“Yes, inherited through your mother from that very same old miser—Robert Dale—of whom you have heard so much this evening.”
“How can that be?” Geoffrey asked, while Mrs. Mapleson uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“You shall know very soon; but first shake hands with my wife,” his father responded, presenting Mrs. Mapleson.
“You are, indeed, very much like my son,” she murmured, as she gave him her hand; “and, believe me,” she added, with touching humility, “I am rejoiced to have you restored to my husband, even at the expense of the trying confessions and revelations of this evening.”
Geoffrey respectfully raised her hand to his lips, and the act conveyed, far better than words could have done, the sympathy he felt for the suffering which she had endured.
She then bade Mr. Huntress good-night, after which her husband led her from the room.
He accompanied her to her own door.
“Good-night, Estelle,” he said, gently, “I hope you will go directly to bed and try to sleep.”
She turned suddenly—that proud, imperious woman, who, for more than twenty years, had repressed every sign of affection for him—and threw herself upon his breast.
“Oh! William, say that you do not quite hate me for what I have told you to-night!” she cried, in an agonized tone.