Читать книгу Because of Stephen (Romance Classic) - Grace Livingston Hill - Страница 5

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The moonlight was doing its best to gild the place with something like beauty to welcome the stranger, but it was effective only out-of-doors, and the two young men were painfully conscious of the state in which they had left the inside of their house, as they helped their guest from the horse and prepared to take her in. All the impossibility of the situation suddenly came upon them both, and made them silent and embarrassed.

Stephen took on his sulky look, which ill became him, while he stumbled over the moonbeams that followed him when he opened the door, and lighted the wicked little oil lamp. He had no mind to welcome his sister there. What did he want of a sister anyway? His foot caused the crisp rattle of paper as he threw the match down, and he knew it was her letter lying on the floor. The same mood that had seized him when he read it was upon him again; and he turned, scowling, determined to show her that she had made a serious mistake in rushing out here unbidden.

Margaret Halstead turned from the brilliant moonlight to the blinking lamplight bravely, and faced the scene of her self-chosen mission.

There may have been something in the half-defiant attitude of her brother that turned her from her purpose of having a good long look at him and making sure of her welcome. She may have seen that she had yet to win her way into the citadel of his heart, and wisdom or intuition taught her to break the embarrassment of this first moment in the light by a commonplace remark.

Her eyes roved anxiously about the dreary room in search of something to bring cheer. They fell upon the old desk in the corner.

"O Stephen! There is the desk from your old room!" she cried eagerly, going over to it and touching it tenderly. "I used to go up into your room and sit by it to study my lessons. And sometimes I would put your picture on the top,—the one you sent father when you were in the military school,—and sit, and admire you, and think how nice it was to have a straight, strong brother dressed in a military suit."

Stephen turned toward her with a look of mingled astonishment and admiration. His ugly mood was already exorcised. The soft rustle of hidden silk, made by her garments as she moved, created a new world in the rough place. She stood by the old desk, loosening the hat-pin and taking off her hat; he could see the grace of every movement. And this beautiful girl had cared for him enough to look at his picture once in a while when he was just a boy! He half wished he had known it then; it might have made some things in his life different. His voice was husky as he said, "You don't mean you ever thought of me then, and called me your brother!"

"Yes, surely," she said, looking at him with a bright smile as she ran her fingers through the soft hair over her forehead, and settled it as if by magic into a fitting frame for her sweet face. "O, you don't know how I idealized you! I used to put myself asleep at night with stories about you, of how brave and good and true you were, and how you did all sorts of great things for me—I'll tell you them all someday. But now, do you know you haven't welcomed me home yet? "You're sure you're going to be glad I came?"

She looked up anxiously, a sweet pleading in her lovely eyes as she came over to him, and held up her face. Stephen bent over her awkwardly, and kissed her forehead, and then turned away in embarrassment, knocking down the tin basin from the bench as he moved; but Margaret felt she had her welcome, and set herself to win this brother.

Philip would have liked to escape to the barn in the confusion of the first few minutes, but had been drawn back to the door for very shame at deserting his partner in time of embarrassment, and had heard the little dialogue.

He turned silently away from the door, and slipped back to the horses thoughtfully. He had never seen that look on Stephen's face before, nor heard his voice so huskily tender. Perhaps, after all, there was something in a sister.

Margaret Halstead folded her wisp of a veil as carefully and precisely as if she had just come home from a concert in the East, instead of being dropped down in this land that knew her not; but all the while she was taking mental note of the place, its desolation, its need of her, its paucity of material with which to work, and wondering how these two men had lived and been comfortable.

"And now you are hungry," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, just as if her brother were the guest and she the hostess, "and what can we get for supper?"

Stephen had returned from a chase after the tin washbasin, which had chosen, after the manner of inanimate articles, to take a rattling excursion under the stove. He was looking helplessly about the room. He did not know what he ought to do next.

"There isn't much but bacon and beans, the same old stuff. We have it morning, noon, and night."

Margaret came over to the table and began to gather the dishes together. It was a strange assortment, and she felt like laughing as she extracted the hammer from under the paper of cheese and looked about for a place to lay it; but she kept her face as sober as if that were the proper place for hammers and cheese, and said thoughtfully:

"Haven't you any eggs? I think you mentioned poultry in one of your letters."

"O yes, there are eggs. There are always eggs and bacon. They would be good if they weren't always the same."

"How would you like an omelet? Do you ever make them?"

"Yes, we've tried, but they lie around in little weary heaps, and won't 'om' for us," said Stephen, laughing at last. "I'll go out and get some eggs if you think you could make one."

"Yes, indeed!" said Margaret with alacrity. "Just show me how this stove works first, and fill the tea-kettle. I always use boiling water for my omelets; it makes them fluffier than milk. Where is your egg-beater kept?"

"Egg-beater!"said Stephen with a shrug of his shoulders. "Don't ask me. I wouldn't know one if I met him on the street. Can't you make an omelet without an egg-beater?" he added anxiously.

"O yes," said Margaret, laughing; "a fork is slower, but it will do. Bring me the eggs now. I will have them ready by the time the kettle boils and the frying-pan is hot."

Margaret worked rapidly while he was gone, and managed to clear the table and wash three plates and cups before he returned. Then she went to her bag that Philip had put just inside the door, and after a little search brought forth four large clean handkerchiefs, a supply of which she usually took with her on a journey. These she spread, one under each plate and one in the centre. At least, it would not seem quite so uncivilized as did that bare table.

An examination into her lunch-box showed a glass of jelly still untouched and half a dozen sugary doughnuts, the farewell contribution of an old neighbor of her aunt's. These she arranged on the table with a plate of bread cut in thin slices, and was just searching for possible coffee when she heard the voices of the two young men.

Stephen went whistling out to the barn for the eggs. "Christopher Columbus, Phil! She knows how to make an omelet! Hustle there, and help me get a lot of eggs. We'll have something worth eating again if it takes every egg on the place."

Philip had been wondering whether he might not be excused from going back to the house that night at all. But at the appetizing sound he went to work with a will.

They stopped in astonishment at the door, and gazed at the table as if it had been enchanted, and then gazed anew at the cook. They had left her there a fashionably attired young woman of a world that was theirs now no longer. They found her now a busy woman, with frock daintily tucked up and a white towel pinned about her waist apron-fashion, her sleeves rolled up, revealing white, rounded arms, and her cheeks pink with interest over her work.

"That lamp smokes horribly," she remarked, looking up at it vindictively; and there was something so true and human about her voice and words that both young men laughed.

The stiffness was broken, and did not return; but the relations were established and the guest was commander-in-chief. She told her hosts what to do, and they did it. She took the eggs and deftly broke them, the whites into one dish, the yolks into another; and, giving Stephen one dish with a fork to beat them, she took the other herself, meanwhile commanding Philip to find the coffee and make it.

They enjoyed it as much as three children at play, and their appetites were keen, when a few minutes later, having watched the puffy omelet swell and billow and take on a lovely brown coat, they drew up to the table to supper.

Margaret told little incidents of her journey, and described the people who had been her fellow travelers, showing a rare talent for mimicry, which entertained her audience exceedingly.

It was late when the meal was finally concluded and the room put into what Margaret thought was a poor apology for order. The problem of the night was now to be faced, and Margaret wondered what was to become of her. She suddenly realized how very weary she was, and that her nerves, long overstrained by new experiences, were ready to give way in tears.

Stephen knew that something must be done about sleeping now; but he had no idea what they were going to do with the new sister, any more than if she had been an orphan baby left upon his door-step. He turned helplessly to Philip. Philip always knew what to do in emergencies, though Stephen did not like to admit that he depended upon him.

Philip had done some thinking while he stood by the horses in the moonlight. There was a little log lean-to opening off this large one-roomed cottage of theirs. It was divided by a board partition into two fair-sized rooms. One of these had been Philip's room and the other Stephen's. There was little furniture in them besides a bunk with heavy blankets. Blankets were the only bed clothing the house possessed, and with them beds were easily made. Philip turned toward the door of his room now, and in the dark went about the walls, hastily gathering an armful of clothing from the nails driven into the logs, which he threw out the window. Then he struck a match, and picked up a few things thrown here and there in confusion, and decided that was the best he could do toward clearing up.

He explained to Stephen in a low tone that he was to give his sister that room, and he himself would sleep in the hay. Then, saving goodnight, he went out.

Margaret almost laughed aloud when she looked about her primitive bedroom a few minutes later, and by the light of the blinking lamp took an inventory of her surroundings. Then her eye caught a photograph pinned to the wall, and she went over to study it. It was Philip's one possession that he prized, and he had forgotten it in his haste. It was a sweet-faced woman with white hair and eyes like Philip's that followed one about the room sadly.

She had been shocked, even prepared as she was for the primitive, to find her brother living among surroundings so rough. Nevertheless, her determination was firm. She had come to help her brother, and now that she had seen him she would not turn back. There might be some hardships; but in the end, with the help of God, she would win. She felt shy of Philip, and inclined to wish him away. Perhaps he did not have a good influence over Stephen. He seemed to be very dictatorial, and the strange part about it was that Stephen yielded to him. It might be that she would have to help Philip in order to help her brother. That would complicate matters.

She knelt down beside the hard gray cot, and put the work she had come to do at the foot of the cross, asking help and guidance. And she wondered as she prayed whether she had been rash and taken her own way, instead of waiting for heavenly guidance, in coming to this strange land where evidently, to say the least, her presence had not been desired. Then she added, "O Jesus Christ, if this work is of Thee, bless me in it; and, if it was merely a wild impulse of my own, send me back where Thou wouldst have me."

Then with a feeling of contentment she lay down wrapped in the gray blankets, and was almost immediately asleep.

"Is she there?" asked the wind, whispering softly.

"Yes, asleep," said a moonbeam peeping through a crack between the logs, and then stealing in across the window-ledge.

"And will she stay?" sighed the night wind again.

"Yes, she has come to stay," affirmed the moonbeams, "and she will be a blessing."

Out in the sweet-scented hay lay Philip, but he was not asleep. There was planning to be done for tomorrow. Would the guest choose to stay, or would she fly from them at the morning light? Could she stand it there, so rough and devoid of all that had made her life what it was? Of course not. She had come only on a tour of curiosity. She would probably give it up and go back reasonably in a few days. But in the meantime, unless she came to her senses by morning and knew enough to go back to civilization at once, what was to be done?

In the first place, there must be a woman of some sort found, a servant, if you please. A chaperone she would be called back in the East. Here perhaps such things were not necessary, especially as she was really Stephen's sister; but it would be better to have a woman around. She must not be allowed to do the cooking, and surely they could not cook for her. It had been bad enough for them, men as they were, to eat what they cooked. How good that supper had tasted! The omelet reminded him of his mother, and he drew his hand quickly across his eyes. What would his mother think of his staying out here in the wilds so long? And all because a pretty girl had chosen to flirt with him for a while and then throw him aside. But was it all that? Did he not stay for Stephen's sake? What would become of Stephen without him?

But perhaps, now, Stephen's sister had brought him a release. He might just pretend to have business calling him away and leave them together. Then a vision of the frightened hands that came through the mist to greet him at the station recalled him sharply. No! He could not leave her alone with her brother! It would not do. And at once he knew that his mother, if she were able to know of what went on in this life, would approve of his staying here.

But where was a woman to be found who would be a fit servant for Miss Halstead?

He searched the country in his mind all round and about, and at last came to a conclusion.

The hay settled and crackled about him, and the hens nearby clucked anxiously in their sleep; the horses moved against the stall now and then, and away in the distance came the sharp, vigilant bark of a dog. Philip dropped asleep for a little while, and dreamed of a small hand clinging to his neck and a wisp of soft, sweet hair blowing across his face, and awoke to find the hay hanging over and touching his cheek and a warm ray of morning lighting the sky.

The morning was all cool and fresh with sleep yet, when he rose and rode away, hurrying his horse onward through the dewy way. He found himself wondering what Stephen's sister would say to this or that view or bit of woodland that he passed, and then checked his thoughts angrily. She was nothing to him, even if she had understood his thoughts about the moon. Women were all alike, heartless— unless it might be mothers. With these thoughts he flung his horse's bridle over the saddle-horn, and sprang down at the door of a rude dwelling, where after much ado he brought to the door a dark-faced woman with straggling black hair.

What arguments he used or what inducements he offered to bring the curious creature to promise she would come, he never told. But when a half-hour later, with the additional burden of a large, greasy-looking bundle fastened to his saddle, he again started homeward, he smiled faintly to himself, and wondered why he had done it. Perhaps, after all, by this time their guest had made preparations for her departure. And this wild woman with her lowering looks and her muttering speech, would she be any addition to their already curiously assorted family?

A fierce rebellion, often there before, arose in his breast at the Power, whether God or what, that made and kept going a universe so filled with lives awry and hearts of bitterness and sorrow. Not even the breath of the morning, nor the rich notes of wild birds, could quite dispel this from his heart. A sky like that above him, so peerless, and earth like this around him, so matchless, and only lives like his and Stephen's and that dark-faced old hag's to enjoy them. He ran over the whole rough crew of friends who sometimes congregated with them, and saw no good in any.

Still, there was Margaret Halstead. She seemed a fitting one to place amid beauty and joyous surroundings. She would not mar a scene like that this morning with anything her heart or life contained.

Yes, there was Margaret. But it might be only seeming. Perhaps she was like them all. Doubtless she was. It remained to be seen what Margaret really was. But what were they all made for, anyway?

The old question had troubled Philip for a long, lonely time; and he drew his brows in an unhappy frown as he came to a halt at the only home he now owned.