No answer from Lawrence, who was beginning to be dreadfully jealous of young Hudson.
“It may be. It may be,” he thought, “but why couldn’t she have told me so? Why leave me entirely in the dark? Does she fear the wrath of Hudson’s mother in case I should betray her?”
Yes, that was the reason, he believed, and in order to make the matter sure, he resolved to write again and ask her, and forgetting his father’s request that he should “come down to the office as soon as convenient,” he spent the morning in writing to Mildred a second time. He had intended to tell her that he guessed the reason of her refusal, but instead of that he poured out his whole soul in one passionate entreaty for her to think again, and reconsider her decision. No other one could love her as he did, he said, and he besought of her to give him one word of hope to cheer the despair which had fallen so darkly around him. This letter being sent, Lawrence sat down in a kind of apathetic despair to await the result.
“What, hey, the boy has written, has he?” and adjusting his gold specs, the old Judge looked to see if the eight pages Finn had just given to him were really from Lawrence Thornton. “He’s got good grit,” said he, “and I like him for it, but hanged if I don’t teach Bobum a lesson. I can feel big as well as he. Gipsy not good enough for his boy! I’ll show him. She looks brighter to-day than she did. She ain’t going to let it kill her, and as there’s no use worrying her for nothing, I shan’t let her see this. But I can’t destroy it, nor read it neither. So I’ll just put it where the old Nick himself couldn’t find it,” and touching the hidden spring of a secret drawer, he hid the letter which Mildred, encouraged by Oliver, had half expected to receive.
But he repented of the act when he saw how disappointed she seemed when he met her at the supper-table, and though he had no idea of giving her the letter, he thought to make amends some other way.
“I have it,” he suddenly exclaimed, as he sat alone in his library, after Mildred had gone to bed. “I’ll dock off five thousand from that missionary society and add it to Spitfire’s portion. The letter ain’t worth more than that,” and satisfied that he was making the best possible reparation, he brought out his will and made the alteration, which took from a missionary society enough to feed and clothe several clergymen a year. Four days more brought another letter from Lawrence Thornton—larger, heavier than the preceding one, crossed all over, as could be plainly seen through the envelope, and worth, as the Judge calculated, about ten thousand dollars. So he placed that amount to Mildred’s credit, by way of quieting his conscience. One week more, and there came another.
“Great heaven!” groaned the Judge, as he gave Mildred the last five thousand dollars, and left the missionaries nothing. “Great heaven, what will I do next?” and he glanced ruefully at the clause commencing with “I give and bequeath to Oliver Hawkins,” etc. “’Twon’t do to meddle with that,” said he. “I might as well touch Gipsy’s eyes as to harm the reel-footed boy,” and in his despair the Judge began to consider the expediency of praying that no more letters should come from Lawrence Thornton.
Remembering, however, that in the prayer-book there was nothing suited to that emergency, he gave up that wild project and concluded that if Lawrence wrote again he would answer it himself; but this he was not compelled to do, for Lawrence grew weary at last, and calling his pride to his aid resolved to leave Mildred to herself, and neither write again nor seek an interview with her, as he had thought of doing. No more letters came from him, but on the day when his father’s mortgages were due, the Judge received one from Mr. Thornton begging for a little longer time, and saying that unless it were granted he was a ruined man.
“Ruined or not, I shall foreclose,” muttered the Judge. “I’ll teach him to come into my house and say Gipsy isn’t good enough for his boy.”