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Without a Home

E >> E. P. Roe >> Without a Home



Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.



WITHOUT A HOME

E. P. ROE


ILLUSTRATED






PREFACE

Just ten years ago I took my first hesitating and dubious steps
toward authorship. My reception on the part of the public has been
so much kinder than I expected, and the audience that has listened
to my stories with each successive autumn has been so steadfast and
loyal, that I can scarcely be blamed for entertaining a warm and
growing regard for these unseen, unknown friends. Toward indifferent
strangers we maintain a natural reticence, but as acquaintance
ripens into friendship there is a mutual impulse toward an exchange
of confidences. In the many kind letters received I have gratefully
recognized this impulse in my readers, and am tempted by their
interest to be a little garrulous concerning my literary life, the
causes which led to it, and the methods of my work. Those who are
indifferent can easily skip these preliminary pages, and those who
are learning to care a little for the personality of him who has
come to them so often with the kindling of the autumn fires may
find some satisfaction in learning why he comes, and the motive,
the spirit with which, in a sense, he ventures to be present at
their hearths.

One of the advantages of authorship is criticism; and I have never
had reason to complain of its absence. My only regret is that I
have not been able to make better use of it. I admit that both the
praise and blame have been rather bewildering, but this confusion
is undoubtedly due to a lack of the critical faculty. With one acute
gentleman, however, who remarked that it "was difficult to account
for the popularity of Mr. Roe's books," I am in hearty accord. I
fully share in his surprise and perplexity. It may be that we at
last have an instance of an effect without a cause.

Ten years ago I had never written a line of a story, and had
scarcely entertained the thought of constructing one. The burning
of Chicago impressed me powerfully, and obedient to an impulse I
spent several days among its smoking ruins. As a result, my first
novel, "Barriers Burned Away," gradually took possession of my mind.
I did not manufacture the story at all, for it grew as naturally
as do the plants--weeds, some may suggest--on my farm. In the
intervals of a busy and practical life, and also when I ought to
have been sleeping, my imagination, unspurred, and almost undirected,
spun the warp and woof of the tale, and wove them together. At first
I supposed it would be but a brief story, which might speedily find
its way into my own waste-basket, and I was on the point of burning
it more than once. One wintry afternoon I read the few chapters then
written to a friend in whose literary taste I had much confidence,
and had her verdict been adverse they probably would have perished
as surely as a callow germ exposed to the bitter storm then raging
without. I am not sure, however, but that the impulse to write would
have carried me forward, and that I would have found ample return
for all the labor in the free play of my fancy, even though editors
and publishers scoffed at the result.

On a subsequent winter afternoon the incipient story passed through
another peril. In the office of "The New York Evangelist" I read
the first eight chapters of my blotted manuscript to Dr. Field
and his associate editor, Mr. J. H. Dey. This fragment was all that
then existed, and as I stumbled through my rather blind chirography
I often looked askance at the glowing grate, fearing lest my friends
in kindness would suggest that I should drop the crude production
on the coals, where it could do neither me nor any one else further
harm, and then go out into the world once more clothed in my right
mind. A heavy responsibility rests on the gentlemen named, for they
asked me to leave the manuscript for serial issue. From that hour
I suppose I should date the beginning of my life of authorship.
The story grew from eight into fifty-two chapters, and ran just
one year in the paper, my manuscript often being ready but a few
pages in advance of publication. I wrote no outline for my guidance;
I merely let the characters do as they pleased, and work out their
own destiny. I had no preparation for my work beyond a careful
study of the topography of Chicago and the incidents of the fire.
For nearly a year my chief recreation was to dwell apart among the
shadows created by my fancy, and I wrote when and where I could--on
steamboats and railroad cars, as well as in my study. In spite of
my fears the serial found readers, and at last I obtained a publisher.
When the book appeared I suppose I looked upon it much as a young
father looks upon his first child. His interest in it is intense,
but he knows well that its future is very doubtful.

It appears to me, however, that the true impulse toward authorship
does not arise from a desire to please any one, but rather from a
strong consciousness of something definite to say, whether people
will listen or not. I can honestly assert that I have never
manufactured a novel, and should I do so I am sure it would be
so wooden and lifeless that no one would read it. My stories have
come with scarcely any volition on my part, and their characters
control me. If I should move them about like images they would be
but images. In every book they often acted in a manner just the
opposite from that which I had planned. Moreover, there are unwritten
stories in my mind, the characters of which are becoming almost
as real as the people I meet daily. While composing narratives I
forget everything and live in an ideal world, which nevertheless
is real for the time. The fortunes of the characters affect me
deeply, and I truly believe that only as I feel strongly will the
reader be interested. A book, like a bullet, can go only as far as
the projecting force carries it.

The final tests of all literary and art work are an intelligent
public and time. We may hope, dream, and claim what we please,
but these two tribunals will settle all values; therefore the only
thing for an author or artist to do is to express his own individuality
clearly and honestly, and submit patiently and deferentially to
these tests. In nature the lichen has its place as truly as the
oak.

I will say but a few words in regard to the story contained in this
volume. It was announced two years ago, but I found that I could
not complete it satisfactorily. In its present form it has been
almost wholly recast, and much broadened in its scope. It touches
upon several modern and very difficult problems. I have not in the
remotest degree attempted to solve them, but rather have sought
to direct attention to them. In our society public opinion is
exceedingly powerful. It is the torrent that sweeps away obstructing
evils. The cleansing tide is composed originally of many rills and
streamlets, and it is my hope that this volume may add a little to
that which at last is irresistible.

I can say with sincerity that I have made my studies carefully and
patiently, and when dealing with practical phases of city life I
have evolved very little from my own inner consciousness. I have
visited scores of typical tenements; I have sat day after day on the
bench with the police judges, and have visited the station-houses
repeatedly. There are few large retail shops that I have not
entered many times, and I have conversed with both the employers
and employes. It is a shameful fact that, in the face of a plain
statute forbidding the barbarous regulation, saleswomen are still
compelled to stand continuously in many of the stores. On the
intensely hot day when our murdered President was brought from
Washington to the sea-side, I found many girls standing wearily
and uselessly because of this inhuman rule. There was no provision
for their occasional rest. Not for a thousand dollars would I have
incurred the risk and torture of standing through that sultry day.
There are plenty of shops in the city which are now managed on
the principles of humanity, and such patronage should be given to
these and withdrawn from the others as would teach the proprietors
that women are entitled to a little of the consideration that is so
justly associated with the work of the Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals. Mr. Bergh deserves praise for protecting
even a cat from cruelty; but all the cats in the city unitedly
could not suffer as much as the slight growing girl who must stand
during a long hot day. I trust the reader will note carefully the
Appendix at the close of this book.

It will soon be discovered that the modern opium or morphia habit
has a large place in this volume. While I have tried to avoid the
style of a medical treatise, which would be in poor taste in a work
of fiction, I have carefully consulted the best medical works and
authorities on the subject, and I have conversed with many opium
slaves in all stages of the habit. I am sure I am right in fearing
that in the morphia hunger and consumption one of the greatest
evils of the future is looming darkly above the horizon of society.
Warnings against this poison of body and soul cannot be too solemn
or too strong.

So many have aided me in the collection of my material that any
mention of names may appear almost invidious; but as the reader
will naturally think that the varied phases of the opium habit are
remote from my experience, I will say that I have been guided in
my words by trustworthy physicians like Drs. E. P. Fowler, of New
York; Louis Seaman, chief of staff at the Charity Hospital; Wm.
H. Vail, and many others. I have also read such parts of my MS.
as touched on this subject to Dr. H. K. Kane, the author of two
works on the morphia habit.

This novel appeared as a serial in the "Congregationalist" of Boston,
and my acknowledgments are due to the editors and publishers of
this journal for their confidence in taking the story before it
was written and for their uniform courtesy.

I can truly say that I have bestowed more labor on this book than
upon any which have preceded it; for the favor accorded me by the
public imposes the strongest obligation to be conscientious in my
work.




CONTENTS

I. ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE

II. WEAKNESS

III. CONFIDENTIAL

IV. "PITILESS WAVES"

V. THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN

VI. ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE

VII. COMPARISONS

VIII. CHANGES

IX. NEITHER BOY NOR MAN

X. A COUNCIL

XI. A SHADOW

XII. VIEWLESS FETTERS

XIII. A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS

XIV. THE OLD MANSION

XV. "WELCOME HOME"

XVI. BELLE AND MILDRED

XVII. BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF

XVIII. "I BELIEVE IN YOU"

XIX. BELLE JARS THE "SYSTEM"

XX. SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK

XXI. "HE'S A MAN"

XXII. SKILLED LABOR

XXIII. THE OLD ASTRONOMER

XXIV. ROGER REAPPEARS

XXV. THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS

XXVI. WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD

XXVII. A SLAVE

XXVIII. NEW YORK'S HUMANITY

XXIX. THE BEATITUDES OF OPIUM

XXX. THE SECRET VICE REVEALED

XXXI. AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS

XXXII. A BLACK CONSPIRACY

XXXIII. MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL

XXXIV. "A WISE JUDGE"

XXXV. "I AM SO PERPLEXED"

XXXVI. A WOMAN'S HEART

XXXVII. STRONG TEMPTATION

XXXVIII. NO "DARK CORNERS"

XXXIX. "HOME, SWEET HOME"

XL. NEIGHBORS

XLI. GLINTS OF SUNSHINE

XLII. HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN

XLIII. WAS BELLE MURDERED

XLIV. THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OPIUM

XLV. MOTHER AND SON

XLVI. A FATAL ERROR

XLVII. LIGHT AT EVENTIDE

XLVIII. "GOOD ANGEL OF GOD"

XLIX. HOME

APPENDIX




WITHOUT A HOME




CHAPTER I

ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE


It was an attractive picture that Martin Jocelyn looked upon
through the open doorway of his parlor. His lively daughter Belle
had invited half a score of her schoolmates to spend the evening,
and a few privileged brothers had been permitted to come also. The
young people were naturally selecting those dances which had some
of the characteristics of a romp, for they were at an age when
motion means enjoyment.

Miss Belle, eager and mettlesome, stood waiting for music that
could scarcely be lighter or more devoid of moral quality than her
own immature heart. Life, at that time, had for her but one great
desideratum--fun; and with her especial favorites about her, with
a careful selection of "nice brothers," canvassed with many pros
and cons over neglected French exercises, she had the promise
of plenty of it for a long evening, and her dark eyes glowed and
cheeks flamed at the prospect. Impatiently tapping the floor with
her foot, she looked toward her sister, who was seated at the piano.

Mildred Jocelyn knew that all were waiting for her; she instinctively
felt the impatience she did not see, and yet could not resist
listening to some honeyed nonsense that her "friend" was saying.
Ostensibly, Vinton Arnold was at her side to turn the leaves of
the music, but in reality to feast his eyes on beauty which daily
bound him in stronger chains of fascination. Her head drooped under
his words, but only as the flowers bend under the dew and rain that
give them life. His passing compliment was a trifle, but it seemed
like the delicate touch to which the subtle electric current
responds. From a credulous, joyous heart a crimson tide welled up
into her face and neck; she could not repress a smile, though she
bowed her head in girlish shame to hide it. Then, as if the light,
gay music before her had become the natural expression of her mood,
she struck into it with a brilliancy and life that gave even Belle
content.

Arnold saw the pleasure his remark had given, and surmised the
reason why the effect was so much greater than the apparent cause.
For a moment an answering glow lighted up his pale face, and then,
as if remembering something, he sighed deeply; but in the merry
life which now filled the apartments a sigh stood little chance of
recognition.

The sigh of the master of the house, however, was so deep and his
face so clouded with care and anxiety as he turned from it all,
that his wife, who at that moment met him, was compelled to note
that something was amiss.

"Martin, what is it?" she asked.

He looked for a moment into her troubled blue eyes, and noted how
fair, delicate, and girlish she still appeared in her evening dress.
He knew also that the delicacy and refinement of feature were but
the reflex of her nature, and, for the first time in his life, he
wished that she were a strong, coarse woman.

"No matter, Fanny, to-night. See that the youngsters have a good
time," and he passed hastily out.

"He's worrying about those stupid business matters again," she
said, and the thought seemed to give much relief.

Business matters were masculine, and she was essentially feminine.
Her world was as far removed from finance as her laces from the
iron in which her husband dealt.

A little boy of four years of age and a little girl of six, whose
tiny form was draped in such gossamer-like fabrics that she seemed
more fairy-like than human, were pulling at her dress, eager to enter
the mirth-resounding parlors, but afraid to leave her sheltering
wing. Mrs. Jocelyn watched the scene from the doorway, where her
husband had stood, without his sigh. Her motherly heart sympathized
with Belle's abounding life and fun, and her maternal pride
was assured by the budding promise of a beauty which would shine
pre-eminent when the school-girl should become a belle in very
truth.

But her eyes rested on Mildred with wistful tenderness. Her own
experience enabled her to interpret her daughter's manner, and to
understand the ebb and flow of feeling whose cause, as yet, was
scarcely recognized by the young girl.

The geniality of Mrs. Jocelyn's smile might well assure Vinton
Arnold that she welcomed his presence at her daughter's side, and
yet, for some reason, the frank, cordial greeting in the lady's
eyes and manner made him sigh again. He evidently harbored a memory
or a thought that did not accord with the scene or the occasion.
Whatever it was it did not prevent him from enjoying to the utmost
the pleasure he ever found in the presence of Mildred. In contrast
with Belle she had her mother's fairness and delicacy of feature,
and her blue eyes were not designed to express the exultation
and pride of one of society's flattered favorites. Indeed it was
already evident that a glance from Arnold was worth more than the
world's homage. And yet it was comically pathetic--as it ever is--to
see how the girl tried to hide the "abundance of her heart."

"Millie is myself right over again," thought Mrs. Jocelyn; "hardly
in society before in a fair way to be out of it. Beaux in general
have few attractions for her. Belle, however, will lead the young
men a chase. If I'm any judge, Mr. Arnold's symptoms are becoming
serious. He's just the one of all the world for Millie, and could
give her the home which her style of beauty requires--a home in
which not a common or coarse thing would be visible, but all as
dainty as herself. How I would like to furnish her house! But Martin
always thinks he's so poor."

Mrs. Jocelyn soon left the parlor to complete her arrangements for
an elegant little supper, and she complacently felt that, whatever
might be the tribulations of the great iron firm down town, her small
domain was serene with present happiness and bright with promise.

While the vigorous appetites of the growing boys and girls were
disposing of the supper, Arnold and Mildred rather neglected their
plates, finding ambrosia in each other's eyes, words, and even
intonations. Now that they had the deserted parlor to themselves,
Mildred seemed under less constraint.

"It was very nice of you," she said, "to come and help me entertain
Belle's friends, especially when they are all so young."

"Yes," he replied. "I am a happy monument of self-sacrifice."

"But not a brazen one," she added quickly.

"No, nor a bronze one, either," he said, and a sudden gloom gathered
in his large dark eyes.

She had always admired the pallor of his face. "It set off his
superb brown eyes and heavy mustache so finely," she was accustomed
to say. But this evening for some reason she wished that there was
a little more bronze on his cheek and decision in his manner. His
aristocratic pallor was a trifle too great, and he seemed a little
frail to satisfy even her ideal of manhood.

She said, in gentle solicitude, "You do not look well this spring.
I fear you are not very strong."

He glanced at her quickly, but in her kindly blue eyes and in every
line of her lovely face he saw only friendly regard--perhaps more,
for her features were not designed for disguises. After a moment
he replied, with a quiet bitterness which both pained and mystified
her:

"You are right. I am not strong."

"But summer is near," she resumed earnestly. "You will soon go to
the country, and will bring back this fall bronze in plenty, and
the strength of bronze. Mother says we shall go to Saratoga. That
is one of your favorite haunts, I believe, so I shall have the
pleasure, perhaps, of drinking 'your very good health' some bright
morning before breakfast. Which is your favorite spring?"

"I do not know. I will decide after I have learned your choice."

"That's an amiable weakness. I think I shall like Saratoga. The
great hotels contain all one wishes for amusement. Then everything
about town is so nice, pretty, and sociable. The shops, also,
are fine. Too often we have spent our summers in places that were
a trifle dreary. Mountains oppress me with a sense of littleness,
and their wildness frightens me. The ocean is worse still. The
moment I am alone with it, such a lonely, desolate feeling creeps
over me--oh, I can't tell you! I fear you think I am silly and
frivolous. You think I ought to be inspired by the shaggy mountains
and wild waves and all that. Well, you may think so--I won't
tell fibs. I don't think mother is frivolous, and she feels as I
do. We are from the South, and like things that are warm, bright,
and sociable. The ocean always seemed to me so large and cold and
pitiless--to care so little for those in its power."

"In that respect it's like the world, or rather the people in it--"

"Oh, no, no!" she interrupted eagerly; "it is to the world of
people I am glad to escape from these solitudes of nature. As I
said, the latter, with their vastness, power, and, worse than all,
their indifference, oppress me, and make me shiver with a vague
dread. I once saw a ship beaten to pieces by the waves in a storm.
It was on the coast near where we were spending the summer. Some
of the people on the vessel were drowned, and their cries ring in
my ears to this day. Oh, it was piteous to see them reaching out
their hands, but the great merciless waves would not stop a moment,
even when a little time would have given the lifeboats a chance to
save the poor creatures. The breakers just struck and pounded the
ship until it broke into pieces, and then tossed the lifeless body
and broken wood on the shore as if one were of no more value than
the other. I can't think of it without shuddering, and I've hated
the sea ever since, and never wish to go near it again."

"You have unconsciously described this Christian city," said Arnold,
with a short laugh.

"What a cynic you are to-night! You condemn all the world, and
find fault even with yourself--a rare thing in cynics, I imagine.
As a rule they are right, and the universe wrong."

"I have not found any fault with you," he said, in a tone that caused
her long eyelashes to veil the pleasure she could not wholly conceal.

"I hope the self-constraint imposed by your courtesy is not
too severe for comfort. I also understand the little fiction of
excepting present company. But I cannot help remembering that I am
a wee bit of the world and very worldly; that is, I am very fond
of the world and all its pretty follies. I like nice people much
better than savage mountains and heartless waves."

"And yet you are not what I should call a society girl, Miss Millie."

"I'm glad you think so. I've no wish to win that character.
Fashionable society seems to me like the sea, as restless and
unreasoning, always on the go, and yet never going anywhere. I know
lots of girls who go here and there and do this and that with the
monotony with which the waves roll in and out. Half the time they
act contrary to their wishes and feelings, but they imagine it the
thing to do, and they do it till they are tired and bored half to
death."

"What, then, is your ideal of life?"

Her head drooped a little lower, and the tell-tale color would come
as she replied hesitatingly, and with a slight deprecatory laugh:

"Well, I can't say I've thought it out very definitely. Plenty of
real friends seem to me better than the world's stare, even though
there's a trace of admiration in it Then, again, you men so monopolize
the world that there is not much left for us poor women to do; but
I have imagined that to create a lovely home, and to gather in it
all the beauty within one's reach, and just the people one best liked,
would be a very congenial life-work for some women. That is what
mother is doing for us, and she seems very happy and contented--much
more so than those ladies who seek their pleasures beyond their
homes. You see I use my eyes, Mr. Arnold, even if I am not antiquated
enough to be wise."

His look had grown so wistful and intent that she could not meet
it, but averted her face as she spoke. Suddenly he sprang up, and
took her hand with a pressure all too strong for the "friend" she
called him, as he said:

"Miss Millie, you are one of a thousand. Good-night."

For a few moments she sat where he left her. What did he mean?
Had she revealed her heart too plainly? His manner surely had been
unmistakable, and no woman could have doubted the language of his
eyes.

"But some constraint," she sighed, "ties his tongue."

The more she thought it over, however--and what young girl does
not live over such interviews a hundred times--the more convinced
she became that her favorite among the many who sought her favor
gave as much to her as she to him; and she was shrewd enough
to understand that the nearer two people exchange evenly in these
matters the better it is for both. Her last thought that night was,
"To make a home for him would be happiness indeed. How much life
promises me!"




CHAPTER II

WEAKNESS


Vinton Arnold's walk down Fifth Avenue was so rapid as to indicate
strong perturbation. At last he entered a large house of square,
heavy architecture, a creation evidently of solid wealth in the
earlier days of the thoroughfare's history. There was something
in his step as he crossed the marble hall to the hat-rack and then
went up the stairway that caused his mother to pass quickly from
her sitting-room that she might intercept him. After a moment's
scrutiny she said, in a low, hard tone:

"You have spent the evening with Miss Jocelyn again."

He made no reply.

"Are you a man of honor?"

His pallid face crimsoned instantly, and his hands clenched with
repressed feeling, but he still remained silent. Neither did he
appear to have the power to meet his mother's cold, penetrating
glance.

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