THE DESERTED HUT.
It was a tumble-down old shanty, which for many years had been
uninhabited save by the bats and the swallows, which darted through the
wide chinks in the crumbling wall, or plunged down the dilapidated
chimney, filling the weird ruin with strange, unearthly sounds, and
procuring for it the reputation of being haunted ground. The path
leading to it was long and tedious, for after leaving the river bridge,
it wound around the base of a hill, beneath the huge forest trees, which
now in the dusky twilight threw their grim shadows over every near
object, and insensibly affected the spirits of the three who came each
moment nearer and nearer to the hut.
“There, Clubs and I will stay here, I guess,” said the Judge, stopping
beneath a tall hemlock, which grew within a dozen rods of the building.
Mildred made no answer, but moved resolutely on until she had crossed
the threshold of the hut, where she involuntarily paused, while a
nameless feeling of terror crept over her, everything around her was so
gloomy and so still.
In the farthest extremity of the apartment a single spot of moonlight,
shining through the rafters above, fell upon the old-fashioned cupboard,
from which two rats, startled by Mildred’s steps, sprang out, and,
running across the floor, disappeared in the vicinity of the broad stone
hearth. Aside from this there was no sign of life, and Mildred was
beginning to think of turning back, when a voice, between a whisper and
a hiss, came to her ear from the dark corner where the shadows lay
deepest, and where a human form crouched upon the floor.
“Mildred Howell,” the voice said, “is that you?”
Instantly Mildred grasped the oaken mantel to keep herself from falling;
for, with that question, the human form arose and came so near to her
that the haggish face and projecting tooth were plainly visible.
“You tremble,” the figure said; “but you need not be afraid. I am not
here to hurt you. I loved your mother too well for that.”
There was magic in that word, and it unlocked at once the daughter’s
heart and divested it of all fear. Just then the moon passed from under
a cloud, and through a paneless window, shone full upon the eager,
expectant face of the beautiful young girl, who, grasping the hand of
the strange old woman, said, imploringly:
“Did you really know my mother,—my own mother?”
“Yes,” returned the woman; “I knew her well. I was with her when she
died. I laid her in the coffin. I followed her to the grave, carrying
you in my arms, and then I did with you what she bade me do,—I laid you
at Judge Howell’s door, and stood watching in the rain until he took you
in.”
She spoke rapidly, and, to Oliver, who had drawn so near that he could
distinctly hear the whole, it seemed as if she were repeating some
lesson learned by rote; but Mildred had no such thought, and, pressing
the bony arm, she asked:
“But who am I? What is my name? Who was my father? and am I like my
mother?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to make out,” returned the woman, peering
closer into her face, and adding, after a minute survey: “Not like her
at all. You are more like the Howells; and well you may be, for your
poor mother wore her knees almost to the bone praying that you might
resemble them.”
“Then I am a Howell!—I am a Howell! and Richard was my father! Oh, joy,
joy!” and the wild, glad cry went ringing through the ghostly ruin, as
Mildred thus gave vent to what she had so long and secretly cherished in
her heart.
“Mildred”—and in the old woman’s voice there was something which made
the young girl shudder—“there is not a drop of Howell blood in all your
veins; but look!” and drawing from her skinny bosom a worn, soiled
letter, she held it up in the moonlight, saying: “This your mother wrote
two days before she died. It does not belong to you, for it is intended
for your grandfather. I promised to give it to him, should it ever be
necessary for him to know; but you may read it, girl. It will explain
the whole better than I can.”
“How can I read it here?” Mildred asked, and her companion replied by
striking a match across the hearth, and lighting a bit of candle, which
she brought from the depths of her pocket.
Holding it between her thumb and finger, she said:
“You see I’ve come prepared; but sit down, child. You’ll need to, maybe,
before you get through,” and she pushed a block of wood toward Mildred,
who sat down, while all through her frame the icy chills were running,
as if she saw the fearful gulf her feet were treading.
“Tell me first one thing,” she said, grasping the woman’s dress. “Tell
me, am I greatly inferior to Lawrence Thornton?”
Oh, that horrid, horrid smile, which broke over the old hag’s face, and
made the one long tooth seem starting from the shrivelled gums, as she
replied:
“You are fully Lawrence Thornton’s equal.”
“Then I can bear anything,” said Mildred; and opening the letter she
pressed to her lips the delicate, though rather uneven handwriting, said
to have been her mother’s.
It was dated in New York, nearly eighteen years before, and its contents
were as follows:
“DEAR, DEAR FATHER:—Though you cast me off and turned me from your
door, you are very dear to me; and should these lines ever come to
you, pray think kindly of the erring child, whose fault was loving one
so unworthy of her, for I did love Charlie, and I love him yet,
although he has cruelly deserted me just when I need his care the
most. Father, I am dying; dying all alone in this great city. Charlie
is in New Orleans, gambling, drinking, and utterly forgetting me, who
gave up everything for him.
“On the pillow beside me lies my little girl-baby; and when I look at
her I wish that I might live, but, as that cannot be, I must do for
her the best I can. Charlie said to me when he went away, that after
baby was born he should come back and take her from me, so as to
extort money from you, and he would do it, too, if he had an
opportunity, but I’d rather see her dead than under his wicked
influence; so I shall put her where he cannot find her.
“Once, father, I thought to send her to you, but the remembrance of
your words: ‘May you be cursed, and your children,’ was ringing in my
ears, and I said, ‘he shall not have a chance to wreak his vengeance
on my child. Strangers will be kinder far than my own flesh and
blood,’ so I have resolved to send her to Judge Howell. ’Tis a queer
place, but I can think of nothing better. He is alone in his great
house, and who knows but he may adopt her as his own.
“I have called her Mildred, too, praying earnestly that she may look
like Mildred of the starry eyes and nut-brown hair, for that would
soften the old Judge’s heart toward her. I have written to him an
anonymous letter asking him to take her, and when I am dead, faithful
Esther Bennett, who is nursing me, will take it and my baby to —— in
Maine, where her sister lives. There she will mail the letter, and
whether the Judge answers it or not, she will in a short time secretly
convey Milly to his door, watching until some one takes her in.
“Then she will look after my child, and if in coming years
circumstances arise which seem to make it necessary for Mildred to
know her parentage, she will seek her out, tell her who she is and
carry you this letter. You may think me crazy to adopt this plan, and
so, perhaps, I am. But my husband, who is her lawful protector, shall
not have her, and as I do not care to burden you with _Hawley’s
brats_, as you once termed any children which I might have, I shall
send it to Beechwood.
“My strength is failing me, father, and in a day or so I shall be
dead. I wish I could see you all once more, particularly _Lawrence_,
my darling little _brother Lawrence_. Baby looks some like him, I
think, and should she ever come to you, bid him love his little niece
for his dead sister Helen’s sake——”
Mildred could not read another line—there was a sound like the fall of
many waters in her ears,—the blood seemed curdling in her veins, and her
very finger-tips tingled with one horrid, maddening thought.
“Lawrence,—Lawrence,—little niece,” she moaned, and with eyes black as
midnight, and face of a marble hue, she turned to the superscription,
which she had not observed before, reading as she expected:
“ROBERT THORNTON, Esq.,
BOSTON, MASS.”
“Oh, Heaven!” she cried, rocking to and fro. “Isn’t it a dream. Isn’t
there some mistake? Tell me, dear, good woman, tell me, is it true?” and
in her unutterable agony she knelt abjectly before the witch-like
creature, who answered back:
“Poor, poor Milly. It _is_ true. All true, or I would not come here to
save you from a marriage with your mother’s brother,—your own uncle,
girl.”
“Stop!” and Mildred screamed with anguish; “I will not know that name.
Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, you are surely lost to me for ever and ever!”
There was a rustling movement, and then Mildred lay with her face upon
the threshold of the door.
“Hurry up, Clubs, for Heaven’s sake. I’ve stuck a confounded stub
through my boot,” cried the Judge, limping with pain, as he went
wheezing to the spot which Oliver had reached long before him.
From his position beneath the window, Oliver had heard the entire
conversation, but not knowing the contents of the letter, he was at a
loss to comprehend how Lawrence Thornton could be Mildred’s uncle.
Something, however, had affected her terribly, he knew, for there was no
mistaking the look of hopeless suffering stamped upon the rigid face he
lifted gently up and rested on his arm.
“What is it, Clubs? What’s the row? Let me take her,” and the panting
Judge relieved Oliver of the fainting girl, whom he held carefully in
his arms, talking to her the while in his own peculiar way. “There,
there, honey. What is it? Come to a little, can’t you? Open your eyes,
won’t you? and don’t look so much as though you were dead.” Then feeling
for her pulse, he screamed: “She is dead, Clubs! She is dead! and you,
old long-toothed madame,” shaking his fist at the old hag Esther
Bennett, “you killed her with some blasted lie, and I’ll have you hung
up by the heels on the first good tree I find. Do you hear?”
Having thus relieved his mind, the excited Judge carried Mildred into
the open air, which roused her for a moment, but when she saw Esther
Bennett she sank back again into the same death-like swoon, moaning
faintly:
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, lost forever!”
“No he ain’t,—no he ain’t,” said the Judge, but his words fell on deaf
ears, and turning to Oliver, who had been hastily reading the letter, he
asked what it was.
“Listen,” and in a voice which trembled with strong emotion, Oliver read
it through, while the Judge’s face dropped lower and lower until it
rested upon the cold, white forehead of Mildred, who lay so helpless in
his arms.
“Bob Thornton’s grandchild,” he whispered. “Bob Thornton’s grandchild!
Must I then lose my little Milly?” and great tears, such as Judge Howell
only could shed, fell like rain on Mildred’s face.
“There may be some mistake,” suggested Oliver, and catching at once the
idea, the Judge swore roundly that there was a mistake. “Needn’t tell
him; blamed if he’d believe that ’twa’n’t some big lie got up by
somebody for something,” and turning to the woman he demanded of her
savagely to confess the fraud.
But Esther Bennett answered him:
“It is all true, sir; true! I am sorry now that I kept it so long, for I
never wanted to harm Miss Helen’s child. Sure she has a bonny face, but
she’ll die, sir, lying so long in that faint.”
This turned the channel of the Judge’s thoughts, and, remembering that
not far away there was a little stream, he arose, and, forgetting his
wounded foot, walked swiftly on, bidding Esther follow, as he wished to
question her further on the subject. To this she did not seem at all
averse, but went with him willingly, answering readily all the questions
which Oliver put to her, and appearing through the whole to be sincere
in what she said. The cold water which they sprinkled copiously on
Mildred’s face and neck restored her for a moment, but, with a shudder,
she again lay back in the arms of the Judge, who, declaring her as light
as a feather, hobbled on, giving her occasionally a loving hug, and
whispering, as he did so: “Hanged if they make me believe it. Bobum
don’t get her after I’ve made my will, and all that.”
By the drawing-room window Geraldine was sitting, and when, by the
moonlight, she saw the strange procession moving up the Cold Spring
path, she went out to meet it, asking anxiously what had happened.
“Clubs can tell you,” returned the Judge, hurrying on with Mildred,
while Oliver explained to Geraldine what he knew, and then referred her
to Esther Bennett for any further information.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Geraldine, while in her eyes there was a
glitter of delight, as she fell back with Esther, and began a most
earnest conversation.
Carrying Mildred to her room, Judge Howell laid her upon the bed as
gently as if she had been an infant, and then bent over her until she
came fully back to consciousness and asked him where she was.
“Oh, I remember now!” she said. “A horrid thing came to me down in the
hut, and Lawrence is lost for ever and ever!”
“No, he ain’t; it’s all a blasted lie!” said the Judge, and instantly on
Mildred’s face there broke a smile of such joy that Oliver, who had
entered the room, cried out:
“It’s cruel to deceive her so, Judge Howell, until we know for certain
that the woman’s story is false.”
Like a hunted deer Mildred’s eyes turned from one to the other, reading
everywhere a confirmation of her fears, and, with a low piercing cry,
she moaned:
“It’s true, it’s true! he is lost forever! Oh, Oliver! can’t you comfort
me a little? You never failed me before; don’t leave me now when I need
it the most!” and she wound her arms convulsively round his neck.
Oliver had his suspicions, but as he could give no reason for them he
would not rouse hopes which might never be realized, and he only
answered through his tears:
“I would like to comfort you, Milly, if I could; but I can’t,—I can’t!”
“Mildred!” It was Geraldine who spoke, and Mildred involuntarily
shuddered as she heard the voice. “Uncle Robert once saw the woman who
took care of Cousin Helen, and talked with her of his daughter and the
baby, both of whom she declared to be dead. Had we not better send for
him at once, and see if he remembers this creature,” nodding toward
Esther Bennett, who had also entered the room. “He surely cannot mistake
her if he ever saw her once.”
Oliver looked to see the hag make some objections, but, to his surprise,
she said eagerly:
“Yes, send for him. He will remember me, for he came to New York just
three days after I left the baby at this door. He is a tall man,
slightly bald, with black eyes, and coarse black hair, then beginning to
be gray.”
Mildred groaned as did Oliver, for the description was accurate, while
even the Judge brought his fist down upon the table, saying:
“Bob to a dot! but hanged if I believe it! We’ll telegraph though in the
morning.”
The result of the telegram was that at a late hour the next night Mr.
Thornton rang the bell at Beechwood, asking anxiously why he had been
sent for in such haste.
“Because,” answered the Judge, who met him first, “maybe you’ve a
grandchild upstairs, and maybe you hain’t!”
“A grandchild!” gasped Mr. Thornton, all manner of strange fancies
flitting through his brain. “What can you mean?”
By this time Geraldine appeared, and hastily explaining to him what had
occurred, she asked “if he could identify the woman who took care of
Helen in New York?”
“Yes, tell her from a thousand, but not now, not now,” and motioning her
away, Mr. Thornton covered his face with his hand, and whispered
faintly, “_My_ grandchild! My Mildred! That beautiful creature Helen’s
child!” and with all his softer feelings awakened, the heart of the
cold, stern man yearned toward the young girl he had once affected to
despise. “Poor boy,” he said, as he thought of Lawrence, “’twill be
terrible to him, for his whole soul was bound up in her. Where is this
woman? There may be some mistake. I trust there is, for the young
people’s sake,” and the generous feeling thus displayed swept away at
once all animosity from the Judge’s heart.
“Describe her first as nearly as you can,” said Geraldine, and after
thinking a moment Mr. Thornton replied:
“Tall, grizzly; badly marked with small-pox, and had then one or more
long teeth in front, which gave her a most haggish appearance.”
“The same, the same!” dropped from Oliver’s lips, while the Judge, too,
responded:
“It’s all almighty queer, but blasted if I believe it!”
At Mr. Thornton’s request, Esther Bennett came in, and the moment his
eyes fell upon her, he said:
“’Tis the woman I saw eighteen years ago; I cannot be mistaken in that.”
“Question her,” whispered Geraldine, who seemed quite excited in the
matter, and Mr. Thornton did question her, but if she were deceiving
them she had learned her lesson well, for no amount of cross-questioning
could induce her to commit herself.
Indeed she seemed, in spite of her looks, to be a sensible,
straightforward woman, who was doing what she felt to be her duty.
“She had never lost sight of Mildred,” she said; “and knowing that Judge
Howell had adopted her, she had concluded not to divulge the secret
until she heard that she was to marry Lawrence. But have you read the
letter?” she asked. “That will prove that I am not lying.”
“Surely,” chimed in Geraldine. “I had forgotten that,” and she handed to
Mr. Thornton his daughter’s letter, which he read through, saying, when
he had finished:
“It is Helen’s handwriting, and it must be true.”
Then passing it to the Judge he asked if it resembled the letter he
received from the Maine woman.
“Good thunder, how do I know,” returned the Judge. “I tore that into
giblets. I can’t remember eighteen years; besides that, I’m bound not to
believe it, hanged if I do. I’ve made up my mind latterly that Gipsy
belonged to Dick, and I’ll be blamed if I don’t stick to that through
thick and thin.”
But whatever the Judge might wish to believe, he was obliged to confess
that the evidence was against him, and when at an early hour the next
morning the four assembled again for consultation, he said to Mr.
Thornton:
“You want to see your granddaughter, I suppose?”
“I’d like to, yes,” was the reply, to which the Judge responded:
“Well, come along, though hanged if I believe it.”
From Geraldine, Mildred had learned what Mr. Thornton said, and that he
would probably wish to see her in the morning. This swept away the last
lingering hope, and with a kind of nervous terror she awaited his visit,
trembling when she heard him in the hall, and looking fearfully round
for some means of escape.
“Here, Milly,” said the Judge, bustling up to her and forcing a levity
he did not feel, “here’s your _grandfather_ come to see you.”
“No, no, no,” sobbed Mildred, creeping closer to the Judge and hiding
her white face in her hands.
“There, Bobum,” said the Judge, smoothing her disordered hair and
dropping a tear upon it. “You see she don’t take kindly to her new
_grandad_. Better give it up, for I tell you it’s a big lie.”
“Mildred,” said Mr. Thornton, seating himself upon the side of the bed,
and taking one of the little feverish hands in his, “there can be no
doubt that what we have heard is true, and if so, you are my child, and
as such very dear to me. You are young yet, darling, and though your
disappointment, as far as Lawrence is concerned, is terrible, you will
overcome it in time. The knowing he is your uncle will help you so to
do, and you will be happy with us yet. Don’t you think so, dear?”
“Bobum, you’ve made a splendid speech,” returned the Judge, when he had
finished. “Couldn’t have done better myself, but it fell on stony
ground, for look,” and lifting up the beautiful head, he showed him that
Mildred had fainted.
“Poor girl, poor girl,” whispered Mr. Thornton; and the tears of both of
those hard old men dropped on Mildred’s face, as they bent anxiously
over her.
It was, indeed, a dreadful blow to Mildred, for turn which way she
would, there shone no ray of hope. Even Oliver deserted her as far as
comfort was concerned, for he had none to offer.
A day or so brought Lilian to Beechwood,—all love, all sweetness, all
sympathy for Mildred, whom she _cousined_ twenty times an hour, and who
shrunk from her caresses just as she did from both Geraldine and Mr.
Thornton.
“Oh, if I could go away from here for a time,” she thought, “I might get
over it, perhaps; but it will kill me to see Lawrence when he comes. I
can’t, I can’t; oh, isn’t there somewhere to go?”
Then suddenly remembering that not long before she had received an
invitation to visit a favorite teacher, who was now married and lived in
a hotel among the New Hampshire hills, she resolved to accept it, and go
for a few weeks, until Lawrence returned and had learned the whole.
“I shall feel better there,” she said to the Judge and Oliver, to whom
she communicated her plan. “Mrs. Miller will be kind to me, and when
it’s all over here, and they are gone, you must write, and I’ll come
back to stay with you forever, for I won’t live with Mr. Thornton, were
he one hundred times my grandfather!”
This last pleased the Judge so much that he consented at once for
Mildred to go, saying it possibly would do her good. Then, repeating to
himself the name of the place where Mrs. Miller lived, he continued:
“What do _I_ know of _Dresden_? Oh, I remember, Hetty Kirby is buried
there. Hetty Kirby; Hetty Kirby.” He looked as if there was something
more he would say of Hetty Kirby, but he merely added: “Maybe I’ll come
for you myself. I’d go with you if it wasn’t for my confounded toe.”
Once he glanced at his swollen foot, which had been badly hurt on the
night of his visit to the hut, and was now so sore that in walking he
was obliged to use a crutch.
“I’d rather go alone,” said Mildred, and after a little further
conversation it was arranged that in two days’ time she should set off
for Dresden, first apprising Mrs. Miller by letter of all that had
occurred, and asking her to say nothing of the matter, but speak of her
as _Miss Hawley_, that being the name to which she supposed herself
entitled.
This being satisfactorily settled, Mr. Thornton and Geraldine were both
informed of Mildred’s intentions.
“A good idea,” said Geraldine. “Change of place will do her good, but I
think Lily and I had better remain here until Lawrence arrives. A letter
will not find him now, and as he intends stopping at Beechwood on his
return, he will know nothing of it until he reaches here.”
The Judge would rather have been left alone, but he was polite enough
not to say so, though he did suggest that Esther Bennett, at least,
should leave, a hint upon which she acted at once, going back to New
York that very day.
Mildred would rather that Geraldine and Lilian too should have gone, but
as this could not be she stipulated in their presence that Oliver and no
other should break the news to Lawrence,—“he would do it so gently,” she
said, and she bade him say to Lawrence that “though she never could
forget him, she did not wish to see him. She could not bear it, and he
must not come after her.”
Oliver promised compliance with her request, and the next morning she
left Beechwood, accompanied by Mr. Thornton, who insisted upon going
with her as far as the station, where she must leave the cars and take
the stage to Dresden, a distance of ten miles. Here he bade her good-by,
with many assurances of affection and good-will, to none of which
Mildred listened. Her heart was too full of grief to respond at once to
this new claimant for her love, and she was glad when he was gone and
she alone with her sorrow.
[Illustration: Flowers]