CHAPTER XVII.THE DESERTED HUT.
It was a tumble-down old shanty, which for many years had been uninhabited save by the bats and the swallows, which darted through the wide chinks in the crumbling wall, or plunged down the dilapidated chimney, filling the weird ruin with strange, unearthly sounds, and procuring for it the reputation of being haunted ground. The path leading to it was long and tedious, for after leaving the river bridge, it wound around the base of a hill, beneath the huge forest trees, which now in the dusky twilight threw their grim shadows over every near object, and insensibly affected the spirits of the three who came each moment nearer and nearer to the hut.
“There, Clubs and I will stay here, I guess,” said the Judge, stopping beneath a tall hemlock, which grew within a dozen rods of the building.
Mildred made no answer, but moved resolutely on until she had crossed the threshold of the hut, where sheinvoluntarily paused, while a nameless feeling of terror crept over her, everything around her was so gloomy and so still.
In the farthest extremity of the apartment a single spot of moonlight, shining through the rafters above, fell upon the old-fashioned cupboard, from which two rats, startled by Mildred’s steps, sprang out, and, running across the floor, disappeared in the vicinity of the broad stone hearth. Aside from this there was no sign of life, and Mildred was beginning to think of turning back, when a voice, between a whisper and a hiss, came to her ear from the dark corner where the shadows lay deepest, and where a human form crouched upon the floor.
“Mildred Howell,” the voice said, “is that you?”
Instantly Mildred grasped the oaken mantel to keep herself from falling; for, with that question, the human form arose and came so near to her that the haggish face and projecting tooth were plainly visible.
“You tremble,” the figure said; “but you need not be afraid. I am not here to hurt you. I loved your mother too well for that.”
There was magic in that word, and it unlocked at once the daughter’s heart and divested it of all fear. Just then the moon passed from under a cloud, and through a paneless window, shone full upon the eager, expectant face of the beautiful young girl, who, grasping the hand of the strange old woman, said, imploringly:
“Did you really know my mother,—my own mother?”
“Yes,” returned the woman; “I knew her well. I was with her when she died. I laid her in the coffin. I followed her to the grave, carrying you in my arms, and then I did with you what she bade me do,—I laid you at Judge Howell’s door, and stood watching in the rain until he took you in.”
She spoke rapidly, and, to Oliver, who had drawn so near that he could distinctly hear the whole, it seemed as if she were repeating some lesson learned by rote; but Mildred had no such thought, and, pressing the bony arm, she asked:
“But who am I? What is my name? Who was my father? and am I like my mother?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to make out,” returned the woman, peering closer into her face, and adding, after a minute survey: “Not like her at all. You are more like the Howells; and well you may be, for your poor mother wore her knees almost to the bone praying that you might resemble them.”
“Then I am a Howell!—I am a Howell! and Richard was my father! Oh, joy, joy!” and the wild, glad cry went ringing through the ghostly ruin, as Mildred thus gave vent to what she had so long and secretly cherished in her heart.
“Mildred”—and in the old woman’s voice there was something which made the young girl shudder—“there isnot a drop of Howell blood in all your veins; but look!” and drawing from her skinny bosom a worn, soiled letter, she held it up in the moonlight, saying: “This your mother wrote two days before she died. It does not belong to you, for it is intended for your grandfather. I promised to give it to him, should it ever be necessary for him to know; but you may read it, girl. It will explain the whole better than I can.”
“How can I read it here?” Mildred asked, and her companion replied by striking a match across the hearth, and lighting a bit of candle, which she brought from the depths of her pocket.
Holding it between her thumb and finger, she said:
“You see I’ve come prepared; but sit down, child. You’ll need to, maybe, before you get through,” and she pushed a block of wood toward Mildred, who sat down, while all through her frame the icy chills were running, as if she saw the fearful gulf her feet were treading.
“Tell me first one thing,” she said, grasping the woman’s dress. “Tell me, am I greatly inferior to Lawrence Thornton?”
Oh, that horrid, horrid smile, which broke over the old hag’s face, and made the one long tooth seem starting from the shrivelled gums, as she replied:
“You are fully Lawrence Thornton’s equal.”
“Then I can bear anything,” said Mildred; and opening the letter she pressed to her lips the delicate, thoughrather uneven handwriting, said to have been her mother’s.
It was dated in New York, nearly eighteen years before, and its contents were as follows:
“Dear, Dear Father:—Though you cast me off and turned me from your door, you are very dear to me; and should these lines ever come to you, pray think kindly of the erring child, whose fault was loving one so unworthy of her, for I did love Charlie, and I love him yet, although he has cruelly deserted me just when I need his care the most. Father, I am dying; dying all alone in this great city. Charlie is in New Orleans, gambling, drinking, and utterly forgetting me, who gave up everything for him.
“On the pillow beside me lies my little girl-baby; and when I look at her I wish that I might live, but, as that cannot be, I must do for her the best I can. Charlie said to me when he went away, that after baby was born he should come back and take her from me, so as to extort money from you, and he would do it, too, if he had an opportunity, but I’d rather see her dead than under his wicked influence; so I shall put her where he cannot find her.
“Once, father, I thought to send her to you, but the remembrance of your words: ‘May you be cursed, and your children,’ was ringing in my ears, and I said, ‘he shall not have a chance to wreak his vengeance on my child. Strangers will be kinder far than my own flesh and blood,’ so I have resolved to send her to Judge Howell. ’Tis a queer place, but I can think of nothing better. He is alone in his great house, and who knows but he may adopt her as his own.
“I have called her Mildred, too, praying earnestly that she may look like Mildred of the starry eyes and nut-brown hair, for that would soften the old Judge’s heart toward her. I have written tohim an anonymous letter asking him to take her, and when I am dead, faithful Esther Bennett, who is nursing me, will take it and my baby to —— in Maine, where her sister lives. There she will mail the letter, and whether the Judge answers it or not, she will in a short time secretly convey Milly to his door, watching until some one takes her in.
“Then she will look after my child, and if in coming years circumstances arise which seem to make it necessary for Mildred to know her parentage, she will seek her out, tell her who she is and carry you this letter. You may think me crazy to adopt this plan, and so, perhaps, I am. But my husband, who is her lawful protector, shall not have her, and as I do not care to burden you withHawley’s brats, as you once termed any children which I might have, I shall send it to Beechwood.
“My strength is failing me, father, and in a day or so I shall be dead. I wish I could see you all once more, particularlyLawrence, my darling littlebrother Lawrence. Baby looks some like him, I think, and should she ever come to you, bid him love his little niece for his dead sister Helen’s sake——”
Mildred could not read another line—there was a sound like the fall of many waters in her ears,—the blood seemed curdling in her veins, and her very finger-tips tingled with one horrid, maddening thought.
“Lawrence,—Lawrence,—little niece,” she moaned, and with eyes black as midnight, and face of a marble hue, she turned to the superscription, which she had not observed before, reading as she expected:
“Robert Thornton, Esq.,Boston, Mass.”
“Robert Thornton, Esq.,Boston, Mass.”
“Robert Thornton, Esq.,Boston, Mass.”
“Robert Thornton, Esq.,
Boston, Mass.”
“Oh, Heaven!” she cried, rocking to and fro. “Isn’t it a dream. Isn’t there some mistake? Tell me, dear, good woman, tell me, is it true?” and in her unutterable agony she knelt abjectly before the witch-like creature, who answered back:
“Poor, poor Milly. Itistrue. All true, or I would not come here to save you from a marriage with your mother’s brother,—your own uncle, girl.”
“Stop!” and Mildred screamed with anguish; “I will not know that name. Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, you are surely lost to me for ever and ever!”
There was a rustling movement, and then Mildred lay with her face upon the threshold of the door.
“Hurry up, Clubs, for Heaven’s sake. I’ve stuck a confounded stub through my boot,” cried the Judge, limping with pain, as he went wheezing to the spot which Oliver had reached long before him.
From his position beneath the window, Oliver had heard the entire conversation, but not knowing the contents of the letter, he was at a loss to comprehend how Lawrence Thornton could be Mildred’s uncle. Something, however, had affected her terribly, he knew, for there was no mistaking the look of hopeless suffering stamped upon the rigid face he lifted gently up and rested on his arm.
“What is it, Clubs? What’s the row? Let me take her,” and the panting Judge relieved Oliver of the faintinggirl, whom he held carefully in his arms, talking to her the while in his own peculiar way. “There, there, honey. What is it? Come to a little, can’t you? Open your eyes, won’t you? and don’t look so much as though you were dead.” Then feeling for her pulse, he screamed: “She is dead, Clubs! She is dead! and you, old long-toothed madame,” shaking his fist at the old hag Esther Bennett, “you killed her with some blasted lie, and I’ll have you hung up by the heels on the first good tree I find. Do you hear?”
Having thus relieved his mind, the excited Judge carried Mildred into the open air, which roused her for a moment, but when she saw Esther Bennett she sank back again into the same death-like swoon, moaning faintly:
“Oh, Lawrence, Lawrence, lost forever!”
“No he ain’t,—no he ain’t,” said the Judge, but his words fell on deaf ears, and turning to Oliver, who had been hastily reading the letter, he asked what it was.
“Listen,” and in a voice which trembled with strong emotion, Oliver read it through, while the Judge’s face dropped lower and lower until it rested upon the cold, white forehead of Mildred, who lay so helpless in his arms.
“Bob Thornton’s grandchild,” he whispered. “Bob Thornton’s grandchild! Must I then lose my little Milly?” and great tears, such as Judge Howell only could shed, fell like rain on Mildred’s face.
“There may be some mistake,” suggested Oliver, and catching at once the idea, the Judge swore roundly that there was a mistake. “Needn’t tell him; blamed if he’d believe that ’twa’n’t some big lie got up by somebody for something,” and turning to the woman he demanded of her savagely to confess the fraud.
But Esther Bennett answered him:
“It is all true, sir; true! I am sorry now that I kept it so long, for I never wanted to harm Miss Helen’s child. Sure she has a bonny face, but she’ll die, sir, lying so long in that faint.”
This turned the channel of the Judge’s thoughts, and, remembering that not far away there was a little stream, he arose, and, forgetting his wounded foot, walked swiftly on, bidding Esther follow, as he wished to question her further on the subject. To this she did not seem at all averse, but went with him willingly, answering readily all the questions which Oliver put to her, and appearing through the whole to be sincere in what she said. The cold water which they sprinkled copiously on Mildred’s face and neck restored her for a moment, but, with a shudder, she again lay back in the arms of the Judge, who, declaring her as light as a feather, hobbled on, giving her occasionally a loving hug, and whispering, as he did so: “Hanged if they make me believe it. Bobum don’t get her after I’ve made my will, and all that.”
By the drawing-room window Geraldine was sitting, andwhen, by the moonlight, she saw the strange procession moving up the Cold Spring path, she went out to meet it, asking anxiously what had happened.
“Clubs can tell you,” returned the Judge, hurrying on with Mildred, while Oliver explained to Geraldine what he knew, and then referred her to Esther Bennett for any further information.
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Geraldine, while in her eyes there was a glitter of delight, as she fell back with Esther, and began a most earnest conversation.
Carrying Mildred to her room, Judge Howell laid her upon the bed as gently as if she had been an infant, and then bent over her until she came fully back to consciousness and asked him where she was.
“Oh, I remember now!” she said. “A horrid thing came to me down in the hut, and Lawrence is lost for ever and ever!”
“No, he ain’t; it’s all a blasted lie!” said the Judge, and instantly on Mildred’s face there broke a smile of such joy that Oliver, who had entered the room, cried out:
“It’s cruel to deceive her so, Judge Howell, until we know for certain that the woman’s story is false.”
Like a hunted deer Mildred’s eyes turned from one to the other, reading everywhere a confirmation of her fears, and, with a low piercing cry, she moaned:
“It’s true, it’s true! he is lost forever! Oh, Oliver!can’t you comfort me a little? You never failed me before; don’t leave me now when I need it the most!” and she wound her arms convulsively round his neck.
Oliver had his suspicions, but as he could give no reason for them he would not rouse hopes which might never be realized, and he only answered through his tears:
“I would like to comfort you, Milly, if I could; but I can’t,—I can’t!”
“Mildred!” It was Geraldine who spoke, and Mildred involuntarily shuddered as she heard the voice. “Uncle Robert once saw the woman who took care of Cousin Helen, and talked with her of his daughter and the baby, both of whom she declared to be dead. Had we not better send for him at once, and see if he remembers this creature,” nodding toward Esther Bennett, who had also entered the room. “He surely cannot mistake her if he ever saw her once.”
Oliver looked to see the hag make some objections, but, to his surprise, she said eagerly:
“Yes, send for him. He will remember me, for he came to New York just three days after I left the baby at this door. He is a tall man, slightly bald, with black eyes, and coarse black hair, then beginning to be gray.”
Mildred groaned as did Oliver, for the description was accurate, while even the Judge brought his fist down upon the table, saying:
“Bob to a dot! but hanged if I believe it! We’ll telegraph though in the morning.”
The result of the telegram was that at a late hour the next night Mr. Thornton rang the bell at Beechwood, asking anxiously why he had been sent for in such haste.
“Because,” answered the Judge, who met him first, “maybe you’ve a grandchild upstairs, and maybe you hain’t!”
“A grandchild!” gasped Mr. Thornton, all manner of strange fancies flitting through his brain. “What can you mean?”
By this time Geraldine appeared, and hastily explaining to him what had occurred, she asked “if he could identify the woman who took care of Helen in New York?”
“Yes, tell her from a thousand, but not now, not now,” and motioning her away, Mr. Thornton covered his face with his hand, and whispered faintly, “Mygrandchild! My Mildred! That beautiful creature Helen’s child!” and with all his softer feelings awakened, the heart of the cold, stern man yearned toward the young girl he had once affected to despise. “Poor boy,” he said, as he thought of Lawrence, “’twill be terrible to him, for his whole soul was bound up in her. Where is this woman? There may be some mistake. I trust there is, for the young people’s sake,” and the generous feeling thus displayed swept away at once all animosity from the Judge’s heart.
“Describe her first as nearly as you can,” said Geraldine, and after thinking a moment Mr. Thornton replied:
“Tall, grizzly; badly marked with small-pox, and had then one or more long teeth in front, which gave her a most haggish appearance.”
“The same, the same!” dropped from Oliver’s lips, while the Judge, too, responded:
“It’s all almighty queer, but blasted if I believe it!”
At Mr. Thornton’s request, Esther Bennett came in, and the moment his eyes fell upon her, he said:
“’Tis the woman I saw eighteen years ago; I cannot be mistaken in that.”
“Question her,” whispered Geraldine, who seemed quite excited in the matter, and Mr. Thornton did question her, but if she were deceiving them she had learned her lesson well, for no amount of cross-questioning could induce her to commit herself.
Indeed she seemed, in spite of her looks, to be a sensible, straightforward woman, who was doing what she felt to be her duty.
“She had never lost sight of Mildred,” she said; “and knowing that Judge Howell had adopted her, she had concluded not to divulge the secret until she heard that she was to marry Lawrence. But have you read the letter?” she asked. “That will prove that I am not lying.”
“Surely,” chimed in Geraldine. “I had forgottenthat,” and she handed to Mr. Thornton his daughter’s letter, which he read through, saying, when he had finished:
“It is Helen’s handwriting, and it must be true.”
Then passing it to the Judge he asked if it resembled the letter he received from the Maine woman.
“Good thunder, how do I know,” returned the Judge. “I tore that into giblets. I can’t remember eighteen years; besides that, I’m bound not to believe it, hanged if I do. I’ve made up my mind latterly that Gipsy belonged to Dick, and I’ll be blamed if I don’t stick to that through thick and thin.”
But whatever the Judge might wish to believe, he was obliged to confess that the evidence was against him, and when at an early hour the next morning the four assembled again for consultation, he said to Mr. Thornton:
“You want to see your granddaughter, I suppose?”
“I’d like to, yes,” was the reply, to which the Judge responded:
“Well, come along, though hanged if I believe it.”
From Geraldine, Mildred had learned what Mr. Thornton said, and that he would probably wish to see her in the morning. This swept away the last lingering hope, and with a kind of nervous terror she awaited his visit, trembling when she heard him in the hall, and looking fearfully round for some means of escape.
“Here, Milly,” said the Judge, bustling up to her and forcing a levity he did not feel, “here’s yourgrandfathercome to see you.”
“No, no, no,” sobbed Mildred, creeping closer to the Judge and hiding her white face in her hands.
“There, Bobum,” said the Judge, smoothing her disordered hair and dropping a tear upon it. “You see she don’t take kindly to her newgrandad. Better give it up, for I tell you it’s a big lie.”
“Mildred,” said Mr. Thornton, seating himself upon the side of the bed, and taking one of the little feverish hands in his, “there can be no doubt that what we have heard is true, and if so, you are my child, and as such very dear to me. You are young yet, darling, and though your disappointment, as far as Lawrence is concerned, is terrible, you will overcome it in time. The knowing he is your uncle will help you so to do, and you will be happy with us yet. Don’t you think so, dear?”
“Bobum, you’ve made a splendid speech,” returned the Judge, when he had finished. “Couldn’t have done better myself, but it fell on stony ground, for look,” and lifting up the beautiful head, he showed him that Mildred had fainted.
“Poor girl, poor girl,” whispered Mr. Thornton; and the tears of both of those hard old men dropped on Mildred’s face, as they bent anxiously over her.
It was, indeed, a dreadful blow to Mildred, for turnwhich way she would, there shone no ray of hope. Even Oliver deserted her as far as comfort was concerned, for he had none to offer.
A day or so brought Lilian to Beechwood,—all love, all sweetness, all sympathy for Mildred, whom shecousinedtwenty times an hour, and who shrunk from her caresses just as she did from both Geraldine and Mr. Thornton.
“Oh, if I could go away from here for a time,” she thought, “I might get over it, perhaps; but it will kill me to see Lawrence when he comes. I can’t, I can’t; oh, isn’t there somewhere to go?”
Then suddenly remembering that not long before she had received an invitation to visit a favorite teacher, who was now married and lived in a hotel among the New Hampshire hills, she resolved to accept it, and go for a few weeks, until Lawrence returned and had learned the whole.
“I shall feel better there,” she said to the Judge and Oliver, to whom she communicated her plan. “Mrs. Miller will be kind to me, and when it’s all over here, and they are gone, you must write, and I’ll come back to stay with you forever, for I won’t live with Mr. Thornton, were he one hundred times my grandfather!”
This last pleased the Judge so much that he consented at once for Mildred to go, saying it possibly would do her good. Then, repeating to himself the name of the place where Mrs. Miller lived, he continued:
“What doIknow ofDresden? Oh, I remember, Hetty Kirby is buried there. Hetty Kirby; Hetty Kirby.” He looked as if there was something more he would say of Hetty Kirby, but he merely added: “Maybe I’ll come for you myself. I’d go with you if it wasn’t for my confounded toe.” Once he glanced at his swollen foot, which had been badly hurt on the night of his visit to the hut, and was now so sore that in walking he was obliged to use a crutch.
“I’d rather go alone,” said Mildred, and after a little further conversation it was arranged that in two days’ time she should set off for Dresden, first apprising Mrs. Miller by letter of all that had occurred, and asking her to say nothing of the matter, but speak of her asMiss Hawley, that being the name to which she supposed herself entitled.
This being satisfactorily settled, Mr. Thornton and Geraldine were both informed of Mildred’s intentions.
“A good idea,” said Geraldine. “Change of place will do her good, but I think Lily and I had better remain here until Lawrence arrives. A letter will not find him now, and as he intends stopping at Beechwood on his return, he will know nothing of it until he reaches here.”
The Judge would rather have been left alone, but he was polite enough not to say so, though he did suggest that Esther Bennett, at least, should leave, a hint uponwhich she acted at once, going back to New York that very day.
Mildred would rather that Geraldine and Lilian too should have gone, but as this could not be she stipulated in their presence that Oliver and no other should break the news to Lawrence,—“he would do it so gently,” she said, and she bade him say to Lawrence that “though she never could forget him, she did not wish to see him. She could not bear it, and he must not come after her.”
Oliver promised compliance with her request, and the next morning she left Beechwood, accompanied by Mr. Thornton, who insisted upon going with her as far as the station, where she must leave the cars and take the stage to Dresden, a distance of ten miles. Here he bade her good-by, with many assurances of affection and good-will, to none of which Mildred listened. Her heart was too full of grief to respond at once to this new claimant for her love, and she was glad when he was gone and she alone with her sorrow.
Flowers