Chapter XII: Love Versus Money

Tom had been the last to leave the house, for he had lingered awhile to talk to Alice, with whom he was standing in the conservatory, partially concealed by some tall vases and shrubs, when Mr. Thornton chanced that way. Thinking his guests all gone and hearing the murmur of voices, he stopped just in time to see Tom’s arm around his daughter’s waist and to hear a sound the meaning of which he could not mistake, as the young man’s face came in close proximity to that of his daughter. To say that he was astonished is saying very little. He was horrified and disgusted, and so indignant that his first impulse was to collar the audacious Tom and hurl him through the window. But not wishing a scene before the servants, he restrained himself, and went quietly away, with much the same feeling which prompted Cæsar to say, “_Et tu, Brute!_” Since his interview with his son he had never mentioned Bessie’s name to him, or raised any objection to her coming to his house as often as she liked. But he had watched her closely, and had been insensibly softened by her girlish beauty and quiet grace of manner. There was nothing of the plebeian in her appearance, and he was beginning to think that if Gerard’s heart were set upon her, rather than have a bitter quarrel he might possibly consent to the marriage, although it was not at all what he desired. The young couple could live at the Park house, and in the spring he would go abroad for an indefinite length of time, and thus separate himself and wife entirely from her family. In Europe, with her refinement and money, Alice would make a grand match and possibly marry an earl, for titles, he knew, could be bought, and he had the means to buy them. With a daughter who was My Lady, and a son-in-law who was My Lord, he could afford to have a Leach for his daughter-in-law, and Gerard’s star was rising when he came so unexpectedly upon a scene which at once changed him from a relenting father into a hard, determined man, whom nothing could move.

Mildred was asleep when he went to his room, but had she been awake he would have said nothing to her. His wrath was reserved for his daughter, who poured his coffee for him next morning, as Mildred had a headache, and was not out of her bed. Gerard, too, was absent, and the meal was a very silent, cheerless one, for Alice felt that something was the matter and trembled when, after it was over, her father asked her to step into the library, as he wished to speak with her alone.

“Alice,” he began, “I want to know the meaning of what I saw last night?”

“What did you see?” she asked, her heart beating rapidly but bravely as she resolved to stand by Tom.

“I am no spy on other people’s actions, but I was passing the conservatory and saw Tom Leach kiss you, and I think, yes, I’m very sure you kissed him back; at all events you laid your head on his shoulder in a very disreputable way, and I want to know what it means.”

Alice, who had some of her father’s nature, was calm and defiant in a moment. The word disreputable had roused her, and her answer rang out clear and distinct, “It means that Tom and I are engaged.”

“Engaged! You engaged to Tom Leach!” Mr. Thornton exclaimed, putting as much contempt into his voice as it was possible to do. “Engaged to Tom Leach! Then you are no daughter of mine.”

Mr. Thornton had never liked Tom, whose frank, assured manner towards him was more like that of an equal than an inferior, and for a moment he felt that he would rather see Alice dead than married to him. Just then Gerard came to the door, but was about to withdraw when his father called him in and said inquiringly, “Your sister tells me she is engaged to Tom Leach. Did you know it?”

“Yes, I imagined something of the kind,” was Gerard’s reply, as he crossed over to his sister and stood protectingly by her side, while his father, forgetting his softened feelings towards Bessie, went on: “And you? I gave you time to consider your choice. Have you done so?”

“I have.”

“And it is——?”

“To marry Bessie,” was Gerard’s answer, while Alice’s came with it: “And I shall marry Tom.”

Such opposition from both his children roused Mr. Thornton to fury, and his look was the look of a madman, as he said, “That is your decision. Then hear mine. I shall disinherit you both! I can’t take away from you the few thousands your mother left you, but I can do as I like with my own. Now, what will you do?”

“Marry Bessie.”

“Marry Tom,” came simultaneously from the young rebels, and with the words, “So be it,” their father left the room, and a few minutes later they saw him galloping rapidly down the avenue in the direction of the town.

He did not return to lunch, and when he came in to dinner he seemed very absent-minded and only volunteered the remark that he was going to New York the next day to see that their house was made ready for them within a week. As Mildred’s headache was unusually severe she had kept her bed the entire day and knew nothing of the trouble until just at twilight, when Alice, who felt that she must talk to some one, crept up to her, and laying her head on the pillow beside her, told of her father’s anger and threat and asked if she thought he would carry it out.

“No,” Mildred answered. “He will think better of it, I am sure,” and Alice continued, “Not that I care for myself, but I wanted to help Tom.”

“Do you love him so much that you cannot give him up?” Mildred asked.

“Love him! Why, I would rather be poor and work for my living with Tom, than have all the world without him,” Alice replied, while the hand on her head pressed a little heavily as she went on: “Papa is so proud. You don’t know how contemptuously he says _those Leaches_, as if they were too low for anything, and all because they happen to be poor, and because——Did I ever tell you that Bessie’s sister Mildred, who has been so long in Europe, was once,—not exactly a servant in our family, for she took care of me,—my little friend, I called her, and was very fond of her. But I suppose father does not wish Gerard and me to marry into her family. Are you crying?” Alice asked suddenly, as she heard what sounded like a sob.

“Yes,—no,—I don’t know. I wish I could help you, but I can’t,” Mildred answered, while the tears rolled down her cheeks like rain.

Every word concerning her family and herself had been like a stab to her, and she felt how bitterly she was being punished for her deception. Once she decided to tell Alice the truth, and might have done so if she had not heard her husband’s step outside the door. That broke up the conference between herself and Alice, who immediately left the room.

The next morning Mr. Thornton started for New York, where he was absent for three or four days, and when he returned he complained of a headache and pain in all parts of his body. He had taken a severe cold, he said, and went at once to his bed, which he never left again, for the cold proved to be a fever, which assumed the typhoid form, with its attendant delirium, and for two weeks Mildred watched over and cared for him with all the devotion of a true and loving wife. True she had always been, and but for one memory might have been loving, too, for Mr. Thornton had been kind and indulgent to her, and she repaid him with every possible care and attention. He always knew her in his wildest fits of delirium, and would smile when she laid her cool hand on his hot head, and sometimes whisper her name. Gerard and Alice he never knew, although he often talked of them, asking where they were, and once, during a partially lucid interval, when alone with Mildred, he said to her, “Tell the children I was very angry, but I am sorry, and I mean to make it right.”

“I am sure you do,” Mildred replied, little guessing what he meant, as his mind began to wander again, and he only said, “Yes,—all right, and you will see to it. All right,—all right.”

And these were the last words he ever spoke, for on the fourteenth day after his return from New York, he died, with Mildred bending over him and Mildred’s hand in his.