STRONG TEMPTATION
Well, I must admit that I have rarely been so touched and interested
before," said Mr. Wentworth, as he and Roger walked homeward together;
"and that is saying much, for my calling brings human life before
me in almost every aspect. Mildred Jocelyn is an unusual girl.
Until to-day I thought her a trifle cold, and even incapable of
very deep feeling. I thought pride--not a common pride, you know,
but the traditional and proverbial pride of a Southern woman--her
chief characteristic, but the girl was fairly volcanic with feeling
to-night. I believe she would starve in very truth to save her
father, though of course we won't permit any such folly as they
are meditating, and I do not believe there is any sacrifice, not
involving evil, at which she would hesitate. She's a jewel, Atwood,
and in winning her, as you will, you will obtain a girl for whom
a prince might well sue. She's one of a thousand, and beneath all
her wonted self-control and reserve she has as true and passionate
a heart as ever beat in a woman's breast."
"Good-night," said Roger, a little abruptly. "I agree with all you
can say in regard to Miss Jocelyn's nobility, and I shall not fail
her, nor shall I make bargains or conditions in my loyalty. The
privilege of serving such a woman is enough. I will see you again
soon," and he walked rapidly down the street on which his uncle
resided.
Roger and Mr. Wentworth had become very good friends, and the
latter had been of much service to the young fellow by guiding him
in his reading and study. The clergyman had shown his usual tact in
dealing with Roger. Never once had he lectured or talked religion
at him, but he preached interestingly, and out of the pulpit was
the genial, natural, hearty man that wins the respect and goodwill
of all. His interviews with Roger were free from the faintest trace
of religious affectation, and he showed that friendly appreciation
and spirit of comradeship which young men like. Roger felt that
he was not dealing with an ecclesiastic, but with a man who was as
honest, earnest, and successful in his way as he ever hoped to be
in his. He was therefore being drawn by motives that best accorded
with his disposition toward the Christian faith--by a thorough respect
for it, by seeing its practical value as worked out in the useful
busy life of one who made his chapel a fruitful oasis in what
would otherwise have been a moral desert. In his genuine humanity
and downright honesty, in his care of people's bodies as well as
souls, and temporal as well as spiritual interests, the minister was
a tower of strength, and his influence for good over the ambitious
youth, now fast developing the character which would make or mar
him for life, was most excellent. While Roger spoke freely to him
of his general hopes and plans, and gave to him more confidence
than to any one else, there was one thing that, so far as words
were concerned, he hid from all the world--his love for Mildred.
The sagacious clergyman, however, at last guessed the truth, but
until to-night never made any reference to it. He now smiled to
think that the sad-hearted Jocelyns might eventually find in Roger
a cure for most of their troubles, since he hoped that Mr. Jocelyn,
if treated scientifically, might be restored to manhood.
Mr. Ezra Atwood, Roger's uncle, sat in his small parlor far beyond
his usual hour for retiring, and occasionally he paced the floor so
impatiently as to show that his mind was deeply perturbed. While
his nephew had studied books he had studied his nephew, and in the
process the fossilization of his heart had been arrested, and the
strong, steady youth had suggested hopes of something like a filial
relation to the childless man. At first he had growled to himself,
"If the boy were only mine I'd make a man of him," and then gradually
the idea of adopting and making a man of him, had presented itself
and slowly gained full possession of his mind. Roger was capable,
persevering, and tremendously ambitious--qualities that were after
the old man's heart, and, after maintaining his shrewd furtive
observation for months, he at last muttered to himself, "I'll do
it, for he's got the Atwood grit and grip, and more brains than any
of us. His father is shrewd and obstinate enough, but he's narrow,
and hasn't breadth of mind to do more than pinch and save what he
can scratch out of that stony farm of his. I'm narrow, too. I can
turn an honest penny in my line with the sharpest in the market,
and I'm content; but this young fellow is a new departure in the
family, and if given a chance and kept from all nonsense he can
climb to the top notch. There's no telling how high a lawyer can
get in this country if he has plenty of brains and a ready tongue."
Thus the old man's dominant trait, ambition, which he had satisfied
in becoming known as one of the most solid and wealthy men of his
calling, found in his nephew a new sphere of development. In return
for the great favors which he proposed to confer, however, he felt
that Roger should gratefully accept his wishes as absolute law.
With the egotism and confidence of many successful yet narrow men,
he believed himself perfectly capable of guiding the young fellow's
career in all respects, and had little expectation of any fortunate
issue unless he did direct in all essential and practical matters.
Mr. Atwood worshipped common-sense and the shrewd individuality of
character which separates a man from his fellows, and enables him
to wrap himself in his own interests and pursuits without babbling
to others or being impeded by them. Influenced by his wife, he was
kind to the poor, and charitable in a certain methodical way, but
boasted to her that in his limited circle he had no "hangers-on,"
as he termed them. He had an instinctive antipathy to a class that
he called "ne'er-do-weels," "havebeens," and "unlucky devils," and
if their misfortunes and lack of thrift resulted from causes like
those destroying Mr. Jocelyn he was sternly and contemptuously
implacable toward them. He was vexed that Roger should have bothered
himself with the sick man he had discovered on shipboard the day
before Christmas. "It was no affair of his," he had grumbled; but
as the young fellow had been steady as a clock in his business and
studies after Mr. Jocelyn had recovered, he had given no further
thought to these friends, nor had it occurred to him that they were
more than passing acquaintances. But a letter from Roger's father,
who had heard of Mr. Jocelyn's condition and of his son's intimacy
with the family, awakened the conservative uncle's suspicions, and
that very afternoon the well-meaning but garrulous Mrs. Wheaton had
told his wife all about what she regarded as brilliant performances on
the part of Roger at the police court. Mrs. Atwood was a kind-hearted
woman, but she had much of her husband's horror of people who were
not respectable after her strict ideal, and she felt that she ought
to warn him that Roger's friends were not altogether desirable.
Of course she was glad that Roger had been able to show that the
young girl was innocent, but shop-girls living in low tenements
with a drunken father were not fit companions for their nephew
and possible heir. Her husband indorsed her views with the whole
force of his strong, unsympathetic, and ambitious nature, and was
now awaiting Roger with the purpose of "putting an end to such
nonsense at once." The young man therefore was surprised to find,
as he entered the hallway, that his uncle was up at an hour late
for him.
"I wish to see you," was the prompt, brief greeting from Mr. Atwood,
who was uneasily tramping up and down the small stiff parlor, which
was so rarely used that it might almost have been dispensed with
as a part of the residence. Roger came forward with some anxiety,
for his uncle lowered at him like a thunder-cloud.
"Sit there, where I can see your face," was the next curt direction.
There was neither guilt nor fear in the frank countenance that was
turned full upon him. "I'm a man of few words," he resumed more
kindly, for Roger's expression disarmed him somewhat. "Surely," he
thought, "when the boy gets a hint of what I can do for him, he'll
not be the fool to tangle himself up with people like the Jocelyns."
"Where have you been to-night?" he asked bluntly. Roger told him.
"Where were you last night and this morning?" Roger briefly narrated
the whole story, concluding, "It's the first time I've been late
to business, sir."
The old man listened grimly, without interruption, and then said,
"Of course I'm glad you got the girl off, but it's bad management
to get mixed up in such scrapes. Perhaps a little insight into
court-room scenes will do you no harm since you are to be a lawyer.
Now that the affair is over, however, I wish you to drop these
Jocelyns. They are of no advantage to you, and they belong to a
class that is exceedingly disagreeable to me. I suppose you know
what kind of a man Mr. Jocelyn is?"
"Yes, sir; but you do not know what kind of a woman Mrs. Jocelyn
is. She is--"
"She is Jocelyn's wife, isn't she?"
"Certainly; but--"
"And the girl is his daughter. They live in a dowdy tenement, and
are as poor as crows."
"Misfortune and the wrong of others might make all this true of
us," began the youth impetuously; "and yet if old friends should
turn their backs--"
"You are not an old friend," his uncle again interrupted, in his
hard, business-like tones. "They are merely accidental acquaintances,
who happened to board at your father's house last summer. They
haven't the ghost of a claim upon you. It looks far more as if
you were in love with the girl, and were making a romantic fool of
yourself."
Roger's face grew very white, but he controlled himself, and asked,
"Uncle, have I ever treated you with disrespect?"
"Certainly not; why should you?"
"With some right I may also ask why you treat me with such disrespect?"
The old man opened his eyes, and was somewhat taken aback by this
unexpected question, and yet a moment's reflection showed him that
he had given cause for it. He also misunderstood his nephew, and
resumed, with a short conciliatory laugh, "I guess I'm the fool, to
be imagining all this nonsense. Of course you are too much of an
Atwood to entangle yourself with such people and spoil your prospects
for life. Look here, Roger. I'll be frank with you, and then we'll
understand each other. You know I've neither chick nor child, and
I've turned a good big penny in business. When you first came I
thought you were a rattle-pated country boy that wanted a lark in
the city, and I took you more to keep you out of mischief than for
any other cause. Well, I've watched you closely, and I was mistaken.
You've got the stuff in you to make a man, and I see no reason why
you should not be at the top of the heap before you reach my years,
and I mean to give you a chance. You've got a little soft place in
your head and heart, or you wouldn't be getting yourself mixed up
in other people's troubles. I tell you what it is, my boy, a man
who gets ahead in these times must strike right out for himself,
and steer clear of all fouling with 'ne'er-do-weels,' as if they
had a pestilence. Hook on to the lucky ones, the strong ones, and
they'll help you along. Now if you'll take this course and follow
my advice right along, I'll give you a chance with the first. You
shall go to the best college in the land, next to the law-school,
and then have money enough to enable you to strike high. By the
time you are thirty you can marry an heiress. But no more Jocelyns
and shop-girls who have been at stationhouses, if you please. The
girl may have been innocent of that offence; but, plain man as I am,
I don't like this style of people at all, and I know human nature
well enough to be sure that they'll try to tie themselves on to you
if they can. I've thought it all out in my slow way, and, since
you've got it in you, I'm going to give you a chance to put the
Atwood name where I can't, with all my money."
Roger was deeply moved, for he had no idea that his uncle was
cherishing such far-reaching plans in his behalf. While he had
little sympathy with the cold, selfish side of the programme, his
strong ambition responded powerfully to the prospect held out to
him. He knew that the hopes inspired were not vain, for his uncle
was a man whose deeds always outstripped his words, and that his
fortunes were practically assured if he would follow the worldly-wise
policy to which he had listened. His ambition whispered, "Mildred
Jocelyn does not love you, and never will. Even now, after you have
done so much for her, and her gratitude is boundless, her heart
shrinks from you. She may not be able to help it, but it is true
nevertheless. Why should you throw away such prospects for the sake
of one who loves another man, and who, until in a time of desperate
need, treated you with undisguised coldness and dislike? Besides,
by yielding to your uncle's will you can eventually do more for
the family than if thrown on your own resources." It was indeed
the great temptation of his life, and he wavered.
"Uncle," he said irresolutely, "you have indeed opened a very
alluring prospect, and I am grateful that you think So well of me,
and that you are willing to do so much. Since you have been so
frank with me, I will be equally so with you," and he told him all
about his relations with the Jocelyns, and tried to make the shrewd
old merchant understand that they were not common people.
"They are the most dangerous people of all," he interrupted
impatiently. "Having once been up in the world, they think they
are still as good as anybody, and are wild to regain their old
position. If they had always been poor and commonplace, they would
not be so likely to presume. What you say about the girl's not caring
for you is sheer nonsense. She'd marry you to-morrow if she could.
The one idea of such people is to get out of the slough into which
they have fallen, and they'll marry out of it the first chance they
get, and like enough they'll do worse if they can't marry. I tell
you they are the most dangerous kind of people, and Southern at
that. I've learned all about them; the father has gone to the devil
for good and all, and, with your feeling and weakness toward them,
you'll never be safe a moment unless you drop them completely and
finally. Come, young man, let this affair be the test between us.
I've worked hard for nearly a lifetime, and have a right to impose
some conditions with what has been earned by forty years of toil,
early and late. I never speculated once. Every dollar I had to
spare I put in paying real estate and governments, and, Roger, I'm
worth to-day a good half a million. Ha, ha, ha! people who look
at the plain old man in the plain little house don't know that he
could afford a mansion on the Avenue better than most of them. This
is between ourselves, but I want you to act with your eyes open.
If you are such a soft-headed fool as to let that girl, who you
admit does not like you or care a rap for you personally, stand
between you and such prospects, then I'm mistaken in you, and the
sooner I find it out the better. Come, now, I'll be good-natured
and liberal in the matter, for young men will be a little addle-pated
and romantic before they cut their wisdom teeth. Through that
English woman who works for your aunt occasionally you can see to
it that these people don't suffer, but beyond that you must drop
them once for all. What is more, your father and mother take the
same view that I do, and your filial duty to them requires what I
ask. While we naturally refuse to be mixed up with such people, we
are seeking chiefly to promote your welfare; for the worst thing
that can happen to a young man starting in life is to have a helpless
lot of people hanging on him. So, come, give me your promise--the
promise of an Atwood--and it will be all right."
Eoger was not a self-sacrificing saint by any means. Moreover,
he had inherited the Atwood characteristics sufficiently to feel
all the worldly force of his uncle's reasoning, and to be tempted
tremendously by his offers. They promised to realize his wildest
dreams, and to make the path to fame and wealth a broad, easy track
instead of a long, steep, thorny path, as he had expected. He was
virtually on the mountain-top, and had been shown "all the kingdoms
of the world and the glory of them."
But against this brilliant background he saw the thin, pale face
of Mrs. Jocelyn, as she looked up to him with loving trust and
gratitude, and the motherly kiss that she had imprinted on his cheek
was a seal to her absolute faith. He felt the pressure of Belle's
arm about his neck, and remembered his promise to give her a brother's
regard and protection, and justly he feared that if deserted now
the impulsive, tempted girl would soon meet shipwreck. She would
lose faith in God and man. But that which touched him most nearly
were his words to Mildred--words spoken even when she showed him
most plainly that her heart was not his, and probably never could
be--"I am your friend; never doubt it." How false he would seem
to them; how false and selfish to his friend, the great-hearted
clergyman, who was like Christ himself in his devoted labors; how
false and base he would ever feel himself to be in his own soul!
For a time there was a terrible conflict in his breast as he paced
the floor in long strides, with hands clenched and brow heavily
contracted. His uncle watched him curiously and with displeased
surprise, for that he could hesitate at all seemed to the worldly
man an evidence of fatal weakness.
Roger fought it out like a genuine Atwood, and was nearer akin
to his uncle than the old merchant would ever suspect. His heart
craved the kingdoms of the world unspeakably, but he now realized
that he must barter for them his honor, his manhood, and love.
Thus far he had a right to love Mildred, and it was not her fault
she could not return it. But, poor and shamed as she was, he knew
that she would despise him if he yielded now, even though he rose
to be the foremost man of the nation. Not with any chivalric,
uncalculating impulse did he reach his conclusion, but by the slow,
deliberate reasoning of a cool-headed, sturdy race that would hold
to a course with life-long tenacity, having once chosen it.
Turning to his uncle, he asked quietly. "What did you mean by 'the
promise of an Atwood'?"
"You ought to know. Our family, for generations, have lived up
among the granite hills of Forestville, and, although poor, our
promises, whether spoken or written, are like them."
"I'm glad to hear you say that--I'm glad to be reminded of it," his
nephew replied. "Well, my promise has already been given. I have
promised that poor broken-hearted woman, Mrs. Jocelyn, that I'd
try to help her through her terrible misfortunes. I've promised her
daughter Belle that I'd give her a brother's care and affection.
I've promised the girl I love that I would at least be her friend,
since I cannot be more. I'll prove myself a true Atwood, worthy to
sustain the family name and honor by keeping my promises, and if
I break them, you yourself, deep in your heart, would despise me."
For a moment the old merchant was nonplussed, so adroitly and
unexpectedly had Roger turned his words against him. Then, like most
men suddenly put in a false position, he grew angry, and blurted
out, "Nonsense! It doesn't apply at all. These artful women have
come it over you--have entrapped you." The young man here made a
strong gesture of protest. "Oh, don't try to deceive me," his uncle
proceeded, more loudly and passionately; "I know the world. If I'd
blindly made promises to adventurers who would compass my ruin,
ought I to keep them? If I find I've indorsed a forged check, ought
I not to stop its payment? In the name of your parents and as your
uncle, I protest against this folly, for I see well enough where
it will end. Moreover, I tell you plainly that you must choose
between me and my offers, and that old sot of a Jocelyn and his
scheming wife and daughters. If you can be carried away by such
absurdity, you are weaker than water, and the sooner you learn
by bitter experience the better, for you certainly belong to that
class which only hard experience can teach. But I'd like to see
those brazen-faced creatures and give them a piece of--"
"Stop!" thundered Roger; "beware how you say another word against
those whom sorrow should render sacred. You know less about them
than about heaven. Do you forget that I am of age? You made me an
offer, and I thanked you for it honestly and gratefully. What's
more, I was base enough to be tempted by it. Oh, yes"--with a bitter
laugh--"I was an Atwood enough for that. If you had not coupled
it with the condition that I should, like a coward, desert helpless
and unfortunate women to whom my word is given, I would have fulfilled
your best hopes and ambitions, and have made your age glad with
my grateful love and service. In your cold-hearted worldliness you
have overreached yourself, and you wrong yourself more than me,
even though I perish in the streets. But I won't starve. Mark my
words: I'll place the Atwood name where you can't, with all your
money, and I shall not make broken faith with those who trust me,
the foundation of my fortunes."
"Very well, then," said his uncle, who had quieted down into an
anger of white heat; "since you prefer those disreputable strangers
to your family, go to them. I wash my hands of you, and shall write
to your father to this effect to-night. I'm a prompt man and don't
dilly-dally."
"Mrs. Jocelyn and her daughters are no more disreputable than you
are, sir, and calling me 'soft-headed fool' doesn't make me one.
I know the duty I owe my parents, and shall perform it. I shall
write to them also. They shall hear both sides, and were your fortune
multiplied a thousand times, I won't sell my manhood for it. Am I
to have shelter another night, or do you wash your hands of me here
and now?"
"Oh, stay by all means, or you may find yourself in the same cell
in which your paragon spent last night," replied his uncle, whose
rage now passed all bounds.
"Those words are brutal," said Roger sternly, "and if you are not
ashamed of them after thinking them over, you are not the man I took
you to be," and he stalked out of the room and out of the house,
slamming the door after him.
The old merchant sank into a chair, trembling with both anger and
chagrin, for he felt that he had been worsted in the encounter. He
did regret the words as soon as spoken, and a certain rude sense
of justice made him feel, even in his excitement, that his nephew,
although an egregious fool of course, had been true to his sense
of right and honor. He was assuredly the victim of a designing lot
of women, but believing them to be true, his course had been manly,
and the thought would come, "Since he was so faithful to them,
he would have been equally so to me, and he might have found the
hussies out in time to prevent trouble." And now he had said words
which in effect turned his brother's son out of doors at midnight
With something like a groan and an oath he resolved not to write
that night, and to see how he felt in the morning. His nephew on
provocation had proved as great a Tartar as he knew himself to be,
and he now remembered that the former had some excuse in his hot
young blood, and that he had a right to choose against his offer,
if fool enough to do it, without being reviled and insulted.
After a wretched night he found on the breakfast-table a brief,
cold note from Roger, saying that he would inform him in a day or
two where to send his effects and such part of his salary as remained
unpaid. The old man frowned, and the Atwood pride and obstinacy took
possession of him like evil spirits. In grim reticence he resumed
his old routine and life, and again gave himself up to the mechanical
accumulation and saving of money.