 CHAPTER I Estelle Bramlett was in an unenviable frame of mind. The flush on her face was caused by something more than the glow of the fire-light in her pretty sitting-room, and there was a nervous tremor about her lips when they ceased speaking that betokened keen feeling of some sort and a vain effort at self-control. Life had not shown for her the rose-colored tints that she had meant it should. There had been several months in which she had accustomed herself to looking forward to the time when she should become Mrs. Ralph Bramlett as the beginning of a future which should be velvet-lined. She had borne that name for more than a year, and the unmistakable lines about her mouth, which had evidently become habitual, showed only too plainly that more or less disappointment had fallen on her. Mr. Ralph Bramlett was stretched at full length upon a comfortable couch with down pillows at his head and back, and thrust under one elbow. He was listening in gloomy silence to his wife's remarks, making as little response as the claims of decency would allow. His work at the office that day had been nerve-trying to a degree that his wife did not and could not understand, and her topics for conversation were not in-spiriting. She had been tried by his silence and did not improve in her selection. Anna was here this afternoon. She began again after an irritating silence. She spent half the afternoon going on about her affairs. I think it is simply disgraceful the way she is managing. She is the town talk already, and if things continue much longer as they are now she will not be received into respectable society. I don't believe you have said one word to her about it, notwithstanding all I have told you. She used to condescend to pay a little attention to what you said. Why do you let her go on in this way? Hannah is old enough to take care of herself. These words came at last from behind the hand with which Ralph Bramlett shaded his face, and the tone was exasperatingly indifferent. His wife recognized it by an added irritability in hers. Oh, old enough! Wisdom doesn't always come with age as I should think you might know by this time. I don't deny that she is able to conduct herself with propriety, but the simple fact is that she doesn't do it. She seems to be entirely indifferent, not only to her own reputation, but to that of other people. You are her brother and I am your wife, and our social relations must therefore be more or less affected by her actions. I assure you that the matter is becoming very serious. You do not realize what is being said. You are buried all day in that horrid office, and evenings you spend on the couch brooding over something which you keep to yourself. The consequence is, you do not know what is going on in the world. If you came in contact with people, as I do, you would understand that it is time something was done. What do you think of having persons like the Greens making your sister's name a subject for gossip in the kitchen? Mrs. Green told Lena that the boys and Miss Hannah went to walking every night with Jack Taylor, and that he took her to some concerts and lectures and everywhere. If I were you I would not hold conferences with my cook in regard to family affairs or those of the neighborhood. Mr. Bramlett spoke in his coldest, loftiest tone, and it is perhaps not surprising that he made the color deepen on his wife's cheeks, nor that her eyes glowed angrily. That is just like you, Ralph. You are as unreasonable as it is possible for a man to be and omit no opportunity to blame me. I consider that remark insulting, the idea that I spend my time gossiping with the cook. Lena asked me a civil question, at least she intended it to be civil. As things are going I do not think she can be blamed for supposing that she had a right to ask when Miss Hannah was to be married. She is a respectable girl and supposed as a matter of course that the outcome of such persistent attention was a wedding. But I should think you might be sufficiently well acquainted with your wife to have discovered that I do not gossip with anybody. Since you have decided that your wife cannot be trusted, perhaps it will comfort you to remember that Lena has been in my mother's family for a number of years, and has only what she considers the interests of the family at heart. I cross-questioned her carefully, under the impression that I was doing my duty in trying to learn the extent to which gossip had made itself familiar with our name. I made the mistake of supposing that you would not only approve of my efforts, but would exert your influence, if you have any, in helping to close the mouths of gossips before it is too late. I do not know what you think about all this. You have never condescended to enlighten me. But it does not seem possible that you can approve of the way in which Hannah is conducting herself. It is true, as Mrs. Green says, that she is seen on the street with that odious Jack Taylor nearly every night of her life. Or if they are not in the street, he is seated on the doorstep, or hanging on the gate, talking with her until a late hour. Yesterday she actually went out riding with him, and was gone for hours. Mrs. Green, you may be sure, knows exactly how many hours, and if she failed to overhear any of their remarks, can draw on her imagination, and make herself and others believe that she did. I hope you enjoy putting your name at the mercy of a woman like her. Now, what I should like to know is whether you approve of Hannah's conduct, and mean to uphold her in it, as you seem to be doing. I tell you I neither approve nor disapprove, growled her husband. What I said was that Hannah was old enough to attend to her own affairs, and ought to be allowed to do so. If she chooses to be a fool, she has a perfect right to be one, so far as I am concerned, and I do not propose to bother myself about it. I have other matters to think of. Oh, it is all very well, Mr. Bramlett, for you to wrap yourself in a mantle of dignity, and declare that you have other things to think about. Undoubtedly you have, matters of vast importance apparently, which absorb all your time. I can tell you one thing about which you rarely think, and that is your wife's comfort. I spend my days alone, and might as well spend my evenings in the same manner for all the pleasure that I have in your society. If I had for a moment imagined what a difference in my life the marriage ceremony would make— She stopped abruptly, her voice being choked with feeling, whether of grief or anger it might have been difficult to determine. Her husband remained persistently silent under this attack, and after two or three minutes she began again. You can neglect your wife, of course. That is nobody's business but your own. I shall not go out in the streets and complain of you, so your dignity is entirely safe there. But I warn you that Hannah is not being so thoughtful. Whether it is your business or not, the public will link your name with it, and you will find yourself associated with an unsavory scandal before you are aware. You cannot separate yourself from your entire family. You are by no means so indifferent to what people say as you occasionally like to pretend. I do not know another person who is so sensitive to public opinion as you, and when you open your eyes to the state of things about which I have warned you, do not blame me. That is all I ask. Mr. Bramlett arose to a sitting posture as he gave vent to this explosive word, flinging away the afghan which his wife had thrown over him when he lay down, and glaring at her out of angry eyes. I wish you would not undertake this sort of scene, Estelle. It is never to my taste. Besides, you don't do it well. And I wish, moreover, that you did not consider it your duty to retail to me the gossip of the cook and the washer-woman. I must honor your motives, of course, but I tell you once for all I consider it entirely unnecessary. My sister Hannah has conducted herself with entire propriety for nearly thirty years, without the breath of suspicion having attached itself to her name, and I have no fear but that she will continue to manage her affairs with wisdom if she is let alone. If you talked to her this afternoon, as you have been talking to me, there may be cause for anxiety. There is no telling what a Bramlett might be goaded to do. Why don't you learn, Estelle, that you cannot help people by sticking thorns into them? Were there no letters for me by the late mail? It was an unfortunate question in view of all that had passed. Mrs. Bramlett controlled her inclination to burst into a passion of tears, and gave vent to her feelings in words instead. Oh, yes, there are letters of the usual sort, the bill for coal for instance. I suppose that was settled last month. Your Taylor's bill was presented for the third time, and that account from Sewell's. He takes the trouble to state that it will not be convenient for him to wait longer for settlement. Since there is no danger of disgrace to the family through Hannah, it at least looks as though there might be a possibility of it from another source. It is certainly anything but agreeable to me to have the house flooded with Taylor's bills and matters of that kind. If it were my dressmaker's bill, I should never hear the last of it. I cannot understand why it isn't important to be business-like about such matters, as well as with the affairs of Snyder, Snyder and Co. Yet you are always pressing their claims upon me when I need any of your time. May I be allowed to ask why you do not attend to your own business occasionally? She did not know how every word she uttered pierced the very soul of her husband like a keen knife cutting into living flesh. It would not have been possible for her to understand what tremendous self-control he was exercising to maintain the outward calm which in itself irritated her. He waited a moment before he replied. I am sorry my business-like habits have proved a cause of offence to you. As to my own affairs nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be strictly methodical. There is a serious difficulty in the way. I have not yet learned how to pay bills without tangible aid. The simple fact is that my last quarter's salary was entirely spent some weeks before it was due. Some of it, you may remember, went to pay that dressmaker's bill of which you boast. Mr. Sewell will find that he will be compelled to wait until I get ready to pay him, and I shall take care that there shall be no bill hereafter to settle with him. In truth I am tempted to refuse to pay any of these fellows because they sent the bills to the house instead of to my office. I had no intention of troubling you with matters of this kind. He seemed to realize before the sentence was completed that he had put some bitter stings into it and to feel some sense of regret. He tried to make his voice sound less cold and sarcastic. But matters had gone quite too far for him to thus easily atone. Estelle's eyes were flashing dangerously, and her voice was like steel. Pray do not take the trouble to try to put it courteously. Say, rather, the plain truth that you had no intention of letting me know that you are unable to pay your honest debts. It is certainly a new experience to me. My father is poor and has always been, but I do not believe he ever owed a person for twenty-four hours beyond the date of payment. It is probably very unbusinesslike for me to wonder what you'd do with your money, but I confess I am curious. Your salary is larger than my father ever had to depend upon. Yet he managed to feed and clothe and care for three daughters as well as himself and wife. If I might be allowed to suggest to such a business-like person, I should say it was quite time you began to keep your own books instead of those of other people. I supposed it was Hannah who was threatening our respectability, but it seems I was mistaken. Mr. Bramlett sprang up and began to pace back and forth. It was a way he had when under strong excitement. Have a care, Estelle. He said, and his voice was low and constrained. You may go too far in your sarcasms, even with me, who am bound in honour to endure them. It ought to be beneath you to make the insinuations that you have with regard to money, when you remember that I furnished this house in accordance with your judgment not mine, and, indeed, rented it in the first place because your preference for it was so great, although I told you at the time that I felt we could hardly afford it. If you will take the trouble to recall the circumstances, you will remember that there was no other house within our reach which in the least satisfied you. That clause within our reach is well added, Mr. Bramlett, and most important. Of course I supposed that you knew what you were about, and when you referred the decision as to choice of house to me, naturally I believed that those put at my disposal were within our reach. Why should I not in such a case choose the best? As to furniture, when my tastes were consulted, I told the truth, of course. What else would you have had? I suppose I am not to be blamed because my tastes are so unfortunate as to prefer a fifty-dollar couch for instance to a twenty-dollar one. The truth is, she continued, and having grown more angry with every word she had spoken, she now laid aside all effort at self-control, and faced her husband with a look which said more than her words. The truth is, you find yourself in an embarrassing position. You have chosen to keep your business matters an entire secret from me and have spent all your money in what way you alone know. But now that it is gone, and you awaken to the fact that you have nothing with which to pay honest debts, you choose to turn upon me and lay the blame on my good taste in selecting house furnishings. You have taken pains to inform me what you considered beneath me. Pray, what do you think of such conduct as that? He had taken time to think during that long sentence. In truth he had given her words little attention, but was engaged in wondering why he had allowed himself to be betrayed into saying some things that he had. You let us get done with this distasteful talk. He said, with a wave of his hand, as though he would throw off all that was disagreeable, I wonder why it is that I cannot be allowed to have peace in my own house. I have business cares and perplexities that you know nothing about, and when I lock the office door upon them and come away for the purpose of getting a little rest, it seems hard that I must be placed in the witness box not only, but must have torture applied to me. I meant no insinuations in what I said. I merely referred to the fact that the house had been furnished in accordance with your tastes, and took more money than we had supposed it would when we began. The strictest economy is necessary now, has been necessary for some time, and we are neither of us fond of economizing. If I have been closed-mouthed about my affairs, it was simply because I did not consider it necessary to trouble you with them. But the plain, unvarnished truth is that I am heavily in debt and have not a cent of money with which to meet my liabilities. As to where the money has gone thus far, if you are fond of business to that extent you will find the large drawer of the secretary crammed full of accounts. You are at liberty to study and figure on them to your heart's content. If I have made a mistake in trying to shield you, I will rectify it at once. I fancy you will have no difficulty in discovering where even such an enormous sum as fifteen hundred dollars a year has fled to, and I hope you will find peace and happiness in the occupation. He had not intended to close his sentence thus. He had meant it to be conciliating, feeling suddenly how impossible it was for him to control himself further, or endure more that evening. He turned suddenly and left the room, slamming the door after him, not intentionally, but because his nerves had been so wrought upon as to leave him incapable of making gentle movements. He crossed the hall and passed into a small room which had been fitted up in a business-like manner for his exclusive use. Here he closed and locked the door, and even drew the small bolt just below the lock, then threw himself into the leather-covered armchair in front of his desk, with the unpaid bills still in his hand. CHAPTER II. The Day's Story Thus unceremoniously left to herself is still bramelet bowed her head on the little reading-table near her, and cried some of the most bitter tears it had ever fallen her lot to shed. Do her the justice to understand that nothing about this miserable evening had been in the least as she had planned. When the tears had had their way she tried to go over the events of the last few hours, and make herself understand how it had all happened. Why had she allowed herself to speak such words as she had to her husband? Sarcasm was one of her besetting sins, she knew it well. She had indeed been told it from childhood, and no friend, not even the dearest, escaped her tongue when she was excited. But to Ralph she had never before spoken as she had that evening. How came she to do so? It had been a trying day from first to last. Her husband had been more than usually preoccupied and silent all through the breakfast hour, and had finally gone away without even remembering to bid her good-bye. This in itself had tried her more than he could have understood. Because, being a woman, she lived on many of the small happenings which men like Ralph Bramlett call trifles. Neither had her domestic machinery moved satisfactorily. Lena, the stout German girl who reigned in her kitchen, had been brought up by Mrs. Bramlett's mother, and was considered a treasure that the mother had relinquished to her on her marriage after the manner of mothers. But even a kitchen treasure may have its faults, and a disposition to have her own way, especially when she knew it to be the best way, was one of Lena's faults. She and her mistress had disagreed about an important matter connected with cookery, and Lena had quoted her mistress's mother in a way which could only be exasperating to the young housekeeper. So Estelle had insisted upon her way to the detriment of the dinner, and Ralph had found a little fault and assured his wife that his mother could teach her many things. This experience is never soothing, and by dinner time Mrs. Bramlett was in need of being soothed. The first to disturb her afternoon peace had been her young sister Glide. Now Glide was a favourite with almost everybody, and as a rule there was no one whom Mrs. Bramlett liked better to see tripping up her side steps. But on this particular afternoon she innocently brought an element of discord. I've had such a delicious present! she began, as soon as she was comfortably seated. Glide's adjectives could, on occasion, be as startling as those of the average young lady. I had to rush right over and tell you about it. I wanted to bring it with me, but mother decided that that would be silly. A present! echoed her sister. Why should you be having presents just now? It isn't your birthday, and it isn't too near the holidays for extras, and not near enough to count. This one will count, I fancy. It is probably intended for my Christmas. Only, being the dear, thoughtful creature that he is, Uncle Anthony sent it on after the first frost, so as to be ready for the cold. Can you guess what it is, Estelle? I was never skillful at guessing. Mrs. Bramlett said a trifle coldly. The truth is she found it impossible to speak other than coldly when Uncle Anthony was the subject of conversation. She could never forget that there had been a time when his chief interest in their family centered in her, and his special gifts were showered upon her. Although she knew perfectly well that her absence from home two years before had been the sole reason why Glide was chosen as his companion for a trip to New York, and that Glide was in no wise to blame for the extravagant fondness which her uncle had shown her ever since, Estelle could not help feeling aggrieved whenever she thought of it, and had sometimes spoken in a way to make a more suspicious person than Glide feel that she was supposed in some disreputable way to have undermined her sister's place. But Glide's busy, happy nature had no room in it for suspicion. She could not even be made to understand that her sister was not prepared to rejoice with her over the especially appropriate gift that had come to her. Had not Uncle Anthony distinguished himself when Estelle was married? Was there a better piano in town than the one that he sent with his love and good wishes? Had anyone been more delighted with the rich gift than Glide herself? What more reasonable, then, to suppose that Estelle would share the pleasure that had now come to her? This, if she had reasoned about it, would have been something like what she would have felt. But Glide was too entirely above selfishness to have done any reasoning about it, and the voice was only gleeful in which she said, If you won't even try, I shall have to tell you, it is a fur cape. Isn't that particularly fortunate just at this time? For you know my winter coat is growing too small, and poor father has had so many expenses lately that I could not endure the thought of hinting about a new one. A fur cape? What kind of fur? Seal said Glide a trifle timidly. She had an instinctive feeling that possibly the quality of the gift might not seem sensible to her sister. Seal, do you mean real seal skin? Why, yes, of course, Estelle. Uncle Anthony never approves of imitations of any sort, you know. I think you are too young to wear seal skin, said Mrs. Bramlett, her voice as cold and unsympathetic as ice. But this had tempted Glide to laugh. Why, Estelle, she said, you cannot mean that. Don't you remember that they trim even little children's garments with seal, and children wear seal caps and hoods? It must be mink fur of which you are thinking. I am thinking of precisely what I said. It is to be presumed that I know quite well as you what furs are worn. What I mean, of course, is that I think rich furs of any sort are not in keeping with the position of a young girl like yourself who has nothing to match them. However, if Uncle Anthony chooses to load you down with inappropriate finery, it is nothing to me. She would not have spoken quite so disagreeably if the rich gift had been anything but a seal cape. It chanced that the words represented her heart's desire for the winter. Only two days before, she had told her husband of some new capes that were displayed at Harder and Beakman's, real marvels of cheapness considering their quality, and he had assured her in an annoyed tone that even one-third the price she mentioned was entirely beyond his means and that she must not think of new furs for this season at least. It struck her as hard that a young married woman should not have the sort of cape she chose. A man who had never before been called upon to buy a wrap of any sort for her ought to have been ready to get the first one without a murmur. However, she struggled with this feeling and conquered it, and resolved to tell Ralph in the evening that he was not to worry about her wanting a fur cape. Her sack was almost as good as new and quite nice enough for the winter. But it was certainly hard that before she had had time to carry out this good intention, her young sister should come and flaunt an elegant seal cape before her mind's eyes. Of course it was elegant, Uncle Anthony never did half-way things. Glide had regarded her sister with a puzzled air, and resolved to change the subject. Estelle was evidently not in the mood that afternoon for rejoicing with her over her furs. Oh! I forgot! I have something of more importance to tell you. Marjorie has come. You do not seem a bit surprised. I am afraid you have heard of it before, and I want it to be the first to give the news. I have heard nothing about her and thought nothing about her for weeks. What a child you are, Glide! Do you never mean to grow up? It seems so delightful to have her back, said Glide, ignoring the reproof. I have been happy all the morning over the thought of their house being open again. They came last night. I haven't seen her yet, but I am on my way there this afternoon. Don't you want to get on your wraps and go with me? It is real pleasant out of doors. Certainly not. I think I shall have sense enough to call with my husband when the proper time comes. I am not a schoolgirl to pounce down upon people as soon as they get in the house. Has Marjorie brought Mr. Maxwell with her? No, said Glide, wonderingly. At least I suppose not. I hadn't thought of him. Why, no, Estelle, he could not be here at this time of year. He is a college professor, you know, and all the colleges are in session now. I do not know what he is, said Mrs. Bramlett, a gentleman of elegant leisure, apparently. I am sure he spent one winter here, and then went abroad, for I do not know how long, and Marjorie has spent the intervening time with him. I did not know, but now that she had decided to come home she was going to let him accompany her. She seems to have him well under her control. Glide's fair face was flushed, and her eyes had a reproachful look. She was sensitive to sarcasm when it was applied to her friends. I do not know what you mean, Estelle, she said gravely. Because Marjorie and her mother chose to spend some of their time in the same town where Mr. Maxwell is teaching, that does not seem to me a reason for speaking almost slidingly of her. They have been travelling all summer, you know, and were absent a large part of the winter. I suppose it was merely an accident that they made the same place their headquarters. Some accidents are designed, my dear little innocent. But you need not flush as though I had insulted your idol. Marjorie having hopelessly lost your respected brother-in-law has set herself earnestly to the task of securing Mr. Maxwell. Nothing is planer than that, but I am sure I do not blame her. I suppose he is quite interesting to those who like his style. What surprises me is the length of time that it takes to accomplish her designs. I expected an invitation to her wedding before this. You can give her my regards, and if you feel disposed, ask if there is anything I can do to help her with her true soul. That may aid in bringing matters to a focus. She had laughed maliciously as she spoke, and realized that she was saying what would bring a still deeper flush to Glide's face. In the mood she then was, she could not help rather liking to make people feel uncomfortable. The young sister cut short her call and went away sorrowful. She could not understand why she so often found her married sister in these moods. Perhaps it would have been hard for Mrs. Bramlett herself to explain them. Yet, as has been hinted, life was in many respects a disappointment to her. After Glide's departure she sat and brooded for a while over some of her grievances. Prominent among them loomed up the evening before. She had planned that Ralph would come home in time to take her to a certain concert which she was sure they would both enjoy. She had ordered dinner early with the scheme in view, and dressed herself with care. And the husband had returned in time but would have none of her planning. It was a chilly, disagreeable night, and she ought to know better than to think of exposing herself to it. Moreover, he was much too tired to dress and go out again. He would not do it if Patti herself were to sing. It had been more of a disappointment to his wife than he realized, but she had done her best to accommodate herself to his moods. Coming in from the dinner table she had drawn the curtains and arranged the droplight and brought her little reading-chair close to the couch on which her husband had thrown himself and prepared to entertain him. Would he like to be read too? She had a charming new book that Glide had brought She had been saving it to enjoy with him. He replied with utmost coldness. Glide's taste in books, he said, was not as a rule in accordance with his. Besides, it nearly always wearied him to hear other people read. He had been accustomed from his babyhood almost to reading aloud himself. Well, then, would he read to her? No indeed he wouldn't, not to-night. Couldn't she see that he was already horse? He had been bawling telephone messages all day, all over creation. She might read to herself if she chose, and welcome. He desired simply to be let alone. He had business matters to think about which would require all the brainpower he possessed. It was not a pleasant prospect, certainly. The wife had been alone all day and was not disposed to continue the loneliness through the long November evening. Still, she had struggled with herself and been silent. She had opened the choice book and read a few pages. Several times she had tried to beguile her husband into a show of interest. Listen to this, Ralph, she had said. Isn't it a quaint way of expressing the thought? But Ralph was in a hopeless frame of mind. He saw nothing either quaint or interesting in the quotations. What she called pathetic, he said, was silly, and a passage which she pronounced particularly fine, he said, was commonplace. When at last she closed the book and tried to interest him in what she called conversation, she feared no better. He answered her questions only in the briefest phrases, a single monosyllable whenever possible, and finally distinctly intimated that he thought she was going to read her book and leave him in peace. This had been the drop too much for her, and she had risen in indignation, waiting only to inform him that she might as well have been imeared in a convent as to have married, and that if he was so fond of his own company, she would not longer intrude hers upon him. Then she had gone to her own room and cried over the last evening. He had not followed her as earlier in their married life he would have done. Instead he was even later than usual in coming to his room. Once there he moved about on tiptoe, careful not to disturb his wife's supposed rest, and when at last stretched beside her, he gave vent to a sigh so heavy that it smote upon her wakeful ear, and made her almost ready to throw her arms about him and ask what troubled him. In truth she often asked herself this anxious question. Ralph Bramlett had been fitful enough in his unmarried days but never quite like this. There were times when this wife of a year assured herself that had she imagined he would become the silent, preoccupied, indifferent husband that he was, she would not have married him. But this thought was invariably followed by one of penitence and genuine anxiety for his welfare. Something very serious must be troubling him, matters about which she knew nothing as he had more than once hinted. Perhaps he was really ill, overworked he certainly was. He complained constantly, sometimes bitterly, of being overtired. What if he were on the eve of an attack of brain fever or of nervous prostration? Thought somewhat after this manner had followed the bitter ones of the evening in question, and kept her awake and anxious until a late hour. It seemed almost an insult to find her husband as well as usual next morning, and she had begun the day by indignantly assuring herself that he was well enough and was merely indulging in some of his tempers. Nevertheless several times through her day of solitude the anxieties of the night had recurred to her, sometimes with such force that she was tempted to take the next train out and make her way through the great building to his office in order to assure herself that her husband was not seriously ill. It was the thought of the look of unmistakable annoyance with which he would greet any such attempt that held her in check, and she would proceed to reason herself back to common sense again. Following Glide's departure had come Hannah Bramlett, the woman who since the day of her marriage had been one of Estelle's thorns in the flesh. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of Overruled by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3 Poor Hannah In all the wide range of topics for conversation there seemed to be no two upon which Mrs. Ralph Bramlett and her sister-in-law Hannah could agree. Poor Hannah had begun by making the mistake which is often made under similar circumstances, that of trying to advise, in some senses even to control, her new sister. Failing utterly in that she had been unsparing of her censures. But within the last few weeks the two had in a certain sense changed places, Mrs. Bramlett having turned mentor. There was at first a degree of comfort, or at least a lurking sense of satisfaction, in the thought of something tangible to complain of. A curious state of things existed. Hannah Bramlett had passed her twenty-eighth birthday, and through all the years as far back as her sister-in-law could remember her, had been a pattern of dignity and propriety. She had been a reserved woman always with her own sex, and almost, if not quite, prudish in her intercourse with gentlemen. Now, when she had quite passed the age in which one might naturally look for imprudences, she had become one of the most talked about young women in the neighborhood, and of all persons with whom to associate her name, that of Jack Taylor seemed to her sister-in-law the worst. Who is Jack Taylor, anyway? She had asked once or twice of her husband, or of Hannah herself, and her lip had curled in a way which indicated that she, at least, knew who he was, and that her knowledge was not to his advantage. Poor Jack certainly had an unenviable record behind him. A worthless drunken fellow, a ne'er-do-will in any direction. An unprincipled creature, a man who killed his wife by dissipation and neglect. This was the verdict, variously phrased according to the style of the speaker, that one was sure to receive when one questioned concerning him. It is true that Jack had not drank any liquor for several months, and was keeping himself as steadily at work as previous habits of superficiality and his general reputation would admit. But when every good thing which could be said of him was freely admitted, the question was, why should Hannah Bramlett permit his almost daily visits? Not only this, but that estimable young woman walked the streets with him, allowed him to attend her home from the weekly prayer meetings and from other public places. She allowed him to linger at the gate, not merely for a few minutes, but sometimes for a full half-hour. Indeed, there were watchers who confirmed that on certain occasions it had been an hour and ten minutes by the clock before the vigil closed. Mrs. Bramlett, when in her indignation she had told off his sister's sins to her husband, had not exaggerated the stories. The truth is, as they had come to her through the medium of her washer-woman, reported by the aforesaid Lena, they had been sufficiently offensive, and she had not been tempted to add even a shade of meaning. The tongues of a certain class of people were undoubtedly busying themselves with Hannah Bramlett's affairs. Mrs. Bramlett was loyal enough to her husband's family to be genuinely alarmed at this. It was one thing to find fault with Hannah herself. It was quite another to have the neighborhood gossips making free with her name. That lurking sense of satisfaction which the matron had felt when she first realized the opportunity for criticism had entirely passed. She realized the importance of urging her husband to the rescue. All things considered, it will be understood, I think, that she came to the evening in question, unfitted to be helpful to the nerves of a weary, dead-haunted husband. She had made a braver effort than Ralph Bramlett would perhaps ever understand to rise above the disturbances of the day. She would have been able, perhaps, to have met him halfway. But, as has been noted, he did not meet her halfway, and when she introduced his sister as a topic for conversation, he did not give her credit for genuine anxiety, but believed that she had selected simply another theme for his annoyance. With such a series of discomforts and misunderstandings acting upon two such natures as Ralph Bramlett and his wife, how could the evening have ended other than it did? While Estelle Bramlett in her pretty sitting-room was indulging her disappointed and bitter thoughts, and Ralph Bramlett in his library was staring at unpaid bills and inwardly groaning at the site, Mrs. Edmonds and her daughter Marjorie sat together in their cheerful back parlor, which, though they had been at home so short a time, had already taken on that mysterious resemblance to themselves which is a peculiarity of certain rooms. Mrs. Edmonds had sewing materials about her, and the last magazine, with freshly cut leaves, was waiting for Marjorie to entertain her so soon as the letter she was writing should be finished. But Marjorie's pen had stopped, and was being balanced on one finger in an absent-minded way, while its owner sat lost in thought. Mrs. Edmonds had watched her silently for several minutes, at last she spoke. Well, Marjorie, is that letter unusually hard to write? The letter? Oh, no, mother, that is finished! At least I have only a sentence or two to add. I had forgotten it. I noticed that your thoughts seemed to be very closely occupied. If I am to judge from your face, the reverie is not altogether a pleasant one. Marjorie smiled. Did I look cross, mother? I must have a very tell-tale face. Then after a moment, to tell the truth I have not been able to get away from some of the things that Glide told me this afternoon. She is troubled about Estelle and Ralph. Mrs. Edmonds sowed steadily for several seconds. She could not decide whether to question or be silent. At last she said, What about them? Anything new? That is, I mean, anything different from what you expected? Yes, said Marjorie in a low voice. I think my faith had other expectations. We have been praying for a long time. There seemed to be no reply to make to this. After another silence the mother questioned again. What does Glide say? Oh, nothing pronounced, of course. That is, nothing which she meant to have definite. But she is such a guileless little creature that she tells more than she imagines. They have both it seemed quite given up the habit of attending prayer meeting, and they do not even have family worship. In fact I gather from Glide's talk that their attendance at church on Sundays is so extremely irregular that it is almost beginning to be marked when they are present instead of when they are absent. Of course Glide did not say this, but from her troubled face when she talked about the hindrances in their religious life I gathered it. Halfway living is not like Ralph. With him it must be all or nothing. What is their mother that we can do to help them? It was hard for Mrs. Edmunds to reply. If she had spoken the hope of her in most soul it would have been that her Marjorie should let Ralph Bramlett and his new wife entirely alone, forget their existence as much as possible, and live her own sweet, strong life without regard to their petty one. But neither policy nor conscience would agree to such speaking, so she hesitated. Presently Marjorie answered her silence. I know, mother, that you sometimes find it difficult to understand my persistent interest in these two. But we were children together, you remember, and I realize now that I influenced them both much more than I was aware at the time. I sometimes think that they are living out the life which I fostered in them, and if my influence had been different, why? She spoke in half sentences with distinct pauses between as though it was difficult to formulate her thought. But her mother made haste to answer. Really, Marjorie, I must say I think that is mere sentimentalism. People must live their own lives. Ralph and Estelle have reached the age of maturity, and are responsible for their own doings and their own failures. To foster in them a notion that other people are to blame is merely to help them in a line of self-excuses to which both are only too prone already, if I am not mistaken in them. It was Ralph's besetment from his babyhood. I know, said Marjorie quickly. I remember you used always to say so. Of course, I do not mean to say anything of this sort to them. I was merely thinking aloud. But you do not mean that we are not responsible for the influence which we exert? To a degree we are, of course, and I do not deny that if you had been a Christian from your childhood you might have influenced for good not only those two but your other companions. But all that is past. It is a sorrowful fact that we cannot undo the past. The thought ought certainly to make us more careful of our present. But unavailing regrets, an attempt to accomplish in the present what belongs to the past, weaken our influence over others and savor of sentiment more than religion. Marjorie laughed pleasantly. Mother dear, she said, it is the first time I ever knew you to accuse me of sentimentality. Have I not generally been almost too matter of fact to suit your poetic temperament? I assure you I mean the nearest commonplace now. I have shed many tears over past follies and put them away. It is the present that interests me. If I can but do my duty now I shall leave the past mistakes with him who has promised to hide them. But I frankly admit that I am more interested in Ralph and Estelle than in any other friends of mine, and ideally ask God to show me ways of helping them. It was the predominant thought in our homecoming. I had a feeling that they were in need of help. Aside from this mother, you and I can do no less than try. We have covenanted to do so, you remember. I promised to pray for them, said Mrs. Edmonds, in a low troubled tone. Yes, but what is prayer worth unless we supplement it so far as possible by effort? Poor Mrs. Edmonds, she was willing to pray during the period of her natural life for these two friends of her daughter's girlhood, but to come into daily social contact with them, to feel that her daughter was interesting herself in them in a special manner, planning for them, giving herself as it were to efforts on their behalf, was an experience from which she shrank with an intensity that she vainly told herself was utter folly. To understand her feeling one would need to realize what it was for a mother to look forward for a year or two to the probable marriage of her daughter with a young man of whom she did not approve, and then to feel herself suddenly lifted above the danger by the marriage of the young man to another woman, and yet to feel that her daughter's life had been scarred at least by the experience. More than that, this mother knew that the scar had been deep. If her daughter had come back to meet Ralph Bramlett with utter indifference, the mother would have been satisfied, would have felt that all was as it should be, but to own to more than common interest in and anxiety for this man who had done what he could to make her life a wreck, not only this, but to proceed on this first quiet evening at home to plan ways of reaching and influencing him, was more than the poor mother's faith was equal to. Once more, Marjorie answered the look on her face. Mother dear, don't be anxious. I am not going to do anything erratic, nor in the least out of the line of the conventional. I am thinking only of an afternoon call upon Estelle, an informal running in such as she is not willing to give me it seems. Glide said she asked her to come this afternoon, and she declined because it would be more proper to call first with her husband. Think of such formalities between Estelle Douglas and myself. And Marjorie laughed lightly. I shall forestall all such proprieties by going tomorrow, I think, to have a little old-time chat with her, and establish her, if possible, upon a friendly footing. Then in time I shall hope to be able to influence her in the direction of her highest good, and through her to reach Ralph. I am afraid the poor fellow is troubled in more ways than one. Glide thinks he is unhappy in his business relations. I never believed that his conscience would permit him to continue in peace as bookkeeper in a distillery. Mrs. Edmonds opened her lips to say that she did not believe he had any conscience. Then she closed them again with the words unspoken, of what use? If I could, through Estelle, Marjorie went on, help him to see that to connect himself with such a business, however remotely, was his first mistake, and persuade him to get right with his conscience in that direction, I should have hope for the rest. Do you not think, mother, that it may have been the starting point with him? No, dear, I think the starting point, as you call it, was way back in his childhood or early youth. His moral nature was never strong, and his obstinacy, that strong point in a weak nature, was always at the front. The trouble is that you invested Ralph from his childhood with qualities that he did not possess, and because as a man he did not exhibit them, he keeps you in a constant state of disappointment. My opinion is that Ralph Bramlett will have to be entirely made over, before he will be other than a disappointment to those of his friends who have his highest interests at heart. Marjorie made no effort to argue the question. In her heart she believed that her mother was hopelessly prejudiced against this old friend of hers. Very well, mama, she said quietly, you and I must remember that the grace of God can do exactly that for people. Then after a moment's silence she changed the subject, or rather brought forward another form of what was to her the same subject. The gossips of this locality are still alive, mother, I think it will astonish you to hear whose name they are making free with now. Of all women in the world I should have expected Hannah Bramlett to escape such ordeals. Hannah Bramlett? exclaimed Mrs. Edmonds, surprised out of her instinctive reserve in which she encased herself whenever the Bramlett name was under discussion. What can they possibly find to gossip about in her? That is the most extraordinary part of it. Do you remember that Jack Taylor, whose wife I stayed with, while Mr. Maxwell went for a doctor and who died while I was in the house? Hannah, you know, interested herself in the poor wretch, tried to help him to get work and to keep away from the saloons. She succeeded, too. I heard, before we left home, that she was having a really remarkable influence over him. It seems that her efforts have continued and have been crowned with such success that poor Jack has not taken a drop for months, and he works steadily every day. He has earned himself some decent clothes and goes to church quite regularly. But now the gossips, who let him travel toward destruction without a word, are interesting themselves in him and in Hannah to a degree that is startling. But in what way, asked Mrs. Edmonds bewildered, surely no one disapproves of helping a poor wretch to reform? No, but having reformed he becomes a legitimate subject, it seems, for idle tongues. Glide thinks poor Hannah has been thoughtless perhaps. She has allowed him to come often to see her, and has walked with him on the streets quite often, and has stood talking with him at her own gate once or twice, probably until a later hour than custom approves. And the gossips, who seem to be delighted with the whole subject, have taken hold of it, and added what they pleased to make it interesting, until now, Glide says, the street corner loungers speak of Hannah as Jack Taylor's best girl, and ask him when he is going to get his house ready for her. Is it possible? said Mrs. Edmonds. What an absurdly imprudent condition of things for a woman of her age to be beguiled into. It must be that that Bramlett family are all devoid of common sense. And then Marjorie resolved that she would talk no more with her mother about the Bramlitz. True to her decision, the following afternoon found Marjorie awaiting admittance at Ralph Bramlett's home. A curious half-smile was on her face, and a faraway look in her eyes, as she read the name Bramlett on the door plate. The time had been when this young woman had thought of that name even in connection with such trivialities as door plates. She remembered a certain June evening, when she had waited with Ralph to be admitted to Judge Bartlett's house, and he, calling attention to the name on the door, had said, It isn't quite Bramlett, but it takes about the same space, doesn't it? However, we shall not have that style of lettering on our door. I detest it. Do you arrange even such matters about our house that is to be Marjorie? I think no small detail of our establishment escapes me. She had laughed in response and said gaily, Our castle in the air! Yet with the laugh had come a blush, and she had admitted to herself that no smallest detail of that dear castle could be unimportant to her. So entirely a matter of course did it seem to her that sometime in the lovely future the name Bramlett would cover her own. Yet here she stood at Ralph Bramlett's door, awaiting admission, and the presiding genius of his home was Estelle Douglas Bramlett. Was it not well for her that she could smile? Not simply a brave smile, but a quiet, natural one. That time was all in the past, as she had told her mother, and her heart, as well as her conscience, said, It is well. She knew now that she had never been intended to become the wife of Ralph Bramlett, that a wise and kind overruling Providence had held her from it, and she could look up thankfully because of the ruling. Yet it was, to say the least, interesting to be standing here at Ralph Bramlett's door. She had speculated a little over their first meeting. How was it possible to do otherwise when she remembered with such vividness their last interview? Probably Ralph, too, remembered it. If they could both forget it, everything would be comparatively easy. She went swiftly over that last interview while she waited, recalling, almost in spite of herself, some of Ralph Bramlett's wild words. Estelle Douglas behanged. He had said savagely, when she had hodlily reminded him of his engagement with her. And then he had poured out that alarming appeal to her not to cast him off, to remember how long they had been tacitly pledged to each other, to overlook all the past and permit nothing to separate them again. Let us be married right away, had been one of his passionate outcries. Oh, she remembered it vividly, the remembrance called the blood to her face even now. But the blush was because she realized that the man who had spoken such words to her was at that moment of his own will and desire engaged to be married to another. Long ago she had settled it that some experience of which she knew nothing had caused a temporary insanity, during which he had forgotten his position and gone back into their past. What a humiliation it must have been to him when he came to himself and realized what he had said. It was possible, nay, she had settled it with herself that it was entirely probable, that he had brooded over this interview until it had had much to do with the retrograde life at which Glyde Douglas had mournfully hinted. In the old days she had been well acquainted with him, and none knew better than she what a demoralizing effect a sense of self-abasement had on him. It was entirely within the range of his imagination to believe that she, Marjorie, despised him. If she could but meet him in a friendly way, quite as though they were, and always had been, and always would be, real friends, it might accomplish much. It was this train of thought that had brought her to the decision which she had announced to her mother, and brought her finally to Ralph Bramlett's door. It was Lena who admitted her, and she waited in state in the handsome parlor like any formal collar. When Mrs. Bramlett came it was evident that she felt formal and dignified. In vain did Marjorie struggle to take her old friendly place. What a pretty home you have, Estelle! I have often thought of you in it, and fancied myself running in to see you. It is even prettier than I imagined it. Have you grown used to housekeeping, or does it still seem queer to be regarded as mistress with no mother in the background ready for appeal? Oh, yes, the matron said with a cold smile. She was quite used to it. Almost anything became an old story after a few months. And have you been well all these months? Aren't you thinner than you used to be? How is Ralph? Does he look just as he did? The truth is, it seems to me years since I went away. I am not used to being so long from home, you know. I may call your husband Ralph, may I not. I cannot seem to bring my tongue into the habit of saying Mr. Bramlett. I think of him very much as I fancy others do of their brothers. Nothing could be more sincere than this sentence. The time had been when it flushed her cheek and brought a look of indignation to her eyes to have Estelle Douglas talk to her about Ralph Bramlett being the same as her brother. But all that seemed very long ago like a piece of her childhood that had been foolish and been put away. What she had desired exceedingly was to establish herself on such a footing with this young couple that they would honestly look upon her as a sister, one who was interested in everything that pertained to their life and ready to be as sympathetic and helpful as possible. If Glide was not mistaken, Ralph especially stood in dire need of a sister's influence. But her heart misgave her as she looked at Estelle's unresponsive face. She had been mistaken, she told herself, in thinking her paler than of old. There was a rich glow on her cheeks. These thoughts floated through her mind as she listened to Mrs. Bramlett's reply. Ralph was quite well, she believed, though she hardly saw enough of him to be certain. He was like all men, so absorbed in business as to have neither time nor heart for other ideas. As to what name her guests should use toward him, the wife utterly ignored this question. And then suddenly it seemed the time for her to ask questions. What of yourself, Marjorie? What have you found to occupy you all this while? I was surprised to learn that you had returned just as you went away. How is Mr. Maxwell? He is quite well, or was when we last heard. He is coming to spend the midwinter vacation with us. I hope you will see a good deal of him then. I feel sure that both you and Ralph would enjoy him. And when is the marriage to take place? Mrs. Bramlett had not forgotten her old art of asking direct questions when she chose, undeterred by any feeling of delicacy. It may be that she thought Marjorie's frank kindliness justified her in asking so personal a question. But was ever stupid her guest? For the moment Marjorie was bewildered. Could she mean glide? But that was absurd. She would not question an outsider about her own sister's affairs. Then suddenly the personality of the question donned upon her and she laughed. You must mean my marriage, I think. My friend, I haven't any idea. Nothing is farther from my thoughts at present. My own opinion is that I shall stay close beside my mother and be a good, useful, old-made sister to all my friends. I have always thought that a more useful life than that could hardly be imagined, and at present it certainly seems a pleasant one. There was no mistaking the earnestness in Mrs. Bramlett's tone when her next direct question was put. Do you mean me to understand that you are not engaged to Mr. Maxwell? The rich color flowed into Marjorie's face, but her laugh was free and unembarrassed. My dear Estelle, she said, how could you have imagined such a state of things? I assure you that nothing can be farther from the thoughts of either of us. Mr. Maxwell is a true and valued friend. Speaking of brothers, I am sure no girl could have a better one than he is to me. But that is quite the limit of our relationship. We have never, for a moment, thought of any other. Well, said Estelle, drawing her breath hard, and speaking quickly, as one impelled to speak whether she would or not, then all I have to say is that you are even a worse flirt than I took you to be. Estelle, have I ever said or done anything that justifies you in using such language to me? There was the pathos of wounded feeling in her voice, as well as a strong undertone of indignation. Estelle was instantly ashamed of herself. I beg your pardon, she said, trying to laugh. I should not have said that. It is really none of my business, of course. But you took me so utterly by surprise. Why, Marjorie, everybody thinks you are engaged to Mr. Maxwell, and ever since we heard you were coming home, people have been wondering whether you would be married before your return or wait to have the wedding at home. I am sure I never was more amazed in my life. Just what reply Marjorie would have made will not be known. An unexpected interruption occurred. It had been months since Ralph Bramlett had come out from his business by an early train. Indeed, his wife counted herself fortunate if he arrived in time for their late dinner, so all engrossing had his office business become. Her caller had taken care to assure herself of this fact before she chose the hour for her visit, her plan being to re-establish the most friendly relations with the wife before coming in contact with the husband. Indeed, one must do her judgment the justice to explain that her plan involved influencing her old friend Ralph almost entirely through the medium of his wife. She reasoned that, having so little time outside of business hours, he would naturally want to spend it chiefly with his wife, and of course she would not often see him. In short, she desired and planned to act the guardian angel to this friend of her youth without coming often enough in contact with him to disturb the angelic influence. That is not the way in which she put it to herself, yet it is perhaps a fair explanation of her inward meaning. However, on this particular day the unexpected happened. Mr. Bramlett came home by the early train, and hearing his wife's voice as he entered the hall and believing one of her sisters to be with her, he pushed open the door without ceremony and stood framed in the doorway and ejaculated the one word, Margery. Then Margery's self-possession returned to her. Not even positive rudeness on Estelle's part should keep her from trying to be helpful in this home. If Ralph supposed that she cherished indignation against him, because, for a single moment, under the power of some excitement, he had lost his head entirely and spoke in words which must have been a humiliation to him ever since, it should be her duty at the first opportunity to assure him of his mistake. Accordingly she arose and advanced to meet him without stretched hand. They were to be friends then. She must have been gratified not only at the instant look of relief but of unqualified pleasure which overspread Ralph Bramlett's face. He grasped the offered hand with an eagerness which did not escape his wife's eyes, and drawing a chair beside Margery plunged at once into the most earnest conversation, which was so worded, probably by accident, that Estelle was of necessity left outside. Neither did he appear to notice it when she murmured an excuse and abruptly left the room. Margery did, however, and was disturbed. Not at being left alone for a few minutes with her old friend. She desired to establish their relations on such a brotherly and sisterly basis as to make this the most ordinary of happenings. But because she felt afraid that Estelle would not realize how hearty and entire was her interest in herself, nor how anxious she was to be her friend. It is really Estelle that I want, said this unworldly schemer. What a pity that Ralph came so soon! I wish he would go to his dressing room or somewhere else and give me a chance to visit with his wife. Yet although this uncomfortable feeling floated through her mind, she had not after all the remotest conception of the state of turmoil into which she had thrown Estelle Bramlett. Be it understood that she had never realized in the past what was patent to some persons, namely that Estelle was jealous of her influence over Ralph. Why should there be any such feeling? Margery would have reasoned if she had thought about it at all. Did he not choose her and give himself to her? And had he not made her his wife? Of course she was to him above all others. That last interview with him, in which he had spoken words which would imply the contrary, was left out of the matter altogether as soon as it was definitely settled that these words were but the ravings of a temporarily unbalanced brain. Her surprise and consternation would have been great, could she have followed the wife and watched her as, having locked her door against all possible intrusion, she walked up and down the room, eyes dry and bright and seeming to flash venom, and hands clasped in so tight a grip that had she not been under the influence of violent excitement it would have hurt her, muttering from time to time such words as these. A wicked, wicked woman! Worse, a hundred times than an ordinary flirt! What does she mean? Haven't I trouble enough without having her steal into my house like the serpent that she is? I hate her! I wish I had told her so, and gotten rid of her in some way, in any way, before Ralph came. Oh, Ralph, Ralph! The name was uttered as a sort of moan, but still there were no tears. Estelle Bramlett was a woman who had no tears with which to relieve her deepest feelings. In her pocket there burned at that moment a bit of paper which she had found on the floor of her husband's study. It was covered all over with a name written in different styles of his fine hand. That name was Marjorie Edmonds. Marjorie Edmonds repeated in German text in fine flowing hand, in bold business hand, in curves and shades and flourishes, and twice carefully written Marjorie Edmonds Bramlett. What did he mean? Why should he employ his idle moments in writing that girl's name in every imaginable style? Why had he actually added it to his own name, her name? Did he wish all the time that it were Marjorie Edmonds Bramlett, instead of Estelle Douglas Bramlett? How was she to bear any of it? In the glow of the moonlight two figures were distinctly outlined at the gate of the Bramlett homestead. The hour was late, and especially at that quiet part of the world most people were sleeping. Yet still they lingered, Hannah Bramlett inside the gate with her anxious face upturned toward Jack Taylor, who lounged against the gate post and listened with what he meant for an air of respect. Hannah's voice as well as face was anxious. You know, Jack, you own that it is a constant temptation to you, and you have half promised me a dozen times that you would give it up. Why don't you? That is the question, said Jack. Why don't I? It isn't so easy as you women folks think. I know it isn't easy, Jack. At least I have heard others besides yourself say the same thing. But you are not a child to yield to a temptation because it is hard to resist it. You have been brave in struggling against a much greater temptation than this. There is where you are wrong, said Jack quickly. In some ways it is harder to stop smoking than it is to stop drinking. You see it is like this. If a fellow drinks, drinks hard, you know, as I have to if I do it at all, and staggers through the streets running against folks and talking to lamp posts and things, why everybody knows about it, and if he is poor and wears ragged clothes and all that sort of thing, why he is a worthless good-for-nothing fellow at once. Nobody trusts him. Nobody wants to have anything to do with him. But with smoking it is as different as daylight is from darkness. The nicest men in the world smoke and are respected just the same. Dr. Ford smokes, and you think he is all right? He came into our shop the other day to speak to a fellow, and he had a cigar in his hand that minute. It was a good one, too. I liked the smell of it. In fact, you may say I hankered after one like it. I went out as soon as I could and bought one. Not like his. I can't indulge expensive tastes, you see, although I have them. But one of my kind. I think maybe I would have got through the afternoon without smoking if it had not been for Dr. Ford. So you see what I mean by being tempted all the time. Hannah made a movement of impatience. Of course I know what you mean, Jack. But can't you see the difference between you and Dr. Ford? I don't say I am glad that he smokes. I am not. I wish he and everybody else would stop it. But I want you to think about is what has his smoking to do with you? Perhaps it isn't a temptation to him. Certainly it isn't in the same way that it is to you. Why cannot you live your life and let him live his? Do the best that you can for yourself without regard to the Dr. Ford's or any other people. You know, Jack, you have told me that after smoking two or three cigars, you felt sometimes such a hankering for liquor that it seemed to you you must have it. And you know if you once tasted again you are ruined. Yet you constantly keep this great temptation before you. How can you hope to become anybody when you refuse to help yourself even by so much? Jack Taylor gave a long-drawn sigh and shifted his position from one post to the other. I don't hope it much, he said dolefully. That's the living truth. I'm not worth the trouble you are taking for me, Miss Hannah. I know it as well as the next one. If it hadn't been for you and your kind of hanging on to me and expecting better things of me than I expected of myself, I should have gone to the dogs long ago. And perhaps that would have been the best way because that is how it will end. There isn't enough of me to have it end in any other way. You see, being a woman, you don't understand anything about it, and you can't understand. It isn't that I don't keep up a constant fight about these things. Take smoking now, which it seems to you is just as easy to give up as to say I won't go down street today. Why, I fought enough over that to make a decent fellow of me if there was anything to make it on. I began the smoking when I was a little chap not a dozen years old. I did it to be like my Sunday school teacher too. I knew he was a big, splendid man, and spent his days in a bank and went riding in his carriage whenever he liked, and the cigars seemed a part of him somehow. I don't know as I thought that if I got the cigars the bank and the carriage and fine clothes would come, but anyhow I copied him where I could and took to smoking. I've been at it ever since. Folks talk about second nature. This has got to be first nature with me. I seem to need it too. Why, one time, since I have been trying to live up to your notions, I went without cigars for pretty near three days, and a crosser, uglier, more contankerous beast than I was couldn't be found in the country. I wonder I wasn't discharged any hour in the day. If they hadn't been short of men and uncommonly hurried I should have been. At last it got so bad that I couldn't stand myself. I made up my mind it was no use. I threw down my hammer and went out and got a cigar, and in an hour I was all right. All right, Jack, when you own to me that after smoking two or three cigars you feel as though you must have a drink of beer. That's true, Miss Hannah, and I won't deny it. Everybody may not be so, but with me the two have gone together for a long time, and they seem to belong together. When I get the fumes of a good cigar it isn't the cigar I think so much about after all as the brandy. I seem to see it somehow skulking behind the other smell, and I have to fly out and get the cigar that I know I can have to keep me from rushing into the thing that I know I mustn't touch. But I shall touch it some day, I feel dead sure of it. Things are getting worse with me instead of better. That is the way it has been all my life. I could keep sober up to a certain point, then I was off and nothing in this life or the next one could prevent it. You know what I have been through? If anything could have kept me sober it was that little girl of mine, my wife, you know, and yet I killed her with the drink. Poor Hannah Bramlett, how utterly helpless she felt before this vision of attempted soul. It was as if for the first time she had been given a glimpse into darker depths than she had before imagined. Jack Taylor, looking at her, could distinctly see a tear rolling slowly down her cheeks, a tear of sympathy it may be, but also of disappointment. This shocked and dismayed him, as tears on the face of inhibitually self-controlled women always must dismay those who are not utterly hardened. It roused him to instant endeavor. I'll tell you what, Miss Hannah, I'm not worth all the trouble you are taking for me, and that's a fact. You just let go of me and let me slide. There are fellows in this town who are not so far gone as I, and young chaps who are just beginning, and some who haven't begun yet, but they will. If you will just turn your mind to some of them and save them, you will be doing something worthwhile. But I'm not of any particular account, anyway. My wife is dead, and mother is dead, and there isn't a living soul who cares what becomes of me. The effect was utterly different from what Hannah would have hoped for, had her tears been planned for effect. They were instantly dried, and Hannah, leaning over the gate-post, laid her hand on Jack's arm. He was watching her intently, a curious eager look in his eyes. If this girl who had been so kind, kinder than her sort of folks had ever been to him before, would only consent to drop her hold upon him and let him slide, he could then go back to the tastes for which his whole diseased body and brain longed with something like an easy conscience according to his distorted ideas of conscience. A strange fight was at that moment going on in Jack Taylor's mind. He was making Hannah Bramlett the pivot on which his next action was to turn. If she would only say, Jack, I am disappointed in you, I have helped you all I can, I must give you up. Then would he go as straight as impatient feet could carry him to the nearest saloon and drink until this awful thirst of his was quenched. It was heavier upon him tonight than it had been for weeks before. What she said, with her hand resting on his arm, was, Jack, I will never give you up, never as long as I live so help me God. I have asked him on my knees to make of you a good, true man, and to let me be a help to you in some way. Don't ask me to turn away from that hope and expectation. Jack, you are the first one I ever tried to help in my life, and if you fail me it will spoil my life as well as yours. It was a strange appeal, and it had a strange effect. Jack continued to look at her stead fastly, but the light died out in his eyes, leaving instead almost a sullen look, and he gave presently that long-drawn sigh and said, Well, then I suppose I must try it some more. I thought I wouldn't, but if you won't let go of a fellow what can he do? An upper window of the bramlet homestead opened at that moment, a head appeared, and a voice was heard. Hannah, you ought not to stand out there any longer in the cold, I wish you would come in. It was her mother's voice, and there was more than maternal solicitude for Hannah's health expressed in it. Hannah knew what the admonition meant, so in a degree did Jack, he laughed a little bitterly. They are watching out for you, Miss Hannah, he said. You are getting yourself into lots of trouble by trying to help such a worthless fellow as I am. It would be a great deal better for you just to give me up. Hush, said Hannah, I don't want you ever to say anything of that kind to me again. Remember what I have told you that I will never give you up. We must not talk any longer now, it is late. But I shall expect to see you at the hall tomorrow as usual. Good night! By the time she had locked the door and toiled up the long flight of stairs, the door of her mother's room opened, and that good lady, in night attire, old-fashioned candlestick in hand, appeared to light her daughter through the hall and speak her mind. I wonder at you, Hannah, standing at the gate in the cold at this time of night, to talk with that fellow after what Ralph said to you. I can't think what has got into you. You never used to go on in this way before. Oh, Ralph! said Hannah in a high-pitched, indignant voice. Don't quote him to me, mother, to-night. If he would help me a little in what I am trying to do, instead of smoking around the streets, setting bad examples for others to follow, I might be more willing to listen to what he has to say. I haven't heard anybody by standing at the gate a few minutes with a poor, tempted boy. Our voices couldn't have disturbed you to-night, I am sure. We spoke low enough. It isn't the disturbance, said the mother in an injured tone. You know well enough, Hannah, that I'm not one to be disturbed by folks trying to help others. But there is common sense in all things, and it isn't common sense for you to stand out at the front gate at this time of night, talking with a good-for-nothing boy. It does seem as though you were possessed. What do you supposed people think of you, at your age, too? I don't care what they think, said Hannah. She disappeared within her own room without so much a saying good-night to her mother, and slammed the door a little as she did so. By which token it will be seen that an angelic spirit had by no means gotten complete possession of Hannah Bramlett. As to what people said of her, they were busy saying it that very night. She had been so earnest in her last words to Jack that she had not so much as noticed a passing carriage moving very slowly down the road, while one pair of keen eyes watched with eagerness the scene at the gate. Perhaps Hannah would have been more careful had she noticed the carriage, and known that it contained Mr. and Mrs. Jonas Smith, and perhaps not. Hannah had her own share of the Bramlett obstinacy. But Mrs. Smith looked and looked, and spoke her mind. Just see that Bramlett girl! I suppose she calls herself a girl, though she is thirty if she is a day, standing at the gate with Jack Taylor, with her hand on his arm, and leaning over to gaze into his face. I daresay he is drunk this very minute. What can her folks be thinking about? Haven't they any influence over her, do you suppose? Or don't they know how she is going on with that fellow? I declare somebody ought to tell them what people are saying. If a woman of her age hasn't learned common sense, it is high time she was looked after for the sake of the girls and the boys, too, for that matter. To be sure, she can't hurt Jack Taylor. But who would have expected such goings on in a Bramlett? Certainly life was bringing to Hannah Bramlett some hard experiences. As she had told Jack Taylor, she had lived her life until very recently, without even an effort to help along the work of the world in any way. She had not told him how intense her desire had been to take her place with the great army of those who thought of others instead of themselves, whose days were filled with important work, service instead of with petty routine. But she had been trampled on every side, chiefly by the feeling which seemed to possess all who knew her, that Hannah Bramlett could not be counted upon in any way. She was, in a singular sense of the phrase, a girl who had had no place in life. Other girls in their teens had been full of this sweet, fascinating world, charmed with its pursuits, intoxicated almost with its pleasures. It had had no opportunity to charm Hannah. She had been a shy, backward girl, living much within herself, always went at home, busy with the daily burdens of life on an unproductive farm, where hired labour was scarce and work heavy. The long winter evenings that might have been made to do so much for the girl had very largely been spent with her father and mother in the large farmhouse kitchen, gathered around a single kerosene lamp of not modern style, her father carefully reading the daily paper, her mother busy with the interminable mending basket. Hannah had been expected from almost her babyhood to do her full share of the mending, and had faithfully attacked this duty which her soul hated. When her brother Ralph was a little boy, he had escaped the kitchen by going early to bed. As he grew older, and indeed blossomed suddenly into young manhood, he had gone out into the world and taken his place among the young people as Hannah never had. In fact, he had speedily become a leader among a certain class of young people, and had his intimate friends who included him as a matter of course in all their plans. Oh yes, Hannah had been a school girl and a faithful, painstaking scholar. She had made fairly good use of such opportunities as had been hers, and would have liked nothing better, had the books been at her command, than to fill the long winter evenings with reading and study. But as life on the farm grew harder, she was more and more needed at home, and as no one recognized for her the importance of her continuing at school, her teachers as a rule being busy with more brilliant pupils, she early and quietly dropped out of line. She had had but few acquaintances in school and no intimates. In short, a greater contrast could hardly be imagined than that which her own young life and her brothers presented. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Overruled by Pansy The Slibervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Poor Jack There is something very sad about this review of the relation between brother and sister. One cannot help thinking how much they might have been to each other had either or both been different. Had there been less disparity in their ages, matters might not have been so bad. But there was a period in Ralph Bramlett's life during which his sister distinctly ruled over him, not always with a gentle hand. She loved him after a manner which he did not, and perhaps never would, understand. But she made him constantly remember that he was subject to her. Shy and timid with other people, her native energy took the form of aggressiveness with him, and her authority kept that of his gentler mothers in the background. Then suddenly, as it seemed to Hannah, there had come a great change. Ralph escaped her, and went out into the schoolboy world, and grew tall and strong, and threw off utterly the yoke of subjection. Had he been the sort of boy he might have been, the sort of which there are very few in the world, and allowed his donning manhood to assume a protective form and clung to his sister, taking her with him on occasion into his new world, telling her about it in a confidential way, he might have done with her almost as he would. Her nature and her love were such that they could have changed relations, and he would have been accepted as the guide and mentor. Hannah herself, when she began to realize the change in him, had for a time a dim sense of this possibility. She began timidly to question him concerning matters in which he had evidently outstripped her. What did people say about thus and so? What was the accepted idea concerning this or that matter? But he had failed to recognize his opportunity. He had laughed at her questions, scoffed at her scruples, sneered into worthlessness all plans of hers, and counted her out of his engagements as a matter of course. Not because he meant to be unbrotherly, but because the four years of difference in their ages seemed to him a great gulf. When he was eleven and Hannah was fifteen, he had looked upon her as a woman. When he became of age, and she was twenty-five, she seemed to him to have grown into an old woman, or at least a middle-aged one, who must of necessity be separated from his life outside the home. Hannah had accepted the repulsion, and returned promptly to her character of elder sister and fault-finder. A certain sense of soreness connected with this experience caused her to find fault so sharply and continually that at last he told her in frank, not to say rough language, that she was hereafter to attend to her own business and allow him to attend to his. So they lived their different lives, even when of the same household. Probably Ralph would at any time have been astonished, had he known how strong almost to fierceness was the current of love which flowed through his sister's heart for him. But he would have been equally astonished had one told him that his conduct to his sister was at any time unbrotherly. Meantime Hannah, having quietly given up certain ambitions which she had had for herself, and of which no one dreamed, had centered all her hopes and expectations on her brother, and in a hundred ways he had disappointed her. He was to have been a scholar, a lawyer, a great man, one to whom hundreds should look for counsel, for help, for guidance. Instead he had become a bookkeeper in a distillery. This in itself was bitter enough. There had been a few months of prospective comfort for her because she had rested her soul on the belief that Ralph would eventually marry Marjorie Edmonds, and once married to her all that was wrong about him would in some mysterious manner fall away, and he would be all that he could and should be. For Hannah Bramlett, although she had no intimate friends, had one idol. Ever since she could remember, she had looked up to and felt a sort of reverent admiration for Marjorie Edmonds. In her secret heart she had called her sister, and reveled in the thought of what it would be to be able to call her that before all the world. My sister Marjorie says, she would sometimes begin in clear tones when quite alone, and a happy glow would spread over her face at the thought of the strong, wise words which that sister Marjorie would speak, and of how sure they would be to win respect. Hannah herself, with her curious mixture of timidity and positiveness which are sometimes found together in suppressed natures, had never been able, outside of her own very small world, to express herself with firmness, yet gloried in the freedom of speech and gracious leadership which characterized Marjorie, and clung to her with a daily increasing intensity of love and a gloating sense of possession in prospect. And then suddenly had come that crushing disappointment. Instead of Marjorie, the sister was to be Estelle Douglas, as intense in its way as her admiration for Marjorie had been her dislike for Estelle. Perhaps this feeling had deepened instead of decreased since the marriage. Yet, after all, she had borne the disappointment better than at one time she had supposed she could, because she had become absorbed in other interests. Ever since a well-remembered day when she had sought Marjorie and poured out before her some of her ambitions, Hannah might almost have been said to live for Jack Taylor's sake. It was Marjorie who told her of him, and actually asked her to try to help him. Following very soon upon her first timid efforts came the discovery which has power to thrill, namely that she really had influence over a human being, that there was somebody who looked up to her, who was willing, to a degree at least, to be led by her, and who responded gratefully to her efforts to help him. This opened to the hungry-hearted young woman a new world. She put herself between Jack Taylor and the hundred temptations which beset his path. She gave up most of her evenings to work that had to do with him. She begged and pleaded with him to resist the evil spirit that seemed always at his elbow. She went with him more than once to places that in themselves had no interest for her, but because they interested him, and because by being with him she could shield him from temptation, she had unhesitatingly sacrificed herself. She had, in fact, done everything for him that a guardian angel in human form could do. On the evening in question, as the poor girl closed her door and dropped in weariness and bitterness into the one comfortable chair which the dreary little room contained, and clasped her hands in almost an agony of disappointment, that bitterest of all questions came and stood beside her, seeking answer. Of what use was all her effort? What had she accomplished? She had never before so fully realized the force for evil which was pressing upon Jack Taylor, temptations coming daily to him from the very class of people that ought to have been his strength. From men like her brother Ralph for instance, because this matter of smoking was, without question, a temptation to Jack Taylor, whatever it might be to others. Yet he could not meet even her Christian brother on the street without coming in contact with this temptation. Nay, it was worse than that. Her very pastor, his pastor, as she had tried to have Jack consider him, brought the same power for evil to bear upon him. How could a man like Jack be expected to make anything but a failure with such fearful odds against him? Man, indeed! It was folly to call him that. He was a mere boy with not so much strength of will as had many a boy of seventeen. But the bitterest drop in Hannah Bramlett's cup was undoubtedly the discovery that she was the subject of gossiping tongues. It was all very well for her to tell her mother that she did not care what people thought. The simple truth was that no one cared more about it than did she. The Bramlitz had been poor all their lives for generations back, indeed, but they had been eminently respectable, none of them more entirely so than Hannah. Unconsciously she had prided herself upon this fact. She was not handsome, she could not lay claim to genius or even talent in any special direction, but she bore with honour and dignity an honoured name. No breath from the outside world had ever blown upon her in disapproval, or ever could, so it had seemed to her entrenched as she was behind generations of propriety. And yet, behold, gossiping tongues had dared to play with her name. To what extent she was not quite sure. If the truth be told, she believed that a very large portion of the tale that had been indignantly told to her had had its birth in the imagination of her brother's wife. But some foundation she must have had, of course, and this thought rankled, struck deep, indeed, in Hannah Bramlett's heart. Was it possible that it was such a mean wicked world that a woman like herself, who had lived so many years of blameless life, could not show kindness to and patience with a misguided boy like Jack Taylor, in order to try to save him, without becoming the victim of cruel tongues? It was characteristic of Hannah Bramlett's character that, although she had cried bitterly in secret over the story when it first came to her through the channel of Estelle's indignation, she had not for a single moment thought of throwing off Jack Taylor, or of changing in any way her efforts to save him. People must talk if they would, it was only the low and coarse who did so, and her brother's wife must lower herself to listen to such talk if she would. But she, Hannah, would move steadily forward in the work that she had undertaken. Jack Taylor was to be saved to the world and to God, and she was to be, in a degree at least, the instrument used to descend. Should any gossiping tongues deprive her of such a joy as that? Not for a second did she hesitate, but the sacrifice was no less bitter. She had told Jack Taylor that night that she would never give him up, and she meant it. Yet, as she presently slipped down on her knees to pour out her disappointment and pain to the one who alone seemed able to understand her, there came at first only a burst of passionate tears. But it is blessed to remember that the maker of hearts understands the language of tears. Jack Taylor, left to himself, went with long strides toward the uninviting quarters that he called home. There was in his heart a curious sense of defeat. He actually felt almost indignant at Hannah Bramlett. Why couldn't she let him alone? What was the use in tugging with him any longer? She was injuring herself by it, as he had told her, though the poor fellow had not the least idea to what extent. He only knew that a certain class of people nudged elbows as he passed with her, and sometimes indulged in chuckles that were loud enough for his ears to catch. Occasionally they asked him, with sly winks, how his best girl was. It all seemed supremely silly to him, but he had an instinctive feeling that Hannah would dislike it very much, and felt a chivalrous desire to keep her from knowing anything about it. When he heard Mrs. Bramlett's voice that night calling to her daughter, it represented to him a certain other class of people who were saying that Hannah was demeaning herself by having anything to do with him. I suppose she is, said the poor fellow to himself, dolefully. I'm not worth doing anything with, and I told her so. I wish with all my soul that she would let me alone. But she won't. She ain't of that kind. She is going to have me a good, true man, she says. My land, she don't know what kind of a job she has undertaken. Jack Taylor get to be a good, true man. Ten minutes walk brought him to Main Street. As he turned the corner, he came upon a former comrade of his, Joe Berry by name. Hello, Jack, said that worthy, good-natured Lee. Been seeing your best girl home? It must be an awful bore to have to travel so far out with her every night. You will be glad when you get settled in a livelier place, won't you? You hold up on that, will you? said Jack a trifle fiercely. I'm not in the notion for anything of the kind tonight. Oh, now, old fellow, don't be cross. What if you have got up in the world so high that you can claim the bramlets as your particular friends? That's no reason why you should look down on old acquaintances. I thought better of you than that. I didn't mean any disrespect, you know. Why, man, I'm ready to dance at your wedding whenever you say the word. Jack Taylor was, as Hannah had called him, nothing but a boy. The idea of there being supposed to be a wedding in prospect for him, and of his being allied with the bramlet family, struck him as irresistibly ludicrous, and he laughed outright. That's you, said Joe. Treat a fellow halfway, though you have got up in the world. I'm looking forward to that wedding, I tell you, with a good deal of interest. I used to train in the higher circles myself, and it will seem nice to get counted in once more. You won't slide an old friend like me, of course. Why, I'm ready to drink to your prospects any minute. Though I don't know as she will allow that. She keeps you pretty straight, don't she? But Jack's fun had already subsided. Look here, he said in his gravest tone. I don't want any more such talk as that. You don't mean a word you say, of course, but some things won't bear making fun of, because Miss Bramlet has taken a notion to try to help a worthless chap like me is no reason why she should be insulted. Never thought of such a thing, I tell you, said Joe, still in utmost good nature. It is a streak of tip-top luck on your part, and I'm glad it has come to you. The Bramlets are no great things so far as money goes, but they are awful on respectability. There's my Lord Bramlet in the distillery, you know. If you take his notion of it, he is the biggest toad there is in any of the puddles around. Hang me if I'd like him for a brother-in-law, though. SHUT UP! said Jack fiercely. I told you I didn't want any more chaffing of that kind. If there wasn't anything else in the way, you might remember that you are talking about a woman who is almost old enough to be my mother. But the thing is ridiculous in every way, and there never was any such notion about it, of course. On her bright? Well, now really I didn't know. Old girls like that are queer sometimes. They've lost most of their chances, you know, and there's never any telling. What does she hang around you so for if there isn't anything in it? She wants to make a man of me, said Jack, a good, true man. Then he laughed. There was bitterness in the laugh. He had no heart for laughter. In truth no human being knew how near Jack Taylor was to the verge that night. Joe Barry laughed uproariously. That's the dodge, is it? he said. Next thing she'll be getting you converted. That's the way they do it. The very next thing I expect to hear of you, Jack, is that you have been down on your knees somewhere making all kinds of promises. I hope you'll keep them. I've made a good many myself in my day and kept some of them, for a week or two. I say, Jack, let's go into Old Tonny's here, and have a drink to treat what may be. No, said Jack. I won't go into Old Tonny's. What's the use of making it harder for me by asking? The old girl won't let you, eh? Well, that is hard. Suppose we go in and have a smoke, then. That isn't wicked, you know. My Lord Bramlett puffs cigars all the time. He was only good-natured and rollicking. He had no conception of the harm that he might do. He had not even an idea of the awful burning thirst which seemed to be consuming Jack that night. Much less did he know of the drying power for evil that the mere smell of tobacco had over the poor fellow. Jack, listening to the evil spirit that had been at his elbow all day, said within himself, What's the use? I told her it would come some time. I gave her fair warning. If I go into Old Tonny's tonight, I shall drink. I know I shall. Why not tonight as well as any time? Poor tempted Jack.