Night had shut down over the land as Midnight, with her long, swinging strides, clipped through the lighted streets of the prosperous little railway town of Bradin, and drew up at old Doctor Leeds' snug house. A fast express had just thundered shrieking by. A strong, cutting wind racing in from the Northeast was tearing through the sinuous telegraph wires with a buzzing sound, the weird prelude of a coming storm.
The worthy doctor was at home, having only lately returned from a long drive into the country. He and his wife, a kindly-faced little woman, were just sitting down to their quiet meal. Seldom could they have an evening together, for the doctor's field was a large one and his patients numerous.
"You have no engagement for to-night, I hope, Joseph," remarked his wife, as she poured the tea.
"No, dear," was the reply. "I expect to have one evening at home, and I'm very glad of it, too. I'm weary to-night, and am longing for my arm-chair, with my papers and pipe."
A sharp knock upon the door aroused them, and great was their surprise to see the venerable Rector of Glendow enter.
"Parson John!" cried the doctor, rushing forward and grasping his old friend's hand. "It's been months since I've seen you. What lucky event brought you here to-night? Did you miss the train? If so, I'm glad. My chessmen are moulding for want of use."
But the parson shook his head and briefly told of the accident in the barn.
"And so the little lass is in trouble, hey? More worry for Mrs. Stickles."
"And you will be able to go to-night, Doctor?"
"Certainly. Sweepstakes hasn't been on the road for two days, and is keen for a good run."
"But, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Leeds, "are you able to go? You have been driving all day, and must be very tired. Why not rest a little first?"
"And let the poor child suffer that much longer! Not a bit of it."
"I have heard doctors say," remarked the parson, as he and Dan sat down to their supper, "that they get so hardened to suffering that at last it does not affect them at all. I am glad it is not true with you."
"The older I get," replied the doctor thoughtfully, stirring his tea, "the more my heart aches at the pains and sufferings of others, especially in little children. As soon as I hear of someone in distress I can never rest until I reach his or her side. There always comes to me a voice urging me to make haste. Even now I seem to hear that child calling to me. She is a sweet, pretty lass, and how often have I patted her fair little head, and to think of those blue eyes filled with tears, that tiny face drawn with pain, and her whole body writhing in agony. However, you know all about this, Parson, so what's the use of my talking."
"But I am glad to hear you speak as you do, Doctor. Over thirty years have I been in Glendow, and I become more affected by suffering the older I get."
The doctor looked keenly into Mr. Westmore's face, as if trying to read his inmost thoughts.
"Do you ever become weary of your work?" he at length asked. "Do you not long for a more congenial field?"
"I have often been asked that question, Doctor," the parson slowly replied, "but not so much of late. I am getting old now, and young men are needed, so I am somewhat forgotten. However, I am glad that this is so. Years ago when a tempting offer came to me from some influential parish, though I always refused, it disturbed me for days, until the matter was finally settled. Now I do not have such distractions, and am quite happy. In the quiet parish of Glendow I find all that the heart can desire. The labour to me becomes no more monotonous than the work of parents with their children. They often are weary in their toil for their little ones, but not weary of it. The body gives out at times, but not the love in the heart. And so I always find something new and fresh in my work which gives such a relish to life. I have baptized most of the young people in this parish, I have prepared them for Confirmation, given them their first Communion, and in numerous cases have joined their hands in holy wedlock. Some may long for a greater field and a wealthy congregation. But, remember, as the sun in the heavens may be seen as clearly in the tiny dewdrop as in the great ocean, so I can see the glory of the Father shining in these humble parishioners of mine, especially so in the children of tender years, as in the great intellects. As for travelling abroad to see the world and its wonders, I find I can do it more conveniently in my quiet study among my books. At a very small cost I can wander to all parts of the world, without the dangers and inconveniences of steamers and railroads. As to studying human nature, it is to be found in any parish. Carlyle well said that 'any road, this simple Entepfuhl road, will lead you to the end of the world,' and was it not the quaint and humble-minded Thoreau who expressed himself in somewhat the same way:
"'If with Fancy unfurled,You leave your abode,You may go round the world,By the Marlboro road.'"
The doctor rose from the table and grasped Mr. Westmore's hand.
"Thank you for those words," he said. "I have thought of those very things so often, and you have expressed my ideas exactly. I must now be away. You will stay all night, for I wish to have a good chat with you upon my return."
"Thank you very much," the parson replied, "but we must be off as soon as possible. My daughter is all alone and will be quite uneasy by my long absence. We shall go home by the way of Flett's Corner, and thus save three miles. But look, Doctor, don't send your bill to the Stickles. Send it to me. Now be sure."
"Tut, tut, man. Don't worry about the bills of others. Leave this matter to me. The Stickles won't have any cause for anxiety about the bill, and why should you? It's paid already."
What a noble picture these two men presented as they stood there! Both had grown old in a noble service for their fellow-men, and truly their grey heads were beautiful crowns of glory. One had charge of the cure of souls, the other of bodies, and yet there was no clashing. Each respected the work of the other, and both were inspired with the high motive which lifts any profession or occupation above the ordinary--the Christ-like motive of love.
Parson John remained for some time after the doctor had left, chatting with Mrs. Leeds, and when at length Midnight started on her homeward way it was quite late. They had not advanced far before the storm which had been threatening swept upon them. Although the night was dark, the roadbed was firm and Midnight surefooted. As they scudded forward the wind howled through the trees and dashed the snow against their faces. They fled by farm-houses and caught fleeting glimpses of the bright, cosy scenes within. Twice they met belated teams plodding wearily homeward. Without one touch of rein, or word of command, each time Midnight slowed down, swerved to the left and swung by. It was only when the dim, dark forms of the panting steeds loomed up for an instant on their right, and then disappeared into the blackness, were they aware of their presence. Occasionally the road wound for a mile or more through a wooded region, and in such places they found peace and shelter. Here the wind could not reach them, although they could hear its wild ravings in the tree-tops above. The snow came softly, silently down, and, although they could not see it falling, they could feel it flecking their faces and knew it was weaving its mystic robe over their bodies. In one place such as this a faint glimmer of light struggled through the darkness a short distance from the road.
"It's Stephen's cabin," the parson remarked. "It is a snug place on a night like this. I wonder what he is doing now. I wish we had time to call to give him a word of cheer."
About two hundred yards beyond the cabin they left the main highway and entered upon a lumber road. This latter was used in the winter time in order to avoid a large hill on the former and the huge drifts which piled from fence to fence. At first Midnight slowed down to a walk, but at length, becoming a little impatient to get home, she broke into a gentle trot. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the sleigh gave a great lurch, and before a hand could be raised Dan found himself shooting over the parson and falling headlong into the soft yielding snow. Recovering himself as quickly as possible, and brushing the snow from his mouth, ears and eyes, he groped around to ascertain what had happened. Away in the distance he could hear a crashing sound as Midnight hurried along with the overturned sleigh. Then all was still. He called and shouted, but received no reply. A feeling of dread crept over him, and at once he started to walk back to the road. He had advanced but a few steps, however, when he stumbled and half fell over a form which he knew must be that of Parson John. He put out his hand and felt his coat. Then he called, but all in vain. Hastily fumbling in his pockets he drew forth several matches and tried to strike a light. His little hands trembled as he did so, and time and time again a draught blew out the tiny flame. In desperation he at length kneeled down upon the snow, sheltered the match with his coat, and ere long had the satisfaction of seeing the flame grow strong and steady. Carefully he held it up and the small light illumined the darkness for the space of a few feet around. Then it fell upon the prostrate form at his side. It touched for an instant the old man's face, oh, so still and white, lying there in the snow; and then an awful blackness. The light had gone out!
As Dan stood there in the darkness with snow to his knees, clutching between his fingers the extinguished match, the helplessness of his position dawned upon him. What had happened to the parson he could easily guess, for the place was full of old stumps, half protruding from beneath the snow. No doubt he had struck one of these in the fall. But of the result of the blow he could not tell, for placing his ear close down to the face he tried to detect some sign of life, but all in vain. Suppose the parson had been killed! He thought of Nellie, waiting anxiously at the Rectory. How could he tell her what had happened? Suddenly a new sense of responsibility came to him. Something must be done as quickly as possible, and he was the only one to do it. He thought of Stephen's cabin, which they had passed a short time before. He could obtain help there, and he must go at once. Taking off his own outer coat he laid it carefully over the prostrate man, and then struggled back to the road. Having reached this he imagined it would not take him long to cover the distance. But he soon found how difficult was the undertaking, and what a task it was to keep the road on such a night. The blackness was intense, and the snow, which all the time had been steadily falling, added to the difficulty. Every few steps he would plunge off into the deep snow, and flounder around again until he had regained the solid footing. The distance, which was not more than a mile, seemed never-ending. Still he plodded on, the thought of that silent form lying in the snow inspiring him with extra energy. At length, much exhausted, a welcome glimmer of light winged its way through the darkness. Dan's heart leaped within him. The place was near, and Stephen had not yet gone to bed. Panting heavily, and struggling unsteadily, he crept slowly forward, reached the door and pounded fiercely upon it with both doubled-up fists.
Slowly the door was opened, and great was Stephen's surprise to see the little snow-covered figure standing before him.
"Help! Come quick!" gasped Dan.
"What's wrong?" Stephen demanded, dragging the boy into the cabin. "Where's the parson?"
"Over there--in the snow--in the woods!"
"Sit down," said Stephen, noticing how weary and excited was the little lad. "Tell me now all about it."
Quickly and briefly Dan related about the drive through the storm, the accident on the "cut off," and Parson John's fall.
"Oh, God!" Stephen groaned when he had heard the story. "What will Nellie think? What will she say? It will break her heart! I must be off at once!"
Reaching for the lantern his hand trembled as he lighted it.
"Wait here," he commanded, "till I hitch Dexter to the pung; or no, you'd better come with me and give a hand. There is no time to lose."
Dan obeyed without a word and held the lantern while Stephen harnessed the horse.
"Where's Midnight?" Stephen asked, as he deftly drew the reins through the terrets.
"She ran away. I heard the sleigh crashing after her as she ran."
"She'll kill herself! But no, she's too wise for that. She'll go home and whinny at the door, and then what will Nellie think! We must hurry along as fast as possible. She will he frantic with fear."
"Guess we'd better bring the parson back to your place," Dan remarked as Dexter swung down the road.
"Bring him to my place!" exclaimed Stephen in surprise. "What can we do for him there?"
"Won't he need the doctor?"
"Yes, he may. But we can't go all the way to Bradin now."
"Guess you won't have to do that."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"He's at the Stickles'."
"At the Stickles'?"
"Yep. The little girl got hurt, so we went after the doctor."
"Oh, I see--I see now," Stephen mused. "That's a different matter. It's only three miles to the Stickles'. But the road will be bad to-night, for the wind's across country, and the drifts there pile fast and deep. But I shall go if necessary, even if I have to crawl on all fours. I won't have to do that, though, for Dexter will take me through if any horse can."
It did not take them long to cover the one mile of road between the cabin and the place where the accident had occurred. By the light of the lantern it was not difficult to find the spot. An uncanny feeling crept over them as they drew near, and saw the parson lying there in the snow just as Dan had left him. With the lantern in his hand Stephen leaped from the pung and looked intently into the face of the prostrate man. It did not take him long to ascertain that life still remained in his body, and a prayer of thankfulness went up from his heart as he thought of the dear old man and the anxious Nellie.
Quickly and as carefully as possible they lifted him into the pung, covered him with a warm robe, and then sped back to the cabin. As soon as they had laid him upon the bed, Stephen reached for a heavy coat hanging on the wall.
"I'm off now," he said. "You keep watch. I'll be back as soon as I can."
The injured man lay perfectly motionless, to all outward appearance dead. Dan stood looking at him for some time after Stephen had left, puzzled and bewildered. What could he do? What would Nellie think of him now? He sank upon the stool by the bedside And buried his face in his hands--a forlorn little creature, trying to think. Presently he glanced towards the bed, and gazed long and intently upon the parson's face. Many were the thoughts which crowded into his mind as he sat there. A deep affection for the old man had sprung up in his heart. To him he was like some superior being with his great strength and wonderful knowledge. Then to think he should care for him, Dan Flitter, so small, who could neither read nor write, who was nothing but a sponger. The thought of Farrington's insult came to him, and what he had said about the parson. It had rankled continually in his breast, and now it arose in greater force than ever. Why were the people saying such things about this good man? He had listened to men talking in the store and along the road. They had said and hinted many things, and he had been silent. But, though silent, his mind and heart had been at work. Often while lying in his little bed at night he had brooded over the matter. He longed to do something to clear the parson, and show the people that they were wrong. But what could he do? They would not listen to him. They hinted that the parson had stolen the gold, and what could he say? It needed more than words. These were the thoughts which had been beating through his brain for days, giving him at times that listless manner, far-away look, and lack of interest in his studies, which worried Nellie so much. So sitting on guard by the injured man's side this night with large, dreamy eyes, thoughtful face--more thoughtful than ordinary for a child of his age--he recalled the various scenes since the night of the fire. Suddenly his face flushed, the dreamy expression faded from his eyes, as the dim light of dawn is dispersed by the fulness of day. They shone with a new radiance as he turned them upon the parson's face. He rose to his feet and walked quickly up and down the room. He was once again a creature of the wild. The glory of a lofty purpose fired his blood. He had experienced it before when, out in the woods, he had followed the tracks of the nimble deer, or listened to the whirr of the startled pigeon. But now it was a nobler chase, a loftier purpose, in which the honour of a faithful friend was at stake.
A sound from the bed startled him. Glancing quickly in that direction he noticed the lips of the wounded man moving. No sign of consciousness, however, did he give. He was in another world, the strange, mysterious world, where the mind roams at will and language flows from the fountain-head of the inner being.
"'The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee--drink this--.'" He was in church at the Communion service, administering the cup.
"Four thousand dollars." He was at the auction now, eager and intent.
"Poor lassie, poor little lamb." This time it was the injured Stickles child. And thus he rambled on from one thing to another, while Dan stood like a statue in the room staring upon him. Suddenly he opened his eyes, looked around in a dazed manner, and then fixed them upon the boy's face. He moved a little, and at once a cry of pain escaped his lips.
"Dan! Dan!" he exclaimed. "What is the matter? Where am I, and what is the meaning of this pain in my shoulder?"
The look in his face was most pathetic, and Dan longed to do something to relieve his suffering.
"Does yer shoulder hurt much?" the lad asked.
"Yes, yes, the pain is intense. Tell me how it happened."
"We were chucked from the sleigh, an' I guess you struck a stump," was the reply.
"Is this Stephen's cabin?"
"Yep. He's gone fer the doctor, so I'm keepin' watch."
The parson remained very quiet, and did not speak for some time. He still felt confused, and his shoulder was giving him great pain. He realized, however, how much he owed to Dan. What if he had been alone when the accident occurred?
"Did you come back for Stephen?" he at length questioned.
"Yep."
"And you were not hurt? Are you sure?"
"Sure's I'm livin'."
"And you were not afraid to come alone to the cabin for help?"
"No, I didn't mind."
"You're a brave boy, Dan. You've done much for me to-night. Saved my life, in fact."
"Oh, I didn't do much. Not worth mentionin'," and the lad took his seat by the bedside.
How the time did creep by. Often Dan went to the door and looked out. He strained his ears in order to hear the sound of bells, but the wind moaning and tearing through the tree-tops alone fell upon his ears. At last, when his patience was almost exhausted, the door was flung open, and Doctor Leeds entered, covered with snow, and a most anxious look upon his face. It did not take long for the practised eye and hand to ascertain the trouble. The shoulder had been dislocated, and would have to be replaced.
Then the parson showed of what stuff he was made. Hardly a sound escaped his lips as the doctor, assisted by Stephen, performed the painful operation.
"There!" exclaimed the physician, as he bound up the wounded member, "we'll have you round again in a short time. Now, some would have squaked and yelled like a baby, but you're a man through and through." "Thank you, Doctor. You are very good. But how about the little lass? You didn't leave her for me? Tell me the truth," and the parson's eyes sought the doctor's face.
"Oh, don't you worry about her," was the good-natured reply. "Sweepstakes took me over the road like the wind, and I had the poor little leg all fixed up before Stephen arrived. She'll do very well now without my care. But come, we must get you home at once."
"Do you think I am able to go?"
"Able! certainly you're able. Home's the only place for you, though the journey may cause you some pain."
"And you will come too, Doctor? You muat be very tired, and need a good rest."
"Yes, I'm going with you. I'm not going to leave you yet. You're worth fifty ordinary men, and we must not run any risk. Besides that, sir, I do want a glimpse of your dear Nellie, and a little chat with her. I haven't rested my eyes upon her for months, and do you think I'm going to miss such an opportunity? No, sir, not a bit of it."
Mr. Westmore was forced to smile in spite of his weakness as he looked into the doctor's strong, rugged face.
"God bless you," he replied. "This isn't the first time you have been a firm friend to me. I can never forget how you stood day and night by the side of my dear wife, doing all in your power to keep her with us a little longer."
"Tut, tut, man," and the doctor turned away to hide a mistiness in his eyes. "She was worthy of it, and her like can't be found every day. But come, Steve has been waiting at the door for some time, and we must be away."
. Deepening Shadows
As Nellie stood at the study window the Sunday afternoon her father left for Craig's Corner a sense of depression and loneliness stole over her. How much longer could her father continue those hard drives, she wondered. He was getting old. His hair was so white and his steps feeble. What was to become of him when he could perform his beloved work no longer? She knew very well how they were pressed for money, and how much had gone to help Philip in his fight in British Columbia. How many things had they gone without! Even mere common necessities had been given up. Naturally her mind turned to the auction, and the money her father had paid down for the farm. Four thousand dollars! Where had it come from, and why would her father never tell her, or speak about it in her presence? How often had she lain awake at night thinking about it all! Then to hear people more than hinting about Billy Fletcher's gold, and what had become of it, was at times more than she could bear. Never for a moment did she doubt her father, but often she longed to ask him for an explanation of the mystery. Was the money his own, or was he handling it for someone else? If so, why should he not tell her--his only daughter--who was so dear to him?
She was aroused by the arrival of several children from the houses nearest the Rectory. Every Sunday afternoon Nellie found her real enjoyment with her little class. She had known them all since their birth, and they loved her. How longingly they looked forward to that brief Sunday gathering. There were no harsh, strict rules here, no perfunctory opening and closing, and no lifeless lessons droned forth in a half-rebellious spirit. It was all joy and love. How their voices did ring as Nellie played on the little harmonium some sweet hymn attuned to childish hearts and minds. Then, after the lessons were over, there came the treat of the day--a story read from one of those marvellous books kept on a shelf in a corner all by themselves. When at last the story had been finished and the class dispersed, Nellie locked the doors, and made her way to Vivien Nelson's. What a hearty welcome she received from them all! To Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, hard-working, God-fearing people, she was as their own daughter. She and Vivien, their only child, had been playmates together at school, and their friendship had never languished. There Nellie felt at home. She knew that no matter what disagreeable things were being said about her father throughout the parish, no word of reproach or blame was ever mentioned in the Nelson home. Others might think what they liked about Parson John, but the Nelsons had known him too long in times of sorrow and joy to believe any evil of their old Rector.
Here Nellie stayed until the following afternoon, and then made her way home to have the house comfortable before her father came back. As the evening drew near she anxiously watched for his return. She saw the dull grey sky and knew that a storm threatened. As the darkness deepened and the wind raved about the house, and the snow beat against the north windows, her anxiety increased. The supper table stood ready in its snowy whiteness; the kettle sang on the stove and the fire in the sitting-room grate threw out its cheerful glow. It was a scene of peace and genial comfort contrasted with the raging of the elements outside. But Nellie thought nothing of this, for her heart was too much disturbed. Had anything happened to her father and Dan? It was some relief to know that the lad was along, for two were better than one should an accident occur. Her eyes roamed often to the little clock ticking away on the mantel-piece. Six-seven-eight-nine. The hours dragged slowly by. She tried to read, but the words were meaningless. She picked up her needlework, but soon laid it down again, with no heart to continue. Once more she glanced at the clock. Ten minutes after nine. She thought it longer than that since it had struck the hour. She arose to attend the kitchen fire, when a loud knock upon the front door startled her. She turned back, and stood for an instant in the centre of the room. Her heart beat fast, and her face paled. Tramps were frequently seen in Glendow, working their way from one place to another. At times they were impudent and tried to force an entrance into houses. It was a likely night for them to seek shelter, and suppose one were standing out there now! What could she, a lone woman, do? Another rap, harder than the first, fell upon her ears. Something must be done, and at once. Crossing the room and pausing near the door she demanded who was there.
"Sam Dobbins," came the reply, and Nellie breathed more freely as she unlocked the door, opened it and admitted the visitor.
"'Tis a blasted night," the man remarked as he tried to shake himself free from his mantle of snow and stamped upon the floor with his great heavy boots. "If I'd known 'twas so bad I'd never stirred one step."
"Is anything wrong?" questioned Nellie, fearful lest Sam was the bearer of ill news. "Have you seen my father?"
"Your father! Isn't he home?" and the man looked his surprise.
"No, he hasn't come yet, and I'm so uneasy."
"Well, I declare, and to think that I have come all the way to see him, and he's not here. When do you expect him?"
"I expected him home before dark, but now I don't know what to think. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Dobbins? Won't you take a seat?"
"No, there's nothin' you kin do, miss. I've got to see the parson, and only him. I hate the job, but I've got to do it. I'm the only constable in the place, and I've got to do my duty."
At these words a startled look came into Nellie's face. She took a step forward and looked keenly into the man's eyes.
"What do you mean?" she demanded. "I know you're a constable, but what do you want of my father? Oh, please tell me, quick!"
"Now don't get excited, Miss," Mr. Dobbins kindly replied, looking with admiration upon the excited young figure before him. "Remember, I've nothin' against your father. Haven't I shod every horse he had since he came to this place, long before you were born. He's been a good customer of mine, and I ain't got nothin' agin him. I'm only doin' my duty as a constable."
"But I don't understand, Mr. Dobbins. You come here to arrest my father and----"
"Only to serve the summons, Miss," interrupted the blacksmith. "I ain't goin' to arrest him. He'll be asked to appear at the trial, that's all."
"Trial! what trial?"
"Oh, it's in connection with a cow."
"A cow!"
"Yes. It seems that Si Farrington's hired man, Pete Davis, was takin' away the Stickles' only cow, when your father appeared on the scene, cut the rope, set the cow free, and sent Joe off in a hurry. Farrington's in a rage, and says he'll make the parson smart fer what he did. He's goin' to take legal action, and so I've been sent to serve the summons. That's all I know about it, Miss. I'm real sorry, but what else could I do?"
Nellie made no reply when the man ceased. Words would not come. Her bosom heaved, and she placed her hand to her forehead in an abstracted manner. Her eyes were fixed full upon the constable's face, though she did not see him. Her thoughts were away from that room, out through the storm and darkness to an old grey-headed man battling somewhere with the tempest, for the sake of others. What had happened? What would he think when he reached home to find out what Farrington was doing?
The constable shifted uneasily from one foot to the other in an embarrassed manner before those pathetic eyes. He clutched his cap more firmly in his hands, and shuffled towards the door.
"Guess I'll go now, Miss," he stammered. "I'll step up the road to make a call and come back again. Maybe your father will be home then."
Nellie hardly heard the door open and close as the constable passed out into the night. She stood for awhile as if dazed, then sinking into a nearby chair she buried her face in her hands. The wind howled and roared outside, and the snow dashed and swirled against the window. A big grey cat rose from its position before the fire, came and rubbed its sleek fur against her dress, and gently purred for some attention. But Nellie did not heed it. How dark all seemed to her! One thing after another! Why were these clouds gathering so thick over her dear father's head? It did not seem possible that he could be kept in ignorance much longer. It was sure to be revealed through this last trouble.
A sound fell upon her ears which made her look quickly up. Was it the wind? She listened with fast-beating heart. Again it came--a pathetic whinny out in the yard. She sprang to her feet, and rushed to the back door. She knew that call, for how often had she heard it! Midnight was there, standing almost at the threshold. Her dim form could be seen as Nellie peered out. She hurried forth, heedless of the pelting storm, expecting to hear her father's voice. But no cheery greeting met her, neither could she find the sleigh. Feeling around with her hands she felt the trailing shafts, and the awful truth flashed upon her. An accident had happened! And what of her father? Forgetting the horse she turned back into the house, seized a cloak, threw it over her shoulders, and hurried out into the storm. How the wind did roar about her as she waded and half stumbled through the drifts, which were now filling the road. Anxiety lent speed to her feet. She dashed on her way, and at length almost breathless reached the Larkins' house. Upon the door she beat with her hands, and after what seemed a long time Mr. Larkins made his appearance.
"Nellie! Nellie!" he exclaimed in affright, as she staggered into the room. "What in the world is the matter? Tell me, quick!"
"F-father's--had--an--a-a-ccident. Midnight came home without the sleigh--dragging the shafts--oh, what can we do?"
"Do?" was the reply. "We shall do what we can! I shall harness the horses at once, get several of the neighbors, and go in search of him. Don't worry too much, Nellie. To be pitched out of the sleigh in the soft snow is not so bad. No doubt we shall meet him and Dan plodding wearily along."
This the worthy man said to calm Nellie's fears, though in his own heart there was real anxiety, and he was not long in placing the horses fast to the big sled. But before he left he stopped to turn Midnight into the barn floor, threw on her blanket, and left her quietly munching a liberal supply of hay.
Mrs. Larkins was not long in making her appearance, and did what she could to bring comfort to Nellie's anxious heart. She also went with her back to the Rectory to await her husband's return. How the time did drag by! At every wild gust of wind Nellie started and trembled. At length, however, the faint sound of bells was heard, and scarcely had the panting, snow-flecked horses stopped at the door ere Nellie, bare-headed, and with a shawl over her shoulders, appeared.
"Father, father!" she cried, as she rushed forward, and peered into the familiar face. "Are you safe?"
"Yes, dearie. I am home again," came the feeble response.
"Oh, thank God!" she replied, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him again and again. "What a night this has been--a horrible nightmare!"
"Come, lassie," demanded the doctor. "Away with you into the house. What are you doing out here in such a storm? We'll look after your dad."
All the next day the storm continued in its unabated fury. The roads were completely blocked from fence to fence, and all sources of communication in Glendow were cut off. Each house was a little world of its own, a lighthouse in the midst of an ocean of snow where the long drifts piled and curled like hungry foaming breakers.
"This is the first holiday I've had for some time," chuckled good Doctor Leeds as he leaned back comfortably in an easy-chair, and puffed away at his pipe. "No one can come for me to-day, that's certain."
Nellie, too, was glad, and as she watched the storm from the window a feeling of relief came into her heart.
"Dear storm," she said to herself. "How I love you to-day. You are a stern protector, keeping out all prying eyes and malignant tongues. Mr. Dobbins will not venture out while you are abroad, and so we will have peace a little longer."
Parson John passed a restless night, moaning much from the pain in his shoulder. Towards morning, however, he passed into a comfortable sleep, and did not wake until near noon. Nellie and the doctor had a long chat together. He told her about the accident, and she related to him the incident of the constable's visit to the Rectory.
"The brute!" roared the doctor, when Nellie had finished. "Farrington's a scoundrel! Why can't he leave decent people alone! He's always meddling with someone. He's never happy unless he's persecuting people. Oh, I've known him for years. And so he wants to have your father arrested, does he, for saving the Stickles' cow?"
"Yes," Nellie replied, "and I'm dreading the effect it will have upon my father."
"I see, I see," mused the doctor, while his eyes closed in a dreamy sort of a way. "It will not be for his good, that's certain. But there's a way, lassie, there's a way; don't forget that."
"What do you mean, Doctor?"
"I was just thinking what a villain Farrington is, and in what an underhanded way he works. But he leaves a loophole every time. Let me tell you something."
Then the doctor leaned over, and what he said brought back the colour into Nellie's face, and made her heart beat fast, and sent her about her household duties with a new spirit.
During the next night the storm cleared, and the morning sun transformed the vast, white fields into a shining, sparkling glory. Nellie was early astir, finished her household duties, cared for her father, who was steadily improving, ere the doctor made his appearance.
"I'm going to leave you in charge awhile this morning," she remarked as the latter was eating his breakfast. "The day is bright and those large drifts are so tempting, that I long for a snowshoe tramp. I have been in the house so long that I must have a breath of fresh air."
"Good!" replied the doctor. "It's just what you need. You had better make the most of it, too, while I am here, for as soon as the roads are broken I must be away. There are many patients to be looked after."
"Thank you, Doctor, very much. I know father will not mind my absence for a short time," Nellie responded, as she hurried away to make ready for her tramp.
A pretty figure she presented as she stood a little later before the door and bade the doctor good-bye. Snowshoeing she loved, and she had often travelled for miles with Stephen in the clear bracing air. But to-day she was not on pleasure bent, and her heart beat fast as she moved on her way. No sign of life did she see as steadily she plodded forward over the yielding snow. An hour later when she stood before Farrington's house and laid aside her snowshoes, her face was flushed with a healthy glow caused by the vigorous exercise. Her courage almost failed as she knocked upon the door, and waited for it to be opened. It was Mrs. Farrington who came, and great was her astonishment when she found who was there.
"Why, it's Nellie Westmore, I do declare!" she exclaimed. "Come right in, dear, and lay your wraps aside. I'm so glad to see ye. But how in the world did ye git here?"
"I snowshoed all the way," was the quiet reply, "and I have come to see Mr. Farrington. Is he in?"
"Why certainly. He's in the store. I'll call 'im at once," and Mrs. Farrington bustled off, wondering what in the world brought Nellie on such a morning.
As Farrington entered the house a few minutes later, Nellie rose to meet him. She knew that now was the crucial moment, and a prayer went up from her heart for guidance. She was surprised at her own calmness as she looked into the face of the man who was causing her so much worry.
"I'm very glad to see ye, Nellie," and Farrington stretched out a big fat hand. "Set down, please."
"No, thank you, Mr. Farrington," Nellie replied. "I prefer to stand. I do not wish to keep you long. I've come to see you this morning on behalf of my father."
"Umph!" ejaculated Farrington, as he threw himself into an easy-chair.
"You know," continued Nellie, "my father met with a bad accident night before last, and is now confined to his bed, and I have come to ask you not to let Mr. Dobbins trouble him while he is in his weak condition.. I feel quite sure you will do this."
"Ye want me to spare 'im, do ye?" Farrington blurted out. "Spare the man who has injured me above measure!"
"Indeed! And in what way?" Nellie applied.
"In what way? do ye ask. Why, didn't he outbid me in the Frenelle homestead? Doesn't he refuse to buy goods at my store; an' then, to cap it all, interfered with my hired man when he went after that cow? Hev I any right to spare 'im? Tell me that."
"You have the right of consideration for an old man. My father is aging fast, and any trouble worries him so much. He doesn't know about what you intend to do, and I hope I can prevail upon you to go no further."
Nellie's voice was low and pathetic, and she made some impression upon Farrington, for when she had finished he did not at once reply. He sat looking at her, thinking how pretty she was.
"Nellie," he at length remarked, "we've allus been very fond of ye. We've known ye ever sense ye was a baby, an' ye seem like one of our own. Ye hev a good eddication, an' bein' a lady ye are well fitted to adorn a good man's home. Now, our Dick is a most promisin' feller, who thinks a sight of ye, so if ye'd consent to look upon him favourably, it ud please us all mighty well. Besides----"
"Mr. Farrington!" interrupted Nellie, "what do you mean? What do I understand you to say? Do you----"
"Wait a minute, my dear," remonstrated Farrington. "It's jist as well fer ye to consider this reasonable proposition fust as last. Yer dad's gittin' old now, so he can't last much longer; an' ye'll hev a home."
"An' jist think, Nellie dear," spoke up Mrs. Farrington, "what an advantage it'll be to ye. Richard'll inherit the hull of our property some day. He will be a gentleman, an' the son of a gentleman, too--of a good old fambly. It'll be a very gratifyin' thing, too, fer ye to know that Richard's father was a Councillor of Glendow. So now, dear, give up that uncouth Frenelle boy, an' take on with our son Richard."
Nellie's cheeks were flushed a deep crimson now, and her eyes were flashing with an angry light. Her heart was filled with disgust at these cool, self-satisfied schemers. Had they been less confident of their own importance they would have realized that they were treading on dangerous ground. They could not comprehend that back of Nellie's quiet, reserved demeanour there was a moral courage which would rise to any height of self-sacrifice at the call of duty, or in defence of those she loved. They had known her from childhood, and to natures such as theirs her gentleness and retiring disposition were interpreted as weakness or lack of proper spirit. To be suddenly awakened from such an idea was startling in the extreme.
"Mr. Farrington," Nellie replied, holding herself in check with a mighty effort, "I am very much astonished at the words I have just heard. I came here to talk to you as a lady would talk to a gentleman. But great is my surprise to be insulted to my face. You have no right to speak to me as you have done this morning, or to take such liberties as regards Stephen Frenelle. He is a real gentleman's son, and has the true instincts of a gentleman. We were children together, and I do not wish you to speak of him or any friend of mine in a slighting manner. As to your remarks in reference to your son, they are so unworthy of a father and mother that they arouse in me the feelings of deepest pity for you. I blush to think that you should ever suggest such a thing, and am surprised that your better nature does not assert itself, and cause you to cover your heads in shame for having uttered such words."
Nellie spoke rapidly with her eyes fixed full upon Farrington's face. The latter shifted uneasily at this torrent of words, and occasionally glanced at his wife, who was sitting near with open-mouthed wonder.
"Dear me, dear me!" Mrs. Farrington replied. "I allus thought ye was sich a nice, modest little thing, an' to think that ye should go on like this. What would yer dear mother think if she was livin'?"
"You are a mother, Mrs. Farrington," Nellie responded, "and what would you think if anyone made such a proposition to Eudora as you have made to me?"
"Oh, that's a different question."
"And in what way?"
"Oh, Eudora will hev money, an' will not be left penniless, while you an' yer father are jist dependin' upon the parish."
"Yes, I know it only too well," Nellie bitterly answered. "We are little more than paupers, trusting to the voluntary offerings of the people for our support. But then, this has little to do with what I came here for. We have wandered from the subject. I came simply to speak on behalf of my father."
"Oh, that matter's settled now once and fer all," Farrington replied in a cool, matter-of-fact manner. "Ye've taken the bizness into yer own hands. We've made ye a good offer, an' ye've refused pint blank, so we'll consider this little affair atween us settled. Sam Dobbins is in the store waitin' fer me, so I shall tell 'im to go ahead an' serve the summons."
"Stop a minute," Nellie demanded, as Farrington rose to his feet, stretched himself, and started leisurely towards the door.
"There's something you evidently have not considered which might change matters a little. I came here this morning trusting to get your consent to leave my father alone without any unnecessary trouble. I appealed to your manhood, but in vain. Now, there is only one course open to me, which I will be obliged to take."
"Hey, what's this?" and Farrington's brow knitted in perplexity. "I don't understand you."
"No, certainly you don't, but you will presently. I would like to ask who it was you sent out after the Stickles' cow?"
"Why, Pete, of course; my hired man. He allus does that work fer me, an' has taken dozens of 'em at various times."
"Yes, so I have heard," and Nellie's voice was charged with a warning note. "But were you not afraid of the risk you were running, Mr. Farrington?"
"Risk? what risk? I never had any trouble. What do you mean?"
"But is Pete a constable?"
"A constable, be blowed! What are ye drivin' at?"
"Did he have a warrant from a magistrate to go to the Stickles' place, open the door, enter the barn, and try to take away that cow?"
"N-no, certainly not. But he never had one afore, an' everything was all right."
"Yes, it was all right as far as you were concerned, because no one interfered, and the people were always too poor to make a fuss. But do you know that you have laid yourself open to a grave offence? In the eyes of the law you tried to steal that cow from the Stickles."
"Girl! Girl! What do ye mean by talkin' this way?" and Farrington bounded from his chair in a rage. "Explain to me at once what ye mean by sich words!"
"There's nothing much to explain, Mr. Farrington. Without a warrant, or any legal authority, you sent your servant to break into a private barn, and lead away a cow belonging to Mr. Stickles. Because my father interfered you wish to have him arrested. I hope you see the point."
Farrington was certainly a study just then. His eyes glowered, and his face was inflamed with rage. He was in a trap and he knew it.
"Ye'll pay fer this!" he cried, stamping upon the floor, in anger. "Ye'll--Ye'll----!"
"Very well," Nellie calmly replied. "I've simply told you your position, so now if you wish to go ahead, do so. You will know what to expect. Perhaps I have been a better friend to you than you now imagine. Remember, we have friends, who know a thing or two, and besides, if you are not careful, something may go wrong on election day."
"Who told you this, girl?" Farrington demanded. "Who put ye up to this bizness?"
"That's my own affair. I have warned you, so go ahead if you care to. I shall say no more."
With that she turned and walked quietly out of the house, put on her snowshoes, and started on her homeward way. But the trying ordeal through which she had passed told upon her. She trembled violently, and a great weakness came over her. She felt that she would sink down upon the snow. How could she continue? She looked all around, but no sign of life could she behold; no one to aid her. What was she to do? She thought of her father. Was he waiting for her, perhaps wondering where she was? With a great effort she moved slowly forward, and presently found her strength returning. On and on she plodded. Never had the snowshoes seemed so heavy, or the way so long, and right glad was she to see at last the Rectory rise up large and homelike before her. She reached the door, doffed the snowshoes, entered the house, hurried to her own room, and throwing herself upon her bed, wept as if her heart would break. She was tired--oh, so tired. The tears brought a blessed relief to her surcharged feelings, and when she at length sought her father's side a sunny smile illumined her face, her step was firm, and little remained to show to a casual observer the fierce struggle through which she had recently passed.