Because of Stephen (11 page)

There was a gentle deference in her tone as she addressed Philip, almost as if she would ask his pardon and acknowledge that he was right about what he had told her.

There was something more also, a pleading that he would stand by her and help her out of this scrape into which she had allowed herself to go.

The soul of Philip heard and responded, and his quiet acquiescence sustained her all through the afternoon. It was as if there
were some unspoken understanding
between them.

The men watched her curiously as she moved about the room
, collecting strange, thin, littl
e dishes, the like of which some of them had never seen, and others had almost forgotten. There was enough of the unexpected and interesting about it to keep them moderately subdued, though a muttered oath or coarsely turned expression passed about now and again, and Banks tried a joke about the
tea which
did not take very well.

Margaret, however, was happily ignorant of much of this, though she felt the general pulse of the gathering
pretty accurately
.

The tea came speedily, for
Marna
had obeyed orders
implicitly, and had been hover
ing near the door with a curious, troubled expression and shaking head. With the tea
were served
delicious little cakes of sugary, airy substance, olives, salted almonds, and dainty sandwiches.

The whole menu was just what Margaret would have used at home with her own friends. She knew n
o other way.
Extravagant and un
usual?
O, certainly, but she did not realize this, and the very strangeness of it all worked for her anew the charm she had broken when she ceased to play, and kept the wild, hilarious spirits she would tame quiet
till
she had the opportunity for which she had been praying.

They vanished, these delectable goodies, as dew before t
he sun. The capacity of the com
pany seemed unlimited. The entire stock of sweet, dainty things from carefully packed tin
boxes that Margaret had brought with her would scarcely have sufficed to satisfy such illimitable appetites.

"They eat like a Sunday-school picnic," thought Margar
et to herself, laughing hysteri
cally behind the screen as she waited a minute to catch her breath before going out to try her hand at the most daring move of all her
program
.

Then she looked across to where Philip stood watching her with faithfulness written in every line of his face, and saw that he was eating nothing. She motioned him to her, and gave him with her own hands a cup of tea. It was well she gave it behind the screen; for, had the others seen it, a bitter rivalry would have begun at once for favors from the
lady's
hand.

He took it from her as one might take an unexpected bl
essing, and drank it almost rev
erently, if such a thing can be.

Then he looked up to thank her; but she was gone, an
d he saw her standing, palm-sur
rounded, near the piano again, her soft white draperies setting her apart from the whole room, and her golden hair making a halo about her head, the rays of the setting sun just touched her with its burnished blessing, like a benediction upon her work.
Philip felt, as he looked, that she
was surrounded
by some angelic guard and needed no help from him. His stern expression relaxed, and in its place came one of amazement.

She was talking now in low, pleasant tones, as if these men were all her
personal friends
. Each man felt honored separately, and dropped his gaze, that the others might not know.

She was telling
them in a few words about her home, and how she had come out there alone to her brother, now that she was alone in the world
. She was putting herself at their mercy, but she was also putting them upon their honor as men, if they had any such thing as honor. Philip was doubtful about that, but he listened and wondered more.

Then she told them about the first Sabbath she had spent
here,
and how shocked and disappointed she had been to find no church or
Sabbath services going on near
by.
She told them how she missed this, till they could not but believe in her sincerity, though such a state of mind was beyond their ken entirely; and she spoke of her Sabbath-school class at home, and how she loved the hour spent with them, until each man wished he might be a little boy for the time being, and offer her a class.

"I haven't asked my brother if I may," she
said with a gi
rlish smile, turning toward Ste
phen as he sat disturbed and uncomfortable in the corner. She felt intuitively that Stephen would count it a disgrace to
be implicated
in this matter, and she thus honorably exonerated him. "But I am going to ask whether you would not be willing to help me make up for this loss I have felt. Perhaps some of the rest of you have felt it too."

Here she gave a quick, searching look about the circle of
sun burnt
faces.

"I wonder if you will help."

They straightened up, one or two, and looked as if they would like to assent, but Margaret went quickly on. She did not want to be interrupted now
till
she was done; else she might not have courage to finish.

"I am going to ask if you will help me have a Sunday sc
hool, or Bible service, or some
thing of that sort. I will try to be the
teacher unless you know of some
one better—"

There was a low growl
of dissent at the idea that any
one could equal her, and Margaret flushed a little, knowing it
was meant
for her encouragement.

"We could not do much as they do at home in the East, but it would be keeping the Sab
bath a littl
e bit, and I think it would help us all to be better. Don't you?"

She raised her eyes, at last submitting the question to them, and the slow blood mounted in each face before her, while shame crept up and grinned o
ver each shoulder. When had any
one ever supposed that
they
wanted to be helped to be better?

"Now, will you help me?" She asked it in a sweet, pleading voice, and then sat down to wait their decision.

But
shame does not sit easily upon such as Banks. He roused himself to shake it
off
. He seldom failed in an attempt of that sort. He saw his opportunity in the intense silence that filled the room.

"I am a little Sunday-school scholar,
lah
,
lah
,

I dearly love my pa and ma, ma, ma, ma; I dearly love my teacher, too, too, too, too, And do whatever she tells me to—to, to, to, Teacher, teacher, why am I so happy, happy—"

He had chanted the words rapidly in his most irresistib
le tone, and he expected to con
vulse the audience and turn the whole gathering into a farce; but he had sung only so far when strong hands pinioned him from behind, gagged him with a ha
ndkerchief, and would have swiftl
y removed him from the place but that M
argaret's voice broke the still
ness that succeeded the song.
Her face was white, for she realized that she
had been made
the subject of ridicule; but her voice was sweet and earnest.

"O, not that, please, Philip. Let him go," she said. "I'm sure he will not do it again, and I don't think he quite understood. I
don't
want to urge anything you would not all like, of course. I want it very much myself, though, and I thought perhaps you would enjoy it too. It seems so lonely out here to me, without any church."

She sat down, unable to say more. It must be left with God now, for she had done all she could.

Then up
ro
se
bold Byron. It was his oppor
tunity to redeem himself. "My lady," he began gallantly, "I
ain't
much on Sunday schools my
self, never having worked along that line; but I think I can speak for the crowd if I say that this whole
shootin
'-match is at your disposal to do with as you choose. If Sunday
school's
your game, we'll play at it. I can sit up and hold a
book myself, and
I'll
agree to see that the rest do the same if that'll do you any good. As for any better teacher, I'm sure the
fellows'll
all agree there's not to be found one within six hundred miles could hold a candle to you, so far as looks goes; and as for the rest we can stand 'most anything if you give it to us."

It was a long speech for Byron, and he nearly
came to grief
three times in the course of it because of some familiar oath that he felt the need of to strengthen his words.

Philip, as he held the struggling, spluttering Banks, glared at Byron threateningly during it all, and wondered whether he would have to gag the entire crowd before he was through; but Byron stumbled into his chair at last, and Margaret, to cover her blushes and her desire to laugh and cry
both, put her hands up to her hot cheeks, and wondered what would come next.
Then a wild, hilarious cheer of assent broke from the throats of the five other guests, and Margaret knew she had won her chance to try.

"O, thank you!" was all she could gather voice to say; but she put much meaning into her words, and the men felt that they had done a good and virtuous thing.

"Then we will begin at once," said Margaret, almost choking over the thought that she was really going to try to teach those rough big fellows a Bible lesson. "Mr. Byron, will you pass that pile of singing-books?
and
let us sing 'Nearer, my God, to Thee.' You must all have heard that, and
I'm
sure you can sing. Philip, please give t
his book to your friend, and re
lease him so he can help us sing," and she actually
was brave enough to smile conde
scendingly into Banks s mean little eyes.

Philip took the book, and let Banks go as he might have given a kick and a bone to a vagrant dog
; but he looked at this most re
markable Sunday-school superintendent with eyes of wonder.

And
they could sing, O, yes, they could sing! From their g
reat throats poured forth a vol
ume of song that would have shamed many an Eastern
church
choir. They
sang
as they would have herded cattle or forded a stream, from the glad, adventurous joy of the action itself; and more; they sang because they were trying to help out a lonely, pretty girl, who for some mysterious reason was to be helped by this most pleasant task.

As she played and listened to the words rolled forth, Margaret found in her heart a flood of uncontrollable desire that they all
might know the meaning of those words, and sing them in very earnest.

The lesson, the same one that she would have taught, had she been at home with her class of little boys, began with the grand and thrilling statement:

"There is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit."

They listened respectfully while she read the lesson in her
clear voice.
But the words con
veyed very little
to their minds, and it is doubt
ful, when she began to talk about a prisoner condemned to death and a pardon coming just in time to save him, whether they connected it in the least w
ith the words she had been read
ing, or whether they even recognized them as the same she ha
d read, when she repeated them la
ter after having made the meaning clear.

It was simple language she used, with plain, everyday stories for illustrations
;
for she was accustomed to
teaching little boys.
But
a doc
tor of theology could not have more plainly told the great doctrines of sin and atonement than did she to those men whose lives were steeped in sin, and to whom the thought of conviction of sin, or of condemnation, seldom if ever came.

They felt as if they had suddenly dropped into a new world as they listened, and some of them fidgeted, and some of them wondered, but all were attentive.

She did not make her lesson too long. For one thing,
her own
trembling heart would have prevented that. She had feared that she would not have enough to say to make the lesson of respectable length; but, when she began, the
need of the souls before her ap
pealed to her so strongly that she found words to bring the truths before them.

Philip w
atched her in amazement. She re
minded him of a priestess robed in white, the palms behind her and her gold hair crowning her. He could think of nothing but
Hypatia
and her wonderful school of philosophy of old, as she op
ened up the
simple truths
. Look
ing about on the hard faces, softened now by something new and strange that had come over their feelings, he felt her power, and knew her way had been right; yet he feared for her, was jealous for her, hated all who dared to raise their eyes to hers.

What power was it that made her able thus to hold them? Was it the mere power of her pure womanhood?
Or
the fascination of her delicate beauty?
No, for that would have affected such men as these in another way.
They would have admired, and openly; but they would not have been quiet or respectful.

Another thought kept forcing itself to his mind. If the God whom she was preaching, whom she claimed as her Father, should prove indeed to be the one true God, was he, Philip Earle, condemned?
But
this thought Philip put haughtily aside.

"I have been thinking," said the teacher, "as I sat here talking, how beautiful it would be if Jesus Christ were yet on the earth so that we could see Him. What if He should walk into that door just now?" and she pointed to the doorway where they had all entered.

Involuntarily each man lifted his eyes to the door, and Philip with the rest.

"He would come in here, just as He used to come into households in those Bible times, and we would make room for Him, and you would all be introduced."

Some of the men moved restless feet. Their thoughts were growing oppressive.

"And you would all see just what kind of a man, and a Christ, Jesus is," went on the sweet voice. "You could not help admiring Him, you know
. You would see at once how gra
cious He is. You would not be—I hope—I
think—none of you would be like those people who wanted to crucify Him—though we do crucify Him sometimes in our lives, it is true; but if we could see Him and know Him it surely would be different. He would call you to be His disciples, just as He called those other disciples of His, Philip and
An
drew and Matthew and John and Peter and the rest."

Unconsciously Philip Earle flushed and started at his name. She had never called him Philip until that afternoon, and he thought for the moment she was speaking to him now.

There were others who
looked conscious, too, for Benne
tt's name was Peter, and Fletch
er's name was Andrew, and two others bore the name of John
. Because of these little coinci
dences they were the more impressed by what she said.

"And what would you answer Him?" She paused, and there was stillness for just a minute in the room.

"I am going to tell you what I want for you all." She said it confidingly. "It is that you shall know Jesus Christ, for to know Him is to love Him and serve Him.
And
suppose as we study in this class that you try to think of yourselves as men like those disciples of old, whom He
has called, and that you are getting acquainted with Him and finding out whether you want to answer His call. Because until you know Him you cannot
judge
whether you would care enough for Him for that. Will you try to carry out my fancy?"

She had struggled much with herself to know what she should do about prayer. It did not seem right to have a service without it, and she did not feel that she could pray. It was unlikely that the others would be willing to do so. She had settled on asking them all to join in the Lord's Prayer until she saw them, and then she knew that would not do. She even doubted whether many of them knew it. Her faint heart had decided to go without prayer, but
now in the exultation of the mo
ment she followed the longing of her heart to speak to her Father.

"Please, let us all bow our heads for just a minute and keep quiet before God," she said, and the sile
nce of that minute, wherein sec
onds were counted out by great heart-beats, was one whose memory did not fade from the minds of the men present through long years of after experiences.

Awful stillness, painful stillness!
Banks could not bear it. All his weak flippancy seemed
singled out and held in judgment by it. He wanted to escape, wanted to break forth in something ridiculous, and yet
he was held silent by som
e Unseen Power
, while the terri
ble seconds rolled majestically and slowly around him.

"O
Jesus,
let us all feel Thy presence here. Amen!" said Margaret as if she were talking to a friend.

Then she turned quickly to the piano, and before the raising of the
embarrassed
eyes that dared not look their comrades in the face, lest they should be discovered as having been bowed in prayer, soft chords filled the room, and Margaret's sweet voice rang out in song.

"Abide with me," she sang; "fast falls the eventide."

The room had grown quite dusky, lighted only by the glowing fire in the fireplace, which Philip had quietly replenished from time to time with pine-knots that sent fitful glares upon the touched and softened faces of the men, while they sat rapt in attention to the music.

A few more
chords,
and the melody changed,

"Weary of earth, and laden with my sin, I look at heaven and long to enter in;

But
there no evil thing may find a home, And yet I hear a voice that bids me, 'Come.'

"So vile I am, how dare I hope to stand
In
the pure glory of that holy land?
Before the whiteness of that throne appear?
Yet there are hands stretched out to draw me near."

Soft chords came in here, like angel music that seeme
d to float from above them some
where. It was a way she had with the piano, making it speak from different parts of the room and say the things she was feeling. The listeners half looked up as if they felt there were white hands stretched toward them.

The sweet voice went on:

"It is the voice of Jesus that I hear,

His are the hands stretched out to draw me
near,