CHAPTER VIII.LAWRENCE AND HIS FATHER.
“Lawrence, step in here for a moment,” said Mr. Thornton; and Lawrence, equipped for travelling, with carpet-bag, duster, and shawl, followed his father into the library, where all the family edicts were issued and all the family secrets told. “Lawrence, Geraldine tells me you are going to Beechwood for three or four days.”
“Why, yes,” returned the son. “I received a letter from Lilian last night inviting me to come. I told you of it at the time, else my memory is very treacherous.”
“It may be,—I don’t remember,” said the father; “but Geraldine has given me a new idea about your going there, and it is for this that I have called you in. Lawrence do you love Lilian Veille?”
“Why do you ask me that question, when you know that I have always loved her?” was the reply, and Mr. Thornton continued: “Yes, yes, but how do you loveher,—as a sister,—as a cousin,—or as one whom you intend to make your wife?”
“I have been taught to think of her as one who was to be my wife, and I have tried to follow my instructions.”
“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Thornton, for Lawrence had risen to his feet. “I have not finished yet. Lilian has been with us for years, and I who have watched her carefully, know that in all the world there is not a purer, more innocent young girl. She is suited to you in every way. She has money,—her family is one of the first in the land, and more than all, she has been trained to believe that you would some day make her your bride.”
“Please come to the point,” interrupted Lawrence, consulting his watch. “What would you have me do?”
“I would have the matter settled while you are at Beechwood. She is eighteen now, you are twenty-three; I have made you my partner in business, and should like to see Lilian mistress of my house. So arrange it at once, instead of spending your time fooling with that girl, Mildred,” and with this the whole secret was out, and Lawrence knew why he had been called into the library and subjected to that lecture.
Mildred Howell was a formidable obstacle in the way of Lilian Veille’s advancement. This the lynx-eyed Geraldine had divined, and with her wits all sharpened, she guessed that not Lilian alone was taking the young man to Beechwood. So she dropped a note of warning intothe father’s ear, and now, outside the door, was listening to the conversation.
“I have never fooled with Mildred Howell,” said Lawrence, and his father rejoined quickly:
“How, then? Are you in earnest? Do you love her?”
“I am not bound to answer that,” returned Lawrence; “though I will say that in some respects I think her far superior to Lilian.”
“Superior!” repeated the father, pacing up and down the room. “Your superior women do not always make their husbands happy. Listen to me, boy,—I have been married twice. I surely ought to judge in these matters better than yourself. Your mother was a gentle, amiable creature, much like Lilian Veille. You inherit her disposition, though not her mind,—thank Heaven, not her mind! I was happy with her, but she died, and then I married one who was famed for her superior intellect quite as much as for the beauty of her person,—and what was the result? She never gave me a word or a look different from what she would have given to an entire stranger. Indeed, she seemed rather to avoid me, and, if I came near, she pretended always to be occupied either with a book or with you. And yet I was proud of her, Lawrence,—proud of my girlish bride, and when she died I shed bitter tears over her coffin.”
Lawrence Thornton was older now than when he sat upon the river bank, and told little Mildred Hawkins ofhis beautiful young step-mother, and he knew why she had shrunk from his father’s caresses and withered beneath his breath,—so he ventured at last to say:
“Mildred Howell was young enough to be your daughter, and should never have been your wife.”
“It was not that,—it was not that,” returned the father, stiffly. “There was no compulsion used; she was too intellectual,—too independent,—too high-tempered, I tell you, and this other one is like her in everything.”
“How do you account for that?” asked Lawrence, who had his own private theory with regard to Mildred’s parentage.
“I don’t account for it,” said Mr. Thornton. “I only know she is not at all connected with the Howells. She is the child of some poor wretch who will be claiming her one day. It would be vastly agreeable, wouldn’t it, to see a ragged pauper, or maybe something worse, ringing at our door, and claiming Mrs. Lawrence Thornton for her daughter! Lawrence, that of itself is a sufficient reason why you must not marry Mildred, even if there were no Lilian, who has a prior claim.”
“Father,” said Lawrence, “you think to disgust me, but it cannot be done. I like Mildred Howell. I think her the most splendid creature I ever looked upon; and were I a little clearer as to her family, Lilian’s interest might perhaps be jeopardized.”
“Thank Heaven, then, that her family is shrouded inmystery!” said Mr. Thornton, while Lawrence sat for a moment intently thinking.
Then suddenly springing up and seizing his father’s arm, he asked:
“Did you ever know for certain that the child of sister Helen died?”
“Know for certain? Yes. What put that idea into your head?” Mr. Thornton asked, and Lawrence replied:
“The idea was not really in there, for I know it is not so, though it might have been, I dare say; for, if I remember right, no one save an old nurse was with Helen when she died, while even that miserable Hawley, her husband, was in New Orleans.”
“Yes,” returned the father, “Hawley was away, and never, I think, came back to inquire after his wife or child, for he, too, died within the year.”
“Then how do you know Mildred is not that child?” persisted Lawrence,—not because he had the most remote belief that she was, but because he wished to see how differently his father would speak of her if there was the slightest possibility of her belonging to the Thornton line.
“I know she isn’t,” said the father. “I went to No. 20 —— Street myself, and talked with Esther Bennett, the old woman who took care of Helen, and then of the child until it died. She was a weird, haggish-looking creature, but it was the truth she told. No, you can’t impose that tale on me. This Mildred isnotmy grandchild.”
“For which I fervently thank Heaven,” was Lawrence’s response; and in these words the black-eyed Geraldine, watching by the door, read how dear Mildred Howell was to the young man, and how the finding her to be his sister’s child would be worse to him than death itself.
“He shall not win her, though,” she muttered between her glittering teeth, “if I can prevent it, and I think I can. That last idea is a good one, and I’ll jot it down in my book of memory for future use, if need be.”
Geraldine Veille was a cold-hearted, unprincipled woman, whose early affections had been blighted, and now at thirty-one she was a treacherous, intriguing creature, void of heart or soul, except where Lilian was concerned. In all the world there was nothing half so dear to the proud woman as her young half-sister, and, as some fierce tigress keeps guard over its only remaining offspring, so she watched with jealous eye to see that nothing harmed her Lilian. For Mildred Howell she had conceived a violent aversion, because she knew that one of Lawrence Thornton’s temperament could not fail to be more or less influenced by such glowing beauty and sparkling wit as Mildred possessed.
During the long vacation which Mildred spent in the family she had barely tolerated her, while Mildred’s open defiance of her opinions and cool indifference to herself had only widened the gulf between them. She had at first opposed Lilian’s visiting Beechwood, but when shesaw how her heart was bent upon it, she yielded the point, thinking the while that if Lawrence on his return showed signs of going, too, she would drop a hint into his father’s ear. Lawrence was going,—she had dropped her hint,—and, standing outside the door, she had listened to the result, and received a suggestion on which to act in case it should be necessary.
Well satisfied with her morning’s work, she glided up the stairs just as Lawrence came from the library and passed out into the street. His interview with his father had somewhat disturbed him, while at the same time it had helped to show him how strong a place Mildred had in his affections.
“And yet why should I think so much of her?” he said to himself, as he walked slowly on. “She never can be anything to me more than she is. I must marry Lilian, of course, just as I have always supposed I should. But I do wish she knew a little more. Only think of her saying, the other day, that New Orleans was in Kentucky, and Rome in Paris, she believed! How in the name of wonder did she manage to graduate?”
Mildred Howell, who sat next to Lilian at the examination, might perhaps have enlightened him somewhat, but as she was not there, he continued his cogitations.
“Yes, I do wonder how she happened to graduate, knowing as little of books as she does. She writes splendidly, though!” and, as by this time he had reached theWorcester depot, he stepped into a car and prepared to read again the letter received the previous night from Lilian. “She has a most happy way of committing her ideas to paper,” he thought. “There must be more in her head than her conversation indicates. Perhaps father is right, after all, in saying she will make a better wife than Mildred.”
Flowers