a man who
occupies an honorable position and bears a proud name. He is a
high-tempered gentleman, too, and I warn you will brook no nonsense from
any one.”
Doctor Hoyt, who had been an interested listener thus far during the
interview, turned abruptly on his heel, with an expression of supreme
contempt at this speech.
“Honorable position—proud name, forsooth! Possesses more temper than
morality, I should judge, if his son is a specimen of the race,” he
muttered, and then passed up stairs to ascertain if all was going well
with his fair patient.
The haughty heir of the house of Mapleson winced visibly beneath the
scathing words.
“Nevertheless,” said Geoffrey, with deliberate emphasis, in reply to
what he had said, “Colonel William Mapleson will have to answer to me,
_personally_, for the wrong—if wrong there was—that he did my mother.
Now, sir, we have had enough of this for to-night, and _you can go_!
Shall I call a carriage for you, or do you prefer to walk?”
Everet burned to defy him in this, but he knew it would be useless to
resist the resolute purpose which he read in every line of his stern
face; so, after a moment’s hesitation, he said he would walk; and, with
a sullen scowl on his face, and wrath flaming in his heart, he left the
house and bent his steps toward the nearest hotel.
Neither Geoffrey nor Mr. Huntress thought of retiring that night, though
the physician soon after went away, saying Gladys would do well enough
for several hours, and he would come around in the morning; while Mrs.
Huntress caught a little sleep upon the lounge in her daughter’s room.
They sat together until morning, reviewing Geoffrey’s life and laying
plans for future action.
When morning dawned it broke upon a saddened, yet, withal, upon a
thankful household. Saddened because of the terrible ending of all the
bright hopes which they had cherished only a few hours previous, but
thankful because Gladys awoke once more herself, and that no harm had
befallen Geoff, as they feared, during his long absence from home.
But Gladys was very sad, and could not refer to the events of the night
before without becoming greatly agitated; but her long rest had given
her strength and more of self-control, while she had been greatly
comforted upon being told that she need never look upon Everet
Mapleson’s face again unless she chose, and that an appeal to the law
would soon free her from the hateful tie that bound her to him.
She nearly broke down again, however, when Geoffrey went to her, late in
the day, and clung to him almost hysterically; but he spoke cheerfully,
and tried to comfort her with brighter hopes for the future, although
his own heart was terribly burdened by the great sorrow that had fallen
so like a thunderbolt upon them both.
“Oh! Geoff,” Gladys burst forth at one time during the interview, “must
all Brooklyn and New York ring with this dreadful story!”
“No, my darling. Uncle August and I have been considering that matter,
and we think that no one, save those of us who already know the truth,
need learn anything of it. I am surprised that your father and mother
were enabled to act so discreetly during all the confusion last
night—not even a servant suspects anything wrong as yet,” Geoffrey said,
reassuringly.
“But will _he_ keep still about it?” Gladys asked, with a shiver of
aversion, as her mind reverted to Everet Mapleson.
“I think he will be very glad to, dear—at least for the present,”
Geoffrey said, confidently, “until he finds out just what steps _we_
intend to take. It would be very mortifying to him to have his villainy
discovered, and become a target for everybody to shoot at, because he
failed to get possession of the bride he had strained every nerve to
win, while we shall do our utmost as soon as I return.”
“Return! Where are you going?”
“Ah! has not Aunt Alice told you? I am going South immediately, to try
to get at the truth regarding my birth.”
He then told her something of the revelations of last night, and she was
greatly astonished and shocked to learn of his relation to the man who
had so injured them both.
“Brothers, Geoff? Just to think of it!” she cried, wonderingly.
He smiled somewhat bitterly.
“I fear if what he says is true, that the house of Mapleson will not own
me either as a son or a brother. However, I wish to know the truth,
whatever it is, and then just as soon as I return we will try to have
that wretched fraud of last night rectified.”
“Can it be done without publicity, Geoffrey?” Gladys asked, anxiously.
“Yes, I believe it can be arranged so that very few will ever be any
wiser for what has happened.”
This was one of the things that Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey had talked of
the night before, and the events of the next few days confirmed them in
the belief that all scandal might be avoided.
The next morning Mr. Huntress went to the house where Everet Mapleson
had been accustomed to stop, but he was not to be found there. He had
left nearly two weeks previous—the day after he had met Gladys at the
opera—they discovered later.
Afterward they learned that he had hidden himself in a little town a few
miles out of the city, and there matured his plans, and hired his
accomplice to assist in his miserable plot on the evening of the
wedding.
Upon leaving the Huntress mansion, after his interview with Geoffrey,
and the discovery that he knew so much of his history, he had stolen
away to the nearest hotel, where, after thinking everything quietly
over, he began to realize that he could never compel Gladys to
acknowledge herself as his wife; he believed, too, that the courts
would, upon learning the facts, annul the marriage.
“Oh! if I had only kept still, and got her away before the deception was
discovered, my triumph would have been complete, and now I have lost
everything.” he groaned in impotent wrath; and yet he was so furious at
Geoffrey that he vowed he would make a desperate fight against a
divorce, if for nothing but to keep the lovers apart. But until they
should take some decisive step he resolved to keep still and out of
sight, for he also was far too proud to care to become the subject of a
scandal.
It occasioned no surprise among the friends of the Huntress family when
they learned that “young Mrs. Huntress” had not been able to sail for
Europe, and that the trip was to be postponed for at least another
month—possibly until spring.
Her physician also prohibited all callers and excitement, giving as a
reason that her strength had been overtaxed, and she had barely escaped
nervous prostration.
People did not wonder at this; it appeared very reasonable, for they
knew the season had been very gay, that the young couple had been in
great demand, and all this, together with the excitement and care of
preparing for such a wedding, was enough to wear out any young girl.
So Gladys and her mother remained quietly at home, hedged about with
these restrictions, while Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress went South.
Mr. Huntress had insisted upon accompanying the young man, for he was
determined that full justice should be done the boy whom he had reared
and loved as his own son. If Colonel Mapleson had wronged his mother he
should at least tell the story kindly and courteously to her child; if
he had inherited anything from her it would be his business to see that
he had his rights.
The weary travelers reached Richmond late one afternoon. They found that
Vue de l’Eau—Colonel Mapleson’s estate—was a long distance from the
city, and they would be obliged to hire some conveyance thither.
This was not an easy thing to accomplish, for the night promised to be
very dark, the roads were muddy, and the weather unusually cold for that
genial climate. But by offering a generous sum, for he was anxious to
have the ordeal before them over as soon as possible, Mr. Huntress
succeeded in getting a man to take them to their destination.
It was seven o’clock when they at last reached the home of the proud
Southerner, and the two men alighted before the door with grave faces,
and nerves that were none too steady, in contemplation of the interview
before them.
“Yes, sar, Massa Mapleson’s home, sah,” the dusky-skinned servant
replied to Mr. Huntress’ inquiry, and then obsequiously led the way
through the magnificent hall, which divided the stately mansion through
the center, to a spacious and richly furnished library at its lower end.
“A. D. Huntress and Son,” Mr. Huntress wrote on a card, and handed it to
the servant to be given to his master, and then they sat down to await
his coming.
Five minutes later—though it seemed as many hours to those impatient
men—Colonel Mapleson appeared in the door-way, opposite August Huntress.
He was a tall, rather spare man, with a finely shaped head proudly
poised above a pair of military looking shoulders, a massive brow,
surmounted by a wealth of iron-gray hair, regular, handsome, yet rather
haughty features, a keen, eagle-glancing blue eye, and an energetic
manner.
Geoffrey recognized him instantly. It was the same man whom he had met
in Congress Park at Saratoga.
“Ah! Mr. Huntress,” remarked the gentleman, courteously, as his visitor
arose to greet him; “glad to see you, sir—glad to see you!”
Then espying Geoffrey whom, having been seated on his right and a little
back of him as he entered, he had not at first seen, he started, his
face lighted with pleasure, and he went toward him with outstretched
hand, exclaiming, heartily:
“Holloa! Everet! where on earth did you drop from? I supposed you still
in New York having a gay time.”
Mr. Huntress came forward at this, saying:
“You have made a slight mistake, sir; this young man is my son by
adoption—Mr. Geoffrey Dale Huntress.”
Colonel Mapleson recoiled, an ashen pallor overspreading his face at
these words, a look of fear followed by one of dismay, then of
conviction springing into his eyes, which were fastened upon that
familiar yet strange face.
Then he staggered toward a chair, sank heavily into it, his head
dropping upon his breast, while he murmured, in a tone of awe mingled
with agony:
“At last! at last it has come!”
There was an awkward silence after that, during which the man appeared
to be absorbed in painful thought.
Mr. Huntress broke it at last by remarking in a grave tone:
“I told you, Colonel Mapleson, that this is my son by _adoption_; we
have recently learned that he is _your_ son by the more sacred tie of
blood, and our errand here to-night is to learn how _much_ or—_how
little_ that may mean.”
The man sat suddenly erect, as his guest concluded this speech, and
looked almost imperial as he bent his keen, flashing eye full upon
August Huntress, a firm purpose written on his face, and a look, also,
which plainly told that he had never yet turned his back upon danger,
trouble, or an enemy, and never would.
“You _shall_ learn, that, sir,” he said in a clear, proud tone; “_Annie
Dale was my lawful wife, and he_,” extending a hand that trembled
visibly toward Geoffrey, “_is our son_!”