“Annie and I were very happy,” Colonel Mapleson went on, after a momentary pause, “during the year that followed—happy in spite of a little cloud that had arisen so soon after our marriage, for our prospects were very encouraging. I was doing finely. Every month my profits were increasing, and thus the time of our emancipation was growing nearer. If I could only replace what now no longer properly belonged to me, Annie said she would be content to remain in that mining country as long as I desired. She was willing to live simply, even frugally, if I would only do right, acknowledge our marriage before the world, and not have to hide like a couple of criminals.

“Our joy was increased tenfold when, a little before our first anniversary, a bright, handsome boy was born to us.”

Again Mrs. Mapleson started and shot another glance at Geoffrey.

“That explains it all,” she murmured.

“Yes, Estelle,” replied her husband, who caught the words, “that explains why this young man resembles Everet to such a wonderful degree. They are both thorough Maplesons. My wife,” he continued, a sudden pallor nettling over his face, and speaking now with visible effort, “began to recuperate almost immediately after his birth, her color and strength returned, her spirits seemed as light as air, and she was as happy as the day was long, in the possession of her new treasure, while she was the most devoted little mother imaginable. She named her baby, herself. ‘Geoffrey Dale Mapleson,’ she said he was to be called, ‘only we shall have to drop the Mapleson for a while, I suppose—only a little while longer, Will,’ she pleaded, as she twined her arms about my neck and drew my head down close to the little one lying beside her.

“‘My darling,’ I told her, ‘in six months, at the farthest, you shall go back home as Mrs. William Mapleson. We will call it our real wedding journey. Estelle shall have her money, then we will come back here for a few years longer, after which, if all continues to go well, we shall have no cause to regret Jabez Mapleson’s fortune.’

“I shall never forget the look of joy on her face when I made that promise, and all during the evening she was as gay as a child, and more lovely than I had ever seen her. The next morning I was obliged to leave her for a couple of days. I had to go to the other mines, then to Santa Fe to make a deposit. My darling clung to me as I bade her good-by. Our boy was just two days old then.

“‘My Will, my Will, somehow I cannot bear to let you go this time, even for a day, and two will seem an age!’ she said, as she kissed me again and again. Then she laughed at her own childishness, told me playfully, though with tears in her eyes, to begone before she repeated her folly.”

A groan burst from the lips of the narrator at this point, and it seemed as if he would not be able to go on.

Mr. Huntress and Geoffrey both shifted their position, for they could not bear to look upon his agonized face as he thus laid bare this sacred page of his heart.

Mrs. Mapleson buried her face in her handkerchief, while every now and then a shudder ran through her frame.

“She never kissed me again; she never called her ‘Will’ again; she never knew me again,” Colonel Mapleson went on, in a hollow tone, “for she took a cold that very day and was raving with delirium when I returned. She grew worse and worse, and in two weeks was—dead. My bright, beautiful wife, whom I loved better than my own life, for whom I was willing to give up fortune, position, everything that I had hitherto held most dear, lay a lifeless thing of clay—gone from me like a breath, leaving me broken-hearted and with my reason nearly dethroned.”

It was truly pitiable to witness the man’s emotion and his struggle for self-control.

His frame shook like a tree swayed by the wind; his lips and his voice trembled so that it was difficult for him to articulate, while his broad chest heaved convulsively with the anguished throbbing of his heart.

“Well,” he said, after a while, “I must not dwell upon that sad time, and I scarcely know how I lived during the week that followed. We buried her in a quiet spot beneath a mammoth tree, not a stone’s throw from our home, where she used often to sit on a warm summer’s day with some dainty bit of work in her hands. You have seen her grave, you say,” he interposed, turning to Geoffrey. “Does it look sadly neglected and overgrown? Is the stone defaced or the name obliterated by the storms of so many years?”

“No, sir,” his son answered, looking up with moist eyes, for he had been deeply moved by his father’s story and his evident suffering in telling it; “the fence that surrounds the little lot has fallen somewhat to decay, but a luxuriant growth of vines hides all that. The stone still stands upright in its place and the name ‘Annie’ is as distinct to-day as it ever was.”

“I have never been there since we broke up our home,” resumed the colonel, with a heavy sigh. “The girl, Margaret, who had served my wife most faithfully ever since our marriage, married, as you know already, a man by the name of Henly. They were going to California to live, and she said she would take care of my boy until I could make some better provision for him. I knew not what else I could do, so I accepted her offer. I broke up my home, gave away what I could not sell of the furniture, and we left the place, the Henlys taking you, Geoffrey, to California, where I planned to visit you when I could. I returned to my interests in the other mines where I tried to drown my grief by working as a common miner. But time, instead of healing my wound, only made it rankle worse. I grew bitter and antagonistic; the happiness of others maddened me; the fortune I had before been so willing to release, for the sake of her I loved, I now vowed I would keep out of spite for my loss. I resolved to keep my marriage a secret. I would keep all my wealth, and as my boy grew older he should have the benefit of it, even though I should never be able to acknowledge him as mine. But I was restless, I could not remain long in one place at a time, and I wandered from place to place trying to drown my sorrow in excitement. Four times, after an interval of six months between each, I visited the Henlys. My child was growing finely and doing well every way, so I decided to let him remain where he was until he should be old enough to go to school; then something impelled me to come back to my home. I put my affairs all into the hands of an agent, and six years from the time of my leaving Vue de l’Eau found me here again once more assuming the duties of its master. A few weeks later I met my cousin, Miss Everet. Estelle,” with a glance toward his wife, “do you mind my telling it all?”

“No,” was the brief, low response.

“She appeared very glad to renew the acquaintance of former years, although no allusion to our uncle’s will was at that time made by either of us.

“She had grown very beautiful, had been much in society, and possessed charming manners. One day, during a call upon her, she playfully remarked that it was her birthday and she had not been the recipient of a single gift.

“‘You should have mentioned that fact before,’ I returned, ‘but perhaps it is not too late even yet, for some remembrance of the day. Tell the number of your years and you shall have a rose for every one.’

“I knew well enough, but I would not appear to know.

“‘Twenty-four,’ she replied, and her face clouded as she said it.

“I could tell well enough what she was thinking of; in one year more she would be twenty-five, then Robert Dale could claim her fortune, and a life of poverty would lie before her.

“Instantly the thought arose my mind, ‘Why has my cousin never married?’ I did not believe that she had remained single out of any regard for me, or from any desire to fulfill the conditions of our uncle’s will; indeed, she had expressed herself so indignantly at the time of its reading, that I imagined she would always be adverse to any such union. Still, it seemed strange that a young lady so attractive, and eligible in every way, should have remained single, when I did not doubt, indeed I knew, she might have chosen from among a half-dozen men whose fortunes were even larger than her own.

“‘Perhaps,’ I thought, ‘she has become bitter and antagonistic—is bound to enjoy her money until the last moment, and then pass it over to me.’ I did not want it—the thought was very disagreeable to me. Perhaps she loved a poor man, and was intending to make the most of her time; perhaps, I reasoned, she has been saving her income all these years, and will marry when her twenty-five years are past; maybe she is even waiting to tire me out and get the whole for that purpose. But there appeared to be no one of whom she was fond. I noticed that she treated all gentlemen alike, even receiving my visits and attentions with no more pleasure than those of others.

“‘Why not marry her if she will have you?’ was the thought that shot through my mind, as I started out to get the roses I had promised her. ‘I will not give up my fortune to that miser without a struggle. I might ask her to be my wife, and then, if she refuses, I have fulfilled the conditions of my uncle’s will.’ But, at first, a feeling of horror came over me, at the thought of giving to another the place which my Annie had filled, and I angrily repudiated it. I avoided my cousin’s society for a time after that, almost hating myself for contemplating for a moment a marriage with her for mercenary reasons. But when she chided me gently for my neglect, seeming to feel actual pain on account of it, those questions returned to me with even greater force than before, and I resolved to try to learn her mind upon the subject.

“I knew that I should lead a wretched existence in this great house, with no woman to brighten it with her presence, and, perhaps, after a time, if she should consent, I might confess the great temptation and sorrow that had come to me, and perhaps she would pardon it, and be willing to receive my boy and give him a mother’s care. As soon as I reached this conclusion, I made no delay about putting my fate to the test.

“We were one day talking about my estate here, and of some improvements I was intending to make, when I suddenly said:

“‘Estelle, Vue de l’Eau has no mistress. I wonder if you could regard the conditions of Uncle Jabez’s will any more favorably now than you did at the time of his death?’

“She flushed hotly, and shot a quick, keen glance at me.

“‘I believe we were mutually antagonistic to it,’ she replied.

“‘People grow wiser as they grow older,’ I remarked; then boldly asked: ‘Will you marry me now, Estelle?’

“‘Do you think it right for people who do not love each other to marry?’ she questioned.

“‘Is that equivalent to telling me that you do not love me?’ I inquired. ‘I will be frank with you, my cousin,’ I continued. ‘I confess that I have not the affection for you that young lovers generally rave about; but I admire you; you are beautiful, cultured, talented, and I am free to own that you are far more attractive to me now, than you were in those old days when we were both so bitter and indignant. If no one else has won your heart, I will do my best to make your future pleasant. We have only one more year of grace; we must consider this subject and reach some decision before it expires; so what say you, cousin mine?’

“She thought a moment, then lifted her head with a resolute air, and said:

“‘Yes, I will marry you, William, if you are willing to take me just as I am, without very much heart to give you, but willing to do my best to make you a good wife; I believe it will be the wiser course for both of us.’

“Thus our engagement was made, and we were married the following month. I have endeavored to keep my promise to my wife to make her life a pleasant one, and until now,” with a sorrowful glance at the bowed head and shivering form of his proud wife, “I believe that we have been comparatively happy in our domestic relations; at least, I have known more of quiet content than I thought it would ever be possible for me to attain. I have kept this secret—the only one I ever kept from her—until this hour. I did not have the courage to confess it after our marriage—I kept putting it off until after my son, Everet, was born, a little less than a year after our marriage, and when I saw how my wife’s heart was bound up in him, I could not bring myself to it.

“Later, when I went to see how my boy was thriving, intending to make some other provision for him, when I learned of that tragedy in the Henly family and that both the man and boy had disappeared, I was almost glad I never had spoken of that sad episode in my life, although I spared no expense to try to trace my child.

“Estelle, this is my confession; you have heard the whole, and know the extent of my deception. So many years had passed that I had grown to believe that it would never be unvailed until that day when all secrets are to be made known. This young man, whom I introduced to you as Mr. Huntress’ son, is my son, whom I believed lost to me forever; but he was led, most strangely led to the discovery of his parentage, and came hither to-night to claim acknowledgment. By the way, Geoffrey, I never knew either when or how I lost that portion of the knight-templar’s cross you found. I missed it shortly after my last visit to Santa Fe, but never expected to recover it again. You shall keep it, my boy; it has always been regarded as a pocket piece for luck; may it ever prove to be such to you. My only reason for having the Henlys’ letters simply directed to ‘Lock Box 43’ was to prevent my identity being discovered. I could not give them my real name, and did not like letters addressed to William Dale to come to the same box, so I just gave the number.

“About my visit to Saratoga last summer,” the colonel continued, after a short pause, “I have to confess to something that I never experienced before, either in times of peace or war, a feeling of cowardice. I was on my way to Newport to join Mrs. Mapleson, and took a notion to run up to the Springs, which I had not visited for years. On the train from Albany to Saratoga an elderly gentleman accosted me, expressing great pleasure at meeting me once more, and inquired most kindly after my wife. He was a man whom I had known during that short happy year that I had spent in that mining village, and who had known me only as Captain William Dale. He, too, was going to Saratoga and begged the privilege of accompanying me to the hotel where I intended stopping. At first I hardly knew what to do. I could not bear to undeceive him regarding my name, for it would have required explanations too painful to make to a stranger, so I finally thought it would not matter if I registered for once in my assumed name; therefore I wrote it and named my place of residence as Santa Fe, since he knew that I used to do business there. A strange fate I thought it, which threw you in my way under just those circumstances. You remember how I took you for Everet, at first; but I was terribly shocked when it dawned upon me who you were, and I fully intended, at the time, to keep my appointment with you for that afternoon. But when I came to think it all over quietly, to realize all the revelations that must be made to my wife, my son, to yourself, I was nearly crazed; I knew from your appearance that you had been well cared for, that life was bright and prosperous with you, and it seemed as if I could not rake over all the past, and in the midst of my frenzy I packed my valise and left on the noon train. I have bitterly regretted it since, for my heart longed after its own; I have been ashamed that I, a Mapleson, should have turned my back and fled from any circumstances. I have repented of my folly, too, because a duty has fallen upon me, since then, which made it imperative that I should find you; but of this I will speak again later.

“What is it, Estelle?” he asked, as a heavy, shuddering sigh from his wife smote his ear; “has my story been too much for you? I fear it has. Perhaps I have been selfish and thoughtless in bringing you here before strangers to listen to all this, but it had to be told, and this interview must have taken place between us all. Forgive me for wounding you, and let me take you to your room; perhaps, though, you never will forgive me for the deception which I have practiced upon you.”

He went up to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder with more of tenderness than he was in the habit of manifesting toward the proud, handsome woman. But she put him from her with a passionate gesture, in which, however, there was a pathetic air of appeal.

She arose and stood before him, her face almost convulsed with agony.

“Oh!” she cried, wringing her hands, “if you had only told me all this when you asked me to marry you; or, if I had been true to my womanhood, how much we both might have saved each other! Forgive you for your deception? oh! William, I have been tenfold more guilty than you.”