Because of Stephen (6 page)

And now
, as she lifted her brave eyes, stern with the purpose she had in mind, they met the bold, handsome ones of Byron. He was trying to think up something appropriate to say to the
hoste
ss
for giving them this delight
ful dinner. He
was noted
for his hilarious speeches; but the usual language in which he framed them would not be according to Philip's ideas, and he did not care to rouse Philip twice in a day. It would scarcely put him into this young woman's good graces to engage in a free fight with Philip Earle before her face.

Something in her troubled gaze embarrassed him as he lounged across the room to where she stood. He was conscious of Philip's forked-lightning glance upon his back, too, as he went; yet he swaggered a little more and held his head higher. He
would not be put
to shame before a girl. He ran his fingers through his abundant black hair, dre
w tighter the knotted silk hand
kerchief about his bronzed throat, and came gallantly forward with a few gay words of thanks on his lips, which were unusually free, for him, from profane garnishing?.

He even dared to put out his great brown hand to shake hands with her. He had a fancy for holding that little white hand in his.

But
Margaret looked at his hand, and then faced him st
eadily, putting her own hand be
hind her back.

They did not see Philip, his eyes like a panther's, unconsciously move toward them. Bennett and Stephen drew off by the door to watch what would come.

Her voice was very low, but clear, Philip,
standing behind Byron, could hear every word she said; but the two by the door could not.

"Mr
.
Byron," she said, and there was pain in her voice, "I cannot shake hands with you. You have insulted my best friend."

The red flashed up under the bronze in the young man's cheek, and he drew back as if struck.

He stammered and tried to find words.

It was nothing but a passing word, a flash, he said; Philip and he were as good friends as ever. He did not know, or he would not have spoken. He would apologize to Philip.

Margaret caught her breath. She had not expected to be misunderstood.

"I do not mean Mr. Earle," she answered quietly and stea
dily; "he is but a new acquaint
ance. I mean my best friend. I mean Jesus Christ, my
Saviour
. I heard you speak his name in a dreadful way, Mr. Byron."

She lifted her eyes to his now, and they were full of tears.

The man was dumb before her. What had been a flash of anger and embarrassment grew into shame,
deep, overpowering. He had noth
ing to say. He had never met a thing like this face to face before. It was not something he could point the barrel of his revolver at, nor
could he grapple with it and overcome. It was shame, and
he had never met real shame be
fore.

The fire in Philip's eyes went out, and he turned half away, as if from something too holy to look
upon
. He had seen the tears in the
girl’s
eyes, and the real trouble in
her voice. Into his own heart r
ebuke had sent a shaft as it passed to meet
this
other man whose guilt was greater.

At last the careless lips, so deserted of all their gay, accustomed words, spoke.

"I did not know—"was all he could say, and he turned and stumbled out of the room, not looking back.

And
Margaret,
trembling now, with the tears blin
ding
her, took refuge in her room.

The next
few days were strenuous ones in the house of the unbidden guest. Philip and Stephen arose early and retired late, and did their regular work at odd times when they could get a chance, while they entered like two boys in
to the plans of their young com
mander.

They moved the little cattle-shed near to the house and floored it with some lumber that had been lying idle for some time. They took down the cook-stove, and set it up in the new kitchen,
where it soon shone out resplen
dent in a coat of black under the direction of Margaret and the wondering hand of the old woman.

A box of kitchen utensils which Margaret had conside
red indispensable to her own ca
reer as a housekeeper, and was now thankful she had not left behind, was unpacked, and soon there b
egan to appear on the table won
derful concoctions in the shape of waffles and gems and muffins, which made each meal the rival of the last one, and kept the two young men and the old woman in a continual state of amazement.

Into the midst of all this work came the first Sabbath of Margaret's new life.

A storm had burst in the night, and was carrying all before it, seeming to have made up its mind to stay all day; so there was nothing to do but stay in the house as much as possible.

At the
breakfast-table,
Stephen began to speak of the work they would do that day, and to say what a shame it was raining, as they could not w
ork on a little room to accommo
date the old woman, who had now to hobble home at night to her shanty a mile and a half away.

"You forget what day it is, Stephen," said Margaret, smiling. "You couldn't work if it didn't rain. It is Sunday, you know."

Stephen l
ooked up in surprise. He had al
most forgotten that Sunday was different from any other day, but he did not wish to confess
this to his sister. He drew his brows, scowling, and answered, "O, bother, so it is!"

Then Philip scowled too, but for a different reason, and looked anxiously at the sky to see whether it was really to be a rainy Sunday. He grew suddenly thankful for the rain.
But
what would he do with Stephen all day?

They were compelled to do some work, after all, for the old woman did not hobble over at all that day, and no wonder: the rain came down in sheets; thunder rumbled; and lightning flashed across the heavens; and Philip blessed the rain again.

"Go into the kitchen, Steve, and wash those dishes," said Philip laughingly, "and I'll help.
We're
a lazy lot if we can't do the work one day out of seven for our board. It is enough for Miss Halstead to do the cooking." And so they worked together, and Philip hunted around, and managed to make work, little things that Stephen must do at once, and which Margaret kept tellin
g them could wait until the mor
row; but Phili
p insistently kept Stephen help
ing him at them till dinner was out of the way and it was nearly five o'clock.

The sky was lighting up, and showed some signs of clearing.

Stephen wandered restlessly to the door,
and looked down the road, and then at his watch.

Philip was on the alert, though he did not have that appearance. He glanced at the big
piano-case
still unopened.

"Miss Halstead," he ventured, "why didn't we open that piano yesterday? If we should knock off a couple of those front boards and get at that keyboard,
don't
you think you might play for us a little, and while away the rest of this day? Steve will be off to gayer company than ours if you don't amuse him."

He laughed lightly, but
there was a troubled something in his voice that caused Margaret to follow his glance toward her brother
. She saw the restlessness in his whole attitude, and took alarm. Was it for one or both of the young men she was troubled? She could not have told.

"O, yes, if you can do it easily," said Margaret eagerly. It would be a delight to her to touch the keys of her piano again; it would drive away any lingering homesickness.

Philip's v
oice again called Stephen's wan
dering attention, and soon their united efforts brought the row of ivory and black keys into view.

Margaret, seated on a kitchen chair, touched
strong, sweet chords while the two young men settled down to listen.

Sweet Sa
bbath music she played from mem
ory, a bit from some of the old masters, a page from an oratorio, a strain from the minor of a funeral march, a grand triumphant hymn. Then she touched the keys more softly, and began to sing low and sweetly; and by and by, there came a rich tenor and a grumbling bass from the two listeners as she wandered into familiar hymns that they had sung as little boys.

The rain came on again,
and it
grew darker, and still they sang, until at last Philip drew a sigh of relief, and realized that it was bedtime and Stephen had not gone to the village. Then Margaret stopped playing, and they all went to get a lunch before retiring.

Margaret, before she slept that night, asked a blessing again on the work she hoped to do, and never dreamed that already she
had been used
to keep the brother for whose sake she had come this long journey.

The next week a
fter they finished the old woman's room Philip came in with his arms full of great rough stones, and announced that he was ready to begin the fireplace, and he thought it would be best to get the muss and dirt of
plaster out of the way before they put things to rights in the living
room.

Margaret had almost forgotten the doubts she had about Philip when she first came, and his strange actions on the morning after her arrival, and was prepared to accept both the young men as good comrades, or brothers. Laughingly they all went to work, Margaret drawing the outline of the fireplace that she thought
should be built
, and Stephen mixing mortar while Philip brought in stones from a great pile tha
t had been collected by the for
mer owner of the place to build a fence.

"There's nothing like being jack of all trades," said Stephen as he sl
apped on some mortar with the bla
de of a broken hoe, and settled into it a great stone that Philip had just brought in.

Margaret's eyes shone as she watched the chimney
being built
. She saw in her mind's eye a charming room, and she was anxious to get it into shape before another Sabbath, that they might have a quiet, restful time. While she had been playing and singing the night before, there
had been revealed
to her ways in which she might point the way to her
Saviour
, and she longed to begin.

There was much to be done in teaching the
strange servant new ways, and in keeping clean the things they used every day; but Margaret was one of those whose hands are never idle, and she had put her whole soul into the making over of her brother's home; so she accomplished much in her own way while the young men worked at masonry and the stone fireplace grew into comely proportions.

By the time it was finished she had rooted out from the boxes and barrels most of the things she
would need in the immediate arrangement of this living
room, and had cut and sewed cushions and fixings ready to put into place when the time came, so that the work of refurnishing went rapidly forward. Indeed, the two helpers became fully as eager to see the room finished as was the young architect.

Margaret had bought a number of things before she left the East that she thought she would be likely to need in arranging her own room, which she wanted to make as pretty as possible to keep her from getting homesick. All
this plan
she now abandoned, and set herself to put these pretty things into the adornment of the great, bare living-room which she meant should be the scene of her labors.

Among other
things
there were
bright ma
terials for cushions, and there were rolls of
paper enough to hang the walls of a reasonably large room. A careful calculation and much measurement soon made it evident that this paper would cover the most of the walls of this room, which was the size of an ordinary whole house without any partitions. She puzzled a while to
kn
ow whether she should risk send
ing for more, but finally a bright idea occurred to her as she looked at the large bundle of green burlap that was lying in the box with the paper. This she had intended for draperies, or floor covering, if necessary, or maybe covering for a chest or a cushion. Now all was plain before her.

The paper had an ivory ground on which seemed to be growing great palms as if a myriad of hothouses had let forth their glories of greenery. There was enough of this paper to cover the two sides and front of the room. That was delightful. It would look as if the room opened on three sides into a palm grove. On the back end, in the centre of which was the great stone fireplace, she would put the plain moss-green burlap, fastened along its breadths with brass tacks. Two or three good coats of whitewash would give the ceiling a creamy tint, and she could cut out a few of the palms
from the paper to apply in a dainty design in the centre and corners.

The two young men looked bewildered when she tried to explain, and she finally desisted, and issued her directions.

They covered the back of the room first; and, when the mossy breadths were smoothly on over the rough boards, fastened at intervals with the gle
aming tacks, the old stone fire
place stood o
ut finely against the dark back
ground.

"Now, if you have any guns and things, that is the place to put them," said Margare
t, point
ing to the wall about the fireplace, and Philip proudly brought out a couple of guns, and crossed them on the wall to the right, while Stephen fastened a pair of buffalo-horns over the door to the left that led into the new kitchen.
This side of the room was at once denominated the dining
room, and Margaret
unwrapped
a handsome four-panel screen of unusual size, wrought in black and gold, and stood it across that corner.

They turned with avidity to follow her next directions, having more faith in the result than they had before.
And
another day or two saw the walls papered and the ceiling smiling white with its green traceries here and there.

It did not take long after that to unpack rugs and furniture. Margaret had brought many things from the old home, rare mahogany furniture and
Oriental
rugs, that
a wiser per
son might have advised her to leave behind until she was sure of making a home in this far land.
But
the girl rejoiced in the beauty of the things she had to give to her "life-work," as she pleased to
call it, and had brought every
thing with her that she intended to keep at all.

The rough old floor with its wide cracks and
unoiled
boards did not look so bad when they were almost covered with a great, soft rug of rich, dark coloring, and set off here and there by the skin of a tiger or a black bear, or by a strip of white goat-skin.

A wide, low seat, covered with green and piled with bright cushions, ran along the wall to the right of the fireplace. In the corner beyond the window was a low bookcase, which Margaret had
intended for her own room, and again beyond her bedroom door another low bookcase ran along to the other bedroom door.
These doors were hidden by dark-green curtains of soft, velvety material
: and no one would have suspected the rough, cheap doors behind them. By each one there stood on the top of the bookcase, half against
the green of the curtain and half mingling with the lifelike palms on the wall, a living palm in a terra-cotta
jardinière
, which made the pictured ones but seem more real.

The piano stood near the front of the room, across the right-hand corner; and a wide, low couch invited one to rest and listen to the music.

The rest
of the room that was not dining
room was filled with easy chairs, a large, round mahogany ta
ble with a most delightful reading
lamp in the middle, and more books, while Stephen's old writing-desk stood across the left-hand front corner.

It was all most charming to look upon, this finished room, when the weary workers at last sat down to a belated supper Saturday evening, and realized
what they had accomplished dur
ing the week.

There was much to
be done
yet. Margaret, as she ate her supper, glanced around, and planned for a row of little brass hooks against the wall, w
hereon should hang her tiny tea
cups, and wondered how she should manage a plate-rail for th
e saucers, in this country with
out
moldings
. The littl
e glass-faced buffet that was to hold the china still stood on the floor in the corner, waiting its turn to be hung,
and the pictures were
as yet
unpacked; but there was time enough for that. There was a room in which to spend the Sabbath, and she prayed that her work might now begin.