Part 44 (1/2)

”Hold on, Roger; it seems to me that your generosity is getting the better of you now. Circ.u.mstances have greatly changed since you made your promise.”

”I've not changed, and my promises don't change with circ.u.mstances.

It may be some time before you can raise the money, even if you can get it at all in these bard times, and it's something that ought to be done at once.”

”Give me your hand again, old fellow. The world would say we were a pair of fools, but we'll wait and see who's right. Come to me at nine to-morrow morning.”

Mr. Wentworth had several things on hand that he meant to do, but he dropped everything and started for the offices of some lawyers whom he knew, determined to find a foothold at once for his plucky protege. Roger went to call on Mrs. Jocelyn, feeling that he would like to get the matter relating to her husband settled, so that he might give all his thought and energy to the problem of making his way unaided. In response to his knock a light step crossed the floor, and the door was opened a little, revealing Mildred's face, then it was thrown open hospitably. ”Oh, Mr. Atwood,” she exclaimed, ”I am very glad to see you. Forgive me that I opened the door so suspiciously, but you have never lived in a tenement, and do not know what awful neighbors are often prowling around. Besides, I was alone, and that made me more timid. I am so troubled about something, and perhaps you can help me, for you seem to be able to help every one,” Mildred continued hastily, for she dreaded an embarra.s.sing silence between them unspeakably. ”I've been to see my employers in the hope they would forgive that poor girl who put the lace in my cloak, and they won't. They were polite and kind to me, and offered me better wages if I would come back, but were relentless toward the girl, saying they 'meant to break up that kind of thing once for all.' Don't you think something might be done?”

”If you failed there would be no use of my trying,” said Roger, smiling. ”I think it was wonderfully good of you to go on such an errand.”

”I've had some lessons in goodness lately,” she replied, with a little friendly nod. ”As I talked with those stern men, I realized more than ever what an escape I've had, and I've thanked you in my heart a thousand times.”

The young fellow looked as if he had been repaid a thousand times, and wondered that he could have been so tempted by his uncle's terms, for it now seemed impossible that he could ever do aught else than serve the sweet, sad girl who looked into his eyes with the trust and friendliness which he had sought for so long in vain.

His face became so expressive of his feelings that she hurried on to speak of another matter weighing on her mind.

”Mr. Atwood,” she said hesitatingly, ”I have another trouble. You looked so vindictively at that Mr. Bissel in the court-room that I have feared you might do something that you would afterward regret.

I know how one with your honorable spirit would feel toward such a wretch, but, believe me, he is beneath your notice. I should feel so badly if you got into any trouble on my account. Indeed it seems that I couldn't stand it at all,” and she said it with so much feeling that he was honestly delighted. His spirits were rising fast, for this frank, strong interest in his welfare, in contrast with her old constraint and coldness, was sweet to him beyond all words.

With a mischievous and rather wicked look in his dark eyes, he said, ”You must leave that fellow to me. I'm not a saint as you are.”

Mildred proved that she was not altogether a saint by inwardly relis.h.i.+ng his spirit, for she never could overcome some of the traits of her Southern blood; but she said, honestly and anxiously, ”I should feel very badly if you got into any trouble.”

”That thought will make me prudent,” he replied gratefully. ”You would never feel badly again about anything, if I had my way.”

”I believe you, Mr. Atwood, and I can't see why I did not understand you better before,” said Mildred, the words slipping out almost before she knew it.

”I don't think you understand me yet,” he answered, very gently.

She did not reply, but he saw her fingers trembling with nervous apprehension as she tried to go on with her sewing; he also saw that she was growing very pale. Indeed she had almost the sick, faint look of one who is about to submit to some painful operation.

”Don't be frightened, Miss Mildred,” he remarked, after watching her keenly for a moment or two. She looked up and saw him smiling broadly at her. In answer to her perplexed look he continued quietly, ”I can tell you what has been the matter between us, and what is the matter now--you are afraid of me.”

”Mr. Atwood--” faltered Mildred, and then words failed her, and her pale face crimsoned.

”Don't you think it would be best for us to understand each other, now that we are to be friends?” he asked.

”Yes,” gasped the young girl faintly, fearing every moment that he would lose his self-control and pour out a vehement declaration of his love. She was prepared to say, ”Roger Atwood, I am ready to make any sacrifice within my power that you can ask,” but at the same time felt that she could endure slow torture by fire better than pa.s.sionate words of love, which would simply bruise the heart that could make no response. If he would only ask quietly, ”Mildred, will you be my wife when the right time comes? I'll be content with such love as you can give,” she would have replied with the calmness of an unalterable purpose, ”Yes, Roger, and I'll do my best,” believing that years of effort might be crowned with success.

But now, to have him plead pa.s.sionately for what she could no more bestow than if she were dead, gave her an indescribable sense of fear, pain, and repugnance; and she cowered and shrank over the sewing which she could scarcely hold, so great was her nervous apprehension.

Instead of the vehement declaration there came a low, mellow laugh, and she lifted her eyes and stared at him, her work dropping from her hands.

Roger understood the situation so well, and was so thoroughly the master of it in his generous self-control and kindly intentions, that he should scarcely be blamed if he got out of it such bitter-sweet enjoyment as he could, and he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, ”Miss Millie, I wasn't going to strike you.”

”I don't understand you at all,” cried Mildred, with a pathetically perplexed expression and starting tears, for the nervous strain was becoming a little too prolonged.

Roger became grave at once, and with a quiet, gentle manner he came to her side and took her hand. ”Will you be as honest with me as I shall be with you?” he asked.

”I'll try to be.”