By the Way of the Silverthorns

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Yes, I suppose He does. Cares just as much for her as He does about any of those drunks down at the mission. Yet I didn’t see it then. I just sailed in and bawled her out. I asked her why she wanted to be that way. Didn’t she know people wouldn’t like her like that? Why didn’t she be different? Oh, I don’t remember just what I said, but it was words to that effect. And she—she just slumped. Quit smirking and putting on an act and went down into nothing for all the world like a balloon that I had stuck a pin into. She went down so quick and fast that I actually felt sorry for her! Oh, I gave her a few words more about what she had to do, like a command you know, so she wouldn’t think she could barge back and run the act all over again! I was half afraid she would follow me out when I came away, but she didn’t. Just sat down as meek as you please at the table and acknowledged the introduction to the other boarders like anybody. I stayed outside in the shade of some evergreens for a minute or two to make sure I had placed her.”

  “Well, you sure did a good job,” said Luther. “I don’t see why you are doubtful about it.”

  “Why, I was afraid I had been too hard on her, all at once showing her herself that way.”

  “Say, Link, if she couldn’t stand the sight of her real self once in a while how would she think others could stand her?”

  “But, Lute, that wasn’t all of it. I had to deal with her again the next day. It was then the Lord showed me that she was someone He cared about, and I’ve worried a little about it ever since.”

  “You should worry, Link! You couldn’t be too harsh on that woman! If she had the nerve to come after you again, I can’t see why you care if you did hurt her!”

  “But she didn’t come after me, Lute! It wasn’t her fault at all that I saw her again. She was toiling along on the street all alone, carrying two big heavy suitcases, and looking a good deal like that deflated balloon yet, so I picked her up and took her to the station.”

  “You did, you poor simp! Well, you are a sucker! I’d say it was a good thing if she did a thing as useful as carry her own luggage to the station.”

  “No, but wait, Lute! Hear the rest. When I drew up alongside of her and told her to get in, her face shone as if a king had asked her to a palace.”

  “I’ll bet it did!” affirmed Luther ardently. “That’s her line. I know that shine! Boy! Am I glad I wasn’t in your shoes!”

  “Wait, Lute. You don’t understand. She said she was so glad I had spoken to her because there was something she wanted to ask me and she didn’t know how to find me. She said I had told her that she could be different, and she wanted to know if I really meant it, and would I tell her how she could be different? She said she had been trying all her life to make people like her, and nobody ever had. She gave me the impression that even her family hadn’t much use for her, and she’d never had a good time, and if there was any way she could be different so people would like to have her around, and be pleasant to her, she’d give anything if she could find out how.”

  Link paused, realized the girl’s need as he had when he had met her, expressed something of his realization in his voice, so that his friend felt it also.

  “Boy! That was some situation for you to be up against!” murmured Luther thoughtfully. “But I never would have guessed she cared about anything. I always thought she felt she was about the be-all and end-all!”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought too, and I certainly was surprised. It was then I began to be afraid I’d been too hard on her.”

  “What did you say? How could you tell her how to be different?”

  “That’s what I questioned in my own heart,” said Link slowly as if he were analyzing the situation over again. “I certainly had to do some quick praying, calling for help. How was I to know how to tell a girl how to change her line? And yet I saw it was important, not only to her, but maybe to God, and I didn’t dare let her go off into the world with a great longing in her eyes and heart like that and no one to tell her what to do. I saw she was in earnest, and maybe I’d be the only one she’d ever ask. So I told her what she needed was to know the Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Luther Waite was breathless there in the darkness listening.

  “Oh boy! What an opportunity!” he breathed. “How did she take that?”

  “She took it all right. She said how could she know Him, and asked a lot of hopeless little questions that a child might ask. Lutie, she didn’t know a thing! She’s never, scarcely, been to church or Sunday school at all. Never read the Bible and wouldn’t know what it meant if she did read it. But when I told her the way of salvation, and how knowing Christ could make her all over, she went for it like a drowning person for a rope! It was rather wonderful. I felt when I got done as if some angel had given me a commission to point the way to a lost soul. Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t like her any better than I did, but I know what it is to have the kind of love Christ wants us to have for the souls He died to save. She isn’t lovely nor lovable, and she’s full of self and sin of course, but it’s glory when the Lord helps you to see how someone is going to look after He gets them cleansed and saved.”

  “Say! That’s wonderful, Link! I know what you mean, I’ve felt it sometimes when I’ve been talking to old Mike down at the mission. It’s when you look at those old bums through the glory of the Lord that you can feel that, and understand. Well, say, Link. I feel condemned! I’ve run from that girl like poison. I’ve hated the very sight of her, because she took me for a ride one day, all day! I couldn’t get rid of her! And to think she would react that way about knowing the Lord! Of course I haven’t known the Lord so very long myself, you know, and I didn’t know Him at all at the time I met her. Maybe that made the difference. Maybe such contacts would always be bearable if one was traveling with the Lord. I was just traveling by myself in those days. I suppose if one went at a disagreeable thing like meeting somebody you didn’t like, as if it were a commission from the Lord, it wouldn’t be so hard to manage. I can see it’s the way the Lord meant us to do about everyone. It makes life a lot more serious, doesn’t it?”

  “It sure does, Lutie,” said Link solemnly.

  It was the very next morning, before Luther left, that Link had a letter from Minnie Lazarelle, thanking him for the Bible.

  He read it thoughtfully and then handed it over to Luther to read. And afterward, when they were on their way to town together they talked it over.

  The letter was frank, but with none of the old gush that used to typify the old Minnie. It was almost dignified, and Luther read it with wonder in his glance. He felt as if he were reading a part of a miracle.

  Dear Mr. Silverthorn:

  The day after I reached home the wonderful Bible came. Even if it hadn’t been something I needed very much, it would have thrilled me, it is so beautiful. I cannot thank you enough for taking all that trouble for a poor good-for-nothing girl like me. And to think you sent such a gorgeous one! Its beauty along would make me read it, even if I hadn’t promised. I love just to feel the soft leather in my hands. Nobody ever got anything lovely like that for me. I think it must be that God put it into your heart to buy it, and He picked it out Himself. That is if He really cares, the way you said He did.

  I haven’t had time to write and thank you any sooner because I came into an awful mess here. My stepmother was sick, the maid had left, and the children were running wild. Formerly I would have run away somewhere myself to get out of it. But something, I guess it was the bawling out you gave me, made me stay and see it through. But it’s not because I wasn’t grateful that I didn’t write sooner. I just haven’t had time.

  But here’s thanking you with all my heart for the Bible. I’ve begun it read it already, and if I never get to see you again on this earth, I’ll thank you in heaven.

  By the way, if you should happen to run across my young brother Timothy, you might tell him how to be made over. He doesn’t know a think about God. And now he’s run away. The children say he didn’t like it here and said he was
going back there where we used to live. I thought perhaps he would turn up in your city. He’ll be trying for a job somewhere. He didn’t have much money along.

  I thought perhaps I ought to do something about him, as my father sailed for China or somewhere far off, and he’ll likely be gone a year or two.

  If you should fine him, please tell him his mother is very sick and she keeps crying for him. I think she isn’t going to live long. The doctor says it’s very serious.

  I’m sorry to trouble you again, but I don’t know who else to ask, and I suppose somebody ought to look after him. If you find a trace of him I’ll telegraph some money for him to come back. We’ve still got plenty of that.

  You probably don’t know that Minnie isn’t my real name. I was christened Erminie after my grandmother. So I thought if I was going to live a new life I’d better have a new name, and I’m signing it here,

  Your grateful friend,

  Ermine Lazarelle

  When Luther finished reading the letter he handed it back to Link.

  “We gotta find that kid brother,” he said thoughtfully. “Poor kid! I’ll get after some of the detectives and see if we can’t locate him.”

  Link’s eyes lighted up.

  “Good work, Lutie! Hop to it!” he said.

  The eyes of the two young men met with a look of utter joy in the work they were trying to do, and afterward when Luther had gone on his way, Link marveled at how soon Luther’s whole attitude had changed toward the girl he had so despised.

  Chapter 13

  McRae was sitting on the wide pleasant porch of her home one Saturday afternoon, reading. Dimly in the distance she heard the bus stop at the corner. A few minutes later she looked up at the sound of the white gate swinging open down the front path. A stranger, a showily dressed girl marched arrogantly up to the house staring around her. Once she paused an instant to bend over a border of bright flowers that edged the stone flagging, and reaching out her hand grasped a bunch of forget-me-nots, and tore them from their plant, bringing up some of the roots also. A moment later she stooped again and deliberately twisted a lovely half blown rose from its stem, twitching it angrily as it resisted her, mutilating the whole delicate plant.

  McRae suddenly rose and laid down her book, calling out to the girl:

  “Why, what are you trying to do? Please don’t do that. That is one of my mother’s rarest roses.”

  “Oh!” said the girl straightening up with the rose in her hand, lifting a thorn-torn finger to her lips to suck it. “I wasn’t doing anything but picking a rose. That won’t do the bush any harm. You don’t grudge a rose now and then to a visitor, do you?”

  “I’m sorry,” said McRae politely. “I can get you some flowers from the garden if you need them, but that one there is a specially choice one my mother has been raising. However, as you’ve picked it, it’s too late. Will you come up and have a chair? Did you want to see my mother?”

  “No, certainly not. What would I want to see your mother for? What’s one little puny rosebud? Take your old rosebud!” and she flung the thorny crisp stem straight into McRae’s face. “Such a fuss about a lot of weeds! I came out here to hunt up a friend of mine, Steve Grant. Tell him I’m in a hurry too, won’t you? The bus goes back in fifteen minutes and I’ve got an engagement tonight. Tell him to make it snappy!”

  “But Stephen Grant does not live here,” said McRae. “You have come to the wrong house.” McRae calmly and deliberately went back to her seat on the porch.

  “Yes, but you know where he is,” said the astonishing visitor rudely. “He told me once he lived practically on your doorstep. This is the Silverthorn house, isn’t it? The bus driver said it was. And I suppose you’re the high and mighty girl that talked to me on the telephone awhile back. I don’t forget voices. I knew who you were the minute you spoke.”

  “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t happen to remember your name.”

  “I should worry. Just tell Steve an old friend of his is here and he’s to come at once.”

  “I don’t happen to know where Steve is,” said McRae indifferently. “You’ll have to excuse me. His home is over at the next farm to the right. Why don’t you go and find out yourself?”

  The girl gave her a startled suspicious look.

  “You mean at that big old dump over there?” she said pointing to the fine old Grand homestead with its stately row of elms arching over the front walk that led down to the road.

  McRae gave a grave dignified nod.

  “It isn’t so much of a house!” said the intruder. “Besides it doesn’t look as if anyone was there.”

  “I think the family are usually at home at this hour in the afternoon,” said McRae quietly, her eyes still on her book.

  “Whaddaya mean, the family?” asked the girl.

  “Why, at least Mr. and Mrs. Grant,” said McRae. “I haven’t noticed their going out. I think Mr. Grant must have returned from the city by this time.”

  “Well, say, it looks an awful long way over there up that long walk, and seems kind of spooky up that drive under all those trees. Can’t you go to your telephone and call them up and ask Steve to come over here and see me?”

  “I don’t think I would care to do that,” said McRae coldly. “It would be better for you to make your own contacts.”

  The other girl stared at her.

  “Not very accommodating, are you?” she remarked.

  “No!” said McRae indifferently.

  There was silence for a moment while the other girl alternately studied McRae and the Grant homestead. Then she turned hesitantly and went down the flag stones to the gate.

  She was wearing high heeled shoes without socks, and shoes that displayed a full set of healthy bare toes finished with highly polished crimson toenails. Her dress was a sporty style, short in the extreme, made of Roman striped material, with a bare back. The whole costume was topped by an absurd little hat tilted over her right eyes, like a bright little colored wheel strapped across the back of her head with a wide black band. She walked with a tilt and a swing, slowly down the walk to the gate, out the gate and across the road, not in the least as if she were in a hurry, in at the Grant gate, and slowly up the walk.

  She was halfway up to the house, when suddenly, with a low rumble like distant thunder, and then a sharp bark of inquiry, Bruch, the great yellow mastiff belonging to Curlin, came bounding down from the back of the house and made straight for the intruder.

  The girl saw the dog and stopped short, wavering backward.

  The dog came on in majesty, like a conqueror who would be obeyed, and the girl began to scream.

  “Go away!” she cried, and her voice rang out in sheer terror. “Get out! Go away! Ow! Ow!”

  She turned and fled blindly, and the dog came bounding on.

  Then the girl stubbed her ridiculous little toe and went down flat. The screams that came from terrified lips were fairly bloodcurdling.

  McRae dropped her book on the porch, hurried down the steps, along the walk, running as hard as he could now, to the rescue, for Bruce was no mild foe, and well knew how to utilize his advantages. He understood that he had successfully vanquished this intruder, and he meant to go on to the finish. He bounded on to the fray till he stood above the prostrate girl, barking his utmost disapproval, and Mysie, too frightened even to struggle up, turned her screams into howls, and cried “Help! Murder! Help!”

  “Down, Bruce!” called McRae’s clear voice, as she ran. But the girl and the dog were making too much noise for her voice to be heard.

  McRae ran through the familiar gate toward the girl, and just then a sharp penetrating whistle broke above the tumult. It was Curlin Grant, and the dog recognized the imperative note and stopped short in his tracks.

  Another sharp imperative whistle, nearer now and coming on, and Bruce turned obediently, almost shame-facedly, and trotted back to meet his master.

  Then there was Curlin, stooping and lifting the frightene
d furious intruder, setting her upon her feet, asking anxiously if she was hurt.

  The girl was a wreck! Her funny little hat was all awry, her hair stood seven ways. Angry tears were racing down her painted face, and rouge and mascara had blended in with the tide and were making havoc of what had been a dashingly pretty face. One spike heel had come off, and let its owner down to original height, and the other shoe had escaped in the melee leaving its foot entirely bare.

  She stood there an instant, just crying, her lips trembling, her whole face a quiver of indignation. And then she recognized McRae.

  “Oh! It’s you, is it? You sent me over to get scared, did you? You knew they had a dog here and you just did this for meanness! I suppose you’re jealous. You probably want Steve for yourself, and you wanted to get it back on me for telephoning your house the night you had the party!” she burst forth. “You’re a contemptible snob, that’s what you are! Now you tell me where Steve is and I’ll see that he understands just how you’ve treated me. I won’t stand for any more nonsense from you!”

  Curlin had been holding the girl up courteously, helping her to get her bearings after her fall, but now his eyes flashed fire.

  “Stop!” he said, gripping her arm fiercely and giving her a shake. “What do you mean, talking that way to a lady like Miss Silverthorn? She came all the way over here to help you when you were frightened, and you speak that way to her! Don’t you dare to say another word like that!”

  Bruce had been standing near to the house watching the outcome of the affair, but now at the sound of his master’s definitely severe voice, he bristled all over and suddenly began stepping quickly, silently down toward the group till he stood close beside Mysie again, uttering a low warning growl, as if adding his voice to what Curlin had said.

  The girl had turned, startled, at Curlin’s words, her eyes questioningly on the young man, but suddenly she heard the dog, and turning frightened eyes toward him uttered another terrific scream, clutching at Curlin’s arm.

  “Oh! There’s that horrible brute again! Save me! Save me!” she cried.