WAXING AND WANING MANHOOD
Both Belle and Roger saw that Mildred had not been reassured by
Mr. Jocelyn's return and manner; and as they thought it over they
found it difficult to account for his strangely varying moods. After
a rather lame effort to chat cheerily, Roger bad Belle good-night,
and assured her that she now had a friend always within call.
His uncle's modest residence was in a side street and not far away,
but the young fellow walked for hours before applying his night-key
to the door. What he had seen and heard that day touched his heart's
core, and the influences that were so rapidly developing his manhood
were greatly strengthened. For Belle he now had a genuine liking
and not a little respect. He saw her foibles clearly, and understood
that she was still more a child than a woman, and so should not
be judged by the standards proper for those of mature age; but he
also saw the foundations on which a noble womanhood might be built.
She inspired a sense of comradeship and honest friendliness which
would easily deepen into fraternal love, but Mrs. Jocelyn's surmise
that she might some day touch that innermost spring which controls
the entire man had no true basis. Nor would there have been any
possibility of this had he never seen Mildred. A true man--one
governed by heart and mind, not passion--meets many women whom he
likes and admires exceedingly, but who can never quicken his pulse.
On Mildred, however--although she coveted the gift so little--was
bestowed the power to touch the most hidden and powerful principles
of his being, to awaken and stimulate every faculty he possessed.
Her words echoed and re-echoed in the recesses of his soul; even
her cold, distant glances were like rays of a tropical sun to which
his heart could offer no resistance; and yet they were by no means
enervating. Some natures would have grown despondent over prospects
seemingly so hopeless, but Roger was of a different type. His deep
and unaccepted feeling did not flow back upon his spirit, quenching
it in dejection and despair, but it became a resistless tide back
of his purpose to win her recognition and respect at least, and
his determination to prove himself her peer. A girl so beautiful
and womanly might easily gain such power over several men without
any conscious effort, remaining meanwhile wholly indifferent
or even averse herself, and Roger had indeed but little cause for
hope. He might realize every ambitious dream and win her respect
and admiration, and her heart continue as unresponsive as it had
been from the first. Many a man has loved and waited in vain; and
some out of this long adversity in that which touched their dearest
interests have built the grandest successes of life and the loftiest
and purest manhood.
A few months before, Roger seemingly had been a good-natured,
pleasure-loving country youth, who took life as it came, with little
thought for the morrow. Events had proved that he had latent and
undeveloped force. In the material world we find substances that
apparently are inert and powerless, but let some other substance
be brought sufficiently near, and an energy is developed that seems
like magic, and transformations take place that were regarded as
supernatural in times when nature's laws were little understood.
If this be true concerning that which is gross and material, how
much more true of the quick, informing spirit that can send out its
thoughts to the furthest star! Strong souls--once wholly unconscious
of their power--at the touch of adequate motives pass into action
and combinations which change the character of the world from age
to age.
But in the spiritual as in the physical world, this development takes
place in accordance with natural law and within the limitations of
each character. There is nothing strange, however strange it may
appear to those who do not understand. Roger Atwood was not a genius
that would speedily dazzle the world with bewildering coruscations.
It would rather be his tendency to grow silent and reserved with
years, but his old boyish alertness would not decline, or his habit of
shrewd, accurate observation. He thus would take few false steps,
and would prove his force by deeds. Therefore he was almost
predestined to succeed, for his unusually strong will would not
drive him into useless effort or against obstacles that could be
foreseen and avoided.
After Mildred's departure from the country he carried out his
plans in a characteristic way. He wrote frankly and decidedly to
his uncle that he was coming to the city, and would struggle on
alone if he received no aid. At the same time he suggested that
he had a large acquaintance in his vicinity, and therefore by
judicious canvassing among the farmers he believed he could bring
much patronage with him. This looked not unreasonable to the shrewd
commission merchant, and, since his nephew was determined to make
an excursion into the world, he concluded it had better be done
under the safest and most business-like circumstances. At the same
time recalling the character and habits of the country boy, as he
remembered him, he surmised that Roger would soon become homesick
and glad to go back to his old life. If retained under his eye,
the youth could be kept out of harm's way and returned untainted
and content to be a farmer. He therefore wrote to Roger that, if
his parents were willing, he might secure what trade he could in
farm produce and make the trial.
At first Mr. and Mrs. Atwood would not hear of the plan, and the
father openly declared that it was "those Jocelyn girls that had
unsettled the boy."
"Father," said Roger, a little defiantly and sarcastically, "doesn't
it strike you that I'm rather tall for a boy? Did you never hear
of a small child, almost of age, choosing his own course in life?"
"That is not the way to talk," said his mother reprovingly. "We
both very naturally feel that it's hard, and hardly right, too,
for you to leave us just as we are getting old and need some one
to lean on."
"Do not believe, mother, that I have not thought of that," was the
eager reply; "and if I have my way you and father, and Susan too,
shall be well provided for."
"Thank you," Mr. Atwood snarled contemptuously. "I'll get what I
can out of the old farm, and I don't expect any provision from an
overgrown boy whose head is so turned by two city girls that he
must go dangling after them."
Roger flushed hotly, and angry words rose to his lips, but he
restrained them by a visible effort. After a moment he said quietly,
"You are my father, and may say what you please. There is but one
way of convincing you whether I am a boy or a man, and I'll take
it. You can keep me here till I'm twenty-one if you will, but you'll
be sorry. It will be so much loss to me and no gain to you. I've
often heard you say the Atwoods never 'drove well,' and you found
out years ago that a good word went further with me than what you
used to call a 'good thrashing.' If you let me have my way, now
that I'm old enough to choose for myself, I'll make your old age
cozy and comfortable. If you thwart me, as I said before, you'll
be sorry," and he turned on his heel and left them.
Politic Mrs. Atwood had watched her son closely for weeks and knew
that something was coming, but with woman's patience she waited and
was kind. No one would miss him so much as she, and yet, mother-like,
she now took sides against her own heart. But she saw that her
husband was in no mood to listen to her at present, and nothing
more was said that day.
In the evening Roger drove out in his carriage and returned on
horseback.
"There's the money you paid for the buggy, with interest," he said
to his father.
"You aren't gone yet," was the growling answer.
"No matter. I shall not ride in it again, and you are not the
loser."
Roger had a rugged side to his nature which his father's course
often called out, and Mrs. Atwood made her husband feel, reluctant
as he was to admit it, that he was taking the wrong course with
his son. A letter also from his brother in town led him to believe
that Roger would probably come back in the spring well content to
remain at home; so at last he gave a grudging consent.
Ungracious as it was, the young man rewarded him by a vigorous,
thorough completion of the fall work, by painting the house and
putting the place in better order than it had ever known before;
meanwhile for his mother and sister he showed a consideration and
gentleness which proved that he was much changed from his old self.
"I can see the hand of Mildred Jocelyn in everything he says and
does," Susan remarked one day after a long fit of musing, "and
yet I don't believe she cares a straw for him." Her intuition was
correct; it was Roger's ambition to become such a man as Mildred
must respect in spite of herself, and it was also true that she
was not merely indifferent, but for the reasons already given--as
far as she had reasons--she positively disliked him.
Roger brought sufficient business from the country to prevent
regretful second thoughts in the mind of his thrifty uncle, and the
impression was made that the young fellow might steady down into
a useful clerk; but when as much was hinted Roger frankly told him
that he regarded business as a stepping-stone merely to the study of
the law. The old merchant eyed him askance, but made no response.
Occasionally the veteran of the market evinced a glimmer of enthusiasm
over a prime article of butter, but anything so intangible as a
young man's ambitious dreams was looked upon with a very cynical
eye. Still he could not be a part of New York life and remain wholly
sceptical in regard to the possibilities it offered to a young
fellow of talent and large capacity for work. He was a childless
man, and if Roger had it in him to "climb the ladder," as he
expressed it to himself, "it might pay to give him the chance." But
the power to climb would have to be proved almost to a demonstration.
In the meantime Roger, well watched and much mistrusted, was but
a clerk in his store near Washington Market, and a student during
all spare hours.
He had too much sense to attempt superficial work or to seek to
build his fortunes on the slight foundation of mere smartness. It
was his plan to continue in business for a year or more and then
enter the junior class of one of the city colleges. By making the
most of every moment and with the aid of a little private tutoring
he believed he could do this, for he was a natural mathematician,
and would find in the classics his chief difficulties. At any rate
it was his fixed resolve not to enter upon the study of the law
proper until he had broadened his mind by considerable general
culture. Not only did his ambition prompt to this, but he felt that
if he developed narrowly none would be so clearly aware of the fact
as Mildred Jocelyn. Although not a highly educated girl herself, he
knew she had a well-bred woman's nice perception of what constituted
a cultivated man; he also knew that he had much prejudice to
overcome, and that he must strike at its very root.
In the meantime poor Mildred, unconscious of all save his unwelcome
regard, was seeking with almost desperate earnestness to gain
practical knowledge of two humble arts, hoping to be prepared for
the time--now clearly foreseen and dreaded--when her father might
decline so far in mind and health as to fail them utterly, and
even become a heavy burden. She did not dream that his disease was
a drug, and although some of his associates began to suspect as
much, in spite of all his precautions, none felt called upon to
suggest their suspicions to his family.
Causes that work steadily will sooner or later reach their legitimate
results. The opium inertia grew inevitably upon Mr. Jocelyn. He
disappointed the expectations of his employers to that degree that
they felt that something was wrong, and his appearance and manner
often puzzled them not a little even though with all the cunning
which the habit engenders he sought to hide his weakness.
One day, late in November, an unexpected incident brought matters
to a crisis. An experienced medical acquaintance, while making a
call upon the firm, caught sight of Mr. Jocelyn, and his practiced
eye detected the trouble at once.
"That man is an opium-eater," he said in a low tone, and
his explanation of the effects of the drug was a diagnosis of Mr.
Jocelyn's symptoms and appearance. The firm's sympathy for a man
seemingly in poor health was transformed into disgust and antipathy,
since there is less popular toleration of this weakness than of
drinking habits. The very obscurity in which the vice is involved
makes it seem all the more unnatural and repulsive, and it must
be admitted that the fullest knowledge tends only to increase this
horror and repugnance, even though pity is awakened for the wretched
victim.
But Mr. Jocelyn's employers had little knowledge of the vice, and
they were not in the least inclined to pity. They felt that they
had been imposed upon, and that too at a time when all business
men were very restless under useless expenditure. It was the man's
fault and not misfortune that he had failed so signally in securing
trade from the South, and, while they had paid him but a small
salary, his ill-directed and wavering efforts had involved them in
considerable expense. Asking the physician to remain, they summoned
Mr. Jocelyn to the private office, and directly charged him with
the excessive and habitual use of opium.
The poor man was at first greatly confused, and trembled as if
in an ague fit, for his nerve power was already so shattered that
he had little self-control in an emergency. This, of course, was
confirmation of guilt in their eyes.
"Gentlemen, you do me a great wrong," he managed to say, and
hastily left the office. Having secreted himself from observation
he snatched out his hypodermic syringe, and within six minutes
felt himself equal to any crisis. Boldly returning to the office
he denied the charge in the most explicit terms, and with some show
of lofty indignation. The physician who was still present watched
him closely, and noticed that the cuff on his left hand was somewhat
crumpled, as if it had been recently pushed back. Without a word
he seized Mr. Jocelyn's arm and pulled back his coat and shirt
sleeve, revealing a bright red puncture just made, and many others
of a remoter date.
"There is no use in lying about such matters to me," said the
physician. "How much morphia did you inject into your arm since
you left us?"
"I am a victim of neuralgia," Mr. Jocelyn began, without any
hesitation, "and the cruel and unreasonable charge here made against
me brought on an acute paroxysm, and therefore I--"
"Stop that nonsense," interrupted the doctor, roughly. "Don't you
know that lying, when lying is of no use, is one of the characteristic
traits of an opium-eater? I am a physician, and have seen too
many cases to be deceived a moment. You have all the symptoms of
a confirmed morphia consumer, and if you ever wish to break your
chains you had better tell doctors the truth and put yourself under
the charge of one in whom you have confidence."
"Well, curse you!" said Mr. Jocelyn savagely, "it was through one
of your damnable fraternity that I acquired what you are pleased
to call my chains, and now you come croaking to my employers,
poisoning their minds against me."
"Oh, as to poisoning," remarked the physician sarcastically, "I'll
wager a thousand dollars that you have absorbed enough morphia
within the last twenty-four hours to kill every one in this office.
At the rate you are going on, as far as I can judge from appearances,
you will soon poison yourself out of existence. No physician ever
advised the destroying vice you are practicing, and no physician
would take offence at your words any more than at the half-demented
ravings of a fever patient. You are in a very critical condition,
sir, and unless you can wake up to the truth and put forth more
will-power than most men possess you will soon go to the bad."
"I sincerely hope you will take this experienced physician's
advice," said the senior member of the firm very coldly. "At any
rate we can no longer permit you to jeopardize our interests by
your folly and weakness. The cashier will settle with you, and our
relations end here and now."
"You will bitterly repent of this injustice," Mr. Jocelyn replied
haughtily. "You are discharging a man of unusual business capacity--one
whose acquaintance with the South is wellnigh universal, and whose
combinations were on the eve of securing enormous returns."
"We will forego all these advantages. Good-morning, sir. Did you
ever see such effrontery?" he continued, after Mr. Jocelyn had
departed with a lofty and contemptuous air.
"It's not effrontery--it's opium," said the physician sadly. "You
should see the abject misery of the poor wretch after the effects
of the drug have subsided."
"I have no wish to see him again under any aspect, and heartily
thank you for unmasking him. We must look at once into our affairs,
and see how much mischief he has done. If he wants the aid and
respect of decent men, let him give up his vile practice."
"That's easier said than done," the physician replied. "Very few
ever give it up who have gone as far as this man."