OLIVER AND MILDRED.
Oh, what a weary, weary road it was, winding up and up, and up, and
seeming to the tired and heated Oliver as if it could never end, or
Dresden be much nearer. Walking was always to him a slow process, and
nothing but the thought of what lay beyond could have kept him up and
moving on until his poor crippled feet were blistered and his head was
throbbing with pain. Not once during that tedious journey did a single
person pass him; all were going the other way, and the heroic Oliver was
almost fainting from exhaustion when, from the brow of a steep hill, he
saw the Dresden spire flashing in the sunlight, and knew he was almost
there.
* * * * *
Mildred was alone in her chamber her head resting upon the soft pillows
which little Edith had arranged, her hands clasped over her forehead,
and her thoughts with Lawrence Thornton, when a servant entered, bearing
a card, and saying that the gentleman who sent it was in the parlor
below.
“Oliver Hawkins!” and Mildred almost screamed as she read the name.
“Dear, dear Oliver! show him up at once.”
The servant departed, and in a moment the well-known step was heard upon
the stairs, and darting forward, Mildred passed her arm round him, or he
would have fallen, for he was very weak and faint.
“Mildred, dear Mildred!” was all he could, at first, articulate, and
sinking upon the sofa, he motioned her to remove his shoes from his
swollen feet.
“Did you _walk_ from the station?” she asked, in much surprise.
“Yes,” he whispered. “There was no one to bring me.”
“What made you? What made you?” she continued, and he replied:
“I couldn’t wait, for I have come to bring you joyful news; to tell you
that you are free to marry Lawrence,—that you are not his father’s
grandchild. It was all a wicked fraud got up by Geraldine Veille, who
would have Lawrence marry her sister. I heard her telling grandmother
last night, and hiring her to say she found a paper among my mother’s
things confirming Esther Bennett’s story. Oh, Milly, Milly, you hurt,”
he cried, as in her excitement she pressed hard upon his blistered feet.
Those poor feet! How Mildred loved them then! How she pitied and
caressed them, holding them carefully in her lap, and dropping tears
upon them, as she thought of the weary way they had come to bring her
this great joy,—this joy too good to be believed until Oliver related
every particular, beginning with the time when Lawrence first came back
to Beechwood. He did not, however, tell her how, day and night, until
his own brain grew dizzy, he had sung to the maniac of the maid with the
nut-brown hair, nor did he tell her of anything that he had done, except
to overhear what Geraldine had said; but Mildred could guess it
all,—could understand just how noble and self-denying he had been, and
the blessings she breathed upon him came from a sincere heart.
“Oh, Olly, darling Olly,” she said, still caressing his wounded feet,
“the news is too good to be true. I dare not hope again lest I be
cruelly disappointed, and I could not bear another shock. I have
suffered so much that my heart is almost numb; and though you tell me I
am free to marry Lawrence, I’m afraid there’s some mistake, and that I
am his sister Helen’s daughter after all. If I am not, Olly, who am I?
Who was my mother?—where is she now? and where is my father?”
There were tears in Mildred’s eyes,—once they choked her utterance as
she said these last words, which, nevertheless, were distinctly heard in
the adjoining room where Richard Howell sat, his face as white as ashes,
his eyes unnaturally bright, and a compressed look about the mouth as if
he had received some dreadful shock,—something which shook his
heartstrings as they never were shaken before. He was reading by his
window when Mildred met Oliver in the hall, and through the open door he
heard distinctly the name “Mildred, dear Mildred!” and heard the girl he
knew as Minnie answer to that name. Then the lettered page before him
was one solid blur, the room around him was enveloped in darkness, and
with his hearing quickened he sat like a block of stone listening,
listening, listening, till every uncertainty was swept away, and from
the depths of his inmost soul came heaving up “_My_ child! _my_
Mildred!” But though his heart uttered the words his lips gave forth no
sound, and he sat there immovable, while the great drops of perspiration
trickled down his face and fell upon his nerveless hands, folded so
helplessly together. Then he attempted to rise, but as often sank back
exhausted, for the shock had deprived him of his strength and made him
weak as a little child.
But when Mildred asked, “Where is my father now?” he rose with wondrous
effort, and tottering to her door, stood gazing at her with a look in
which the tender love of eighteen years was all embodied. Oliver saw him
first, for Mildred’s back was toward him, and to her he softly
whispered, “Turn your head, Milly. There’s some one at the door.”
Then Mildred looked, but started quickly when she saw Richard Howell,
every feature convulsed with the emotions he could not express, and his
arms stretched imploringly toward her, as if beseeching her to come to
their embrace.
“_My daughter, my daughter!_” he said, at last, and though it was but a
whisper it reached the ear of Mildred, and with a scream of unutterable
joy she went forward to an embrace such as she had never known before.
Oh, it was strange to see that strong man weep as he did over his
beautiful daughter, but tears did him good, and he wept on until the
fountain was dried up, murmuring, “My Mildred,—my darling,—my
first-born,—my baby, Hetty’s and mine. The Lord be praised who brought
me to see your face when I believed you dead!” and all the while he said
this he was smoothing her shiny hair, looking into her eyes, and kissing
her girlish face, so much like his own as it used to be, save that it
was softer and more feminine.
Wonderingly Oliver looked at them, seeking in vain for a clew with which
to unravel the mystery, but when Mildred, remembering him, at last said:
“Oliver, this is Richard Howell,” he needed nothing more to tell him
that he had witnessed the meeting between a father and his child.
To Mildred the truth came suddenly with the words, “My daughter.” Like a
flash of light it broke on her,—the secret marriage with Hetty
Kirby,—her strong resemblance to the Howells, and all the circumstances
connected with her first arrival at Beechwood. There could be no
mistake, and with a cry of joy she sprang to meet her father as we have
described.
“I heard what he told you,” Richard said at last, motioning to Oliver.
“I heard him call you Mildred, and from your conversation knew you were
the child once left at my father’s door. You were my darling baby then;
you are my beautiful Mildred now,” and he hugged her closer in his arms.
Very willingly Mildred suffered her fair head to rest upon his shoulder,
for it gave to her a feeling of security she had never before
experienced, for never before had she known what it was to feel a
father’s heart throbbing in unison with her own. Suddenly a new thought
occurred to her, and starting up, she exclaimed:
“Edith, father, Edith!”
“I’me tomein’, with lots of fowers,” answered a childish voice, and
Oliver heard the patter of little feet in the hall.
In a moment she was with them, her curls blown over her face, and her
white apron full of the flowers she had gathered for Minnie, “’cause she
was so sick.”
“Precious little sister,” and Mildred’s arms closed convulsively around
the wondering child, whose flowers were scattered over the carpet, and
who thought more of gathering them up than of paying very close
attention to what her father told her of Minnie’s being _Mildred_, her
sister, who they thought was dead.
At last Edith began to understand, and rubbing her fat, round cheek
against Mildred’s, she said:
“I so glad you be my sister, and have come back to us from heaven. Why
didn’t you bring mamma and the baby with you?”
It was in vain they tried to explain; Edith was rather too young to
comprehend exactly what they meant, and when there was a lull in the
conversation, she whispered to Mildred:
“I knew most you was an angel, and some time mayn’t I see your wings and
how you fly?”
The interview between Mildred and Edith helped to restore Richard’s
scattered senses, and when the wing business was settled, he said to
Mildred:
“Has my daughter no curiosity to know why I left her as I did, and why I
have never been to inquire for her?”
“Yes, father,” answered Mildred, “I want so much to hear,—but I thought
it might disturb you. Will you tell us now?” and nestling closer to his
side, with Edith on her lap, she listened breathlessly, while he
repeated to her what she did not already know.
“I have told you,” he said, “of my father’s bitterness toward Hetty
Kirby, and how, with the help of a companion, whom I could trust, I took
her to New York, and was married, but I did not tell you how, after the
lapse of time, there was born to the beardless college boy a smiling
little infant. As soon as possible I hastened to Hetty’s bedside, but
the shadow of death was there before me, and one glance at her sweet
young face assured me that she would die. ’Twas then that I regretted
having kept our marriage a secret from my father, for I felt that I
should need his sympathy in the dark hour coming. Something, too, must
be done with you, so soon to be made motherless. Hetty was the first to
suggest disposing of you as I did. She knew my education was not yet
completed, and laying her soft hand on my head, she said: ‘My
boy-husband wants to go through college, and if it becomes known that he
has been married, those stern men may expel him. Your father, too, will
turn you off, as soon as he learns that I have been your wife. I know
how strong his prejudices are when once they have been roused, and if he
knew our baby had in it a drop of Hetty’s blood, he would spurn it from
him, and so he must not know it. My grandmother will not last long, and
when we are both dead, send baby to him secretly. Don’t let him know who
she is, or whence she came, until he has learned to love her. Then tell
him she is yours.’
“This is what Hetty said; and in an unguarded moment I promised to do
her bidding, for I was young and dreaded my father’s wrath. Not long
after this Hetty died, with her baby folded to her bosom, and her lips
murmuring a prayer that God would move the heart of the stern old Judge
to care for her little waif.
“Her grandmother also died in a few days, and then, with the exception
of the nurse, I was alone with you, my daughter, in that low brown house
you visited with me, I little dreaming that the baby who in that west
room first opened its eyes to the light of day was standing there beside
me, a beautiful young maiden. Dresden is thinly populated now; it was
far more so then, and of the few neighbors near, none seemed to be
curious at all, and when told that I should take the child to my own
home in Massachusetts, they made no particular comments. The same
friend, Tom Chesebro, who had helped me in my marriage, now came to my
aid again, planning and arranging the affair, even to the writing that
letter, purporting to have come from Maine. He had relatives living in
that vicinity, and as it was necessary for him to visit them, he left me
a few days, and taking the letter with him, mailed it at one of the
inland towns. When he returned we started together to Mayfield, and
tolerably well skilled in the matters to which I was a novice, I found
him of invaluable service in taking care of you, whom I carried in my
arms. At Springfield he left me, taking you with him in a basket which
he procured there, and giving you, as he afterward told me, something to
make you sleep. I never could understand exactly how he contrived to
avoid observation as he did, but it was dusk when he left Springfield,
and the darkness favored him. He did not leave the cars at Mayfield, but
at the next station got off on the side remote from the depot and
striking across the fields to Beechwood, a distance of two miles. He had
once spent a vacation there with me, and hence his familiarity with the
localities. After placing you on the steps, he waited at a little
distance until my father, or rather Tiger, took you in, and then, when
it was time, went to the depot, where I met him as I was stepping from
the car. In a whisper he assured me that all was safe, and with a
somewhat lightened heart I hurried on.
“To a certain extent you know what followed; know that Hannah Hawkins
took care of you for a time, while the villagers gossiped as villagers
will, and my father swore lustily at them all. Several times I attempted
to tell him, but his determined hatred of you decided me to wait until
time and your growing beauty had somewhat softened his heart. At last my
failing health made a change of climate necessary for me, and as Tom
Chesebro was going on a voyage to the South Sea Islands, I decided to
accompany him, and then, for the first time, confided my secret to
Hannah Hawkins, bidding her put you in father’s way as much as possible,
and, in case I died, to tell him who you were. Then I visited Hetty’s
grave, determining while there to tell my father myself; and this, on my
return, I endeavored to do, but the moment I confessed to him my
marriage, he flew into a most violent rage, cursing me bitterly and
ordering me to leave the room and never come into his presence again.
Then when I suggested that there was more to tell, he said he had heard
enough, and, with a hard, defiant feeling, I left him, resolving that it
should be long before he saw my face again.
“We had a pleasant voyage, but remorse was gnawing at my heart, and when
we reached our destined port, none thought the _boy_, as they called me,
would ever cross the sea again. But I grew daily better, and when at
last poor Tom died of a prevailing fever, I was able to do for him the
very office he had expected to do for me.
“After a time I went to India, having heard nothing from home, although
I had written to my father twice and to Hannah once. I am ashamed to
confess it, my darling, but it is nevertheless the truth, that continued
absence and the new scenes amid which I found myself in India, made me
somewhat indifferent to you,—less anxious to see your face; and still
when I had been gone from you nearly eight years, I resolved upon coming
home, and was making my plans to do so when accident threw in my way a
sick, worn-out sailor, just arrived from New York. He was suffering and
I cared for him, learning by this means that he had friends in the
vicinity of Beechwood, and that he had visited them just before his last
voyage. Very adroitly I questioned him to see if he knew aught of the
gable-roof, or the child adopted by Hannah Hawkins. He must have been
misinformed, for he said that Hannah Hawkins and the little girl both
were dead, and that one was buried while he was in Mayfield.”
“Oh, I can explain that,” interrupted Mildred; “I was very sick with
scarlet fever when Hannah died. The doctor said I would not live; while
Widow Simms, a wonderful gossip, reported that I was dead.”
“That must have been the cause of the misunderstanding,” returned
Richard, “for the sailor told me you died of scarlet fever, and
crediting his statement, I had no longer a desire to return, but
remained in India, amassing wealth until I met with Edith’s mother.
Owing to her blessed influence I became, as I trust, a better man,
though I obstinately refused to write to my father, as she often wished
me to do. On her death-bed, however, I promised that I would come home
and comfort his old age. I knew he was alive, for I sometimes saw his
name in the American papers which came in my way, but I had no
conception of the joyful surprise awaiting me in Dresden,” and he fondly
kissed Mildred’s glowing cheek.
“The moment I saw your face I was struck with its resemblance to my
sister’s; and to myself I said: ‘If it were possible I should say that
is my daughter.’ Then the thought came over me, ‘The sailor was perhaps
mistaken,’ and I managed to learn your name, which swept away all hope,
especially when afterwards you told me that your mother was Helen
Thornton. There has evidently been some deep-laid scheme to rob you both
of your birth-right and of a husband, and, as I do not quite understand
it, will you please explain to me what it is about this Geraldine Veille
and Esther Bennett. Who is the latter, and why is she interested in
you?”
Briefly as possible, Mildred told him of all that had come to her during
his absence, of the fraud imposed upon her by Geraldine; of Oliver’s
unfailing kindness, and how but for the wicked deception she would that
night have been a bride.
“You only deferred the marriage until your father came,” said Mr.
Howell, kissing her again, and telling her how, on the morrow, they
would go together to Beechwood, and confronting the sinful Geraldine,
overthrow her plans. “And you, young man,” he continued, turning to
Oliver, “you, it seems, have been the truest friend my Milly ever had.
For this I owe you a life-long debt of gratitude; and though I am
perhaps too young to have been your father, you shall be to me
henceforth a brother. My home shall be your home, and if money can repay
you for your kindness, it shall be yours even to tens of thousands.”
With a choking voice, Oliver thanked the generous man, thinking to
himself the while, that a home far more glorious than any Richard Howell
could offer to his acceptance would ere long be his. But he did not say
so, and when Mildred, in her old, impulsive way, wound her arms around
his neck and said:
“Father cannot have you, Olly, for you will stay with me and be my own
darling brother,” he gently put her from him saying:
“Yes, Milly, as long as I live I will be your brother.”
It was very late when they separated, for Mr. Howell was loath to leave
his newly-recovered treasure, while Oliver was never weary of feasting
his eyes upon Mildred’s beautiful, and now perfectly happy face. But
they said good-night at last, Richard taking Oliver to his own room,
where he could nurse his poor, bruised feet, while Mildred kept Edith
with her, hugging her closer to her bosom as she thought: “She _is_ my
sister.”
At an early hour next morning the three assembled together again, and
when the lumbering old stage rattled down the one long street, it
carried Richard and Oliver, Mildred and Edith, the first two silent and
thoughtful, the last two merry and glad as singing-birds, for the heart
of one was full of “danfather Howell,” while the other thought only of
Lawrence Thornton, and the blissful meeting awaiting her.