Because of Stephen (12 page)

And His the blood that can for all
atone,

And
set me faultless there before the throne.

‘
O
Jesus Christ, the righteous!
live
in me,

That, when
in glory I Thy face shall see,

Within the
Father's
house my glorious dress

May be the garment of Thy righteousness.

Then Tho
u wilt welc
ome me,
‘
O righteous
Lord;

Thine
all the merit, mine the great reward;

Mine the life won, and
Thine
the
life laid
down,

Thine
the thorn-plaited, mine the righteous,

crown
."

"And now will you all sing a few minutes?" said their leader, turning toward them in the firelight, her fair face filled with the feeling of the prayer with which her song had closed.

"Philip, will you give us some light? Now let
us sing 'I need Thee every hour’
before you go home."

They growled
out all their superfluous, bot
tled-up feelings into that song, and made it ring out,
till
Marna
crept around and peered into the window to watch the strange sight. She stood there muttering in amaze, for such a miracle she never saw before. Perhaps
Missie
could work charms on even her, if she could make those wild fellows sit quiet there and sing that way.

And then
they found themselves dismissed.

"I shall expect you next Sunday at the same time," she said, smiling, "and thank you so much for helping. It has been so good, almost
like a Sunday at home. I have a delightful story and a new song for you next Sunday."

Greater marvel than all the rest, they went out quietly beneath the stars, mounting their horses in silence, and rode away. One attempt on
Banks's
part came to a dismal failure. Philip, standing at the door, heard the silly, swaggering voice rollicking through the night,

"I
dearly love my teacher, too, too, too, too,"

a
nd
Bennett's unmistakable roar, "Shut up, you fool, can't you?" as the song was brought to a summary close.

Byron had dared to linger a moment by the teacher's side, and with an expression almost earnest on his face had asked,

"Aren't you ever going to forgive me?"

"You must go to the One you insulted for forgiveness," answered Margaret gravely. "When you have made it right with Him, I will be your friend."

Then Byron dropped his boastful head, and walked away silent and thoughtful.

They turned, then, Philip and Margaret, and found themse
lves alone. They could hear Ste
phen slamming around in his room, the thud of first one boot and then the other thrown
noisily across the floor. Stephen evidently was not in a good humor.

Margaret's face grew sad, and she realized that through the whole afternoon her thoughts
had been more taken up
with the others than with the brother she had come to try to save. Had the message reached him at all?

Seeing Philip standing in the door watching her, the look of wonder still upon his face, her expression changed. She went over to where he stood, and, putting out one hand, touched him gently on the coat-sleeve. "I did not understand," she said simply. ""You were right. I ought to have listened to you."

He looked down at the little hand with finger-tips just touching the cuff of his sleeve, as if it had been some heavenly flower fallen upon him by mistake; and then he said, his voice all strange and shaking: "No, it was I who did no
t understand. You have been won
derful!"

The days
passed busily now. The queer little dwelling on th
e hill grew in beauty and inter
est with every passing hour. Stephen did his part, and seemed pleasant enough about it, although the first few days after the Sunday school he was strangely moody and quiet. Margaret could not tell
whether or not
he was pleased with what she had done.

And now
she lured the two young men to gather around the hearth in the evenings while she read aloud to them in carefully selected b
ooks which touched their experi
ences of life and made them forget themselves for a little while. Margaret's power of song was
equaled
only by her ability to read well; and no dialect, be it
negro
or Scotch, was too difficult for her to enter into its spirit and
interpret it to her readers. So long had they been out of the world that some of the best books about which people had raved for a few days and then forgotten had passed them by entirely. These were among her favorites, and now she brought them out and read them, while the two sat by and listened, much moved, but saying nothing except to laugh appreciatively at some fine bit of humor.

Thus she read "Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush," "A Singular Life," "Black Rock," and "The Sky Pilot"; and then went further back to George Macdonald, and chose some of his beautiful Scotch stories, "Malcolm," "The Marquis of
Lossie
," and "Snow and Heather." Over this
last
they were as silent as with the rest, but now and then Margaret noticed that Stephen covered his face with his hand and Philip turned his eyes away from the light while she was reading about the "Bonnie Man."

This sort of thing was all new to the two lonely fellows, who were used to making companions of the woods and fields and dumb beasts, and letting life go for little. This world of the imagination peopled life more richly.
But
ever when a book was finished Stephen would grow restless, and sometimes go off
upon his ho
rse, and Philip too would disap
pear. When they returned,—it might be late the same night, or after a day had passed,— Margaret could not tell which of the two, if either, had been the one who started first, and her heart grew heavy.

She rode with Stephen or with both of them quite frequently now, and was getting to be an expert
horsewoman
.
She knew the ways about the country, and had s
een some beauti
ful views.
But
not once had either of her escorts taken her near to the railroad station where she had arrived, nor pointed out what she fancied must be the semblance of a village. When she asked them, they always put her
off,
and more and more she wondered why.

With some trepidation she faced the next Sabbath,
half fearful
that her class would come again, half fearful lest they should not.
But
they came, every one, and brought two or three others
along. There was not much need for Philip to stand guard, as he did, at the rear of the company, ready to spring
should any slightest insult be offered
to the teacher.

They had odd ways, these rough scholars of hers, and were as undisciplined as a company of city ragamuffins; but they respected the beautiful girl who chose to amuse herself by
amusing  them
, and they listened
quietly enough.

After the first wonder wore
away
they had the air of humoring her whimsical wishes. It pleased them to take it this way. It helped them to humble t
hemselves into respectful atten
tion. But ever, now and again, some word of hers would strike home to their hearts; and there would come that restless, noisy moving of the feet, that dropping of the eyes and avoiding one another's gaze, as each tucked his own past away within his breast, and fancied no one knew.

They grew to love the singing, and put their whole so
uls into the hymns they sang to
gether; but they liked it more when Margaret sang to them the songs
which
sometimes brought back to them the days when they had been innocent and pure.

There was always, too, that solemn hush, that moment of silent prayer, before the one trembling but trustful sentence Margaret spoke to God.
And
sometimes, as the weeks went by, this or that man would find himself saying over in his own heart that sentence she had prayed the week before. It was not often she used the same sentence. Always it was something that touched the heart-experience
or impressed the lesson-thought upon the mind.

The first prayer she had uttered in that house would always remain with Philip—"O Jesus, let us all feel Thy presence here."
And
, as he looked about the glorified room, it did seem as if a Presence had entered there, and come to stay. He often thought, as he sat waiting for
the reading to begin in the eve
nings, of how that room had looked the night her letter came, and of how much he had hated the thought of her coming. Now, how light would go out of his life, should she go away! She did not know that. She never would, most likely. She was as far above him as the angels of
heaven
, but her coming had been as a gift from heaven. Would it last? Would she care to stay and keep it up?
And
Stephen, sitting on the other side of the hearth! Who could tell what
were his thoughts
as he alter
nated between his fits of moody silence and gay restlessness?

There came a day when Philip and Stephen were at work upon some fences, mending weak places where the cattle had broken them down.
And
in the afternoon Margaret put on a thin white dress with a scarlet jacket, and wandered out to where they were at work.

The day
was bright and warm for late Oc
tober,
really hot
in the sun. The light scarlet jacket was almost superfluous, but it served to intensify the scarlet in the landscape; and so she came, a bright bit of color into the prosaic of their work.

She had meant to talk to Stephen. In her
heart
she had been keeping some precious words she meant to say to him as soon as an opportunity offered. She longed to see him give himself to Christ.
As yet
she saw no sign that he had even heard the call to become a disciple.

But
Stephen was in his most silent mood. He answered her in monosyllables, and at last gathered up his tools and said he was going to the other end of the lot. She saw it would do no good to follow him, for he was not in a spirit to talk; so, saddened and baffled, she walked slowly along by the fence toward the house. Until she came close to where he
stood
she had not noticed that Philip was working now right in the way where she would have to walk.

He stood up,
and welcomed
her with a smile, and offered her a seat on a low part of the fence, where the rails had some of them been taken down.

It came to her that perh
aps her message to
day was for Philip rather than Stephen
;
so she climbed up and sat down.

He stood leaning against the supporting stakes near he
r, and the breeze caught a frag
ment of her muslin gown, and blew it gently against his hand. It was a pleasant touch, and his heart thrilled with the joy of her presence so near him. The muslin ruffle reminded him, with its caressing touch, of the wisp of hair that had blown across his face in the dark the night she had come.

A great, overpowering desire to tell her that he loved her came to him, but he put it aside. She was as cool as a lily dropped here upon this wayside, and talked with him frankly.
But
there was a something in their intercourse this afternoon more like their first brief talk about the moon than there had been since the night she came. She seemed to understand
what he was saying, and he to interpret her feeling of the things in nature all about them
. He dropped his tools, and stood beside her, willing to enjoy
this precious moment of her com
panionship.

She looked across the fields to the valley, the other hills beyond, and a purple mountain in the distance, while he followed her gaze.

"You see a picture in all that," he said briefly, as if reading out her thoughts.

She smiled.

"Was it for all this that you gave up your home and friends, and came out here to stay?"

His face darkened.

"No," he said, "I was a fool. I thought life's happiness was all in one bright jewel, and I had lost mine."

"O," she said, looking at him searchingly, sorrowfully. "And, when you found out that was not so, why did you not go back?"

"Perhaps I w
as a fool still." He spoke drea
rily. He would not tell her the reason why he had stayed.

There was silence for a few minutes while each looked at the dreamy mountains in their autumn haze, but neither noted much of what was to
be seen
.

"There is a jewel you might have, which could not be lost. It is a pearl.
The pearl of great price.
Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I understand," he answered, deeply moved, "but
I am afraid that would be impos
sible."

"O, why?" said Margaret, with pain in her voice. "Don't you care the least in the world to have it? I thought I saw a look of longing
in your face last Sunday when we talked about Jesus Christ. Was I mistaken?"

Then she had been watching him and cared. Last Sunday! The thought throbbed in his throat with a delirious joy. He lifted his hand, and laid it firmly on the bit of fluttering muslin on the rail beside him. It was all he dared do to show his joy that she cared even so much.

"No, you were not mistaken," he said, his voice choking with earnestness. "I would give all I own to feel as you do, but I cannot believe in your Jesus as more than a man of history. If it
were
true, and I could believe it, I would be His slave. I would go all around the world searching for Him
till
I found Him if He were upon earth.
But
I cannot believe. I would not shake your sweet belief. It is good to know you feel it. It makes your life a benediction to everyone you meet. Don't let my
skepticism
trouble you, or make you doubt."

"O, it could
n't!" said Margaret quickly, de
cidedly. "You could n
ot shake my belief in Jesus any
more than you could shake my belief in my mot
her, or my father, you know.
Be
cause I have known them.
If you should tell me I had not had a mother, and she was not
really good
and kind to me, I should just smile,
and pity you because
you had never known her.
But
I
have, you know. I do not blame you, for you have never known Jesus. You have not felt His help, nor almost seen Him face to face. You
don't
know what it is to talk with Him, and know in your heart He answers, nor to be helped by Him in trouble. You think I imagine all this. I understand.
But
you see I KNOW tha
t I do not imagine it, for I ha
ve
felt. You may feel too, if you will."

"I wish I might," said Philip with a sigh.

'"And ye shall find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart,'" quoted Margaret softly, wistfully. "And there is another promise for such as you. God knew you would feel so, and He prepared a way. 'He that doeth His will shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God—'"

"Do you really think that is true?" asked Philip, looking into her eager face.

"I know it is. I've tried it myself," she replied with emphasis.

There was a silence broken only by the whisperings of some dying leaves among themselves.

"Won't you take that promise, and claim it, just as you would take a bank-bill that promised to pay so much money to you, and present it for payment? Won't you do it—Philip?"

She had never called him that before except the first day of the Sunday school. It seemed to
have been done
then as a half-apology to him for not following his advice. After that
day
she had gone back to the formal "Mr. Earle" when she was obliged to address him by name at all.

Philip started, and crushed the bit of muslin between his fingers. He
was deeply affected
.

"How could I?" he said softly. Margaret caught her breath. She felt the answer to her prayer coming.

"Just begin to search for Him with all your heart, as if you KNEW
He was somewhere. You never have tried to find Him, have you?"