THE COLONEL’S STORY CONCLUDED.
“Annie and I were very happy,” Colonel Mapleson went on, after a
momentary pause, “during the year that followed—happy in spite of a
little cloud that had arisen so soon after our marriage, for our
prospects were very encouraging. I was doing finely. Every month my
profits were increasing, and thus the time of our emancipation was
growing nearer. If I could only replace what now no longer properly
belonged to me, Annie said she would be content to remain in that mining
country as long as I desired. She was willing to live simply, even
frugally, if I would only do right, acknowledge our marriage before the
world, and not have to hide like a couple of criminals.
“Our joy was increased tenfold when, a little before our first
anniversary, a bright, handsome boy was born to us.”
Again Mrs. Mapleson started and shot another glance at Geoffrey.
“That explains it all,” she murmured.
“Yes, Estelle,” replied her husband, who caught the words, “that
explains why this young man resembles Everet to such a wonderful degree.
They are both thorough Maplesons. My wife,” he continued, a sudden
pallor nettling over his face, and speaking now with visible effort,
“began to recuperate almost immediately after his birth, her color and
strength returned, her spirits seemed as light as air, and she was as
happy as the day was long, in the possession of her new treasure, while
she was the most devoted little mother imaginable. She named her baby,
herself. ‘Geoffrey Dale Mapleson,’ she said he was to be called, ‘only
we shall have to drop the Mapleson for a while, I suppose—only a little
while longer, Will,’ she pleaded, as she twined her arms about my neck
and drew my head down close to the little one lying beside her.
“‘My darling,’ I told her, ‘in six months, at the farthest, you shall go
back home as Mrs. William Mapleson. We will call it our real wedding
journey. Estelle shall have her money, then we will come back here for a
few years longer, after which, if all continues to go well, we shall
have no cause to regret Jabez Mapleson’s fortune.’
“I shall never forget the look of joy on her face when I made that
promise, and all during the evening she was as gay as a child, and more
lovely than I had ever seen her. The next morning I was obliged to leave
her for a couple of days. I had to go to the other mines, then to Santa
Fe to make a deposit. My darling clung to me as I bade her good-by. Our
boy was just two days old then.
“‘My Will, my Will, somehow I cannot bear to let you go this time, even
for a day, and two will seem an age!’ she said, as she kissed me again
and again. Then she laughed at her own childishness, told me playfully,
though with tears in her eyes, to begone before she repeated her folly.”
A groan burst from the lips of the narrator at this point, and it seemed
as if he would not be able to go on.
Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey both shifted their position, for they could
not bear to look upon his agonized face as he thus laid bare this sacred
page of his heart.
Mrs. Mapleson buried her face in her handkerchief, while every now and
then a shudder ran through her frame.
“She never kissed me again; she never called her ‘Will’ again; she never
_knew_ me again,” Colonel Mapleson went on, in a hollow tone, “for she
took a cold that very day and was raving with delirium when I returned.
She grew worse and worse, and in two weeks was—dead. My bright,
beautiful wife, whom I loved better than my own life, for whom I was
willing to give up fortune, position, _everything_ that I had hitherto
held most dear, lay a lifeless thing of clay—gone from me like a breath,
leaving me broken-hearted and with my reason nearly dethroned.”
It was truly pitiable to witness the man’s emotion and his struggle for
self-control.
His frame shook like a tree swayed by the wind; his lips and his voice
trembled so that it was difficult for him to articulate, while his broad
chest heaved convulsively with the anguished throbbing of his heart.
“Well,” he said, after a while, “I must not dwell upon that sad time,
and I scarcely know how I lived during the week that followed. We buried
her in a quiet spot beneath a mammoth tree, not a stone’s throw from our
home, where she used often to sit on a warm summer’s day with some
dainty bit of work in her hands. You have seen her grave, you say,” he
interposed, turning to Geoffrey. “Does it look sadly neglected and
overgrown? Is the stone defaced or the name obliterated by the storms of
so many years?”
“No, sir,” his son answered, looking up with moist eyes, for he had been
deeply moved by his father’s story and his evident suffering in telling
it; “the fence that surrounds the little lot has fallen somewhat to
decay, but a luxuriant growth of vines hides all that. The stone still
stands upright in its place and the name ‘Annie’ is as distinct to-day
as it ever was.”
“I have never been there since we broke up our home,” resumed the
colonel, with a heavy sigh. “The girl, Margaret, who had served my wife
most faithfully ever since our marriage, married, as you know already, a
man by the name of Henly. They were going to California to live, and she
said she would take care of my boy until I could make some better
provision for him. I knew not what else I could do, so I accepted her
offer. I broke up my home, gave away what I could not sell of the
furniture, and we left the place, the Henlys taking you, Geoffrey, to
California, where I planned to visit you when I could. I returned to my
interests in the other mines where I tried to drown my grief by working
as a common miner. But time, instead of healing my wound, only made it
rankle worse. I grew bitter and antagonistic; the happiness of others
maddened me; the fortune I had before been so willing to release, for
the sake of her I loved, I now vowed I would keep out of spite for my
loss. I resolved to keep my marriage a secret. I would keep all my
wealth, and as my boy grew older he should have the benefit of it, even
though I should never be able to acknowledge him as mine. But I was
restless, I could not remain long in one place at a time, and I wandered
from place to place trying to drown my sorrow in excitement. Four times,
after an interval of six months between each, I visited the Henlys. My
child was growing finely and doing well every way, so I decided to let
him remain where he was until he should be old enough to go to school;
then something impelled me to come back to my home. I put my affairs all
into the hands of an agent, and six years from the time of my leaving
Vue de l’Eau found me here again once more assuming the duties of its
master. A few weeks later I met my cousin, Miss Everet. Estelle,” with a
glance toward his wife, “do you mind my telling it all?”
“No,” was the brief, low response.
“She appeared very glad to renew the acquaintance of former years,
although no allusion to our uncle’s will was at that time made by either
of us.
“She had grown very beautiful, had been much in society, and possessed
charming manners. One day, during a call upon her, she playfully
remarked that it was her birthday and she had not been the recipient of
a single gift.
“‘You should have mentioned that fact before,’ I returned, ‘but perhaps
it is not too late even yet, for some remembrance of the day. Tell the
number of your years and you shall have a rose for every one.’
“I knew well enough, but I would not appear to know.
“‘Twenty-four,’ she replied, and her face clouded as she said it.
“I could tell well enough what she was thinking of; in one year more she
would be twenty-five, then Robert Dale could claim her fortune, and a
life of poverty would lie before her.
“Instantly the thought arose my mind, ‘Why has my cousin never married?’
I did not believe that she had remained single out of any regard for me,
or from any desire to fulfill the conditions of our uncle’s will;
indeed, she had expressed herself so indignantly at the time of its
reading, that I imagined she would always be adverse to any such union.
Still, it seemed strange that a young lady so attractive, and eligible
in every way, should have remained single, when I did not doubt, indeed
I knew, she might have chosen from among a half-dozen men whose fortunes
were even larger than her own.
“‘Perhaps,’ I thought, ‘she has become bitter and antagonistic—is bound
to enjoy her money until the last moment, and then pass it over to me.’
I did not want it—the thought was very disagreeable to me. Perhaps she
loved a poor man, and was intending to make the most of her time;
perhaps, I reasoned, she has been saving her income all these years, and
will marry when her twenty-five years are past; maybe she is even
waiting to tire me out and get the whole for that purpose. But there
appeared to be no one of whom she was fond. I noticed that she treated
all gentlemen alike, even receiving my visits and attentions with no
more pleasure than those of others.
“‘Why not marry her if she will have you?’ was the thought that shot
through my mind, as I started out to get the roses I had promised her.
‘I will not give up my fortune to that miser without a struggle. I might
ask her to be my wife, and then, if she refuses, I have fulfilled the
conditions of my uncle’s will.’ But, at first, a feeling of horror came
over me, at the thought of giving to another the place which my Annie
had filled, and I angrily repudiated it. I avoided my cousin’s society
for a time after that, almost hating myself for contemplating for a
moment a marriage with her for mercenary reasons. But when she chided me
gently for my neglect, seeming to feel actual pain on account of it,
those questions returned to me with even greater force than before, and
I resolved to try to learn her mind upon the subject.
“I knew that I should lead a wretched existence in this great house,
with no woman to brighten it with her presence, and, perhaps, after a
time, if she should consent, I might confess the great temptation and
sorrow that had come to me, and perhaps she would pardon it, and be
willing to receive my boy and give him a mother’s care. As soon as I
reached this conclusion, I made no delay about putting my fate to the
test.
“We were one day talking about my estate here, and of some improvements
I was intending to make, when I suddenly said:
“‘Estelle, Vue de l’Eau has no mistress. I wonder if you could regard
the conditions of Uncle Jabez’s will any more favorably now than you did
at the time of his death?’
“She flushed hotly, and shot a quick, keen glance at me.
“‘I believe we were mutually antagonistic to it,’ she replied.
“‘People grow wiser as they grow older,’ I remarked; then boldly asked:
‘Will you marry me now, Estelle?’
“‘Do you think it right for people who do not love each other to marry?’
she questioned.
“‘Is that equivalent to telling me that you do not love me?’ I inquired.
‘I will be frank with you, my cousin,’ I continued. ‘I confess that I
have not the affection for you that young lovers generally rave about;
but I admire you; you are beautiful, cultured, talented, and I am free
to own that you are far more attractive to me now, than you were in
those old days when we were both so bitter and indignant. If no one else
has won your heart, I will do my best to make your future pleasant. We
have only one more year of grace; we must consider this subject and
reach some decision before it expires; so what say you, cousin mine?’
“She thought a moment, then lifted her head with a resolute air, and
said:
“‘Yes, I will marry you, William, if you are willing to take me just as
I am, without very much heart to give you, but willing to do my best to
make you a good wife; I believe it will be the wiser course for both of
us.’
“Thus our engagement was made, and we were married the following month.
I have endeavored to keep my promise to my wife to make her life a
pleasant one, and until now,” with a sorrowful glance at the bowed head
and shivering form of his proud wife, “I believe that we have been
comparatively happy in our domestic relations; at least, I have known
more of quiet content than I thought it would ever be possible for me to
attain. I have kept this secret—the only one I ever kept from her—until
this hour. I did not have the courage to confess it after our marriage—I
kept putting it off until after my son, Everet, was born, a little less
than a year after our marriage, and when I saw how my wife’s heart was
bound up in him, I could not bring myself to it.
“Later, when I went to see how _my_ boy was thriving, intending to make
some other provision for him, when I learned of that tragedy in the
Henly family and that both the man and boy had disappeared, I was almost
glad I never had spoken of that sad episode in my life, although I
spared no expense to try to trace my child.
“Estelle, this is my confession; you have heard the whole, and know the
extent of my deception. So many years had passed that I had grown to
believe that it would never be unvailed until that day when all secrets
are to be made known. This young man, whom I introduced to you as Mr.
Huntress’ son, is _my_ son, whom I believed lost to me forever; but he
was led, _most strangely led_ to the discovery of his parentage, and
came hither to-night to claim acknowledgment. By the way, Geoffrey, I
never knew either when or how I lost that portion of the
knight-templar’s cross you found. I missed it shortly after my last
visit to Santa Fe, but never expected to recover it again. You shall
keep it, my boy; it has always been regarded as a pocket piece for luck;
may it ever prove to be such to you. My only reason for having the
Henlys’ letters simply directed to ‘Lock Box 43’ was to prevent my
identity being discovered. I could not give them my real name, and did
not like letters addressed to William Dale to come to the same box, so I
just gave the number.
“About my visit to Saratoga last summer,” the colonel continued, after a
short pause, “I have to confess to something that I never experienced
before, either in times of peace or war, a feeling of cowardice. I was
on my way to Newport to join Mrs. Mapleson, and took a notion to run up
to the Springs, which I had not visited for years. On the train from
Albany to Saratoga an elderly gentleman accosted me, expressing great
pleasure at meeting me once more, and inquired most kindly after my
wife. He was a man whom I had known during that short happy year that I
had spent in that mining village, and who had known me only as Captain
William Dale. He, too, was going to Saratoga and begged the privilege of
accompanying me to the hotel where I intended stopping. At first I
hardly knew what to do. I could not bear to undeceive him regarding my
name, for it would have required explanations too painful to make to a
stranger, so I finally thought it would not matter if I registered for
once in my assumed name; therefore I wrote it and named my place of
residence as Santa Fe, since he knew that I used to do business there. A
strange fate I thought it, which threw you in my way under just those
circumstances. You remember how I took you for Everet, at first; but I
was terribly shocked when it dawned upon me who you were, and I fully
intended, at the time, to keep my appointment with you for that
afternoon. But when I came to think it all over quietly, to realize all
the revelations that must be made to my wife, my son, to yourself, I was
nearly crazed; I knew from your appearance that you had been well cared
for, that life was bright and prosperous with you, and it seemed as if I
could not rake over all the past, and in the midst of my frenzy I packed
my valise and left on the noon train. I have bitterly regretted it
since, for my heart longed after its own; I have been ashamed that I, a
Mapleson, should have turned my back and fled from any circumstances. I
have repented of my folly, too, because a duty has fallen upon me, since
then, which made it imperative that I should find you; but of this I
will speak again later.
“What is it, Estelle?” he asked, as a heavy, shuddering sigh from his
wife smote his ear; “has my story been too much for you? I fear it has.
Perhaps I have been selfish and thoughtless in bringing you here before
strangers to listen to all this, but it had to be told, and this
interview must have taken place between us all. Forgive me for wounding
you, and let me take you to your room; perhaps, though, you never will
forgive me for the deception which I have practiced upon you.”
He went up to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder with more of
tenderness than he was in the habit of manifesting toward the proud,
handsome woman. But she put him from her with a passionate gesture, in
which, however, there was a pathetic air of appeal.
She arose and stood before him, her face almost convulsed with agony.
“Oh!” she cried, wringing her hands, “if you had only told me all this
when you asked me to marry you; or, if I had been true to my womanhood,
how much we both might have saved each other! Forgive you for your
deception? oh! William, I have been tenfold more guilty than you.”