FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.
Mr. Huntress was struck dumb with astonishment by this unexpected
declaration; but Geoffrey sprang forward, clasped that extended hand,
and exclaimed, in a voice that shook with emotion:
“Oh, sir, I can never express my gratitude for that blessed assurance!”
Colonel Mapleson’s fingers closed almost convulsively over the young
man’s hand, while he turned his gaze upon him, searching his face with
eager, hungry eyes.
“Geoffrey,” he murmured, in a trembling tone, “you are my Annie’s boy.”
His lips quivered, a great trembling seized him, and he seemed on the
point of breaking down utterly.
It was several minutes before he could collect himself sufficiently to
speak, although he struggled manfully with his emotion.
At length he turned again to Geoffrey, to whose hand he had clung all
the time, saying:
“How like you are to Everet, my other son. I mistook you for him when I
first entered the room.”
“So you did upon one other occasion, if you remember,” Geoffrey
returned.
The man made a gesture of pain.
“Ah!” he said, humbly, “you will forgive me, I hope, when I explain why
I avoided you at that time. But this meeting has unnerved me. I find
myself unable to either think or speak collectedly. Will you both remove
your outer coats, and then, Geoffrey, tell me the story of your life—of
your adoption by this gentleman, while I try to recover myself. But
first tell me, have you both dined? Shall I not order something for
you?” he concluded, with thoughtful hospitality.
They assured him that they had dined just before leaving Richmond, and
needed nothing; and then, having removed their overcoats as requested,
Geoffrey began his tale.
His face had brightened wonderfully during the last few moments; the
expression of tense anxiety, of doubt and apprehension, had all faded
from it, and he looked more like himself than he had done since the day
of his interrupted marriage; it was such a blessed relief to know that
no stigma was attached to his birth.
He told all that he had learned of his history through Jack and Margery
Henly, and how he had so strangely come upon them while striving to
follow up the faint clew that he had obtained of his father at Saratoga;
of his having been found so helpless and forlorn in New York by Mr.
Huntress; of the restoration of his mental faculties through his
kindness and interest, and of the happy life that he had since led as a
member of his household. The only incidents that he omitted were those
in which Everet—his father’s other son—had been concerned, and which he
would not then pain him by mentioning, though possibly they might have
to be told later.
Colonel Mapleson listened with rapt interest and attention throughout
the whole recital, and appeared deeply moved during that portion which
related to his mental infirmity.
When it was all told, he seemed to fall into a painful reverie; his face
was inexpressibly sad, his attitude despondent, as if memories of the
past, which had thus been aroused, came crowding thick and fast upon
him, filling him with sorrow and regret.
Finally he aroused himself with a long-drawn sigh, and rising, went to a
handsome desk which was in the room, in which he unlocked a small
drawer, and taking a box from it, brought and laid it upon the table by
which Geoffrey was sitting.
“I had grown to feel almost as if this portion of my life had been
blotted out,” he said; “at least until it was so suddenly recalled to me
by meeting you at Saratoga last summer. But our mistakes rise up and
confront us; our sins find us out when we least expect it. Open that
box, Geoffrey, and draw what comfort you can from its contents.”
Geoffrey’s face flushed at being thus addressed.
He had come there with his heart full of bitterness toward the man who,
he believed, had done his mother an irreparable wrong.
But now he found those feelings fast changing to pity and sympathy for
him. His manly confession had more than half conquered him at the
outset, while his tender memories of the acknowledged wife of his youth,
and the fond inflection with which his voice was filled every time he
uttered his own name, told him that some of his dearest hopes had
clustered around those early days when he had been a wee infant, and
stirred a tenderness within his own heart for his father which he had
never imagined he could feel.
He untied the faded blue ribbon that bound the box which Colonel
Mapleson had given him, with fingers that trembled visibly, removed the
lid and found a thin, folded paper within.
He opened it. It was an old telegram addressed to William Mapleson,
Santa Fe, New Mexico, and contained these words:
“I will come, Will. Start at ten on the eighth.”
There was another paper underneath this, and his heart beat rapidly as
he drew it forth.
A blur came before his eyes, a nervous trembling seized him, making the
paper rattle in his grasp, for something seemed to tell him, even before
he looked at it, what it was.
Yes, it was even as he had surmised, for there, in black and white, as
plain and strong as the law could make it, was the certificate which
proved the legality of the bond that united William Mapleson and Annie
Dale, and dated only a few days later than the telegram which he had
just seen.
They had been married in Kansas City immediately upon the arrival of
Miss Dale, by the Rev. Dr. A. K. Bailey, of the Episcopal church.
A song of thanksgiving arose in Geoffrey’s heart as he read this, for it
proved that his mother had been an honored wife—that no stain had ever
rested on his birth; he was the legitimate son of William and Annie
Mapleson, and the burden of fear and dread, that had so long oppressed
him, was rolled away from his heart at last.
There was something else in one corner at the bottom of the box—a tiny
case of black morocco.
Geoffrey seized it eagerly, turned back the lid, and a small, heavy ring
of gold lay before him.
His heart leaped anew at the sight of it; nothing had been neglected to
do honor to the beautiful girl whom William Mapleson had loved.
He turned it toward the light and read on its inner surface; “W. M. to
A. D., Aug. 12th, 18——”
A heavy sigh, that was almost a sob, burst from him, though it was one
of joy instead of sorrow.
“A fortune could not purchase these from me,” he said, looking up with
moist eyes, while he reverently laid back in their place the priceless
treasures he had found.
A spasm of pain contracted Colonel Mapleson’s face at his words, for he
could well understand the feeling that lay behind them, and he could not
fail to realize, too, something of the questionable position which his
boy had occupied all his life.
He was very grave and thoughtful, and Mr. Huntress, as he watched him,
could see that he was struggling with some weighty matter that lay upon
his conscience.
At length he lifted his head, with a quick, resolute motion, showing
that he had settled it, whatever it was.
“Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey,” he said, glancing from one to the other; “I
have a long story to tell you, and a hard one, too, for not a soul in
the world save you two and the clergyman who performed the ceremony
really knows that I was ever married before the present Mrs. Mapleson
became my wife. I am bound to tell this story not only to you, but also
to her; that, as you cannot fail to understand, will be the hardest part
of my confession.”
Both his listeners sympathized with him deeply. They could easily
perceive how humiliating it would be to this proud man to make such a
disclosure to his wife after having deceived her for more than a score
of years; yet both knew that it was an act of justice which should be
performed in order that Geoffrey might be acknowledged as a son and
heir, and thus attain his proper position in the world.
“It is a painful story, too,” the colonel went on, “for Geoffrey. I
loved your mother with all the strength of my nature—as a man loves but
once in his life—and when I lost her the world became a blank to me,
while even now it is almost more than I can bear to speak of it. I
cannot tear the wound open and live over all that experience more than
once, and if you do not object, I would like Mrs. Mapleson to be present
while I make my confession.”
Mr. Huntress urged him to act according to his own wishes in the matter.
As far as he was concerned Mrs. Mapleson’s presence would make no
difference, unless the situation should prove to be too trying for her.
“She must know it within a few hours at the farthest, and it will also
be necessary for her to meet you; so it might as well be done at once.
What do you say, Geoffrey?” Colonel Mapleson asked, turning to his son.
“Do just what you think will be for the best, sir,” he replied; and his
father immediately arose and left the room.
“Estelle,” he said, going into his wife’s boudoir, where she sat,
handsome and stately, reading the latest magazine, “will you come down
to the library for a little while. I have some callers to whom I wish to
introduce you.”
Something unusual in her husband’s tone made Mrs. Mapleson drop her book
and search his face.
He was white to his lips.
“Why, William, what ails you? Has anything happened to Everet?” she
questioned, anxiously, her motherhood aroused for her child.
“Everet is well, so far as I know, but——”
“Surely you are ill, or you have bad news?” she interrupted.
“No, I am not ill, although some business of a painful nature has upset
me a trifle,” he answered, knowing that he was looking wretched, and not
attempting to conceal his agitation.
“You know I do not like to be mixed up with business transactions,” his
wife replied, with an impatient shrug of her shapely shoulders.
“But I particularly desire your presence while I make a statement to
those gentlemen,” Colonel Mapleson said, striving to speak more calmly,
though the hand that was resting on the back of Mrs. Mapleson’s chair
trembled in a way to really startle her.
“Why, William,” she said, facing him. “have you been getting into
financial trouble at your time of life?”
“No; it is an error—a mistake made long years ago that I wish to
rectify,” he gravely answered.
“Who are these people?” she asked, still searching his face earnestly.
“A Mr. Huntress and his son from New York.”
“Huntress!” repeated the lady, reflectively. “Where have I heard that
name before?”
“Never mind now, Estelle; you can think of that some other time. Please
do not keep me waiting.”
He took her hand, laid it on his arm, and led her from the room, while
she wondered to see her proud husband in that mood, for there was a
gentleness about him, mingled with a humility and a deprecatory air,
that was entirely foreign to him.
Not a word was spoken by either as they passed down the grand staircase.
Colonel Mapleson was too absorbed in the painful duty before him, while
“coming events” seemed already to have “cast their shadows” upon the
handsome face and proud spirit of his wife.
A painful expression almost convulsed Colonel Mapleson’s face as he
paused irresolutely a moment before the library door.
But his hesitation was only for an instant.
The next he turned the handle, led his wife within the room, when he
closed and locked the door to insure freedom from interruption.
Then he led his companion straight to August Huntress.
“Mr. Huntress, allow me to present to you my wife, Mrs. Mapleson,” he
said by way of introduction.
The lady glanced into the gentleman’s face. Instantly her own froze into
a look of horror; a shock went quivering through her frame like the blow
of an ax upon a tree. She started wildly back from him, her eyes
diluted, her lips apart.
“_August Damon!_” she gasped, and sank fainting to the floor.