MOTHER AND SON
Our story passes rapidly over the events of the ensuing months.
In his native mountain air, and under the impulse of his strong,
unbroken constitution, Roger recovered rapidly and steadily. As
soon as he was strong enough he went to the village cemetery, and,
leaning his head on Belle's grave, sobbed until Mildred led him
away. For a long time tears would come into his eyes whenever the
names of Mrs. Jocelyn and the young girl he loved so fondly were
mentioned. He and Mildred planted the sacred place thick with roses
and spring-flowering bulbs.
Mildred resisted all entreaties to remain in the country, saying
that she was a city girl at heart, and that, with Mr. Wentworth's
aid, she could easily earn her livelihood in town, and do much for
Fred and Minnie. Moreover, she felt that she could not be parted
from Roger, for seemingly he had become an inseparable part of her
life. The experiences he had shared with her were developing within
him a strong and noble manhood, and he vowed that the young girl
who had known so much sorrow should have all the happiness that he
could bring to pass.
When Mrs. Wheaton learned of Mildred's purpose to return to town,
she took more commodious apartments in the old mansion, and set
apart a room for the young girl. She also sold most of her own
things and took Mildred's furniture out of storage, so that the
place might seem familiar and homelike to her friend.
When Roger had almost recovered his wonted health, Mrs. Atwood told
her husband that he must go with her to visit his brother in town,
for the worthy woman had a project on her mind which she carried
out with characteristic directness and simplicity.
They surprised Mr. and Mrs. Ezra Atwood at breakfast, and partook
of the cheer offered them rather grimly and silently. After the
meal was over Roger's mother said, without any circumlocution:
"Brother-in-law, I've come to have a plain, honest talk with you, and
if you're a true Atwood you'll listen to me. I want your wife and
my husband to be present. We are nigh of kin, but we are forgetting
ties which the Lord hath ordained. Ezra, I believe you are a good
man at heart, but, like my husband, you set too much store by
things that perish in the using. My boy has taught me that there
are better things in this world, and we'll all soon be where we
may look on money as a curse. You have not spoken to my son since
last spring, and you've been cold toward us. I want you to know the
truth, and realize what you're doing; then if you go on in this
way, you must settle it with your own conscience;" and with a homely
pathos all her own she told the whole story.
The uncle at first tried to be grim and obstinate, but he soon
broke down completely. "I'm glad you've come," he said huskily.
"My conscience hasn't given me any peace for months, and I wanted
to give in, but you know that it's like drawing an eye-tooth for
an Atwood to give in. I'm proud of the boy, and he'll be a blessing
to us all. He IS a new departure in the family; he's got more brains
than any of us, and with it all a big, brave heart. He shall marry
the girl if he wants to; and now that her old wretch of a father is
dead, no harm need come of it. But they're young; they must wait
until Roger is educated up to the best of 'em. Well, now that
I've given in, there shall be no half-way work," and he insisted
on sending for his lawyer and making his will in Roger's favor at
once.
"I didn't come for any such purpose as this," said Roger's
mother, wiping her eyes, while his father could scarcely conceal
his exultation; "but I felt that it was time for us to stop living
like heathen," and after a visit of a very different nature from
the one they had feared, the worthy couple returned to Forestville
well content with the results of their expedition.
Roger was jubilant over the news, and he hastened to impart it to
Mildred, who was spending the remaining weeks of her sojourn in
the country with her friend Mrs. Wilson.
"Millie," he said, "you shall never want again. My good fortune
would be nothing to me unless I shared it with you."
But she disappointed him by saying, "No, Roger, you must let me
live the independent life that my nature requires," and the only
concession that he could obtain from her was a promise to receive
his aid should any emergency require it.
Before Mildred's return a letter from Vinton Arnold was forwarded
to her at Forestville, and it must be admitted that it gave her
sad heart something like a thrill of happiness. It was an eloquent
and grateful outpouring of affection, and was full of assurances
that she had now given him a chance for life and happiness.
When she told Roger, he looked very grim for a moment, and then by
a visible effort brightened up and said, "It's all right, Millie."
After pacing the room for a few moments with a contracted brow,
he continued, "Millie, you must grant me one request--you must not
say anything to Arnold about me."
"How can I say anything then about myself?" she answered. "I want
him to know that I owe everything to you, and I hope to see the
day when you will be the closest of friends."
"Well, that will be a good way on. I must see him first, and learn
more about him, and--well, friends related as Arnold will be to me
are not common. I've too much of the old untamed man in me to go
readily into that kind of thing. I will do anything in the world
for you, but you must not expect much more till I have a few gray
hairs in my head. Come now, you must humor me a little in this
affair; you can say generally that some friends were kind, and all
that, without much personal reference to me. If you should write as
you propose, he might be jealous, or--worse yet--write me a letter
of thanks. It may prevent complications, and will certainly save
me some confoundedly disagreeable experiences. After I've seen him
and get more used to it all, I may feel differently."
"You certainly will, Roger. Your life will gradually become so
rich, full, and happy, that some day you will look back in wonder
at your present feelings."
"Life will be full enough if work can make it so; but you must not
expect me to outgrow this. It will strengthen with my years. It's
my nature as well as yours. But I foresee how it will be," he
continued despondently; "I shall inevitably be pushed further and
further into the background. In your happy home life--"
Before he could utter another word Mildred was sobbing passionately.
"Roger," she cried, "don't talk that way. I can't bear it. If Vinton
is jealous of you, if he fails in manly appreciation of you, I
will never marry him. Strong as my love is for him, such a course
would destroy it. There are certain kinds of weakness that I can't
and won't tolerate."
He was surprised and deeply touched, for her manner was usually
so quiet and well controlled that even he was at times tempted
to forget how strong and passionate was her nature on occasions
sufficient to awaken it. "There, Millie, I've hurt your feelings,"
he said remorsefully. "Even I do not half understand your good,
kind heart. Well, you must have patience with me. When the right
time comes my deeds will satisfy you, I think, though my words are
now so unpromising. But please don't deny me--don't say anything
about me until I give you permission. What has occurred between us
is sacred to me--it's our affair."
"Very well, if you so wish it; but never even think again that you
will ever be less to me than you are now."
Nevertheless he went sadly away, saying to himself, "She's sincere,
Heaven knows, but what I said will be true in spite of her best
intentions."
The next day, after many farewells and an hour spent beside Belle's
grave, Roger returned to the city, far better prepared for life's
battle than when he first left his native village. Two or three
days later Mildred followed him, accompanied by Mrs. Wilson, who
was determined to see her safely settled in Mrs. Wheaton's care.
Pain and pleasure were almost equally blended in Mildred's experience
as she looked upon the furniture and the one or two pictures that
had escaped their poverty--all of which were so inseparable, in
their associations, from those who were gone, yet never absent long
from memory. But the pleasure soon got the better of the pain, for
she did not wish to forget. Mrs. Wheaton's welcome was so hearty as
to be almost overpowering, and when Roger appeared in the evening
with a beautiful picture for her walls she smiled as she once
thought she never could smile again. Mr. Wentworth also called,
and was so kind and sympathetic that the young girl felt that she
was far from friendless. "I so managed it," he whispered in parting,
"that there was little public reference to your father's sad end.
Now, Millie, turn your thoughts toward the future. Let Roger make
you happy. Believe me, he's pure gold."
"Just what poor Belle said," she thought sighingly after he had
gone. "I must disappoint them all. But Roger will help me out. He
deserves a far better wife than poor shamed, half-crushed Millie
Jocelyn can ever make him, and he shall have her, too, for he
is much too young and strong not to get over all this before many
years elapse."
Life soon passed into a peaceful, busy routine. Roger was preparing
himself for the junior class in college under the best of tutors,
and his evenings, spent with Mildred, were usually prefaced by
a brisk walk in the frosty air. Then he either read aloud to her
or talked of what was Greek to good-natured Mrs. Wheaton, who
sat knitting in a corner discreetly blind and deaf. Unknown to
Mildred, he was able to aid her very efficiently, for he taxed Mrs.
Wentworth's ingenuity in the invention of all kinds of delicate
fancy work, and that good lady, in the most business-like manner,
gave the orders to Mildred, who thought that, considering the hard
times, she was wonderfully prosperous.
Twice during the winter she went with Roger to Forestville, and
she had her little brother and sister spend the Christmas week
with her. It was the brightest experience the little people ever
remembered, although, unnoted by them, Mildred, with sad memories
that do not belong to childhood, often wiped bitter tears from her
eyes as she recalled the terrible events of the preceding holiday
season. She became an efficient ally of Mr. Wentworth, and was
almost as glad to aid him, in return for his stanch friendship, as
the cause he represented.
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 associations. 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 circumstances 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 passive 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 constitutes 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."