Because of Stephen (8 page)

It must have been long past midnight—her watch had run down and she could not tell—when at last faint sounds came slowly up the hill; and silently, slowly there crept past her window and wound around the house to the barn two
horsemen
, strangely close together. One seemed to be supporting the other. They spoke no word; but one of them turned his head as he passed her window, and looked, though she could not tell which one it was.

Neither of them came to the house that night, though she lighted the lamp and waited awhile for them. She concluded they did not wish to disturb her.

Then, not caring to take off her clothes, she lay down and wept. After all the long, hard day the tension was loosened at last, but
what yet
d
id she know?
Was one of her new
found fears dissipated
? Was she sure that Stephen had come home with Philip, and was now in the barn lying in the hay? Was she sure that it had been Philip? They might have been two tramps—but no. Tramps would not come to a desolate land like this. They would tramp
to more profita
ble places for plying their beg
garly trade
.
Somehow
for herself a strange peace settled down upon her. She was not afraid that anything would happen to her. She feared only for her brother—and—yes, she must admit it—for his friend. For, after all, he
was her brother too, in a larger, broader sense, but still the son of her heavenly Father.

And
those words of
Marna's
, what had they meant?
Did the two with whom she had come to make her home, drink?
And
, if so, how could she ever hope to help and save them, just she alone in that country without a church? For the absence of a Christian church and a Christian minister seemed to leave her most inexpressibly alone.

And yet
not alone, for out of the darkness of her room came the words to her heart, "And lo, I am with you alway
s
."

Then she prayed as she had never prayed before, prayed until her soul seemed drawn up to meet the loving Comforter, Strengthener, and Guide. In that consecration hour she laid down herself, her fears and wishes, and agreed to do what God would have her do here in this lonely place, against such fearful odds as might be; herself alone with God.

Out in the hay
lay
Philip, body and mind weary with the fight of the day, in which he had not won, yet too troubled to sleep now that he had the chance.

With anxious
eyes
he peered through the darkness toward the house, and wondered how it had fared with the one who had waited
all day while he had been in the forefront of battle. Was she frightened at
being left
so late alone? Had she seen them when they came in? Had she guessed at all what the trouble was, or had she coupled them both in deserting her? Philip's heart was very b
itter to
night, and against God. He felt like cursing a God who would let a woman, and so fair a woman, suffer. Poor, straying child of God, who knew not the comfort of trusting and leaning on the everlasting
arm; who knew not that even suf
fering may bring a beauteous reward!

Stephen
slept late the next morning; and, when he came heavy-eyed and cross to the breakfast-table, he complained of a headache.
But
Philip sat silent, with grave lines drawn about forehead and mouth. He was too strong a man to show the signs of fatigue or loss of sleep in any other way.

Margaret had come out from the horror of the night with peace upon her brow, but her eyes looked heavy with lack of sleep. Philip gave her one long look while she was pouring the coffee, and saw this. It angered him to think she had suffered.

Margaret was sweetness itself to her brother. She insisted upon his lying down on the long seat by the chimney, while she shaded his eyes from the glare of the morning, and brought a
little chair near
by, and read to him. When he turned his
head away from her entirely be
cause for very shame he could not face this kindness, and know what in his heart he really was, she laid the book aside, and, bringing a bowl of water, dipped her cool, soft hand in it, and made passes back and forth across the temples that really throbbed in earnest.

Something was working in his easily stirred heart, something that went beyond the mere surface where most emotions were born and died, with him; and, as her hand went steadily back and forth with that sustained motion that is so comforting to sick nerves, he reached up a shaking hand, and caught hers, and his voice choked as he said,

"You are a good girl,—a good sister!"

Then Margaret stooped over,
and kissed
his lips, and murmured softly, "Dear brother, now go to sleep; and, when you wake up, you will feel better."

Stephen had much ado to keep back the moisture that kept creeping to his eyelids with stinging, smarting stealth; and he was glad when she fin
ally thought him asleep and tip
toed away. Not for long years had he felt a lump like that that was now growing in his throat
till
it seemed it would burst.
But
by and
by the quiet and the darkness brought sleep; and Philip, looking anxiously in, went out quickly with a relieved sigh.

The dinner was late that day, for Stephen slept long, and Margaret would not have him disturbed.
But
when it came it was delicious. Strong soup seasoned just right,
homemade
bread, delicious coffee, and a quivering mound of raspberry jelly, cool and luscious with the flavor of
raspberries from the old New En
gland preserve-closet. It was
marvelous
how many things this sister could make from canned goods and boxes of
gelatin
. There seemed to be no end to the variety.

But
Stephen was restless as the dinner neared its close, and Philip looked anxiously toward him.

Stephen shoved his chair back with a creak on the floor, and said crossly that he believed he would ride down to the village for the mail. He needed to get outdoors; it would do his head
good
. Philip frowned deeply, and set his lips for a reply; but before he could
speak
Margaret's sweet voice broke in eagerly.

"O, then, g
ive me my lesson in riding, Ste
phen, please. It is a lovely afternoon, and will soon be cool. I
don't
want to be left behind again. I was sorry I had not gone with you
yesterday. Please do; I am in a great hurry to learn to ride so I can go all about and see this country."

Philip's face relaxed. He waited to see what Stephen would do, and after a bit of coaxing Stephen con
sented, although Philip felt un
easy yet.

The horses
were saddled and brought to the door,
and Philip held the bridle of the gender horse while Stephen helped his sister to mount, giving elaborate advice about how to hold the reins and how to sit. Then they were off.

"Go the east road, Steve!" called Philip as they rode away from him; but Stephen drew his head up haughtily, and did not answer. Then Philip knew he had made a mistake, and he bit his lip as he turned quickly toward the barn. There was still another horse on the place, though it was not a good riding-horse, and had some disagreeable habits, which left it free generally to stay behind when there was any pleasure riding to
be done
. Philip flung his own saddle across her back now, and, hardly waiting to pull the girths tight, sprang into it and away after the two, who were turning westward, as he had been sure Stephen would do after his unfortunate remark.

He urged the reluctant old horse into a
smart trot, and soon caught up with the riders, calling pleasantly:

"Made up my mind I would come along too. It was lonely staying behind by
myself
."

Stephen's only answer was a frown. He knew what Philip meant by following. His anger
was roused
at Philip's constant care for him. Did Philip think him a fool that he
couldn't
take care of himself with his sister along?

Margaret, too, was a little disappointed. She had hoped to get nearer to her brother during this ride, and perhaps to find out where he had been the day before, and have a real heart-to-heart talk with him.
But now
here was this third presence that was always between her and her brother, and hindered the talk.

Philip, h
owever, was exceedingly unobtru
sive. He rode behind them or galloped on before, dismounting to gather a flaming bunch of flowers, and riding up to fasten them in the bridle of the lady's horse, and then riding on again. Stephen ignored him utterly, and Philip
gayly
ignored
the fact that he
was ignored
. Margaret cam
e to feel his presence not trou
blesome, and in fact rather pleasant, hovering about like a guardian angel. Then she laughed to herself to think of her using that simile.
To
think of an angel in a flannel shirt, buckskins, and a sombrero!

It was Philip's quiet hint—no, not a hint, merely a suggestion that a certain turn would bring them to a view of the river—that caused Margaret to plead for going that way just as they had come to a critical turn in the road. Stephen, all unsuspecting, turned willingly, thinking they would go back soon and find their way to the village; but wary Philip
tolled
them on still further until the town with its dangers was far behind them. Then Stephen awoke to the plot that
had been laid
for him, and rode his horse sulkily home; but the deadly fiend that slumbered within him was allayed for the time, and he went to his room and slept soundly that night.

There was plenty of work to
be done
yet upon the house. Philip surprised them all a few days later by driving up to the door before breakfast with a load of logs, several men and another load of logs
following after
him. The sound of the axe, saw, and hammer rang through the air that
day,
and by night a good-sized addition of logs, divided into two nice rooms, was added to the right-hand side of the living-room.

Margaret's eyes shone.
It was just the addition she had spoken of to Stephen, to which he had seemed so opposed.
Her heart swelled with gratitude toward him. It seemed she did not yet understand this brother, who was sometimes so cold, but
who yet
was trying to do all in his power to please her. She watched the work some of the time, and was surprised to find that, while Stephen worked with the rest, he yet took all his orders from Philip as did the others, and seemed to expect Philip to command the whole affair. It was still
more strange
that all the orders were just what she had suggested to Stephen on the first walk around the house.

It was as they were coming to the supper-table that evening that she attempted to tell her brother how good it was of him to do all these things that she suggested. She thought they were alone; but Philip ha
d come in be
hind them w
hile they were talking, and Ste
phen saw him. The back of Stephen's neck grew red, and the color stole up around his golden hair as he said laughingly:

"O, thank P
hil for that.
He's
the boss car
penter. I couldn't build a house if I had to stay out in the rain the rest of my life."

Margaret looked up brightly, and gave Philip the first
really warm
smile he had received from her, a smile that included him in the family circle.

"I will thank him, too," she said and put out her hand to grasp his large one, rough with the handling of many logs.
But
she left her other hand lovingly on her brother's shoulder, and Stephen knew she had not taken back the gratitude she had given him. It somehow made him feel strangely uncomfortable.

In a few
days
the addition to the house was in good order and the windows draped in soft, sheer muslin.

Ther
e seemed to be good cheer every
where. The three householders took a final survey of the premises before the sun went down.

"If we could only grow bark on the outside of the old boards on the main part of the house!" said Margaret wistfully.

"Nothing easier," answered Philip quickly. "It shall be done."

"What do you mean?" asked Margaret.

"Why, cover it with bark," answered Philip. "Steve, get up early with me in the morning, and we'll strip enough bark down in the ravine to cover one side of this front before breakfast."

"Won't that be beautiful?" said Margaret,
clapping her hands childishly, and the stern lines in Philip's face broke into a pleased smile. He was glad he had suggested it. What was it about this girl that always made one feel glad when he had done her a favor? Other girls he had known had not been that way.

That night he slept in the house for the first time since Margaret came to live there. The front room of the addition
was fitted up
for him. Margaret had just found out
that
his only bed had been in the hay, and that he had permanently and quietly given up his room to her. She had supposed before that there was a room over the barn, large and comfortable, which he ca
lled his own, though she had in
deed thought little about it. She took especial pains with the furnishing of Philip's room. She felt it was due to him for turning out of his own for her. It was not difficult to make it beautiful. There was enough fine old mahogany furniture left. She picked out the handsomest things, and arranged them attractively. She had not yet fixed up her own room further than to have her own bedstead set up in preference to the hard little cot, but she wanted to make Philip's as attractive as possible.

As a final
touch
she went to her room, and unpinned from her wall the photograph of the
sweet-faced woman with the white hair, and, framing it in a little leather case of her own, set it upon the white cover of Philip's bureau.
And
it was his mother's eyes that looked at Philip in the morning as he opened them for the first time in his new abode. He lay for a moment, looking at the picture, wondering how it got there, blessing the thoughtfulness that had so placed it, wondering what his mother would think of him now in this strange, wild life. Wondering, too, what she would think of the girl who was bringing to pass in this desolate house such miracles of change. He touched the smoothness of the sheet and the
pillowcase
, and realized that he had missed such things as these for a long time, and had not known it.

Those were busy, happy days. At
times Ste
phen seemed to be wrought up to the same pitch of enthusiasm and violent effort that kept the other two at work. He did not seem to want to stop for
his meals even, until all was finished. And one night, when they were standing off, looking at the almost completed outside of the house, he said,

"We ought to have a housewarming when it gets done."

"Certainly," said Margaret. "We will do it
by all means. How soon can we have it, and whom will you invite?"

But
, as she turned to go into the house, she caught that look of disapproval on Philip's face, the look she had not seen for several days, and wondered at it.

"Let's have it next Sunday," said Stephen enthusiastically. "It's getting cooler weather now, and by evening we can have a fire in that jolly new fireplace of Phil's. And we'll ask all the fellows, of course."

Philip stood still, aghast. If Margaret had not been there, he would have fairly thundered.
But
his to
ngue was tied. This
must be man
aged
, if possible, without letting her know what a precipice she was treading near. She
would be overcome
if she knew all.