Part 3 (2/2)

He did not quite understand her, and was indiscreet enough to repeat, ”You have done me wrong, Miss Millie?”

”Pardon me. Perhaps you do not know that we are in deep trouble.

My father's firm has failed, and we shall have to give up our home.

Indeed, I hardly know what we shall do. When in trouble, one's thoughts naturally turn to one's friends. I thought perhaps you would come to see me,” and two tears that she could not repress in her eyes.

”Oh, that I were a man!” groaned Arnold, mentally, and never had human cruelty inflicted a keener pang than did Mildred's sorrowful face and the gentle reproach implied in her words.

”I--I have been ill,” he said hesitatingly. ”Miss Millie,” he added impulsively, ”you can never know how deeply I feel for you.”

She lifted her eyes questioningly to his face, and its expression was again unmistakable. For a moment she lost control of her overburdened heart, and bowing her face in her hands gave way to the strong tide of her feelings. ”Oh!” she sobbed, ”I have been so anxious and fearful about the future. People have come here out of curiosity, and others have acted as if they did not care what became of us, if they only obtained the money we owed them. I did not think that those who were so smiling and friendly a short time since could be so harsh and indifferent. A thousand times I have thought of that poor s.h.i.+p that I saw the waves beat to pieces, and it has seemed as if it might be our fate. I suppose I am morbid, and that some way will be provided, but SOME way is not A way.”

Instead of coming to her side and promising all that his heart prompted, the miserable constraint of his position led him to turn from grief that he was no longer able to witness. He went to the window, and, bowing his head against the sash, looked out into the darkness.

She regarded him with wonder as she slowly wiped her eyes.

”Mr. Arnold,” she faltered, ”I hope you will forgive me for my weakness, and also for inflicting our troubles on you.”

He turned and came slowly toward her. She saw that he trembled and almost tottered as he walked, and that his face had become ashen.

The hand he gave her seemed like ice to her warm, throbbing palm. But never could she forget his expression--the blending of self-contempt, pitiable weakness, and dejection.

”Miss Mildred,” he said slowly, ”there is no use in disguises. We had better both recognize the truth at once. At least it will be better for you, for then you may find a friend more worthy of the name. Can you not see what I am--a broken reed? The vine could better sustain a falling tree than I the one I loved, even though, like the vine, my heart clung to that one as its sole support.

You suffer; I am in torment. You are sad; I despair. You a.s.sociate strength and help with manhood, and you are right. You do not know that the weakest thing in the world is a weak, helpless man. I am only strong to suffer. I can do nothing; I am nothing. It would be impossible for me to explain how helpless and dependent I am--you could not understand it. My whole heart went out to you, for you seemed both gentle and strong. The hope would grow in my soul that you might be merciful to me when you came to know me as I am.

Good-by, Millie Jocelyn. You will find a friend strong and helpful as well as kind. As for me, my best hope is to die.” He bowed his head upon the hand he did not venture to kiss, and then almost fled from the house.

Mildred was too much overcome by surprise and feeling to make any attempt to detain him. He had virtually acknowledged his love for her, but never in her wildest fancy had she imagined so dreary and sad a revelation.

Mrs. Jocelyn, perplexed by Mr. Arnold's abrupt departure, came in hastily, and Mildred told her, with many tears, all that had been said. Even her mother's gentle nature could not prevent harsh condemnation of the young man.

”So he could do nothing better than get up this little melodrama, and then hasten back to his elegant home,” she said, with a darkening frown.

Mildred shook her head and said, musingly, ”I understand him better than you do, mamma, and I pity him from the depths of my heart.”

”I think it's all plain enough,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, in a tone that was hard and unnatural in her. ”His rich parents tell him that he must not think of marrying a poor girl, and he is the most dutiful of sons.”

”You did not hear his words, mamma--you did not see him. Oh, if he should die! He looked like death itself,” and she gave way to such an agony of grief that her mother was alarmed on her behalf, and wept, entreated, and soothed by turns until at last the poor child crept away with throbbing temples to a long night of pain and sleeplessness. The wound was one that she must hide in her own heart; her pallor and languor for several days proved how deep it had been.

But the truth that he loved her--the belief that he could never give to another what he had given to her--had a secret and sustaining power. Hope is a hardy plant in the hearts of the young. Though the future was dark, it still had its possibilities of good. Womanlike, she thought more of his trouble than of her own, and that which most depressed her was the fear that his health might give way utterly.

”I can bear anything better than his death,” she said to herself a thousand times.

She made no tragic promises of constancy, nor did she indulge in very much sentimental dreaming. She simply recognized the truth that she loved him--that her whole woman's heart yearned in tenderness over him as one that was crippled and helpless. She saw that he was unable to stand alone and act for himself, and with a sensitive pride all her own she shrank from even the thought of forcing herself on the proud, rich family that had forbidden the alliance.

Moreover, she was a good-hearted, Christian girl, and perceived clearly that it was no time for her to mope of droop. Even on the miserable day which followed the interview that so sorely wounded her, she made pathetic attempts to be cheerful and helpful, and as time pa.s.sed she rallied slowly into strength and patience.

The father's apparent efforts to keep up under his misfortune were also a great incentive to earnest effort on her part. More than once she said in substance to her mother, ”Papa is so often hopeful, serene, and even cheerful, that we ought to try and show a like spirit. Even when despondency does master him, and he becomes sad and irritable, he makes so brave an effort that he soon overcomes his wretched mood and quietly looks on the brighter side. We ought to follow his example.” It would have been infinitely better had he followed theirs, and found in prayer, faith, and manly courage the serenity and fort.i.tude that were but the brief, deceptive, and dangerous effects of a fatal poison.

It was decided that the family should spend the summer at some quiet farmhouse where the board would be very inexpensive, and that Mr.

Jocelyn, in the meantime, should remain in the city in order to avail himself of any opening that he might discover.

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