Because of Stephen (13 page)

"No."

"Then try. Kneel down to
night, and tell Him just how you feel about it, just as you have told me. Talk to Him as if you could see Him. You may not feel Him right away; but by and by, when your whole heart is in it;
you will begin to kno
w. He will speak to you in
some
way
, until you are quite sure. Take as many other ways to find out, too, as you can, all the ways there are, of course; not that it matters so much, though, about your mere reason's being
convinced; for, when you have felt Him near, you will KNOW against any kind of reasoning.
But
take the way of talking with Him. It is the quickest way to find Him."

"But should I not feel like a hypocrite, talking to
One
in whom I do not believe, of whose existence I have even no assurance?"

"No, for you said you wanted to find Him. It would be reaching out for what your heart desires, just as the untaught heathen do."

Philip flushed.

"You th
ink I am a heathen," he said re
proachfully.

"No, Philip, only a child of God, lost in the dark. I want you to find the way back."

"But suppose I do this, and nothing comes of it. Then you will be disappointed."

"What has that to do with it?" she said with a motion as of putting any thought of herself aside
;
"and something will come of it. No soul ever went to God in that way and nothing came of it. Besides,
there is more you can do
. There is the other promise, 'He that doeth His will.' After you have come to Him, and told Him that you want to find Him, but you cannot believe, and have asked Him to show you how, you can set to work to do His will. For through the doing
what He would like to
have you do a part of Himself will be revealed. Now, will you go to Hi
m and tell Him all about it, to
night, and begin to try to find Him? Will you?"

Philip had drawn his hat low over his eyes, and stood looking off to the crimsoning sky. The sun had sunk low as they talked, and the air was growing
chill. Margaret, in her intent
ness, did not know how grateful she was for the warmth of the little scarlet jacket. She waited silently and prayed while Philip thought.

At
last
he turned to her, and held out his hand with a grave smile.

"I will try," he said.

"With all your heart?" asked Margaret, as she laid her little white hand in his.

"With all my heart," he said reverently, as he looked into her eyes and pressed the hand he held.

Margaret l
et him know by the quick pres
sure of her
hand-clasp
how glad she was.

"And I shall be praying, too," she said softly.

Philip's heart quickened. It seemed to him like a holy tryst.

The young man picked up the idle tools, and they started toward the house, walking slowly through the twilight. They did not say much more. They were thinking of what
had
been said and promised
. It was enough to walk quietly together thus and know what had passed. Stephen was not in sight. He must have gone to the house some time before.

But
, when they came in and were ready to sit down to supper, he had not come yet, and Philip went out to call him.

Margaret listened to his shouts, strong, deep, full, with a note of earnest purpose in them. They grew more distant, and she thought he must have gone back to the lot where they were that afternoon to see what was keeping Stephen. She waited a long time by the door, and they did not come, and then she went in to search out the book she wanted to read to them that evening.
Marna
was keeping supper hot in the kitchen.

Suddenly there came a sound of rapid horse-hoofs down the road. She rushed to the door, and lo
oked out. Down against the west
ern sky, which still kept a faint blush from the sunset, now gone on its way to conquer other days, she saw a rider, hatless, galloping,
etched
for a moment against the sky. Then he was gone.

A sudden fear filled her heart. She put her hand to her throat, and rushed to the kitchen.

"
Marna
," she cried insistently, "did my brother come to the house before we did?"

The old woman shook her head.

"Brother rode off fast 'fore dark," she said doggedly, as if she did not wish to tell, but had to.

"
Marna
," said the girl, catching the old woman's arm in a grasp that must have been painful, "you talked about brothers drinking. I want you to tell me true if you know anything about it. Does my brother go where they drink?"

The old
woman shut her lips, and a stub
born look came into her eye. She did not reply.

"Quick! Tell me at once," said Margaret, stamping her foot in her excitement. "Do they both drink? Is that why Stephen and Philip go away so suddenly sometimes? Do they both drink?"

"No!" said the old woman quickly. "Not both drink.
One all right.
Pretty good
man. He
take
care. Bring other home.
Heap good man."

"Which one,
Marna
?"

"Big man, heap good," answered
Marna
.

"And m
y brother drinks?" demanded Mar
garet, the sad truth hers now. "Answer me."

The old woman hung her head and nodded. It was as if she felt responsible.

Margaret had let fall the arm she held so tight, and was s
tanding still for one brief min
ute with her
hand upon her heart, too fright
ened to cry out, too bewildered even to frame a prayer; but her heart was waiting before God to know what she should do. Then swift as thought she turned, and, snatching up her little scarlet jacket as she ran, fled toward the barn.

The old woman looked up to try to say something comforting, and saw her vanish through the open door. She hobbled after her, some faint idea of protection coming to her withered senses. She found her in the barn with white, set
face, struggling with the buck
les of the saddle-girth. The two empty stalls beside the one remaining horse had made good her fears.

It was the poor old horse that
had been left, for Philip needed the best in his chase through the night. Margaret had never ridden this horse, but she did not stop to think of that.

"Buckle this!" she commanded, as
Marna
came wondering into the barn, and she held the lantern that Philip had left lighted to find his own saddle.

"
Missie
no go out "lone," pleaded
Marna
after she had done the bidding of the stern little voice
. "
Missie
get lost. Big man
find
brother. Bring home.
Missie
stay with
Marna
."

"I must go," said Margaret quietly in tones of awful purpose. She swung herself into the saddle withou
t stopping to think, as she usu
ally did, how she was ever to get up to that great height.
And
she was doing it alone now.

"Now hand me the lante
rn!" she com
manded, and
Marna
obeyed, her hand trembling. Tears from the long-dried fountains of her soul were running down her cheeks.

The old horse seemed to catch her spirit, and
started off
snorting as if he felt battle in the air. Some instinct carried him after the others who had sped along that road but a few minutes before.
Or
perhaps he had been that way before so many times that he could think of only one direction to take as he flew along.

Margaret held her seat firmly, grasping the lantern and the bridle with one hand, and tried to think and pray as the night wind, wondering, peered into her face, then turned and gently crept with her,
protectingly
, as if it thought she needed guarding.

Margaret
had forgotten all her fears of former rides, lest the horse should stumble or take fright, lest the saddle should slip or she be thrown. Even the dark had lost its terror.

Somewhere near
here
the road cut away sharply at its outer edge, and went down to a great depth. She might be even now close upon it, and any moment the horse s feet slip over the precipice.
But
her heart trembled not. The Father was watching. She must go to find her brother.

Just why it was strongly borne in upon her that she must go herself, and not wait for Philip to find Stephen, perhaps Margaret could not have told. It may have been a wish to see for
herself
just what was Stephen's danger. Possibly, too, it was fear for Philip. Were
Marna's
words true? "The big man no drink." O, what comfort if she might be sure of that! What a tower of strength would Philip then become!

Riding, and praying, and trusting to God, she
was carried
safely through the dangers of a short cut that Philip, knowing and fearing, had avoided, and she galloped into the main road only a moment after Philip had passed the spot.

The moon stood out like a silver thread hung low and useless against the horizon. It made but little difference in the darkness.

Margaret felt anxious to catch up with Philip if possible, or at least get within sight of him. It would not do to catch him too soon, or he would send her back; and that she could not bear. So she pushed on, and after a short time could hear the sound of his horse and catch fitful glimpses of a dark form riding hard.

By and by she came out upon a bridge across a gully deep as darkness; how deep she could not see as she peered down for one awful glimpse, and then closed her eyes, and dared not look again. It was too late to turn back, for the way was scarcely wide enough for that, and the bridge swayed horribly with the horse upon it.

She held her breath as if that would make her weight the lighter, and dared not think until she felt the horse's feet touch solid ground. Then behind her came a snap, as sharp as if some
giant tree had parted, and some
thing, a bit of timber from the rail, perhaps, fell far and long below.

If the bridge had been one foot longer, or the horse had been going a little slower, horse and rider might have been lying down below in that sea of dark trees. The lantern slipped from her trembling hand, and fell crashing in the road; but the horse flew on, frightened, perhaps, by the danger he must have felt, following habit, too, in these long, wild rides to a certain goal he knew,
and had travel
ed toward many a time before the new third horse came to be used in his stead.

But
Philip had not crossed the crazy bridge that had been for some time now discarded, and indeed was supposed to be blocked by logs across its entrance. Either the old horse had jumpe
d the logs in the dark, or some
one had dragged them away to use somewhere else.

Philip, further down the road, had crossed by the new bridge, and had not known of the rider rushi
ng along through dangers so pro
found.

He heard the crashing of the falling rail, and the sound of flying hoofs a moment later. He checked his horse, wondering who could be riding beh
ind him. For a
moment
the possi
bility that Stephen had not got ahead of him, after all, but had tried to blind him by going another way, passed through his mind; but he looked back and saw only the darkness, and heard the steady thud of the horse's feet. It was not like the gait of Stephen's horse. He pushed on; but occasionally he halted once more, pursued by the feeling that he ought to wait
till
that rider came up with him.

Then from out the darkness
twinkled
the lights of the village below him. In a few
minutes
he would be at his journey's end. He could see the flare of the saloon lights now, and almost hear the tinkle of the glasses and the sliding of the wooden chairs upon the wooden floor. He paused once more, for the other horse was very near now. It would do no harm to wait a second.

Then from out the night he heard his name called once, in a wild, frighte
ned cry, like a sob, as of some
one whose breath was almost gone,

"Philip!"

He stopped and waited as the horse came swiftly toward him, something white taking
shape upon its back, till he saw the girl, her face white like her dress, her hair all loosened by her ride,
unheld
by any hat.

One word he spoke.

"Margaret!"

He had never used her name before in speaking to her. He did not know he used it now.
But
she did, even in her fright; and it seemed to give her courage and renewed strength.

"Don't stop; keep on!" she cried as her horse almost swept by him and he was forced to start his own horse again to keep alongside of her. "Don't lose a minute's time. I know all about it now. Let's hurry!"

"But,
Margaret,
you must not go!"
he
cried, putting out his hand to catch the bridle. "Why did you come?
And
how? It cannot be you crossed the broken bridge."

"It broke just after we got across, I think," she shuddered. "But do not think about it now. I am here. I cannot go back alone, and you must not turn back with me. Let us hurry on to save Stephen."

"But you cannot go down there. It is not safe for a woman."

"I am going, Philip. I am going to save my brother.
And
God is with us. There is no
danger." In
some
way
she managed to impart her eagerness to the old horse, and before Philip knew what she was
doing
she flew down the road far ahead of him.

It of course took but a moment for him to catch her again; but their gait was too rapid now to admit of talking, and the lights of the saloon were straight ahead.
The horses knew their goal, and were making for it with all their might.

They stopped by the open window, from which coarse laughter was issuing into the night, foul with words and thick with oaths. Margaret raised her eyes, and saw what she had come to seek, her brother Stephen, standing
gayly
by the bar, a glass of something just raised to his smiling lips.

Stopping not to think of her unbound hair or the rough men staring all about, she slid from the horse, cast the bridle from her, and ran to the open door, from which a wide shaft of light was lying on the darkness of the pathway.

Like a h
eavenly
Nemesis
she appeared be
fore their astonished gaze, and some who had already drunk deep that night thought she was the angel of the Lord sent to strike them dead.

She stood there in her limp white drapery, with long golden hair and outstretched arms,
and only the vivid scarlet of the little jacket gleaming here and there like a flame among the glory of her hair.

She rushed to her brother, and dashed the glass from his hand even as he held it to his lips; then, turning to the roomful, she looked at them with o
ne long, mournful, pitying, con
demning glance. There
were her Sabbath class
to a man, standing before her. They were not drunk, for most of them could stand a good deal of liquor.

She said not one word to them, but just searched each face with a quick, heartrending glance, then turned, and drew her brother away.

Philip had tried to stop her as she flew from her horse to the open door; but she vanished from his hand like a thing of the air, and now he stood behind her ready to protect or help, even with his life.
But
she needed no help. Like darkness before
the light they fell at her com
ing; and no one, not even Banks, raised a word or a laugh at her expense.

Even Steph
en yielded unwillingly, and fol
lowed her from the room. Out into the night she led him, silently to Philip, with none to hinder or scoff. It was as if a messenger from God had
walked into that saloon and plucked
Stephen away, searching each soul that stood there with one glance of flame.

The little cavalcade started out into the night; and as the sound of their going died away from the silent throng inside the lighted room, each man drew apart from the rest, moving noiselessly out into the darkness, and went his wa
y by himself. The saloon
was ut
terly deserted
except by one or two old topers too sodden with drink to understand. The barkeeper cursed the girl wh
o had thus de
scended and stopped business for that evening.
But
he soon put up his shutters and turned out his lights.

All silently the three rode, and the tired horses moved slowly. Stephen went ahead with bowed head, whether in anger or in shame they could not tell. Margaret and Philip rode abreast. Not a word they spoke as they went through the dark. Once Philip turned and looked at the frail girl by his side, her white face and gown lighting up the darkness. He thought she was shivering, and he silently took off his own coat, and buttoned it around her. She tried to protest by a lifted hand; but he
would not be denied
, and she smiled wanly, and let him fasten it around her. By common
consent
their communication was wordless. Stephen was close in front.

When they came out on the road near where Philip had first heard Margaret's call, he reached out, took her cold, white hand that lay limp on the saddlecloth, and held it in his warm, strong one all the rest of the ride.
Again
she let him have his way, and took comfort in the reassuring pressure.

When they reached home, she did not burst into tears and hang about Stephen's neck, begging, pleading, and reproaching. She was too wise for that, and her trouble much too deep.

She made him lie down on the couch by the fire. She brought some strong coffee that
Marna
had ready, and an inviting supper, and tried to make him eat. But, when she bent over him to ask whether he would sit up, she saw that upon his face there were tears that he had turned away to hide. Then she stooped and kissed him; and, kneeling there beside him with her face near to his, she prayed, "O Jesus Christ, save my dear brother!"

She kissed him again, and drew a little table close with the supper upon it, leaving him to eat it when he would, while she prepared
something
for herself and Philip.

Unreproached
by any words,
Stephen went to his room a littl
e later and laid him down, more miserable than he had ever been in the whole of his gay, reckless life. Thoughts that
till
now had been too grave to be admitted to his mind entered and had their way. Searching questions he had never asked himself
were poured
upon him. Through them all he heard, and could not keep from hearing, his sister's voice on the other side of the thin board partition as she prayed and pleaded for her
brothers
salvation.

All night
long
he wrestled with the two spirits that were at war over him: the spirit of the demon that cried for drink, aroused by the few drops that had but wet his lips ere die glass was dashed from them; and the spirit of God's Holy One who strove to have him for eternity.

He sat dejectedly beside the fire the next morning after breakfast. His young face showed the wear of the night in haggard lines. He looked up as Margaret came over to him, and smiled wearily.

"I'm not worth it," he said. "You'd better give me up."

Margaret came and sat down beside him.

"I will never give you up, Stephen, until you are safe," she said.

He reached out and took her hand.

"You are a good sister," he said. That was all, but she felt that hereafter he would not be against any effort she made in his behalf.

It seemed as if he could not let her out of his sight the next few da
ys; if she left the room, he foll
owed her, and when he closed his
eyes
he saw a vision of his sister in white with burnished golden hair like some sweet angel of mercy come to save.

When the Sabbath came, Margaret doubted whether she would have any class but Stephen and Philip. Her heart was heavy over them all. More than she knew had she hoped that they
were being led
near to Christ. Now all her hopes were gone. Of what use was it to
pray and preach
and sing to men like this?
Men who could stand about and watch quietly or help on the degradation of one of themselves.
She had been reading deep lessons of the morals of that country ever since she came, but not until that night in the saloon
had
she realized how little she had to build upon with any of them.
She even looked at Philip doubt
fully sometimes. How could he be different from the rest, since he was one of them?