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.”