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]