Geoffrey's victory;

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.”