As he had not written, they, of course, had not gone, and fearful that something terrible had happened, her anxiety and excitement seemed greater than she could bear. CHAPTER XIX. LAWRENCE AND OLIVER. Contrary to Mildred’s expectations, Lawrence had reached Beechwood earlier than the time appointed. And on the very day when she in Dresden was standing with Richard Howell by Hetty Kirby’s grave, he in Mayfield was listening with a breaking heart to the story Oliver had to tell. Flushed with hope and eager anticipation, as the happy bridegroom goes to meet his bride, he had come, thinking all the way of Mildred’s joy of seeing him so many days before he had promised to be with her. Purposely he chose the back entrance to the house, coming through the garden, and casting about him many anxious glances for the flutter of a pink muslin robe, or the swinging of a brown straw hat. But he looked in vain, for Mildred was not there. Hoping to find her in the library alone, he kept on, until he reached the little room, where instead of Mildred, the Judge and Oliver sat together, talking sadly of her. At the sight of Lawrence both turned pale, while the former involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh, my boy, my boy.” In an instant Lawrence knew that something terrible had happened, and grasping the Judge’s hand, he cried: “She isn’t dead. In pity tell me, is she dead?” “No, not dead,” answered the Judge; “but listen to Clubs. He promised to break it to you.” And going from the room, he left the two alone, while Oliver told to Lawrence Thornton that Mildred never could be his wife, because she was his niece, the child of his own sister. Every particular of the disclosure was minutely related, and every hope swept away from the horror-stricken man, who listened in mute despair, until the tale was finished, and then with one piercing cry of anguish fell upon his face, moaning faintly: “I would rather she had died,—I would rather she had died.” In great alarm, Geraldine, who had heard the cry, hastened to the room, followed by Lilian; but Lawrence scarcely noticed them, otherwise than to shudder and turn away from Geraldine when she tried to comfort him. Once, Lilian, touched at the sight of his distress, knelt before him, and folding her arms upon his lap, begged of him “not to look so white,—so terrible.” But he motioned her off, saying to her: “Don’t try to comfort me unless you give me back my Mildred. Take me, Clubs, where I can breathe. I am dying in this stifled room.” Then into the open air Oliver led the fainting man, while Judge Howell bustled after, the great tears rolling down his face, as he whispered: “They _do_ have the all-firedest luck. Poor boy, poor boy,—he takes it harder even than Gipsy did.”