CHAPTER XIX.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 Lawrenceboth 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: “Theydohave 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 hispale, 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 personfrom 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: “Nota 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.IsMildred 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 wasbought, 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, butknowing 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.