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]