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]