Part 10 (1/2)
”Mamma's right,” added Mildred earnestly. ”Papa, you must find a place for us in New York--a place within our means. Let us begin life right this time, and I believe G.o.d will bless and prosper us. It won't be many days before Belle and I will find something to do.”
Mr. Jocelyn sighed more deeply than ever, and, indeed, appeared so overcome for a few moments that he could not speak. At last he faltered, ”I have all of a Southern man's pride, and it's more bitter than death to me that my wife and daughters must work for their bread.”
”Papa,” exclaimed Mildred, ”would it not be infinitely more bitter to us all to eat the bread of charity? I shall pretend to no unnatural heroism, nor say I like toil and poverty. On the contrary, I think I shrink from such things more than most girls do. But I don't propose to sit down and wring my hands. I can put them to a better use. We must just put away all talk of pride and sentiment, and remember only our poverty and self-respect. As Christian and sensible people we are bound to accept of our life and make the best of it.
You and mother both know how much this change has cost me,” she concluded, with a few half-stifled sobs, ”and if I am willing to enter on a cheerful, patient effort to make the best of life as it is, I think all the rest might, too. If we give way to despondency we are lost. Let us be together again, and pull together as one.”
”The idea of Nan and the children coming back to the city in August!”
said Mr. Jocelyn dejectedly. ”You don't either of you realize what you are talking about. We should have to go into a tenement-house.”
”Martin, I do realize it,” replied his wife earnestly. ”The country is doing me no good--indeed I'm failing in health. Nothing does us good when we are unhappy and anxious. Find me two rooms in a tenement-house if we cannot afford more, and let us be together as soon as possible.”
”Well,” said Mr. Jocelyn, after a long breath, ”with such a wife and such children to work for a man ought to be able to do great things; but it's much the same as it was in the army--if one lost his place in the ranks he was hustled about in everybody's way, and if weak and disabled he was left to his fate. The world goes right on and over you if you don't stand aside. I know you've suffered, Nan, and you know that if I had my wish you would never have a care or a pain; but G.o.d knows I suffered too. After you all were gone and my duties to my former partners ceased, I began to learn from experience how difficult it is in these cursed times to get a foothold, and I became almost sleepless from anxiety. Then set in that villanous neuralgia, which always strikes a man when he's down,' and for a week or more it seemed that I should almost lose my reason.
”Oh, Martin, Martin!” his wife exclaimed reproachfully, ”and you did not let us know!”
”Why should I? It would only have added to your burden, and would not have helped me. I was glad you knew nothing about it.”
”This is another proof that we must be together,” said his wife, her eyes filling with tears. ”How did you come to get better?”
”Oh, the doctor gave me something that made me sleep, and I seldom have neuralgia now.”
”Come, papa,” cried Mildred, as she put her arms around his neck and leaned her face against his, ”there are thousands worse off than we are, and thousands more have retrieved far worse disasters.
Now take courage; we'll all stand by you, and we'll all help you.
We will one day have a prettier home than ever, and it will be all our own, so that no one can drive us from it;” and with hope springing up in her heart she tried to inspire hope and courage in theirs.
”Oh, Millie,” he said, taking her on his lap, ”when you coax and pet one you are irresistible. We WILL begin again, and win back all and more than we have lost.”
Then, partly to amuse her father and mother, but more for the purpose of hastening their departure, Mildred told them of Roger's peculiar mood, and her conscience smote her a little as she caricatured rather than characterized the youth. Mrs. Jocelyn, in her kindliness, took his part, and said, ”Millie, you are satirical and unjust I'm sure he's a well-meaning young man.”
”The dear little mother!” cried Mildred, laughing; ”when she can't think of anything else good to say of a person, she a.s.sures us that he is 'well-meaning.' Life may bring me many misfortunes, but I shall never marry what mamma calls 'a well-meaning man.'”
”But, Millie, I'm sure he's been very good and kind to us all, and he's kind to his mother and sister, and he seems steady--”
”Well, mamma, admitting it all, what follows?” asked Mildred.
”It follows that we had better go away,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, with her low, sweet laugh, that had been rarely heard of late; ”but I don't like you to be unjust to the young fellow. After all, he's not so very much to blame, Millie,” she added, with a little nod.
”If I were he I fear I might be in the same fix.”
”Oh, papa, now we must go; for if mamma's sympathies are once aroused in behalf of this 'steady, well-meaning young man'--there!
I will talk no more nonsense to-night, although I often find nonsense a sort of life preserver that keeps me from sinking. I admit, mamma, that I have been unjust to Mr. Atwood. He's far more clever than I ever imagined him to be, but he's so different”--she finished the sentence with a little repellent gesture that her mother well understood.
They were all comforted, and far more hopeful from their frank interchange of thought and feeling, and both father and mother breathed a fervent ”G.o.d bless you, Millie,” as they separated, long past midnight.
”G.o.d will bless us,” said the young girl, ”if we will just simply try to do what is right and best every day. The blessing will come on doing, not waiting.”
She had not been in her room very long before hearing the crunching of gravel under the wheels of Roger's buggy. With a smile she thought, ”He must have found a more sympathizing ear and heart than mine to have remained out so late.”