She and Vinton Arnold maintained quite a regular correspondence, and the fact occasioned the young man more than one stormy scene.
His mother saw Mildred"s letter before he received it, and the effect of the missive upon him, in spite of his efforts at concealment, were so marked that she at once surmised the source from which it came. The fact that a few words from Mildred had done more for the invalid than all the expensive physicians and the many health resorts they had visited would have led most mothers to query whether the secret of good health had not been found. Mrs. Arnold, on the contrary, was only angered and rendered more implacable than ever against the girl. She wrote to her husband, however, to find out what he could about her family, believing that the knowledge might be useful. Mr. Arnold merely learned the bare facts that the Jocelyns had become greatly impoverished, that they were living in low tenements, that the father had become a wretched sot, and, worse than all, that the girl herself had been in a station-house, although he believed she was proved innocent of the charge against her.
He therefore wrote to his wife that the correspondence must cease at once, since it might involve the family in disgrace--certainly in disgraceful a.s.sociations. He also wrote to his son to desist, under the penalty of his heaviest displeasure. With an expression of horror on her face, Mrs. Arnold showed this letter to her son.
In vain he tried to protest that not one evil thing against Mildred could be proved; that she was innocence and purity itself; that her misfortunes and the wrong of others were no reason for desertion on his part. His mother for once lost her frigid politeness. "What!"
she almost screamed, "do you think we would ever let that horrid creature bear our name? A woman who has been in a prison cell, and mixed up with the vilest and lowest people in the city, should not even be named in my presence."
Her son gave her a strange, vindictive look. "You unnatural mother,"
he muttered between his teeth, "thus to speak of the girl to whom your son has given his best love, and who is worthy of it!" and he turned on his heel and left her.
Mrs. Arnold became somewhat hysterical, and wrote home that she believed that Vinton was losing his mind. She soon learned, however, that she would have no ground for such a charge, although her son was becoming greatly changed. His politeness to her was scrupulous to a nicety, but was unrelenting in its icy coldness. At the same time she knew that he was continuing the correspondence, and she saw, too, that he was making the most studied and careful effort to gain in physical strength. One day she began to upbraid him bitterly for his disobedience, but he interrupted her by saying sternly:
"Madam, there is no child present. I treat you with respect. I also demand respect."
The proud, resolute woman admitted to herself that his management was becoming a difficult and dubious problem, and at last, discouraged and exasperated by the unwavering steadfastness of his course and manner, she wrote that they might as well return home, for "he was beyond her influence."
Therefore, thrilling with glad expectation, Arnold found himself in his native city much sooner than he had expected. He had no very definite plans. If he could only become sufficiently well to earn his own livelihood the future would be comparatively clear. If this were impossible, his best hope was to wait, secure in Mildred"s faith, for the chances of the future, believing that his father might relent if his mother would not. For this event, however, the outlook was unpromising. Mr. Arnold was incensed by his wife"s fuller account of his son"s behavior, and the proof she had obtained, in spite of his precautions, that he was in frequent correspondence with Mildred. He had since learned the circ.u.mstances of Mr.
Jocelyn"s wretched death, and that Mildred was but a sewing-girl, living with an ignorant English woman in a dilapidated old tenement, and his bitter revolt at the whole affair was quite natural in view of his superficial inquiries and knowledge. Both he and his wife judged from their proud and worldly standpoint solely, and therefore on the day following Vinton"s arrival they summoned him to a private interview. At first Mr. Arnold proposed to reason with his son, but the cold, unyielding face soon so irritated him that he became almost violent in his anger. After he and his mother had nearly exhausted themselves, Vinton said quietly:
"Now that you have both lectured and threatened me as if I were a boy, I would like to ask one question. Have I ever disgraced you yet?"
The husband and wife looked at each other, and were not a little perplexed how to meet this pa.s.sive resistance. In the same low, incisive tones, Vinton continued, "If you propose to turn me into the streets for loving Miss Jocelyn, do so at once, for I do love her, and I shall ever love her."
"She shall not touch a penny of our money," said Mrs. Arnold, with an implacable look.
"With me," replied her son, with the same old vindictive glance, "it is not a question of pennies, but of life and death. I feel toward Miss Jocelyn as I suppose my father once felt toward you, although what heart you had to win I cannot understand from your manner toward me. I have seen considerable of society, but have never met a woman who could compare with Mildred Jocelyn in all that const.i.tutes a true lady. I shall not waste any words concerning the virtues of her heart upon such unsympathetic listeners, but I am at least a man in years, and have the right to love her."
"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Arnold angrily, "there is no law which can prevent your disgracing yourself and us."
"Nor is there any law or gospel, madam, for your unnatural, unsympathetic course toward your own flesh and blood. Good-evening."
"Now you see how strange and infatuated he has become," she said to her husband after her son"s departure; but the old merchant shook his head in trouble and perplexity.
"We have been too hard upon him, I fear," he said.
"If you weaken in this matter, I shall not," she answered decisively.
"If he gives way to this folly, both I and my children will disown all kith and kin."
"Well, well," he replied impatiently, "it will have to be so, I suppose; but nevertheless I believe we have been too hard with him."
CHAPTER XLVI
A FATAL ERROR
The next morning Arnold started out to visit the one rarely absent from his thoughts. It was a lovely day in the latter part of June, and his heart grew glad and hopeful in spite of the discouraging conditions of his lot. All the world could not prevent his loving Mildred, or destroy her faith, and at some time and in some way they would attain their happiness. These hopes were like the bright summer sun, and he walked with a firmer and more elastic tread than he had ever known before.
When he reached the haggard old mansion his heart misgave him.
"Can it be reality," he asked himself, "that she has been living in places like this?" and the half-defined fear entered his mind that she might have changed somewhat with her fortunes, and might no longer be in appearance the delicate, refined, beautiful girl that he had left so long since. But his impatient heart gave him no time for such imaginings, and he hastened to gratify his intense desire to look upon her face.
In response to a low knock Mildred opened the door, and found herself in the arms of her lover. Then he held her off and looked at her earnestly. "Oh, Millie!" he exclaimed, "you have only grown more beautiful, more womanly in these long, weary years. Your face is the reflex of the letters on which I have lived, and which gave me the power to live."
Then in the excess of his joy he sank into a chair, and, putting his hand upon his heart, looked very pale. She sprang to his side in alarm. "Don"t worry, Millie," he said, taking her hand. "It"s pa.s.sing. I don"t have them very often now. I"m much better, thanks to you. Happiness rarely kills."
It was well that Mrs. Wheaton and the children were out. This scene would have been a great shock to the good woman, for she was Roger"s ally, heart and soul, and did not even know of Arnold"s existence. Since Arnold and Mildred were so fortunate as to be alone, they talked frankly over their old happy days, and as far as she could without breaking her promise to Roger, Mildred spoke of the deep sorrows which had almost overwhelmed her during his absence.
"How my heart aches for you!" Arnold said. "I never realized before what sad experiences you have pa.s.sed through. The part which I can"t endure is that I have been of no help to you. On the contrary, you reached out this little hand and saved me. Everything has been just the opposite of what it ought to have been, and even now in these surroundings you are like a diamond in a dust-heap. Oh, how different it would all be if I had my way!" and he in turn told her quite frankly how he was situated.
"Vinton," she said earnestly, "you must do all in your power to grow strong and make a place for yourself in the world. As you say, I cannot punish you for the pride and hostility of your parents; I don"t think of them, and I could never take any favors at their hands. As a man you have the right to choose for yourself, and can do so while maintaining the utmost courtesy and respect toward your family. I don"t fear poverty--I"m used to it. The thing for you to do is to find some honest work that won"t tax you too greatly, and gain strength in its performance."
"Oh, Millie, how strong and true you are! I will take your advice in this as in all respects. But we shall have to wait a long time, I fear. I have so little knowledge of business, and I think my father, influenced by my mother, will thwart rather than help me."
"Very well, I can wait," she answered smilingly. "Indeed I"d rather wait."
Now that her happiness seemed a.s.sured, however, she sighed over Roger so often and remorsefully that at last Arnold said,
"You have some trouble on your mind, Millie?"
"You must not expect to find me a light-hearted girl any more,"
she replied evasively.
"Well," he said, as he clasped her closely in farewell, "my every waking thought shall now be how best to banish sighs and bring smiles."
That evening, while they were out for a walk, Mildred said to Roger, with a little tremor in her voice, "He"s come."
He gave her a swift look, and then he turned as quickly away, but his arm grew rigid under her hand.
"Don"t fail me, Roger," she pleaded.
"It"s unexpected--I wasn"t prepared," he said, in a low tone, and then he was silent. He felt her hand trembling so greatly that he soon mastered himself for her sake. "It"s all right, Millie," he said heartily. "Be just as happy as you can."
"How can I be truly happy when you are not?" she sighed.
"Bless your kind heart! do you think I am going to stand off and lower at your happiness like a black cloud? Do you think I"m going to droop, look forlorn and deserted, and heave great sighs in dark corners? By all the powers! if I were capable of such meanness toward you, I"d whip myself worse than I did that fellow Bissel."
"Do you think I"ll feel for you any the less because you are so good and brave about it?"
"Oh, confound it!" he said impatiently, "you must not feel too much. Spoiling your happiness won"t do me any good; it would just make me savage."
She leaned her head for a second against his shoulder and said, "I"m not a bit afraid of you, Roger."
"There, Millie," he said quietly, "you always get the better of the old Satan in me, but I sometimes feel as if I could more easily tame a whole menagerie than my own nature. Come to think of it, it"s all turning out for the best. To-morrow I go home on quite a long vacation. Father isn"t very well this summer, and I"m to take charge of the harvest for him."
"Isn"t this plan a little sudden?" she asked.
"Not more so than your news," he replied grimly.
"Are you not willing to meet him yet?"