Without a Home

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

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Soon after he entered the sitting-room, where he found his mother
with a troubled look on her face. "Roger," she said, "I feel sorry
for these people. When I went upstairs a while ago I heard Mrs.
Jocelyn crying in her room, and coming down with the lamp I met the
young lady on the stairs, and her eyes were very red. It's certain
they are in deep trouble. What can it be? It's queer Mr. Jocelyn
doesn't come to see them. I hope they are all right."

"Mother," he burst out impetuously, "they are all right--she is,
anyway," and he went abruptly to his room.

"Well," remarked the bewildered woman sententiously, "there never
were such goings on in the old house before."

An event momentous to her had indeed taken place--Roger's boyish
days were over.

CHAPTER IX

NEITHER BOY NOR MAN

The two following weeks passed uneventfully at the farmhouse, but
silent forces were at work that were as quiet and effective as those
of Nature, who makes her vital changes without ever being observed
in the act. In respect to the domestic arrangements Mrs. Atwood
effected a sensible compromise. She gave the men-folk an early
breakfast in the kitchen, so that they might go to their work
as usual, and her boarders were thus not compelled to rise at
an unaccustomed hour. She and Susan afterward sat down with them,
and Mr. Atwood and Roger joined them at dinner and supper. On the
Monday following the scenes described in the last chapter, Mildred
and Mrs. Jocelyn were listless and unable to recover even the
semblance of cheerfulness, for a letter from Mr. Jocelyn informed
them that he was making very little headway, and that some agencies
which he accepted yielded but a scanty income. Mildred chafed more
bitterly than ever over her position of idle waiting, and even grew
irritable under it. More than once Roger heard her speak to Belle
and the children with a sharpness and impatience which proved
her not angelic. This did not greatly disturb him, for he neither
"wanted to be an angel" nor wished to have much to do with
uncomfortable perfection. A human, spirited girl was quite to his
taste, and he was quick-witted enough to see that unrest and anxiety
were the causes of her temper. Poor Mrs. Jocelyn was too gentle for
irritation, and only grew more despondent than ever at hope deferred.

"Millie," she said, "I have dreadful forebodings, and can never
forgive myself that I did not think night and day how to save instead
of how to spend. What should we do if we had no money at all?"

"Belle and I must go to work," said Mildred, with a resolute face,
"and it's a shame we are not at work now."

"What can you do when your father can do so little?"

"Other poor people live; so can we. I can't stand this wretched
waiting and separation much longer," and she wrote as much to her
father. In the hope of obtaining a response favorable to her wishes
she became more cheerful. Every day increased her resolution to
put an end to their suspense, and to accept their lot with such
fortitude as they could command.

One morning she found Mr. and Mrs. Atwood preparing to go to the
nearest market town with butter, eggs, and other farm produce.
She readily obtained permission to accompany them, and made some
mysterious purchases. From this time onward Roger observed that
she was much in her room, and that she went out more for exercise
than from the motive of getting through with the weary, idle hours.
For some reason she also gained such an influence over thoughtless
Belle that the latter took tolerably good care of little Fred
and Minnie, as the children were familiarly called. While she
maintained toward him her polite and friendly manner, he saw that
he was forgotten, and that it had not entered her mind that he
could ever do anything for her or be anything more to her than at
the present time. But every hour she gained a stronger hold upon
his sympathy, and occasionally, when she thought herself unobserved,
he saw a troubled and almost fearful look come into her eyes, as if
something were present to her imagination that inspired the strongest
dread. At such times he was mastered by impulses of self-sacrifice
that would have seemed very absurd if put into plain words. He
kept his thoughts, however, to himself, and with an instinctive
reticence sought to disguise even from his mother the feelings that
were so new, and so full of delicious pain. That he was becoming
quite different from the careless, self-satisfied young fellow that
he had been hitherto was apparent to all, and after his outburst
on Sunday evening his mother half guessed the cause. But he misled
her to some extent, and Susan altogether, by saying, "I've had a
falling-out with Amelia Stone."

"Well, she's the last girl in the world that I'd mope about if I
were a man," was his sister's emphatic reply.

"You're not a man; besides I'm not moping. I'm only cutting my
wisdom teeth. I want to do something in the world, and I'm thinking
about it."

"He's a-growing," said his mother with a smile, and on this theory
she usually explained all of her son's vagaries.

He still further misled his unsophisticated sister by making no
special effort to seek Mildred's society. After one or two rather
futile attempts he saw that he would alienate the sad-hearted
girl by obtrusive advances, and he contented himself by trying
to understand her, in the hope that at some future time he might
learn to approach her more acceptably. The thought that she would
soon leave the farmhouse depressed him greatly. She had suggested
to him a new and wholly different life from that which he had led
hitherto, and he felt within himself no power or inclination to
go on with his old ways. These thoughts he also brooded over in
silence, and let himself drift in a current which seemed irresistible.

During this period he was under the influence of neither apathy nor
dejection. On the contrary, his mind was surging with half-formed
plans, crude purposes, and ambitious dreams. His horizon lifted
from the farm and Forestville until there seemed space for a notable
career. His soul kindled at the thought of winning a position that
would raise him to Mildred's side. So far from fearing to burn his
ships, and strike out unsupported, the impulse grew strong to make
the attempt at any cost. He was sure that his father would not
listen to the project, and that he would be wholly unaided, but
riot many days passed before the thought of such obstacles ceased
to influence him. "I'll take my way through the world, and cut
my own swath," he muttered a hundred times as he swung the scythe
under the July sun.

Moreover, he had a growing belief in his power to climb the heights
of success. His favorite books of travel and adventure that he had
devoured in boyhood made almost anything seem possible, and the
various biographies that the village library furnished revealed
grand careers in the face of enormous obstacles. His mind was awaking
like a young giant eager for achievement. Even after the toil of
long, hot days he took up his old school-books in the solitude of
his room, and found that he could review them with the ease with
which he would read a story. "I've got some brains as well as
muscle," he would mutter, exultantly. "The time shall come when
Mildred Jocelyn won't mistake me for Jotham."

Poor Mr. Atwood would have been in consternation had he known
what was passing in his son's mind; and Mildred even less pleased,
for after all it was she who had inspired the thoughts which were
transforming him from a simple country youth into an ambitious,
venturesome man.

He knew of but one way to please her, but he made the most of
that, and worked quietly but assiduously whenever he could without
exciting his father's opposition. After the day's tasks were over
the time was his own. He began by cutting all the weeds and grass
in the door-yard and around the house. Palings that had disappeared
from the fence were replaced, and all were whitewashed.

Mrs. Atwood and Susan were greatly pleased at the changes, but thought
it politic not to say much about them; one evening, however, his
father began to banter him, remarking that Roger must be intending
to "bring home a wife some fine morning." The young fellow reddened
resentfully, and brusquely retorted that they "had lived in their
old slovenly way long enough. People might well think they were
going to the bad." This practical view somewhat reconciled his
father to the new ideas, and suggested that Roger was not so daft
as he feared. A little time after he was led to believe his son to
be shrewder than himself. Needing some money, he took a note to the
bank with much misgiving, but was agreeably surprised when one of
the officers said affably, "I think we can accommodate you, Mr.
Atwood. I was by your place the other day, and it is so improved
that I scarcely knew it. Thrift and credit go together."

But Mildred doubted whether thrift and policy were the only motives
which had led to Roger's unwonted action, and believed rather that
he had awakened to a perception of the value and attractiveness
of those things which hitherto he had not appreciated. This, in a
sense, was already true, but had she known to what extent she was
in his thoughts she would not have smiled so complacently when,
on the Saturday morning after the completion of his other labors,
she noted that the weed-choked flower-borders along the walk had
been cleaned and neatly rounded up, and the walk itself put in
perfect order. "The flower-beds remind me of himself," she thought,
as from time to time she glanced at them through her open window.
"They contain a good deal of vacant space, and suggest what might
be there rather than what is. Would to heaven, though, that Mr.
Arnold had more of his muscle and decision. If Vinton were only
different, how different all the future might be! But I fear,
I fear. We have not enough money to last all summer if we remain
here, and father writes so discouragingly. Thank God, I'm no longer
idle, whether anything comes of my work or not," and the delicate
piece of fancy work grew rapidly in her deft hands.

Toward evening she started out for a walk, but uttered an exclamation
of surprise as she saw the flower-borders were bright with verbenas,
heliotrope, geraniums, and other bedding plants. Roger's buggy
stood near, containing two large empty boxes, and he was just raking
the beds smooth once more in order to finish his task.

"Why, Mr. Atwood!" she cried, "it has long seemed to me that a good
fairy was at work around the house, but this is a master-stroke."

"If you are pleased I am well repaid," he replied, the color
deepening on his sunburned cheeks.

"If I am pleased?" she repeated in surprise, and with a faint
answering color. "Why, all will be pleased, especially your mother
and Susan."

"No doubt, but I thought these would look more like what you have
been accustomed to."

"Really, Mr. Atwood, I hope you have not put yourself to all this
trouble on my account."

"I have not put myself to any trouble. But you are in trouble, Miss
Jocelyn, and perhaps these flowers may enliven you a little."

"I did not expect such kindness, such thoughtfulness. I do not see
that I am entitled to so much consideration," she said hesitatingly,
at the same time fixing on him a penetrating glance.

Although he was much embarrassed, his clear black eyes met hers
without wavering, and he asked, after a moment: "Could you not
accept it if it were given freely?"

"I scarcely understand you," she replied in some perplexity.

"Nor do I understand you, Miss Jocelyn. I wish I did, for then I
might do more for you."

"No, Mr. Atwood," she answered gravely, "you do not understand me.
Experience has made me immeasurably older than you are."

"Very possibly," he admitted, with a short, embarrassed laugh. "My
former self-assurance and complacency are all gone."

"Self-reliance and self-restraint are better than self-assurance,"
she remarked with a smile.

"Miss Jocelyn," he began, with something like impetuosity, "I would
give all the world if I could become your friend. You could do so
much for me."

"Mr. Atwood," said Mildred, with a laugh that was mixed with
annoyance, "you are imposed upon by your fancy, and are imagining
absurd things, I fear. But you are good-hearted and I shall be a
little frank with you. We are in trouble. Business reverses have
overtaken my father, and we are poor, and may be much poorer. I may
be a working-woman the rest of my days; so, for Heaven's sake, do
not make a heroine out of me. That would be too cruel a satire on
my prosaic lot."

"You do not understand me at all, and perhaps I scarcely understand
myself. If you think my head is filled with sentimental nonsense,
time will prove you mistaken. I have a will of my own, I can assure
you, and a way of seeing what is to be seen. I have seen a great
deal since I've known you. A new and larger world has been revealed
to me, and I mean to do something in it worthy of a man. I can
never go on with my old life, and I will not," he continued, almost
passionately. "I was an animal. I was a conceited fool. I'm very
crude and unformed now, and may seem to you very ridiculous; but
crudity is not absurdity, undeveloped strength is not weakness. An
awakening mind may be very awkward, but give me time and you will
not be ashamed of my friendship."

He had ceased leaning against a tree that grew near the roadway,
and at some distance from the house. In his strong feeling he forgot
his embarrassment, and assumed an attitude so full of unconscious
power that he inspired a dawning of respect; for, while he seemed
a little beside himself, there was a method in his madness which
suggested that she, as well as the young man, might eventually discover
that he was not of common clay and predestined to be commonplace.
But she said, in all sincerity, "Mr. Atwood, I'm sure I wish you
twice the success you crave in life, and I've no reason to think
you overrate your power to achieve it; but you greatly overrate me.
It would be no condescension on my part to give you my friendship;
and no doubt if you attain much of the success you covet you will
be ready enough to forget my existence. What induces you to think
that a simple girl like me can help you? It seems to me that you
are vague and visionary, which perhaps is natural, since you say
you are just awaking," she concluded, with a little smiling sarcasm.

"You are unjust both to yourself and to me," he replied firmly,
"and I think I can prove it. If I shall ever have any power in
the world it will be in seeing clearly what is before me. I have
seldom been away from this country town, and yet as soon as I saw
you with a mind free from prejudice I recognized your superiority.
I brought the belle of Forestville and placed her by your side,
and I could think of nothing but brazen instruments until I left
her loudness at her father's door. I would not go near her again if
there were not another woman in the world. I saw at a glance that
she was earthenware beside you."

Mildred now could not forbear laughing openly. "If you lose your
illusions so rapidly," she said, "my turn will come soon, and I
shall be china beside some fine specimen of majolica."

"You may laugh at me, but you will one day find I am sincere, and
not altogether a fool."

"Oh, I'm ready to admit that, even now. But you are altogether
mistaken in thinking I can help you. Indeed I scarcely see how I
can help myself. It is a very poor proof of your keen discernment
to associate me with your kindling ambition."

"Then why had you the power to kindle it? Why do I think my best
thoughts in your presence? Why do I speak to you now as I never
dreamed I could speak? You are giving purpose and direction to my
life, whether you wish it or not, whether you care or not. You may
always be indifferent to the fact, still it was your hand that wakened
me. I admit I'm rather dazed as yet. You may think I'm talking to
you with the frankness--perhaps the rashness--of a boy, since you
are 'immeasurably older,' but the time is not very distant when I
shall take my course with the strength and resolution of a man."

"I should be sorry to be the very innocent cause of leading you
into thorny paths. I truly think you will find more happiness here
in your quiet country life."

His only answer was an impatient gesture.

"Perhaps," she resumed, "if you knew more of the world you would
fear it more. I'm sure I fear it, and with good reason."

"I do not fear the world at all," he replied. "I would fear to lose
your esteem and respect far more, and, distant as you are from me,
I shall yet win them both."

"Mr. Atwood, I suppose I have as much vanity as most girls, but
you make me blush. You are indeed dazed, for you appear to take me
for a melodramatic heroine."

"Pardon me, I do not. I've been to the theatre occasionally, but
you are not at all theatrical. You are not like the heroines of
the novels I've read, and I suppose I've read too many of them."

"I fear you have," she remarked dryly. "Pray, then, What am I like?"

"And I may seem to you a hero of the dime style; but wait, don't
decide yet. What are you like? You are gentle, like your mother.
You are exceedingly fond of all that's pretty and refined, so much
so that you tried to introduce a little grace into our meagre,
angular farmhouse life--"

"Thanks for your aid," interrupted Mildred, laughing. "I must admit
that you have good eyes."

"You shrink," he resumed, "from all that's ugly, vulgar, or coarse
in life. You are an unhappy exile in our plain home."

"All which goes to prove what an ordinary and unheroic nature I have.
You will soar far beyond me, Mr. Atwood, for you have portrayed a
very weak character--one that is in love with the niceties of life,
with mere prettiness."

"You are still laughing at me, but I'm in earnest; and if you mean
what, you say, you understand yourself less than you do me. Why
will you not go to the hotel occasionally? Because with all your
gentleness you are too proud to run the slightest risk of patronage
and pity from those who knew you in your more fortunate days. Why
do you remain in your little hot room so much of the time? I don't
know; but if you will permit a guess, you are working. Every day
you grow less content to sit still in helpless weakness. You are
far braver than I, for I do not fear the world in the least; but,
no matter how much you feared it, you would do your best to the last,
and never yield to anything in it that was low, base, or mean. Oh,
you are very gentle, very delicate, and you will be misunderstood;
but you have the strongest strength there is--a kind of strength
that will carry you through everything, though it cost you dear."

"And what may that be?" she asked, looking at him now in genuine
wonder.

"I can't explain exactly what I mean. It is something I've seen
in mother, plain and simple as she is. It's a kind of enduring
steadfastness; it's a patient faithfulness. I should know just where
to find mother, and just what to expect from her, under all possible
circumstances. I should never expect to see you very different from
what you are, no matter what happened. You often have the same look
or expression that she has; and it means to me that you would do
the best you could, although discouraged and almost hopeless. Very
few soldiers will fight when they know the battle is going against
them. You would, as long as you could move a finger."

"Mr. Atwood, what has put all this into your head? This seems very
strange language from you."

"It is not so strange as it seems. It comes from the gift on which
I base my hope of success in life. I see clearly and vividly what
is before me, and draw my conclusions. If I see the antlers of a
stag above some bushes, it is not necessary to see the whole animal
to know he is there, and what kind of a creature he is. I'm not a
scholar, Miss Jocelyn, but you must not think I do not know anything
because I work in the corn or the hayfield all day. We have long
winters up here, and I've studied some and read a great deal more.
There are but few books in the village library that I have not
read more or less thoroughly, and some of them many times. Because
I was a careless, conceited fellow a few weeks since, it does not
follow that I'm an ignoramus."

Mildred was decidedly puzzled. She could not account for the change
in him; and she did not like to think of that to which his words
and feelings pointed. He asked for friendship, but she strongly
doubted whether such a placid regard would long satisfy him. Her
chief impulse was to escape, for the bare thought of words of love
from him or any one except Vinton Arnold was intensely repugnant.
As she glanced around, seeking in what direction she might take
her flight, she saw a gentleman coming rapidly toward the house.
After a second's hesitation she rushed toward him, crying, "Papa,
papa, you are welcome!"

CHAPTER X

A COUNCIL

Roger saw Miss Jocelyn rush into the arms of a tall, florid gentleman,
whose dark eyes grew moist at the almost passionate warmth of his
daughter's greeting. To Mildred her father's unexpected coming was
thrice welcome, for in addition to her peculiarly strong affection
for him, his presence ended an interview not at all agreeable, and
promised relief from further unwelcome attentions on the part of
Roger. Almost in the moment of meeting, she resolved to persuade
him that his family would be happier with him in the city. This
had been her feeling from the first, but now she was wholly bent on
leaving the farm-house; for with her larger experience and womanly
intuition she read in Roger's frank and still half-boyish face the
foreshadowing of an unwelcome regard which she understood better
than he did.

While his manner for a few weeks past, and especially his words
during their recent interview, made it clear that he was not the
rough, awkward rustic she had first imagined him to be, he still
seemed very crude and angular. In spite of her love for Vinton Arnold,
which had not abated in the least, he had ceased to be her ideal
man. Nevertheless, his refined elegance, his quiet self-restraint,
his knowledge of the niceties and proprieties of the world to which
she felt she belonged by right, did combine to produce an ideal
in her mind of which she was but half conscious, and beside which
Roger appeared in a repulsive light. She shrank with instinctive
distaste from his very strength and vehemence, and feared that she
would never be safe from interviews like the one just described,
and from awkward, half-concealed gallantries. Even the flowers
he had set out became odious, for they represented a sentiment the
very thought of which inspired aversion.

A coquette can soon destroy the strong instinct of sacredness and
exclusiveness with which an unperverted girl guards her heart from
all save the one who seems to have the divine right and unexplained
power to pass all barriers. Even while fancy free, unwelcome advances
are resented almost as wrongs and intrusions by the natural woman;
but after a real, or even an ideal image has taken possession of
the heart and imagination, repugnance is often the sole reward of
other unfortunate suitors, and this dislike usually will be felt
and manifested in a proportion corresponding with the obtrusiveness
of the attentions, their sincerity, and the want of tact with which
they are offered.

To that degree, therefore, that Roger was in earnest, Mildred
shrank from him, and she feared that he would not--indeed, from
his antecedents could not--know how to hide his emotions. His words
had so startled her that, in her surprise and annoyance, she imagined
him in a condition of semi-ambitious and semi-amative ebullition,
and she dreaded to think what strange irruptions might ensue.
It would have been the impulse of many to make the immature youth
a source of transient amusement, but with a sensitive delicacy
she shrank from him altogether, and wished to get away as soon as
possible. Pressing upon her was the sad, practical question of a
thwarted and impoverished life--impoverished to her in the dreariest
sense--and it was intolerable that one who seemed so remote from
her sphere should come and ask that, from her bruised and empty
heart, she should give all sorts of melodramatic sentiment in
response to his crude, ambitious impulses, which were yet as blind
as the mythical god himself.

Had she seen that Roger meant friendship only when he asked for
friendship, she would not have been so prejudiced against him;
but the fact that this "great boy" was half consciously extending
his hand for a gift which now she could not bestow on the best
and greatest, since it was gone from her beyond recall, appeared
grotesque, and such a disagreeable outcome of her changed fortunes
that she was almost tempted to hate him. There are some questions
on which women scarcely reason--they only feel intensely.

Mildred, therefore, was heartily glad that Roger did not wait to
be introduced to her father, and that he kept himself aloof from
the reunited family during the evening. She also was pleased that
they were not joined by the Atwoods at the supper-table. That this
considerate delicacy was due to the "young barbarian's" suggestion
she did not dream, but gave good-hearted but not very sensitive
Mrs. Atwood all the credit. As for poor Roger, his quick insight,
his power to guess something of people's thoughts and feelings from
the expression of their faces, brought but little present comfort
or promise for the future.

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