Because of Stephen (9 page)

"Is there no other day but Sunday, Stephen, dear?" asked Margaret, and her troubled voice was very soft and pleading. "You know I always make the Sabbath a holy day and not a holiday. I would much, much rather have it some other time."

She did no
t say no decidedly to his propo
sition, remembering her Sunday's experience when she had declined to ride with him. Perhaps th
ere was some way out of the per
plexity better than that. She would not antagonize her brother yet, and she would ask her Guide. There surely would be a way.

"No, there isn't any other time when they all can come," answered Stephen shortly. "But of course if you have your puritanical notions, I suppose it's no use. I
can't
see what harm it would do for the boys to be here that day more than any other day. You can go off into your room, and pray if you want to; and the boys won't be doing any worse than they would do down in the village carousing round."

Stephen wa
s angry, and was forgetting him
self.
Philip's cheeks flamed with indignant pity for the girl who winced under her brother's words.

"O, Stephen, don't, please! Let me think about it. I want to do what you wish if there is a right way." She spoke pleadingly. There were tears in her voice, but her eyes were bright and dry.

"Well, then, do it," said Stephen sulkily. "It won't hurt your Sabbath to give us some tunes on the piano. The boys will like that better than anything
else
. They don't hear music out here."

Margaret looked up troubled, but thoughtful.

"I'll think about it to
night, Stephen, and
tell you in the morning.
Will that do?
I'll really try to see if I can please you."

Stephen assented sulkily. He had very little idea she would do it. He remembered her face that Sunday when she declined to ride with him. He set her down as bound by prejudices and of very little use in such a country as that.

But
Philip, troubled, hovered about the door.

"Miss Halstead," he called pretty soon, "the moon is rising; have you noticed how bright the stars are? Come out and look at them."

"Come, Stephen," said Margaret.

"What do I care for the stars?" said Stephen sulkily, and he went into his room and shut the door.

Margaret's eyes
were filled
with tears; but she winked them back, and came to the door, anxious to get to the kindly starlight that would not show her discomfiture.

"Miss Halstead, I beg you will not think of doing what Steve asks," said Philip low and earnestly.

"Why not,
Mr. Earle?
Have you any consci
entious scruples against company on Sunday?" Her voice was cold and searching.

"No, of course not," said Philip impatiently.

"Then why? You spent all day one Sunday
off somewhe
re, presumably on a pleasure ex
cursion."

"It was anything but a pleasure excu
rsion, Miss Halstead," said Phil
ip, his face growing dark with anger in the starlight. "But that has nothing whatever to do with the matter. I beg you will not do this for your own sake. You do not know what those fellows are. They will not be congenial to you in the least."

"Does that make any difference if they are my brother's friends?" Margaret drew herself up haughtily. "I thank you for your advice, Mr. Earle; but this is my brother's house, and of course I cannot stop his having guests if he wishes. I do not like company on Sunday; but, if they must come, I shall do my best to make it a good Sunday for them.
More than that I cannot promise.
Do you think I can?"

There was
a mixture of coldness and plead
ing in her
voice which
would have been amusing at another time.
But
she had silenced Philip most effectually. He bit his lips, and turned away from the house to walk out into the starlight with his vexation.

Margaret
slept but little that night. A great plan had come to her, born of anxiety and prayer. At
first
she thought it seemed preposterous, impossible! She drew back, caught her breath, and prayed again; but
over and over
the idea recurred to her.

It was this. Perhaps God had sent her out here into these wilds to witness for Himself, yes, even among rough men like the two that had taken dinner with them that first day after her arrival.

Could she do it? Could she make that proposed Sunday gathering into a sanctified, holy thing?
She, who had never spoken in public in her life, except to read a low-voiced essay from a school platform?
She, who had always shrunk from doing anything publicly,
and let honors pass her rather than make herself prominent? She who
had never been taught
in ways of Christian work, other than by her own loving heart?

Could she do it?

And
how could she do it?

The utmost she knew about Christian work
was learned
in the class of boys she had taught in Sunday school at home.
But
they had been boys, most of them still in knee-trousers, and under home discipline. They had loved
her,
i
t is true, and listened respect
fully to her e
arnest teaching. Even their mis
chief had given way before her hearty, trusting smile. They had learned their lessons, and thought it no disgrace to answer her questions. They had come to her home occasionally, and seemed to enjoy it, and she had talked with several of them about holy things. Two she had labored with and knelt beside while she
heard their first stumbling ac
knowledgment that God was their Father and Jesus Christ their
Saviour
.

But
this was all very different from bringing the gospel to a lot of men who knew little and cared less about God or their own salvation. She shuddered in the dark as she remembered the sound of that awful oath that Byron had
let fall. How could she do it? Was it right and modest for her to try?

Then out of the
night
she seemed to feel her
Saviour's
eyes upon her, and to know that such things must not count against the great need of souls when she was the only one at hand to succor. And she bowed her head, and answered aloud in a clear voice,

"I will do what you want me to do, Jesus; only let me help save my brother."

The sleeper in the next room stirred, and started awake at the unusual sounds, and thought over the words he had heard, trying to put a meaning to them, but thought he had dreamed
;
so he slept again, uneasily.

After Margaret had said, "I will," to her Master the rest came easily. The plan, if it was a plan, was His. The Spirit would guide her. She had asked for such guidance. If it
was
of God, it would be crowned with some sort of success. She
would be made
to understand that it was right. If it
was
her own faulty waywardness, it would fail. It surely could do no harm to try to have a Sunday-school class of any of Stephen's friends who would come; and, if they refused or laughed at her, why, then she could sing. The gospel
could always be sung
, where no one would listen to it in other
form. It would be a question of winning her brother over, and that might be difficult.

Stay! Why need she tell him? Why not take them all by guile, and make the afternoon so delightful to them that they would want to come again?
Could she?

Her breath came quickly as the idea began to assume practical proportions and she perceived that she was really going to carry it out. She had ever a spirit of strong convictions and impulsive fancies; else she would have stopped right here.
But
perhaps in saying that too little weight is given to the fact that she had given herself up to the guidance of One wiser than herself.

Just before the stars paled in the eastern
sky
she lay down to rest, her mind made up, and her heart at peace. As for Philip's words of warning, she had forgotten them entirely. Philip she did not understand, but neither did he understand her.

The two young men were both surprised the next morning when she told them, quietly enough, that she would be glad to help them entertain their friends on Sunday afternoon, provided they would allow her to carry out her own plans. She thought she could promise them a pleasant time, and would they trust her for the rest?

It was very sweetly said, and her dainty morning gown, a touch of sea-shell pink in it this time that made her look like an arbutus blossom in the greenery of the room, sat about her so triml
y that her brother could but ad
mire her as he watched her put the sugar into his coffee.

It must b
e admitted that Stephen was sur
prised, but he was too gay himself to realize fully
the depth of earnestness in any
one else; so he concluded that Margaret had decided to let her long-faced ideas go, and have a good time while she was here; and he resolved to help her
on with it. She was certainly a beauty. He was glad she had come.

But
Philip's face darkened, and the little he ate was quickly
dispatched
.
After
that
he ex
cused himself, and went out to the barn. He was angry with Margaret, and he was troubled for her. He knew better than
she
what she was bringing upon herself; moreover, her brother, who should have been a better protector of so precious a sister, knew even better than he. Why did not Stephen see, and stop it?

But
Philip foresaw that matters had gone too far for it to be wise in him to say a word to Stephen. Former experience had taught him that Stephen took refuge from pointed
attacks in flight to his companions in the village, which always ended in something worse.

Philip was so angry that after he had d
one all the work about the barn
yard that was ready for him he concluded to take himself away for a while. There was enough in the house to keep Stephen busy and interested for the day.
The fear that had made him keep guard ever since the arrival of Margaret Halstead was for the time dominated by his anger at both brother and sister; and he took his revenge in going off across the country many miles on a piece of business connected with a sale of cattle which he had proposed to make for some time, but had put off from week to week.

He did not stop to explain to the household except in a sentence or two, and then he was off. Margaret noticed the hauteur in his tones as he announced his departure at the door, but so full was she of her plans for Sunday that she took little heed of it. It did not matter much about Philip anyway. He was only an outsider, and, besides, he would feel differently, perhaps, when Sunday came.

Philip s anger boiled within him, and grew higher and hotter as he put the miles between himself and the cause of it. He wished himself
out of this heathenish land, and back into civilization. He decided to let people take care of themselves after this. Of what use was it to try to save this girl from
a knowledge
of her brother's true self? She was bound to find it out
sooner or later
, and she would perhaps only hate him for his effort.

But
Stephen,
after teasing his sister to dis
cover what plan she had for the entertainment of their guests, made up his mind to make the most of Philip's absence, and get his guests well invited before that autocrat interfered. It was
marvelous
that he had not done so already. Therefore he slipped away to saddle his horse while his sister was busy in her room, and, only leaving a message with
Marna
, rode away into the sunlight, as gay of heart as the little insects that buzzed about his horse, and with less care for the morrow than they had.

Margaret was disappointed to find her brother gone when she presently came out, for she had planned to get him to do several little things about the house that morning, and while he was doing them she had intended to sound him on the friends he would invite. She wondered whether there were many and whether among them there would be any who could help her in the work of establishing her Sunday school. There must be some good women about there.
Surely
she could get a helper somewhere.

But
perhaps this first time it would be only two or three of Stephen's best friends. He had spoken of "the fellows," and it would be better not to have any complications of womankind
till
she was well acquainted and knew on whom she could count for help. She admitted to her own heart, too, that she could open up the plan to them, and teach a class in her own way, better stilling the flutter of her own frightened heart, if there were no women or girls about to watch.

She was disappointed, it is true, but after a
moment
she
reflected that perhaps even Ste
phen's absence was an advantage. She would take this quiet hour to study up a lesson and plan her
program
, though it would be much easier if she knew just what kind of scholars she was to have.
She spent a happy morning and
afternoon planning for the Sun
day, and only toward night did she begin to feel uneasy and hover near the door looking down the road.

Marna
came in,
shaking her head and mut
tering again, and it required all Margaret's faith and bravery to keep her heart up.

The night closed down like that other night when she had kept a vigil, and still neither of the young men appeared. Margaret wished that Philip would come, so that she might reassure herself by asking where he supposed Stephen had gone and when he would return. She acknowledged to herself that after all there was something strong and good to lean upon in Philip.

She prayed much that
evening,
and by and by lay down and tried to sleep. After several hours of restless
turnings
she did finally fall into an uneasy sleep.

But
, whe
n the morning broke with its se
rene sunshine, and neither of the two men had returned, she grew more restless. In vain did she try to settle to
anything.
She constantly returned to look off down the road.

Marna
said little that day; but Margaret remembered her former words, and her old anxieties returned to clutch her
till
she was driven to her knees. As she prayed,
a great, deep love for her new
found brother grew and grew in her soul
till
she felt she must save him, for instinctively she knew that he needed saving more than many.

And
the second day wore away into the night, but still they had not returned.

Margaret lived through various states of mind. Now she was alarmed, now indignant that they should treat her so; and now she blamed herself for having come out here at all. Then alarm would succeed all other feelings, and she would fly to her refuge and find strength.

When the third day dawned and seemed likely to be a
s the others had been, she ques
tioned
Marna
as to where she thought they could have gone; but the old woman shut her lips and shook her head.
She did not like to tell. She had watched the young girl long enough to have a tender feeling of protection toward her.

This third day was Saturday. Margaret had had some wild ideas of trying to saddle the horse and go out into the strange, unknown country to seek knowledge of her brother; but her good sense told her that this would be useless. She must wait a little longer. Some news would surely come soon.
Resolutely she sat down to study the Sunday-school lesson just as if nothing had happened to disturb her, and to plan out everything for the morrow, trying to think that her brother would surely return for Sunday; but her heart sank low in trouble as the night came on
once more, and
she left her supper, which
Marna
had carefully prepared,
untasted
on the table while she stood by the dark window looking down the road.

Philip's anger had carried him far toward his destination. When at
last
it cooled with his bodily fatigue, and he began to reflect on the possibilities of what might happen during his absence, he would have been minded to turn back, but that his horse was weary and the day was far spent. Besides, it would be foolish to go ba
ck now when he had almost accom
plished that for which he came. A few minutes with the man he sought would be all he needed, and perhaps he could exchange horses, or give his own a few hours' rest and then return. He hurried
on,
annoyed that it was growing so late.