LAWRENCE AND OLIVER.
Contrary to Mildred’s expectations, Lawrence had reached Beechwood
earlier than the time appointed. And on the very day when she in Dresden
was standing with Richard Howell by Hetty Kirby’s grave, he in Mayfield
was listening with a breaking heart to the story Oliver had to tell.
Flushed with hope and eager anticipation, as the happy bridegroom goes
to meet his bride, he had come, thinking all the way of Mildred’s joy of
seeing him so many days before he had promised to be with her. Purposely
he chose the back entrance to the house, coming through the garden, and
casting about him many anxious glances for the flutter of a pink muslin
robe, or the swinging of a brown straw hat. But he looked in vain, for
Mildred was not there. Hoping to find her in the library alone, he kept
on, until he reached the little room, where instead of Mildred, the
Judge and Oliver sat together, talking sadly of her. At the sight of
Lawrence both turned pale, while the former involuntarily exclaimed,
“Oh, my boy, my boy.”
In an instant Lawrence knew that something terrible had happened, and
grasping the Judge’s hand, he cried: “She isn’t dead. In pity tell me,
is she dead?”
“No, not dead,” answered the Judge; “but listen to Clubs. He promised to
break it to you.” And going from the room, he left the two alone, while
Oliver told to Lawrence Thornton that Mildred never could be his wife,
because she was his niece, the child of his own sister.
Every particular of the disclosure was minutely related, and every hope
swept away from the horror-stricken man, who listened in mute despair,
until the tale was finished, and then with one piercing cry of anguish
fell upon his face, moaning faintly: “I would rather she had died,—I
would rather she had died.”
In great alarm, Geraldine, who had heard the cry, hastened to the room,
followed by Lilian; but Lawrence scarcely noticed them, otherwise than
to shudder and turn away from Geraldine when she tried to comfort him.
Once, Lilian, touched at the sight of his distress, knelt before him,
and folding her arms upon his lap, begged of him “not to look so
white,—so terrible.”
But he motioned her off, saying to her: “Don’t try to comfort me unless
you give me back my Mildred. Take me, Clubs, where I can breathe. I am
dying in this stifled room.”
Then into the open air Oliver led the fainting man, while Judge Howell
bustled after, the great tears rolling down his face, as he whispered:
“They _do_ have the all-firedest luck. Poor boy, poor boy,—he takes it
harder even than Gipsy did.”
And in this the Judge was right, for the blow had well-nigh crushed out
Lawrence’s very life, and before the sun went down they carried him to
what was to have been the bridal chamber, a broken-hearted, delirious
man, talking continually of Mildred, who he always said was dead, but
never that she was his niece. For many days the fever raged with fearful
violence, and Mr. Thornton, who was summoned in haste from Boston, wept
bitterly as he gazed upon the flushed face and wild eyes of his son, and
felt that he would die. From the very first Lawrence refused to let
either Geraldine or Lilian come into the room, while Oliver, on the
contrary, was kept constantly at his side, and made to sing continually
of Mildred with the starry eyes and nut-brown hair.
“Sing, Clubs, sing,” he would say, tossing from side to side; “sing of
the maid with the nut-brown hair.”
And all through the silent watches of the night could that feeble voice
be heard, sweet as an ancient harp and plaintive as a broken lute, for
it welled up from the depths of an aching heart, and he who sang that
song knew that each note was wearing his life away.
Thrice Judge Howell, touched with compassion by his pale, suffering
face, offered to take his place, bidding Oliver lie down while he sang
of Milly’s eyes and hair; but Lawrence detected the fraud in an instant.
He knew the shaking, tremulous tones, raised sometimes to a screech and
then dying away in a whisper, came from another than Oliver Hawkins, and
his lip curled with supreme disdain as, raising himself upon his elbow,
he said:
“You can’t cheat me, old fellow, and you may as well send Clubs back
again.”
So poor Clubs went back, staying by him night and day, until human
strength could endure no more; and he one morning fell forward upon the
bed, deluging it with the blood which gushed from his mouth and nose.
With an almost superhuman effort, Judge Howell took him in his
arms,—gently, tenderly, for Mildred’s sake,—and carrying him down the
Cold Spring path, laid him away in the little room beneath the
gable-roof, where there was none to sing to him of Mildred, none to
comfort him save Hepsy, whose homely attempts were worse than failures,
and who did him more hurt than good by constantly accusing Lawrence
Thornton of being the cause of his illness. Indeed, she seemed rather to
enjoy it when she heard, as she did, how Lawrence moaned for “Clubs,”
growing daily worse until at last the physician feared that he would
die. This, however, she kept from Oliver, who lay all the day on his low
bed, never seeing but one person from Beechwood, and that the Judge, who
came at his request, and was in close consultation with him for more
than an hour.
The result of this interview was a determination on the part of Judge
Howell and Mr. Thornton to sift the matter of Mildred’s parentage more
thoroughly and see if there were not some mistake.
“Certainly,” said Geraldine, when the subject was mentioned to her. “I
would leave no stone unturned to test the truth of Esther Bennett’s
assertion. Only this morning it occurred to me that possibly Hannah
Hawkins might have received some hint from that old witch; for I have
heard that when she was dying she tried to speak of Mildred, and pointed
toward Beechwood. I’ll go down to-night and question Mrs. Thompson.”
Accordingly that evening found Geraldine seated in Hepsy’s kitchen and
so wonderfully gracious that the old lady mentally styled her a right
nice girl, and wondered how she could ever have called her “nippin’” and
“stuck up.”
Warily, cautiously, little by little, step by step, did Geraldine
approach the object of her visit, throwing out a hint here and a bait
there, until, feeling sure of her subject, she came out openly, and
asked old Hepsy “if she had any objections to telling a lie provided she
were well paid for it.”
“But, mercy! Is there any one who can hear us?” she added, drawing near
to Hepsy, who replied: “Not a soul,” forgetting the while the stove-pipe
hole cut through the floor of the chamber above, where Oliver was
listening eagerly to the conversation.
Not one word escaped him, and when it was finished he knew as well as
Hepsy that for fifty dollars and a half-worn black silk dress, she was
to stain her soul with a wicked lie,—was to say that in rummaging
Hannah’s things she came across a little box, which had not been opened
since her daughter’s death, and which when opened was found to contain a
letter from Esther Bennett, telling her who the child of her adoption
was, but bidding her to keep it a secret from everybody.
“I have written to New York to-day,” said Geraldine, “giving to Esther a
copy of what she is to write and send to me by return of mail. As I
cannot get the New York post-mark I shall tear off the half sheet where
the superscription naturally would be, leaving only the body of the
letter. This I shall rub and smoke until it looks old and worn, and then
bring it to you, who the day following must find it,—in Oliver’s
presence, if possible; of course your glasses will not be handy and you
will ask him to read it. He’ll probably tell of it at Beechwood, or if
he does not, you can, which will answer quite as well. I can’t explain
all about the matter, though I may some time do so, and I assure you,
dear Mrs. Thompson, that if my end is secured, I shall be willing to pay
you something extra for your assistance.”
Geraldine had spoken so rapidly that Hepsy had not quite comprehended
the whole, and clutching her dress she said:
“Yes, yes, but one thing I want to know. _Is_ Mildred Helen Thornton’s
child, or is that all a humbug, got up to stop her marriage?”
Geraldine had not intended to confide the whole in Hepsy, but to a
certain extent she was rather compelled to do so, and she answered
hastily:
“Yes, all a humbug, and I’ll give you twenty-five dollars a year as long
as you do not tell.”
Hepsy was _bought_, and offered to swear on a “stack of Bibles high as
the house” that she’d be silent as the dead, but Geraldine declined the
pleasure of receiving the oath, and after a few more remarks, took her
leave.
For a time after she was gone, Oliver sat completely stunned by what he
had heard. Then the thought burst upon him, “How delighted Milly will
be,” and he determined to be himself the bearer of the joyful news. He
could write it, he knew, but there might be some delay in the mails and
he would rather go himself. Geraldine could not receive an answer from
Esther Bennett until the second day, and on the third Hepsy would
probably take to Beechwood this new proof of Mildred’s parentage. By
that time he could find Mildred and bringing her home could confront the
wicked plotters and render their plotting of no avail. Once he thought
to tell the Judge, but knowing he could not keep it, he decided not to
do so. Lawrence was better that day,—the crisis was past, the physicians
said, and having no fears for him, he resolved to keep his secret from
every one. By going to Springfield that night he could take the early
train and so reach Dresden the next day, a thing he greatly desired to
do, as it was the day once appointed for Mildred’s bridal. He glanced at
his gold watch, Mildred’s gift, and saw that it wanted but half an hour
of the time when the last train was due. Hastily changing his clothes,
and forgetting all about his feeble health, he went down-stairs and
astonished his grandmother by saying he was going to Springfield.
“To Springfield!” she screamed, “when you can scarcely set up all day.
Are you crazy, boy? What are you going there for?”
“Oh, I know,” he returned, affecting to laugh. “It’s just occurred to me
that I must be there early to-morrow morning, and in order to do that, I
must go to-night.”
He did not wait for further comment from old Hepsy, who, perfectly
confounded, watched him till he disappeared in the moonlight, muttering
to herself:
“I’ve mistrusted all along that he was gettin’ lightheaded.”
But Oliver’s mind was never clearer in his life, and he hastened on,
reaching the depot just in time for the downward train, which carried
him in safety to Springfield, and when next morning Geraldine before her
glass was brushing her jet-black hair, and thinking within herself how
nicely her plans were working, he was on his way to Mildred.
He did not reach the terminus of his railroad route until the Dresden
stage had been gone several hours, and to his inquiries for some other
mode of conveyance, he invariably received the same answer:
“Every hoss and every wagon has gone to the big camp-meetin’ up in the
north woods.”
“How far is it to Dresden?” he asked.
“A little short of ten mile,” returned the ticket agent. “You can walk
it easy; though I don’t know ’bout that,” and he glanced at Oliver’s
crippled feet. “Mebby you’ll get a ride. There’s allus somebody goin’
that way.”
Oliver felt sure he should, and though the June sun was pouring down a
scorching heat, and the road to Dresden, as far as his eye could trace
it, wound over hill after hill where no shade-trees were growing, he
resolved to go, and quenching his thirst from the tempting-looking gourd
hanging near a pail of delicious ice-water, he started on his way.