AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
“Surely, Estelle, your lot has been a hard one,” Colonel Mapleson
gravely remarked, after an oppressive silence; “your sufferings have
been keener than mine, and I can only wonder how you have concealed them
so successfully during all these years.”
“I promised that I would try to make you a good wife, and I have striven
to be agreeable and companionable to you. I knew if you suspected that I
had any secret sorrow, you would imagine it was because I was unhappy
with you, and so I have done my best to appear contented with my life.”
“Done your best to _appear_ contented,” repeated Colonel Mapleson, with
some bitterness, but in a tone that reached her alone.
His wife looked up quickly, and a bright flush dyed her face again.
She reached forward, and laid her hand upon his arm.
“I _have_ been content, William,” she said, under her breath; “it was
only a _little_ while that I had to _strive_—while my grief was so keen
and fresh. But let us not talk of this _now_,” she concluded, with a
glance toward their visitors.
Colonel Mapleson sighed; then he said, with an anxious look at her face:
“Estelle, I am afraid all this excitement will prove too much for you,
and you had better go to rest; but, first, come and speak to my son,
will you?”
His tone was pleading, and his unusual gentleness touched her; it told
her that he felt more of sympathy than blame for the errors of her past.
She arose with a sense of relief, such as she had not experienced during
all her married life. Her burdensome secret—that terrible barrier that
had always stood between her and her husband—was at last all swept away.
She could not tell whether it would create an impassable gulf between
them or not, but at least she had nothing now to conceal.
She went to Geoffrey with him, prepared to welcome him as her husband’s
first-born, with all the cordiality of which she was mistress.
“My boy,” said the colonel, holding out his hand to him, “can you own
your father after all that you have heard?—can you forgive the deception
of my early years—my moral cowardice in turning my back upon you at
Saratoga—and let me have the satisfaction of repairing, as far as may
be, the hardships of your youth? My debt of gratitude to your other
father”—with a glance at Mr. Huntress—“I can never repay.”
Geoffrey warmly grasped that extended hand.
“You have made my heart more glad than I can tell you, sir,” he said. “I
can forget—I can overlook everything, now that I know my mother was your
loved and honored wife. I came here fearing the worst—fearing that a
dreadful stigma rested upon my birth—that I was not entitled to an
honorable name.”
“You are entitled to much more than that, Geoffrey,” Colonel Mapleson
returned, smiling, although his lips trembled and his eyes were full of
tears; “there is a handsome fortune awaiting your disposal.”
“A fortune!” said the young man, wonderingly.
“Yes, inherited through your mother from that very same old miser—Robert
Dale—of whom you have heard so much this evening.”
“How can that be?” Geoffrey asked, while Mrs. Mapleson uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
“You shall know very soon; but first shake hands with my wife,” his
father responded, presenting Mrs. Mapleson.
“You are, indeed, very much like my son,” she murmured, as she gave him
her hand; “and, believe me,” she added, with touching humility, “I am
rejoiced to have you restored to my husband, even at the expense of the
trying confessions and revelations of this evening.”
Geoffrey respectfully raised her hand to his lips, and the act conveyed,
far better than words could have done, the sympathy he felt for the
suffering which she had endured.
She then bade Mr. Huntress good-night, after which her husband led her
from the room.
He accompanied her to her own door.
“Good-night, Estelle,” he said, gently, “I hope you will go directly to
bed and try to sleep.”
She turned suddenly—that proud, imperious woman, who, for more than
twenty years, had repressed every sign of affection for him—and threw
herself upon his breast.
“Oh! William, say that you do not quite hate me for what I have told you
to-night!” she cried, in an agonized tone.
Her husband looked astonished at her act; then his face softened, his
eyes lighted with sudden joy.
“Why, my wife? I believe you almost love me after all! Do you, Estelle?”
he eagerly questioned; “do I possess any more of your heart now than I
did when you married me, or has it been a continual struggle all along
to be a good wife to me?”
She was sobbing like a child, now; the haughty, indomitable spirit that
had upheld her so long was subdued at last.
“I have not dared to let you see how much of my heart you have won; you
know you told me you did not entertain a lover’s affection for me, and I
would not force mine upon you,” she confessed, with her face still
hidden upon his breast.
He folded his arms more closely about her.
“And _I_ have imagined that _you_ were holding _me_ at arms’ length
during all our life,” he said, laying his cheek softly against her still
glossy hair. “Estelle, we will be lovers all the rest of our lives, for,
my wife, you have become very, very dear to me—I did not realize _how
dear_ until now. We will not look backward any more, but forward; we
have both erred greatly in the past, and it would ill become either of
us to criticise the other. Tell me, shall we drop the vail of charity
over it all, and begin to live our real life from this hour?”
For the first time in her life, she put her arms about his neck, and
voluntarily laid her lips against his cheek.
“I do not deserve this, William,” she said, humbly, “but you have made
me happier than I ever expected to be again.”
He returned her caress with great tenderness, then said:
“I must not keep you standing here, dear, nor our guests waiting below;
but I will come to you again later.”
He opened the door for her to pass in, then closed it, and returned to
his visitors, brushing aside some truant tears as he went.
His face, however, lighted with pleasure as he again entered the
library, and looked into Geoffrey’s noble, manly face, and realized that
he was really the son of the beautiful young wife whom he so loved years
ago.
But the young man himself was very grave.
He felt that he stood in an exceedingly delicate position.
He had come to Colonel Mapleson, believing that he had wronged his
mother, and willfully abandoned him when a child; he had meant to
denounce him for it, and reveal also the villainy of which his other son
had been guilty.
But he had found a father ready and eager to welcome him, ready to
acknowledge the wife of his youth, and to give his son the place that
rightfully belonged to him; and now it seemed almost cruel to expose the
wrong of which his half-brother had been guilty. He could not endure the
thought of coming between the two in any way; of destroying the
confidence of the father in the son.
Something of this Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress had been considering during
Colonel Mapleson’s absence from the room. They had about decided to say
nothing of the affair of the interrupted marriage, until they had seen
Everet, and acquainted him with the facts which that night had revealed.
Perhaps, they could arrange to hush up the matter altogether, if the
young man proved to be amicably inclined or reasonable; at all events,
they had concluded not to mention the affair that night—to, at least,
give it a little more thought first. In explaining about the broken
cross, Geoffrey had simply said that they had seen the other half in
Everet’s possession, and that he knew nothing of their visit to Vue de
l’Eau.
It seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from Colonel Mapleson’s
heart when he returned.
He drew a chair near his guests, and began at once to enter more into
the details of the past. He gave them a full history of his eccentric
relative, Robert Dale; told of his long-concealed fortune, when and how
it had been discovered, together with the will which bequeathed the
whole of it to Geoffrey’s mother.
“This, of course, now becomes yours,” he concluded, turning to the young
man, with a smile. “Quite a fine property, it is, too, amounting, with
the accumulated interest, to upward of one hundred and fifty thousand
dollars. Besides this, you will inherit one-half of what I possess, the
other half going to Everet.”
“I could not take anything from this estate, sir,” Geoffrey said,
suddenly growing crimson.
“Why not?” questioned his father.
“Because you married contrary to the conditions of your uncle’s will,
so, in that case, I do not feel that I have any real right to any of it.
If your marriage had been discovered, you would have had to forfeit all
to your cousin, Miss Everet.”
“You are very conscientious,” replied Colonel Mapleson, gravely.
Then he suddenly looked up, with a wise smile.
“It has not occurred to you, I perceive,” he added, “that you could
claim every dollar that Mrs. Mapleson and I possess. We both violated
the conditions of that will; consequently, our fortunes rightly belonged
to Robert Dale, and you, being his only heir, would inherit it all.”
Geoffrey looked amazed at this. Such a thought had not occurred to him;
but now he could not fail to see the force of his father’s argument.
“I do not want it—I could not take it; I shall have more than enough
from what will come to me from my mother,” he said.
“There are few people in the world who would not take all they could
get,” replied Colonel Mapleson, feeling a certain pride in this noble
renunciation of his son. “But, taking everything into consideration, it
seems to me that matters are somewhat complicated with us. I suppose
Mrs. Mapleson’s daughter—your adopted child, Mr. Huntress—will come in
for her share of her mother’s property.”
August Huntress flushed.
A painful struggle had been going on in his mind ever since his meeting
with Mrs. Mapleson.
He could not endure, for a moment, the thought of ever having Gladys
know anything about her birth. She fully believed herself to be Mr. and
Mrs. Huntress’ own child, and he knew it would be a rude shock to her to
learn that she was not, and to be told the facts regarding her
parentage, and he meant to prevent it if he could.
“Colonel Mapleson,” he said, speaking very seriously, “I hope that
Gladys will never learn that she is not really my child; I never wish
her to receive anything from Mrs. Mapleson.”
The colonel’s face fell.
He knew that his wife’s heart was yearning after her child; at the same
time, he could understand and appreciate Mr. Huntress’ sensitiveness
upon the subject; while, too, the young girl could not fail to be
painfully shocked upon learning the sad, even cruel, history connected
with her birth.
“I think it would be a great disappointment to my wife not to be allowed
to claim the relationship,” he replied, thoughtfully.
“I have no doubt of it, sir,” returned Mr. Huntress; “but could she not
better bear the disappointment than to have her child made unhappy,
after all these years of content, by learning that those who have
hitherto occupied the place of father and mother are nothing to her by
the ties of blood? She has not a suspicion of the truth, and I am
confident that no one, save Doctor Turner and ourselves, has the
slightest knowledge of it, so that it never need be revealed. Mrs.
Mapleson promised solemnly never to claim her, under any circumstances;
she gave her unreservedly to us, and I cannot feel willing to have our
relations disturbed. As far as any property which she might inherit from
your wife is concerned, I would not give it a moment’s consideration. I
have an abundance, and Gladys will have it all by and by. I did intend
to make a division between my two children,” turning with a smile to the
young man by his side, “but since Geoffrey is now so rich, he will not
need it. However, it will amount to about the same thing in the end, as
they will soon have all things in common, I trust.”
“Ah! is that so?” Colonel Mapleson inquired, with a brilliant smile and
a nod at his son.
“I hope so,” Geoffrey answered; “and I, too, think it would be wiser to
keep the truth regarding Gladys’ birth still a secret. Its revelation
can do no one, save Mrs. Mapleson, the least possible good, and I doubt
if even she would not regret a disclosure that would result in so much
unhappiness to others.”
“I believe you are right,” Colonel Mapleson said, after thinking it over
for a few moments. “I reckon it _would_ be the better plan to allow
things to remain just as they are.”
“I beg you will not consider me selfish or unfeeling in this matter,”
said Mr. Huntress, earnestly, but greatly relieved by this decision. “I
sympathize deeply with Mrs. Mapleson, but I feel that she could not
suffer a tithe of what my wife and daughter would endure to have their
relations disturbed, not to mention my own feelings in the matter.”
“I understand,” his host responded, heartily, “and I know it is but
right and just that the one should yield in order that the many may be
happy, and I believe that my wife will see it in the same light when she
comes to consider it. But,” turning again to Geoffrey, “when is this
wedding to occur?”
The young man colored and glanced at Mr. Huntress, for he hardly knew
what to say in reply to this.
“Well, I—the day is not set yet. I was anxious to have my relations with
yourself settled, and—we——”
It was an unusual occurrence for Geoffrey Huntress to lose his
self-possession under any circumstances; but just then he felt himself
to be in a very painful position, for every moment he shrank more and
more from revealing his half-brother’s wretched plot, and he was greatly
relieved by a little stir in the hall at that moment, which attracted
Colonel Mapleson’s attention from him.
The next instant the library door was flung open, and Everet, himself,
pale and travel-stained, stood before the astonished group.
“Ha!” he cried, catching sight of Geoffrey. “So you have stolen a march
on me! trying, I suppose, to browbeat the governor into confessing that
romantic liaison of his youth.”
“_Everet!_” exclaimed his father, turning sternly upon him, an angry
flush mounting to his brow, at this rude intrusion; “what do you mean by
rushing in here like this, addressing my guests in such an abrupt way,
not to mention your exceedingly disrespectful language regarding
myself?”
“Your _guests_! Why don’t you present them to me, or are you a trifle
delicate about introducing Annie Dale’s son to _me_?” retorted the young
man, in a nervous, unnatural manner.
“Silence, sir!” thundered Colonel Mapleson, looking perfectly aghast at
this strange behavior on the part of his usually courteous son. “What do
_you_ know of Annie Dale?” he continued; “and why do you speak of this
young man in that sneering way?”
“I know a great deal about Annie Dale and the suspicious life she led in
a certain mining district for a year,” Everet retorted, with reckless
scorn.
He had been wrought to the highest pitch of angry excitement by finding
Geoffrey and Mr. Huntress there before him.
“I know,” he went on, “how she was enticed away by the promise of a
marriage which never took place, and how she afterward died—doubtless of
a broken heart—leaving a nameless brat to inherit her shame.”
“Everet! you have suddenly taken leave of your senses! I believe you
_are_ in the delirium of fever,” returned his father, regarding his now
flushed face and glittering eyes with alarm. “But have a care over your
words. How on earth you have become possessed of such strange notions is
more than I can account for.”
“I can easily enlighten you. I have a couple of letters in my possession
that were written by Annie Dale’s lover, which will prove all that I
have hinted at; and I found a very pretty ring, too, last summer, during
my travels—not a _wedding-ring_, either, mind you. I doubt if she ever
had that—which was lost, on the very spot where she had lived and died.”
He drew both letters and ring from one of his pockets, as he spoke, and
flung them upon the table, before his father.
Colonel Mapleson recognized them at once, while he was amazed by the
fact of their being in the possession of his son. One of the letters he
remembered losing after a visit to the cottage where his Annie had once
lived, and he had been greatly disturbed over the fact; but the other,
and the ring—which his dear wife had lost one night while sitting on the
porch in their mountain home—he could not understand how he came by
them.
“You found that ring?” he asked, amazed.
“Yes. I visited a certain cottage among the mountains of New Mexico last
summer, and while standing upon one of the steps leading up to the door
it gave way, and underneath I found this ring.”
“Ah! we never thought of looking _under_ the step,” said the colonel,
musingly. “It was a little loose for her finger just then, and, slipping
off, rolled away out of sight, and we thought it very strange that we
could not find it. Yes,” he continued, taking it up and regarding it
tenderly, “Annie Dale never had her engagement-ring until the day of her
marriage, when this was put on her finger as a _guard to her
wedding-ring_! Annie Dale was my loved and honored wife, Everet, and
Geoffrey, my son and hers,” indicating the young man by a motion of his
hand, “will show you the certificate of our marriage, and the ring with
which she was wed!”
“_Your wife!_ Annie Dale _your wife_!” Everet repeated, starting back,
amazed, all his color fading again at those words, and shocked into more
respectful speech by the unexpected acknowledgment.