Without a Home

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

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"Unfortunately, Fanny, your sanguine hopes and absurd opinion of
my abilities do not change in the least the hard facts in the case.
If the firm fails, I am out of employment, and hundreds of as
good--yes, better men than I, are looking vainly for almost any
kind of work. The thought that we have laid up nothing in all these
years cuts me to the very quick. One thing is now certain. Not a
dollar must be spent, hereafter, except for food, and that of the
least costly kind, until I see our way more clearly."

"Can't we go to Saratoga?" faltered Mrs. Jocelyn.

"Certainly not. If all were well I should have had to borrow money
and anticipate my income in order to spend even a few weeks there,
unless you went to a cheap boarding-house. If things turn out
as I fear, I could not borrow a dollar. I scarcely see how we are
to live anywhere, much less at a Saratoga hotel. Fanny, can't you
understand my situation? Suppose my income stops, how much ahead
have we to live upon?" Mrs. Jocelyn sank into a chair and sobbed,
"Oh that I had known this before! See there!"

The bed was covered with dress goods and the airy nothings that
enhance a girl's beauty. The husband understood their meaning too
well, and he muttered something like an oath. At last he said, in
a hard tone, "Well, after buying all this frippery, how much money
have you left?"

"Oh, Martin," sobbed his wife, "don't speak to me in that tone.
Indeed I did not know we were in real danger. You seemed in such
good spirits last evening, and Mr. Arnold showed so much feeling
for Millie, that my heart has been as light as a feather all day.
I wouldn't have bought these things if I had only known--if I had
realized it all."

Mr. Jocelyn now uttered an unmistakable anathema on his folly.

"The money you had this morning is gone, then?"

"Yes."

"How much has been charged?"

"Don't ask me."

He was so angry--with himself more than his wife--and so cast down
that he could not trust himself to speak again. With a gesture,
more expressive than any words, he turned on his heel and left the
room and the house. For hours he walked the streets in the wretched
turmoil of a sensitive, yet weak nature. He was not one who could
calmly meet an emergency and manfully do his best, suffering
patiently meanwhile the ills that could not be averted. He could
lead a cavalry charge into any kind of danger, but he could not
stand still under fire. The temptation to repeat his folly of the
previous evening was very strong, but it had cost him so dearly
that he swore a great oath that at least he would not touch liquor
again; but he could not refrain from lifting himself in some degree
out of his deep dejection, by a recourse to the stimulant upon which
he had so long been dependent. At last, jaded and sober indeed,
he returned to a home whose very beauty and comfort now became the
chief means of his torture.

In the meantime Mildred and her mother sat by the pretty fabrics
that had the bright hues of their morning hopes, and they looked
at each other with tears and dismay. If the silk and lawn should
turn into crape, it would seem so in accordance with their feelings
as scarcely to excite surprise. Each queried vainly, "What now will
be the future?" The golden prospect of the day had become dark and
chaotic, and in strong reaction a vague sense of impending disaster
so oppressed them that they scarcely spoke. Deep in Mildred's heart,
however, born of woman's trust, was the sustaining hope that her
friend, Vinton Arnold, would be true to her whatever might happen.
Poor Mrs. Jocelyn's best hope was, that the financial storm would
blow over without fulfilling their fears. She had often known her
father to be half desperate, and then there was patched up some
kind of arrangement which enabled them to go on again in their old
way. Still, even with her unbusiness-like habits of thought and
meagre knowledge of the world, she could not see how they could
maintain themselves if her husband's income should suddenly cease,
and he be unable to find a like position.

She longed for his return, but when he came he gave her no comfort.

"Don't speak to me," he said; "I can tell you nothing that you do
not already know. The events of the next few weeks will make all
plain enough."

The logic of events did convince even Mrs. Jocelyn that making no
provision for a "rainy day" is sad policy. The storm did not blow
over, although it blew steadily and strongly. The firm soon failed,
but Mr. Jocelyn received a small sum out of the assets, which
prevented immediate want. Mildred's course promised to justify
Arnold's belief that she could be strong as well as gentle, for
she insisted that every article obtained on credit should be taken
back to the shops. Her mother shrank from the task, so she went
herself and plainly stated their circumstances. It was a bitter
experience for the poor child--far more painful than she had
anticipated. She could not believe that the affable people who waited
on her so smilingly a few days before would appear so different;
but even those who were most inclined to be harsh, and to feel
aggrieved at their small loss in cutting the material returned,
were softened as she said, gently and almost humbly:

"Since we could not pay for it we felt that it would be more honorable
to bring it back in as good condition as when received." In every
instance, however, in which the goods had been paid for, she found
that she could effect no exchange for the money, except at such
reduced rates that she might as well give them away.

Even Mrs. Jocelyn saw the need of immediate changes. One of their
two servants was dismissed. Belle pouted over the rigid economy,
now enforced all too late. Mildred cried over it in secret, but
made heroic efforts to be cheerful in the presence of her father
and mother; but each day, with a deeper chill at heart, she asked
herself a thousand times, "Why does not Mr. Arnold come to see me?"

Vinton Arnold was in even greater distress. He had to endure not
only the pain of a repressed affection, but also a galling and
humiliating sense of unmanly weakness. He, of course, learned of the
failure, and his father soon after took pains to say significantly
that one of the members of the iron firm had told him that Mr.
Jocelyn had nothing to fall back upon. Therefore Arnold knew that
the girl he loved must be in sore trouble. And yet, how could he
go to her? What could he say or do that would not make him appear
contemptible in her eyes? But to remain away in her hour of
misfortune seemed such a manifestation of heartless indifference,
such a mean example of the world's tendency to pass by on the other
side, that he grew haggard and ghost-like in his self-reproach and
self-contempt. At last his parents began to insist that his health
required a change of air, and suggested a mountain resort or a trip
abroad, and he was conscious of no power to resist the quiet will
with which any plan decided upon would be carried out. He felt
that he must see Mildred once more, although what he would say to
her he could not tell. While there had been no conscious and definite
purpose on the part of his parents, they nevertheless had trained
him to helplessness in mind and body. His will was as relaxed as
his muscles. Instead of wise, patient effort to develop a feeble
constitution and to educate his mind by systematic courses of study,
he had been treated as an exotic all his days. And yet it had been
care without tenderness, or much manifestation of affection. Hot a
thing had been done to develop self-respect or self-reliance. Even
more than most girls, he was made to feel himself dependent on
his parents. He had studied but little; he had read much, but in
a desultory way. Of business and of men's prompt, keen ways he was
lamentably ignorant for one of his years, and the consciousness of
this made him shrink from the companionship of his own sex, and
begat a reticence whose chief cause was timidity. His parents' wealth
had been nothing but a curse, and they would learn eventually that
while they could shield his person from the roughnesses of the world
they could not protect his mind and heart from those experiences
which ever demand manly strength and principle. As a result of
their costly system, there were few more pitiable objects in the
city than Vinton Arnold as he stole under the cover of night to
visit the girl who was hoping--though more faintly after every day
of waiting--that she might find in him sustaining strength and love
in her misfortunes.

But when she saw his white, haggard face and nervous, timid manner,
she was almost shocked, and exclaimed, with impulsive sympathy,
"Mr. Arnold, you have been ill. I have done you wrong."

He did not quite understand her, and was indiscreet enough to
repeat, "You have done me wrong, Miss Millie?"

"Pardon me. Perhaps you do not know that we are in deep trouble.
My father's firm has failed, and we shall have to give up our home.
Indeed, I hardly know what we shall do. When in trouble, one's
thoughts naturally turn to one's friends. I thought perhaps you
would come to see me," and two tears that she could not repress in
her eyes.

"Oh, that I were a man!" groaned Arnold, mentally, and never had
human cruelty inflicted a keener pang than did Mildred's sorrowful
face and the gentle reproach implied in her words.

"I--I have been ill," he said hesitatingly. "Miss Millie," he added
impulsively, "you can never know how deeply I feel for you."

She lifted her eyes questioningly to his face, and its expression
was again unmistakable. For a moment she lost control of her
overburdened heart, and bowing her face in her hands gave way to
the strong tide of her feelings. "Oh!" she sobbed, "I have been
so anxious and fearful about the future. People have come here out
of curiosity, and others have acted as if they did not care what
became of us, if they only obtained the money we owed them. I did
not think that those who were so smiling and friendly a short time
since could be so harsh and indifferent. A thousand times I have
thought of that poor ship that I saw the waves beat to pieces, and
it has seemed as if it might be our fate. I suppose I am morbid,
and that some way will be provided, but SOME way is not A way."

Instead of coming to her side and promising all that his heart
prompted, the miserable constraint of his position led him to turn
from grief that he was no longer able to witness. He went to the
window, and, bowing his head against the sash, looked out into the
darkness.

She regarded him with wonder as she slowly wiped her eyes.

"Mr. Arnold," she faltered, "I hope you will forgive me for my
weakness, and also for inflicting our troubles on you."

He turned and came slowly toward her. She saw that he trembled and
almost tottered as he walked, and that his face had become ashen.
The hand he gave her seemed like ice to her warm, throbbing
palm. But never could she forget his expression--the blending of
self-contempt, pitiable weakness, and dejection.

"Miss Mildred," he said slowly, "there is no use in disguises. We
had better both recognize the truth at once. At least it will be
better for you, for then you may find a friend more worthy of the
name. Can you not see what I am--a broken reed? The vine could
better sustain a falling tree than I the one I loved, even though,
like the vine, my heart clung to that one as its sole support.
You suffer; I am in torment. You are sad; I despair. You associate
strength and help with manhood, and you are right. You do not know
that the weakest thing in the world is a weak, helpless man. I am
only strong to suffer. I can do nothing; I am nothing. It would be
impossible for me to explain how helpless and dependent I am--you
could not understand it. My whole heart went out to you, for
you seemed both gentle and strong. The hope would grow in my soul
that you might be merciful to me when you came to know me as I am.
Good-by, Millie Jocelyn. You will find a friend strong and helpful
as well as kind. As for me, my best hope is to die." He bowed his
head upon the hand he did not venture to kiss, and then almost fled
from the house.

Mildred was too much overcome by surprise and feeling to make any
attempt to detain him. He had virtually acknowledged his love for
her, but never in her wildest fancy had she imagined so dreary and
sad a revelation.

Mrs. Jocelyn, perplexed by Mr. Arnold's abrupt departure, came in
hastily, and Mildred told her, with many tears, all that had been
said. Even her mother's gentle nature could not prevent harsh
condemnation of the young man.

"So he could do nothing better than get up this little melodrama,
and then hasten back to his elegant home," she said, with a darkening
frown.

Mildred shook her head and said, musingly, "I understand him better
than you do, mamma, and I pity him from the depths of my heart."

"I think it's all plain enough," said Mrs. Jocelyn, in a tone that
was hard and unnatural in her. "His rich parents tell him that he
must not think of marrying a poor girl, and he is the most dutiful
of sons."

"You did not hear his words, mamma--you did not see him. Oh, if he
should die! He looked like death itself," and she gave way to such
an agony of grief that her mother was alarmed on her behalf, and
wept, entreated, and soothed by turns until at last the poor child
crept away with throbbing temples to a long night of pain and
sleeplessness. The wound was one that she must hide in her own
heart; her pallor and languor for several days proved how deep it
had been.

But the truth that he loved her--the belief that he could never give
to another what he had given to her--had a secret and sustaining
power. Hope is a hardy plant in the hearts of the young. Though the
future was dark, it still had its possibilities of good. Womanlike,
she thought more of his trouble than of her own, and that which most
depressed her was the fear that his health might give way utterly.
"I can bear anything better than his death," she said to herself
a thousand times.

She made no tragic promises of constancy, nor did she indulge in
very much sentimental dreaming. She simply recognized the truth that
she loved him--that her whole woman's heart yearned in tenderness
over him as one that was crippled and helpless. She saw that he
was unable to stand alone and act for himself, and with a sensitive
pride all her own she shrank from even the thought of forcing
herself on the proud, rich family that had forbidden the alliance.
Moreover, she was a good-hearted, Christian girl, and perceived
clearly that it was no time for her to mope of droop. Even on the
miserable day which followed the interview that so sorely wounded
her, she made pathetic attempts to be cheerful and helpful, and as
time passed she rallied slowly into strength and patience.

The father's apparent efforts to keep up under his misfortune were
also a great incentive to earnest effort on her part. More than
once she said in substance to her mother, "Papa is so often hopeful,
serene, and even cheerful, that we ought to try and show a like
spirit. Even when despondency does master him, and he becomes sad
and irritable, he makes so brave an effort that he soon overcomes
his wretched mood and quietly looks on the brighter side. We ought
to follow his example." It would have been infinitely better had
he followed theirs, and found in prayer, faith, and manly courage
the serenity and fortitude that were but the brief, deceptive, and
dangerous effects of a fatal poison.

It was decided that the family should spend the summer at some quiet
farmhouse where the board would be very inexpensive, and that Mr.
Jocelyn, in the meantime, should remain in the city in order to
avail himself of any opening that he might discover.

After a day or two of search in the country, he found a place that
he thought would answer, and the family prepared as quickly as
possible for what seemed to them like a journey to Siberia.

Mildred's farewell to her own private apartment was full of touching
pathos. This room was the outward expression not merely of a refined
taste, but of some of the deepest feelings and characteristics
of her nature. In its furniture and adornment it was as dainty as
her own delicate beauty. She had been allowed to fit it up as she
wished, and had lavished upon it the greater part of her spending
money. She had also bestowed upon it much thought, and the skilful
work of her own hands had eked out to a marvellous extent the
limited sums that her father had been able to give her. The result
was a prettiness and light, airy grace which did not suggest the
resting-place of an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl, but of one in
whom the spiritual and the love of the beautiful were the ruling
forces of life.

It is surprising how character impresses itself on one's surroundings.
Mrs. Arnold's elegant home was a correct expression of herself.
Stately, formal, slightly rigid, decidedly cold, it suggested to
the visitor that he would receive the courtesy to which his social
position entitled him, and nothing more. It was the result of
an exact and logical mind, and could no more unbend into a little
comfortable disorder than the lady herself. She bestowed upon
its costly appointments the scrupulous care which she gave to her
children, and her manner was much the same in each instance. She
was justly called a strong character, but she made herself felt
after the fashion of an artist with his hammer and chisel. Carved
work is cold and rigid at best.

Mildred had not as yet impressed people as a strong character. On
the contrary, she had seemed peculiarly gentle and yielding. Vinton
Arnold, however, in his deep need had instinctively half guessed
the truth, for her influence was like that of a warm day in spring,
undemonstrative, not self-asserting, but most powerful. The
tongue-tied could speak in her presence; the diffident found in
her a kindly sympathy which gave confidence; men were peculiarly
drawn toward her because she was so essentially womanly without
being silly. Although as sprightly and fond of fun as most young
girls of her age, they recognized that she was perfectly truthful
and loyal to all that men--even bad men--most honor in a woman.
They always had a good time in her society, and yet felt the better
and purer for it. Life blossomed and grew bright about her from
some innate influence that she exerted unconsciously. After all
there was no mystery about it. She had her faults like others, but
at heart she was genuinely good and unselfish. The gentle mother
had taught her woman's best graces of speech and manner; nature
had endowed her with beauty, and to that the world always renders
homage.

There are thousands of very pretty girls who have no love for beauty
save their own, which they do their best to spoil by self-homage.
To Mildred, on the contrary, the beautiful was as essential as
her daily food, and she excelled in all the dainty handicrafts by
which women can make a home attractive. Therefore her own little
sanctum had developed like an exquisite flower, and had become, as
we have said, an expression of herself. An auctioneer, in dismantling
her apartment, would not have found much more to sell than if he had
pulled a rose to pieces, but left intact it was as full of beauty
and fragrance as the flower itself. And yet her own hands must destroy
it, and in a brief time she must exchange its airy loveliness for
a bare room in a farmhouse. After that the future was as vague
as it was clouded. The pretty trifles were taken down and packed
away, with tears, as if she were laying them in graves.

CHAPTER V

THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN

"Mother, I hain't no unison with it at all," said Farmer Atwood,
leaning on the breakfast table and holding aloft a knife and
fork--formidable implements in his hands, but now unemployed through
perturbation of mind. "I hain't no unison with it--this havin'
fine city folk right in the family. 'Twill be pretty nigh as bad
as visiting one's rich relations. I had a week of that once, but,
thank the Lord, I hain't been so afflicted since. I've seen 'em
up at the hotel and riding by too often not to know 'em. They are
half conceit and half fine feathers, and that doesn't leave many
qualities as are suited to a farmhouse. Roger and me will have to
be--what was it that lecturin' professor called it--'deodorized'
every mornin' after feedin' and cleanin' the critters. We'll
have to put on our go-to-meetin's, instead of sittin' down in our
shirt-sleeves comfortable like. I hain't no unison with it, and
it's been a-growing on me ever since that city chap persuaded you
into being cook and chambermaid for his family." And Farmer Atwood's
knife and fork came down into the dish of ham with an onslaught
that would have appalled a Jew.

"The governor is right, mother," said the young man referred to as
Roger. "We shall all be in strait-jackets for the summer."

The speaker could not have been much more than twenty years old,
although in form he appeared a full-grown man. As he stood wiping
his hands on a towel that hung in a corner of the large kitchen,
which, except on state occasions, also served as dining and
sitting-room, it might be noted that he was above medium height,
broad-shouldered, and strongly built. When he crossed the room his
coarse working dress could not disguise the fact that he had a fine
figure and an easy bearing of the rustic, rough-and-ready style.
He had been out in the tall, dew-drenched grass, and therefore had
tucked the lower part of his trousers in his boot tops, and, like
his father, dispensed with his coat in the warm June morning. As he
drew a chair noisily across the floor and sat down at the table, it
was evident that he had a good though undeveloped face. His upper
lip was deeply shadowed by a coming event, to which he looked
forward with no little pride, and his well-tanned cheeks could not
hide a faint glow of youthful color. One felt at a glance that
his varying expressions could scarcely fail to reveal all that
the young man was now or could ever become, for his face suggested
a nature peculiarly frank and rather matter-of-fact, or at least
unawakened. The traits of careless good-nature and self-confidence
were now most apparent. He had always been regarded as a clever
boy at home, and his rustic gallantry was well received by the
farmers' daughters in the neighborhood. What better proofs that
he was about right could a young fellow ask? He was on such good
terms with himself and the world that even the event which his
father so deprecated did not much disturb his easy-going assurance.
He doubted, in his thoughts, whether the city girls would "turn up
their noses" at him, and if they did, they might, for all that he
cared, for there were plenty of rural beauties with whom he could
console himself. But, like his father, he felt that the careless
undress and freedom of their farm life would be criticised by the
new-comers. He proposed, however, to make as little change as
possible in his habits and dress, and to teach the Jocelyns that
country people had "as good a right to their ways as city people
to theirs." Therefore the threatened invasion did not in the least
prevent him from making havoc in the substantial breakfast that
Mrs. Atwood and her daughter Susan put on the table in a haphazard
manner, taking it from the adjacent stove as fast as it was ready.
A stolid-looking hired man sat opposite to Roger, and shovelled in
his food with his knife, with a monotonous assiduity that suggested
a laborer filling a coal-bin. He seemed oblivious to everything
save the breakfast, and with the exception of heaping his plate
from time to time he was ignored by the family.

The men-folk were quite well along with their meal before Mrs.
Atwood and Susan, flushed with their labors about the stove, were
ready to sit down. They were accustomed to hear the farmer grumble,
and, having carried their point, were in no haste to reply or to
fight over a battle that had been won already. Roger led to a slight
resumption of hostilities, however, by a disposition--well-nigh
universal in brothers--to tease.

"Sue," he said, "will soon be wanting to get some feathers like those
of the fine birds that will light in our door-yard this evening."

"That's it," snarled the farmer; "what little you make will soon
be on your backs or streamin' away in ribbons."

"Well," said Mrs. Atwood, a little sharply, "it's quite proper that
we should have something on our backs, and if we earn the money
to put it there ourselves, I don't see why you should complain; as
for ribbons, Sue has as good right to 'em as Roger to a span-new
buggy that ain't good for anything but taking girls out in."

"What made you have the seat so narrow, Roger?" asked Sue; "you
couldn't squeeze three people in to save your life."

"I'm content with one girl at a time," replied Roger, with a
complacent shrug.

"And the same girl only one time, too, from what I hear. You've
taken out all there are in Forestville haven't you?"

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