Because of Stephen (10 page)

There
was some difficulty in finding the place, after all, for several old landmarks had been removed
by a fire, and it was quite dark before he reached the lonely ranch of the man with whom he had business.

He had not known his own strong desire to return until he discovered how he was to
be hindered
. He found that the man whom he sought had gone to another ranch a few miles further on, and would probably not return for
three or four days. It would be ridiculous to turn back and
have his long journey for noth
ing. He must press on now and accomplish what he had come for. He got a fresh horse, and, taking only a hasty supper, spurred his horse forward through the darkness, trusting recklessly t
o his own knowledge of the coun
try to bring him to the desired point.

Of course he lost his way, and brought up at the place the next morning when the sun was two hours high, only to find that the man whom he had come in search of had started back the afternoon before, and must be at home by this time.

Another delay, and another fresh horse, and he was on his way back, too weary to realize how long a strain he had been
under
.
And
, when he reached the first ranch and found his man, he was so worn out that he dared not start home without a few hours' sleep.
So
, the business disposed of, he lay down to sleep, his mind tormented the while by thoughts of Stephen and his own discarded trust.

But
worn nature will take her revenge, and Philip did not awake until almost sunset on the second day. Then his senses came back sharply with a vision of Margaret, a dream perhaps, or only his first waking fancies. She
seemed to be crying out in distress and
calling:
"My brother! Stephen! O, save him, Philip!"
And
with the sound of that dream voice there came a great desire in his heart to hear her speak his name that way.

But
he put this from him. He tried to remember that he had been angry with her, and that this whole thing was her fault anyway for not following his advice, and then he remembered that she had no knowledge or reason to follow his advice—a stranger. What did she know of him and his reason
s for what he had said? In
some
way
she
must be told
, but how could he tell her?

All these thoughts were rushing through his mind as he went out and was hunting up his own horse, hastily preparing to go home. He would not have stopped for something to eat even, had his host not insisted. Then it was only because the reasonableness of this act appealed to him that he finally yielded and ate what he
was given
.

And
all the long miles back, most of it in darkness, Phil
ip was thinking, thinking, curs
ing himself for a fool that he had left Stephen alone with his sister, almost cursing God that such a state of things was possible.

It was toward morning when he neared the
handful of bui
ldings that constituted the vil
lage near their home. The horse quickened his pace, and familiar things seemed to urge the
travelers
forward. Distant discordant sounds were in the air. A pistol-shot rang out now and again.
But
that was not unusual. Shots were as common as oaths in that neighborhood. They were a night
ly occurrence, a part of a
gentl
eman's
outfit, like his generosity and his pipe. Nearer the sounds resolved themselves into human voices, the deep bark of dogs, singing, the clinking of glasses, a slamming shutter, the gallop of a rider whirling home after a night of revelry, to strike terror to the heart of any who waited for him.

The muscles around Philip's heart tightened as a sickening thought came to him, and he put spurs to his willing beast, making the road disappear rapidly behind him.

Near the one open house in the village, where lights were still burning and whence the sounds came, he drew rein, and die patient horse obeyed, having felt that anxious check to his rein before. Close under the window he stopped. Liste
ning and then rising in his sad
dle, he looked to make sure of what his heavy heart had already told him was true.

There in the midst of the room, on a table,
his golden curls all disheveled, his jaunty attire awry, his fine blue eyes mad with a joyless mirth, and his whole face idiotic with absence of the soul that lived there, stood Stephen. He had evidently been entertaining the company, and he was speaking as Philip looked.

"
Jes
" one more song, boys!" he drawled. "I got a go home to my sister.
Poor little girl's all alone, all
aloney
.
Zay
, boys, now that's too bad,
ain't
it?" His voice trailed off into unintelligibility.

A great anger, horror, and pity rose within Philip.
Pity for the sister, anger and horror over her brother.
He had seen Stephen like this before, and had sadly taken him away and brought him to himself, excusing him in his heart; but he had never before felt more than a passing disgust over the weakness of the man who put himself into such a condition. He had gone on the principle that, if Stephen liked that sort of thing from life, why, of
course
he had a right to take it; but he had always tried to save him from himself. Now, however, the thought of the sweet, trusting girl alone in the night waiting for him—how long had she waited?—while the brother she had come to help and love bandied her name and her pity around among a set of drunken loafers—

Philip stopped his thoughts short, and sprang into action.

Not in the quiet, careless way in which he usually entered upon such scenes and took possession of his partner did he come this time. His soul
was roused
as great men's are when they have a deed of valor to perform.

He strode into that maudlin company, and dashed men right and left.
They rose from the floor in resentment, or reeled against the wall, and shook trembling fists, and felt for ready weapons;
but Philip's wrath was mighty. They quailed before him. One word he uttered between set teeth and white lips.

"Fiends!"

Then he grasped the shrinking Stephen firmly, and dragged him from the table and from the room before the fiery men around him had realized and drawn their revolvers. One or two wild shots whistled harmlessly into the air after him, but he and Stephen were gone.

He put Stephen—already in a senseless state—upon his horse, and took him to a shanty where he knew that no one was living now; and all the rest of th
at night and through the bright
ness of Saturday he stayed guard over him.

Stern lessons of life he read to himself as he sat there watching the tainted beauty of the
face lying bef
ore him.
All Stephen's gay, win
ning qualiti
es
were hidden
behind the awful
ness of what the man had become. He had never seen it so before. He had simply borne with Stephen
till
he came out of one of these states and became his gay, companionable self again. Now all at once Philip looked with disgust upon him.
And
the difference was that up on the hill five miles away
there
sat a sweet, pure woman, whose trust and freely lavished love the man before him had basely betrayed. When Stephen had slept long, Philip brought water, bathed his face, and made him drink. He was determined to make Stephen perfectly sober, and he was anxious to do this as soon as possible, that they might get home and relieve the anxieties of the girl who waited there. But it was a stern face that Stephen looked into from time to time, and it was a silent journey that they took that night when darkness had come down to cover them. Only one sentence Philip spoke as they neared the house, and it was in a tone that Stephen was not likely to disregard.

"Be careful what you say to your sister!" The
n Stephen wondered what had hap
pened since he left home, and how many days
he had been away, and sat soberly trying to think as he rode up to the house.

Margaret's white face met them at the door, and Philip spoke first, his tone anxious and earnest.

"I am afraid you have been lonely, Miss Halstead. I am sorry it happened so. You see, Stephen thought he must come after me, and we
were delayed
by the absence of the man we went to see
. The ride was too much for Ste
phen. He is played out, I am afraid. He ought to go
right to sleep. If you have any coffee there, I will carry him in a cup. It will do him good. No, he
isn't
sick, just used up, you know.
Nothing to worry about."

Philip's voice was quite cheerful. If Margaret could have se
en his face, she would have won
dered at his tone.
But
Margaret had been sitting in the dark, and it took some minutes to light the lamp with her trembling fingers, shaking now from the relaxation of the strain.

"Hope I d
idn't scare you, Margaret," Ste
phen spoke, his gay, easy manner settling upon him like an old coat he had plucked from its familiar nail and fitted
on
. "You know one must not wait where duty calls.
But
I'll take Phil's advice, I guess, and turn in. I feel
mighty
seedy. All knocked up with the long ride."

Philip was soon
back
from caring for the horses, and took the smoking coffee from Margaret's hand. As she handed it to him, she looked into his face.

"How about you, Mr. Earle?
You look as if you needed the coffee more than Stephen," she said kindly.

The tender tone was almost too much for Philip after the grim strain he had passed through. It had in it a note of his mother's voice when he used to come home with a bruise from a fall or a fight. He smiled faintly, and said most earnestly,

"Thank you!"

And
when he came out from Stephen's room he found that she ha
d set him a tempt
ing supper on one end of the table.

She hovered about, waiting upon him
till
he was done, and told him to sleep late in
the morning when she said good
night. Then she went to her room, buried her face in the pillow, and cried. She did not know why she was crying. It was not from trouble. Perhaps it was relief. When she grew calm, she thanked God for saving her from some nameless trouble that she felt, but did not understand, and begged of Him again help for the morrow and the work she was going to try to do for Him.

The healing
of sleep settled down upon the little household late that Saturday night, and lasted far into the morning.

When Margaret awoke, the sun shone broad across her floor, and a sense of relief shone into her heart. As she went about her preparations for the day,
an awe
settled down upon her in remembering what she was going to try to do for Christ. She dared not think of any words she would speak, and she had not yet made up her mind how she would set about it to introduce her plan to the expected guests. She shrank as sh
e remembered Byron's bold, hand
some eyes, and wondered whether he would be among those invited, or whether he was Philip's friend alone. She shut her own eyes,
and prayed that she might put away such thoughts and think only of the message she had to bring.

The two young men literally did as she told them, and did not awake until almost noon. Margaret had kept their breakfast waiting until it was too late, and then she hastened the dinner preparations; and so the first meal they ate together was dinner.

After
d
inner
Philip hastened to the ne
glected horses, and to see after some matters at the barn, and Stephen threw himself upon the couch. The day was chilly, and
Marna
had kindled a fire o
n the hearth. It crackled pleas
antly, and Stephen was feeling the relief that comes after a throbbing headache has ceased. He took up a book from his sister's case, and began to read. He seemed to have forgotten all about his co
mpany, and Margaret thought per
haps he had not invited them after all, and it would be best not to speak about it. He was tired, and it would be much better for him.

There was immense relief to her in the thought that her task, which at times assumed proportions
impossible,
would be put off
in
definitely.
And yet
there came a strange pang of disappointment, for her careful study of the lesson had revealed to her hidden blessed
truths which the Spirit had made her long to impart to others. She wondered whether she could muster courage to suggest to Stephen that he and she, and perhaps Philip, too, if he liked, study the lesson together. She was sitting shyly by the piano, looking at her brother behind his book, and meditating whether she should ask him about it, when the door burst open most unceremoniously, and three young men stood upon the threshold.

To be sure, they knocked uproariously upon the opening door, and their greeting was loud and hilarious. Margaret arose, startled.
But
they stopped as suddenly as they had begun, and looked about upon the strange, changed place.
This was a
room with which they were unac
quainted, many times as they had ascended the hill to make good cheer for Stephen
.
And
the woman who stood silent by the piano was a lady, and was beautiful beyond any question.

It was as if they had come expecting s
um
mer weather, and were suddenly plunged into a magnifi
cent snow bank. They stood embar
rassed and for the moment silent, just as the other two strangers had stood, a little while before. All the
effrontery of their brave, out
landish Western attire desert
ed them. The in
stinctive feeling of
each man was self-
defense
,
and involuntarily their
hands sought the place which held the inevitable weapon.
Not that they meant to draw it, only to feel the cold, keen protection of its steel assuring them.

They had been
gentlemen
born, these three, at least in appe
arance, but had long ago forgot
ten what that word meant. Perhaps it was the harder for them, therefore, to understand the beauty of purity and art, having once
known
it and wandered so far from its path, than if they had never seen it.

They were wordless for the moment, not knowing how to occupy the new position.

Stephen came airily forward. He was glad Philip was out of the way for the time. He hoped he would remain away until things were well going.

"Welcome!" he said with a wave around the place as if it were a palace and he the king.
"My sister, Margaret Halstead, gentlemen.
Margaret, this is Bowman, and Fletcher, and Banks."

Margaret bowed in a stately way she had, which made her seem much taller than she really was, and kept at a distance any man whom she chose to keep so. Nevertheless, there was in her manner a smile of welcome, which see
med to the three strangers some
thing like a cold bit of sunshine that had fallen their way and charmed them, but did not belong to them.

They cam
e in and sat
down,
trying to as
sume their natural voices and easy speeches; but a mist of convention was enveloping them round, which they could not drive away.
All but Banks.

Banks was small, slight,
hard
of feature, with an unfeeling slit of a mouth and hateful, twinkly black eyes that were not large enough to see anything wonderful. He carried about him an ill-f
itting self-complacency that be
longed to a much larger man. His collegiate career
had been cut
short by his compulsory graduat
ion to an inebriate asylum and la
ter to the West.

Banks essayed a remark to
Margaret which
would have caused Philip to sling him out the door if he h
ad been there. It was complimen
tary and coarse in the extreme.
Fortunately
Margaret did not understand it, and stood in dumb amazement at the shout of laughter that was raised. She was glad when
the door was darkened again by other guests
, for she felt there wa
s something painful in the atmo
sphere. She looked for Stephen to stand beside her; but he was already slapping shoulders
with a newcomer, and her gaze met Byron's bold eyes be
nt in admiration as he came for
ward and attempted to take her hand by way of greeting, having a desire to show to the others his superior acquaintance with the queen of the occasion.
But
Margaret drew her hand behind her, and held him back with the gentle dignity of her greeting. He felt that she had not forgotten their last meeting and the words she had spoken to him. Her glance reminded him
reproachfully of it. He saw he must not expect to be her friend with that between them. The blood stole up his swarthy cheeks, and he stood back conquered, to see Bennett—whom he knew to be no better than himself, but whom she did not know— greeted with a welcoming smile.

Bennett's white eyelashes fell beneath the glory of that s
mile, and his freckles
were sub
merged
in red. He sat down hard in a Morris chair that
was several inches lower than he had expected
, while Banks
caroled
out a silly song appropriate to the moment. This happened to be
Banks's
role, the bringing in of appropriate songs and sayings at the wrong minute, and causing a laugh.

Marga
ret looked about the room bewil
dered. The place seemed to be swarming with
great, bold,
loud, men. She remembered Phil
ip's warning, and gasped. One moment
more,
and she felt that her head would be whirling dizzily. She must get command of the situation or fail.
Surely
her Strength would not desert her now, even though she had made a mistake. She lifted her soul to God, and wished while she prayed that Philip would come in. Philip somehow seemed so strong.

There were but seven men invited, though they looked so many. They were for the most part the pick of the country thereabout, at least amo
ng Stephen's friends. He had in
tended to be careful on Philip's account, for he
knew Philip would not stand any
one that would be outrageous.
But
Stephen's discretion had forsaken him with the first taste of liquor that passed his lips, and two had crept into the band worse than all the rest.
Well for Margaret that she was strong in her ignorance of this.

"Well," began Stephen, and Margaret saw that now was her opportunity if she would not let this strange gathering slip from her control.

"My broth
er asked you to come this after
noon because he thought you might enjoy some music and reading," she said in a clear voice that commanded instant silence, "and I shall be very glad if I can give you any pleasure."

Then she smiled
upon them like an unde
sired benediction, and each man dropped his eyes to his fee
t, and then raised them, wonder
ing why he had dropped them.

"Won't
you all sit down and make your
selves comfortable?" she went on pleasantly. "We should like to have you feel at home."

"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home," sung out Banks flippantly.

"Shut up, Ba
nks!" said Bennett, turning red
der, and g
laring from under his white eye
lashes at his neighbor.

"I want to get acquainted with my brother's friends, of course," went on Margaret, not heeding this accompaniment to her words. She had suddenly the feeling that she was holding a pack of
hounds at bay, much as one feels when starting a mission school of wild street
Arabs
. She must say the right thing at once and work quickly, or her cause would be lost.

"I don't know what kind of music you like best; s
o perhaps you will excuse me to
day if I play you my own favorites. I'm going to begin at once, please, so that we shall have plenty of time for them all, because by and by I want you all to sing."

They looked at her as they might have watched some new star in a theatre, wondering, awed for the minute by the strangeness, but not permanently. It takes a great deal to awe a Western cowboy.

Margaret turned with a sweep of her white draperies, and sat down at the piano. As she did so, she caught a glimpse of Philip standing in the doorway, his rugged face written over with disapproval and anxiety. It spurred her to do her best; and, laying her fingers upon the keys, she imparted her own spirit to them.

Some music lay upon the rack before her. It was not what she had intended to play first, but it would do as well as anything. She felt she must waste no more time in beginning, for Philip's face looked ca
pable of almost any action if th
ere was sufficient cause.

It was Handel's "Largo" that
sounded forth through the room with swelling, tender strain. She felt that perhaps it was not the right thing with which to hypnotize her audience, but she put her soul into it. If it were possible for music to express sacred things and true, then her music should do so.
But
, had she known it, music of any kind was so rare a treat and so unique that she might have played even a common scale for a few moments and had her audience until the strangeness wore away.

She gave them no time, however, to grow restless; for
she glided from one thing to an
other, now a great burst of triumph, and now a tender sympathetic melody, and all of them connected in her own mind with sweet days of worship in her childhood's church at home. Instrume
ntal music might not convey any
thing of a Sabbath nature to these untamed men, but it certainly could be no worse than no attempt at it, and she was feeling her way.

Philip stood like a grim sentinel in the doorway. The
company felt his shadow and resented it, but were
engrossed with the music at first. Philip could not let himself enjoy it. He stood as it were above it, and let it break like waves about his feet. He felt that he must, or some wave might
engulf
them all.

He watched their faces as a great watchdog might eye intruders, mistrusting, lowering,
a
growl already in his throat.

The wonder of the spell the girl had cast about them had not yet touched him. He was guarding her.

Suddenly she felt the pressure of emotion too strong for her. With a chord or two she dealt "one imperial thunderbolt that scalps your naked soul," as Emily Dickinson has put it, and stopped.

They caught their breath, and, coming out from under the charm, turned toward Philip to take their revenge for his attitude.

But
Margaret was all alert now. She felt the disturbance in the air. She moved quickly.

"You mu
st be thirsty," she said, uncon
sciously using a term that meant more to them than she dreamed. "I'm going to give you a cup of tea. Stephen, call
Marna
to bring the kettle, please; and Philip, will you pass the cups?"