Mildred

A few more words and our story is done. For one short year has Mildred been a happy wife, and in that time no shadow has crossed her pathway save when she thinks of Oliver, and then her tears flow at once; still she knows that it is well with him, and she would not, if she could, have him back again in a world where he suffered so much. Well kept and beautiful is the ground about his grave, for Richard’s tasteful hand is often busy there, and on the costly marble which marks the spot are inscribed the words:

In the distant city there is a handsome dwelling, looking out upon the Common and the passers-by speak of it as the home of Lawrence Thornton, and the gift of Richard Howell, who made his daughter’s husband rich and still retained a princely fortune for himself and little Edith.

Dear little Edith, how she frisks and gambols about her Beechwood home, filling it with a world of sunshine, and sometimes making the old Judge forget the aching void left in his heart, when Lawrence took Mildred away. That parting was terrible to the old man, and when Mildred suggested that Edith should live with her, he cried aloud, begging of her not to leave him all alone,—to spare him little Beauty. So “Beauty” stayed, and every pleasant summer evening the Judge sits on the long piazza with Edith on his lap, and tells her of another little girl who came to him one winter night, stealing in so quietly that he did not know she was there until reminded by her of his falling glasses. Of this story Edith is never weary, though she often wonders where she was about those days, and why she was not there to help eat up the prunes, which she guesses “must have made Milly’s stomach ache!”

As the Judge cannot enlighten her in the least degree, she usually falls asleep while speculating upon the matter, and her grandfather, holding her lovingly in his arms, involuntarily breathes a prayer of thanksgiving to the kind Providence which has crowned his later life with so many blessings.

Richard is a great comfort to his father, and a great favorite in the village, where his genial nature and many virtues have procured him scores of friends, and where even Widow Simms speaks well of him.

The Judge has made another will, dividing his property equally between Spitfire and Beauty, as he calls his two grandchildren, and giving to the “Missionaries,” once defrauded of their rights, the legacy intended for poor Clubs.

Old Hepsy lives still in the gable-roof, and when her rent comes due, Judge Howell sends her a receipt,—not for any friendship he feels toward her, but because she is Oliver’s grandmother, and he knows Mildred would be pleased to have him do so.

Esther Bennett is dead; and the Judge, when he heard of it, brought his fist down upon his knee, exclaiming:

“There’s one nuisance less in the world! Pity Madame Geraldine couldn’t follow suit!”

But Geraldine bids fair to live to a good old age, though she is now seldom seen in the streets of Boston, where the story of her perfidy is known, and where her name has become a by-word of reproach. A crushed and miserable woman, she drags out her days in the privacy of her own home, sometimes weeping passionately as she reviews her sinful life, and again railing bitterly at Lilian, not for anything in particular, but because she is unhappy, and wishes to blame some one.

In Lilian there is little change. Weak-minded, easily influenced, and affectionate, she has apparently forgotten her disappointment, and almost every day finds her at Lawrence’s handsome house, where Mildred welcomes her with her sweetest smile. In all the city there is no one so enthusiastic in their praises of her cousin as herself, and no one who listens to said praises as complacently as her Uncle Robert.

He is very fond of his daughter-in-law, very glad that she was not a beggar’s child, and very grateful for the gold she brought him. In his library there are two portraits now instead of one, and he often points them out to strangers, saying, proudly:

“This was taken for my wife, the famous beauty, Mildred Howell; while this, is my son’s wife, another Mildred Howell, and the heiress of untold wealth. Hers is a strange history, too,” he adds, and with a low bow, the strangers listen, while in far less words than we have used, he tells them the story we have told,—the story of Mildred with the starry eyes and nut-brown hair.