Because of Stephen (3 page)

Margaret Halstead felt herself suddenly lifted in the dark by strong arms and seated on a horse. She clung to the saddle, and left her foot
obediently
in the stirrup where it
was placed
by a firm hand; but she was not certain whether her brother or his friend had put her there. It was bewildering, all in the dark that way, and neither of them spoke
till
both were standing by her side. She was glad the horse stood quite still. She expected him to start nervously. She felt timid about Western horses. They had a reputation for wildness.
But
it was Stephen who after a moment of low talk came and stood by her side and placed his arm about her as they started.

"My suit
case and my bag," she murmured.

"Phil has them all safe," said her brother.

"And the trunks?"

"They are locked safe in the station, Miss Halstead, and we will get them early in the morning," said a voice out of the mist before her.

Then ther
e was silence as she looked anx
iously into the darkness, and could not see a spot of road for the horse to place his foot.

The road was rough and her seat unsteady. A man's saddle is
not
the
surest
thing to ride sideways upon. She put her hand timidly on her brother's shoulder, and the touch seemed to give her courage. It gave Stephen a strange new sense of his power of protection.

They went slowly, for the night was dark and the mist lay thick about them. The road was so rough that horse and leader could keep together only by moving slowly. The sounds of disturbance behind them grew fainter as they went on, but now and
then
a shriek or a fragment of an oath would reach them as if it had been flung out wildly in the night and lost its way.

Margaret shuddered when this happened, and said in a half-frightened tone:

"What awful people they must be, Stephen! Isn't it unple
asant to live in their neighbor
hood?"

And
Stephen somewhat uneasily answered:

"O, they never bother us. They've got a little
too much to
night, that's all; and, when they get like that, they can't stand a difference of opinion."

"How dreadful!" said Margaret in low, awestruck tones.
Then after a
minute
she added:

"O Stephen, I'm so glad my brother is not like that. Of course it wouldn't be likely, but they must be somebody's brothers, and how their sisters must feel—and their mothers!"

Stephen felt
his face grow hot. He said noth
ing for a long time. He could not think of anything to say. There was a strange feeling about his throat, and he tried to clear it. The mist kept getting in his eyes. He was glad when his sister began to tell of her aunt's illness and the long, weary months when she had been chained t
o the sick
room at the
beck and call
of a whimsical, wandering mind.

She did not say much about herself, but he felt touched by her sweet self-sacrifice and her loneliness. It reminded him of his own lonely boyhood, and his heart went out in sympathy. He decided that it was a nice thing, after all, to have a sister. It was like Stephen to forget all about the end of their journey and the poor accommodations he had to offer her, utterly unfit for a woman, much less fit for one who had been brought up in luxury. He grew ga
y
as they went on, and talked more freely with her. When Philip suddenly appeared out of the silent darkness ahead of them, and said it was time to change guides, he was almost loath to leave his sister.

Margaret, too, would rather not have had the change; but she could scarcely ask her brother to walk the whole of the five miles.
There
was something about him that re
minded her, even in the dark, of their father,
and so he did not seem strange; but this other tall man, who had taken control of the entire expedition, frightened her a little. She wished she could get a glimpse of his
face and know what kind of a man he was. It was hard to know what to say to him, and still more embarrassing to keep entirely still.

But
the road was growing rougher. The new guide had to give a good deal of attention to the horse, and she to keeping her unsteady seat. The road was steadily rising before them now. She could feel that by the inclination of the saddle. It seemed to be stony also.

Once she slipped, and would have fallen from the saddle if Philip had
not caught her.
After
that
he pla
ced his arm about her and steadied her. She could not object, for there was nothing intimate or personal in the touch.

She concluded that Philip was a
gentleman
, whatever else he might not be.

She gripped the saddle in front of her a little tighter, and l
ooked into the darkness, wonder
ing whether this journey would ever end. She essayed one or two sentences of conversation, but the young man beside her was distraught, and seemed to be more interested in looking ahead and guiding the horse.

The road was even steeper now. Margaret wondered whether they were going up the Rocky Mountains. It seemed as if they had come far enough to
have almost reached
them, according to her vague notion of the geography of that land.

"Wouldn't it be better if I were to get off and walk?" she asked timidly, after the horse had almost stumbled to his knees.

"No," answered Philip shortly
;
"we'll soon be over this. Put your arm around my neck and hold on now.
Don't
be afraid! Steady, there, steady, Jack!"

The hor
se scrambled, and seemed to Mar
garet to be walking on his hind legs up into the air. She gave a little scream, and threw her arm convulsively about her companion's neck.
But
she was held firmly, and seemed to riding upon Philip's shoulder with the horse struggling under her for a moment. Then like a
miracle
they reached upper ground, and she was sitting firmly on the horse's back, Philip walking composedly beside her, his arm no more about her.

It was lighter too, here; and all the mist seemed to h
ave dropped away and to be melt
ing at their feet.

"It's all over now," said Philip, and there was a joyous ring in his voice quite d
iff
erent from the silent, abstracted man who had walked beside her for so long. "I hope you weren't much frightened.
I've
been afraid how Jack would act there. That is an ugly place. It
must be fixed
before you come this way again. You see the bridge was broken down the way we usually g
o, and we had to come around an
other way. You were perfectly safe, you know; only it was bad to frighten you when you have just come, and you are tired, too.
But
we are almost there now.
And
look! Look ahead!"

Margaret looked, and saw before her a blaze of light flare up
till
it made a great half-circle on the edge of the horizon. Not until it rose still higher—like a human thing, she thought—did the girl recognize the moon.

"O, it is the moon!" she said awestruck. "Is it always so great out here?"

Philip watched her as she looked. He felt that for the fi
rst time in his life he had com
panionship in
this
great sight of which he never tired.

"It is always different," he said musingly, "and yet always the same," and he felt as he was saying it that she would understand. He had never talked to Stephen about the moon. Stephen did not care for such things except as
they
were for his personal convenience or pleasure. Moonlight might be interesting if one had a long ride to take, in Stephen's economics, but not for purposes of sentiment.

"I see," said Margaret. "Yes, I recognize my old friend now. It seems as if it wore a smile of welcome."

"Do you mean the man in the moon, or the lady? Which do you claim?"

"O, both
!" laughed Margaret, turning to
ward him for the first time since there had been any light.
And now
she could see his fine profile outlined against the moon, the firm chin, the well-
molded
forehead and nose, and the curve of the expressive lips.

"Now, look down there, back where we have come!" said Philip, as she looked.

The mist was glorified like an expectant
one waiting to be redeemed from the state where it was put
till
its work was done.

"O!" breathed the girl in wonder. "You can fairly see the darkness flee away!"

"So you can," said Philip, looking off. "I never noticed that before."

And
they started forward round the turn in the road
where Stephen was waiting impa
tiently for them to come up with him, and almost at on
ce they saw before them the out
lines of the rude building the two young men called home, lying bathed in the new-risen moonlight.

T
he moonlight
was doing its best to gild the place with something like beauty to welcome the stranger, but it was effective only out-of-doors, and the two young men were painfully conscious of the state in which they had left the inside of their house, as they helped the
ir guest from the horse and pre
pared to take her in. All the impossibility of the situation suddenly came upon them both, and made them silent and embarrassed.

Stephen took on his sulky look, which ill became him, while he stumbled over the moonbeams that followed him when he opened the door, and lighted the wicked little oil lamp. He had no mind to welcome his sister there. W
hat did he want of a sister any
way? His foot caused the crisp rattle of paper
as he threw the match down, and he knew it was her letter lying on the floor. The same mood that had seized him when he read it was upon him again
;
and he turned, scowling, determined to show her that she had made a serious mistake in rushing out here unbidden.

Margaret Halstead turned from the brilliant moonlight to the blinking lamplight bravely, and faced the scene of her self-chosen mission.

There may have been something in the half-defiant attitude of her brother that turned her from her purpose of having a good long look at him and making sure of her welcome. She may have seen that she had yet to win her way into the citadel of his heart, and wisdom or intuitio
n taught her to break the embar
rassment of this first moment in the light by a commonplace remark.

Her eyes roved anxiously about the dreary room in search of something to bring cheer. They fell upon the old desk in the corner.

"O Stephen! There is the desk from your old room!" she cried eagerly, going over to it and touching it tenderly. "I used to go up into your room and sit by it to study my lessons. And sometimes I would put your picture on the top,—the one you sent father when you were in the military school,—and sit, and
admire you, and think how nice it was to have a straight, strong brother dressed in a military suit."

Stephen turned toward her with a look of mingled astonishment and admiration. His ugly mood
was already exorcised
. The soft rustle of hidden silk, made by her garments as she moved, created a new world in the rough place. She stood by the old desk, loosening the
hat-pin
and taking off
her hat; he could see the grace of every movement.
And
this beautiful girl had cared for him enough to look at his picture once in a while when he was just a boy! He half wished he had known it then; it might have made some thi
ngs in his life differ
ent. His voice was husky as he said, "You don't mean you ever thought of me then, and called me your brother!"

"Yes, surely," she said, looking at him with a bright smile as she ran her fingers through the soft hair over her forehead, and settled it as if by magic into a fitting frame for her sweet face.
"O, you don't know how I idealized you! I used to put myself asleep at night with stories about you, of how brave and good and true you were, and how you did all sorts of great things for
me—I'll tell you them all some
day.
But now
, do you know you haven't welcomed
me home yet? "You're sure you're going to be glad I came?"

She looked up anxiously, a sweet pleading in her lovely eyes as she came over to him, and held up her
face. Stephen bent over her awk
wardly,
and kissed
her forehead, and then turned away in embarrassment, knocking down the tin basin from the bench as he moved; bu
t Margaret felt she had her wel
come, and set herself to win this brother.

Philip wo
uld
have
liked to escape
to the barn
in
the confusion of the first few minutes, but
had been drawn
back to the door for very shame at deserting his partner in time of embarrassme
nt, and had heard the little dia
logue.

He turned silently away from the door, and slipped back to the horses thoughtfully. He had never seen that look on Stephen's face before, nor heard his voice so huskily tender. Perhaps, after all, there was something in a sister.

Margaret Halstead folded her wisp of a veil as carefully and precisely as if she had just come home from a concert in the East, instead of being dropped down in this land that knew her not; but all the while she was taking mental note of the place, its desolation, its
need of her, its paucity of material with which to work, and wondering how these two men had lived and been comfortable.

"And now you are hungry," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, just as if her
brother were
the guest and she the hostess, "and what can we get for supper?"

Stephen had returned
from a chase after the tin wash
basin, which had chosen, after the manner of inanimate articles, to take a rattling excursion under the stove. He was looking helplessly about the room. He did not know what he ought to do next.

"There isn't much but bacon and beans, the same old stuff. We have it morning, noon, and night."

Margaret came over to the table and began to gather the dishes together. It was a strange assortment, and she felt like laughing as she extracted the hammer from under the paper of cheese and looked about for a place to lay it; but she kept her face as sober as if that were the proper place for hammers and cheese, and said thoughtfully:

"Haven'
t you any eggs? I think you men
tioned poultry in one of your letters."

"O yes, there are eggs. There are always eggs
and bacon. They would be good if they weren't always the same."

"How would you like an omelet? Do you ever make them?"

"Yes, we've tried, but they lie around in little weary heaps, and won't '
om
' for us
," said Ste
phen, laughing at last. "I'll go out and get some eggs if you think you could make one."

"Yes,
indeed!" said
Margaret with alacrity. "Just show me how this stove works first, and fill the tea-kettle. I always use boiling water for my omelets; it makes them fluffier than milk. Where is your egg-beater kept?"

"Egg-beater!"said
Stephen with a shrug of his shoulders. "Don't ask me. I
wouldn't
know one if I met him on the street. Can't you make an omelet without an egg-beater?" he added anxiously.

"O yes," said Margaret, laughing; "a fork is slower, but it will do. Bring me the eggs now.
I will have them ready by the t
ime the kettle boils and the frying-pan is hot."

Margaret worked rapidly while he was gone, and managed to clear the table and wash three plates and cups before he returned. Then she went to her bag that Philip had put just inside the door, and after a little search brought forth four large clean handkerchiefs, a
supply of which she usually took with her on a journey.
These she spread, one under each plate and one in the centre.
At least, it would not seem quite
so
uncivilized as did that bare table.

An examination into her lunch-box showed a glass of jelly still untouched and half a dozen sugary doughnuts, the farewell contribution of an old neigh
bor of her aunt's.
These she ar
ranged on the table with a plate of bread cut in thin slices, and was just searching for possible coffee when she heard the voices of the two young men.

Stephen went whistling out to the barn for the eggs. "Christopher Columbus, Phil! She knows how to make
an
omelet! Hustle there, and help me get
a lot of
eggs. We'll have something worth eating again if it takes every egg on the place."

Philip had been wondering whether he
might not be excused
from going back to the house that night at all.
But
at the appetizing sound he went to work with a will.

They stopped in astonishment at the door, and gazed at the table
as if it had been en
chanted, and then gazed anew at the cook. They had left her there a fashionably attired young woman of a world that was theirs now
no longer. They found her now a busy woman, with frock daintily tucked up and a white towel pinned about her waist apron-fashion, her sleeves rolled up, revealing white, rounded arms, and her cheeks pink with interest over her work.

"That lamp smokes horribly," she remarked, looking up at it vindictively; and there was something so true and human about her voice and words that both young men laughed.

The stiffness was broken, and did not return; but the relations were established and the guest was commander-in-chief. She told her hosts what to do, and they did it. She took the eggs and deftly broke them, the whites into one dish, the yolks into another; and, giving Stephen one dish
with a fork to beat them, she took the other herself, meanwhile commanding Philip to find the coffee and make it.

They enjoyed it as much as three children at play, and their appetites were keen, when a few minutes later, having watched the puffy omelet swell and billow and take on a lovely brown coat, they drew up to the table to supper.

Margaret told little incidents of her journey, and described the people who had been her fellow
travelers
, showing a rare talent for
mimicry, wh
ich entertained her audience ex
ceedingly.

It was lat
e when the meal
was finally con
cluded
and the room put into what Margaret thought was a poor apology for order. The problem of the night was now to
be faced
, and Margaret wondered what was to become of her. She suddenly realized how very weary she was, and that her nerves, long overstrained by new experiences, were ready to give way in tears.

Stephen knew that something must be done about sleeping now; but he had no idea what they were going to do with the new sister, any more than if she had been an orphan baby left upo
n his door-step. He turned help
lessly to Philip. Philip always knew what to do in emergencies, though Stephen did not like to admit that he depended upon him.

Philip had done some thinking while he stood by the horses in the moonlight. There was a little log lean-to opening off this large one-roomed cottage of theirs. It
was divided
by a board partition into two fair-sized rooms. One of these had been Philip's room and the other Stephen's. There was little furniture in them besides a bunk with heavy blankets. Blankets were the only bed
clothing the house
possessed, and with them beds
were easily made
. Philip turned toward the door of his room now, and in the dark went about the walls, hastily gathering an armful of clothing from the nails driven into the logs, which he threw out the window. Then he struck a match, and picked up a few things thrown here and there in confusion, and decided that was the best he could do toward clearing up.

He explained to Stephen in a low tone that he was to give his sister that room, and he himself would slee
p in the hay. Then, saving good
night, he went out.

Margaret almost laughed aloud when she looked about
her primitive bedroom a few min
utes later, and by the light of the blinking lamp took an inventory of her surroundings. Then her eye caught a photograph pinned to the wall, and she went over to study it.
It was Philip's one possession that he prized,
and he had forgotten it in his haste. It was a sweet-faced woman with white hair and eyes
like
Philip's that followed one about the room sadly.

She had been shocked, even prepared as she was for the primitive, to find her brother living among surroundings so rough. Nevertheless, her determination was firm. She had come to help her brother, and now that she had seen
him
she would not turn back. There might be some hardships; but in the end, with the help of God, she would win. She felt shy of Philip, and
inclined to wish him away. Perhaps he did not have a good influence over Stephen. He seemed to be very dictatorial, and the strange part about it was that Stephen yielded to him. It might be that she would have to help Philip in order to h
elp her brother. That would com
plicate matters.

She knelt down beside the hard gray
cot
, and put the work she had come to do at the foot of the cross, asking help and guidance.
And
she wondered as she prayed whether she had been rash and taken her own way, instead of waiting for heavenly guidance, in coming to this strange land where evidently, to say the least, her presence had not been desired. Then she added, "O Jesus Christ, if this work is of Thee, bless me in it; and, if it was merely a wild impulse of my own, send me back where Thou wouldst have me."