Part 57 (2/2)
Vinton gave as warm a pressure in answer as his feebleness permitted, and then he said gravely, ”I wish you and mother to sit here close to me, for I must speak low, and my words must be brief. I have but a little fragment of life left to me, and must hasten to perform the few duties yet within my power.”
”Had not this young woman better retire?” suggested Mrs. Arnold, glancing coldly at Mildred, who stood in the background, Mrs.
Sheppard detaining her by a strong, warm clasp of her hand.
”No,” said Vinton decisively, ”she must remain. Were it not for the influence of this Christian--not religious, but Christian--girl, you would never have seen my face again, with my consent. In showing me how G.o.d forgives the sinful, she has taught me how to forgive.
Mother, I never expected to forgive you, but I do from my heart.
I am far beyond the world and all worldly considerations. In the clear light of the endless life to which we are all hastening, I see as never before how small, petty, and unworthy are those unnatural principles which blight human life at fas.h.i.+on's bidding. Mother, I wish to do you justice. You tried to care for me in my childhood and youth. You spared yourself no expense, no trouble, but you could not seem to understand that what I needed was sympathy and love--that my heart was always repressed and unhappy. The human soul, however weak, is not like an exotic plant. It should be tended by a hand that is as gentle as it is firm and careful. I found one who combined gentleness with strength; stern, lofty principle with the most beautiful and delicate womanhood; and you know how I lost her. Could I have followed the instincts of my heart, my fate would have been widely different. But that is now all past. You did not mean to wrong me so terribly. It was only because your own life was all wrong that you wronged me. Your pride and prejudice prevented you from knowing the truth concerning the girl I loved. Mother, I am dying, and my last earnest counsel to you and father is that you will obey the words of the loftiest and greatest, 'Learn of me, for I meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.' If you cannot do this, your lives will be a more wretched failure than mine has been. Bury your worldly pride in my grave, and learn to be gentle and womanly, and may G.o.d forgive you as truly as I do.”
As he spoke slowly and feebly, the cold, proud woman began to tremble and weep, and when his words ceased she sank on her knees at his bedside and sobbed, ”Oh, what have I done? Must I bear the remorse of having murdered my own child?”
”No, mother, you were blinded as I was. You will be forgiven as I have been. In the better home of heaven we'll find the secret of our true relations.h.i.+p which we missed here. Good-by now. I must hasten, for I am very weak.”
Mrs. Arnold rose, put her arms around her son and kissed him, and her daughter supported her from the room, Vinton's eyes following her sorrowfully until she disappeared. Then he said, ”Dear old father, come and sit close beside me.”
He came, and bowed his head upon his son's hand.
”Millie,” he called feebly to the young girl who stood by the fire with her face buried in her hands. She came at once. ”G.o.d bless you for those tears. They fall like dew into my soul. Millie, I feel as if--I don't know what it means--it seems as if I might go to my rest now. The room is growing dark, and I seem to see you more in my mind than with my eyes. Millie, will you--can you so far forgive me as to take my head upon your bosom and let me say my last words near your heart?”
”Great G.o.d!” cried his father, starting up, ”is he dying?”
”Father, please be calm. Keep my hand. Let my end come as I wish.
Millie, Millie, won't you?”
Her experienced eyes saw that his death was indeed at hand--that his life had but flickered up brightly once more before expiring.
Therefore she gratified his final wish, and took his head upon her breast.
”Rest, rest at last,” he sighed.
”Father,” he said after a moment or two, ”look at this dear girl who has saved my soul from death.” The old man lifted his head and gazed upon the pure, sweet face at which he had looked so often and questioningly before.
”Oh, Vinton, Vinton, G.o.d forgive me! I see it all. Our insane pride and prejudice kept a good angel from our home.”
”Yes, father, this is Mildred Jocelyn. Was I wrong to love her?”
”Oh, blind, blind fool that I've been!” the old man groaned.
”Don't grieve so, father. If you will listen to her words, her mission to us all will be complete. She is fatherless. Be kind to her after I am gone.”
The old man rose slowly and leaned his brow on Mildred's head. ”My child,” he said brokenly, ”all my love for Vinton shall now go to you, and his portion shall be yours.”
”G.o.d bless you, father. Good-by now. Let me sleep,” and his eyes closed wearily.
”That's right, my boy; you'll be better in the morning,” and with feeble, faltering steps he left the room, murmuring, ”Oh, that I had only known in time!”
Mrs. Sheppard now entered and took his place. For a little time Vinton seemed to sleep. Then he opened his eyes and looked slowly around. They kindled into loving recognition as they rested on his sister. ”Laura, your patience and mercy toward me have been rewarded,” he whispered. ”Say to Mansfield and my other brother and sisters what I told you. Be as kind to Mildred as you have been to me. Good-by.”
”Millie, Millie, good angel of G.o.d to me, farewell for a little while.”
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