MRS. MAPLESON’S CONFESSION.
Colonel Mapleson regarded his wife as if he thought she had suddenly
taken leave of her senses.
August Huntress’ heart was stirred with compassion for the beautiful and
imperious woman, for he realized full well the trial that lay before
her, and could understand how humiliating it must be to have her sin
find her out at this late day, when she had believed it buried forever.
All these long years she, too, had treasured her secret, believing that
no one save the strange physician who had attended her at the birth of
her child, and those two who had adopted it, knew anything of that
episode in her life, and that she had so successfully concealed her
identity at the time that it could never be discovered.
“What can you mean, Estelle?” demanded Colonel Mapleson, as soon as he
could collect himself sufficiently to speak.
Then, as he remembered how she had greeted Mr. Huntress, how overcome
she had been at sight of him, he glanced sharply toward him and knew
instantly, from the look of sympathy on his face, that he must be in
some way associated with that mysterious deception of which his wife had
spoken.
“I mean,” the wretched woman returned, in a voice of despair, while she
sank weekly back into her chair, “that the secret which you have kept
concealed from me during all our married life cannot compare with what I
have withheld from you; you simply hid the fact of an earlier marriage
and the existence of a son, while I committed a _monstrous crime_ to
conceal a like secret from you.”
“Good heavens, Estelle!” cried her husband, starting back from her with
a look of horror at her appalling statement. “I cannot believe it,” and
he, too, sank into the nearest chair, overcome with consternation, and
actually trembling with dread of what was to follow.
Again he looked suspiciously at August Huntress, while a hundred
thoughts flashed through his brain.
He fully believed that he must have been connected in some way with the
crime of which his wife spoke.
Had she married him clandestinely, timing those early years while he had
been away in the mines of New Mexico, and then deserted him to wed the
other half of Jabez Mapleson’s fortune and preserve her own? Had they
met and loved each other in their youth? Was that the reason why Estelle
had been so indifferent to all other suitors; why she had told him she
had “not much heart to give him,” when he had asked her to marry him?
She had called him “August Damon” when brought face to face with him, in
a tone which betrayed that she had everything to fear from his presence
there, and she confirmed this by fainting at his feet.
But there were only sorrow and compassion written on Mr. Huntress’ face
as he witnessed the proud woman’s humiliation; there was no vestige of
any latent affection, no anger or harshness, such as there would have
been if she had wronged him or played him false; there was no look, save
one of regret and sympathy, as for one who, he knew, had committed some
great sin that had at last found her out and must be atoned for.
“What does she mean? Do you know?” Colonel Mapleson asked, huskily, as
his visitor—perchance feeling the magnetism of his glance—turned his
eyes from the bowed form of Mrs. Mapleson to the mystified husband.
“I—know something, but not all,” he answered, reluctantly.
“Then you _have_ met my wife before?”
“Once, and only once, as I have already told you.”
“Where—under what circumstances?” demanded the colonel, with
considerable excitement.
“Pardon me,” returned Mr. Huntress, with dignity, as it suddenly
occurred to him what his host’s suspicions might be. “I prefer that Mrs.
Mapleson should herself tell you that, since it is more her secret than
mine. Perhaps, however, it would be better for Geoffrey and me to retire
to some other room while she speaks with you alone,” and he half arose
as he spoke.
But Mrs. Mapleson threw out one clenched, jeweled hand, with an
imperative gesture, to check him.
“No,” she cried, a quiver of agony in her voice; “if any one has a right
to hear my confession, my story, you have,” and at this, Geoffrey turned
a startled face upon the man whom he had always regarded as honorable
and irreproachable—one of nature’s noblemen.
“Oh, the curse of gold!” the unhappy woman went on, wildly. “What will
it not tempt one to do? The love of it blunts natural affection and
honor, and warps the reason. It leads one to deceive, to scheme, and to
sin for the possession of it. What blind fools men and women are to
sacrifice so much—love, a lifetime of innocence, purity, and happiness,
for the sake of a little paltry yellow dust! If I could but live over my
life, how gladly would I endure poverty, and toil, and self-denial, to
secure a quiet conscience and a heart free from its burden of sin and
dread! Oh, such a life as I have led is but a miserable failure from
beginning to end!”
Colonel Mapleson began to be alarmed at his wife’s increasing
excitement, while her remorse and her ominous allusions drove him almost
distracted.
He arose, and, going to her side, took her trembling hands in his,
saying:
“Estelle, if you cannot calm yourself, I shall insist upon your going to
your room; you will surely be ill if you yield so to nervous excitement.
Whatever this matter is that seems to weigh so heavily upon your mind, I
can wait until you are in a better state for its recital. Come, let me
take you up stairs,” and he gently tried to force her to rise.
But she wrenched her hands from his clasp.
“No, no,” she cried, with a shiver; “I will not carry this dreadful
burden on my heart another hour! For more than twenty years I have borne
the brand of an inhuman monster on my soul, and I wonder that it has not
transformed me into something so repulsive and loathsome that every one
would shrink from me in fear and disgust. I have often looked at myself
with amazement to think it was possible for any one to conceal so
effectually the corruption and wretchedness and duplicity of one’s
nature. I believe I have realized, as no one else ever did, what the
Saviour meant by a ‘whited sepulcher full of dead men’s bones.’
William!” turning upon her husband, with a wild, glittering eye, and
searching his face with a glance of pitiful appeal, “I expect that you
will despise and hate me, that our son will loathe me, when you learn
what I have to tell you.”
The scene was becoming very painful, and Mr. Huntress, pitying her from
the depths of his heart, arose and walked out of her sight, feeling that
he could not look upon her agony, while Geoffrey sat spell-bound,
dreading the impending disclosure more than he could express.
Colonel Mapleson, feeling as if he must do something to calm her
excitement, went to a closet, poured out a glass of wine, and brought it
to her.
“Estelle, drink this,” he said, kindly, as he put it to her lips, though
his hand shook so that he could not hold the glass steadily.
She hastily swallowed it, and then pushed him from her; it seemed as if
she could not bear him near her while her sin was unconfessed—until he
should hear and judge her, and she could know what her doom was to be.
For more than twenty years he had been her husband. He had always been
kind and chivalrous in his treatment of her. At first she had been proud
of him for his honor and manliness, then her pride had gradually
developed into a strong, deep affection, which, however, she had never
allowed herself to parade before him, because of his unvarying reticence
toward her. She had tried to be a good wife to him, to win his respect
by her faithfulness to duty, her devotion as a mother, and his
admiration by preserving her beauty and shining a star in the society
they frequented; and now, after succeeding for so long a time, it drove
her nearly crazy to think that perhaps the confession of her early folly
would undo all this and breed contempt for her, or worse—his pity.
His own deception seemed very trivial compared with hers, for a cruel
fate alone had prevented him from acknowledging his wife and child whom
he had fondly loved and would have cherished as long as they had been
spared to him, while she had deliberately planned to abandon her
delicate babe and cast it unloved upon the care of strangers.
The wine which she had drank, however, served to steady her nerves, and
to give her strength for the trial before her, and after a few minutes
she raised her white, drawn face, saying:
“Sit down, all of you, for my story is not a short one, though for all
our sakes I will make it as brief as possible.
“You will remember, William, that after I came into possession of my
half of Uncle Jabez’s fortune, I went abroad. I had always had an
intense longing to see Europe, and when the means to do so were at my
disposal, I resolved to gratify that desire. You know, too, that as a
family we had always been poor. It had been a continual struggle with us
to secure even the necessaries of life, and the battle with poverty had
been a most bitter one to me. Now, I was bound to get the most I could
out of life, to make up for the deprivations of my youth. I indignantly
refused to marry as my uncle desired, for I, as well as you, considered
that he had no right to make any such stipulations in disposing of his
money; but I was young, I had seven years before me in which to enjoy my
wealth, and I said I would spend every dollar of my income in being
happy and making up to my family for the hardships of previous years. So
I settled a comfortable income on my father and mother, and then, taking
my sister Nellie for a companion, I sailed for Europe to gratify my
taste for travel and sight-seeing. We both spoke French and German
fluently, for we had been faithful students, and fitted ourselves for
teaching; both were self-reliant and courageous in spite of our
youth—our conflict with our unfavorable surroundings had made us
so—therefore we felt competent to travel by ourselves without a
chaperon, who, we felt, would hamper our movements. Some of the time we
had a guide, but in England, France, and Germany we were able to go
about quite independently. It was perhaps a daring thing to do, but
Nellie was somewhat older than I, and very self-possessed and dignified
in her bearing, and we never met with the slightest inconvenience from
being without an escort. We had a very pleasant time together; we had
plenty of money, and did not need to stint ourselves; Nell loved art,
and I music, so for a year we put ourselves under the best of masters,
and gave ourselves up to these accomplishments, and had our fill. But I
am getting somewhat ahead of my story.
“While we were in London, a few months after reaching England, we met a
literary gentlemen, a Mr. Charles Southcourt, who paid me considerable
attention, and to whom I was very strongly attracted. We met often, too,
upon the Continent, for he, also, was traveling in search of material
for his writings, and our routes frequently crossed each other. Finally,
during my second year abroad, he confessed his affection for me, and
asked me to marry him. He was brilliant, handsome, talented, but poor.
Had he been rich I would not have hesitated a moment, for I loved him;
but I knew, far too well, what poverty was to be willing to relinquish
my fortune and the handsome income it brought me, the luxuries and
pleasures it yielded me, to say nothing of depriving my parents and
sister of the comforts and advantages they were enjoying, and I refused
him. He knew that I returned his affection—he had not dreamed of being
rejected—and demanded the reason. I told him frankly. He then informed
me that all pecuniary difficulty could soon be removed, for there was a
prospect of his soon receiving a responsible appointment somewhere in
the far East, which would secure him an ample income which, with what he
should realize from his writings, would enable him to provide for the
comfortable support of my family, and secure to me every luxury which my
own fortune was then giving me. Would I become his wife if he secured
this appointment? he asked. I told him yes, and I believe if it had not
been for depriving my delicate and aged parents and sister of the
comforts they were enjoying—if I had only had myself to consider, I
should have willingly thrown up my fortune, and become his wife, whether
he secured the appointment or not.
“Full of hope at having won my consent, Charlie returned at once to
London—we were at that time in Rome—to bend all his energies to secure
his coveted position. Two months later, Nellie and I returned to Paris,
where we were again joined by Mr. Southcourt, who was jubilant, for he
said he was sure of his appointment, and he showed me a letter, from a
person high in authority, which seemed to promise it beyond a doubt.
“About this time we received a letter from home telling us that papa was
failing; the physician feared the worst, and we were told to hold
ourselves in readiness to return at once if he should continue to grow
worse. Mamma wrote that she could not bear to shorten our pleasure, but
she knew that our own hearts would bid us come if they found that he
could not rally; that was, however, merely a warning to prepare us; she
would write again if there was any change for the worse.
“I told Nellie that we must go home at once; something might happen to
make papa’s disease terminate suddenly, and he would die before we could
possibly reach him, if we should wait to hear from mamma again. Nellie
agreed to this, but Mr. Southcourt was very unhappy over our decision;
he could not bear the thought of separation; he said something might
occur to make it final, unless I should marry him at once and give him
the right to call me his wife before I left; in that case he would let
me go and feel sure of me. At first I would not listen to this proposal.
I knew but too well that if my marriage was discovered, the income from
my half of Uncle Jabez’s property would be stopped, and my sick and
dying father be deprived of everything that had now become so necessary
to him. But Charlie was so sure that he should get his appointment, when
he would at once settle one-third of his income upon my parents; he was
so hopeful over his book, so importunate, and distressed at the thought
of my leaving, while Nellie also thought there could be no risk, that my
scruples and better judgment were overcome and I yielded, upon one
condition—that our marriage be kept a profound secret until he actually
secured his position. He agreed to this, because he said he knew I
should scarcely reach home before he would have the wherewithal to
enable me to make over my share of Uncle Jabez’s fortune to my cousin,
without missing it, and so we were privately married in Paris just
before leaving for London.
“Upon our arrival there, we found that a steamer had just sailed, and no
other would leave for three or four days. The very next morning we
received another letter from home saying that papa had rallied and was
so much improved, mamma regretted she had written so discouragingly
before, and told us not to think of returning until we felt entirely
ready to do so. I was so happy in my new relations that I was only too
glad of this respite, for the prospect of a separation from my husband
was as painful to me as to him. Three short, blissful weeks after that
we spent together, and then there came a startling cable message,
bidding Nellie and me to return instantly.”
Mrs. Mapleson paused and struggled with herself at this point; evidently
her task was a bitter one, and almost more than she was able to
accomplish.
“I cannot tell you of that parting,” she finally resumed; “it was almost
like parting soul from body, and I shall never forget the look that was
on my Charlie’s face as he stood on the pier at Liverpool and watched
the vessel that bore us away out of sight.
“We reached home just in season to be recognized by papa, to receive his
dying blessing and his bidding to care tenderly for mamma, and then he
was gone. Our mother was utterly prostrated by his death and the
watching during the long weeks of his illness, and for months she, too,
seemed to be upon the borders of the grave.
“Meantime, I heard regularly from Charlie, and every letter told me of
some delay regarding the decision upon his appointment, but it was sure
to be all right in the end, he said, and he would let me know the very
moment it was decided.
“You can easily realize that those months were anxious ones to me, for I
feared, as the guilty always fear, detection, while, too, the deception
I was practicing was inexpressibly galling to me. Mamma rallied after a
time, and for a little while we thought she would recover, but the
improvement was not lasting, and it soon became evident that consumption
had fastened upon her.
“It was nearly five months since my return, and I began to be very
unhappy, for there was still no favorable news from my husband. One day
I was sitting alone in my room writing to him, and feeling very much
depressed, when Nellie suddenly burst in upon me, her face all aglow,
and bearing a telegram in her hand.
“‘Estelle, what will you give me for good news at last?’ she cried,
gayly, and holding the telegram above her head, out of my reach.
“‘I will give you a hundred dollars, Nell, if it is good news,’ I
answered, springing up to take it from her, my heart beating high with
hope, for I felt almost sure that the message could contain nothing
else.
“I tore it open with trembling eagerness, only to find these words
within:
“‘Lost; appointment given to a man named Wilmot. Will write
particulars.’
“It was a dreadful blow! Nellie had read the message over my shoulder,
and for a moment we were both so paralyzed that we could only look into
each other’s face in dumb agony. Then I remembered nothing more for a
week, while for a month I did not leave my bed. During this time Charlie
wrote, bitterly regretting that he had sent me the message, but saying
he had promised to let me know as soon as the matter was decided, and on
the impulse of the moment, his judgment blunted by his own
disappointment, he had cabled what afterward he realized must have been
a cruel blow to me. He said that money had bought up the position, while
he had been so certain that the influence at work for him was stronger
than any amount of bribery could be. ‘Still,’ he cheerfully concluded,
‘he would try for something else, and do his utmost to relieve me from
my embarrassing position.’
“All this, however, was poor consolation for me; I could not confess my
marriage and go to him a beggar in his poverty, even though my heart
longed for him with all the strength of its deep and lasting love. My
mother failing, slowly, but surely, was dependent upon me for every
comfort that she possessed and besides this I could not make up my mind
to put the ocean between us when I knew I should never see her again if
I did. My husband had spoken of my ‘embarrassing position,’ but he did
not dream one-half the truth, for I had concealed from him the fact that
I was soon to become a mother.”