CHAPTER XXXV.TWO LETTERS.
The portfolio was not locked, and within it Everet discovered numerous letters, all of which were addressed to “Miss Annie Dale.” Most of them were in ladies’ handwriting, and a glance sufficed to show that they were from schoolmates and girlish friends.
There were also several essays, which had evidently been written by Annie herself, when she was at school, and these were carefully tied together with a narrow and faded blue ribbon. A package of little billets contained locks of hair of various colors and shades, fancifully braided and glued to the paper, each with the name of the donor written underneath. There were a few drawings, very neatly done, some of landscapes, others of flowers, ferns, and grasses, and one that brought a startled cry from Everet Mapleson’s lips, for it was a faithful representation of that very house in the mining village of New Mexico, that he had visited only a few weeks since. The same hand had done this that had drawn the others, there could be no doubt, even if the initials “A. D.” at the bottom had not testified to the fact.
“‘A. D.,’” murmured the young man. “The puzzle is slowly unweaving itself. This trunk must have been brought here after she died; butby whom?”
His face was very grave and troubled, for disagreeable thoughts and suspicions came crowding thick and fast upon him.
He put the drawings carefully back into the pocket from which he had taken them, and then continued his examination of the portfolio. But he found nothing in the other pockets, save a goodly supply of stationery, and he finally came to the conclusion that if therehadbeen any papers of importance in the receptacle they had probably been removed by his father that very day.
He began listlessly turning over the blotting leaves that were attached to the middle of the portfolio; there was now and then a half sheet of paper between them, but nothing else, until he came to the last two, when a scrap of paper with some writing upon it in a bold, masculine hand, fell fluttering to the floor.
Everet stooped and picked it up to return it to its place, but the instant the writing met his eye, the hot blood mounted to his brow, and he exclaimed, in a startled tone:
“At last I have found it!”
It was theother halfof that letter, which had been torn in two, and which he had found caught in the writing-desk during his previous visit to the cottage. And this is how it appeared:
“Santa Fe, June 10, 18—.
NIE:
It is with deep pain andjust learned of the death ofse I know that this leavesannuity which was hersse and your future istle friend! I can sayn how vain andme; but, believe me, myyou, and were it pos-and strive to cheerI am now going to ask ae been friends during all ournot refuse me.
the cottage. Let it be stillas it has been in theany restrictions.
alone, for it wouldsecure some com-n yourself who will. Do not mind thethat we are relativesin this extremity.
ck sufficient forwhen I returnent arrangementI shall be veryyou.
our friend,
“William Mapleson.”
Everet merely glanced at this, then taking his wallet from one of his pockets, he drew from it a folded paper.
It was the other half of the torn letter.
He laid the two portions together; the ragged edges fitted exactly, the writing was identical, and the epistle was complete, and read thus:
“Santa Fe. June 10, 18—.“My Dear Annie:“It is with deep pain andregret that I have just learned of the death ofyour mother. Of course I know that this leavesyou alone, and that the annuity which was hersfor life only must now cease, and your future isunprovided for. My poor little friend, I can saynothing to comfort you, for I know how vain andcold words are at such a time; but, believe me, myheart is with you. I sorrow with you, and were it pos-sible I would come to you and strive to cheeryou in this sad hour. But I am now going to ask afavor of you, Annie—we have been friends during all ourlife, and surely you will not refuse me.“I want you to remain in the cottage. Let it be stillyour home for the future as it has been in thepast—it is yourswithout any restrictions.“You must not, however, stay there alone, for it wouldnot be safe, and I want you to secure some com-panion—some one older than yourself, who willbe a sort of protector to you. Do not mind theexpense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives.I have a right to care for you in this extremity.“Inclosed you will find check sufficient foryour present necessities, and when I returnI will make some permanent arrangementfor you. Write me at once, for I shall be veryanxious until I hear from you.“Ever your friend,“William Mapleson.”
“Santa Fe. June 10, 18—.“My Dear Annie:“It is with deep pain andregret that I have just learned of the death ofyour mother. Of course I know that this leavesyou alone, and that the annuity which was hersfor life only must now cease, and your future isunprovided for. My poor little friend, I can saynothing to comfort you, for I know how vain andcold words are at such a time; but, believe me, myheart is with you. I sorrow with you, and were it pos-sible I would come to you and strive to cheeryou in this sad hour. But I am now going to ask afavor of you, Annie—we have been friends during all ourlife, and surely you will not refuse me.“I want you to remain in the cottage. Let it be stillyour home for the future as it has been in thepast—it is yourswithout any restrictions.“You must not, however, stay there alone, for it wouldnot be safe, and I want you to secure some com-panion—some one older than yourself, who willbe a sort of protector to you. Do not mind theexpense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives.I have a right to care for you in this extremity.“Inclosed you will find check sufficient foryour present necessities, and when I returnI will make some permanent arrangementfor you. Write me at once, for I shall be veryanxious until I hear from you.“Ever your friend,“William Mapleson.”
“Santa Fe. June 10, 18—.
“Santa Fe. June 10, 18—.
“My Dear Annie:
“My Dear Annie:
“It is with deep pain andregret that I have just learned of the death ofyour mother. Of course I know that this leavesyou alone, and that the annuity which was hersfor life only must now cease, and your future isunprovided for. My poor little friend, I can saynothing to comfort you, for I know how vain andcold words are at such a time; but, believe me, myheart is with you. I sorrow with you, and were it pos-sible I would come to you and strive to cheeryou in this sad hour. But I am now going to ask afavor of you, Annie—we have been friends during all ourlife, and surely you will not refuse me.
“It is with deep pain and
regret that I have just learned of the death of
your mother. Of course I know that this leaves
you alone, and that the annuity which was hers
for life only must now cease, and your future is
unprovided for. My poor little friend, I can say
nothing to comfort you, for I know how vain and
cold words are at such a time; but, believe me, my
heart is with you. I sorrow with you, and were it pos-
sible I would come to you and strive to cheer
you in this sad hour. But I am now going to ask a
favor of you, Annie—we have been friends during all our
life, and surely you will not refuse me.
“I want you to remain in the cottage. Let it be stillyour home for the future as it has been in thepast—it is yourswithout any restrictions.
“I want you to remain in the cottage. Let it be still
your home for the future as it has been in the
past—it is yourswithout any restrictions.
“You must not, however, stay there alone, for it wouldnot be safe, and I want you to secure some com-panion—some one older than yourself, who willbe a sort of protector to you. Do not mind theexpense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives.I have a right to care for you in this extremity.
“You must not, however, stay there alone, for it would
not be safe, and I want you to secure some com-
panion—some one older than yourself, who will
be a sort of protector to you. Do not mind the
expense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives.
I have a right to care for you in this extremity.
“Inclosed you will find check sufficient foryour present necessities, and when I returnI will make some permanent arrangementfor you. Write me at once, for I shall be veryanxious until I hear from you.
“Inclosed you will find check sufficient for
your present necessities, and when I return
I will make some permanent arrangement
for you. Write me at once, for I shall be very
anxious until I hear from you.
“Ever your friend,
“Ever your friend,
“William Mapleson.”
“William Mapleson.”
“Ithoughtthe writing was familiar to me. I suspected my father wrote it from the first, and yet his hand has changed very much since this was written. But surely there is nothing in this merely friendly epistle to warrant such dreadful suspicions as have nearly driven me wild during these last few weeks. I have believed the very worst—that it washewho enticed her away, and then betrayed her confidence. I know that he was in New Mexico at that time; I know that she went there and lived with some one for a year; and then that ring seemed to prove everything to me. Still, this is not a lover’s letter; it is simply a friendly expression of sympathy and interest, and a desire to provide for a relative who had no one to rely upon. Heavens! will this mysteryneverbe solved?” he concluded, rising and shutting the portfolio, but retaining the scrap of paper he had found.
He replaced everything in the trunk, closed it, though he could not lock it again, then pushed it back under the bed; after which he went quickly out of the house, feeling depressed and bitterly disappointed that he had discovered nothing tangible, either to prove or dissipate his suspicions.
As he stepped off the veranda, something white fluttered in the tall grass at his feet.
It was another letter.
A thrill went tingling all along his nerves, as he stooped and picked it up.
It was addressed to “Miss Annie Dale, Richmond, Va.,” and bore the date of July 15th, of the same year as the other one already in his possession.
It was also in the same handwriting, and had been mailed from Santa Fe.
“This is one of the things thathecame hither to secure, and he must have dropped it as he passed out,” Everet murmured, as he sat down upon a step, drew the letter from its envelope, and began to read it.
“My Dear Annie,” it began, like the other, “your reply to my former letter has hurt me keenly. I cannot bear the thought of your going out into the world alone to earn your own living. I hoped that you would be content to remain in your own home, and let me provide for you as a brother would do. But since you refuse—how cold and dignified your refusal was, too!—I am forced to break all barriers down and make a confession that for years I had yearned to make and dare not. Annie, youmust notbecome a governess; I should be wretched to think of you in such a situation. If you will not let me take care of you there at home, in a friendly way, youmust come to me here; for, darling, I love you. I have always loved you, ever since we played together, as children by the brook near the old mill, sailing our tiny ships side by side, and promised each other that, when we were older, we would be married, and make a voyage round the world together. Come and redeem that promise to menow, Annie, darling. Do not hesitate because it will involve the sacrifice of the fortune bequeathed to me, under certain conditions, for I cannot—Iwillnot—marry my Cousin Estelle while I love another as I love you; and what is all the wealth of the world compared with our happiness? I am doing finely here in the mines. In a few years, at this rate, I shall be worth even more than I shall have to forfeit by this step, so I will gladly relinquish every dollar to Estelle for you, my darling.
“Annie, I believe that you love me—I have long believed it—and I have yearned to make this confession, and to hear a similar one from your lips, for a long, long time. Had I not been hampered by Uncle Jabez’s will, and an unworthy vacillation on account of it, I should have told you this that last delightful summer we spent together. But I have passed the Rubicon now, so do not ruin all my hopes. I am sorry that I cannot come to you, my own love. But my presence is absolutely necessary here, and I cannot leave for such a long trip; but if your heart responds to mine—if you will come to me and give yourself to me, I will meet you on the way, at Kansas City, and from there I will take my little wife to her own home among the mountains of New Mexico, where we will be all in all to each other. You will not mind the isolation for a little while, will you, love, until I can make my fortune, when we will return again to our own dear sunny South? Annie,willyou trust me?Willyou come? If you do not, I believe my life will be ruined. Do not think, for a moment, that I shall ever regret Jabez Mapleson’s money. Ishallnot if I can have you. Judge me by your own heart.
“Inclosed you will find the route you are to take, carefully mapped out, and the check that you would not keep before—my proud little woman! I feel sure that you can come with perfect safety alone as far as Kansas City, where I shall be surely waiting to receive you. Send a telegram naming the day and the hour when you will start.
“One thing more, love—say nothing to any one of your plans; leavethat to me, to explain after we are one. Annie, youwillnot fail me. I could not bear it now, for I have set all my hopes upon you. I shall not rest until I receive your telegram.
“Ever your own,Will.”
“Ever your own,Will.”
“Ever your own,Will.”
“Ever your own,Will.”
Everet Mapleson’s face was as white as that of the dead as he finished reading this epistle.
“It is all true, after all,” he said, with blazing eyes and through his tightly locked teeth. “Itwashe who enticed her away in secret, hiding her in that out-of-the-way place—literally burying her alive. I have been convinced of it ever since I found that ring with those initials—‘W. M. to A. D.’—engraved within it, and yet I kept hoping it could not be proved. So she went to him—foolish girl!—believing that he’d marry her and give up his money; and she only lived one short year!
“Now Geoffrey Huntress’ strange resemblance to me is all accounted for,” he went on, after a fit of musing; “he is my father’s son and—my half brother, and to him will belong all Robert Dale’s fortune if he should ever learn the secret of his birth. Now I understand why he was given into Jack and Margaret Henly’s care. It would have been very awkward for the heir of half Jabez Mapleson’s fortune if that New Mexican escapade had leaked out. But I cannot comprehend how the boy became an imbecile—an accident, Mr. Huntress said—and I suppose those people got tired of caring for him and cast him off. No; that can’t be, either, for that woman seemed terribly upset about it. It’s all a wretched puzzle, anyhow.
“Zounds!” he continued, with sudden energy, “the governor is a wonderful actor. He never betrayed himself by so much as the quiver of an eyelid, this morning, when we talked about this girl’s disappearance. I wonder what he will do about that money? Will hedarekeep it? or will he try to find the boy and make it over to him in some roundabout way? No; I do not believe he will ever run any risk of having that New Mexican escapade revealed. He couldn’t quite stand that, and my haughty mamma would never forgive him. He will keep the money, and say nothing. Geoffrey Huntress willneverget his fortune, forIshall keep the secret that I have this day discovered closely locked in my own breast. Neither he nor my father shalleverlearn throughmethat he is an heir of the houses of Dale and Mapleson.
“He loved her, though—I am sure he loved her!” he resumed, his eyes falling upon that still open letter. “This shows it in almost every line; and his face to-day, as I caught a glimpse of it through the window, as he bent over that trunk, looked as if he had just buried the dearest object of his life. It must have been hard to look at all her pretty fixings and remember that one short, happy year; for they were very happy, according to Bob Whittaker’s story. That is the reason he keeps this house, andall in it, so sacred. Why couldn’t he have married her, like a man? Money! money! I believe it is only a curse to half the people in the world.”
He arose, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket; then going to the old mill, he unfastened his horse, mounted, and rode back to Vue de l’Eau, looking stern, and grave, and unhappy.