Part 56 (2/2)
Mrs. Sheppard was a wealthy widow, and the eldest daughter. She was for the present making her home under the paternal roof. Unlike her mother, she had quick, strong sympathies, which sorrows of her own had deepened. She had a.s.sumed the care of her brother, and infused into her ministry a tenderness which at last led the imbittered heart to reveal itself to her. She was therefore already prepared to be Mildred's sincere ally in bringing a little light into the late evening-tide of her brother's clouded day.
Most of the time she sat in her own room with the door ajar, leaving Vinton to the ministrations of his nurse. He required far less care now, for he seemed content to rest as one might during a respite from torture. His eyes would follow Mildred with a pathetic longing when he was awake, and when she took his hand and told him to sleep he would obey like a child. He seemed better because so quiet, but he grew weaker daily. All knew, and none better than himself, that life was slowly ebbing. His father came in more frequently than ever, for his son showed no restlessness at his presence now. At Mildred's request Vinton even began to greet him with something like a welcome, and the young girl did all in her power to make the old gentleman feel at home; sometimes she would place a large easy-chair by the fire and ask him to sit with them.
He was glad to comply, and often looked wonderingly and earnestly at the fair young nurse that was working such a transformation in the patient. He once or twice tried to become better acquainted with her, but ever found her gentle, deferential, and very reserved.
Twice Mildred asked Vinton to let her send for Mr. Wentworth, but he shook his head and said that she alone could do him any good.
”Read the Bible to me when you feel like it. I'll listen to you, but my best hope is to sleep so quietly that I shall have no dreams.
If that cannot be, I'll remember that you forgave me.”
”Such words make me very sad,” she replied, on the latter occasion, tears rus.h.i.+ng into her eyes.
”I am not worthy that you should care so much,” he said. ”What am I but a flickering rush-light which your hand is s.h.i.+elding that it may burn out quietly?”
”Vinton, you are wrong. The life which G.o.d has given you cannot cease. I am not wise and learned, and I have an almost unconquerable diffidence in speaking on these subjects, except to children and the poor and ignorant. But since you won't see any one else, I must speak. You say G.o.d sent me to you, and I accept your belief, but He did not send me to you merely to relieve physical pain and mental disquiet. If a man is stumbling toward an abyss of darkness, is it any great kindness to hold a lamp so that his last steps may be easier? There is for each one of us a vital truth and a sacred duty, and in shutting your eyes to these and living in the present hour, you show--pardon an honest friend for saying it--you show a more fatal weakness than you have yet manifested.”
”You are mistaken, Mildred,” he said bitterly. ”As far as I am concerned, what truth is there for me to contemplate except a wasted, unhappy life, wrecked and shamed beyond remedy, beyond hope. I long ago lost what trace of manhood I once had. Never dream that because you have forgiven me I shall forgive myself. No, no,”
he said, with a dark vindictiveness in his eyes, ”there are three that I shall never forgive, and I am one of them. As for duty, the word is torment. What can I do--I who can scarcely raise my hand?
My day is over, my chance has gone by forever. Don't interrupt me.
I know you would speak of the consolations of religion, but I'd rather go to the devil himself--if there is one--than to such a G.o.d as my mother wors.h.i.+ps; and she has always been a very religious woman. The whole thing long since became a farce to me at our church.
It was just as much a part of the fas.h.i.+onable world that blighted me as the rest of society's mummeries. You never went there after you had real trouble to contend with. It was the last place that you would think of going to for comfort or help. The thought of you alone has kept me from utter unbelief, and I would be glad to believe that there is some kindly power in existence that watches over such beings as you are, and that can reward your n.o.ble life; but as far as I am concerned it's all a mystery and a weariness.
You are near--you are merciful and kind. This is all the heaven I expect. It is far more than I deserve. Let me rest, Mildred. It will be but for a few more days. Then when you close my eyes, may I sleep forever,” and he leaned back faint and exhausted. He would not let her interrupt him, for he seemed bent on settling the question as far as he was concerned, and dismissing it finally.
She listened with fast-falling tears, and answered sighingly, ”Oh, I do wish you would see Mr. Wentworth. You are so wrong--so fatally mistaken.”
”No,” he said firmly, ”I will see no one but you.”
”Oh, what shall I say to you?”
”Do not grieve so about me. You cannot change anything. You cannot give me your strong, grand nature any more than you can your beautiful life and perfect health. I could become a Catholic and wors.h.i.+p St. Mildred,” he added with a smile, trying to banish her tears. ”The only duty that I am capable of is to try to make as little trouble as possible, and to cease making it altogether soon.
Go and rest, and I will too, for I'm very tired.”
”No,” she said resolutely. ”My mission to you must not end so weakly, so uselessly. Will you do me a favor?”
”I?”
”Yes; listen quietly and honestly;” and she read the first verses of the nineteenth chapter of St. John, ending with the words, ”Behold the man.”
”Vinton,” she said eagerly, ”the truth to which I referred was embodied truth, and your first sacred duty is to look to Him and live. To the last conscious moment of life this will remain your first and most sacred duty, and were you the strongest man in this city you could not do more. It's not a question of religions at all, or of what other people are or believe. The words I have read have brought you face to face with this Divine Man, who came to seek and save that which was lost. Never did a despairing human soul cry out to Him in vain. He is as real as I am. His tender pity is infinitely beyond mine. Far better and wiser would it be for you to turn from me than from Him. Oh, merciful Christ, how the world wrongs Thee!” and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.
”Millie, please don't,” he entreated. ”I can't endure to see you so grieved.”
”Forgive me--I am forgetting myself sadly; but how can I see you so hopeless, so despairing, when there is no more need of it than of your refusing what I try to do for your comfort? There, rest now, but think of what I've said. I may have done wrong to tire you so, but to minister to the body only, when the soul, the man within you, is in such infinite need seems but a mockery. If you continue to wrong Him who should be the one great hope of every human heart, you will sadden all my days. My mission will be but a poor one indeed.”
He was very much exhausted, but he said gently, ”I will think of it, and may the One you serve so faithfully bless you for your divine pity. What you have said seems to make everything different; you appear to have something real and definite in your mind. Give me your hand and I will rest; then, my good angel, teach me your faith.”
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