“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 lapse of 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 lips murmuring 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 left Springfield, 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 violent rage, 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 the boy, 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.