CHAPTER XlVI.

Te Aroha News, Volume VI, Issue 336, 23 January 1889, Page 6

CHAPTER XIVI.

MRS MAPLESON'S STORY CONCLUDED. ( EstkT^b !' exclaimed Colonel Mnpleson, in a shocked tone. •of all tho romances that I have ever read or known, this is the strangest " ' Ye°,' Mrs Mapleson continue i, 'I had persistently refrained from telling my husband my eecret, and Nellie alone knew it. At first I only meant to reserve it until he should come for mo, as he was to do immediately upon securing his position. I was pure that, if he knew, he would instantly demand my return to him, and an open acknowledgment of our union, and so '• J kept putting it off, until now, that I had received that fatal news, it was too late. I pould not send for him to como 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 successful jp ljis ,qwn. I was almost insane for a time, for I saw no wav 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 corae 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 from to meet my own expenses of maternity, and to care for the little pnp that would soon be mine ? All too late I -realised the, terrible mistake that I had made in yielding to ICharloa's importunities, although I loved my husband most tenderly. * ' What shall Ido ?'- I cried, in despair, to my sister, one day, when all these facts, and the terrible fa£e awaiting their revelation, had been reviewed for the hundredth time. j • I'll tell you what I've thought ot, Stella, Nellie answered, gravely. 'It seems a d readf ul v thing to do — heartless, dishonourable, and everything else that is bad — and yet I see no alternative. We must manage, some way to keep your money— at least, co long as mamma lives ; ipe mzist 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 anyone 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 roe will go offon'a trip for your benefit.' • Oh, Nell, will you go with me V I sobbed, in a burst of relief and gratitude. • Indeed I shall. You did not suppose I j would send you off alone, I hope ?' she an- * swered, 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 'someone, 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 wouldi be the wiser for what had occurred. • 'This plan gave me new courage. All my former energy returned, and I imniediabely began my arrangements for my proposed trip. Mamma and her nurse both favoured it, and Miss Willford was sent for. I wrote my husband of our plans — or as muoh regarding them as we told anybody - telling him how to address his letters ; and then Nellie andlwentaway, without excitiner the suspicion of anyone 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 tale. 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 anyone had a right to hear her story, he had,' and putting all these things together, it flashed upon 'him that Gladys might have been the little girl who was born, under such peculiar oiroumstances, in Boston. Mr Huntress meb 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's knee, and whispered exqitedly : 'Then 7ie— Everet Mapleson, is her half brother, and that marriage toas 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, madam,' Mr Huntress replied. 'Pardon the interruption, and pray go on.' ' William, the worst of my story is yet to come,' Mra 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, E,stelle,' 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 hor head upon her hand. 'My baby was a beautiful child— -I realised that the first time I looked upon her, but I did not dare to let my love go out toward her, for I know 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 that she should not be given away within a specified time. But I found I could not do this, so I advertised for potneone 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 eye? 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 wh,om I would ponfide. 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, madam, but only a part of my real name, which is August Damon Huntress,' that gentleman, explained, * Why did you withhold your surname from me ?' ' Madam, I knew well enough that your name was not M^ftrston, I felt sure that no mother would give away her ohild as ycu were doing, and reveal her identity, On the other hand, I cijd not wish the identity of, tho child presei ,'cd. I did not intend that' you should have any advantage over me. If I took her I meant her to be mine whplly, 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.' ' W,ellj' said MrsMapleson, with a sigh, ' as it happened, it made no difference, but if I had suspected it afc the time, you would not have had my child, for I meant to keep track of her. I meant to t Have her again,

: j ~ - - ■■ ■ , pr just as coon as my husband?and* 1 were re^ i united.', ; r ■ «> '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 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 littleone a good home and loving care until I could see my way clear to demand her restoration. It was dishonourable — 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 realise. '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 comforbable 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 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 quivoring 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—lI — I had no warning : the shock fell like a thunderbolt to crush me ! My Charles 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 capabls of going on. It seemed as if all the agency of that dreadful time> was revived by the 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 thab it was to be forwarded to Miss Eatelle Evevet. 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 enclosed 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 for ever — for, of coui'se. I could never claim her now — what was there in the world for me to live for ? ' 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 wab as frank as your proposal for my hand. Neither of us profeased 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, J 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 telt 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 herface. • During all these years,' she continued, presently, • I have never learned anything regarding my child save once. Last summer, after Everetleft 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 thab city, I could trace you through the directory. ' Upon my arrival I stepped into a drug ' store on Washington -sti'eet and asked for the directory to begin my search. You can imagine something of my amazement and consternation when T found myself face to face with the physician who had attended me at the birth of my child. He also recognised 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 ma.n well who had adopted her — that he had been for years the family physician ; bub he would not give m,e- h^s name or address.' 1 That must haTe 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 recognised her ; he would not, however, violate your confidence nor his sense of honour .by telling me anything by .which I could i;race you or the child. He comforted me greatly though by assuring me that she was a beautiful and talented young lady, that eho had reoeived, every advantage and was surrounded , by the fqndesfc love and qare. I remember now that * I have <= e en 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 yourt trust sacred, and I am deeply grateful*to,you.' • > <VU4 ' (To be PQnthiued.}