MRS. MAPLESON’S STORY CONCLUDED.
“Estelle!” exclaimed Colonel Mapleson, in a shocked, yet sympathetic
tone, “of all the romances that I have ever read or known, this is the
strangest!”
“Yes,” Mrs. Mapleson continued, “I had persistently refrained from
telling my husband my secret, and Nellie alone knew it. At first I only
meant to reserve it until he should come for me, as he was to do
immediately upon securing his position. I was sure that, if he knew, he
would instantly demand my return to him, and an open acknowledgment of
our union, and so I kept putting it off, until now, that I had received
that fatal news, it was too late. I could not send for him to come to
me, for then the secret must come out with all its direful results,
while I knew he could not take care of me in a strange country when he
was so unsuccessful in his own. I was almost insane for a time, for I
saw no way out of my difficulties. My mother was so feeble that she
demanded the constant attendance of a nurse, and the most expensive
luxuries, to prolong her life. Where would the money come from to
furnish all these, if it should become known that I had violated the
conditions of my uncle’s will? Where, too, would the money come to meet
my own expenses of maternity, and to care for the little one that would
soon be mine? All too late I realized the terrible mistake that I had
made in yielding to Charlie’s importunities, although I loved my husband
most tenderly.
“‘What _shall_ I do?’ I cried, in despair, to my sister, one day, when
all these facts, and the terrible fate awaiting their revelation, had
been reviewed for the hundredth time.
“‘I’ll tell you what I’ve thought of Estelle,’ Nellie answered, gravely.
‘It seems a dreadful thing to do—heartless, dishonorable, and everything
else that is bad—and yet I see no alternative. We _must_ manage some way
to keep your money—at least, so long as mamma lives: _we must not let
her suffer_, though I’d work my fingers to the bone rather than do such
a thing for my own sake. William Mapleson does not need your fortune; he
has enough already. Robert Dale, that miserable old miser, would only
‘hide it in a napkin,’ if _he_ were to get it. So we may as well have
the benefit of it, at least until Charlie is able to do something for
you. Now for my plan. You have had a long illness; you are drooping,
failing; you need, _must_ have, a change. Mamma is quite comfortable
just now, and, with the nurse to attend her, does not really need any
one else. But that she may not feel lonely without us, we will send for
her old friend, Miss Willford, to come for a long visit, and then _we_
will go off on a trip for your benefit.’
“‘Oh, Nell, will _you_ go with me?’ I sobbed, in a burst of relief and
gratitude.
“‘Indeed I shall. You did not suppose I would send you off alone, I
hope,’ she answered, and then she further unfolded her plan.
“We would pretend that we _both_ needed a change, after the confinement
of the last few months. No one would then suspect any secret reason for
our going. We would travel a while, keeping as secluded as possible, and
finally go to some large city—Boston we finally decided upon, as we had
never been there, and knew not a soul living there—where we would remain
until after the birth of my child. Then we would give it into the care
of some one, paying well for it, until my husband was in a position to
claim me; and then, as soon as I had regained my strength, we would
return home, and no one would be the wiser for what had occurred.
“This plan gave me new courage. All my former energy returned, and I
immediately began my arrangements for my proposed trip. Mamma and her
nurse both favored it, and Miss Willford was sent for. I wrote my
husband of our plans—or as much regarding them as we told
anybody—telling him how to address his letters; and then Nellie and I
went away, without exciting the suspicion of any one regarding our real
object. We went first to Philadelphia, where we remained in secluded
lodgings for a few weeks, giving our names as ‘Mrs. Marston and maid,
Nellie Durham’—Nellie preferring to act in that capacity. Then we
proceeded to New York, where we stopped a while, finally going on to
Boston, where my little girl was born.”
Geoffrey turned abruptly around and faced Mr. Huntress as Mrs. Mapleson
reached this point in her story. Never until that moment had he
suspected that Gladys was not his kind friend’s own daughter. But he
knew that he had formerly resided in Boston. He remembered that Mrs.
Mapleson had addressed him as August Damon, and how she had been
overcome upon meeting him. He remembered, too, how, when he had proposed
leaving the room while she made her confession to her husband, she had
said “if any one had a right to hear her story, he had,” and putting all
these things together, it flashed upon him that Gladys might have been
that little girl who was born, under such peculiar circumstances, in
Boston.
Mr. Huntress met his inquiring glance, and smiled faintly; but he was
very pale and sorrowful.
It had not been an easy matter for him to sit there and listen to that
story, and to have it revealed that Gladys was not his very own. He had
always hoped to be able to keep the secret of her adoption.
“Is it true, Uncle August?” Geoffrey questioned.
Mr. Huntress nodded gravely.
“How very, very strange!” said the young man, with a perplexed face.
Then his countenance suddenly brightened!
He leaned eagerly forward, laid his hand on Mr. Huntress’ knee, and
whispered, excitedly:
“Then _he_—Everet Mapleson, is _her half-brother, and that marriage was
nothing but an illegal farce_!”
“That is true—I have been thinking of that very thing,” returned Mr.
Huntress, grasping the hand upon his knee with cordial sympathy, “and
though it has been very hard to have the fact revealed, that our dear
girl was not quite our own, yet my joy at having that great trouble so
easily wiped out of existence, counteracts all the pain.”
“What is it?” Mrs. Mapleson asked, wondering at their eager whispering
and excited manner.
“I will tell you later, madame,” Mr. Huntress replied. “Pardon the
interruption, and pray go on.”
“William, the worst of my story is yet to come,” Mrs. Mapleson resumed,
turning with a pathetic look to her husband.
He reached forth one hand, and laid it affectionately upon hers.
“Do not think me so hard, Estelle,” he said, in a low, kind tone; “I do
not forget the ‘beam’ that was in my own eye, and I have no right to
criticise the ‘mote’ in yours, especially when you have been so great a
sufferer, and your hands were so tied by your dependent mother and
sister. Your heart was all right—you would never have concealed anything
but for the force of circumstances.”
“Oh, wait; you have yet to learn that my heart was not all right,” she
moaned, dropping her head upon her hand. “My baby was a beautiful
child—I realized that the first time I looked upon her, but I did not
dare to let my love go out toward her, for I knew that I must give her
up, at least for a time. And yet, what to do with her was a very trying
question. At first I thought of putting her into some institution,
requiring some pledge that she should not be given away within a
specified time. But I found I could not do this, so I advertised for
some one to adopt her, promising to give five hundred dollars with the
child. I received numberless letters in reply, but only one out of them
all really pleased me, and this was signed ‘August and Alice Damon.’”
“Ah! now I understand,” interposed Colonel Mapleson, glancing quickly at
Mr. Huntress, and looking intensely relieved.
Then his eyes wandered to Geoffrey.
“How wonderful! that those two should have found a home in the same
family!” he murmured.
“I appointed a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Damon,” his wife went on. “They
came, and at once I knew that they were the very people to whom I would
confide my little girl, in preference to all others. But you gave me an
assumed name,” she said, pausing, and turning to Mr. Huntress.
“Not an assumed name, madame, but only a part of my real name, which is
August Damon Huntress,” that gentleman explained.
“Why did you withhold your surname from me?”
“Madame, I knew well enough that _your_ name was not Marston. I felt
sure that no mother would give away her child, as you were doing, and
reveal her identity. On the other hand, I did not wish the identity of
the child preserved. I did not intend that you should have any advantage
over me. If I took her, I meant her to be mine wholly, without running
any risk of having her taken from me, or of ever learning that she had
been abandoned to the care of strangers. Consequently, I gave you the
name of Damon.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Mapleson, with a sigh, “as it happened, it made no
difference, but if I had suspected it at the time, you would not have
had my child, for I meant to keep track of her. _I meant to have her
again_ just as soon as my husband and I were reunited.”
“But you told me,” began Mr. Huntress, with an amazed, horrified face——
“I know I did,” the lady interrupted. “I promised you that I would never
trouble you—would never even ask to see her. I pretended to give her to
you unreservedly, although, you remember, I would not subscribe to any
legal form of adoption. I allowed you and others to think me a
heartless, unnatural monster for the sake of gaining for my little one a
good home and loving care until I could see my way clear to demand her
restoration. It was dishonorable—it was a wretched deception, but it was
all a part of that terrible secret that had to be guarded at whatever
cost. But I had to pay dearly for it, as you will soon realize.
“My sister and I left Boston, both of us in better spirits than we had
been since leaving England, for we believed that everything had been so
successfully concealed there was not the slightest danger of discovery.
We came back to our home to find mamma more comfortable than when we
left her, having had a bright, cheerful visit with her old friend, while
she appeared delighted with the improvement which our trip had made in
us. But she lived only one short month after that. She took a sudden
cold, which brought on a hemorrhage that terminated her life in a few
hours.
“More than this,” Mrs. Mapleson went on, hurriedly, while she pressed
her clasped hands over her heart, as if to hold in check its painful
throbbings, while she related the saddest event of her whole life, “on
the very day that she was buried a bulky package was brought to me,
postmarked ‘London.’ It contained considerable manuscript, a Bank of
England note for one hundred and fifty pounds, my marriage certificate,
and—a letter. The letter told me—oh, William!” she burst forth in a
quavering voice, “you _knew_ that your Annie must die. You had to face
the dread fact before it really came, and you were somewhat prepared for
it; but I—I had no warning; the shock fell like a thunderbolt to crush
me! My Charlie was dead long before I knew it. He had been in his grave
nearly a fortnight when the terrible news came to me. The letter was
from a friend of my husband, and stated that he had met with an accident
that must result fatally, having been—crushed—in a falling elevator.”
The poor woman appeared hardly capable of going on. It seemed as if all
the agony of that dreadful time was revived by this recital.
“He had only a few hours to live,” she went on, at last, “and, though he
could not hold a pen to write me one line, he made up that package with
his own hands, telling his friend that it was to be forwarded to Miss
Estelle Everet. You see, he kept my secret even while dying, and would
not send me one of the fond messages of which I know his heart must have
been full, for fear of betraying me. He said that I would take charge of
the publishing of the manuscript, if I thought best to give it to the
world, for the expenses of which he inclosed the Bank of England note.
That, however, was only a blind, for the manuscript was in such a crude
state it could not be published, and he had simply taken that way to
send me, without exciting suspicion, the only existing proof of our
marriage, and what little money he possessed.
“My fond, faithful Charlie! He deserved a better fate and a better wife.
Of course, after that, there was no fear of discovery, even though I
mourned with the bitterness of despair over my lost hopes. My mother’s
death was excuse enough for my grief, though people said I laid it to
heart more than they imagined I could. For a long time I felt as if life
was little better than a mockery. Mine certainly thus far had been a
miserable failure. My husband dead, my child lost to me forever—for, of
course, I could never claim her now—what was there in the world for me
to live for?
“After a time I grew bitter and reckless. I told myself if I could not
have the blessings that usually crown a woman’s life, I would make the
most of the fortune that I still possessed; I would travel—I would see
the world—I would not deny myself a single wish or whim. My sister and I
started off again. We went to England first, where I found my husband’s
grave, but did not dare even to mark it with any expression of my love.
We went to Egypt and Palestine, joining a party of travelers thither,
and after spending another year in roving we came back once more to
America.
“Three months after our return, Nellie, too, sickened and died, and I
was left utterly alone in the world—alone with my ill-gotten wealth and
splendor. What was my money to me then?—like the apples of Sodom; and
yet I experienced a grim sort of satisfaction that the income of Uncle
Jabez’s property was still mine, that I had outwitted the world and the
lawyers or executors of Uncle Jabez’s will by my art and cunning. But
only a little more than a year remained before I should be twenty-five,
when, if my cousin and I were both unmarried, Robert Dale would have our
fortune. I grew rebellious at the thought. I had nothing but my money to
live for now, and my money I wanted to keep. I had sacrificed truth,
principle, and all the noblest elements of my woman’s nature for it, and
I was willing to make almost any sacrifice now to retain it.
“Just about this time you returned, William, and,” a burning blush now
suffused the face of the proud woman, “I welcomed you with secret joy,
and instantly made up my mind to marry you if you would have me. I made
myself agreeable to you with that sole object in view. You know how well
I succeeded, although you did not dream that I was scheming for that,
and I did not experience a qualm, since I did not deceive you regarding
the state of my heart toward you; my acceptance of you was as frank as
your proposal for my hand. Neither of us professed any love for the
other: we simply decided that it would be a wise union, and that we
could be a very comfortable couple. A strange, heartless arrangement, I
suppose the world would have said could it have read our motives, but it
would have seemed even more strange if the experience of our lives had
been revealed. I was hardened and reckless then, for I felt that fate
had used me very badly. I have not deserved the quiet, peaceful
years—quiet and peaceful but for the stings of conscience—that have been
my lot since. I have been growing happier during all that time, growing
to——”
She broke off suddenly, flashing a quick, pained glance at her husband,
while the blood again mounted to her brow.
“During all these years,” she continued, presently, “I have never
learned anything regarding my child, save once. Last summer, after
Everet left me at Newport, to come home, I was comparatively alone there
for a few days, my friends, whom I was expecting to meet, not having
arrived, and a sudden impulse seized me to go to Boston and try to learn
something about my daughter. I had always kept the card you gave me, Mr.
Huntress, and I imagined if you were still in that city I could trace
you through the directory.
“Upon my arrival I stepped into a drug store on Washington street and
asked for the directory, to begin my search. You can imagine something
of my amazement and consternation when I found myself face to face with
the physician who had attended me at the birth of my child. He also
recognized me, although I tried to deceive him regarding my identity.
But he insisted that he knew me, and finding denial useless, I appealed
to him for information regarding my child. He said he knew the man well
who had adopted her—that he had been for years the family physician; but
he would not give me his name or address.”
“That must have been Dr. Turner,” said Mr. Huntress, looking astonished;
“but how could he have known that we adopted the child? We never told
him that she was not our own.”
“True; but he was called to attend her for some slight ailment only a
few days after you took her, and recognized her; he would not, however,
violate your confidence nor his sense of honor by telling me anything by
which I could trace you or the child. He comforted me greatly, though,
by assuring me that she was a beautiful and talented young lady; that
she had received every advantage, and was surrounded by the fondest love
and care. I remember now that I have seen her,” Mrs. Mapleson said, with
starting tears, “and my heart yearns strongly for her as I think of it.
I saw her at Yale when my son graduated; she was with you,” turning to
Geoffrey, “and she is truly a lovely girl. Mr. Huntress, you have held
your trust sacred, and I am deeply grateful to you.”