Farrington said very little after Nellie's departure. He even surprised his wife by his coolness, for instead of raging, swearing and stamping around the house he walked quietly out into the store. Here he busied himself with various matters, and talking at times to the few customers who straggled in. When no one was present he sat on a high stool by the window and gazed out over the snow. He was not thinking of money now, nor how much his eggs and butter would bring. His mind was dwelling upon that scene which had just taken place. He thought nothing of the brave defence Nellie had made on behalf of her father, but only of his own wounded feelings. At times his hands would clinch, and a half-audible curse escape his lips. He would get even, oh, yes! But how? He saw the danger of going any further in connection with the Stickles' cow affair. He must let that drop. There were other ways, he was sure of that; the difficulty was to know just what to do.
The door opened, and a tall, lanky man entered, with a pair of skates dangling over his left shoulder.
"Hello, Miles!" exclaimed Farrington, hurrying around to shake hands with him. "Haven't seen you fer an age. What's the news at Craig's Corner? Set down, you look about tuckered out."
"Should say I was," Miles drawled forth. "Never got into such a mess in all my life. Skated down river Sunday evening and was caught in that blasted snowstorm, and so am footing it back."
"Dear me, that's hard luck," and Farrington sat down upon a soap-box. "Anyway, I'm mighty glad to see ye. Hope things are goin' well at the Corner. Much election talk, eh?"
"Considerable. The air's been full of it lately, but I guess Sunday's doings will give the folks a new subject for awhile. 'Twas certainly a stunner!"
"Why, what do ye mean, Miles? Nobody killed, I hope."
"What! Haven't you heard anything?"
"No, how could I with the storm blockin' the roads."
"Sure. I never thought of that. But I supposed the parson let it out."
"The parson!" and Farrington's eyes opened wide with amazement. "What in the devil has he to do with it? He was brought home night afore last with his shoulder out of jint."
"Whew! You don't say so! Well, I declare!"
"Tell me what ye mean, man," exclaimed Farrington, moving impatiently on his seat. "Let's have the yarn."
"Ha-ha! It was a corker! Just think of it; a funeral procession moving slowly across the river, with Tim Fraser and Parson John racing by like a whirlwind. I never saw anything like it, ha-ha!" and Miles leaning back laughed loud and long at the recollection.
Farrington was all attention now. A gleam of delight shone in his eyes, and a faint sigh of relief escaped his lips. He controlled his eagerness, however, for he wished to draw Miles out, and learn the whole story.
"Ye don't mean to tell me," he remarked, "that the parson was racin' on Sunday? Surely ye must be mistaken!"
"I'm a liar then," calmly replied the other, gazing thoughtfully down at his boots. "Yes, I'm a liar, and a fool! Why, didn't I see the whole thing with my own eyes? And didn't all the people of Craig's Corner see it, too? Ask them, they'll tell you the same."
"I don't doubt yer word, Miles, but it's so unusual. The parson never did anything like that before, did he?"
"Not to my knowledge. But he's mighty fond of a horse, and a fast one at that, so I guess when Tim Fraser clipped up he couldn't resist the temptation."
"Did he explain about it? Did he tell how it happened?"
"He didn't say much. I heard him tell some people that he never let the devil get ahead of him, and he was bound he wouldn't do it that time."
"Ho-ho! That's what he said? Nothing more?"
"No, not that I heard. I came away after that, so nothing new has reached me since, except what you tell me. Is he badly injured?"
"I don't know. Guess he'll come out all right; he generally does."
"He looked very well on Sunday. I'm really sorry he's met with this accident."
"Mebbe it had something to do with the race," suggested Farrington.
"In what way?"
"Perhaps it's a punishment fer what he did on Sunday."
"Surely, you don't say--!" and Miles' mouth opened in surprise.
"Oh, I don't say anything fer certain. I only know that sich things sometimes do happen. A man who will race on the Sacred Day of Rest must expect almost anything to happen. I've known of several sich cases. Something generally does happen."
"You don't say so! Well!"
"Now honestly," continued Farrington very deliberately, "do ye think sich a man is fit to be the minister of the Gospel in Glendow? Do ye think a man who stands in church on Sunday an' reads them solemn words about keepin' the Sabbath Day holy, an' then goes out on the ice an' engages in a horse-race--do ye think sich a man is fit to teach our people? What an example to set our children! When we tell 'em to remember the Day an' keep it holy, they will say, 'Oh, the parson raced his horse on Sunday!' Oh, yes, that's what they'll say. So you see what a condition the parish will be in."
"Well, I never thought of it that way," replied Miles, rising to his feet. "But I must be off. I see the road is being broken."
When the man had left the store Farrington stood for some time with his hands clasped behind his back. He was in deep thought, and occasionally his lips curled with a pleased smile. He then walked to the window, and watched the men breaking the roads. He saw his own hired man, Pete Davis, among the rest. Most of the able-bodied men of the neighbourhood were there with shovels and teams. It was an inspiring sight to see team after team in a long procession plowing their way forward among the high drifts. Where the snow was light the leading horses would plunge through, blowing, snorting, struggling, and at times almost hidden from view. In places shovels had to be used and then cuttings, narrow and deep, were made through the banks, just wide enough for one team to move at a time. For hours the work had been carried on, and at length the last drift had been conquered, and communication, from place to place once again opened up.
Farrington watching the horses surging through was not thinking of the fine appearance they presented. His mind was upon a far different matter. He stood there, saw the teams swing around and finally disappear up the road. It pleased him to see Miles riding upon one of the sleds. His ready tongue was as good as a newspaper, and he would spread the story of the Sunday race wherever he went.
Mrs. Farrington was surprised at her husband's jocular manner when he was called to dinner. He joked and laughed more than he had done in many a day. Not a word did he say about Nellie's visit; in fact he seemed to have forgotten all about it.
"Ye must have done a good bizness this mornin', Si," his wife remarked. "I haven't seen ye in sich fine spirits in a long time."
"Haven't sold as much as usual, my dear," was the reply. "Didn't expect to anyway, as the roads have jist been broken."
"But ye seem very happy. Has anything remarkable occurred?"
"Simply an idea, my dear, simply an idea."
"Well, well, who'd a thought it. I didn't know that an idea 'ud make one feel so good. Tell me about it, Si."
"No, not now. I haven't time. Besides, I want to see how it'll work, an' then I'll surprise ye."
Farrington rose from the table, and going to the store went at once to the small office. Here he spent some time writing, and at the end of a half hour gave a chuckle of satisfaction, laid aside the pen, folded up the paper and put it into his pocket. Next he went into the stable, and ordered Pete to harness the horse and have it at the door in fifteen minutes. At the end of that time he came from the house, wrapped in his large fur coat, cap and mittens. Soon he was speeding over the road, leaving Mrs. Farrington, Eudora and Dick watching him from the window, and wondering what it all meant.
Farrington was forth upon important business, and he knew exactly at what houses to stop. There were the Fletchers, he was sure of them; the Marshalls, their kinsmen; the Burtons, and several families who owed fair-sized bills at the store, and would be unable to pay for some time.
The sun was dipping big and red far westward when Farrington turned his horse's head homeward. He was well pleased with his afternoon's work. No one had refused to sign the petition he carried, and over twenty names had been scrawled upon the paper.
As he moved along his eyes rested upon a little cottage away to the right, nestling near a grove of large maple trees. Old Henry Burchill, the wood-chopper, lived there. Farrington's brows knitted as he thought of him. Would he sign the paper? He knew that Henry was once opposed to the parson for introducing certain things into the church. But then that was long ago, and he wondered how the old man felt now. Anyway there was that unpaid bill at the store. It would have some weight, and it was no harm to try.
Mrs. Burchill was at home, and was surprised to see the storekeeper enter the house. She was a quiet, reserved woman, who mingled little with her neighbours. The lines of care upon her face, the bent back and the toil-worn hands told their own tale of a long, hard battle for life's bare necessities. Her heart beat fast as she shook hands with her visitor, for she, too, thought of that bill at the store, which she and her husband had been bravely striving to pay.
"Is yer husband at home, Mrs. Burchill?" asked Farrington, seating himself on a splint-bottomed chair.
"No, sir. He's in the woods chopping for Stephen. I'm afraid he won't be home to-night."
"Dear me! that's too bad," and Farrington brought forth the paper from his pocket. "I wanted 'im to do a little favour fer me--simply to put his name to this pertition. But, if you'll do it, 'twill be jist the same," and he handed over the paper.
Mrs. Burchill put on her glasses, and slowly and carefully read the words written there. Farrington watched her closely and noted the colour mounting to her faded cheeks, and the look of reproach in her eyes as she at length turned them upon his face.
"And you expect me to put my name to this?" she demanded.
"An' why not?" smiled Farrington. "Have you read what the paper sez?"
"Yes, every word."
"An' don't ye think there's a reason why ye should sign it? Don't ye think the Bishop should know what kind of a parson we have?"
"Mr. Farrington," and Mrs. Burchill spoke very deliberately, "if the Angel Gabriel himself came with that paper for me to sign I should refuse. I'm an old woman now, and why should I commit such a sin in my declining years?"
"Sin! what sin would ye commit in simply signin' that paper?" Farrington demanded.
Mrs. Burchill did not reply at once, but placing her hand upon a Bible lying by her side she reverently opened it.
"Listen to these words," she said. "They are not mine, remember, but the Lord's. 'Touch not mine anointed,' He says, 'and do my prophets no harm.' Now Parson John is one of the Lord's anointed, set apart for a sacred work, and it's a dangerous thing to strive against Him."
"Tut, tut, woman! That's all rubbish! Them things happened in olden days. Besides, we have a just grievance. He is interferin' too much with the affairs of others. He takes too much upon himself. Then, what about that race on Sunday? Do ye think we should stand that?"
"Ah, sir, it's the same old story. Don't you remember how people said the very same thing about Moses and Aaron, long, long ago. They said that those two men were taking too much upon them, and a rebellion ensued. And what was the result? The Lord punished the people, the earth opened and swallowed them up. I often read that story to Henry in the evenings, and it makes us feel very serious. Oh, yes, it's a dangerous thing to interfere with the Lord's anointed. Something's bound to happen to the ones who do it."
Farrington could stand this no longer. He had met with such success during the afternoon that to hear this rebuke from Mrs. Burchill was most annoying.
"Woman!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "I don't want to hear all this. I didn't come here to be preached to about sich old-fashioned trash as the 'Lord's anointed!' I came here to git ye to sign that paper, an' not to be preached to! Will ye sign it or will ye not?"
"No, I shall not sign it!" was the quiet response.
"Very well, then, that's all I want to know. But remember, Mrs. Burchill, there's a little unpaid account on my books against your husband. Please tell 'im to call and settle it at once. If not--oh, well you know the result," and Farrington looked significantly around the room. "So, good-day. I must be off."
Mrs. Burchill stood at the window and watched Farrington drive away. Then a sigh escaped her lips. She went back to the chair where she had been sitting, and kneeling down buried her face in her hands. For some time she remained in prayer, but her earnest pleadings were not for herself or her husband, but for the old grey-headed man--the Venerable Rector of Glendow.
"I've been up to me neck in soap-suds ever sense daybreak, an' I ain't done yit."
So declared Mrs. Stickles as she wiped her hands upon her apron and offered a chair to her visitor, Betsy McKrigger.
"I'm rale glad to see ye, nevertheless," she continued, "fer it's been a month of Sundays sense I sot eyes on ye last. How've ye been? An' yer old man, is he well?"
"Only fairly," replied Mrs. McKrigger, laying aside her bonnet and shawl, and taking the proffered chair. "Abraham went to the mill this mornin' an' I came this fer with 'im. We were clean out of flour, an', although the roads are bad, there was no help fer it, so he had to go, poorly as he is. He'll stop fer me on his way back."
"An' what's wrong with 'im?" asked Mrs. Stickles, going back to her washing.
"The doctor thinks he's got delapitation of the heart. Abraham was never very strong there, and suffers most after eatin'. I'm gittin' very nervous about 'im."
"Oh, is that all?" and Mrs. Stickles paused in her work. "I wouldn't worry about that. Mebbe he eats too much. Men's hearts an' stummicks are purty closely kernected, an' what affects the one affects t'other. It's indisgestion the man's got-that's what 'tis. It's a wonder to me they don't all hev it."
"Mebbe yer right, Mrs. Stickles. 'Abraham is certainly a big eater. But it wasn't eatin' which gave 'im the delapitation yesterday."
"What was it, then?"
"It was Si Farrington who gave it to 'im. That's who it was."
"Ugh!" ejaculated Mrs. Stickles. "Surely a cur like that wouldn't affect anyone, would it? I'm jist waitin' to run agin Farrington meself, an' then we'll see who'll hev palputation of the heart. It'll not be me, I reckon."
"It's very true what ye say," replied Mrs. McKrigger, bringing forth her knitting, "but when ye owe the man a bill at the store, an' heven't the money to pay, it makes a big difference."
"So he's been at you, has he? I s'pose he's been tryin' to git yer cow, horse or farm. He tried it here, but Parson John, bless his soul, soon stopped that."
"No, not like that. He only hinted what he'd do if Abraham didn't sign the pertition."
"Oh, I see. He's goin' to run fer councillor, an' wanted yer husband to sign his denomination paper, did he?"
"No, no, not that. It's about the parson."
"What! Parson John?"
"Yes, it's about 'im, poor man."
"Land sakes! What's up now?" and Mrs. Stickles paused in her work and stood with arms akimbo.
"Farrington thinks the parson's too old fer the work, an' that we should hev a young man with snap an' vim, like Mr. Sparks, of Leedsville. He believes the young people need to be stirred up; that they're gittin' tired of the old humdrum way, an' that the parish is goin' to the dogs. But that wasn't all. He thinks the parson isn't a fit man to be here after that disgraceful racin' scene on the river last Sunday. He sez it's an awful example to the young. So he's gittin' up the pertition to send to the Bishop."
Mrs. Stickles had left the wash-tub now and was standing before her visitor. Anger was expressed in her every movement.
"An' do ye tell me!" she demanded, "that yer husband signed that paper?"
"W-what else was there to do?" and Mrs. McKrigger dropped her knitting and shrank back from the irate form before her. "How could he help it?"
"Betsy McKrigger, I never thought ye'd come to this. Help it! Why didn't yer husband help Farrington out of the door with the toe of his boot?"
"But think of that unpaid bill, Mrs. Stickles."
"Unpaid bill, be fiddlesticks! Would ye turn aginst yer best earthly friend fer the sake of a bill?"
"What else could we do?"
"Do? Let yer cow or anything else go! What do sich things amount to when yer honour's at stake. Dear me, dear me! has it come to this?"
"Ye needn't make sich a fuss about the matter," and Mrs. McKrigger bristled up a bit. "It's a purty serious thing when yer whole livin's in the fryin'-pan."
"Livin', livin'! Where does yer livin' come from anyway, Mrs. McKrigger? Doesn't the Lord send it? I reckon He'll look after us. Didn't He tend to old 'Lijah when he done his duty. Didn't the ravens feed 'im? An' what about that widee of Jerrypath? Didn't her meal and ile last when she done what was right? Tell me that!"
"Oh, yes, that may be as ye say. I ain't botherin' about old 'Lijah an' that widow. If them people lived to-day they'd jine forces an' start the biggest flour an' ile company the world has ever seen. I wish 'Lijah 'ud come our way some day, fer me an' Abraham hev often scraped the bottom of the flour barrel an' poured out the last drop of ile, not knowin' where any more was comin' from."
"Tut, tut, woman!" remonstrated Mrs. Stickles. "It's wrong fer ye to talk that way. Hev ye ever really wanted? Didn't the flour and the ile come somehow? Whenever we're scrapin' the bottom of the barrel it seems that the Lord allus hears us, and doesn't let us want. I guess, if we stan' by the Lord, He'll stan' by us. I'm mighty sorry yer man signed that pertition aginst that man of God. It don't seem right nohow."
"I'm not worryin' about that, Mrs. Stickles. Farrington has considerable right on his side. The parson is old. We do need a young man with snap an' vim. The parson's sermints are too dry an' deep. Abraham sleeps right through 'em, an' says it's impossible to keep awake."
"Well, I declare!" and Mrs. Stickles held up her hands in amazement. "To think that I should live to hear sich words in me own house. Ye say the parson's too old. Ain't ye ashamed of them words? Too old! D'ye want some new dapper little snob spoutin' from the pulpit who hasn't as much knowledge in his hull body as Parson John has in his little finger? I know there's many a thing the parson talks about that I can't understan', an' so there is in the Bible. I often talk the matter over with John. 'John,' sez I, 'Ye recollect when ye was makin' that wardrobe fer me out in the shed two springs ago?'
"'Well,' sez he.
"'An' ye remember how the children used to watch ye an' wonder what ye was makin'!'
"'Sartinly,' sez he.
"'An' how they used to pick up the shavin's ye planed off, an' brung them inter the house.'
"He kalkerlated he did.
"'Well then,' sez I, 'John, them children didn't understan' what ye was makin', but they could pick up the shavin's an' make use of 'em. So when Parson John is preachin' an' I can't altogether foller him, I kin pick up somethin' here an' thar which I do understand, an' them are the shavin's which I kin use, an' do use. Oh! John,' sez I, 'hasn't the parson been droppin' shavin's fer over thirty years, an' not allus in the pulpit either, an' haven't we ben helped 'cause we picked 'em up an' made 'em our own?' John said I was right, an' he knows, dear soul."
"That may be all very well fer you an' John," replied Mrs. McKrigger, "but what about the young people, an' the older ones fer all that, who won't pick up the shavin's? Farrington sez we want a poplar young man who kin speak without any preparation, like Mr. Dale, the missionary who was here last summer. Now, there was a man up to whom the young men could look, a reglar soldier, who had been in the fight in Africy, had lived among lions, tagers and niggers. He was a hero, an' if we could git a rale live missionary like that, he'd make Glendow hum, an' the old church 'ud be packed to the doors every Sunday. It's them missionaries who has the hard time. Oh, they're wonderful people. Parson John's a good man, but he ain't in the same line with them nohow. He's too commonplace, an' don't stir the people up."
For a while Mrs. Stickles did not reply. She wiped her hands on her apron, and crossing the room took down a small pot, put in a little tea, filled it with water, and set it on the back of the stove to draw. Next she brought forth some large frosted doughnuts, and after she had poured a cup of tea for Mrs. McKrigger and one for herself she sat down upon an old splint-bottomed chair.
"Did I ever tell ye the conversation I had with Mr. Dale, that missionary from Africy?" she at length asked.
"No, I never heerd it," came the reply.
"Well, that's queer, an' it happened only last summer, too. Ye see, we all went to the missionary meetin' in the church, an' Mr. Dale told us about that furren land. Somehow I didn't take to the man, an' I liked 'im less as he went on. All the time he was speakin' I noted how eagerly Parson John listened. Often his buzum heaved-like, an' I thought I heerd 'im sigh. But when the speaker 'gun to compare Africy with Canada and Glendow, I got mad. 'Here the work is small,' sez he; 'thar it's mighty! Here ye hev yer hundreds; thar we hev our thousands. Here things is easy; thar hard.' As he talked on that way I looked at the parson an' saw a pained expression on his dear face. I jist longed to jump to me feet, an' pint out that old grey-headed man a sittin' thar, an' tell a few things I know. But I got me chance later."
"What! ye didn't say anything hard, I hope?" interrupted Mrs. McKrigger.
"Only the plain truth; jist what he needed. Ye see, me an' John was axed into the Rectory afterwards to meet the missionary an' hev a cup of tea. Mr. Dale did most of the talkin', an' told us a hull lot more about his experiences in Africy. But somehow he rubbed me the wrong way. He had little use fer Canada, an' said so, an' that was mor'n I could stan'.
"'Mr. Dale,' sez I, speakin' up, when his jaw stopped waggin' fer an instant. 'Would ye be willin' to leave yer present field of labour?'
"'No,' sez he, lookin' at me surprised-like.'
"'An' why not,' sez I.
"'Oh the work is so inspirin' out thar,' sez he. 'I'd about die in a--a--' (I think he was goin' to say a country parish like this) but he said 'settled field whar the work is so quiet, ye know.'
"'An' ye wouldn't be willin' to give up Africy,' sez I, 'fer a poor parish like Glendow, if thar was no clergyman here?'
"'No,' sez he, in a hesitatin' way, fer he didn't seem to know what I was a drivin' at.
"'Exactly so, Mr. Dale,' sez I. 'It takes a heap of spunk, I reckon, to go to them furren fields, but I kalkerlate it often takes jist as much to stay to hum, feed pigs, hens, an' look after a hull batch of children. I've hearn men preach about sacryfice in big churches, but I generally find that, when a poor country parish gits vacant, they don't seem inclined to give up their rich churches an' step into a humbler place. Yet sometimes I've heerd of sich men goin' to furren fields. An' why is that, Mr. Dale?'
"'That they might do more work fer the Master,' sez he.
"'I think yer wrong thar,' sez I. 'Now, look here. To enter a country parish is to be almost unknown, an' people say, 'Oh, he's only a country parson,' an' they stick up their ugly noses, which they think are acristocat. But let a man go to a furren field, an', my lands! they blubber over 'im an' make a great fuss. If he combs the head of a little nigger brat out thar in Africy--though no doubt he needs it--why the missionary magazines an' papers are full of it. If he pulls the tooth of an old Injun chief who has a dozen wives taggin' around after 'im, the people hold up thar hands in wonder, an' call 'im a hero. But let a man stay at hum in a parish like Glendow, an' no one hears of his doin's, cause they don't want to.'"
"My! ye didn't say all that?" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, "an' to a rale live missionary, too."
"Them's the exact words I said, an' them ain't all," rattled on Mrs. Stickles. "I had me tongue on 'im then, an' it did me good to see his face. He looked once towards the door as if he thought I'd jump at 'im. Oh, it was as good as a circus to see 'im shake," and she laughed at the recollection of it.
"'Remember,' sez I, 'I ain't got nuthin' agin furren missions, fer they do a heap of good. But I would like to see things levelled up a bit. If I git down on me knees an' scrub the floor, it's nuthin' thought of. But if a missionary does it, a great fuss is made. When Parson John is dug out of snow-banks every week, when his sleigh gits upsot an' throws 'im into the ditch, no one outside the parish ever hears of it. But let sich things happen to a furren missionary, an', my lands! it's wonderful.'
"I could see all the time that Mr. Dale was gittin' excited an' excititer.
"'Woman,' sez he in a lofty kind of way, which reminded me of a young rooster tryin' to crow, 'do ye realize what yer talkin' about? Do ye know yer treadin' on delicate ground?'
"'Yes,' sez I, 'when I tread on a man's toes, it's purty delicate ground.'
"'I don't mean that,' sez he. 'But do ye know thatI'ma missionary, an' do ye know what it means to be away from hum seven years, away in a furren land?'
"'Yes,' sez I. 'It means a holiday of a hull year at the end, with yer salary goin' on, an' yer travellin' expenses paid. D'ye think, Mr. Dale, that the parson here ever gits sich a holiday? Y'bet yer life he doesn't. He's been here workin' like a slave fer over thirty years now, an' in all that timehenever had a holiday.'
"At that the parson himself speaks up. 'I think yer wrong thar, Mrs. Stickles,' sez he. 'I had two hull weeks once, fer which I've allus been most thankful.'
"'An what are two weeks?' sez I. 'An' didn't ye pay yer own travellin' expenses?'
"'Yes,' sez he, 'I did.'
"'Thar now,' sez I to Mr. Dale. 'What d'ye think of that? Two weeks in over thirty years of hard work!' But that reminds me of somethin' else--an', sez I, 'Who pays yer salary, Mr. Dale? D'ye mind tellin' me that?' "'The Mission Board' sez he.
"'An' do ye git it reglar?' sez I.
"'Every month,' sez he.
"'I thought so,' sez I. 'An' d'ye think the parson here gits his every month?'
"'I don't know,' sez he. 'But s'pose he does.'
"'Not by a long chalk,' sez I. 'He has to wait months an' months fer it, an' sometimes he doesn't git it at all, an' then has to take hay an' oats, or do without. I know that to be a fact. Old skinflint Reeker over thar owed two dollars one year to the church, an' he wondered how in the world he was to git out of payin' it. Durin' the summer a Sunday-school picnic was held on his place back in his grove, an' fer one of the games the parson cut down four little beeches about as big as canes. Thar was thousands of 'em growin' around, an' wasn't worth a postage-stamp. But old Reeker saw 'im cut 'em, an' the next day he went to the parson an' told 'im how vallable the beeches was--his fancy trees or somethin' like that--an' charged 'im fifty cents a piece, the amount he owed to the church. "Wasn't that so, Parson?" sez I, turnin' to 'im.'
"'Yes, yes,' sez he. 'But it ain't worth speakin' about now. I think we had better have our cup of tea, an' talk no more about the subject.'"
"Dear, good man," and Mrs. Stickles wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. "He was kinder upsot at what I said. But not so, Nellie. Her sweet face jist beamed on me, an' when I went out into the kitchen to help her she put her arms about me old neck, an' gave me a good big thumpin' kiss. That's what she did."
Scarcely had Mrs. Stickles ended, ere bells were heard outside.
"Why, I declare, if Abraham ain't back already!" exclaimed Mrs. McKrigger, rising to her feet and donning her hat and wraps. "He's made a quick trip. I'm very grateful, indeed I am, fer the cup of tea an' the pleasant time I've had. Ye must come to see me as soon as ye kin."
Mrs. Stickles stood for some time at the window watching the McKriggers driving away. She was thinking deeply, and a plan was being evolved in her mind which made her forget her washing and the various household duties. At length she turned and entered the room where her husband and little Ruth were lying.
"John," she said, after she had related to him what Mrs. McKrigger had told her about Farrington and the petition, "d'ye think you an' Ruthie will mind if me an' Sammy go into the shore this afternoon with old Queen?"
"Why no, dear," was the reply. "But don't ye think the roads are too bad, an' besides, what are ye thinkin' of?"
"I don't mind the roads, John. They're purty well smashed down by now, an' Queen's very stidy. I've a plan, John, which comes right from me insides," and leaning over she whispered it into his ear.
"Land sakes, dear!" replied her husband. "D'ye think ye kin manage it? Will they listen to ye? Ye're only a woman, remember, an' what kin a woman do?"
"Yes, I'm only a woman, John, an' mebbe 'tain't a woman's place. But when men are too scart an' heven't as much spunk as a chicken jist outer the shell, what else is thar to do? Is thar no one in the hull parish to stan' up fer the Lord's anointed? Tell me that. Didn't that beautiful Queen Ester stan' before her crank of a husband, Hazen Hearus, an' plead fer the lives of her people? An' didn't Jael do the Lord's will when she put old Sirseree outer the way, tell me that? Now, I ain't a queen like Ester, an' I hope I ain't a woman like Jael that 'ud drive a nail through a man's head. I'm jist plain old Marthy Stickles, but mebbe I kin do somethin' fer the Lord, even if I ain't purty or clever."
An hour later an old, lean horse fastened to a homemade pung was wending its way slowly along the road leading to the river. Holding the reins was Sammy, a queer little figure, wrapped from head to foot, bravely maintaining his precarious position on six inches of the end of the board seat. Towering above him, broad-shouldered and ponderous, sat Mrs. Stickles, the very embodiment of health and strength.
"Sammy," said she, as the sled lurched along the rough road, "I don't like this bizness. But when the Lord's work's to be did, somebody's got to set his face like flint, as the Bible sez, an' do it. Don't ye ever fergit that, Sammy. Don't ye ever disremember that yer ma told ye."
The buzz of gossip once more filled the air of Glendow. This last affray between Parson John and Farrington and the part Nellie had taken gave greater scope to the numerous busy tongues. Up and down the shore road and throughout the back settlements the news travelled. It was discussed at the store, the blacksmith shop, the mill, and in the homes at night, wherever a few were gathered together. The Fletchers had never been idle since the night of old Billy's death. They stirred up others by various stories and conjectures, fashioned in their own suspicious minds. "Why," they asked, "did not the parson explain about that money he paid down for the Frenelle homestead? How was it that a poor country parson was able to buy such a farm? They were further incensed by an incident which happened several weeks after the auction. Tom Fletcher was determined that he would question the parson some day, in the presence of others. He prided himself upon his keenness of observation and shrewdness in detecting a guilty manner in those whom he suspected of wrong-doing. The first opportunity he seized when he met the parson at the blacksmith shop, waiting for his horse to be shod.
"Well, Parson, are ye goin' to sell the farm?" he asked in a sort of careless manner.
"What farm?" was the reply.
"Oh, the Frenelle place."
"No; it's not for sale."
"Well, is that so? Money's tight these times, an' I thought mebbe ye'd be glad to get rid of it."
"No. I'm not anxious to do so."
"But, isn't it a heap of money to be tied up in one place? Mebbe ye'd give us a hint how ye manage to do it. It's as much as us poor farmers kin do to live, let alone put four thousand in a place which we don't intend to use!"
Tom tipped a wink to several others in the shop, as much as to say, "Now, I've cornered him. Watch for the fun." Parson John saw the wink, and drew himself suddenly up. He realized that the man was drawing him out for some purpose, and it was as well to check him first as last.
"Tom, do you mind," he asked, "if I put one question to you?"
"Why, certainly not. Drive ahead."
"It's concerning that Widow Tompkins' place. Perhaps you will tell us how you got control of it? Such a thing doesn't happen every day."
Across Tom's face spread an angry flush, while a half-suppressed laugh was heard from the bystanders. All knew very well that Tom had cheated the widow out of her property, though no one ever had the courage to mention it to him before.
"What do you mean by that question?" demanded Fletcher.
"It's a simple one, though, is it not?" the parson quietly responded. "It naturally makes us curious."
"Then I'll not satisfy such d---- curiosity. I tend my own affairs, an' I ax others to do the same."
"That's just the point, Tom," and the parson looked him square in the eyes. "You wish to be let alone with your business, and so do I. You don't wish to satisfy idle curiosity with your affairs, and neither do I. So we are quits."
This incident only caused the Fletchers to hate the parson more than ever. Their greatest ally was Farrington. He was a man of considerable means, and to have his support meant much. Never before was he known to be so liberal to the people who came to his store. Often he invited them into his house to sup with him, and then the grievances and election matters were thrashed out. Occasionally when a farmer came to make purchases, Farrington would see that a present was bestowed in the form of a piece of calico for the wife, or some candy for the children. This was done especially when Farrington was not sure of his man. He was playing his part, not only stirring up these men against the man of God, but also ingratiating himself into their good wishes against the day of the election. When Farrington entered the field as a candidate for the County Council, he knew he would have a hard struggle against his opponent, Philip Gadsby, who was a man much respected, and had occupied the position of councillor with considerable credit for two terms. The storekeeper had been hard at work for some time with no visible success, for the Farrington family with their high-flown ideas were much disliked by the quiet, humble-minded folk of Glendow. The idea, therefore, of him being Ifteir representative was at first abhorrent to most of the people. But this new ruse of Farrington's was proving most successful. The Fletchers drew with them all the loud-talking and undesirable element of Glendow. This Farrington well knew, and by espousing their cause he was greatly strengthening his own. The election day was only a few weeks off, so Farrington and his party had no time to lose.
During all this buzz of gossip, Parson John, the man most vitally concerned, was perfectly oblivious of the disturbance. Of a most unsuspecting nature, and with rot a particle of guile in his honest heart, he could not imagine anyone harming him by word or deed. Happy in his work, happy in the midst of his flock, and with his pleasant little home guarded by his bright housekeeper, he had no thought of trouble. To his eyes the sky was clear. His humble daily tasks brought him comfort through the day, and sweet, undisturbed rest by night.
But with Nellie it was different. She heard what her father did not. Fragments of gossip drifted to her ears, which paled her cheek and set her heart beating fast. Occasionally Dan bore her news he had picked up at the store, or from the boys of the neighbourhood, who were not slow in talking of the things they had heard from their elders. Nellie longed to tell her father, that he might be able to answer some of the charges which were made. Several times had she determined to do so. But when she had looked upon his calm face, noted his white hair, and gazed into his clear, unsuspecting eyes, her resolution always took wings and disappeared. Then she would surprise her father by twining her arms about his neck and giving him a loving kiss.
Two weeks had now passed since the accident, and Parson John was rapidly improving. Two Sundays had he missed from church, something which had happened but once before in his long ministry in the parish. Winter was passing, and signs of spring were beginning to be seen and felt. The snow was steadily disappearing from the hills, and the fresh, balmy air drifted gently in from the south with its exhilarating influence.
It was Saturday night, and Parson John was looking forward to the morrow, when he could take his accustomed place at the parish church. He and Nellie were sitting quietly in the little room, when Mr. Larkins entered with the mail. The postman had met with an accident on the icy road, and was several hours behind time. Usually Dan went to the office, but on this occasion Mr. Larkins was down to the store, and had brought along the mail for both families.
"Letters for us!" Nellie exclaimed as Mr. Larkins entered. "Oh, how good of you to bring them!"
"Stay, stay," insisted the parson, as the worthy neighbour was about to retire and leave them to the enjoyment of their letters. "You have not had a whiff with me for a long time, and here is a new church-warden waiting to be broken in."
"But, I shall interrupt you," Mr. Larkins replied.
"No, no, not in the least."
"Well, then, I agree to remain for one smoke, if you will promise that you will read your letters, and not mind me. I see a new magazine on the table which looks very tempting."
Ensconced in a large easy-chair, he was soon deeply immersed in the fascinating pages, at the same time endeavouring to enjoy the long "church-warden," which was not altogether to his taste. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the cutting of envelopes and the occasional rattle of the letters.
Mr. Larkins was startled by a sudden cry of astonishment, and looking quickly up he saw the parson sitting erect in his chair, clutching a sheet of paper in both hands, and staring at it in a dazed manner. Nellie at once sprang to his side to ascertain the cause of the commotion.
"Look! Look!" he cried, thrusting the paper into her hand. "It's from the Bishop! Read it, quick, and tell me what it means! Am I losing my senses, or is this only a dream, or a joke?"
Although Nellie's face was pale as she sprang to her father's side, it went white as death as she quickly scanned the missive, drinking in almost intuitively every word and its meaning. Then, flinging it aside with an impatient gesture, she placed her arms about her father's neck, and tried to soothe him.
"Father, father, dear, never mind," she pleaded. But her voice faltered, and she simply clung to him like a tender vine to some sturdy oak.
"Girl! girl!" demanded the parson, "what does it mean? Do you know anything? Tell me, quick!"
"Father, father," urged the maiden, "calm yourself. Don't get so excited."
"But, do you know anything about this? Tell me at once!"
"Yes---"
"Yes, what? Don't stop. Go on," and the old man leaned forward so as not to miss a single word.
"Oh, father, give me time," sobbed Nellie. "I will explain all. What will Mr. Larking think?"
"True, true. What will he think?" and the parson turned towards his visitor.
"You will pardon me, sir, for acting so strangely. But I am much upset. There, please, read this. A letter from my Bishop, full of the most remarkable utterances a man ever wrote. My people turned against me! My people charging me with being a common thief! No, no! It cannot be true! Read it--read it for yourself," and with a trembling hand he passed over the letter.
"My dear Westmore," so began the epistle. "What is the trouble between you and your parishioners in Glendow? I have recently received a petition signed by twenty of your people asking for your removal, on the following grounds:
"First. That you are too old to do the work; that many parts of the parish are being neglected, and that a young man should take your place, who will be able to hold the flock together.
"Second. That you alone attended the deathbed of an old man, William Fletcher by name, who was possessed of a considerable sum of money, all in gold. The money, it is well known, was always kept in the house in a strong, iron box. The night you attended him the house was burned to the ground, but no trace of the money has since been found. Even at the time you were suspected by some, as it was well known you were much involved in some mining transactions out in British Columbia and badly in need of money to carry on the work. But not until shortly after the fire, when at a public auction you purchased a large homestead and paid down the amount, four thousand dollars, in cash, did the whole parish suspect that something was radically wrong.
"Third. That on your way to attend a funeral at Craig's Corner on a recent Sunday, you engaged in a horse-race with one, Tim Fraser, a most notorious character.
"Such in brief is the purport of the petition which now lies before me, and I am asked not only to remove you, but to make a thorough investigation concerning the whole affair. I am much grieved at this matter, and cannot understand it at all. You have ever been looked upon as a faithful priest in the Church of God, and I believe you will be able to explain everything to the satisfaction of all. At first I thought it well that you should write to me. On second consideration, however, I think it better to make a visit to Glendow, and see if the matter cannot be quietly settled. I do not wish this trouble to get abroad or into the newspapers. I wish to have the people of the parish come before me, one by one, that I may hear what they have to say, and thus be in a better position to form a sound judgment. I have written the petitioners to this effect, and have told them that I shall be in the vestry of the church next Thursday, morning and afternoon, to hear what they have to say. I have also written to your wardens--whose names, by the way, do not appear on the petition--stating the case, that they may give due notice throughout the parish."
Silently Mr. Larkins returned the letter, not knowing what to say.
"What does it all mean?" questioned the parson, looking keenly into his neighbour's face. "Am I only dreaming, or is it a joke?"
"Neither, father, dear," Nellie replied, taking a seat near his side, and tenderly clasping his hand, which was trembling with excitement. "It is all real, ah, too real! The people have been saying these things."
"What, girl! Do you mean to tell me that these things have been talked about ever since the night of the fire?" demanded the parson.
"Yes, father, some have been saying them."
"And you knew about these stories, Nellie?"
"Y--yes, some of them."
"And you never said a word to me! Never gave me a hint of warning, but let me remain in ignorance the whole of this time!"
"We thought it was for the best, father. Don't get angry with me. I suppose I should have told you, but I thought the gossip would soon cease."
"You thought so, did you! Girl, I didn't think you would deceive me--your father, in his old age! Have all my friends turned against me? Yes, yes, and even she, of my flesh and blood--the darling of my heart for whom I would die! God help me!"
"Father, father, dear! don't talk that way," pleaded Nellie. "You will break my heart. You don't know what I have suffered. Day and night the trouble has been with me. I loved you so much that I wished to spare you the worry. I thought it was for the best, but now I see I should have told you. You have friends, true and tried, who do not believe a word of these charges."
The parson who had been gazing straight before him, rested his eyes upon his daughter weeping by his side. His face softened, and the old look returned.
"Forgive me, darling," he said, placing his arm tenderly about her. "I have wronged you and all my dear friends. But, oh, the blow is so sudden! I hardly know what to think. What can I do?"
For over an hour they sat there and discussed the matter. As Mr. Larkins at length rose to go, he looked into Parson John's face so drawn and white, and almost cursed the wretches who had brought such trouble upon that hoary head.