Because of Stephen (7 page)

Softly there crept up through the darkness of the sky the dawn of another Sabbath day, and Margaret arose with eager anticipations. In the first place, she meant to make Stephen, and Philip, too, if possible, go with her to church. That, of course, was the right place in which to begin the Sabbath.

Before she left her
room
she laid out upon her bed the things she would wear to church, choosing them with care th
at she might be neatly and sweetl
y attired in the house of the Lord, and that she might be as winsome as possible to those she wished to influence.

She did not acknowledge even to herself that she had some doubt in her mind as to whether s
he should accomplish making Ste
phen and Philip attend church, for she meant to accomplish that in spite of all obstacles.

Nevertheless, she went about her self-set task with great care and delibera
tion, prefacing her request with
the daintiest breakfast with which they had yet been favored.

It was just as they finished that she brought forward the subject that was so near to her
heart and about which she had been praying all the morning.

"Stephen, what time do we have to start for church? Is it far from here? You don't go on horseback, do you?"

Stephen dropped his knife and fork on his plate with a clatter, and sat back in astonishment; and there was a blank silence in the room for some seconds.

"To
church!"
Stephen uttered the words half mockingly. "What time do we
start!
Well, now, Phil, how far should you say it was to the nearest church?"

A mirthless laugh broke from Philip. It was involuntary. A wave of bitterness rolled over him as a wave of the ocean higher than the others might break over the head of one who was bravely trying to breast the tide. As soon as he had uttered the
laugh
he was sorry, for he felt the shock this would be to Margaret even before he saw her start at his harsh laughter.

These two young men were alike in the bitterness that each carried in his heart, but Stephen's had been caused by the hardness of his heart toward his earthly father, while Philip
had hardene
d his heart, for what he consid
ered just cause, toward his Father in heaven; and of the two his bitterness was the more galling.

Philip checked the laugh, which had really been but the semblance of one, and answered steadily with his eyes on his plate, "About forty miles by the nearest way, I should judge."

Stephen's eyes were twinkling with fun as he tipped his chair back against the wall and watched his sister. He had no inkling of the desolation this would bring to her, and he could not understand, perhaps did not notice, the whiteness of her face as she looked at him, only half comprehending. It
was given
to Philip, the strang
er, to feel with her the appall
ing emptiness of a country without a church. Dismay dropped about her as a garment.

"But what do you do?" she faltered. "Where do you go to service on Sunday?"

"Same as any other day," laughed Stephen carelessly. '"The groves were God's first temples,'" he quoted piously; "suppose we go out in search of one. This will be a first-rate day for your first lesson in riding horseback. It won't do for you to stick in the house at work all the time."

But
Marga
ret's face was flushed and trou
bled.

"Do you mean you don't go anywhere to church?" she asked pathetically. "Is there no service in the town? Are there no missionaries even, out here?"

"There isn't even a town worth speaking of, Miss Halstead," ans
wered Philip, feeling that some
one must answer her earnestly. "You do not know what a God-forsaken country you have come to. Churches and missionaries would not flourish here if they came. You will not find it a pleasant place to stay. Men get used to it, but women find it hard."

She lifted h
er troubled eyes to his, wonder
ing in an
u
nderthought
whether he was hint
ing that she should go back where she came from; but she saw in his kind face no eagerness to get rid of
her, as his eyes met hers. She turned sadly toward the window, looking out on the stretch of level country away down the hill, thinking with despair of the place to which she had come and the hopelessness of carrying out her plans without the aid of a church and a minister.

She had thought her part would be simply to make a good home for her brother, to speak a quiet word when opportunity offered, and
to use her influence to put him under the power of the gospel.
But
out here it seemed there was no gospel, unless she preached it. For
this
she was not prepared.

Perplexed and baffled, she hardly knew with what words she declined her brother's urgent request to go riding with him, to which
were added
the most earnest solicitations of
his partner when he saw that Stephen was not going to succeed. She wondered afterwards at the anxiety and annoyance in Philip's eyes when she told him firmly that she did not ride on Sun
day, and would rather stay quietl
y at home. It seemed strange to her that he should try to interfere between her and her brother. Then she went into her little log room and shut the door, and knelt in disheartened prayer beside her bed. Had she, then, come out on a fruitless mission? For what would it avail if she did bring palm-covered
walls and pianos
and books into her brother's life, if there were no means by which he could be brought to see the love of the Lord Jesus Christ?

She
was s
carcely roused
from her disap
pointed petitions by the sound of a rider leaving the dooryard. She wondered idly whether it were Philip, but soon she heard another horse's quick tread, and, going to the window, was just in time to see Philip fling
himself upon his horse and ride at a furious pace off down the road.

Quiet settled down upon the house, and Margaret realized with disappointment that both the young men had gone away. Why had she not trie
d to keep Stephen with her? Per
haps he would have listened to her while she read something, or she might have sung. Philip, it was quite evident, had intended going off
all the time, and was only anxious to get her and Stephen out of the way so that he could do as he pleased. The tears came into her eyes, and fell thick and fast. How ignominiously had she failed! Even the little she might have done she had let slip by because of her disappointment that God had not arranged things according to her expectations. Perhaps it might have been better for her even to go on the ride with Stephen rather than for him to go off with some friends who never had a thought of God or His holy day.

Thus reflecting, she read herself some bitter lessons. She had forgotten to ask for the Spirit's guidance, and had been going in her own strength; or she might have been shown a better way and been blessed in her efforts.

By and
by
she went out where the old woman sat outside the kitchen door, mumbling and
glowering at the sun-clad land
scape. Perh
aps she might essay a humble ef
fort with this poor creature for a Sabbath-day sacrifice.

"
Marna
, do you know God?" she asked, sitting down
beside the old woman and speak
ing tenderly.

The woman looked at her curiously, and shook her head.

"God never come at here," she answered. "
Missie
, you—you know God?"

"Yes," answered Margaret earnestly. "God is my Father."

"God your Father!
No. You not come off here; you stay where you
Father at.
God, you Father, angry with you?"

"No, my Father loves me. He sent His Son to die for me. God is your Father, too,
Marna
."

The old woman shook her head decidedly.

"
Marna
have no father.
Fathers all bad.
Fathers no love anybody but selves.
Brothers no much good, too.
All go off, leave. All drink. I say, stay 'way.
No
come back drunk. Knock!
scold
!
hate
! I say stay 'way. Drink self dead!"

Marna
was gesticulating wildly to make up for her lack of words. Suddenly she turned earnestly to the girl, with a gleam of some
thing like motherli
ness in her wrinkled, wicked old face.

"What for
Missie
come way here?
Brothers no good.
All go own way. Make cry!" and
Marna's
work-worn finger traced down the delicate cheek, which was still flushed with the recently shed tears.

Margaret instinctively drew back, but she did not wish to hurt the old woman's feelings
;
so she answered in as bright a tone as she could summon.

"Brothers are not all bad,
Marna
. Some are good. My brother was lonely here, and I came to take care of him."

'"Take care! Take care!'" muttered the old woman. "And who 'take care' of
Missie
? Men go off, stay all day. Drink.
Come
home drunk!
Ach!
No, no
,
Missie
go back.
Missie
go off
while
men gone. Not see brothers any
more."

Margaret w
as
half frightened
over this ha
rangue; but she tried to be brave and answer the poor creature, though her heart
misgave
her as a great fear began to rise.

"No,
Marna
," she said smiling through her fear; "I cannot go back. God sent me, and until He tells me to go back I cannot go."

"God love you and send you here? Then He never
come
here. He don't know—"

"Yes, He knows,
Marna
, and He is here, too," she answer
ed softly, as if reassuring her
self. "Listen!"

And
Margaret began at the beginning of the story of the cross,
and told it all to the won
dering old woman as simply as she knew how.
But
, when she had finished, the listener only shook her head, and murmured:

"No, God never love
Marna
.
Marna
have bad heart.
No love for good in heart.
No heavenly Father love."

It was time
to get dinner ready, and Marga
ret arose with a sigh, a great depression settling on her heart. Not even to this poor old woman could she show the light of Christ.

She gave herself to the preparations
for the noon-day meal for a littl
e while, thinking soon to hear the sound of horses coming up the road; but, though the dinner got itself done and sent forth savory odors on the air, and Margaret stood with anxious, wistful eyes shaded with a hand that had grown strangely cold with a new fear, there came no sound of horses.

The girl ate a few mouthfuls, and had the dinner put away. The old woman went about muttering:

"Men no come.
Men off.
Have good time.
Missie
cry.
Missie
go home. Not stay."

The stars came out thickly like sky-b
los
soms unfolding all at once, and the sky drew close about the earth; but still there came no sound of
travelers
along the long, dark road.

Margaret went in at
last from her vigil on the door
step and lit the great lamp. It was a disappointing Sabbath. It was more than that; it seemed a wasted Sabbath. She might much better have
been riding with Stephen if per
chance she might have said some helpful thing to him.
And
the old woman rocking and muttering to herself in the back doorway, what good had she done to her?

At
last
she could bear the silence and her fears no longer.

She called to
Marna
to come in. "Sit down," she said gently. "I will sing to you about Jesus."

Marna
sat down with folded hands on a little wooden
stool, and listened while Marga
ret sang.

She chose the songs that were in simple language, that told of Jesus and His love; songs that spoke to weary, burdened ones and bade them rest; songs that told of forgiveness and a Father's love.

A long time she sang; and then, yearning for a help, she knew not what, feeling as if she
must have a companionship in her need, she came over to the old woman, took her hand, and drew her down beside the fireplace seat.

"Come," said she. "We will talk to God."

Wonderingly, half fearfully, the old woman knelt, watching the girl with wide-open eyes the while; and Margaret closed her eyes, and said:

"O God, show
Marna
how her Father loves her. Make
Marna
love God. Make
Marna
good, for Jesus' sake."

As under a spell the old woman stood up; her eyes
half frightened
, half fascinated, were upon the girl's face.

Margaret smiled and said good
night, but
Marna
went out under the stars, and muttered wonderingly, "Make
Marna
good?" as if it were a thing that had to be and she could not see how it could be.

Then Margaret locked the door,
and turned
out the light, and sat down at the window to watch and pray. During
that
time there was revealed to her a part of what she might do in this land without a God or a temple. Out of her darkness, her fear, and her feebleness came a strength not her own.