Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 September 1892 — AWOMANS INFLUENCE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AWOMANS INFLUENCE

BY LULU JAMISON

CHAPTER Xll—Continued. Tje next morning Margaret received to. note from the rectory asking her to •come to Mrs. Ivens, who was very sick. Waiting only for a hasty breakfast, and obeying Brian’s instructions to wrap ■herself warmly, she departed on her errand of mercy. Through the peaceful quiet of the "Sabbath morning she made her way •over the well kept road, until she •reached the rectory, an unpretentious little house, sitting back in an equally unpretentious garden. A narrow, beaten pathway led to the modest entrance, and on either side of it were tiny borders of dead flowers, around whose lifeless stems the brown leaves clung convulsively. Margaret’s ring was answered by a tired-looking maid servant, who led the way into the poorly furnished little parlor. While she questioned the girl as to her mistress’ condition Margaret’s ■eyes traveled wistfully about the room, whose cheery homeliness not oven the disillusionizing influence of poverty, could entirely dispel. Yet there was ’Something vaguely pathetic in the worn ■chairs, the faded, almost threadbare, •carpet; the few inexpensive ornaments, and the numerous makeshifts; little pretensions to comfort and luxury, which deft fingers had fashioned into pretty deceptive devices, all presenting the long and patient labor, thoughtful love, and tender self-denial, so often wrought into the possessions of the poor. Up stairs in the front room she found the brave little woman who had seemed so well only a few days before, stretched on a bed of weakness, the "busy brain no longer worrying over the •wants of a growing family, the tireless feet resting at last. Near the bed sat Mr. Ivens, the rector of the most unpopular church in 8 . He was a man of many talents and attainments, but unfortunately for himself he lacked the self-confidence necessary to meet and overcome the difficulties of life. Margaret knew and understood a nature so similar to her father’s. She •discovered the wealth of learning and nobility of soul hidden under an overmastering diffidence, and she admired the qualities which others could not see. Now as she saw him, bowed by the shadow of a coming great sorrow, holding the nerveless hand that'had smoothed so many difficulties for him, yet whose cheerful aid could never more be his, she felt her heart filled with a compassion no words could express. He was so engrossed with his grief that he scarcely noticed her as she quietly glided to his place beside the bed, but Mrs. Ivens had heard the almost noiseless footsteps, and opened her eyes wearily.' “Ah, it is you, Margaret,” she said with a momentary flush of pleasure on her pale face. Margaret nodded cheerily, and laid her hand, with a soothing tenderness, on the hot, throbbing head. “Does it ache much?” she asked.

“No, Margaret, only a little. Will you tell Mary to get the children ready for school? I should be up to do it myself, but I am very tired. ” “I don’t believe you ever admitted as much before," was Margaret’s rather unsteady answer, “The children won’t go to school to-day. It is Sunday. ” “Sunday, and I lying here! James, why didn’t you tell me? We had so much to do to-day.” Her eyes sought her husband’s, but he was looking rather wistfully at Margaret. Margaret read the unspoken language of that glance, and she found it very difficult to answer cheerfully. “We are going to let you be lazy today, Ellen, so that formidable amount of work must wait for another Sunday. I intend to assert my authority, and, to begin, I’ll sit here while Mr. Ivens eats some breakfast. Mary told me to send him down.” The gentleman took this hint, and, as obedient as a child, left the room. He knew that Ellen was safe and happy in Margaret’s hands, and already he felt better for her cheerful, helpful presence. Half-way down the stairs he was met by a preternaturally grave child of 8 .years, whose wistful eyes gazed sadly Into his. Evidently sho had been waiting for him, for without a ’word she stole quietly to his side and allowed her hand to glide with reassuring sympathy into his.

In this silent way they reached the dining-room, where Mary had breakfast on the table, and three tats aged, respectively, six, four, and two seated in their higli-chairs, waiting for papa. Little wonder that Margaret’s mind i should be filled with painful thoughts : of these babies, as she sat by ! their mother’s bedside, or that her eyes j became so misty when Ellen expressed j such gratitude for her attentions. “If you only knew how glad it makes ■ me to do even a little for you, ” she said, ' with a struggle to speak calmly. “You see, it is. so seldom I can be useful, that I am particularly proud now. If I had i been poor, I believe I should have taken ! as a profession.’’ “Yes,- but you need not do it now, j Margaret. You don’t know what it is to be poor. It is hard for him and the children.” The voice was full of pain. “ I have known,” Margaret answered. ; “I have known the pain and cruelty of it. The scales of life are so uneven. I have no more right to comfort and luxury than you have, and yet—— But I did not come hereto talk on such doleful subjects; I want to see you bright and cheerful.” “It is hard to be bright and cheerful, | Margaret. Lying here with nothing to do, so many thoughts come to me. I’m j afraid I have given up so often when I should have helped and encouraged James. Now it is so near Christmas" and so much to do, while I am here | helpless. You must help me to get j well, Margaret. Help me to get strong. Why do you turn your eyes away? Is it because Ah! is it because you 1 think I shall never be well again? Some- j times I have thought so too, and I have ; prayed that it may not be so, for James’ j sake and my babies." The weak voice broke, and Margaret, Incapable of a word, could only press ! the hot hand between her own cool ones j while her eyes burned with the tears | she found so hard to withhold. She was very glad when the rector came in a few moments later and she i could leave the room to overcome her j emotion and write the following note to Brian: 1 “Beab Brian—Do not expeot mej

home to dinner. Mrs. Ivens is very 111. Will you come here this afternoon? I am anxious to see you. ” Finding a boy, Margaret directed him to leave the note at Elmwood. CHAPTER XIII. BRIAN'S CHRISTMAS GIFT. When Brian came to the rectory that afternoon Margaret asked him to go up and see Mrs. Ivens. “I wish your candid opinion,” she said. “I think she is very ill, for Ellen is not the one to give up until forced to do so.” From his brief visit Brian came down with a serious face. Margaret was standing in the lower hall, and one glance made her heart sink heavily. “The case is hopeless," he said, in answer to the question she was trying to frame. “I am so sorry for you.” “Bather be sorry for them,” she rejoined, trying to shut-out the sympathetic face, which made it more difficult for her to be calm. “Who will tell him? Do you suppose he can ever be reconciled to her loss?” “I don’t know,” interposed Brian, for want of a better answer. “I 'suppose we must all be reconciled to whatever comes to us. ” “Ah! don’t. It is cruel to talk of being reconciled. I’d never be reconciled. Never!” • W ith these abrupt words, she started to move away, but her tears blinded her, and she would have fallen had not Brian, qu'ok to detect her weakness, caught her in his arms. “This will not do, Margaret,” he said, with some authority. “I think you had better go home with mo. You will make yourself ill.” “What nonsense, Brian! 11l from watching a few hours with a sick friend? I wouldn’t be fit to live if that were the case. This is not physical weakness.” “Aren’t there others to do for Mrs. Ivens?” he asked, with some warmth. “ Why should it all fall on your shoulders?”

“All fall on my shoulders? Oh, Brian, how you do exasperate me! Of course thero are others. Plenty of them. Everybody loves her, but for some reas m she likes to have me with her. And with her I intend to stay. ” “Then stay you may,” he answered, meeting her defiant eye. “I sha’n’t carry you away by bodily force, though I don’t think you should have your own way in every case. I have one request to make. Perhaps you will condescend to respect it. Don’t kill yourself.” “I am not one of the killing kind,” rejoined Margaret,goingmp-stairs. “ Goodby for the present. You may call tomorrow, if you will.” Brian did call to-morrow, and this second visit only confirmed the opinion expressed in his first. Mrs. Ivens was dying—from no special disease, buj from a gradual giving away of the vital forces. A life of care and anxiety, vexations and privations, and wearying struggles to make both ends meet, had told at last on the delicate constitution. Many who fall by the wayside are not less brave than those who reach the martyr’s stake, and, if the truest heroes are those who bear life’s burdens uncomplainingly, Mrs. Ivens might justly wear the crown of heroism.

Margaret was faithful to her trust. Others came and went, but she remained by the sick bed. Brian exhausted his e .treaties in vain, and even Christinas Eve could not tempt her to leave her friend. “You tell me her hours are numbered. Let me stay until the end. It cannot be very long now. ” And Brian said no more. Mrs. Ivens' hours were, indeed, numbered. The flame of life burnt fainter and fainter, and when the night of Christmas Eve passed into the dawn of Christmas Day, the angels of life and death crossed in their pathway, and the tired soul found the land of perpetual rest —the joys of an eternal morning. The Incidents of those closing moments were indelibly photographed on Margaret’s mind. She had to be brave and strong for the sake of those so sadly bereaved. Mary had sobbed and the rector had bowed his head in anguished grief, but she had shed no tear. She had brought the solemn, awe-struck children to their mother’s side; she had seen the kiss of infinite tenderness pressed upon each sad little face; her heart had echoed Elsie’s cry of anguish when for the last time that little head was pillowed on a dying mother’s breast; yet her eyes had been hard and dry, though the painful tightening at her throat had made her promise to be a friend to these motherless little ones, so hard to speak. And even now the tears would not come, though she had thought and thought until her mind was weary. The sunshine lay all about her, the bright, glad sunshine of Christmas; on the floor, where the carpet looked so faded and worn; on the very spot that Ellen’s fingers had mended so often and so patiently in their old busy days; on the old chintz sofa, where she was lying now—so carelessly, so thoughtlessly—while the heart whose tender, unselfish love had made this house a home, in all that gives that word its highest, holiest meaning, was forever stilled in its last sleep, and the tired, patient hands lay folded in the calm lest to be broken never again. A sound in the hall! She started up to listen. The long period of watching had made her nervous and sensitive, and the house had been so still. Even the baby voices were awed to silence. The heavy footsteps jarred sharply on her ears. They were not Mary’s and not the rector’o. They were Brian’s. He entered the little room where she was trying to rest, and with his sympathy reflected on his face, came to her side.

“Mary has told me,” he said, quietly. “I am so sorry. I suppose I may take you home now. It is Christmas, you know, and I ” “Christmas!” she echoed, in a faraway voice. “Are you sure, Brian? Christmas always brings happiness, I thought, and there is no happiness here. lam ready to go home, though. I believe I have been waiting for you. lam so tired, so very tired. I don’t feel that I can ever be rested again.” Brian looked his concern. Such weakness was unusual in Margaret. “I am afraid you have done wrong,” he said, with some leproach. “You should have taken my advice, Margam, but I suppose it is too lat ■ to scold now. You need rest. That is evident,” Margaret scarcely heard him. She rose rather unsteadily and started to leave the room, but with sudden remembrance she turned back with the words: “I shall take the children to Elmwood. Christmas here would be a mockerv for them.” A shade of annoyance passed over his face. “It would be useless to oppose you, even if I desired to do so, ” he returned. “Take them, of course, but do let Mrs. Davis care for them. I won’t have you worrying yourself into an illness. I believe in a certain amount of sympathy, but too much is too much." I only want to go to bei and sleep forever,” was Margaret’s answer. "I am so tired from being sorry. ” "Then the sooner you go home the

better. I have the carriage, and if yoc are ready ” “In a second, Brian. I will not keep you waiting long. ” This time of waiting was spent by Margaret in the darkened room, where the rector sat by all that remained to him of a beloved wife. She approached the still form and pressed a long kiss on the pale brow. She felt the rector’s burning eyes upon her and she heard the hoarse words with which he turned to her: “How am I to live my life alone?" She longed for the power to comfort him. yet all the sympathy she could express seemed to hold the mockery of easy consolation. “There are the children,” 6he said in a low voice. “Four loving little hearts to make your life less lonely. And there is God. He sends the cross, and He sends the strength to bear it. We see so dimly. What seems so hard to us is often a kindness from our Father’s hands. We must linger here in suffering and tribulation, but for her the crown has come before the cross had grown too heavy. Father, teach our hearts to say ‘ Thy will be done.* ” Leaving the echo of her prayer behind her, Margaret joined Brian, with the four grave-faced children, upon whose childish minds the intangible shadow and silence had made such a solemn impression. She found it hard to meet the pathetic inquiry of those baby eyes, and she was quite relieved when she could give her new charges into the kindly care of the surprised Mrs. Davis. After this, she went to bed and slept for the remainder of the day, and when dinner time arrived her inclinations were so decidedly against rising that she could scarcely force herself to dress and join Brian. “He’ll find me rather doleful at best,” she remarked to the heavy eyes and pale, tired face which looked at her from the mirror. “1 suppose I must try to Be cheerful.” But her short talk with Elsie, just before dinner, did not tend to brighten her spirits. The child had spoken so earnestly of the great care her mother’s death had left upon her, and expressed suoh a pathetic wish to grow bigger so that she could help papa more, that Margaret found it hard to answer calmly with those earnest eyes upon her. “You may be little, Elsie, yet you can help papa even now. These little feet can be tireless in his servioe, this dear face may always wear a smile for him, and this tender little heart may love and comfort him in every trouble. ” “Little people, and big people, too, can only do their best. ” “Boor little tot,” commented Brian, when Margaret repeated this conversation after dinner. “Let us not think of them any m6re to-night, Margaret. Let us try to be happy. lam so sorry our Christmas has been clouded. I got you this little remembrance, and I really have not had a chance to give It to you." “Only a remembrance?” she asked, taking the exquisite little jeweled pin from his hand. “This is fit for a princess. How it flashes in the light. It dazzles me. I—l don’t know how to thank you, and I have nothing for you, Brian. ” [TO BB CONTINUED. I