Because of Stephen (14 page)

Philip had not presumed upon the intimacy of that night's wild ride. He was the same quiet,
respectful
gentleman
, only with this difference: there was a promise between them; and, when he looked at her, his eyes always seemed to let her know he had not forgotten it.

But
contrary to her expectations the entire company of men trooped in at the regular hour, and seated themselves, perhaps with a little more ostentation than usual.

Margaret welcomed them gravely. She was not sure of them, even though they had come.
Marna
had been telling her just before dinner about a circus, and a painted
lady
who was to dance in the saloon that afternoon.

"Men no come to
day," she had said.
"If come, no stay late.
Go see dance-woman."

Margaret's heart had sunk. Of what use was it for her to try to help these men if they were going straight to perdition as soon as she was through?

Margaret's fingers trembled as she played, and she had chosen minor melodies with dirge-like, wailing movements. The singing even was solemn and dragged, for the men only growled instead of letting out their usual voices.

They turned to the lesson, and Margaret read the text; but then she pushed the Bible from her and lifted troubled eyes to them, eyes
in which tears were not a stranger. There was helpless despair in her attitude.

"You came here because I asked you to help me start a Sunday school, but I am afraid I have done you more harm than good," she said. The tragedy of it all was in her voice.

"You have been studying for a good many weeks now about Jesus Christ. I have told you how He loves you,
and wants
you, and how He took the trouble to leave his Home and come down here to suffer that you might be saved from sin, and come home to live with Him. It
hasn't
seemed to make a bit of differ
ence. You have listened just to humor me, but you
haven't
done a thing to please Him, my dearest Friend, for whom I did it all. You have kept right on in your wrong ways. You have gone to places that you knew He would not like. You are planning, some of you, perhaps, to go to a wicked place this afternoon when we are through wi
th the lesson. I have been show
ing you the right way, and you have chosen the wrong. It would be better for you that you did not know the right than, knowing it, that you should not take it. I have made a great mistake. I have shown you the loveliness of Christ, and you have treated it with indifference."

Her lips quivered, and she turned away to
hide the tears that came. The nights of anxiety and the days of excitement were telling on her nerves. She could not for the moment control her sadness.
She put up both hands, and cov
ered her face.

The silence was profound.

Then up rose Bennett in his might, he of the white eyelashes and the red hair.
His face
was mantled
with blushes, but there was a true ring to his voice.

"My lady," he said,—
it was the way they spoke of her with a deferential inflection that made it something different from the ordinary way of saying that,
—"we're pretty rough, I know, and you can't say anything too bad about us, perhaps; but we
ain't
t
hat bad that we're ungrateful, I
know. We promised to stick by this thing, and
we're
a-going to do it. I
don't
know just what it is you want, and I don't think the other fellows sense it; but, if you just speak up, we're with you. If
it's
the drinking you mean, we'll shut up that saloon if you say so, though it'll be a dry spot
fer
some of us without it. And, if it's that there dancing-woman, if a single feller goes out of this room with intentions of visiting her scene of action, he goes with a bullet in him."

Bennett paused, and held his deadly weapon
gleaming before him, covering the whole room with it. Banks started back in terror, and then recovered himself and laughed nervously; but the other men faced Bennett steadily, and their silence lent consent. It was evidently understood so by Bennett, for he put the revolver back in his hip
pocket,
and resumed the unusual labor of his speech.

"As
fer
treating any One with indifference, we
ain't
meant to.
It's
just our way.
We've
listened respectful like to what you said about Him, and
ain't
questioned but what it's all so.
But
we
ain't
just up to this Sunday-school act, and don't know what to do. If
you'd
just say plain what 'tis you want, we might be able to please."

Margaret turned her eyes all bright with tears to the y
oung man, and said with earnest
ness:

"I want you to be like Him, Mr. Bennett, to live like Him, to love Him, to grow to look like Him. That is what He wants. That is why He sent the message to you."

Bennett stood abashed at the awful disparity between the One spoken of and himself. He looked at her helplessly.

"I'll be gashed if I know what you mean,"
he replied with fervor; "but, if you'll make it all out easy
fer
us, we'll try."

It was late that night before she sent them away, for she had prolonged the lesson and the singing, and then had read them a tender story, full of the tragedy, the love, and the salvation of life.

They rolled forth their closing song with their magnificent voices as if they meant it. The words were,

"Just as I am, without one plea,
But
that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou
bidd'st
me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come, I come."

They were all there yet. Not one of them had stolen away to the revelries in the village. If Banks had entertained thoughts of doing so, he had not dared.

She had asked them to sing the words as a prayer if they could, and each man sang with his eyes on his
book,
and a strange new look of startled purpose was dawning in some faces.

Then they
went out into the starlight si
lently, but first each man paused and shook hands with Margaret as she stood by the door. They had never done this before. They would
not have dared to touch her lily hand unless she gave it them now.

The
hand-clasps
were awkward, some of them, but each one was a kind of pledge of new fealty to her.

Last of all
came
Byron, his bold eyes dropped. He did not know whether she would touch his hand or not. He stood hesitating before her. It was something new for him to be embarrassed.

"Will you take my Christ for yours?" she said, looking up and comprehending.

"If I know how," he answered brokenly.

Then out came her eager hand, sealing the promise with a warm grasp of friendliness, and Byron walked out of that door, a new sense of honor dawning in his breast.

She turned back to the room, her face bright with feeling. Stephen stood behind her, and, bending as if he had come for that, kissed her on the forehead, and went quickly into his room, shutting the door behind him.

Then Margaret stood alone with Philip.

"I have
been thinking," said Philip, a strange new light in his eyes, as he turned toward her from, the firelight into which he had been looking, "of what value are
unbeliefs
? They do not change facts. I will throw away mine. I will take your Christ. If there is no Christ, I shall
lose nothing. If there is, I shall have gained all.
Margaret, I take your Jesus to
night to be my
Saviour
."

He said it solemnly, as one utters a vow for eternity; and the girl stood looking up at him, the radiance in her face reflected in his own.

When he had gone to his room that night, he closed the door and knelt down. A strange gladness was in his heart. He found that he did not shrink from praying, but longed to register his vow, to begin his new life.

"O Christ!" he murmured, reaching out longing arms as if to grope for and find the desire of his heart, "O Christ! Come to me! Show me! Let me know Thou art here. Let me never go back to doubting. I will give Thee all myself, though it is worth but little. Only come to me! Jesus! Jesus! I take Thee as my
Saviour
!"

It was a different prayer from what he might have prayed if he had not known Margaret. Even if his will and desire
had been stirred
to praying at all without her influence, he would not have used such language, he would not have spoken to Jesus, the Christ, if he had not heard Margaret s simple, earnest talks of Him every Sunday. He would naturally have spoken to God more
distantly
, his praying would have
been less insistent, and perhaps he would not so soon have received the blessing.

Some
one ha
s said that prayer is the throw
ing of the arms of the soul about the neck of God.

Philip had laid his soul before the Christ, and all tenderly, as if the great arms of God had folded about Him, there came to his soul a sense of the presence of Jesus.

"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds in a believer's ear!
" they had sung once in the Sun
day
class,
and Philip had curled his lip quietly, in his corner behind the piano, over the sentiment. How could it be possible that the name of One who has never been seen could be dear, no matter how much one believed?

But now
in the new, sweet dawn of his own second birth he suddenly knew that the name "Jesus" was sweet to him. How it had come about, he could not explain. He said it
over and over
, gently at first, for he feared the sweetness mi
ght depart, and then more confi
dently, as his soul rang with the joy of it. It was true, after all, and one could feel Jesus' presence just as Margaret had said.

With a sense of great peace upon him he lay down at last to rest, but before he closed his eyes in sleep he murmured,
"I thank Thee for sending—Margaret!" and he spoke the name lingeringly and reverently.

They did not say much to each other, Philip and Margaret, about the wonderful change that had come into Philip's heart; but there was a secret understanding between them that made their eyes look glad when they met across the room, and Margaret's heart sang a little song of triumph as she went about her work. It was not for several days that Philip dared to tell her he was beginning to get the answer to his prayer that she had promised, and how he knew that now what she had said was true.

The days went by in much the same way that the preceding ones had gone, save that both Margaret and Philip exercised a more vigorous wat
chfulness over Stephen. The eve
nings
were spent
in delightful readings, and Margaret invented all sorts of little things she wanted made, which the young men could work at while she read.

Margaret was getting to be a good rider since her adventure by night. It seemed to have freed her from all fear, and constantly the three rode about the country together, enjoying the clear, crisp days as the winter hastened on.

It was about this time that there came to
that region a young minister, who had broken down in his first charge, and who had come out to the West to fight nervous prostration on a cattle-ranch. He was an earnest young fellow with no foolish notions, and he had not been long at his new home before he had made friends
of the men with whom he
was con
stantly thrown
. He had a desire to do them good in
some way, though it
must be con
fessed
he saw little hope for any such thing. He did not feel well enough to preach, even if there had b
een any encouragement for start
ing religious services on Sunday. There seemed to be no church within possible reach, and he pondered much as he rode, and laughed, and learned, of the rough men who gave him no easy lessons, how to rub off the "tenderfoot" looks and ways.

At last, one day he questioned a man from his own ranch. Was there no service of any kind held in the whole of that region? Did they not know of even a Sunday school?
Surely
there were some Christian people.

The man whom he happened to question was Banks.

Now Banks had been growing exceedingly unpopular among the members of the select Sunday class which met with Margaret Halstead, because he did not take kindly to the extreme principles she taught,
nor
yield up his rights in the matter of drinking and gambling as some of the others were discussing the possibility of doing. He had made one or two attempts to raise an opposition to the power of the fair young priestess, but they had not been successful. He felt his loss of
prestige,
and with a half-idea of revenge by getting the minister on
his side, and running him in op
position to the young teacher, he began to tell him about the Sunday school.

Banks had a gift of imitation, and a vein of what he supposed was humor. He used them both in this case, and the result was not to the advantage of the Sunday school. However, the young
theologue
was not altogether without some insight into character. He did not take all that Banks told him as strictly true; and, when the fellow wound up by offering to take him around to the school the next Sunday, he decided to accept the invitation. It would at least give him a chance to study the men and see what influence was able to hold them. It also held out the only opening for a religious service that the neighborhood afforded.

"But you must wear yo
ur outfit things, or the
boys'll
get on to you
bein
' a preacher, an
’
make it hot
fer
ye," said Banks. "They won't have any snobs around. The teacher might think you'd come to break up the meeting, and Earle might take a notion to put you out the back door."

The minister wondered what kind of a strange Sunday school this might be to which he was to be taken; but he quietly accepted the advice, and t
he next Sunday just as the open
ing hymn was being sung—Banks had timed his coming well, when all would be occupied and there
would be none to dispute the ap
pearance of the newcomer—they walked into the room and sat down.

The minister looked about him in wonder on the beauty and refinement everywhere visible, but his eyes
were held
at once by the loveliness of the girl who, dressed in soft white, presided over this motley gathering. His eyes went from the hard faces of the men to her pure profile, in wonder,
again and again
.

There was an ease and mark of the world about the minister, even in his cowboy garb, that Philip noted at once. He drew his brows together in almost his old frown of displeasure as he watched him covertly, jealous of the looks the minister cast at Margaret, jealous of his easy way of smiling and accepting the book
that Banks handed him open to the place. It was not
till
the name "Jesus," repeated several times in a chorus that was being sung, reached Philip's heart, and felt for that vibrating chord that was learning to thrill with joy over the name of his Master, that he realized what an ugly feeling toward this utter stranger had sprung up within him all unbidden. He tried to down it,
and looked about for some hospi
tality to offer the visitor, but in spite of
himself
he felt dismay at the presence of this man. He was different
from the other fellows, and Mar
garet would see it at once.

Fortunately
for Margaret she had no time to look the stranger over closely until after the lesson was done; else she might have been disconcerted. She had long ago overcome her fear of the men she taught every Sabbath, through her intense desire to lead them to the
Saviour
; but, had she known that her audience that afternoon
contained a full-fledged minis
ter fresh from a long theological training, she would have trembled and halted, and perhaps have had no message to deliver that day.

She went through it all as usual, the solemn, silent waiting, and the simple, earnest prayer; and the young minister felt that there were things he had yet to learn about preaching
which might not be learned in any theological seminary.

She found him out as soon as he spoke to her, however, which was at the close of the lesson and while they were passing the usual cups of delicious tea and the cakes. She knew him for one of her own world, and welcomed him pleasantly.

Now the minister was small and slight. In contrast with
Philip and Stephen
and the others he looked insignificant to Margaret's eyes, newly grown accustomed to this giant build of men.
So
, when he asked permission to come to the class someti
mes, she did not feel the trepi
dation that she would have felt before she came out here. He positively declined to teach. He said his physician had forbidden anything of the sort, and he thanked her warmly for all the help she had given him that afternoon. She found afterwards that
he had left her with the impres
sion that he needed help, too. He did not seem to have the sa
me idea about a personal friend
ship with Jesus Christ that had grown so dear to her.

She felt strengthened, however, at the thought of another Christian to help in the work, and began at once to plan how she would ask him to explain deep points in the
lessons that she might in turn explain them to the class. He seemed a bright, interesting young man. Margaret was glad he had come. He was from near
her own
home, also, and knew many of her intimate friends. That made him doubly interesting.

As the winter went on, the minister began to drop in upon them at sunset, occasionally, to spend the evening. Stephen had taken a fancy to him, and encouraged his coming. Margaret rejoiced at this, and made the minister more welcome because Stephen liked him.

During the long evenings they would
read and talk
and have music, much as when they were alone.

The minister naturally gravitated to a seat beside Margaret.
It was his hand that turned the music for her when she played, and his voice that joined in the duets they sang, for he was somethin
g of a musician as well as theo
logian.

He was also a good reader, and often took the book from Margaret, and read while she rested or busied her hands with a bit
of em
broidery.

Occasionally the entire Sunday class
would be invited
for an evening of reading and song. At such
times
the minister proved to be an
admirable helper, always ready with some witty saying or a good recitation.
He had the power of whistling in imitation of different birds, and would whistle wild, sweet tunes to a running accompaniment on the piano.

He was
not altogether unpopular
among the men. He had the sense to keep any extra self-esteem he might have brought out West well locked away in his breast, carrying about with him always a hearty friendliness. The men could not help liking him, and Margaret more and more turned to him for advice and looked for his
help in planning for her differ
ent gatherings.
But
when he was present Philip was always silent and gloomy.

Three times during that
winter
did Stephen grow restless and slip away. Twice his faithful guardians came galloping after him when he was scarcely out of sight of the house, and took him on a long ride that ended only late at night, when they all were worn out; but they brought him safely back, sober. The third time he met Bennett on his way, who immediately suspected and shadowed him till he made sure, whereupo
n he laid strong hands upon Ste
phen, and insisted on riding home with him.

Margaret had hoped and prayed. She had even ventured to talk with Stephen at dusk
sometimes, when he would come in and throw himself down upon the couch by the fire. He always listened, but he said very little. Not
much
hope had she ever received from him that he was paying heed to her earnest pleading to come to Jesus Christ and be a new man.
And
the winter wore away into the spring.