Mrs. Mapleson gave vent to a silvery ripple of amusement at her son’s question.
“I am very sure that Robert Dale was never married,” she said. “He despised all women, even disliked to eat what a woman’s hands had cooked.”
“How old was he when he died?”
“Forty, I should judge.”
“Do you imagine that he could have had a secret alliance with any one, and that this Geoffrey Dale is a descendant of his?”
“No, indeed!” Mrs. Mapleson returned, her face dimpling all over at this suggestion. “If you could have seen him you would never ask such a question. No woman would have dared approach him; no woman would have lived with such a creature, or as he lived. He built himself a small stone house in the woods a few miles from Vue de l’Eau. It was as rude as it could be, and furnished with only what was actually necessary, and there he lived a kind of hermit’s life, with an old negro servant, who was cook, housemaid, and everything else you may choose to call him.”
“But during his earlier life he may have been different—he may have loved some one, and been secretly married, and then disappointed in some way in his hopes, which might have embittered him and made him the woman-hater he was,” responded Everet, thoughtfully.
“No, I do not think that is possible; and even if it were, this young man could not be a son of his; he is not old enough; he belongs to the same generation as yourself.”
“True. I did not think of that. How long did Robert Dale live after you were married?”
“Just one month.”