THE SUN SHINING THROUGH THE CLOUD.
The dreary winter had passed away, the warm April sun shone brightly
upon the college walls, and stealing through the muslin-shaded window
looked smilingly into the room where two young men were sitting, one
handsome, manly and tall, the other deformed, effeminate and slight, but
with a face which showed that the suffering endured so long and
patiently had purified the heart within and made it tenfold better than
it might otherwise have been. The latter was Oliver Hawkins, and he sat
talking with Lawrence Thornton, who had landed in New York the previous
day, and had surprised him half an hour before by coming suddenly into
his room when he supposed him far away.
During the entire period of his absence Lawrence had heard nothing of
Mildred, for in his letters he had never mentioned her name, and it was
to seek some information of her that he had turned out of his way and
called on Oliver. After the first words of greeting were over, he said:
“You hear from Beechwood, I suppose?”
“Occasionally,” returned Oliver. “Mildred does not write as often as she
used to do.”
“Then she’s there yet?” and Lawrence waited anxiously for the answer.
“There! of course she is. Where did you suppose she was?”
Lawrence had in his mind a handsome dwelling looking out on Boston
Common, with “T. HUDSON,” engraved upon its silver plate, and he fancied
Mildred might be _there_, but he did not say so; and to Oliver’s
question, he rather abruptly replied:
“Clubs, I’ve come home to be married!”
“To be married!” and in Oliver’s blue eyes there was a startled look.
“Married to whom! Surely not to Lilian Veille? You would not marry her?”
“Why not?” Lawrence asked, and before Oliver could answer, he continued:
“I must talk to some one, Clubs, and I may as well make you my father
confessor. You know I proposed to Mildred Howell? You know that she
refused me?”
Oliver bowed his head, and Lawrence continued:
“She gave me no reason for her refusal, neither did she deign to answer
either of the three letters I sent to her, begging of her to think
again, or at least to tell me why I was rejected.”
“Three letters,—she never told me of that. There is surely a mistake,”
said Oliver, more to himself than to Lawrence, who rejoined:
“There could be no mistake. She must have received some one of them, but
she answered none, and in despair I went away, believing, as I now do,
that we were all deceived and she loved another. Wait,—listen,” he said,
as he saw Oliver about to interrupt him. “Father and Geraldine always
wished me to marry Lilian, and until I learned how much I loved Mildred
Howell, I thought it very likely I should do so.”
There was a hard, defiant expression on his face as he said this, and,
as if anxious to have the story off his mind, he hastened on:
“Mildred refused me, and now, though I have not said positively that I
would marry Lilian, I have given Geraldine encouragement to think I
would, and have made up my mind that I shall do so. She is a gentle,
amiable creature, and though not quite as intellectual as I could wish,
she will make me a faithful, loving wife. Poor little thing. Do you know
Geraldine thinks that her mind has been somewhat affected by my
proposing to Mildred, and then going away?”
Had it been Judge Howell listening, instead of Oliver, he would
undoubtedly have said:
“Thornton, you’re a fool!” but as it was, Oliver mildly interposed:
“If I remember right, her mind was never very sound.”
Lawrence did not seem at all angry, but replied:
“I know she is not brilliant, but something certainly has affected her
within the past few months. She used to write such splendid letters as
to astonish me, but since I’ve been in Europe there’s a very perceptible
difference. Indeed, the change was so great that I could not reconcile
it until Geraldine suggested that her ill health and shattered nerves
were probably the cause, and then I pitied her so much. There’s not a
very wide step between pity and love, you know.”
Lawrence paused, and sat intently watching the sunlight on the floor,
while Oliver was communing with himself.
“Shall I undeceive him, or shall I suffer him to rush on blindfolded, as
it were? No, I will not. I saved him once for Mildred, and I’ll save him
for her again.”
Thus deciding, Oliver moved his chair nearer to Lawrence’s side, and
said:
“Did it ever occur to you that another than Lilian wrote her
letters,—her old letters I mean, when she was in Charlestown, and at
school at Beechwood?”
“Clubs!” and Lawrence looked him fixedly in the face. “Who should write
Lilian’s letters but herself? What would you insinuate?”
“Nothing but what I know to be true,” returned Oliver. “Mildred Howell
always wrote Lilian’s letters for her,—always. Lilian copied them, ’tis
true, but the words were Mildred’s.”
“Deceived me again,” Lawrence hoarsely whispered. “I forgave the first
as a sudden impulse, but this systematic, long-continued deception,
never. Oh, is there no faith in women?”
“Yes, Lawrence. There is faith and truth in Mildred Howell;” and
Oliver’s voice trembled as he said it, for he knew that of his own free
will he was putting from him that which for the last few months had made
the world seem brighter, had kindled a glow of ambition in his heart,
and brought the semblance of health to his pale cheek.
Mildred free was a source of greater happiness to him than Mildred
married would be,—but not for this did he waver, and lest his resolution
should give way, he told rapidly all that he knew of Lilian’s
intercourse with Mildred,—all that he knew of Mr. Thornton’s visit to
Beechwood,—of the promise wrung from Mildred by cruel insults, and by
working upon her love for Lilian,—of Mildred’s hopeless anguish at
first,—of her watching day by day for some word from Lawrence, until her
starry eyes were dim with tears, which washed the roses from her cheek,
and the hope from out her heart,—of her noble interference to save Mr.
Thornton from ruin,—of her desolate condition now, and of the agony it
would cause her to hear of Lawrence’s marrying another.
For several minutes Lawrence seemed like one in a dream. It had come
upon him so suddenly as to suspend his power to move, and he sat staring
blankly at Oliver, who at last brought him back to reality by saying:
“You will go to Beechwood at once?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered; “this very day, if possible. Clubs, I owe you
more than I can ever repay. You saved me once from a watery grave, and
now you have made me the happiest of men. I can understand much which
seemed mysterious in father’s manner. I always knew he was ambitious,
but I did not think him equal to this cowardly act. Marry Lilian! Why, I
wouldn’t marry her were there no other girl in the wide, wide world! God
bless you, Clubs, as you deserve! I hear the whistle, and if I would see
Mildred before I sleep, I must be off. Good-by!” and wringing Oliver’s
hand, he hurried away.
* * * * *
The night train for Albany had just gone from the Mayfield depot, and
Judge Howell, who had come down to see a friend, was buttoning his
overcoat preparatory to returning home, when a hand was laid upon his
shoulder, and a familiar voice called his name.
“Lawrence Thornton! Thunder, boy!” he exclaimed. “Where did you drop
from?” And remembering how he had set his heart against the _boy_, as he
called him, he tried to frown.
But it was all lost on Lawrence, who was too supremely happy to think of
an old man’s expression. Mildred alone was uppermost in his thoughts,
and following the Judge to his carriage, he whispered:
“I’ve seen Clubs; I know the whole of father’s dastardly act, and I’m
going home with you to see Mildred. I shall marry her, too. A thousand
fathers can’t hinder me now!”
“Pluck!” exclaimed the Judge, disarmed at once of all prejudice by
Lawrence’s fearless manner of speaking. “Boy, there’s nothing pleases me
like pluck! Give us your hand!” and in that hearty squeeze by-gones were
forgotten and Lawrence fully restored to favor. “Now, drive home like
lightning!” he said to Finn, as they entered the carriage; and as far as
possible, Finn complied with his master’s orders.
But during that rapid ride there was sufficient time for questions and
explanations, and before Beechwood was reached the Judge had confessed
to the letters withheld and his reason for withholding them.
“But I made amends,” said he; “I docked the missionaries five thousand
at one time, ten at another, and five at another. If you don’t believe
it I can show you the codicils, witnessed and acknowledged, so there’ll
be no mistake.”
But Lawrence had no wish to discredit it. Indeed, he scarcely heard what
the Judge was saying, for the Beechwood windows were in view, and from
one a light was shining, showing him where Mildred sat, thinking of him,
perhaps, but not dreaming how near he was to her.
“You let me manage,” said the Judge, as they ran up the steps. “If
Milly’s sitting with her back to the door, I’ll go in first, while you
follow me on tiptoe. Then I’ll break it to her as gently as possible,
and when she screeches, as women always do, I’ll be off; for you know an
old dud like me would only be in the way.”
Mildred _was_ sitting with her back to the door, and gazing fixedly into
the fire. She was thinking of Lawrence, too, and was so absorbed in her
own thoughts as not to hear the Judge until he had a hand on either
shoulder and called her by name.
“Did I scare you, Gipsy?” he asked, as she started suddenly. “I reckon I
did a little for your heart beats like a trip-hammer; but never mind,
I’ve brought you something that’s warranted to cure the heart disorder.
What do you guess it is?”
Mildred did not know and the Judge continued:
“It’s a heap nicer than diamonds; and I shouldn’t wonder if it hugged
you tighter than _furs_. It stands six feet in its boots and has raised
a pair of the confoundedest whiskers——”
He did not need to tell her more, for directly opposite and over the
marble mantel a mirror was hanging, and glancing upward, Mildred saw
what it was that would “hug her tighter than fur,” and the screech the
Judge had predicted burst forth in a wild, joyous cry of “Lawrence,
Lawrence,—’tis Lawrence!”
In an instant the Judge disappeared, just as he said he would, leaving
Lawrence and Mildred alone, and free to tell each other of the long,
long dreary days and nights which had intervened since they sat together
before, just as they were sitting now. Much Lawrence blamed her for
having yielded to his father in a matter which so nearly concerned her
own life’s happiness, and at the mention of Mr. Thornton, Mildred lifted
up her head from its natural resting-place, and parting Lawrence’s dark
hair, said:
“But won’t it be wicked for me to be your wife. Didn’t my letter mean
that I would never marry you?”
“No, it didn’t,” answered Lawrence, kissing the little fingers which
came down from his hair. “You said you would refuse me and you did, but
you never promised not to make up. _I_ think the making up is
_splendid_, don’t you, darling?”
Whether she thought so or not, she took it very quietly, and whenever
the Judge looked in, as he did more than once, he whispered to himself:
“Guy, don’t he snug up to her good, and don’t she act as if she liked
it!”
Ten, eleven, twelve, and even one the clock struck before that blissful
interview was ended, and Lawrence had completed the arrangements, which
he next morning submitted to the Judge for his approval. He would go to
Boston that day, and would tell his father that Mildred was to be his
wife on the 20th of June, that being his birthday. After their bridal
tour they would return to Beechwood, and remain with the Judge until he
consented to part with Mildred,—then they would go to Boston and settle
down into the happiest couple in the whole world. To all this the Judge
assented, thinking the while that it would be some time before he would
be willing to part with Mildred.
Breakfast being over, he gave Mildred the letters so long withheld, but
she did not care to read them then. She preferred joining Lawrence in
the parlor, where there was another whispered conference, which ended in
her looking very red in the face, and running away upstairs, to avoid
the quizzical glance of the Judge, who, nevertheless, called after her,
asking “what that wet spot was on her cheek.”
“You are a happy dog,” he said to Lawrence, as he went with him to the
carriage, adding as he bade him good-by, “Give my regrets to Bobum, and
tell him that what I said to him last fall are my sentiments still.”
Lawrence promised compliance, and glancing up at the window, from which
a bright face had just disappeared, he said good-by again, and was
driven to the depot.
Contrary to Lawrence’s expectation, his father seemed neither surprised
nor offended when told what he had done.
“Miss Howell was a nice girl,” he said, “and he had more than once been
on the point of confessing to his son how he had influenced her
decision.”
The will had wrought a great change in Mr. Thornton’s opinion, and even
the beggar who was some day to claim Mildred as her daughter, did not
seem very formidable when viewed through a golden setting. Geraldine, on
the contrary, was terribly disappointed, and when alone fairly gnashed
her teeth with rage, while Lilian abandoned herself again to tears and
hysterics. Not long, however, did Geraldine give way. She knew that
Lawrence did not suspect her of having anything to do with Mildred’s
refusal, further than to ask her for Lilian’s sake to give him up, and
as it was for her interest to keep him wholly blinded, she affected to
congratulate him a second time, saying, laughingly, “The Fates have
decreed that you should marry Mildred, so I may as well give it up and
act like a sensible woman.” But when alone with Mr. Thornton she assumed
a new phase of character, fiercely demanding of him if he intended to
sit quietly down and see Lawrence throw himself away. Mr. Thornton had
never told her of the will, neither did he do so now, but he answered
her that it was useless further to oppose Lawrence,—that he was sorry
for Lilian, but hoped her disappointment would in time wear off.
“Lawrence will marry Miss Howell, of course,” he said, in conclusion,
“and won’t it be better for us to make the best of it, and treat her
with a show of friendship at least.”
“Perhaps it will,” returned Geraldine, whose thoughts no one could
fathom. “I was indignant at first that he should treat Lilian so
shamefully, but I will try to feel kindly toward this girl who is to be
my cousin, and by way of making a commencement, I will write her a
letter of congratulation.”
Mr. Thornton was deceived, so was Lawrence, and so, indeed, was Mildred,
when two days after Lawrence’s departure, she received a letter from
Geraldine Veille, couched in the kindest of terms and written apparently
in all sincerity:
“I was much vexed with you once, I’ll confess,” the wily woman wrote,
“for I had so set my heart upon Lawrence’s marrying Lilian that it was
hard to give it up. But I have considered the matter soberly, and
concluded that whether I am willing or not, Lawrence will do as he
pleases, so pray forgive me, dear cousin that is to be, for anything
you may heretofore have disliked in my conduct toward you. We shall, I
know, be the best of friends, and I anticipate much pleasure in having
you with us. I shall coax Lawrence to let me superintend the
fitting-up your rooms, and here let me offer you my services in
selecting any part of your bridal trousseau. Don’t be afraid to
trouble me, for do what I may, I shall consider it merely as atoning
for the ill-natured feelings I have cherished toward you. If you like,
I will come out to Beechwood a few weeks before the wedding. I have
given quite a number of large parties, and may be of some use to you.
In short, call upon me as much as you please, and whatever you may
have thought of me before, please consider me now as
Your sincere friend,
GERALDINE VEILLE.”
“She is a good woman after all,” thought Mildred, as she carried the
letter to the Judge, who read it over twice and then handed it back,
saying, “There’s bedevilment behind all that. Mark my words. I don’t
like those Veilles. I knew their father,—as sneaky a dog as ever drew
breath.”
But Mildred thought he was prejudiced, and after answering Lawrence’s
letter of twelve pages, she wrote a note to Geraldine, thanking her for
her kind offers, and saying that very likely she might wish for her
services in the matter of selecting dresses, as Boston furnished so much
greater variety than Mayfield.
Swimmingly now the matters progressed. Every week found Lawrence at
Mayfield, while there seemed no end to the thick letters which passed
between himself and Mildred, when he was not with her. Lilian, by some
most unaccountable means, had been quieted, and wrote to Mildred as of
old. Geraldine, too, was all amiability, and having been deputed to
select the bridal dress, and having failed to find anything in Boston
worth looking at, went all the way alone to _New York_, remaining there
several days, and returning home at last perfectly elated with her
success! Such a splendid piece of satin as she had found at
Stewart’s,—such a love of a veil and wreath as she had purchased
elsewhere, and such an exquisite point-lace collar as she had bought for
herself _at cost_, having enlisted in her behalf one of the firm of
Blank & Co., who had written for her notes of introduction to clerks of
different houses, and had sometimes gone with her himself to see that
she wasn’t cheated!
[Illustration: Flowers]