Geoffrey's victory;

“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.