CHAPTER XX.OLIVER AND MILDRED.
Oh, what a weary, weary road it was, winding up and up, and up, and seeming to the tired and heated Oliver as if it could never end, or Dresden be much nearer. Walking was always to him a slow process, and nothing but the thought of what lay beyond could have kept him up and moving on until his poor crippled feet were blistered and his head was throbbing with pain. Not once during that tedious journey did a single person pass him; all were going the other way, and the heroic Oliver was almost fainting from exhaustion when, from the brow of a steep hill, he saw the Dresden spire flashing in the sunlight, and knew he was almost there.
Mildred was alone in her chamber her head resting upon the soft pillows which little Edith had arranged, her hands clasped over her forehead, and her thoughts with Lawrence Thornton, when a servant entered, bearing acard, and saying that the gentleman who sent it was in the parlor below.
“Oliver Hawkins!” and Mildred almost screamed as she read the name. “Dear, dear Oliver! show him up at once.”
The servant departed, and in a moment the well-known step was heard upon the stairs, and darting forward, Mildred passed her arm round him, or he would have fallen, for he was very weak and faint.
“Mildred, dear Mildred!” was all he could, at first, articulate, and sinking upon the sofa, he motioned her to remove his shoes from his swollen feet.
“Did youwalkfrom the station?” she asked, in much surprise.
“Yes,” he whispered. “There was no one to bring me.”
“What made you? What made you?” she continued, and he replied:
“I couldn’t wait, for I have come to bring you joyful news; to tell you that you are free to marry Lawrence,—that you are not his father’s grandchild. It was all a wicked fraud got up by Geraldine Veille, who would have Lawrence marry her sister. I heard her telling grandmother last night, and hiring her to say she found a paper among my mother’s things confirming Esther Bennett’s story. Oh, Milly, Milly, you hurt,” he cried, as in her excitement she pressed hard upon his blistered feet.
Those poor feet! How Mildred loved them then! How she pitied and caressed them, holding them carefully in her lap, and dropping tears upon them, as she thought of the weary way they had come to bring her this great joy,—this joy too good to be believed until Oliver related every particular, beginning with the time when Lawrence first came back to Beechwood. He did not, however, tell her how, day and night, until his own brain grew dizzy, he had sung to the maniac of the maid with the nut-brown hair, nor did he tell her of anything that he had done, except to overhear what Geraldine had said; but Mildred could guess it all,—could understand just how noble and self-denying he had been, and the blessings she breathed upon him came from a sincere heart.
“Oh, Olly, darling Olly,” she said, still caressing his wounded feet, “the news is too good to be true. I dare not hope again lest I be cruelly disappointed, and I could not bear another shock. I have suffered so much that my heart is almost numb; and though you tell me I am free to marry Lawrence, I’m afraid there’s some mistake, and that I am his sister Helen’s daughter after all. If I am not, Olly, who am I? Who was my mother?—where is she now? and where is my father?”
There were tears in Mildred’s eyes,—once they choked her utterance as she said these last words, which, nevertheless, were distinctly heard in the adjoining room where Richard Howell sat, his face as white as ashes, his eyes unnaturallybright, and a compressed look about the mouth as if he had received some dreadful shock,—something which shook his heartstrings as they never were shaken before. He was reading by his window when Mildred met Oliver in the hall, and through the open door he heard distinctly the name “Mildred, dear Mildred!” and heard the girl he knew as Minnie answer to that name. Then the lettered page before him was one solid blur, the room around him was enveloped in darkness, and with his hearing quickened he sat like a block of stone listening, listening, listening, till every uncertainty was swept away, and from the depths of his inmost soul came heaving up “Mychild!myMildred!” But though his heart uttered the words his lips gave forth no sound, and he sat there immovable, while the great drops of perspiration trickled down his face and fell upon his nerveless hands, folded so helplessly together. Then he attempted to rise, but as often sank back exhausted, for the shock had deprived him of his strength and made him weak as a little child.
But when Mildred asked, “Where is my father now?” he rose with wondrous effort, and tottering to her door, stood gazing at her with a look in which the tender love of eighteen years was all embodied. Oliver saw him first, for Mildred’s back was toward him, and to her he softly whispered, “Turn your head, Milly. There’s some one at the door.”
Then Mildred looked, but started quickly when she sawRichard Howell, every feature convulsed with the emotions he could not express, and his arms stretched imploringly toward her, as if beseeching her to come to their embrace.
“My daughter, my daughter!” he said, at last, and though it was but a whisper it reached the ear of Mildred, and with a scream of unutterable joy she went forward to an embrace such as she had never known before.
Oh, it was strange to see that strong man weep as he did over his beautiful daughter, but tears did him good, and he wept on until the fountain was dried up, murmuring, “My Mildred,—my darling,—my first-born,—my baby, Hetty’s and mine. The Lord be praised who brought me to see your face when I believed you dead!” and all the while he said this he was smoothing her shiny hair, looking into her eyes, and kissing her girlish face, so much like his own as it used to be, save that it was softer and more feminine.
Wonderingly Oliver looked at them, seeking in vain for a clew with which to unravel the mystery, but when Mildred, remembering him, at last said:
“Oliver, this is Richard Howell,” he needed nothing more to tell him that he had witnessed the meeting between a father and his child.
To Mildred the truth came suddenly with the words, “My daughter.” Like a flash of light it broke on her,—the secret marriage with Hetty Kirby,—her strong resemblanceto the Howells, and all the circumstances connected with her first arrival at Beechwood. There could be no mistake, and with a cry of joy she sprang to meet her father as we have described.
“I heard what he told you,” Richard said at last, motioning to Oliver. “I heard him call you Mildred, and from your conversation knew you were the child once left at my father’s door. You were my darling baby then; you are my beautiful Mildred now,” and he hugged her closer in his arms.
Very willingly Mildred suffered her fair head to rest upon his shoulder, for it gave to her a feeling of security she had never before experienced, for never before had she known what it was to feel a father’s heart throbbing in unison with her own. Suddenly a new thought occurred to her, and starting up, she exclaimed:
“Edith, father, Edith!”
“I’me tomein’, with lots of fowers,” answered a childish voice, and Oliver heard the patter of little feet in the hall.
In a moment she was with them, her curls blown over her face, and her white apron full of the flowers she had gathered for Minnie, “’cause she was so sick.”
“Precious little sister,” and Mildred’s arms closed convulsively around the wondering child, whose flowers were scattered over the carpet, and who thought more of gathering them up than of paying very close attention to whather father told her of Minnie’s beingMildred, her sister, who they thought was dead.
At last Edith began to understand, and rubbing her fat, round cheek against Mildred’s, she said:
“I so glad you be my sister, and have come back to us from heaven. Why didn’t you bring mamma and the baby with you?”
It was in vain they tried to explain; Edith was rather too young to comprehend exactly what they meant, and when there was a lull in the conversation, she whispered to Mildred:
“I knew most you was an angel, and some time mayn’t I see your wings and how you fly?”
The interview between Mildred and Edith helped to restore Richard’s scattered senses, and when the wing business was settled, he said to Mildred:
“Has my daughter no curiosity to know why I left her as I did, and why I have never been to inquire for her?”
“Yes, father,” answered Mildred, “I want so much to hear,—but I thought it might disturb you. Will you tell us now?” and nestling closer to his side, with Edith on her lap, she listened breathlessly, while he repeated to her what she did not already know.
“I have told you,” he said, “of my father’s bitterness toward Hetty Kirby, and how, with the help of a companion, whom I could trust, I took her to New York, and was married, but I did not tell you how, after the lapseof time, there was born to the beardless college boy a smiling little infant. As soon as possible I hastened to Hetty’s bedside, but the shadow of death was there before me, and one glance at her sweet young face assured me that she would die. ’Twas then that I regretted having kept our marriage a secret from my father, for I felt that I should need his sympathy in the dark hour coming. Something, too, must be done with you, so soon to be made motherless. Hetty was the first to suggest disposing of you as I did. She knew my education was not yet completed, and laying her soft hand on my head, she said: ‘My boy-husband wants to go through college, and if it becomes known that he has been married, those stern men may expel him. Your father, too, will turn you off, as soon as he learns that I have been your wife. I know how strong his prejudices are when once they have been roused, and if he knew our baby had in it a drop of Hetty’s blood, he would spurn it from him, and so he must not know it. My grandmother will not last long, and when we are both dead, send baby to him secretly. Don’t let him know who she is, or whence she came, until he has learned to love her. Then tell him she is yours.’
“This is what Hetty said; and in an unguarded moment I promised to do her bidding, for I was young and dreaded my father’s wrath. Not long after this Hetty died, with her baby folded to her bosom, and her lipsmurmuring a prayer that God would move the heart of the stern old Judge to care for her little waif.
“Her grandmother also died in a few days, and then, with the exception of the nurse, I was alone with you, my daughter, in that low brown house you visited with me, I little dreaming that the baby who in that west room first opened its eyes to the light of day was standing there beside me, a beautiful young maiden. Dresden is thinly populated now; it was far more so then, and of the few neighbors near, none seemed to be curious at all, and when told that I should take the child to my own home in Massachusetts, they made no particular comments. The same friend, Tom Chesebro, who had helped me in my marriage, now came to my aid again, planning and arranging the affair, even to the writing that letter, purporting to have come from Maine. He had relatives living in that vicinity, and as it was necessary for him to visit them, he left me a few days, and taking the letter with him, mailed it at one of the inland towns. When he returned we started together to Mayfield, and tolerably well skilled in the matters to which I was a novice, I found him of invaluable service in taking care of you, whom I carried in my arms. At Springfield he left me, taking you with him in a basket which he procured there, and giving you, as he afterward told me, something to make you sleep. I never could understand exactly how he contrived to avoid observation as he did, but it was dusk when he leftSpringfield, and the darkness favored him. He did not leave the cars at Mayfield, but at the next station got off on the side remote from the depot and striking across the fields to Beechwood, a distance of two miles. He had once spent a vacation there with me, and hence his familiarity with the localities. After placing you on the steps, he waited at a little distance until my father, or rather Tiger, took you in, and then, when it was time, went to the depot, where I met him as I was stepping from the car. In a whisper he assured me that all was safe, and with a somewhat lightened heart I hurried on.
“To a certain extent you know what followed; know that Hannah Hawkins took care of you for a time, while the villagers gossiped as villagers will, and my father swore lustily at them all. Several times I attempted to tell him, but his determined hatred of you decided me to wait until time and your growing beauty had somewhat softened his heart. At last my failing health made a change of climate necessary for me, and as Tom Chesebro was going on a voyage to the South Sea Islands, I decided to accompany him, and then, for the first time, confided my secret to Hannah Hawkins, bidding her put you in father’s way as much as possible, and, in case I died, to tell him who you were. Then I visited Hetty’s grave, determining while there to tell my father myself; and this, on my return, I endeavored to do, but the moment I confessed to him my marriage, he flew into a most violentrage, cursing me bitterly and ordering me to leave the room and never come into his presence again. Then when I suggested that there was more to tell, he said he had heard enough, and, with a hard, defiant feeling, I left him, resolving that it should be long before he saw my face again.
“We had a pleasant voyage, but remorse was gnawing at my heart, and when we reached our destined port, none thought theboy, as they called me, would ever cross the sea again. But I grew daily better, and when at last poor Tom died of a prevailing fever, I was able to do for him the very office he had expected to do for me.
“After a time I went to India, having heard nothing from home, although I had written to my father twice and to Hannah once. I am ashamed to confess it, my darling, but it is nevertheless the truth, that continued absence and the new scenes amid which I found myself in India, made me somewhat indifferent to you,—less anxious to see your face; and still when I had been gone from you nearly eight years, I resolved upon coming home, and was making my plans to do so when accident threw in my way a sick, worn-out sailor, just arrived from New York. He was suffering and I cared for him, learning by this means that he had friends in the vicinity of Beechwood, and that he had visited them just before his last voyage. Very adroitly I questioned him to see if he knew aught of the gable-roof, or the child adopted by Hannah Hawkins.He must have been misinformed, for he said that Hannah Hawkins and the little girl both were dead, and that one was buried while he was in Mayfield.”
“Oh, I can explain that,” interrupted Mildred; “I was very sick with scarlet fever when Hannah died. The doctor said I would not live; while Widow Simms, a wonderful gossip, reported that I was dead.”
“That must have been the cause of the misunderstanding,” returned Richard, “for the sailor told me you died of scarlet fever, and crediting his statement, I had no longer a desire to return, but remained in India, amassing wealth until I met with Edith’s mother. Owing to her blessed influence I became, as I trust, a better man, though I obstinately refused to write to my father, as she often wished me to do. On her death-bed, however, I promised that I would come home and comfort his old age. I knew he was alive, for I sometimes saw his name in the American papers which came in my way, but I had no conception of the joyful surprise awaiting me in Dresden,” and he fondly kissed Mildred’s glowing cheek.
“The moment I saw your face I was struck with its resemblance to my sister’s; and to myself I said: ‘If it were possible I should say that is my daughter.’ Then the thought came over me, ‘The sailor was perhaps mistaken,’ and I managed to learn your name, which swept away all hope, especially when afterwards you told me that your mother was Helen Thornton. There has evidentlybeen some deep-laid scheme to rob you both of your birth-right and of a husband, and, as I do not quite understand it, will you please explain to me what it is about this Geraldine Veille and Esther Bennett. Who is the latter, and why is she interested in you?”
Briefly as possible, Mildred told him of all that had come to her during his absence, of the fraud imposed upon her by Geraldine; of Oliver’s unfailing kindness, and how but for the wicked deception she would that night have been a bride.
“You only deferred the marriage until your father came,” said Mr. Howell, kissing her again, and telling her how, on the morrow, they would go together to Beechwood, and confronting the sinful Geraldine, overthrow her plans. “And you, young man,” he continued, turning to Oliver, “you, it seems, have been the truest friend my Milly ever had. For this I owe you a life-long debt of gratitude; and though I am perhaps too young to have been your father, you shall be to me henceforth a brother. My home shall be your home, and if money can repay you for your kindness, it shall be yours even to tens of thousands.”
With a choking voice, Oliver thanked the generous man, thinking to himself the while, that a home far more glorious than any Richard Howell could offer to his acceptance would ere long be his. But he did not say so, and whenMildred, in her old, impulsive way, wound her arms around his neck and said:
“Father cannot have you, Olly, for you will stay with me and be my own darling brother,” he gently put her from him saying:
“Yes, Milly, as long as I live I will be your brother.”
It was very late when they separated, for Mr. Howell was loath to leave his newly-recovered treasure, while Oliver was never weary of feasting his eyes upon Mildred’s beautiful, and now perfectly happy face. But they said good-night at last, Richard taking Oliver to his own room, where he could nurse his poor, bruised feet, while Mildred kept Edith with her, hugging her closer to her bosom as she thought: “Sheismy sister.”
At an early hour next morning the three assembled together again, and when the lumbering old stage rattled down the one long street, it carried Richard and Oliver, Mildred and Edith, the first two silent and thoughtful, the last two merry and glad as singing-birds, for the heart of one was full of “danfather Howell,” while the other thought only of Lawrence Thornton, and the blissful meeting awaiting her.