“‘I’ll tell you what I’ve thought of Estelle,’ Nellie answered, gravely. ‘It seems a dreadful thing to do—heartless, dishonorable, and everything else that is bad—and yet I see no alternative. We must manage some way to keep your money—at least, so long as mamma lives: we must 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 any one 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 we will go off on a trip for your benefit.’
“‘Oh, Nell, will you go with me?’ I sobbed, in a burst of relief and gratitude.
“‘Indeed I shall. You did not suppose I would send you off alone, I hope,’ she answered, 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 some one, 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 would be the wiser for what had occurred.
“This plan gave me new courage. All my former energy returned, and I immediately began my arrangements for my proposed trip. Mamma and her nurse both favored it, and Miss Willford was sent for. I wrote my husband of our plans—or as much regarding them as we told anybody—telling him how to address his letters; and then Nellie and I went away, without exciting the suspicion of any one 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 story. 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 any one had a right to hear her story, he had,” and putting all these things together, it flashed upon him that Gladys might have been that little girl who was born, under such peculiar circumstances, in Boston.
Mr. Huntress met 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.