Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 September 1892 — AWOMANS INFLUENCE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AWOMANS INFLUENCE

BY LULU JAMISON

CHAPTER X —Continued. Once in her room, Margaret did not go ■to bed, but changing her dress to a light wrapper she ran to Miss Hilton’s •apartment. “Are you asleep?” she called, softly. Being answered in the negative, she opened the door and entered. “Dear Miss Hilton,” she cried, going to the side of the bed and plaoing her hand with caressing gentlennss on the hot, throbbing brow. “Are you better? You should have let me stay with you." “No, dear, I’m glad I didn’t. I really feel much better. Your bathing had a magical off' ct. I have been asleep ever so long, and I feel wakeful now. Did .you have a pleasant evening?” “Yes, so pleasant. The Colonel was really quite charming. I forget to feel unhappy oven a moment. ” “I hope you will always know such forgetfuiness, Margaret. You have so much to make you happy, so many who Jove you dearly. My brave little woman must not give way to this despondency. Sit here for a while, if you are not too "tired, and we will talk. Was Alice quite "well?”

“Yes, perfectly. And so happy, Miss Milton. ” The note of pain in the low-spoken words tilled Miss Hilton with vague sadness, but she answered very quietly: “Naturally she would be happy. I should be sorry to see her otherwise. Margaret, child, are you doing quite right?” There was a moment’s silenoe after this abrupt' question. Margaret buriod her faoe in her hands, while a hundred •doubts and questions rushed through her mind. Then, looking up with a new determination upon her face, she said with decision: “Yes, Miss Hilton. I have gone over that old catechism With myself so many, many times. The trouble lies with my views of life. I guess I started out with ideas of ideal love. I have found reality, and it is disappointing. I have .such a capacity for happiness, or paip, that I almost frighten myself. All these forces are acting withiq'me now. ” Miss Hilton eighed: ,f "I am sorry to hear you talk so,” she said. “I want to leave you happy and contented. ” “Leave me?” repeated Margaret, looking up in pained surpx-ise. “You cannot mean that.” “Yes, dearest, I do. I thought you might understand it. I’ve been thinking of it lying here, and I intended telling you to-morrow; but it’s just as well to-mght. ” Margaret allowed her hand to rest on Miss Hilton’s brow with a new gentleness in its touch.

“Only duty takes me from you,” continued the old lady, with much feeling. “In leaving you, I feel that I am parting from a daughter; but my sister is in great trouble over the recent death of her husband, and in her affliction my place is by her side. lam sure you understand this, Margaret. Dear child, my heart will always be with you, and you will not need me when you are married ” “I think I shall always need you, Miss Hilton,” returned Margaret, with an effort to speak bravely; “but, of course, I would not be the one to keep you while duty calls you. Ah, how I hate duty! It is so hard—so cruelly hard. ” With these passionate words, Margaret buried her face in the pillow, and Miss Hilton, drawing the brown head close beside her, stiokod it with an infinitely tender caress. “Has duty been so hard for you?” she asked, gently. “I have no right to complain,” was the self-repreachful answer; “no right at all. I am low-spirited and nervous to-night, and the thought of your leaving me makes me feel that I am really and truly giving up my old life, and it is so hard!”

“I am sorry you feol such regret, Margaret. I wish I might lay it solely to your low spirits, but I fear there Is a ‘deeper reason than that. I wish I oould make you see your new life in its true light, and teach you that, with all its aided duties and responsibilities, it .holds the sweet hopes and tender possibilities which complete and crown a woman’s life. You understand me, •dearest?" “Yes; I am so anxious to learn, Miss Hilton, while you are here to help me. I wish I did not grow so attached to old friends and old customs. I wish I could love half way, but I can’t. I love with all my soul, and I hate in proportion. I should like to change my nature, if that were possible. I want to do better; I want to help myself and help Brian, and I am so weak, Miss Hilton. ” She paused, with a half sigh. “Your desire will make you strong,” was the quiet reply. “I don’t think you have a weak will, Margaret. ” Margaret caught the suspicion of a smile on the old lady’s face. “No,” she answered, half-smiling in her turn, “but it is a very unreasonable will, Miss Hilton. Always wanting to ■do what it shouldn’t. I find it very troublesome. You see, I have depended on you so long, I have found so much comfort in your sympathy and advice, that I shall miss you more than I can realize. But lam paining you. I will not say any more. I would not have you think that I am placing my selfish desire before your manifest duty. I might be tempted to do so in my present state of mind, so I had better go to bed. Are you sure there is nothing I can do lor you? It will be a real pleasure. ” Miss Hilton drew the anxious face down to her, and kissed it with a lingering, tender affection. “Try to be happy,” she said, “that will please me above all things; and don’t expect too much of Brian at first. Remember his defective training and education. Kemember, also, that whatever his faults he loves you, and through that love you can exert your influence over him. Now, good night, dear child, I hope you will sleep well.” Notwithstanding this earnestly expresssed hope, Margaret lay awake for many hours, thinking of Miss Hilton’s words, and making many resolutions for the future. CHAPTER XU. WEDDING BELLS, From the beginning it had been agreed that Margaret and Alice should be married upon the same day, and the double wedding, both from the circumstances connected with it and the social prominence of the principals, created no little sensation in the society of S . The interest communicated itself to all classes, and the fortunate few who were present on the occasion were secretly envied by the less privileged outsiders.

The latter contented themselves with speculations and prophecies;and the wedding journey was accomplished and the two young matrons had settled down to their new duties, before they ceased to air their opinions. Margaret had laid aside her mourning, and for tho first time since her uncle’s death Elmwood was the scene of festivities. But otherwise her life was much the same as it had been for the last twelve months. Her attitude toward Brian was unchanged. She was kind and considerate, but no warmer feeling marked their intercourse. Any demonstration of affection on his part called forth anger on hers. She might scold herself in the secrecy of her own heart; she might atone for it by a hundred extra attentions, but the feeling was there, waiting but the occasion to show itself. And Brian saw it. As time went on he learned to repress his natural desire and approaoh Margaret with only friendly warmth. It was all wrong, Margaret was forced to admit, in her moments of self reproach. Yet who was to blame, Brian or she? Marriag ) had wrought a greater change in her life than even she had anticipated. With Miss Hilton’s departure went the helpful companionship and cheerful influence which meant so much to her. Even Brian seemed to miss their common friend. He certainly missed something; though what was not very clear to his own mind. He felt it in a growing dissatisfaction. The restlessness which constituted such a large portion of his make-up began to assert itself with unresisting force. He found his days monotonous, and the ennui, which he laid to the dullness of country life, Margaret ascribed to lack of definite purpose and settled employment. “It is nothing in the world but laziness,” she asserted for her own conviction. “He knows it, too; so I sha’n’t tell him. I’m tired of everlasting preaching, and I dare say he’ll soon grow to think I married him for nothing in the world but to play the shrew. I hate it. Nevertheless, he sha’n’t keep on this way. That I’m determined on.” In spite of this resolution, Brian did not display any fresh industry, unless it I was in going to the city, where he was fond of spending his time. At first he returned home every evening, like many of his neighbors who wore regular commuters, and went to business every day; but in time he failed to recognize even this duty, and his visits to New York lengthened themselves into days, and occasionally a whole week passed without Margaret seeing him. He always had an excuse—the theater, his club, the importunities of a friend.

Margaret received all in silenoe. “Whether I go or stay matters little to her,’’decided Brian. But he was mistaken. His indifference pained his young wife more than she would have admitted perhaps. She had really started out with the determined purpose to make up in earnest endeavor what she lacked in warmth of feeling, and her sense of failure was very keen. She could not bring herself to reproach him because she doubted her right to do so. But the right to feel was certainly hers. She was learning some bitter lessons during these early days of her married life; and not least among them was the contrast which Alice’s life offered to hers. She would return from her visits to The Cedars, from the atmosphere of perfect happiness which seemed to reign there, to feel her heart overcome by a rush of feeling and tilled with a vague and indefinable homesickness. Unusually heavy-hearted she came one evening from a day spent with Alice and the Colonel. It was growing late, and the Colonel had wanted to come with her as far as Elmwood, but this Margaret had opposed, declaring that she would not be either lonely or afraid. Yet, after she had started, she did feel lonely, and she began to wish for a companion in her long, cold walk. The winter twilight was beginning to fall, and through the indescribable melancholy of the darkening scene, the trees waved their bare branches like spectral arms. The wind soughed dismally among the dead leaves, and even the faint red in the sky had a chill effect against the low line of gray hills. It was all unutterably dreary, and Margaret gave a sigh of relief when she reached her cheerful sitting-room, with its glowing fire and comfortable, luxurious furnishing. She was somewhat surprised to see Brian standing before the mantel. He had been in New York for several days and she did not know of his return. “lam glad you have come at last,” he said, looking up at her entrance. "I got here about four o’clock to find you gone and the place as lonely as the deuce. Did you enjoy your ride?” “I didn’t ride,” returned Margaret, extending her hands over the rosy coals, “I’ve been walking.” “Walking! At this time! Not alone, Margaret?” “Why, certainly. Who would I have with me. The Colonel did insist on coming, but I wouldn't allow it, of course. I was not afraid. Only the least bit lonely, and —I believe I am tired.”

Brian did not notice the almost imperceptible break in her voice, but he did notice her pale face and wearied air. Without a word he drew a chair to the fire, and seated her In it. Then bending over her, he said with much anxiety: “I wish you wouldn’t try your strength so far, Margaret. The walk was too long for you.” “I don’t think so, Brian. I am not blaming the walk at all. I’m afraid I’m growing lazy, and if I was really sure of it I’d go out this minute and walk until I dropped. I hate laziness so. ” “I’d have some say in that, ” responded Brian, ignoring her closing words. “Walking for the purpose of dropping, would be a very sensible performance, wouldn’t it? I wish you wouldn’t waik without me after this. ’’ Margaret elevated her eyebrows rather expressively. “What an unselfish man,” she returned. “How many walks do you think I could take under those circumstances. For the last month, you’ve been home only at night, and not every night by any means. I have a prejudice in fat or of sleeping at night. I think I shall still continue to take my walks alone Your mind is above such simple delights. ” With these words, Margaret bent her head and watched the pink lines between her fingers. Brian walked to the otuer side of the room, and played a tattoo on the window. “It is so dull here,” he remarked, after a moment of this performance; “and as you don’t care whether I stay or not, I don’t see the use of spoiling my pleasure.” “Don’t spoil your pleasure for worlds. If taking some interest in your home is likely to do so, you need only forget you have a home.” “My home!” he repeated, with a bitterness raised by her half-concealed sarcasm. “When I consider my position here, do you think I can call this a home?*" A change passed over her race, and

for a moment she could not answer, though when she did it was in a tono whose lightness belied any deeper feeling. “I always gave you credit for a fair share of sense, Brian, but now I find you sadly wanting. If you think lam going to humor your bad temper you are mistaken. ” Brian was not mollified at these words. “It is no use in turning it off that way, Margaret,” he said. “Your actions tell me plainly that you married me because you felt under obligation to do so. You blame the one who marries for money, but I think marrying for pride is just as bad.” “How dare you!” broke in Margaret, when anger penmitted her to speax. “I wonder you have the effrontery to say such things to me, and I wonder how I can sit here and let you say them. Now, don’t excuse yourself. You are forever insulting me and then begging my pardon. I’m tired of it. Sometimes I wish you would stay in the city. That is—l don't wish anything of the kind. I’m a goose. Please go and fix yourself for dinner. I will soon be ready, and I hope you don’t intend to go to the table that way. ” Brian acted upon this hint to make himself more presentable, and during dinner ho tried to make his peace wit 4 Margaret. In this he was successful, as usual, for her ill-tempor was shortlived. At the same time, he noticed that she was paler and thinner than she had been a few weeks before. What was the cause, and why had he not noticed the change? “Don’t you ever grow tired of Elmwood?” he asked her, with a rather sharp glance. “Never!” was the decided answer. “I love Elmwjod too well. I believe it would break my heart to leave it.” “It is strange,” he added with a sigh; “a differ nee in disposition, I suppose. The life which brings you happiness is all emptiness and disappointment to me. The shadow of a seeming reality.” “I think you make it only a shadow, Brian. It could be better, I know. You have the talents and advantages to make a great man. ” “In theory, Margaret, but not in practice. My laziness, if you will, is too thoroughly ingrained for that. You don’t like lazy people, do you?” “Indeed I don’t. I wish you’d find some other role just for novelty.” “Thanks; I’m airaid my nature is too conservative; though I don’t know but what I may try my skill in medicine for your benefit. I don’t like your pale cheoks and heavy oyes.” “That isn’t complimentary,” laughed Margaret, avoiding his glance. “I assure you these signs of decline may be attributed to nothing more alarming than a consumption of midnight o'l over tho latest of Ouida’s novels. You see I am learning bad habits in my old age.” Brian was not satisfied with this explanation, but he did not pursue the subject further then. |TO BE CONTINUED.!