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Title: Mildred : A novel
Author: Holmes, Mary Jane
Language: English
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MILDRED.
A Novel.
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF
EDITH LYLE—EDNA BROWNING—TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE—’LENA RIVERS—WEST
LAWN—MARIAN GREY—HUGH WORTHINGTON—ETHELYN’S MISTAKE, ETC., ETC.
“——Love soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest-time of Love is there.”
SOUTHEY.
[Illustration: Logo]
NEW YORK:
_G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers_.
LONDON: S. LOW & CO.
MDCCCLXXVII.
COPYRIGHT BY
DANIEL HOLMES.
1877.
TROW’S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING CO.,
_205–213 East 12th St._,
NEW YORK.
TO
MRS. G. W. CARLETON
[OF NEW YORK CITY],
_I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF_
MILDRED,
IN MEMORY
OF THE MANY HAPPY HOURS SPENT WITH HER
OF THE “STARRY EYES AND
NUT-BROWN HAIR.”
BROCKPORT, N. Y.,
_October, 1877_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Storm, and what it Brought 9
II. Village Gossip 27
III. Nine Years Later 35
IV. Oliver and Mildred visit Beechwood 50
V. Lawrence Thornton and his Advice 60
VI. What came of it 72
VII. Lilian and Mildred 93
VIII. Lawrence and his Father 111
IX. Lawrence at Beechwood 119
X. The River 131
XI. Lawrence Deceived and Undeceived 142
XII. The Proposal 157
XIII. The Answer 173
XIV. What Followed 201
XV. The Sun Shining through the Cloud 214
XVI. The Ebbing of the Tide 228
XVII. The Deserted Hut 238
XVIII. The Guests at the Hotel 256
XIX. Lawrence and Oliver 276
XX. Oliver and Mildred 285
XXI. The Meeting 299
XXII. Natural Results 314
XXIII. Conclusion 321
MILDRED.
CHAPTER I.
THE STORM, AND WHAT IT BROUGHT.
The sultry September day was drawing to a close, and as the sun went
down, a dark thunder-cloud came slowly up from the west, muttering in
deep undertones, and emitting occasional gleams of lightning by way of
heralding the coming storm, from which both man and beast intuitively
sought shelter. Ere long the streets of Mayfield were deserted, save by
the handsome carriage and span of spirited grays, which went dashing
through the town toward the large house upon the hill, the residence of
Judge Howell, who paid no heed to the storm, so absorbed was he in the
letter which he held in his hand, and which had roused him to a state of
fearful excitement. Through the gate, and up the long avenue, lined with
giant trees of maple and beech, the horses flew, and just as the rain
came down in torrents they stood panting before the door of Beechwood.
“Bring me a light! Why isn’t there one already here?” roared the Judge,
as he stalked into his library, and banged the door with a crash
scarcely equalled by the noise of the tempest without.
“Got up a little thunder-storm on his own account! Wonder what’s
happened him now!” muttered Rachel, the colored housekeeper, as she
placed a lamp upon the table, and then silently left the room.
Scarcely was she gone when, seating himself in his armchair, the Judge
began to read again the letter which had so much disturbed him. It was
post-marked at a little out-of-the-way place among the backwoods of
Maine, and it purported to have come from a young mother, who asked him
to adopt a little girl, nearly two months old.
“Her family is fully equal to your own,” the mother wrote; “and should
you take my baby, you need never blush for her parentage. I have heard
of you, Judge Howell. I know that you are rich, that you are
comparatively alone, and there are reasons why I would rather my child
should go to Beechwood than any other spot in the wide world. You need
her, too,—need something to comfort your old age, for with all your
money, you are far from being happy.”
“The deuce I am!” muttered the Judge. “How did the trollop know that, or
how did she know of _me_, any way? _I_ take a child to comfort my old
age! Ridiculous! I’m not old,—I’m only fifty,—just in the prime of life;
but I _hate_ young ones, and I won’t have one in my house! I’m tormented
enough with Rachel’s dozen, and if that madame brings hers here, I’ll——”
The remainder of the sentence was cut short by a peal of thunder, so
long and loud that even the exasperated Judge was still until the roar
had died away; then, resuming the subject of his remarks, he continued:
“Thanks to something, this letter has been two weeks on the road, and as
she is tired of looking for an answer by this time, I sha’n’t trouble
myself to write,—but what of Richard?—I have not yet seen why he is up
there in New Hampshire, chasing after that Hetty, when he ought to have
been home weeks ago;” and taking from his pocket another and an unopened
letter, he read why his only son and heir of all his vast possessions
was in New Hampshire “chasing after Hetty,” as he termed it.
Hetty Kirby was a poor relation, whom the Judge’s wife had taken into
the family, and treated with the utmost kindness and consideration; on
her death-bed she had committed the young girl to her husband’s care,
bidding him be kind to Hetty for her sake. In Judge Howell’s crusty
heart there was one soft, warm spot,—the memory of his wife and
beautiful young daughter, the latter of whom died within a few months
after her marriage. _They_ had loved the orphan Hetty, and for their
sakes, he had kept her until accident revealed to him the fact that to
his son, then little more than a boy, there was no music so sweet as
Hetty’s voice,—no light so bright as that which shone in Hetty’s eye.
Then the lion was roused, and he turned her from his door, while Richard
was threatened with disinheritance if he dared to think again of the
humble Hetty. There was no alternative but to submit, for Judge Howell’s
word was _law_, and, with a sad farewell to what had been her home so
long, Hetty went back to the low-roofed house among the granite hills,
where her mother and half-imbecile grandmother were living.
Richard, too, returned to college, and from that time not a word had
passed between the father and the son concerning the offending Hetty
until now, when Richard wrote that she was dead, together with her
grandmother,—that news of her illness had been forwarded to him, and
immediately after leaving college, in July, he had hastened to New
Hampshire, and staid by her until she died.
“You can curse me for it if you choose,” he said, “but it will not make
the matter better. I loved Hetty Kirby: while living, I love her memory
now that she is dead; and in that little grave beneath the hill I have
buried my heart forever.”
The letter closed by saying that Richard would possibly be home that
night, and he asked that the carriage might be in waiting at the depot.
The news of Hetty’s death kept the Judge silent for a moment, while his
heart gave one great throb as he thought of the fair-haired, blue-eyed
girl, who had so often ministered to his comfort.
“Poor thing, she’s in heaven, I’m sure,” he said; “and if I was ever
harsh to her, it’s too late to help it now. I always liked her well
enough, but I did not like her making love to Richard. He’ll get over
it, too, even if he does talk about his heart being buried in her grave.
Stuff and nonsense! Just as if a boy of twenty knows where his heart is.
Needn’t tell me. He’ll come to his senses after he’s been home a spell,
and that reminds me that I must send the carriage for him. Here, Ruth,”
he continued, as he saw a servant passing in the hall, “tell Joe not to
put out the horses, or if he has, to harness up again. Richard is coming
home, and he must meet him at the station.”
Ruth departed with the message and the Judge again took up the letter in
which a child had been offered for his adoption. Very closely he
scrutinized the handwriting, but it was not a familiar one to him. He
had never seen it before, and, tearing the paper in pieces, he scattered
them upon the floor.
The storm by this time had partially subsided, and he heard the carriage
wheels grinding into the gravel as Joe drove from the house. Half an
hour went by, and then the carriage returned again; but Richard was not
in it, and the father sat down alone to the supper kept in waiting for
his son. It was a peculiarity of the Judge to retire precisely at nine
o’clock; neither friend nor foe could keep him up beyond that hour, he
said; and on this evening, as on all others, the lights disappeared from
his room just as the nine o’clock bell was heard in the distance. But
the Judge was nervous to-night. The thunder which at intervals continued
to roar, made him restless, and ten o’clock found him even more wakeful
than he had been an hour before.
“What the plague ails me?” he exclaimed, tossing uneasily from side to
side, “and what the deuce can that be? Rachel’s baby as I live! What is
she doing with it here? If there’s anything I detest, it is a baby’s
squall. Just hear that, will you?” and raising himself upon his elbow he
listened intently to what was indisputably an infant wail, rising even
above the storm, for it had commenced raining again, and the thunder at
times was fearfully loud.
“Screech away,” said the Judge, as a cry, sharper and more prolonged,
fell upon his ear; “screech away till you split your throat; but I’ll
know why a Christian man, who hates children, must be driven distracted
in his own house,” and stepping into the hall, he called out, at the top
of his voice, “Ho, Rachel!” but no Rachel made her appearance; and a
little further investigation sufficed to show that she had retired to
the little cottage in the back yard, which, in accordance with a
Southern custom, the Judge, who was a Virginian, had built for herself
and her husband. Rachel was also a native of Virginia, but for many
years she had lived at Beechwood, where she was now the presiding
genius,—and the one servant whom the Judge trusted above all others. But
she had one great fault, at which her master chafed terribly; she had
nearly as many children as the fabled woman who lived in a shoe. Indeed
there seemed to be no end to the little darkies who daily sunned
themselves upon the velvety sward in front of their cabin door, and were
nightly stowed away in the three wide trundle-beds, which Rachel brought
forth from unheard-of hiding-places, and made up near her own. If there
was one thing in the world more than another which the Judge professed
to hate, it was children, and when Rachel innocently asked him to name
her _twelfth_, he answered wrathfully:
“A dozen,—the old Harry!—call it FINIS,—and let it be so,—do you hear?”
“Yes, marster,” was the submissive answer, and so Finis, or _Finn_, for
short, was the name given to the child, which the Judge fancied was so
disturbing him, as, leaning over the banister, he called aloud to
Rachel, “to stop that noise, and carry Finn back where he belonged.”
“She has carried him back, I do believe,” he said to himself, as he
heard how still it was below, and retiring to his room, he tried again
to sleep, succeeding so far as to fall away into a doze, from which he
was aroused by a thunder-crash, which shook the massive building to its
foundation, and wrung from the watch-dog, Tiger, who kept guard without,
a deafening yell.
But to neither of these sounds did the Judge pay the least attention,
for, mingled with them, and continuing after both had died away, was
that same infant wail, tuned now to a higher, shriller note, as if the
little creature were suffering from fear or bodily pain.
“Might as well try to sleep in bedlam!” exclaimed the exasperated Judge,
stepping from his bed a second time, and commencing to dress himself,
while his nervousness and irritability increased in proportion as the
cries grew louder and more alarming.
Striking a light and frowning wrathfully at the sour, tired-looking
visage reflected by the mirror, he descended the stairs and entered the
kitchen, where everything was in perfect order, even to the kindlings
laid upon the hearth for the morning fire. The cries, too, were fainter
there and could scarcely be heard at all, but as he retraced his steps
and came again into the lower hall, he heard them distinctly, and also
Tiger’s howl. Guided by the sound, he kept on his way until he reached
the front door, when a thought flashed upon him which rendered him for
an instant powerless to act. What if that Maine woman, tired of waiting
for an answer to her letter, had taken some other way of accomplishing
her purpose? What if he _should_ find a baby on his steps! “But I
sha’n’t,” he said, decidedly; “I _won’t_, and if I do, I’ll kick it into
the street, or something,” and emboldened by this resolution he unlocked
the door, and shading the lamp with his hand, peered cautiously out into
the darkness.
With a cry of delight Tiger sprang forward, nearly upsetting his master,
who staggered back a pace or two, and then, recovering himself, advanced
again toward the open door.
“There’s nothing here,” he said, thrusting his head out into the rain,
which was dropping fast through the thick vine leaves which overhung the
lattice of the portico.
As if to disprove this assertion, the heavens for an instant blazed with
light, and showed him where a small white object lay in a willow basket
beneath the seat built on either side of the door. He knew it was not
Finn, for the tiny fingers which grasped the basket edge were white and
pure as wax, while the little dimples about the joints involuntarily
carried him back to a time when just such a baby hand as this had patted
his bearded cheek or pulled his long black hair. Perhaps it was the
remembrance of that hand, now cold in death, which prompted him to a
nearer survey of the contents of the basket, and setting down his lamp,
he stooped to draw it forth, while Tiger stood by trembling with joy
that his vigils were ended, and that human aid had come at last to the
helpless creature he had guarded with the faithfulness peculiar to his
race.
It was a fair, round face which met the judge’s view as he removed the
flannel blanket, and the bright, pretty eyes which looked up into his
were full of tears. But the Judge hardened his heart, and though he did
not kick the baby into the rain, he felt strongly tempted so to do, and
glancing toward the cornfield not far away, where he fancied the mother
might be watching the result, he screamed:
“Come here, you madame, and take the brat away, for I sha’n’t touch it,
you may depend upon that.”
Having thus relieved his mind, he was about to re-enter the house, when,
as if divining his intention, Tiger planted his huge form in the
doorway, and effectually kept him back.
“Be quiet, Tiger, be quiet,” said the Judge, stroking his shaggy mane;
but Tiger refused to move, until at last, as if seized by a sudden
instinct, he darted toward the basket, which he took in his mouth, and
carried into the hall.
“It sha’n’t be said a brute is more humane than myself,” thought the
Judge, and leaving the dog and the baby together, he stalked across the
yard, and, pounding on Rachel’s door, bade her come to the house at
once.
But a few moments elapsed ere Rachel stood in the hall, her eyes
protruding like harvest apples when she saw the basket and the baby it
contained. The twelve young Van Brunts sleeping in their three
trundle-beds, had enlarged her motherly heart, just as the Judge’s
lonely condition had shrivelled his, and kneeling down she took the wee
thing in her arms, called it a “little honey,” and then, woman-like,
examined its dress, which was of the finest material, and trimmed with
costly lace.
“It’s none of your low-flung truck,” she said. “The edgin’ on its slip
cost a heap, and its petticoats is all worked with floss.”
“Petticoats be hanged!” roared the Judge. “Who cares for worked
petticoats? The question is, what are we to do with it?”
“Do with it?” repeated Rachel, hugging it closer to her bosom. “Keep it,
in course. ’Pears like it seems mighty nigh to me,” and she gave it
another squeeze, this time uttering a faint outcry, for a sharp point of
something had penetrated through the thin folds of her gingham dress.
“Thar’s somethin’ fastened to ’t,” she said, and removing the blanket,
she saw a bit of paper pinned to the infant’s waist. “This may ’splain
the matter,” she continued, passing it to the Judge, who read, in the
same handwriting of the letter: “God prosper you, Judge Howell, in
proportion as you are kind to my baby, whom I have called _Mildred_.”
“Mildred!” repeated the judge, “Mildred be——”
He did not finish the sentence, for he seemed to hear far back in the
past a voice much like his own, saying aloud:
“I, Jacob, take thee, Mildred, to be my wedded wife.”
The Mildred _taken_ then in that shadowy old church had been for years a
loving, faithful wife, and another Mildred, too, with starry eyes and
nut-brown hair had flitted through his halls, calling him her father.
The Maine woman must surely have known of this when she gave her
offspring the only name in the world which could possibly have touched
the Judge’s heart. With a perplexed expression upon his face, he stood
rubbing his hands together, while Rachel launched forth into a stream of
baby-talk, like that with which she was wont to edify her twelve young
blackbirds.
“For Heaven’s sake, stop that! You fairly turn my stomach,” said the
Judge, as she added the finishing touch by calling the child “a pessus
’ittle darlin’ dumplin’!” “You women are precious big fools with
babies!”
“Wasn’t Miss Milly just as silly as any on us?” asked Rachel, who knew
his weak point; “and if she was here to-night, instead of over Jordan,
don’t you believe she’d take the little critter as her own?”
“That’s nothing to do with it,” returned the Judge. “The question is,
how shall we dispose of it—to-night, I mean, for in the morning I shall
see about its being taken to the poor-house.”
“The poor-house!” repeated Rachel. “Ain’t it writ on that paper, ‘The
Lord sarve you and yourn as you sarve her and hern’? Thar’s a warnin’ in
that which I shall mind ef you don’t. The baby ain’t a-goin’ to the
poor-house. I’ll take it myself first. A hen don’t scratch no harder for
thirteen than she does for twelve, and though Joe ain’t no kind o’
count, I can manage somehow. Shall I consider it mine?”
“Yes, till morning,” answered the Judge, who really had no definite idea
as to what he intended doing with the helpless creature thus forced upon
him against his will.
He abhorred children,—he would not for anything have one abiding in his
house, and especially this one of so doubtful parentage; still he was
not quite inclined to cast it off, and he wished there was some one with
whom to advise. Then, as he remembered the expected coming of his son,
he thought, “Richard will tell me what to do!” and feeling somewhat
relieved he returned to his chamber, while Rachel hurried off to her
cabin, where, in a few words, she explained the matter to Joe, who,
being naturally of a lazy temperament, was altogether too sleepy to
manifest emotion of any kind, and was soon snoring as loudly as ever.
In his rude pine cradle little Finn was sleeping, and once Rachel
thought to lay the stranger baby with him; but proud as she was of her
color and of her youngest born, too, she felt that there was a dividing
line over which she must not pass, so Finn was finally removed to the
pillow of his sire, the cradle re-arranged, and the baby carefully lain
to rest.
Meantime, on his bedstead of rosewood, Judge Howell tried again to
sleep, but all in vain were his attempts to woo the wayward goddess, and
he lay awake until the moon, struggling through the broken clouds, shone
upon the floor. Then, in the distance, he heard the whistle of the night
express, and knew it was past midnight.
“I wish that Maine woman had been drowned in Passamaquoddy Bay!” said
he, rolling his pillow into a ball and beating it with his fist. “Yes, I
do, for I’ll be hanged if I want to be bothered this way! Hark! I do
believe she’s prowling round the house yet,” he continued, as he thought
he caught the sound of a footstep upon the gravelled walk.
He was not mistaken in the sound, and he was about getting up for the
third and, as he swore to himself, the last time, when a loud ring of
the bell, and a well-known voice, calling: “Father! father! let me in,”
told him that not the Maine woman, but his son Richard, had come.
Hastening down the stairs, he unlocked the door, and Richard Howell
stepped into the hall, his boots bespattered with mud, his clothes wet
with the heavy rain, and his face looking haggard and pale by the dim
light of the lamp his father carried in his hand.
“Why, Dick!” exclaimed the Judge, “what ails you? You are as white as a
ghost.”
“I am tired and sick,” was Richard’s reply. “I’ve scarcely slept for
several weeks.”
“Been watching with Hetty, I dare say,” thought the Judge; but he merely
said: “Why didn’t you come at seven, as you wrote you would?”
“I couldn’t conveniently,” Richard replied: “and, as I was anxious to
get here as soon as possible, I took the night express, and have walked
from the depot. But what is that?” he continued, as he entered the
sitting-room, and saw the willow basket standing near the door.
“Dick,” and the Judge’s voice dropped to a nervous whisper,—“Dick, if
you’ll believe me, some infernal Maine woman has had a baby, and left it
on our steps. She wrote first to know if I’d take it, but the letter was
two weeks coming. I didn’t get it until to-night, and, as I suppose she
was tired of waiting, she brought it along right in the midst of that
thunder-shower. She might have known I’d kick it into the street, just
as I said I would,—the trollop!”
“Oh, father!” exclaimed the more humane young man, “you surely didn’t
treat the innocent child so cruelly!”
“No, I didn’t, though my will was good enough,” answered the father.
“Just think of the scandalous reports that are certain to follow. It
will be just like that gossiping Widow Simms to get up some confounded
yarn, and involve us both, the wretch! But I sha’n’t keep it,—I shall
send it to the poor-house.”
And, by way of adding emphasis to his words, he gave the basket a shove,
which turned it bottom side up, and scattered over the floor sundry
articles of baby-wear, which had before escaped his observation.
Among these was a tiny pair of red morocco shoes; for the “Maine woman,”
as he called her, had been thoughtful both for the present and future
wants of her child.
“Look, father,” said Richard, taking them up and holding them to the
light. “They are just like those sister Mildred used to wear. You know
mother saved them, because they were the first; and you have them still
in your private drawer.”
Richard had touched a tender chord, and it vibrated at once, bringing to
his father memories of a little soft, fat foot, which had once been
encased in a slipper much like the one Richard held in his hand. The
patter of that foot had ceased forever, and the soiled, worn shoe was
now a sacred thing, even though the owner had grown up to beautiful
womanhood ere her home was made desolate.
“Yes, Dick,” he said, as he thought of all this. “It is like our dear
Milly’s, and what is a little mysterious, the baby is called Mildred,
too. It was written on a bit of paper, and pinned upon the dress.”
“Then you will keep her, won’t you? and Beechwood will not be so
lonely,” returned Richard, continuing after a pause, “Where is she, this
little lady? I am anxious to pay her my respects.”
“Down with Rachel, just where she ought to be,” said the Judge; and
Richard rejoined, “Down with all those negroes? Oh, father, how could
you? Suppose it were your child, would you want it there?”
“The deuce take it—’tain’t mine—there ain’t a drop of Howell blood in
its veins, the Lord knows, and as for my lying awake, feeding sweetened
milk to that Maine woman’s brat, I won’t do it, and that’s the end of
it. I won’t, I say,—but I knew’t would be just like you to want me to
keep it. You have the most unaccountable taste, and always had. There
isn’t another young man of your expectations, who would ever have cared
for that——”
“Father,” and Richard’s hand was laid upon the Judge’s arm. “Father,
_Hetty is dead_, and we will let her rest, but if she had lived, I would
have called no other woman my wife.”
“And the moment you had called her so, I would have disinherited you,
root and branch,” was the Judge’s savage answer. “I would have seen her
and you and your children starve before I would have raised my hand. The
heir of Beechwood marry Hetty Kirby! Why, her father was a blacksmith
and her mother a factory girl,—do you hear?”
Richard made no reply, and striking another light, he went to his
chamber, where varied and bitter thoughts kept him wakeful until the
September sun shone upon the wall, and told him it was morning. In the
yard below he heard the sound of Rachel’s voice, and was reminded by it
of the child left there the previous night. He would see it for himself,
he said, and making a hasty toilet, he walked leisurely down the
well-worn path which led to the cottage door. The _twelve_ were all
awake, and as he drew near, a novel sight presented itself to his view.
In the rude pine cradle, the baby lay, while over it the elder Van
Brunts were bending, engaged in a hot discussion as to which should have
“the little white nigger for their own.” At the approach of Richard
their noisy clamor ceased, and they fell back respectfully as he drew
near the cradle. Richard Howell was exceedingly fond of children, and
more than one of Rachel’s dusky brood had he held upon his lap, hence it
was, perhaps, that he parted so gently the silken rings of soft brown
hair, clustering around the baby’s brow, smoothed the velvety cheek, and
even kissed the parted lips. The touch awoke the child, who seemed
intuitively to know that the face bending so near to its own was a
friendly one, and when Richard took it in his arms, it offered no
resistance, but rather lovingly nestled its little head upon his
shoulder, as he wrapped its blanket carefully about it, and started for
the house.
CHAPTER II.
VILLAGE GOSSIP.
Little Mildred lay in the willow basket, where Richard Howell had placed
her when he brought her from the cabin. Between himself and father there
had been a spirited controversy as to what should be done with her, the
one insisting that she should be sent to the poor-house, and the other
that she should stay at Beechwood. The discussion lasted long, and they
were still lingering at the breakfast table, when Rachel came in, her
appearance indicating that she was the bearer of some important message.
“If you please,” she began, addressing herself to the Judge, “I’ve jest
been down to Cold Spring after a bucket o’ water, for I feel mighty like
a strong cup of hyson this mornin’, bein’ I was so broke of my rest, and
the pump won’t make such a cup as Cold Spring——”
“Never mind the pump, but come to the point at once,” interposed the
Judge, glancing toward the basket with a presentiment that what she had
to tell concerned the little Mildred.
“Yes, that’s what I’m coming to, ef I ever get thar. You see, I ain’t an
atom gossipy, but bein’ that the Thompson door was wide open, and looked
invitin’ like, I thought I’d go in a minit, and after fillin’ my bucket
with water,—though come to think on’t, I ain’t sure I had filled it,—had
I? Let me see,—I b’lieve I had, though I ain’t sure——”
Rachel was extremely conscientious, and no amount of coaxing could have
tempted her to go on until she had settled it satisfactorily as to
whether the bucket was filled or not. This the Judge knew, and he waited
patiently until she decided that “the bucket _was_ filled, or else it
_wasn’t_, one or t’other,” any way, she left it on the grass, she said,
and went into Thompson’s, where she found Aunt Hepsy “choppin’ cabbage
and snappin’ at the boy with the twisted feet, who was catching flies on
the winder.”
“I didn’t go in to tell ’em anything particular, but when Miss Hawkins,
in the bedroom, give a kind of lonesome _sithe_, which I knew was for
dead Bessy, I thought I’d speak of our new baby that come last night in
the basket; so I told ’em how’t you wanted to send it to the poor-house,
but I wouldn’t let you, and was goin’ to nuss it and fotch it up as my
own, and then Miss Hawkins looked up kinder sorry-like, and says,
‘Rather than suffer that, I’ll take it in place of my little Bessy.’
“You or’to of seen Aunt Hepsy then,—but I didn’t stay to hear her blow.
I clipped it home as fast as ever I could, and left my bucket settin’ by
the spring.”
“So you’ll have no difficulty in ascertaining whether you filled it or
not,” slyly suggested Richard. Then, turning to his father, he
continued, “It strikes me favorably, this letting Hannah Hawkins take
the child, inasmuch as you are so prejudiced against it. She will be
kind to it, I’m sure, and I shall go down to see her at once.”
There was something so cool and determined in Richard’s manner, that the
Judge gave up the contest without another word, and silently watched his
son as he hurried along the beaten path which led to the Cold Spring.
Down the hill, and where its gable-roof was just discernible from the
windows of the Beechwood mansion, stood the low, brown house, which, for
many years, had been tenanted by Hezekiah Thompson, and which, after his
decease, was still occupied by Hepsabah, his wife. Only one child had
been given to Hepsabah,—a gentle, blue-eyed daughter, who, after six
years of happy wifehood, returned to her mother,—a widow, with two
little fatherless children,—one a lame, unfortunate boy, and the other a
beautiful little girl. Toward the boy with the twisted feet, Aunt Hepsy,
as she was called, looked askance, while all the kinder feelings of her
nature seemed called into being by the sweet, winning ways of the baby
Bessy; but when one bright September day they laid the little one away
beneath the autumnal grass, and came back to their home without her, she
steeled her heart against the entire world, and the wretched Hannah wept
on her lonely pillow, uncheered by a single word of comfort, save those
her little Oliver breathed into her ear.
Just one week Bessy had lain beneath the maples when Rachel bore to the
cottage news of the strange child left at the master’s door, and
instantly Hannah’s heart yearned toward the helpless infant, which she
offered to take for her own. At first her mother opposed the plan, but
when she saw how determined Hannah was, she gave it up, and in a most
unamiable frame of mind was clearing her breakfast dishes away, when
Richard Howell appeared, asking to see Mrs. Hawkins. Although a few
years older than himself, Hannah Thompson had been one of Richard’s
earliest playmates and warmest friends. He knew her disposition well,
and knew she could be trusted; and when she promised to love the little
waif, whose very helplessness had interested him in its behalf, he felt
sure that she would keep her word.
Half an hour later and Mildred lay sleeping in Bessy’s cradle, as calmly
as if she were not the subject of the most wonderful surmises and
ridiculous conjectures. On the wings of the wind the story flew that a
baby had been left on Judge Howell’s steps,—that the Judge had sworn it
should be sent to the poor-house; while the son, who came home at twelve
o’clock at night, covered with mud and wet to the skin, had evinced far
more interest in the stranger than was at all commendable for a boy
scarcely out of his teens.
“But there was no tellin’ what young bucks would do, or old ones either,
for that matter!” so at least said Widow Simms, the Judge’s bugbear, as
she donned her shaker and palm-leaf shawl, and hurried across the fields
in the direction of Beechwood, feeling greatly relieved to find that the
object of her search was farther down the hill, for she stood somewhat
in awe of the Judge and his proud son. But once in Hannah Hawkins’
bedroom, with her shaker on the floor and the baby on her lap, her
tongue was loosened, and scarcely a person in the town who could by any
possible means have been at all connected with the affair, escaped a
malicious cut. The infant was then minutely examined, and pronounced the
very image of the Judge, or of Captain Harrington, or of Deacon Snyder,
she could not tell which.
“But I’m bound to find out,” she said; “I sha’n’t rest easy nights till
I do.”
Then suddenly remembering that a kindred spirit, Polly Dutton, who lived
some distance away, had probably not yet heard the news, she fastened
her palm-leaf shawl with her broken-headed darning-needle, and bade Mrs.
Hawkins good-morning just as a group of other visitors was announced.
All that day, and for many succeeding ones, the cottage was crowded with
curious people, who had come to see the sight, and all of whom offered
an opinion as to the parentage of the child. For more than four weeks a
bevy of old women, with Widow Simms and Polly Dutton at their head, sat
upon the character of nearly every person they knew, and when at last
the sitting was ended and the verdict rendered, it was found that none
had passed the ordeal so wholly unscathed as Richard Howell. It was a
little strange, they admitted, that he should go to Kiah Thompson’s
cottage three times a day; but then he had always been extremely fond of
children, and it was but natural that he should take an interest in this
one, particularly as his father had set his face so firmly against it,
swearing heartily if its name were mentioned in his presence, and even
threatening to prosecute the Widow Simms if she ever again presumed to
say that the brat resembled him or his.
With a look of proud disdain upon his handsome, boyish face, Richard,
who on account of his delicate health had not returned to college, heard
from time to time what the gossiping villagers had to say of himself,
and when at last it was told to him that he was exonerated from all
blame, and that some had even predicted what the result would be, were
his interest in the baby to continue until she were grown to womanhood,
he burst into a merry laugh, the first which had escaped him since he
came back to Beechwood.
“Stranger things than that had happened,” Widow Simms declared, and she
held many a whispered conference with Hannah Hawkins as to the future,
when Mildred would be the mistress of Beechwood, unless, indeed, Richard
died before she were grown, an event which seemed not improbable, for as
the autumn days wore on and the winter advanced, his failing strength
became more and more perceptible, and the same old ladies, who once
before had taken his case into consideration, now looked at him through
medical eyes and pronounced him just gone with consumption.
Nothing but a sea voyage would save him, the physician said, and that to
a warm, balmy climate. So when the spring came, he engaged a berth on
board a vessel bound for the South Sea Islands, and after a pilgrimage
to the obscure New Hampshire town where Hetty Kirby was buried, he came
back to Beechwood one April night to bid his father adieu.
It was a stormy farewell, for loud, angry words were heard issuing from
the library, and Rachel, who played the part of eaves-dropper, testified
to hearing Richard say: “Listen to me, father, I have not told you all.”
To which the Judge responded, “I’ll stop my ears before I’ll hear
another word. You’ve told me enough already; and, from this hour, you
are no son of mine. Leave me at once, and my curse go with you.”
With a face as white as marble, Richard answered, “I’ll go father, and
it may be we shall never meet again; but, in the lonesome years to come,
when you are old and sick, and there is none to love you, you’ll
remember what you’ve said to me to-night.”
The Judge made no reply, and without another word Richard turned away.
Hastening down the Cold Spring path, he entered the gable-roofed
cottage, but what passed between himself and Hannah Hawkins no one knew,
though all fancied it concerned the beautiful baby Mildred, who had
grown strangely into the love of the young man, and who now, as he took
her from her crib, put her arms around his neck, and rubbed her face
against his own.
“Be kind to her, Hannah,” he said. “There are none but ourselves to care
for her now;” and laying her back in her cradle, he kissed her lips and
hastened away, while Hannah looked wistfully after him, wondering much
what the end would be.
[Illustration: Fleuron]
CHAPTER III.
NINE YEARS LATER.
Nine times the April flowers had blossomed and decayed; nine times the
summer fruits had ripened and the golden harvest been gathered in; nine
years of change had come and gone, and up the wooded avenue which led to
Judge Howell’s residence, and also to the gable-roofed cottage, lower
down the hill, two children, a boy and a girl, were slowly wending their
way. The day was balmy and bright, and the grass was as fresh and green
as when the summer rains were falling upon it, while the birds were
singing of their nests in the far off south land, whither ere long they
would go. But not of the birds, nor the grass, nor the day, was the
little girl thinking, and she did not even stop to steal a flower or a
stem of box from the handsome grounds of the cross old man, who many a
time has screamed to her from a distance, bidding her quit her childish
depredations; neither did she pay the least attention to the old
decrepit Tiger, as he trotted slowly down to meet her, licking her bare
feet and looking wistfully into her face as if he would ask the cause of
her unwonted sadness.
“Come this way, Clubs,” she said to her companion, as they reached a
point where two paths diverged from the main road, one leading to the
gable-roof, and the other to the brink of a rushing stream, which was
sometimes dignified with the name of _river_. “Come down to our
playhouse, where we can be alone, while I tell you something dreadful.”
Clubs, as he was called, from his twisted feet, obeyed, and, in a few
moments, they sat upon a mossy bank beneath the sycamore, where an
humble playhouse had been built,—a playhouse seldom enjoyed, for the
life of that little girl was not a free and easy one.
“Now, Milly, let’s have it;” and the boy Clubs looked inquiringly at
her.
Bursting into tears she hid her face in his lap and sobbed:
“Tell me true,—true as you live and breathe,—ain’t I your sister Milly,
and if I ain’t, who am I? Ain’t I anybody? Did I rain down as Maria
Stevens said I did?”
A troubled, perplexed expression flitted over the pale face of the boy,
and awkwardly smoothing the brown head resting on his patched
pantaloons, he answered:
“Who told you that story, Milly; I hoped it would be long before you
heard it!”
“Then ’tis true,—’tis true; and that’s why grandma scolds me so, and
gives me such stinchin’ pieces of cake, and not half as much bread and
milk as I can eat. Oh, dear, oh, dear,—ain’t there anybody anywhere that
owns me? Ain’t I anybody’s little girl?” and the poor child sobbed
passionately.
It had come to her that day, for the first time, that she was not
Mildred Hawkins, as she had supposed herself to be, and coupled with the
tale was a taunt concerning her uncertain parentage. But Mildred was too
young to understand the hint; she only comprehended that she was
nobody,—that the baby Bessy she had seen so often in her dreams was not
her sister,—that the gentle, loving woman, who had died of consumption
two years before, was nothing but her nurse,—and worse than all the
rest, the meek, patient, self-denying Oliver, or Clubs, was not her
brother. It was a cruel thing to tell her this, and Maria Stevens would
never have done it, save in a burst of passion. But the deed was done,
and like a leaden weight Mildred’s heart had lain in her bosom that
dreary afternoon, which, it seemed to her, would never end. Anxiously
she watched the sunshine creeping along the floor, and when it reached
the four o’clock mark, and her class, which was the last, was called
upon to spell, she drew a long sigh of relief, and taking her place,
mechanically toed the mark, a ceremony then never omitted in a New
England school.
But alas for Mildred; her evil genius was in the ascendant, for the
first word which came to her was missed, as was the next, and the next,
until she was ordered back to her seat, there to remain until her lesson
was learned. Wearily she laid her throbbing head upon the desk, while
the tears dropped fast upon the lettered page.
“Grandma will scold so hard and make me sit up so late to-night,” she
thought, and then she wondered if Clubs would go home without her, and
thus prevent her from asking him what she so much wished to know.
But Clubs never willingly deserted the little maiden, and when at last
her lesson was learned and she at liberty to go, she found him by the
road-side piling up sand with his twisted feet, and humming a mournful
tune, which he always sung when Mildred was in disgrace.
“It was kind in you to wait,” she said, taking his offered hand. “You
are real good to me;” then, as she remembered that she was nothing to
him, her lip began to quiver, and the great tears rolled down her cheeks
a second time.
“Don’t, Milly,” said the boy soothingly. “I’ll help you if she scolds
too hard.”
Mildred made no reply, but suffered him to think it was his
grandmother’s wrath she dreaded, until seated on the mossy bank, when
she told him what she had heard, and appealed to him to know if it were
true.
“Yes, Milly,” he said at length, “’tis true! You ain’t my sister! You
ain’t any relation to me! Nine years ago, this month, you were left in a
basket on Judge Howell’s steps, and they say the Judge was going to kick
you into the street, but Tiger, who was young then, took the basket in
his mouth and brought it into the hall!”
Involuntarily Mildred wound her arms around the neck of the old dog, who
lashed the ground with his tail, and licked her hand as if he knew what
it were all about.
Clubs had never heard that she was taken to Rachel’s cabin, so he told
her next of the handsome, dark-eyed Richard, and without knowing why,
Mildred’s pulses quickened as she heard of the young man who befriended
her and carried her himself to the gable-roof.
“I was five years old then,” Oliver said; “and I just remember his
bringing you in, with your great long dress hanging most to the floor.
He must have liked you, for he used to come every day to see you till he
went away!”
“Went where, Clubs? Went where?” and Mildred started up, the wild
thought flashing upon her that she would follow him even to the ends of
the earth, for if he had befriended her once he would again, and her
desolate heart warmed toward the unknown Richard, with a strange feeling
of love. “Say, Clubs, where is he now?” she continued, as Oliver
hesitated to answer. “He is not dead,—you _shan’t_ tell me that!”
“Not dead that I ever heard,” returned Oliver; “though nobody knows
where he is. He went to the South Sea Islands, and then to India. Mother
wrote to him once, but he never answered her!”
“I guess he’s dead then,” said Mildred, and her tears flowed fast to the
memory of Richard Howell, far off on the plains of Bengal.
Ere long, however, her thoughts took another channel, and turning to
Oliver, she said:
“Didn’t mother know who I was?”
Oliver shook his head and answered: “If she did she never told, though
the night she burst that blood-vessel and died so suddenly, she tried to
say something about you, for she kept gasping ‘Milly is,—Milly is,—’ and
when she couldn’t tell, she pointed toward Beechwood.”
“Clubs!” and Mildred’s eyes grew black as midnight, as she looked into
the boy’s face, “_Clubs, Judge Howell is my father!_ for don’t you mind
once that the widow Simms said I looked like the picture of his
beautiful daughter, which hangs in the great parlor. I mean to go up
there some day, and ask him if he ain’t.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t!” exclaimed Oliver, utterly confounded at
the idea of Mildred’s facing the crusty, ill-natured Judge, and asking
if he were not her father. “He’d pound you with his gold-headed cane. He
hates you!” and Oliver’s voice sunk to a whisper. “He hates you because
they do say you look like him, and act like him, too, when you are mad.”
This last remark carried Mildred’s thoughts backward a little, and for
several moments she sat perfectly still; then leaving Tiger, whom all
the time she had been fondling, she came to Oliver’s side, passed her
hands caressingly over his face, smoothed his thin, light hair, timidly
kissed his forehead, and whispered beseechingly:
“I am awful ugly, sometimes, I know. I scratched you once, Clubs, and
stepped on your crooked feet, but I love you, oh, you don’t know how
much; and if I ain’t your sister, you’ll love me just the same, won’t
you, precious Oliver. I shall die if you don’t.”
There were tears on the meek, patient face of Oliver, but before he
could reply to this appeal, they were startled by the loud, shrill cry
of——
“Mildred,—Mildred Hawkins!—what are you lazin’ away here for? I’ve been
to the school-house and everywhere. March home this minute, I say,” and
adjusting her iron-bowed specs more firmly on her sharp, pointed nose,
Hepsy Thompson came toward the two delinquents, frowning wrathfully, and
casting furtive glances around her, as if in quest of Solomon’s
prescription for children who loitered on the road from school. At the
sight of the ogress, Mildred grew white with fear, while Oliver, winding
his arm protectingly around her, whispered in her ear:
“You are sorry I am not your brother, but you must be glad that _she_
ain’t your granny!” and he jerked his elbow toward Aunt Hepsy, who by
this time had come quite near.
Yes, Mildred was glad of that, and Oliver’s remark was timely, awakening
within her a feeling of defiance toward the woman who had so often
tyrannized over her. Instead of crying or hiding behind Oliver, as she
generally did when the old lady’s temper was at its boiling-point, she
answered boldly:
“I was kept after school for missing, and then I coaxed Clubs out here
to tell me who I am, for I know now I ain’t Mildred Hawkins, and you
ain’t my granny either.”
It would be impossible to describe the expression of Hepsy’s face, or
the attitude of her person, at that moment, as she stood with her mouth
open, her green calash hanging down her back, her nose elevated, and her
hands upraised in astonishment at what she had heard. For a time after
Hannah’s death, Mrs. Thompson had tolerated Mildred simply because her
daughter had loved her, and she could not wholly cast her off; but after
a few weeks she found that the healthy, active child could be made
useful in various ways, and had an opportunity presented itself, she
would not have given her up. So she kept her, and Mildred now was little
more than a drudge, where once she had been a petted and half-spoiled
child. She washed the dishes, swept the floors, scoured the knives,
scrubbed the door-sill, and latterly she had been initiated into the
mysteries of _shoe-closing_, an employment then very common to the women
and children of the Bay State. By scolding and driving, early and late,
Aunt Hepsy managed to make her earn fifteen cents a day, and as this to
her was quite an item, she had an object for wishing to keep Mildred
with her. Thus it was not from any feeling of humanity that she with
others remained silent as to Mildred’s parentage, but simply because she
had an undefined fancy that, if the child once knew there was no tie of
blood between them, she would some day, when her services were most
needed, resent the abuses heaped upon her, and go out into the world
alone. So when she heard from Mildred herself that she did know,—when
the words, “You are not my granny,” were hurled at her defiantly, as it
were, she felt as if something she had valued was wrested from her, and
she stood a moment uncertain how to act.
But Hepsy Thompson was equal to almost any emergency, and after a little
she recovered from her astonishment, and replied:
“So you know it, do you? Well, I’m glad if somebody’s saved me the
trouble of telling you how you’ve lived on us all these years. S’posin I
was to turn you out-doors, where would you go or who would you go to?”
Mildred’s voice trembled, and the tears gathered in her large, dark
eyes, as she answered:
“Go to _mother_, if I could find her.”
“Your mother!” and a smile of scorn curled Hepsy’s withered lips. “A
pretty mother you’ve got. If she’d cast you off when a baby, it’s mighty
likely she’d take you now.”
Every word which Hepsy said stung Mildred’s sensitive nature, for she
felt that it was true. Her mother had cast her off, and in all the wide
world there was no one to care for her, no place she could call her
home, save the cheerless gable-roof, and even there she had no right.
Once a thought of Richard flitted across her mind, but it soon passed
away, for he was probably dead, and if not, he had forgotten her ere
this. All her assurance left her, and burying her face in Oliver’s lap,
she moaned aloud:
“Oh, Clubs, Clubs, I most wish I was dead. Nobody wants me nowhere. What
shall I do?”
“Do?” repeated the harsh voice of Hepsy. “Go home and set yourself to
work. Them shoes has got to be stitched before you go to bed, so, budge,
I say.”
There was no alternative but submission, and with a swelling heart
Mildred followed the hard woman up the hill and along the narrow path
and into the cheerless kitchen, where lay the shoes which she must
finish ere she could hope for food or rest.
“Let me take them upstairs,” she said; “I can work faster alone,” and as
Hepsy made no objection, she hurried to her little room beneath the
roof.
Her head was aching dreadfully, and her tears came so fast that she
could scarcely see the holes in which to put her needles. The smell of
the wax, too, made her sick, while the bright sunlight which came in
through the western window made her still more uncomfortable. Tired,
hungry, and faint, she made but little progress with her task, and was
about giving up in despair, when the door opened cautiously and Oliver
came softly in. He was a frail, delicate boy, and since his mother’s
death Hepsy had been very careful of him.
“He couldn’t work,” she said; “and there was no need of it either, so
long as Mildred was so strong and healthy.”
But Oliver thought differently. Many a time had he in secret helped the
little, persecuted girl, and it was for this purpose that he had sought
her chamber now.
“Grandmother has gone to Widow Simms’s to stay till nine o’clock,” he
said, “and I’ve come up to take your place. Look what I have brought
you;” and he held to view a small blackberry pie, which his grandmother
had made for him, and which he had saved for the hungry Mildred.
There was no resisting Oliver, and Mildred yielded him her place. Laying
her throbbing head upon her scanty pillow, she watched him as he applied
himself diligently to her task. He was not a handsome boy; he was too
pale,—too thin,—too old-looking for that, but to Mildred, who knew how
good he was, he seemed perfectly beautiful, sitting there in the fading
sunlight and working so hard for her.
“Clubs,” she said, “you are the dearest boy in all the world, and if I
ever find out who I am and happen to be rich, you shall share with me.
I’ll give you more than half. I wish I could do something for you now,
to show how much I love you.”
The needles were suspended for a moment, while the boy looked through
the window far off on the distant hills where the sunlight still was
shining.
“I guess I shall be dead then,” he said, “but there’s one thing you
could do now, if you would. I don’t mind it in other folks, but somehow
it always hurts me when _you_ call me _Clubs_. I can’t help my
bad-shaped feet, and I don’t cry about it as I used to do, nor pray that
God would turn them back again, for I know He won’t. I must walk
backwards all my life, but, when I get to Heaven, there won’t be any bad
boys there to plague me and call me _Reel-foot_ or _Clubs_! Mother never
did; and almost the first thing I remember of her she was kissing my
poor crippled feet and dropping tears upon them!”
Mildred forgot to eat her berry pie; forgot her aching head,—forgot
everything in her desire to comfort the boy, who, for the first time in
his life, had, in her presence, murmured at his misfortune.
“I’ll never call you Clubs again,” she said, folding her arms around his
neck. “I love your crooked feet; I love every speck of you, Oliver, and,
if I could, I’d give you my feet, though they ain’t much handsomer than
yours, they are so big!” and she stuck up a short, fat foot, which, to
Oliver, seemed the prettiest he had ever seen.
“No, Milly,” he said, “I’d rather be the deformed one. I want you to
grow up handsome, as I most know you will!” and, resuming his task, he
looked proudly at the bright little face, which bade fair to be
wondrously beautiful.
Mildred did not like to work if she could help it, and, climbing upon
the bed, she lay there while Oliver stitched on industriously. But her
thoughts were very busy, for she was thinking of the mysterious Richard,
wondering if he were really dead, and if he ever had thought of her when
afar on the Southern seas. Then, as she remembered having heard that his
portrait hung in the drawing-room at Beechwood, she felt a strong desire
to see it; and why couldn’t she? Wasn’t she going up there, some day, to
ask the Judge if he were not her father? Yes, she was! and so she said
again to Oliver, telling him how she meant to be real smart for ever so
long, till his grandmother was good-natured and would let her go. She
would wear her best calico gown and dimity pantalets, while Oliver
should carry his grandfather’s cane, by way of imitating the Judge, who
might thus be more impressed with a sense of his greatness.
Although he lived so near, Oliver had never had more than a passing
glance of the inside of the great house on the hill, and now that the
first surprise was over, he began to feel a pleasing interest in the
idea of entering its spacious halls with Mildred. They would go some
day, he said, and he tried to frame a good excuse to give the Judge, who
might not be inclined to let them in. Mildred, on the contrary, took no
forethought as to what she must say; her wits always came when needed,
and, while Oliver was thinking, she fell away to sleep, resting so
quietly that she did not hear him go below for the bit of tallow candle
necessary to complete his task; neither did she see him, when his work
was done, bend over her as she slept. Very gently he arranged her
pillow, pushed back the hair which had fallen over her eyes, and then,
treading softly on his poor warped feet, he left her room and sought his
own, where his grandmother found him sleeping, when at nine o’clock she
came home from Widow Simms’s.
Mildred’s chamber was visited next, the old lady starting back in much
surprise, when, instead of the little figure bending over her bench, she
saw the shoes all finished and put away, while Mildred, too, was
sleeping,—her lips and hands stained with the berry pie, a part of which
lay upon the chair.
“It’s Oliver’s doings,” old Hepsy muttered, while thoughts of his
crippled feet rose up in time to prevent an explosion of her wrath.
She could maltreat little Mildred, who had no mar or blemish about her,
but she could not abuse a deformed boy, and she went silently down the
stairs, leaving Oliver to his dreams of Heaven, where there were no
crippled boys, and Mildred to her dreams of Richard, and the time when
she would go to Beechwood, and claim Judge Howell for her sire.
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER IV.
OLIVER AND MILDRED VISIT BEECHWOOD.
Mildred had adhered to her resolution of being _smart_, as she termed
it, and had succeeded so far in pleasing Mrs. Thompson that the old lady
reluctantly consented to giving her a half holiday, and letting her go
with Oliver to Beechwood one Saturday afternoon. At first Oliver
objected to accompanying her, for he could not overcome his dread of the
cross Judge, who, having conceived a dislike for Mildred, extended that
dislike even to the inoffensive Oliver, always frowning wrathfully at
him, and seldom speaking to him a civil word. The girl Mildred the Judge
had only seen at a distance, for he never went near the gable-roof, and
as he read his prayers at St. Luke’s, while Hepsy screamed hers at the
Methodist chapel, there was no chance of his meeting her at church.
Neither did he wish to see her, for so many stories had been fabricated
concerning himself and the little girl, that he professed to hate the
sound of her name. He knew her figure, though, and never did she pass
down the avenue, and out into the highway, on the road to school, but he
saw her from his window, watching her until out of sight, and wondering
to himself who she was, and why that Maine woman had let her alone so
long! It was just the same when she came back at night. Judge Howell
knew almost to a minute when the blue pasteboard bonnet and spotted
calico dress would enter the gate, and hence it was that just so sure as
she stopped to pick a flower or stem of box (a thing she seldom failed
to do), just so sure was he to scream at the top of his voice:
“Quit that, you trollop, and be off, I say.”
Once she had answered back:
“_Yow, yow, yow!_ who’s afraid of you, old cross-patch!” while through
the dusky twilight he had discerned the flourish of a tiny fist!
Nothing pleased the Judge more than _grit_, as he called it, and shaking
his portly sides, he returned to the house, leaving the audacious child
to gather as many flowers as she pleased. In spite of his professed
aversion, there was, for the Judge, a strange fascination about the
little Mildred, who, on one Saturday afternoon, was getting herself in
readiness to visit him in his fortress. Great pains she took with her
soft, brown hair, brushing it until her arm ached with the exercise, and
then smoothing it with her hands until it shone like glass. Aunt Hepsy
Thompson was very neat in her household arrangements, and the calico
dress which Mildred wore was free from the least taint of dirt, as were
the dimity pantalets, the child’s especial pride. A string of blue wax
beads was suspended from her neck, and when her little straw bonnet was
tied on, her toilet was complete.
Oliver, too, entering into Mildred’s spirit, had spent far more time
than usual before the cracked looking-glass which hung upon the wall;
but he was ready at last, and issued forth, equipped in his best, even
to the cane which Mildred had purloined from its hiding-place, and which
she kept concealed until Hepsy’s back was turned, when she adroitly
slipped it into his hand and hurried him away.
It was a hazy October day, and here and there a gay-colored leaf was
dropping silently from the trees, which grew around Beechwood. In the
garden through which the children passed, for the sake of coming first
to Rachel’s cabin, many bright autumnal flowers were in blossom; but for
once Mildred’s fingers left them untouched. She was too intent upon the
house, which, with its numerous chimneys, balconies, and windows, seemed
to frown gloomily down upon her.
“What shall you say to the Judge?” Oliver asked, and Mildred answered:
“I don’t know _what_ I shall say, but if he _sasses_ me, it’s pretty
likely I shall _sass_ him back.”
Just then Rachel appeared in the door, and, spying the two children as
they came through the garden-gate, she shaded her eyes with her tawny
hand, to be sure she saw aright.
“Yes, ’tis Mildred Hawkins,” she said; and she cast a furtive glance
backward through the wide hall, toward the sitting-room, where the Judge
sat, dozing in his willow chair.
“Was it this door, under these steps, that I was left?” asked Mildred in
a whisper, but before Oliver could reply Rachel had advanced to meet
them.
Mildred was not afraid of her, for the good-natured negress had been
kind to her in various ways, and going boldly forward, she said:
“I’ve come to see Judge Howell. Is he at home?”
Rachel looked aghast, and Mildred, thinking she would not state her
principal reason for wishing to see him, continued, “I want to see the
basket I was brought here in and everything.”
“Do you know then? Who told you?” and Rachel looked inquiringly at
Oliver, who answered: “Yes, she knows. They told her at school.”
The fact that she knew gave her, in Rachel’s estimation, some right to
come, and motioning her to be very cautious, she said: “The basket is up
in the garret. Come still, so as not to wake up the Judge,” and taking
off her own shoes by way of example, she led the way through the hall,
followed by Oliver and Mildred, the latter of whom could not forbear
pausing to look in at the room where the Judge sat unconsciously nodding
at her.
“Come away,” whispered Oliver, but Mildred would not move, and she stood
gazing at the Judge as if he had been a caged lion.
Just then _Finis_, who being really the last and youngest, was a spoiled
child, yelled lustily for his mother. It was hazardous not to go at his
bidding, and telling the children to stand still till she returned,
Rachel hurried away.
“Now then,” said Mildred, spying the drawing-room door ajar, “we’ll have
a good time by ourselves,” and taking Oliver’s hand, she walked boldly
into the parlor, where the family portraits were hanging.
At first her eye was perfectly dazzled with the elegance of which she
had never dreamed, but as she became somewhat accustomed to it, she
began to look about and make her observations.
“Isn’t this glorious, though! Wouldn’t I like to live here!” and she set
her little foot hard down upon the velvet carpet.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” said Oliver in his meekest tone, and Mildred
turned just in time to see him bow to what he fancied to be a beautiful
young lady smiling down upon them from a gilded frame.
“The portraits! the portraits!” she cried, clapping her hands together,
and, in an instant, she stood face to face with Mildred Howell, of the
“starry eyes and nut-brown hair.”
But why should that picture affect little Mildred so strangely, causing
her to hold her breath and gaze up at it with childish awe. It was very,
very beautiful, and hundreds had admired its girlish loveliness; but to
Mildred it brought another feeling than that of admiration,—a feeling as
if that face had looked at her many a time from the old, cracked glass
at home.
“Oliver,” she said, “what is it about the lady? Who is she like, or
where have I seen her before?”
Oliver was quite as perplexed as herself; for the features of Mildred
Howell seemed familiar even to him. He had somewhere seen their
semblance, but he did not think of looking for it in the little girl,
whose face grew each moment more and more like the one upon the canvas.
And not like that alone, but also like the portrait beyond,—the portrait
of Richard Howell. Mildred had not noticed this yet, though the mild,
dark eyes seemed watching her every moment, just as another pair of
living eyes were watching her from the door.
Mildred’s scream of joy had penetrated to the ears of the sleeping
Judge, rousing him from his after-dinner nap, and causing him to listen
again for the voice which sounded like an echo from the past. The cry
was not repeated, but through the open door he heard distinctly the
childish voice, and shaking off his drowsiness he started to see who the
intruders could be.
Judge Howell did not believe in the supernatural. Indeed, he scarcely
believed in anything, but when he first caught sight of Mildred’s deep,
brown eyes, and sparkling face, a strange feeling of awe crept over him,
for it seemed as if his only daughter had stepped suddenly from the
canvas, and going backward, for a few years, had come up before him the
same little child, whose merry laugh and winsome ways had once made the
sunlight of his home. The next instant, however, his eye fell upon
_Oliver_, and then he knew who it was. His first impulse was to scream
lustily at the intruder, bidding her begone, but there was something in
the expression of her face which kept him silent, and he stood watching
her curiously, as, with eyes upturned, lips apart, and hands clasped
nervously together, she stood gazing at his daughter, and asking her
companion who the lady was like.
Oliver could not tell, but to the Judge’s lips the answer sprang, “She’s
like you.” Then, as he remembered that others had thought the same, his
wrath began to rise; for nothing had ever so offended him as hearing
people say that Mildred Hawkins resembled him or his.
“You minx!” he suddenly exclaimed, advancing into the room, “what are
you doing here and who are you, hey?”
Oliver colored painfully, and looked about for some safe hiding-place,
while Mildred, poising her head a little on one side, unflinchingly
replied:
“I am Mildred. Who be you?”
“Did I ever hear such impudence?” muttered the Judge, and striding up to
the child, he continued, in his loudest tones, “Who in thunder do you
think I am?”
Very calmly Mildred looked him in the face and deliberately replied:
“I think you are _my father_; anyway, I’ve come up to ask if you ain’t.”
“Great Heavens!” and the Judge involuntarily raised his hand to smite
the audacious Mildred, but before the blow descended his eyes met those
of Richard, and though it was a picture he looked at, there was
something in that picture which stayed the act, and his hand came down
very gently upon the soft brown hair of the child who was so like both
son and daughter.
“Say,” persisted Mildred, emboldened by this very perceptible change in
his demeanor, “be you my father, and if you ain’t, who is? Is _he_?” And
she pointed toward Richard, whose mild, dark eyes seemed to Oliver to
smile approvingly upon her.
Never before in his life had the Judge been so uncertain as to whether
it were proper to scold or to laugh. The idea of that little girl’s
coming up to Beechwood, and claiming him for her father was perfectly
preposterous, and yet in spite of himself there was about her something
he could not resist,—she seemed near to him,—so near that for one brief
instant the thought flitted across his brain that he would keep her
there with him, and not let her go back to the gable-roof where rumor
said she was far from being happy. Then as he remembered all that had
been said, and how his adopting her would give rise to greater scandal,
he steeled his heart against her and replied, in answer to her
questions, “You haven’t any father, and never had. Your mother was a
good-for-nothing jade from Maine, who left you here because she knew I
had money, and she thought maybe I’d keep you and make you my heir. But
she was grandly mistaken. I sent you off then and I’ll send you off
again, so begone you baggage, and don’t you let me catch you stealing
any more flowers, or calling me names, either, such as ‘old
cross-patch.’ I ain’t deaf; I heard you.”
“You called me names first, and you are a heap older than I am,” Mildred
answered, moving reluctantly toward the door, and coming to a firm stand
as she reached the threshold.
“What are you waiting for?” asked the Judge, and Mildred replied, “I
ain’t in any hurry, and I shan’t go until I see that basket I was
brought here in.”
“The plague you won’t,” returned the Judge, now growing really angry.
“We’ll see who’s master; and taking her by the shoulder, he led her
through the hall, down the steps, and out into the open air, followed by
Oliver, who having expected some such denouement, was not greatly
disappointed.
“Let’s go back,” he said, as he saw indications of what he called, “one
of Milly’s tantrums.” But Milly would not stir until she had given vent
to her wrath, looking and acting exactly like the Judge, who, from an
upper window, was watching her with mingled feelings of amusement and
admiration.
“She’s spunky, and no mistake,” he thought, “but I’ll be hanged if I
don’t like the spitfire. Where the plague did she get those eyes, and
that mouth so much like Mildred and Richard? She bears herself proudly,
too, I will confess,” he continued, as he saw her at last cross the yard
and join Rachel, who, having found him in the parlor when she came back
from quieting Finn, had stolen away unobserved.
Twice the Judge turned from the window, and as often went back again,
watching Mildred, as she passed slowly through the garden, and half
wishing she would gather some of his choicest flowers, so that he could
call after her and see again the angry flash of her dark eyes. But
Mildred did not meddle with the flowers, and when her little straw
bonnet disappeared from view, the Judge began to pace the floor,
wondering at the feeling of loneliness which oppressed him, and the
voice which whispered that he had turned from his door a second time the
child who had a right to a place by his hearthstone and a place in his
heart, even though he were not her father.
CHAPTER V.
LAWRENCE THORNTON AND HIS ADVICE.
The fact that Mildred had dared go up to Beechwood and claim Judge
Howell as her father, did not tend in the least to improve her
situation, for regarding it as proof that she would, if she could,
abandon the gable-roof, Aunt Hepsy became more unamiable than ever,
keeping the child from school, and imposing upon her tasks which never
could have been performed but for Oliver’s assistance. Deep and dark
were the waters through which Mildred was passing now, and in the coming
future she saw no ray of hope, but behind that heavy cloud the sun was
shining bright and only a little way beyond, the pastures lay all green
and fair.
But no such thoughts as these intruded themselves upon her mind on the
Sabbath afternoon when, weary and dejected, she stole from the house,
unobserved even by Oliver, and wended her way to the river bank. It was
a warm November day, and seating herself upon the withered grass beneath
the sycamore, she watched the faded leaves as they dropped into the
stream and floated silently away. In the quiet Sabbath hush there was
something very soothing to her irritated nerves, and she ere long fell
asleep, resting her head upon the twisted roots, which made almost as
soft a pillow as the scanty one of hen’s feathers on which she was
accustomed to repose.
She had not lain there long when a footstep broke the stillness, and a
boy, apparently about fourteen or fifteen years of age, drew near,
pausing suddenly as his eye fell upon the sleeping child.
“Belongs to some one of the Judge’s poor tenants, I dare say,” he said
to himself, glancing at her humble dress, and he was about passing her
by, when something in her face attracted his attention, and he stopped
for a nearer view.
“Who is she like?” he said, and he ran over in his mind a list of his
city friends, but among them all there was no face like this one. “Where
have I seen her?” he continued, and determining not to leave the spot
until the mystery was solved, he sat down upon a stone near by. “She
sleeps long; she must be tired,” he said at last, as the sun drew nearer
to the western horizon, and there were still no signs of waking. “I know
she’s mighty uncomfortable with her neck on that sharp point,” he
continued, and drawing near he substituted himself for the gnarled roots
which had hitherto been Mildred’s pillow.
Something the little girl said in her sleep of _Oliver_, whom she
evidently fancied was with her, and then her brown head nestled down in
the lap of the handsome boy, who smoothed her hair gently, while he
wondered more and more whom she was like. Suddenly it came to him, and
he started so quickly that Mildred awoke, and with a cry of alarm at the
sight of an entire stranger, sprang to her feet as if she would run
away. But the boy held her back, saying pleasantly:
“Not so fast, my little lady. I haven’t held you till my arms ache for
nothing. Come here and tell me who you are.”
His voice and manner both were winning, disarming Mildred of all fear,
and sitting down, as he bade her do, she answered:
“I am Mildred,—and that’s all.”
“Mildred,—and that’s all!” he repeated. “You surely have some other
name! Who is your father?”
“I never had any, Judge Howell says, and my mother put me in a basket,
and left me up at Beechwood, ever so long ago. It thundered and
lightened awfully, and I wish the thunder had killed me before I was as
tired and sorry as I am now. There’s nobody to love me anywhere but
Richard and Oliver, and Richard, I guess, is dead, while Oliver has
crippled feet, and if he grows to be a man he can’t earn enough for me
and him, and I’ll have to stay with grandmother till I die. Oh, I wish
it could be now; and I’ve held my breath a lot of times to see if I
couldn’t stop breathing, but I always choke and come to life!”
All the boy’s curiosity was roused. He had heard before of the infant
left at Judge Howell’s, and he knew now that she sat there before him,—a
much-abused, neglected child, with that strange look upon her face which
puzzled him just as it had many an older person.
“Poor little girl,” he said. “Where do you live, and who takes care of
you? Tell me all about it;” and adroitly leading her on, he learned the
whole story of her life,—how since the woman died she once thought was
her mother she had scarcely known a happy day. Old Hepsy was so cross,
putting upon her harder tasks than she could well perform,—beating her
often, and tyrannizing over her in a thousand different ways.
“I used to think it was bad enough when I thought she was related,” said
Mildred, “but now I know she hain’t no right, it seems a hundred times
worse,—and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’d run away,” suggested the boy; and Mildred replied:
“Run where? I was never three miles from here in my life.”
“Run to Boston,” returned the boy. “That’s where I live. Cousin
Geraldine wants a waiting-maid, and though she’d be mighty overbearing,
father would be good, I guess, and so would Lilian,—she’s just about
your size.”
“Who is Lilian?” Mildred asked, and he replied:
“I call her cousin, though she isn’t at all related. Father’s sister
Mary married Mr. Veille, and died when Geraldine was born. Ever so many
years after uncle married again and had Lilian, but neither he nor his
second wife lived long, and as father was appointed guardian for
Geraldine and Lilian, they have lived with us ever since. Geraldine is
proud, but Lilian is a pretty little thing. You’ll like her if you
come.”
“Should _you_ be there?” Mildred asked, much more interested in the
handsome boy than in Lilian Veille.
“I shall be there till I go to college,” returned the boy; “but
Geraldine wouldn’t let you have much to say to me, she’s so stuck up,
and feels so big. The boys at school told me once that she meant I
should marry Lilian, but I sha’n’t if I don’t want to.”
Mildred did not answer immediately, but sat thinking intently, with her
dark eyes fixed upon the stream running at her feet. Something in her
attitude reminded the boy a second time of the resemblance which had at
first so impressed him, and turning her face more fully toward him, he
said:
“Do you know that you look exactly as my mother did?”
Mildred started eagerly. The old burning desire to know who she was, or
whence she came, was awakened, and grasping the boy’s hand, she said:
“Maybe you’re my brother, then. Oh, I wish you was! Come down to the
brook, where the sun shines; we can see our faces there and know if _we_
look alike.”
She had grasped his arm and was trying to draw him forward, when he
dashed all her newly-formed hopes by saying:
“It is my step-mother you resemble; she that was the famous beauty,
Mildred Howell.”
“That pretty lady in the frame?” said Mildred, rather sadly. “Widow
Simms says I look like her. And was she your mother?”
“She was father’s second wife,” returned the boy, “and I am Lawrence
Thornton, of Boston.”
Seeing that the name, “Lawrence Thornton,” did not impress the little
girl as he fancied it would, the boy proceeded to give her an outline
history of himself and family, which last, he said, was one of the
oldest, and richest, and most aristocratic in the city.
“Have you any sisters?” Mildred asked, and Lawrence replied:
“I had a sister once, a good deal older than I am. I don’t remember her
much, for when I was five years old,—that’s ten years ago,—she ran off
with her music teacher, Mr. Harding, and never came back again; and
about a year later, we heard that she was dead, and that there was a
girl-baby that died with her——”
“Yes; but what of the beautiful lady, your mother?” chimed in Mildred,
far more interested in Mildred Howell than in the baby reported to have
died with Lawrence’s sister Helen.
Lawrence Thornton did not know that the far-famed “starry eyes” of sweet
Mildred Howell had wept bitter tears ere she consented to do her
father’s bidding and wed a man many years her senior, and whose only
daughter was exactly her own age; neither did he know how from the day
she wore her bridal robes, looking a very queen, she had commenced to
fade,—for Autumn and May did not go well together, even though the
former were gilded all over with gold. He only had a faint remembrance
that she was to him a playmate rather than a mother, and that she seemed
to love to have him kiss her and caress her fair round cheek far better
than his father. So he told this last to Mildred, and told her, too, how
his father and Judge Howell both had cried when they stood together by
her coffin.
“And Richard,” said Mildred,—“was Richard there?”
Lawrence did not know, for he was scarcely four years old when his
step-mother died.
“But I have seen Richard Howell,” he said; “I saw him just before he
went away. He came to Boston to see Cousin Geraldine, I guess, for I’ve
heard since that Judge Howell wanted him to marry her when she got big
enough. She was only thirteen then, but that’s a way the Howells and
Thorntons have of marrying folks a great deal older than themselves. You
don’t catch me at any such thing, though. How old are you, Mildred?”
Lawrence Thornton hadn’t the slightest motive in asking this question,
neither did he wait to have it answered; for, observing that the sun was
really getting very low in the heavens, he arose, and, telling Mildred
that dinner would be waiting for him at Beechwood, where he was now
spending a few days, he bade her good-by, and walked rapidly away.
As far as she could see him Mildred followed him with her eyes, and
when, at last, a turn in the winding path hid him from her view, she
resumed her seat upon the twisted roots and cried, for the world to her
was doubly desolate now that he was gone.
“He was so bright, so handsome,” she said, “and he looked so sorry like
when he said ‘poor little Milly!’ Oh, I wish he would stay with me
always!”
Then she remembered what he had said to her of going to Boston, and she
resolved that when next old Hepsy’s treatment became harsher than she
could bear, she would surely follow his advice and run away to Boston,
perhaps, and be waiting-maid to Miss Geraldine Veille. She had no idea
what the duties of a waiting-maid were, but no situation could be worse
than her present one, and then Lawrence would be there a portion of the
time at least. Yes, she would certainly run away, she said; nor was it
very long ere she had an opportunity of carrying her resolution into
effect, for as the weather grew colder, Hepsy, who was troubled with
rheumatism and corns, became intolerably cross and one day punished
Mildred for a slight offense far more severely than she had ever done
before.
“I can’t stay,—I won’t stay,—I’ll go this very night!” thought Mildred,
as blow after blow fell upon her uncovered neck and arms.
Then as her eye fell upon the white-faced Oliver, who apparently
suffered more than herself, she felt a moment’s indecision. Oliver would
miss her,—Oliver would cry when he found that she was gone, but Lawrence
Thornton would get him a place as chore boy somewhere near her, and then
they would be so happy in the great city, where Hepsy’s tongue could not
reach them. She did not think that money would be needed to carry her to
Boston, for she had been kept so close at home that she knew little of
the world, and she fancied that she had only to steal away to the depot
unobserved, and the rest would follow, as a matter of course. The
conductor would take her when she told him of Hepsy, as she meant to do,
and once in the city anybody would tell her where Lawrence Thornton
lived. This being satisfactorily settled, her next step was to pin up in
a cotton handkerchief her best calico dress and pantalets, for if the
Lady Geraldine were proud as Lawrence Thornton had said, she would want
her waiting-maid to look as smart as possible.
Accordingly the faded frock and dimity pantalets, which had not been
worn since that memorable visit to Beechwood, were made into a bundle,
Mildred thinking the while how she would put them on in the woods, where
there was no danger of being detected by old Hepsy, who was screaming
for her to come down and fill the kettle.
“It’s the last time I shall do it,” thought Mildred, as she descended
the stairs and began to make her usual preparation for the supper, and
the little girl’s step was lighter at the prospect of her release from
bondage.
But every time she looked at Oliver, who was suffering from a sick
headache, the tears came to her eyes, and she was more than once tempted
to give up her wild project of running away.
“Dear Oliver,” she whispered, when at last the supper was over, the
dishes washed, the floor swept, and it was almost time for her to go.
“Dear Oliver,” and going over to where he sat, she pressed her hand upon
his throbbing temples,—“you are the dearest, kindest brother that ever
was born, and you must remember how much I love you, if anything should
happen.”
Oliver did not heed the last part of her remark, he only knew he liked
to have her warm hand on his forehead, it made him feel better, and
placing his own thin fingers over it he kept it there a long time, while
Mildred glanced nervously at the clock, whose constantly moving
minute-hand warned her it was time to go. Immediately after supper Hepsy
had taken her knitting and gone to spend the evening with Widow Simms,
and in her absence Mildred dared do things she would otherwise have left
undone. Kneeling down by Oliver and laying her head upon his knee, she
said:
“If I should die or go away forever, you’ll forgive me, won’t you, for
striking you in the barn that time, and laughing at your feet. I was
mad, or I shouldn’t have done it, I’ve cried about it so many times,”
and she laid her hand caressingly upon the poor, deformed feet turned
backward beneath her chair.
“Oh, I never think of that,” answered Oliver; “and if you were to die, I
should want to die, too, ’twould be so lonesome without little Milly.”
Poor Milly! She thought her heart would burst, and nothing but a most
indomitable will could have sustained her; kissing him several times she
arose, and making some excuse, hurried away up to her room. It took but
a moment to put on her bonnet and shawl, and stealing noiselessly down
the stairs, she passed out into the winter darkness, pausing for a
moment beneath the uncurtained window, to gaze at Oliver, sitting there
alone, the dim fire-light shining on his patient face and falling on his
hair. He did not see the brown eyes filled with tears, nor the forehead
pressed against the pane, neither did he hear the whispered words,
“Good-by, darling Oliver, good-by,” but he thought the room was darker,
while the shadows in the corner seemed blacker than before, and he
listened eagerly for the footsteps coming down, but listened in vain,
for in the distance, with no company save the gray December clouds and
her own bewildered thoughts, a little figure was hurrying away to the
far off city,—and away to Lawrence Thornton.
[Illustration: Fleuron]
CHAPTER VI.
WHAT CAME OF IT.
Hepsy’s clock, which was thought by its mistress to regulate the sun,
was really a great deal too slow, and Mildred had scarcely gone half the
way to the Mayfield station, when she was startled by the shrill scream
of the engine, and knew that she was left behind.
“Oh, what shall I do?” she cried. “I can’t go back, for maybe Hepsy’s
home before now, and she would kill me sure. My arm aches now where she
struck me so hard, the old good-for-nothing. I’d rather stay here alone
in the woods,” and sinking against a log Mildred began to cry.
Not for a moment, however, did she regret what she had done. The dreary
gable-roof seemed tenfold drearier to her than the lonesome woods, while
the winter wind, sighing through leafless trees, was music compared with
Hepsy’s voice. The day had not been very cold, but the night was chilly,
and not a single star shone through the leaden clouds. A storm was
coming on, and Mildred felt the snow-flakes dropping on her face.
“I don’t want to be buried in the snow and die,” she thought, “for I
ain’t very good; I’m an awful sinner, granny says, and sure to go to
perdition, but I ain’t so certain about that. God wouldn’t be very hard
on a little girl who has been treated as mean as I have. He’d make some
allowance for my dreadful bringing up. I wonder if He is here now; Olly
says He is everywhere, and if He is and can see me in my tantrums He can
see me in the dark. I mean to pray to Him just as good as I can, and ask
Him to take care of me;” and kneeling by the old log, with the darkness
all about her, and the snow-flakes falling thickly upon her upturned
face, she began a prayer which was a strange mixture of what she had
heard at St. Luke’s, where she had once been with Oliver, what she had
often heard at the prayer meetings which she had frequently attended
with Aunt Hepsy, and of her real self as she thought and felt.
She began: “Have mercy upon us, miserable sinners, for if I know my own
heart, I think I have made a new consecration of all that I have and all
that I am since we last met, and henceforth I mean to,—mean to,——”
Here the mere form of words left her, and the child Milly spoke out and
told her trouble to God.
“Oh, Jesus,” she said, “if you be really here, and if you can hear what
I say, as Olly says you can, I wish you’d come up close to me, right
here by the log, so I needn’t feel afraid while I tell you how granny
has whipped me so many times for ’most nothing, and never let me have a
real doll or do anything I wanted to, and I’ve been so unhappy there,
and wicked, too, and mad at her, and called her ugly names behind her
back, and would to her face, only I dassent, and I’ve made mouths at her
and wished I could lick her, and have even in my tantrums been mean to
Olly, and twitted him about his twisted feet, and pulled his hair and
spit at him as fast as I could spit, and loved him all the time, and now
I’ve runned away and the cars have left me when I was going in them to
Boston to see Lawrence Thornton and be Miss Geraldine’s waiting-maid,
and it’s dark and cold and snowy here in the woods, and I am afraid of
something, I don’t know what, and I can’t go back to granny, who would
almost skin me alive, and she ain’t my granny either; some Maine woman
sent me to Judge Howell, in a thunder-storm and basket, and I’m nobody’s
little girl; so, please, Jesus, take care of me and tell me where to go
and what to do, and I’m so sorry for all my badness, especially to Olly,
for Christ’s sake, Amen.”
This was a very long prayer for Milly, who had never before said more
than “Now I lay me,” or the Lord’s prayer; but God saw and heard the
little desolate child, and answered her touching appeal.
“There, I feel better and not so lonesome, already,” she said, as she
rose from her knees and groped around to find some better place of
shelter than the old log afforded.
Suddenly, as she came to an opening in the trees, she saw, in the
distance, the light shining out from the library windows of Beechwood;
and the idea crossed her brain that she would go there, and if Judge
Howell turned her off, as he did before, she’d go to Tiger’s kennel and
sleep with him. Mildred’s impulses were usually acted upon, and she was
soon traversing the road to Beechwood, feeling with each step that she
was drawing nearer to her home.
“Widow Simms says I have a right here,” she thought, as she passed
silently through the gate. “And I almost believe so, too. Any way, I
mean to tell him I’ve come to stay;” and, without a moment’s hesitation,
the courageous child opened the door, and stepped into the hall.
Judge Howell sat in his pleasant library, trying to interest himself in
a book, but a vague feeling of loneliness oppressed him, and as often as
he read one page, he turned backward to see what had gone before.
“It’s of no use,” he said, at last; “I’m not in a reading mood;” and
closing his eyes, he leaned back in his armchair, and thought of much
which had come to him during the years gone by,—thought first of his
gentle wife,—then of his beautiful daughter,—and then of Richard, whom
he had cursed in that very room. Where was he now? Were the waters of
the Southern seas chanting wild music over his ocean bed? Did the
burning sun of Bengal look down upon his grave?—or would he come back
again some day, and from his father’s lips hear that the old man was
sorry for the harsh words that he had spoken? Then, by some sudden
transition of thought, he remembered the night of the storm, and the
infant left at his door. He had never been sorry for casting it off, he
said, and yet, had he kept her,—were she with him this wintry night, he
might not be so dreary sitting alone.
“_There they go!_” said a childish voice, and as his gold-bowed specs
fell to the floor, the Judge started up, and lo, there upon a stool, her
bonnet and bundle on a chair, and her hands folded demurely upon her
lap, sat the veritable object of his thoughts, even little Mildred.
Through the half-closed door she had glided so noiselessly as not to
disturb his reverie, and sitting down upon the stool at his feet, had
warmed her hands by the blazing fire, removed her hood, smoothed back
her hair, and then watched breathlessly the slow descent of the specs
from the nose of the Judge, who, she fancied, was sleeping. Lower, and
lower, and lower they came, and when at last they dropped, she
involuntarily uttered the exclamation which roused the Judge to a
knowledge of her presence.
“What the deuce,—how did you get in, and what are you here for?” asked
the Judge, feeling, in spite of himself, a secret satisfaction in having
her there, and knowing that he was no longer alone.
Fixing her clear, brown eyes upon him, Mildred answered:
“I walked in, and I’ve come to stay.”
“The plague you have,” returned the Judge, vastly amused at the quiet
decision with which she spoke. “Come to stay, hey? But suppose I won’t
let you, what then?”
“You will,” said Mildred; “and if you turn me out, I shall come right in
again. I’ve lived with Oliver’s grandmother as long as I am going to. I
don’t belong there, and to-night I started to run away, but the cars
left me, and it was cold and dark in the woods, and I was kind of
’fraid, and asked God to take care of me and tell me where to go, and I
comed right here.”
There was a big lump in the Judge’s throat as he listened to the child,
but he swallowed it down, and pointing to the bundle containing
Mildred’s Sunday clothes, said, “Brought your things, too, I see. You’ll
be wanting a closet and a trunk to put them in, I reckon.”
The quick-witted child detected at once the irony in his tone, and with
a quivering lip she answered:
“They are the best I’ve got. She never bought me anything since mother
died. She’s just as cross as she can be, too, and whips me so hard for
nothing,—look,” and rolling up her sleeve she showed him more than one
red mark upon her arm.
Sour and crusty as the Judge appeared, there were soft spots scattered
here and there over his heart, and though the largest was scarcely
larger than a pin’s head, Mildred had chanced to touch it, for cruelty
to any one was something he abhorred.
“Poor little thing,” he said, taking the fat, chubby arm in one hand,
and passing the other caressingly over the marks,—“poor little thing,
we’ll have that old she-dragon ’tended to,” and something very like a
tear, both in form and feeling, dropped upon the dimpled elbow. “What
makes you stare at me so?” he continued, as he saw how the wondering
brown eyes were fixed upon him.
“I was thinking,” answered Mildred, “how you ain’t such a cross old
feller as folks say you be, and you’ll let me stay here, won’t you? I’d
rather live with you than Lawrence Thornton——”
“Lawrence Thornton!” repeated the Judge. “What do you know of him? Oh,
yes, I remember now that he spoke of finding you asleep; but were you
running away to him?”
In a few words Mildred told him what her intentions had been, and then
said to him again:
“But I shall stay here now and be your little girl.”
“I ain’t so sure of that,” answered the Judge, adding, as he saw her
countenance fall: “What good could you do me?”
Mildred’s first thought was, “I can wash the dishes and scrub the
floor;” then as she remembered that servants did these things at
Beechwood, she stood a moment uncertain how to answer. At last, as a new
idea crossed her mind, she said: “When you’re old and lonesome, there’ll
be nobody to love you if I go away, and you’ll be sorry if you turn me
off.”
Why was it the Judge started so quickly and placed his hand before his
eyes, as if to assure himself that it was little Mildred standing there
and not his only boy,—not Richard, who long ago had said to him:
“In the years to come, when you are old and lonesome, you’ll be sorry
for what you’ve said to-night.” Those were Richard’s words, while
Mildred’s were:
“You’ll be sorry if you turn me off.”
It would seem that the son, over whose fate a dark mystery hung, was
there in spirit, pleading for the helpless child, while with him was
another Mildred, and looking through the eyes of brown so much like her
own, she said, “Take her father, you will need her some time!”
And so, not merely because Mildred Hawkins asked him to do it, but
because of the unseen influence which urged him on, the Judge drew the
little girl closer to his side, and parting back her rich, brown hair,
said to her pleasantly, “You may stay to-night, and to-morrow night, and
if I don’t find you troublesome, perhaps you may stay for good.”
Mildred had not looked for so easy a conquest, and this unexpected
kindness wrung from her eyes great tears, which rolled silently down her
cheeks.
“What are you crying for?” asked the Judge. “You are not obliged to
stay. You can go back to Hepsy any minute,—now, if you want. Shall I
call Rachel to hold the lantern?”
He made a motion toward the bell-rope, while Mildred, in an agony of
terror, seized his arm, telling him “she was only crying for joy; that
she’d die before she’d go back!” and adding fiercely, as she saw he had
really rung the bell: “If you send me away I’ll set your house on fire!”
The Judge smiled quietly at this threat, and when Rachel appeared in
answer to his ring, he said, “Open the register in the chamber above,
and see that the bed is all right, then bring us some apples and
nuts,—and,—wait till I get done, can’t you,—bring us that box of prunes.
Do you love prunes, child?”
“Yes, sir, though I don’t know what they be,” sobbed Mildred, through
the hands she had clasped over her face when she thought she must go
back.
She knew she was not going now, and her eyes shone like diamonds as they
flashed upon the Judge a look of gratitude. It wasn’t lonesome now in
that handsome library where Mildred sat, eating prune after prune, and
apple after apple, while the Judge sat watching her with an immense
amount of satisfaction, and, thinking to himself how, on the morrow, if
he did not change his mind, he would inquire the price of feminine dry
goods, a thing he had not done in years. In his abstraction he even
forgot that the clock was striking nine, and, half an hour later, found
him still watching Mildred, and marvelling at her enormous appetite for
nuts and prunes. But he remembered, at last, that it was his bed time,
and, again ringing for Rachel, he bade her take the little girl
upstairs.
It was a pleasant, airy chamber where Mildred was put to sleep, and it
took her a long time to examine the furniture and the various articles
for the toilet, the names of which she did not even know. Then she
thought of Oliver, wondering what he would say if he knew where she was;
and, going to the window, against which a driving storm was beating, she
thought how much nicer it was to be in that handsome apartment than back
in her little bed beneath the gable-roof, or even running away to Boston
after Lawrence Thornton.
The next morning when she awoke, the snow lay high-piled upon the earth,
and the wind was blowing in fearful gusts. But in the warm summer
atmosphere pervading the whole house, Mildred thought nothing of the
storm without. She only knew that she was very happy, and when the Judge
came down to breakfast, he found her singing of her happiness to the
gray house-cat, which she had coaxed into her lap.
“Shall she eat with you or wait?” asked Rachel, a little uncertain
whether to arrange the table for two or one.
“With me, of course, you simpleton,” returned the Judge; “and bring on
some sirup for the cakes,—or honey; which do you like best, child?”
Mildred didn’t know, but _guessed_ that she liked both, and both were
accordingly placed upon the table,—the Judge forgetting to eat in his
delight to see how fast the nicely browned buckwheats disappeared.
“She’ll breed a famine if she stays here long,” Rachel muttered, while
Finn looked ruefully at the fast decreasing batter.
But Mildred’s appetite was satisfied at last, and she was about leaving
the table, when Hepsy’s sharp, shrill voice was heard in the hall,
proclaiming to Rachel the astonishing news that Mildred Hawkins had run
away and been frozen to death in a snow bank,—that Clubs, like a fool,
had lost his senses and gone raving distracted, calling loudly for Milly
and refusing to be comforted unless she came back.
Through the open door Mildred heard this last, and darting into the hall
she asked the startled Hepsy to tell her if what she had said were true.
Petrified with astonishment, Hepsy was silent for an instant, and then
in no mild terms began to upbraid the child, because she was not frozen
to death as she had declared her to be.
“Never mind,” said Mildred, “but tell me of Oliver. Is he sick, and does
he ask for me?”
The appearance of the Judge brought Hepsy to herself, and she began to
tell the story. It seemed that she had staid with Widow Simms until
after ten, and when she reached home she found Clubs distracted on
account of Mildred’s absence. He had looked all through the house, and
was about going up to Beechwood, when his grandmother returned and
stopped him, saying that Mildred had probably gone to stay with Lottie
Brown, as she had the previous day asked permission so to do and been
refused. So Oliver had rested till morning, when he insisted on his
grandmother’s wading through the drifts to see if Milly really were at
Mr. Brown’s.
“When I found she wasn’t,” said Hepsy, “I began to feel a little riled
myself, for I knowed that she had the ugliest temper that ever was born,
and, says I, she’s run away and been froze to death, and then such a
rumpus as Oliver made. I thought he’d go——”
Her sentence was cut short by a cry of joy from Mildred, who, from the
window, caught sight of the crippled boy moving slowly through the
drifts, which greatly impeded his progress. Hastening to the door she
drew him in out of the storm, brushed the snow from his thin hair, and
folding her arms about him, sobbed out, “Oliver, I ain’t dead, but I’ve
run away. I can’t live with _her_ any more, though if you feel so bad
about it, maybe I’ll go back. Shall I?”
Before Oliver could reply, Hepsy chimed in, “Go back, to be sure you
will, my fine madame. I’ll teach you what is what;” and seizing
Mildred’s hood, which lay upon the hat-stand, she began to tie it upon
the screaming child, who struggled violently to get away, and succeeding
at last ran for protection behind the Judge.
“Keep her, Judge Howell, please keep her,” whispered Oliver, while
Mildred’s eyes flashed out their gratitude to him for thus interfering
in her behalf.
“Woman!” and the Judge’s voice was like a clap of thunder, while his
heavy boot came down with a vengeance as he grasped the bony arm of
Hepsy, who was making a dive past him after Mildred. “Woman, get out of
my house! Quick too, and if I catch you here again after anybody’s
child, I’ll pull every hair out of your head. Do you hear, you
she-dragon? Begone, I say; start. Move faster than that!” and he
accelerated her movements with a shove, which sent her quite to the
door, where she stood for an instant, threatening to take the law of
him, and shaking her fist at Mildred, who, holding fast to the
coat-skirts of the Judge, knew she had nothing to fear.
After a moment Hepsy began to cry, and assuming a deeply injured tone,
she bade Oliver “Come.”
Not till then had Mildred fully realized that if she stayed at Beechwood
she must be separated from her beloved playmate, and clutching him as he
arose to follow his grandmother, she whispered, “If you want me, Oliver,
I’ll go.”
He _did_ want her, oh, so much, for he knew how lonely the gable-roof
would be without her, but it was far better that she should not return,
and so, with a tremendous effort the unselfish boy stilled the
throbbings of his heart, and whispered back: “I’d rather you’d stay
here, Milly, and maybe _he’ll_ let me come some time to see you.”
“Every day, every day,” answered the Judge, who could not help admiring
the young boy for preferring Mildred’s happiness to his own. “There, I’m
glad that’s over,” he said, when, as the door closed upon Hepsy and
Oliver, he led Mildred back to the breakfast room, asking her if she
didn’t want some more buckwheats.
But Milly’s heart was too full to eat, even had she been hungry. Turn
which way she would, she saw only the form of a cripple boy moving
slowly through the drifts, back to the dark old kitchen, which she knew
would that dismal day be all the darker for her absence. It was all in
vain that the Judge sought to amuse her by showing her all his choice
treasures and telling her she was now his little girl and should call
him father if she liked. The sad, despondent look did not leave her face
for the entire day, and just as it was growing dark, she laid her brown
head upon the Judge’s knee, as he sat in his armchair, and said
mournfully, “I guess I shall go back.”
“I guess you won’t,” returned the Judge, running his fingers through her
soft hair, and thinking how much it was like his own Mildred’s.
“But I ought to,” answered the child. “Oliver can’t do without me. You
don’t know how much he likes me, nor how much I like him. He’s missing
me so now, I know he is, and I’m afraid he’s crying, too. Mayn’t I go?”
Mildred’s voice was choked with tears, and Judge Howell felt them
dropping upon his hand, as he passed it caressingly over her face. Six
months before he had professed to hate the little girl sitting there at
his feet, and crying to go back to Oliver, but she had grown strangely
into his love within the last twenty-four hours, and to himself he said:
“I will not give her up.”
So after sitting a time in silence, he replied:
“I can do you more good than this Oliver with his crooked feet.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Mildred, “but it’s because his feet are crooked
that I can’t leave him all alone, and then he loved me first, when you
hated me and swore such awful words if I just looked at a flower.”
There was no denying this,—but the Judge was not convinced, and he
continued by telling her how many new dresses he would buy her,—how in
the spring he’d get her a pony and a silver-mounted side-saddle——
“And let me go to the circus?” she said, that having hitherto been the
highest object of her ambition.
“Yes, let you go to the circus,” he replied; “and to Boston and
everywhere.”
The bait was a tempting one, and Mildred wavered for a moment,—then just
as the Judge thought she was satisfied, she said:
“But that won’t do Oliver any good.”
“Hang Oliver!” exclaimed the Judge; “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll
have a lady governess to come into the house and teach you both. So you
will see him every day. I’ll get him some new clothes——”
“And send him to college when he’s big enough?” put in Mildred. “He told
me once he wished he could go.”
“Great Peter, what next will you want? But I’ll think about the college;
and if he learns right smart, and you behave yourself, I reckon maybe
I’ll send him.”
The Judge had no idea that Oliver would learn “right smart,” for he did
not know him, and he merely made the promise by way of quieting Mildred,
who, with this prospect in view, became quite contented in her new
quarters, though she did so wish Oliver could know it that night, and
looking up in the Judge’s face, she said:
“It’s such a little bit of a ways down there,—couldn’t you go and tell
him, or let me. It seems forever till to-morrow.”
Had the Judge been told the previous day that Mildred Hawkins could have
persuaded him to brave that fierce northeaster, he would have scoffed at
the idea as a most preposterous one, but now, looking into those shining
eyes of brown, lifted so pleadingly to his, he felt all his sternness
giving way, and before he knew what he was doing, or why he was doing
it, he found himself plowing through the snow-drifts which lay between
Beechwood and the gable-roof, where he found Oliver sitting before the
fire with a sad, dejected look upon his face as if all the happiness of
his life had suddenly been taken from him. But he brightened at once
when he saw the Judge and heard his errand. It would be so nice to be
with Milly every day and know that she was beyond the reach of his
grandmother’s cruelty, and bursting into tears he stammered out his
thanks to the Judge, who without a sign of recognition for old Hepsy,
who was dipping candles with a most sour expression on her puckered
lips, started back through the deep snow-drifts, feeling more than
repaid, when he saw the little, eager face pressed against the pane, and
then heard a sweet, young voice calling him “the best man in the world.”
And Mildred did think him the embodiment of every virtue, while her
presence in his house worked a marvellous change in him. He had
something now to live for, and his step was always more elastic as he
drew near his home, where a merry-hearted, frolicsome child was sure to
welcome his coming.
“The little mistress of Beechwood,” the people began to call her, and so
indeed she was, ruling there with a high hand, and making both master
and servant bend to her will, particularly if in that will Oliver were
concerned. He was her first thought, and she tormented the Judge until
he kept his promise of having a governess, to whom Oliver recited each
day as well as herself.
Once during the spring Lawrence Thornton came again to Beechwood,
renewing his acquaintance with Mildred, who, comparing him with other
boys of her acquaintance, regarded him as something more than mortal,
and after he was gone, she was never weary of his praises. Once in
speaking of him to her teacher, Miss Harcourt, she said, “He’s the
handsomest boy I ever saw, and he knows so much, too. I’d give the world
if Oliver was like him,” and Mildred’s sigh as she thought of poor lame
Oliver was echoed by the white-faced boy without the door, who had come
up just in time to hear her remarks. He, too, had greatly admired
Lawrence Thornton, and it had, perhaps, been some satisfaction to
believe that Mildred had not observed the difference between them, but
he knew, now, that she had, and with a bitter pang, as he thought of his
deformity, he took his accustomed seat in the school-room.
“I can never be like Lawrence Thornton,” he said to himself. “I shall
always be lame, and small, and sickly, and by and by, maybe, Milly will
cease to love me.”
Dark, indeed, would be his life, when the sun of Mildred’s love for him
was set, and his tears fell fast, erasing the figures he was making on
his slate.
“What is it, Olly?” and Mildred nestled close by his side, taking his
thin hand in her own chubby ones and looking into his face.
Without the least reserve he told her what it was, and Mildred’s tears
mingled with his as he said that his twisted feet were a continual
canker worm,—a blight on all his hopes of the future when he should have
attained the years of a man. The cloud was very heavy from which Mildred
could not extract some comfort, and after a moment she looked up
cheerily, and said:
“I tell you, Oliver, you can’t be as handsome as Lawrence, nor as tall,
nor have such nice straight feet, but you can be as good a scholar, and
when folks speak of that Mr. Hawkins, who knows so much, I shall be so
proud, for I shall know it is Oliver they mean.”
All unconsciously Mildred was sowing in Oliver’s mind the first seeds of
ambition, though not of a worldly kind. He did not care for the world.
He cared only for the opinion of the little brown-eyed maiden at his
side. It is true he would have endured any amount of torture if, in the
end, he might look like Lawrence Thornton; but as this could not be, he
determined to resemble him in something,—to read the same books,—to
learn the same things,—to be able to talk about the same places, and if,
in the end, _she_ said he was equal to Lawrence Thornton, he would be
satisfied. So he toiled both early and late, far outstripping Mildred
and winning golden laurels, in the opinion of Miss Harcourt and the
Judge, the latter of whom became, in spite of himself, deeply interested
in the pale student, who before three years were gone, was fully equal
to his teacher.
Then it was that Mildred came again to his aid, saying to the Judge one
day, “Oliver has learned all Miss Harcourt can teach him, and hadn’t you
better be looking out for some good school, where he can be fitted for
college?”
“Cool!” returned the Judge, tossing his cigar into the grass and smiling
down upon her. “Cool, I declare. So you think I’d better fit him for
college, hey?”
“Of course, I do,” answered Mildred; “you said you would that stormy day
long ago, when I cried to go back and you wouldn’t let me.”
“So I did, so I did,” returned the Judge, adding that “he’d think about
it.”
The result of this thinking Mildred readily foresaw, and she was not at
all surprised when, a few days afterwards, the Judge said to her, “I
have made arrangements for Clubs to go to Andover this fall, and if he
behaves himself I shall send him to college, I guess; and,—come back
here, you spitfire,” he cried, as he saw her bounding away with the good
news to Oliver. But Mildred could not stay for more then. She must see
Oliver, who could scarcely find words with which to express his
gratitude to the man who, for Mildred’s sake, was doing so much for him.
Rapidly the autumn days stole on, until at last one September morning
Mildred’s heart was sore with grief, and her eyes were red with weeping,
for Oliver was gone and she was all alone.
“If you mourn so for Clubs, what do you think I shall do when you, too,
go off to school?” said the Judge.
“Oh, I sha’n’t know enough to go this ever so long,” was Mildred’s
answer, while the Judge, thinking how lonely the house would be without
her, hoped it would be so; but in spite of his hopes, there came a day,
just fourteen years after Mildred was left on the steps at Beechwood,
when the Judge said to Oliver, who had come home, and was asking for his
playmate:
“She’s gone to Charlestown Seminary, along with that Lilian Veille,
Lawrence Thornton makes such a fuss about, and the Lord only knows how
I’m going to live without her for the next miserable three years.”
CHAPTER VII.
LILIAN AND MILDRED.
The miserable three years are gone, or nearly so, and all around the
Beechwood mansion the July sun shines brightly, while the summer shadows
chase each other in frolicsome glee over the velvety sward, and in the
maple trees the birds sing merrily, as if they know that the hand which
has fed them so often with crumbs will feed them again on the morrow. In
the garden, the flowers which the child Milly loved so well are
blossoming in rich profusion, but their gay beds present many a broken
stalk to-day, for the Judge has gathered bouquet after bouquet with
which to adorn the parlors, the library, the chambers, and even the airy
halls, for Mildred is very fond of flowers, and when the sun hangs just
above the woods and the engine-whistle is heard among the Mayfield hills
lying to the westward, Mildred is coming home, and stored away in some
one of her four trunks is a bit of paper saying that its owner has been
graduated with due form, and is a finished-up young lady.
During the last year the Judge had not seen her, for business had called
him to Virginia, and, for a part of the time, Beechwood had been closed
and Mildred had spent her long vacation with Lilian, who was now to
accompany her home. With this arrangement the Judge hardly knew whether
to be pleased or not. He did not fancy Lilian. He would a little rather
have Mildred all to himself a while; but when she wrote to him, saying:
“May Lilian come home with me? It would please me much to have her,”—he
answered “Yes,” at once; for now, as of old, he yielded his wishes to
those of Mildred, and he waited impatiently for the appointed day,
which, when it came, he fancied would never end.
Five o’clock, said the fanciful time-piece upon the marble mantle, and,
when the silver bell rang out the next half-hour, the carriage came
slowly to the gate, and with a thrill of joy the Judge saw the girlish
head protruding from the window, and the fat, white hand wafting kisses
towards him. He had no desire now to kick her into the street,—no wish
to send her from Beechwood,—no inclination to swear at Widow Simms for
saying she was like himself. He was far too happy to have her home
again, and, kissing her cheeks as she bounded to his side, he called her
“little Spitfire,” just as he used to do, and then led her into the
parlor, where hung the picture of another Mildred, who now might well be
likened to herself, save that the dress was older-fashioned and the hair
a darker brown.
“Oh, isn’t it pleasant here?” she cried, dancing about the room. “Such
heaps of flowers, and, as I live, a new piano! It’s mine, too!” and she
fairly screamed with joy as she saw her own name, “MILDRED HOWELL,”
engraved upon it.
“It was sent home yesterday,” returned the Judge, enjoying her delight
and asking for some music.
“Not just yet,” returned Mildred, “for, see, Lilian and I are an inch
deep with dust;” and gathering up their shawls and hats, the two girls
sought their chamber, from which they emerged as fresh and blooming as
the roses which one had twined among her flowing curls, and the other
had placed in the heavy braids of her rich brown hair.
“Why is not Oliver here?” Mildred asked, as they were about to leave the
supper-table, “or does he think, because he is raised to the dignity of
a Junior, that young ladies are of no importance?”
“I invited him to tea,” said the Judge, “but he is suffering from one of
his racking headaches. I think he studies too hard, for his face is
white as paper, and the veins on his forehead are large as my finger; so
I told him you should go down there when I was sick of you.”
“Which I shall make believe is now,” said Mildred, laughingly, and
taking from the hall-stand her big straw hat, she excused herself to
Lilian, and hurrying down the Cold Spring path, soon stood before the
gable-roof door where old Hepsy sat knitting and talking to herself, a
habit which had come upon her with increasing years.
At the sight of Mildred she arose, and dropping a low curtsey, began in
her fretful, querulous way: “I wonder now if you can stoop to come down
here; but I s’pose it’s Oliver that’s brought you. It beats all how
folks that gets a little riz will forget them that had all the trouble
of bringin’ ’em up. Oliver is up charmber with the headache, and I don’t
b’lieve he wants to be disturbed.”
“Yes, he does,” said Mildred, and lifting the old-fashioned wooden
latch, she was soon climbing the crazy stairs which creaked to her
bounding tread.
Of his own accord, and because he knew it would please Mildred, the
Judge had caused what was once her chamber at the gable-roof to be
finished off and fitted into a cozy library for Oliver, who when at home
spent many a happy hour there, bending sometimes over his books, and
thinking again of the years gone by, and of the little girl who had
often cried herself to sleep within those very walls. It was well with
her now, he knew and he blessed God that it was so, even though his poor
feet might never tread the flowery path in which it was given her to
walk. He had not seen her for nearly two years, but she had written to
him regularly, and from her letters he knew she was the same
warm-hearted, impulsive Milly who had once made all the sunshine of his
life. She had grown up very beautiful, too, for among his classmates
were several whose homes were in Charlestown, and who, as a matter of
course, felt a deep interest in the Seminary girls, particularly in Miss
Howell, who was often quoted in his presence, his companions never
dreaming that she was aught to the “club-footed Lexicon,” as they called
the studious Oliver.
Lawrence Thornton, too, when he came to the college commencement, had
said to him playfully:
“Clubs, your sister Milly, as you call her, is very beautiful, with eyes
like stars and hair the color of the chestnuts I used to gather in the
Mayfield woods. If I were you, I should be proud to call her sister.”
And Oliver was proud; but when the handsome, manly figure of Lawrence
Thornton had vanished through the door, he fancied he breathed more
freely, though why he should do so he could not tell, for he liked to
hear Mildred praised.
“I shall see her for myself during this vacation,” he thought; and after
his return to Beechwood he was nearly as impatient as the Judge for her
arrival. “She will be home to-day,” he thought on the morning when he
knew she was expected, and the sunlight dancing on the wall seemed all
the brighter to him.
He had hoped to meet her at Beechwood, but his enemy, the headache, came
on in time to prevent his doing so, and with a sigh of disappointment he
went to his little room, and leaning back in his easy-chair, counted the
lagging moments until he heard the well-known step upon the stairs, and
knew that _she_ had come. In a moment she stood beside him, and was
looking into his white, worn face, just as he was gazing at her in all
her glowing, healthy beauty. He had kissed her heretofore when they
met,—kissed her when they parted; but he dared not do it now, for she
seemed greatly changed. He had lost his little, romping, spirited Milly,
and he knew there was a dividing line between himself and the grown
young lady standing before him. But no such thoughts intruded themselves
upon Mildred; Oliver, to her, was the same good-natured boy who had
waded barefoot with her in the brook, picked “huckleberries” on the
hills and chestnuts in the wood. She never once thought of him as a
_man_, and just as she was wont to do of old, just so she did now,—she
wound her arms around his neck, and kissing his forehead, where the blue
veins were swelling, she told him how glad she was to be there with him
again,—told him how sorry she was to find him so feeble and thin, and
lastly, how proud she was when she heard from Lawrence Thornton that he
was first in his class, and bade fair to make the great man she long ago
predicted he would make. Then she paused for his reply, half expecting
that he would compliment her in return, for Mildred was well used to
flattery, and rather claimed it as her due.
Oliver read as much in her speaking eyes, and when, laying her hat upon
the floor, she sat down upon a stool at his feet, he laid his hand
fondly on her hair, and said:
“You are very, very beautiful, Milly!”
“Oh, Oliver!” and the soft, brown eyes looked up at him wistfully,—“you
never yet told me a lie; and now, as true as you live, do you think I am
handsome,—as handsome, say, as Lilian Veille?”
“You must remember I have never seen Miss Veille,” said Oliver, “and I
cannot judge between you. Mr. Thornton showed me her photograph, when he
was in Amherst; but it was a poor one, and gave no definite idea of her
looks.”
“Did Lawrence have her picture?” Mildred asked quickly, and, in the tone
of her voice Oliver detected what Mildred thought was hidden away down
in the deepest corner of her heart.
But for this he did not spare her, and he said: “I fancied they might be
engaged.”
“Engaged, Oliver!” and the little hand resting on his knee trembled
visibly. “No, they are not engaged yet; but they will be some time, I
suppose, and they’ll make a splendid couple. You must come up to-morrow
and call on Lilian. She is the sweetest, dearest girl you ever saw!”
Oliver thought of _one_ exception, but he merely answered: “Tell me of
her, Milly, so I can be somewhat prepared. What is she like?”
“She is a little mite of a thing,” returned Mildred, “with the clearest
violet-blue eyes, the tiniest mouth and nose, the longest, silkiest,
golden curls, a complexion pure as wax, and the prettiest baby
ways,—why, she’s afraid of everything; and in our walks I always
constitute myself her body-guard, to keep the cows and dogs from looking
at her.”
“Does she know anything?” asked Oliver, who, taking Mildred for his
criterion, could scarcely conceive of a sensible girl being afraid of
dogs and cows.
“Know anything!” and Mildred looked perfectly astonished. “Yes, she
knows as much as any woman ever ought to know, because the men,—that is,
real nice men such as a girl would wish to marry,—always prefer a wife
with a sweet temper and ordinary intellect, to a spirited and more
intellectual one; don’t you think they do?”
Oliver did not consider himself a “real nice man,—such as a girl would
wish to marry,” and so he could not answer for that portion of mankind.
He only knew that for him there was but one temper, one mind, one style
of beauty, and these were all embodied in Mildred Howell, who, without
waiting for his answer, continued:
“It is strange how Lilian and I came to love each other so much, when we
are so unlike. Why, Oliver, they called me the spunkiest girl in the
Seminary, and Lilian the most amiable; that’s when I first went there;
but we did each other good, for she will occasionally show some spirit,
while I try to govern my temper, and have not been angry in ever so
long. You see, Lilian and I roomed together. I used to help her get her
lessons; for somehow she couldn’t learn, and, if she sat next to me at
recitation, I would tell her what to answer, until the teacher found it
out, and made me stop. When Lilian first came to Charlestown, Lawrence
was with her; she was fifteen then, and all the girls said they were
engaged, they acted so. I don’t know how, but you can imagine, can’t
you?”
Oliver thought he could, and Mildred continued: “I was present when he
bade her good-by, and heard him say, ‘You’ll write to me, Fairy?’ that’s
what he calls her. But Lilian would not promise, and he looked very
sorry. After we had become somewhat acquainted, she said to me one day,
‘Milly, everybody says you write splendid compositions, and now, won’t
you make believe you are me, and scribble off a few lines in answer to
this?’ and she showed me a letter just received from Lawrence Thornton.
“I asked why she did not answer it herself, and she said, ‘Oh, I can’t;
it would sicken him of me at once, for I don’t know enough to write
decently; I don’t always spell straight, or get my grammar correct. I
never know when to use _to_ or _too_, or just where the capitals
belong;’ so after a little I was persuaded, and wrote a letter, which
she copied and sent to Lawrence, who expressed himself so much delighted
with what he called ‘her playful, pleasant style,’ that I had to write
again and again, until now I do it as a matter of course, though it does
hurt me sometimes to hear him praise her, and say he never knew she had
such a talent for writing.”
“But she will surely undeceive him?” Oliver said, beginning to grow
interested in Lilian Veille.
“Oh, she can’t now,” rejoined Mildred, “for she loves him too well, and
she says he would not respect her if he knew it.”
“And how will it all end?” asked Oliver, to which Mildred replied:
“End in their being married, of course. He always tells her how much he
likes her—how handsome she is, and all that.”
There was the least possible sigh accompanying these words, and Oliver,
who heard it, smoothed again the shining braids, as he said, “Milly,
Lawrence Thornton told me _you_ were very beautiful, too, with starry
eyes and hair the color of rich brown chestnuts.”
“Did he, sure? what else did he say?” and assuming a kneeling position
directly in front of Oliver, Mildred buttoned and unbuttoned his linen
coat, while he told her everything he could remember of Lawrence
Thornton’s remarks concerning herself.
“He likes me because Lilian does, I suppose,” she said, when he had
finished. “Did I tell you that his father and Geraldine,—that’s Lilian’s
half-sister,—have always intended that he should marry Lilian? She told
me so herself, and if she hadn’t, I should have known it from Geraldine,
for you know I have been home with Lilian ever so many times, besides
spending the long vacation there. I couldn’t bear her,—this Geraldine;
she talked so insultingly to me, asking if I hadn’t the least idea _who_
I was, and saying once, right before Lawrence Thornton, that she
presumed my mother was some poor, ignorant country girl, who had been
unfortunate, and so disposed of me that way! I could have pulled every
black hair out of her head!” and Mildred, who, in her excitement
loosened a button in Oliver’s coat, looked much like the Mildred of
old,—the child who had threatened to set fire to the Judge’s house if he
sent her back to Hepsy.
“Mildred,” said Oliver, smiling in spite of himself, and thinking how
beautiful she looked even in her anger, “shall I tell you who _I_ think
you are?”
“Yes, yes,” and the wrathful expression of the soft, dark eyes
disappeared at once. “Who am I, Oliver?”
“I don’t know for certain,” he replied, “but I think you are Richard
Howell’s daughter. Any way, you are the very counterpart of his sister’s
picture.”
“Mrs. Thornton, you mean,” returned Mildred. “There’s a portrait of her
at Lawrence’s home. Almost everybody spoke of the resemblance while I
was there; and once some one made a suggestion similar to yours, but Mr.
Thornton said he knew every inch of ground Richard had gone over from
the time he was twelve years old until he went away, and the thing
wasn’t possible,—that the resemblance I bore to the Howells was merely
accidental. I don’t like Mr. Thornton. He’s just as proud as Geraldine,
and acted as if he were afraid Lawrence would speak to me. It was
‘Lawrence, Lilian wants you;’ ‘Lawrence, hadn’t you better take Lilian
to ride, while I show Miss Howell my geological specimens.’ Just as
though I cared for those old stones. He needn’t trouble himself, though,
for I don’t like Lawrence half as well as I do you. But I must go back
to Lilian,—she’ll wonder that I leave her so long.”
“Lilian is here,” said a childish voice, and both Oliver and Mildred
started quickly, as a little figure advanced from its position near the
doorway, where, for the last two minutes, it had been standing.
Oliver’s first thought was, “she has heard all Mildred said; she had no
business to come up so quietly,” and with his previously formed
impressions of the little lady, he was not prepared to greet her very
cordially. But one glance at the baby face which turned towards him as
Mildred said: “This is Oliver, Miss Veille,” convinced him that, if she
had heard anything, it had not offended her. Indeed, Lilian Veille
belonged to the class of whom it has been truly said, “they do not know
enough to be offended.”
She was a good-natured, amiable girl, and though usually frank and
open-hearted, she would sometimes stoop to deceit, particularly if her
own interests were concerned. At home she had been petted and caressed
until she was a thoroughly spoiled, selfish child, exacting from others
attentions and favors which she was never willing to render back. All
this Oliver saw before she had been ten minutes in his presence, but he
could not dislike her any more than he could have disliked a beautiful,
capricious baby; and he began to understand in part why Mildred should
feel so strong an attachment for her. She was naturally very familiar
and affectionate, and as Mildred had resumed her seat upon the stool,
she, sat down upon the floor, and laying both her soft hands on Oliver’s
knee, began to talk with him as if she had known him all her life,
stipulating, on the start, that he shouldn’t say a word to her of books,
as she detested the whole thing.
“Mildred will tell you how little I know,” she said. “She used to do my
sums, translate my French, write my compositions, and some of my
letters, too. Do you know Lawrence, Mr. Hawkins?”
Oliver replied that he had seen him, and Lilian continued:
“Isn’t he splendid? All the Boston girls are ready to pull caps over
him, but he don’t care for any of them. I used to think maybe he’d fall
in love with Milly; but,—Geraldine says she knows too much for a man
like him really to care for; and I guess she does, for anybody can see
I’m a simpleton,—and he certainly likes me the best,—don’t he, Milly?
Why, how red your cheeks are,—and no wonder, it’s so hot in this pent-up
room. Let’s go down,” and without waiting for an answer, Lilian tripped
down the stairs, followed by Mildred and Oliver,—the latter having
forgotten his headache in the pleasure of seeing his former playmate.
“Now where?” asked Lilian, as they emerged into the open air.
“Home, I guess,” said Mildred, and bidding Oliver good-night, they went
back to Beechwood, where they found the Judge impatiently waiting for
them. He wanted some music, he said, and he kept Mildred, who was a fine
performer, singing and playing for him until it was long after his bed
time, and Lilian began to yawn very decidedly.
“She was bored almost to death,” she said, as she at last followed
Mildred up the stairs. “She didn’t like Beechwood at all, thus far,—she
did wish Lawrence Thornton would come out there,” and with a
disagreeable expression upon her pretty face, she nestled down among her
pillows, while Mildred, who was slower in her movements, still lingered
before the mirror, brushing her rich brown hair.
Suddenly Lilian started up, exclaiming: “I’ve got it, Milly, I’ve got
it.”
“Got what?” asked Mildred, in some surprise, and Lilian rejoined,
“Lawrence comes home from Chicago to-night, you know, and when he finds
I’m gone, he’ll be horridly lonesome, and his father’s dingy old office
will look dingier than ever. Suppose I write and invite him to come out
here, saying you wish it, too?”
“Well, suppose you do,” returned Mildred with the utmost gravity.
“There’s plenty of materials in my desk. Will you write sitting up in
bed?” and in the eyes which looked every way but at Lilian there was a
spice of mischief.
“You hateful thing,” returned Lilian. “You know well enough that when I
say ‘_I_ am going to write to Lawrence,’ I mean _you_ are going to
write. He’s so completely hoodwinked that I cannot now astonish him with
one of my milk-and-water epistles. Why, I positively spell worse and
worse, so Geraldine says. Think of my putting an _h_ in _precious_!”
“But Lawrence will have to know it some time,” persisted Mildred, “and
the longer it is put off the harder it will be for you.”
“He needn’t know either,” said Lilian. “I mean to have you give me ever
so many drafts to carry home, and if none of them suit the occasion
Geraldine must write, though she bungles awfully. And when I’m his wife,
I sha’n’t care if he does know. He can’t help himself then. He’ll have
to put up with his putty head.”
“But will he respect you, Lily, if he finds you deceived him to the
last?” Mildred asked; and with a look very much like a frown in her soft
blue eyes, Lilian replied: “Now, Milly, I believe you are in love with
him yourself, and do this to be spiteful, but you needn’t. His father
and Geraldine have always told him he should marry me, and once when
some one teased him of you, I heard him say that he shouldn’t want to
marry a woman unless he knew something of her family, for fear they
might prove to be paupers, or even worse. Oh, Milly, Milly, I didn’t
mean to make you cry!” and jumping upon the floor, the impulsive Lilian
wound her arms around Mildred, whose tears were dropping fast.
Mildred could not have told why she cried. She only knew that Lilian’s
words grated harshly, but hers was a sunshiny nature, and conquering all
emotion, she returned Lilian’s caress and said: “I will write the
letter, Lily,—write it to-night if you like.”
“I knew you would. You’re a splendid girl,” and giving her another hug
Lilian jumped back into bed, and made herself quite comfortable while
Mildred knotted up her silken hair and brought out her desk preparatory
to her task.
Never before had it caused her so much pain to write “Dear Lawrence” as
to-night, and she was tempted to omit it, but Lilian was particular to
have every word. “She never could remember, unless she saw it before
her, whether the ‘Dear’ and the ‘Lawrence’ occupied the same or separate
lines,” she said; so Mildred wrote it down at last, while half
unconsciously to herself she repeated the words, “Dear Lawrence.”
“You merely wish to invite him here?” she said to Lilian, who answered:
“That’s the main thing; but you must write three pages at least, or he
won’t be satisfied. Tell him what a nice journey we had, and how
pleasant Beechwood is. Tell him all about your new piano, and what a
splendid girl you are,—how I wonder he never fell in love with you,—but
I’m glad he didn’t; tell him how much Oliver knows, and how much better
he looks than I thought he did; that if he was bigger and hadn’t such
funny feet he’d almost do for you; tell him how dearly I like
him,—Lawrence, I mean, not Oliver,—how glad I shall be when he comes,
and Geraldine must send my coral ear-rings and bracelets, and——”
“Stop, stop! You drive me distracted!” cried Mildred, who, from this
confused jumble, was trying to make out a sensible letter.
Her task was finished at last, and she submitted it to Lilian’s
inspection.
“But you didn’t tell him what a splendid girl you are, nor how much I
like him,” said Lilian, her countenance falling at once. “Can’t you add
it in a postscript somehow?”
“Never mind, Lily,” returned Mildred, lifting one of the long golden
curls which had escaped from the lace cap. “He knows you like him, and
when he comes you can tell him anything you please of me. It does not
look well in me to be writing my own praises.”
“But you used to,” said Lilian. “You wrote to him once, ‘I love Mildred
Howell best of anybody in the world, don’t you?’ and he answered back,
‘Yes, next to you, Fairy, I love Mildred best.’ Don’t you remember it,
Milly?”
Mildred did remember it, and remembered, too, how that answer had wrung
from her bitter tears; but she made no reply, and, as Lilian began to
show signs of sleepiness, she arose cautiously and put aside the letter,
which would be copied next morning in Lilian’s delicate little hand and
sent on its way to Boston.
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER VIII.
LAWRENCE AND HIS FATHER.
“Lawrence, step in here for a moment,” said Mr. Thornton; and Lawrence,
equipped for travelling, with carpet-bag, duster, and shawl, followed
his father into the library, where all the family edicts were issued and
all the family secrets told. “Lawrence, Geraldine tells me you are going
to Beechwood for three or four days.”
“Why, yes,” returned the son. “I received a letter from Lilian last
night inviting me to come. I told you of it at the time, else my memory
is very treacherous.”
“It may be,—I don’t remember,” said the father; “but Geraldine has given
me a new idea about your going there, and it is for this that I have
called you in. Lawrence do you love Lilian Veille?”
“Why do you ask me that question, when you know that I have always loved
her?” was the reply, and Mr. Thornton continued: “Yes, yes, but how do
you love her,—as a sister,—as a cousin,—or as one whom you intend to
make your wife?”
“I have been taught to think of her as one who was to be my wife, and I
have tried to follow my instructions.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Thornton, for Lawrence had risen to his
feet. “I have not finished yet. Lilian has been with us for years, and I
who have watched her carefully, know that in all the world there is not
a purer, more innocent young girl. She is suited to you in every way.
She has money,—her family is one of the first in the land, and more than
all, she has been trained to believe that you would some day make her
your bride.”
“Please come to the point,” interrupted Lawrence, consulting his watch.
“What would you have me do?”
“I would have the matter settled while you are at Beechwood. She is
eighteen now, you are twenty-three; I have made you my partner in
business, and should like to see Lilian mistress of my house. So arrange
it at once, instead of spending your time fooling with that girl,
Mildred,” and with this the whole secret was out, and Lawrence knew why
he had been called into the library and subjected to that lecture.
Mildred Howell was a formidable obstacle in the way of Lilian Veille’s
advancement. This the lynx-eyed Geraldine had divined, and with her wits
all sharpened, she guessed that not Lilian alone was taking the young
man to Beechwood. So she dropped a note of warning into the father’s
ear, and now, outside the door, was listening to the conversation.
“I have never fooled with Mildred Howell,” said Lawrence, and his father
rejoined quickly:
“How, then? Are you in earnest? Do you love her?”
“I am not bound to answer that,” returned Lawrence; “though I will say
that in some respects I think her far superior to Lilian.”
“Superior!” repeated the father, pacing up and down the room. “Your
superior women do not always make their husbands happy. Listen to me,
boy,—I have been married twice. I surely ought to judge in these matters
better than yourself. Your mother was a gentle, amiable creature, much
like Lilian Veille. You inherit her disposition, though not her
mind,—thank Heaven, not her mind! I was happy with her, but she died,
and then I married one who was famed for her superior intellect quite as
much as for the beauty of her person,—and what was the result? She never
gave me a word or a look different from what she would have given to an
entire stranger. Indeed, she seemed rather to avoid me, and, if I came
near, she pretended always to be occupied either with a book or with
you. And yet I was proud of her, Lawrence,—proud of my girlish bride,
and when she died I shed bitter tears over her coffin.”
Lawrence Thornton was older now than when he sat upon the river bank,
and told little Mildred Hawkins of his beautiful young step-mother, and
he knew why she had shrunk from his father’s caresses and withered
beneath his breath,—so he ventured at last to say:
“Mildred Howell was young enough to be your daughter, and should never
have been your wife.”
“It was not that,—it was not that,” returned the father, stiffly. “There
was no compulsion used; she was too intellectual,—too independent,—too
high-tempered, I tell you, and this other one is like her in
everything.”
“How do you account for that?” asked Lawrence, who had his own private
theory with regard to Mildred’s parentage.
“I don’t account for it,” said Mr. Thornton. “I only know she is not at
all connected with the Howells. She is the child of some poor wretch who
will be claiming her one day. It would be vastly agreeable, wouldn’t it,
to see a ragged pauper, or maybe something worse, ringing at our door,
and claiming Mrs. Lawrence Thornton for her daughter! Lawrence, that of
itself is a sufficient reason why you must not marry Mildred, even if
there were no Lilian, who has a prior claim.”
“Father,” said Lawrence, “you think to disgust me, but it cannot be
done. I like Mildred Howell. I think her the most splendid creature I
ever looked upon; and were I a little clearer as to her family, Lilian’s
interest might perhaps be jeopardized.”
“Thank Heaven, then, that her family is shrouded in mystery!” said Mr.
Thornton, while Lawrence sat for a moment intently thinking.
Then suddenly springing up and seizing his father’s arm, he asked:
“Did you ever know for certain that the child of sister Helen died?”
“Know for certain? Yes. What put that idea into your head?” Mr. Thornton
asked, and Lawrence replied:
“The idea was not really in there, for I know it is not so, though it
might have been, I dare say; for, if I remember right, no one save an
old nurse was with Helen when she died, while even that miserable
Hawley, her husband, was in New Orleans.”
“Yes,” returned the father, “Hawley was away, and never, I think, came
back to inquire after his wife or child, for he, too, died within the
year.”
“Then how do you know Mildred is not that child?” persisted
Lawrence,—not because he had the most remote belief that she was, but
because he wished to see how differently his father would speak of her
if there was the slightest possibility of her belonging to the Thornton
line.
“I know she isn’t,” said the father. “I went to No. 20 —— Street myself,
and talked with Esther Bennett, the old woman who took care of Helen,
and then of the child until it died. She was a weird, haggish-looking
creature, but it was the truth she told. No, you can’t impose that tale
on me. This Mildred is _not_ my grandchild.”
“For which I fervently thank Heaven,” was Lawrence’s response; and in
these words the black-eyed Geraldine, watching by the door, read how
dear Mildred Howell was to the young man, and how the finding her to be
his sister’s child would be worse to him than death itself.
“He shall not win her, though,” she muttered between her glittering
teeth, “if I can prevent it, and I think I can. That last idea is a good
one, and I’ll jot it down in my book of memory for future use, if need
be.”
Geraldine Veille was a cold-hearted, unprincipled woman, whose early
affections had been blighted, and now at thirty-one she was a
treacherous, intriguing creature, void of heart or soul, except where
Lilian was concerned. In all the world there was nothing half so dear to
the proud woman as her young half-sister, and, as some fierce tigress
keeps guard over its only remaining offspring, so she watched with
jealous eye to see that nothing harmed her Lilian. For Mildred Howell
she had conceived a violent aversion, because she knew that one of
Lawrence Thornton’s temperament could not fail to be more or less
influenced by such glowing beauty and sparkling wit as Mildred
possessed.
During the long vacation which Mildred spent in the family she had
barely tolerated her, while Mildred’s open defiance of her opinions and
cool indifference to herself had only widened the gulf between them. She
had at first opposed Lilian’s visiting Beechwood, but when she saw how
her heart was bent upon it, she yielded the point, thinking the while
that if Lawrence on his return showed signs of going, too, she would
drop a hint into his father’s ear. Lawrence was going,—she had dropped
her hint,—and, standing outside the door, she had listened to the
result, and received a suggestion on which to act in case it should be
necessary.
Well satisfied with her morning’s work, she glided up the stairs just as
Lawrence came from the library and passed out into the street. His
interview with his father had somewhat disturbed him, while at the same
time it had helped to show him how strong a place Mildred had in his
affections.
“And yet why should I think so much of her?” he said to himself, as he
walked slowly on. “She never can be anything to me more than she is. I
must marry Lilian, of course, just as I have always supposed I should.
But I do wish she knew a little more. Only think of her saying, the
other day, that New Orleans was in Kentucky, and Rome in Paris, she
believed! How in the name of wonder did she manage to graduate?”
Mildred Howell, who sat next to Lilian at the examination, might perhaps
have enlightened him somewhat, but as she was not there, he continued
his cogitations.
“Yes, I do wonder how she happened to graduate, knowing as little of
books as she does. She writes splendidly, though!” and, as by this time
he had reached the Worcester depot, he stepped into a car and prepared
to read again the letter received the previous night from Lilian. “She
has a most happy way of committing her ideas to paper,” he thought.
“There must be more in her head than her conversation indicates. Perhaps
father is right, after all, in saying she will make a better wife than
Mildred.”
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER IX.
LAWRENCE AT BEECHWOOD.
“Come, Milly,—do hurry!” said Lilian to Mildred on the afternoon of the
day when Lawrence was expected. “It seems as though you never would get
all that hair braided. Thirty strands, as I live, and here I am wanting
you to fix my curls, you do it so much better than I can.”
“Plenty of time,” returned Mildred; “Lawrence won’t be here this hour.”
“But I’m going to the depot,” returned Lilian; “and I saw Finn go out to
harness just now. Oh, I am so anxious to see him! Why, Millie, you don’t
know a thing about it, for you never loved anybody like Lawrence
Thornton.”
“How do you know?” asked Mildred; and catching instantly at the
possibility implied, Lilian exclaimed:
“_Do_ you, as true as you live, love somebody?”
“Yes, a great many somebodies,” was the answer, while Lilian persisted:
“Yes, yes; but I mean some _man_,—somebody like Lawrence Thornton. Tell
me!” and the little beauty began to pout quite becomingly at Mildred’s
want of confidence in her.
“Yes, Lily,” said Mildred at last, “I do love somebody quite as well as
you love Lawrence Thornton, but it is useless to ask his name, as I
shall not tell.”
Lilian saw she was in earnest, and she forebore to question her, though
she did so wish she knew; and dipping her brush in the marble basin, and
letting the water drip all over the light carpet, she stood puzzling her
weak brain to think “who it was Mildred Howell loved.”
The beautiful braid of thirty strands was finished at last, and then
Mildred declared herself ready to attend to Lilian, who rattled on about
Lawrence, saying, “she did not ask Mildred to go with her to the station
because she always liked to be alone with him. That will do!” she cried,
just as the last curl was brushed; and, leaving Mildred to pick up the
numerous articles of feminine wear, which in dressing she had left just
where she stepped out of them, she tripped gracefully down the walk,
and, entering the carriage, was driven to the depot.
“Two lovers, a body’d suppose by their actions,” said a plain,
out-spoken farmer, who chanced to be at the station and witnessed the
meeting; while Finn, who had been promoted to the office of coachman,
rolled his eyes knowingly as he held the door for them to enter.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come!” said Lilian, leaning back upon the
cushions, and throwing aside her hat the better to display her curls,
which Mildred had arranged with a great deal of taste. “I’ve been moped
almost to death.”
“Why, I thought you said in your letter you were having a most
delightful time!”
And Lawrence looked smilingly down upon the little lady, who replied:
“_Did she?—did I?_ Well, then, I guess I am; but it’s a heap nicer, now
you’ve come. Mildred seems to me a little bit sober. Lawrence,” and
Lilian spoke in a whisper, for they were now ascending a hill, and she
did not care to have Finn hear,—“Lawrence, I know something about
Mildred, but you mustn’t never tell,—will you? She’s in love with a
_man_! She told me so confidentially this morning, but wouldn’t tell me
his name. Why, how your face flushes up? It is awful hot,—ain’t it?” and
Lilian began to fan herself with her leghorn hat, while Lawrence,
leaning from the window, and watching the wheels grinding into the
gravelly sand, indulged himself in thoughts not wholly complimentary
either to Lilian or the _man_ whom Mildred Howell loved.
“What business had Lilian to betray Mildred’s confidence, even to him?
Had she no delicate sense of honor? Or what business had Mildred to be
in love?” and, by the time the carriage turned into the avenue, Lawrence
was about as uncomfortable in his mind as he well could be.
“There’s Mildred! Isn’t she beautiful with those white flowers in her
hair?” cried Lilian; and, looking up, Lawrence saw Mildred standing near
a maple a little way in advance.
With that restlessness natural to people waiting the arrival of guests,
she had left the Judge and Oliver, who were sitting in the parlor, and
walked slowly down the avenue until she saw the carriage coming, when
she stopped beneath the tree.
“Get in here, Milly,—get in,” said Lilian; and, hastily alighting,
Lawrence offered her his hand, feeling strongly tempted to press the
warm fingers, which he fancied trembled slightly in his own.
“She has been walking fast,” he thought, and he was about to say so,
when Lilian startled them with the exclamation:
“Why don’t you kiss her, Lawrence, just as you do me?”
Lawrence thought of the man, and rather coolly replied:
“I never kissed Miss Howell in my life,—neither would she care to have
me.”
“Perhaps not,” returned Lilian, while Mildred’s cheeks flushed
crimson,—“perhaps not, for she is a bit of a prude, I think; and then,
too, I heard her say she didn’t like you as well as she did Clubs.”
“Oh, Lilian, when did I say so?” and Mildred’s eyes for an instant
flashed with anger.
“You needn’t be so mad,” laughed Lilian. “You did say so, that first
night I came here. Don’t you remember that I surprised you telling
Oliver how Uncle Thornton kept you looking over those old stones for
fear you’d talk with Lawrence, and how you hated them all?”
“Lilian,” said Lawrence, sternly, “no true woman would ever wantonly
divulge the secrets of another, particularly if that other be her chosen
friend.”
“S’pected they’d end in a row when I seen ’em so lovin’,” muttered Finn;
and, hurrying up his horses, he drew up at the gate just as Lilian began
to pout, Mildred to cry, and Lawrence to wish he had stayed at home.
“Tears, Gipsy? Yes, tears as true as I live,” said the Judge, who had
come down to meet them, and with his broad hand he wiped away the drops
resting on Mildred’s long eyelashes.
“Nothing but perspiration,” she answered, laughingly, while the Judge
rejoined:
“Hanged if I ever saw sweat look like that!”
Telling him “he hadn’t seen everything yet,” she forced her old sunny
smile to her face and ran up the walk, followed by Lawrence and Lilian,
who ere they reached the portico were on the best of terms, Lilian
having called him a “great hateful,” while he in return had playfully
pulled one of her long curls. The cloud, however, did not so soon pass
from Mildred’s heart, for she knew Lawrence Thornton had received a
wrong impression, and, what was worse than all, there was no means of
rectifying it.
“What is it, Gipsy? What ails you?” asked the Judge, noticing her
abstraction. “I thought you’d be in the seventh heaven when you got
Lawrence Thornton here, and now he’s come you are bluer than a
whetstone.”
Suddenly remembering that she must give some directions for supper,
Mildred ran off to the kitchen, where she found Finn edifying his sister
Lucy with an account of the meeting between Lawrence and Lilian.
“She stood there all ready,” said he, “and the minute the cars stopped
he made a dive and hugged her,—so,” and Finn’s long arms wound
themselves round the shoulders of his portly mother, who repaid him with
a cuff such as she had been wont to give him in his babyhood.
“Miss Lily didn’t do that way, I tell you,” said Finn, rubbing his ear;
“she liked it, and stood as still. But who do you s’pect Miss Milly’s in
love with? Miss Lily told Mr. Thornton how she ’fessed to her this
morning that she loved a _man_.”
“In course she’d love a man,” put in Rachel. “She’d look well lovin’ a
gal, wouldn’t she?”
“There ain’t no bad taste about that, nuther, let me tell you, old
woman,” and Finn’s brawny feet began to cut his favorite pigeon wing as
he thought of a certain yellow girl in the village. “I axes yer pardon,
Miss Milly!” he exclaimed, suddenly bringing his pigeon wing to a close
as he caught sight of Mildred, who had overheard every word he said.
With a heart full almost to bursting she hastily issued her orders, and
then ran up to her room, and, throwing herself upon the bed, did just
what any girl would have done,—cried with all her might.
“To think Lily should have told him that!” she exclaimed, passionately.
“I wish he had not come here.”
“You don’t wish so any more than I,” chimed in a voice, which sounded
much like that of Lilian Veille.
She knew that Mildred was offended, and, seeing her go up the stairs,
she had followed her, to make peace, if possible, for Lilian, while
occasionally transgressing, was constantly asking forgiveness.
“I’m always doing something silly,” she said; “and then you did tell
Clubs you didn’t like Lawrence.”
“It is not that,” sobbed Mildred. “Finn says you told him I loved
somebody.”
“The hateful nigger!” exclaimed Lilian. “What business had he to listen
and then to blab? If there’s anything I hate it’s a tattler!”
“Then why don’t you quit it yourself?” asked Mildred, jerking away from
the hand which was trying to smooth the braid of thirty strands.
“What an awful temper you have got, Milly!” said Lilian, seating herself
very composedly by the window, and looking out upon the lawn. “I should
suppose you’d try to control it this hot day. I’m almost melted now.”
And thus showing how little she really cared for her foolish
thoughtlessness, Lilian fanned herself complacently, wondering why
Mildred should feel so badly if Lawrence did know.
“Gipsy,” called the Judge from the lower hall, “supper is on the table.
Come down.”
In the present condition of her face Mildred would not for the world
show herself to Lawrence Thornton, and she said to Lilian:
“You make some excuse for me, won’t you?”
“I’ll tell them you’re mad,” returned Lilian, and she did, adding by way
of explanation: “Milly told me this morning that she was in love, I told
Lawrence, Finn overheard me, and like a meddlesome fellow as he is,
repeated it to Mildred, who is as spunky about it as you please.”
“Mildred in love!” repeated the Judge. “Who in thunder is she in love
with?”
In a different form Lawrence had asked himself that same question many a
time within the last hour; but not caring to hear the subject discussed,
he adroitly turned the conversation to other topics, and Mildred soon
heard them talking pleasantly together, while Lilian’s merry laughter
told that her mind at least was quite at ease. Lilian could not be
unhappy long, and was now quite delighted to find herself the sole
object of attraction to three of the male species.
Supper being over, she led the way to the back piazza, where, sitting
close to Lawrence, she rattled on in her simple, childish way, never
dreaming how, while seeming to listen, each of her auditors was thinking
of Mildred and wishing she was there.
For a time Oliver lingered, hoping Mildred would join them again, but as
she did not, he at last took his leave. From her window Mildred saw him
going down the Cold Spring path, and with a restless desire to know if
he thought she had acted very foolishly, she stole out of the back way,
and, taking a circuitous route to avoid observation, reached the
gable-roof and knocked at the door of Oliver’s room just after he had
entered it.
“May I come in?” she said.
“Certainly,” he answered. “You are always welcome here.”
And he pushed toward her the stool on which she sat, but pushed it too
far from himself to suit Mildred’s ideas.
She could not remember that she was no longer the little girl who used
to lavish so many sisterly caresses upon the boy Oliver; neither did she
reflect that she was now a young lady of seventeen, and he a man of
twenty-one, possessing a man’s heart, even though the casket which
enshrined that heart was blighted and deformed.
“I want to put my head in your lap just as I used to do,” she said; and,
drawing the stool closer to him, she rested her burning cheek upon his
knee, and then waited for him to speak.
“You have been crying, Milly,” he said at last, and she replied:
“Yes, I’ve had an awful day. Lilian led me into confessing that I loved
somebody, never dreaming that she would tell it to Lawrence; but she
did, and she told him, too, that I said I hated all the Thorntons. Oh,
Oliver, what must he think of me?”
“For loving somebody or hating the Thorntons, which?” Oliver asked, and
Mildred replied:
“Both are bad enough, but I can’t bear to have him think I hate him, for
I don’t. I,—oh, Oliver, can’t you guess? don’t you know?—though why
should you when you have loved only me?”
“Only you, Milly,—only you,” said Oliver, while there came a mist before
his eyes as he thought of the hopeless anguish the loving her had
brought him.
But not for the world would he suffer her to know of the love which had
become a part of his very life, and he was glad that it was growing
dark, so she could not see the whiteness of his face, nor the effort
that it cost him to say in his usually quiet tone:
“Milly, do you love Lawrence Thornton?”
He knew she did, but he would rather she should tell him so, for he
fancied that might help kill the pain which was gnawing at his heart.
“I have never kept anything from you, Oliver,” she said; “and, if you
are willing to be troubled, I want to tell you all about it. Shall I?”
“Yes, tell me,” he replied; and, nestling so close to him that she might
have heard the beating of his heart, Mildred told him of her love, which
was so hopeless because of Lilian Veille.
“I shall never be married,” she said; “and when we are old we will live
together, you and I, and I shall forget that I ever loved anybody better
than you; for I do,—forgive me, Oliver,” and her little, soft, warm hand
crept after the cold, clammy one, which moved farther away as hers
approached, and at last hid itself behind the chair, while Mildred
continued: “I do love him the best, though he has never been to me what
you have. But I can’t help it. You are my brother, you know, and it’s
all so different. I don’t suppose you can understand it, but try to
imagine that you are not lame, nor small, but tall and straight, and
manly as Lawrence Thornton, and that you loved somebody,—me, perhaps.”
“Yes, you—say you, Milly,” and the poor, deformed Oliver felt a thrill
of joy as he thought of himself “tall, and straight, and handsome, and
loving Mildred Howell.”
“And suppose I did not love you in return,” said Mildred, “wouldn’t your
heart ache as it never has ached yet?”
Oliver could have told her of a heartache such as she had never known,
but he dared not, and he was about framing some word of comfort, when
Judge Howell’s voice was heard below, asking if his runaway were there.
“Oh, it’s too bad!” said Mildred. “I wanted to have such a nice long
talk, and have not said a word I came to say; but it can’t be helped.”
And kissing the lips which inwardly kissed her back a thousand times,
though outwardly they did not move, she hurried down the stairs, where
the Judge was waiting for her.
“I thought I should find you here,” he said, adding that it was not
polite in her to flare up at nothing, and run off from her guests.
Mildred made no reply, and knowing from past experience that it was not
always safe to reprove her, the Judge walked on in silence until they
reached the house, where Lilian greeted Mildred as if nothing had
occurred, while Lawrence made himself so agreeable, that when at last
they separated for the night the shadow was entirely gone from Mildred’s
face, and nearly so from her heart.
CHAPTER X.
THE RIVER.
The next day was excessively hot and sultry, confining the young people
to the cool, dark parlor where Lilian fanned herself furiously, while
Lawrence turned the pages of a book, and Mildred drummed listlessly upon
the piano. Oliver did not join them, and Luce, who, before dinner went
down to the Cold Spring for water, brought back the news that he was
suffering from one of his nervous headaches.
“He needs more exercise,” said Lawrence. “I mean to take him with me
this afternoon when I go down to bathe in the river.”
Accordingly, about four o’clock, he called upon Oliver, who looked pale
and haggard, as if years of suffering had passed over him since the
previous night. Still, he was so much better, that Lawrence ventured to
propose his going to the river.
“No matter if you can’t swim,” he said; “you can sit upon the grass and
look at me.”
Oliver knew that the fresh air would do him good, and he went at last
with Lawrence to the quiet spot which the latter had selected, partly
because it was remote from any dwelling, and partly because the water
was deeper there than at the points higher up. Sitting down beneath a
tree, which grew near to the bank, Oliver watched his companion, as he
plunged boldly into the stream, and struck out for the opposite shore.
“Why am I not like him, instead of being thus feminine and weak?” was
the bitter thought creeping into Oliver’s heart, when suddenly a fearful
cry rose on the air,—a cry of “Help! I’m cramped! oh, help me, Clubs!”
and turning in the direction whence it came, Oliver saw a frightened
face disappearing beneath the water, while the outstretched hand, which
went down last, seemed imploring him for aid.
In an instant Oliver stood by the river bank, and when the face came up
again, he saw that it was whiter than before, and the voice was fainter
which uttered another name than that of Clubs. At first Oliver thought
he was mistaken, but when it came a second time, he reeled as if smitten
by a heavy blow, for he knew then that the drowning man had cried out:
“Milly! dear Milly!” as if he thus would bid her farewell.
For a second Oliver stood spell-bound, while thought after thought
traversed his whirling brain. Lawrence was his rival, and yet not his
rival, for, even had he never been, such as Oliver Hawkins could not
hope to win the queenly Mildred, whose heart would break when they told
her Lawrence was dead. She would come to him for comfort, as she always
did, and how could he tell her he had looked silently on and seen him
die? There would be bitter reproach in the eyes which never yet had
rested upon him save in love, and rather than meet that glance Oliver
resolved at last to save Lawrence Thornton, even if he perished in the
attempt.
“Nobody will mourn for the cripple,” he said. “Nobody miss me but
Mildred, and Lawrence will comfort her;” and with one last, hurried
glance at the world which had never seemed so bright as on that July
afternoon, the heroic Oliver sprang into the river, and struck out for
the spot where Lawrence last went down.
He forgot that he had never learned to swim,—nor knew that he was
swimming,—for one thought alone was uppermost in his mind, and that a
thought of Mildred. Hers was the name upon his lip,—hers the image
before his mind as he struggled in the rolling river,—for her he ran
that fearful risk,—and the mighty love he bore her buoyed him up, until
he reached the spot where the waters were still in wild commotion. By
what means he grasped the tangled hair,—held up the rigid form and took
it back to the shore, he never knew, it passed so like a dream. With an
almost superhuman effort, he dragged the body up the bank, laid it upon
the grass, and then his feeble voice, raised to its highest pitch, went
echoing up the hill, but brought back no response. Through the soft
summer haze he saw the chimneys of the Beechwood mansion, and the cupola
on the roof where Mildred often sat, and where she was sitting now. But
his voice did not reach her, or if it did she thought it was some
insect’s hum, and turned again to her book, unmindful of the dying
Lawrence beneath the maple tree, or of the distracted Oliver, who knelt
above him, feeling for his pulse, and dropping tears like rain upon his
face.
“I must go for help, and leave him here alone,” he said, at last, and he
started on his way, slowly, painfully, for ere plunging into the river
he had thrown aside his shoes, and his poor, tender feet had been cut
upon a sharp-pointed rock.
But he kept on his way, while his knees shook beneath him, and in his
ears there was a buzzing sound like the rush of many waters. Human
strength could not endure much more, and by the time he reached his
grandmother’s gate he sunk to the ground, and crawled slowly to the
door. In wild affright old Hepsy came out, asking what was the matter.
“Lawrence!” he gasped;—“he’s drowned,—he’s dead!”
Then from his mouth and nose the crimson blood gushed out, and Hepsy had
just cause for screaming as she did:
“Help! Murder! Fire! Mildred Howell! Oliver is dead, and Lawrence too!”
From her seat in the cupola Mildred heard the cry, for Hepsy’s voice was
shrill and clear, and it rang out like an alarm-bell. Mildred heard her
name and that Oliver was dead, and bounding down the stairs she went
flying down the Cold Spring path, while close behind her came the
wheezing Judge, with Lilian following slowly in the rear.
On the floor, just where he had fainted, Oliver was lying, and Mildred’s
heart stood still when she saw his dripping garments and the blood
stains round his pallid lips.
“Poor, poor Oliver,” she said, kneeling down beside him, and wringing
his wet hair. “Where has he been?”
At the sound of her voice his eyes unclosed, and he whispered faintly:
“Lawrence, Milly. Lawrence is dead under that tree.”
Then, for one brief instant, Mildred fancied herself dying, but the
sight of Lilian, who had just come in, brought back her benumbed
faculties, and going up to her, she said:
“Did you hear, Lily? Lawrence is dead,—drowned. Let us go to him
together. He is mine, now, as much as yours.”
“Oh, I carn’t, I carn’t!” sobbed Lilian, cowering back into a corner.
“I’m afraid of dead folks! I’d rather stay here.”
“Fool! dough-head!” thundered the Judge, who thoroughly disliked her,
and was now out of all kind of patience. “Go to the house, then, and see
that his chamber is ready for the body,” and without waiting to see if
his orders were obeyed, he hastened after Mildred, who was flying over
the distant fields as if she sported a pair of unseen wings.
She saw the stains from Oliver’s wounded feet, and knowing that she was
right she ran on, and on until she reached the spot, whither other aid
had preceded her, else Lawrence Thornton had surely floated down the
deep, dark river of death.
Two villagers, returning from a neighboring wood, had found him lying
there, and were doing for him what they could when Mildred came up
begging of them to say if he were dead.
“Speak to him, Miss Howell,” said one of the men. “That may bring him
back—it sometimes does;” but Mildred’s voice, though all powerful to
unlock Oliver’s scattered senses, could not penetrate the lethargy which
had stolen over Lawrence, and, with an ominous shake of their heads, the
two men lifted him between them, and bore him back to the house, where
Lilian, in her own room, was sobbing as if her heart would break, and
saying to Rachel’s grandchild, who had toddled in and asked what was the
matter:
“Oh, I don’t know; I want to go home and see Geraldine.”
“Go home, then, and be——_hanged_,” the Judge finally added, speaking the
last word very naturally, as if that were what he had all the time
intended to say.
With one scornful glance at Lilian, who, as Lawrence was borne past her
door, covered her face with her hands and moaned: “Oh, I carn’t look at
him,” Mildred saw that everything was made comfortable, and then all
through the anxious, exciting hour which followed, she stood bravely by,
doing whatever was necessary for her to do, and once, at her own
request, placing her warm lips next to the cold ones of the unconscious
man, and sending her life-breath far down into the lungs, which gave
back only a gurgling sound, and Mildred, when she heard it, turned away,
whispering:
“He is dead!”
But Lawrence was not dead; and when the night shadows were stealing into
the room, he gave signs that life was not extinct. Mildred was the first
to discover it, and her cry of joy went ringing through the house, and
penetrated to the room where Lilian still cowered upon the floor. But
Lilian mistook the cry, and grasping the dress of the little child, who
had started to leave her, she sobbed:
“Don’t go,—don’t leave me alone,—it’s getting dark, and I’m afraid of
ghosts!”
“Confounded fool!” muttered the Judge, who passed the door in time to
hear the remark, and who felt strongly tempted to hurl at her head the
brandy bottle he carried in his hand. “It wouldn’t make any more
impression though, than on a bat of cotton wool,” he said, and he
hurried on to the chamber where Lawrence Thornton was enduring all the
pangs of a painful death.
But he was saved, and when at last the fierce struggle was over, and the
throes of agony had ceased, he fell away to sleep, and the physician
bade all leave the room except Mildred, who must watch him while he
slept.
“Will he live? Is he past all danger?” she asked, and when the physician
answered, “Yes,” she said: “Then I must go to Oliver. Lilian will sit
with Mr. Thornton.”
“But is her face a familiar one? Will he be pleased to see her here when
he wakes?” the doctor asked, and Mildred answered sadly:
“Yes, far more pleased than to see me.”
“Let her come, then,” was the reply, and hurrying to Lilian, Mildred
told her what was wanted.
“Oh, I carn’t, I carn’t!” and Lilian drew back. “I ain’t used to sick
folks! I don’t know what to do. You stay, Milly, that’s a dear, good
girl.”
“But I can’t,” answered Mildred. “I must go to Oliver, I’ve neglected
him too long,” and seeing that Lilian showed no signs of yielding, she
took her by the arm, and led her into Lawrence’s chamber.
“Sit there,” she said, placing her in a chair by the bedside, “and when
he wakes, give him this,” pointing to something in a cup, which the
doctor had prepared.
“Oh, it’s so dark, and his face so white,” sobbed Lilian, while Mildred,
feeling strongly inclined to box her ears, bade her once more sit still,
and then hurried away.
“There’s grit for you,” muttered the Judge, who in the next room had
overheard the whole. “There’s a girl worth having. Why, I’d give more
for Milly’s little finger than for that gutta percha’s whole body.
Afraid of the dark,—_little fool_! How can he coo round her as he does!
But I’ll put a flea in his ear. I’ll tell him that in Mildred Howell’s
face, when she thought that he was dead, I saw who it was she loved. I
ain’t blind,” and the Judge paced up and down the room, while Mildred
kept on her way, and soon reached the gable-roof.
“A pretty time of day to get here,” growled old Hepsy; “after the worst
is over, and he got well to bed. I’d save that city sprig for you again
if I was Clubs.”
“Grandmother, please go down,” said Oliver, while Mildred, unmindful of
old Hepsy’s presence, wound her arms around his neck, and he could feel
her hot tears dropping like rain upon his face, as she whispered:
“Darling Oliver, heaven bless you, even as I do. I knew it must have
been so; but why did you risk your life for him? Say, did you?”
“Grandmother, will you go down?” Oliver said again; and muttering
something about “being glad to get rid of such sickishness,” old Hepsy
hobbled off.
When sure that she was gone, Oliver placed a hand on each side of the
face bending over him, and said:
“Don’t thank me, Mildred; I don’t deserve it, for my first wicked
thought was to let him drown, but when I remembered how much you loved
him, I said I’ll save him for Milly, even though I die. It is far better
that the poor cripple should be drowned than the handsome Lawrence. Do
you love me more for saving him, Milly?”
“Yes, yes,” answered Mildred; “and so does Lilian, or she will when I
tell her, for you know you saved him for her, not for me.”
“Mildred,” said Oliver, laying his clammy hand upon her hair, “When
Lawrence Thornton was sinking in the river, whose name do you think he
called?”
“Lilian’s!” and by the dim light of the candle burning on the stand,
Oliver could see the quivering of her lips.
“No, darling, not Lilian, but ‘Milly, dear Milly.’ That was what he
said; and there was a world of love in the way he said it.”
Mildred’s eyes were bright as diamonds, but Oliver’s were dim with
tears, and he could not see how they sparkled and flashed, while a smile
of joy broke over the face. He only knew that both Mildred’s hands were
laid upon his forehead as if she would doubly bless him for the words
which he had spoken. There was silence a moment, and then Mildred’s face
came so near to his that he felt her breath and Mildred whispered
timidly:
“Are you certain, Oliver, that you heard aright? Wasn’t it Lilian? Tell
me again just what he said.”
“Milly, dear Milly,” and Oliver’s voice was full of yearning tenderness,
as if the words welled up from the very depths of his own heart.
She looked so bright, so beautiful, sitting there beside him, that he
would willingly have given his life, could he once have put his arms
around her and told her how he loved her. But it must not be and with a
mighty effort, which filled the blue veins on his forehead and forced
out the drops of perspiration, he conquered the desire, but not until he
closed his eyes to shut out her glowing beauty.
“You are tired,” she said. “I am wearing you out,” and arranging his
pillows more comfortably, she made a movement to go.
He let her think he was tired, for he would rather she should leave him,
and with a whispered “good-by, dear Oliver,” she glided from the room.
CHAPTER XI.
LAWRENCE DECEIVED AND UNDECEIVED.
For a time after Mildred left him, Lawrence slept on quietly, and Lilian
gradually felt her fears subsiding, particularly as Rachel brought in a
lamp and placed it on the mantel. Still she was very nervous and she sat
sobbing behind her handkerchief, until Lawrence showed signs of waking;
then remembering what Mildred had said of something in a cup, she held
it to his lips, bidding him drink, but he would not, and setting it down
she went back to her crying, thinking it mean in Mildred to leave her
there so long when she wasn’t a bit accustomed to sick folks.
Suddenly she felt a hand laid upon her own, and starting up she saw
Lawrence Thornton looking at her. Instantly all her fortitude gave way,
and laying her face on the pillow beside him she sobbed:
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, I’m so glad you ain’t dead, and have waked up
at last, for it’s dreadful sitting here alone.”
Drawing her nearer to him the young man said:
“Poor child, have you been here long?”
“Yes, ever since the doctor left,” she answered. “Mildred is with Clubs.
I don’t believe she’d care a bit if you should die.”
“Mildred—Mildred,” Lawrence repeated, as if trying to recall something
in the past. “Then it was _you_ who were with me in all that dreadful
agony, when my life came back again? I fancied it was Mildred.”
Lilian had not the courage to undeceive him, for there was no mistaking
the feeling which prompted him to smooth her golden curls and call her
“Fairy.” Still she must say something, and so she said:
“I held the cup to your lips a little while ago.”
“I know you did,” he answered. “You are a dear girl, Lilian. Now tell me
all about it and who saved my life.”
“Waked up in the very nick of time,” muttered the Judge, who all the
while had been in the next room, and who had been awake just long enough
to hear all that had passed between Lawrence and Lilian. “Yes, _sir_,
just in the nick of time, and now we’ll hear what soft-pate has to say;”
and moving nearer to the door he listened while Lilian told Lawrence how
Oliver had taken him from the river and laid him under a tree, where he
was found by two of the villagers, who brought him home.
“Then,” said she, “they sent for the doctor, who did all manner of cruel
things, until you came to life and went to sleep.”
“And Mildred wasn’t here at all,” said Lawrence sadly. “Why did she stay
with Oliver? What ails him?”
“He had the nose-bleed, I believe,” answered Lilian. “You know he’s
weak, and getting you out of the water made him sick, I suppose. Mildred
thinks more of Oliver than of you, I guess.”
“The deuce she does,” muttered the Judge, and he was about going in to
charge Lilian with her duplicity when Mildred herself appeared, and he
resumed his seat to hear what next would occur.
“I am sorry I had to leave you,” she said, going up to Lawrence, “but
poor Oliver needed the care of some one besides old Hepsy, and I dare
say you have found a competent nurse in Lilian.”
“Yes, Fairy has been very kind,” said Lawrence, taking the young girl’s
hand, “I should have been sadly off without her. But what of Oliver?”
Mildred did not then know how severe a shock Oliver had received, and
she replied that, “he was very weak, but would, she hoped, be better
soon.”
“I shall go down to-morrow and thank him for saving my life,” was
Lawrence’s next remark, while Mildred asked some trivial question
concerning himself.
“Why in thunder don’t she tell him all about it?” growled the Judge,
beginning to grow impatient. “Why don’t she tell him how she worked like
an ox, while t’other one sat on the floor and snivelled?” Then as he
heard Mildred say that she must go and see which of the negroes would
stay with him that night, he continued his mutterings: “Mildred’s a
fool,—Thornton’s a fool,—and that Lilian is a consummate fool; but I’ll
fix ’em;” and striding into the room, just as Mildred was leaving it, he
said, “Gipsy, come back. You needn’t go after a nigger. I’ll stay with
Lawrence myself.”
It was in vain that both Lawrence and Mildred remonstrated against it.
The Judge was in earnest. “Unless, indeed, _you_ want to watch,” and he
turned to Lilian: “You are such a capital nurse,—not a bit afraid of the
dark, nor sick folks, you know,” and he chucked her under the chin,
while she began to stammer out:
“Oh, I carn’t! I carn’t! it’s too hard,—too hard.”
“Of course, it’s too hard,” said Lawrence, amazed at the Judge’s
proposition. “Lilian is too delicate for that; she ought to be in bed
this moment, poor child. She’s been sadly tried to-day,” and he looked
pityingly at Lilian, who, feeling that in some way wholly unknown to
herself, she had been terribly aggrieved, began to cry, and left the
room.
“Look out that there don’t something catch you in the hall,” the Judge
called after her, shrugging his shoulders, and thinking that not many
hours would elapse ere he pretty thoroughly undeceived Lawrence
Thornton.
But in this he began to fancy he might be disappointed, for soon after
Mildred left them, Lawrence fell away to sleep, resting so quietly that
the Judge would not awake him, but sat listening to his loud breathings
until he himself grew drowsy. But Lawrence disturbed him, and after a
few short nods, he straightened up, exclaiming, “the confoundedest
snorer I ever heard. I can hear him with my deaf ear. Just listen, will
you!” and he frowned wrathfully at the curtained bed, where lay the
unconscious object of his cogitations. “It’s of no use,” he said at
last, as he heard the clock strike one. “No use to be sitting here.
Nothing short of an earthquake could wake him, and sleep will do him
more good than that slush in the cups. I ain’t going to sit up all night
either. ‘I carn’t! I carn’t! it’s too hard,—too hard!’ Little fool!” and
laughing to himself as he mimicked Lilian, he stalked into the adjoining
chamber, and when at sunrise Mildred came in she found the medicines all
untouched, and the Judge fairly outdoing Lawrence in the quantity and
quality of his snores!
But the Judge was right in one conclusion,—sleep did Lawrence more good
than medicine could possibly have done, and he awoke at last greatly
refreshed. Smiling pleasantly upon Mildred, whom he found sitting by
him, he asked her to open the shutters, so he could inhale the morning
air, and see the sun shine on the eastern hills.
“My visit has had a sad commencement,” he said, as she complied with his
request, and went back to his side; “and lest it should grow worse, I
shall return home in a day or so. Do you think Lilian will be ready to
accompany me?”
Instantly the tears came to Mildred’s eyes, but Lawrence thought they
were induced by a dread of losing Lilian, and he hastened to say, “She
need not go, of course, unless she chooses.”
“But you,—why need you go?” asked Mildred. “I was anticipating so much
pleasure from your visit, and that first night you came I was so rude
and foolish. You must think me a strange girl, Mr. Thornton.”
Whether he thought her strange or not, he thought her very beautiful,
sitting there before him in her white morning wrapper, with her cheeks
fresh as roses and her brown hair parted smoothly back from her open
brow.
“It was wrong in Lilian to betray your confidence,” he replied; “but she
did it thoughtlessly, and has apologized for it, I presume; she promised
me she would.”
Mildred did not tell him that she hadn’t, and he continued, “It is very
natural that a girl like you should have hosts of admirers, and quite as
natural that you should give to some one of them the preference. I only
hope he is worthy of you, Milly.”
Mildred felt that she could not restrain her tears much longer, and she
was glad when Lilian at last came in, thus affording her a good excuse
for stealing away. She did not hear what passed between the two, but
when Lilian came down to breakfast she said, “Lawrence had suggested
their going home,” and as nothing could please her more, they would
start the next day if he were able.
“I’ll bet he won’t go before he gets a piece of my mind,” thought the
Judge, as he watched for a favorable opportunity, but Lilian was always
in the way, and when long after dinner he went to Lawrence’s room, he
found that he had gone down to visit Oliver, who was still confined to
his bed and seemed to be utterly exhausted.
Lawrence had not expected to see him so pale and sick, and at first he
could only press his hands in silence.
“It was very kind in you, Clubs,” he said at last, “to save my life at
the risk of your own.”
“You are mistaken,” returned Oliver; “it was for Mildred I risked my
life, far more than for you.”
“For Mildred, Clubs,—for Mildred!” and all over Lawrence Thornton’s
handsome face there broke a look of perplexity and delight, for Oliver’s
words implied a something to believe which would be happiness indeed.
“I can’t tell you now,” said Oliver, “I am too faint and weak. Come to
me before you go and I will explain; but first, Lawrence Thornton,
answer me truly, as you hope for heaven, do you love Mildred Howell?”
“Love Mildred Howell,—love Mildred Howell!” Lawrence repeated, in
amazement. “Yes, Clubs, as I hope for heaven, I love her better than my
life, but she isn’t for me, she loves somebody else,” and he hurried
down the stairs, never dreaming that the other was himself, for had it
been, she would not have deserted him the previous day, when he was so
near to death. “No, Oliver is deceived,” he said, and he walked slowly
back to Beechwood, thinking how bright the future would look to him
could he but possess sweet Mildred Howell’s love. “I never receive any
help, from Lilian,” he unconsciously said aloud. “She lies like a weight
upon my faculties, while Mildred has the most charming way of rubbing up
one’s ideas. Mildred is splendid,” and his foot touched the lower step
of the back piazza just as the Judge’s voice chimed in:
“I’m glad you think so. That’s what I’ve been trying to get at this
whole day, so sit down here, Thornton, and we’ll have a confidential
chat. The girls are off riding, and there’s no one to disturb us.”
Lawrence took the offered seat, and the Judge continued:
“I don’t know how to commence it, seeing there’s no head nor tail, and I
shall make an awful bungle, I presume, but what I want to say is this:
You’ve got the wool pulled over your eyes good. I ain’t blind, nor deaf
either, if one of my ears is shut up tight as a drum. I heard her
soft-soaping you last night, making you think nobody did anything but
her. It’s Lilian, I mean,” he continued, as he saw the mystified
expression on Lawrence’s face. “Now, honest, didn’t she make you believe
that she did about the whole; that is, did what women would naturally do
in such a case?”
Lawrence had received some such impression and as he had no reason for
thinking Lilian would purposely deceive him, he roused up at once in her
defense.
“Everybody was kind, I presume,” he said, “but I must say that for a
little, nervous creature as she is, Lilian acted nobly, standing
fearlessly by until the worst was over, and then, when all the rest was
gone, who was it sat watching me, but Lilian?”
“Lilian! the devil! There, I have sworn, and I feel the better for it,”
said the Judge, growing red in the face, and kicking over one of
Mildred’s house plants with his heavy boot. “Thornton, you are a fool.”
“Very likely,” answered Lawrence; “but I am certainly willing to be
enlightened, and as you seem capable of doing it, pray continue.”
“Never granted a request more willingly in my life,” returned the Judge.
“Thornton, you certainly have some sense, or your father never would
have married my daughter.”
Lawrence could not tell well what that had to do with his having sense,
but he was too anxious to interrupt the Judge, who continued: “You see,
when Clubs crawled back to his door and told how you were dead, and when
Hepsy screamed for help like a panther as she is, Mildred was the first
to hear it, and she went tearing down the hill, while I went wheezing
after, with Lilian following like a snail. I was standing by when Clubs
told Milly you were dead, and then, Thornton, then there was a look on
her face which made my very toes tingle, old as I am. Somehow the girl
has got an idea that you think Lilian a little angel, and turning to
her, she said, ‘Lilian, Lawrence is dead. Let us go to him together. He
is mine now as much as yours,’ but do you think, boy, that she went?”
“Yes, yes, I don’t know. Go on,” gasped Lawrence, whose face was white
as ashes.
“Well, sir, she didn’t, but shrank back in the corner, and snivelled
out, ‘I carn’t, I carn’t. I’m afraid of dead folks. I’d rather stay
here.’ I suppose I said some savage things before I started after Milly,
who was flying over the fields just as you have seen your hat fly in a
strong March wind. When I got to the tree I found her with her arms
around your neck, and as hard a wretch as I am, I shed tears to see
again on her face that look, as if her heart were broken. When we
reached home with you, we found Lilian crying in her room, and she never
so much as lifted her finger, while Mildred stood bravely by, and once,
Thornton, she put her lips to yours and blew her breath into your lungs,
until her cheeks stuck out like two globe lamps. I think that did the
business, for you soon showed signs of life, and then Mildred cried out
for joy while Lilian, who heard her, fancied you were dead, and wanted
somebody to stay with her, because she was afraid of ghosts. Just as
though you wouldn’t have enough to do seeing what kind of a place you’d
got into, without appearing to her? When the danger was all over, and
you were asleep, Mildred, of course, wanted to go to Clubs, so she asked
Lilian to stay with you, but she had to bring her in by force, for
Lilian said she was afraid of the dark. I was in the next room and heard
the whole performance. I heard you, too, make a fool of yourself, when
you woke up and Lilian gave you her version of the story. Of course, I
was considerably riled up, for Mildred is the very apple of my eye.
Lawrence, do you love Lilian Veille?”
Scarcely an hour before, Oliver had said to Lawrence, “Do you love
Mildred Howell?” and now the Judge asked, “Do you love Lilian Veille?”
To the first Lawrence had answered “Yes.” He could answer the same to
the last, for he did love Lilian, though not as he loved Mildred, and so
he said yes, asking in a faltering voice:
“What he was expected to infer from all he had heard?”
“Infer?” repeated the Judge. “Good thunder, you ain’t to infer anything!
You are to take it for gospel truth. Mildred _does_ love somebody, as
that blabbing Lilian said she did, and the two first letters of his name
are LAWRENCE THORNTON! But what the mischief, boy; are you sorry to know
that the queen of all the girls that ever was born, or ever will be, is
in love with you?” he asked, as Lawrence sprang to his feet, and walked
rapidly up and down the long piazza.
“Sorry,—no; but glad; so glad; and may I talk with her to-night?”
answered Lawrence, forgetting his father’s wrath, which was sure to fall
upon him,—forgetting Lilian,—forgetting everything, save the fact that
Mildred Howell loved him.
“Sit down here, boy,” returned the Judge. “I have more to say before I
answer that question. You have seen a gnarled, crabbed old oak, haven’t
you, with a green, beautiful vine creeping over and around it, putting
out a broad leaf here, sending forth a tendril there, and covering up
the deformity beneath, until people say of that tree, ‘It’s not so ugly
after all?’ But tear the vine away, and the oak is uglier than ever.
Well, that sour, crabbed tree is _me_; and that beautiful vine, bearing
the broad leaves and the luxurious fruit, is Mildred, who has crept
around and over, and into my very being, until there is not a throb of
my heart which does not bear with it a thought of her. She’s all the old
man has to love. The other Mildred is dead long years ago, while
Richard, Heaven only knows where my boy Richard is,” and leaning on his
gold-headed cane, the Judge seemed to be wandering away back in the
past, while Lawrence, who thought the comparison between the oak and the
vine very fine, very appropriate, and all that, but couldn’t, for the
life of him, see what it had to do with his speaking to Mildred that
night, ventured again to say:
“And I may tell Mildred of my love,—may I not?”
Then the Judge roused up and answered, “Only on condition that you both
stay here with me. The oak withers when the vine is torn away, and I,
too, should die if I knew Milly had left me forever. Man alive, you
can’t begin to guess how I love the vixen, nor how the sound of her
voice makes the little laughing ripples break all over my old heart.
There comes the gipsy now,” and the little, laughing ripples, as he
called them, broke all over his face, as he saw Mildred galloping to the
door, her starry eyes looking archly out from beneath her riding hat,
and her lips wreathed with smiles as she kissed her hand to the Judge.
“Yes, boy, botheration, yes,” whispered the latter, as Lawrence pulled
his sleeve for an answer to his question, ere hastening to help the
ladies alight. “Talk to her all night if you want to, I’ll do my best to
keep back ‘softening of the brain,’” and he nodded toward Lilian, who
was indulging herself in little bits of feminine screams as her horse
showed signs of being frightened at a dog lying behind some bushes.
But the judge had promised more than he was capable of performing. All
that evening he manœuvred most skilfully to separate Lilian from
Mildred, but the thing could not be done, for just so sure as he asked
the former to go with him upon the piazza and tell him the names of the
stars, just so sure she answered that “she didn’t know as stars had
names,” suggesting the while that he take Mildred, who knew everything,
and when at last he told her, jokingly as it were, that “it was time
children and fools were in bed,” she answered with more than her usual
quickness:
“I would advise you to go then.”
“Sharper than I s’posed,” he thought, and turning to Lawrence, he
whispered: “No use—no use. She sticks like shoemaker’s wax, but I’ll
tell you what, when she is getting ready to go to-morrow I’ll call Milly
down, on the pretence of seeing her for something, and then you’ll have
a chance,” and with this Lawrence was fain to be satisfied.
He did not need to go to Oliver for an explanation of his words,—he knew
now what they meant,—knew that the beautiful Mildred did care for him,
and when he at last laid his head upon his pillow, he could see in the
future no cloud to darken his pathway, unless it were his father’s
anger, and even that did not seem very formidable.
“He will change his mind when he sees how determined I am,” he thought.
“Mildred won the crusty Judge’s heart,—she will win his as well. Lilian
will shed some tears, I suppose, and Geraldine will scold, but after
knowing how Lilian deceived me, I could not marry her, even were there
no Mildred ‘with the starry eyes and nut-brown hair.’”
He knew that people had applied these terms to his young step-mother,
and it was thus that he loved to think of Mildred, whose eyes were as
bright as stars and whose hair was a rich nut-brown. He did not care who
her parents were, he said, though his mind upon that point was pretty
well established, but should he be mistaken, it was all the same.
Mildred, as his wife and the adopted daughter of Judge Howell, would be
above all reproach, and thus, building pleasant castles of the future,
he fell asleep.
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER XII.
THE PROPOSAL.
“Miss Veille,” said the Judge at the breakfast table next morning, “the
carriage will be round in just an hour, and as, if you are at all like
Milly, you have a thousand and one traps to pick up, you’d better be
about it.”
“Milly is going to help me. I never could do it alone,” returned Lilian,
sipping her coffee very leisurely and lingering in the dining-room to
talk with Lawrence, even after breakfast was over.
Mildred, however, had gone upstairs, and thither Judge Howell followed,
finding her, as he expected, folding up Lilian’s clothes, and placing
them in her trunk.
“That girl is too lazy to breathe,” he said. “Why don’t she come and
help you, when I’ve a particular reason for wishing you to hurry,” and
by way of accelerating matters, he crumpled in a heap two of Lilian’s
muslin dresses, and ere Mildred could stop him, had jammed them into a
band-box, containing the mite of a thing which Lilian called a bonnet.
A lace bertha next came under consideration, but Mildred snatched it
from him just as he was tucking it away with a pair of India rubbers.
“You ruin the things!” she cried. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ll tell you, gipsy,” he answered, in a whisper, “I want to see you
alone a few minutes before they go off. I tried last night till I sweat,
but had to give it up.”
“We are alone now,” said Mildred, while the Judge replied:
“Hang it all, ’tain’t _me_ that wants to see you. Don’t you understand?”
Mildred confessed her ignorance, and he was about to explain, when
Lilian came up with a letter just received from her sister.
“The Lord help me,” groaned the Judge, while Lilian, thinking he spoke
to her, said:
“What, sir?”
“I was swearing to myself,” he replied, and adding in an aside to
Mildred: “Come down as quick as you can,” he left the room.
Scarcely had he gone when Lilian began:
“Guess, Milly, what Geraldine has written. She says Lawrence was
intending to propose to me while he was here, and she thinks I’d better
manage—dear me, what was it she said,” and opening the letter she read:
“If he has not already offered himself, and a favorable opportunity
should occur, you had better adroitly lead the conversation in that
direction. A great deal can sometimes be accomplished by a little
skilful management.”
“There, that’s what she wrote, and now, what _does_ she mean for me to
do? Why, Mildred, you are putting my combs and brushes in my jewel-box!
What ails you?”
“So I am,” returned Mildred. “I am hardly myself this morning.”
“It’s because I’m going away, I suppose; but say, how can I adroitly
lead the conversation in that direction?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Mildred, but Lilian persisted that she
did, and at last, in sheer despair, Mildred said: “You might ask him if
he ever intended to be married.”
“Well then, what?” said Lilian.
“Mercy, I don’t know,” returned Mildred. “It would depend altogether
upon his answer. Perhaps he’ll say he does—perhaps he’ll say he don’t.”
This was enough to mystify Lilian completely; and, with a most doleful
expression she began to change her dress, saying the while:
“I see you won’t help me out; but I don’t care. He most offered himself
that night I sat with him when you were down with Clubs;” and she
repeated, in an exaggerated form, several things which he had said to
her, while all the while poor Mildred’s tears were dropping into the
trunk which she was packing.
Ever since Oliver had told her of Lawrence’s drowning cry there had been
a warm, sunny spot in her heart, but Lilian’s words had chilled it, and
to herself she whispered sadly:
“Oliver did not hear aright. It was ‘Lily! dear Lily!’ he said.”
“Mildred!” screamed the Judge from the lower hall, “come down here,
quick; I want you for as much as fifteen minutes; and you, Miss Lilian,
if that packing isn’t done, hurry up, or Thornton will go off without
you.”
“I think it’s right hateful in him,” muttered Lilian, adding, in a
coaxing tone, as Mildred was leaving the room, “won’t you kind of be
thinking how I can _lead the conversation_ in that direction, for I
shall have a splendid chance in the cars, and you can whisper it to me
before I go.”
“I wonder what he wants of her?” she continued to herself as Mildred ran
down stairs. “I mean to hurry and see,” and she so quickened her
movements that scarcely ten minutes had elapsed ere her trunk was ready,
and she had started in quest of Mildred.
“Go back, you filigree. You ain’t wanted there;” and the Judge, who kept
guard in the hall below, interposed his cane between her and the door of
the drawing-room, where Lawrence and Mildred sat together, his arm round
her waist, her hand in his own, and her eyes downcast, but shining like
stars beneath their long-fringed lashes.
In answer to her question, “What do you want of me?” the Judge had
pointed to the drawing-room, and said:
“The one who wants you is in there.”
“Who can it be?” she thought, tripping through the hall, and crossing
the threshold of the door, where she stopped suddenly, while an
undefinable sensation swept over her, for at the farthest extremity of
the room, and directly beneath the portrait of Richard Howell, Lawrence
stood waiting for her.
“Did you wish to speak with me, Mr. Thornton? Do you want me?” she
asked, when a little recovered from her astonishment.
“Yes, Milly, yes,” Lawrence answered impetuously, “I want you for
life,—want you forever,” and advancing toward her, he wound his arm
about her and led her back to the sofa, where she sank down utterly
bewildered, and feeling as if she were laboring under some
hallucination.
Could it be herself he wanted? Wasn’t it Lilian, who was even now
puzzling her brain how “to lead the conversation” so as to produce a
scene similar to this, save that she and not Mildred would be one of the
actors?
“Dear Mildred,” the voice at her side began, and then she knew it was
not Lilian he meant.
She could not mistake her own name, and she listened breathlessly while
he told her of the love conceived more than two years before, when she
was a merry, hoydenish school-girl of fifteen, and had spent a few days
at his father’s house.
“It has always been my father’s wish,” he said, “that I must marry
Lilian, and until quite recently I have myself fostered the belief that
I should some time do so, even though I knew I could be happier with
you; but, Milly,—Lilian can never be my wife.”
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, Lawrence!” and spite of the Judge’s cane,—spite
of the Judge’s boot,—spite of the Judge’s burly figure, planted in the
doorway to impede her ingress, Lilian Veille rushed headlong into the
middle of the room, where she stood a moment, wringing her hands in mute
despair, and then fell or rather crouched upon the floor, still crying:
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence.”
Wholly blinded by her sister, she had as much expected to be the future
wife of Lawrence Thornton as to see the next day’s sun, and had never
thought it possible for him to choose another, so when she saw his
position with Mildred and heard the words: “Lilian can never be my
wife,” the shock was overwhelming, and she sank upon the carpet,
helpless, sick and fainting.
“Now, I’ll be hanged,” said the Judge, “if this ain’t a little the
greatest performance; but go right on, boy, have your say out. I’ll tend
to her,” and bursting into the library, he caught up in his trepidation
the ink-bottle in stead of the camphor. “A little thrown in her face
will fetch her to. Camphor is good for the hysterics,” he said, and
hurrying back he would undoubtedly have deluged poor Lilian with ink, if
Mildred had not pushed him away just as the first drop had fallen on her
dress.
Whether Lawrence would have “had his say out” or not, was not proved,
for Mildred sprang to Lilian’s side, and lifting her head upon her lap
asked if she were sick.
“No, no,” moaned Lilian, covering her face with her hands and crying a
low, plaintive cry, which fell on Mildred’s heart like a reproachful
sound, “no, not sick, but I wish that I were dead. Oh, Mildred, how
could you serve me so, when you knew that he was mine? Ain’t you,
Lawrence? Oh, Lawrence!” and burying her face in Mildred’s lap, she
sobbed passionately.
“Lilian,” said Lawrence, drawing near to her, “Lilian, I have never
intended to deceive you; I am not responsible for what my father and
Geraldine have said——”
“Stop, I won’t hear,” cried Lilian, putting her fingers to her ears.
“Mildred coaxed you, I know she did, and that hateful old man, too.
Let’s go home, where Geraldine is. You always loved me there.”
She did not seem to blame him in the least; on the contrary, she charged
all to Mildred, who could only answer with her tears, for the whole had
been so sudden,—so like a dream to herself.
“Carriage at the gate,—is the young lady’s trunk ready?” asked Finn in
the hall, and consulting his watch Lawrence saw that if they went that
day they had no time to lose.
“Hadn’t we better stay till to-morrow?” he suggested, unwilling to leave
until Mildred had told him yes.
“No, no,” Lilian fairly screamed. “We mustn’t stay another minute;” and
grasping his arm, she led him into the hall, while the Judge, with the
ink-bottle still in his hand, slyly whispered:
“You can write, boy—you can write.”
Yes, he could write, and comforted by this thought, Lawrence raised
Mildred’s hand to his lips, while Lilian’s blue eyes flashed with far
more spirit than was ever seen in them before. She would not say
good-by, and she walked stiffly down to the carriage, holding fast to
Lawrence, lest by some means he should be spirited away.
It was a most dismally silent ride from Beechwood to the depot, for
Lilian persisted in crying behind her vail, and as Lawrence knew of no
consolation to offer, he wisely refrained from speaking, but employed
himself the while in thinking how the little red spots came out all over
Mildred’s face and neck when she sat upon the sofa, and he called her:
“Dear Mildred.”
When they entered the cars where Lilian had hoped for a splendid time
provided Milly told her “how to lead the conversation,” the little lady
was still crying and continued so until Boston was in sight. Then,
indeed, she cheered up, thinking to herself how “she’d tell Geraldine
and have her see to it.”
* * * * *
“Why, Lawrence,—Lilian,—who expected you to-day?” Geraldine Veille
exclaimed, when about four o’clock she met them in the hall.
In as few words as possible Lawrence explained to her that he had been
nearly drowned, and as he did not feel much like visiting after that, he
had come home and brought Lilian with him.
“But what ails her? She has not been drowned too,” said Geraldine,
alarmed at her sister’s white face and swollen eyes.
Thinking that Lilian might explain, Lawrence hastened off leaving them
alone.
“Oh, sister,” cried Lilian, when he was gone. “Come upstairs to our
room, where I can tell you all about it and how unhappy I am.”
In a moment they entered their chamber, and throwing her bonnet and
shawl on the floor, Lilian threw herself into the middle of the bed, and
half smothering herself with the pillows, began her story, to which
Geraldine listened with flashing eyes and burning cheeks.
“The wretch!” she exclaimed, when Lilian had finished. “Of course she
enticed him. It’s like her; but don’t distress yourself, Lily dear. I
can manage it, I think.”
“It don’t need any managing,” sobbed Lilian, “now that we’ve got home.
He always loves me best here, and he’ll forget that hateful Mildred.”
This was Lilian’s conclusion. Geraldine’s was different. Much as she
hated Mildred Howell, she knew that having loved her once, Lawrence
would not easily cease to love her, let him be where he would, and
though from Lilian’s story she inferred that he had not yet fully
committed himself, she knew he would do so, and by letter, too, unless
she devised some means of preventing it. Still she would not, for the
world, that Lawrence should suspect her designs, and when at dinner she
met him at the table, her smiling face told no tales of the storm
within. Mr. Thornton was absent, and for that she was glad, as it gave
her greater freedom of action.
“Where’s Lily?” Lawrence asked, a little anxious to hear what she had to
say.
With a merry laugh, Geraldine replied:
“Poor little chicken, she can’t bear her grief at all, and it almost
killed her to find that you preferred another to herself. But she’ll get
over it, I daresay. Mildred is a beautiful girl; and though I always
hoped, and indeed expected, that you would marry Lilian, you are, of
course, at liberty to choose for yourself; and I am glad you have made
so good a choice. When is the happy day?”
Lawrence was completely duped, for, manlike, he did not see how bitterly
one woman could hate another, even while seeming to like her, and his
heart warmed toward Geraldine for talking of this matter so coolly.
“I do not even know that the happy day will be at all,” he replied; “for
Lily came upon us before I had half finished. She may refuse me yet.”
“It’s hardly probable,” answered Geraldine, helping him to another cup
of tea. “When Miss Howell was last here I suspected her of being in love
with some one, and foolishly fancied it might be young Hudson, who
called on her so often. But I see my mistake. You did not finish your
proposal, you say. You’ll write to her to-night, of course, and have the
matter decided.”
“That is my intention,” returned Lawrence, beginning to feel a little
uneasy at having suffered Geraldine to draw so much from him.
Still he did not suspect her real design, though he did wonder at her
being so very cordial when she had always looked upon him as her
brother-in-law elect. “As long as there is no help for it she means to
make the best of it, I presume,” he thought, and wishing she might
transfer some of her sense to Lilian, he went to his room to write the
letter, which would tell Mildred Howell that the words he said to her
that morning were in earnest.
Could Geraldine have secured the letter and destroyed it, she would
unhesitatingly have done so, but Lawrence did not leave his room until
it was completed, and when at last he went out, he carried it to the
office, and thus placed it beyond her reach. But the wily woman had
another plan, and going to Lilian, who had really made herself sick with
weeping, she casually inquired what time Judge Howell usually received
his Boston letters.
“At night if he sends to the office,” said Lilian, “and in the morning
if he don’t.”
“He _will_ send to-morrow night,” thought Geraldine, “for _mademoiselle_
will be expecting a letter,” and as she just then heard Mr. Thornton
entering his room, she stepped across the hall and knocked cautiously at
his door.
Mr. Thornton was not in a very amicable mood that night. Business was
dull,—money scarce,—debts were constantly coming in with no means of
canceling them, and in the dreaded future he fancied he saw the word
“Insolvent,” coupled with his own name. From this there was a way of
escape. Lilian Veille had money, if she were Lawrence’s wife, Lawrence
as his junior partner could use the money for the benefit of the firm.
This was a strong reason why he was so anxious for a speedy marriage
between the two, and was also one cause of his professed aversion to
Mildred Howell. Having never seen Judge Howell and Mildred together, he
did not know how strong was the love the old man bore the child of his
adoption, and he did not believe he would be foolish enough to give her
much of his hoarded wealth. Thornton must marry Lilian, and that soon,
he was thinking to himself as he entered his room, for his son’s
marriage was the burden of his thoughts, and having just heard of his
return, he was wondering whether he had engaged himself to Lilian, or
fooled with Mildred as he told him not to do, when Geraldine came to the
door.
Thinking it was Lawrence who knocked, he bade him come in at once, but a
frown flitted over his face when he saw that it was his niece.
“I supposed you were Lawrence,” he said. “I heard he was at home. What
brought him so soon?”
In a few words Geraldine told of the accident, and then, when the
father’s feeling of alarm had subsided, Mr. Thornton asked:
“Did he come to an understanding with Lilian?”
“Yes, I think she understands him perfectly,” was Geraldine’s reply, at
which Mr. Thornton caught quickly.
“They are engaged, then? I am very glad,” and the word “Insolvent”
passed from his mental horizon, leaving there instead bonds and
mortgages, bank stocks, city houses, Western lands and ready money at
his command.
But the golden vision faded quickly when Geraldine repeated to him what
she knew of Lawrence and Mildred Howell.
“Not engaged to _her_? Oh, Heavens!” and Mr. Thornton’s face grew dark
with passion; “I won’t have it so. I’ll break it up. I’ll nip it in the
bud,” and he strode across the floor, foaming with fury and uttering
bitter invectives against the innocent cause of his wrath.
“Sit down, Uncle Robert,” said Geraldine, when his wrath was somewhat
expended. “The case isn’t as hopeless as you imagine. A little skill on
my part, and a little firmness on yours, is all that is necessary.
Lilian surprised them before Lawrence had asked the question itself, but
he has written to-night and the letter is in the office. Mildred will
receive it, of course,—there’s no helping that; but we can, I think,
prevent her answering yes.”
“How,—how?” Mr. Thornton eagerly demanded, and Geraldine replied: “You
know that if they are once engaged, no power on earth can separate them,
for Lawrence has a strong will of his own, and what we have to do is to
keep them from being engaged.”
“No necessity for repeating that again,” growled Mr. Thornton. “Tell me
at once what to do.”
“Simply this,” answered Geraldine: “Do not awake Lawrence’s suspicions,
though if, when you meet him to-night, he gives you his confidence, you
can seem to be angry at first, but gradually grow calm, and tell him
that what is done can’t be helped.”
“Well, then, what?” interrupted Mr. Thornton, impatient to hear the
rest.
“Mildred will receive his letter to-morrow night,” said Geraldine, “and
as it is Saturday, she cannot answer until Monday, of course. In the
meantime you must go to see her——”
“Me!” exclaimed Mr. Thornton. “I go to Beechwood to rouse up that old
lion! It’s as much as my life is worth. You don’t know him, Geraldine.
He has the most violent temper, and I do not wish to make him angry with
me just at present.”
“Perhaps you won’t see him,” returned Geraldine. “Lilian says he
frequently takes a ride on horseback about sunset, as he thinks it keeps
off the apoplexy, and he may be gone. At all events, you can ask to see
Miss Howell alone. You must tell Lawrence you are going to Albany, and
that will account for your taking the early train. You will thus reach
Mayfield at the same time with the letter, but can stop at the hotel
until it has been received and read.”
“I begin to get your meaning,” said Mr. Thornton, brightening up. “You
wish me to see her before she has had time to answer it, and to give her
some very weighty reason why she should refuse my son. I can do that,
too. But will she listen? She is as fiery as a pepper-pod herself.”
“Perhaps not at first, but I think her high temper and foolish pride
will materially aid you, particularly when you touch upon her parentage,
and hint that you will be ashamed of her—besides, you are to take from
me a letter in which I shall appeal to her sympathy for Lilian, and that
will go a great ways with her, for I do believe she loves Lilian.”
A while longer they talked together, and Geraldine had thoroughly
succeeded in making Mr. Thornton understand what he was to do, when
Lawrence himself came to the door, knocking for admittance. He seemed a
little surprised at finding Geraldine there, but her well-timed remark
to his father, “So you think I’d better try Bridget a week or two
longer?” convinced him that there was some trouble with the servants, a
thing not of rare occurrence in their household.
Mr. Thornton looked up quickly, not quite comprehending her, but she was
gone ere he had time to ask her what she meant, and he was alone with
his son. Lawrence had come to tell his father everything, but his father
did not wish to be told. He was not such an adept in cunning as
Geraldine, and he feared lest he might betray himself either by word or
manner, so he talked of indifferent subjects, asking Lawrence about the
accident,—and Beechwood, and about Judge Howell, and finally coming to
business, where he managed to drag in rather bunglingly, that he was
going to Albany in the morning, and should not return till Monday.
“I can tell him then,” thought Lawrence, “and if she should refuse me,
it would be as well for him not to know it.”
Thus deciding, he bade his father good-night, and when next morning at a
rather late hour he came down to breakfast, he was told by the smiling
Geraldine that “Uncle Robert had started on the mail train for Albany.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ANSWER.
For a long time after the departure of Lawrence and Lilian, Mildred sat
in a kind of maze, wondering whether the events of the last hour were
real or whether they were all a dream, and that Lawrence Thornton had
not called her “dear Mildred,” as she thought he did. The Judge, who
might have enlightened her, had been suddenly called away just as the
carriage rolled down the avenue, and feeling a restless desire to talk
with somebody, she at last ran off to Oliver. He would know whether
Lawrence was in earnest, and he would be almost as happy as she was.
“Dear Oliver,” she whispered softly as she tripped down the Cold Spring
path, “how much he loses by not knowing what it is to love the way I
do.”
Deluded Milly! How little she dreamed of the wild, absorbing love which
burned in Oliver Hawkins’ heart, and burned there the more fiercely that
he must not let it be known. It was in vain he tried to quench it with
his tears; they were like oil poured upon the flame, and often in the
midnight hour, when there was no one to hear, he cried in bitterness of
spirit: “Will the Good Father forgive me if it is a sin to love her, for
I cannot, cannot help it.”
He was in bed this morning, but he welcomed Mildred with his accustomed
smile; telling her how glad he was to see her, and how much sunshine she
brought into his sick-room.
“The world would be very dark to me without you, Milly,” he said, and
his long, white fingers moved slowly over her shining hair.
It was a habit he had of caressing her hair, and Mildred, who expected
it, bent her beautiful head to the familiar touch.
“Why did Lawrence go without coming to see me?” he asked, and at the
question Mildred’s secret burst out. She could not keep it any longer,
and with her usual impetuosity she told him all, and asked, if “as true
as he lived, he believed Lawrence would have offered himself to her if
Lilian hadn’t surprised them?”
“I’m sure of it,” he said; adding, as he saw the sparkle in her eyes:
“Does it make my little Milly very happy to know that Lawrence Thornton
really loves her?”
“Yes, Oliver. It makes me happier than I ever was before in my life. I
wish you could, for just one minute, know the feeling of loving some one
as I do him.”
“Oh, Milly! Milly!”
It was a cry of anguish, wrung from a fainting heart, but Mildred
thought it a cry of pain.
“What is it, Oliver?” she said, and her soft hand was laid on his face.
“Where is the pain? Can I help it? Can I cure it? Oh, I wish I could.
There, don’t that make it better?” and she kissed the pale lips where
there was the shadow of a smile.
“Yes, I’m better,” he answered. “Don’t, Milly, please don’t,” and he
drew back as he saw her about to repeat the kiss.
Mildred looked at him in surprise, saying:
“Why, Oliver, I thought you loved me.”
There was reproach in her soft, lustrous eyes, and folding his feeble
arms about her, Oliver replied:
“Heaven grant that you may never know how much I love you, darling.”
She did not understand him even then, but satisfied that it was all well
between them, she released herself from his embrace and continued: “Do
you think he’ll write and finish what he was going to say?”
“Of course he will,” answered Oliver, and Mildred was about to ask if he
believed she’d get the letter the next night, when old Hepsy came up and
said to her rather stiffly: “You’ve talked with him long enough. He’s
all beat out now. It’s curis what little sense some folks has.”
“Grandmother,” Oliver attempted to say, but Mildred’s little hand was
placed upon his lips, and Mildred herself said:
“She’s right, Olly. I have worried you to death. I’m afraid I do you
more hurt than good by coming to see you so often.”
He _knew_ she did, but he would not for that that she should stay away,
even though her thoughtless words caused him many a bitter pang.
“Come again to-morrow,” he said, as she went from his side, and telling
him that she would, she bounded down the stairs, taking with her, as the
poor, sick Oliver thought, all the brightness, all the sunshine, and
leaving in its stead only weariness and pain.
Up the Cold Spring path she ran, blithe as a singing-bird, for she saw
the Judge upon the back piazza, and knew he had returned.
“Come here, Gipsy,” he cried, and in an instant Mildred was at his side.
“Broke up in a row, didn’t we?” he said, parting back her hair, and
tapping her rosy chin. “How far along had he got?”
“He hadn’t got along at all,” answered Mildred, “and I don’t believe he
was going to say anything, do you?”
Much as he wished to tease her, the Judge could not resist the pleading
of those eyes, and he told her all he knew of the matter, bidding her
wait patiently until to-morrow night, and see what the mail would bring
her.
“Oh, I wish it were to-morrow now,” sighed Mildred. “I’m afraid there’s
some mistake, and that he didn’t mean _me_ after all.”
Laughing at what he called her nervousness, the Judge walked away to
give some orders to his men, and Mildred tried various methods of
killing time, and making the day seem shorter. Just before sunset she
stole away again to Oliver, but Hepsy would not let her see him.
“He’s allus wus after you’ve been up there,” she said. “He’s too weakly
to stan’ the way you rattle on, so you may as well go back,” and Mildred
went back, wondering how her presence could make Oliver worse, and
thinking to herself that she would not go to see him once during the
next day, unless, indeed, the letter came, and then she must show it to
him,—he’d feel so badly if she didn’t.
The to-morrow so much wished for came at last, and spite of Mildred’s
belief to the contrary, the hours did go on as usual, until it was five
o’clock, and she heard the Judge tell Finn to saddle the horses, and
ride with him to the village.
“I am going up the mountain a few miles,” he said; “and as Mildred will
want to see the evening papers before my return, you must bring them
home.”
The Judge knew it was not the _papers_ she wanted, and Mildred knew so,
too, but it answered quite as well for Finn, who, within half an hour
after leaving the house, came galloping up the hill.
“Was there anything for me?” asked Mildred, meeting him at the gate.
“Yes’m,” he answered; “papers by the bushel. There’s the _Post_, the
_Spy_, the _Traveler_, and——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Mildred; “but the letter. Wasn’t there a
letter?”
“Yes’m;” and diving first into one pocket and then into another, Finn
handed her _the_ letter.
She knew it by its superscription, and leaving the papers Finn had
tossed upon the grass, to be blown about the yard, until they finally
fell into the little destructive hands of Rachel’s grandbaby, she
hurried to her room, and breaking the seal, saw that it was herself and
not Lilian Veille whom Lawrence Thornton would have for his bride. Again
and again she read the lines so fraught with love, lingering longest
over the place where he called her “his beautiful, starry-eyed Mildred,”
telling her “how heavy his heart was when he feared she loved another,
and how that heaviness was removed when the Judge explained the matter.”
“Write to me at once, darling,” he added in conclusion, “and tell me
yes, as I know you will, unless I have been most cruelly deceived.”
“I will write to him this very night,” she said, “but I will show this
to Oliver first. I am sure he is anxious to know if it came,” and
pressing it to her lips she went flying down to the gable-roof.
Hepsy was not this time on guard, and gliding up the stairs Mildred
burst into the room where Oliver lay, partially propped up in bed, so
that he could see the fading sunlight shining on the river and on the
hill-tops beyond.
“It’s come, Oliver, it’s come!” she exclaimed, holding the letter to
view.
“I am glad for your sake, Milly,” said Oliver, a deep flush stealing
over his face, for he felt instinctively that he was about to be called
upon to pass a painful ordeal.
“I wouldn’t show it to anybody else,” she continued: “and I can’t even
read it to _you_ myself; neither can I stay here while you read it, for,
somehow, I should blush, and grow so hot and fidgety, so I’ll leave it
with you a few minutes while I take a run down to the tree where
Lawrence found me sleeping that Sunday,” and thrusting the letter into
his hand, she hurried out, stumbling over and nearly upsetting Hepsy,
who was shelling peas by the open door.
“Oh, the Lord!” groaned the old lady, “you’ve trod on my very biggest
corn,” and the lamentations she made over her aching toe, she forgot to
go up and see “if the jade had worried Oliver,” who was thus left to
himself, as he wished to be.
He would not for the world have opened that letter. He could not read
how much Mildred Howell was beloved by another than himself, and he let
it lay just where it had dropped from his nerveless fingers.
“Why will she torture me so?” he cried. “Why does she come to me day
after day with her bright face, and her words of love which sound so
much like mockery, and yet ’tis far better thus than to have her know my
wicked secret. She would hate me then,—would loathe me in my deformity
just as I loathe myself. Oh, why didn’t I die years ago, when we were
children together, and I had not learned what it was to be a cripple!”
He held up in the sunlight the feet which his dead mother used to pity
and kiss,—he turned them round,—took them in his hands, and while his
tears dropped fast upon them, he whispered mournfully: “This is the
curse which stands between me and Mildred Howell. Were it not for this,
I would have won her love ere Lawrence Thornton came with his handsome
face and pleasant ways; but it cannot be. She will be his bride, and he
will cherish her long years after the grass is growing green over poor,
forgotten Clubs!”
There was a light step on the stairs; Mildred was coming up; and hastily
covering his feet, he forced a smile upon his face, and handing her the
letter, said: “It’s just as I expected. You’ll consent, of course?”
“Yes, but I shall write ever so much before I get to that, just to
tantalize him,” returned Mildred, adding that she’d bring her answer
down for Oliver to see if it would do!
A half-stifled moan escaped Oliver’s lips, but Mildred did not hear it,
and she went dancing down the stairs singing to herself:
“Never morning smiled so gayly,
Never sky such radiance wore,
Never passed into the sunshine
Such a merry queen before.”
“A body’d s’pose you’d nothing to do but to sing and dance and trample
on my corns,” growled Hepsy, still busy with her peas and casting a
rueful glance at her foot, encased in a most wonderful shoe of her own
manufacture.
“I am sorry, Aunt Hepsy,” said Mildred, “but your feet are always in the
way,” and singing of the “sunshine,” and the “merry queen of May,” she
went back to Beechwood, where a visitor was waiting for her, Mr. Robert
Thornton!
He had followed Geraldine’s instructions implicitly, and simultaneously
with the Mayfield mail-bag he entered the hotel where the Post-Office
was kept. Seating himself in the sitting-room opposite, he watched the
people as they came in for their evening papers, until, at last, looking
from the window, he caught sight of the Judge and Finn. Moving back a
little, so as not to be observed, he saw the former take the letter
which he knew had been written by his son,—saw, too, the expression of
the Judge’s face as he glanced at the superscription, and then handed it
to Finn, bidding him hurry home, and saying he should not return for two
hours or more.
“Everything works well thus far,” thought Mr. Thornton; “but I wish it
was over,” and with a gloomy, forbidding face, he walked the floor,
wondering how he should approach Mildred, and feeling glad that the
Judge at least was out-of-the-way. “I’d rather stir up a whole menagerie
of wild beasts than that old man,” he said to himself, “though I don’t
apprehend much trouble from him either, for of course he’d take sides
with his so-called son-in-law sooner than with a nameless girl. I wonder
how long it takes to read a love-letter?”
“Supper, sir,” cried the colored waiter, and thinking this as good a way
of killing time as any, Mr. Thornton found his way to the dining-room.
But he was too excited to eat, and forcing down a cup of tea he started
for Beechwood, the road to which was a familiar one, for years before he
had traversed it often in quest of his young girl-wife. Now it was
another Mildred he sought, and ringing the bell he inquired “if Miss
Howell was in?”
“Down to Hepsy’s. I’ll go after her,” said Luce, at the same time
showing him into the drawing-room and asking his name.
“Mr. Thornton,” was the reply, and hurrying off, Luce met Mildred coming
up the garden walk.
“Mr. Thornton returned so soon!” she exclaimed, and without waiting to
hear Luce’s explanation that it was not Mr. Lawrence, but an old,
sour-looking man, she sprang swiftly forward. “I wonder why he sent the
letter if he intended coming himself?” she thought; “but I am so glad
he’s here,” and she stole, before going to the parlor, up to her room to
smooth her hair and take a look in the glass.
She might have spared herself the trouble, however, for the cold,
haughty man, waiting impatiently her coming, cared nothing for her hair,
nothing for her beautiful face, and when he heard her light step in the
hall he arose, and purposely stood with his back toward the door and his
eyes fixed upon the portrait of her who, in that room, had been made his
bride.
“Why, it isn’t Lawrence. It’s his father!” dropped involuntarily from
Mildred’s lips, and blushing like a guilty thing, she stopped upon the
threshold, half trembling with fear as the cold gray eyes left the
portrait and were fixed upon herself.
“So you thought it was Lawrence,” he said, bowing rather stiffly, and
offering her his hand. “I conclude then that I am a less welcome
visitor. Sit down by me, Miss Howell,” he continued, “I am here to talk
with you, and as time hastens I may as well come to the point at once.
You have just received a letter from my son?”
“Yes, sir,” Mildred answered faintly.
“And in that letter he asked you to be his wife?” Mr. Thornton went on
in the same hard, dry tone, as if it were nothing to him that he was
cruelly torturing the young girl at his side. “He asked you to be his
wife, I say. May I, as his father, know what answer you intend to give?”
The answer was in Mildred’s tears, which now gushed forth plenteously.
Assuming a gentler tone, Mr. Thornton continued:
“Miss Howell, it must not be. I have other wishes for my son, and unless
he obeys them, I am a ruined man. I do not blame you as much as
Lawrence, for you do not know everything as he does.”
“Why not go to him, then? Why need you come here to trouble me?” cried
Mildred, burying her face in the cushions of the sofa.
“Because,” answered Mr. Thornton, “it would be useless to go to him. He
is infatuated,—blinded as it were, to his own interest. He thinks he
loves you, Miss Howell, but he will get over that and wonder at his
fancies.”
Mildred’s crying ceased at this point, and not the slightest agitation
was visible, while Mr. Thornton continued:
“Lilian Veille has long been intended for my son. _She_ knew it. _He_
knew it. _You_ knew it, and I leave you to judge whether under these
circumstances it was right for you to encourage him.”
Mildred sat bolt upright now, and in the face turned toward her
tormentor there was that which made him quail for an instant, but soon
recovering his composure he went on.
“He never had a thought of doing otherwise than marrying Lilian until
quite recently, even though he may say to the contrary. I have talked
with him. I know, and it astonished me greatly to hear from Geraldine
that he had been coaxed into——”
“Stop!” and like a young lioness Mildred sprang to her feet, her
beautiful face pale with anger, which flashed like sparks of fire from
her dark eyes.
Involuntarily Mr. Thornton turned to see if it was the portrait come
down from the canvas, the attitude was so like what he once had seen in
the Mildred of other days. But the picture still hung upon the wall, and
it was another Mildred, saying to him indignantly:
“He was not coaxed into it! I never dreamed of such a thing until Judge
Howell hinted it to me, not twenty minutes before Lilian surprised us as
she did.”
“Judge Howell,” Mr. Thornton repeated, beginning to get angry. “I
suspected as much. I know him of old. Nineteen years ago, he was a
poorer man than I, and he conceived the idea of marrying his only
daughter to the wealthy Mr. Thornton, and though he counts his money now
by hundreds of thousands, he knows there is power and influence in the
name of Thornton still, and he does not think my son a bad match for the
unknown foundling he took from the street, and has grown weary of
keeping!”
“The deuce I have!” was hoarsely whispered in the adjoining room, where
the old Judge sat, hearing every word of that strange conversation.
He had not gone up the mountain as he intended, and had reached
Beechwood just as Mildred was coming down the stairs. Lucy told him Mr.
Thornton was there, and, thinking it was Lawrence, he went into his
library to put away some business papers ere joining his guest in the
drawing-room. While there he heard the words, “You have just received a
letter from my son?”
“Bob Thornton, as I live!” he exclaimed. “What brought him here? I don’t
like the tone of his voice, and I wouldn’t wonder if something was in
the wind. Anyway, I’ll just wait and see, and if he insults Mildred,
he’ll find himself _histed_ out of this house pretty quick!”
So saying, the Judge sat down in a position where not a word escaped
him, and, by holding on to his chair and swearing little bits of oaths
to himself, he managed to keep tolerably quiet while the conversation
went on.
“I will be plain with you, Miss Howell,” Mr. Thornton said. “My heart is
set upon Lawrence’s marrying Lilian. It will kill her if he does not,
and I am here to ask you, as a favor to me and to Lilian, to refuse his
suit. Will you do it?”
“No!” dropped involuntarily from Mildred’s lips, and was responded to by
a heavy blow of the fist upon Judge Howell’s fat knee.
“Well done for Spitfire!” he said. “She’s enough for old _Bobum_ yet.
I’ll wait a trifle longer before I fire my gun.”
So he waited, growing very red in the face, as Mr. Thornton answered,
indignantly:
“You will not, you say? I think I can tell you that which may change
your mind;” and he explained to her briefly how, unless Lilian Veille
were Lawrence’s wife, and that very soon, they would all be beggars.
“Nothing but dire necessity could have wrung this confession from me,”
he said, “and now, Miss Howell, think again. Show yourself the brave,
generous girl I am sure you are. Tell my son you cannot be his wife; but
do not tell him why, else he might not give you up. Do not let him know
that I have seen you. Do it for Lilian’s sake, if for no other. You love
her, and you surely would not wish to cause her death.”
“No, no—oh, no!” moaned Mildred, whose only weakness was loving Lilian
Veille too well.
Mr. Thornton saw the wavering, and, taking from his pocket the letter
Geraldine had prepared with so much care, he bade her read it, and then
say if she could answer “Yes” to Lawrence Thornton.
Geraldine Veille knew what she was doing when she wrote a letter which
appealed powerfully to every womanly tender feeling of Mildred’s
impulsive nature. Lilian was represented as being dangerously ill, and
in her delirium begging of Mildred not to take Lawrence from her.
“It would touch a heart of stone,” wrote Geraldine, “to hear her
plaintive pleadings, ‘Oh Milly, dear Milly, don’t take him from
me—don’t—for I loved him first, and he loved me! Wait till I am dead,
Milly. It won’t be long. I can’t live many years, and when I’m gone,
he’ll go back to you.’”
Then followed several strong arguments from Geraldine why Mildred should
give him up and so save Lilian from dying, and Mildred, as she read,
felt the defiant hardness which Mr. Thornton’s first words had awakened
slowly giving way. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed:
“What must I do? What shall I do?”
“Write to Lawrence and tell him no,” answered Mr. Thornton; while
Mildred moaned:
“But I love him so much, oh, so much.”
“So does Lilian,” returned Mr. Thornton, beginning to fear that the
worst was not yet over. “So does Lilian, and her claim is best. Listen
to me, Miss Howell—Lawrence may prefer you now, but he would tire of you
when the novelty wore off. Pardon me if I speak plainly. The Thorntons
are a proud race, the proudest, perhaps, in Boston. Lawrence, too, is
proud, and in a moment of cool reflection he would shrink from making
one his wife whose parentage is as doubtful as your own.”
Mildred shook now as with an ague chill. It had not occurred to her that
Lawrence might sometimes blush when asked who his wife was, and with her
bright eyes fixed on Mr. Thornton’s face she listened breathlessly,
while he continued:
“Only the day that he came to Beechwood he gave me to understand that he
could not think of marrying you unless the mystery of your birth were
made clear. But when here, he was, I daresay, intoxicated with your
beauty, for, excuse me, Miss Howell, you are beautiful;” and he bowed
low, while he paid this compliment to the girl whose lip curled
haughtily as if she would cast it from her in disdain.
“He forgot himself for a time, I presume, but his better judgment will
prevail at last. I know you have been adopted by the Judge, but that
does not avail—that will not prevent some vile woman from calling you
her child. You are not a Howell. You are not my son’s equal, and if you
would escape the bitter mortification of one day seeing your husband’s
relatives, aye, and your husband, too, ashamed to acknowledge you,
refuse his suit at once, and seek a companion—one who would be satisfied
with the few thousands the Judge will probably give you, and consider
that a sufficient recompense for your family. Will you do it, Miss
Howell?”
Mildred was terribly excited. Even death itself seemed preferable to
seeing Lawrence ashamed of her, and while object after object chased
each other in rapid circles before her eyes, she answered:
“I will try to do your bidding, though it breaks my heart.”
The next moment she lay among the cushions of the sofa, white and
motionless save when a tremor shook her frame, showing what she
suffered.
“The little gun, it seems, has given out, and now it’s time for the
cannon,” came heaving up from the deep chest of the enraged Judge, and
snatching from his private drawer a roll of paper, he strode into the
drawing-room, and confronting the astonished Mr. Thornton, began: “Well,
Bobum, are you through? If so, you’d better be travelling if you don’t
want the print of my foot on your fine broadcloth coat,” and he raised
his heavy calfskin threateningly. “I heard you,” he continued, as he saw
Mr. Thornton about to speak. “I heard all about it. You don’t want
Mildred to marry Lawrence, and not satisfied with working upon her most
unaccountable love for that little soft, putty-head dough-bake, you tell
her that she ain’t good enough for a Thornton, and bid her marry
somebody who will be satisfied with the few thousands I shall probably
give her. Thunder and Mars, Bob Thornton, what do you take me to be?
Just look here, will you? Then tell me what you think about the few
thousands,” and he unrolled what was unquestionably the “Last Will and
Testament of Jacob Howell.” “You won’t look, hey,” he continued.
“Listen, then. But first, how much do you imagine I’m worth? What do men
in Boston say of old Howell when they want his name? Don’t they rate him
at half a million, and ain’t every red of that willed on black and white
to Mildred, the child of my adoption, except indeed ten thousand given
to Oliver Hawkins, because I knew Gipsy’d raise a fuss if it wasn’t, and
twenty thousand more donated to some blasted Missionary societies, not
because I believe in’t, but because I thought maybe ’twould atone for my
swearing once in a while, and sitting on the piazza so many Sundays in
my easy-chair, instead of sliding down hill all day on those confounded
hard cushions and high seats down at St. Luke’s. The Apostle himself
couldn’t sit on ’em an hour without getting mighty fidgety. But that’s
nothing to do with my will. Just listen,” and he read: “I give, bequeath
and devise,—and so forth,” while Mr. Thornton’s face turned black, red,
and white alternately.
He had no idea that the little bundle of muslin and lace now trembling
so violently upon the sofa had so large a share of Judge Howell’s heart
and will, or he might have acted differently, for the Judge’s money was
as valuable as Lilian Veille’s, and though Mildred’s family might be a
trifle exceptionable, four hundred thousand dollars, or thereabouts,
would cover a multitude of sins. But it was now too late to retract. The
Judge would see his motive at once, and resolving to brave the storm he
had raised, he affected to answer with a sneer:
“Money will not make amends for everything. I think quite as much of
family as of wealth.”
“Now, by the Lord,” resumed the Judge, growing purple in the face, “Bob
Thornton, who do you think you be? Didn’t your grandfather make chip
baskets all his life over in Wolf Swamp? Wasn’t one of your aunts no
better than she should be? Didn’t your uncle die in the poor-house, and
your cousin steal a sheep? Answer me that, and then twit Mildred about
her parentage. How do you know that she ain’t my own child, hey? Would
you swear to it? We are as nigh alike as two peas, everybody says. I
tell you, Bobum, you waked up the wrong passenger this time. I planned
the marriage, did I, between you and my other Mildred? It’s false, Bob
Thornton, and you know it,—but I did approve it. Heaven forgive me, I
did encourage her to barter her glorious beauty for money. But you
didn’t enjoy her long. She died, and now you would kill the other
one,—the little ewe-lamb that has slept in the old man’s bosom so long.”
The Judge’s voice was gentler now in its tone, and drawing near to
Mildred, he smoothed her nut-brown hair tenderly, oh, so tenderly.
“I did not come seeking a quarrel with you,” said Mr. Thornton, who had
his own private reasons for not wishing to exasperate the Judge too
much. “I came after a promise from Miss Howell. I have succeeded, and
knowing that she will keep her word, I will now take my leave——”
“No you won’t,” thundered the Judge, leaving Mildred and advancing
toward the door, so as effectually to cut off all means of escape. “No
you won’t till I’ve had my say out. If Mildred ain’t good enough for
your son, your son ain’t good enough for Mildred. Do you hear?”
“I am not deaf, sir,” was the cool answer, and the Judge went on:
“Even if she hadn’t promised to refuse him, she should do so. I’ve had
enough to do with the Thorntons. I hate the whole race, even if I did
encourage the boy. I’ve nothing against him in particular except that
he’s a Thornton, and maybe I shall get over that in time. No, I won’t,
though, hanged if I do. Such a paltry puppy as he’s got for a father.
You may all go to the bad; but before you go, pay me what you owe me,
Bob Thornton,—pay me what you owe me.”
“It isn’t due yet,” faltered Mr. Thornton, who had feared some such
demand as this, for the Judge was his heaviest creditor.
“Ain’t due, hey?” repeated the Judge. “It will be in just three weeks,
and if the money ain’t forthcoming the very day, hanged if I don’t
foreclose! I’ll teach you to say Mildred ain’t good enough for your son.
Man alive! she’s good enough for the Emperor of France! Get out of my
house! What are you waiting for?” and, standing back, he made way for
the discomfitted Mr. Thornton to pass out.
In the hall the latter paused and glanced toward Mildred as if he would
speak to her, while the Judge, divining his thoughts, thundered out:
“I’ll see that she keeps her word. She never told a lie yet.”
One bitter look of hatred Mr. Thornton cast upon him, and then moved
slowly down the walk, hearing, even after he reached the gate, the
words:
“Hanged if I don’t foreclose!”
“There! that’s done with!” said the Judge, walking back to the parlor,
where Mildred still lay upon the sofa, stunned, and faint, and unable to
move. “Poor little girl!” he began, lifting up her head and pillowing it
upon his broad chest. “Are you almost killed, poor little Spitfire? You
fought bravely though a spell, till he began to twit you of your
mother,—the dog! Just as though you wasn’t good enough for his boy! You
did right, darling, to say you wouldn’t have him. There! there!” and he
held her closer to him, as she moaned:
“Oh, Lawrence! Lawrence! how can I give you up?”
“It will be hard at first, I reckon,” returned the Judge; “but you’ll
get over it in time. I’ll take you over to England next summer, and hunt
up a nobleman for you; then see what Bobum will say when he hears you
are Lady Somebody.”
But Mildred did not care for the nobleman. One thought alone distracted
her thoughts. She had promised to refuse Lawrence Thornton, and, more
than all, she could give him no good reason for her refusal.
“Oh, I wish I could wake up and find it all a dream!” she cried; but,
alas! she could not; it was a stern reality; and covering her face with
her hands, she wept aloud as she pictured to herself Lawrence’s grief
and amazement when he received the letter which she must write.
“I wish to goodness I knew what to say!” thought the Judge, greatly
moved at the sight of her distress.
Then, as a new idea occurred to him, he said:
“Hadn’t you better go down and tell it all to Clubs,—he can comfort you,
I guess. He’s younger than I am, and his heart ain’t all puckered up
like a pickled plum.”
Yes, Oliver could comfort her, Mildred believed; for if there was a ray
of hope he would be sure to see it; and although it then was nearly
nine, she resolved to go to him at once. Hepsy would fret, she knew; but
she did not care for her,—she didn’t care for anybody; and drying her
tears, she was soon moving down the Cold Spring path, not lightly,
joyously, as she was wont to do, but slowly, sadly, for the world was
changed to her since she trod that path before, singing of the sunshine
and the merry queen of May.
She found old Hepsy knitting by the door, and enjoying the bright
moonlight, inasmuch as it precluded the necessity of wasting a tallow
candle.
“Want to see Oliver?” she growled. “You can’t do it. There’s no sense in
your having so much whispering up there, and that’s the end on’t. Widder
Simms says it don’t look well for you, a big, grown-up girl, to be
hangin’ round Oliver.”
“Widow Simms is an old gossip!” returned Mildred, adding by way of
gaining her point, that she was going to “buy a pair of new, large
slippers for Hepsy’s corns.”
The old lady showed signs of relenting at once, and when Mildred threw
in a box of black snuff with a bean in it, the victory was won, and she
at liberty to join Oliver. He heard her well-known step, but he was not
prepared for her white face and swollen eyes, and in much alarm he asked
her what had happened.
“Oh, Oliver!” she cried, burying her face in the pillow, “it’s all over.
I shall never marry Lawrence. I have promised to refuse him, and my
heart is aching so hard that I most wish I were dead.”
Very wonderingly he looked at her, as in a few words she told him of the
exciting scene through which she had been passing since she left him so
full of hope. Then laying her head a second time upon the pillow, she
cried aloud, while Oliver, too, covering his face with the sheet, wept
great burning tears of joy—joy at Mildred’s pain. Poor, poor Oliver; he
could not help it, and for one single moment he abandoned himself to the
selfishness which whispered that the world would be the brighter and his
life the happier if none ever had a better claim to Mildred than
himself.
“Ain’t you going to comfort me one bit?” came plaintively to his ear,
but he did not answer.
The fierce struggle between duty and self was not over yet, and Mildred
waited in vain for his reply.
“Are you crying, too?” she asked, as her ear caught a low, gasping sob.
“Yes, you are,” she continued, as removing the sheet she saw the tears
on his face.
To see Oliver cry was in these days a rare sight to Mildred, and
partially forgetting her own sorrow in her grief at having caused him
pain, she laid her arm across his neck, and in her sweetest accents
said:
“Dear, dear Olly, I didn’t think you would feel so badly for me.
There—don’t,” and she brushed away the tears which only fell the faster.
“I shall get over it, maybe; Judge Howell says I will, and if I don’t I
sha’n’t always feel as I do now—I couldn’t and live. I shall be
comfortably happy by and by, perhaps, and then if I never marry, you
know you and I are to live together. Up at Beechwood, maybe. That is to
be mine some day, and you shall have that pleasant chamber looking out
upon the town and the mountains beyond. You’ll read to me every morning,
while I work for the children of some Dorcas Society, for I shall be a
benevolent old maid, I guess. Won’t it be splendid?” and in her desire
to comfort Oliver, who, she verily believed, was weeping because she was
not going to marry Lawrence Thornton, Mildred half forgot her own grief.
Dear Milly! She had yet much to learn of love’s great mystery, and she
could not understand how great was the effort with which Oliver dried
his tears, and smiling upon her, said:
“I trust the time you speak of will never come, for I would far rather
Lawrence should do the reading while you work for children with eyes
like yours, Milly,” and he smiled pleasantly upon her.
He was beginning to comfort her now. His own feelings were under
control, and he told her how, though it would be right for her to send
the letter as she promised, Lawrence would not consent. He would come at
once to seek an explanation, and by some means the truth would come out,
and they be happy yet.
“You are my good angel, Olly,” said Mildred. “You always know just what
to say, and it is strange you do, seeing you never loved any one as I do
Lawrence Thornton.”
And Mildred’s snowy fingers parted his light-brown hair, all unconscious
that their very touch was torture to the young man.
“I am going now, and my heart is a great deal lighter than when I first
came in,” she said, and pressing her lips to his forehead she went down
the stairs and out into the moonlight, not singing, not dancing, not
running, but with a quicker movement than when she came, for there was
stealing over her a quiet hopelessness that, as Oliver had said, all
would yet be well.
Monday morning came, and with a throbbing heart, and fingers which
almost refused to do their office, she wrote to Lawrence Thornton:
“I cannot be your wife,—neither can I give you any reason.
MILDRED.”
With swimming eyes she read the cold, brief lines, and then, as she
reflected that in a moment of desperation Lawrence might offer himself
to Lilian, and so be lost to her forever, she laid her head upon the
table and moaned:
“I cannot, cannot send it.”
“Yes you can, Gipsy, be brave,” came from the Judge, who for a moment
had been standing behind her. “Show Bobum that you have pluck.”
But Mildred cared more for Lawrence Thornton than for _pluck_, and she
continued weeping bitterly, while the Judge placed the letter in the
envelope, thinking to himself:
“It’s all-fired hard, I s’pose, but hanged if she shall have him, after
Bob said what he did. I’ll buy her a set of diamonds though, see if I
don’t, and next winter she shall have some five hundred dollar furs.
I’ll show Bob Thornton whether I mean to give her a few thousands or
not, the reprobate!”
And finishing up his soliloquy with a thought of the mortgages he was
going to foreclose, he sealed the letter, jammed it into his pocket, and
passing his great hand caressingly over the bowed head upon the table,
hurried away to the post-office.
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER XIV.
WHAT FOLLOWED.
“I wonder if the Western mail is in yet,” and Geraldine Veille glanced
carelessly up at the clock ticking upon the marble mantel, peered
sideways at the young man reading upon the sofa, and then resumed her
crocheting.
“I was just thinking the same,” returned Lawrence, folding up his paper
and consulting his watch. “I suppose father comes in this train. I
wonder what took him to Albany?”
“The same old story,—business, business,” answered Geraldine. “He is
very much embarrassed, he tells me, and unless he can procure money he
is afraid he will have to fail. Lily might let him have hers, I suppose,
if it were well secured.”
Lawrence did not reply, for, truth to say, he was just then thinking
more of his expected letter than of his father’s failure, and taking his
hat he walked rapidly to the office, already crowded with eager faces.
There were several letters in the Thornton box that night, but Lawrence
cared for only one, and that the one bearing the Mayfield post-mark. He
knew it was from Mildred, for he had seen her plain, decided handwriting
before, and he gave it a loving squeeze, just as he would have given the
fair writer, if she had been there instead. Too impatient to wait until
he reached his home, he tore the letter open in the street, and read it,
three times, before he could believe that he read aright, and that he
was rejected.
Crumpling the cruel lines in his hand, he hurried on through street
after street, knowing nothing where he was going, and caring less, so
suddenly and crushingly had the blow fallen upon him.
“I cannot be your wife,—I cannot be your wife!” he heard it ringing in
his ears, turn which way he would, and with it at last came the
maddening thought that the reason why she could not be his wife was that
she loved another. Oliver had been deceived, the Judge had been
deceived, and he had been cruelly deceived.
But he exonerated Mildred from all blame. She had never encouraged him
by a word or look, except indeed when she sat by him upon the sofa, and
he thought he saw in her speaking face that she was not indifferent to
him. But he was mistaken. He knew it now, and, with a wildly beating
heart and whirling brain, he wandered on and on, until the evening
shadows were beginning to fall, and he felt the night dew on his burning
forehead. Then he turned homeward, where more than one waited anxiously
his coming.
Mr. Thornton had returned, and, entering his house just after Lawrence
left it, had communicated to Geraldine the result of his late adventure,
withholding in a measure the part which the old Judge had taken in the
affair, and saying nothing of the will, which had so astonished him.
“Do you think she’ll keep her promise?” Geraldine asked.
But Mr. Thornton could not tell, and both watched nervously for
Lawrence.
Geraldine was the first to see him; she stood upon the stairs when he
came into the hall. The gas was already lighted, showing the ghastly
whiteness of his face, and by that she knew that Mildred Howell _had_
kept her word. An hour later when Geraldine knocked softly at his door,
and heard his reply, “Engaged,” she muttered, “Not to Mildred Howell
though,” and then went to her own room, where lay sleeping the _Lilian_
for whose sake this suffering was caused. Assured by Geraldine that all
would yet be well, she had dried her tears, and, as she never felt badly
long upon any subject, she was to all appearances on the best of terms
with Lawrence, who, grateful to her for behaving so sensibly, treated
her with even more than his usual kindness.
The illness of which Geraldine had written to Mildred was of course a
humbug, for Lilian was not one to die of a broken heart, and she lay
there sleeping sweetly now, while Geraldine paced the floor, wondering
what Mildred Howell had written and what the end would be.
The next morning Lawrence came down to breakfast looking so haggard and
worn that his father involuntarily asked if he were sick.
“No, not sick,” was Lawrence’s hurried answer, as he picked at the snowy
roll and affected to sip his coffee.
Mr. Thornton was in a hurry as usual, and immediately after breakfast
went out, leaving Geraldine and Lawrence alone, for Lilian had not yet
come down.
“You have had bad news, I’m sure,” said Geraldine, throwing into her
manner as much concern as possible.
Lawrence made no reply, except indeed to place his feet upon the back of
a chair and fold his hands together over his head.
“I was a little fearful of some such _denouement_,” Geraldine continued,
“for, as I hinted to you on Friday, I was almost certain she fancied
young Hudson. He called here last evening,—and seemed very conscious
when I casually mentioned her name. What reason does she give for
refusing you?”
“None whatever,” said Lawrence, shifting his position a little by
upsetting the chair on which his feet were placed.
“That’s strange,” returned Geraldine, intently studying the pattern of
the carpet as if she would there find a cause for the strangeness.
“Never mind, coz,” she added, laughingly, “don’t let one disappointment
break your heart. There are plenty of girls besides Mildred Howell; so
let her have young Hudson, if she prefers him.”
No answer from Lawrence, who was beginning to be dreadfully jealous of
young Hudson.
“It may be. It may be,” he thought, “but why couldn’t she have told me
so? Why leave me entirely in the dark? Does she fear the wrath of
Hudson’s mother in case I should betray her?”
Yes, that _was_ the reason, he believed, and in order to make the matter
sure, he resolved to write again and ask her, and forgetting his
father’s request that he should “come down to the office as soon as
convenient,” he spent the morning in writing to Mildred a second time.
He had intended to tell her that he guessed the reason of her refusal,
but instead of that he poured out his whole soul in one passionate
entreaty for her to think again, and reconsider her decision. No other
one could love her as he did, he said, and he besought of her to give
him one word of hope to cheer the despair which had fallen so darkly
around him. This letter being sent, Lawrence sat down in a kind of
apathetic despair to await the result.
* * * * *
“What, hey, the boy has written, has he?” and adjusting his gold specs,
the old Judge looked to see if the eight pages Finn had just given to
him were really from Lawrence Thornton. “He’s got good grit,” said he,
“and I like him for it, but hanged if I don’t teach Bobum a lesson. I
can feel big as well as he. Gipsy not good enough for his boy! I’ll show
him. She looks brighter to-day than she did. She ain’t going to let it
kill her, and as there’s no use worrying her for nothing, I shan’t let
her see this. But I can’t destroy it, nor read it neither. So I’ll just
put it where the old Nick himself couldn’t find it,” and touching the
hidden spring of a secret drawer, he hid the letter which Mildred,
encouraged by Oliver, had half expected to receive.
But he repented of the act when he saw how disappointed she seemed when
he met her at the supper-table, and though he had no idea of giving her
the letter, he thought to make amends some other way.
“I have it,” he suddenly exclaimed, as he sat alone in his library,
after Mildred had gone to bed. “I’ll dock off five thousand from that
missionary society and add it to Spitfire’s portion. The letter ain’t
worth more than that,” and satisfied that he was making the best
possible reparation, he brought out his will and made the alteration,
which took from a missionary society enough to feed and clothe several
clergymen a year. Four days more brought another letter from Lawrence
Thornton—larger, heavier than the preceding one, crossed all over, as
could be plainly seen through the envelope, and worth, as the Judge
calculated, about ten thousand dollars. So he placed that amount to
Mildred’s credit, by way of quieting his conscience. One week more, and
there came another.
“Great heaven!” groaned the Judge, as he gave Mildred the last five
thousand dollars, and left the missionaries nothing. “Great heaven, what
will I do next?” and he glanced ruefully at the clause commencing with
“I give and bequeath to Oliver Hawkins,” etc. “’Twon’t do to meddle with
that,” said he. “I might as well touch Gipsy’s eyes as to harm the
reel-footed boy,” and in his despair the Judge began to consider the
expediency of praying that no more letters should come from Lawrence
Thornton.
Remembering, however, that in the prayer-book there was nothing suited
to that emergency, he gave up that wild project and concluded that if
Lawrence wrote again he would answer it himself; but this he was not
compelled to do, for Lawrence grew weary at last, and calling his pride
to his aid resolved to leave Mildred to herself, and neither write again
nor seek an interview with her, as he had thought of doing. No more
letters came from _him_, but on the day when his father’s mortgages were
due, the Judge received one from Mr. Thornton begging for a little
longer time, and saying that unless it were granted he was a ruined man.
“Ruined or not, I shall foreclose,” muttered the Judge. “I’ll teach him
to come into my house and say Gipsy isn’t good enough for his boy.”
Looking a little further, he read that Lawrence was going to Europe.
“What for, nobody knows,” wrote Mr. Thornton. “He will not listen to
reason or anything else, and I suppose he will sail in a few days. I did
not imagine he loved your Mildred so much, and sometimes I have
regretted my interference, but it is too late now, I daresay.”
This last was thrown out as a bait, at which Mr. Thornton hoped the
Judge might catch. The fact that Mildred was an heiress had produced a
slight change in his opinion of her, and he would not now greatly object
to receiving her as his daughter-in-law. But he was far too proud to say
so,—he would rather the first concession should come from the Judge,
who, while understanding perfectly the hint, swore he would not take it.
“If anybody comes round it’ll be himself,” he said. “I’ll teach him
what’s what, and I won’t extend the time either. I’ll see Lawyer Monroe
this very day, but first I’ll tell Gipsy that the boy is off for Europe.
Ho, Gipsy!” he called, as he heard her in the hall, and in a moment
Mildred was at his side.
She saw the letter in his hand, and hope whispered that it came from
Lawrence. But the Judge soon undeceived her.
“Spitfire,” said he, “Bobum writes that Lawrence is going to Europe to
get over his love-sickness. He sails in a few days. But what the deuce,
girl, are you going to faint?”
And he wound his arm around her to prevent her falling to the floor.
The last hope was swept away, and while the Judge tried in vain to
soothe her, asking what difference it made whether he were in Halifax or
Canada, inasmuch as she had pledged herself not to marry him, she
answered:
“None, none, and yet I guess I thought he’d come to see me, or write, or
something. Oliver said he would, and the days are so dreary without
him.”
The Judge glanced at the hidden drawer, feeling strongly tempted to give
her the letters it contained, but his temper rose up in time to prevent
it, and muttering to himself: “Hanged if I do,” he proceeded to tell her
how by and by the days would not be so dreary, for she would forget
Lawrence and find some one else to love, and then he added, suddenly
brightening up, “there’ll be some fun in seeing me plague Bobum. The
mortgages are due to-day, and the dog has written asking for more time,
saying he’s a ruined man unless I give it to him. Let him be ruined
then. I’d like to see him taken down a peg or two. Maybe then he’ll
think you good enough for his boy. There, darling, sit on the lounge,
while I hunt up the papers. I’m going up this very day to see my
lawyer,” and he pushed her gently from him.
Mildred knew comparatively nothing of business, but she understood that
Judge Howell had it in his power to ruin Mr. Thornton or not just as he
pleased, and though she had no cause for liking the latter, he was
Lawrence’s father, and she resolved to do what she could in his behalf.
Returning to the Judge she seated herself upon his knee and asked him to
tell her exactly how matters stood between himself and Mr. Thornton.
He complied with her request, and when he had finished, she said:
“If you choose, then, you can give him more time and so save him from a
failure. Is that it?”
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” returned the Judge, a little petulantly. “But I
ain’t a mind to. I’ll humble him, the wretch!”
Mildred never called Judge Howell father except on special occasions,
although he had often wished her so to do, but she called him “father”
now, and asked if “he loved her very much.”
“Yes, love you a heap more than you deserve, but ’tain’t no use to beg
off for Bob Thornton, for I shall foreclose,—hanged if I don’t.”
“No, no. You mustn’t,” and Mildred’s arms closed tightly around his
neck. “Listen to me, father. Give him more time, for Milly’s sake. My
heart is almost broken now, and it will kill me quite to have him
ruined, for Lawrence, you know, would suffer too. Lawrence would suffer
most. Won’t you write to him that he can have all the time he wants? You
don’t need the money, and you’ll feel so much better, for the Bible says
they shall be blessed who forgive their enemies. Won’t you forgive Mr.
Thornton?”
She kissed his forehead and kissed his lips,—she caressed his rough,
bearded cheek, while all the while her arms pressed tighter around his
neck, until at last he gasped:
“Heavens and earth, Gipsy, you are choking me to death.”
Then she released him, but continued her gentle pleading until the Judge
was fairly softened, and he answered:
“Good thunder, what can a fellow do with such eyes looking into his, and
such a face close to his own. Yes, I’ll give Bobum a hundred years if
you say so, though nobody else under heaven could have coaxed me into
it.”
And in this the Judge was right, for none save Mildred could have
induced him to give up his cherished scheme.
“’Tisn’t none of my doings though,” he wrote in his letter to Mr.
Thornton. “It’s all Gipsy’s work. She clambered into my lap, and coaxed,
and teased, and cried, till I finally had to give in, though it went
against the grain, I tell you, Bobum. Hadn’t you better twit her again
with being low and mean. Ugh, you dog!”
This letter the Judge would not send for a week or more, as he wished to
torment Mr. Thornton as long as possible, never once thinking that by
withholding it he was doing a wrong to Mildred. Mr. Thornton was not
without kindly feelings, and had the letter been received before
Lawrence’s departure he might perhaps have explained the whole to his
son, for Mildred’s generous interference in his behalf touched his
heart. But when the letter came Lawrence was already on the ocean, and
as the days went on, his feelings of gratitude gradually subsided,
particularly as Geraldine, who knew nothing of the circumstances, often
talked to him of a marriage between Lawrence and Lilian as something
sure to take place.
“Only give him a little time to overcome his foolish fancy,” she said,
“and all will yet be right.”
So Mr. Thornton, over whom Geraldine possessed an almost unbounded
influence, satisfied his conscience by writing to Mildred a letter of
thanks, in which he made an attempt at an apology for anything he might
have said derogatory to her birth and parentage.
With a proud look upon her face, Mildred burned the letter, which seemed
to her so much like an insult, and then, with a dull, heavy pain at her
heart, she went about her accustomed duties, while the Judge followed
her languid movements with watchful and sometimes tearful eyes,
whispering often to himself:
“I didn’t suppose she loved the boy so well. Poor Milly! Poor Milly!”
Oliver too said, “Poor, poor Milly,” more than once when he saw how the
color faded from her cheeks and the brightness from her eyes. His own
health, on the contrary, improved, and in the autumn he went back to
college, leaving Mildred more desolate than ever, for now there was no
one to comfort her but the Judge, and he usually pained her more than he
did her good. All through the long, dreary New England winter she was
alone in her sorrow. Lilian never wrote, Oliver but seldom, for he dared
not trust himself, while, worse than all, there came no news from the
loved one over the sea, except, indeed, toward spring, when a Boston
lady who was visiting in Mayfield brought the rumor that he was expected
back before long to marry Lilian Veille; that some of the bridal dresses
were selected, she believed, and that the young couple would remain at
home, as Mr. Thornton wished his son to live with him.
The woman who repeated this to Mildred wondered at her indifference, for
she scarcely seemed to hear, certainly not to care, but the storm within
was terrible, and when alone in the privacy of her chamber it burst
forth with all its force, and kneeling by her bedside she asked that she
might die before another than herself was the bride of Lawrence
Thornton. Poor, poor little Milly!
CHAPTER XV.
THE SUN SHINING THROUGH THE CLOUD.
The dreary winter had passed away, the warm April sun shone brightly
upon the college walls, and stealing through the muslin-shaded window
looked smilingly into the room where two young men were sitting, one
handsome, manly and tall, the other deformed, effeminate and slight, but
with a face which showed that the suffering endured so long and
patiently had purified the heart within and made it tenfold better than
it might otherwise have been. The latter was Oliver Hawkins, and he sat
talking with Lawrence Thornton, who had landed in New York the previous
day, and had surprised him half an hour before by coming suddenly into
his room when he supposed him far away.
During the entire period of his absence Lawrence had heard nothing of
Mildred, for in his letters he had never mentioned her name, and it was
to seek some information of her that he had turned out of his way and
called on Oliver. After the first words of greeting were over, he said:
“You hear from Beechwood, I suppose?”
“Occasionally,” returned Oliver. “Mildred does not write as often as she
used to do.”
“Then she’s there yet?” and Lawrence waited anxiously for the answer.
“There! of course she is. Where did you suppose she was?”
Lawrence had in his mind a handsome dwelling looking out on Boston
Common, with “T. HUDSON,” engraved upon its silver plate, and he fancied
Mildred might be _there_, but he did not say so; and to Oliver’s
question, he rather abruptly replied:
“Clubs, I’ve come home to be married!”
“To be married!” and in Oliver’s blue eyes there was a startled look.
“Married to whom! Surely not to Lilian Veille? You would not marry her?”
“Why not?” Lawrence asked, and before Oliver could answer, he continued:
“I must talk to some one, Clubs, and I may as well make you my father
confessor. You know I proposed to Mildred Howell? You know that she
refused me?”
Oliver bowed his head, and Lawrence continued:
“She gave me no reason for her refusal, neither did she deign to answer
either of the three letters I sent to her, begging of her to think
again, or at least to tell me why I was rejected.”
“Three letters,—she never told me of that. There is surely a mistake,”
said Oliver, more to himself than to Lawrence, who rejoined:
“There could be no mistake. She must have received some one of them, but
she answered none, and in despair I went away, believing, as I now do,
that we were all deceived and she loved another. Wait,—listen,” he said,
as he saw Oliver about to interrupt him. “Father and Geraldine always
wished me to marry Lilian, and until I learned how much I loved Mildred
Howell, I thought it very likely I should do so.”
There was a hard, defiant expression on his face as he said this, and,
as if anxious to have the story off his mind, he hastened on:
“Mildred refused me, and now, though I have not said positively that I
would marry Lilian, I have given Geraldine encouragement to think I
would, and have made up my mind that I shall do so. She is a gentle,
amiable creature, and though not quite as intellectual as I could wish,
she will make me a faithful, loving wife. Poor little thing. Do you know
Geraldine thinks that her mind has been somewhat affected by my
proposing to Mildred, and then going away?”
Had it been Judge Howell listening, instead of Oliver, he would
undoubtedly have said:
“Thornton, you’re a fool!” but as it was, Oliver mildly interposed:
“If I remember right, her mind was never very sound.”
Lawrence did not seem at all angry, but replied:
“I know she is not brilliant, but something certainly has affected her
within the past few months. She used to write such splendid letters as
to astonish me, but since I’ve been in Europe there’s a very perceptible
difference. Indeed, the change was so great that I could not reconcile
it until Geraldine suggested that her ill health and shattered nerves
were probably the cause, and then I pitied her so much. There’s not a
very wide step between pity and love, you know.”
Lawrence paused, and sat intently watching the sunlight on the floor,
while Oliver was communing with himself.
“Shall I undeceive him, or shall I suffer him to rush on blindfolded, as
it were? No, I will not. I saved him once for Mildred, and I’ll save him
for her again.”
Thus deciding, Oliver moved his chair nearer to Lawrence’s side, and
said:
“Did it ever occur to you that another than Lilian wrote her
letters,—her old letters I mean, when she was in Charlestown, and at
school at Beechwood?”
“Clubs!” and Lawrence looked him fixedly in the face. “Who should write
Lilian’s letters but herself? What would you insinuate?”
“Nothing but what I know to be true,” returned Oliver. “Mildred Howell
always wrote Lilian’s letters for her,—always. Lilian copied them, ’tis
true, but the words were Mildred’s.”
“Deceived me again,” Lawrence hoarsely whispered. “I forgave the first
as a sudden impulse, but this systematic, long-continued deception,
never. Oh, is there no faith in women?”
“Yes, Lawrence. There is faith and truth in Mildred Howell;” and
Oliver’s voice trembled as he said it, for he knew that of his own free
will he was putting from him that which for the last few months had made
the world seem brighter, had kindled a glow of ambition in his heart,
and brought the semblance of health to his pale cheek.
Mildred free was a source of greater happiness to him than Mildred
married would be,—but not for this did he waver, and lest his resolution
should give way, he told rapidly all that he knew of Lilian’s
intercourse with Mildred,—all that he knew of Mr. Thornton’s visit to
Beechwood,—of the promise wrung from Mildred by cruel insults, and by
working upon her love for Lilian,—of Mildred’s hopeless anguish at
first,—of her watching day by day for some word from Lawrence, until her
starry eyes were dim with tears, which washed the roses from her cheek,
and the hope from out her heart,—of her noble interference to save Mr.
Thornton from ruin,—of her desolate condition now, and of the agony it
would cause her to hear of Lawrence’s marrying another.
For several minutes Lawrence seemed like one in a dream. It had come
upon him so suddenly as to suspend his power to move, and he sat staring
blankly at Oliver, who at last brought him back to reality by saying:
“You will go to Beechwood at once?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered; “this very day, if possible. Clubs, I owe you
more than I can ever repay. You saved me once from a watery grave, and
now you have made me the happiest of men. I can understand much which
seemed mysterious in father’s manner. I always knew he was ambitious,
but I did not think him equal to this cowardly act. Marry Lilian! Why, I
wouldn’t marry her were there no other girl in the wide, wide world! God
bless you, Clubs, as you deserve! I hear the whistle, and if I would see
Mildred before I sleep, I must be off. Good-by!” and wringing Oliver’s
hand, he hurried away.
* * * * *
The night train for Albany had just gone from the Mayfield depot, and
Judge Howell, who had come down to see a friend, was buttoning his
overcoat preparatory to returning home, when a hand was laid upon his
shoulder, and a familiar voice called his name.
“Lawrence Thornton! Thunder, boy!” he exclaimed. “Where did you drop
from?” And remembering how he had set his heart against the _boy_, as he
called him, he tried to frown.
But it was all lost on Lawrence, who was too supremely happy to think of
an old man’s expression. Mildred alone was uppermost in his thoughts,
and following the Judge to his carriage, he whispered:
“I’ve seen Clubs; I know the whole of father’s dastardly act, and I’m
going home with you to see Mildred. I shall marry her, too. A thousand
fathers can’t hinder me now!”
“Pluck!” exclaimed the Judge, disarmed at once of all prejudice by
Lawrence’s fearless manner of speaking. “Boy, there’s nothing pleases me
like pluck! Give us your hand!” and in that hearty squeeze by-gones were
forgotten and Lawrence fully restored to favor. “Now, drive home like
lightning!” he said to Finn, as they entered the carriage; and as far as
possible, Finn complied with his master’s orders.
But during that rapid ride there was sufficient time for questions and
explanations, and before Beechwood was reached the Judge had confessed
to the letters withheld and his reason for withholding them.
“But I made amends,” said he; “I docked the missionaries five thousand
at one time, ten at another, and five at another. If you don’t believe
it I can show you the codicils, witnessed and acknowledged, so there’ll
be no mistake.”
But Lawrence had no wish to discredit it. Indeed, he scarcely heard what
the Judge was saying, for the Beechwood windows were in view, and from
one a light was shining, showing him where Mildred sat, thinking of him,
perhaps, but not dreaming how near he was to her.
“You let me manage,” said the Judge, as they ran up the steps. “If
Milly’s sitting with her back to the door, I’ll go in first, while you
follow me on tiptoe. Then I’ll break it to her as gently as possible,
and when she screeches, as women always do, I’ll be off; for you know an
old dud like me would only be in the way.”
Mildred _was_ sitting with her back to the door, and gazing fixedly into
the fire. She was thinking of Lawrence, too, and was so absorbed in her
own thoughts as not to hear the Judge until he had a hand on either
shoulder and called her by name.
“Did I scare you, Gipsy?” he asked, as she started suddenly. “I reckon I
did a little for your heart beats like a trip-hammer; but never mind,
I’ve brought you something that’s warranted to cure the heart disorder.
What do you guess it is?”
Mildred did not know and the Judge continued:
“It’s a heap nicer than diamonds; and I shouldn’t wonder if it hugged
you tighter than _furs_. It stands six feet in its boots and has raised
a pair of the confoundedest whiskers——”
He did not need to tell her more, for directly opposite and over the
marble mantel a mirror was hanging, and glancing upward, Mildred saw
what it was that would “hug her tighter than fur,” and the screech the
Judge had predicted burst forth in a wild, joyous cry of “Lawrence,
Lawrence,—’tis Lawrence!”
In an instant the Judge disappeared, just as he said he would, leaving
Lawrence and Mildred alone, and free to tell each other of the long,
long dreary days and nights which had intervened since they sat together
before, just as they were sitting now. Much Lawrence blamed her for
having yielded to his father in a matter which so nearly concerned her
own life’s happiness, and at the mention of Mr. Thornton, Mildred lifted
up her head from its natural resting-place, and parting Lawrence’s dark
hair, said:
“But won’t it be wicked for me to be your wife. Didn’t my letter mean
that I would never marry you?”
“No, it didn’t,” answered Lawrence, kissing the little fingers which
came down from his hair. “You said you would refuse me and you did, but
you never promised not to make up. _I_ think the making up is
_splendid_, don’t you, darling?”
Whether she thought so or not, she took it very quietly, and whenever
the Judge looked in, as he did more than once, he whispered to himself:
“Guy, don’t he snug up to her good, and don’t she act as if she liked
it!”
Ten, eleven, twelve, and even one the clock struck before that blissful
interview was ended, and Lawrence had completed the arrangements, which
he next morning submitted to the Judge for his approval. He would go to
Boston that day, and would tell his father that Mildred was to be his
wife on the 20th of June, that being his birthday. After their bridal
tour they would return to Beechwood, and remain with the Judge until he
consented to part with Mildred,—then they would go to Boston and settle
down into the happiest couple in the whole world. To all this the Judge
assented, thinking the while that it would be some time before he would
be willing to part with Mildred.
Breakfast being over, he gave Mildred the letters so long withheld, but
she did not care to read them then. She preferred joining Lawrence in
the parlor, where there was another whispered conference, which ended in
her looking very red in the face, and running away upstairs, to avoid
the quizzical glance of the Judge, who, nevertheless, called after her,
asking “what that wet spot was on her cheek.”
“You are a happy dog,” he said to Lawrence, as he went with him to the
carriage, adding as he bade him good-by, “Give my regrets to Bobum, and
tell him that what I said to him last fall are my sentiments still.”
Lawrence promised compliance, and glancing up at the window, from which
a bright face had just disappeared, he said good-by again, and was
driven to the depot.
Contrary to Lawrence’s expectation, his father seemed neither surprised
nor offended when told what he had done.
“Miss Howell was a nice girl,” he said, “and he had more than once been
on the point of confessing to his son how he had influenced her
decision.”
The will had wrought a great change in Mr. Thornton’s opinion, and even
the beggar who was some day to claim Mildred as her daughter, did not
seem very formidable when viewed through a golden setting. Geraldine, on
the contrary, was terribly disappointed, and when alone fairly gnashed
her teeth with rage, while Lilian abandoned herself again to tears and
hysterics. Not long, however, did Geraldine give way. She knew that
Lawrence did not suspect her of having anything to do with Mildred’s
refusal, further than to ask her for Lilian’s sake to give him up, and
as it was for her interest to keep him wholly blinded, she affected to
congratulate him a second time, saying, laughingly, “The Fates have
decreed that you should marry Mildred, so I may as well give it up and
act like a sensible woman.” But when alone with Mr. Thornton she assumed
a new phase of character, fiercely demanding of him if he intended to
sit quietly down and see Lawrence throw himself away. Mr. Thornton had
never told her of the will, neither did he do so now, but he answered
her that it was useless further to oppose Lawrence,—that he was sorry
for Lilian, but hoped her disappointment would in time wear off.
“Lawrence will marry Miss Howell, of course,” he said, in conclusion,
“and won’t it be better for us to make the best of it, and treat her
with a show of friendship at least.”
“Perhaps it will,” returned Geraldine, whose thoughts no one could
fathom. “I was indignant at first that he should treat Lilian so
shamefully, but I will try to feel kindly toward this girl who is to be
my cousin, and by way of making a commencement, I will write her a
letter of congratulation.”
Mr. Thornton was deceived, so was Lawrence, and so, indeed, was Mildred,
when two days after Lawrence’s departure, she received a letter from
Geraldine Veille, couched in the kindest of terms and written apparently
in all sincerity:
“I was much vexed with you once, I’ll confess,” the wily woman wrote,
“for I had so set my heart upon Lawrence’s marrying Lilian that it was
hard to give it up. But I have considered the matter soberly, and
concluded that whether I am willing or not, Lawrence will do as he
pleases, so pray forgive me, dear cousin that is to be, for anything
you may heretofore have disliked in my conduct toward you. We shall, I
know, be the best of friends, and I anticipate much pleasure in having
you with us. I shall coax Lawrence to let me superintend the
fitting-up your rooms, and here let me offer you my services in
selecting any part of your bridal trousseau. Don’t be afraid to
trouble me, for do what I may, I shall consider it merely as atoning
for the ill-natured feelings I have cherished toward you. If you like,
I will come out to Beechwood a few weeks before the wedding. I have
given quite a number of large parties, and may be of some use to you.
In short, call upon me as much as you please, and whatever you may
have thought of me before, please consider me now as
Your sincere friend,
GERALDINE VEILLE.”
“She is a good woman after all,” thought Mildred, as she carried the
letter to the Judge, who read it over twice and then handed it back,
saying, “There’s bedevilment behind all that. Mark my words. I don’t
like those Veilles. I knew their father,—as sneaky a dog as ever drew
breath.”
But Mildred thought he was prejudiced, and after answering Lawrence’s
letter of twelve pages, she wrote a note to Geraldine, thanking her for
her kind offers, and saying that very likely she might wish for her
services in the matter of selecting dresses, as Boston furnished so much
greater variety than Mayfield.
Swimmingly now the matters progressed. Every week found Lawrence at
Mayfield, while there seemed no end to the thick letters which passed
between himself and Mildred, when he was not with her. Lilian, by some
most unaccountable means, had been quieted, and wrote to Mildred as of
old. Geraldine, too, was all amiability, and having been deputed to
select the bridal dress, and having failed to find anything in Boston
worth looking at, went all the way alone to _New York_, remaining there
several days, and returning home at last perfectly elated with her
success! Such a splendid piece of satin as she had found at
Stewart’s,—such a love of a veil and wreath as she had purchased
elsewhere, and such an exquisite point-lace collar as she had bought for
herself _at cost_, having enlisted in her behalf one of the firm of
Blank & Co., who had written for her notes of introduction to clerks of
different houses, and had sometimes gone with her himself to see that
she wasn’t cheated!
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER XVI.
THE EBBING OF THE TIDE.
The finishing stroke was given to the handsome suite of rooms intended
for the bride, which Geraldine pronounced perfect, while even Lilian
went into ecstasies over them. Her taste had been consulted in
everything, and a stranger would have easily mistaken her for the future
occupant, so careful was Geraldine that she should be suited. And now
nothing was wanting to complete the furnishing except Mildred’s
beautiful piano, which was to come when she did, and with a
self-satisfied expression upon her face, Geraldine locked the door, and
giving the key to Lawrence said something pleasant to him of the day
when Mrs. Lawrence Thornton would first cross the threshold of her
future home.
Two dressmakers, one with her scissors fastened to her belt with a steel
chain, and the other with a silken cord, were hired at an enormous
expense and sent to Beechwood, whither the Lady Geraldine followed them
to superintend in person the making of the dresses and the arrangements
for the wedding. With an unsparing hand the Judge opened his purse,
bidding Mildred take all she wanted, and authorizing Geraldine to buy
whatever a bride like her was supposed to need. In the village everybody
was more or less engaged in talking of the party,—wondering who would be
invited and what they would wear. Mothers went to Springfield in quest
of suitable garments for the daughters, who sneered at the dry-goods to
be found at home. Husbands were bidden to be measured for new coats.
White kids rose in value, and the Mayfield merchants felt their business
steadily increasing as the preparations progressed. Even Mildred became
an object of uncommon interest, and those who had seen her all her life,
now ran to the window if by chance she appeared in the street, a thing
she finally ceased to do, inasmuch as Geraldine told her it wasn’t quite
genteel.
So Mildred stayed at home, where chairs and tables, piano and beds,
literally groaned with finery, and where a dozen times a day the two
dressmakers from Boston gave her _fits_, with Geraldine standing by and
suggesting another whalebone here and a little more cotton there, while
Miss Steel-chain declared that “Miss Howell’s was a perfect form and
didn’t need such things at all.”
“She’s as free from deformity as most people, I’ll admit,” Geraldine
would say, “but one shoulder is a trifle higher than the other, while
she had a bad school-girl habit of standing on one foot, which naturally
makes her waist wrinkle on one side.”
So Mildred was tortured after the most approved fashion, wondering if
they supposed she was never to have a single thing after she was
married, and so were making up a most unheard-of quantity of clothes to
be hung away in the closet until they were entirely out of date.
Now, as of old, Oliver was her refuge when weary or low spirited. On the
day of Lawrence’s visit to him, he had been found by one of his
companions lying upon the floor in a kind of fainting-fit, which left
him so weak that he was unable longer to pursue his studies, and at last
came home to Hepsy, who declared him to be in “a galloping consumption.”
Mildred was sorry for his ill health, but she was glad to have him home
again; it seemed so nice to steal away from laces, silks, satins and
flowers, and sit alone with him in his quiet room. She wondered greatly
at the change one short month had produced in him, but she was too happy
herself to think very much of it, and she failed to see how he shrank
from talking with her of the future, even though he knew nothing could
interest her more.
“I ain’t a bit anxious to be married,” she said to him one night, when
making him her usual visit, “but I do want to be with Lawrence. I think
it real mean in his father to send him West just now. Did I tell you
he’s gone to Minnesota, and I shan’t see him for two whole weeks. Then
he’ll stay with me all the time till the very day; but it seems so long
to wait. To think I must eat breakfast, and dinner, and supper fourteen
times before he comes! It’s terrible, Oliver, and then I’ve got a fidget
in my brain that something is going to happen, either to him or to
me,—him, most likely. Maybe he’ll be killed. I do wish he hadn’t gone;”
and Mildred’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of Lawrence dying on
the distant prairies, the victim of some horrible railroad disaster.
“But I am not going to borrow trouble,” she said. “It comes fast
enough,” and asking Oliver if he should be very, very sorry when she was
Mildred Thornton, she tripped back to the house, still bearing with her
the harrowing presentiment that “something was going to happen.”
“I mean to write to Lawrence,” she said, “and tell him to be careful;
tell him not to ride in the front car, nor the last car, nor the middle
car, nor over the wheels, nor in the night, and to be sure and walk
across Suspension Bridge when he comes back.”
Satisfied that, if he followed the directions implicitly he would return
to her alive, she ran up to her room, where she could be alone while she
wrote the important letter. Groping about in the dark until she found
the matches, she struck a light, and finding her portfolio, took it to
the table, where lay a singular looking note, sealed with a wafer, and
directed to “Miss Mildred Howell.”
“What in the world!” she exclaimed, taking up the soiled bit of
foolscap. “Where did this come from, and what can it be?”
As a sure means of solving the mystery, she broke the seal at once, and
with a beating heart read as follows:
“Forgive me, Miss Howell. If I keep still any longer I shall be awful
wicked. I or’to have told you who you be long ago, but bein’ I didn’t
I must tell you now. I’ve been hangin’ ’round a good while to see you
alone, but couldn’t. I came to the door a day or two ago and asked for
a drink of water, but that woman with the big black eyes was in the
kitchen, and acted as if she mistrusted I wanted to steal, for she
staid by watching me till I got tired, and went off without seeing you
at all. You know that old hut across the river where there don’t
nobody live. Come there to-morrow just as it is getting dark, and I
will tell you who you be. I know, for I’m the very one that brung you
to the door. You ain’t low-lived, so don’t go to worryin’ about that;
and if you are afraid to come alone, let that Judge come with you, and
stay a little ways off. Now don’t fail to be there, for it is
important for you to know.
“E. B.”
For a time after reading this Mildred sat in a kind of maze. She had
been so happy of late that she had ceased to wonder who she was. Indeed
she scarcely cared to know, particularly if the information must come
through as ignorant a channel as this letter would seem to indicate.
“What ought I to do?” she said, one moment half resolving to keep the
appointment at the deserted hut, as it was called, and the next
shrinking from doing so with an undefinable presentiment that some great
evil would result. “I wish Lawrence was here to go with me,” she
thought, but as that could not be, she determined at last to show the
note to the Judge and ask him his advice.
“What the plague,” exclaimed the Judge, reading the note a second time.
“Somebody knows who you are? Brought you herself in the basket? Ain’t
from a low-lived family? What does the old hag mean? No, no, gipsy. Let
her go to grass. We don’t care who you are. It’s enough that I’ve taken
you for my daughter, and that in little more than three weeks, Lawrence
will take you for his wife. No, no. Let E. B. sit in the deserted hut
till she’s sick of it.”
And this he said because he, too, experienced a most unaccountable
sensation of dread, as if a cloud were hovering over Mildred, darker,
far darker than the one from under which she had so recently passed.
“But,” persisted Mildred, “maybe I ought to know. I wonder who this
woman is. She says she stopped here once for a drink, and was frightened
off by the woman with the big black eyes. That must have been
Geraldine.”
“Did you speak to me?” asked the lady in question, who was passing
through the hall, and had heard her name.
“Don’t tell her of the note. Simply ask about the woman,” whispered the
Judge, feeling that if anything about Mildred should prove to be wrong,
he would rather no one but themselves should know it.
Mildred comprehended his meaning at once, and in reply to Geraldine,
said: “I have a reason for wishing to know if you remember an old
woman’s coming into the kitchen and asking for water, a day or two ago.”
“Yes, I remember her well,” answered Geraldine, “for she reminded me so
much of the city thieves. She asked several questions, too, about the
girl who was to be married,—which was your room, and all that. Why? What
of her?”
“Nothing much,” returned Mildred. “How did she look?”
“Like a witch,” answered Geraldine. “Tall, spare, angular, with a
pock-marked face, a single long tooth projecting over her under lip, and
a poking black bonnet. I thought I saw her going down the road just at
dusk to-night, but might have been mistaken.”
Mildred turned pale at the very idea of having ever been associated with
such a creature, or of meeting her alone at the deserted hut, and she
was trying to think of some excuse to render Geraldine for having thus
questioned her, when one of the dressmakers came to the rescue, and
called Miss Veille away.
“What do you think now?” Mildred asked of the Judge, when they were
alone.
“Think as I did before,” he replied. “We won’t go near the hag. We don’t
want to know who you are.”
“But,” and drawing nearer to him, Mildred looked wistfully in his face;
“but what if I am somebody whom Lawrence mustn’t marry? Wouldn’t it be
better to know it before it’s too late?”
“Heavens and earth, child,” returned the Judge. “Do you think anything
can induce him to give you up. Wouldn’t you marry _him_ if he was
anything short of a nigger?”
This remark was suggestive, and Mildred chimed in:
“I’ll ask Rachel about that woman. She saw her, too.”
Hurrying off to the kitchen she found the old negress, whose story
agreed exactly with Geraldine’s, except, indeed, that she described the
stranger as worse-looking even than Miss Veille had done.
“I saw such a person in the avenue to-night,” said Luce, who was
present, while her little child six years old testified stoutly to
having seen a woman with a big bonnet in the lower hall.
“Thinks she’ll get some money,” growled the Judge, when Mildred repeated
this to him; “but we’ll cheat her. If she knows who you are, let her
come boldly and tell, and not entice you into the woods. There’s
bedevilment somewhere.”
But all his efforts were fruitless to convince Mildred. The more she
thought of it, the more excited she grew, and the more anxious she
became to meet a person who could tell her of her parentage,—of her
mother, maybe; the mother she had never known, but had dreamed of many
and many a time.
“Go to bed,” the Judge said at last. “You’ll feel differently in the
morning.”
Mildred obeyed so far as going to bed was concerned, but the morning
found her more impatient than she had been the previous night, and not
even Oliver, to whom she confided the story, had the power to quiet her.
Go to the deserted hut she would, and if the Judge would not accompany
her she would go alone, she said.
So it was at last decided that both the Judge and Oliver should act as
her escort, by means of insuring her greater safety, and then, with a
feverish restlessness, Mildred counted the lagging hours, taking no
interest in anything, not even in the bridal dress, which was this day
finished and tried on.
Very, very beautiful she looked in it, with the orange blossoms resting
amid the braids of her nut-brown hair, but she scarcely heeded it for
the terrible something which whispered to her continually:
“You will never wear it,—never.”
Then as her vivid imagination pictured to her the possibility that that
toothless hag might prove to be her mother, and herself lying dead in
the deserted hut just as she surely should do, her face grew so white
that Geraldine asked in alarm what was the matter.
“Nothing much,” she answered, as she threw off the bridal dress. “I am
low-spirited to-day, I guess.”
“You’ll have a letter to-night, maybe, and that will make you feel
better,” suggested Geraldine.
“I hope so,” returned Milly, and fearful lest Geraldine, whom all the
day she had tried to avoid, should speak again of the woman, she ran off
upstairs, and indulged in a good, hearty cry, glancing often over her
shoulder as if afraid there was some goblin there come to rob her of
happiness.
Never once, however, did she waver in her resolution of going to the
hut, and just after the sun went down she presented herself to the
Judge, asking if he were ready.
“Ready for what? Oh, I know, that wild-goose chase. Yes, I’m ready.”
And getting his hat and cane, they started, stopping for Oliver, who
even then tried to dissuade Mildred from going.
But he could not, and in almost unbroken silence the three went on their
way, Mildred a little in advance, with a white, stony look upon her
face, as if she had made up her mind to bear the worst, whatever it
might be.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE DESERTED HUT.
It was a tumble-down old shanty, which for many years had been
uninhabited save by the bats and the swallows, which darted through the
wide chinks in the crumbling wall, or plunged down the dilapidated
chimney, filling the weird ruin with strange, unearthly sounds, and
procuring for it the reputation of being haunted ground. The path
leading to it was long and tedious, for after leaving the river bridge,
it wound around the base of a hill, beneath the huge forest trees, which
now in the dusky twilight threw their grim shadows over every near
object, and insensibly affected the spirits of the three who came each
moment nearer and nearer to the hut.
“There, Clubs and I will stay here, I guess,” said the Judge, stopping
beneath a tall hemlock, which grew within a dozen rods of the building.
Mildred made no answer, but moved resolutely on until she had crossed
the threshold of the hut, where she involuntarily paused, while a
nameless feeling of terror crept over her, everything around her was so
gloomy and so still.
In the farthest extremity of the apartment a single spot of moonlight,
shining through the rafters above, fell upon the old-fashioned cupboard,
from which two rats, startled by Mildred’s steps, sprang out, and,
running across the floor, disappeared in the vicinity of the broad stone
hearth. Aside from this there was no sign of life, and Mildred was
beginning to think of turning back, when a voice, between a whisper and
a hiss, came to her ear from the dark corner where the shadows lay
deepest, and where a human form crouched upon the floor.
“Mildred Howell,” the voice said, “is that you?”
Instantly Mildred grasped the oaken mantel to keep herself from falling;
for, with that question, the human form arose and came so near to her
that the haggish face and projecting tooth were plainly visible.
“You tremble,” the figure said; “but you need not be afraid. I am not
here to hurt you. I loved your mother too well for that.”
There was magic in that word, and it unlocked at once the daughter’s
heart and divested it of all fear. Just then the moon passed from under
a cloud, and through a paneless window, shone full upon the eager,
expectant face of the beautiful young girl, who, grasping the hand of
the strange old woman, said, imploringly:
“Did you really know my mother,—my own mother?”
“Yes,” returned the woman; “I knew her well. I was with her when she
died. I laid her in the coffin. I followed her to the grave, carrying
you in my arms, and then I did with you what she bade me do,—I laid you
at Judge Howell’s door, and stood watching in the rain until he took you
in.”
She spoke rapidly, and, to Oliver, who had drawn so near that he could
distinctly hear the whole, it seemed as if she were repeating some
lesson learned by rote; but Mildred had no such thought, and, pressing
the bony arm, she asked:
“But who am I? What is my name? Who was my father? and am I like my
mother?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to make out,” returned the woman, peering
closer into her face, and adding, after a minute survey: “Not like her
at all. You are more like the Howells; and well you may be, for your
poor mother wore her knees almost to the bone praying that you might
resemble them.”
“Then I am a Howell!—I am a Howell! and Richard was my father! Oh, joy,
joy!” and the wild, glad cry went ringing through the ghostly ruin, as
Mildred thus gave vent to what she had so long and secretly cherished in
her heart.
“Mildred”—and in the old woman’s voice there was something which made
the young girl shudder—“there is not a drop of Howell blood in all your
veins; but look!” and drawing from her skinny bosom a worn, soiled
letter, she held it up in the moonlight, saying: “This your mother wrote
two days before she died. It does not belong to you, for it is intended
for your grandfather. I promised to give it to him, should it ever be
necessary for him to know; but you may read it, girl. It will explain
the whole better than I can.”
“How can I read it here?” Mildred asked, and her companion replied by
striking a match across the hearth, and lighting a bit of candle, which
she brought from the depths of her pocket.
Holding it between her thumb and finger, she said:
“You see I’ve come prepared; but sit down, child. You’ll need to, maybe,
before you get through,” and she pushed a block of wood toward Mildred,
who sat down, while all through her frame the icy chills were running,
as if she saw the fearful gulf her feet were treading.
“Tell me first one thing,” she said, grasping the woman’s dress. “Tell
me, am I greatly inferior to Lawrence Thornton?”
Oh, that horrid, horrid smile, which broke over the old hag’s face, and
made the one long tooth seem starting from the shrivelled gums, as she
replied:
“You are fully Lawrence Thornton’s equal.”
“Then I can bear anything,” said Mildred; and opening the letter she
pressed to her lips the delicate, though rather uneven handwriting, said
to have been her mother’s.
It was dated in New York, nearly eighteen years before, and its contents
were as follows:
“DEAR, DEAR FATHER:—Though you cast me off and turned me from your
door, you are very dear to me; and should these lines ever come to
you, pray think kindly of the erring child, whose fault was loving one
so unworthy of her, for I did love Charlie, and I love him yet,
although he has cruelly deserted me just when I need his care the
most. Father, I am dying; dying all alone in this great city. Charlie
is in New Orleans, gambling, drinking, and utterly forgetting me, who
gave up everything for him.
“On the pillow beside me lies my little girl-baby; and when I look at
her I wish that I might live, but, as that cannot be, I must do for
her the best I can. Charlie said to me when he went away, that after
baby was born he should come back and take her from me, so as to
extort money from you, and he would do it, too, if he had an
opportunity, but I’d rather see her dead than under his wicked
influence; so I shall put her where he cannot find her.
“Once, father, I thought to send her to you, but the remembrance of
your words: ‘May you be cursed, and your children,’ was ringing in my
ears, and I said, ‘he shall not have a chance to wreak his vengeance
on my child. Strangers will be kinder far than my own flesh and
blood,’ so I have resolved to send her to Judge Howell. ’Tis a queer
place, but I can think of nothing better. He is alone in his great
house, and who knows but he may adopt her as his own.
“I have called her Mildred, too, praying earnestly that she may look
like Mildred of the starry eyes and nut-brown hair, for that would
soften the old Judge’s heart toward her. I have written to him an
anonymous letter asking him to take her, and when I am dead, faithful
Esther Bennett, who is nursing me, will take it and my baby to —— in
Maine, where her sister lives. There she will mail the letter, and
whether the Judge answers it or not, she will in a short time secretly
convey Milly to his door, watching until some one takes her in.
“Then she will look after my child, and if in coming years
circumstances arise which seem to make it necessary for Mildred to
know her parentage, she will seek her out, tell her who she is and
carry you this letter. You may think me crazy to adopt this plan, and
so, perhaps, I am. But my husband, who is her lawful protector, shall
not have her, and as I do not care to burden you with _Hawley’s
brats_, as you once termed any children which I might have, I shall
send it to Beechwood.
“My strength is failing me, father, and in a day or so I shall be
dead. I wish I could see you all once more, particularly _Lawrence_,
my darling little _brother Lawrence_. Baby looks some like him, I
think, and should she ever come to you, bid him love his little niece
for his dead sister Helen’s sake——”
Mildred could not read another line—there was a sound like the fall of
many waters in her ears,—the blood seemed curdling in her veins, and her
very finger-tips tingled with one horrid, maddening thought.
“Lawrence,—Lawrence,—little niece,” she moaned, and with eyes black as
midnight, and face of a marble hue, she turned to the superscription,
which she had not observed before, reading as she expected:
“ROBERT THORNTON, Esq.,
BOSTON, MASS.”
“Oh, Heaven!” she cried, rocking to and fro. “Isn’t it a dream. Isn’t
there some mistake? Tell me, dear, good woman, tell me, is it true?” and
in her unutterable agony she knelt abjectly before the witch-like
creature, who answered back:
“Poor, poor Milly. It _is_ true. All true, or I would not come here to
save you from a marriage with your mother’s brother,—your own uncle,
girl.”
“Stop!” and Mildred screamed with anguish; “I will not know that name.
Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, you are surely lost to me for ever and ever!”
There was a rustling movement, and then Mildred lay with her face upon
the threshold of the door.
“Hurry up, Clubs, for Heaven’s sake. I’ve stuck a confounded stub
through my boot,” cried the Judge, limping with pain, as he went
wheezing to the spot which Oliver had reached long before him.
From his position beneath the window, Oliver had heard the entire
conversation, but not knowing the contents of the letter, he was at a
loss to comprehend how Lawrence Thornton could be Mildred’s uncle.
Something, however, had affected her terribly, he knew, for there was no
mistaking the look of hopeless suffering stamped upon the rigid face he
lifted gently up and rested on his arm.
“What is it, Clubs? What’s the row? Let me take her,” and the panting
Judge relieved Oliver of the fainting girl, whom he held carefully in
his arms, talking to her the while in his own peculiar way. “There,
there, honey. What is it? Come to a little, can’t you? Open your eyes,
won’t you? and don’t look so much as though you were dead.” Then feeling
for her pulse, he screamed: “She is dead, Clubs! She is dead! and you,
old long-toothed madame,” shaking his fist at the old hag Esther
Bennett, “you killed her with some blasted lie, and I’ll have you hung
up by the heels on the first good tree I find. Do you hear?”
Having thus relieved his mind, the excited Judge carried Mildred into
the open air, which roused her for a moment, but when she saw Esther
Bennett she sank back again into the same death-like swoon, moaning
faintly:
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, lost forever!”
“No he ain’t,—no he ain’t,” said the Judge, but his words fell on deaf
ears, and turning to Oliver, who had been hastily reading the letter, he
asked what it was.
“Listen,” and in a voice which trembled with strong emotion, Oliver read
it through, while the Judge’s face dropped lower and lower until it
rested upon the cold, white forehead of Mildred, who lay so helpless in
his arms.
“Bob Thornton’s grandchild,” he whispered. “Bob Thornton’s grandchild!
Must I then lose my little Milly?” and great tears, such as Judge Howell
only could shed, fell like rain on Mildred’s face.
“There may be some mistake,” suggested Oliver, and catching at once the
idea, the Judge swore roundly that there was a mistake. “Needn’t tell
him; blamed if he’d believe that ’twa’n’t some big lie got up by
somebody for something,” and turning to the woman he demanded of her
savagely to confess the fraud.
But Esther Bennett answered him:
“It is all true, sir; true! I am sorry now that I kept it so long, for I
never wanted to harm Miss Helen’s child. Sure she has a bonny face, but
she’ll die, sir, lying so long in that faint.”
This turned the channel of the Judge’s thoughts, and, remembering that
not far away there was a little stream, he arose, and, forgetting his
wounded foot, walked swiftly on, bidding Esther follow, as he wished to
question her further on the subject. To this she did not seem at all
averse, but went with him willingly, answering readily all the questions
which Oliver put to her, and appearing through the whole to be sincere
in what she said. The cold water which they sprinkled copiously on
Mildred’s face and neck restored her for a moment, but, with a shudder,
she again lay back in the arms of the Judge, who, declaring her as light
as a feather, hobbled on, giving her occasionally a loving hug, and
whispering, as he did so: “Hanged if they make me believe it. Bobum
don’t get her after I’ve made my will, and all that.”
By the drawing-room window Geraldine was sitting, and when, by the
moonlight, she saw the strange procession moving up the Cold Spring
path, she went out to meet it, asking anxiously what had happened.
“Clubs can tell you,” returned the Judge, hurrying on with Mildred,
while Oliver explained to Geraldine what he knew, and then referred her
to Esther Bennett for any further information.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Geraldine, while in her eyes there was a
glitter of delight, as she fell back with Esther, and began a most
earnest conversation.
Carrying Mildred to her room, Judge Howell laid her upon the bed as
gently as if she had been an infant, and then bent over her until she
came fully back to consciousness and asked him where she was.
“Oh, I remember now!” she said. “A horrid thing came to me down in the
hut, and Lawrence is lost for ever and ever!”
“No, he ain’t; it’s all a blasted lie!” said the Judge, and instantly on
Mildred’s face there broke a smile of such joy that Oliver, who had
entered the room, cried out:
“It’s cruel to deceive her so, Judge Howell, until we know for certain
that the woman’s story is false.”
Like a hunted deer Mildred’s eyes turned from one to the other, reading
everywhere a confirmation of her fears, and, with a low piercing cry,
she moaned:
“It’s true, it’s true! he is lost forever! Oh, Oliver! can’t you comfort
me a little? You never failed me before; don’t leave me now when I need
it the most!” and she wound her arms convulsively round his neck.
Oliver had his suspicions, but as he could give no reason for them he
would not rouse hopes which might never be realized, and he only
answered through his tears:
“I would like to comfort you, Milly, if I could; but I can’t,—I can’t!”
“Mildred!” It was Geraldine who spoke, and Mildred involuntarily
shuddered as she heard the voice. “Uncle Robert once saw the woman who
took care of Cousin Helen, and talked with her of his daughter and the
baby, both of whom she declared to be dead. Had we not better send for
him at once, and see if he remembers this creature,” nodding toward
Esther Bennett, who had also entered the room. “He surely cannot mistake
her if he ever saw her once.”
Oliver looked to see the hag make some objections, but, to his surprise,
she said eagerly:
“Yes, send for him. He will remember me, for he came to New York just
three days after I left the baby at this door. He is a tall man,
slightly bald, with black eyes, and coarse black hair, then beginning to
be gray.”
Mildred groaned as did Oliver, for the description was accurate, while
even the Judge brought his fist down upon the table, saying:
“Bob to a dot! but hanged if I believe it! We’ll telegraph though in the
morning.”
The result of the telegram was that at a late hour the next night Mr.
Thornton rang the bell at Beechwood, asking anxiously why he had been
sent for in such haste.
“Because,” answered the Judge, who met him first, “maybe you’ve a
grandchild upstairs, and maybe you hain’t!”
“A grandchild!” gasped Mr. Thornton, all manner of strange fancies
flitting through his brain. “What can you mean?”
By this time Geraldine appeared, and hastily explaining to him what had
occurred, she asked “if he could identify the woman who took care of
Helen in New York?”
“Yes, tell her from a thousand, but not now, not now,” and motioning her
away, Mr. Thornton covered his face with his hand, and whispered
faintly, “_My_ grandchild! My Mildred! That beautiful creature Helen’s
child!” and with all his softer feelings awakened, the heart of the
cold, stern man yearned toward the young girl he had once affected to
despise. “Poor boy,” he said, as he thought of Lawrence, “’twill be
terrible to him, for his whole soul was bound up in her. Where is this
woman? There may be some mistake. I trust there is, for the young
people’s sake,” and the generous feeling thus displayed swept away at
once all animosity from the Judge’s heart.
“Describe her first as nearly as you can,” said Geraldine, and after
thinking a moment Mr. Thornton replied:
“Tall, grizzly; badly marked with small-pox, and had then one or more
long teeth in front, which gave her a most haggish appearance.”
“The same, the same!” dropped from Oliver’s lips, while the Judge, too,
responded:
“It’s all almighty queer, but blasted if I believe it!”
At Mr. Thornton’s request, Esther Bennett came in, and the moment his
eyes fell upon her, he said:
“’Tis the woman I saw eighteen years ago; I cannot be mistaken in that.”
“Question her,” whispered Geraldine, who seemed quite excited in the
matter, and Mr. Thornton did question her, but if she were deceiving
them she had learned her lesson well, for no amount of cross-questioning
could induce her to commit herself.
Indeed she seemed, in spite of her looks, to be a sensible,
straightforward woman, who was doing what she felt to be her duty.
“She had never lost sight of Mildred,” she said; “and knowing that Judge
Howell had adopted her, she had concluded not to divulge the secret
until she heard that she was to marry Lawrence. But have you read the
letter?” she asked. “That will prove that I am not lying.”
“Surely,” chimed in Geraldine. “I had forgotten that,” and she handed to
Mr. Thornton his daughter’s letter, which he read through, saying, when
he had finished:
“It is Helen’s handwriting, and it must be true.”
Then passing it to the Judge he asked if it resembled the letter he
received from the Maine woman.
“Good thunder, how do I know,” returned the Judge. “I tore that into
giblets. I can’t remember eighteen years; besides that, I’m bound not to
believe it, hanged if I do. I’ve made up my mind latterly that Gipsy
belonged to Dick, and I’ll be blamed if I don’t stick to that through
thick and thin.”
But whatever the Judge might wish to believe, he was obliged to confess
that the evidence was against him, and when at an early hour the next
morning the four assembled again for consultation, he said to Mr.
Thornton:
“You want to see your granddaughter, I suppose?”
“I’d like to, yes,” was the reply, to which the Judge responded:
“Well, come along, though hanged if I believe it.”
From Geraldine, Mildred had learned what Mr. Thornton said, and that he
would probably wish to see her in the morning. This swept away the last
lingering hope, and with a kind of nervous terror she awaited his visit,
trembling when she heard him in the hall, and looking fearfully round
for some means of escape.
“Here, Milly,” said the Judge, bustling up to her and forcing a levity
he did not feel, “here’s your _grandfather_ come to see you.”
“No, no, no,” sobbed Mildred, creeping closer to the Judge and hiding
her white face in her hands.
“There, Bobum,” said the Judge, smoothing her disordered hair and
dropping a tear upon it. “You see she don’t take kindly to her new
_grandad_. Better give it up, for I tell you it’s a big lie.”
“Mildred,” said Mr. Thornton, seating himself upon the side of the bed,
and taking one of the little feverish hands in his, “there can be no
doubt that what we have heard is true, and if so, you are my child, and
as such very dear to me. You are young yet, darling, and though your
disappointment, as far as Lawrence is concerned, is terrible, you will
overcome it in time. The knowing he is your uncle will help you so to
do, and you will be happy with us yet. Don’t you think so, dear?”
“Bobum, you’ve made a splendid speech,” returned the Judge, when he had
finished. “Couldn’t have done better myself, but it fell on stony
ground, for look,” and lifting up the beautiful head, he showed him that
Mildred had fainted.
“Poor girl, poor girl,” whispered Mr. Thornton; and the tears of both of
those hard old men dropped on Mildred’s face, as they bent anxiously
over her.
It was, indeed, a dreadful blow to Mildred, for turn which way she
would, there shone no ray of hope. Even Oliver deserted her as far as
comfort was concerned, for he had none to offer.
A day or so brought Lilian to Beechwood,—all love, all sweetness, all
sympathy for Mildred, whom she _cousined_ twenty times an hour, and who
shrunk from her caresses just as she did from both Geraldine and Mr.
Thornton.
“Oh, if I could go away from here for a time,” she thought, “I might get
over it, perhaps; but it will kill me to see Lawrence when he comes. I
can’t, I can’t; oh, isn’t there somewhere to go?”
Then suddenly remembering that not long before she had received an
invitation to visit a favorite teacher, who was now married and lived in
a hotel among the New Hampshire hills, she resolved to accept it, and go
for a few weeks, until Lawrence returned and had learned the whole.
“I shall feel better there,” she said to the Judge and Oliver, to whom
she communicated her plan. “Mrs. Miller will be kind to me, and when
it’s all over here, and they are gone, you must write, and I’ll come
back to stay with you forever, for I won’t live with Mr. Thornton, were
he one hundred times my grandfather!”
This last pleased the Judge so much that he consented at once for
Mildred to go, saying it possibly would do her good. Then, repeating to
himself the name of the place where Mrs. Miller lived, he continued:
“What do _I_ know of _Dresden_? Oh, I remember, Hetty Kirby is buried
there. Hetty Kirby; Hetty Kirby.” He looked as if there was something
more he would say of Hetty Kirby, but he merely added: “Maybe I’ll come
for you myself. I’d go with you if it wasn’t for my confounded toe.”
Once he glanced at his swollen foot, which had been badly hurt on the
night of his visit to the hut, and was now so sore that in walking he
was obliged to use a crutch.
“I’d rather go alone,” said Mildred, and after a little further
conversation it was arranged that in two days’ time she should set off
for Dresden, first apprising Mrs. Miller by letter of all that had
occurred, and asking her to say nothing of the matter, but speak of her
as _Miss Hawley_, that being the name to which she supposed herself
entitled.
This being satisfactorily settled, Mr. Thornton and Geraldine were both
informed of Mildred’s intentions.
“A good idea,” said Geraldine. “Change of place will do her good, but I
think Lily and I had better remain here until Lawrence arrives. A letter
will not find him now, and as he intends stopping at Beechwood on his
return, he will know nothing of it until he reaches here.”
The Judge would rather have been left alone, but he was polite enough
not to say so, though he did suggest that Esther Bennett, at least,
should leave, a hint upon which she acted at once, going back to New
York that very day.
Mildred would rather that Geraldine and Lilian too should have gone, but
as this could not be she stipulated in their presence that Oliver and no
other should break the news to Lawrence,—“he would do it so gently,” she
said, and she bade him say to Lawrence that “though she never could
forget him, she did not wish to see him. She could not bear it, and he
must not come after her.”
Oliver promised compliance with her request, and the next morning she
left Beechwood, accompanied by Mr. Thornton, who insisted upon going
with her as far as the station, where she must leave the cars and take
the stage to Dresden, a distance of ten miles. Here he bade her good-by,
with many assurances of affection and good-will, to none of which
Mildred listened. Her heart was too full of grief to respond at once to
this new claimant for her love, and she was glad when he was gone and
she alone with her sorrow.
[Illustration: Flowers]
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE GUESTS AT THE HOTEL.
“Where will you be left, miss?” asked the good-humored driver, thrusting
his head in at the window of the coach, in one corner of which Mildred
sat, closely veiled and shrinking as far as possible from observation.
“At the Stevens Hotel,” she answered, and the driver returned:
“Oh, yes, Stevens Hotel. I have another passenger who stops there. Here
he comes,” and he held open the door for a remarkably fine-looking man,
who, taking the seat opposite Mildred, drew out a book in which for a
time he seemed wholly absorbed, never looking up, except once indeed
when a fat old woman entered and sat down beside him, saying, as she
sank puffing among the cushions, that “she shouldn’t pester him
long,—she was only going a mile or so to visit her daughter-in-law, who
had twins.”
Involuntarily Mildred glanced at the gentleman, who, showing a very
handsome set of teeth, again resumed his book, while she scanned his
features curiously, they seemed to her so familiar, so like something
she had seen before.
“Who is he?” she kept asking herself, and she was about concluding that
she must have seen him in Boston, when the stage stopped again before
one of those low-roofed buildings so common in New England, and the fat
old lady alighted, thanking the gentleman for holding the paper of
anise-seed and catnip, which all the way had been her special care.
Again the handsome teeth were visible, while the stranger hoped she
would find the twins in a prosperous condition. On the green in front of
the house a little child was waiting to welcome grandma; and Mildred,
who was fond of children, threw back her thick brown veil to look at it,
nor did she drop it again, for the road now wound through a mountainous
district, and in her delight at the wild, picturesque scenery which met
her view at every turn, she forgot that she was not alone, and when at
last they reached the summit of a long, steep hill, she involuntarily
exclaimed:
“Isn’t it grand?”
“You are not accustomed to mountainous views, perhaps,” said the
stranger, and then for the first time Mildred became conscious that a
pair of soft, dark eyes were bent upon her with a searching, burning
gaze, from which she intuitively shrank.
Ever since her veil had been removed that same look had been fixed upon
her, and to himself the stranger more than once had said, “If it _were_
possible; but no, it cannot be;” and yet those starry eyes and that
nut-brown hair, how they carried him back to the long ago. Could there
be two individuals so much alike, and yet nothing to each other? Some
such idea passed through his mind as he sat watching her beautiful face,
and determined at last to question her, he addressed her as we have
seen.
“Yes, I am accustomed to mountain scenery,” she replied, “though not as
grand as this.”
“Were you born among the New England hills?” was the next question put
to her, and the answer waited for, oh, so eagerly.
For an instant Mildred hesitated, while the hot blood stained her face
and neck, and then she replied:
“I was born in New York City,” while over the fine features of the
gentleman opposite there fell a shade of disappointment.
Mildred had interested him strangely; and with a restless desire to know
more of her history, he continued:
“Pardon me, miss; but you so strongly resemble a friend I have lost that
I would like to know your name?”
Again Mildred hesitated, while the name of Howell trembled on her lips,
but reflecting that she had no longer a right to it, she answered:
“My name, sir, is Miss Hawley.”
Something in her manner led the stranger to think she did not care to be
questioned further, and bowing slightly he resumed his book. Still his
mind was constantly dwelling upon the young girl, who met his curious
glance so often that she began to feel uneasy, and was glad when they
stopped at last at the Stevens Hotel. The stranger helped her out,
holding her dimpled hand in his for a single moment, and looking down
again into the dark bright eyes, as if he fain would read there that
what he had so long believed was false. He knew that he annoyed her, but
he could not help it. Every movement which she made mystified him more
and more, and he looked after her until she disappeared through the hall
and was admitted to the chamber of her friend and former teacher.
Unfortunately Mrs. Miller was sick, but she welcomed Mildred kindly as
Miss Hawley, and talked freely with her of the discovery that had been
made.
“You will feel better after a time,” she said, as she saw how fast
Mildred’s tears came at the mention of Lawrence Thornton. “Your secret
is safe with me and my husband, and no one else knows that you ever had
claim to another name than Hawley. I am sorry that I am ill just at this
time, but I shall be well in a few days, I hope. Meantime you must amuse
yourself in any way you choose. I have given orders for you to have the
large front chamber looking out upon the village. The room adjoining is
occupied by a gentleman who came here yesterday morning, intending to
stop for a few days. He is very agreeable, they say, and quite a
favorite in the house.”
Mildred thought of her companion in the stage, and was about to ask his
name, when a servant appeared, offering to show her to her room. It was
one of those warm, languid days in early June, and Mildred soon began to
feel the effects of her recent excitement and wearisome ride in the
racking headache which came on so fast as to prevent her going down to
dinner, and at last confined her to the bed, where she lay the entire
afternoon, falling away at last into a deep, quiet sleep, from which
about sunset she awoke greatly refreshed and almost free from pain.
Observing that her door was open, she was wondering who had been there,
when her ear caught a sound as of some child breathing heavily, and
turning in the direction whence it came, she saw a most beautiful little
girl, apparently four or five years old, perched upon a chair near the
window, her soft auburn curls falling over her forehead, and her face
very red with the exertions she was making to unclasp Mildred’s
reticule, which she had found upon the table.
As a carriage rolled down the street, she raised her eyes, and to
Mildred it seemed as if she were looking once more upon the face which
had so often met her view when she brushed her own hair before the
cracked glass hanging on the rude walls of the gable-roof.
“Is it my other self?” she thought, passing her hand before her eyes to
clear away the mist, if mist there was. “Isn’t it I as I used to be?”
Just then the snapping apart of the steel clasp, and the child’s
satisfied exclamation of “There, I did do it,” convinced her that ’twas
not herself as she used to be, but a veritable mass of flesh and blood,
embodied in as sweet a face and perfect a form as she ever looked upon.
“I will speak to her,” Mildred thought, and involuntarily from her lips
the word “_Sister_” came, causing the child to start suddenly and drop
the reticule, with which she knew she had been meddling.
Shaking back her sunny curls, which now lay in rings about her forehead,
and flashing upon Mildred a pair of eyes very much like her own, she
said:
“How you did _stare_ me! Be you waked up?”
“Come here, won’t you?” said Mildred, holding out her hand; and won by
the pleasant voice, the little girl went to her, and winding her chubby
arms around her neck, said:
“Is you most well, pretty lady?”
Mildred answered by kissing her velvety cheek and hugging her closer to
her bosom, while over her there swept a most delicious feeling, as if
the beautiful creature, nestling so lovingly to her side, were very near
to her.
“Where do you live?” she asked; and the child replied:
“Oh, in the ship, and in the railroad, and everything.”
“But where’s your mother?” continued Mildred, and over the little girl’s
face there flitted a shadow, as she replied:
“Ma’s in heaven, and pa’s down-stairs smoking a cigar. He ties awful
hard sometimes.”
“Have you any sisters?” was the next interrogatory; and the answer was:
“I’ve got one in heaven, and a brother, too,—so pa says. I never seen
the sister, but when ma died, and they lifted me up to look at her in
the box, there lay on her arm a little teeny baby, not so big as dolly,
and they put them both under the grass, over the sea, ever and ever and
ever so ways off,” and she pointed toward the setting sun, as if she
thus would indicate the vast distance between herself and her buried
mother.
“You came from over the sea, then?” returned Mildred. “Will you tell me
what your name is?”
“_Edith Howell._ What is yours?” and Edith looked inquiringly at
Mildred, who started suddenly, repeating:
“Edith Howell! Edith Howell! and did your father come in the stage this
morning?”
“Yes,” returned the child. “He went off in it before I was up, and
brought me Old Mother Hubbard. Don’t you want to see her?” and Edith ran
to her own room, while Mildred clasped her hands to her head, which
seemed almost bursting with the conviction which the name of Edith
Howell had forced upon her.
She knew now where she had seen a face like that of her stage companion.
She had seen it in the pleasant drawing-room at Beechwood, and the eyes
which had so puzzled her that morning had many and many a time looked
down upon her from the portrait of _Richard Howell_.
“’Tis he, ’tis he,” she whispered. “But why is he here instead of going
to his father?”
Then, as she remembered having heard how Richard Howell had cared for
her, shielding her from the Judge’s wrath, and how once she had dared to
hope that she might be his child, she buried her face in the pillow and
wept aloud, for the world seemed so dark,—so dreary.
“What you tie for, pretty lady?” asked little Edith, returning to her
side, laden with dolls and toys, and Old Mother Hubbard, which last
Mildred did not fully appreciate. “What is your name?” Edith said again,
as, mounting upon the bed, she prepared to display her treasures.
“Milly Hawley;” and Mildred’s voice trembled so that the child very
easily mistook the word for _Minnie_.
“Minnie,” she repeated. “That’s pretty. I love you, Minnie Hawley,” and
putting up her waxen hand, she brushed the tears from Mildred’s eyes,
asking again why she cried.
At first Mildred thought to correct her with regard to her name. Then,
thinking it was just as well to be Minnie as anything else, she let it
pass, for without any tangible reason save that it was a sudden fancy,
she had determined that if the handsome stranger were Richard Howell, he
should not know from her that she was the foundling left at his father’s
door. She had always shrank from hearing the subject discussed, and it
seemed more distasteful to her now than ever; so on the whole she was
glad Edith had misunderstood her, for _Milly_ might have led to some
inquiries on the part of Richard, if it were he, inasmuch as his mother
and sister had borne that rather unusual name; so, instead of replying
directly to the child, she said, “Let us go over by the window where the
cool breeze comes in,” and gathering up her playthings, Edith went with
her to the sofa, and climbing into her lap asked, “Where’s your ma,
Minnie?”
“She’s dead,” was the reply.
“And is your pa dead, too?”
Ere Mildred could answer this a voice from the hall called out:
“Edith! Edith! where are you?”
“Here, pa, here with Minnie. Come and see her,” and bounding across the
floor, the active child seized her father’s hand and pulled him into
Mildred’s room.
“Excuse me, Miss Hawley,” he said. “Edith is very sociable; and I am
afraid you find her troublesome.”
“Not in the least. I am fond of children,” returned Mildred, taking the
little girl again upon her lap, while Mr. Howell sat down by the other
window.
He was a very handsome man, and at first appearance seemed to be
scarcely thirty. A closer observation, however, showed that he was
several years older, for his rich brown hair was slightly tinged with
gray, and there were the marks of time or sorrow about his eyes and
forehead. In manner he was uncommonly prepossessing, and a few minutes
sufficed to put Mildred entirely at her ease, with one who had evidently
been accustomed to the society of high-bred, cultivated people.
“Edith tells me you come from England,” she said at last, by way of
ascertaining whether he really were Richard Howell or not.
“Yes,” he replied, “I have lived in England for several years, though I
am a native American and born in Boston. When six years old, however, my
father removed to Mayfield, where he is living now.”
“What for you jump?” asked Edith, as Mildred started involuntarily when
her suspicions were thus confirmed.
Mr. Howell’s eyes seemed to ask the same question, and bowing her face
over the curly head of the child, so as to conceal her tears, Mildred
answered:
“I have been in Mayfield several times, and know an old gentleman whose
son went off many years ago, and has never been heard of since.”
“What makes you ty?” persisted Edith, who felt the drops upon her hair.
“I was thinking,” returned Mildred, “how glad that old man will be if
your father is the son he has so long considered dead.”
Mr. Howell was gazing fixedly at her.
“Miss Hawley,” he said, when she had finished speaking, “who are
you?—that is, who are your parents, and why have you been in Mayfield?”
Mildred knew that her resemblance to his sister puzzled him just as it
did every one, and for a moment she was tempted to tell him everything;
then, thinking he would learn it fast enough when he went to Beechwood,
she replied:
“My mother was Helen Thornton, of Boston, and my father, her music
teacher, Charles Hawley, who died in New Orleans soon after I was born.”
Mr. Howell seemed disappointed, but he replied:
“Helen Thornton your mother? I remember her well, and her marriage with
Mr. Hawley. You do not resemble her one-half so much as you do my sister
Mildred, for I am that old man’s son. I am Richard Howell.”
“Every one who ever saw your sister speaks of the resemblance,” returned
Mildred. “Indeed, my old nurse says my mother was very anxious that I
should look like her, and even used to pray that I might. This may,
perhaps, account for it.”
“It may,—it may,” Richard answered abstractively, pacing up and down the
room; then suddenly turning to Mildred he asked: “When were you in
Mayfield, and how is my father now? Does he look very old?”
Mildred did not tell him when she was in Mayfield, but merely replied
that “his father was well, and that for a man nearly sixty-five he was
looking remarkably young.”
“And the negroes?” said Richard; “though, of course, you know nothing of
them, nor of those people who used to live in that gable-roofed house
down the hill. Thompson was the name.”
Here was a chance for explanation, but Mildred cast it from her by
simply answering:
“Old Mrs. Thompson lives there yet with her club-footed grandson, Oliver
Hawkins, whose mother was probably living when you went away.”
Spite of her resolution, Mildred hoped he would ask for _the baby_ next,
but he did not. He merely walked faster and faster across the floor,
while she sighed mentally: “He has forgotten me, and I will not thrust
myself upon his remembrance.”
At last the rapid walking ceased, and coming up before her, Mr. Howell
said:
“It seems strange to you, no doubt, that I have purposely absented
myself from home so long, and in looking back upon the past, it seems
strange to me. I was very unhappy when I went away, and at the last I
quarrelled with my father, who, for a farewell, gave to me his curse,
bidding me never come into his presence again. If you know him at all,
you know he has a fiery temper. To a certain extent I inherit the same,
and with my passions roused I said it would be many years before he saw
my face again. Still, I should have returned had not circumstances
occurred which rendered it unnecessary. I wrote to my father twice, but
he never answered me, and I said ‘I will write no more.’ For three years
I remained among the South Sea Islands, and then found my way to India,
where, in the excitement of amassing wealth, I gradually ceased to care
for anything in America. At last I made the acquaintance of a fair young
English girl, and making her my wife, removed with her to England,
where, little more than a year since, she died, leaving me nothing to
love but Edith. Then my thoughts turned homeward, for I promised Lucy,
when dying, that I would seek a reconciliation with my father. So I
crossed the ocean again, coming first to Dresden, for this wild,
out-of-the-way place is connected with some of the sweetest and saddest
memories of my life. In a few days, however, I go to Beechwood, but I
shall not apprise my father of my return, for I wish to test the
instincts of the parental heart, and see if he will know me.
“I have told you so much, Miss Hawley, because I know you must think
strangely of my long absence, and then there is something about you
which prompts me to wish for your good opinion. I might tell you much
more of my life,—tell you of an error committed in boyhood, as it were,
and in manhood bitterly regretted,—not the deed itself, but the
concealment of it, but the subject would not interest you.”
Mildred could not help fancying that the subject would interest her, but
she did not say so, and as Mr. Howell just then observed that Edith had
fallen asleep in her arms, he ceased speaking and hastened to relieve
her. The movement awakened Edith, who insisted upon sleeping with
_Minnie_, as she called her.
“Yes, let her stay with me,” said Mildred; “she is such an affectionate
little thing that she seems almost as near to me as a sister.”
“You are enough alike to be sisters. Did you know that?” Mr. Howell
asked, and Mildred blushed painfully as she met the admiring gaze fixed
upon her so intently.
He was thinking what a beautiful picture they made,—the _rose_ just
bursting into perfect loveliness, and the _bud_ so like the rose that
they might both have come from the same parent stem.
“Yes, Edith has your eyes,” he continued, “your mouth and your
expression, but otherwise she is like her English mother.”
He bent down to kiss the child, who had fallen asleep again, and had
Mildred been a little younger he might perhaps have kissed her, too, for
he was an enthusiastic admirer of girlish beauty, but as it was, he
merely bade her good-night and left the room.
The next morning Mildred was roused by a pair of the softest, fattest,
chubbiest hands patting her round cheeks, and opening her eyes, she saw
Edith sitting up in bed, her auburn curls falling from beneath her cap
and herself playful as a kitten. Oh, how near and dear she seemed to
Mildred, who hugged her to her bosom, calling her “little sister,” and
wishing in her heart that somewhere in the world she had a sister as
gentle, and pretty, and sweet, as Edith Howell.
That afternoon, as Mildred sat reading in her room, she saw a carriage
drive up to the door, and heard Edith’s voice in the hall, saying to her
father:
“Yes, Minnie must go,—Minnie must go.”
A moment after Mr. Howell appeared, saying to her:
“We are going to ride, Miss Howell, and on Edith’s account, as well as
my own, shall be glad of your company. I shall visit the cemetery for
one place, and that may not be agreeable, but the remainder of the trip
I think you will enjoy.”
Mildred knew she should, and hurrying on her bonnet and shawl, she was
soon seated with Mr. Howell and Edith in the only decent carriage the
village afforded.
“To the graveyard,” said Mr. Howell, in answer to the driver’s question.
“Where shall I drive you first?” and after a rapid ride of a mile or
more they stopped before the gate of the enclosure where slept the
Dresden dead.
Holding Edith’s hand in hers. Mildred followed whither Richard led, and
soon stood by a sunken grave, unmarked by a single token of love, save
the handsome stone, on which was inscribed
“HETTY K. HOWELL,
Aged 19.”
“Hetty Howell!” repeated Mildred. “_Who was she?_” and she turned
inquiringly towards Richard.
He was standing with folded arms and a most touchingly sad expression
upon his face, but at her question he started, and unhesitatingly
answered, “_Hetty Kirby was my wife._”
Mildred had incidentally heard of Hetty Kirby at Beechwood, but never
that she was Richard’s wife, and she exclaimed, in some astonishment:
“Your wife, Mr. Howell? Were you then married when you went away?”
“Yes,” he answered; “and the concealment of it is one of my boyhood’s
errors which I regret. I married Hetty without my father’s knowledge and
against his wishes. He knew I loved her, and for that he turned her from
his door and bade me forget her. But I did not. With the help of a
college friend I went with her over the Bay State line into New York,
where we were soon made one. After a week or so she came to Dresden,
where her grandmother lived, while I returned to college. I saw her as
often as possible after that, until at last——” here he paused, and
seemed to be thinking of something far back in the past; then he
suddenly added, “she sickened and died, and I buried her here.”
“And did you not tell your father?” asked Mildred.
“No, not then,” he answered; “but I told him on the night I went away,
and it was for this he cursed me.”
There were tears in his eyes, and they came also to Mildred’s, as she
thought of poor Hetty, and how much she must have loved her handsome
boy-husband. Insensibly, too, there crept over her a strange affection
for that grassy mound, as if it covered something which she had known
and loved.
“There are no flowers here,” she said, wishing to break the painful
silence; and when Richard answered, sadly, “There has been no one to
plant them,” she continued, “I shall remain in Dresden some time,
perhaps, and I will put some rose trees here and cover the sods with
moss.”
“Heaven bless you, Miss Hawley,” and in that silent graveyard, standing
by Hetty Kirby’s grave, Richard Howell took the hand of Mildred and
pressed it to his lips,—modestly, gently, as if he had been her father.
“Tome, pa. Less doe,” Edith had said a dozen times, and yielding to her
importunities, Mr. Howell now walked slowly away, but Mildred lingered
still, chained to the spot by a nameless fascination.
“Tome, Minnie,—tome,” called Edith, and roused thus from her reverie of
the unknown Hetty Kirby, Mildred followed on to the carriage, where Mr.
Howell was waiting for her.
Down the hill, up another, round a curve, over a stream of water and
down the second long, steep hill they went, and then they stopped again,
but this time at a deserted old brown building, whose slanting roof had
partially tumbled in, and whose doors were open to the weather, being
destitute of latch or bolt. Through a gate half off the hinges they
went, and going up a grass-grown path, they passed into a narrow entry,
and then into a side room, where the western sun came pouring in. Here
Mr. Howell stopped, and with his hand upon his forehead, stood leaning
against the window, while the great tears dropped through his fingers
and fell upon the old oak floor. Mildred saw all this, and needed
nothing more to tell her that they stood in the room where Hetty Kirby
died.
Oh, Mildred, Mildred,—if she could have known, but she did not. She only
felt stealing over her a second time the same sensation which had come
to her at Hetty’s grave,—a feeling as if every spot once hallowed by
Hetty Kirby’s presence were sacred to her, and when at last they left
the ruinous old house, she looked about for some memento of the place,
but everything had run to waste, save one thrifty cedar growing in a
corner of the yard. From this she broke a twig and was thinking how she
would preserve it, when Richard touched her arm, and said:
“I planted that tree myself and Hetty held it up while I put the earth
about it.”
The cedar bough was dearer far to Mildred now, and she stood long by the
evergreen thinking how little Hetty dreamed that such as she would ever
be there with Richard at her side, and a fairy creature frolicking over
the grass, the child of another than herself.
“If she had left a daughter how Richard would have loved it,” she
thought, and through her mind there flitted the wild fancy that it would
be happiness indeed to call him father and say sister to young Edith,
who was now pulling at her dress, telling her to come away from that old
place. “It isn’t as pretty,” she said, “as ma’s home over the sea, for
there were fountains and trees and flowers there.”
Mildred could not forbear smiling as the little girl rattled on, while
in listening to her prattle even Mr. Howell forgot his sadness, and by
the time they reached the hotel he was apparently as cheerful as ever.
The next morning he was slightly indisposed, and Mildred kept Edith with
her the entire day. The morning following he was still worse, and for
two weeks he kept his room, while Mildred took charge of Edith, going
occasionally to his bedside, and reading to him from books which he
selected. Never for a moment, however, did she forget her gnawing pain,
which, as the days advanced, seemed harder and harder to bear, and when
at last the morning came on which she was to have been a bride, she
buried her face in her pillows, refusing to be comforted, even by little
Edith, who, alarmed at her distress, begged of her father to come and
cure Minnie, “who did ty so hard.”
A severe headache was the result of this passionate weeping, and all the
morning she lay upon the bed or sofa, almost blinded with pain, while
Edith’s little soft hands smoothed her aching head or brushed her
beautiful hair. Once Richard, who was better now, came to the door,
offering to do something for her, and suggesting many remedies for
headache. Very gratefully Mildred smiled upon him, but she could not
tell him how the heart was aching tenfold harder than the head, or how
her thoughts were turning continually toward Beechwood, from which she
had received no news, she having bidden them not to write until
Lawrence, Geraldine, Lilian and all were gone; then Oliver was to tell
her the whole.
As he had not written, they, of course, had not gone, and fearful that
something terrible had happened, her anxiety and excitement seemed
greater than she could bear.
CHAPTER XIX.
LAWRENCE AND OLIVER.
Contrary to Mildred’s expectations, Lawrence had reached Beechwood
earlier than the time appointed. And on the very day when she in Dresden
was standing with Richard Howell by Hetty Kirby’s grave, he in Mayfield
was listening with a breaking heart to the story Oliver had to tell.
Flushed with hope and eager anticipation, as the happy bridegroom goes
to meet his bride, he had come, thinking all the way of Mildred’s joy of
seeing him so many days before he had promised to be with her. Purposely
he chose the back entrance to the house, coming through the garden, and
casting about him many anxious glances for the flutter of a pink muslin
robe, or the swinging of a brown straw hat. But he looked in vain, for
Mildred was not there. Hoping to find her in the library alone, he kept
on, until he reached the little room, where instead of Mildred, the
Judge and Oliver sat together, talking sadly of her. At the sight of
Lawrence both turned pale, while the former involuntarily exclaimed,
“Oh, my boy, my boy.”
In an instant Lawrence knew that something terrible had happened, and
grasping the Judge’s hand, he cried: “She isn’t dead. In pity tell me,
is she dead?”
“No, not dead,” answered the Judge; “but listen to Clubs. He promised to
break it to you.” And going from the room, he left the two alone, while
Oliver told to Lawrence Thornton that Mildred never could be his wife,
because she was his niece, the child of his own sister.
Every particular of the disclosure was minutely related, and every hope
swept away from the horror-stricken man, who listened in mute despair,
until the tale was finished, and then with one piercing cry of anguish
fell upon his face, moaning faintly: “I would rather she had died,—I
would rather she had died.”
In great alarm, Geraldine, who had heard the cry, hastened to the room,
followed by Lilian; but Lawrence scarcely noticed them, otherwise than
to shudder and turn away from Geraldine when she tried to comfort him.
Once, Lilian, touched at the sight of his distress, knelt before him,
and folding her arms upon his lap, begged of him “not to look so
white,—so terrible.”
But he motioned her off, saying to her: “Don’t try to comfort me unless
you give me back my Mildred. Take me, Clubs, where I can breathe. I am
dying in this stifled room.”
Then into the open air Oliver led the fainting man, while Judge Howell
bustled after, the great tears rolling down his face, as he whispered:
“They _do_ have the all-firedest luck. Poor boy, poor boy,—he takes it
harder even than Gipsy did.”
And in this the Judge was right, for the blow had well-nigh crushed out
Lawrence’s very life, and before the sun went down they carried him to
what was to have been the bridal chamber, a broken-hearted, delirious
man, talking continually of Mildred, who he always said was dead, but
never that she was his niece. For many days the fever raged with fearful
violence, and Mr. Thornton, who was summoned in haste from Boston, wept
bitterly as he gazed upon the flushed face and wild eyes of his son, and
felt that he would die. From the very first Lawrence refused to let
either Geraldine or Lilian come into the room, while Oliver, on the
contrary, was kept constantly at his side, and made to sing continually
of Mildred with the starry eyes and nut-brown hair.
“Sing, Clubs, sing,” he would say, tossing from side to side; “sing of
the maid with the nut-brown hair.”
And all through the silent watches of the night could that feeble voice
be heard, sweet as an ancient harp and plaintive as a broken lute, for
it welled up from the depths of an aching heart, and he who sang that
song knew that each note was wearing his life away.
Thrice Judge Howell, touched with compassion by his pale, suffering
face, offered to take his place, bidding Oliver lie down while he sang
of Milly’s eyes and hair; but Lawrence detected the fraud in an instant.
He knew the shaking, tremulous tones, raised sometimes to a screech and
then dying away in a whisper, came from another than Oliver Hawkins, and
his lip curled with supreme disdain as, raising himself upon his elbow,
he said:
“You can’t cheat me, old fellow, and you may as well send Clubs back
again.”
So poor Clubs went back, staying by him night and day, until human
strength could endure no more; and he one morning fell forward upon the
bed, deluging it with the blood which gushed from his mouth and nose.
With an almost superhuman effort, Judge Howell took him in his
arms,—gently, tenderly, for Mildred’s sake,—and carrying him down the
Cold Spring path, laid him away in the little room beneath the
gable-roof, where there was none to sing to him of Mildred, none to
comfort him save Hepsy, whose homely attempts were worse than failures,
and who did him more hurt than good by constantly accusing Lawrence
Thornton of being the cause of his illness. Indeed, she seemed rather to
enjoy it when she heard, as she did, how Lawrence moaned for “Clubs,”
growing daily worse until at last the physician feared that he would
die. This, however, she kept from Oliver, who lay all the day on his low
bed, never seeing but one person from Beechwood, and that the Judge, who
came at his request, and was in close consultation with him for more
than an hour.
The result of this interview was a determination on the part of Judge
Howell and Mr. Thornton to sift the matter of Mildred’s parentage more
thoroughly and see if there were not some mistake.
“Certainly,” said Geraldine, when the subject was mentioned to her. “I
would leave no stone unturned to test the truth of Esther Bennett’s
assertion. Only this morning it occurred to me that possibly Hannah
Hawkins might have received some hint from that old witch; for I have
heard that when she was dying she tried to speak of Mildred, and pointed
toward Beechwood. I’ll go down to-night and question Mrs. Thompson.”
Accordingly that evening found Geraldine seated in Hepsy’s kitchen and
so wonderfully gracious that the old lady mentally styled her a right
nice girl, and wondered how she could ever have called her “nippin’” and
“stuck up.”
Warily, cautiously, little by little, step by step, did Geraldine
approach the object of her visit, throwing out a hint here and a bait
there, until, feeling sure of her subject, she came out openly, and
asked old Hepsy “if she had any objections to telling a lie provided she
were well paid for it.”
“But, mercy! Is there any one who can hear us?” she added, drawing near
to Hepsy, who replied: “Not a soul,” forgetting the while the stove-pipe
hole cut through the floor of the chamber above, where Oliver was
listening eagerly to the conversation.
Not one word escaped him, and when it was finished he knew as well as
Hepsy that for fifty dollars and a half-worn black silk dress, she was
to stain her soul with a wicked lie,—was to say that in rummaging
Hannah’s things she came across a little box, which had not been opened
since her daughter’s death, and which when opened was found to contain a
letter from Esther Bennett, telling her who the child of her adoption
was, but bidding her to keep it a secret from everybody.
“I have written to New York to-day,” said Geraldine, “giving to Esther a
copy of what she is to write and send to me by return of mail. As I
cannot get the New York post-mark I shall tear off the half sheet where
the superscription naturally would be, leaving only the body of the
letter. This I shall rub and smoke until it looks old and worn, and then
bring it to you, who the day following must find it,—in Oliver’s
presence, if possible; of course your glasses will not be handy and you
will ask him to read it. He’ll probably tell of it at Beechwood, or if
he does not, you can, which will answer quite as well. I can’t explain
all about the matter, though I may some time do so, and I assure you,
dear Mrs. Thompson, that if my end is secured, I shall be willing to pay
you something extra for your assistance.”
Geraldine had spoken so rapidly that Hepsy had not quite comprehended
the whole, and clutching her dress she said:
“Yes, yes, but one thing I want to know. _Is_ Mildred Helen Thornton’s
child, or is that all a humbug, got up to stop her marriage?”
Geraldine had not intended to confide the whole in Hepsy, but to a
certain extent she was rather compelled to do so, and she answered
hastily:
“Yes, all a humbug, and I’ll give you twenty-five dollars a year as long
as you do not tell.”
Hepsy was _bought_, and offered to swear on a “stack of Bibles high as
the house” that she’d be silent as the dead, but Geraldine declined the
pleasure of receiving the oath, and after a few more remarks, took her
leave.
For a time after she was gone, Oliver sat completely stunned by what he
had heard. Then the thought burst upon him, “How delighted Milly will
be,” and he determined to be himself the bearer of the joyful news. He
could write it, he knew, but there might be some delay in the mails and
he would rather go himself. Geraldine could not receive an answer from
Esther Bennett until the second day, and on the third Hepsy would
probably take to Beechwood this new proof of Mildred’s parentage. By
that time he could find Mildred and bringing her home could confront the
wicked plotters and render their plotting of no avail. Once he thought
to tell the Judge, but knowing he could not keep it, he decided not to
do so. Lawrence was better that day,—the crisis was past, the physicians
said, and having no fears for him, he resolved to keep his secret from
every one. By going to Springfield that night he could take the early
train and so reach Dresden the next day, a thing he greatly desired to
do, as it was the day once appointed for Mildred’s bridal. He glanced at
his gold watch, Mildred’s gift, and saw that it wanted but half an hour
of the time when the last train was due. Hastily changing his clothes,
and forgetting all about his feeble health, he went down-stairs and
astonished his grandmother by saying he was going to Springfield.
“To Springfield!” she screamed, “when you can scarcely set up all day.
Are you crazy, boy? What are you going there for?”
“Oh, I know,” he returned, affecting to laugh. “It’s just occurred to me
that I must be there early to-morrow morning, and in order to do that, I
must go to-night.”
He did not wait for further comment from old Hepsy, who, perfectly
confounded, watched him till he disappeared in the moonlight, muttering
to herself:
“I’ve mistrusted all along that he was gettin’ lightheaded.”
But Oliver’s mind was never clearer in his life, and he hastened on,
reaching the depot just in time for the downward train, which carried
him in safety to Springfield, and when next morning Geraldine before her
glass was brushing her jet-black hair, and thinking within herself how
nicely her plans were working, he was on his way to Mildred.
He did not reach the terminus of his railroad route until the Dresden
stage had been gone several hours, and to his inquiries for some other
mode of conveyance, he invariably received the same answer:
“Every hoss and every wagon has gone to the big camp-meetin’ up in the
north woods.”
“How far is it to Dresden?” he asked.
“A little short of ten mile,” returned the ticket agent. “You can walk
it easy; though I don’t know ’bout that,” and he glanced at Oliver’s
crippled feet. “Mebby you’ll get a ride. There’s allus somebody goin’
that way.”
Oliver felt sure he should, and though the June sun was pouring down a
scorching heat, and the road to Dresden, as far as his eye could trace
it, wound over hill after hill where no shade-trees were growing, he
resolved to go, and quenching his thirst from the tempting-looking gourd
hanging near a pail of delicious ice-water, he started on his way.
CHAPTER XX.
OLIVER AND MILDRED.
Oh, what a weary, weary road it was, winding up and up, and up, and
seeming to the tired and heated Oliver as if it could never end, or
Dresden be much nearer. Walking was always to him a slow process, and
nothing but the thought of what lay beyond could have kept him up and
moving on until his poor crippled feet were blistered and his head was
throbbing with pain. Not once during that tedious journey did a single
person pass him; all were going the other way, and the heroic Oliver was
almost fainting from exhaustion when, from the brow of a steep hill, he
saw the Dresden spire flashing in the sunlight, and knew he was almost
there.
* * * * *
Mildred was alone in her chamber her head resting upon the soft pillows
which little Edith had arranged, her hands clasped over her forehead,
and her thoughts with Lawrence Thornton, when a servant entered, bearing
a card, and saying that the gentleman who sent it was in the parlor
below.
“Oliver Hawkins!” and Mildred almost screamed as she read the name.
“Dear, dear Oliver! show him up at once.”
The servant departed, and in a moment the well-known step was heard upon
the stairs, and darting forward, Mildred passed her arm round him, or he
would have fallen, for he was very weak and faint.
“Mildred, dear Mildred!” was all he could, at first, articulate, and
sinking upon the sofa, he motioned her to remove his shoes from his
swollen feet.
“Did you _walk_ from the station?” she asked, in much surprise.
“Yes,” he whispered. “There was no one to bring me.”
“What made you? What made you?” she continued, and he replied:
“I couldn’t wait, for I have come to bring you joyful news; to tell you
that you are free to marry Lawrence,—that you are not his father’s
grandchild. It was all a wicked fraud got up by Geraldine Veille, who
would have Lawrence marry her sister. I heard her telling grandmother
last night, and hiring her to say she found a paper among my mother’s
things confirming Esther Bennett’s story. Oh, Milly, Milly, you hurt,”
he cried, as in her excitement she pressed hard upon his blistered feet.
Those poor feet! How Mildred loved them then! How she pitied and
caressed them, holding them carefully in her lap, and dropping tears
upon them, as she thought of the weary way they had come to bring her
this great joy,—this joy too good to be believed until Oliver related
every particular, beginning with the time when Lawrence first came back
to Beechwood. He did not, however, tell her how, day and night, until
his own brain grew dizzy, he had sung to the maniac of the maid with the
nut-brown hair, nor did he tell her of anything that he had done, except
to overhear what Geraldine had said; but Mildred could guess it
all,—could understand just how noble and self-denying he had been, and
the blessings she breathed upon him came from a sincere heart.
“Oh, Olly, darling Olly,” she said, still caressing his wounded feet,
“the news is too good to be true. I dare not hope again lest I be
cruelly disappointed, and I could not bear another shock. I have
suffered so much that my heart is almost numb; and though you tell me I
am free to marry Lawrence, I’m afraid there’s some mistake, and that I
am his sister Helen’s daughter after all. If I am not, Olly, who am I?
Who was my mother?—where is she now? and where is my father?”
There were tears in Mildred’s eyes,—once they choked her utterance as
she said these last words, which, nevertheless, were distinctly heard in
the adjoining room where Richard Howell sat, his face as white as ashes,
his eyes unnaturally bright, and a compressed look about the mouth as if
he had received some dreadful shock,—something which shook his
heartstrings as they never were shaken before. He was reading by his
window when Mildred met Oliver in the hall, and through the open door he
heard distinctly the name “Mildred, dear Mildred!” and heard the girl he
knew as Minnie answer to that name. Then the lettered page before him
was one solid blur, the room around him was enveloped in darkness, and
with his hearing quickened he sat like a block of stone listening,
listening, listening, till every uncertainty was swept away, and from
the depths of his inmost soul came heaving up “_My_ child! _my_
Mildred!” But though his heart uttered the words his lips gave forth no
sound, and he sat there immovable, while the great drops of perspiration
trickled down his face and fell upon his nerveless hands, folded so
helplessly together. Then he attempted to rise, but as often sank back
exhausted, for the shock had deprived him of his strength and made him
weak as a little child.
But when Mildred asked, “Where is my father now?” he rose with wondrous
effort, and tottering to her door, stood gazing at her with a look in
which the tender love of eighteen years was all embodied. Oliver saw him
first, for Mildred’s back was toward him, and to her he softly
whispered, “Turn your head, Milly. There’s some one at the door.”
Then Mildred looked, but started quickly when she saw Richard Howell,
every feature convulsed with the emotions he could not express, and his
arms stretched imploringly toward her, as if beseeching her to come to
their embrace.
“_My daughter, my daughter!_” he said, at last, and though it was but a
whisper it reached the ear of Mildred, and with a scream of unutterable
joy she went forward to an embrace such as she had never known before.
Oh, it was strange to see that strong man weep as he did over his
beautiful daughter, but tears did him good, and he wept on until the
fountain was dried up, murmuring, “My Mildred,—my darling,—my
first-born,—my baby, Hetty’s and mine. The Lord be praised who brought
me to see your face when I believed you dead!” and all the while he said
this he was smoothing her shiny hair, looking into her eyes, and kissing
her girlish face, so much like his own as it used to be, save that it
was softer and more feminine.
Wonderingly Oliver looked at them, seeking in vain for a clew with which
to unravel the mystery, but when Mildred, remembering him, at last said:
“Oliver, this is Richard Howell,” he needed nothing more to tell him
that he had witnessed the meeting between a father and his child.
To Mildred the truth came suddenly with the words, “My daughter.” Like a
flash of light it broke on her,—the secret marriage with Hetty
Kirby,—her strong resemblance to the Howells, and all the circumstances
connected with her first arrival at Beechwood. There could be no
mistake, and with a cry of joy she sprang to meet her father as we have
described.
“I heard what he told you,” Richard said at last, motioning to Oliver.
“I heard him call you Mildred, and from your conversation knew you were
the child once left at my father’s door. You were my darling baby then;
you are my beautiful Mildred now,” and he hugged her closer in his arms.
Very willingly Mildred suffered her fair head to rest upon his shoulder,
for it gave to her a feeling of security she had never before
experienced, for never before had she known what it was to feel a
father’s heart throbbing in unison with her own. Suddenly a new thought
occurred to her, and starting up, she exclaimed:
“Edith, father, Edith!”
“I’me tomein’, with lots of fowers,” answered a childish voice, and
Oliver heard the patter of little feet in the hall.
In a moment she was with them, her curls blown over her face, and her
white apron full of the flowers she had gathered for Minnie, “’cause she
was so sick.”
“Precious little sister,” and Mildred’s arms closed convulsively around
the wondering child, whose flowers were scattered over the carpet, and
who thought more of gathering them up than of paying very close
attention to what her father told her of Minnie’s being _Mildred_, her
sister, who they thought was dead.
At last Edith began to understand, and rubbing her fat, round cheek
against Mildred’s, she said:
“I so glad you be my sister, and have come back to us from heaven. Why
didn’t you bring mamma and the baby with you?”
It was in vain they tried to explain; Edith was rather too young to
comprehend exactly what they meant, and when there was a lull in the
conversation, she whispered to Mildred:
“I knew most you was an angel, and some time mayn’t I see your wings and
how you fly?”
The interview between Mildred and Edith helped to restore Richard’s
scattered senses, and when the wing business was settled, he said to
Mildred:
“Has my daughter no curiosity to know why I left her as I did, and why I
have never been to inquire for her?”
“Yes, father,” answered Mildred, “I want so much to hear,—but I thought
it might disturb you. Will you tell us now?” and nestling closer to his
side, with Edith on her lap, she listened breathlessly, while he
repeated to her what she did not already know.
“I have told you,” he said, “of my father’s bitterness toward Hetty
Kirby, and how, with the help of a companion, whom I could trust, I took
her to New York, and was married, but I did not tell you how, after the
lapse of time, there was born to the beardless college boy a smiling
little infant. As soon as possible I hastened to Hetty’s bedside, but
the shadow of death was there before me, and one glance at her sweet
young face assured me that she would die. ’Twas then that I regretted
having kept our marriage a secret from my father, for I felt that I
should need his sympathy in the dark hour coming. Something, too, must
be done with you, so soon to be made motherless. Hetty was the first to
suggest disposing of you as I did. She knew my education was not yet
completed, and laying her soft hand on my head, she said: ‘My
boy-husband wants to go through college, and if it becomes known that he
has been married, those stern men may expel him. Your father, too, will
turn you off, as soon as he learns that I have been your wife. I know
how strong his prejudices are when once they have been roused, and if he
knew our baby had in it a drop of Hetty’s blood, he would spurn it from
him, and so he must not know it. My grandmother will not last long, and
when we are both dead, send baby to him secretly. Don’t let him know who
she is, or whence she came, until he has learned to love her. Then tell
him she is yours.’
“This is what Hetty said; and in an unguarded moment I promised to do
her bidding, for I was young and dreaded my father’s wrath. Not long
after this Hetty died, with her baby folded to her bosom, and her lips
murmuring a prayer that God would move the heart of the stern old Judge
to care for her little waif.
“Her grandmother also died in a few days, and then, with the exception
of the nurse, I was alone with you, my daughter, in that low brown house
you visited with me, I little dreaming that the baby who in that west
room first opened its eyes to the light of day was standing there beside
me, a beautiful young maiden. Dresden is thinly populated now; it was
far more so then, and of the few neighbors near, none seemed to be
curious at all, and when told that I should take the child to my own
home in Massachusetts, they made no particular comments. The same
friend, Tom Chesebro, who had helped me in my marriage, now came to my
aid again, planning and arranging the affair, even to the writing that
letter, purporting to have come from Maine. He had relatives living in
that vicinity, and as it was necessary for him to visit them, he left me
a few days, and taking the letter with him, mailed it at one of the
inland towns. When he returned we started together to Mayfield, and
tolerably well skilled in the matters to which I was a novice, I found
him of invaluable service in taking care of you, whom I carried in my
arms. At Springfield he left me, taking you with him in a basket which
he procured there, and giving you, as he afterward told me, something to
make you sleep. I never could understand exactly how he contrived to
avoid observation as he did, but it was dusk when he left Springfield,
and the darkness favored him. He did not leave the cars at Mayfield, but
at the next station got off on the side remote from the depot and
striking across the fields to Beechwood, a distance of two miles. He had
once spent a vacation there with me, and hence his familiarity with the
localities. After placing you on the steps, he waited at a little
distance until my father, or rather Tiger, took you in, and then, when
it was time, went to the depot, where I met him as I was stepping from
the car. In a whisper he assured me that all was safe, and with a
somewhat lightened heart I hurried on.
“To a certain extent you know what followed; know that Hannah Hawkins
took care of you for a time, while the villagers gossiped as villagers
will, and my father swore lustily at them all. Several times I attempted
to tell him, but his determined hatred of you decided me to wait until
time and your growing beauty had somewhat softened his heart. At last my
failing health made a change of climate necessary for me, and as Tom
Chesebro was going on a voyage to the South Sea Islands, I decided to
accompany him, and then, for the first time, confided my secret to
Hannah Hawkins, bidding her put you in father’s way as much as possible,
and, in case I died, to tell him who you were. Then I visited Hetty’s
grave, determining while there to tell my father myself; and this, on my
return, I endeavored to do, but the moment I confessed to him my
marriage, he flew into a most violent rage, cursing me bitterly and
ordering me to leave the room and never come into his presence again.
Then when I suggested that there was more to tell, he said he had heard
enough, and, with a hard, defiant feeling, I left him, resolving that it
should be long before he saw my face again.
“We had a pleasant voyage, but remorse was gnawing at my heart, and when
we reached our destined port, none thought the _boy_, as they called me,
would ever cross the sea again. But I grew daily better, and when at
last poor Tom died of a prevailing fever, I was able to do for him the
very office he had expected to do for me.
“After a time I went to India, having heard nothing from home, although
I had written to my father twice and to Hannah once. I am ashamed to
confess it, my darling, but it is nevertheless the truth, that continued
absence and the new scenes amid which I found myself in India, made me
somewhat indifferent to you,—less anxious to see your face; and still
when I had been gone from you nearly eight years, I resolved upon coming
home, and was making my plans to do so when accident threw in my way a
sick, worn-out sailor, just arrived from New York. He was suffering and
I cared for him, learning by this means that he had friends in the
vicinity of Beechwood, and that he had visited them just before his last
voyage. Very adroitly I questioned him to see if he knew aught of the
gable-roof, or the child adopted by Hannah Hawkins. He must have been
misinformed, for he said that Hannah Hawkins and the little girl both
were dead, and that one was buried while he was in Mayfield.”
“Oh, I can explain that,” interrupted Mildred; “I was very sick with
scarlet fever when Hannah died. The doctor said I would not live; while
Widow Simms, a wonderful gossip, reported that I was dead.”
“That must have been the cause of the misunderstanding,” returned
Richard, “for the sailor told me you died of scarlet fever, and
crediting his statement, I had no longer a desire to return, but
remained in India, amassing wealth until I met with Edith’s mother.
Owing to her blessed influence I became, as I trust, a better man,
though I obstinately refused to write to my father, as she often wished
me to do. On her death-bed, however, I promised that I would come home
and comfort his old age. I knew he was alive, for I sometimes saw his
name in the American papers which came in my way, but I had no
conception of the joyful surprise awaiting me in Dresden,” and he fondly
kissed Mildred’s glowing cheek.
“The moment I saw your face I was struck with its resemblance to my
sister’s; and to myself I said: ‘If it were possible I should say that
is my daughter.’ Then the thought came over me, ‘The sailor was perhaps
mistaken,’ and I managed to learn your name, which swept away all hope,
especially when afterwards you told me that your mother was Helen
Thornton. There has evidently been some deep-laid scheme to rob you both
of your birth-right and of a husband, and, as I do not quite understand
it, will you please explain to me what it is about this Geraldine Veille
and Esther Bennett. Who is the latter, and why is she interested in
you?”
Briefly as possible, Mildred told him of all that had come to her during
his absence, of the fraud imposed upon her by Geraldine; of Oliver’s
unfailing kindness, and how but for the wicked deception she would that
night have been a bride.
“You only deferred the marriage until your father came,” said Mr.
Howell, kissing her again, and telling her how, on the morrow, they
would go together to Beechwood, and confronting the sinful Geraldine,
overthrow her plans. “And you, young man,” he continued, turning to
Oliver, “you, it seems, have been the truest friend my Milly ever had.
For this I owe you a life-long debt of gratitude; and though I am
perhaps too young to have been your father, you shall be to me
henceforth a brother. My home shall be your home, and if money can repay
you for your kindness, it shall be yours even to tens of thousands.”
With a choking voice, Oliver thanked the generous man, thinking to
himself the while, that a home far more glorious than any Richard Howell
could offer to his acceptance would ere long be his. But he did not say
so, and when Mildred, in her old, impulsive way, wound her arms around
his neck and said:
“Father cannot have you, Olly, for you will stay with me and be my own
darling brother,” he gently put her from him saying:
“Yes, Milly, as long as I live I will be your brother.”
It was very late when they separated, for Mr. Howell was loath to leave
his newly-recovered treasure, while Oliver was never weary of feasting
his eyes upon Mildred’s beautiful, and now perfectly happy face. But
they said good-night at last, Richard taking Oliver to his own room,
where he could nurse his poor, bruised feet, while Mildred kept Edith
with her, hugging her closer to her bosom as she thought: “She _is_ my
sister.”
At an early hour next morning the three assembled together again, and
when the lumbering old stage rattled down the one long street, it
carried Richard and Oliver, Mildred and Edith, the first two silent and
thoughtful, the last two merry and glad as singing-birds, for the heart
of one was full of “danfather Howell,” while the other thought only of
Lawrence Thornton, and the blissful meeting awaiting her.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE MEETING.
Dark night had closed in upon Beechwood, but in the sick-room a light
was dimly burning, showing the white face of the invalid, who was
sleeping quietly now. The crisis was passed, and weak as a little child
he lay, powerless and helpless beneath the mighty weight of sorrow which
had fallen upon him.
Geraldine had been sitting with him, but when she saw that it was nine,
she cautiously left the room, and stealing down the stairs, joined the
Judge and Mr. Thornton in the parlor. Sinking into a chair and leaning
her head upon it, she did not seem to hear the hasty step in the hall;
but when Hepsy’s shrill voice said, “Good evenin’, gentle folks,” she
looked up, apparently surprised to see the old lady there at that hour
of the night.
“Have you heard from Oliver?” she asked; and Hepsy answered:
“Not a word. I’m gettin’ awful consarned; but that ain’t what brung me
here. Feelin’ lonesome-like without Clubs, thinks to me, I’ll look over
the chest where I keep Hannah’s things.”
“An all-fired good way to get rid of the blues,” said the Judge, while
Hepsy continued:
“Amongst the things was a box, which must have been put away unopened,
for I found in it this letter concerning Mildred,” and she held up the
bit of paper which, having been nicely rubbed and smoked by Geraldine,
looked old and rather soiled.
“Let me see it,” said the Judge, and adjusting his spectacles, he read
aloud a letter from Esther Bennett, telling Hannah Hawkins that Mildred
was the child of Helen Thornton, and bidding her keep it a secret. “This
confirms it,” he said. “There is no need now of your sifting the matter
as we intended to do,” and he handed the half sheet to Mr. Thornton just
as the sound of many feet was heard in the hall without.
Richard, Oliver, Mildred and Edith had come! The latter being fast
asleep, was deposited upon the floor, with Mildred’s satchel for a
pillow, and while Mildred stole off upstairs, promising her father only
to look into Lawrence’s room, and not to show herself to him, Richard
and Oliver advanced into the parlor.
“Clubs! Clubs!” screamed Hepsy, catching him round the neck. “Where have
you been?”
Oliver did not answer, but sat watching Richard, who was gazing at his
father with an expression upon his face something like what it wore when
first he recognized his daughter. Every eye in the room was turned
toward him, but none scanned his features so curiously as did the old
Judge.
“Who is it, Bobum?” he whispered, while his cheek turned pale. “Who is
it standing there, and what makes him stare so at me?”
But Bobum could not tell, and he was about to question the stranger,
when Richard advanced toward his father, and laying a hand on either
shoulder, looked wistfully into the old man’s eyes; then pointing to his
own portrait hanging just beyond, he said:
“Have I changed so greatly that there is no resemblance between us?”
“Oh, heaven! it’s Richard!—it’s Richard! Bobum, do you hear? ’Tis my
boy! ’Tis Dick come back to me again!”
The Judge could say no more, but sank upon the sofa faint with surprise,
and tenderly supported by his son.
Half beside herself with fear, Geraldine came forward, demanding
haughtily:
“Who are you, sir, and why are you here!”
“I am Richard Howell, madame, and have come to expose your villanous
plot,” was the stranger’s low-spoken answer, and Geraldine cowered back
into the farthest corner, while the Judge, rallying a little, said
mournfully:
“You told me, Dick, of lonesome years when I should wish I hadn’t said
those bitter things to you, and after you were gone I was lonesome, oh,
so lonesome, till I took little Mildred. _Richard_,” and the old man
sprang to his feet electrified, as it were, with the wild hope which had
burst upon him, “_Richard_, WHO IS MILDRED?”
“_My own daughter, father. Mine and Hetty Kirby’s_,” was the answer
deliberately spoken, while Richard cast a withering glance at the
corner, where Geraldine still sat, overwhelmed with guilt and shame, for
she knew now that exposure was inevitable.
With a sudden, hateful impulse, she muttered:
“An unlawful child, hey. A fit wife, truly, for Lawrence Thornton.”
The words caught Judge Howell’s ear, and springing like lightning across
the floor, he exclaimed:
“Now, by the Lord, Geraldine Veille, if you hint such a thing again,
I’ll shake you into shoe-strings,” and, by way of demonstration, he
seized the guilty woman’s shoulder and shook her lustily. “Mildred had
as good a right to be born as you, for Dick was married to Hetty. I
always knew that,” and he tottered back to the sofa, just as Edith,
frightened at finding herself in a strange place, began to cry.
Stepping into the hall for a moment, Richard soon returned, bringing her
in his arms, and advancing toward the Judge, he said:
“I’ve brought you another grandchild, father,—one born of an English
mother. Is there room in your heart for little Edith?”
The eyes, which looked wonderingly at the Judge, were very much like
Mildred’s, and they touched a chord at once.
“Yes, Dick, there’s room for Edith,” returned the Judge; “not because of
that English mother, for I don’t believe in marrying twice, but because
she’s like Gipsy,” and he offered to take the little girl, who, not
quite certain whether she liked her new grandpa or not, clung closer to
her father, and began to cry for “Sister Milly.”
“Here, Edith, come to me,” said Oliver, and taking her back into the
hall, he whispered: “Mildred is upstairs; go and find her.”
The upper hall was lighted, and following Oliver’s directions, Edith
ascended the stairs, while her father, thus relieved of her, began to
make some explanations, having first greeted Mr. Thornton, whom he
remembered well.
“Where have you been, Dick? Where have you been all these years?” asked
the Judge, in a hoarse voice; and holding his father’s trembling hands
in his, Richard repeated, in substance, what the reader has already
heard, asking if neither of his letters were received.
“Yes, one; telling me you were going to India,” returned the Judge; “but
I hadn’t forgiven you then for marrying Hetty Kirby, and I would not
answer it; but I’ve forgiven you now, boy,—I’ve forgiven you now, for
that marriage has been the means of the greatest happiness I ever
experienced. It gave Gipsy to me. Where is Mildred, Richard? Why don’t
she come to see her _granddad_?”
“She’s upstairs, tissin’ a man,” interposed little Edith, who had just
entered the room, her brown eyes protruding like marbles, as if utterly
confounded with what they had beheld. “She is,” she continued, as Oliver
tried to hush her: “I seen her, and he tissed her back just as loud as
THAT!” and by way of illustration she smacked her own fat hand.
“Come here, you mischief!” and catching her before she was aware of his
intention, the delighted Judge threw her higher than his head, asking
her to tell him again “how Mildred _tissed the man_.”
But Edith was not yet inclined to talk with him, and so we will explain
how it happened that Mildred was with Lawrence. After leaving her
father, her first visit was to her own room, which she found occupied by
Lilian, who, having a slight headache, had retired early, and was fast
asleep. Not caring to awaken her, Mildred turned back, and seeing the
door of Lawrence’s chamber ajar, could not forbear stealing on tiptoe
toward it, thinking that the sound of his breathing would be better than
nothing. While she stood there listening she heard him whisper,
“Mildred,” for he was thinking of her, and unconsciously he repeated the
dear name. In an instant she forgot everything, and springing to his
side, wound her arms around his neck, sobbing in his ear:
“Dear, dear Lawrence, I’ve come back to you, and we shall not be parted
again. It is all a fraud,—a wicked lie. I am not Mildred Hawley,—I am
Mildred Howell,—Richard’s child. He’s down-stairs, Lawrence. My own
father is in the house. Do you hear?”
He did hear, and comprehended it too, but for some moments he could only
weep over her and call her his “darling Milly.” Then, when more
composed, he listened while she told him what she knew, interspersing
her narrative with the kisses which had so astonished Edith and sent her
with the wondrous tale to the drawing-room, from which she soon
returned, and marching this time boldly up to Mildred, said:
“That big man says you mustn’t tiss him any more,” and she looked
askance at Lawrence, who laughed aloud at the little creature’s attitude
and manner.
“This is to be your brother,” said Mildred, and lifting Edith up, she
placed her on the bed with Lawrence, who kissed her chubby cheeks and
called her “little sister.”
“You’ve growed awfully up in heaven,” said Edith, mistaking him for the
boy-baby who had died with her mother, for in no other way could she
reconcile the idea of a brother.
“What does she mean?” asked Lawrence, and with a merry laugh Mildred
explained to him how Edith, who had been taught that she had a brother
and sister in heaven, had mistaken her for an angel, asking to see her
wings, and had now confounded him with the baby buried in her mother’s
coffin.
“I don’t wonder she thinks I’ve grown,” said he; “but she’s right,
Milly, with regard to you. You are an angel.”
Before Mildred could reply, Richard called to her, bidding her come
down, and leaving Edith with Lawrence, she hastened to the parlor, where
the Judge was waiting to receive her. With heaving chest and quivering
lip, he held her to himself, and she could feel the hot tears dropping
on her hair, as he whispered:
“My Gipsy, my Spitfire, my diamond, my precious, precious child. If I
hadn’t been a big old fool, I should have known you were a Howell, and
that madame couldn’t have imposed that stuff on me. Hanged if I ever
believed it! Didn’t I swear all the time ’twas a lie? Say grandpa once,
little vixen. Say it once, and let me hear how it sounds!”
“Dear, dear grandpa,” she answered, kissing him quite as she had kissed
Lawrence Thornton.
“And Clubs went for you,” he continued. “Heaven bless old Clubs, but how
did he find it out? Hanged if I understand it yet.”
Then as his eye fell on Geraldine, who still sat in the corner,
stupefied and bewildered, he shook his fist at her threateningly,
bidding her tell in a minute what she knew of Esther Bennett and the
confounded plot.
“Yes, Geraldine,” said Mr. Thornton, advancing toward her, “you may as
well confess the part you had in this affair. It is useless longer to
try to conceal it. Oliver heard enough to implicate you deeply, and Mrs.
Thompson,” turning to Hepsy, whom greatly against her will Oliver had
managed to keep there, “Mrs. Thompson will, of course, tell what she
knows, and so save herself from——”
“Utter disgrace,” he was going to add, when poor, ignorant Hepsy,
thinking he meant “_jail_,” screamed out:
“I’ll tell all I know, indeed I will, only don’t send me to prison,” and
with the most astonishing rapidity, she repeated all the particulars of
her interview with Geraldine, whose face grew purple with anger and
mortification.
“She brung me that half sheet to-night,” said Hepsy, in conclusion, “and
told me what to do, and said how all she wanted was for Mr. Lawrence to
marry Lilian. There, dear sir, that’s all I know, as true as I live and
draw the breath of life. Now, please let me go home, I’ll give up the
fifty dollars and the silk gown,” and without waiting for permission,
she seized her green calash, and darting from the room went tearing down
the walk at a rate highly injurious to her _corns_, and the “spine in
her back,” of which she had recently been complaining.
Thus forsaken by Hepsy, Geraldine bowed her head upon the table, but
refused to speak, until Richard said to her:
“Madame, silence will avail you nothing, for unless you confess the
whole, I shall to-morrow morning start in quest of Esther Bennett, who
will be compelled to tell the truth.”
There was something in Richard’s manner which made Geraldine quail. She
was afraid of him, and knowing well that Esther would be frightened into
betraying her, she felt that she would rather the story should come from
herself. So, after a few hysterical sobs and spasmodic attempts to
speak, she began to tell how she first overheard Mr. Thornton talking to
his son of Esther Bennett, and how the idea was then conceived of using
that information for her own purposes if it should be necessary. Once
started, it seemed as if she could not stop until her mind was fully
unburdened, and almost as rapidly as Hepsy herself she told how she had
gone to New York, ostensibly to buy the wedding dress, but really in
quest of Esther Bennett, who was easily found, and for a certain sum
enlisted in her service.
“I was well acquainted with the particulars of Cousin Helen’s marriage,”
she said, “well acquainted with Mildred’s being left at Beechwood, and
this made the matter easy, for I knew just what to say. I had also in my
possession one of Helen’s letters; her handwriting was much like my own,
and by a little practice I produced that letter which deceived even
Uncle Thornton. I told Esther what to say and what to do, when to come
to Mayfield and how to act.”
“The Old Nick himself never contrived a neater trick,” chimed in the
Judge; “but what in Cain did you do it for?”
“For Lilian,—for Lilian,” answered Geraldine. “She is all I have to love
in the wide world, and when I saw how her heart was set on Lawrence
Thornton, I determined that she should have him if money and fraud could
accomplish it!”
“Yes, my fine madame,” whispered the Judge again, “but what reason had
you to think Lawrence would marry Lilian, even if he were Milly’s
uncle?”
“I thought,” answered Geraldine, “that when recovered from his
disappointment he would turn back to her, for he loved her once, I
know.”
“Don’t catch me swallowing that,” muttered the Judge; “he love that
putty head!”
“Hush, father,” interposed Richard, and turning to Geraldine, he asked,
“Did you suppose Esther and Hepsy would keep your secret always?”
“I did not much care,” returned Geraldine. “If Lilian secured Lawrence,
I knew the marriage could not be undone, and besides, I did not believe
the old women would dare to tell, for I made them both think it was a
crime punishable with imprisonment.”
“And so it should be,” returned the Judge. “Every one of you ought to be
hung as high as Haman. What’s that you are saying of Lilian?” he
continued, as he caught a faint sound.
Geraldine’s strength was leaving her fast, but she managed to whisper:
“You must not blame Lilian. She is weak in intellect and believed all
that I told her; of the fraud she knew nothing,—nothing. I went to a
fortune-teller in Boston, and bade her say to the young lady I would
bring her that though the man she loved was engaged to another,
something wonderful, the nature of which she could not exactly foretell,
would occur to prevent the marriage, and she would have him yet. I also
gave her a few hints as to Lawrence’s personal appearance, taking care,
of course, that she should not know who we were. Then I suggested to
Lilian that we consult Mrs. Blank, who, receiving us both as strangers,
imposed upon her credulous nature the story I had prepared. This is why
Lilian became so quiet, for, placing implicit faith in the woman, she
believed all would yet end well.”
“You are one of the devil’s unaccountables,” exclaimed the Judge, and
grasping her arm, he shook her again, but Geraldine did not heed it.
The confession she had made exhausted her strength, and laying her head
again upon the table, she fainted. Mr. Howell and her uncle carried her
to her room, but it was Mildred’s hand which had bathed her head and
spoke to her kindly when she came back to consciousness. Mildred, too,
broke the news to the awakened Lilian, who would not believe the story
until confirmed by Geraldine; then she wept bitterly, and upbraided her
sister for her perfidy until the wretched woman refused to listen
longer, and covering her head with the bedclothes, wished that she could
die. She felt that she was everlastingly disgraced, for she knew no
power on earth could keep the Judge from telling the shameful story to
her Boston friends, who would thenceforth despise and shun her just as
she deserved. Her humiliation seemed complete, and it was not strange
that the lapse of two days found her in a raging fever, far exceeding in
violence the one from which Lawrence was rapidly recovering.
“I hope the Lord,” growled the Judge, “that the jade will get well
pretty quick, or——”
He did not say “or what,” for Edith, who was in his lap, laid her soft
hand on his mouth, and looking mournfully in his face said:
“You’ll never see my mamma and the baby.”
“Why not?” he asked.
And Edith answered: “You _sweared_, you did, and such naughty folks
can’t go to heaven.”
It was a childish rebuke, but it had an effect, causing the Judge to
measure his words, particularly in her presence; but it did not change
his feelings toward Geraldine; and as the days went on and she still
grew worse, scolded and fretted, wishing her in Guinea, in Halifax, in
Tophet, in short anywhere but at Beechwood.
Owing to Mildred’s interference, his manner changed somewhat toward
Lilian. She was not to blame, she said, for knowing as little as she
did, and when he saw how really anxious she was to atone for all she had
made Mildred suffer he forgave her in a measure, and took her into favor
just as Lawrence had done before him. It took but a week or so to
restore the brightness to her face and the lightness to her step, for
hers was not a mind to dwell long on anything, and when at last
Geraldine was able to be moved, and she went with her to Boston, she
bade both Lawrence and Mildred good-by as naturally as if nothing had
ever happened. Geraldine, on the contrary, shrank from their pleasant
words, and without even thanking Mildred for her many friendly offices
in the sick-room left a house which had been too long troubled with her
presence, and which the moment she was gone assumed a more cheery
aspect. Even little Edith noticed the difference, and frisking around
her grandfather, with whom she was on the best of terms, she said:
“You won’t swear any more, now that woman with the black eyes has gone?”
“No, Beauty, no,” he answered; “I’ll never swear again, if I think in
time,”—a resolution to which, as far as possible, he adhered, and thus
was little Edith the source of good to him, inasmuch as she helped to
cure him of a habit which was increasing with his years, and was a mar
to his many admirable traits of character.
[Illustration: Fleuron]
CHAPTER XXII.
NATURAL RESULTS.
On a bright September morning, just eighteen years after Mildred was
left at Judge Howell’s door, there was a quiet wedding at Beechwood, but
Oliver was not there. Since his return from Dresden he had never left
his room, and on the day of the wedding he lay with his face buried in
the pillows, praying for strength to bear this as he had borne all the
rest. He would rather not see Mildred until he had become accustomed to
thinking of her as another’s. So on the occasion of her last visit to
him he told her not to come to him on her bridal day, and then laying
his hand upon her hair, prayed: “Will the Good Father go with Mildred
wherever she goes. Will He grant her every possible good, and make her
to her husband what she has been to me, my light, my life, my all.”
Then kissing her forehead, he bade her go, and not come to him again
until she had been some weeks a happy wife. Often during her bridal tour
did Mildred’s thoughts turn back to that sick-room, and after her
return, her first question was for Oliver.
“Clubs is on his last legs,” was the characteristic answer of the Judge,
while Richard added: “He has asked for you often, and been so much
afraid you would not be here till he was dead.”
“Is he so bad?” said Mildred; and calling Lawrence, who was tossing
Edith in the air, she asked him to go with her to the gable-roof.
At the sight of them a deep flush spread itself over the sick man’s
cheek, and Mildred cried:
“You are better than they told me. You will live yet many years.”
“No, darling,” he answered; “I am almost home, and now that I have seen
you again, I have no wish it should be otherwise. But, Milly, you must
let me have your husband to-night. There is something I wish to tell
him, and I can do it better when it is dark around me. Shall it be so,
Milly?”
“Yes, Olly,” was Mildred’s ready answer.
And so that night, while she lay sleeping with Edith in her arms,
Lawrence sat by Oliver listening to his story.
“My secret should have died with me,” said Oliver, “did I not know that
there is some merit in confession, and I hope thus to atone for my sin,
if sin it can be, to love as I have loved.”
“You, Oliver?” asked Lawrence, in some surprise; and Oliver replied:
“Yes, Lawrence, I have loved as few have ever loved, and for that love I
am dying long before my time. It began years and years ago, when I was a
little boy, and in looking over my past life, I can scarcely recall a
single hour which was not associated with some thought of the
brown-haired girl who crept each day more and more into my heart, until
she became a part of my very being.”
Lawrence started, and grasping the hand lying outside the counterpane,
said:
“My Mildred, Oliver! I never dreamed of this.”
“Yes, your wife,” Oliver whispered, faintly. “Forgive me, Lawrence, for
I couldn’t help it, when I saw her so bright, so beautiful, so like a
dancing sunbeam. She was a merry little creature, and even the sound of
her voice stirred my very heartstrings when I was a boy. Then, when we
both were older, and I awoke to the nature of my feelings toward her, I
many a time laid down upon the grass in the woods out yonder, and prayed
that I might die, for I knew how worse than hopeless was my love. Oh,
how I loathed myself!—how I hated my deformity, sickening at the thought
of starry-eyed Mildred wasting her regal beauty on such as me. At last
there came a day when I saw a shadow on her brow, and with her head in
my lap, she told me of her love for you, while I compelled myself to
hear, though every word burned into my soul. You know the events which
followed, but you do not know the fierce struggle it has cost me to keep
from her a knowledge of my love. But I succeeded, and she has never
suspected how often my heart has been wrung with anguish when in her
artless way she talked to me of you, and wished _I_ could love somebody,
so as to know, just what it was. Oh, Lawrence! that was the bitterest
drop of all in the cup I had to drain. Love somebody!—ah me, never human
being worshipped another as I have worshipped Mildred Howell; and after
I’m dead, you may tell her how the cripple loved her, but not till then,
for Lawrence, when I die, it must be with my head on Mildred’s shoulder.
Hers must be the last face I look upon, the last voice I listen to.
Shall it be so? May she come? Tell me yes, for I have given my life for
her.”
“Yes, yes,” answered Lawrence, “she shall surely come,” and he pressed
the poor hands of him who was indeed dying for Mildred Howell.
* * * * *
Twenty-four hours had passed, and again the October moon looked into the
chamber where Oliver lay dying. All in vain the cool night wind moved
his light-brown hair, or fanned his feverish brow where the perspiration
was standing so thickly. All in vain were Hepsy’s groans and the Judge’s
whispered words, “Pity, pity, and he so young.” All in vain the deep
concern of Richard Howell and Lawrence, for nothing had power to save
him, not even the beautiful creature who had pillowed his head upon her
arm and who often bent down to kiss the lips, which smiled a happy smile
and whispered:
“Dear, dear Mildred.”
“Let my head sink lower,” he said at last; “so I can look into your
eyes.”
Very carefully Lawrence Thornton adjusted the weary head, laying it more
upon the lap of his young bride, and whispering to Oliver:
“Can you see her now?”
“Yes,” was the faint reply, and for a moment there was silence, while
the eyes of the dying man fixed themselves upon the face above them, as
if they fain would take a semblance of those loved features up to
heaven.
Then in tones almost inaudible he told her how happy she had made his
short life, and blessed her as he had often done before.
“Mildred, Mildred, dear, dear Mildred,” he kept repeating, “in the
better land you will know, perhaps, how much I love you, dear, darling
Mildred.”
The words were a whisper now, and no one heard them save Mildred and
Lawrence, who, passed his arm around his bride and thus encouraged her
to sit there while the pulse grew each moment fainter and the blue eyes
dimmer with the films of coming death.
“Haven’t you a word for me?” asked Hepsy, hobbling to his side, but his
ear was deaf to her and his eyes saw nothing save the starry orbs on
which they were so intently fastened.
“Mildred, Mildred, on the banks of the beautiful river I shall find
again the little girl who made my boyhood so happy, and it will not be
wicked to tell how much I love her,—Milly, Milly, Milly.”
They were the last words he ever spoke, and when Lawrence Thornton
lifted the bright head which had bent over the thin, wasted face,
Richard Howell, said to those around him:
“Oliver is dead.”
Yes, he was dead, and all the next day the villagers came in to look at
him and to steal a glance at Mildred, who could not be persuaded to
leave him until the sun went down, when she was taken away by Lawrence
and her father.
Poor Milly, her bridal robes, were exchanged for the mourning garb, for
she would have it so, and when the third day came she sat with Hepsy
close to the narrow coffin, where slept the one she had loved with all a
sister’s fondness. She it was who had arranged him for the grave, taking
care that none save herself and Lawrence should see the poor twisted
feet which during later years he had kept carefully hidden from view.
Hers were the last lips which touched his,—hers the last tears which
dropped upon his face before they closed the coffin and shut him out
from the sunlight and the air.
It was a lovely, secluded spot which they chose for Oliver’s grave, and
when the first sunset light was falling upon it Lawrence Thornton told
his wife how the dead man had loved her with more than a brother’s love,
and how the night before he died he had confessed the whole by way of an
atonement.
“Poor, poor Olly!” sobbed Mildred. “I never dreamed of that,” and her
tears fell like rain upon the damp, moist earth above him.
Very tenderly Lawrence led her away, and taking her home endeavored to
soothe her grief, as did the entire household, even to little Edith,
who, climbing into her lap, told her “not to ty, for Oller was in heaven
with mamma and the baby, and his feet were all straight now.”
Gradually the caresses and endearments lavished upon her by every one
had their effect, and Mildred became again like her former self, though
she could never forget the patient, generous boy, who had shared her
every joy and sorrow, and often in her sleep Lawrence heard her murmur:
“Poor dear Oliver. He died for me.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
CONCLUSION.
A few more words and our story is done. For one short year has Mildred
been a happy wife, and in that time no shadow has crossed her pathway
save when she thinks of Oliver, and then her tears flow at once; still
she knows that it is well with him, and she would not, if she could,
have him back again in a world where he suffered so much. Well kept and
beautiful is the ground about his grave, for Richard’s tasteful hand is
often busy there, and on the costly marble which marks the spot are
inscribed the words:
IN MEMORY
OF
OUR BELOVED BROTHER.
In the distant city there is a handsome dwelling, looking out upon the
Common and the passers-by speak of it as the home of Lawrence Thornton,
and the gift of Richard Howell, who made his daughter’s husband rich and
still retained a princely fortune for himself and little Edith.
Dear little Edith, how she frisks and gambols about her Beechwood home,
filling it with a world of sunshine, and sometimes making the old Judge
forget the aching void left in his heart, when Lawrence took Mildred
away. That parting was terrible to the old man, and when Mildred
suggested that Edith should live with her, he cried aloud, begging of
her not to leave him all alone,—to spare him little Beauty. So “Beauty”
stayed, and every pleasant summer evening the Judge sits on the long
piazza with Edith on his lap, and tells her of another little girl who
came to him one winter night, stealing in so quietly that he did not
know she was there until reminded by her of his falling glasses. Of this
story Edith is never weary, though she often wonders where _she_ was
about those days, and why she was not there to help eat up the prunes,
which she _guesses_ “must have made Milly’s stomach ache!”
As the Judge cannot enlighten her in the least degree, she usually falls
asleep while speculating upon the matter, and her grandfather, holding
her lovingly in his arms, involuntarily breathes a prayer of
thanksgiving to the kind Providence which has crowned his later life
with so many blessings.
Richard is a great comfort to his father, and a great favorite in the
village, where his genial nature and many virtues have procured him
scores of friends, and where even Widow Simms speaks well of him.
The Judge has made another will, dividing his property equally between
Spitfire and Beauty, as he calls his two grandchildren, and giving to
the “Missionaries,” once defrauded of their rights, the legacy intended
for poor Clubs.
Old Hepsy lives still in the gable-roof, and when her rent comes due,
Judge Howell sends her a receipt,—not for any friendship he feels toward
her, but because she is Oliver’s grandmother, and he knows Mildred would
be pleased to have him do so.
Esther Bennett is dead; and the Judge, when he heard of it, brought his
fist down upon his knee, exclaiming:
“There’s one nuisance less in the world! Pity Madame Geraldine couldn’t
follow suit!”
But Geraldine bids fair to live to a good old age, though she is now
seldom seen in the streets of Boston, where the story of her perfidy is
known, and where her name has become a by-word of reproach. A crushed
and miserable woman, she drags out her days in the privacy of her own
home, sometimes weeping passionately as she reviews her sinful life, and
again railing bitterly at Lilian, not for anything in particular, but
because she is unhappy, and wishes to blame some one.
In Lilian there is little change. Weak-minded, easily influenced, and
affectionate, she has apparently forgotten her disappointment, and
almost every day finds her at Lawrence’s handsome house, where Mildred
welcomes her with her sweetest smile. In all the city there is no one so
enthusiastic in their praises of her cousin as herself, and no one who
listens to said praises as complacently as her Uncle Robert.
He is very fond of his daughter-in-law, very glad that she was not a
beggar’s child, and very grateful for the gold she brought him. In his
library there are _two_ portraits now instead of one, and he often
points them out to strangers, saying, proudly:
“This was taken for my wife, the famous beauty, Mildred Howell; while
this, is my son’s wife, another Mildred Howell, and the heiress of
untold wealth. Hers is a strange history, too,” he adds, and with a low
bow, the strangers listen, while in far less words than we have used, he
tells them the story we have told,—the story of Mildred with the starry
eyes and nut-brown hair.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
POPULAR NOVELS
BY
_Mrs. Mary J. Holmes_.
1.— TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
2.— ENGLISH ORPHANS.
3.— HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.
4.— ’LENA RIVERS.
5.— MEADOW BROOK.
6.— DORA DEANE.
7.— COUSIN MAUDE.
8.— MARIAN GREY.
9.— DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
10.— HUGH WORTHINGTON.
11.— CAMERON PRIDE.
12.— ROSE MATHER.
13.— ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.
14.— MILLBANK.
15.— EDNA BROWNING.
16.— WEST LAWN.
17.— EDITH LYLE.
18.— MILDRED (_New_).
“Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books
are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the
sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention
to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.”
All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each. Sold
everywhere, and sent _free_ by mail, on receipt of price,
BY
G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,
New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Moved ad to the end.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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