Geoffrey’s Victory; OR, THE DOUBLE DECEPTION.

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 6the 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.

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

7He 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 8brown 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.

9“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 10at 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 11Mrs. 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 12companion, 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—.”

13Both 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 14becomes 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?”