WHAT FOLLOWED.
“I wonder if the Western mail is in yet,” and Geraldine Veille glanced
carelessly up at the clock ticking upon the marble mantel, peered
sideways at the young man reading upon the sofa, and then resumed her
crocheting.
“I was just thinking the same,” returned Lawrence, folding up his paper
and consulting his watch. “I suppose father comes in this train. I
wonder what took him to Albany?”
“The same old story,—business, business,” answered Geraldine. “He is
very much embarrassed, he tells me, and unless he can procure money he
is afraid he will have to fail. Lily might let him have hers, I suppose,
if it were well secured.”
Lawrence did not reply, for, truth to say, he was just then thinking
more of his expected letter than of his father’s failure, and taking his
hat he walked rapidly to the office, already crowded with eager faces.
There were several letters in the Thornton box that night, but Lawrence
cared for only one, and that the one bearing the Mayfield post-mark. He
knew it was from Mildred, for he had seen her plain, decided handwriting
before, and he gave it a loving squeeze, just as he would have given the
fair writer, if she had been there instead. Too impatient to wait until
he reached his home, he tore the letter open in the street, and read it,
three times, before he could believe that he read aright, and that he
was rejected.
Crumpling the cruel lines in his hand, he hurried on through street
after street, knowing nothing where he was going, and caring less, so
suddenly and crushingly had the blow fallen upon him.
“I cannot be your wife,—I cannot be your wife!” he heard it ringing in
his ears, turn which way he would, and with it at last came the
maddening thought that the reason why she could not be his wife was that
she loved another. Oliver had been deceived, the Judge had been
deceived, and he had been cruelly deceived.
But he exonerated Mildred from all blame. She had never encouraged him
by a word or look, except indeed when she sat by him upon the sofa, and
he thought he saw in her speaking face that she was not indifferent to
him. But he was mistaken. He knew it now, and, with a wildly beating
heart and whirling brain, he wandered on and on, until the evening
shadows were beginning to fall, and he felt the night dew on his burning
forehead. Then he turned homeward, where more than one waited anxiously
his coming.
Mr. Thornton had returned, and, entering his house just after Lawrence
left it, had communicated to Geraldine the result of his late adventure,
withholding in a measure the part which the old Judge had taken in the
affair, and saying nothing of the will, which had so astonished him.
“Do you think she’ll keep her promise?” Geraldine asked.
But Mr. Thornton could not tell, and both watched nervously for
Lawrence.
Geraldine was the first to see him; she stood upon the stairs when he
came into the hall. The gas was already lighted, showing the ghastly
whiteness of his face, and by that she knew that Mildred Howell _had_
kept her word. An hour later when Geraldine knocked softly at his door,
and heard his reply, “Engaged,” she muttered, “Not to Mildred Howell
though,” and then went to her own room, where lay sleeping the _Lilian_
for whose sake this suffering was caused. Assured by Geraldine that all
would yet be well, she had dried her tears, and, as she never felt badly
long upon any subject, she was to all appearances on the best of terms
with Lawrence, who, grateful to her for behaving so sensibly, treated
her with even more than his usual kindness.
The illness of which Geraldine had written to Mildred was of course a
humbug, for Lilian was not one to die of a broken heart, and she lay
there sleeping sweetly now, while Geraldine paced the floor, wondering
what Mildred Howell had written and what the end would be.
The next morning Lawrence came down to breakfast looking so haggard and
worn that his father involuntarily asked if he were sick.
“No, not sick,” was Lawrence’s hurried answer, as he picked at the snowy
roll and affected to sip his coffee.
Mr. Thornton was in a hurry as usual, and immediately after breakfast
went out, leaving Geraldine and Lawrence alone, for Lilian had not yet
come down.
“You have had bad news, I’m sure,” said Geraldine, throwing into her
manner as much concern as possible.
Lawrence made no reply, except indeed to place his feet upon the back of
a chair and fold his hands together over his head.
“I was a little fearful of some such _denouement_,” Geraldine continued,
“for, as I hinted to you on Friday, I was almost certain she fancied
young Hudson. He called here last evening,—and seemed very conscious
when I casually mentioned her name. What reason does she give for
refusing you?”
“None whatever,” said Lawrence, shifting his position a little by
upsetting the chair on which his feet were placed.
“That’s strange,” returned Geraldine, intently studying the pattern of
the carpet as if she would there find a cause for the strangeness.
“Never mind, coz,” she added, laughingly, “don’t let one disappointment
break your heart. There are plenty of girls besides Mildred Howell; so
let her have young Hudson, if she prefers him.”
No answer from Lawrence, who was beginning to be dreadfully jealous of
young Hudson.
“It may be. It may be,” he thought, “but why couldn’t she have told me
so? Why leave me entirely in the dark? Does she fear the wrath of
Hudson’s mother in case I should betray her?”
Yes, that _was_ the reason, he believed, and in order to make the matter
sure, he resolved to write again and ask her, and forgetting his
father’s request that he should “come down to the office as soon as
convenient,” he spent the morning in writing to Mildred a second time.
He had intended to tell her that he guessed the reason of her refusal,
but instead of that he poured out his whole soul in one passionate
entreaty for her to think again, and reconsider her decision. No other
one could love her as he did, he said, and he besought of her to give
him one word of hope to cheer the despair which had fallen so darkly
around him. This letter being sent, Lawrence sat down in a kind of
apathetic despair to await the result.
* * * * *
“What, hey, the boy has written, has he?” and adjusting his gold specs,
the old Judge looked to see if the eight pages Finn had just given to
him were really from Lawrence Thornton. “He’s got good grit,” said he,
“and I like him for it, but hanged if I don’t teach Bobum a lesson. I
can feel big as well as he. Gipsy not good enough for his boy! I’ll show
him. She looks brighter to-day than she did. She ain’t going to let it
kill her, and as there’s no use worrying her for nothing, I shan’t let
her see this. But I can’t destroy it, nor read it neither. So I’ll just
put it where the old Nick himself couldn’t find it,” and touching the
hidden spring of a secret drawer, he hid the letter which Mildred,
encouraged by Oliver, had half expected to receive.
But he repented of the act when he saw how disappointed she seemed when
he met her at the supper-table, and though he had no idea of giving her
the letter, he thought to make amends some other way.
“I have it,” he suddenly exclaimed, as he sat alone in his library,
after Mildred had gone to bed. “I’ll dock off five thousand from that
missionary society and add it to Spitfire’s portion. The letter ain’t
worth more than that,” and satisfied that he was making the best
possible reparation, he brought out his will and made the alteration,
which took from a missionary society enough to feed and clothe several
clergymen a year. Four days more brought another letter from Lawrence
Thornton—larger, heavier than the preceding one, crossed all over, as
could be plainly seen through the envelope, and worth, as the Judge
calculated, about ten thousand dollars. So he placed that amount to
Mildred’s credit, by way of quieting his conscience. One week more, and
there came another.
“Great heaven!” groaned the Judge, as he gave Mildred the last five
thousand dollars, and left the missionaries nothing. “Great heaven, what
will I do next?” and he glanced ruefully at the clause commencing with
“I give and bequeath to Oliver Hawkins,” etc. “’Twon’t do to meddle with
that,” said he. “I might as well touch Gipsy’s eyes as to harm the
reel-footed boy,” and in his despair the Judge began to consider the
expediency of praying that no more letters should come from Lawrence
Thornton.
Remembering, however, that in the prayer-book there was nothing suited
to that emergency, he gave up that wild project and concluded that if
Lawrence wrote again he would answer it himself; but this he was not
compelled to do, for Lawrence grew weary at last, and calling his pride
to his aid resolved to leave Mildred to herself, and neither write again
nor seek an interview with her, as he had thought of doing. No more
letters came from _him_, but on the day when his father’s mortgages were
due, the Judge received one from Mr. Thornton begging for a little
longer time, and saying that unless it were granted he was a ruined man.
“Ruined or not, I shall foreclose,” muttered the Judge. “I’ll teach him
to come into my house and say Gipsy isn’t good enough for his boy.”
Looking a little further, he read that Lawrence was going to Europe.
“What for, nobody knows,” wrote Mr. Thornton. “He will not listen to
reason or anything else, and I suppose he will sail in a few days. I did
not imagine he loved your Mildred so much, and sometimes I have
regretted my interference, but it is too late now, I daresay.”
This last was thrown out as a bait, at which Mr. Thornton hoped the
Judge might catch. The fact that Mildred was an heiress had produced a
slight change in his opinion of her, and he would not now greatly object
to receiving her as his daughter-in-law. But he was far too proud to say
so,—he would rather the first concession should come from the Judge,
who, while understanding perfectly the hint, swore he would not take it.
“If anybody comes round it’ll be himself,” he said. “I’ll teach him
what’s what, and I won’t extend the time either. I’ll see Lawyer Monroe
this very day, but first I’ll tell Gipsy that the boy is off for Europe.
Ho, Gipsy!” he called, as he heard her in the hall, and in a moment
Mildred was at his side.
She saw the letter in his hand, and hope whispered that it came from
Lawrence. But the Judge soon undeceived her.
“Spitfire,” said he, “Bobum writes that Lawrence is going to Europe to
get over his love-sickness. He sails in a few days. But what the deuce,
girl, are you going to faint?”
And he wound his arm around her to prevent her falling to the floor.
The last hope was swept away, and while the Judge tried in vain to
soothe her, asking what difference it made whether he were in Halifax or
Canada, inasmuch as she had pledged herself not to marry him, she
answered:
“None, none, and yet I guess I thought he’d come to see me, or write, or
something. Oliver said he would, and the days are so dreary without
him.”
The Judge glanced at the hidden drawer, feeling strongly tempted to give
her the letters it contained, but his temper rose up in time to prevent
it, and muttering to himself: “Hanged if I do,” he proceeded to tell her
how by and by the days would not be so dreary, for she would forget
Lawrence and find some one else to love, and then he added, suddenly
brightening up, “there’ll be some fun in seeing me plague Bobum. The
mortgages are due to-day, and the dog has written asking for more time,
saying he’s a ruined man unless I give it to him. Let him be ruined
then. I’d like to see him taken down a peg or two. Maybe then he’ll
think you good enough for his boy. There, darling, sit on the lounge,
while I hunt up the papers. I’m going up this very day to see my
lawyer,” and he pushed her gently from him.
Mildred knew comparatively nothing of business, but she understood that
Judge Howell had it in his power to ruin Mr. Thornton or not just as he
pleased, and though she had no cause for liking the latter, he was
Lawrence’s father, and she resolved to do what she could in his behalf.
Returning to the Judge she seated herself upon his knee and asked him to
tell her exactly how matters stood between himself and Mr. Thornton.
He complied with her request, and when he had finished, she said:
“If you choose, then, you can give him more time and so save him from a
failure. Is that it?”
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” returned the Judge, a little petulantly. “But I
ain’t a mind to. I’ll humble him, the wretch!”
Mildred never called Judge Howell father except on special occasions,
although he had often wished her so to do, but she called him “father”
now, and asked if “he loved her very much.”
“Yes, love you a heap more than you deserve, but ’tain’t no use to beg
off for Bob Thornton, for I shall foreclose,—hanged if I don’t.”
“No, no. You mustn’t,” and Mildred’s arms closed tightly around his
neck. “Listen to me, father. Give him more time, for Milly’s sake. My
heart is almost broken now, and it will kill me quite to have him
ruined, for Lawrence, you know, would suffer too. Lawrence would suffer
most. Won’t you write to him that he can have all the time he wants? You
don’t need the money, and you’ll feel so much better, for the Bible says
they shall be blessed who forgive their enemies. Won’t you forgive Mr.
Thornton?”
She kissed his forehead and kissed his lips,—she caressed his rough,
bearded cheek, while all the while her arms pressed tighter around his
neck, until at last he gasped:
“Heavens and earth, Gipsy, you are choking me to death.”
Then she released him, but continued her gentle pleading until the Judge
was fairly softened, and he answered:
“Good thunder, what can a fellow do with such eyes looking into his, and
such a face close to his own. Yes, I’ll give Bobum a hundred years if
you say so, though nobody else under heaven could have coaxed me into
it.”
And in this the Judge was right, for none save Mildred could have
induced him to give up his cherished scheme.
“’Tisn’t none of my doings though,” he wrote in his letter to Mr.
Thornton. “It’s all Gipsy’s work. She clambered into my lap, and coaxed,
and teased, and cried, till I finally had to give in, though it went
against the grain, I tell you, Bobum. Hadn’t you better twit her again
with being low and mean. Ugh, you dog!”
This letter the Judge would not send for a week or more, as he wished to
torment Mr. Thornton as long as possible, never once thinking that by
withholding it he was doing a wrong to Mildred. Mr. Thornton was not
without kindly feelings, and had the letter been received before
Lawrence’s departure he might perhaps have explained the whole to his
son, for Mildred’s generous interference in his behalf touched his
heart. But when the letter came Lawrence was already on the ocean, and
as the days went on, his feelings of gratitude gradually subsided,
particularly as Geraldine, who knew nothing of the circumstances, often
talked to him of a marriage between Lawrence and Lilian as something
sure to take place.
“Only give him a little time to overcome his foolish fancy,” she said,
“and all will yet be right.”
So Mr. Thornton, over whom Geraldine possessed an almost unbounded
influence, satisfied his conscience by writing to Mildred a letter of
thanks, in which he made an attempt at an apology for anything he might
have said derogatory to her birth and parentage.
With a proud look upon her face, Mildred burned the letter, which seemed
to her so much like an insult, and then, with a dull, heavy pain at her
heart, she went about her accustomed duties, while the Judge followed
her languid movements with watchful and sometimes tearful eyes,
whispering often to himself:
“I didn’t suppose she loved the boy so well. Poor Milly! Poor Milly!”
Oliver too said, “Poor, poor Milly,” more than once when he saw how the
color faded from her cheeks and the brightness from her eyes. His own
health, on the contrary, improved, and in the autumn he went back to
college, leaving Mildred more desolate than ever, for now there was no
one to comfort her but the Judge, and he usually pained her more than he
did her good. All through the long, dreary New England winter she was
alone in her sorrow. Lilian never wrote, Oliver but seldom, for he dared
not trust himself, while, worse than all, there came no news from the
loved one over the sea, except, indeed, toward spring, when a Boston
lady who was visiting in Mayfield brought the rumor that he was expected
back before long to marry Lilian Veille; that some of the bridal dresses
were selected, she believed, and that the young couple would remain at
home, as Mr. Thornton wished his son to live with him.
The woman who repeated this to Mildred wondered at her indifference, for
she scarcely seemed to hear, certainly not to care, but the storm within
was terrible, and when alone in the privacy of her chamber it burst
forth with all its force, and kneeling by her bedside she asked that she
might die before another than herself was the bride of Lawrence
Thornton. Poor, poor little Milly!