“‘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.