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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Without a Home," Edward Payson Roe poignantly explores the themes of social dislocation, poverty, and the quest for belonging in post-Civil War America. The narrative centers around a young individual navigating the treacherous waters of societal marginalization, reflecting Roe's signature blend of realism and sentimentality. The novel employs a rich, descriptive style while conveying profound moral lessons emblematic of the late 19th-century American literary context, capturing the struggles of the underprivileged as they confront both external adversity and internal conflict. Edward Payson Roe was an acclaimed author, minister, and societal commentator whose own experiences and observations of the socio-economic landscape of his time deeply informed his writing. Born in a modest family and witnessing the cultural shifts of post-war America, Roe's narrative often accentuates the importance of compassion and responsibility towards society's vulnerable. His personal advocacy for the welfare of the less fortunate serves as the moral backbone for "Without a Home," illustrating his commitment to illuminating the plight of the impoverished. This compelling novel is highly recommended for readers interested in social reform, American history, and insights into human resilience. Roe's poignant storytelling not only entertains but also urges empathy and action, making it an essential read for anyone seeking to understand the complexities of human experience in a rapidly changing world. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Without a Home
Table of Contents
Introduction
At its core, Without a Home contemplates how the longing for shelter and belonging—material, emotional, and moral—becomes a testing ground where private hopes meet public pressures, and where the meaning of responsibility is forged amid uncertainty, scarcity, and the complex bonds that tie individuals to family, work, and community, as livelihoods fluctuate, neighborhoods change, and the fragile boundary between a house and a home depends as much on character and compassion as on walls and wages, inviting readers to consider what must be built, protected, or sacrificed to make a place worthy of being called one’s own.
Written by Edward Payson Roe, an American novelist active in the late nineteenth century, Without a Home stands within the tradition of domestic realism and the social-problem novel. It emerges from a period when readers sought stories that blended moral reflection with recognizable everyday life, and when questions about stability, respectability, and civic duty animated public conversations. The book’s world reflects the expanding towns and cities of its era, where changing economies and evolving standards of comfort shaped households and communities. Within Roe’s broader body of popular fiction, it continues his interest in ethics, practical choices, and the pressures that test ordinary people.
The premise is direct yet expansive: ordinary men and women, intent on securing a decent life, find that the quest for a secure dwelling exposes them to dilemmas of integrity, responsibility, and care. Roe traces how financial decisions, domestic expectations, and community ties can either steady or unsettle the foundations of home. Rather than relying on sensational events, the narrative builds meaning from recognizable circumstances—work, marriage, neighborhood relations—and shows how the smallest choices influence safety, dignity, and trust. The result is a story that offers a grounded, accessible experience shaped by empathy, clear stakes, and a sustained focus on consequences.
Readers can expect an earnest, conversational voice that aims to persuade as much as to entertain. Roe’s style favors lucid narration, moral clarity, and scenes that illuminate character through action and everyday detail. The mood balances hope with caution: moments of comfort or progress are tempered by reminders of risk, and setbacks invite reflection rather than despair. While the plot moves steadily, the book often pauses to weigh motives and outcomes, creating a rhythm that suits its ethical concerns. The overall effect is that of a guide-like story—warm but unsentimental, attentive to practical realities, and hospitable to readers seeking both feeling and thought.
Without a Home turns the domestic sphere into a lens for viewing social responsibility. It probes the meaning of stewardship—over money, property, reputation, and the well-being of others—and asks how communities can foster safety without losing compassion. Themes of integrity in work and commerce, neighborliness, resilience under pressure, and the distinction between appearance and substance run throughout. The book also explores the tension between self-reliance and mutual aid, suggesting that a durable home rests on more than private effort. In Roe’s hands, the hearth becomes a moral workshop where values are tested, refined, and—at times—reimagined.
For contemporary readers, the novel’s questions feel strikingly current. Housing insecurity, the ethics of building and buying, the strain of unstable incomes, and the search for trustworthy institutions remain pressing concerns. Roe’s emphasis on accountability—personal and communal—invites reflection on consumer safeguards, civic duty, and the obligations that accompany comfort. The book’s insistence that home is both structure and relationship resonates in an age of mobility and precarity. It offers an opportunity to consider how policy, business practices, and everyday decency intersect, and how compassion might inform the choices that shape health, safety, and a shared sense of place.
Approached today, Without a Home offers more than period atmosphere; it provides a measured inquiry into what sustains a household and a community when resources are limited and temptations abound. By grounding ethical questions in familiar situations, it gives readers a framework for thinking about risk, responsibility, and care without resorting to cynicism or denial. It is ultimately an invitation to weigh what we build our lives upon, to notice the ties that hold us steady, and to imagine a home durable enough to shelter not only aspirations but also the compassion and courage that keep them alive.
Synopsis
In the novel Without a Home, Edward Payson Roe sets his story amid rapidly growing New York City in the late nineteenth century. A young, respectable couple faces a sudden financial reverse that forces them to relinquish the comfort of their suburban dwelling and seek shelter in the metropolis. Their search for rooms exposes them to the realities of tenement life: crowded stairways, dim courtyards, and buildings raised cheaply to exploit demand. The experience shifts the narrative from private disappointment to a broader social question, as the pair begin to comprehend how economic pressure and careless building practices shape daily existence for thousands of families.
As they navigate landladies, agents, and vacant notices, the couple meets neighbors whose stories illuminate the city’s housing problem. A working family balances long hours with illness brought on by bad air. A widow takes in lodgers to survive, trading privacy for rent. Clergy, physicians, and charitable workers appear not as sentimental ornaments but as observers pointing to causes: profit without oversight, inadequate sanitation, and municipal neglect. The newcomers’ dismay turns into informed concern, and they resolve to learn the system from within. Roe uses their adjustment to trace how shelter, health, and wages intersect for rich and poor alike.
The husband obtains work tied to construction and real estate, giving him a vantage point on the practices that govern tenement design. He witnesses how thin walls, faulty drains, and narrow light shafts are justified as economy, and how legal loopholes encourage speed over safety. A rival figure, representing speculative enterprise, defends these standards as necessary to keep rents low. A sudden accident in a neighboring building demonstrates the cost of compromise, sending shock through the district and pressing the protagonist to act. The wife, meanwhile, begins systematic visiting among tenants, bringing practical aid and gathering facts that shape their course.
Disease soon enters the narrative as an unseen antagonist. Children cough through nights in unventilated rooms; fever spreads along a foul water line. The couple endures close calls and moments of doubt as they weigh personal security against participation in a blighted block. Chastened rather than discouraged, they adopt a method: learn the code, consult engineers, and collect testimony that connects structure to sickness. Their dwelling becomes a field laboratory of sorts, revealing what repairs accomplish and what only regulation can fix. The story keeps domestic scenes in view, showing how meals, schooling, and rest depend upon safe, orderly housing.
Public attention becomes a tool. A journalist friend translates their observations into articles that attract debate, sympathy, and dispute. Meetings at churches and halls assemble landlords, officials, doctors, and residents, with each party describing costs and responsibilities. Proposals for inspection, minimum standards, and fire escapes move from talk to draft ordinances, while opposition warns of increased rents and flight of capital. The protagonist faces pressure at work to moderate his views, including hints that advancement requires silence. The moral weight of evidence, however, and the visible toll of neglect sustain the effort, pushing the question from private grievance into civic consideration.
Resolution, in Roe’s design, is not left to laws alone. The couple and their allies attempt a practical demonstration: a set of model tenements offered at fair rents, planned for light, cleanliness, and safety. They solicit investors willing to accept modest returns, secure a site, and wrestle with specifications that balance durability with affordability. The construction phase tests ideals against budgets and tradesmen’s habits. When tenants move in, management presents another learning curve: keeping order without harshness, collecting rent without humiliating the poor, and maintaining common spaces that serve families. The experiment’s small successes and missteps supply evidence sharper than argument.
A crisis arrives from outside the experiment, striking the surrounding blocks through fire or epidemic, and measuring every structure’s promise against reality. The model buildings, though not immune to hardship, illustrate how sound materials and clear rules limit loss. The couple’s circle narrows through personal trial, underscoring the stakes of reform in human terms. Their perseverance, joined by the steady reports of physicians and the press, nudges broader sentiment. City officials revisit stalled measures; competing owners adopt selected features to retain tenants. The narrative emphasizes change as incremental yet cumulative, driven by example, loss, and the practical appeal of safer dwellings.
Interwoven stories broaden the canvas: a laborer resisting drink when stable housing steadies his family; a seamstress whose income stretches when illness no longer forces repeated moves; a janitor trained to keep drains clear and halls clean, proving that standards can be learned and upheld. The book distinguishes relief from reform, showing charity as immediate help and improved conditions as lasting support. The protagonists temper zeal with patience, listening to residents and promoting self respect. Through schoolrooms, savings habits, and neighborly oversight, the district gains small footholds of order. These lives, ordinary yet specific, show what a home enables.
The closing movement affirms a practical idealism. While not claiming to end poverty or eliminate speculation, the story suggests that enforceable rules, honest construction, and humane management can check the worst abuses of overcrowded cities. The couple finds stability of their own, not as retreat but as a base for continued service, implying that home is purpose as much as place. Roe’s message joins moral appeal to concrete remedy: civic duty expressed through better buildings, fair dealing, and attentive care. The novel concludes with guarded hope, encouraging readers to see housing reform as a reachable task that protects families and cities.
Historical Context
Edward Payson Roe’s Without a Home is set in the Gilded Age, principally in New York City and its surrounding Hudson River communities during the late 1870s and early 1880s. The metropolis was expanding rapidly after the Civil War, its population swelling from roughly 942,000 in 1870 to over 1.2 million by 1880. Elevated railways began service on Ninth Avenue in 1870, accelerating speculative development and the spread of tenements. Amid this growth, stark inequalities defined everyday life: overcrowded housing, erratic labor markets, and municipal corruption coexisted with philanthropic reform. Roe, a Presbyterian minister who lived in the Hudson Valley and often wrote about urban moral questions, situates domestic struggle and the search for shelter within the concrete geography of Manhattan’s working-class districts and the commuter belts north of the city.
The transformation of New York’s housing market forms a core historical backdrop. The first comprehensive Tenement House Act (1867) introduced rudimentary requirements for fire escapes and sanitation, but enforcement lagged. A second landmark, the 1879 Tenement House Act, mandated that every habitable room have a window opening to the outdoors, spurring the “dumbbell tenement” with narrow air shafts. The Metropolitan Board of Health (created 1866; reorganized as the New York City Department of Health in 1870) sought to curb overcrowding and disease through inspections and sanitary rules. Yet speculative builders maximized lot coverage, and landlords subdivided apartments to extract rent from recent arrivals. Without a Home mirrors this contested landscape: families in the novel confront high rents, dangerous stairwells, and the precariousness of boarding, dramatizing how law on paper often failed to translate into livable space on the ground.
Economic shocks after the Panic of 1873—triggered by the collapse of the investment bank Jay Cooke & Co. on September 18, 1873 and a ten-day closure of the New York Stock Exchange—ushered in a prolonged downturn known as the Long Depression. Unemployment and wage cuts cascaded through urban trades, contributing to evictions and a surge in homelessness. New York’s Tompkins Square demonstration of January 13, 1874 (the so-called Tompkins Square Riot) saw police disperse unemployed workers seeking relief. In 1877, the Great Railroad Strike spread nationally; while New York experienced fewer clashes than Pittsburgh or Baltimore, mass meetings underscored urban distress. The novel translates these macroeconomic dislocations into intimate terms: wage earners lose positions with little notice, savings evaporate, and a single illness or accident precipitates the loss of lodging—exposing the thin line between a respectable household and literal homelessness in the decade’s volatile labor market.
Immigration reshaped the city’s social fabric, with Irish and German communities predominating in the 1860s–1870s and newer streams from Southern and Eastern Europe accelerating in the 1880s. Neighborhoods such as Five Points, the Lower East Side, and the Bowery became dense hubs of tenement life, informal economies, and mutual-aid societies. Institutions like the Children’s Aid Society (founded 1853 by Charles Loring Brace) and the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor (1843) attempted “scientific” relief, often with moral stipulations. Roe’s narrative, attentive to domestic stability and respectability, reflects the pressures on immigrant and native-born working families who navigated language barriers, seasonal employment, and landlords wary of large households, using the household’s instability to illuminate wider patterns of urban assimilation and exclusion.
Municipal politics and corruption also frame the era. Tammany Hall’s machine, under William M. “Boss” Tweed, dominated city contracting and patronage between roughly 1868 and 1871, with the Tweed Ring siphoning millions until exposés by the New York Times and Thomas Nast helped bring indictments in 1871. Tweed died in 1878, but the patterns of graft and favor-trading persisted, shaping building inspections, street cleaning, and tenement enforcement. Reformers sought charter changes and professionalized city departments in the 1870s. Without a Home’s depictions of uneven law enforcement, predatory agents, and the reliance of poor tenants on local intermediaries echo a political economy in which access to protection or services often depended on ward-level ties rather than universal standards.
Public health crises and sanitary reform were inseparable from housing. The 1866 cholera scare, recurring smallpox outbreaks, and endemic tuberculosis made ventilation, sewerage, and water supply urgent matters. The Metropolitan Board of Health pioneered inspections and produced mortality maps linking death rates to overcrowded blocks; in practice, however, garbage removal and privy maintenance lagged behind the ideals of sanitary science. In Brooklyn, philanthropist Alfred T. White built model tenements—the Home Buildings (1877) and Tower Buildings (1879)—to demonstrate that airy courtyards, plentiful latrines, and fair rents could be profitable. These efforts, alongside emerging nursing and district-visitation schemes, inform the novel’s recurring insistence that decent shelter is preventive medicine: Roe’s characters confront the health costs of damp cellars and dark interior rooms, and they weigh philanthropic “improved dwellings” against the realities of exploitative landlords.
Concurrently, moral and social reform movements sought to reshape urban life. The Women’s Christian Temperance Union (founded 1874) campaigned against saloons that clustered in working-class wards, linking alcohol to domestic violence and lost wages. New York’s Charity Organization Society (1882), associated with Josephine Shaw Lowell, coordinated relief and promoted investigation of applicants, reflecting a turn toward systematized, sometimes austere, assistance. Labor asserted visibility with the first New York City Labor Day parade on September 5, 1882, organized by the Central Labor Union. Without a Home absorbs these currents: temperance rhetoric, the ethics of charity, and the dignity of steady work shape character choices, underscoring the contested boundaries between private virtue and structural constraint in the city’s moral economy.
As social and political critique, the book indicts the era’s acceptance of housing as a commodity insulated from moral scrutiny. It exposes how legal reforms, municipal patronage, and speculative finance combined to produce unsafe dwellings and recurrent displacement, especially for wage-dependent families and immigrants. By tracing the swift slide from respectability to vagrancy, it challenges laissez-faire explanations of poverty and highlights the public-health stakes of inadequate shelter. Its portraits of landlords, agents, and machine politics question a system that privatized risk while socializing disease and disorder. In insisting on fair rents, enforceable standards, and temperate habits, Roe’s narrative urges a civic definition of home as a right anchored in the common good.
Without a Home
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[3]" 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[7] 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[1] 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[2] 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.
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[4]. 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[5]. 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.
"It would seem," she resumed, in the same quiet, incisive tone, "that my former suggestions have been unheeded. I fear that I must speak more plainly. You will please come with me for a few moments."
With evident reluctance he followed her to a small apartment, furnished richly, but with the taste and elegance of a past generation. He had become very pale again, but his face wore the impress of pain and irresolution rather than of sullen defiance or of manly independence. The hardness of the gold that had been accumulating in the family for generations had seemingly permeated the mother's heart, for the expression of her son's face softened neither her tone nor manner. And yet not for a moment could she be made to think of herself as cruel, or even stern. She was simply firm and sensible in the performance of her duty. She was but maintaining the traditional policy of the family, and was conscious that society would thoroughly approve of her course. Chief of all, she sincerely believed that she was promoting her son's welfare, but she had not Mrs. Jocelyn's gentle ways of manifesting solicitude.
After a moment of oppressive silence, she began:
"Perhaps I can best present this issue in its true light by again asking, Are you a man of honor?"
"Is it dishonorable," answered her son irritably, "to love a pure, good girl?"
"No," said his mother, in the same quiet, measured voice; "but it may be very great folly and a useless waste. It is dishonorable, however, to inspire false hopes in a girl's heart, no matter who she is. It is weak and dishonorable to hover around a pretty face like a poor moth that singes its wings."
In sudden, passionate appeal, he exclaimed, "If I can win Miss Jocelyn, why cannot I marry her? She is as good as she is beautiful. If you knew her as I do you would be proud to call her your daughter. They live very prettily, even elegantly—"
By a simple, deprecatory gesture Mrs. Arnold made her son feel that it was useless to add another word.
"Vinton," she said, "a little reason in these matters is better than an indefinite amount of sentimental nonsense. You are now old enough to be swayed by reason, and not to fume and fret after the impossible like a child. Neither your father nor I have acted hastily in this matter. It was a great trial to discover that you had allowed your fancy to become entangled below the circle in which it is your privilege to move, and I am thankful that my other children have been more considerate. In a quiet, unobtrusive way we have taken pains to learn all about the Jocelyns. They are comparative strangers in the city. Mr. Jocelyn is merely a junior partner in a large iron firm, and from all your father says I fear he has lived too elegantly for his means. That matter will soon be tested, however, for his firm is in trouble and will probably have to suspend. With your health, and in the face of the fierce competition in this city, are you able to marry and support a penniless girl? If, on the contrary, you propose to support a wife on the property that now belongs to your father and myself, our wishes should have some weight. I tell you frankly that our means, though large, are not sufficient to make you all independent and maintain the style to which you have been accustomed. With your frail health and need of exemption from care and toil, you must marry wealth. Your father is well satisfied that whoever allies himself to this Jocelyn family may soon have them all on his hands to support. We decline the risk of burdening ourselves with these unknown, uncongenial people. Is there anything unreasonable in that? Because you are fascinated by a pretty face, of which there are thousands in this city, must we be forced into intimate associations with people that are wholly distasteful to us? This would be a poor return for having shielded you so carefully through years of ill health and feebleness."
The young man's head drooped lower and lower as his mother spoke, and his whole air was one of utter despondency. She waited for his reply, but for a few moments he did not speak. Suddenly he looked up, with a reckless, characteristic laugh, and said:
"The Spartans were right in destroying the feeble children. Since I am under such obligations, I cannot resist your logic, and I admit that it would be poor taste on my part to ask you to support for me a wife not of your choosing."
"'Good taste' at least should have prevented such a remark. You can choose for yourself from a score of fine girls of your own station in rank and wealth."
"Pardon me, but I would rather not inflict my weakness on any of the score."
"But you would inflict it on one weak in social position and without any means of support."
"She is the one girl that I have met with who seemed both gentle and strong, and whose tastes harmonize with my own. But you don't know her, and never will. You have only learned external facts about the Jocelyns, and out of your prejudices have created a family of underbred people that does not exist. Their crime of comparative poverty I cannot dispute. I have not made the prudential inquiries which you and father have gone into so carefully. But your logic is inexorable. As you suggest, I could not earn enough myself to provide a wife with hairpins. The slight considerations of happiness, and the fact that Miss Jocelyn might aid me in becoming something more than a shadow among men, are not to be urged against the solid reasons you have named."
"Young people always give a tragic aspect to these crude passing fancies. I have known 'blighted happiness' to bud and blossom again so often that you must pardon me if I act rather on the ground of experience and good sense. An unsuitable alliance may bring brief gratification and pleasure, but never happiness, never lasting and solid content."
"Well, mother, I am not strong enough to argue with you, either in the abstract or as to these 'wise saws' which so mangle my wretched self," and with the air of one exhausted and defeated he languidly went to his room.
Mrs. Arnold frowned as she muttered, "He makes no promise to cease visiting the girl." After a moment she added, even more bitterly, "I doubt whether he could keep such a promise; therefore my will must supply his lack of decision;" and she certainly appeared capable of making good this deficiency in several human atoms.
If she could have imparted some of her firmness and resolution to Martin Jocelyn, they would have been among the most useful gifts a man ever received. As the stanchness of a ship is tested by the storm, so a crisis in his experience was approaching which would test his courage, his fortitude, and the general soundness of his manhood. Alas! the test would find him wanting. That night, for the first time in his life, he came home with a step a trifle unsteady. Innocent Mrs. Jocelyn did not note that anything was amiss. She was busy putting her home into its usual pretty order after the breezy, gusty evening always occasioned by one of Belle's informal companies. She observed that her husband had recovered more than his wonted cheerfulness, and seemed indeed as gay as Belle herself. Lounging on a sofa, he laughed at his wife and petted her more than usual, assuring her that her step was as light, and that she still looked as young and pretty as any of the girls who had tripped through the parlors that evening.
The trusting, happy wife grew so rosy with pleasure, and her tread was so elastic from maternal pride and exultation at the prospects of her daughters, that his compliments seemed scarcely exaggerated.
"Never fear, Nan," he said, in a gush of feeling; "I'll take care of you whatever happens," and the glad smile she turned upon him proved that she doubted his words no more than her own existence.
They were eminently proper words for a husband to address to his wife, but the circumstances under which they were uttered made them maudlin sentiment rather than a manly pledge. As spoken, they were so ominous that the loving woman might well have trembled and lost her girlish flush. But even through the lurid hopes and vague prospects created by dangerous stimulants, Mr. Jocelyn saw, dimly, the spectre of coming trouble, and he added:
"But, Nan, we must economize—we really must."
"Foolish man!" laughed his wife; "always preaching economy, but never practicing it."
"Would to God I had millions to lavish on you!" he exclaimed, with tears of mawkish feeling and honest affection mingled as they never should in a true man's eyes.
"Lavish your love, Martin," replied the wife, "and I'll be content."
That night she laid her head upon her pillow without misgiving.
Mrs. Jocelyn was the daughter of a Southern planter, and in her early home had been accustomed to a condition of chronic financial embarrassment and easy-going, careless abundance. The war had swept away her father and brothers with the last remnant of the mortgaged property.
Young Jocelyn's antecedents had been somewhat similar, and they had married much as the birds pair, without knowing very definitely where or how the home nest would be constructed. He, however, had secured a good education, and was endowed with fair business capacities. He was thus enabled for a brief time before the war to provide a comfortable support in a Southern city for his wife and little daughter Mildred, and the fact that he was a gentleman by birth and breeding gave him better social advantages than mere wealth could have obtained. At the beginning of the struggle he was given a commission in the Confederate army, but with the exception of a few slight scratches and many hardships escaped unharmed. After the conflict was over, the ex-officer came to the North, against which he had so bravely and zealously fought, and was pleased to find that there was no prejudice worth naming against him on this account. His good record enabled him to obtain a position in a large iron warehouse, and in consideration of his ability to control a certain amount of Southern trade he was eventually given an interest in the business. This apparent advancement induced him to believe that he might safely rent, in one of the many cross-streets up town, the pretty home in which we find him. The fact that their expenses had always a little more than kept pace with their income did not trouble Mrs. Jocelyn, for she had been accustomed to an annual deficit from childhood. Some way had always been provided, and she had a sort of blind faith that some way always would be. Mr. Jocelyn also had fallen into rather soldier-like ways, and after being so free with Confederate scrip, with difficulty learned the value of paper money of a different color.
Moreover, in addition to a certain lack of foresight and frugal prudence, bred by army life and Southern open-heartedness, he cherished a secret habit which rendered a wise, steadily maintained policy of thrift wellnigh impossible. About two years before the opening of our story he had been the victim of a painful disease, the evil effects of which did not speedily pass away. For several weeks of this period, to quiet the pain, he was given morphia powders; their effects were so agreeable that they were not discontinued after the physician ceased to prescribe them. The subtle stimulant not only banished the lingering traces of suffering, but enabled him to resume the routine of business with comparative ease much sooner than he had expected. Thus he gradually drifted into the habitual use of morphia, taking it as a panacea for every ill. Had he a toothache, a rheumatic or neuralgic twinge, the drug quieted the pain. Was he despondent from any cause, or annoyed by some untoward event, a small white powder soon brought hopefulness and serenity. When emergencies occurred which promised to tax his mental and physical powers, opium appeared to give a clearness and elasticity of mind and a bodily vigor that was almost magical, and he availed himself of the deceptive potency more and more often.
The morbid craving which the drug inevitably engenders at last demanded a daily supply. For months he employed it in moderate quantities, using it as thousands do quinine, wine, or other stimulants, without giving much thought to the matter, sincerely intending, however, to shake off the habit as soon as he felt a little stronger and was more free from business cares. Still, as the employment of the stimulant grew into a habit, he became somewhat ashamed of it, and maintained his indulgence with increasing secrecy—a characteristic rarely absent from this vice.
Thus it can be understood that his mind had ceased to possess the natural poise which would enable him to manage his affairs in accordance with some wisely matured system of expenditure. In times of depression he would demand the most rigid economy, and again he would seem careless and indifferent and preoccupied. This financial vacillation was precisely what his wife had been accustomed to in her early home, and she thoughtlessly took her way without much regard to it. He also had little power of saying No to his gentle wife, and an appealing look from her blue eyes would settle every question of economy the wrong way. Next year they would be more prudent; at present, however, there were some things that it would be very nice to have or to do.
But, alas, Mrs. Jocelyn had decided that, for Mildred's sake, the coming summer must be spent at Saratoga. In vain her husband had told her that he did not see how it was possible. She would reply,
"Now, Martin, be reasonable. You know Mr. Arnold spends his summers there. Would you spoil Millie's chances of making one of the best matches in the city?"
He would shrug his shoulders and wonder where the money was to come from. Meanwhile he knew that his partners were anxious. They had been strong, and had endured the evil times for years without wavering, but now were compelled to obtain a credit more and more extended, in the hope of tiding themselves over the long period of depression.
This increasing business stagnation occasioned a deepening anxiety to her husband and a larger resort to his sustaining stimulant. While he had no sense of danger worth naming, he grew somewhat worried by his dependence on the drug, and it was his honest purpose to gradually abandon it as soon as the financial pressure lifted and he could breathe freely in the safety of renewed commercial prosperity. Thus the weeks and months slipped by, finding him more completely involved in the films of an evil web, and more intent than ever upon hiding the fact from every one, especially his wife and children.
He had returned on the evening of Belle's company, with fears for the worst. The scene in his pretty and happy home, in contrast with the bitter experiences that might be near at hand, so oppressed him with foreboding and trouble that he went out and weakly sought temporary respite and courage in a larger amount of morphia than he had ever yet taken.
While off his guard from the resulting exaltation, he met a business acquaintance and was led by him to indulge in wine also, with the results already narrated.
CHAPTER III
CONFIDENTIAL
Martin Jocelyn awoke with a shiver. He did not remember that he had been dreaming, but a dull pain in his head and a foreboding of heart had at last so asserted themselves as to banish the unconsciousness of sleep. His prospects had even a more sombre hue than the cold gray of the morning. All the false prismatic colors of the previous evening had faded, and no serene, steady light had taken their place. The forced elation was followed—as is ever the case—by a deeper despondency. The face of his sleeping wife was so peaceful, so expressive of her utter unconsciousness of impending disaster, that he could not endure its sight. He felt himself to be in no condition to meet her waking eyes and explain the cause of his fears. A sense of shame that he had been so weak the evening before also oppressed him, and he yielded to the impulse to gain a day before meeting her trusting or questioning gaze. Something might occur which would give a better aspect to his affairs, and at any rate, if the worst must come, he could explain with better grace in the evening than in his present wretched mood, that would prove too sharp a contrast with his recent gayety.
He therefore dressed silently and hastily, and left a note saying that a business engagement required his early departure. "She will have at least one more serene day before the storm," he muttered.
"Now wasn't that kind and thoughtful of papa to let us all sleep late after the company!" said Mrs. Jocelyn to Mildred. "He went away, too, without his breakfast," and in her gentle solicitude she scarcely ate any herself.
But weakly hiding trouble for a day was not kindness. The wife and daughter, who should have helped to take in sail in preparation for the threatened storm, were left unconscious of its approach. They might have noticed that Mr. Jocelyn had been more than usually anxious throughout the spring, but they knew so little of business and its risks, that they did not realize their danger. "Men always worry about their affairs," said Mrs. Jocelyn. "It's a way they have."
Mr. Arnold's visits and manner were much more congenial topics, and as a result of the entire confidence existing between mother and daughter, they dwelt at length on these subjects.
"Mamma," said Mildred, "you must not breathe of it to a soul—not even to papa yet. It would hurt me cruelly to have it known that I think so much of one who has not spoken plainly—that is, in words. I should be blind indeed if I did not understand the language of his eyes, his tones, and manner. And yet, and yet—mamma, it isn't wrong for me to love—to think so much of him before he speaks, is it? Dearly as I—well, not for the world would I seem or even be more forward than a girl should. I fear his people are too proud and rich to recognize us; and—and—he says so little about them. I can never talk to him or any one without making many references to you and papa. I have thought that he even avoided speaking of his family."
"We have not yet been made acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Arnold," said Mrs. Jocelyn meditatively. "It is true we attend the same church, and it was there that Vinton saw you, and was led to seek an introduction. I'm sure we have not angled for him in any indelicate way. You met him in the mission school and in other ways, as did the other young ladies of the church. He seemed to single you out, and asked permission to call. He has been very gentlemanly, but you equally have been the self-respecting lady. I do not think you have once overstepped the line of a proper reserve. It isn't your nature to do such a thing, if I do say it. She is a silly girl who ever does, for men don't like it, and I don't blame them. Your father was a great hunter in the South, Millie, and he has often said since that I was the shyest game he ever followed. But," she added, with a low, sweet laugh, "how I did want to be caught! I can see now," she continued, with a dreamy look back into the past, "that it was just the way to be caught, for if I had turned in pursuit of him he would have run away in good earnest. There are some girls who have set their caps for your handsome Mr. Arnold who don't know this. I am glad to say, however, that you take the course you do, not because you know better, but because you ARE better—because you have not lost in city life the shy, pure nature of the wild flowers that were your early playmates. Vinton Arnold is the man to discover and appreciate this truth, and you have lost nothing by compelling him to seek you in your own home, or by being so reserved when abroad."
While her mother's words greatly reassured Mildred, her fair face still retained its look of anxious perplexity.
"I have rarely met Mrs. Arnold and her daughters," she said; "but even in a passing moment, it seemed as if they tried to inform me by their manner that I did not belong to their world. Perhaps they were only oblivious—I don't know."
