Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Geoffrey’s Victory;
OR,
THE DOUBLE DECEPTION.

BY

MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

AUTHOR OF

“Stella Roosevelt,” “Tina,” “Edrie’s Legacy,” “Witch Hazel,” “Max,” “Ruby’s Reward,” “Virgie’s Inheritance,” “Two Keys,” “Thrice Wedded,” “A True Aristocrat,” “Trixy,” “That Dowdy,” “Sibyl’s Influence,” ETC.

NEW YORK:

STREET & SMITH, Publishers,

81 Fulton Street.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888,

By Street & Smith,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER [I]. A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER [II]. A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.

CHAPTER [III]. THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.

CHAPTER [IV]. A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER [V]. A GRAVE CONSULTATION.

CHAPTER [VI]. THE DEVELOPMENTS OF SEVERAL YEARS.

CHAPTER [VII]. GEOFFREY ENTERS COLLEGE.

CHAPTER [VIII]. THE HAZER HAZED.

CHAPTER [IX]. A STRANGE ENCOUNTER.

CHAPTER [X]. MRS. BREVORT’S RECEPTION.

CHAPTER [XI]. MARGERY.

CHAPTER [XII]. THE RECEPTION.

CHAPTER [XIII]. “FIRST IN TIME, FIRST BY RIGHT!”

CHAPTER [XIV]. A CONFESSION.

CHAPTER [XV]. A DECLARATION.

CHAPTER [XVI]. OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.

CHAPTER [XVII]. A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

CHAPTER [XVIII]. A LONG AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.

CHAPTER [XIX]. EVERET MAPLESON RETURNS TO VUE DE L’EAU.

CHAPTER [XX]. AN INTERESTING DWELLING.

CHAPTER [XXI]. AN OCTOGENARIAN INTERVIEWED.

CHAPTER [XXII]. A REMARKABLE DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER [XXIII]. EVERET MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

CHAPTER [XXIV]. EVERET MAKES A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

CHAPTER [XXV]. GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD.

CHAPTER [XXVI]. A THRILLING STORY.

CHAPTER [XXVII]. JACK’S STORY CONTINUED.

CHAPTER [XXVIII]. GEOFFREY VISITS THE SCENE OF THE TRAGEDY.

CHAPTER [XXIX]. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.

CHAPTER [XXX]. A STARTLING RECOGNITION.

CHAPTER [XXXI]. A RETROSPECTIVE GLANCE.

CHAPTER [XXXII]. GEOFFREY FINDS A RELIC.

CHAPTER [XXXIII]. A WEDDING IN PROSPECT.

CHAPTER [XXXIV]. ROBERT DALE’S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.

CHAPTER [XXXV]. TWO LETTERS.

CHAPTER [XXXVI]. “HE IS NOT NAMELESS.”

CHAPTER [XXXVII]. A THREAT AND A WEDDING-RING.

CHAPTER [XXXVIII]. THE WEDDING.

CHAPTER [XXXIX]. WHAT BECAME OF GEOFFREY.

CHAPTER [XL]. AN ACCIDENT REVEALS AN HEIR-LOOM.

CHAPTER [XLI]. GEOFFREY LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.

CHAPTER [XLII]. FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.

CHAPTER [XLIII]. COLONEL MAPLESON’S STORY.

CHAPTER [XLIV]. THE COLONEL’S STORY CONCLUDED.

CHAPTER [XLV]. MRS. MAPLESON’S CONFESSION.

CHAPTER [XLVI]. MRS. MAPLESON’S STORY CONCLUDED.

CHAPTER [XLVII]. AN UNEXPECTED RETURN.

CHAPTER [XLVIII]. PEACE AT LAST.

GEOFFREY’S VICTORY.

CHAPTER I.
A STRANGE ADVENTURE.

It was a beautiful winter night. The sky was brilliant with millions of beautiful stars that glowed and scintillated as if conscious that their light had never before penetrated an atmosphere so rarefied and pure. The earth was covered with a glaring coat of ice above newly fallen snow.

Trees and shrubs bent low and gracefully beneath the weight of icy jewels which adorned every twig and branch.

Every roof and spire, chimney and turret, gleamed like frosted silver beneath the star-lit heavens, while the overhanging eaves below were fringed with myriads of glistening points that seemed like pendulous diamonds, catching and refracting every ray of light from the glittering vault above and the gas-lit streets beneath.

But it was a night, too, of intense cold. Never within the remembrance of its oldest inhabitant had the mercury fallen so low in the city of Boston, as on this nineteenth of January, 185-.

So severe was the weather that nearly every street was deserted at an early hour of the evening; scarcely a pedestrian was to be seen at nine o’clock, and the brilliantly lighted thoroughfares had a lonely and desolate appearance without their accustomed flow of life and humanity. The luckless policemen, who alone paraded the slippery sidewalks on their round of duty, would now and then slink into sheltered nooks and door-ways for a brief respite from the stinging, frosty air, where they would vainly strive to excite a better circulation by the active swinging of arms and the vigorous stamping of feet.

Even the horse-cars and omnibuses were scantily patronized, while the poor drivers, muffled to their eyebrows in fur coats and comforters, seemed like dark, grim specters, devoid of life and motion, save for the breath that issued from their mouths and nostrils, and, congealing, formed in frozen globules among their beards.

At ten o’clock on this bitter night, Thomas Turner, M. D., was arranging his office preparatory to retiring, and feeling profoundly thankful that he had no patients who demanded his attention, and believing, too, that no one would venture forth to call him, when, to his annoyance and dismay, his bell suddenly rang a clanging and imperative peal.

With a shiver of dread at the thought of having to leave the warmth and comfort of his home, to face the fearful cold, yet with a premonition that the summons would result in something out of the ordinary course of events, he laid down the case of instruments that he had been carefully arranging, and went to answer the call.

He found a lad of perhaps fifteen years standing outside the door.

Without a word he thrust a card into the physician’s hand.

“Come in, boy! come in,” said the doctor, pitying the poor fellow, whose teeth were chattering at such a rate it was doubtful whether he could have spoken if he wished.

He obeyed the invitation with alacrity, however, and made directly for the radiator, toward which Dr. Turner pointed, telling him to “go and warm himself.”

The physician then stepped beneath the hall light to examine the card he had received.

It proved to be the business card of a first-class, though small, hotel in the city, and on the blank side of it there had been hastily written these words:

“Come at once to the —— House. An urgent case demands your immediate attention.

A. Payson, Clerk.”

Dr. Turner frowned, and hung his head in thought for a moment.

He had had a hard day; he was very weary, and would have hesitated about answering a strange call even in mild weather, and the temptation to send the boy and his card to some one else, and remain in the genial warmth of his own home, was very strong.

Still, the man was conscientious. The summons was urgent, and it might be a case of life and death. Perhaps the delay of sending to some other physician might result in the loss of a human life.

This thought decided him.

He turned quickly on his heel and passed down the hall to his office, remarking to the waiting messenger as he went:

“Wait here. I will be ready to return with you in a few moments.”

He looked into his medicine case to see that he had everything that he wished, wrapped himself in a long ulster with an ample cape, drew a fur cap down over his ears, and a pair of seal-skin gloves upon his hands, and then went forth with his youthful guide to face the penetrating air of this bitterly cold night.

When he reached the —— House, he was conducted directly to a handsome suite of rooms in the third story, and ushered into the presence of a magnificently beautiful woman, who was reclining upon a luxurious couch.

Dr. Turner had never seen a lovelier woman. She was, apparently, about twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. Her hair was very dark, almost black; her eyes were also very dark, with straight, beautiful brows.

She was deathly pale—the pillow on which she lay was scarcely whiter—but her complexion was faultless, her skin as fine and smooth as an infant’s, while her features were remarkable for their delicacy and loveliness.

Beside her, in a low rocker, and holding one fair white hand in both her own, there sat another woman, some two or three years older, but scarcely less beautiful, although of a different type, and looking anxious and distressed.

A few direct inquiries enabled the physician to comprehend the nature of the case, after which he rapidly wrote a few lines upon a card, and, ringing for a servant, dispatched it to the clerk below.

An hour later a middle-aged woman, of respectable and motherly appearance, was conducted to the sick-room, and when morning broke there was still another presence in that chamber—a tiny baby girl, with rings of golden brown hair clustering about her little head, with eyes of heaven’s own blue, and delicate patrician features, which, however, were not like those of her mother, who lay pale and weak among her pillows, and who, strange to say, had betrayed no sign of joy or maternal love at the coming of the little stranger.

Three weeks previous two ladies had arrived, late one evening, at the —— House, where the younger had registered as “Mrs. E. E. Marston and maid.”

The clerk, as he read the entry, had glanced with astonishment at the lovely blonde who had been thus designated as “maid,” for her manner and bearing were every whit as stately, cultivated, and prepossessing as that of her supposed mistress.

Both ladies spoke French and German, as well as English, fluently, and it was impossible to determine to what nationality they belonged. The younger seemed almost like a Spanish beauty of high degree, while her companion had more the appearance of an Anglo-Saxon.

Both were richly and fashionably attired, and evidently belonged to the wealthy class, for Mrs. Marston wore jewels of the purest water in the richest of settings. She selected the most elegant suite of rooms that were unoccupied, and ordered all meals to be served in her private parlor; consequently but very little was seen or known of either mistress or maid after their arrival, although the very fact of their so closely secluding themselves served to excite a good deal of curiosity on the part of the other inmates of the house.

After the birth of Mrs. Marston’s little daughter, Dr. Turner made his usual number of visits to see that his patient was doing well, and then he discontinued them, although his curiosity and interest were so excited regarding the mysterious woman and her attendant that he would have been glad of an excuse to attend her even longer.

Three weeks passed, and he was considering the propriety of presenting his bill, since the lady was a stranger in the city, and would doubtless leave as soon as she could do so with safety to herself and her child, when, one morning, he received a note from Mrs. Marston, requesting him to call upon her at his earliest convenience.

That evening found him knocking at her door, his heart beating with something of excitement, and with a sense of constraint upon him such as he had never before experienced.

“The maid” admitted him, a dainty flush tinging her fair cheek as she encountered his earnest glance, and he thought her more beautiful than ever, while he was firmly convinced that she was in reality no servant, but connected by some tie of blood to the woman whom she professed to serve, although there was no resemblance between them.

Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered.

He had never seen her dressed until now, and he was almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty.

She was tall, with a symmetrical figure. She was queenly and self-possessed in her carriage, and betrayed in every movement the well-bred lady, accustomed to the very best of society.

She was dressed in a heavy black silk, which fitted her perfectly, and fell in graceful folds around her splendid form.

She wore no colors, and might have been in mourning, judging from the simplicity of her dress, and she might not—he could not determine. Her only ornaments were several rings of great value, and an elegant brooch, which fastened the rich lace, fine as a cobweb, about her throat.

“I am very glad to see you, Dr. Turner,” she said, graciously, as she extended her white, jeweled hand to him; “and I thank you for responding so promptly to my request. Nellie, please bring that rocker for the gentleman,” she concluded, indicating a willow chair in another portion of the room.

The maid obeyed, and then quietly withdrew.

“You are looking remarkably well, Mrs. Marston,” Dr. Turner observed, hardly able to believe that she could be the same woman who had been so pale and wan when he had first seen her.

Her complexion was almost dazzling in its purity, while the flush on her cheek told of perfect health and a vigorous constitution.

“I am very well, thank you,” she responded, somewhat coldly, as if her physical condition were not a question that she cared to discuss with him—“so well that I am contemplating leaving Boston by the end of another week, and I have asked you to come to me in order that I may consult you upon a matter of great importance. But first, do you think I shall run any risk in traveling by that time?”

“If any one else had asked me that, I should have said at once, ‘Impossible!’” returned the physician, smiling. “But you have so rapidly recuperated that I should not fear a change so much for you as for many others. It depends somewhat, however, upon where you are going.”

Mrs. Marston flushed slightly at this, but, after an instant of hesitation, she said, composedly:

“Oh, I intend to go to a warmer climate. I shall probably spend the rest of the winter in the South.”

“Then I think you may go with perfect safety, if you are quite sure you feel well and strong.”

“As to that, I never felt more vigorous in my life; but——”

The lady bent her shapely head in thought, a shadow of perplexity and doubt crossing her beautiful face.

“Perhaps you fear to take the little one; the weather is rather severe for a tender infant,” suggested the doctor.

“Oh, no. I do not intend to take the child at all,” returned the mother, quickly, a nervous tremor running through her frame as she spoke.

“You do not intend to take your child with you?” repeated the physician, astonished, while he searched the downcast face before him with a suspicious look.

“No; and that was what I wished to consult with you about,” replied Mrs. Marston, shifting uneasily for an instant beneath his glance.

Then she lifted her head proudly and met his eyes with calm hauteur.

“You wish to leave it out to nurse, perhaps, and desire me to suggest some proper person,” observed Dr. Turner, trying to explain her conduct thus.

“No,” answered the lady, coldly. “I wished to ask if you could recommend some institution in the city where I could put her, and where she would receive proper care.”

Dr. Turner regarded the woman with amazement.

“Institution, madame! What kind of an institution?” he asked, aghast.

“Some public institution, or some home for homeless children,” she answered, not a muscle of her beautiful face moving.

“I really do not comprehend you,” the physician said, almost ready to believe that he was in the presence of a lunatic, for surely no mother in her right mind could think of abandoning her child in such a heartless way.

“Indeed, I thought I made an explicit statement,” remarked Mrs. Marston, haughtily. “However the child is not to go with me. There are reasons—imperative reasons—that compel me to dispose of her——”

“Abandon her, do you mean?” questioned the physician, sternly.

The lady shrugged her shapely shoulders and made an impatient gesture, as if the subject and object were alike distasteful to her.

“If you choose to put it in that disagreeable way, I suppose I shall have to accept the term,” she replied, coldly. “But you have not answered my question. Do you know of a home for orphans where she would be received and where I might safely leave her? I would make it an object for any such institution to take her.”

CHAPTER II.
A MONSTROUS PROPOSITION.

Dr. Turner did not immediately reply.

He was so indignant, so overcome by the startling and unnatural proposition that he was rendered speechless.

The knowledge that this woman, so beautiful and gifted, and who had, to all appearance, unlimited wealth at her command, should desire to cast her offspring adrift upon the world, coldly throwing her upon the indifferent care of strangers, was simply horrible to him.

The mystery, which, from the first, he had instinctively recognized as attaching itself to this woman, was thickening about her.

There must, he thought, be some terrible secret connected with her life, which she was anxious and bound to conceal, or she never could have contemplated such an unfeeling act, and he could think of but one contingency that would compel her to adopt such extreme measures.

“Madame,” he at last said, and speaking with dignified reserve, “I cannot refrain from expressing my surprise at your startling and—I am compelled to say it—heartless proposal. It would be a most unnatural—a most reprehensible proceeding. My whole nature recoils at the mere mention of it, and I can think of but one reason that would seem to make it necessary for you to abandon your child in the way you propose.”

The physician paused a moment, as if in doubt as to the propriety of saying more.

“Well, and what may that be?” briefly demanded his companion, in a tone that should have warned him not to give expression to his thought.

“Perhaps your little one has come into the world unprotected by the tie of wedlock, and therefore you desire to conceal from every one the evidence of——”

She checked the words upon his lips with an imperious gesture.

A vivid crimson rushed to her brow, suffused her neck, and seemed to extend to the very tips of her fingers; then the color as quickly receded, leaving her patrician face ghastly pale.

She threw up her proud head with a movement of exquisite grace: an angry fire leaped into her dusky eyes; an expression of scorn curled her beautiful lips.

“How dare you say such a thing to me?” she demanded, in a passionate tone that had a thrill of pain in it as well. “But for your former kindness to me, I would never pardon you! You have a suspicion that I am not a married woman.”

“I could think of no other excuse for what you proposed regarding your child,” replied the physician, meeting her flashing glance calmly, and with a note of contempt in his voice, although he half regretted having spoken as he had.

He believed even now that she was acting a part.

She saw it, and again her face flamed scarlet.

Then she drew from the third finger of her left hand a superb solitaire diamond ring, and passed it to him.

“Examine that if you please,” she commanded, briefly and icily.

He took it, and upon its inner surface found engraved in tiny characters, “C. to E. Sept. 10th, 185—. Omnia Vincit Amor.”

It had evidently been given to her in September of the previous year.

“An engagement-ring,” he remarked, as he passed it back to her with an air that plainly said: “That proves nothing to your advantage.”

Madame bowed and then quietly but proudly drew from the same finger a massive circlet of gold which she also handed to him.

A dusky red surged to the physician’s brow as he received it and realized what he had done. He felt as if he had offered the fair woman an unpardonable insult.

This ring was marked “C. S. to E. E., Paris, March 15th, 185—.”

Both circlets proved an honorable engagement and a lawful marriage, the latter occurring some seven months subsequent to the former, and Dr. Turner felt that he had got himself into a very unpleasant predicament.

“I beg your pardon, madame,” he said, with visible confusion, but in a grave, respectful tone; “but your very extraordinary preposition must be my apology for my unjust and offensive suspicion.”

For a moment the lady regarded him gravely, but with a little gleam of triumph in her dark eyes; then with a shrug of her shapely shoulders, she replied:

“Perhaps it was but natural; let it pass. I became a lawful wife, as you have seen, nearly a year ago, and my child has had honorable birth: but, for reasons which I cannot explain to you, I can never acknowledge her, and it becomes necessary for me to make some other provision for her.”

“But it is such an unnatural thing to do,” persisted the doctor, with a deprecating gesture.

“Granted; but—it cannot be helped,” replied the mother, firmly, an inflexible purpose written on her fair young face.

“Allow me to inquire if your husband is living?” Dr. Turner asked, after a moment of silence.

“Excuse me; I cannot answer that question,” replied his companion with pale, compressed lips.

“Ah! there has been some trouble and a separation, perhaps,” thought the doctor; then he asked:

“Do you think that he would uphold you in thus sacrificing your little one—his little one, to your selfish purpose—to abandon her, as you propose, to the doubtful charity of a cold world.”

An icy shiver seemed to run throughout the woman’s frame at this. She shifted uneasily in her chair, her white lids quivered, her hands were locked in a rigid, painful clasp.

“I tell you there are circumstances which make it absolutely necessary for me to give her away,” she said, in a strained, unnatural voice, after an evident effort at self-control. “My husband would—is as helpless in the matter as myself.”

“I can conceive of no circumstances which should make the well-being of your child of secondary importance, especially since you have assured me that you are a lawful wife, and it is evident that you have abundant means at your command. She is your own flesh and blood, and it becomes your duty, as a mother, to give her a mother’s love and care. I care not what fancied or real obstacle stands in the way, it should be resolutely swept aside for the sake of both duty and humanity,” Dr. Turner argued, with impressive earnestness.

“You simply do not know anything about the matter, sir,” retorted his patient, with an angry flash in her eyes, “and, if you please, we will not discuss that point any further.”

Dr. Turner bowed a cold assent; then, as he returned the wedding-ring, which he had retained until now, he remarked:

“The name you have given here does not correspond with your husband’s initials upon this ring.”

The lady’s lips curled in a little scornful smile.

“Did you imagine that I would use my true name in such a venture as this?” she asked. “But that is neither here nor there,” she added, with an impatient toss of her head. “Do you know of any institution in this city where my child would be received?”

“No: there is no public institution that would so far countenance your conduct as to open its doors to her, and I would not designate it if there were. Such places are for children who have no parents, or for those whose parents are too poor to care for them,” the physician indignantly replied.

Then, after a short pause, he continued, with great earnestness:

“Let me make one last appeal to you, madame. You have given birth to a lovely little daughter, who bids fair to be a child of whom any parent might well be proud. It would be a continual delight to watch her grow and develop into womanhood, and she would no doubt be of the greatest comfort to you years hence, when you begin to descend the hill of life. Keep your child, Mrs. Marston, do not cast her off upon the doubtful care of strangers, to become you know not what in the future. Love and cherish her, nourish her innocence and purity, and do not, I beseech you, commit the irreparable wrong which you are contemplating.”

The woman before him threw out her white jeweled hands in a spasmodic gesture in which impatience, pain, and anger were commingled.

“Spare your importunities, Dr. Turner,” she said, coolly, “for I assure you it is only a waste of breath and sentiment on your part.”

“Have you no love for your innocent babe?” he demanded, sternly.

“I have not dared—I will not allow myself to become attached to her,” was the low, constrained reply.

“Have you no pity, then, that you thrust her thus remorselessly from your sheltering care?”

“I should become an object far more pitiable if I should keep her with me,” returned the incomprehensible mother.

“I cannot understand it. Poor child! poor child!” sighed the sympathetic and perplexed physician.

“Doctor,” said his companion, with a sudden start, her face lighting with eagerness, “have you children of your own?”

“No, madame. I should consider myself blessed, indeed, if I had,” he sighed.

“Then will you adopt my daughter? I can assure you that there is not the slightest taint upon her parentage, and it is only the force of hard, obstinate circumstances that compels me to give her up. Your sympathies seem to have been enlisted for her. I am sure you are a good man, and I know that she would find a kind parent in you.”

The man flushed, and tears rose to his eyes at this appeal.

“Mrs. Marston,” he said, sadly, “if your child had been born six months earlier, and you had asked me this question at that time, I should have answered you with eagerness in the affirmative; but she who would have given the little one a mother’s care is no longer in my home. She died five months ago this very day, and I have no one else in my family to whom I could commit the babe.”

“Then what shall I do?” murmured the woman, with knitted brows and sternly compressed lips.

“I can think only of one alternative that I should be willing to suggest,” replied the doctor.

“What is that?” she demanded, eagerly.

“Advertise for some young couple to adopt the child. You will then have an opportunity to select a permanent home for her, and escape the anxiety which her uncertain fate in a charitable institution would entail upon you. I should suppose the mere thought of it would be torture to you.”

“It is,” replied the mother, with a quick, indrawn breath, while a nervous shiver ran over her. “I will do it,” she added, the look of care vanishing from her face, which had now become to the high-minded physician more like the face of a beautiful fiend than that of a tender-hearted woman. “I will advertise in the Transcript to-morrow morning, and will offer the sum of five hundred dollars to any respectable couple who will take the babe and promise to rear and educate her as their own. I wonder why I did not think of that plan myself,” she concluded, with a sigh of relief.

“I should propose omitting the reward from the advertisement,” observed the doctor, with a slight curl of his lips.

“Why so?”

“Because in that case you would be sure that whoever applied for her was actuated by a real desire to have the little one; while, if money were offered, cupidity might be the main object in the application.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Mrs. Marston observed, thoughtfully; “and yet I believe I shall offer it. I shall, at all events, give that amount to whoever adopts the child.”

She then adroitly changed the subject, plying the physician with numerous questions regarding Boston, its attractions and advantages, and so effectually led his mind in another direction, charming him with her rare conversational gifts, her evident culture and familiarity with both America and Europe, that he spent a delightful hour with her, and temporarily forgot the contempt and repulsion which he had previously entertained for her.

When the clock upon the mantel struck four, he started up in surprise, at which a sly smile curved his fair entertainer’s red lips, for she knew that she had held him by the magic of her fascinations, as she had meant to do.

But she arose also, and cordially extended her hand to him at parting, while she remarked, smilingly:

“I have neglected a very important item of business, and came very near forgetting it altogether. If you have, with you, the bill for your services to me, I shall be very happy to settle it.”

Dr. Turner flushed, and began to search his pockets, without appearing to notice the proffered hand.

At length he drew a slip of paper from his diary, and handed it to her.

She smiled again as she noticed the figures upon it; but unlocking a drawer in the table near which they were standing, she took from it an elegant purse, in which there appeared to be a plentiful supply of both gold and paper money.

She selected a bill and extended it to him.

“I am not able to change that for you, madame,” he said, as he glanced at it and saw that it was a hundred-dollar note.

“I do not wish it changed. Please take it. Even then I shall feel that I am deeply indebted to you,” she returned, with an earnestness such as she had not betrayed before during the interview.

Again the dusky red rushed to the doctor’s temples.

“If it is not convenient for you to hand me just the amount of my bill, you can send me a check for the sum later,” he said, coldly.

She bit her lips with mortification, and then tears rushed into her eyes.

“Oh, it is perfectly convenient. Excuse me; I did not intend to offend you, but I am truly grateful for the kind attention you have bestowed upon me, and I shall always entertain friendly memories of you.”

Dr. Turner returned a courteous bow for the promise of “friendly memories,” but remarked, briefly:

“I have but done my duty as a physician, madame.”

An angry flush mounted to her brow as she counted five golden eagles from her purse and laid them in his hand.

“I know,” she said, “that you think I am a heartless monster in woman’s form; but you would not, I am sure, if you could understand the strait that I am in.”

Another bow was his only reply to this.

He could not gainsay her statement regarding his estimate of her character, and he would not presume to inquire further into the mystery surrounding her.

“I should be glad to retain your good opinion,” she resumed, with a slight, deprecating gesture, “for you have been a good friend to me in my necessity, but a stern fate compels me to forego that. I trust, however, that I shall see you again before I leave your city.”

And she again extended her hand to him in farewell.

“If you need me—if I can serve you in any way, command me,” Dr. Turner returned, politely, but with an emphasis which plainly indicated that he should not voluntarily seek her society.

He bowed again, but barely touched the hand held out to him, and then went his way, wondering what mysterious circumstance, or combination of circumstances, could have forced this beautiful and gifted woman to abandon her child thus at the very beginning of its life.

CHAPTER III.
THE LITTLE STRANGER ADOPTED.

The next morning there appeared an advertisement in the Boston Transcript, offering five hundred dollars to suitable parties who would adopt a female infant, and stating that applications were to be made by letter, addressed to the office of the paper.

Of course a great many answers were received, for there were hosts of people who would agree to almost anything for five hundred dollars, while there were others who were really anxious to adopt the little baby girl that was to be so strangely thrown upon the world.

One alone out of these many epistles pleased Mrs. Marston. It was written in a clear, elegant hand, signed “August and Alice Damon.”

It was from a young couple, and stated that only a month previous they had lost their own little daughter—a babe of a few weeks—and their hearts were so sore over their loss, their home so lonely and sad, that they would gladly take a little one to fill, as far as might be possible, the place of their lost darling, and if the child in question pleased them and there was nothing objectionable connected with her birth or antecedents, they would gladly adopt her without the payment of the premium that had been offered.

Mrs. Marston, after reading this communication, immediately dashed off a note asking the young people to call upon her at their earliest convenience—in case they were at liberty to do so, the next morning at ten o’clock; she would reserve that hour for them.

Promptly at that time a young gentleman and lady of prepossessing appearance were ushered into Mrs. Marston’s private parlor, and one glance into their kind and intelligent faces convinced her that she had found the right parties to whom to intrust her child.

“Mr. and Mrs. Damon,” Mrs. Marston said, graciously receiving them, and glancing at the cards that had been sent up before them to announce their arrival, “I am very much pleased to meet you.”

She invited them to be seated, and then entered at once upon the object of their visit.

“I have appointed an interview with you in preference to all other applicants,” she said, “because of the real interest and feeling evinced in your letter to me. But before we decide upon the matter under consideration, I would like to know something about you and your prospects for the future.”

Mr. August Damon, a fine-looking young man of perhaps twenty-five years, frankly informed the lady that their home was in Boston; that he was a clerk in a large wholesale boot and shoe house; his salary was a fair one, and there was a prospect that he might become a member of the firm at no very distant date, if all went well with the business. He said that both he and his wife were very fond of children, and had been almost heart-broken over the loss of their own child. They had resolved, if they could find one to whom their hearts turned, to adopt another, and bestow upon it, as far as might be, the love and care that their own child would have received if it had lived. They had seen her advertisement in the Transcript, and had determined to respond to it, hoping thus to succeed in their object.

“Nothing could be better,” Mrs. Marston eagerly said, in reply. “This is just the opportunity that I desire. I feel sure that you will give my little one the kindest care, and I shall relinquish her to you most willingly. I shall expect you will do by her exactly as you would have done by your own; that you will give her your name, educate her, and give her such advantages as your means will allow. This must be your part in our contract, while mine will be to renounce all claim upon her, and make over to you the amount which I specified in my advertisement.”

August Damon never once took his eyes from the face of that proud, beautiful woman while she was speaking. They burned with a strange fire, an indignant flush mantled his cheek, and an expression of contempt curled his fine lips.

His wife viewed the apparently heartless mother with speechless wonder, her eyes fastened upon her in a sort of horrible fascination.

Her sweet, delicate face was colorless as the snowy ruffle about her white neck, and she trembled visibly as she listened to her abrupt and apparently unfeeling disposal of a human soul.

There was an awkward pause after Mrs. Marston concluded, and she seemed to become suddenly conscious of the very unpleasant impression which her strange words and proceedings had produced upon her visitors, and a rush of vivid color mantled her cheeks.

She could not fail to realize that her guests were well-bred, even cultivated people; the stamp of true gentility was upon them, and it was extremely galling to her haughty spirit to feel that they had been weighing her in the balance of their own refined and noble natures, and had found her sadly wanting in all those gentler qualities and attributes which naturally belong to a woman, and especially to a mother.

But she was impatient of all restraint and discomfort. She threw off the feeling with the usual shrug of her shapely shoulders, and raising her handsome head with a haughty air she continued, somewhat imperiously:

“Do you accede to the conditions that I have mentioned; and you, madame?” turning her great dark eyes full upon the gentle but shocked wife.

“Oh, how can you bear to part thus with your little one, the darling whose pulses are throbbing with your own life-blood?” exclaimed sweet Alice Damon, tears starting to her earnest, gray-blue eyes, her delicate lips trembling with emotion.

“That is a question that I cannot allow myself to consider,” responded Mrs. Marston, with a peculiar gesture of her jeweled hands, which might have meant either pain or repugnance, “neither can I enter into any explanation upon that point; the fact remains, I must part with her, and it is my wish to make the best possible provision for her.”

“We should be glad to see the child, madam,” Mr. Damon gravely remarked.

“Of course. I will have her brought in immediately;” and Mrs. Marston arose to ring a bell.

A moment later a portly matron entered the room bearing in her arms a lovely babe about a month old, arrayed in a richly embroidered robe, and wrapped in the softest and whitest of flannels.

Alice Damon uttered an eager cry, in which the tenderest mother-love and the keenest pain were blended, as she caught sight of the beautiful child who recalled so vividly her own lost treasure.

Starting from her seat she glided swiftly over the soft carpet, and the next moment the tiny creature was clasped close to her aching heart, while a sob burst from her as she pressed her quivering lips to its velvet cheek. Then she turned to her husband with it still in her arms.

“Oh, August, she is lovely!” she murmured, in husky, unsteady tones. “And, dear, my heart longs for her!”

Mr. Damon stood looking down upon the two for a moment, while he seemed struggling with some deep emotion.

He took one of the little soft hands that lay outside the heavily wrought blanket tenderly in his own, and bent for a nearer view of the small face.

“Her eyes are blue,” he said, under his breath.

“Yes, like our own darling’s. Oh, August, we will take her, will we not?” pleaded his wife, eagerly.

A look of fondest love leaped into his eyes as they met hers, but he did not reply to her just then.

He turned again to Mrs. Marston.

“I have an important question which I feel it necessary to ask you?” he began.

“In a moment,” she returned, and signed to the nurse to withdraw.

“Now, if you please,” she added, as the door closed after the woman.

“Is your child legitimate? If you can assure me of that, and that nothing of dishonor can ever touch her in the future, and that, as far as you know, she inherits no taint of insanity or incurable disease, I see no reason why we should not accede to your conditions and adopt the babe as our own.”

Mrs. Marston’s face had grown crimson during this speech, and her eyes flamed with anger.

Twice that week she had been obliged to meet this humiliating suspicion, and it was more than her proud spirit could endure.

“Do you presume——” she began, haughtily.

“Madame,” August Damon interrupted, gravely, but with the utmost respect, “pray do not accuse me of presumption when I have only the well-being of your own child at heart. If you will but consider a moment you cannot fail to realize that it is both natural and proper I should wish to be assured that the child I contemplate taking as my own is of honorable parentage, and with no heritage of future misery hanging over her. We shall, of course, use every precaution to prevent her from ever realizing that she is not our very own; but there may come a time when unforeseen events will lead her to suspect the truth, and then she will demand to be told her history. I must have it in my power to tell her that no story of shame, no stain, was attached to her birth.”

The gentleman’s tone was firm but courteous, and the proud woman before him realized a pride as deep-seated as her own, and that she had no common character to deal with.

He had a perfect right to ask her these questions, she knew, and she was bound to answer them in all sincerity.

The anger died out of her eyes; the color left her face, and there was more humility in her manner than she had before displayed, as she replied:

“Mr. Damon, I assure you that you need never fear even a breath against the fair fame or parentage of my child. I was legally married to a noble, high-minded gentleman, on the 15th of last March, although the ceremony was not performed in this country. More I cannot tell you regarding my private history. As to the little one’s constitution, she inherits no taint of disease or mental trouble that I am aware of. I have always enjoyed vigorous health, as my physique at the present time ought to prove to you.

“I know,” she continued, after a moment of thoughtful silence, “that the giving away of my child, when to all appearance there is no necessity for such an unusual act, appears like a monstrous proceeding; but I am so situated that I cannot help myself; the need is imperative—a relentless fate compels me to the unnatural act. I can tell you nothing more; if you see fit to adopt the babe, after hearing this, well and good; if not, I must reply to some other application, and make other arrangements for her.”

“I am satisfied with what you have told me, and the child shall come to us. Alice, she is yours if you so wish,” said the young husband, turning with a fond smile to his fair wife.

“I do wish it, August. I could not give her up now. See! how content she is!” and the sweet woman looked lovingly down at the little face lying so peacefully upon her bosom.

“You are willing to make the gift a legal one, I suppose,” said Mr. Damon, turning again to Mrs. Marston, who, with a look of intense relief upon her face, was closely watching the young couple.

“If you mean by that that I will sign papers to ratify the bond, I must say, No!” the woman replied, with decision.

“Of what use would such papers be,” she went on, “since I could not place my real signature upon them, and the name, by which I am known to you to-day, would amount to nothing, legally. I can only give her to you here, now, in this informal way. Take her—she is yours; and may she be a great comfort to you during your future lives.”

“I see,” replied Mr. Damon, “papers of adoption would amount to nothing;” but, nevertheless, he did not appear very well satisfied with this conclusion.

“And here is the future little Miss Damon’s dowry,” continued Mrs. Marston, with a smile, as she took a roll of bills from the same drawer whence she had paid Dr. Turner, “and I cannot begin to tell you how much of gratitude goes with it.”

“Madame, I cannot accept your money,” August Damon said, flushing hotly, as he drew back from the proffered bribe; for such it seemed to him.

“I am rich; I wish you to have it,” said the lady.

“It is the child that we want, for her own sake, not for what you offer as an inducement to adopt her,” returned the young man, with dignity.

“But I must insist,” Mrs. Marston replied. “If you have no immediate use for it, put it at interest somewhere for her, and let it accumulate for a marriage portion. You will have to name her,” she resumed, with a glance at the little one. “Call her whatever you wish, and may she prove a real blessing to you.”

She approached Alice Damon as she spoke, laid the roll of bills between the soft, pink hands of the now sleeping babe, bent over her and imprinted a light kiss upon her cheek, then turning quickly away, she bowed to the husband and wife and walked abruptly from the room.

A half-hour later the mysterious little stranger was sleeping peacefully in the dainty cradle that had once held Alice Damon’s namesake, while two tender, earnest faces bent fondly over her, as husband and wife prayed that she might long be spared to be a comfort and a blessing to them, and never realize the shadow that rested upon her birth.

The next morning, at an early hour, Mrs. Marston and her “maid” quietly left the —— House, and the city, leaving no address, nor any clew to their destination behind them.

CHAPTER IV.
A CHANGE OF RESIDENCE AND AN ADVENTURE.

Thus the stranger’s child found a home, with loving hearts and willing hands to care for her.

But August and Alice Damon Huntress had for certain reasons withheld their surname from the mother of the child they had adopted.

“I shall never put myself in the power of this woman,” he had said to his wife, while discussing the question. “If we adopt this little one we must so arrange matters that she can never be taken from us; so that she can never even be found by those who give her to us, or be told that she is not our own flesh and blood.”

So he had called himself August Damon, which was the truth, as far as it went, but no one in Boston knew him by any other name than Huntress, and he did not intend that the mother of the little one should ever know what became of the child after it was given into his hands.

They gave her the name of Gladys, for, as Alice Huntress said, she began to brighten and gladden their saddened hearts and lives from the moment of her coming to them.

The Huntresses lived in a very quiet way, on an unpretentious street in the city of Boston. Mr. Huntress had a good salary, but they were people of simple tastes, and had more of a desire to lay by a snug sum for declining years than to live extravagantly and make a show in the world.

For several years nothing occurred either to entice or drive them out of the beaten track; then, all at once, August Huntress conceived a brilliant idea, put it in practical use, secured a patent, and became a rich man.

No other children came to share the love and care bestowed upon Gladys, and the hearts of her adopted parents were literally bound up in her.

Every possible advantage was lavished upon her, and at the age of twelve years she was a bright, beautiful little maiden with glossy brown hair, lovely dark blue eyes, and regular features, and gave promise of rare beauty when she should reach maturity a few years hence.

About this time it appeared necessary for the interests of the house with which Mr. Huntress was connected, that he should remove to New York city.

Accordingly, the beginning of Gladys Huntress’ thirteenth year found the family established in a well-furnished mansion in Clinton avenue, one of the pleasantest portions of Brooklyn, while Mr. Huntress’ office was located in Dey street, New York.

Here Gladys at once entered the high school, having passed her examinations most creditably, and giving promise of becoming a brilliant scholar.

She dearly loved study, and asserted that as soon as she should complete the high school course, she should “make papa send her to Vassar for another four years, to finish her off.”

And now there occurred an incident destined to have a wonderful influence on the young girl’s whole future life.

One afternoon in May, after school was over for the day, Gladys persuaded her mother to allow their coachman to drive her over to New York to meet and bring her father home to dinner.