“During all these years,” she continued, presently, “I have never learned anything regarding my child, save once. Last summer, after Everet left 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 that city I could trace you through the directory.
“Upon my arrival I stepped into a drug store on Washington street and asked for the directory, to begin my search. You can imagine something of my amazement and consternation when I found myself face to face with the physician who had attended me at the birth of my child. He also recognized 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 man well who had adopted her—that he had been for years the family physician; but he would not give me his name or address.”
“That must have 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 recognized her; he would not, however, violate your confidence nor his sense of honor by telling me anything by which I could trace you or the child. He comforted me greatly, though, by assuring me that she was a beautiful and talented young lady; that she had received every advantage, and was surrounded by the fondest love and care. I remember now that I have seen 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 your trust sacred, and I am deeply grateful to you.”
CHAPTER XLVII.
AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.
“Surely, Estelle, your lot has been a hard one,” Colonel Mapleson gravely remarked, after an oppressive silence; “your sufferings have been keener than mine, and I can only wonder how you have concealed them so successfully during all these years.”
“I promised that I would try to make you a good wife, and I have striven to be agreeable and companionable to you. I knew if you suspected that I had any secret sorrow, you would imagine it was because I was unhappy with you, and so I have done my best to appear contented with my life.”
“Done your best to appear contented,” repeated Colonel Mapleson, with some bitterness, but in a tone that reached her alone.
His wife looked up quickly, and a bright flush dyed her face again.
She reached forward, and laid her hand upon his arm.