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]