Without a Home Part 56

"Millie, Millie," he pleaded, "forgive me. I cannot believe in G.o.d's forgiveness until you forgive me."

"I forgave you from the first, Vinton, because I knew there was no cold-blooded evil in your mind, and I have long felt that you were more sinned against than sinning. If I stay I must impose one condition--there must be no words concerning the past. That is gone forever."

"I know it, Mildred. I killed your love with my own hand, but the blow was more fatal to me than to you."

"Can you not rally and live?" she asked tearfully.

"No," he said, with a deep breath. "Moreover, I have no wish to live. The dark shadow of my life will soon fall on you no more, but the hope that I may breathe my last with you near brings a deep content and peace. Does any one yet suspect who you are?"

"No. I fear Mrs. Arnold will not think it best."

"I have never spoken to Mrs. Arnold since that awful night, and if she interferes now I will curse her with my last breath. This is my one hope--my one gleam of light in the life she has cursed--"

"Hush, oh hus.h.!.+ Unless my presence brings quietness I cannot stay,"

for at the name of his mother he became dangerously agitated. "I will tell Mrs. Sheppard in the morning, and I think she will arrange it so that I can do all in my power for you."

"No," he replied, after a little thought, "I will tell her. She is unlike my mother and other sisters, and has a good heart. She has taken entire charge of me, but I was in such a h.e.l.l of suffering at the thought of dying without one word from you that I was almost a maniac. I will be quiet now. Leave all to me; I can make her understand."

When Mrs. Sheppard entered, as the late dawn began to mingle with the gaslight, she found her brother sleeping quietly, his hand clasping Mildred's. To her slight expression of surprise the young girl returned a clear, steadfast look, and said calmly, "When your brother awakes he has some explanations to make. I am Mildred Jocelyn."

The lady sank into a chair and looked at her earnestly. "I have long wished to see you," she murmured. "Vinton has told me everything.

I was so overcome with sleep and fatigue last night that I neither told you his name nor asked yours. Did you not suspect where you were?"

"Not until he awoke and recognized me."

"Was he greatly agitated?"

"Yes, at first. It was so unexpected that he thought me a mere illusion of his own mind."

"Miss Jocelyn, I believe G.o.d sent you to him."

"So he thinks."

"You won't leave him till--till--It can't be long."

"That depends upon you, Mrs. Sheppard. I am very, very sorry for him," and tears came into her eyes.

Low as was the murmur of their voices, Arnold awoke and glanced with troubled eyes from one to the other before it all came back to him; but his sister brought quiet and rest by saying gently, as she kissed him:

"Vinton, Miss Jocelyn shall not leave you."

CHAPTER XLVIII

"GOOD ANGEL OF G.o.d"

The young nurse soon became known through the house simply as Miss Mildred. With the exception of Mrs. Sheppard, the valet, and the physician, no one entered the sick-room except Mr. Arnold, and the old man often lingered and hovered around like a remorseful ghost.

He had grown somewhat feeble, and no longer went to his business.

His son had tolerated his presence since he had come home to die, but had little to say to him, for the bitterness of his heart extended to the one who had yielded to his mother's hardness and inveterate worldliness. In the secrecy of his heart the old merchant admitted that he had been guilty of a fatal error, and the consequences had been so terrible to his son that he had daily grown more conscience-smitten; but his wife had gained such an ascendency over him in all social and domestic questions that beyond occasional protests he had let matters drift until Vinton returned from his long exile in Europe. The hope that his son would get over what his wife called "an absurd youthful folly" was now rudely dispelled, and in bitterness he reproached himself that he had not adopted a different course.

From the way in which he came in and looked at his son when he was sleeping, it was soon revealed to Mildred how he felt, and she pitied him also.

Mrs. Sheppard was a wealthy widow, and the eldest daughter. She was for the present making her home under the paternal roof. Unlike her mother, she had quick, strong sympathies, which sorrows of her own had deepened. She had a.s.sumed the care of her brother, and infused into her ministry a tenderness which at last led the imbittered heart to reveal itself to her. She was therefore already prepared to be Mildred's sincere ally in bringing a little light into the late evening-tide of her brother's clouded day.

Most of the time she sat in her own room with the door ajar, leaving Vinton to the ministrations of his nurse. He required far less care now, for he seemed content to rest as one might during a respite from torture. His eyes would follow Mildred with a pathetic longing when he was awake, and when she took his hand and told him to sleep he would obey like a child. He seemed better because so quiet, but he grew weaker daily. All knew, and none better than himself, that life was slowly ebbing. His father came in more frequently than ever, for his son showed no restlessness at his presence now. At Mildred's request Vinton even began to greet him with something like a welcome, and the young girl did all in her power to make the old gentleman feel at home; sometimes she would place a large easy-chair by the fire and ask him to sit with them.

He was glad to comply, and often looked wonderingly and earnestly at the fair young nurse that was working such a transformation in the patient. He once or twice tried to become better acquainted with her, but ever found her gentle, deferential, and very reserved.

Twice Mildred asked Vinton to let her send for Mr. Wentworth, but he shook his head and said that she alone could do him any good.

"Read the Bible to me when you feel like it. I'll listen to you, but my best hope is to sleep so quietly that I shall have no dreams.

If that cannot be, I'll remember that you forgave me."

"Such words make me very sad," she replied, on the latter occasion, tears rus.h.i.+ng into her eyes.

"I am not worthy that you should care so much," he said. "What am I but a flickering rush-light which your hand is s.h.i.+elding that it may burn out quietly?"

"Vinton, you are wrong. The life which G.o.d has given you cannot cease. I am not wise and learned, and I have an almost unconquerable diffidence in speaking on these subjects, except to children and the poor and ignorant. But since you won't see any one else, I must speak. You say G.o.d sent me to you, and I accept your belief, but He did not send me to you merely to relieve physical pain and mental disquiet. If a man is stumbling toward an abyss of darkness, is it any great kindness to hold a lamp so that his last steps may be easier? There is for each one of us a vital truth and a sacred duty, and in shutting your eyes to these and living in the present hour, you show--pardon an honest friend for saying it--you show a more fatal weakness than you have yet manifested."

"You are mistaken, Mildred," he said bitterly. "As far as I am concerned, what truth is there for me to contemplate except a wasted, unhappy life, wrecked and shamed beyond remedy, beyond hope. I long ago lost what trace of manhood I once had. Never dream that because you have forgiven me I shall forgive myself. No, no,"

he said, with a dark vindictiveness in his eyes, "there are three that I shall never forgive, and I am one of them. As for duty, the word is torment. What can I do--I who can scarcely raise my hand?

My day is over, my chance has gone by forever. Don't interrupt me.

I know you would speak of the consolations of religion, but I'd rather go to the devil himself--if there is one--than to such a G.o.d as my mother wors.h.i.+ps; and she has always been a very religious woman. The whole thing long since became a farce to me at our church.

It was just as much a part of the fas.h.i.+onable world that blighted me as the rest of society's mummeries. You never went there after you had real trouble to contend with. It was the last place that you would think of going to for comfort or help. The thought of you alone has kept me from utter unbelief, and I would be glad to believe that there is some kindly power in existence that watches over such beings as you are, and that can reward your n.o.ble life; but as far as I am concerned it's all a mystery and a weariness.

You are near--you are merciful and kind. This is all the heaven I expect. It is far more than I deserve. Let me rest, Mildred. It will be but for a few more days. Then when you close my eyes, may I sleep forever," and he leaned back faint and exhausted. He would not let her interrupt him, for he seemed bent on settling the question as far as he was concerned, and dismissing it finally.

She listened with fast-falling tears, and answered sighingly, "Oh, I do wish you would see Mr. Wentworth. You are so wrong--so fatally mistaken."

"No," he said firmly, "I will see no one but you."

"Oh, what shall I say to you?"

"Do not grieve so about me. You cannot change anything. You cannot give me your strong, grand nature any more than you can your beautiful life and perfect health. I could become a Catholic and wors.h.i.+p St. Mildred," he added with a smile, trying to banish her tears. "The only duty that I am capable of is to try to make as little trouble as possible, and to cease making it altogether soon.

Go and rest, and I will too, for I'm very tired."

"No," she said resolutely. "My mission to you must not end so weakly, so uselessly. Will you do me a favor?"

"I?"

"Yes; listen quietly and honestly;" and she read the first verses of the nineteenth chapter of St. John, ending with the words, "Behold the man."

"Vinton," she said eagerly, "the truth to which I referred was embodied truth, and your first sacred duty is to look to Him and live. To the last conscious moment of life this will remain your first and most sacred duty, and were you the strongest man in this city you could not do more. It's not a question of religions at all, or of what other people are or believe. The words I have read have brought you face to face with this Divine Man, who came to seek and save that which was lost. Never did a despairing human soul cry out to Him in vain. He is as real as I am. His tender pity is infinitely beyond mine. Far better and wiser would it be for you to turn from me than from Him. Oh, merciful Christ, how the world wrongs Thee!" and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.

"Millie, please don't," he entreated. "I can't endure to see you so grieved."

"Forgive me--I am forgetting myself sadly; but how can I see you so hopeless, so despairing, when there is no more need of it than of your refusing what I try to do for your comfort? There, rest now, but think of what I've said. I may have done wrong to tire you so, but to minister to the body only, when the soul, the man within you, is in such infinite need seems but a mockery. If you continue to wrong Him who should be the one great hope of every human heart, you will sadden all my days. My mission will be but a poor one indeed."

He was very much exhausted, but he said gently, "I will think of it, and may the One you serve so faithfully bless you for your divine pity. What you have said seems to make everything different; you appear to have something real and definite in your mind. Give me your hand and I will rest; then, my good angel, teach me your faith."