It was early the next morning when Mildred arose and stepping out upon the balcony looked toward the town which had changed so much since she was there last. Across the noisy little river which went dashingalong in its rocky bed at the foot of the mountain, one or two tall stacks of manufactories were belching forth their smoke, while new churches and hotels and villas dotted what had been pasture lands when she went away. Standing upon tiptoe she could see the chimney top of her old home, and just over it, up the mountain road, the evergreens in the cemetery where her father and Charlie were lying.
“I’ll go there some day alone and find their graves,” she was thinking when her husband joined her.
“I am sure you are better, you look so fresh and bright; but it is time you were getting ready for breakfast,” he said, as he gave her a little caress.
And Mildred was very bright when she at last went with her husband to the breakfast-room, a half-opened rose which he had gathered for her at her throat, and another at her belt. It was her first appearance at her own table, and Mr. Thornton led her proudly to her seat behind the coffee urn and looked at her admiringly while she assumed the rôle of mistress as naturally as if she had all her life been accustomed to her present surroundings. Alice had kissed her effusively as she came in, hoping she was quite well and thinking her more beautiful than on the previous day. Gerard, who was less demonstrative but more observant than his sister, greeted her cordially and then sat watching her, curious and puzzled by something in her face or manner or voice which seemed familiar to him.
“She is dazzlingly lovely. I wonder how Bessie will look beside her,” he thought, as after breakfast he started for the farm house as was his daily custom.
It was very warm that morning and Mildred had seated herself with a book upon the shaded balconyopening from her room, when word was brought her that her husband wished to see her on the front piazza.
“There’s a gentleman with him,—Mr. McGregor,” the servant said, and Mildred felt as if her heart had suddenly risen in her throat, making her choke and gasp for breath.
She knew he would come some time, but had not expected him so soon, and she shook like a leaf as she stood a moment before her mirror.
“He will never know me,” she said, as side by side with the reflection of herself she saw the girl of fifteen years ago; sallow and thin and slight, with eyes too big for her face, and hair too heavy for her head; the girl with the faded calico dress and high-necked apron, who seemed to walk beside her as she descended the broad staircase and went through the hall and out upon the piazza, where she heard her husband’s voice, and Hugh’s.
“I came on business, and intended calling later, but I shall be glad to see Mrs. Thornton,” she heard him say, and then the smothered, choking sensation left her, and, with a little unconscious nod to the other Mildred at her side, she whispered:
“I shall pull through.”
Hugh was standing half-way down the piazza, leaning against a column, with his straw hat in his hand, fanning himself, just as she had seen him do a hundred times when they were boy and girl together, and he was looking at the shadowy Mildred at her side just as he now looked at her, the tall, elegant, perfectly self-possessed woman, coming slowly towards him, every movement graceful, and every action that of one sure pf herself, and accustomed to the admiration she saw inhis eyes,—the same kind, honest blue eyes which she remembered so well, but which had in them no sign of recognition as he came forward to meet her, and offering her his hand, welcomed her to Rocky Point, “and America,” he added, while a blood-red stain crept up from her neck to her ear as she felt the deception she was allowing. Hugh was not as polished as Mr. Thornton, nor were his clothes as faultless and fashionable, but he was every whit a gentleman, and looked it, too, as he stood for a moment talking to Mildred in the voice she knew so well and which had grown richer and deeper with the lapse of time, and moved her strangely as she listened to it again.
“I think I should have known him anywhere,” she thought, as she answered his remarks, her own voice, in which the English accent was predominant, steady and firm, but having in it occasionally a tone which made Hugh start a little, it was so like something he had heard before, but could not define.
There was nothing in this English woman, as he believed her to be, which could remind him of Mildred Leach, who was never once in his mind during the few minutes he was talking with her. And still she puzzled him, and all that morning, after his return to his office, her lovely face and especially her eyes haunted him and looked at him from every paper and book he touched, and he heard the tone, which had struck him as familiar, calling to him everywhere, and bringing at last a thought of Mildred Leach and the July morning when she had shelled her peas by the door, and given him a pod as a souvenir. Where was she now, he wondered, and would she come back in the autumn? Probably not. She had held out similar promises beforeonly to break them. She was weaned entirely from all her old associations, and it did not matter, he said to himself, wondering, as he often did, why he had so long kept in his mind the little wayward girl, who had never done anything but tease and worry him, and tell him of the great things she meant to do.
“She has been a long time doing it, unless she calls a life of dependence a great thing,” he said, and then his thoughts drifted to Thornton Park and the bride, who was troubled with no more calls that day, and so had time to rest and go about her handsome house and grounds, much handsomer than when she first rang the front door bell and was told to go to the side entrance by the man who was her husband now, and prouder of her than of all his other surroundings.
The next day there were many visitors at the Park, mostly strangers to Mildred, although a few of them had been known to her in childhood, but like Hugh, they saw no resemblance in her to the “oldest Leach girl,” as she was called by the neighbors who remembered her. Of the bride there was but one verdict, “The most elegant and agreeable woman that has ever been in Rocky Point,” was said of her by all, for Mildred, while bearing herself like a princess, was so gracious and friendly that she took every heart by storm.
It was late in the day when Bessie started to make her call with Tom. Dinner was over and Mildred, who, with her husband and Gerard and Alice, was sitting upon the piazza, saw them as they turned an angle in the shrubbery and came up the avenue.
“Oh, there’s Bessie,” Allie cried, springing to her feet, while Mildred’s heart began to beat wildly as she glanced at Mr. Thornton, on whose brow there was adark frown, the first she had seen since she was his wife, and this quieted her at once, for she readily guessed its cause. She knew he had not married her family, and had begun to suspect that he meant to keep her from them as much as possible.
“But he cannot do it,” she thought, and turning to him she said in a low tone, “They are mine; my own flesh and blood, and for my sake treat them politely. It is the first favor I have asked of you.”
There was something in her eyes which made him think she might be dangerous if roused, and for aught he knew she might bring the whole family there to live, or leave him for them, and swallowing his pride, he went forward to meet his visitors with so much cordiality that Tom, who had never received the slightest civility from the great man, thought, to himself, “By Jove, she’s made him over.”
“My wife, Mrs. Thornton; Miss Leach and Mr. Leach,” Mr. Thornton said, and Mildred’s hand, cold and nerveless, was taken by a hand as white and soft as her own, while Bessie’s blue eyes looked curiously at her, and Bessie was saying the commonplace things which strangers say to each other.
“How lovely she is,” Mildred thought, hardly able to restrain herself from folding the sunny, bright-faced girl in her arms and sobbing and crying over her.
But Tom was speaking to her now, and she was conscious of a feeling of pride as she looked at the tall, handsome, manly fellow, and knew he was her brother. Tom was like his mother, and Bessie like her father, while Mildred was like neither, and one could scarcely have seen any resemblance between them as they sat talking together until the moon came up over the hilland it was time to go. Bessie had devoted herself to Mildred, who fascinated her greatly, and who had adroitly led her to talk of herself and her home and her mother. Mildred spoke of the pinks, her voice trembling as she sent her thanks and love to the blind woman whom she was soon coming to see.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” Bessie exclaimed, in her impulsive way, “and mother will be glad too. She sent the pinks because they are her favorite flowers and she says they remind her of Milly, who used to love them so much; that’s my sister, who has been abroad many years. I scarcely remember her at all.”
“Oh,” came like a moan from Mildred, who felt as if a blow had struck her heart, it throbbed so painfully at the mention of her old name by the sister who did not know her, and for an instant she was tempted to scream out the truth and bring the foolish farce to an end.
Then she felt her husband’s hand on her arm and the power of his will overmastering her, and keeping her quiet. But she was glad when the interview was over and she was free to go by herself and sob out her anguish and shame and regret, that she had ever lent herself to this deception. Of the two, Bessie and Tom, she had felt more drawn toward the latter, of whom any sister might be proud, and when bidding him good-night she had held his hand with a pressure which surprised him, while her lips quivered and her eyes had in them a wistful look, as if she were longing to say, “Oh, Tom; my brother.” And Tom had felt the magnetism of her eyes and manner, and he said to Alice, who, with Gerard, walked with them to the Park gate, “I say, Allie, your stepmother is a stunner, and no mistake,and I do believe she took a fancy to me. Why, I actually thought she squeezed my hand a little, and she looked as if she’d like to kiss me. It wouldn’t hurt me much to kiss her.”
“Oh, Tom; and right before Allie,” Bessie said laughingly, and Tom replied, “Can’t a fellow fall in love with his stepmother-in-law, if he wants to?” and the arm he had thrown around Alice tightened its hold upon her.
Here they all laughed together and went on freely discussing the woman, who, on her knees in her room was praying to be forgiven for the lie she was living, and for strength to meet her mother, as that would be the hardest ordeal of all. Once she resolved to defy her husband and proclaim her identity, but gave that up with the thought that it was not very long until September, and she would wait at least until she had seen her mother.
It was several days before Mildred went to the farm house, from which her husband would have kept her altogether if he could have done so. His determination to separate her as much as possible from her family had been constantly increasing since his return, and he had fully made up his mind to leave Rocky Point by the first of September and advertise the Park for sale, thuscutting off all chance for intimacy in the future when it was known who she was. She could do for her family all she pleased, he thought, but she must not be intimate with them, and on his way to the house, for he drove her there himself, he reminded her again of her promise, saying to her very kindly, as he helped her to alight:
“I can trust you, Milly, and am sorry for you, for I know it will be hard to meet your mother and keep silence.”
It was harder than Mildred herself had anticipated, for the sight of the familiar place, the walk, the garden, and the brook, where she had waded barefoot many a time in summer and drawn her sled in winter with Hugh at her side, nearly unmanned her, and every nerve was quivering as she rang the bell in the door of the little, square entry, with the steep, narrow stairs winding up to the chambers above. It was Bessie who answered the ring, blushing when she saw her visitor and apologizing for her appearance. The hired girl was gone for a day or two, leaving her maid of all work, and as this was baking day she was deep in the mysteries of pastry and bread, with her long, bib apron on and her hands covered with flour.
“Never mind me,” Mildred said, as she took in the situation. “It was thoughtless in me to come in the morning. Please keep to your work while I talk with your mother. I will call upon you some other time. Oh, Gerard, you here?” she continued, as through the door opening into the kitchen she saw the young man seated by the table pitting cherries which Bessie was to make into pies. “That’s right; help all you can,” she added with a smile, glad he was there, as it wouldleave her alone and freer with her mother, whom she found in the bright, sunny room, built partly with the money she had sent.
Mrs. Leach was always very neat and clean, but this morning she was particularly so, in her black cambric dress and spotless white apron, with the widow’s cap resting on her snowy hair. Her hands were folded together, and she was leaning back in her chair as if asleep, when Mildred’s voice roused her, and a moment after Bessie said:
“Here, mother, is Mrs. Thornton, and as I am so busy I will leave her with you for a little while.”
Suddenly, as if she had been shot, Mrs. Leach started forward, and rubbing her eyes, in which there was an eager, expectant look, said:
“I must have been dozing, for I dreamed that Milly had come and I heard her voice in the kitchen. Mis’ Thornton here, did you say? I am very proud to meet her;” and the hands were outstretched, groping in the helpless way habitual with the blind. And Mildred took the hands in hers and drawing a chair to her mother’s side sat down so close to her that Mrs. Leach felt her hot breath stir her hair and knew she was being looked at very closely. But how closely she did not dream, for Mildred’s soul was in her eyes, which scanned the worn face where suffering and sorrow had left their impress. And what a sad, sweet face it was, so sweet and sad that Mildred involuntarily took it between her hands and kissed it passionately; then, unable to control herself, she laid her head on her mother’s bosom and sobbed like a little child.
“What is it? Oh, Mrs. Thornton, you scare me. What makes you cry so? Who are you?” Mrs. Leachsaid, excitedly, for she was frightened by the strange conduct of her visitor.
“You must excuse me,” Mildred said, lifting up her head. “The sight of you unnerved me, for my,—my mother is blind?”
She did not at all mean to say what she knew would involve more deception of a certain kind, but she had said it and could not take it back, and it was a sufficient explanation of her emotion to Mrs. Leach, who said:
“Your mother blind! Dear,—dear,—how did it happen, and has she been so long? Where does she live, and how could she bear to have you leave her? Dear, dear!”
“Don’t talk of her now, please. I can’t bear it,” Mildred replied, and thinking to herself, “Homesick, poor thing,” Mrs. Leach, whose ideas of the world were narrowed to her own immediate surroundings, began to talk of herself and her family in a desultory kind of way, while Mildred listened with a feeling of half wonder, half pain.
All her associations while with Mrs. Harwood had been with highly-cultivated people, and in one sense her mother was new to her and she realized as she had never done before how different she was from Mr. Thornton and herself. “But she is my mother, and nothing can change my love for her,” she thought, as she studied her and the room, which was cozy and bright, though very plainly furnished as compared with the elegant boudoir where she had made her own toilet. There was the tall clock in the corner which had ticked away the hours and days she once thought so dreary and lonely; the desk between the windows, where her father used to keep his papers, and his old, worn pocketbook,in which there was never much money, and on the bed in another corner was a patchwork quilt, a few blocks of which Mildred had pieced herself, recognizing them now with a start and a throb of pain as she saw in two of them bits of the frock she had bought for Charlie with the berries picked in her husband’s pasture. She had been turned out then as a trespasser where she was mistress now, and there were diamonds on her white hands, which had once washed potatoes for dinner, her special abomination, and her gown had cost more than all her mother’s wardrobe. And there she sat in a kind of dream, while the other Mildred of years ago sat close beside her, confusing and bewildering her, so that she hardly heard half her mother was saying about Tom and Bessie, the dearest children in the world. But when at last her own name was mentioned she started and was herself again, and listened as her mother went on:
“I’ve another girl, Mildred by name, but I call her Milly. She’s been in Europe for years, and has been everywhere and speaks French and German, and writes such beautiful letters.”
She was evidently very proud of her absent daughter, and the lady beside her, whose pallid face she could not see, clasped her hands and held her breath as she continued:
“I never s’posed she’d stay so long when she went away, or I couldn’t let her go; but somehow or other she’s staid on and on till she’s been gone many a year; many a year has Milly been gone, fifteen years come fall, and now ‘tain’t likely I should know her, if I could see. You won’t be offended, Mis’ Thornton, if I say that something about you makes me think of Milly; somethingin your voice at first, and you laid your head on my neck and cried just as she used to when things went wrong and fretted her, which they mostly did, for she wasn’t meant to be poor, and was always wantin’ to be rich and grand. I guess she is grand now she’s been in foreign places so much, but she’s comin’ home in the fall; she wrote me so in her last letter. You’ll call on her, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Mildred stammered, scarcely able to keep herself from crying out: “Oh, mother, Ihavecome. I am Milly,” but a thought of her husband restrained her, and thinking how she would make amends in the future, when freed from her promise of secrecy, she listened again, while her mother talked of her father and Charlie, and lastly of Hugh McGregor, who was a great favorite with the old lady.
“Jest like my own boy,” Mrs. Leach said, “and so kind to Tom. He lent him money to go to school, and helps him a sight in his law books, and helps on the farm, too, when he gets time, which is not often, for Hugh is a first-rate lawyer and pleads at the bar like a judge. I believe he’s comin’. Yes, I hear his step,” and her face lighted up as Hugh appeared in the open door.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Leach,” he called cheerily. “I beg your pardon, good morning, Mrs. Thornton,” and he bowed deferentially to the lady as he came in with a cluster of lovely roses, which he laid in Mrs. Leach’s lap, saying, “Here are some of Milly’s roses. They opened this morning and I brought them to you. Shall I give one to Mrs. Thornton?”
“Yes, do; the fairest and best. I think she must be like them, though I can’t see her,” Mrs. Leach replied,and selecting one of the finest, Hugh offered it to Mildred, whose cheeks rivaled it in color, as she held it near them to inhale its perfume.
It was of the variety known as “Souvenir d’un Ami,” and the original stock had been bought by Mrs. Leach two or three years before with some money sent her by Mildred, whose name she had given to the rose. This she explained to Mildred, adding that Mr. McGregor was so fond of the rose that he had taken a slip from her garden and planted it under his office window.
“He calls it Milly’s rose,” she added, “for he and Milly were great friends, as children. Hugh, ain’t there something about Mis’ Thornton that makes you think of Milly?”
Mildred’s face was scarlet, but she tried to hide it by bending her head very low as she fastened the rose to the bosom of her dress, while Hugh answered laughingly, “Why, no. Milly was small and thin, and a child when we saw her, while Mrs. Thornton is——” here he stopped, confused and uncertain as to what he ought to say next. But when Mildred’s eyes flashed upon him expectantly, he added very gallantly, “Mrs. Thornton is more like Milly’s roses.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. McGregor. I will remember it and keep Milly’s rose, too,” Mildred said, with a little dash of coquetry, and a ring in her voice which made Hugh think of the Milly who, he supposed, was thousands of miles away.
Just then there was the sound of wheels stopping before the house, and Gerard, with his apron still tied around his neck, for he was not yet through with his culinary duties, came to the door, saying, “Mrs. Thornton, father is waiting for you.”
“Yes, I’ll be there directly,” Mildred replied, rising hurriedly to say good-bye, and giving her hand to her mother, who fondled it a moment and then said to her, “Your hands are soft as a baby’s, and there are many rings on your fingers. I think I know how they look, and I have felt your hair, but not your face. Tom and Bessie say it is handsome. Would you mind my feeling it? That’s my way of seeing.”
Mildred was glad that Hugh had stepped in to the next room and could not see her agitation, as she knelt beside the blind woman, whose hands moved slowly over her face and then up to her hair, where they rested a moment as if in benediction, while she said, “You are lovely, I am sure, and good, too, and your poor blind mother must miss you so much. Didn’t she hate to part with you?”
“Yes, oh, yes, and my heart is aching for her. Please bless me as if you were my mother and I your daughter Milly,” was Mildred’s sobbing reply, her tears falling like rain as the shaking hands pressed heavily upon her bowed head, while the plaintive voice said slowly, “God bless you, child, and make you happy with your husband, and comfort your poor mother while you are away from her. Amen.”
“Will you tell Mrs. Thornton I am in a hurry?” Mr. Thornton said to Bessie, loudly enough for Mildred to hear, and wiping her tears away, she went out through the side door where her husband was standing, with a frown upon his face, caused not so much by her delay as by the glimpse he was sure he had caught of his son, in the kitchen, with a checked apron tied round his neck and a big cherry stain on his forehead.
Nor did the sight of his wife’s flushed cheeks and redeyes help to restore his equanimity, and although he said nothing then, Mildred felt that he was displeased, as he helped her into the phaeton and took his seat beside her.
Gathering up the reins and driving very slowly, he began:
“Was that Gerard whom I saw tricked out as a kitchen cook?”
“Gerard was there. Yes,” Mildred answered, and he continued in that cool, determined tone which means more than words themselves, “Is he often there? Is he interested in your sister? If he is, it must stop. I tell you it must stop,” he added more emphatically as his wife made no reply. “I married you because——” he paused a moment and looked at the woman sitting at his side in all her glowing beauty, and then went on in a softer tone,—“because I loved you more than I loved my pride, which, however, is so great, that it will not quietly submit to my son’s marrying your sister.”
“Does he intend to?” Mildred asked so coolly that it exasperated him, and he replied, “He will not with my consent, and he will hardly dare do so without it. Why, he has scarcely a dollar of his own, and no business either. More’s the pity, or he wouldn’t be capering round a kitchen in an old woman’s apron.”
“I think it was Bessie’s,” Mildred said quietly, andangrier than ever, her husband continued. “You told me in Paris that your sister was engaged to Mr. McGregor.”
“It was a mistake,” Mildred said, her heart beating heavily as she thought of all the mistake had done for her.
“Yes,” Mr. Thornton repeated, “I ventured to rally Hugh a little this morning, and he denied the story while something in his manner aroused a suspicion which the sight of Gerard confirmed. What was he doing there?”
“Pitting cherries for Bessie,” Mildred said with provoking calmness, and he continued, “I tell you it shall not be. Gerard Thornton must look——” here he stopped, not quite willing to finish the sentence, which Milly, however, finished for him—“must look higher than Bessie Leach?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean, although I might not have said it, for I do not wish to wound you unnecessarily; but I tell you again it must not be, and you are not to encourage it, or encourage so much visiting between my children and the Leach’s. Why, that girl,—Bessie, I think is her name,—is at the Park half the time. Heavens! What would it be if they knew who you were! I was wise to do as I did, but I am sorry I came here at all, and I mean to return to New York earlier than I intended, and if necessary, sell the place. That will break up the whole business.”
To this Mildred made no reply, but sat thinking, with a growing conviction that she now knew her husband’s real reason for wishing to keep her identity a secret during their stay at the Park. It was to prevent the intimacy which he knew would ensue between her andher family, if they knew who she was, and with all the strength of her will she rebelled against it. “I will not encourage the young people, but he shall not keep me from my mother,” she thought, and the face at which her husband looked a little curiously as he helped her from the phaeton, had in it an expression he did not understand.
“I believe she’s got a good deal of the old Harry in her after all, but I shall be firm,” he thought, as he drove to the stable and gave his horse to the groom.
Lunch was nearly over when Gerard appeared, the cherry stains washed from his face, but showing conspicuously on his nails and the tips of his fingers, from which he had tried in vain to remove them.
“Why, Gerard, what have you been doing to your hands?” Alice asked, and with an amused look at Mildred, he replied, “Stoning cherries with them,” while his father hastily left the table.
“Gerard,” he said, pausing a moment in the doorway, “Come to the library after lunch. I want to see you.”
“Yes, sir,” Gerard answered, feeling as certain then of what was coming as he did twenty minutes later when his father asked abruptly, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five last May.”
“Twenty-five,—yes; and been graduated three years, and no business yet. Nothing to do but wear a kitchen apron and stone cherries for Bessie Leach. I saw you. I don’t like it, and as soon as we are in New York I shall find something for you to do.”
At the mention of Bessie, Gerard had stiffened, for his father’s tone was offensive. But his answer was respectful: “I shall be glad of something to do, sir, although I do not think myself altogether to blame forhaving been an idler so long. When I left college you know I was in so bad health that you and the doctor both, fearing I had inherited my mother’s malady, prescribed perfect rest and quiet for a long time. But I am strong now and will do anything you think best. I prefer law, and would like to go into Mr. McGregor’s office. I can get on faster there than in New York.”
“Yes, and see Bessie Leach oftener,” Mr. Thornton began angrily. “I tell you I will not have it. The girl is well enough and pretty enough, but I won’t have it, and if you are getting too much interested in her, quit her at once.”
“Quit Bessie!” Gerard said. “Quit Bessie! Never! She has promised to be my wife!”
“Your wife!” Mr. Thornton repeated, aghast with anger and surprise, for he never dreamed matters had gone so far.
“Yes, my wife. I was only waiting for you to know her better to tell you of our engagement,” Gerard replied, and then for half an hour, Mildred, who was in her room over the library, heard the sound of excited voices,—Gerard’s low and determined, and his father’s louder and quite as decided.
And when the interview was over, and her husband came up to her, he said:
“I am very sorry, my darling, because, in a way, the trouble touches you through your sister; but you must see that it is not a suitable match for my son. She is not you, and has not had your advantages. She is a plain country girl, and if Gerard persists in marrying her he will have no help from me, either before or after my death.”
“You mean you will disinherit him?” Mildred asked, and he replied:
“Yes, just that; and I have told him so, and given him the summer in which to make up his mind. He has some Quixotic idea of studying law with McGregor, which will of course keep him here after we have gone. I don’t intend to live in a quarrel, and shall say no more to him on the subject, or try to control his actions in any way. If he goes with us to New York, all right; and if he chooses to stay here, I shall know what to do.”
A slight inclination of Mildred’s head was her only reply, until her husband said:
“Do you think Bessie would marry him if she knew he was penniless?”
And then she answered proudly: “I do,” and left the room, saying to herself as she went out into the beautiful grounds, whose beauty she did not see: “What will he do when he hears of Alice and Tom? Three Leaches instead of one. Poor Tom! Poor Bessie! And I am powerless to help them.”
As Mr. Thornton had said, he did not like to live in a quarrel, and after his interview with his son, he tried to appear just as he had done before, and when Bessie came to the Park, as she often did, he treated her civilly, and insensibly found himself admiring her beautyand grace, and thinking to himself, “If she had money she might do.”
Upon Mildred he laid no restrictions with regard to her intercourse with her family, feeling intuitively that they would not be heeded. And thus she was free to see her mother as often as she liked, and it was remarked by the villagers that the proud mistress of Thornton Park went more frequently to the farm house than anywhere else. Many a morning she spent in the pleasant room, listening while her mother talked, mostly of Mildred, whose long silence was beginning to trouble her.
“It is weeks since I heard from her. She said in her last letter it might be some time before she wrote again, but I am getting anxious,” she would say, while Mildred comforted her with the assurance that no news was good news, and that perhaps her daughter was intending to surprise her by coming upon her unexpectedly some day.
“I am certain of it; I am something of a prophet, and I know Milly will come,” she would say, as she smoothed her mother’s snowy hair, or caressed her worn face, which always lighted up with gladness when she came, and grew sadder when she went away.
By some strange coincidence, it frequently happened that Hugh called upon Mrs. Leach when Mildred was there, and always stopped to talk with her. But Mildred was never quite at ease with him. Her eyes never met his squarely, while her brilliant color came and went as rapidly as if she were a shy school-girl confronted with her master instead of the elegant Mrs. Thornton, whose beauty was the theme of every tongue, stirring even him a little, but bringing nothought of Mildred, of whom he sometimes spoke to her mother. As yet Milly had found no chance to visit her father’s and Charlie’s graves, which she knew she could find without difficulty, as her mother had told her of the headstones which Tom had put there in the spring. But she was only biding her time, and one afternoon in August, when she had been in Rocky Point six weeks or more, she drove up the mountain road to call upon some New Yorkers who were stopping at the new hotel. It was late when she left the hotel, and the full moon was just rising as she reached the entrance to the cemetery on her return home. Calling to the driver to let her alight, she bade him go on and leave her, saying she preferred to walk, as the evening was so fine. Mildred had already won the reputation among her servants of being rather eccentric, and thinking this one of her cranks, the man drove on, while she went into the grounds, where the dead were lying, the headstones gleaming white through the clump of firs and evergreens which grew so thickly as to conceal many of them from view, and to hide completely the figure of a man seated in the shadow of one of them not very far from the graves to which she was making her way. Hugh had also been up the mountain road on foot, and coming back had struck into the cemetery as a shorter route home. As he was tired and the night very warm, he sat down in an armchair under a thick pine, whose shadow screened him from observation, but did not prevent his outlook upon the scene around him. He had heard the sound of wheels stopping near the gate, but he thought no more of it until he saw Mildred coming slowly across the yard diagonally from the gate, holding up her skirts, for thedew was beginning to fall, and making, as it seemed to him, for the very spot where he was sitting. At first he did not recognize her, but when removing her hat as if its weight oppressed her she suddenly raised her head so that the moonlight fell upon her face, he started in surprise, and wondered why she was there. Whose grave had she come to find? Some one’s, evidently, for she was looking carefully about her, and afraid to startle her, Hugh sat still and watched, a feeling like nightmare stealing over him as she entered the little enclosure where the Leaches were buried. He could see the two stones distinctly, and he could see and hear her, too, as leaning upon the taller and bending low so that her eyes were on a level with the lettering, she said, as if reading. “John Leach, and Charlie; these are the graves. Oh, father! Oh, Charlie! do you know I have come back after so many years only to find you dead? And I loved you so much. Oh, Charlie, my baby brother!”
Here her voice was choked with sobs, and Hugh could hear no more, but he felt as if the weight of many tons was holding him down and making him powerless to speak or move, had he wished to do so. And so he sat riveted to the spot, looking at the woman with a feeling half akin to terror and doubt, as to whether it were her ghost, or Mildred herself weeping over her dead. As her smothered sobs met his ear and he thought he heard his own name, he softly whispered, “Milly,” and stretched his arms towards her, but let them drop again at his side and watched the strange scene to its close. Once Mildred seemed to be praying, for she knelt upon the grass, with her face on her father’s grave, and he heard the word “Forgive.”
Then she arose and walked slowly back to the road, where she was lost to view. As long as he could see the flutter of her white dress Hugh looked after her, and when it disappeared from sight he felt for a few moments as if losing his consciousness, so great was the shock upon his nervous system. Mrs. Thornton was Mildred Leach,—the girl he knew now he had never given up, and whose coming in the autumn he had been looking forward to with so much pleasure. She had come, and she was another man’s wife, and what was worse than all she was keeping her identity from her friends and daily living a lie. Did her husband know it, or was he, too, deceived?
“Probably,” Hugh said, with a feeling for an instant as if he hated her for the deception. But that soon passed away, and he tried to make himself believe that it was a hallucination of his brain and he had not seen her by those two graves. He would examine them and see, for if a form of flesh and blood had been there the long, damp grass would be trampled down in places. It was trampled down, and in the hollow between the graves a small, white object was lying.
“Her handkerchief. She has been here,” he whispered, as he stooped to pick it up. “If her name is on it I shall know for sure.”
There was a name upon it, but so faintly traced that he could not read it in the moonlight, which was now obscured by clouds. A storm was rising, and hastening his steps towards home he was soon in his own room and alone to think it out. Taking the handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to the light and read “M. F. Thornton.” There could be no mistake. It was Mrs. Thornton he had seen in the cemetery, but was it Mildred?“M. F.,” he repeated aloud, remembering suddenly that Mildred’s name was Mildred Frances, which would correspond with the initials.
“It is Milly,” he continued, “but why this deception? Is she ashamed to have her family claim her? Ashamed to have her husband know who she was; and did she pass for Fanny Gardner in Europe?”
Again a feeling of resentment and hatred came over him, but passed quickly, for although he might despise and condemn, he could not hate her. She had been too much to him in his boyhood, and thoughts of her had influenced every action of his life thus far. Just what he had expected, if he had expected anything, he did not know, but whatever it was, it was cruelly swept away. He had lost her absolutely, for when his respect for her was gone, she was gone forever, and laying his head upon the table he wrestled for a few moments with his grief and loss, as strong men sometimes wrestle with a great and bitter pain.
“If she were dead,” he said, “it would not be so hard to bear. But to see her the beautiful woman she is,—to know she is Mildred and makes no sign even to her poor, blind mother, is terrible.”
He was walking the floor now, with Milly’s handkerchief held tightly in his hands, wondering what he should do with it.
“I’ll keep it,” he said. “It is all I have left of her except the lock of hair and the peas she gave to me. What a fool I was in those days,” and he laughed as he recalled the morning when Milly threw him the pod which he had not seen in a year.
But he brought it out now, and laughed again when he saw how hard and shriveled were both the peas.
“Stony and hard like her. I believe I’ll throw them away and end the tomfoolery,” he said.
But he put them back in the box, which he called a little grave, and took up next the curl of tangled hair, comparing its color in his mind with Mrs. Thornton’s hair, which, from its peculiar, mottled appearance, had attracted his notice. How had she changed it, he wondered, and then remembering to have heard of dyes, to which silly, fashionable women sometimes resorted, he was sure that he hated her, and putting the box away went to bed with that thought uppermost in his mind, but with Milly’s handkerchief folded under his pillow.
When Hugh awoke the next morning it was with a confused idea that something had gone out of his life and left it a blank, and he asked himself what it was and why he was feeling so badly. But memory soon brought back a recollection of the secret he held and would hold to the end, for he had no intention of betraying Mildred or charging her with deception, if, indeed, he ever spoke to her again. He had no desire to do so, he thought, and then it came to him suddenly that there was to be a grand party at Thornton Park that night, and that he had ordered a dress suit for the occasion.
“But I shall not go,” he said to himself, as he made his hurried toilet. “I could not bear to see Millytricked out in the gewgaws and jewels for which she sold herself.”
And firm in this resolution, he went about his usual duties in his office, clinching his fist and setting his teeth when several times during the day he heard Tom Leach talking eagerly of the party, which he expected to enjoy so much. Tom did not ask if Hugh was going, expecting it as a matter of course, and Hugh kept his own counsel, and was silent and moody and even cross for him, and at about four o’clock sat down to write his regret. Then, greatly to his surprise, he found how much he really wanted to see Mildred once more and study her in the new character she had assumed.
“I shall not talk with her and I don’t know that I shall touch her hand, but I am half inclined to go,” he thought, and tearing up his regret, he decided to wait awhile and see; and as a result of waiting and seeing, nine o’clock found him walking up the broad avenue to the house, which was ablaze with light from attic to basement, and filled with guests, who crowded the parlors and halls and stairways, so that it was some little time before he could fight his way to the dressing-room, which was full of young men and old men in high collars, low vests and swallow-tails, many of them very red in the face and out of breath with their frantic efforts to fit gloves a size too small to hands unused to them, for fashionable parties like this were very rare in Rocky Point.
Mildred had not wished it, as she shrank from society rather than courted it, but Gerard and Alice were anxious for it, and Mr. Thornton willing, and under the supervision of his children cards were sent to so many that the proud man grew hot and cold by turns as hethought of having his sacred precincts invaded by Tom, Dick and Harry, and the rest of them, as he designated the class of people whom he neither knew, nor cared to know. But Alice and Gerard knew them, and they were all there, Tom and Bessie with the rest, Tom by far the handsomest young man of all the young men, and the one most at his ease, while Bessie, in her pretty muslin dress, with only flowers for ornament, would have been the belle of the evening, but for the hostess, whose brilliant beauty, heightened by the appliances of dress, which so well became her fine figure, dazzled every one as she stood by her husband’s side in her gown of creamy satin and lace, with diamonds flashing on her white neck and arms and gleaming in her hair. How queenly she was, with no trace of the storm which had swept over her the previous night, and Hugh, when he descended the stairs and first caught sight of her, stopped a few moments, and leaning against the railing, watched her receiving her guests with a smile on her lips and a look in her eyes which he remembered now so well, and wondered he had not recognized before. And as he looked there came up before him another Milly than this one with the jewels and satin and lace, a Milly with tangled hair and calico frock and gingham apron, shelling her peas in the doorway and predicting that she would some day be the mistress of Thornton Park. She was there now, and no grand duchess born to the purple could have filled the position better.
“Thornton chose well, if he only knew it,” Hugh thought, and, mustering all his courage he at last went forward to greet the lady. And when she offered her hand to him he took it in spite of his determination not to do so, and looked into her eyes, which kindled at firstwith a strange light, while in his there was an answering gleam, so that neither would have been surprised to have heard the names Milly and Hugh simultaneously spoken. But no such catastrophe occurred, and after a few commonplaces Hugh passed on and did not go near her again until, at a comparatively early hour, when he came to say good-night.
Mildred had removed her glove to change the position of a ring which cut her finger, and was about putting it on again when Hugh came up, thinking that at the risk of seeming rude he would not again take the hand which had sent such a thrill through him when earlier in the evening he held it for an instant. But the sight of it, bare and white and soft as a piece of satin, unnerved him and he grasped it tightly, while he made his adieus, noting as he did so the troubled expression of her face as she looked curiously at him.
“Does she suspect I know her?” he thought as he went from the house, but not to his home.
It was a beautiful August night, and finding a seat in the shrubbery where he could not be seen, he sat there in the moonlight while one after another carriages and people on foot went past him, and finally, as the lights were being put out, Tom Leach came airily down the walk, singing softly. “Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice, with hair so brown.”
“Tom’s done for,” Hugh thought, little dreaming how thoroughly he was done for in more respects than one.