The man made a gesture of pain.
“Ah!” he said, humbly, “you will forgive me, I hope, when I explain why I avoided you at that time. But this meeting has unnerved me. I find myself unable to either think or speak collectedly. Will you both remove your outer coats, and then, Geoffrey, tell me the story of your life—of your adoption by this gentleman, while I try to recover myself. But first tell me, have you both dined? Shall I not order something for you?” he concluded, with thoughtful hospitality.
They assured him that they had dined just before leaving Richmond, and needed nothing; and then, having removed their overcoats as requested, Geoffrey began his tale.
His face had brightened wonderfully during the last few moments; the expression of tense anxiety, of doubt and apprehension, had all faded from it, and he looked more like himself than he had done since the day of his interrupted marriage; it was such a blessed relief to know that no stigma was attached to his birth.
He told all that he had learned of his history through Jack and Margery Henly, and how he had so strangely come upon them while striving to follow up the faint clew that he had obtained of his father at Saratoga; of his having been found so helpless and forlorn in New York by Mr. Huntress; of the restoration of his mental faculties through his kindness and interest, and of the happy life that he had since led as a member of his household. The only incidents that he omitted were those in which Everet—his father’s other son—had been concerned, and which he would not then pain him by mentioning, though possibly they might have to be told later.
Colonel Mapleson listened with rapt interest and attention throughout the whole recital, and appeared deeply moved during that portion which related to his mental infirmity.
When it was all told, he seemed to fall into a painful reverie; his face was inexpressibly sad, his attitude despondent, as if memories of the past, which had thus been aroused, came crowding thick and fast upon him, filling him with sorrow and regret.
Finally he aroused himself with a long-drawn sigh, and rising, went to a handsome desk which was in the room, in which he unlocked a small drawer, and taking a box from it, brought and laid it upon the table by which Geoffrey was sitting.
“I had grown to feel almost as if this portion of my life had been blotted out,” he said; “at least until it was so suddenly recalled to me by meeting you at Saratoga last summer. But our mistakes rise up and confront us; our sins find us out when we least expect it. Open that box, Geoffrey, and draw what comfort you can from its contents.”
Geoffrey’s face flushed at being thus addressed.