CHAPTER I

Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

WITHOUT A HOME

E. P. ROE

ILLUSTRATED

PREFACE

Just ten years ago I took my first hesitating and dubious steps

toward authorship. My reception on the part of the public has been

so much kinder than I expected, and the audience that has listened

to my stories with each successive autumn has been so steadfast and

loyal, that I can scarcely be blamed for entertaining a warm and

growing regard for these unseen, unknown friends. Toward indifferent

strangers we maintain a natural reticence, but as acquaintance

ripens into friendship there is a mutual impulse toward an exchange

of confidences. In the many kind letters received I have gratefully

recognized this impulse in my readers, and am tempted by their

interest to be a little garrulous concerning my literary life, the

causes which led to it, and the methods of my work. Those who are

indifferent can easily skip these preliminary pages, and those who

are learning to care a little for the personality of him who has

come to them so often with the kindling of the autumn fires may

find some satisfaction in learning why he comes, and the motive,

the spirit with which, in a sense, he ventures to be present at

their hearths.

One of the advantages of authorship is criticism; and I have never

had reason to complain of its absence. My only regret is that I

have not been able to make better use of it. I admit that both the

praise and blame have been rather bewildering, but this confusion

is undoubtedly due to a lack of the critical faculty. With one acute

gentleman, however, who remarked that it "was difficult to account

for the popularity of Mr. Roe's books," I am in hearty accord. I

fully share in his surprise and perplexity. It may be that we at

last have an instance of an effect without a cause.

Ten years ago I had never written a line of a story, and had

scarcely entertained the thought of constructing one. The burning

of Chicago impressed me powerfully, and obedient to an impulse I

spent several days among its smoking ruins. As a result, my first

novel, "Barriers Burned Away," gradually took possession of my mind.

I did not manufacture the story at all, for it grew as naturally

as do the plants--weeds, some may suggest--on my farm. In the

intervals of a busy and practical life, and also when I ought to

have been sleeping, my imagination, unspurred, and almost undirected,

spun the warp and woof of the tale, and wove them together. At first

I supposed it would be but a brief story, which might speedily find

its way into my own waste-basket, and I was on the point of burning

it more than once. One wintry afternoon I read the few chapters then

written to a friend in whose literary taste I had much confidence,

and had her verdict been adverse they probably would have perished

as surely as a callow germ exposed to the bitter storm then raging

without. I am not sure, however, but that the impulse to write would

have carried me forward, and that I would have found ample return

for all the labor in the free play of my fancy, even though editors

and publishers scoffed at the result.

On a subsequent winter afternoon the incipient story passed through

another peril. In the office of "The New York Evangelist" I read

the first eight chapters of my blotted manuscript to Dr. Field

and his associate editor, Mr. J. H. Dey. This fragment was all that

then existed, and as I stumbled through my rather blind chirography

I often looked askance at the glowing grate, fearing lest my friends

in kindness would suggest that I should drop the crude production

on the coals, where it could do neither me nor any one else further

harm, and then go out into the world once more clothed in my right

mind. A heavy responsibility rests on the gentlemen named, for they

asked me to leave the manuscript for serial issue. From that hour

I suppose I should date the beginning of my life of authorship.

The story grew from eight into fifty-two chapters, and ran just

one year in the paper, my manuscript often being ready but a few

pages in advance of publication. I wrote no outline for my guidance;

I merely let the characters do as they pleased, and work out their

own destiny. I had no preparation for my work beyond a careful

study of the topography of Chicago and the incidents of the fire.

For nearly a year my chief recreation was to dwell apart among the

shadows created by my fancy, and I wrote when and where I could--on

steamboats and railroad cars, as well as in my study. In spite of

my fears the serial found readers, and at last I obtained a publisher.

When the book appeared I suppose I looked upon it much as a young

father looks upon his first child. His interest in it is intense,

but he knows well that its future is very doubtful.

It appears to me, however, that the true impulse toward authorship

does not arise from a desire to please any one, but rather from a

strong consciousness of something definite to say, whether people

will listen or not. I can honestly assert that I have never

manufactured a novel, and should I do so I am sure it would be

so wooden and lifeless that no one would read it. My stories have

come with scarcely any volition on my part, and their characters

control me. If I should move them about like images they would be

but images. In every book they often acted in a manner just the

opposite from that which I had planned. Moreover, there are unwritten

stories in my mind, the characters of which are becoming almost

as real as the people I meet daily. While composing narratives I

forget everything and live in an ideal world, which nevertheless

is real for the time. The fortunes of the characters affect me

deeply, and I truly believe that only as I feel strongly will the

reader be interested. A book, like a bullet, can go only as far as

the projecting force carries it.

The final tests of all literary and art work are an intelligent

public and time. We may hope, dream, and claim what we please,

but these two tribunals will settle all values; therefore the only

thing for an author or artist to do is to express his own individuality

clearly and honestly, and submit patiently and deferentially to

these tests. In nature the lichen has its place as truly as the

oak.

I will say but a few words in regard to the story contained in this

volume. It was announced two years ago, but I found that I could

not complete it satisfactorily. In its present form it has been

almost wholly recast, and much broadened in its scope. It touches

upon several modern and very difficult problems. I have not in the

remotest degree attempted to solve them, but rather have sought

to direct attention to them. In our society public opinion is

exceedingly powerful. It is the torrent that sweeps away obstructing

evils. The cleansing tide is composed originally of many rills and

streamlets, and it is my hope that this volume may add a little to

that which at last is irresistible.

I can say with sincerity that I have made my studies carefully and

patiently, and when dealing with practical phases of city life I

have evolved very little from my own inner consciousness. I have

visited scores of typical tenements; I have sat day after day on the

bench with the police judges, and have visited the station-houses

repeatedly. There are few large retail shops that I have not

entered many times, and I have conversed with both the employers

and employes. It is a shameful fact that, in the face of a plain

statute forbidding the barbarous regulation, saleswomen are still

compelled to stand continuously in many of the stores. On the

intensely hot day when our murdered President was brought from

Washington to the sea-side, I found many girls standing wearily

and uselessly because of this inhuman rule. There was no provision

for their occasional rest. Not for a thousand dollars would I have

incurred the risk and torture of standing through that sultry day.

There are plenty of shops in the city which are now managed on

the principles of humanity, and such patronage should be given to

these and withdrawn from the others as would teach the proprietors

that women are entitled to a little of the consideration that is so

justly associated with the work of the Society for the Prevention

of Cruelty to Animals. Mr. Bergh deserves praise for protecting

even a cat from cruelty; but all the cats in the city unitedly

could not suffer as much as the slight growing girl who must stand

during a long hot day. I trust the reader will note carefully the

Appendix at the close of this book.

It will soon be discovered that the modern opium or morphia habit

has a large place in this volume. While I have tried to avoid the

style of a medical treatise, which would be in poor taste in a work

of fiction, I have carefully consulted the best medical works and

authorities on the subject, and I have conversed with many opium

slaves in all stages of the habit. I am sure I am right in fearing

that in the morphia hunger and consumption one of the greatest

evils of the future is looming darkly above the horizon of society.

Warnings against this poison of body and soul cannot be too solemn

or too strong.

So many have aided me in the collection of my material that any

mention of names may appear almost invidious; but as the reader

will naturally think that the varied phases of the opium habit are

remote from my experience, I will say that I have been guided in

my words by trustworthy physicians like Drs. E. P. Fowler, of New

York; Louis Seaman, chief of staff at the Charity Hospital; Wm.

H. Vail, and many others. I have also read such parts of my MS.

as touched on this subject to Dr. H. K. Kane, the author of two

works on the morphia habit.

This novel appeared as a serial in the "Congregationalist" of Boston,

and my acknowledgments are due to the editors and publishers of

this journal for their confidence in taking the story before it

was written and for their uniform courtesy.

I can truly say that I have bestowed more labor on this book than

upon any which have preceded it; for the favor accorded me by the

public imposes the strongest obligation to be conscientious in my

work.

CONTENTS

I. ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE

II. WEAKNESS

III. CONFIDENTIAL

IV. "PITILESS WAVES"

V. THE RUDIMENTS OF A MAN

VI. ROGER DISCOVERS A NEW TYPE

VII. COMPARISONS

VIII. CHANGES

IX. NEITHER BOY NOR MAN

X. A COUNCIL

XI. A SHADOW

XII. VIEWLESS FETTERS

XIII. A SCENE BENEATH THE HEMLOCKS

XIV. THE OLD MANSION

XV. "WELCOME HOME"

XVI. BELLE AND MILDRED

XVII. BELLE LAUNCHES HERSELF

XVIII. "I BELIEVE IN YOU"

XIX. BELLE JARS THE "SYSTEM"

XX. SEVERAL QUIET FORCES AT WORK

XXI. "HE'S A MAN"

XXII. SKILLED LABOR

XXIII. THE OLD ASTRONOMER

XXIV. ROGER REAPPEARS

XXV. THE DARK SHADOW OF COMING EVENTS

XXVI. WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD

XXVII. A SLAVE

XXVIII. NEW YORK'S HUMANITY

XXIX. THE BEATITUDES OF OPIUM

XXX. THE SECRET VICE REVEALED

XXXI. AN OPIUM MANIAC'S CHRISTMAS

XXXII. A BLACK CONSPIRACY

XXXIII. MILDRED IN A PRISON CELL

XXXIV. "A WISE JUDGE"

XXXV. "I AM SO PERPLEXED"

XXXVI. A WOMAN'S HEART

XXXVII. STRONG TEMPTATION

XXXVIII. NO "DARK CORNERS"

XXXIX. "HOME, SWEET HOME"

XL. NEIGHBORS

XLI. GLINTS OF SUNSHINE

XLII. HOPES GIVEN AND SLAIN

XLIII. WAS BELLE MURDERED

XLIV. THE FINAL CONSOLATIONS OF OPIUM

XLV. MOTHER AND SON

XLVI. A FATAL ERROR

XLVII. LIGHT AT EVENTIDE

XLVIII. "GOOD ANGEL OF GOD"

XLIX. HOME

APPENDIX

WITHOUT A HOME

CHAPTER I

ONE GIRL'S IDEAL OF LIFE

It was an attractive picture that Martin Jocelyn looked upon

through the open doorway of his parlor. His lively daughter Belle

had invited half a score of her schoolmates to spend the evening,

and a few privileged brothers had been permitted to come also. The

young people were naturally selecting those dances which had some

of the characteristics of a romp, for they were at an age when

motion means enjoyment.

Miss Belle, eager and mettlesome, stood waiting for music that

could scarcely be lighter or more devoid of moral quality than her

own immature heart. Life, at that time, had for her but one great

desideratum--fun; and with her especial favorites about her, with

a careful selection of "nice brothers," canvassed with many pros

and cons over neglected French exercises, she had the promise

of plenty of it for a long evening, and her dark eyes glowed and

cheeks flamed at the prospect. Impatiently tapping the floor with

her foot, she looked toward her sister, who was seated at the piano.

Mildred Jocelyn knew that all were waiting for her; she instinctively

felt the impatience she did not see, and yet could not resist

listening to some honeyed nonsense that her "friend" was saying.

Ostensibly, Vinton Arnold was at her side to turn the leaves of

the music, but in reality to feast his eyes on beauty which daily

bound him in stronger chains of fascination. Her head drooped under

his words, but only as the flowers bend under the dew and rain that

give them life. His passing compliment was a trifle, but it seemed

like the delicate touch to which the subtle electric current

responds. From a credulous, joyous heart a crimson tide welled up

into her face and neck; she could not repress a smile, though she

bowed her head in girlish shame to hide it. Then, as if the light,

gay music before her had become the natural expression of her mood,

she struck into it with a brilliancy and life that gave even Belle

content.

Arnold saw the pleasure his remark had given, and surmised the

reason why the effect was so much greater than the apparent cause.

For a moment an answering glow lighted up his pale face, and then,

as if remembering something, he sighed deeply; but in the merry

life which now filled the apartments a sigh stood little chance of

recognition.

The sigh of the master of the house, however, was so deep and his

face so clouded with care and anxiety as he turned from it all,

that his wife, who at that moment met him, was compelled to note

that something was amiss.

"Martin, what is it?" she asked.

He looked for a moment into her troubled blue eyes, and noted how

fair, delicate, and girlish she still appeared in her evening dress.

He knew also that the delicacy and refinement of feature were but

the reflex of her nature, and, for the first time in his life, he

wished that she were a strong, coarse woman.

"No matter, Fanny, to-night. See that the youngsters have a good

time," and he passed hastily out.

"He's worrying about those stupid business matters again," she

said, and the thought seemed to give much relief.

Business matters were masculine, and she was essentially feminine.

Her world was as far removed from finance as her laces from the

iron in which her husband dealt.

A little boy of four years of age and a little girl of six, whose

tiny form was draped in such gossamer-like fabrics that she seemed

more fairy-like than human, were pulling at her dress, eager to enter

the mirth-resounding parlors, but afraid to leave her sheltering

wing. Mrs. Jocelyn watched the scene from the doorway, where her

husband had stood, without his sigh. Her motherly heart sympathized

with Belle's abounding life and fun, and her maternal pride

was assured by the budding promise of a beauty which would shine

pre-eminent when the school-girl should become a belle in very

truth.

But her eyes rested on Mildred with wistful tenderness. Her own

experience enabled her to interpret her daughter's manner, and to

understand the ebb and flow of feeling whose cause, as yet, was

scarcely recognized by the young girl.

The geniality of Mrs. Jocelyn's smile might well assure Vinton

Arnold that she welcomed his presence at her daughter's side, and

yet, for some reason, the frank, cordial greeting in the lady's

eyes and manner made him sigh again. He evidently harbored a memory

or a thought that did not accord with the scene or the occasion.

Whatever it was it did not prevent him from enjoying to the utmost

the pleasure he ever found in the presence of Mildred. In contrast

with Belle she had her mother's fairness and delicacy of feature,

and her blue eyes were not designed to express the exultation

and pride of one of society's flattered favorites. Indeed it was

already evident that a glance from Arnold was worth more than the

world's homage. And yet it was comically pathetic--as it ever is--to

see how the girl tried to hide the "abundance of her heart."

"Millie is myself right over again," thought Mrs. Jocelyn; "hardly

in society before in a fair way to be out of it. Beaux in general

have few attractions for her. Belle, however, will lead the young

men a chase. If I'm any judge, Mr. Arnold's symptoms are becoming

serious. He's just the one of all the world for Millie, and could

give her the home which her style of beauty requires--a home in

which not a common or coarse thing would be visible, but all as

dainty as herself. How I would like to furnish her house! But Martin

always thinks he's so poor."

Mrs. Jocelyn soon left the parlor to complete her arrangements for

an elegant little supper, and she complacently felt that, whatever

might be the tribulations of the great iron firm down town, her small

domain was serene with present happiness and bright with promise.

While the vigorous appetites of the growing boys and girls were

disposing of the supper, Arnold and Mildred rather neglected their

plates, finding ambrosia in each other's eyes, words, and even

intonations. Now that they had the deserted parlor to themselves,

Mildred seemed under less constraint.

"It was very nice of you," she said, "to come and help me entertain

Belle's friends, especially when they are all so young."

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

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

"No, nor a bronze one, either," he said, and a sudden gloom gathered

in his large dark eyes.

She had always admired the pallor of his face. "It set off his

superb brown eyes and heavy mustache so finely," she was accustomed

to say. But this evening for some reason she wished that there was

a little more bronze on his cheek and decision in his manner. His

aristocratic pallor was a trifle too great, and he seemed a little

frail to satisfy even her ideal of manhood.

She said, in gentle solicitude, "You do not look well this spring.

I fear you are not very strong."

He glanced at her quickly, but in her kindly blue eyes and in every

line of her lovely face he saw only friendly regard--perhaps more,

for her features were not designed for disguises. After a moment

he replied, with a quiet bitterness which both pained and mystified

her:

"You are right. I am not strong."

"But summer is near," she resumed earnestly. "You will soon go to

the country, and will bring back this fall bronze in plenty, and

the strength of bronze. Mother says we shall go to Saratoga. That

is one of your favorite haunts, I believe, so I shall have the

pleasure, perhaps, of drinking 'your very good health' some bright

morning before breakfast. Which is your favorite spring?"

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

"That's an amiable weakness. I think I shall like Saratoga. The

great hotels contain all one wishes for amusement. Then everything

about town is so nice, pretty, and sociable. The shops, also,

are fine. Too often we have spent our summers in places that were

a trifle dreary. Mountains oppress me with a sense of littleness,

and their wildness frightens me. The ocean is worse still. The

moment I am alone with it, such a lonely, desolate feeling creeps

over me--oh, I can't tell you! I fear you think I am silly and

frivolous. You think I ought to be inspired by the shaggy mountains

and wild waves and all that. Well, you may think so--I won't

tell fibs. I don't think mother is frivolous, and she feels as I

do. We are from the South, and like things that are warm, bright,

and sociable. The ocean always seemed to me so large and cold and

pitiless--to care so little for those in its power."

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

"Oh, no, no!" she interrupted eagerly; "it is to the world of

people I am glad to escape from these solitudes of nature. As I

said, the latter, with their vastness, power, and, worse than all,

their indifference, oppress me, and make me shiver with a vague

dread. I once saw a ship beaten to pieces by the waves in a storm.

It was on the coast near where we were spending the summer. Some

of the people on the vessel were drowned, and their cries ring in

my ears to this day. Oh, it was piteous to see them reaching out

their hands, but the great merciless waves would not stop a moment,

even when a little time would have given the lifeboats a chance to

save the poor creatures. The breakers just struck and pounded the

ship until it broke into pieces, and then tossed the lifeless body

and broken wood on the shore as if one were of no more value than

the other. I can't think of it without shuddering, and I've hated

the sea ever since, and never wish to go near it again."

"You have unconsciously described this Christian city," said Arnold,

with a short laugh.

"What a cynic you are to-night! You condemn all the world, and

find fault even with yourself--a rare thing in cynics, I imagine.

As a rule they are right, and the universe wrong."

"I have not found any fault with you," he said, in a tone that caused

her long eyelashes to veil the pleasure she could not wholly conceal.

"I hope the self-constraint imposed by your courtesy is not

too severe for comfort. I also understand the little fiction of

excepting present company. But I cannot help remembering that I am

a wee bit of the world and very worldly; that is, I am very fond

of the world and all its pretty follies. I like nice people much

better than savage mountains and heartless waves."

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

"I'm glad you think so. I've no wish to win that character.

Fashionable society seems to me like the sea, as restless and

unreasoning, always on the go, and yet never going anywhere. I know

lots of girls who go here and there and do this and that with the

monotony with which the waves roll in and out. Half the time they

act contrary to their wishes and feelings, but they imagine it the

thing to do, and they do it till they are tired and bored half to

death."

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

Her head drooped a little lower, and the tell-tale color would come

as she replied hesitatingly, and with a slight deprecatory laugh:

"Well, I can't say I've thought it out very definitely. Plenty of

real friends seem to me better than the world's stare, even though

there's a trace of admiration in it Then, again, you men so monopolize

the world that there is not much left for us poor women to do; but

I have imagined that to create a lovely home, and to gather in it

all the beauty within one's reach, and just the people one best liked,

would be a very congenial life-work for some women. That is what

mother is doing for us, and she seems very happy and contented--much

more so than those ladies who seek their pleasures beyond their

homes. You see I use my eyes, Mr. Arnold, even if I am not antiquated

enough to be wise."

His look had grown so wistful and intent that she could not meet

it, but averted her face as she spoke. Suddenly he sprang up, and

took her hand with a pressure all too strong for the "friend" she

called him, as he said:

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

For a few moments she sat where he left her. What did he mean?

Had she revealed her heart too plainly? His manner surely had been

unmistakable, and no woman could have doubted the language of his

eyes.

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

The more she thought it over, however--and what young girl does

not live over such interviews a hundred times--the more convinced

she became that her favorite among the many who sought her favor

gave as much to her as she to him; and she was shrewd enough

to understand that the nearer two people exchange evenly in these

matters the better it is for both. Her last thought that night was,

"To make a home for him would be happiness indeed. How much life

promises me!"