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

A WOMANS INFLUENCE

BY LULU JAMISON

CHAPTER V. HOME AGAIN. It was late in the afternoon of a day toward the close of May that Brian approached Elmwood. A telegram, sent from New York the day before, had announced his coming, and, on alighting from the train, he found the carriage awaiting him, and the old coachman he remembered so well beaming a smiling weloome. Five years had wrought very perceptible changes in the aspect of the country. The small town lying within the •heifer of the valley, true to it* old progressive spirit, revealed a wonderful ■development'. New and imposing residences were to be seen on all sides. Busy activity was everywhere visible, and Brian began to imagine himself a modern Bip Van Winkle, returning to his home after a long absence. His home ? Alas! this was his home no longer. For the first time perhaps the full force of this idea struck him. From the carriage window he caught distant glimpses of Elmwood, the stately old house crowning the brow of the hill like a sentinel guarding the village below, its terraced gardens sloping to the narrow river winding like a silver thread between its green banks, and the splendid old forest trees clothed in the tender foliage of May. Be sighed as he turned from the picture. Be had never been particularly fond of Elmwood in the old days, the country under no circumstance offering inducements that he found alluring, but now all was changed. The home he had looked upon as his had passed into the hands of another, and the knowledge raised new longings and new desires in his heart. Be tried to picture the cousin who had taken his inheritance from him, but his imagination could grasp nothing definite. Be wondered if she were tall or short, dark or light, oold or affable, and then he fell to framing a face in his mind; and as the intangible shadow assumed a clearer shape it unconsciously took on the form and features of the Margaret he had left in the fishing town on Nantucket.

"Bother it!” he cried, gnawing his mustache with a lie roe ness that argued inward disturbance. “The want of money is the greatest here under the sun. Margaret was such a dear girl. ” This thought came as a natural sequence to the other, and he smiled at the possibilities it suggested. Boor Brian had his faults; among them an overweening love for his own comfort, and an intensedislike for whatever oould cause him the least inconvenience. Bis love for money was relative, not abstract. Money oould buy pleasure and luxury, therefore he desired its possession. Be had no ambition for the fame to be won by his own endeavor. No desire to take his place in the working world and win his way in the struggle for prominence. Privation and hardship, those prolific mothers of greatness, were wanting in his life, and the activity and industry which Margaret admired were to him a laborious effort that no after greatness could compensate. Bis education was in part responsible for these ideas. Selfish and Indolent by nature, he had early been deprived of his mother, and in her person, of the careful training and judicious dicipline which might have weakened, if not wholly eradicated, these traits. Bis father was illy fitted for the guardianship of a quick, impulsive boy, and the injudicious indulgence of an old nurse strengthened the already strong characteristics. When, as frequently happened, Brian grew unmanageable, his father was appealed to, and his severity on such occasions had far from' the desired effeet

Such a course of training had a practical effect on Brian’s after life. When he left college, he studied medicine, in accordance with his father’s wishes, and during the progress of his studies, proceeded to sow his wild oats with such unusual vim that frequent quarrels between himself and father became the rule. These terminated in one more bitter than all the rest, which resulted in Brian’s departing for Europe, and his father threatening to discontinue his allowance. A very direful threat, that ended, as Brian expected, in nothing more than words. Brian had been traveling several months when Margaret’s father died and she took up her residence at Elmwood. Once there, she soon won her way to her uncle’s heart, and thaold gentleman formed the project of a marriage between her and his son. He died without realizing his hope, and for reasons which he did not disclose, he left all his property to Margaret, and cut Brian off with an income of $2,000. How, after five years absence, the disinherited son was experiencing the novel sensation of entering his old home a visitor. The friendly, familiar air of everything about him, made his sense of loss more keen; and when ojd St had known him as boy, met him at the door with eyes suspiciously moist, and a face full of emotion, he found himself so overcome ’ that he could do nothing more than grasp the toil-worn hand of the faithful old servant, and shake it with impulsive affection. “Poor Stephens,” he said to himself, when left alone to his reflections. “I firmly believe the faithful fellow had tears in his eyes. Never thought I’d be so low in the scales that the feeling of an old servant would touch me so. I wonder if my beloved cousin realizes what she has taken from me. More than mere money. Yes, a thousand times more. She has taken my happiness. And Margaret—with all this I could have married her. She liked me, I feel sure. Her every action told me as much. Dear girl! haw happy I should be to make her mistress here. Well, there is certainly no use sighing over the inevitable. ” This was a philosophical conclusion; but Brian found it difficult to shake off the incubus of despondency and rum his attention to some needful changes In his attire, preparatory to going down to dinner. He was not a particularly vain man; yet, wishing to appear to the best advantage in his cousin's eyes, he took special pains with his toilet. He wondered if Margaret had visitors, Stephens had spoken of the ladles. “Probably some old friend or chaperon," he concluded, with a last satisfactory glance at his reflection in the mirror. He found no one in the parlors, and, the library being likewise deserted, he wandered along the hall to a half open door, through which he caught a glimpse of a black dress.

He approached it with some trepidation. He suspected possible changes in the arrangement of the house since Margaret's advent, and he was rather fearful of intruding upon some private apartment. His hesitating steps had, however, been heard. There was a movement in the room “a cry of “Dear Brian!” and he found himself holding Miss Hilton’s hand, and gazing, with mingled pleasure and surprise, in the gentle, kindly face. “Come right in,” she said brightly. “This is our sitting-room, but you are not debarred entrance. It is such a pleasure to see you again, you poor boy. ” “It is almost like a home coming,” he rejoined in a low voioe, following her into the cozily furnished room. “I soarcely expected my weloome from your hands. Who am I to thank for that pleasure?* “Margaret. Poor child, she is all alone, and needs some older friend and adviser." “Naturally. I suppose she is well?” “Yes, quite well. Her health is usually good. Still I think she has never recovered from our late bereavement. It was a sad event for you, also, Brian.” The old lady spoke feelingly, and her words brought an expression of pain to Brian’s face. “Poor father,” he said, after a second. “I hope he did not think me quite ungrateful or unfeeling. It will be one of my lasting regrets that I oould not be with him before the end. I was traveling at the time, you see, and your message announcing his illness reached me with that announcing his death.” “His illness was very sudden,” put in Miss Hilton. “None of us realized it until a few hours before the last. He spoke of you most affectionately," she continued, bending more closely over her knitting. “I am sure he felt that only circumstances kept you from him." “And yet ” began Brian, as the old lady paused. f l know what you would say,” she resumed. “I do not think the terms of hife argued any want of affection for you. I cannot enter into his reasons, yet I believe he thought he was acting for the best. Margaret has never reconciled herself to the condition of things.” “I suppose it is only a balancing of the scales,” he said, rather gloomily. “I do not question my cousin’s right to a portion of the money, hut ” He paused, either unwilling or unable to complete his sentence. “I think it will turn out for the best,” remarked Miss Hilton, with cheery certainty. “Money is nice to have, I acknowledge, but most of our great men began their lives without it; and, by the way, in my pleasure at seeing you I h tffe quite forgotten Margaret’s message- She is feeling unusually tired today* and hopes you will excuse her until dinner time."

“Certainly,” he responded, readily, appreciating the feeling which had prompted his cousin’s remaining in the background until she should partly realize his changed condition. “But until dinner time I will allow my curiosity full play. From all accounts she is a paragon. An unpleasant fact to me, as I shall appear to disadvantage by contrast. I fear she has started out with a bad opinion of me. ” “Then give her reason to change. She has ideas and convictions of her own, but she is just and recognizes merit where it exists.” Brian appeared dubious. * “Ideas and convictions,” he repeated. “1 guessed as much from her letters to me. I think there is something iu the name which gives determination of character. I daresay she has made a great many friends here.” “Yes, she has a winning personality, which never fails her. Colonel Barton —you remember him of course—is especially fond of her. A*nd the poor people would go through fire and water to serve her. ” “A Saint Elizabeth,” put in Brian, meditatively. “There are drawbacks to such a character. Is she very prim and particular?" Miss* Hilton laughed merrily as a vision of Margaiet rose before her. “Wait until you see her, and then tell me your opinion. I suppose you are quite tired out with traveling, and intend to settle down to a more quiet existence?” “You think I’ve played the Wandering yew long enough?” he questioned. “Well, Miss Hilton, bohemian life has its drawbacks, certainly, but it is blessed with advantages also. It develops the mind, broadens one’s views, and brings new ideas into being. We realize that home is a very small corner of the world, after all. It is a practical education.”

“Ah, Brian, you are at your old tricks again. You can always find arguments in favor of what you like. ” Brian laughed. “I think we can all do that, Miss Hilton. Now tell me the news. The Lady Teazles are not all dead, I suppose?” . * “Unfortunately, no; thejj appear to thrive on this air. I really don’t know of much particular news, though. People get married, babies are born, and people die. That is about all they seem to do around here. Of course you have not forgotten Col. Barton. His temper is as peppery as ever, I think. His niece is living with him. She is rather a pretty girl, though poor, I imagine. “Bertie is studying law with an old friend in New York. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear of an engagement between Alice and him one of these fine days, though that is merely supposition op my part. Mary LojHs; Ah, here is Margaret.” Brian looked up quickly at these words. A slim, girlish figure stood in the doorway, and as his glance fell upon it his eager expectancy gave way to consternation. He found his eyes meeting those of Margaret Smith. Incapable of speech, he could only stare upon the seeming apparition, while Miss Hilton gazed helplessly fro n his disturbed face to Margaret’s cold, impenetrable one. Only Margaret was equal to the occasion. Sho had prepared herself for this meeting, and advancing toward Brian with easy self-possession, though with an air and expression that told of remembrance, she took his hand, saying in rather conventional tones: “You are welcome to Elmwood, Cousin Brian, “hough I hope you need no words of mine to assure you of that. I must beg your pardon for my late appearance. Miss Hilton gave you my excuse, and I am sure her presence more than compensated for my absence. ” Brian tried to make some intelligible answer, but he was not very successful. Margaret was amply revenged. He wondered if revenge had been her object in bringing him here. Just now be was willing to believe anything. , Margaret saw his inquiring glance, 'and probtA)ly guessed his thought She bowed her head, while a deep flush passed over her face. Then, turning abruptly with the announcement that dinner was served, she led the way to the dining room. The many excellent dishes failed to tempt Brian’s appetite. While he found himself unable to penetrate Margaret's

object in concealing her identity from him, he had an unpleasant remembranoe of their last meeting, the despicable part he had played, and the contempt she had manifested toward him. Miss Hilton watched him narrowly. She was much mystified, but with an intuitive sense that something was wrong, she made laudable efforts to relieve the strained condition of things by introducing various subjects of conversation. Margaret seconded her ably, but Brian answered in monosyllables. It was a relief to him, if not to all parties, when dinner came to an end, and they at last repaired to the parlors, where, as soon as politeness permitted, Brian excused himself on the plea of fatigue and sought the weloome solitude of his room. “Come, Miss Hilton,” cried Margaret when they were alone, “let us go to our sitting-room. It is ever so much more cozy than these bare parlors; Don’t you think so?” She did not wait for an answer, but hurried off to the room in question, where Miss Hilton, following more slowly, found her ensconced in the depths of a large rocking chair, bending closely over a book whioh she was holding upside down. “Tell me all about it,” said the old lady, gently taking the book from her hands and placing it on the table. “You know we agreed to have no secrets from each other. You and Brian have met before to-night. ” “Yes," answered Margaret, slowly buying her face in her hands, “and, oh, Miss Hilton, I did not think the day would ever come when I should feel so thoroughly humbled. I had rather beg in the streets than feel my sense of obligation to him. He thinks me oapable of stooping to seek revenge. He thinks I am enjoying the money he has lost, but, ah, if he knew what bitter humiliation its possession is to me, he oould wish no sweeter revenge. ” “Revenge, Margaret? You talk wildly, my dear child. I’m afraid that trip to S’conset did you more harm than good. I can very safely say that such an idea has not entered Brian’s mind.’’ “Perhaps not,” replied Margaret, miserably. “I do not think he is revengeful, but I will tell you the whole story, Miss Hilton. How -we met, and what passed between us, and then you can understand how circumstances have made my old regret more bitter. ” Then, with her head gri Miss Hilton’s shoulder, and her hand clasped in that of the dear friend who had never failed her in any difficulty, Margaret told of the meeting on the beach at S’conset, of the long and pleasant hours of a close companionship, and of the interview which marked an epooh in two lives. Miss Hilton listened quietly, and if she guessed what was left untold, she gave no hint. She talked to Margaret in her easy, gentle way. She said all that was possible in Brian’s favor, but apparently her words were ineffectual in changing Margaret’s ideas, and she confessed to herself with a sigh that the unfortunate meeting had been a contretemps indeed, and a severe if not a fatal blow to her crushed hopes. jTO BE CONTINUED. |