Because of Stephen (16 page)

So
he rode down through the dark into
town, and, find
ing no trace of Stephen nor any
one who had seen him, turned his horse back to the house to see whether he had come; anxious now and grave, canvassing every po
s
sible way to turn next for the finding of Stephen. Then he remembered, and began to pray for guidance and help.

Stephens
wild cry had reached the ears of two men travelling along the upper road above the ravine with a wagon. They stopped, listened, and heard the crashing timbers and fall of horse and man.

Instinct taught them what the accident must be, and they went to find out who it was that had fallen to a death so sudden. They carried a lantern; for the night was dark,
and one
was old, and the road they had to go was treacherous in some places. So now, when they could see only the blackness of horror below, they climbed down another way, leaving their horse tied above, and found the place where Stephen lay.

The horse
was dead, and lay
quite motion
less
with all his four faithful legs broken and a great beam of rotten timber across one temple, where it struck and mercifully ended his life.

But
Stephen lay a little further off, flung, partly by the struggles of his horse, perhaps, or
it may have been by some wild leap of his own in the moment of falling. He was stretched upon a grassy place, the kindest that the old ravine could o
ffer, and lay unscratched appar
ently, the
damp gold waves of hair lying loose upon his forehead, his hands flung out as if he were asleep. He was
profoundly unconscious
of the majesty in which he lay.

The men held the lantern to his face, and one muttered with a great oath:

"Steve Halstead!
Drunk again!"

They tore his shirt open, and felt for his heart, but could not tell whether he was dead or living.
Finally
they carried him with great difficulty up a sloping, circuitous path, and put him in the wagon.

Bennett and Byron and two or three others had just arrived when they brought him in. Margaret turned away in sick horror. She had never seen her brother drunk. She could not bear to look now. They motioned her from the door, and laid him upon his own bed; but something in his face made Byron stoop
down
. There was no breath of liquor upon him. They listened with shocked faces as the two who had found him told their story. Then Byron flung
himself upon his horse, and gal
loped off into the night for the doctor, while
the others worked in desperation to bring him to consciousness, with the door closed against his sister.

It was Bennett who
told Margaret that her brother had had a fall on the way home, and that he had not been to the village at all, but was found on his way there. Her face lighted at that. She understood his meaning. She was glad Stephen had not been drinking. They sent the minister to stay with her; and she was wide-eyed and brave, and would talk but little, looking anxiously through the open front door.

There came a sound of horses presently, and she rushed out into the night. Mr. Owen thought she was looking for the doctor, and let her go, thinking it might be well for her to have something to do, even if it were nothing but to watch for the doctor, who could not possibly have come so soon.

It was Philip who
had come.

She ran out to him, and looked anxiously through the dark.

"O Philip, is it you? And are you safe?"

And
Philip's heart warmed with hope.

"They have brought him home, Philip. He had fallen through the bridge. I was afraid you
had fallen, too. I do not know how badly he is hurt; but, Philip, he had not been drinking!"

There was a ring of triumph in her last words, as if it could not be all bad, whatever might be coming. Then together they went into the house.

"She is a wonderful girl, isn't she?" said the minister to Philip in subdued tones a little later, as he watched her go quietly about getting a cup of tea for Philip. "It seems so strange that I should have had to come away out here to find her, when our native towns were but twenty miles apart." In his voice was a tone of possession and pride, and Philip's heart sank as he listened.

The doctor
came by and by, and was able to bring back the spirit into the form that had lain so still and deathlike. Stephen opened his eyes, and looked about him with a bewildered gaze as of one who had expected a different scene. He looked first at his sister, who had come into the room with the doctor, and then he smiled.

"I didn't get there, though, Margaret," he murmured. "God stopped me on the way. It was the only way He could save me."

He closed his eyes, and they thought he had fainted again; but he opened them with his old, careless, mischievous smile, and looked around upon t
he boys, his eyes lingering lov
ingly on Philip's face.

"I've been a coward, boys," he said, "and I've
tried to get away from Him all the time; but still He kept drawing me, and you all helped.
And now
He's going to take me to Himself. There won't be any more drinks up there, and maybe I can begin over again."

The words were faint, and the doctor bent over him and administered a stimulant.

He made a thorough examination, and told them that Stephen was hurt internally and could not live long. They thought he was not conscious; but he opened his eyes, and smiled at them.

"It's all right, doctor. It's better so," he said feebly. "But can't you give me something to strengthen me up for a few hours? I've got something I want to say to the boys."

The doctor turned away to rub his hand across his eyes; and the men moved, choking, away from the bed, and went to the windows or slipped into the other room.

"I'll try!" said the doctor huskily. "If you'll lie quiet and rest a little, you may live through the night."

Stephen obediently took the medicine, and lay quiet for a few minutes; but as soon as the artificial strength came to
him
he began to talk. The gay, reckless tongue that had been the
life of so many gatherings had but a little while longer to speak.

It was Philip who
came to him first, and tried to quiet him with that strong personality that had so often saved him from himself.

But
Stephen's mind was abnormally active. He seem
ed to think of things he had ne
glected all his life. He spoke of this and that he would like to have Philip do for him, and he talked tenderly of his sister.

"You'll look after her, Philip?" he asked anxiously. "You know she'll have no one now when I'm gone. She will be sorry. You like her, don't you?"

Philip's eyes f
illed with tears, and his strong chin quivered.

"I love her, Stephen, with all my soul," he said with choking voice. "I will care for her as far as she will let me care. I will make her my wife if she will consent."

"Consent?" said Stephen, his voice rising and his old petulant manner coming back to him, as ever when his will
was crossed
in the slightest.
"Consent!
Of
course
she will! Why
shouldn't
she? No one could help admiring you, Phil. Why
can't you be married
right away, before I go?
I'd
like to see it. I'd like to give you my blessing."

He looked up eagerly into Philip's face.

Philip almost groaned.

"Why can't you, Phil?" he urged again.

"I have not asked her yet," said Philip. "She may not love me at all. Sometimes I think she loves the minister."

"Then ask her now," said Stephen, and he called in the high, thin voice of those who are almost done with life, "Margaret!"

She heard h
is cry through the slight parti
tions, and came at once.

Stephen had almost exhausted his breath with his eagerness, and lay panting, looking up first at Philip wistfully, then at his sister.

"Phil—has something—to tell you," he gasped, and then swallowed the spoonful Philip gave him from the glass the doctor had left, and closed his eyes.

Philip scarcely dared to look at Margaret. It seemed almost a desecration in this hour of death to speak of what meant life and joy to him.

"I have been telling Stephen of my love for you," he said, trying to control the tremble in his voice. "I have been saying I would like to make you my wife. I would not dare intrude this upon you now, but Stephen longs to know how you feel about it."

Philip had come near her, and they both stood close to
Stephens
side. There was an undertone of pity for her in Philip's voice as he spoke, and a slight touch of formality in his words because of the presence of a third person, that made it seem like a contract in writing.
But
Margaret remembered his impassioned tones a little while before in the shadow of the night, and did not doubt his deep love for her.

With the tears brimming her
eyes
she looked up to Philip, and tried to smile. Her lips were trembling with emotion, but she said simply,

"I love you, Philip!" and put her hands out to his.

Then Stephen s great brown hand, so weak now, came groping out to them and clasped them both, and the two with one consent knelt down beside his bed.

"Be married now, while I am here," he whispered. "I can leave you better so." He looked pleadingly at them.

Margaret caught her breath with a sob, and Philip put his arm tenderly about her.

"Can you bear to—dear?" he asked.

She was still a minute with drooping face and downcast eyes, and then she whispered softly,

"Yes."

Philip stoo
ped and kissed her forehead rev
erently, and Stephen smiled his old joyous smile. For a
minute
the shadow of death that was beginning to hover over his face was chased away.

"Where are the boys?" he asked. "I want the boys and the minister.
I'll
tell them. No, it
won't
be too hard.
I'd
like to. Go and get ready."

They came trooping in, the great, rough men who loved him, and who had tried so hard to ruin him and save him both. The minister came behind them, and the doctor hurried in and felt Stephen s pulse.
But
he did not notice the doctor. He was all eagerness.

"Boys, we're going to have a wedding!" he said in a cheery, weak voice. They thought his mind was wandering, and looked sorrowfully at one another.

"That's all right, boys," he said as he saw they did not understand. "It's sure enough. I want you to carry me into the other room for the ceremony. No,
don't
say they can't, Doc.
I'll
stay alive long enough to say all I need to say. I must go out there where
we've
had so many good times.
I'd
rather die out there. Take me out, boys;
we've
no time to waste. Philip and
Margaret are
out there waiting, and the min
ister will marry them."

His old impatience was using up his strength fast. The doctor looked grave, but said in a low tone:

"Take him out. It cannot make much difference."

They gathered up the mattress tenderly, the clumsy fellows, and carried it out to a cot that
was placed
across in front of the fireplace. Almost they thought he was gone when they laid him down; but he rallied wonderfully, and, smiling, whispered,

"Go on."

Philip and Margaret, quiet and white, stood together, hand in hand, in front of the mass of summer blossoms that Margaret had arranged a few hours before for the expected evening gathering. It was just where she had sat to teach their first Sunday class, and she was all in white as then.
There was a glorified light in her eyes that defied the sadness even of death.
Stephen wondered as he looked at her whether she was looking up to and speaking with the unseen presence of her Christ.

The room was beautiful, and only Stephen as he lay with partly closed eyes and watched them,
half impatient
for the ceremony to be
over, remembered the bare old room filled with the odor of lamp-smoke and bacon into which they had brought his sister on the night of her arrival.
And
in his heart he thanked God for her coming.

The minister with stricken look and trembling voice performed the ceremony. It was hard for life to take away his love just as death was stealing a good friend. He had begun his portion of sorrow, and would learn his lesson; but it was bitter at the start.

There in the "chill before the dawning, between the night and morning," while the angel of Death delayed a little, to watch, they were married. The night was black around the little house, and the stars kept watch above.

As soon as it was over, and the short prayer ended, Stephen made a movement as if to rise, and then, remembering, dropped his head again.

"Boys, I can't stay long," he said eagerly. "I only stayed for the wedding," and he smiled in his old, reckless way. Then, growing sober, with an honest ring to his voice that sometimes came in his speech so winningly, he said:

"There's somet
hing I want you to do, boys. You
can if you only will. I want you to promise me before I go. I want you to build a church
here, and get the minister to run it. You can do it well enough if you
don't
go to the saloon.
It's
the saloon, boys, and the gambling, that has taken all our money, and made us into such beasts.
It was the saloon that
ruined me. You all know that. You all know how I came here and bought this place, and then drank it all up and everything else I had, and would have gone to the devil at once if it hadn't been for Phil coming out and buying back the p
lace, and keeping me half
way straight."

His breath was growing short. His sentences became more broken.

"You all know what my sister's done for me," he went on. "God bless her.
But
even she couldn't save me. The devil had too tight a hold.
I'm
sorry I didn't do as she wanted me to, and take Jesus Christ—it might have d
one some good—but now it's too la
te—He'll just have to take me. I guess
He'll
do it.
I've
made a clean breast of it—but it's been a wasted life.
Don't
wait any longer, boys.
I've
thought if there'd been a church here when I came—and a minister—who lived
right up to what he said—it might not have been so with me. Now, boys, will you build the church?"

They had turned away to hide the tears that were coursing down their bronzed faces; but
they went solemnly, one at a time, and took his cold hand in a strong grasp, and made the promise in hoarse, broken murmurs.

"That's all right, then, boys. I know you'll do it," said Stephen; "and, boys," with almost a twinkle of the old mischief in his eyes, "I want them to put me on the hill here under the big tree, and mark the place so you'll remember your promise. I'll maybe be able to help a little that way by reminding, and so make up for all I've wasted."

He was still a minute. His voice kept its strength wonderfully.

"Sing, boys," he said, opening his eyes. "Sing all the old songs. It will make me feel more at home where I'm going to hear your voices on the way."

They looked helplessly at one another. They did not know what to sing.

"Sing 'Jesus,
Saviour
, pilot me,' boys," he said. "I didn't live for Him, but maybe I can die with Him."

Tremblingly the great voices started, like some grand organ that has lost its player, and creaks on feebly at the touch of sorrow with a broken heart.

When they were through, he said:

"Sing 'Safe home in port.' I always liked that.
And
, boys, sing it as if you were glad. Sing it as you always do."

Then they mastered themselves and sang:

"Safe home, safe home, in port!
Rent cordage, shattered deck, Torn sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck; But, Q the joy, upon the shore,
To
tell the voyage perils o'er!"

They were singing as they used to sing it in those first bright Sundays, now. Something of the spirit of the triumph in the song had caught them.

"No more the foe can harm!

No more the leaguered camp,

And
cry of night alarm,

And
need of ready lamp;

And yet how nearly had he failed,

How nearly had the foe
prevailed!
"

"That's right, boys!
That's
me! It's all true," called out Stephen to them. They could see the shadow deepening about his eyes now.