Without a Home Part 58

His eyes closed again, his breath came more and more slowly, and at last it ceased. His sister put her hand over his heart. His sad, thwarted life had ended on earth.

Mildred kissed him for the first time in her ministry, and murmured, as she gently laid his head back upon the pillow, "Thank G.o.d, it has not ended as I feared!"

CHAPTER XLIX

HOME

We take up the thread of our story after the lapse of several months.

Mildred left the Arnold family softened and full of regret. Even proud Mrs. Arnold asked her forgiveness with many bitter tears, but beyond a few little significant gifts they found it impossible to make the one toward whom their hearts were now so tender take more than the regular compensation that went toward the support of the inst.i.tution to which she belonged. Mr. Arnold and Mrs. Sheppard would not give her up, and often came to see her, and the old gentleman always made her promise that when he became ill she would take care of him; and once he whispered to her, "You won' take anything from me now, but in my will I can remember my debt. All my wealth cannot pay what I owe to you."

"Money has nothing to do with my relations to you," she replied gently.

"Vinton's portion belongs to you," was his quiet reply. "The poor boy so understood it, and I shall not break faith with the dead."

"Then his portion shall go toward relieving suffering in this city,"

was her answer.

"You can do what you please with it, for it shall be yours."

While Mildred quietly performed her duties as head-nurse in one of the wards during the last six months of the two years of her sojourn at the Training School, some important changes had occurred in Roger's circ.u.mstances. He had, more than a year before, graduated second in his cla.s.s at college, and had given the impression that he would have been first had he taken the full four years' course.

His crotchety uncle, with whom since the reconciliation he had resided, had died, and after a few months his wife followed him, and Roger found himself a wealthy man, but not a happy one. Beyond giving his parents every comfort which they craved, and making his sister Susan quite an heiress, he scarcely knew what to do with the money. His uncle's home was not at all to his taste, and he soon left it, purchasing a moderate-sized but substantial and elegant house in a part of the city that best suited his convenience. Here he installed Mrs. Wheaton as housekeeper, and, with the exception of his own suite of rooms and the sleeping apartments, left all the rest unfurnished. After placing himself in a position to offer hospitalities to his country relatives, he determined that the parlors should remain empty, as a mute reproach to Mildred.

One evening, a week before she graduated, he induced her to go with him to see his house. "It's not a home," he whispered; "I merely stay here." Then, without giving time for reply, he ushered her into the hall, which was simply but very elegantly furnished. Mildred had time only to note two or three fine old engravings and a bronze figure, when Mrs. Wheaton, bustling up from the bas.e.m.e.nt, overwhelmed her with hospitality. They first inspected her domains, and in neatness and comfort found them all that could be desired.

"You see," said the good woman, as she and Mildred were hidden from view in a china closet, "I could get hup quite a grand dinner, but I hain't much use fur these 'ere things, for he heats less and less hevery day. I'm troubled habout Mr. Roger, fur he seems kinder low hin 'is spirits and discouraged like. Most young men vould feel like lords hin 'is shoes, but he's a-gettin' veary and listless-like.

Vun day he vas so down that I vanted 'im to see a doctor, but he smiled kinder strange and said nothin'. He's a-gettin' thin and pale. Vat vould I do hif he should get sick?"

Mildred turned in quick alarm and glanced at the young man, who stood looking at the glowing kitchen-range, as if his thoughts were little interested in the homely appliances for his material comfort. His appearance confirmed Mrs. Wheaton's words, for his features were thinner than they had been since he recovered from his illness, and there was a suggestion of la.s.situde and dejection in his manner. She went directly to him and said:

"Mrs. Wheaton tells me you are not well."

He started, then threw off all depression, remarking lightly, "Mrs.

Wheaton is fidgety. She prepares enough food for four men. I'm well--have been working rather late at night, that's all."

"Why do you, Roger?" she asked, in a voice full of solicitude.

"If I don't feel sleepy there is no use in wasting time. But come, you have seen enough of the culinary department. Since Mrs.

Wheaton has charge of it you can know beforehand that everything will be the best of its kind. I think I can show you something in my sitting-room that will interest you more."

Mrs. Wheaton preceded them, and Mildred took his arm in a way that showed that he had not been able to banish her anxiety on his behalf. "Let me see your parlors, Roger," she said when they again reached the hall. "I expect to find them models of elegance."

He threw open the door and revealed two bare rooms, the brilliantly burning gas showing frescoes of unusual beauty, but beyond these there was nothing to relieve their bleak emptiness. "I have no use for these rooms," he remarked briefly, closing the door. "Come with me," and he led her to the apartment facing the street on the second floor. The gas was burning dimly, but when he had placed her where he wished her to stand, he suddenly turned it up, and before her, smiling into her eyes from the wall, were three exquisitely finished oil portraits--her father and mother and Belle, looking as she remembered them in their best and happiest days.

The effect upon her at first was almost overpowering. She sank into a chair with heart far too full for words, and looked until tears so blinded her eyes that she could see them no longer.

"Roger," she murmured, "it's almost the same as if you had brought them back to life. Oh, Roger, G.o.d bless you--you have not banished papa; you have made him look as he asked us to remember him," and her tender grief became uncontrollable for a few moments.

"Don't cry so, Millie," he said gently. "Don't you see they are smiling at you? Are the likenesses good?"

"They are lifelike," she answered after a little. "How could you get them so perfect?"

"Belle and your mother gave me their pictures long ago, and you remember that I once asked you for your father's likeness when I was looking for him. There were some who could aid me if they knew how he looked. Then you know my eye is rather correct, and I spent a good deal of time with the artist. Between us we reached these results, and it's a great happiness to me that they please you."

Her eyes were eloquent indeed as she said, in a low tone: "What a loyal friend you are!"

He shook his head so significantly that a sudden crimson came into her face, and she was glad that Mrs. Wheaton was busy in an adjoining room. "Come," he said lightly, "you are neglecting other friends;" and turning she saw fine photographs of Mr. Wentworth, of Clara Wilson, Mrs. Wheaton, and her little brother and sister; also oil portraits of Roger's relatives.

She went and stood before each one, and at last returned to her own kindred, and her eyes began to fill again.

"How rich you are in these!" she at last said. "I have nothing but little pictures."

"These are yours, Millie. When you are ready for them I shall place them on your walls myself."

"Roger," she said a little brusquely, das.h.i.+ng the tears out of her eyes, "don't do or say any more kind things to-night, or my self-control will be all gone."

"On the contrary, I shall ask you to do me a kindness. Please sit down on this low chair by the fire. Then I can add the last and best picture to this family gallery."

She did so hesitatingly, and was provoked to find that her color would rise as he leaned his elbow on the mantel and looked at her intently. She could not meet his eyes, for there was a heart-hunger in them that seemed to touch her very soul. "Oh," she thought, "why doesn't he--why can't he get over it?" and her tears began to flow so fast that he said lightly:

"That will do, Millie. I won't have that chair moved. Perhaps you think an incipient lawyer has no imagination, but I shall see you there to-morrow night. Come away now from this room of shadows.

Your first visit to me has cost you so many tears that you will not come again."

"They are not bitter tears. It almost seems as if I had found the treasures I had lost. So far from being saddened, I'm happier than I've been since I lost them--at least I should be if I saw you looking better. Roger, you are growing thin; you don't act like your old self."

"Well, I won't work late at night any longer if you don't wish me to," he replied evasively.

"Make me that promise," she pleaded eagerly.

"Any promise, Millie."

She wondered at the slight thrill with which her heart responded to his low, deep tones.

In the library she became a different girl. A strange buoyancy gave animation to her eyes and a delicate color to her face. She did not a.n.a.lyze her feelings. Her determination that Roger should have a pleasant evening seemed to her sufficient to account for the s.h.i.+ning eyes she saw reflected in a mirror, and her sparkling words. She praised his selection of authors, though adding, with a comical look, "You are right in thinking I don't know much about them. The binding is just to my taste, whatever may be the contents of some of these ponderous tomes. There are a good many empty shelves, Roger."

"I don't intend to buy books by the cartload," he replied. "A library should grow like the man who gathers it."

"Roger," she said suddenly, "I think I see some fancy work that I recognize. Yes, here is more." Then she darted back into the sitting-room. In a moment she returned exclaiming, "I believe the house is full of my work."

"There is none of your work in the parlors, Millie."

She ignored the implied reproach in words, but could not wholly in manner. "So you and Mrs. Wentworth conspired against me, and you got the better of me after all. You were my magnificent patron.

How could you look me in the face all those months? How could you watch my busy fingers, looking meanwhile so innocent and indifferent to my tasks? I used to steal some hours from sleep to make you little gifts for your bachelor room. They were not fine enough for your lords.h.i.+p, I suppose. Have you given them away?"

"They are in my room upstairs. They are too sacred for use."

"Who ever heard of such a sentimental brother!" she said, turning abruptly away.