By the Way of the Silverthorns

  And it was remarkable how as they worked a new interest in and love for the absent Timothy developed. Erminie wondered if you always loved somebody more when you were doing something for them.

  The woman who came in for their lessons in the afternoon while Erminie went to the hospital was told eagerly about their brother who was coming home again, and when the older sister went away she could hear the children planning to write a note of welcome with their colored crayons to tack up on Timothy’s door. She was quite sure as she thought it over that that must be the suggestion of the teacher, for none of them had ever had any training in doing things for one another, but they had taken to it with a vim, and were happily working away with crayons, each drawing some letter, or word, or a bird or flower where with to decorate the lovely white card that the teacher was providing for them What a lot Erminie was learning about taking care of children. And what would their mother think of it all in case she were going to come back and go on living instead of dying with a dread disease and going away from them forever? Oh, life and death! How near they were to each other, and what a serious thing life was, with death just around the corner. Would she ever be able to teach those children all about it?

  When she got to the hospital the nurse was waiting for her in the hall.

  “I told her,” she said in a whisper, “but I don’t think she took it in. She’s just wakened. Perhaps you’d better speak of it yourself.”

  So Erminie went in and stood beside the bed, and her stepmother looked at her with unseeing eyes.

  “Oh! It’s only you,” she said disappointedly. “I hoped it was Tim. Why is it always you?”

  “But Tim is coming pretty soon, mother. We’ve found him, you know, and he’s telephoned me that he is coming just as soon as he can arrange it to get here.”

  “Arrange it to get here? What do you mean?”

  “Why, I suppose he must have a job somewhere, and he had to fix it up with his employers to let him off to come and see you because you were sick.”

  She tried to speak in a most comforting tone.

  “A job!” said the woman’s querulous tone. “Why, he’s too young to have a job. Don’t ever let him go back to it, Minnie. He’s a mere baby. He ought to be in school of course, only he never gets on with the teacher. We’ll have to find a teacher who can get along with him somehow.”

  “Yes, mother,” soothed Erminie gently. “We’ll find a good place for Timothy. We’ll look after him. I’m glad he’s coming back. And see, I’ve brought you some pretty roses. Don’t you like those? I thought they would make you feel a little more cheerful.”

  “No!” said the sick woman sharply. “Take them away! I don’t like roses! They make me think of funerals. I don’t like hospitals nor funerals. I don’t see why there have to be such things in the world. I should think in this age of wisdom and knowledge there might have been found some way to stop dying, and not have to have hospitals and funerals. I always did hate them, and I never understood why people put up with it. Why they didn’t do something to put a stop to it.”

  “Well, you know Someone did do just that, mother,” said Erminie, wondering if she was saying it right. It seemed almost childish to herself, but she must make some answer to that pitiful cry.

  The sick woman turned wondering eyes toward her.

  “Someone did that? Why, I never heard of it. Who was it? What did they do about it?”

  “Why it was Jesus Christ, you know. He died on the cross and then rose again from the dead. He conquered death forever. Surely you have heard about Him.”

  “Stop!” said the sick woman. “I won’t hear such talk as that! I don’t want any religion talked at me. I never held with things like that. Take her away!” she cried to the nurse who came in just then. “She’s trying to preach to me, and I won’t listen!”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Lazarelle, I should think you would be very happy with your son coming back,” said the nurse gently.

  “Yes, I am!” snapped Mrs. Lazarelle, “but this is a pretty way to meet him, lying sick in the hospital. I never was sick in the hospital in my life before, and I don’t like it. I think I’d better get up and go home, don’t you? Bring me my clothes and help me get dressed. I’m going home!”

  “Well,” said the nurse gently, “I think we’d better wait till your doctor gets here, don’t you? You know we have to get his permission before you could be allowed to leave the hospital. That’s the rule, you know, and you couldn’t get out until he says so. He’s got to sign the release.”

  “I don’t see what business it is of his, if I choose to go home. This is a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Why, yes, but it isn’t a free hospital, and you were very sick indeed when you entered the hospital. They took you in with the understanding that you would abide by the rules of the hospital, so of course you want to be polite and do what they ask. Now, you take this medicine, and then we’ll have a few spoonfuls of orange juice and then you’ll take a little nap till your doctor gets here. Say good-bye to her, Miss Erminie, and we’ll get calm and rest a little.”

  Erminie, with tears, unbidden tears, upon her cheek went back to the children again, marveling at the nurse and her wise loving ways, and shuddering at the thought of the woman who was going out of this life so soon, hand in hand with death, without hope to comfort her.

  Chapter 19

  Timothy, as he rode along in the shining beautiful car beside Luther Waite, rested his head back against the soft cushions and marveled. Was it really Timothy Lazarelle who was riding in such state, with this wonderful man beside him, making friendship with him so genially?

  It was a long way ahead, but somehow the hours were slipping by with wonderful rapidity. He almost grudged the brevity as he looked forward to it, and knew that soon, too soon I would be over, and he would be back in a life he hated. This was the first man who had ever acted as if he cared for him in the least, and he hadn’t fathomed yet why he was treating him in his wonderful way, like a prince.

  Of the sad reason for his return he thought very little. He didn’t want to think. He knew little or nothing about death. It was a gruesome horrid necessity, this going back. He couldn’t make it seem real that his mother could die. He had little love for her. She had always been extremely selfish. Yet she had yielded to his desired many times just because it was easier to do so than to contend. Of course he knew this, and it had made him feel that it was up to him to get the best for himself that he could out of any situation. His mother had always been so hard on him, so indifferent to his wishes.

  And now this was one more situation in which she was taking advantage of him by her tears. He couldn’t really believe that she cared enough about him to shed genuine tears.

  He didn’t reason that out in words even to himself. He didn’t want to get that near to the facts of the case.

  They talked much of little every day matters as they rode along, and the boy without realizing that he was doing so told the young man a great deal of his family and early life. It was a pitifully empty tale, and more and more Luther Waite thought of the girl he had so disliked, and felt pity for her.

  He began to wonder how he should meet her, what he would say to her. Would she recognize him as an old acquaintance? Of course she would. But after all it didn’t matter. He would go in the strength of the Lord, and let a higher power than his own direct him. But just on general principles, if the choice came to himself he would keep away from her as much as seemed right. He would take a room at a hotel of course, and only appear on the scene when necessary. Then the girl could not possibly misunderstand him. But even in that way he must set down no hard and fast rules. He must be ready for service should the Lord require.

  When they arrived in the town that was their destination Luther had gone a far way into the heart of the boy, and a word, a smile from him, was almost a command. Timothy was willing to follow this man’s lead wherever it went.

  “Now,” said Luther as they began to enter the
town, “you’ll have to direct me. Where is your home?”

  Tim slumped down in the seat and a gray shadow passed over his face.

  “Down this street, four blocks, then right three,” he murmured. Luther could see he was pretty badly sunk.

  “Now, look here, son, you’ve got to brace up. You’re the man of the family, you know, and you must remember they’re probably feeling pretty badly themselves. Don’t look so down.”

  “Well say, what’ve I gotta do? Go to a hospital? I don’t like hospitals.”

  “No. Of course not. Nobody does. They’re wonderful places if you’re sick and need them, but we’re all afraid of them unless we are. Now you brace up, son. If your mother’s been crying for you you’ll have to go of course. Wait till you see your sister and see what she says.”

  “Will you go with me?” Timothy asked shyly.

  “Why, yes, I’ll go as far as they’ll let me. However, I don’t belong to the family, and I wouldn’t insist on anything like that if I were you. Remember you’re a man. Act your age. But I’ll be around to help out whenever I’m needed. Now, is this the house? You’d better go ahead, hadn’t you?”

  Timothy swallowed hard and blinked.

  “I think I better take you in an’ interduce ya,” he said with downcast glance.

  “Okay, kid! Let’s go!”

  They got out and walked gravely up to the door.

  Mariana heard their steps and opened the door a crack, then flung it shut and went tearing back to an inner room.

  “Erminie!” she called. “Oh, Erminie! Timmie’s come back! You better come quick, Erminie, or he might go away again!”

  Luther looked down and grinned at the disconcerted boy.

  “That’s you little sister, Tim? Which one?”

  “Sure! That’s Mariana.”

  “Well, come on! Let’s go in. You lead the way!”

  Timidly Timothy pushed the door open and entered, looking wildly around to see if anything was changed since he left.

  It was. There were no longer rolls of dust on the floors. The chairs were set about in an orderly manner as if people used them for comfort. The furniture was dusted, and the few little ornaments that no one had bothered yet to unpack when he came away were nicely placed on table and mantel.

  Of course Timothy didn’t name all these changes, didn’t really notice them separately. If he had been asked to describe what was different he probably would have merely said it looked pleasant or comfortable. But he drew a deep breath and relaxed a little from his tensity. There was another thing! There was a delicious smell in the air, a smell of broiling steak, and coffee, and possibly something like cinnamon buns or apple pie. He drew a deep breath and decided it wasn’t going to be so bad as he had feared.

  And then Erminie came from the kitchen, untying a big apron as she came. She was dressed in a simple blue-checked gingham and there was a pretty flush on her cheeks from being over the stove. When she opened the kitchen door the delightful savory aromas came in strongly on the air. The door was open into the dining room, and they could see the table neatly set. The little girls had done that. There was a low bowl of flowers brightly nodding there. It seemed a real home coming after all. Timothy just didn’t know what it could mean.

  But the thing of all others that Luther noticed was the beautiful blue leather Bible lying on the living room table, with a book mark in it as if it were used often. Lying open too, with a marked versed distinctly showing. He looked at it with a growing smile and turned to meet the girl he had shunned so long.

  But Erminie was not seeing him just then. She had eyes only for her brother. The long wait and the anxiety had nourished a genuine love for him, and she came toward him with her arms outstretched and a real welcome in her voice and eyes.

  “Oh, Timmie, Timmie, I’m so glad you’re here!” she said tenderly, a little tremble of joy in her voice, and her arms thrown eagerly around the astonished brother’s neck.

  “Aw, gee! Min! I didn’t know you cared!” he said shamefacedly.

  “Her’s not Minnie any more!” shouted young Billy. “Her’s Er-min-ie!” He pronounced each syllable slowly and distinctly. “You mayn’t call her Min enny more! Not enny more ’tall!”

  Billy had come up quite near to Timothy, and was shaking a small index finger in his face.

  Ordinarily Timothy might have struck his young brother indignantly, but Timothy was overwhelmed with the loving interest that his family were manifesting, and he only grinned. Then suddenly he came to himself, as Erminie released him from the unexpected embrace.

  “Oh, I forgot!” he exclaimed, and turned toward Luther, having privately rehearsed this scene in his mind many times that morning. “Lemme interduce Mr. Luther Waite, an awfully good friend of mine, that brought me over here in his car.”

  Then the family turned silently and stared at Luther, and Erminie opened large eyes of wonder as she came forward.

  “That’s wonderful of you, Mr. Waite!” she said shyly. “I can’t begin to thank you. I was so worried about my brother. He isn’t used to traveling by himself, and I didn’t think he had much money with him. I was so troubled after I hung up the telephone that I hadn’t asked him if I should telegraph some money to him.”

  Luther looked down at her, seeing her for the first time without exaggerated make-up, and his heart went out to her in sympathy. She seemed so young and troubled, and so frail, so entirely different from the way she used to be. He put out his big nice hand and took her little one in his with a warm grasp.

  “I’m sorry you had to worry any about us,” he said in his pleasant hearty voice. “I should suppose you had trouble enough without taking that too. But we were all right. We looked up trains and found that on account of poor connections we could make better time by car, so we came by car. I hope we got here in time. How is Mrs. Lazarelle? Timothy has been very anxious.”

  Timothy flashed Luther a duly grateful smile for paving the way for him into ease from his embarrassment.

  Erminie answered with a troubled look in her eyes.

  “She’s very low,” she said sadly. “The doctor says it may be only a few hours now.”

  “Oh!” said Luther alertly, “and does she know she is going?”

  Erminie’s eyes suddenly grew very troubled.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “She won’t let me talk to her about it, and of course no one else has tried. It seems so awful to have her go this way, all alone.”

  Something of understanding flashed between the two in a glance.

  “You think she’s not saved?” asked Luther in a low tone. “Has her pastor been to see her?”

  “She hasn’t any pastor,” said Erminie. “I don’t remember her ever going to church since I’ve known her. I’m sure she never went anywhere in this place. I didn’t know what to do about it. Someone ought to pray with her, oughtn’t they?”

  “Can you?” said Luther, quietly, watching her reaction.

  “No. I wouldn’t know how. I’m just new at praying myself. And anyway she never would stand for it. She doesn’t think anything I do is right in any way. She never has. She’s always hated me because I was a stepchild. I’m afraid it would just make her angry if I were to try.”

  There was distress in Erminie’s eyes.

  Luther was watching her, and thinking how very different her eyes were now from the time when he had last seen her. How very sweet and wholesome and earnest they seemed.

  Then Erminie looked up wistfully.

  “Couldn’t you do it?” she asked shyly, in a low tone, almost as if she were afraid to suggest it.

  “Sure, he can pray swell,” said Timothy unexpectedly. “He’s prayed with me.”

  “Oh!” said Erminie. “Would you? It doesn’t seem right to let her just go out this way.”

  Luther turned gravely to her.

  “What reaction would she have to that? Me, a stranger?”

  “I don’t know. I think maybe that would be best. She’s mor
e apt to be nice to strangers, and she likes men better than women. At least she might hear enough to help her to understand something. But anyway God would understand. It would be sort of introducing her to Him, wouldn’t it? Or isn’t that right?”

  Luther smiled. “Yes, that’s right. I’ll be glad to do it if you feel there is an opportunity.”

  “Oh, thank you! That is a great burden off my heart!” said Erminie. “And it is so wonderful that you have brought Timothy back.”

  “Well, he and I have been growing very close during this journey, and I really enjoyed it a lot. We’ve become pals with each other. How about it, kid? Isn’t that so?”

  Timothy’s eyes shone proudly.

  “Sure!” said Timothy flushing with pleasure. “He’s a swell guy. You’ll all like him!”

  Erminie’s eyes were bright with sudden delight.

  “Of course we will!” she said earnestly. “That’s wonderful. If I had known you had a friend like that I wouldn’t have worried so much about you.”

  “Gee!” said Timothy, “I didn’t know you ever worried about me!” and he looked at Erminie as if he had never known her before.

  Then suddenly Billy and Blossom approached him from opposite sides.

  “Wes,” said Billy, “and ve vill be your fwiends too!”

  Blossom lifted up pretty red lips and eager little face and said, “Sure, I be your friend, too!”

  And suddenly Luther reached down and caught them up in his arms, one on either side.

  “That’s a promise!” he said. “We’ll seal that with a kiss each,” and he solemnly kissed each rosy lifted pair of lips, and then set them gently down. “Now don’t forget that,” he said as if it were a matter of grave import. “That’s a life contract!”

  “Awwight!” they said in chorus.

  Then approached Mariana, who put out an important young hand and shook Luther’s hand.