CONCLUSION.
A few more words and our story is done. For one short year has Mildred
been a happy wife, and in that time no shadow has crossed her pathway
save when she thinks of Oliver, and then her tears flow at once; still
she knows that it is well with him, and she would not, if she could,
have him back again in a world where he suffered so much. Well kept and
beautiful is the ground about his grave, for Richard’s tasteful hand is
often busy there, and on the costly marble which marks the spot are
inscribed the words:
IN MEMORY
OF
OUR BELOVED BROTHER.
In the distant city there is a handsome dwelling, looking out upon the
Common and the passers-by speak of it as the home of Lawrence Thornton,
and the gift of Richard Howell, who made his daughter’s husband rich and
still retained a princely fortune for himself and little Edith.
Dear little Edith, how she frisks and gambols about her Beechwood home,
filling it with a world of sunshine, and sometimes making the old Judge
forget the aching void left in his heart, when Lawrence took Mildred
away. That parting was terrible to the old man, and when Mildred
suggested that Edith should live with her, he cried aloud, begging of
her not to leave him all alone,—to spare him little Beauty. So “Beauty”
stayed, and every pleasant summer evening the Judge sits on the long
piazza with Edith on his lap, and tells her of another little girl who
came to him one winter night, stealing in so quietly that he did not
know she was there until reminded by her of his falling glasses. Of this
story Edith is never weary, though she often wonders where _she_ was
about those days, and why she was not there to help eat up the prunes,
which she _guesses_ “must have made Milly’s stomach ache!”
As the Judge cannot enlighten her in the least degree, she usually falls
asleep while speculating upon the matter, and her grandfather, holding
her lovingly in his arms, involuntarily breathes a prayer of
thanksgiving to the kind Providence which has crowned his later life
with so many blessings.
Richard is a great comfort to his father, and a great favorite in the
village, where his genial nature and many virtues have procured him
scores of friends, and where even Widow Simms speaks well of him.
The Judge has made another will, dividing his property equally between
Spitfire and Beauty, as he calls his two grandchildren, and giving to
the “Missionaries,” once defrauded of their rights, the legacy intended
for poor Clubs.
Old Hepsy lives still in the gable-roof, and when her rent comes due,
Judge Howell sends her a receipt,—not for any friendship he feels toward
her, but because she is Oliver’s grandmother, and he knows Mildred would
be pleased to have him do so.
Esther Bennett is dead; and the Judge, when he heard of it, brought his
fist down upon his knee, exclaiming:
“There’s one nuisance less in the world! Pity Madame Geraldine couldn’t
follow suit!”
But Geraldine bids fair to live to a good old age, though she is now
seldom seen in the streets of Boston, where the story of her perfidy is
known, and where her name has become a by-word of reproach. A crushed
and miserable woman, she drags out her days in the privacy of her own
home, sometimes weeping passionately as she reviews her sinful life, and
again railing bitterly at Lilian, not for anything in particular, but
because she is unhappy, and wishes to blame some one.
In Lilian there is little change. Weak-minded, easily influenced, and
affectionate, she has apparently forgotten her disappointment, and
almost every day finds her at Lawrence’s handsome house, where Mildred
welcomes her with her sweetest smile. In all the city there is no one so
enthusiastic in their praises of her cousin as herself, and no one who
listens to said praises as complacently as her Uncle Robert.
He is very fond of his daughter-in-law, very glad that she was not a
beggar’s child, and very grateful for the gold she brought him. In his
library there are _two_ portraits now instead of one, and he often
points them out to strangers, saying, proudly:
“This was taken for my wife, the famous beauty, Mildred Howell; while
this, is my son’s wife, another Mildred Howell, and the heiress of
untold wealth. Hers is a strange history, too,” he adds, and with a low
bow, the strangers listen, while in far less words than we have used, he
tells them the story we have told,—the story of Mildred with the starry
eyes and nut-brown hair.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Moved ad to the end.
2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.