Because of Stephen (15 page)

It
was one day in early summer that the minister and Stephen set out on a long ride. They were to return in time for supper, and Margaret had planned a pleasant evening for them all. "The boys," as the Sunday class were now called, were
all coming
.

She stood watching them ride away into the pleasant afternoon light, and wondered whether th
e minister would improve his op
portunity to say a word to Stephen. She felt very sad about her brother. He did not seem to get any further toward eternal life.

Philip was to have gone with the riding party; but a message in the morning had called him in another direction to attend to some business, and he would not return
till
evening.

Margaret watched the two riders out of sight, and then went in to finish her plans for the evening.
There were one or two little things she wan
ted to do for an unusual attrac
tion.
She was always thinking of new things to win these men into another world than the one they lived in every day.

The two riders went to a distant ranch famed for its superior cattle. They passed spots of
marvelous
beauty on the way, and stopped to look and wonder; and the minister did improve his
opportunity to speak a few ear
nest words to Stephen, as Margaret had hoped he would do.

Stephen answered sadly, half wistfully, but would not commit himself.
He did not repel the words, and seemed to like his companion even better that he had dared to speak.

They spent some time going about the ranch, and late in the afternoon turned their horses homeward.

They had gone about
halfway
back when a messenger
overtook them to beg the minis
ter to return. A whisper had gone around the
place that one of the visitors was a minister. The mother of one of the men was lying very ill, not likely to live, and she begged that he would return to pray with her. The message, scrawled feebly, was so pitiful that no one, least of all the kind-hearted young minister, could refuse.

Stephen insisted upon going back with him, but this Mr. Owen would not allow. He said that Stephen must go home and tell his sister the circumstances. He would come as soon as possible. The messenger offered a fresh horse and an escort for returning, and the minister said he wo
uld be with them before the eve
ning was over. It would not do for Stephen to go with him, as his sister would wait supper and it would spoil all their plans.

It was a disappointment to the young man, and a deep one. All day as he rode through the brilliant air his heart had been rejoicing over the thought of the evening. He had formed a little pla
n during the past week, that to
night he would ask
Margaret to ride with him some
day soon. Then he could have her all to himself, and perhaps—that was as far as he let his thoughts go in the presence of others. He liked to be by himself when he thought of Margaret.

Many miles away
there
rode another man,
thinking of Margaret, too, and of the minister, sometimes letting his heart rejoice over the smile the girl had given him and the little wave of her white hand in farewell as he rode away that morning, sometimes feeling the heavy gloom of foreboding as a vision of the delicate,
spiritual
face of the minister rose before him.
For Philip h
ad long known that he loved Mar
garet better than his own life.
Now and then he lifted his eyes up to the clear blue overhead, and called from his heart to his Father, and her Father, not praying, not asking for anything for himself, for he did not dare do that, but just to assure himself that there was a heavenly Father who belonged to them both, who loved them both, and would do well.
More than
this
he did not venture to think.

Stephen sat in his saddle, watching his friend out of sight on the road they had just come together. He felt a strong impulse even yet to turn and follow him. Something told him it would be better. Something whispered that here was his safety. He half called to them as they disappeared
around a knoll; and then, remem
bering that
Margaret would be watching anx
iously for them, and determining for once to show he was a man and could be trusted, he reluctantly started his horse on alone.

But
the devil came
also.

The devil had not had so good a chance at Stephen for n
early a year. He had been watch
ing his opportunity, and had almost given up
this
soul that was once so firmly in his clutches.
But now
he came swiftly, and at
tended him with all his old arts and many more beside. He whispered:

"You'd better ride around by the town, and go through, and then you can tell Margaret how strong you are."

That
was the first thought
. Ride through town, and not go into the saloon, nor stop once to talk to any one! He would enjoy knowing that he could do that. He might even try to be the Christian Margaret and the minister wanted him to be if he could do that once. He would not be so ashamed. He half decided he would do it, and turned it over in his mind, that mind so easily influenced by his own imagination that to think of going through to
wn was almost as much of a temp
tation as goi
ng. He could see how the
saloon
keeper
would stand at the door and look, and wonder, and perhaps call. He could smell the odor of the familiar room as it
was wafted
out into the road from the swinging blind door.

Something wild seized him with
the
thought of that odor. A spirit that
would not be downed
. He forgot that he had intended to ride safely through town to astonish and please his sister by his strength. He forgot his half-desire to be a Christian. He forgot the words the minister had spoken, which indeed had taken deep hold upon his wavering nature. He forgot everything save that one fiendish thirst for strong drink, and he set the spurs cruelly into his faithful horse, and rode like mad, his breath coming in great, hot waves through his lungs. His eyes grew blood-shot, and all the de
vils in the service of the arch
fiend flew to urge him on. There were miles yet to be covered, but that was nothing. He was alone and unsuspected. He had time to get there and get all he wanted. All he wanted! For
once
no one could stop him, for no one would know until the minister came
back, and that might not be to
night.

He turned upon a road that would not lead past home, and galloped on.
It was the road his sister had taken in her wild night ride after him and Philip.

It was quite dusk when he neared the bridge that she had crossed in safety and but just escaped with her life. He knew the bridge had long been disused. He knew that it
was
considered
extremely unsafe. He did not know of the great supporting timber that had parted and fallen into the ravine below on the night Margaret had crossed.
But
he knew enough about it to make him feel even in his most daring moods, heretofore, that he would rather not try to cross it.

But
something stronge
r than reason was urging him to
night. This bridge would lead to a crossroad where he would not be in danger of meeting any of the fellows coming up to Margaret's gathering. The fellows had of late been a sort of self-constituted watch-guard. He could not shake them off. They had kept him many a time from himse
lf. He would escape them all to
night. The fever in his blood had taken fire through all his veins. A blind purpose took possession of his reason.

With sudden quick jerk of the
bridle
he turned his trembling horse, and put him at the bridge, nor would he let him lessen his gait. He half knew in his wild folly that his safety lay in getting over quickly, if safety there was.
And so
under full gallop the panting horse flew at the bridge in the fast-gathering darkness.

It wavered and cracked, and wavered long, and then suddenly, too late, the horse drew back upon his haunches with a frightened
snort almost human in its anguish, and poised a moment in mid-air! The bridge did not reach across the chasm! One whole section had fallen! The last support was tottering in decay!

One awful
second Stephen realized his po
sition, and saw in vivid panorama the follies of his life and the sins of his heart. Saw, and cried out in
one wild cry to God, in acknowl
edgment and late submission. The cry rang through the upper air, down into the dark ravine; then a
ll was blackness of unconscious
ness to Stephen as bridge, horse, and rider fell crashing below!

The supper had stood waiting for some time when
Philip came. Margaret was grow
ing restless, and was glad to see him. His face was anxious when he heard that the riders had not returned, though he tried to laugh it off and say the minister was not used to long rides. Perhaps it had been too much for him, and they had had to stop to rest; but in another half hour Mr. Owen, his horse all covered with froth, rod
e
gayly
up to the door, and dis
mounted.

He made hi
s apologies, explained his late
ness, and then looked around for Stephen.

"Isn't he here yet?" he asked in surprise.

But
there was more than surprise in the faces of the other two. There was trouble. Philip excused himself immediately, and went toward the barn. His own horse was weary with the long, hard day. He must take the other horse. He saddled it, and quickly led it out into the darkness; but at the door stood Margaret, her face white and drawn, a steady purpose in her eyes. Philip could see it shining through the starlight like another star. She had followed him to the barn, intending to ride with him after Stephen.

He dropped the horse's bridle, and came over to her. Taking both her cold little hands in his strong ones, he looked down into her face.

"Margaret," he said, and there was deep tenderness in his tone, "I know what you would do, but you must not. You must promise me you will stay here and pray. You cannot go out into the night this way. There is no need, and I will not let you. I will not go myself until you promise."

She caught her breath in a half-sob, and dropped her face miserably upon his hands that held hers so firmly.

He drew her to him in the shadow of the great, dark barn, and, bending over her, kissed
reverently the silken coils of hair upon her head. "Margaret, I love you; will you do this for me? Will you promise to stay at home and pray?"

He was
half frightened
afterward that he had dared to speak to her so, but she did not shrink away. Instead, she stood very still, and held her b
reath for a moment, and then an
swered low and sweet,

"Yes, Philip!"

He longed to take her in his arms, but he dared not. He gave her hands one long, tender clasp, and sprang into his saddle; but Margaret's white face looked up now, and she ran a step or two beside the horse. She clasped her hands in pleading.

"You will be careful, Philip—for yourself," she said brokenly, and his heart leaped with joy as he promised. Yet, after all, he told himself it might be only a sisterly care.

She watched him ride away through the dark, her hand at her throat to still the wild, sweet, fluttering thing of joy that had come to thrill her soul.
And
for the minute she half forgot her fears for Stephen in love and fear for Philip. She stood still several minutes, and let the memory of his kiss flow over her and
cover
her with its glory and its joy. Then she
went swiftly in, and tried to entertain the minister, who was wondering and rejoicing that he had her to himself for a little while. Poor soul, he did not know her thoughts were far out down the dark road, following a rider through the night.

As Philip rode along, he could not believe that he had really dared to tell Margaret that he loved her.
It seemed too strange and won
derful to be true that she had not repulsed him when he kissed her. As the tumult in his heart quieted a little to let him think, he told himself that perhaps she was excited about Stephen, and had needed comfort. She had not realized what his words of love had meant. It might be
she
only took his meaning as a kind and brotherly feeling. If that were so, he would never take an advantage of her. That moment they had spent together should be a sacred thing between them. He would rejoice always in that kiss and that chance to hold her dear white hands.

But
wild and sweet through such thoughts thrilled the joy of loving her and the song of hope in his heart. For something every now and then made him sure that she loved him,
marvelous
as it might seem.