ROGER REAPPEARS
Roger Atwood had entered Mildred's mind as a part of a grotesque
dream, but he had no place in her waking thoughts. With Vinton
Arnold, however, it was very different, and scarcely an hour passed
that she was not wondering where he was, and again questioning his
prolonged silence. Often her heart beat quick as she imagined she
caught a glimpse of him in the street; and it must be admitted
that she looked for him constantly, although she took pains never
to pass his residence. Could he be ill, or was he patiently waiting
like herself, secure in her good faith? She longed to see him,
even though unseen herself, and one Sunday early in November she
yielded to her strong desire to look upon one in reality who had
become an abiding presence in her mind. She believed that from a
certain part of the gallery in the church they both had attended
in former days she could look down upon the Arnold pew. If he were
not ill she felt quite sure he would be in his old place.
It was almost with a sense of guilty intrusion that she crossed the
threshold of her old church-home and stole to the thinly occupied
gallery. She saw familiar faces, but shrank from recognition in
almost trembling apprehension, scarcely feeling secure behind her
thick veil. The place, once so familiar, now seemed as strange as
if it belonged to another world; and in a certain sense she felt
that it was part of a world with which she would never willingly
identify herself again. It was a place where fashion was supreme,
and not the spirit of Christ, not even the spirit of a broad, honest,
and earnest humanity. The florid architecture, the high-priced and
elegantly upholstered pews, sparsely occupied by people who never
wished to be crowded under any possible circumstances, and preferred
not to touch each other except in a rather distant and conventional
way, the elaborately ritualistic service, and the cold, superficial
religious philosophy taught, were all as far removed from the
divine Son of Mary as the tinsel scenery of a stage differs from
a natural landscape. Mildred's deep and sorrowful experience made
its unreality painfully apparent and unsatisfactory. She resolved,
however, to try to give the sacred words that would be uttered
their true meaning; and, in fact, her sincere devotion was like a
simple flower blooming by the edge of a glacier. She felt that the
human love she brought there and sought to gratify was pure and
unselfish, and that in no sense could it be a desecration of the
place and hour. To a nature like hers, her half-pitying love for one
so unfortunate as Vinton Arnold was almost as sacred as her faith,
and therefore she had no scruple in watching for his appearance.
Her quest was unrewarded, however, for no one entered the pew except
Mr. Arnold and one of his daughters. The absence of Mrs. Arnold
and the invalid son filled her with forebodings and the memory of
the past; the influence of the place combined with her fears was
so depressing that by the time the service ended her tears were
falling fast behind her veil. With natural apprehension that her
emotion might be observed she looked hastily around, and, with a
start, encountered the eyes of Roger Atwood. Her tears seemed to
freeze on her cheeks, and she half shuddered in strong revulsion
of feeling. She had come to see the man she loved; after months
of patient waiting she had at last so far yielded to the cravings
of her heart as to seek but a glimpse of one who fed her dearest
earthly hope; but his place is vacant. In his stead she finds,
almost at her side, one whom she hoped never to see again; and she
knew he was offering through his dark eyes a regard loathed in
her inmost soul. She was oppressed with a sudden, superstitious
fear that she could not escape him--that he was endowed with such
a remorseless will and persistence that by some strange necessity
she might yield in spite of herself. Belle's words, "He'll win you
yet," seemed like a direful prophecy. How it could ever be fulfilled
she could not imagine; but his mere presence caused a flutter of fear,
and the consciousness that she was followed by a man pre-eminently
gifted with that subtle power before which most obstacles crumble
made her shiver with an undefined dread.
She believed her veil had been no protection--that he had seen her
emotion and divined its cause, indeed that nothing could escape
his eyes. She also felt sure that he had come to the city to carry
out the projects which he had vaguely outlined to her, and that
henceforth she could never be sure, when away from home, that his
searching eyes were not upon her. However well-intentioned his
motive might be, to her it would be an odious system of espionage.
There was but one way in which she could resent it--by a cold and
steadily maintained indifference, and she left the church without
any sign of recognition, feeling that her lowered veil should have
taught him that she was shunning observation, and that he had no
right to watch her. She went home not only greatly depressed, but
incensed, for it was the same to her as if she had been intruded
upon at a moment of sacred privacy, and coldly scrutinized while
she was giving way to feelings that she would hide from all the
world. That he could not know this, and that it was no great breach
of delicacy for a young man to sit in the same church with a lady
of his acquaintance, and even to regard her with sympathy, she did
not consider. She was in no mood to do him justice, and circumstances
had imbued her mind with intense prejudice. She was by no means
perfect, nor above yielding to very unjust prejudices when tempted
to them by so unwelcome an interest as that entertained by Roger
Atwood.
"What's the matter, Millie?" her mother asked, following her into
her room where Belle was writing a letter to Clara Bute. Mildred
concluded to tell all, for she feared Roger might soon appear and
occasion awkward explanations, so she said, "I felt, this morning,
like having a glimpse of our old church and life. I suppose it
was very weak and foolish and I was well punished, for toward the
end of the service I was thinking over old times, and it all very
naturally brought some tears. I looked around, and who, of all
others, should be watching me but Roger Atwood!"
Belle sprang up and clapped her hands with a ringing laugh. "That's
capital," she cried. "Didn't I tell you, Millie, you couldn't escape
him? You might just as well give in first as last."
"Belle," said Mildred, in strong irritation, "that kind of talk
is unpardonable. I won't endure it, and if such nonsense is to be
indulged in Roger Atwood cannot come here. I shall at least have
one refuge, and will not be persecuted in my own home."
"Belle," added Mrs. Jocelyn gravely, "since Mildred feels as she
does, you must respect her feelings. It would be indelicate and
unwomanly to do otherwise."
"There, Millie, I didn't mean anything," Belle said, soothingly.
"Besides I want Roger to come and see us, for he can be jolly
good company if he has a mind to; and I believe he will come this
afternoon or evening. For my sake you must all treat him well, for
I want some one to talk to once in a while--some one that mamma
will say is a 'good, well-meaning young man.' The Atwoods have all
been so kind to us that we must treat him well. It would be mean
not to do so. No doubt he's all alone in the city, too, and will
be lonely."
"There is no need of his being in the city at all," Mildred
protested. "I've no patience with his leaving those who need him
so much. I think of them, and am sure they feel badly about it,
and likely enough are blaming me, when, if I had my way, he'd live
and die in sight of his own chimney smoke."
"Millie, you are unreasonable," retorted Belle. "Why hasn't Roger
Atwood as good a right to seek his fortune out in the world as
other young men? Papa didn't stay on the old plantation, although
they all wanted him to. What's more, he has as good a right to like
you as you have to dislike him. I may as well say it as think it."
It was difficult to refute Belle's hard common-sense, and her
sister could only protest, "Well, he has no right to be stealthily
watching me, nor to persecute me with unwelcome attentions."
"Leave it all to me, Millie," said her mother gently. "I will
manage it so that Belle can have his society occasionally, and we
show our goodwill toward those who have been kind to us. At the
same time I think I can shield you from anything disagreeable. He
is pretty quick to take a hint; and you can soon show him by your
manner that you wish him well, and that is all. He'll soon get over
his half-boyish preference, or at least learn to hide it. You give
to his feelings more importance than they deserve."
"I suppose I do," Mildred replied musingly, "but he makes upon me
the queer impression that he will never leave me alone--that I can
never wholly shake him off, and that he will appear like a ghost
when I least expect it."
Belle smiled significantly. "There, you might as well speak plainly
as look in that way," Mildred concluded irritably. "I foresee how
it will be, but must submit and endure as best I can, I suppose."
Belle's anticipation proved correct, for just as they were nearly
ready to start for the chapel Eoger appeared, and was a little awkward
from diffidence and doubt as to his reception. Mrs. Jocelyn's
kindness and Belle's warm greeting somewhat reassured him, and
atoned for Mildred's rather constrained politeness. While answering
the many and natural questions about those whom he had left in
Forestville, he regained his self-possession and was able to hold
his own against Belle's sallies. "You have come to the city to
stay?" she asked, point-blank.
"Yes," he said briefly, and that was the only reference he made to
himself.
She soon began vivaciously, "You must go with us to church and
Sunday-school. Here you are, an innocent and unprotected youth in
this great wicked city, and we must get you under good influence
at once."
"That is my wish," he replied, looking her laughingly in the face,
"and that is why I came to see you. If you have a class and will
take me into it, I will accept all the theology you teach me."
"Mr. Wentworth's hair would rise at the idea of my teaching theology
or anything; but I'll look after you, and if you get any fast ways
I'll make you sorry. No, I'm only a scholar. Millie has a class of
the worst boys in school, and if--" A warning glance here checked
her.
"Well, then, can't I join your class?"
"Oh, no, we are all girls, and you'll make us so bashful we wouldn't
dare say anything."
"I think Mr. Atwood had better go with us to the chapel, accepting
the conditions on which we first attended," suggested Mrs. Jocelyn.
"If he is pleased, as we were, he can then act accordingly."
"Yes, come," cried Belle, who had resumed at once her old companionable
and mirthful relations with Roger. "I'll go with you, so you won't
feel strange or afraid. I want you to understand," she continued,
as they passed down the quaint old hallway, "that we belong to
the aristocracy. Since this is the oldest house in town, we surely
should be regarded as one of the old families."
"By what magic were you able to make so inviting a home in such a
place?" he asked.
"Oh, that's Millie's work," she replied.
"I might have known that," he said, and a sudden shadow crossed
his face. Quickly as it passed away, she saw it.
"Yes," she resumed in a low, earnest tone--for she had no scruple
in fanning the flame of his love which she more than half believed
might yet be rewarded--"Millie is one of a million. She will be
our main dependence, I fear. She is so strong and sensible."
"Is--is not Mr. Jocelyn well?" he asked apprehensively.
"I fear he isn't well at all," she answered with some despondency.
"He is sleeping now; he always rests Sunday afternoon, and we try
to let him rest all he can. He sleeps, or rather dozes, a great
deal, and seems losing his strength and energy," and she spoke
quite frankly concerning their plans, projects, and hopes. She
believed in Roger, and knew him to be a sincere friend, and it
was her nature to be very outspoken where she had confidence. "If
Millie can learn thoroughly what she is now studying," she concluded,
"I think we can get along."
"Yes," said Roger, in low, sad emphasis, "your sister is indeed one
of a million, and my chance of winning one friendly thought from
her also seems but one in a million. Belle, let us understand each
other from the start. I have come to the city to stay, and I intend
to succeed. I have an uncle in town who has given me a chance,
and he'll do more for me, I think. He's peculiar, but he's shrewd
and sensible, and when he is convinced that I intend to carry out
certain plans he will aid me. He is watching me now, and thinks I
am here only from a restless impulse to see the world; by and by
he will know better. He has the obstinate Atwood blood, and if he
takes a notion to give me a chance to get a first-class education,
he will see me through. I'm going to have one anyway, but of course
I'd rather be able to get it in five or six years than in eight or
ten years, as would be the case if I had to work my own way. I am
now employed in his commission store down town, but I am studying
every spare moment I can get, and he knows it, only he thinks it
won't last. But it will, and I shall at least try to be one of the
first lawyers in this city. What's more, I shall work as few young
men are willing to work or can work, for I am strong, and--well,
I have motives for work that are not usual, perhaps. You see I
am frank with you as you have been with me. You often talk like a
gay child, but I understand you well enough to know that you are
a whole-souled little woman, and thoroughly worthy of trust; and
I have told you more about myself and present plans than any one
else. Clara Bute informed me all about your courage at the store,
and I felt proud that I knew you, and don't intend that you shall
ever be ashamed of me. You may tell your mother all this if you
please, because I wish her to know just what kind of a young fellow
I am, and what are my connections and prospects. I would much like
to come and see you and go out with you now and then; and if you
and your--well, your family should ever need any service that it
was in my power to render, I should like you all to feel that I am
not altogether unfit to give it, or to be your associate."
"You needn't talk that way," said Belle; "you are up in the world
compared with us."
"I mean every word I say. I respect your mother as I do my own,
for I have seen her beautiful life and beautiful face for weeks and
months. I never expect to see a more perfect and genuine lady. I
am not well versed in society's ways, but I assure you I would
make every effort in my power to act as she would think a young
man ought to act. I'd rather fight a dragon than displease her."
Tears of gratified feeling were in Belle's eyes, but she said
brusquely, "Not versed in society's ways! Account, then, for that
fashionable suit of clothes you are wearing."
"They were not cut in Forestville," he replied dryly.
"Roger," she said impulsively, "I'm wonderfully glad you've come
to New York to live, for I was dying for a little society and fun
that mother and Millie wouldn't disapprove of. They are so particular,
you know, that I fairly ache from trying to walk in the strait and
narrow path which is so easy for them. I want a lark. I must have
a lark before long, or I'll explode. What can we do that will
be real genuine fun? It will do you good, too, or you'll become a
dull boy with nothing but work, work, work. You needn't tell me the
world was only made to work in. If it was, I've no business here.
You must think up something spicy, and no make-believe. I want to
go somewhere where I can laugh with my whole heart. I can't go on
much longer at this old humdrum, monotonous jog, any more than your
colts up at the farm could go around like the plow-horses, and I
know it isn't right to expect it of me. And yet what has been the
case? Off early in the morning to work, standing all day till I'm
lame in body and mad in spirit--stupid owls to make us stand till
we are so out of sorts that we are ready to bite customers' heads
off instead of waiting on 'em pleasantly. When I come home, mamma
often looks tired and sad, for this life is wearing on her, and
she is worrying in secret over papa's health. Millie, too, is tired
and downhearted in spite of her trying to hide it. She won't go out
anywhere because she says there are no places where young girls
can go unattended that are within our means. I've got tired of
the other shop-girls. A few of them are nice; but more of them are
stupid or coarse, so I just sit around and mope, and go to bed early
to get through the time. If I even try to romp with the children
a little, mamma looks distressed, fearing I will disturb papa, who
of late, when he comes out of his dozing condition, is strangely
irritable. A year ago he'd romp and talk nonsense with me to my
heart's content; but that's all passed. Now is it natural for a
young girl little more than sixteen to live such a life?"
"No, Belle, it is not, and yet I have seen enough of the city during
the week I have been here to know that your mother and sister are
right in their restrictions."
"Well, then, it's a burning shame that in a city called Christian
a poor girl is not more safe outside of her own door than if she
were in a jungle. Do you mean to say that girls, situated as Millie
and I are, must remain cooped up in little rooms the year round
when our work is over?"
"The street is no place for you to take recreation in after
nightfall; and where else you can go unattended I'm sure I don't
know. If there is any place, I'll find out, for I intend to study
this city from top to bottom. A lawyer is bound to know life as it
is, above all things. But you needn't worry about this question in
the abstract any more. I'll see that you have a good time occasionally.
You sister will not go with me, at least not yet--perhaps never--but
that is not my fault. I've only one favor to ask of you, Belle, and
I'll do many in return. Please never, by word, or even by look, make
my presence offensive or obtrusive to Miss Mildred. If you will be
careful I will not prove so great an affliction as she fears."
"Roger Atwood, do you read people's thoughts?"
"Oh, no, I only see what is to be seen, and draw my conclusions,"
he said, a little sadly.
"Well, then, if you can have the tact and delicacy to follow such
good eyesight, you may fare better than you expect," she whispered
at the chapel door.
He turned toward her with a quick flash, but she had stepped forward
into the crowd passing through the vestibule. From that moment,
however, a ray of hope entered his heart, and in quiet resolve he
decided to conform his tactics to the hint just received.
Mrs. Jocelyn and Mildred followed half a block away, and the former
said to her daughter: "There they go, Millie, chattering together
like two children. You surely take this affair too seriously. His
sudden and boyish infatuation with you was the most natural thing
in the world. He had never seen a girl like you before, and you
awoke him into something like manhood. Very young men are prone to
fall in love with women older than themselves, or those who seem
older, and speedily to fall out again. Martin has often said his
first flame is now a gray-headed lady, and yet he was sure at one
time he never could endure life without her. You know that I consoled
him quite successfully," and Mildred was pleased to hear the old,
sweet laugh that was becoming too rare of late. Even now it ended
in a sigh. Mr. Jocelyn was losing his resemblance to the man she
had accepted in those bright days that now seemed so long ago.
"I hope you are right, mamma. It seems as if I ought to laugh at
the whole affair and good-naturedly show him his folly, but for
some reason I can't. He affects me very strangely. While I feel a
strong repulsion, I am beginning to fear him--to become conscious
of his intensity and the tenacity and power of his will. I didn't
understand him at first, and I don't now, but if he were an ordinary,
impulsive young fellow he would not impress me as he does."
"Don't you think him true and good at heart?"
"I've no reason to think him otherwise. I can't explain to you how I
feel, nor do I understand it myself. He seems the embodiment of a
certain kind of force, and I always shrank from mere force, whether
in nature or people."
"I can tell you how it is, Millie. Quiet and gentle as you seem, you
have a tremendous will of your own, and very strong-willed people
don't get on well together."
"Astute little mother! Well, explain it in any way that pleases
you, only keep your promise not to let him become the bane of my
life."
"I'm not at all sure but that Belle will soon usurp your place in his
regard, nor would I object, for I am very anxious about the child.
I know that her present life seems dull to her, and the temptations of
the city to a girl with a nature like hers are legion. He can be a
very useful friend to her, and he seems to me manly and trustworthy.
I'm not often deceived in my impressions of people, and he inspires
me with confidence, and has from the first. I never saw anything
underhand in him at the farm."
"Oh, no, he's honest enough, no doubt."
"There, Millie," resumed her mother, laughing, "you have a woman's
reason for your feelings--you don't like him, and that is the end
of it. You must admit, however, that he has improved wonderfully.
I never saw a young fellow so changed, so thoroughly waked up. He
has sense, too, in little things. One would think from his dress
he had been born and bred in the city. They didn't palm off an
old-fashioned suit on him, if he was from the country.
"Chant his praises to Belle, mamma, and she will greatly appreciate
this last proof of his superiority. To me he seems like his clothes--a
little too new. Still I admit that he can be of very great service
to Belle; and if he will restrict his attentions to her I will
be as polite as either of you can wish. I, too, feel a very deep
sympathy for Belle. She is little more than a child, and yet her
life is imposing upon her the monotonous work of a middle-aged
woman, and I fear the consequences. It's contrary to nature, and
no one knows it better than she. If he will help us take care of
her I shall be grateful indeed; but if he grows sentimental and
follows me as he did this morning, I could not endure it--indeed
I could not."
"Well, Millie dear, we won't cross any bridges till we come to
them."