 CHAPTER 7 A CHANCE TO CHOOSE He stood irresolute, almost within the jaws of the tempter. The door of Old Tony's saloon kept opening and letting out odors that were as ambrosia to the poor, diseased appetite. Voices that sounded cheery to him floated out with the odors. It was bright in there and warm, and the night was cold. And Jack in his insufficient clothing shivered, and longed for the comfort and companionship to be found just inside. He argued the question with himself. He was tired, he had worked harder than usual that day, and had been held to it later. Perhaps the smell of the liquor would not tempt him as much as he thought, and a pleasant smoke in there would rest him. But if it did tempt him, he had been tempted before and had resisted. Why shouldn't he do it again? He placed his foot on the lower step. That's right, said Joe Berry, encouragingly. Come on, it will be nice and warm inside. It is uncommonly cold tonight for this time of year. Oh, Jack Taylor, I am so glad it is you. Won't you take me home? I've been down on Carnell Street at the Mission to help them with the singing. My brother-in-law was to come for me at nine o'clock, but there must have been some misunderstanding, for he hasn't come. I've been waiting at the rooms for more than an hour. I'm afraid to be on the street alone at this time of night. It was a pretty girl in the neatest of street costumes, who thus addressed Jack. He as well as his friend Joe knew Glide Douglas by sight. Jack indeed could boast of more knowledge than that. He had met her several times at the Mission. She had spoken to him in a friendly way and bowed afterwards when he met her on the street. By so much was he ahead of Joe Berry in respectability. Joe would not have thought of such a thing as bowing to Glide Douglas, although he had known her by sight from childhood. Of course I'll take you home, Jack said, with cheerful alacrity, and he took his foot down from the lower step of Old Tony's saloon and walked away briskly with the young lady by his side. Joe looked after them interestingly, giving a low chuckle the while. I wonder if they'll get him? He asked himself. They are trying for him for all their worth. If that little Douglas critter is going in, too, maybe it will amount to something. She is pretty enough for most any fellow to do as she says. Well, it would be funny if Jack Taylor would out in reform, that's a fact. I'd most think I could after that. And he ain't got no mother, either. Joe poor fellow had a mother who would have cried tears of joy if somebody had only made something out of him. As they walked down the moonlighted street, Glide explained more fully the perplexity in which she had been because of her brother's non-appearance, then suddenly returned to a matter that had troubled her before the question of getting home came up. Jack, do you know a young man by the name of Sieber, William Sieber? I reckon I do, said Jack promptly, and I don't know any good of him, either. I was afraid so, spoken sorrowfully. Is he very bad, Jack? Well, said Jack reflectively, I don't know as he is any worse than dozens of others, but he's a bad lot now, that's a fact. He's good-natured, though, when he hasn't too much whiskey aboard, a real jolly kind of a fellow, but he does some pretty mean things, things that some of the fellows won't do bad as they are in some other ways. And do you know a girl named Susie Miller? Oh yes, after a fashion I do, her brother in me used to be chums when we were little chaps, and I've drawed Susie to school on a sled many a time. I ain't known her much of late years, her brother died, you know, seems as if all the decent folks I used to know died. But I see her at the mission when I go there, of course. I've seen her with Bill Sieber a good many times lately. I suppose so. Jack, what do you think of it? If Susie were your sister, would you be willing to have her on friendly terms with Bill, taking walks with him and letting him see her home from places, and all that sort of thing? No, said Jack, scowling fiercely. She shouldn't do it if I could help it, you may be sure of that. It isn't the thing, perhaps, for one like me to be finding fault, but there's a difference in fellows just as sure as you live, even when they don't any of them amount to much. If Bill Sieber tried to make up to a sister of mine, I'd knock him down for it. I think I understand your feeling, Jack, and I am very much worried about Susie. She is in my class, and, of course, I am especially interested in her. I have talked with her about this matter, but so far it hasn't done any good. She is with him to-night, and I think he had been drinking. I did not like the way he looked or acted. It is not that Susie is especially attached to him, but she thinks she can help him by going with him and ought to do so. I have tried to explain to her that the way to help him would be to show him that he cannot have the society of a respectable girl unless he is willing to be a respectable young man, but she has her heart set on reforming him. I am sure I wish she might, but I cannot think that that is the wise way to attempt it. Jack gave a series of low, amused chuckles before he attempted any reply. Reform Bill Sieber, he said at last. That is a job, I tell you, a bigger one than ever Susie Miller will accomplish, or my name isn't Jack Taylor. I should as soon think of setting a little grey mouse to reforming a great green-eyed cat and a tiger-cat at that. I tell you, Miss Douglas, reforming ain't such easy work as some women folks that never had any temptations think it is. The tone had changed from its half-amused note to an almost despairing gravity. Something in it suggested to glide a personal question. How is it with you, Jack? Are you getting along well? No, I can't say that I am. Jack is. I guess I am getting along about as bad as I can. Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Why, the last time I heard Miss Hannah speak of it, she was very much encouraged about your prospects. She is a good friend to you, Jack. You ought to try to please her. That so, said Jack, a fellow never had a better friend. But it is hard work pleasing her. She wants folks to be angels, you know, and that isn't in my line. He laughed a little and tried to speak in an utterly careless tone, but glide detected the heartache beneath it. What do you find so hard? She asked, encouragingly. Everything, said Jack in a gloom. A fellow can't turn a corner without coming across something that he used to do and would like to do and mustn't do. Just pull and haul yourself all the time, and nothing much to keep you back from it, either. I haven't any folks you know to care. If I had, it might make a big difference. There's Joe Barry now, that fellow I was talking with tonight when you came along. He's got a mother, as nice an old lady as ever was. She would give her two eyes to see him a good, true man. If I had a mother, it kind of appears to me as though I could do it, though maybe not. When I had folks of my own, it didn't make a might of difference. But I'm a little different now from what I was then. Still, when there isn't anybody to care what's the use. It occurred to glide to remind him of what he owed to his citizenship and the respect that he might win from his fellow men and the love that might be his in the future if he made himself worthy of it. This seemed the natural thing to say to him. He had heard it often. Hannah Bramlett had earnestly tried to rouse his manhood along all these lines. But something made the young girl feel like passing them and going at once to the fountain-head. Jack, she said, do you remember the Lord Jesus Christ and what he did in order that you might become a good, true man? Do you remember that he is more interested in you than father or mother or any earthly friend could be? How is it that you are willing to disappoint him? For a moment Jack Taylor was dumbfounded. He knew the Lord Jesus Christ by name, certainly. In his childhood he had had some teaching concerning the central truths of the Christian religion. And in later years in the chapel he had, of course, heard the sacred name in him and prayer. But certainly he had never heard any one speak of Jesus Christ quite as Glyde Douglas did. He looked around him half in superstition. He was conscious of a curious sensation as if a third person had come quietly up in the moonlight, and it was he whom Glyde was introducing. I don't know as I understand. He said, after a moment, in a tone that had a touch of awe. He doesn't expect anything of me, of course, nor care. Why should he? Oh, Jack, why shouldn't he? Isn't he interested in manhood to a degree that no one else can be? Doesn't he understand, as none of us, if we do our utmost can understand, the possibilities of real manhood? Doesn't he know what we would accomplish in the world, if we would? It is all out before him, as a mep might be to us. He sees the roads that may be taken, as well as those that have been. Moreover, he sees beyond this world, and knows the possibilities that there are for us in that other world where none of the obstacles now in the way of what men call success come in to interrupt. Don't you believe that he is deeply, awfully interested in what you will decide to do? That's a queer way to put it, said Jack. I never heard anything like it before in my life. But now, Miss Douglas, I want to ask you one question. If he is so awfully interested, why doesn't he do things for a fellow? I don't mean anything disrespectful. I suppose I don't understand how to talk about such things. But I couldn't help getting that off. Of course, I understand that God can do anything he is a mind to. And if he cared for a fellow like me in the way that you say, why, I should think he'd make things easy for me. Kind of make me get into the right road, you know, and stay there whether I wanted to or not. I'd do it in a minute for any chap that I was interested in, if I could. No, said Glide positively. He will never do that for you. When he made you, he put a man's soul within you, and arranged that you should have a man's possibilities. He has given you a chance to choose for yourself. Now, see here. Interrupted Jack, speaking almost fiercely. Folks talk about God being a father to them. Down there at the hall the other night, that man talked about the verse, like as a father pityeth his children. And he said God was the best and wisest father and all that. Now I'm not very wise, nor very good, the land knows. But suppose I had a little boy, I had a little chap once, Miss Douglas, he didn't live but three weeks. I have sometimes thought if he had, everything might have been different. But he didn't. Suppose he had. If I had the power to take that little fellow and put him on the right road and keep him there, don't you suppose I would do it quicker than a wink? No, said Glide, firmly. I don't. Look here, Jack, suppose you had a very pleasant house into which you could put your little boy and keep him there with locked doors and windows graded, so that it would not be possible for him to escape. You could keep him from a good many wrong roads by that means, couldn't you? He would not be tempted by gambling saloons or drinking saloons. He would not stand around on street corners, nor mingle with men who used evil words. Oh, there are a hundred wrong roads from which you could surely shield him. Would you do it? Keep him there all his life, surrounded with pleasant things, books and flowers and birds, and everything that love could furnish, but still a prisoner. Would you do this instead of letting him go out in the world to choose his own way? Jack laughed. I reckon I wouldn't, Miss Douglas. Indeed you wouldn't. You would be too wise. You would be sure that your boy, in order to amount to anything as a man, must go out and see the different roads and choose for himself or his goodness would be mere weakness. I think it is a little bit of an illustration of the way in which our Heavenly Father treats us. Not a good one, Jack, because there are so many things about our future that we do not understand. There are so many possibilities that are not known to us. I suppose that God, knowing all about us, took the best way, did the very best that he could in order that we might get ready for that highest good. You can easily see that love for your little boy would lead you to give him a certain degree of freedom. You would show him as well as you could the right way, and teach him what he ought to do. You would guard him while he was a little fellow, but as he grew older you would know that he must choose for himself. Isn't that, in a sense, the way that God has treated us? Oh, he has done infinitely more than that, of course. It is only a very faint illustration, but after you have done your best for your boy, if he should persist in choosing the wrong road, you wouldn't feel as though he had treated you very well, would you? No more I wouldn't, said Jack, frankly. But after all, Miss Douglas, it ain't possible for folks to think, for me at least, to think of God caring for me like that, if I could once feel as though he did, why, it seems to me. He stopped abruptly, his voice had begun to tremble, and he did not choose to show his heart even to this simple-hearted girl. If you could believe that God loved you as a father, you think you would try to please him. Is that it, Jack? I will tell you what I wish you would do. You have never read the Bible much, I suppose. You have a Bible of your own, don't you? I wish you would read in it the story of Jesus Christ on earth. Read what a lonely, friendless life he lived here, and how his followers treated him the very best of them. In the hour of his greatest human need they all forsook him and fled. Worse than that, one disowned him, declared with oaths that he never knew him. Read how his enemies mocked and struck him and spit on him and pierced him with thorns, and how in agony unimaginable he died at last on that awful cross. Then ask yourself why he bore it all, why God permitted it. If the reason he has himself given should prove to be the true one, because he so loved Glyde Douglas and Jack Taylor that he gave his only son that they might have eternal life, ought you and I to need any other proof of love? Oh, Jack, I don't want you to be one of the men who are going to disappoint such a saviour as that. One verse in the Bible comes often to me. Do you know it says, he shall see the travail of his soul and be satisfied? I cannot tell you what a joy it is to me to think that I am actually going to help satisfy the Lord Jesus Christ. I want you to remember that you must either satisfy or disappoint him, and that you have it in your power to choose which you will do. CHAPTER VIII PIVOTS Jack drew one of those heavy sighs that seemed to come from the depths of his soul as he said, Well, Miss Douglas, maybe you are right. It looks more reasonable to me than it ever did before. But I'll tell you what it is. I'm afraid I've got to disappoint him. You see, the trouble is I've got on to the wrong road somehow, and I've been on it so long that I can't seem to help it. Miss Hannah, she's done her best for me, and I've tried the best I knew how. For months now I've been at it, trying to satisfy her, but I can't do it. I feel tonight as though it was all up with me, and there was no use in trying any longer. I've felt so for two or three days. Perhaps a fellow does have a chance to choose. I guess it's so, as you say. But I had my chance, and chose the wrong road, and there I am. I know folks say that you can get back if you want to, but it isn't true. I want to, bad enough, and there needn't anybody say I haven't tried. But I've just about made up my mind tonight that there is no use in it. Being more utterly cast down and discouraged than Jack's tone can be imagined. It put energy into glides. Jack, I know what you need. You have got to have the help of the Lord Jesus Christ, or the fight will be too much for you. I know something of how you have felt all these months, just as though you were on slippery ground and might fall any minute. Don't you see that you need to get on solid ground? Why don't you try that way if you are in earnest? And I believe you are. Give yourself up to the Lord Jesus Christ and follow His lead. There is entire manliness in that course. Do you understand what I mean? That boy of yours about whom we have been talking? Suppose he were a young man, and you were his good, wise father. You would not order him what to do and where to go. You would recognize his manhood and his rights. But suppose he came to you saying, Father, I want you to direct me. I realize that you are wiser than I, and I desire above all things to be guided by you. Wouldn't you do the best you could for him? The illustration isn't a good one. It is too weak. But don't you know, Jack, that Jesus has undertaken to meet us more than halfway? He offers to make a contract with us. Our part is to give ourselves to him. Jack listened in silence. When the earnest voice ceased, he still kept silence, feeling that he had no words for such a subject. After a minute, Glide began again anxiously. Don't you understand, Jack? I am afraid I haven't made it clear. I don't know how to talk about these things very well. I wish you knew Marjorie Edmonds. She could tell you just how it is, or Mr. Maxwell, if he were only here. It struck the young Christian worker suddenly, as a strange thing, that in all her circle of acquaintances, many of whom were members of the church, she could think of only these two who would be likely to be able to direct Jack clearly. Oh, there was Dr. Ford, of course, but young men like Jack were afraid of clergymen. She had tried to persuade some of the boys at the mission to talk with Dr. Ford, but had not succeeded. I don't know enough to understand such things, Jack said humbly. But Jack, it is all very simple. Listen, suppose you had a friend, a strong, wise friend, one who never had done, so far as you could see, other than just write, and suppose it were possible for him to go with you wherever you went, and stay with you day and night, directing you just what to do and what not to do. Suppose he would promise to do this for you, provided you would put yourself under his care. Would you do it?" I reckoned I'd try it, said Jack promptly. If I could find any such fellow on this created earth. But I couldn't, Miss Douglas. Never mind that. You would know just how to do such a thing, wouldn't you? You would say, I wonder what you would say. Why, said Jack, growing interested in the supposition. Maybe I should say something like this. If you are willing and able to do all that for me, I'm your chap. Lead on. Very well. Don't you see what I mean? Jesus Christ is both able and willing to do all that for you. He has promised to do it. You can say, I'm your chap to him as well as to a man walking by your side. The question is, will you do it? I have given you only the human side of the story. There is a divine side. That good, wise friend whom we have been imagining might do a great deal for you. But he could not change a thought of your heart no matter how much you might wish him to do so. But the Lord Jesus Christ can take from you all desire after the wrong road. More than that he can blot out all your past sins, blot them out, Jack, it is his own word, and give you peace and victory all along the road. By this time they had reached her father's door, and there was no opportunity for Jack to reply, even had he felt inclined. He received her hearty thanks for his protection in awkward silence, then turning walked swiftly homeward with eyes bent on the ground. He passed several saloons without so much as noticing that he did so. Strange new words had been spoken to him that night. Hannah Bramlett was a Christian woman, and her daily life was a constant struggle not to dishonor the religion she professed. She prayed daily for Jack Taylor, sometimes with strong crying and tears, and she believed that if he were ever to be a saved man the power of God must save him. Yet she had not known how to talk with him about these things, and almost overpowering timidity had taken possession of her whenever she attempted to speak to him of the way of salvation. She had struggled with the timidity, and had tried more than once to point him to Christ. That is, she had told him that his heart was unregenerate, and that he needed to be converted, and that nothing but a real downright conversion would ever make him sure of himself even for this life. Poor Jack had been willing to believe that he needed everything. He had even reached the point where he was willing to get religion and stand the mockery of the fellows. To this end he had gone several times to the weeknight services at the mission, and listened patiently to talk that was as Sanskrit to him, because the speakers either did not realize his depths of ignorance on such topics, or did not understand how to reach his level. For the most part they used the accepted terms, the shibboleths, if one may so speak, of religion. More wisely it is true than Hannah Bramlett in her inexperience and timidity had been able to, and they reached and helped many. But Jack in his early life had learned only words and names, and in later years had not come in contact even with these. He did not understand. It had been given to Glyde Douglas to reveal to his astonished ears the simplicity on the human side of that wondrous plan of salvation, and then was Jack Taylor, if he had but understood it, at the most perilous point in his life's history. There had been made plain to him the fact of two distinct and ever-separating roads, either of which he could choose if he would. Nay, having admitted that, and hidden behind the apparently humble statement that he had chosen wrong and must abide by his decision, suddenly had been revealed a friend so infinite that he could not only guide and guard for the future, but could blot out the past. In short, Jack Taylor understood that he might begin again. He had helped to make plain the revelation by his own admissions. Had he not distinctly said that if such a human friend could be found, he reckoned he would follow him? He knew, as well as the best-taught regular attendant at church and Sabbath school could know it, that here was a chance for him, and offer, as it were, for his soul. What would Jack Taylor say in reply? Meantime, what had become of that brother-in-law whose absence had occasioned Glyde Douglas so much anxiety and embarrassment? He had given a somewhat reluctant consent to her petition to be called for on his way home from the meeting of the library association. It is true it would be but two blocks out of his way, or at least would have been had he gone to the association meeting. He had not chosen to explain to Glyde that he did not intend to be present at the meeting, having dropped his connection with it as he had with most things of like character. To do him justice it was not the walk or the trouble to which he objected, but the fear of meeting some of the mission-workers who had urged him earnestly and frequently to help them in their efforts to save men. The harassed man had pleaded all the excuses he could think of except the true one, and felt that he wanted to hear no more about it. Still, Glyde had been very urgent, and being not willing to give the real reasons for refusing, he could think of no others and had yielded. But at the appointed time he had been so engrossed with thought and care, that all memory of his young sister-in-law waiting alone in a part of the town that ladies did not like to frequent unattended, escaped him. What was the occupation that so engrossed him? It did not appear on the surface. He was locked and bolted into his own home study, but not so much as a scrap of paper was before him. He sat at his desk, elbows leaning on it, his face held between his two hands, his eyes fixed on space, and so sat for hours. If any one could have told him that he was reviewing his life, he would probably have contradicted the statement, yet in a certain sense this was true. At least a limited panorama of what he fancied he had been moved solemnly before him, strangely intermixed with pictures of what he might have been and would have been if. Perhaps it is true to the experience of human nature that not many sadder pictures confront the lives of men than the one suggested by the hack-need quotation it might have been. Yet, whether or not such a retrospection shall be profitable is often determined by the clause connected with that potent word if. If I had taken that turn to the right instead of to the left, says the dreamer, all might have been well. Perhaps he is correct in his statement, and perhaps it is the weakest sentimentality to allow himself to brood over it, or it may be the truest wisdom to hold his mind steadily to that view. How shall he determine which? But that is a very easy question. My friend, is that turn to the right possible now after the lapse of years? Putting aside the failures, the heartaches, the blotches that can never be erased because of the mistake made then, will the future be improved by your making the turn now, though it may be hard and involve much sacrifice? Then hold your heart and your conscience steadily to that point until your manhood rises to the height of the sacrifice involved and says, I will do it now. If on the contrary the turn once made, however foolish it may have been, is one that ought to remain settled, if the decision cannot be reversed without sin, close the eyes of your soul to the alluring might have been, ask God to forgive you and move steadily forward in the path that is. What think you was Ralph Bramlett's most serious if in the review that he was taking? If I had been true to the voice of my conscience a way back there in my childhood when I decided for what I wanted to do instead of what I knew I ought? If I had been true to the vows that I took upon me publicly in the Church of God? There are so many such ifs that might have been wisely considered and that would have suggested the wisdom of making haste to cover the mistakes as much as might be by the decision of the present. None of them presented themselves, pity the miserable weakness even while you despised the wickedness of the man who could hold his haggard face in his hands and say, the mistake of my life was in marrying that girl, if I had married Marjorie all would have been well with me. The woman whom, unerged by anything but his pride and his passing fancy, he had asked to be his wife, was locked outside and sat brushing away the dreary tears over the thought that she was locked out and alone. By this it is not meant that Ralph Bramlett spent the hours in staring at that one regret. There were questions having to do with the immediate present that might well hold his thoughts. His unpaid bills were haunting him day and night, were accumulating with every passing day. Some of them he did not know how to ward off longer, and they were bills that he did not keep in the secretary to which he had proudly pointed his wife. He owed many hundreds of dollars, but none of the debts gave him that sense of overpowering shame that he felt when he looked at a page of his private memoranda, and read there certain figures and initials and dates that only he could understand. The first one was dated nearly a year before, how vividly he remembered the day. He had stood in the hall waiting for his chief, and, being an excellent humor, had chatted pleasantly with the bell-boy, who had just been paid his month's wages, and who confided to the handsome bookkeeper, who seemed to him like a great man, that he did not know how to keep his money safely. He wanted to save it until he had enough to buy his mother a house, so she need not pay rent any more. His mother did not need it now, and she wanted him to put it in the bank, and to keep it until he had enough to buy a suit of clothes. But he meant to do without clothes, and surprise her some day. Only he did not know how to invest his money in a way to make it earn a lot more. Lough had been amused with the boy's mixture of ignorance and brightness, and pleased with his deference to himself, and had offered in good faith to become his banker, since there was not a savings bank within convenient reach, and pay him eight percent interest until such time as he could do better. The boy had been delighted with the offer, and felt himself in some way immediately connected with the great firm of Snyder, Snyder & Co. He had regularly brought his savings each month to his new friend, until there had accumulated something over fifty dollars. And now a dark day had come in the boy's life. His mother had fallen sick, and the money that was to have bought her a home was needed to pay the doctor's bill and furnish nourishing food. Five times had the bell-boy way laid his banker with anxious face and great troubled eyes, only to be put off with very small sums and promises. In a fit of indignation with his wife, the young man had, at her complaining, emptied his pocket-book on her dressing-table, and had actually bought a two-dollar bill to depend upon until his next quarter's salary fell due. It was horrible to remember that when it came, not a penny of it was honestly his. The bell-boy's need, and his inability to meet it, accentuated the young man's misery to a surprising degree. Curiously enough, he, who was not as a rule attracted to young people, had taken an unaccountable fancy to the boy, and had given him from time to time much wholesome advice, as well as shown him many kindnesses. The result was that the manly little fellow had given his whole heart to the bookkeeper, and believed that all goodness, as well as all wisdom, was embodied in him. It was maddening to Ralph Bramlett's pride to have to be lowered in the esteem of this wise-eyed boy. Yet he had not a friend of whom he was willing to try to borrow fifty dollars. CHAPTER IX But it was more than the past, with its might have been, that was torturing Ralph Bramlett. The immediate future must be met. Out of the chaos of embarrassment and bewilderment that the future showed, stared one definite proposition. But it was of so strange a character, that, if it required any studying at all, it is no wonder it required long studying. There had been a time when Ralph Bramlett would have turned scornfully from such a proposition, and felt that it needed no consideration. It had come to him from one of the junior members of the firm of Snyder-Snyder & Co. It appeared that that gentleman owned a valuable corner lot in the town where Ralph lived. The building had been occupied for years as a drugstore, but the prosperous drugist had lately died, and his business had been closed up by his heirs. The building had now been unoccupied for several months. It had been the opinion of the owner, even before the drugstore closed its doors, that the corner afforded special advantages for the setting up of a first-class retail liquor store. He did not use the word saloon. The phrase retail liquor store had a better sound to him. He proceeded to explain that there was decided need for a business of the sort in that end of the town. Several estimable families, some of his own acquaintances indeed, lived in that vicinity, and doubtless often found it inconvenient to go so far as they were now compelled to for supplies. He had been spoken to more than once concerning the excellent site that corner would be for a retail store. In short, the philanthropic gentleman had said, I am really growing anxious about that part of the town. My early home was there, Mr. Bramlett, and of course I feel a special interest in the place. I have been approached several times by persons who, to speak frankly, I am not willing to see established in such a business in that vicinity. I have been offered very fine rentals for the building, but thus far I have held off making all sorts of excuses. Of course I cannot continue such a policy very long. You know, without my mentioning it, that it makes all the difference in the world what sort of men take hold of this business. The men who have come to me are well enough in their way, and would undoubtedly have paid the rent, though I mentioned a very large figure to them to help me in getting rid of them. But they were not the class of persons to establish on that corner. Persons who lacked judgment you understand and forethought. Men who would be in danger of consulting their pocket-books instead of principal. I am afraid they would have been as willing to sell to miners, for instance, or to habitual drunkards as to responsible persons. I felt that they would be most sure to get themselves and me into trouble. There are people living all about that region who, if the business were conducted in accordance with not only the letter but the spirit of the law, would be glad to countenance it, even though they do not themselves use the goods, whereas if another sort of person should take hold of it, those very men would make trouble. I am sure you understand the peculiarities of the situation, and to come to the point at once, Mr. Bramlett, as we are both busy men, it has occurred to me to definitely propose that you occupy the said corner yourself. Not in person, of course, in a way to take any considerable amount of your time. We consider your services here much too valuable to be willing to give them up. What we thought was that we could supply you with a man here to do a good deal of the office drudgery that now occupies you, and let you have leisure enough to look after this other business. You could secure good, reliable men to do your bidding, you being merely the brains of the establishment. Men of that kind can easily be found who are capable and entirely willing to do as they are told, who are not yet exactly the ones to shoulder responsibility and do as they please you understand. I have been talking it over with the other members of the firm, and they are willing to make the arrangement that I have suggested. I may say that they are more than willing. The fact is, Mr. Bramlett, we are all interested in you as a rising young man, and would like to do you a good turn. I put you in a way to make more money than you can on a mere salary. You know, of course, what terms we could offer you for goods. At least, you know the usual wholesale rates. I do not hesitate to say that, if it should come to an actual business transaction, we should be ready to make even better terms on the score of personal friendship. I suppose I hardly need say that I know of at least a score of fine young men who stand ready to accept such an offer as I am making, but I haven't felt inclined to make it to them. I don't know, but I am something of a crank. My friends tell me that I am, but I am really very particular indeed as to who I put in my buildings. I want not only reliable men in the ordinary acceptation of those words, but men of thoroughly conscientious views. Men in short, who will not only understand the law, but abide by it in every particular. I am a law-abiding citizen myself, and want no underhanded proceedings. There is a sense in which you might look upon it, and I confess I have thought of it more in that light, perhaps than any other, as your opportunity for doing a good thing for the community in which you live. A good citizen is always glad of such opportunities, of course. I am sure you can see what danger might result from putting in a moral man, for instance, in such a place, a man who would sell to anybody who would bring him the money, without regard to whether or not he ought to be trusted with the goods. I think myself that you could not serve that part of the town better perhaps than by controlling the business carefully. Such a business as ours is, of course, capable of doing great harm. In the hands of unprincipled men, whose only object in life is to make money, it does do harm. I have never shut my eyes to the fact and trust I never shall. It is because I judge you to be entirely capable of managing the business, not only in a way to be entirely satisfactory to yourself, but to your townspeople, that I have made the proposition I have. I do not want an answer to-day. Take time, by all means, to consider it, Mr. Bramlett. There, by the way, is our private price list. The second line of figures represents the ruling prices at retail. If you need to refresh your memory and wish to make any estimates of probable income, that will save you time, perhaps. I ought to say, before this interview is closed, that, as the building in question is not fitted up for the purpose proposed, I had thought, if you took hold of it, to suggest that I advance you, say, a thousand dollars, you to spend as much or as little of it, as seemed to you well, and fit up the place to suit your own ideas. I want the whole thing to be attractive and entirely in keeping with the surroundings. The whole some might or might not be required. You could hardly tell for several months, perhaps. But of course, whatever was placed in the building as a fixture would belong to me to be paid for out of the fund. The balance, if there were any, could be handed back to me at any time or included in the rent. You see how entirely I trust you. That sort of proposition would not be made to many men, I assure you. Then the philanthropist had sat back in his chair and beamed a benevolent smile upon the young man whom he was willing, even anxious, to set up in business. Ralph Bramlett had by no means listened in silence to this long drawn-out proposition, but had from time to time interjected words expressive of surprise or bewilderment, of which the junior partner had taken no notice except to repeat and try to make clearer some of his points. While he talked, Ralph had had, as in a vision, a view of himself standing there, say three years before, listening to such a proposition, a faint smile hovered over his face as he thought of the indignant way in which he would have declined an offer that connected him in any way with the business of rum-selling. But the smile was one of contempt for the fanatical notions of a boy. He was a man now, and such narrow-minded, wholesale condemnations as those in which he used to indulge did not become him. He sat down to his work, after being courteously dismissed by his chief. At least he sat before his desk, but his thoughts were on what he had just heard, especially where they concerned with what he admitted was a new idea, namely, that a man could serve his townspeople by conducting a liquor store. However, why not? Of course a thoroughly well-managed liquor store that not only never infringed upon the law but was, in a sense, a law unto itself, having a care how it dispensed dangerous beverages, even to those whom the law recognized as fitted to buy them, would be infinitely better for the neighborhood than one of the ordinary kind. The idea was not only new but interesting. All day long, though occupied with even an unusual amount of business, he had kept going this second train of thought. For the first two or three hours he had assured himself that although there was certainly good sense in some of the arguments advanced by the junior partner, still he, Ralph Bramlett, could never have anything to do with the retail liquor business. The Bramlets for generations back had been too pronounced on the temperance question, and his father had suffered too keenly because of his present position, for him to entertain any idea of going farther. Moreover he admitted that he himself shrank from it. That is, he told himself that he was not equal to the sacrifice, although good could undoubtedly be done by preventing evil. But he, a member of the church, a member of a well-known family, could not place himself in such a questionable position. He might talk until he was gray, and yet not make clear to certain people the arguments that had been brought to bear upon him that morning. There for instance was his sister Hannah, who had no head for argument, and was as set in her way as self-opinionated old maids generally were. She would be sure to give him no peace of his life if she imagined he thought of such a business. Yet he had immediately curled his lip over that objection, and reminded himself that Hannah had enough to do at present to take care of her own reputation without concerning herself about other peoples. But there were others. What would Dr. Ford for instance think of the junior partner's arguments, he wondered? And what, above all others? Oh, it wouldn't do, of course! He wasn't considering it for a moment. Then he took pencil and paper, and felt to calculating what the prophets would really be, and exclaimed over their enormity. He had been conversant with wholesale prices for several years, but had never before given his attention to the retail trade. Then there was that hint about special reductions on the score of friendship. It certainly was a way to make money, and money would undoubtedly be made on that corner. Why not buy him? Did it make such a tremendous difference, after all, except to the person who received it, into whose pocket the money went? Yes, of course it made a difference. Here was a chance for that new and most alluring argument to present itself again. If the money went into the pockets of an honorable man, one who would, under no circumstances, allowed to be sold to persons incapable of judging for themselves what was good for them, it certainly ought to make a great difference on the morality of the community. The argument looked clearer than it had before. Why did not those fanatical people, who were always preying about the evils of the saloon, study up this phase of the subject, and, until they could do something better, try to get respectable moral men put in charge of saloons? Yes, he was actually so befogged that he used the phrase respectable moral men in such connection, and failed to see its absurdity. Yet why not? Had not the junior partner, who represented millions, and understood business and respectability, used the same? When Ralph walked toward his train that evening, he was saying to himself, There would be no occasion for my name to appear. All he wants of me is to be responsible for the rent, and look after the men whom I put in charge. It is no more in a sense than I am doing now. He had by no means told himself that he would undertake the work, but he took his seat in the car still studying the profits that might be made, and the feasibility of entirely suppressing his name, thus silencing foolish tongues. There came and sat beside him one of the workers at the Carnell Street Mission, who began to tell of the wonders that were taking place there. Did he remember Harvey Barnes, who used to be a schoolmate of his? He knew, of course, how low the poor fellow had gone, a regular gutter drunkard. But he was making an honest effort to reform. He signed the pledge nearly two weeks ago, and last night stayed to the after-meeting and not only talked with one of the workers, but actually went down on his knees and prayed. Think of Harvey Barnes praying, Bramlett. The age of miracles is not past, you see. The Christian worker had a more definite aim than merely to tell good news. He proceeded to say that they had been planning how best to help tide the young man over the dangerous weeks which were now before him, and somebody had remembered that he was an old schoolmate of Ralph Bramlett's and used to be much under his influence, and somebody else had wondered if Ralph would not be willing to take hold with them and try to help his old friend. Ralph was interested and touched. He remembered Harvey Barnes when he was the best scholar in their class. He had gone down rapidly in inherited taint, people said. Ralph had lost sight of him for years. Hadn't he been out of town? Yes, he used to have a good deal of influence over him. He recollected that he once told Harvey he was too easily influenced and would never amount to anything because he had no mind of his own. When he had replied with his genial laugh, I'll let you be mine for me, Ralph. You may go ahead and I'll follow in your footsteps. You are such a proper fellow that the road will be sure to end right. Certainly he would like to help Harvey Barnes. It might be interesting to help people. It was what he had meant to do when he united with the church. He parted with the mission worker thoughtfully, having promised that he would do what he could for Harvey, and added a sort of half promise to come to the mission some evening. He was silent about his engagement to meet his sister-in-law there that evening and take her home, because, as a matter of fact, he did not mean to be there until the meeting was safely over. His half promise to attend the meeting had not meant so much that he cared to emphasize it by appearing at once. Yet, as he walked from the station with his mind full of the tender thoughts that the news of his old schoolmate had awakened, he wondered how it would seem to start afresh and carry out some of the plans that had once been his. Estelle, he reminded himself, had not been interested in that sort of thing, or it would have made a difference. But perhaps she would be willing to go even to the mission now if he were with her. And then he admitted that he had not spent much of his time with her, and that he had been out of sorts that morning and spoken somewhat roughly, but she had certainly been very aggravating. As he let himself in at his own door, he said, still to that interesting person himself, what if I should surprise everybody with an entirely new departure? CHAPTER X On the hall-table had lain three letters for him. Every one of them contained bills. Two for much larger amounts than he had expected. One was presented for the third time with a peremptory demand for immediate attention. He threw them down with a sense of having been injured. Why should bills be allowed to force their ugly faces upon him just as he was meditating radical changes for the better? He went on to the dining-room. He was later than usual. Those private calculations had consumed time. Mrs. Bramlett sat alone at the head of her table. She looked up at his entrance with an injured air. Here I am eating my solitary dinner. It is the third time this week. It is very pleasant to be married, to have a house of one's own, where one can enjoy solitude. Your friend Marjorie wanted to know if I had become used to it. I told her I was becoming used to most things, and so I am. Although I will confess that, since this is my birthday, I did think perhaps you would make an effort to reach home at least at your usual early hour. Such had been his greeting. He had given a slight start at the mention of the birthday. He had forgotten it. But he told himself drearily that it was just as well since he had no money for birthday offerings. He looked at his wife critically as he took his seat opposite her, and wondered if it would be worthwhile to tell her some of the thoughts awakened in him by the news from the mission. She had changed a good deal since their marriage. She was by no means so pretty as she used to be. He was not sure, but there had come to be a look of habitual gloom on her face. No, that was not quite fair. Only a few evenings before she had met him with smiles and winning words, and had tried to rest and comfort him when he complained of weariness. His conscience reminded him that he would have none of her comfort. But that, he hastened to tell himself, was because he had been so tried by business cares. Any woman of sense ought to expect such times. If she were in a like-gentle mood this evening, she would find he could meet her half way. But nothing was more evident than that no such mood possessed her. What if he should himself take the initiative? Suppose he should remark that he was sorry to have been late, especially on her birthday. One wonders that it did not occur to him to be amazed over the fact that such a commonplace courtesy as that would have been unusual. Furthermore, what if he should ask her to walk down with him by and by to the mission to meet Glide? He might tell her about Harvey Barnes. She used to know Harvey, and would no doubt be interested in hearing of his new departure. These thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, and he opened his lips to put some of them into words, just as his wife broke forth. If you have nothing whatever to say, Mr. Bramlett, now that you have come, I may as well begin at once upon the interesting items that have been dinged into my ears this afternoon. Your immaculate sister Hannah has been here again, giving me a benefit. I do not know why she does not choose an hour when you are present. She talks about you continually. She is terribly exercised, let me tell you, about your reputation. She has heard, from I don't know how many sources, that you are hopelessly in debt. According to her ideas, the businessmen meet on the street corners and discuss the alarming nature of your affairs. If you have any reason to give why you do not pay that odious dunlap, for instance, I wish you would rush right down there and tell Hannah. She will proclaim it from the housetop before tomorrow night. At least she will mention it to that confidential friend of hers, Jack Taylor, and he will see that it has spread abroad. Was it wonderful that Ralph Bramlett, being the man he was, lost every vestige of a desire to speak kind and conciliating words to his wife? His reply was icy in its dignity. I wonder, Mrs. Bramlett, if you could explain why you consider it necessary whenever you mention my sister to insult her. It is not I, let me tell you, who have helped to place your sister's name in the mouth of every street loafer. Instead I have done my utmost not only to warn her, but to rouse her brother in time to save her reputation. Is not this true? Don't talk to me about insults. It is your wife who's been insulted I can assure you. If you had heard Hannah's words to me this afternoon, even you might have been roused to at least a show of interest. But why soil these pages by recounting the words that followed from both husband and wife? They were not many. Almost immediately following the last sentence recorded, Mrs. Bramlett remembered the possibility of the girl, Lena, being within hearing. Therefore, while she said a number of stinging things, she lowered her voice so that had Lena's ear been even at the keyhole, she would not have been much enlightened. As for the husband, he was never loud voiced. Strong excitement had the effect with him of quieting any outward manifestation so that his tones were even lower than ordinary when he had anything particularly trying to say. He arose from the table before the second course had been completed, and, without a word of excuse or apology, retired to his private room, leaving his wife to control face and voice as well as she could, and explained to Lena that they did not care for any dessert that night. Mr. Bramlett had been too tired to wait for it, and as for herself, having been in the house all day, she had not much appetite for anything. Then she, too, made a precipitate retreat to the darkness of her own room. It was after this home scene had been concluded that Ralph Bramlett allowed himself to bow his head on his hands and grown out to his heart that miserable it might have been. Not in any sense did he consider himself to blame. Had he not come home with the intention of turning over an entire new leaf, he called it now a deliberate intention, though the reader will remember how far from decision he had been. No, he corrected that last phrase, and put it that he had come home intending to carry out the plans which he had long ago formed, and would undoubtedly have followed out, had it not been for the millstone hung about his neck. In his bitter anger and pain he allowed himself so to designate in his thoughts the wife of his choice. But, as has been said, he had not given himself long to that train of thought. Truth to tell, like experiences were becoming too common in his home to hold his attention long. He did not change his attitude, but his thoughts turned quickly to the proposition which had been made him that day. With the unpaid bills lying beside him on the table, he thought again, as he had a hundred times before, of the thousand dollars that would be given him in advance with which to furnish that store, and remembered that it would be left to his judgment as to whether much or little of it should be so spent, and the remainder could be paid back at any time during the winter. It is wonderful what a delightful sound that indefinite any time had to the debt-burdened man. Long he sat, going over all the arguments in favor of his acceptance of the business offer, all the phases of relief that would come to him in such a case, as well as the network of perplexities and embarrassments that would continue to entangle him should he decline. Was public opinion worth such a sacrifice as would be involved? For that matter what reputation had he now? Was a tithe of what Hannah's narrow mind and his wife's ill humor had flung at him was being said. Could there be a greater humiliation for a bramlet than that? Would it not be infinitely better for a man to pay his honest debts than to squirm over a question of taste? Moreover, his name need not appear. That thought seemed to have charms for him, he repeated it in various forms. The bramlet name was undoubtedly being sullied now, or at least would be as soon as the true state of affairs should become known. He had it in his power to prevent the stain, and no one need know by what means he prevented it. So far as that was concerned, and he drew himself up slightly, preserving his dignity as he thought, suppose everyone knew, there was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a legitimate business, sanctioned by the government under which he lived, and capable of being carried on in a way to protect the community from evil. Why should he hesitate longer? Then, for a few minutes, he allowed himself to stand face to face with a question that had all day been pushing to the front, and been resolutely held in abeyance. It was not, what will the Lord Jesus Christ, whose name I bear and whose honor I am bound to consider, think of this business? But what would Marjorie Edmunds say if she knew that I was planning such a way out of trouble as this? He arose at last, and kicking away angrily the slippers that had been his wife's latest Christmas gift, made ready for the street again. All thought of the mission and his engagement with his sister-in-law had passed from his mind, but an overpowering desire to talk with Marjorie had taken possession of him. Not that he by any means meant to tell her definitely what he was considering. Not that he had the slightest doubt of what her opinion would be should he do so, but simply because he could not rid himself of the desire to ask her certain questions and hear her replies. He did not own, even to himself, that he knew a way to put questions which she would not understand, and to draw from her such sympathetic replies as he could shape to his own needs, even to his defense if need be. Mrs. Bramlett, still sitting in her darkened room, saw through the closed blinds the tall form of her husband as he strode down the street. What could have taken him away again? He was not fond of going out in the evening after a hard day's work. It required a special effort to get him to do so. Ever before, since their marriage, had he stalked away without word or sign to her. Was he too angry ever to forgive her? The poor wife's heart ached after him so that she was tempted to push up the window and call. What if she should shout out into the night and the darkness? Ralph! Oh Ralph! Forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you. I did not mean any of the cruel things I said. I love you and a miserable day and night because we cannot be happy together as I thought we should be. Come back, dear, and let me put my head on your shoulder and my arms about your neck and tell you how sorry I am. What wild words those would be to fling out after him! If she should try it, would he come back? She pushed open the window a few inches, not with the slightest idea of speaking any of those eager words, but wondering if she should call him. Suppose she should say, Ralph, wait a moment, I want to speak to you. That would sound well enough for Passerby to hear, and Lena, if she were listening, could make nothing of it. Then when he was once beside her, with the door closed after him, she could— She pushed the window down. She couldn't do it. She had a vision of his cold eyes and could hear his icy voice as he came back promptly enough at her bidding. He was always in these outward forms a gentleman, and stood before her asking, What is it you wish? She couldn't do it. All she wished was to put her head on his shoulder and cry and ask him to forgive her. No, the trouble was she wanted more than that. She wanted him to ask her to forgive him. She knew that he would not, and she knew that he was to blame as well as herself for the cruel state of things that now existed between them. Oh, more than herself! What had she done but speak irritably to him a few times under strong provocation, and what had he not done to repel her, especially of late? No, it would be not only humiliating but a species of falsehood to ask his forgiveness as though she alone had been to blame. It was well that she had not called him back, let him go his way wherever it was. He should see that he had married a woman who had self-respect at least. She had struggled hard with her anniversary, this poor unhappy wife. Evidently her husband had not so much as noticed it, but she had prepared certain dishes that she knew he enjoyed. She had arrayed herself in the dress that he used to like, and before his plate had placed a tiny bouquet of the flowers that were his favourites. And there was the birthday cake over which he had hovered even while it was baking to see that it was done to just the right shade of perfection, that he had not even waited to see. Oh, why had everything gone as it had when she had worked so hard and tired herself out just to please him? Why had Hannah Bramlett come that afternoon of all others to thrust those wretched pinpoints of criticism into her very flesh? The idea of Hannah daring to hint that she was afraid his wife's expensive tastes had brought trouble upon Ralph, and pointing, in proof of her charge, to certain expensive articles with which she had had nothing whatever to do, articles that had been Ralph's gifts to her in those early days of their married life that now sometimes seemed centuries away. The idea of Hannah Bramlett finding fault with her because they paid such an enormous rent and lived in so large a house, an absurdly large house for two people. What business was it of hers how many rooms they had, and why should she suppose that Ralph had had nothing to do with the choice? Why should Ralph allow his sister, who was disgracing herself, whose name was tossed about carelessly by the street gossips as Jack Taylor's girl, to come enforce her criticisms on her? To come, too, in the name of affection for Ralph? To look distressed while she repeated the vile slander, brought to her probably by Jack Taylor, that he not only did not pay his debts but did not mean to pay them, and was borrowing money of poor people who trusted him and deceiving them with the story that he had invested it for them. She, the wife, would have thrown anything she could reach at the head of any person who had dared to come to her with such tales. But Hannah had only wiped her eyes and looked the picture of misery and begged her, Estelle, to change her manner of living and reduce their expenses and help poor Ralph out of this terrible embarrassment. Mrs. Bramlett, as she thought it all over, hardened her heart, not only against Hannah but against her husband. CHAPTER X MEANTime Ralph Bramlett, unmindful of the distressed watcher at the window, strode off down the street, bent on the desire of his heart. When was Ralph Bramlett bent on anything else save his own desires? It was now some months since Mrs. Edmunds and her daughter had reached home, and Marjorie, if she had not made much headway in the work that she wanted to accomplish, had at least seen more or less of Ralph. This, however, had been the result apparently of accident, certainly without design on her part. To all appearance Ralph was a more regular churchgoer than his sister-in-law had led her to suppose, and invariably he and his wife joined her mother and herself for the homeward walk, keeping directly behind them, Ralph at least eager to enlist them in conversation. Several times it had occurred that in crossing the streets the couples would have necessity become separated, and again, without a parent design, it would be found that when they came together Ralph was beside Marjorie, leaving his wife to walk with her mother. This arrangement tried Mrs. Edmunds more than she would have cared to express, but it was apparently so purely an accident that nothing could be said. Then, too, the number of times in which Marjorie had met Ralph Bramlett on the train, and traveled homeward in his company, were surprising when she recalled them. She had carefully avoided what was supposed to be his regular train, lest he should get the idea that she was trying to stand guard over him in any way. But take whatever train from town she would, he was nearly certain to have chosen the same one. In her innocence it did not occur to her that he had skillful ways of possessing himself of her intentions. A like experience had been hers a number of times when she had arranged to spend an hour or two with his wife. It was sure to be the day in which he surprised his wife by coming home early. In these, and various other ways, she had certainly seen much of Ralph Bramlett. Yet she could not feel that any good results had followed. Unquestionably Ralph was glad to talk with her and upon any subject that she chose to bring forward. Moreover, he took high ground on all these subjects. Either his sister-in-law had been deceived in regard to him, or else he talked in this strain from force of habit. Marjorie sadly feared that the latter was the case, because, from her standpoint, a man could not be growing spiritually and maintain a position in a distillery. The original plan that she had formed of reaching and helping him through his wife seemed a failure. Although she had made extraordinary efforts to establish herself on a familiar footing with Mrs. Bramlett that the intimacy of their girlhood warranted, she found herself constantly held at a distance. She puzzled over the reasons for this, with the single exception of a few months before her marriage, during which time Marjorie had decided that she was so absorbed in her new relations and future prospects as to be indifferent to all former interests, Estelle Douglas had always shown not only a willingness but an eagerness to be on intimate terms with Marjorie. Why had she changed so utterly? Following the question without most care, Marjorie's only conclusion was that Mrs. Bramlett so felt her dignity as matron and mistress of a home of her own, that she was prepared to resent anything which foreshadowed possible advice or suggestion of any sort. So although there were some points on which she would have liked to advise her, Marjorie carefully held herself from all such temptations. She realized from hints that Estelle had dropped that the young wife had to endure more or less advice from her sister-in-law. Perhaps this made her suspicious of others. At least it was the only solution that this young woman, who could be very stupid on occasion, could furnish. On the evening in question Marjorie chanced to be seated quite alone in their cheery parlor, her mother being closeted in the dining- room with a poor woman who had a tale of woe to pour out intended for no ears but hers, when, therefore, the little maid, whose duty it was, announced Mr. Bramlett. It was Marjorie who advanced to meet him. "'Alone?' she said inquiringly. "'Where is Estelle? I recognized your voice in the hall, and hoped you had both come to spend the evening.' "'I am alone,' he said. "'How is Estelle? Not ill, I hope? But of course she is not, else you would not be here. Why did not this pleasant weather evening coax her out?' "'I did not bring her,' was his brief reply. "'Then, is it a pleasant evening? I did not know. I am too weary in body and soul to take note of weather, though it is pleasant here. What a charming home you have, Marjorie! I remember it, of course. I remember every detail of the rooms. Sometimes I think of it as paradise lost.' Marjorie gave him a swift, anxious glance. Certain rumors had come to her from time to time as to his being much embarrassed about money matters, but she had given slight heed to them. There was always gossip afloat that had little or no foundation. But on this evening, as she saw his troubled face and listened to his dreary words, she wondered whether it could be that he was in such trouble financially as to make the carefree days of his younger life seem almost like a paradise lost. "'I want to talk with you,' he said, drawing forward a chair for her and sinking into one near it. I am glad to find you alone. It seemed to me that I must talk to somebody or go wild.' "'Oh, Ralph,' she said, in tones of earnest sympathy. What is the matter?' Here was evidently some trouble from which he meant to shield his wife, and from sheer force of habit had come to his old friend. She would not fail him. He hesitated. Just what was the matter? Or rather, what did he mean to say to her? It was not exactly sympathy of which he had come in search, but directly he stepped into that sympathetic atmosphere the desire for it overpowered him. "'Everything is the matter,' he said tragically. "'Nothing is as it should be in this world. Did you know it?' Then he laughed cynically and added, "'You live a safe, sheltered life. Do you not marjory? Shut away from the disagreeable of every sort. Well, I am glad. That is as it should be.' The sentence closed with a heavy sigh, and in a tone which hinted that a great deal more might be said were he at liberty to say it. Of course he was referring to business embarrassments. Marjory had not supposed that to a salaried man. These could be very serious. After a moment's silence, during which she reflected what it was best to say, she resolved upon a bold stroke. "'Ralph, at the risk of seeming to be unsympathetic, I will confess that I do not feel so sorry for your business troubles as perhaps you think why not? If I were to speak quite the truth, I would confess that my strongest wish for you is that they should become so great as to cause you to break at once and for ever from all association, however remote, with the liquor traffic. I am sure it must be a business that must be distasteful to you in every way. I know you will forgive my plain speaking. I have never been able to look with any degree of endurance upon the position which you now occupy. The only thought I have had in connection with it has been one of pain and disappointment. "'It is not because you did not study for a profession,' she added hurriedly. "'I do not mean in the least that I consider a clerkship beneath you or that it was other than the honorable course if it seemed necessary to you at the time to earn money immediately. But some other clerkship than the one you hold is surely possible. There are so many honorable places waiting for men like you. I shall have to confess that if your present position were so distasteful to you as to cause you to leave it tomorrow I could only be glad.' She stopped abruptly. The young man's face looked so hopelessly dark as to oppress her with the fear that this was, after all, no time to broach this subject. "'You ought to be satisfied with it,' he said gloomily. You are to blame for my occupying it.' She gave a little inward start. This was the first attempt that he had made to refer to the peculiar relations which they used to sustain toward each other. In their reference to the past both had gone way back to the time when they were schoolmates. The sentence pained her more deeply than he could imagine. Must she add yet this to the number of ways in which she had influenced others to their injury? Perhaps if she had not allowed her girlish sense of dignity to take such full possession of her, and had remained his friend during those early beginnings of their misunderstanding, she might have saved him from this mistake. But of what use to mention it now? It would be better for him not to talk about it. She was silent and distressed. He also realized that he had struck a wrong note. You surely understand. He said at last, determined to ignore his blunder, how a man who has made a false step in life and who yet has a family of his own to care for, to say nothing of his father and mother, finds it difficult, in fact finds it impossible, to retrace his steps. I may not approve of my work, I may hate it indeed. Yet it is all I have to depend upon, and I must abide by the position in which my folly has placed me. His listeners' face brightened visibly. He did hate it, then. His conscience was not at rest, and this accounted for much of the gloom his face was wearing. She spoke with intense earnestness. No, Ralph, no! What would become of any of us if we could never take back false steps? I can understand how hard it was for you, at the time, feeling perhaps that your father needed help, and I can imagine some of the specious reasons that may have been brought to bear upon you. I have heard them advanced since. But I am sure that your conscience has long ago told you how false they were. Throw up the position, Ralph, do it at once. Your friends will rally around you. Why, no one will be more rejoiced over it than your father. I heard him but a few weeks ago expressing the strength of his feeling on the liquor question. And Estelle, I am sure, will rejoice in it. She will feel that your truest manhood has reasserted itself. As for any temporary embarrassment that there may be while you are getting established in a new business, we, your friends, will be— She stopped abruptly, distressed over his rapidly darkening face. Ralph Bramlett was a proud man. It was a bitter trial to have Marjorie Edmonds offer him pecuniary assistance. Excuse me, he said coldly. There are some things that even I cannot bear. And while we are upon the subject, I may as well say to you that you are utterly mistaken in some of your premises. My wife is the last person who would counsel me to give up a certainty, meager as she considers it, for a fanatical idea as she would be sure to call it. She is the last person who would help me in any way. I tell you, Marjorie, that you do not know what I have to endure. I have made an awful, an irreparable blunder in my life, and I am miserable. There was no sympathy now in Marjorie's face, only cold indignation. Her voice expressed it promptly. You are making a very serious blunder now. You are criticizing your wife and allowing yourself to speak words concerning her that the vows you have taken ought to make you ashamed to utter. He saw his mistake and made haste to try to cover it. I beg your pardon, Marjorie. Of course I ought not to have spoken. It is the last thing I meant to say. But indeed I am so nearly beside myself at times that I wonder I do not go wild. I want you to forget it. Believe me, I did not come here to say anything of this kind. I mean to live my life as best I can and keep my misery to myself. I came to talk with you about other matters, and I do not know how I could so far forget myself. It was almost the first word of self-rebuke that Ralph Bramlett had ever been known to utter. Miserable as was the occasion, was there not a shadow of encouragement in it? Marjorie was silent from very doubt of what ought to be said. The next moment the sliding doors were rolled back and Mrs. Edmonds entered the room. Good evening, she said. Mrs. Bramlett is well, I hope. Was her voice colder than usual? How much of that last outburst had she heard? Ralph Bramlett arose on the instant. He could not talk platitudes with Marjorie's mother. He stammered some incoherent reply as to his wife's health, and got himself out, he hardly knew how, into the night. Perhaps a wilder storm of pain and disappointment and rage never burned in human heart than that to which he gave free reign for a few minutes. The only redeeming feature in it was that, for once in his life, he criticized his own actions. He asked himself why he had been such a consummate idiot as to go to that house at all if he could not exercise common sense. What insane spirit had possessed him to drag in his wife and say spiteful things about her to Marjorie? He might have known, if he knew anything, that no better way could be devised for making her withdraw her sympathy. What had been his objecting going to her in the first place? In the confusion of brain which then possessed him, he could not satisfactorily answer even that question. He had felt impelled to seek her, therefore he had done so. It was a ridiculous idea, and deserved to fail as ignominiously as it had. Marjorie Edmonds was a fanatic of the fanatics on that entire question, and he had always known it. What was he about? Why should he, Ralph Bramlett, moon along after this sentimental fashion? Why allow himself to be persuaded and cajoled by any woman living? He would do exactly as he pleased, of course, as any man of sense would. What was Marjorie Edmonds to him? She had chosen to toss him aside as of no consequence. What right had she to try to tutor him now? The fact was she had insulted him, offering to take care of him while he could get a situation that suited her. His face burned at the thought. Where would Marjorie Edmonds get her money with which to be so generous, save of that insufferable Maxwell who had spoiled his life? Didn't she know that he would go to the state prison rather than accept help of him? By this time his mood of self-criticism had passed, and it was once more other people who were to blame for all his misfortunes. He tramped along that night, passing once his sister-in-law whom he was to have taken home, but he was on the opposite side of the street, and she was in such earnest conversation with Jack Taylor that she did not notice him. When at last he reached his private room once more, the first thing he did was to sit down at his desk and write a formal acceptance of the junior partner's business proposition. CHAPTER XII. There was silence in Mrs. Edmonds' parlour for some minutes after their collars' departure. Marjorie had dropped back into her seat near the open grate, and with hands clasped in her lap was staring at the coals. Mrs. Edmonds had taken up a book and was supposed to be reading. In reality she was occupied in thinking of her daughter and trying to decide whether it would be wise for her to speak what was in her heart or keep silence. At last she decided that longer silence was neither being honest to herself nor just to her daughter, and, after the manner of people who have planned for some time just how to commence a conversation, she said the very words that she would have chosen not to, springing as it were to the center of her subject instead of approaching it by degrees. MARJORIE, DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING JUST RIGHT? Marjorie started like one roused from a painful reverie, raised troubled eyes to her mother's face, and asked, What do you mean, mother? I mean, dear, is it just right to receive and hold along an apparently confidential conversation with a married man who has left his wife at home alone while he comes to visit with you? Certainly this was not what Mrs. Edmonds had planned would better be said. Her sentence had gathered force as she talked, force born of an indignation that she had meant to suppress. Mama, I do not understand you in the least. Why should I not receive and converse with any gentleman of our acquaintance? You speak almost as if it were a premeditated arrangement. Certainly I did not plan that you should be engaged elsewhere this evening, nor that Ralph should come. I do not know what to think of such strange words from you. Mrs. Edmonds struggled for self-control and spoke gently. I know, daughter, of course I did not mean what my words may have suggested. I am entirely sure that there was no premeditation, on your part, at least. But, dear, think what you are doing. I have felt for some time that I ought to speak. Tonight I feel that I must wait no longer. Only today you were telling me a painful story of gossiping tongues that are making free with the acts of people you know are above suspicion. Why do you not think of yourself in such connection? You cannot have forgotten that Ralph Bramlett used to be very intimate in this house, and that people who had no right to know anything about your affairs freely reported you as engaged to him. Can you imagine that he can single you out for attention in the way that he has been doing ever since we came home, and above all call upon you without his wife, and not furnish food for gaping eyes and sensorious tongues? Mother! said Marjorie, distressed almost beyond speech. How can you think? How is it possible for you to think that there are any people so low as to talk about me in connection with a married man? My daughter, you talk as though you did not live in the world. Probably you have never realized how easy it is for a certain class of people to talk, nor out of what small material they can build their theories. But I want to ask you frankly if, as a looker on, you are sure you would call this small material. Is it customary for a young married man to call frequently without his wife at houses where there are no gentlemen? I am sure you do not realize the number of times that Ralph Bramlett has wrung our doorbell in the last few weeks. I remember that he has nearly always had an ostensible errand. You must forgive me for saying ostensible, for some of them were flimsy enough, and I know that he has made short calls, at least until this evening. But I must frankly own that I have no confidence in him. At the same time I will try to be just and admit that I do not suspect him of any other motive than a selfish desire to enjoy his own pleasure for the time being without regard to appearances or the comfort of others. I have never known that young man to consult any one's comfort but his own, and I think it is only to apparent that he is trying to draw you into a very confidential friendship with himself, a friendship that shall exclude his wife. This does not surprise me in him, but I confess that to see my daughter permitting such a state of things has given me more pain than I ever expected her to cause me. Marjorie sat in dumb distress. Only an hour before she could have made indignant answer. But that hour had brought her revelations. She was not benefiting Ralph Bramlett. A man who felt toward her in such a manner that he could arraign his own wife before her and expect her sympathy was not one whom she could benefit by friendship. Perhaps her mother was right, and she had been making a mistake. But not surely in the way her mother feared. It could not be possible that any of those gossiping tongues would dare touch her name. No, she was sure such an idea was but the creature of an overanxious imagination. Mothers were always over-careful, and such wretched stories had come to hers lately, it was no wonder they had preyed upon her nerves. She spoke at last gently, soothingly, Mama, you remember I told you not long ago that I believed you were always right and I wrong when we differed? I will say it again. I have perhaps been not wise in my anxiety to help poor Ralph. He is in great trouble and needs help almost more than any one I know. But he is a boy still, not a man at all. And I, a moment's hesitation, than a disappointed sigh, am not the one to help him. I did not mean to try directly, I meant to reach him through Estelle. But she holds aloof and will not see what I could do for her. And her very holding aloof marjorie ought to show you how impossible it is for you to help her. Do you not see, is it possible you have not understood all this time, that the poor creature is jealous of you? Marjorie's face was a flame. Mother! She said, controlling her voice and choosing her words with care. If that sentence were spoken by any one but you, would it not be almost insulting? How is it possible for any woman to think of me in such a connection as that? Do you mean that I have given her cause? Mrs. Edmonds made a movement of impatience. I used to think, Marjorie, that you had splendid common sense. Indeed, I have leaned upon you for years. But I confess that your knowledge of the world and of human nature seems to me to be not much more than a baby might have. Given such a character as you know Estelle Douglas to possess, married to such a man as Ralph Bramlett is, what is she to be but jealous of the woman for whose society her husband leaves hers on every pretext? And then, too, child, you seem to ignore his past intimacy with you, a thing which you may be sure his wife never does. Unwittingly you have given her cause for discomfort. You could hardly help it unless you were willing to tell her husband frankly that you did not want to see or talk with him. I do not say you are to blame, dear, because you are strangely blind in some directions, but I have no doubt that he sees her pain and is indifferent to it. Here was food for thought for the already perturbed girl. If she accepted her mother's theory, much that had been mysterious in Estelle's behaviour was explained. But what a humiliating theory! This of her, when Ralph had deliberately deserted her and chosen his wife before her eyes. She studied over it so long that Mrs. Edmonds had time to determine upon another question that she had long desired to ask. Marjorie, has it not occurred to you that Mr. Maxwell might think this renewal of friendship with Ralph Bramlett rather strange? She studied the girl's face carefully but could see in it only perplexity. I don't think I get your idea. I think Mr. Maxwell would be among the first to understand that I would like to help poor Ralph if I could. But whether he approved it or not would, in a sense, make no difference to me. I mean I should have to do what I thought was wise and right, not what he thought. But such a friend as he ought surely to have influence. Influence, yes. I should like to please him, but not more, of course, than I want to please you, mother, and I have not understood that you did not want me to try to influence Ralph and Estelle in right directions if I could. Why should you introduce Mr. Maxwell's name? Poor mother! To most mothers it is a pleasure to be put first. To her it was a positive pain. Was then her precious air-castle, on which she had been at work for so many months, to come tumbling about her ears? It was dreadful to think that she was precipitating its fall. But she must go on now, she would go on. It was folly to be moving aimlessly around in the dark. She made a bold plunge. I don't want to force your confidence, Marjorie, I have been willing to wait until you were ready to give it, but you ask me a direct question. I will confess that I thought Mr. Maxwell's name ought to have greater weight with you than any other, than mine even. There are some for whom even mothers are willing to yield their place. But Marjorie only gazed at her in open-eyed anxiety. Do you mean, mother, I wonder if you can possibly mean that you think Mr. Maxwell and I will some time marry? If you do, I cannot imagine what has given you that idea. Nothing was ever farther from our thoughts. From the first hour of our intimate acquaintance he has seemed to me like the dear older brother that I always longed for and never expected to find. I am sure he has been like a brother to me all through the months, years they are getting to be now. And I have rested in his friendship and trusted him as I could no one else save you. But I have never thought and could never for a moment think of him in any other relation. For a little Mrs. Edmonds was dumb with disappointment and pain. That which she had hoped, at first with trembling and during these later months with something like assurance, had fallen to the ground. She was growing older every day, and some dreary morning Marjorie would awaken to find herself alone. She the mother, who would at any time have laid down her life for her, must leave her alone. Oh, it was a bitter world! Should she hazard one more question? It was foolish, but she could not help it. While you have been rejoicing in the thought of having a brother, has it never occurred to you that you might be doing infinite harm to one who could not look upon you simply as a sister? No mama it hasn't, not in this connection. With some persons I might, of course, and indeed as a rule I should not approve of brotherly and sisterly friendships among young men and women. But there are exceptions to all rules, and Mr. Maxwell has, from the first of our acquaintance, shown such patient and persistent brotherliness that I would have been simply foolish to think of him in any other way. Yet there is a bare possibility that you have been mistaken, suppose you were. Then I should be very sorry indeed, distressed beyond measure, for I should feel that the result could be only pain. But there is no such mistake, mama, I am glad to be sure of it. If Mr. Maxwell were indeed your son, he could not be more truly my brother than he sometimes seems to me, and I am sure there is nothing that a brother could do that he has not been ready to do for me. I have done a good deal of harm in the world, mother, but it is a comfort to me to feel sure that in this case I need not blame myself. I can enjoy Leonard Maxwell with a free conscience. It would be difficult to describe the tumult of pain in Mrs. Edmunds's heart as she listened to these assured words. It was not alone her own disappointment, which was bitter, that she felt she had to bear. Mingled with the pain was an undertone not only of resentment, but self-accusation. This state of things she believed to be the direct outcome of her daughter's early intimacy with Ralph Bramlett, and who had been to blame for permitting that intimacy. She could not resist the temptation to test her belief. Since we are on this topic, may your mother ask why you suppose it is that a man so worthy of winning a true woman's heart has not reached yours? I think I have not been a mother anxious to dispose of her child, but mothers who remember that they have only one to leave cannot help looking forward anxiously sometimes. Do you never mean to marry, dear? And if not, why not? Marjorie's nerves were highly wrought that night. She resisted the temptation to laugh and regarded her mother tenderly. Do not let us borrow trouble, mother, dear. Surely that would not be a grave calamity. You and I have each other, is that not all that either of us wants? But the shade of disappointment, almost of reproach, did not lift from her mother's face. After a moment Marjorie added gravely, I mean to be very frank with you, mother. I think you sometimes have a feeling that I do not show you my whole heart. But indeed I wish to. I do not think that I can be quite like other girls. Most of them seem to think of marriage as a matter of course, but I feel quite the contrary. I do not expect ever to marry. When I was young and foolish, I thought to marry Ralph Bramlett and built my girlish air castles with that idea for a centre. Now I bless the Providence which held me from that. Don't you remember, I told you so when we first came home? At the same time I realise how entirely my ideas, as well as feelings, have changed. I have neither intention nor desire ever to leave you. Let us be everything in the world to each other, motherie, and admit no one else. That night, after Marjorie had been kissed with even more than usual tenderness and gone away assured that her mother did not intend to blame her, Mrs. Edmonds wrote this letter. My dear friend, I fear I have a bitter disappointment for you. I have just had a plain and exceedingly confidential talk with my daughter, and I find that you are quite mistaken in your thought of her. It is a trial to have to write it, for you know how dear you have become to me, and how much I should like to leave my darling in your care. But honour demands that I should tell you that Marjorie regards you only as a brother, and I believe will never have any other feeling. She is also so sure that you think of her simply as a sister, that she has not a qualm of conscience concerning you. Of course I have not enlightened her. Dear friend, there is no one else, and I fear me there will never be. It is that old mistake of mine bearing its fruit. I must leave my darling alone in the world, because I did not early shield her from the mistakes that the world constantly makes. End of chapter 12