“I would have the matter settled while you are at Beechwood. She is eighteen now, you are twenty-three; I have made you my partner in business, and should like to see Lilian mistress of my house. So arrange it at once, instead of spending your time fooling with that girl, Mildred,” and with this the whole secret was out, and Lawrence knew why he had been called into the library and subjected to that lecture.
Mildred Howell was a formidable obstacle in the way of Lilian Veille’s advancement. This the lynx-eyed Geraldine had divined, and with her wits all sharpened, she guessed that not Lilian alone was taking the young man to Beechwood. So she dropped a note of warning into the father’s ear, and now, outside the door, was listening to the conversation.
“I have never fooled with Mildred Howell,” said Lawrence, and his father rejoined quickly:
“How, then? Are you in earnest? Do you love her?”
“I am not bound to answer that,” returned Lawrence; “though I will say that in some respects I think her far superior to Lilian.”
“Superior!” repeated the father, pacing up and down the room. “Your superior women do not always make their husbands happy. Listen to me, boy,—I have been married twice. I surely ought to judge in these matters better than yourself. Your mother was a gentle, amiable creature, much like Lilian Veille. You inherit her disposition, though not her mind,—thank Heaven, not her mind! I was happy with her, but she died, and then I married one who was famed for her superior intellect quite as much as for the beauty of her person,—and what was the result? She never gave me a word or a look different from what she would have given to an entire stranger. Indeed, she seemed rather to avoid me, and, if I came near, she pretended always to be occupied either with a book or with you. And yet I was proud of her, Lawrence,—proud of my girlish bride, and when she died I shed bitter tears over her coffin.”
Lawrence Thornton was older now than when he sat upon the river bank, and told little Mildred Hawkins of his beautiful young step-mother, and he knew why she had shrunk from his father’s caresses and withered beneath his breath,—so he ventured at last to say:
“Mildred Howell was young enough to be your daughter, and should never have been your wife.”
“It was not that,—it was not that,” returned the father, stiffly. “There was no compulsion used; she was too intellectual,—too independent,—too high-tempered, I tell you, and this other one is like her in everything.”
“How do you account for that?” asked Lawrence, who had his own private theory with regard to Mildred’s parentage.