CHAPTER V.LAWRENCE THORNTON AND HIS ADVICE.
The fact that Mildred had dared go up to Beechwood and claim Judge Howell as her father, did not tend in the least to improve her situation, for regarding it as proof that she would, if she could, abandon the gable-roof, Aunt Hepsy became more unamiable than ever, keeping the child from school, and imposing upon her tasks which never could have been performed but for Oliver’s assistance. Deep and dark were the waters through which Mildred was passing now, and in the coming future she saw no ray of hope, but behind that heavy cloud the sun was shining bright and only a little way beyond, the pastures lay all green and fair.
But no such thoughts as these intruded themselves upon her mind on the Sabbath afternoon when, weary and dejected, she stole from the house, unobserved even by Oliver, and wended her way to the river bank. It was a warm November day, and seating herself upon the withered grass beneath the sycamore, she watched the fadedleaves as they dropped into the stream and floated silently away. In the quiet Sabbath hush there was something very soothing to her irritated nerves, and she ere long fell asleep, resting her head upon the twisted roots, which made almost as soft a pillow as the scanty one of hen’s feathers on which she was accustomed to repose.
She had not lain there long when a footstep broke the stillness, and a boy, apparently about fourteen or fifteen years of age, drew near, pausing suddenly as his eye fell upon the sleeping child.
“Belongs to some one of the Judge’s poor tenants, I dare say,” he said to himself, glancing at her humble dress, and he was about passing her by, when something in her face attracted his attention, and he stopped for a nearer view.
“Who is she like?” he said, and he ran over in his mind a list of his city friends, but among them all there was no face like this one. “Where have I seen her?” he continued, and determining not to leave the spot until the mystery was solved, he sat down upon a stone near by. “She sleeps long; she must be tired,” he said at last, as the sun drew nearer to the western horizon, and there were still no signs of waking. “I know she’s mighty uncomfortable with her neck on that sharp point,” he continued, and drawing near he substituted himself for the gnarled roots which had hitherto been Mildred’s pillow.
Something the little girl said in her sleep ofOliver, whom she evidently fancied was with her, and then her brown head nestled down in the lap of the handsome boy, who smoothed her hair gently, while he wondered more and more whom she was like. Suddenly it came to him, and he started so quickly that Mildred awoke, and with a cry of alarm at the sight of an entire stranger, sprang to her feet as if she would run away. But the boy held her back, saying pleasantly:
“Not so fast, my little lady. I haven’t held you till my arms ache for nothing. Come here and tell me who you are.”
His voice and manner both were winning, disarming Mildred of all fear, and sitting down, as he bade her do, she answered:
“I am Mildred,—and that’s all.”
“Mildred,—and that’s all!” he repeated. “You surely have some other name! Who is your father?”
“I never had any, Judge Howell says, and my mother put me in a basket, and left me up at Beechwood, ever so long ago. It thundered and lightened awfully, and I wish the thunder had killed me before I was as tired and sorry as I am now. There’s nobody to love me anywhere but Richard and Oliver, and Richard, I guess, is dead, while Oliver has crippled feet, and if he grows to be a man he can’t earn enough for me and him, and I’ll have to stay with grandmother till I die. Oh, I wish it couldbe now; and I’ve held my breath a lot of times to see if I couldn’t stop breathing, but I always choke and come to life!”
All the boy’s curiosity was roused. He had heard before of the infant left at Judge Howell’s, and he knew now that she sat there before him,—a much-abused, neglected child, with that strange look upon her face which puzzled him just as it had many an older person.
“Poor little girl,” he said. “Where do you live, and who takes care of you? Tell me all about it;” and adroitly leading her on, he learned the whole story of her life,—how since the woman died she once thought was her mother she had scarcely known a happy day. Old Hepsy was so cross, putting upon her harder tasks than she could well perform,—beating her often, and tyrannizing over her in a thousand different ways.
“I used to think it was bad enough when I thought she was related,” said Mildred, “but now I know she hain’t no right, it seems a hundred times worse,—and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’d run away,” suggested the boy; and Mildred replied:
“Run where? I was never three miles from here in my life.”
“Run to Boston,” returned the boy. “That’s where I live. Cousin Geraldine wants a waiting-maid, and though she’d be mighty overbearing, father would begood, I guess, and so would Lilian,—she’s just about your size.”
“Who is Lilian?” Mildred asked, and he replied:
“I call her cousin, though she isn’t at all related. Father’s sister Mary married Mr. Veille, and died when Geraldine was born. Ever so many years after uncle married again and had Lilian, but neither he nor his second wife lived long, and as father was appointed guardian for Geraldine and Lilian, they have lived with us ever since. Geraldine is proud, but Lilian is a pretty little thing. You’ll like her if you come.”
“Shouldyoube there?” Mildred asked, much more interested in the handsome boy than in Lilian Veille.
“I shall be there till I go to college,” returned the boy; “but Geraldine wouldn’t let you have much to say to me, she’s so stuck up, and feels so big. The boys at school told me once that she meant I should marry Lilian, but I sha’n’t if I don’t want to.”
Mildred did not answer immediately, but sat thinking intently, with her dark eyes fixed upon the stream running at her feet. Something in her attitude reminded the boy a second time of the resemblance which had at first so impressed him, and turning her face more fully toward him, he said:
“Do you know that you look exactly as my mother did?”
Mildred started eagerly. The old burning desire toknow who she was, or whence she came, was awakened, and grasping the boy’s hand, she said:
“Maybe you’re my brother, then. Oh, I wish you was! Come down to the brook, where the sun shines; we can see our faces there and know ifwelook alike.”
She had grasped his arm and was trying to draw him forward, when he dashed all her newly-formed hopes by saying:
“It is my step-mother you resemble; she that was the famous beauty, Mildred Howell.”
“That pretty lady in the frame?” said Mildred, rather sadly. “Widow Simms says I look like her. And was she your mother?”
“She was father’s second wife,” returned the boy, “and I am Lawrence Thornton, of Boston.”
Seeing that the name, “Lawrence Thornton,” did not impress the little girl as he fancied it would, the boy proceeded to give her an outline history of himself and family, which last, he said, was one of the oldest, and richest, and most aristocratic in the city.
“Have you any sisters?” Mildred asked, and Lawrence replied:
“I had a sister once, a good deal older than I am. I don’t remember her much, for when I was five years old,—that’s ten years ago,—she ran off with her music teacher, Mr. Harding, and never came back again; andabout a year later, we heard that she was dead, and that there was a girl-baby that died with her——”
“Yes; but what of the beautiful lady, your mother?” chimed in Mildred, far more interested in Mildred Howell than in the baby reported to have died with Lawrence’s sister Helen.
Lawrence Thornton did not know that the far-famed “starry eyes” of sweet Mildred Howell had wept bitter tears ere she consented to do her father’s bidding and wed a man many years her senior, and whose only daughter was exactly her own age; neither did he know how from the day she wore her bridal robes, looking a very queen, she had commenced to fade,—for Autumn and May did not go well together, even though the former were gilded all over with gold. He only had a faint remembrance that she was to him a playmate rather than a mother, and that she seemed to love to have him kiss her and caress her fair round cheek far better than his father. So he told this last to Mildred, and told her, too, how his father and Judge Howell both had cried when they stood together by her coffin.
“And Richard,” said Mildred,—“was Richard there?”
Lawrence did not know, for he was scarcely four years old when his step-mother died.
“But I have seen Richard Howell,” he said; “I saw him just before he went away. He came to Boston to see Cousin Geraldine, I guess, for I’ve heard since thatJudge Howell wanted him to marry her when she got big enough. She was only thirteen then, but that’s a way the Howells and Thorntons have of marrying folks a great deal older than themselves. You don’t catch me at any such thing, though. How old are you, Mildred?”
Lawrence Thornton hadn’t the slightest motive in asking this question, neither did he wait to have it answered; for, observing that the sun was really getting very low in the heavens, he arose, and, telling Mildred that dinner would be waiting for him at Beechwood, where he was now spending a few days, he bade her good-by, and walked rapidly away.
As far as she could see him Mildred followed him with her eyes, and when, at last, a turn in the winding path hid him from her view, she resumed her seat upon the twisted roots and cried, for the world to her was doubly desolate now that he was gone.
“He was so bright, so handsome,” she said, “and he looked so sorry like when he said ‘poor little Milly!’ Oh, I wish he would stay with me always!”
Then she remembered what he had said to her of going to Boston, and she resolved that when next old Hepsy’s treatment became harsher than she could bear, she would surely follow his advice and run away to Boston, perhaps, and be waiting-maid to Miss Geraldine Veille. She had no idea what the duties of a waiting-maid were, but no situation could be worse than her present one, and thenLawrence would be there a portion of the time at least. Yes, she would certainly run away, she said; nor was it very long ere she had an opportunity of carrying her resolution into effect, for as the weather grew colder, Hepsy, who was troubled with rheumatism and corns, became intolerably cross and one day punished Mildred for a slight offense far more severely than she had ever done before.
“I can’t stay,—I won’t stay,—I’ll go this very night!” thought Mildred, as blow after blow fell upon her uncovered neck and arms.
Then as her eye fell upon the white-faced Oliver, who apparently suffered more than herself, she felt a moment’s indecision. Oliver would miss her,—Oliver would cry when he found that she was gone, but Lawrence Thornton would get him a place as chore boy somewhere near her, and then they would be so happy in the great city, where Hepsy’s tongue could not reach them. She did not think that money would be needed to carry her to Boston, for she had been kept so close at home that she knew little of the world, and she fancied that she had only to steal away to the depot unobserved, and the rest would follow, as a matter of course. The conductor would take her when she told him of Hepsy, as she meant to do, and once in the city anybody would tell her where Lawrence Thornton lived. This being satisfactorily settled, her next step was to pin up in acotton handkerchief her best calico dress and pantalets, for if the Lady Geraldine were proud as Lawrence Thornton had said, she would want her waiting-maid to look as smart as possible.
Accordingly the faded frock and dimity pantalets, which had not been worn since that memorable visit to Beechwood, were made into a bundle, Mildred thinking the while how she would put them on in the woods, where there was no danger of being detected by old Hepsy, who was screaming for her to come down and fill the kettle.
“It’s the last time I shall do it,” thought Mildred, as she descended the stairs and began to make her usual preparation for the supper, and the little girl’s step was lighter at the prospect of her release from bondage.
But every time she looked at Oliver, who was suffering from a sick headache, the tears came to her eyes, and she was more than once tempted to give up her wild project of running away.
“Dear Oliver,” she whispered, when at last the supper was over, the dishes washed, the floor swept, and it was almost time for her to go. “Dear Oliver,” and going over to where he sat, she pressed her hand upon his throbbing temples,—“you are the dearest, kindest brother that ever was born, and you must remember how much I love you, if anything should happen.”
Oliver did not heed the last part of her remark, heonly knew he liked to have her warm hand on his forehead, it made him feel better, and placing his own thin fingers over it he kept it there a long time, while Mildred glanced nervously at the clock, whose constantly moving minute-hand warned her it was time to go. Immediately after supper Hepsy had taken her knitting and gone to spend the evening with Widow Simms, and in her absence Mildred dared do things she would otherwise have left undone. Kneeling down by Oliver and laying her head upon his knee, she said:
“If I should die or go away forever, you’ll forgive me, won’t you, for striking you in the barn that time, and laughing at your feet. I was mad, or I shouldn’t have done it, I’ve cried about it so many times,” and she laid her hand caressingly upon the poor, deformed feet turned backward beneath her chair.
“Oh, I never think of that,” answered Oliver; “and if you were to die, I should want to die, too, ’twould be so lonesome without little Milly.”
Poor Milly! She thought her heart would burst, and nothing but a most indomitable will could have sustained her; kissing him several times she arose, and making some excuse, hurried away up to her room. It took but a moment to put on her bonnet and shawl, and stealing noiselessly down the stairs, she passed out into the winter darkness, pausing for a moment beneath the uncurtained window, to gaze at Oliver, sitting there alone, the dimfire-light shining on his patient face and falling on his hair. He did not see the brown eyes filled with tears, nor the forehead pressed against the pane, neither did he hear the whispered words, “Good-by, darling Oliver, good-by,” but he thought the room was darker, while the shadows in the corner seemed blacker than before, and he listened eagerly for the footsteps coming down, but listened in vain, for in the distance, with no company save the gray December clouds and her own bewildered thoughts, a little figure was hurrying away to the far off city,—and away to Lawrence Thornton.
Fleuron