Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 August 1892 — A WOMAN'S INFLUENCE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMAN'S INFLUENCE

BY LULU JAMISON

The weeks passed, and Brian was still i fixture in the quiet little fishing town. The claims of his aunt in Nantucket were entirely forgotten, a letter written soon after his coming to S’conset having satisfied his sense of obligation. Evidently S’conset had developed new charms for him since the day he had found its dullness so oppressive that Bleep seemed the only reasonable or possible occupation. And Margaret, having awakened him to a new view of the place, was practically realizing that constant hanging on she had onoe reprobated so strongly. She did not encourage him, neither did she repulse him. She did not seek his oompany, nor did she show by the slightest action that it was distasteful to her.

Her attitude was one of uncertain expectancy. She spent many hours with him on the beach. She walked with him in the delightful spring weather, gathering health and spirits from the glad sun and invigorating air. She had taken him through many of the cottages, °and her enthusiasm had awakened his dormant interest. She hgd shown him the way to the lighthouse, and together they had climbed the great winding stairway, gazed impressively upon the wonderful lamp, and looked down from the great height upon the undulating moors, lying like a checkered map before them; upon the hills fading in the mist of distance, and the glorious breath of restless waters surging over the rips and dashing themselves in fury at the feet of the bluff. She had .pointed out the silvery waters of Sesaohaca, set like a jewel in the moorland’s breast, and only separated from the ooean by a narrow belt of sand hills. And afterward they had olimbed to the top of Tom Nevers, a verdant bluff standing boldly out against the western sky, and sloping to the waters roaring at its feet. On this bold promontory they had watched the sun quench his fires in Hie sea and trail his trembling lights across the hills. And through the lingering beauty of the after-glow they had gone home along thU lonely and deserted shore.

The hours of such companionship could not be forgotten.

Too late Brian realized this. In all the time they had been together he had tried in vain to fathom Margaret’s feelings for him, but his boasted skill as a physiognomist had failed in her case. Her strength of character, courageous spirit, and ever ready sympathy made her a charming and refreshing contrast to the conventional women he had hitherto met, but they did not constitute the sole reason for hl6 pleasure in her company. “I never felt so bad about leaving a place before,” he said to her one day. “I believe I could stay heteb a year under present circumstances." “1 could stay here forever," was her earnest and Impulsive reply. But at last the day came when she felt she must leave. She had written to tell Miss Hilton of her intention, and with the feeling that she must make the most of her l»st hours, she had gone down to the beach, where the fishermen were Just bringing in the day’s harvest. She was standing by the dories, watohing the huge fish with a sort of fascinated gaze, when Brian joined her in his usual unceremonious fashion.

“It seems to be an age since I saw you last,” he declared, utterly Ignoring the fact that he had been with her the day before. “Shall we walk down the beaoh? The air is glorious. ” She nodded in the affirmative, and they moved away together. “Why don’t you say something?" he asked, after the silence had lasted some minutes. “I don’t feel in a talking humor,” she answered, conscious of a disagreeable desire to quarrel with some person or thing. “I think you might try. I have the blues frightfully. I wish you’d cheer me." “Try one of your own prescriptions,” she suggesled. “The blues are a physical condition, they tell us. You’ll have an opportunity to vindicate the diploma you’ve lugged around so long. Just see those boats coming in on the breakers. Aren’t they graceful? I wish I were a fisherman.” “What an idea. How could you manage to live here?” “How? Why, as they do, of course, with the sight of the sea ever before me; the music of the breakers always in my ears; in close and constant communion with the very sublimity of nature. How can their lives be either hopeless or uninteresting? Though, to a person of your energetic temperament, I dare say, they would be tiresome.”

“I have a notion you intend that for sarcasm,” he returned, good-naturedly. “How am I to take you?” “No way, please; lam not to be taken just now.” - “There, you snap me up. You have been an enigma all through. Sometimes you are all sweetness, and at others you fly at me and lecture me most unmercifully. Still I like to be with you.” “Much obliged, I’m sure; but I didn’t come here to amuse you.” “Evidently in a bad humor,” thought Brian, noting the sharp tone. “I believe you’ve mi6sed your vocation,” he said aloud. You were intended for one of the Yankee sohool ma’ams we read about. How you would have lectured the unfortunate little chaps. And your husband, poor man ” " “Pray spare your pity. Such indefinite objects don’t need it There are I>eo many real living ones upon whom it might be expended with advantage. You rebiind me of those very generous people who run around collecting subscriptions for the heathen while hundreds of poor Christians are starving around them. I don't like such discriminating chanty." "Well, I haven’t been collecting any subscriptions, and I’m a mighty poor Christian in the bargain, so you needn’t blind me with that sand you are digging up so ferociously. ” Margaret colored and desisted from her occupation. "I beg you pardon,” she said. “I did not intend to send it in your direction. It is a vent for my overcharged feelings. I suppose that is a childish acknowledgment, but I shall not recall it I read of a piece of injustice this morning, and it has filled me with indignation. I believe I'm in a constant state of rebellion

against the accepted order of things. Why do you laugh?” “Not at you, certainly. Seriously, I am half afraid of you—your bad opinion, I mean. What influence you could exert over some men. Do you like me, Margaret?” “The degree of my liking depends upon yourself.” Brian was evidently not well satisfied with this frank admission. “You couldn't like me well enough to be my wife?” he persisted, drawing more closely to her and endeavoring to take her hand, an action she resolutely opposed. “Do you mean what you say?" she said, in a slightly repressed voice, conscious of something wanting in his manner. He hesitated at her words. "Do I mean that I love you? Yes, Margaret, I do, from the first moment I saw you. If I could only make you understand my position, my longing to win your love and make you my wife. But ” His pause was eloquent. “But what?" styte repeated, in p quick, changed voice. “Why, howtyou look at me, Margaret!” At this complaint she turned her face aside and allowed her eye to follow the motion of a bird. “You see,” he went on, more at ease in the absence of those searching gray eyes, “marriage between us is quite out of the question. If you were ” “If I were rioh, I suppose, you mean,” she interrupted, in a somewhat hard voice; “but, admitting I’m poor, what then?”

“You must see how it is; we couldn’t live on two thousand a year.'" “And your profession,” she supplemented. “It seems to me you might be much worse off. Any one with an economical turn ” “I hate people with an economical turn, and I don’t intend to work myself to death, trying to cure a lot of ungrateful people. My first year’s allowance won’t ifiuch more than pay my debts. I must 4mve money. A gentleman is obliged to live in a certain style. ’’ “Oh, I dare say, even if he sacrifices everything else in the effort. You love me, but you love money better. Have I stated the case correctly?” He glanced at her cold, impenetrable face. “How hard you are, Margaret,” he said, reproachfully. "You don’t understand the difficulty. Love in a cottage is well enough in theory, but no fun In practice. I could not be happy under such clrcumstanoes. I love you dearly, and if I only had a little money, I should like nothing better than to marry you.” “Thanks,” was the quiet rejoinder. “Your assurance is quite consoling, but I don’t believe 1 quite appreciate the honor you would confer upon me. Of course the idea of my possible objection has not entered your mind. Under the clrcumstanoes I may regard your loss as my gain." How truly his loss was her gain she did not pause to reflect. "You are excellent at sarcasm,” he rejoined with reproach. “I was only speaking of my wishes. If you had told me two weeks ago, how thoroughly you despised me I might have been a wiser man to-day." Margaret understood his meaning. She felt that he had no right to speak to her in this way, yet his words pained her. In imagination she went back to the first hour of their meeting. 81)0 remembered how glad she had felt thai they would be thrown together for a short time in this quiet place. She remembered what faith she had placed in the existence of those good qualities Miss Hilton had mentioned, and what hopeful longings and eager expectations had filled the hours of her companionship with him, and now her disappointment was both keen and bitter. It lent a new sharpness to her answer.

“You dare not blame me for any action of yours, ” she said, endeavoring to speak quietly. “I have endured your company. Could I do otherwise? You have tried to win my affection by all the arts in your power. I suppose you found the pastime amusing, and probably you imagined that you had so far succeeded, that if it suited your pleasure to honor sae a proposal of marriage, I would accept it with thanks. I hope you have discovered your mistake. I would not marry you to save myself from starvation. You have insulted me quite enough.” “Not insulted. Margaret,” he said, reproachfully, looking into her passionate face. “Believe me, I have intended no insult. I respect and admire you too much, and I love you far more than I can ever love my cousin. Yet, I have no alternative. I must marry her or starve.”

Margaret’s lips moved. She was about to make an angry rejoinder, but with an effort she controlled the impulse. “You will starve royally,” she said, somewhat bitterly. “I consider marrying for money contemptible. You have different views. W e have learned something new of each other. Money stands above love in your estimation. You cannot forego the luxuries of life for the sake of one you pretend to love with such devotedness. Now, ir I loved a man,” she continued, with a slight tremor in her quiet voice, “I would sacrifice my fondest desires for his salte. In poverty or wealth, he would bo equally dear. I would count no economy mean, no labor lost, that could contribute to his comfort or happiness. Die* grace might come between us, but pov* erty never. You know that money can' not buy happiness. The desire for its acquisition is the meanest of all ambitions. If I should marry a man for his possessions merely, I would despise myself heartily and thoroughly. Oh, why have you disappointed me?”

The words escaped her almost unconsciously, and their mingled pain and i regret surprised even herself. But Brian did not hear them. He was too , deeply engrossed with his own thoughts, and too deeply hurt by Margaret’s plainly expressed opinion. . * He longed to vindicate himself in her eyes, though he felt that such a thing was impossible: No words of his would better his position. He mu3t leave | S’conset immediately. The necessity j for this step became very apparent. He ' turned with this decision to see Mar--1 garet preparing to leave the beach. He realized that in ail probability he would never see her again. A thousand longings surged through his heart. Impulsive words rushed to his lips, but with a determined will he repressed them.

"Try to forgive me, Margaret,” he begged. “Try to forget the pain I havo eaused you." “Don’t distress yourself,” was her cold, proud answer. “You are holding my hand, and I am tired or standing.” He looked at her with a longing he could not have put in words, and releasing her hand without even a goodby he stood watohtng ' her, until the winding streets of the village shut her from his sight. Then, with a feeling that something had gone out of his life, he threw himself upon the sand with a misery at heart no language could express j*o BX OOSTIXUBD. t

CHAPTER IV. LOVE VERSUS MONEY.