 28. A fateful evening. They were late in arriving at the Skyler farm, having been detained at the last moment by some tartly thought-of plans for Mrs. Edmund's comfort during their absence. Nearly all the other guests seemed to have been present for some time and were in full tide of sociability. Prominent among them, quite a centre indeed, was Estelle Douglas, in new and exceedingly becoming spring attire, and with a glow on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes which indicated entire satisfaction with herself and her surroundings. She hovered not far away from Ralph Bramlett during the most of the evening, seeming to desire especially to make known the fact that she had a right to appropriate him. That young man was by no means at his best. He was more carefully dressed perhaps than he used to be, although he had always been careful of his personal appearance, but his fifteen hundred dollar salary had enabled him to indulge in some expenditures in that direction from which economy had held him here too for. His new suit was undoubtedly becoming, but his face was pale and unnaturally grave. His eyes had a look of unrest, and his manner to Estelle, had any one been closely observing them, would at times have suggested almost irritability. Marjorie would not be a close observer, feeling sure that no good could result, at least at present, from their coming in contact with each other. She took pains to keep as far away from both Estelle and Ralph as she could, without attracting attention. If she had been thinking very much about herself, however, she would have discovered that so far from Ralph seconding her efforts in this direction, he was evidently anxious to be in her vicinity. If she found her way to the music-room, he was sure to be there in a very few minutes. Did she join the promenaders in the large, old-fashioned hall, the second turn she made Ralph was almost certain to be just behind her. When she sang, as she had promised her mother she would do, when invited, it was Ralph Bramlett who stood at her right so close to Mr. Maxwell that it was with difficulty he turned her music. He said almost nothing, apparently, to anybody, and his face grew constantly moodier. Once Mr. Maxwell turned and looked at him for an instant in utmost surprise. The occasion was when Estelle had asked him to join the groups on the piazza. I don't wish to go on the piazza, he said. Can you never feel willing to let a person do what he wants to for five seconds at a time? The question and tone were so charged with irritability that it had been impossible for Mr. Maxwell not to turn to be sure of the speaker, nor had he kept the look of reproof entirely out of his eyes. Ralph saw him and colored, and felt more annoyed and angry than before. But it was late in the evening when the incident occurred which brought to not all Marjorie's efforts to avoid a direct conversation with her old friend. She was out, with many others, on the lawn, which was brilliantly and fantastically lighted with many Chinese lanterns. It formed a place of special attraction on this lovely May evening which was almost as warm as an evening in mid-summer. Marjorie and little Effie Schuyler had been taking a walk through the grounds with Mr. Maxwell for their companion. There was a certain remarkable tree on the farther side of the house which Effie had been describing to Mr. Maxwell. He had asked her many questions concerning it which she could not answer, and she had become very anxious to take him to see it. She had finally carried him off in triumph to see for himself how impossible it was for her to tell all the things about it that he had asked. Marjorie had taken a rustic seed under one of those charmingly lighted trees and agreed to await their return. She had seen that wonderful tree many times she affirmed and knew no more about it than Effie did. If Mr. Maxwell could answer his own questions simply by observing it once, he was the very person to give it attention. It was under the trees that Ralph Bramlett found her. He came upon her suddenly from one of the paths that was in shadow, and it chanced that at that moment none of the many groups on the lawn were near her. The first that she knew of Ralph's approach was the sound of her name, Marjorie, spoken by the voice she knew so well, but there was a new note in it, a note of peremptoriness, irritability, almost of anger. No wonder that it startled her. She half arose, then sat down again. Yes, she said gently, her thought had always been to be as kind and cordial with Ralph as possible, when it should suit his pleasure to allow her an opportunity. He gave her no time to consider what more she should say, but plunged at once into words. I want to see you. I have been watching for an opportunity all the evening, and you have been watching to avoid me. How long is this farce to go on? Why do you treat me in this absurd way? Look back over the months and see if you can answer the question. It is inconceivable that you are utterly heartless, and I had never thought of you as a flirt, but how else am I to construe your treatment of me? Ralph! she exclaimed, surprised an utter bewilderment in her voice. Was this the raving of a man who did not know what he was saying? It was so utterly unlike words which she had expected to hear from him. What has occurred to excite you, to make it possible for you to feel that you can address such language to me? Oh, don't go on in that sort of way to me, Marjorie. I tell you I won't stand it. I have borne a great deal from you, but when you put on that air of soft surprise and pretend that you do not understand, it is more than flesh and blood can endure. I ask you how long you wish this farce that has been going on for months between us to be continued. It is utter folly for you to pretend ignorance of my meaning. You and I have known for years that we belong to each other, and that no person had a right to come between us. Explain, if you can, why you considered it necessary to suddenly build up a wall of separation between us, merely because my judgment in one single particular did not agree with yours, and I reserved the right, which any man of sense has, to use his own judgment when he is the responsible person. It is six months since we were here, Marjorie. Are not six months of misunderstanding in misery enough to atone to even you for not having had your own way in every particular? The utmost feeling in Marjorie's mind for the moment was bewilderment. Was this man growing insane, or was she? Six months of misunderstanding and misery. Yes, she understood so much. But the man to whom she had written a note so kind, that even her mother feared lest it should be misunderstood, had returned her a reply which was almost insulting in its coldness, and had from that time discarded even her friendship. Not only this, but he was engaged to another, and yet he stood before her, apparently upbraiding her for what had from the beginning been of his own planning. Certainly he must for the moment be out of his mind. How was she to reply? She looked at him out of great, troubled eyes, and allowed the startling query to pass through her mind. Could it be possible that he had been taking something stronger than the lemonade and chocolates which the Skylers served? She dismissed the thought on the instant as unworthy of consideration, and answered him as she might have done a semi-lunatic. Ralph, I have not the slightest conception of your meaning. You wrong me if you suppose that I have a hard thought in my heart concerning you. I have never at any time had the slightest desire to make one hour of your life miserable. On the contrary, my daily prayer is for your happiness in the life that you have chosen. He turned half away from her, as if in ungovernable impatience, even anger, as he said roughly. Leave all that out. If you have nothing but prayers to offer me, I can get along without them. What I want to know is, do you dare to tell me that you do not understand that we were the same as engaged to each other? The flush which had spread over Marjorie's face at the sound of her name from his lips had died quite away. She was very pale now, but quiet enough, much less excited than was he. Ralph! she said again, but there had come a change in her voice. There was an undertone of sternness. I do not understand what possible good can result from speaking of those past days now. Whatever either of us may have thought in the past has nothing to do with the present. The basis upon which we may talk in the future is one, I hope, of friendliness and kindness, but I at least remember that I am speaking to a man who is engaged to Estelle Douglas. Estelle Douglas be hanged! he said hoarsely. Don't fling her name at me now. You know perfectly well that you have yourself to thank for the wretched position in which I find myself. Had you not chosen to try to humiliate me by flirting openly and shame-facedly with that insufferable, psalm-singing hypocrite whom you have led into your house, I should never have been overwhelmed with the embarrassments which now beset me. It will hardly do for you to fling my misery in my face when you have yourself to thank for it. Then indeed she arose, and the flash in her eyes was one of unmistakable indignation. Mr. Bramlett. She said, in a tone such as he had never before heard from her. You forget yourself utterly. You are disgracing yourself and insulting me. I am quite unable to understand what your object can be. I will try hard to think that some unexpected trouble has temporarily unsettled your mind. I know of no other explanation which could atone for what you have said to me. Let me pass, please." Then this young man of impulse felt himself suddenly impelled to an entire change of base. He caught at her arm as she would have passed him, and grasped her hand. "'Marjorie, don't,' he said brokenly. "'Don't go away. I don't know what I have said. I don't mean the half of it. I don't mean any of it if you choose. Only, I can't lose you again. Oh, Marjorie, how could you let anything or any person come between us? Nothing shall.' Bursting into sudden anger again. "'I will have my rights. You belong to me.' Estelle Douglas is less than nothing to me and always was. I was insane or a fool when I allowed her to imagine otherwise. It was not for you to lay such a thing up against me. You know and always have known that you are the only person in the world to me. Let us end all this at once, Marjorie. Let us be married right away. I am in a position now to take care of you. Had I been six months ago all this misery might have been saved us. Marjorie, there is nothing, there shall be nothing, that can separate us again. Do not think about Estelle. She is a creature without depth. You have said so yourself many a time, and we both know it is true. She will forget me in a week. She has known for a dozen years that you and I belong to each other. Oh, Marjorie! Mr. Bramlett, I desire you to let me pass without another instance delay. If you undertake to detain me I shall call for assistance." And then Ralph Bramlett knew that he had passed beyond the bound of even his influence. Marjorie spoke in such a voice as he had not supposed she could use. He dropped his detaining hand suddenly and took a single step aside. None too soon. She swept past him like a queen just as Mr. Maxwell's voice was heard still in Mary Chat with little Effie Skyler. There was the slightest possible touch of surprise in his manner as he saw who was waiting near Marjorie. But he lifted his hat to him courteously, not apparently noticing that he received no sort of response, and turned to Marjorie. Would you like to return to the house, Miss Edmonds, or shall we remain out longer? I would like to go in at once, said Marjorie, and he, too, noted the new ring in her voice. As Effie suddenly flitted away from them among the trees, she added, Mr. Maxwell, I would like to go home if it is possible. Do you think I could get away without attracting too much notice? Certainly, he said quietly, it is quite time that an affair of this kind was breaking up. I had designed consulting your wishes as soon as I had bestowed Miss Effie in a safe place. I am beginning to have qualms of conscience over my promises to your mother already. Then let us get away at once, said Marjorie, with unnecessary energy. I will be ready in a very few minutes. I will not return to the parlours at all. Mrs. Schuyler is in the dining-room, I think. If you will come that way, we can go out by the dining-room door. It was only too apparent that something had occurred to excite her painfully. The hand which Mr. Maxwell took to assist her up the steps trembled and was as cold as ice. But of course there was nothing which he could do, except to appear as blind as a bat and conduct himself as though nothing unusual had occurred. This he did to perfection, mentally berating himself the while for having left his charge, and yet in great mystification as to what could have occurred to so unnerve her. In a very short space of time they were on the road, and the late moon was making their way brilliant. Even the moon came to suggest the evening when they had travelled this way before. Salim was at his very best, so their progress was rapid. Mr. Maxwell, taking no notice of his companion's few words, spoken with evident effort, talked on, almost uninterruptedly. Discovering it to be difficult for her to respond even in monosyllables to his remarks, he took refuge in a long story of not too thrilling interest, which he knew, by being told in minute detail, could be expected to occupy a good deal of the time. He told it in a way to require no questionings or comments. Some of it Marjorie heard, but the narrator did his work so well that during a portion of the time she could give herself up to the business of trying to get the control of her overwrought nerves. It was a difficult thing to accomplish. She felt a sense of great relief in the discovery at last that in a very few minutes she would be at home, and she could take refuge in the darkness of her own room. Meantime what must her companion think of her? Being frank by nature, she resolved upon an attempt at explanation and apology. Mr. Maxwell, you have been very kind to me tonight. I want you to know that I am grateful. I had a conversation with— She hesitated for the right word and began again. Something occurred this evening which made me feel incapable of conversation. You have seen it, of course, and have been thoughtful as usual. I thank you very much. He hardly knew how to reply to her without exhibiting too much sympathy. But after a moment's hesitation he said, Consider me at all times, please, as a friend with whom you may talk or keep silence according to the mood of the hour. I am very well aware that we do not at all times feel like talking. Your mother has reached home before us and is at the window I see. I am glad we have made such good time. She cannot have been long alone. Marjorie had fled to the solitude of her own room with a feeling of haste upon her more than once during those six months. But never it seemed to her more eagerly than she did that night. A strange sense of humiliation possessed her which made her shrink even from her mother's tender questionings. It was almost as though she had sat still and allowed herself and her mother's teachings and the conscience and purity of them both to be insulted. What had not that man said to her under cover of their dead past? Not content with tearing away all the sacred privacy which should gather about the relations with the woman whom he had asked to be his wife, he must even propose marriage to her. The man whom she had trained herself for weeks to look upon in the same light as one who had already taken marriage vows. What had his engagement meant to him then? What had their friendship been worth ever since he could even accuse her, the woman he was at that moment professing to love above all others, of the lowest and coarsest form of petty revenge known to woman kind? Her cheeks burned in the darkness as she thought of it. Oh, the man must certainly be insane. She could almost hope, for the honour of his future, that he was. Yet her stern common sense coming to the rescue assured her that he had known only too well what he was saying. He had been angry and determined, and had spoken out in the suddenness of his anger thoughts which must often have been in his mind. He did not love Estelle Douglas, did not even respect her enough not to speak such words of her as he had that night. And he had asked her to be his wife, and she was daily planning for the time when they too should be as one. What a monstrous thing it was! She felt a great pity for Estelle surging into her heart, and there met it that overwhelming sense of shame for herself. That he should take her to be such in one as that. That he should dare to talk to her about love. The pain and shame and burning indignation which she had kept under with resolute hand during that homeward ride, revenged themselves upon her at last in an outburst of more bitter tears than she had known she could shed. Nevertheless she opened that communicating door before her mother was ready for rest, and went swiftly towards her speaking rapidly. Mother, let us close the house just as soon as we can and go away. Let us be gone all summer, longer than that, for ever if it were possible. I cannot stay here." Mrs. Edmunds turned and looked at her daughter in wonder and dismay. What had happened now? The girl's eyes were bright with the excitement which is not far removed from anger, yet she had been crying hard. Could Mr. Maxwell have said or done anything to disturb the careful self-control which she knew that Marjorie had been cultivating? My dear, what is it? She asked, putting both arms around her child and drawing her to the old childhood resting place, her face hidden on her mother's breast. The act brought the tears again for a few minutes, but she gave them little chance this time. Mother, she said, raising her head, forgive me and do not be frightened. I ought not to disturb and distress you, so late as it is, too. Nothing very terrible has happened, that is, only, Mama, I feel as if I must go away from here now, as though I could not breathe in the same town with them. She hid her face again, and the mother stood distressed and wondering, but presently the girl stood erect and finished her story, as much of it as she meant to tell. Mother, I have lost my respect for him now, and when a girl has to say that, it is bitter." Then Mrs. Edmunds knew that her daughter had had an experience which she believed that loyalty to others would not allow her to tell, even to her mother. CHAPTER XXIX What spell came over Ralph Bramlett to cause him to make so strange a blot as this upon his life, do you ask? Oh, who shall undertake to account for the doings of that young man? But after all, it is in keeping with his general character. What was he but a creature at the mercy of every passing impulse? A creature of fate, as he persistently phrased it, never being able to understand that he made his own fate, was constantly making it out of materials which would have lent themselves as well to quite another style of manufacture. He had by no means gone to the Skyler Farm with the intention of rushing like a madman into temptation. It will be remembered, perhaps, that it was not his nature to act upon long-planned intentions. Once there he had given himself up to the intoxication of Marjorie's presence. He had followed her from room to room, feasting his eyes upon her face, listening to the sound of her voice, getting, so far as was possible, every word that she uttered, using every means in his power, to bring the spell of her old influence to bear upon him to its utmost, until he was wrought up to such a pitch of excitement, that for the time being he completely lost control of himself. Of course, he was one who, never having trained himself to self-control, found this an easy matter. The longer he looked at Marjorie and the more he listened to her words, the more hateful seemed the fate which he believed without any volition on his part had woven her meshes around him. He could not help speaking irritably to Estelle Douglas, almost savagely indeed, more than once, when there were not listeners, perhaps as has been seen when there were. In a certain sense she represented that baleful fate which had ruined his life. Why had she been always at hand when, for any reason, he was especially annoyed about Marjorie? Nay, he realized, and for one of his temperament it was an infinite pity that there was a degree of truth in it, that she had done what she could to prejudice him against his friend, and to make him feel that she had changed in her feelings toward him. It will perhaps have to be confessed that, creature of impulse though he was, enacting upon it all the while, there had been through all the later months of his life an undertone feeling that the present condition of things was not to last. This was not real life, it was simply a play in which the emotions were engaged, and he was a principal character. He was engaged to be married to Estelle Douglas, he had quarreled with Marjorie. But somehow, before it should be forever too late, some one or some thing should interpose and set all these crooked relations right again. Fate could not be so cruel as to take Marjorie away from him entirely. Of course she belonged to him. Why, they had known it from their childhood. Everybody knew it. None better than Estelle Douglas. All this was not deliberate conviction, it was undertone, background. It was not allowed to influence his daily acts. He talked with Mr. Douglas, and with Estelle, and with any person indeed, who had a right to know of his affairs, quite as though his future was mapped out plainly before him. Yet the subtle background of hope, yes even of expectation, was there all the time. When he sought Marjorie that evening on the lawn and poured out his incoherent statements and preferred his half-insane charges, he was not acting in accordance with any preconceived plans, but simply following the impulse of the moment. Had he planned, he knew her well enough to be sure that he was using exactly the wrong words to influence her in the way that he desired. Indeed, almost as fast as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted their utterance, and as he saw Marjorie walking away with Mr. Maxwell, he called himself an insane fool. He was positively savage with Estelle Douglas on the journey home. Do you remember the last time we were on this road together? She asked him, for either by accident or design, these two had not been together on that road since the dreary ride had been taken in the early morning through the November rain. Of course he did, he told her sharply. He had good reason to remember it. He had been a fool then about some matters, and had continued one ever since. This was suggestive but ambiguous. Estelle did not know whether to meet it with indignation or to pass it by as unworthy of notice. A remembrance of Ralph's present mood decided her on the latter course. It would hardly do to be indignant with a man whose own indignation had placed him beyond self-control. What is the matter, Ralph? She asked, and she tried to speak soothingly. Something has happened. You do not act like yourself. Are there any business matters disturbing you? Tell me about them, please, and let me help you bear them. You know we ought to help each other in every way now. It was an unfortunate reminder. Something has happened. He said, and he spoke even more roughly than before. You cannot help me. You can only— He stopped just in time, having almost said in his folly and passion, You can only hinder me. He changed it too. What do you suppose you could do? There is no use in telling you anything about it. It is my confounded fate. Nothing that I wanted very much ever turned out as it ought to. I must have been born under an unlucky star. She decided then, poor girl, that it was affairs connected with his present business which had so disturbed him. There were days when he chafed bitterly under control, resenting the right of all the Sniders to order him about as if he were a puppet, he told her. Some of his old dreams and ambitions, connected with the law, had probably come back to him this day. Some incident might have occurred to recall the hopes and dreams which he used to have of the future, and which she knew he had put aside, having decided to make his relations with Snider, Snider and Co. as permanent as possible. Yet she could well understand that other plans, which had been central with him for so long, must sometimes push themselves forward in a mocking way to make him miserable. Was it fortunate or unfortunate that, coming as near to the truth as she did, she nevertheless missed it? The old hopes and dreams had undoubtedly been recalled in vividness that night, but they had not to do with the law. Estelle had missed her attendant when he and Marjorie were on the lawn together, but she had also missed Mr. Maxwell, and believed him to be taking a promenade with Marjorie. Nothing had occurred to make her associate Ralph's wretched humor in any way with Marjorie. So, womanlike, she did what she could to comfort him. She could not know, how could she, that her very voice was irritating to him that night. She had too great faith in him, and in the words which he had spoken to her, to believe for a moment any such thing. Yet, despite all this, it must not be understood that Ralph Bramlett was a hopeless hypocrite. There were times when Estelle Douglas was able to comfort him. At these times he assured himself that she was more fitted to his needs than Marjorie ever could have been. There were days together when he succeeded in convincing himself that everything was as it should be, and that he and Estelle would get along nicely together. Of course, on such days he expected to carry out all the pledges he had made to her and planned accordingly. Yet there was, all the time, that haunting little undertone of which he was conscious, whispering that perhaps some way it would all turn out differently even yet. Undoubtedly this is a contradiction. It must have been observed by students of human nature that these seeming and indeed actual contradictions are marked features of certain temperaments. Ralph Bramlett was fully determined to have his own way and carry out his own plans without interference from any source, human or divine. At the same time he was absolutely certain that he was not in the least to blame for the present condition of things, that he could not have ordered his life differently had he made ever so much effort, and that it was in short that mysterious imp which he had chosen to name Fate who was responsible for all that concerned him. He left Estelle at her own door with the coldest good night she had received from him since he had told her that she was the one chosen by him from all others, and went home angry with her and with all the world. He lay awake half the night, going over and over again the scenes which distressed and angered him and bemoaning his miserable Fate. Yet before morning his mood had changed. He called himself a consummate fool for his part of the proceedings at the very moment when he took care to assure himself that had it not been for such and such circumstances beyond his control he never would have done as he did. By daylight he said of Marjorie, Well, let her go, she cares for no one but that fellow, nothing is more evident, she even talks like him. It is just as well as it is. If he hadn't goaded me on by his insufferable assumption I should never have thought of making the spectacle of myself which I did before her, something for them to laugh over I suppose when it is described to him. And he ground his teeth in impotent rage at the idea. If I had maintained my dignity and had nothing whatever to say to her it would have been a great deal better. I believe I will write her a line of explanation. I can call it an apology by way of courtesy and tell her that I was disturbed yesterday about business matters and ask her to excuse the ravings of a man who did not know what he was saying. No, I won't, I won't do anything of the kind. I will just let things take their own course. Something may come of it after all different from what I imagine. She may really not have supposed that I continued to care for her. Perhaps I shall even hear from her during the day or the week, who knows. It will be observed that no less than three times in the course of this short interview with himself he had entirely changed his view of the question and that he understood Marjorie Edmonds as little as she had him. What may not be expected or feared of a man who is so reckless of his opinions upon all subjects that they can actually be swayed by the passing idle thoughts of the moment? It will be readily imagined that Mrs. Edmonds lost no time in acting upon Marjorie's sudden decision. She believed that it would be an excellent thing for her daughter to get away from home and its surroundings for a time at least. She only very dimly imagined what might have occurred to Rao's Marjorie in this way, but whatever it was, while feeling the deepest sympathy for her daughter, her prayer that night was one of thanksgiving. Surely it was better for Marjorie to know and realize the truth, and if it had been proved to her that Ralph Bramlett was unworthy of even her friendship, the mother knew her daughter well enough to understand that she was saved. Before evening of the following day, sundry plans for the summer had been discussed, not only between themselves but with Mr. Maxwell. That gentleman urged them strongly to select his own college town as their summer resort, advocating its climate and surroundings with great confidence. "'To be sure I am not to be there myself,' he said, which I assure you I regret. It would give me great pleasure to show you around the beautiful old place and exhibit its numerous historic lions to you. But I am unselfish enough to want you to enjoy it, even though I cannot share the pleasure with you. I know of no other spot which can boast so many of the advantages and so few of the drawbacks of a summer home. Miss Edmonds would be simply charmed with the country about there, and the views which she could sketch would be unlike any which she has in her portfolios at present." After this last, Marjorie laughed and blushed a little. She had not known that he was so familiar with her sketches from nature. She had come to have a poor opinion of her work in that direction. Since she had seen with what a free, strong hand he reproduced on paper the choice places he visited. It was perhaps because she was indifferent as to where they went, and also because Mr. Maxwell could assist so materially in arranging the details for this one place that it was finally chosen. We will go there for a time at least, decided Mrs. Edmonds, and if we find that Mr. Maxwell has looked upon this favorite spot through prejudiced spectacles, why we can change our plans and go elsewhere. We will leave ourselves untrammeled by any ideas of stability, and for this one summer we'll feel as free to rove as the gypsies themselves. She laughed a little as she spoke, and cast a swift, questioning glance at Mr. Maxwell. How much or how little did that gentleman understand of her reasons for action? She could not but be grateful for the gracious and skillful way in which he aided and abetted all her plans. Was he thoughtful for her just as he was for all man and woman kind, or was he—but here the mother resolutely stopped her questionings. It was while Ralph Bramlett, who was being kept very busy, was wondering what would happen next and trying to decide just how he should conduct himself if he should meet Marjorie as he was liable to, of course, on any day, that Estelle way late him one evening as he was passing the door in haste with her budget of news. Ralph, did you know that Mrs. Edmonds and Marjorie were going away for the summer? They are going to close their house. Nearly everything is in readiness. It seems that Mr. Maxwell has changed his plans and is going to start earlier than he had intended. And what do you think? Marjorie and her mother are going with him. That is, they are going to his old home to spend the summer. I wonder they do not go abroad with him. Marjorie cannot apparently endure the thought of being entirely separated from him, so she is going to his old haunts to rove around alone among them, I suppose, while he is away in Europe enjoying himself. Isn't that infatuation, Ralph? Isn't it queer in Marjorie? It seems so unlike her some way. I never thought she had much of the sentimental in her disposition when you and she were so intimate. Did you? It is of very little consequence what I thought, said Ralph, and I am sure it is of equally little consequence where other people spend their summers, or their lives, for that matter. I am unable to account for your exceeding interest in the movements of the Edmonds family. Suppose we dismiss them from our topics of conversation in the future. Oh, well, said Estelle. I won't talk about them if you are so particular. Marjorie and I have always been friends, and I thought you would like to hear the news, especially as you and she used to be so fond of each other. That, my dear, is another point which I am weary of hearing harped upon. Can't you let pass things alone? She pouted a little and told him he was cross, and she believed he always was when she said anything about Marjorie, and she didn't understand it. Then he said he was in haste and could not discuss even such important questions with her at present, and he laughed a little and tried to pass it all off as a joke, adding that he would try to call later in the evening, or, if business detained him, certainly tomorrow evening, when they would have affairs of vastly more importance to consider. CHAPTER XXXX, TALKING IT OVER On the following Tuesday morning Ralph Bramlett looked out of the window of his office in the distillery and watched the train whizz by which he knew was bearing Marjorie Edmunds away with Mr. Maxwell for her escort. Oh, the mother was there, of course, but he ignored her. He had told himself for weeks that he hated her. She seemed to him a part of that relentless fate which had pursued him. He told himself now that Marjorie was gone at last out of his life, and this time he meant it. There was a dull pain in his heart which made him understand that that subtle undertone of hope which had been all along telling him that somehow, out of all this obstinacy and misunderstanding and miscalculation would evolve that which he desired had proved treacherous and left him. That rose-colored future which had held itself before him for so many years had disappeared, and only dull prose filled its place. He was Bramlett, bookkeeper in a distillery and under engagement of marriage with Estelle Douglas. Well, he said, throwing down his fountain pen with an angry frown, as having been held point downward while he considered, it proceeded to conduct itself after the manner of those interesting instruments, and let fall a great black tear on his account book. Let her go, let everything go. Fate has done all the evil that she can for me. Now I'll see what I can do. I'll be a rich man anyway. I'll show her one of these days what she has lost by nursing her obstinacy and ill-humour until she has ruined everything. His pronouns were confused, but he well understood that the second one meant Marjorie Edmonds and not Fate. I may not be a judge, he continued, in communion with his worst self, and I may not be able to have anything else that I had planned, but I will see to it that I am not circumvented here. If I am not a millionaire before I am twenty-five years older, then the world may set me down for a fool. I see my way to so much at least, and it is not a very small thing after all as this world goes. The time was when we used to talk sentimentalism together and assure ourselves that we did not care for money. It was honour we meant to seek. Fool! as if she did not like money better than the most of them. What else attracted her to that whining hypocrite? Estelle is more honest at least. She frankly owns that she is fond of it. Well, she shall have it. She and I will do very well together. She will know how to spend my money in a way to do me honour. If I only knew some way to convince that girl that she had not broken my heart. After all, it is that which hurts most, I believe, the thought of those two talking it over and laughing together about the spectacle which I made of myself that night. What evil spirit possessed me? I might have known that it would come to worse than nothing. If I had only kept away from the Skylar Farm altogether, nothing of the sort would have happened. I believe the places bewitched. There has been nothing for me but ill luck in every direction since I went there before, and I shouldn't have gone this time if Estelle had not almost forced me to do so. That girl must learn to mind her own business better than she knows how to do now. Once married, I think it will not be difficult to show her that I intend to be master in my own house. I'll be even with that Maxwell yet in some way. He has ruined my life, but he shall not gloat over it always. Talk about justice. There is no such thing in the world. The paths of some people are spread with roses, no matter what they do, how dishonourable they are, or false, everywhere they turn is sunshine. Look at Marjorie Edmonds. Where could one find a specimen more false than she has been? And she deceived me utterly. I thought she would endure anything from me. Probably she intended to deceive me all the time. I have no doubt but that they planned it together. And their lives must be crowned. Everything just as they wish and plan. While for others a relentless fate as cruel as death dogs their track overthrowing their most cherished hopes and bringing their best efforts to not. What have I done but the best I could all my life? And what have I had but reproach and misfortune and misery in return? Especially since I took what people call the right road and joined the church. I wish I had not done that at least. If it had not been for Glyde Douglas I should never have thought of such a thing. I believe that entire Douglas family have been selected to be my evil geniuses. Oh well, that is only a sham with the rest. Money is the only real success. From this time forth I am going in for success. Yet the sentence ended with a groan almost of despair and the poor self-haunted, self-destroyed young man suddenly bowed his head on the great ledger spread open before him, and his strong, young frame shook with the pain that filled his soul. Even when he talked with himself he was not quite true. That is, there was really another and better self which it was becoming the habit of his life to ignore. It was weeks before Marjorie Edmonds mentioned his name. Then, one afternoon, she began suddenly to talk about him, telling that early and only confident of hers, the patient mother, some things which he had decided that she ought to know. It was a lovely summer day and they were sitting together under one of the grand old trees which Mr. Maxwell had described to them. Marjorie had just sketched it and her mother was criticizing it when the daughter began. Mother, you have been as good as gold to me as usual. I don't suppose I can ever tell you how grateful I have been for all your patience with me, but I feel it all the same. There is a favour I want to ask of you, but before that I ought to tell you something. That night you know, when we went to the party at Skyler's, Ralph came out to me on the lawn and said some words which I will not repeat, not even to you, because I want you to think that he did not mean a great many of them. He was wild with excitement. However, he said enough to make me understand something of what you have felt about him and have tried to have me see. I think you are right, in part, mother. He could never have had the character which I thought he had. He—but never mind now, all that is past. You will understand, mother dear, why I do not speak any plainer. Of course, you are sure now that everything is as utterly past between us two as though one of us had died. But that does not hinder me from wanting to help him. From words which he spoke to me that night I feel sure that there is misery in store for him and for Estelle, not because of me, but because he—mother, he does not have right views of—of anything. I do not understand it. I have thought over what he said and wondered how it was possible for a Christian, even in the excitement of anger, to speak such words. I tremble for them, mother, and my heart aches with the longing to keep them from wrecking their lives. Said Mrs. Edmonds, speaking slowly, choosing her words without most care so that her daughter might feel that they were spoken from conviction and not from prejudice. Do you feel sure, Marjorie, that he knows what it is to be a Christian? Has he impressed you at any time as a man who was acquainted and in daily fellowship with Jesus Christ? I am afraid, dear, and have been from the first, that uniting with the church was one of the accidents or impulses of his life rather than a deliberate public avowal of an inward change. I do not necessarily mean by that that he intended to deceive, but rather that he was himself deceived. I am afraid he thinks that religion consists in joining the church and attending the communion when it is convenient, and a few outward acts of that sort. She did not know whether or not Marjorie would be shocked by such plain speaking, but the girl made no sign that she had even heard. She sat with one hand shading her eyes, and the sunlight glinting through the trees shimmered around her, making a beautiful picture for the mother's eyes to rest upon. But there was a pain in it for her. Was this sweet young life to be always shadowed by that baleful one which she, who had been called of God to shield and train her child, had permitted to be so closely connected with it? After a few minutes of silence she asked gently, What was the favor, daughter, that was to be asked of me? Mother, said Marjorie, dropping her hand and turning toward her, I am afraid you are right. I am afraid that Ralph Bramlett has no personal acquaintance with Jesus Christ, has not even sought it, and he is a member of the church. I have heard it said that people who unite with the church under mistaken ideas without having really given themselves over into Christ's keeping are so hard to reach. Silence again for a few minutes, then. Mother, I am sure you do not understand me. If Ralph could be, if it were possible for him to be honorably released from Estelle Douglas tomorrow, he could never, never be anything to me. All that is utterly and forever past. When one actually loses one's respect for and faith in a person, why then? But the favor I wanted to ask is this. You used to like Ralph, Mama, and you have been good to him, and tried in a great many ways to help him. Let a little bit of that old liking, or old pity if you will, creep into your heart for him again, enough so that you can pray for him with all your soul. Mother, will you join me in a union of prayer for Ralph and Estelle, that God will not let go of either of them, that he will in some way, by some path that we do not understand, nor even see to be possible, lead them to himself? For I am persuaded that Estelle knows no more about this matter than he does, and they will both have ruined lives. Can you join me in this, dear mother? Mrs. Edmund's manner was very tender and serious. Daughter, she said, I want you to feel how entirely my heart goes out with you in this desire, and how fully I will join with you in a covenant of prayer. Yet there is one thing which I feel that I must say to you. Do you remember, dear, that even God cannot force people to yield their wills to him? He has chosen to limit himself in order to make us free to become all that grace can make us instead of being mere machines. It is he who cried, ye will not come unto me, that ye might have life. I do not know Estelle Douglas very well, but I have studied Ralph for years. What is in his way is his own undisciplined will, and he does not call it by that name, he says, fate. Do you remember how often the words used to be on his boyish lips? That is just my fate. When really what he was bemoaning had nearly always to do with some impulsive folly of his own. I did not think so much of it then, though I remember I talked with him more than once about it. But I have seen since that he is always pursued by the idea that a something outside of himself, and with which he has nothing to do, makes his misfortunes for him, and oversets plans which were wise and ought to have prospered. He still names it fate, I think, and not self. Now, dear, I wanted to say thus much to you, lest you might think that God could save Ralph in spite of himself, and grow to feeling perhaps if you were disappointed after long waiting, that he was almost cruel. I have known people who did not understand God any better than that. But we will pray and pray, and never let go our hold while we live. That is our part, and we will be sure that he who so loved that he gave his son will do his part. Mr. Maxwell had been abroad for five weeks. There had come from him two letters addressed to Mrs. Margaret Edmonds. But inside they commenced dear friends. Delightful letters they were, it was almost as good Mrs. Edmonds said, as having a trip abroad oneself with all the discomforts left out. The week following this talk with her daughter, the mother, who was his sole correspondent from that family, wrote this. My daughter wishes me to ask a favour of you. She has been studying lately, with deepest interest, the verse, where two of you shall agree, etc., and kindred passages, and has become impressed as never before with the power which lies in a union of prayer. She wishes me to ask you to join with her mother and herself in a covenant of prayer for the young man Ralph Bramlett, and his betrothed wife Estelle Douglas. We have occasion to fear that neither of these know what it is to have the Lord Jesus Christ for a personal saviour, and to try to follow him in their daily lives. Margery, through a certain experience of hers, which loyalty to her sense of honour keeps her from fully revealing even to me, has come to believe that the young man especially is in danger, and that unless some strong hand interposes there will be the moral shipwreck of two lives. She bids me say that there are a few people whom it seems to her God has taught in a peculiar sense how to pray, and you impress her as one of these. Therefore she desires to lay this burden upon your conscience. We know without awaiting your reply what it will be, for by the same token that we know he has taught you to pray we are sure he has given you a heart to respond to all such calls as these. It was a dreary, rainy evening when Mr. Maxwell read and re-read this letter. He had felt more alone that day than he was wont to feel. In fact he knew that during all the days there was a curious sense of homesickness upon him, such as, in his many trips abroad, he had never felt before. He had turned over his pile of home letters eagerly, sought out the one which he recognized as from Mrs. Edmonds, and pushing the rest aside had given himself entirely to its influence. Evidently it in some degree met and ministered to the homesick feeling at his heart. Especially had he read several times with deepest interest the paragraph commencing, my daughter wishes me to ask a favour of you. He was conscious as he read it that there was a quickening of his pulses and an eagerness to know anything which this daughter could desire. Was there anything that she could ask which he would not be willing to give? Yet the petition had a strange effect upon him. He dropped the letter at last and began to pace up and down his small room. The unmitigated scoundrel, he said aloud and with suppressed force in his tones, and she is giving her life to prayer for him. Back and forth he paced, feeling the place too small for him. He stepped to the window and pushed it up to its utmost height. He wished himself out in the rain and the darkness. God forgive me, he said at last. Can I pray for him with all my heart? Can I forgive him for the mischief he has wrought? He sat down presently and leaning his elbows on his little writing table covered his face with both hands. There was need for heart searching. Was there really that in his heart which prevented him from crying to God for a soul in peril? He got down on his knees at last and prayed like one who had indeed been taught how, even by the Holy Spirit. But at that time his prayer was chiefly for himself. There went out by the next morning's American mail addressed to Mrs. Margaret Edmonds a very brief letter which ran as follows. My very dear friend, there is no time to write a letter by this mail. I only take a moment to say in reply to your and your daughter's request, Amen with all my soul. God bless you and her. Leonard Maxwell. So this was the way in which they talked over together Ralph Bramlett's affairs. End of Chapter 30. End of Making Fate by Pansy. Recording by Tricia G. Thanks for listening.