Without a Home

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

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"It's a piece of villany," Roger muttered, "but of what nature I
have no means of discovering, even were it any affair of mine. I am
satisfied of one thing, however--that man's a scoundrel; seemingly
he has the girl in his power, and it looks as if she had been
stealing goods and he is compounding the felony with her."

If he had realized the depth of the fellow's villany he would not
have gone back to his studies so quietly, for the one nearest to
his heart was its object. The scene he had witnessed can soon be
explained. Goods at the lace counter had been missed on more than
one occasion, and it had been the hope of Mildred's enemy that he
might fasten the suspicion upon her. On this evening, however, he
had seen the girl in question secrete two or three pieces as she
was folding them up, and he believed she had carried them away with
her. Immediately on joining her he had charged her with the theft,
and in answer to her denials threatened to have her searched
before they parted. Then in terror she admitted the fact, and was
in a condition to become his unwilling accomplice in the diabolical
scheme suggested by his discovery.

He had said to her, in effect, that he suspected another girl--namely,
Mildred Jocelyn--and that if she would place the goods in the pocket
of this girl's cloak on the following afternoon he would by this
act be enabled to extort a confession from her also, such as he had
received in the present case. He then promised the girl in return
for this service that he would make no complaint against her, but
would give her the chance to find another situation, which she must
do speedily, since he could no longer permit her to remain in the
employ of the house for whom he acted. She was extremely reluctant
to enter into this scheme, but, in her confusion, guilt, and fear,
made the evil promise, finding from bitter experience that one sin,
like an enemy within the walls, opens the gate to many others. She
tried to satisfy such conscience as she had with the thought that
Mildred was no better than herself, and that the worst which could
happen to the object of this sudden conspiracy was a quiet warning
to seek employment elsewhere. The man himself promised as much,
although he had no such mild measures in view. It was his design
to shame Mildred publicly, to break down her character, and render
her desperate. He had learned that she had no protector worthy
of the name, and believed that he could so adroitly play his part
that he would appear only as the vigilant and faithful servant of
his employers.

Mildred, all unconscious of the pit dug beneath her feet, was passing
out the following evening into the dreary March storm, when the
foreman touched her shoulder and said that one of the proprietors
wished to see her. In much surprise, and with only the fear of one
whose position meant daily bread for herself and those she loved
better than self, she followed the man to the private office, where
she found two of the firm, and they looked grave and severe indeed.

"Miss Jocelyn," began the elder, without any circumlocution, "laces
have been missed from your department, and suspicion rests on you.
I hope you can prove yourself innocent."

The charge was so awful and unexpected that she sank, paie and
faint, into a chair, and the appearance of the terror-stricken girl
was taken as evidence of guilt. But she goon rallied sufficiently
to say, with great earnestness, "Indeed, sir, I am innocent."

"Assertion is not proof. Of course you are willing, then, to be
searched?"

She, Mildred Jocelyn, searched for stolen goods! Searched, alone,
in the presence of these dark-browed, frowning men! The act, the
indignity, seemed overwhelming. A hot crimson flush mantled her
face, and her womanhood rose in arms against the insult.

"I do not fear being searched," she said indignantly; "but a woman
must perform the act."

"Certainly," said her employer; "we do not propose anything
indecorous; but first call an officer."

They were convinced that they had found the culprit, and were
determined to make such an example of her as would deter all others
in the shop from similar dishonesty.

Mildred was left to herself a few moments, faint and bewildered,
a whirl of horrible thoughts passing through her mind; and then,
conscious of innocence, she began to grow calm, believing that the
ordeal would soon be over. Nevertheless she had received a shock
which left her weak and trembling, as she followed two of the most
trusty women employed in the shop to a private apartment, at whose
door she saw a bulky guardian of the law. The majority, unaware
of what had taken place, had departed; but such as remained had
lingered, looking in wonder at the hasty appearance of the policeman,
and the intense curiosity had been heightened when they saw him
stationed near an entrance through which Mildred was speedily led.
They at once surmised the truth, and waited for the result of the
search in almost breathless expectation. The girl who had done
Mildred so deep a wrong had hastened away among the first, and so
was unaware of what was taking place; the chief conspirator, from
an obscure part in the now half-lighted shop, watched with cruel
eyes the working of his plot.

CHAPTER XXXIII

MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL

Not from any sense of guilt, but rather from the trembling
apprehensiveness of one whose spirit is already half broken by
undeserved misfortune, Mildred tottered to a chair within the small
apartment to which she had been taken. With an appealing glance to
the two women who stood beside her she said, "Oh, hasten to prove
that I am innocent! My burden was already too heavy, and this is
horrible."

"Miss Jocelyn," replied the elder of the women, in a matter-of-fact
tone, "it's our duty to search you thoroughly, and, if innocent,
you will not fear it. There will be nothing 'horrible' about the
affair at all, unless you have been stealing, and it seems to me
that an honest girl would show more nerve."

"Search me, then--search as thoroughly as you please," cried Mildred,
with an indignant flush crimsoning her pale, wan face. "I'd sooner
starve a thousand times than take a penny that did not belong to
me."

Grimly and silently, and with a half-incredulous shrug, the woman,
whose mind had been poisoned against Mildred, began her search,
first taking off the young girl's waterproof cloak. "Why is the
bottom of this side-pocket slit open?" she asked severely. "What
is this, away down between the lining and the cloth?" and she drew
out two pieces of valuable lace.

Mildred looked at the ominous wares with dilated eyes, and for a
moment was speechless with astonishment and terror.

"Your words and deeds are a trifle discordant," began the woman,
in cold satire, "but your manner is more in keeping."

"I know nothing about that lace," Mildred exclaimed passionately.
"This is a plot against--"

"Oh, nonsense!" interrupted the woman harshly. "Here, officer,"
she continued, opening the door, "take your prisoner. These goods
were found upon her person, concealed within the lining of her
cloak," and she showed him where the lace had been discovered.

"A mighty clear case," was his grinning reply; "still you must be
ready to testify to-morrow, unless the girl pleads guilty, which
will be her best course."

"What are you going to do with me?" asked Mildred, in a hoarse
whisper.

"Oh, nothing uncommon, miss--only what is always done under such
circumstances. We'll give you free lodgings to-night, and time to
think a bit over your evil ways."

One of the seniors of the firm, who had drawn near to the door and
had heard the result of the search, now said, with much indignation,
and in a tone that all present could hear, "Officer, remove your
prisoner, and show no leniency. Let the law take its full course,
for we intend to stamp out all dishonesty from our establishment,
most thoroughly."

"Come," said the policeman, roughly laying his hand on the shoulder
of the almost paralyzed girl.

"Where?" she gasped.

"Why, to the station-house, of course," he answered impatiently.

"Oh, you can't mean THAT."

"Come, come, no nonsense, no airs. You knew well enough that
the station-house and jail were at the end of the road you were
travelling. People always get found out, sooner or later. If you
make me trouble in arresting you, it will go all the harder with
you."

"Can't I--can't I send word to my friends?"

"No, indeed, not now. Your pals must appear in court to-morrow."

She looked appealingly around, and on every face within the circle
of light saw only aversion and anger, while the cruel, mocking eyes
of the man whose coarse advances she had so stingingly resented
were almost fiendish in their exultation.

"It's of no use," she muttered bitterly. "It seems as if all
the world, and God Himself, were against me," and giving way to a
despairing apathy she followed the officer out of the store--out
into the glaring lamplight of the street, out into the wild March
storm that swept her along toward prison. To her morbid mind
the sleet-lad en gale seemed in league with all the other malign
influences that were hurrying her on to shame and ruin.

"Hi, there! Look where you are going," thundered the policeman to
a passenger who was breasting the storm, with his umbrella pointed
at an angle that threatened the officer's eye.

The umbrella was thrown back, and then flew away on the gale from
the nerveless hands of Roger Atwood. Dumb and paralyzed with wonder,
he impeded their progress a moment as he looked into Mildred's
white face. At last a time had come when she welcomed his presence,
and she cried, "Oh, Mr. Atwood, tell them at home--tell them I'm
innocent."

"What does this outrage mean?" he demanded, in a tone that cause
the officer to grasp his club tightly.

"It means that if you interfere by another word I'll arrest you
also. Move on, and mind your business."

"Miss Jocelyn, explain," he said earnestly to her, without budging
an inch, and the comparatively few passers-by began to gather around
them.

"You can have no communication with the prisoner on the street,"
said the arm of the law roughly; "and if you don't get out of my
way you'll be sorry."

"Please don't draw attention to me," entreated Mildred hurriedly.
"You can do nothing. I'm falsely accused--tell them at home."

He passed swiftly on her side, and, as he did so, whispered, "You
shall not be left alone a moment. I'll follow, and to-morrow prove
you innocent," for, like a flash, the scene he had witnessed the
evening before came into his mind.

"Quit that," warned the officer, "or I'll--" but the young man was
gone. He soon turned, however, and followed until he saw Mildred
led within the station-house door. The storm was so severe as to
master the curiosity of the incipient crowd, and only a few street
gamins followed his example. He was wary now, and, having regained
his self-control, he recognized a task that would tax his best
skill and tact.

Having watched until he saw the officer who had made the arrest
depart, he entered the station-house. To the sergeant on duty behind
the long desk he said, with much courtesy, "I am a friend of Miss
Jocelyn, a young woman recently brought to this station. I wish to
do nothing contrary to your rules, but I would like to communicate
with her and do what I can for her comfort. Will you please explain
to me what privileges may be granted to the prisoner and to her
friends?"

"Well, this is a serious case, and the proof against her is almost
positive. The stolen goods were found upon her person, and her
employers have charged that there be no leniency."

"Her employers could not have wished her treated cruelly, and if
they did, you are not the man to carry out their wishes," Roger
insinuated. "All that her friends ask is kindness and fair play within
the limits of your rules. Moreover, her friends have information
which will show her to be innocent, and let me assure you that
she is a lady by birth and breeding, although the family has been
reduced to poverty. She has influential friends."

His words evidently had weight with the sergeant, and Roger's bearing
was so gentlemanly that the official imagined that the young man
himself might represent no mean degree of social and political
influence.

"Yes," he said, "I noticed that she wasn't one of the common sort."

"And you must have observed also that she was delicate and frail
looking."

"Yes, that, too, was apparent, and we have every disposition to be
humane toward prisoners. You can send her some supper and bedding,
and if you wish to write to her you can do so, but must submit what
you write to the captain of the precinct. I'm expecting him every
minute."

Roger wrote rapidly:

"Miss JOCELYN--Your friends fully believe in your innocence, and I
think I can say without doubt that they have the means of proving
it. Much depends on your maintaining strength and courage. Bedding
will be sent to make you comfortable, and, for the sake of your
mother and those you love at home, I hope you will not refuse the
supper that shall soon be sent also. I have ever believed that you
were the bravest girl in the world, and now that so much depends
on your fortitude and nerve, I am sure you will second the efforts
of those who are trying to aid you. With the strongest respect and
sympathy, ROGER ATWOOD."

The captain, who soon appeared, saw no objection to this note, and
promised that it should be sent to Mildred.

Roger then went to the nearest restaurant, and procured a delicate
and inviting supper, which, with a generous pot of coffee, he
carried so swiftly through the storm that it was sent smoking hot
to the cell in which Mildred was confined.

He then hastened to a livery-stable, and, having obtained a carriage,
was driven rapidly to the tenement in which the Jocelyns had their
rooms. Mr. Jocelyn, fortunately, was absent; for Mildred's natural
protector would only have made matters far worse. If the guardians
of the law had looked upon the wrecked and fallen man they would have
felt that the daughter's alleged crime was already half explained.
But a visit from Mrs. Jocelyn would make a far different impression, and
he determined that she alone should accompany him to the station-house.

It would be useless to pain the reader with Mrs. Jocelyn's distress,
and for a time Roger thought the tidings would crush the already
stricken woman; but in answer to his appeal she soon rallied in defence
of her child. At his request she assumed, as far as possible, the
garb of a lady--the appearance and bearing of one was inseparable
from her. It was with much difficulty that he persuaded the weeping
and indignant Belle to remain with the children, for he well knew
that she was far too excitable to deal with the police. Having made
every provision possible for Mildred's comfort, they soon reached
the station-house, and the sergeant in charge greeted them politely;
but on learning their errand he frowned, and said to Mrs. Jocelyn,
"No, you can't see her till she is brought into court to-morrow."

In answer to the mother's appeals and Roger's expostulations he
remarked impatiently, "Do you think I'm going to disobey orders?
Either take my answer or wait till the captain comes in again."

They had no other resource, and sat down to weary waiting, the
mother weeping silently, and Roger, with sternly knit brows, deep
in thought.

At last the captain returned, and the sergeant rose and said,
"Here's the mother of the girl who was taken with stolen goods on
her person. She wishes to speak with you."

"Well, what is it?" demanded the police-captain a little harshly,
turning toward Mrs. Jocelyn; but his manner softened as he looked
upon the thin, delicate features which had not yet lost their old,
sweet charm, and which now were eloquent with a mother's unspeakable
grief and solicitude. "Don't be frightened, madam," he added,
somewhat kindly, as he saw the poor woman's ineffectual efforts
to rise and speak. "I'm human, and not more hard-hearted than my
duties require."

At last Mrs. Jocelyn burst forth: "If you have a heart at all, sir,
save mine from breaking. My child is innocent--it will be proved
to-morrow. A year ago we had a happy, beautiful home, and my girl
a father whom all men respected. We've had misfortunes, that, thank
God, fall to the lot of few, but my child has kept herself spotless
through them all. I can prove this. She is in prison to-night
through no fault of hers. Oh, sir, in the name of mother-love, can
you keep me from my child? Can I not see her even for a moment,
and say to her one reassuring word? She may go mad from fear and
shame. She may die. Oh, sir, if you have the heart of a man, let
me see her, let me speak to her. You, or any one, may be present
and see that I mean no harm."

"There certainly has been some dreadful mistake," Roger put in
hastily, as he saw the man was irresolute, and was regarding the
suppliant sympathetically. "People who must command your respect
will be glad to testify that Miss Jocelyn's character is such as
to render impossible anything dishonorable on her part."

"Let me warn you," said the officer keenly, "that any such negative
testimony will have but little weight against the positive facts
in the case."

"Oh, let me see my child," cried Mrs. Jocelyn, in tones of such
passionate pathos that his scruples gave way, and he said to the
sergeant, "Let her see the girl! I'd be a brute to deny her, even
if it is against our rules. The doorman need not stand near enough
to embarrass them."

As Mrs. Jocelyn eagerly descended to the cells in the basement, the
captain remarked to Eoger, "The girl's friends will have to bestir
themselves if they clear her. The evidence is so strong that she'll
be committed for further trial, without doubt."

"I think she'll be discharged to-morrow," replied Roger quietly.
"I thank you for your kindness to Mrs. Jocelyn."

"Mere statements as to the girl's previous character will not clear
her," resumed the captain emphatically. "You are a relative, lover,
or something, I suppose. This poor woman has knocked my routine
methods a little out of gear. One rarely sees a face like hers in
a station-house. She evidently comes of no common stock, and I'd
like to hear that the charge is all a mistake, as you claim; but,
young man, you can't meet criminal charges with generalities. You've
got to show that she didn't steal that lace. I wish you success,
for the mother's sake at least," and he passed into his private
room.

As Mildred was about to enter the station-house she had looked
back, hoping, for the first time in her life, that Roger Atwood
was near. The eager and reassuring wave of his hand satisfied her
that he would know the place of her imprisonment, and that he would
do for her all within his power. Again he had appeared in the hour
of misfortune and bitter humiliation. But, inspite of her heart,
she now did justice to his sturdy loyalty, and she was comforted and
sustained by the thought that not quite all the world was against
her. She also knew that he would relieve her mother and Belle from
unendurable anxiety on account of her absence, and that he would
summon Mr. Wentworth to her aid. His promise to prove her innocent
had meant nothing to her more than that he would inform and rally
all of her friends. That he could know anything that would throw
light on the evil mystery did not seem possible. She was then
too miserable and depressed to do much more than wait, in a sort
of stunned torpor, for what might next occur. Mechanically she
answered such questions as were put to her in order that a record
of the case might be made, and then was led to the cells below.
She shuddered as she saw the dimly lighted stairway, and it seemed
to her morbid fancy that she was to be thrust into a subterranean
dungeon. Such, in a certain sense, it was; for in some of the older
station-houses the cells are located in the basement. At the end
of the corridor, nearest the street, she saw several women, and,
unkempt and disgusting as these station-house tramps appeared, the
fact that some of her own sex were near was reassuring. A prison
was to her a place full of nameless horrors, for the romances she
had read in brighter days gave to it the associations of medieval
dungeons. Of the prosaic character of a modern jail she knew nothing,
and when she was placed within a bare cell, and the grated iron
door was locked upon her, the horrible desolation of her position
seemed as complete and tragic a fate as had ever overtaken the
unfortunate in the cruel past. She sat down upon the grimy wooden
bench, which was the only provision made for rest or comfort,
and the thought of spending a lonely night in such a place was
overpowering. Not that she could hope for sleep, even if there were
downy pillows instead of this unredeemed couch of plank on which
some beastly inebriate may have slept off his stupor the night
before, but she felt weak and faint, and her overtaxed physical
nature craved some support and rest.

Distress of mind, however, soon made her forget all this, as her
faculties slowly rallied from the shock they had received, and she
began to realize that she was charged with a crime of which it might
be difficult--perhaps impossible--to prove her innocence. At best,
she feared she would always be so clouded with suspicion that all
would refuse to employ her, and that her blighted life and undeserved
shame, added to her father's character, would drag the family down
to the lowest depths. The consequences to them all, and especially
to Belle, seemed so threatening and terrible that she wrung her
hands and moaned aloud.

At every sound she started up, nervous and morbidly apprehensive.
The grating of the key in the iron door had given her a sense of
relief and refuge. The massive bars that shut her in also shut out
the brutal and criminal, who were associated with a prison in her
mind; the thoughts of whom had filled her very soul with terror,
when she was first arrested. As it was early in the evening she
happened to be the first prisoner, and she prayed that there might
be no others, for the possibility that some foul, drunken man might
be thrust into an adjoining cell made her flesh creep. How many
long, sleepless hours must pass before morning could bring any
hope of release! And yet she dreaded the coming day unspeakably,
for her path to freedom lay through a police court, with all its
horrible publicity. Her name might get into the papers, and proud
Mrs. Arnold treasure up every scrap of such intelligence about her.
The tidings of her shame might be sent to her who as Miss Wetheridge
had been her friend, and even she would shrink from one around whom
clung such disgraceful associations. Again and again she asked
herself, How could the charge against her be met? How could the
family live without her? What would become of them? Belle, alas,
would be rendered utterly reckless, because hopeless. The unhappy
prisoner was far beyond tears. Even her faith in God failed her,
for, seemingly, He had left her the victim of cruel wrong and
unredeemed misfortune. With her hot, dry eyes buried in her hands
she sat motionless and despairing, and the moments passed like
hours.

At this crisis in her despair Roger's note was handed to her,
and it was like the north star suddenly shining out on one who is
benighted and lost. It again kindled hope, without which mind and
body give way in fatal dejection. She kissed the missive passionately,
murmuring, with eyes heavenward, "If he can clear my name from
dishonor, if he will rescue my loved ones from the poverty and
shame which are now threatening such terrible evils, I will make
any sacrifice that he can ask. I will crush out my old vain love,
if I die in the effort. My heart shall not prove a traitor to those
who are true and loyal at such a time. He can save mamma, Belle,
and the children from hopeless poverty, and perhaps destruction.
If he will, and it is his wish, I'll give all there is left of my
unhappy self. I will be his loyal wife--would to God I could be
his loving wife! Oh, would to God he had loved Belle instead of me!
I could be devotion itself as his sister. But surely I can banish
my old fond dream--which was never more than a dream--when one so
deserving, so faithful, is willing to give me his strong, helpful
hand. We are both very young; it will be years before--before--and,
surely, in so long a time, I can conquer my infatuation for one
who has left me all these dreary months without a word. A woman's
heart cannot be proof against reason, gratitude, and the sacred
duty owed to those she loves best. At any rate, mine shall not be,
and if he still craves the loyalty and--and--yes, the love of one
so shamed and impoverished as I am, he shall have all-ALL," and her
face grew stern with her purpose of self-mastery. She forced down
some of the food he sent, and drank the coffee. "I will be brave,"
she murmured. "I will try to second his efforts to clear my name,
for death were better than shame. I shall, at least, try to deserve
his respect."

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