Silas Farrington was much disturbed by Tony Stickles' arrival in Glendow. He had always laughed at the lad, considering him a stupid, ungainly creature. Occasionally he had overtaken Tony on the road trudging wearily along, but it had never occurred to him to offer him a seat in his waggon or sleigh.
"It spiles sich people," he had often said, "to take too much notice of 'em. They have a sartin place in life, an' should be made to keep it." But standing in the store that evening after Stephen's departure, the despised Tony occupied an important place in his mind. He would have laughed to scorn anyone who had suggested such a thing. But down deep in his heart, small and narrow though it was, dwelt considerable unrest. "What had the lad come back for?" he asked himself over and over again. "What was the special business which brought him so unexpectedly? Did he know anything?" Harrington's face twitched as he thought of these things. He strode up and down in the store. Once he paused before the safe standing in the corner, and looked long and thoughtfully upon it. A muttered curse escaped his lips. This was succeeded by a scornful laugh. "What a fool I am!" he exclaimed, "to worry about sich things! What is thar to find out? Let 'em do their best and be damned! We'll see who holds the stoutest and longest rope. That Steve Frenelle's a cur, an' I hate 'im. He's jist the one to stir up trouble. I've suspected 'im all along. He knows too much fer one of his age. Wait 'till I'm councillor, an' then I'll show 'im a thing or two." Waggons rattling along the road startled him. He glanced at his watch. "My! I didn't know 'twas so late; almost time for the meetin'. I must git ready."
The big public hall of Glendow was packed to the door. People came from all over the parish to this political meeting, for lively scenes were expected. The two candidates opposed to each other were to be there to discuss various problems of local interest. On the front seat sat Mrs. Farrington, Eudora and Dick.
Philip Gadsby was the first speaker. He was a man tall and somewhat thin, with a kind, thoughtful face. His voice was soft, well modulated, and his words carefully chosen. There was nothing of the orator about him, in fact his speech was somewhat of a hesitating nature. But he was possessed of a convincing manner, and all who were there knew they were listening to a man who was more than his words, and that what he said he would endeavour to accomplish to the best of his ability. He spoke about the needs of the parish, better roads, improvement of the schools, and the efforts which should be made to form an agricultural society in Glendow, which was essentially a farming community.
"Our watchword," he said in conclusion, "should be progress. Look at our roads. Money is spent upon them every season, but not in an intelligent way. We find men at times appointed roadmasters who seldom drive over the highway. Mud and sods are heaped up in the centre in a confused fashion, late in the fall. Let us do less, do it well, and use more gravel. Look at our schools. The buildings are old, ill equipped, and sometimes fifty to sixty children are crowded into one room fitted only to accommodate twenty, and one teacher to manage all. And we do need an agricultural society. We are farmers. We need to read, study, meet together and hear addresses from experts. New methods are employed elsewhere, while we are behind the times. Yes, we must advance. I have the welfare of the parish at heart, and whether elected or not I shall still take my part in the forward movement."
Often during the speech Gadsby was greeted with cheers and clapping, for those present realized the effectiveness of what he said, and he sat down amid great applause.
It was then that Farrington rose to his feet and mounted the platform. He had listened to Gadsby's speech with amused tolerance, and occasionally whispered something to his wife sitting by his side. He was a man possessed of an abundance of words, and he turned his attention at once upon the first speaker. Gadsby had made no personal allusion to his opponent. He simply stated his case and ceased. But not so Farrington. From the first word he uttered he began to pour forth contempt and ridicule. He laughed at Gadsby's ideas of progress.
"I think we're purty well advanced," he shouted. "The schools an' roads are good enough fer me. Progress means more money, an' more money means bigger taxes. The children of Glendow are well supplied, an' as fer the roads they're good enough. As fer an agricultural society--well," and here he cast a significant look at Gadsby, "them who talk sich things had better look at their own farms. Before I go out shoutin' about progress I had better be sure that my own bizness is on a good footin'. I generally find that sich people spend too much time gaddin' about instid of attendin' to their own home affairs."
And thus Farrington talked for over an hour. He wandered off into all kinds of subjects, made jokes at which the boys laughed, and told funny stories. He imagined he was putting his hearers in good humour, and he took their cheers and stamping as signs of approval. But he little knew what the serious-minded were thinking about. They were slow of speech, but they were keen observers, and they were mentally comparing the two candidates before them. Farrington knew nothing of this. He was in a rollicking, fine humour. He felt pleased with the people for their apparent approval, but more pleased with himself for the speech he was making. "I'm real glad to see so many of yez here," he said in conclusion. "I think nearly all the voters are present, at any rate every family is represented. Now if any of yez would like to ax a question I shall be glad fer 'im to do so. I take it that the meetin' is open fer free discussion."
"Guess I've made a hit," Farrington whispered to his wife as he resumed his seat by her side. "The people know a good thing when they find it."
"Ye done well, Si," was the reply. "I'm sartinly proud of ye. Thar's no doubt now about yer election."
The clapping and stamping had not ceased ere a man was noticed pushing his way through the crowd to the front of the hall. As he mounted the platform the noise suddenly stopped, for all were much surprised to see Stephen Frenelle standing there. Never before had he been known to do such a thing, especially at a political meeting. What could he have to say? All wondered. And Stephen, too, was surprised. He was not accustomed to public speaking, and shrank from the thought of facing so many people. But he was very calm now, and in his eyes flashed a light which bespoke danger. In his right hand he clutched several papers, which all noted. He looked steadily over the heads of the people before speaking, and an almost breathless silence ensued.
"You wonder why I am here," he began at length. "I am not used to the platform, and only a matter of great importance would ever make me mount it. The last speaker has given permission for all to ask questions. He has said that nearly all the voters are here, and that every family is represented. I will tell you of one voter who is not here, one who on an occasion like this was generally present. I need hardly mention his name, for you all know. I now ask why isn't Parson John with us to-night?" He paused as if for an answer, and looked into the faces before him. "You all know," he continued, "as well as I do. Because he was actually driven from the parish. He left it almost a heart-broken man."
At these words, Farrington sprang to his feet.
"What has all this nonsense to do with the election?" he cried. "He's out of order, an' I appeal to the chairman to stop 'im."
"Hear! hear!" yelled several. "Go ahead, Steve!" shouted others.
"Yes, I intend to go ahead," replied the latter. "You will find out, Mr. Farrington, before I am through the meaning of my words, and perhaps I will not be the only one out of order. It's more likely to be disorder.
"I was asking the question when I was interrupted, 'Why was Parson John driven from the parish?' Because of vile stories which were circulated about him. And what were those stories? You know as well as I do. I need not mention them all; of one only shall I speak. When old Billy Fletcher's house was burned to the ground, and the gold which he was supposed to have could not be found, what did some say? That Parson John took it. Yes, that's what they said, and you all know it. I've heard it ever since then. His friends knew it was a lie, but what could they say? What proof could they bring forward? I now ask you what became of that gold? It is a secret no longer. The witness is here," and Stephen held the papers aloft. The silence which now pervaded the hall was most intense. Every ear was strained to its utmost, and every eye was fixed full upon that up-lifted hand.
"Here is my witness," repeated Stephen, "and I ask the man, the last speaker, whose name is signed to this paper, to stand up and give us an explanation."
During the latter part of this speech, Farrington had turned as white as death. He sat bolt upright, with his hands clutching convulsively the edge of the seat. He felt that something terrible was pending, and a horrible, craven fear overwhelmed him! He knew that paper held up there only too well. It was simply a sheet of cheap writing-paper, and yet it was his ruin. It was damning him as a scoundrel and a sneak in the presence of these people!
"Cannot the last speaker explain how his name happens to be here and what he knows about that gold?"
These words fell like the knell of doom upon Farrington's ears. What was he to do? But something must be done.
"What d'ye mean?" he gasped. "What d'ye want me to explain?"
"About this writing."
"What writin', an' whar did ye git any writin' of mine? It's some mean trick!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. "This villain has come here fer the purpose of injurin' me! I tell ye it's false! it's false!"
"But what about this?" Stephen insisted, calmly holding up one of the papers. "And there are others."
"What is it? What is it? Read it, Steve," came the cry from the audience.
"I say it's false!" shouted Farrington, springing again to his feet, his face blanched with terror. "It's a mean trick! Put the villain out! Will ye let an honest man be put upon in this way?"
"Read the paper, Steve," urged several. "Let's know what's the matter. We don't understand this fuss."
Farrington made a pathetic figure as he stood there uncertain what to do. He knew he was in a trap, but he had not the moral courage to stand up and face the worst like a man. Had he done so there were many who would have pitied him. But he blustered and raved and threatened what he would do.
"If that man will be still for a few minutes," said Stephen, "I shall tell you what these papers contain."
"Sit down, Farrington!" came a general yell. "We'll hear you later."
"Now," began Stephen. "I shall read this one first. It is not long.
"'To-day October 30, 18-- I placed the sum of $5,000 in gold in Silas Farrington's safe for him to keep until called for. The money is locked in a stout, iron box marked with a cross with white paint. I do not like banks--they are not to be depended upon, and are always failing. This seems to be the best place to put my money. I am to give Mr. Farrington one dollar a month for the use of the safe. 'WILLIAM FLETCHER.'"
As Stephen finished the reading, a movement took place among the people and angry, threatening words were interchanged.
"It's a lie!" yelled Farrington. "It's made up to ruin me! Will ye believe sich a story?"
"Just wait a minute," continued Stephen, holding forth another small piece of paper. Here is further evidence which might be of some service. Listen to this.
"'Glendow, Friday, Oct. 30th, 18-- Received from William Fletcher, the sum of $5,000 in gold, in an iron box, to be kept for him in trust in my safe until called for, he promising to pay me one dollar a month for the use of my safe. 'SILAS FARRINGTON.'"
An intense silence now reigned in the hall. All were waiting to see what would happen next. It was the calm before the storm. The people were more than surprised, they were dumfounded at this sudden turn of events. The purpose of the meeting was forgotten. Then one wild cry went up. There was confusion everywhere, all talking and shouting at once. At this the chairman rose to his feet, and held up his hand for peace. Gradually the commotion subsided, and all waited to hear what he had to say.
"We are much astonished at what has happened," he began. "It is a very serious matter. These papers are of a most damaging nature to one of the candidates here to-night. He has emphatically denied the statements made therein. But we demand further proof. Let him now come forward and speak. Perhaps he can explain matters fully."
"Hear! Hear!" came from every part of the building.
Half dazed and trembling, Farrington staggered forward, and grasped the back of a chair for support.
"It's a lie, I tell ye!" he shouted. "But I want to ax one question. Whar did them papers come from? Ye all know very well that everything was burned which old Billy had in the house. Not a scrap of anything was left, and how did them papers escape? That's proof enough to show what a mean trick has been played upon me. I am the one to ax fer an explanation."
"That shall be granted at once," Stephen replied, and in a few words he told of Tony Stickles' arrival, their search beneath the large hearth-stone, and the discovery of the iron box containing the valuable papers.
"Tony is here," said Stephen in conclusion, "and if you do not believe me, ask him."
But there was no need for Tony's witness. The evidence was already strong enough, and the people were aroused.
"Mr. Farrington," said the chairman, motioning the audience to be quiet. "If you have that gold in your safe, it will save considerable trouble if you produce it at once. If it is there and you have kept silence and allowed that man of God to suffer, you deserve the severest punishment. Is it the wish of the people here that the safe should be opened?"
"Ay, ay!" came like a roar of thunder.
"Ye can't do it!" yelled Farrington, rising to his feet. "It's my private property, an' I defy anyone to touch my safe."
"Oh, we'll not touch it," the chairman coolly remarked. "We'll not lay hands on it. All we ask you to do is to throw open the door and show us what's inside."
"It ain't lawful, I say," shouted the desperate man.
"Maybe it isn't lawful. But we'll attend to that, I reckon. Sometimes people take the law into their own hands, and I guess that's what we'll do to-night. In my opinion there's not a judge or a jury in the whole land but would support our action. Come now, you'd better do as we desire at once."
Farrington, excited though he was, found it necessary to do some rapid thinking. He knew he could not delay that angry assembly much longer. One hope only remained, and upon this he acted.
"Very well," he replied, "I might as well go at once. Come when you like, you kin examine everything in the safe. I'm not afeer'd fer ye to look."
He took a step or two forward with the intention of leaving.
"Wait a minute," said the chairman. "Don't be in too big a hurry. We'll go along with you. It's always good to have company on such occasions."
"I don't want anyone," snapped Farrington, turning angrily upon him.
"No, I know you don't. But we're not considering your feelings just now."
"Then, I'll not go! Do what you like with me!" and Farrington sank back upon the seat, a pitiable bundle of wretched humanity.
During the whole of this excitement, Mrs. Farrington had remained motionless, striving to comprehend the meaning of it all. At first a great rage filled her heart at the thought of Stephen Frenelle talking in such a way to her husband. But when the papers had been read her anger was changed to fear, which was much increased by Farrington's excited condition. She realized that he was placed in an unenviable position, but thought not so much of the meanness of his deed as of what the neighbours would say. How could she ever hold up her head again? she wondered. How the women would talk! And then to think that Si was in danger of losing the election, all on account of this Stephen Frenelle. What business had he to interfere? It was no concern of his. She watched everything which took place, and listened eagerly to each word. She heard the chairman ordering her husband to wait until several went with him to search his safe. Then when she had seen him sink upon the seat at her side, she gave one cry and fell prostrate upon the floor.
At once several people sprang forward, and strong arms bore her through the crowd into the open air.
Farrington hardly noticed what was taking place. He sat huddled upon the seat where he had dropped, helpless and full of despair.
"Come, Mr. Farrington"--it was the chairman's voice--"we must get through with this business, and we are determined to get through with it to-night. Will you go quietly and open that safe, or must we carry you there?"
No answer coming from the wretched man, the chairman continued: "Very well, then, men, there's only one thing left--and what's your wish?"
"Drag him there," was the shout, and a yell of derision arose whilst a number of sturdy forms rushed forward. The people were wildly excited now. They realized the nature of the trick which had been imposed upon an innocent man. Had the money been merely stolen, or had Farrington committed forgery, they would have let the law take its course. But in this case the vile meanness of the deed, the criminal silence of months, stirred their hearts, inflamed their passions, and carried them beyond the bounds of reason.
"Let me alone!" yelled Farrington, as a dozen hands were laid upon him.
"Will you come, then?"
"Y-y--es," was the quaking reply.
"Well, hurry up about it," and as the wretched man started for the door, he was rushed forward by the crowd which surged about him. Hatless and almost breathless, with wild staring eyes, Farrington staggered along the road. The store was reached.
"Unlock the door," was the command, "and make haste about it."
This was soon done and the crowd pressed into the building.
"Now open the safe!" the chairman demanded, "and show us what's there."
But just here Farrington, terrified though he was, hesitated. Like the man who, about to die on the gallows, cherishes hope of deliverance almost to the last, so did he. Perhaps his friends would interfere to save him from the ignominy. But alas! his former boon companions, Tom Fletcher and his gang, were nowhere to be seen. They had quietly slunk away, fearful for their own safety from the infuriated people. Now that safe door stood only between Farrington and eternal disgrace. It was no wonder that he paused. How could he do it? The perspiration stood in great beads upon his forehead, and his knees would hardly support his body.
"I can't!" he gasped, looking imploringly around.
A yell was the only response to his appeal.
"Boys," cried the chairman, when the confusion had subsided, "there's a coil of new rope over there in the corner, and a stout tree stands outside. Suppose we give him his choice. He can either open the safe or go up to the first limb."
"Hear, hear!" was the reply, and a rush was made for the rope, a long piece cut off and a loop formed. The chairman had no idea of carrying out the latter design, and he knew very well that such an extreme measure would not be needed. It was simply a ruse to get the safe open. And in this he was right. When Farrington heard their terrible words, and saw the noose made ready, with a groan he sank upon his knees before the safe. With trembling hands he turned the steel disk, but somehow the combination would not work. Again and again he tried, the people becoming more and more impatient. They believed he was only mocking them, while in reality he was so confused that he hardly knew what he was doing. But at length the right turn was made and the heavy door swung open upon its iron hinges.
"Bring out the stuff," demanded the chairman.
One by one the articles were brought forward, and last of all from a back corner Farrington slowly dragged forth an iron box with a white cross mark upon it.
A shout of triumph rose from those who first beheld it, and then yells of derision.
"Order!" commanded the chairman.
"Is that Billy Fletcher's box?"
"Y-y-es."
"And you knew it was there all the time, and let Parson John get the blame for stealing it?"
"Y-y--es. B-b--ut fer God's sake have mercy! I--I--didn't mean to do it! I was o-only j-j--okin'! I intended to ex-p-plain everything."
There was an ominous movement among the bystanders, and those in the rear did some excited talking, while several left the building. Presently the sound of heavy blows was heard in the store-room adjoining the shop. Then a rush of feet ensued, and Farrington was suddenly caught and hurried forward. The light of a small lamp shed its feeble beams over the place, making it look more ghostly than ever. The intentions of his captors flashed into Farrington's mind. Standing there was a large cask of tar used for boats and the roofs of houses. The head had been smashed in, and the odour was pouring forth.
"Fer God's sake not that!" shrieked the wretched man. "Oh, help, help! Murder!"
But his cries were all in vain. Rough hands were laid upon him, his clothes were hurriedly ripped off, and he was lifted bodily, and lowered feet first into the black, slimy depth. He resisted, but it was useless. He was forced down upon his knees, and the tar covered him to his very ears. Silence reigned now in the room. They were determined men who were handling this nasty job, and with set mouths and intense grimness they watched the victim flounder about and then give up in despair.
When he had been soused and soaked to their satisfaction he was helped out, and with the tar dripping from his body he was led back into the main store. There a large feather-bed was seen spread out upon the floor. It had been ripped open, and into this Farrington was plunged. He yelled and cursed, but to no avail. He was rolled over and over among the yielding feathers, and when at length he was allowed to stand upon his feet he presented the picture of a strange, incongruous bird with the head and feet of a man. No hand touched him now, and he stood there not knowing what to expect.
"Go," cried the chairman pointing to the back door leading into his house, "and the sooner you pull up stakes and leave the parish the better for yourself and family."
As soon as Stephen knew that his services were no longer needed, he stood back and let matters take their course. He followed the crowd to the store to see what would happen. Not until he had seen the box with his own eyes could he be completely satisfied with his evening's work. But when at length the safe was opened and the box exposed to view, he gave a deep sigh of relief. He had waited to see what the men would do with Farrington. He knew that the punishment inflicted was just. Stephen did not believe in the mob spirit, but he realized that the most effective remedy at times was that administered when the people aroused in righteous indignation tarred and feathered the culprit, bestowed the cat-o'-nine-tails or ducked him in the nearest pond. Though not in accordance with the British Constitution it is certainly the most effective way of dealing with some mean, contemptible cases. And Farrington's was one of them. With clever legal counsel he might be able to prove that he was acting within his right in holding the money "until called for," according to the wording of the paper he had signed, while the real motive that prompted him to keep silence might not be considered at all.
Having thus seen Farrington receive his just deserts, Stephen hurried home. A light was burning in the sitting-room which his mother had left for him ere she retired for the night. He threw himself into an armchair and reviewed the exciting scenes of the evening. A weight had been suddenly lifted from his mind, and his heart was filled with thankfulness. He thought of the joy which would shine in Nellie's face when she learned how her father had been cleared of that terrible charge. He longed to see her, to look into her eyes, to clasp her hands and tell her what had so unexpectedly happened. Was she thinking of him? he wondered, and what was she doing? He realized more than ever what she meant to him. Life was unbearable without her sweet, loving presence.
At length, taking the lamp in his hand he sought his own room, but not to sleep. He threw himself upon the bed, clothes and all. But try as he might his eyes would not close. Ever before him rose that white-haired old man, with the weary face, bearing so patiently the burden of injustice. Why should he carry the load any longer? Why should he not know the truth as soon as possible? And how would he know unless someone went at once? Acting upon the thought he sprang from the bed, lighted the lamp and stole softly downstairs. He was about to leave the house, when he paused, and turning back went to a little writing-desk and drew forth a sheet of paper. Taking a pencil from his pocket he wrote a brief message to his mother, and laid it upon the dining-room table, where she would be sure to find it in the morning.
Having accomplished this he left the house and made his way to the barn. His favourite horse was startled from his sleep, and laid back his ears in resentment as the saddle was placed upon his back, and he was led out of the stable. The moon was flooding the whole land with its silver beams as Stephen sprang into the saddle and headed Dexter for the main road. Then the ring of steel-shod hoofs echoed upon the still air as horse and rider sped through the night, on to a little village far away beyond the hills.
"I feel completely side-tracked now. Life moves forward, but here I am a useless burden."
It was Parson John who spoke, as he leaned back in an easy-chair and gazed dreamily out of the window.
Nellie laid down the book she had been reading aloud and looked anxiously at her father. This was the third day they had been at Morristown, and it was the first time her father had uttered any word of complaint. The change had been restful, and he had enjoyed it thoroughly. There had been so many things to see and to talk about with his brother that he hardly missed the separation from Glendow. A sense of glad freedom had been his. There was no responsibility of parish work, and no long, tiresome drives ahead. He need not worry about sermons for the following Sunday, nor feel concerned for any who might be sick. It was a luxury to sit there quietly in the large, airy room with the fresh breath of spring pervading the place, and to watch the trees putting forth their tender leaves and the fields donning their robe of green, yellow and white. Occasionally Nellie read to him from some favourite author, although much of her time was taken up helping her aunt with various household duties. The change which she beheld in her father caused her much joy. "It is just what he needs," she thought. "A good rest will restore him more than anything else." So now on this bright afternoon to hear him complain of being side-tracked, of no use in the world, worried her.
"You must remember, father dear," she replied, "it is well to be side-tracked sometimes. Engines are often laid by for repairs, and I have heard you say that we need rest that mind and body might be strengthened."
"True, very true, Nellie. But I seem to be useless. There are so many things to be done, and but little time in which to do them. When one has been engaged in a work for over thirty years it is not easy to lay it suddenly aside. It becomes part of one's life. Some may think that rest is sitting still and doing nothing. But to me such a thought is terrible. 'Rest,' as a great poet has well said, 'is not quitting life's busy career. Rest is the fitting of self to one's sphere!'"
"Yes, father, but did not blind old Milton say that 'They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
"But how am I serving, Nellie? What is there for me to do here? I sit all day long and think, while others serve me."
"Father," Nellie replied after a brief silence, "I believe a stroll would do you good. You have been staying in the house too much. I have discovered some very pleasant walks out from the village, and, if it will not weary you, suppose we start off now."
Her father looked up quickly at the suggestion.
"Capital!" he exclaimed. "It's just what I need. I am becoming too moody, and the fresh air will revive me."
He was almost like a child now in his eagerness to be off. With his stout cane in one hand, and leaning upon his daughter's arm, he moved slowly along the dry road, through the village and out into the country where the houses were few.
"Oh, this is life, grand, true life!" and he stood for a few minutes looking far away across the broad fields. The air laden with the freshness of spring drifted about them; the birds flitting overhead were pouring forth their joyous music, while on every side early flowers were lifting their tiny heads. All nature seemed to combine to give a glad welcome to these two wayfarers.
At length, coming to a cross road, Nellie paused.
"Look, father," and she pointed to a large tree near by. "What a cool, shady spot! Suppose we rest there for a while, and I will read some from the little book I have brought with me."
Willingly Mr. Westmore conceded to her wish, and soon they were snugly seated on the grassy sward. With his back against the tree, Parson John breathed a sigh of relief as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a large, white handkerchief.
So absorbed did they both become in the book that neither noticed the black clouds which had been gathering away to the south, and were now rolling up fearful and threatening beneath the sun. A distant peal of thunder, followed by a bright flash of lightning, startled them.
"A storm is coming!" exclaimed Nellie, springing to her feet. "We must hurry home at once! The road to the right is shorter. I know it quite well; we had better take that."
They had not proceeded far, however, before the peals of thunder became more intense, and soon large drops of rain came spattering down.
"We're in for a heavy storm," panted Mr. Westmore. "It's about to burst upon us. We must seek shelter!"
"There's a house right ahead," Nellie replied. "Perhaps we can get in there."
They plodded on in silence now, and turned in at a little gate none too soon. Scarcely had they entered the small porch in front of the house ere the storm broke. Hail, mingled with rain, came thundering down upon the roof, and, dashing against the glass, threatened to smash in every pane. The thunder crashed and shook the house, while the lightning streaked the air with blinding flashes.
"This is terrible!" exclaimed Nellie, clinging to her father's arm, her face very white. "We must get into the house!"
They knocked upon the door, but received no response. Again they rapped louder than before, and at length a key was slowly turned and a woman, neatly dressed and fair to look upon, peered timidly forth. A relieved look came into her face as she saw the two standing there.
"Come in," she said, giving a little nervous laugh. "This fearful storm has quite overcome me."
She led the way into a cosy sitting-room, and offered her visitors chairs.
"You will pardon our intrusion, I am sure," explained Mr. Westmore. "We came simply for shelter. We are much obliged to you."
"Not at all, sir," replied the woman. "I am so glad you came. I am alone with the children, and they are all much frightened."
"And your husband is away?"
"Yes. He's been gone all winter. He was working in the woods for Rodgers & Peterson, and is now on the drive."
"Dear me! it must be hard for you to have him away so much."
"It is, sir. But he will stay home after this. He has earned enough this winter to make the last payment on our farm. We have been struggling for years, saving every cent and working hard to get the place free from debt, and now it will be our very own if--if--," and the woman hesitated.
"How glad your husband will be to be home," said Nellie, with her eyes fixed upon several bright little faces in the doorway. "He must long to see you all."
"Ay, indeed he does, but especially Doris. She is our invalid girl, you see, and is very dear to us. She can't romp and play like the others, and I suppose for that reason she appeals to us the more."
"Has she been ill long?" questioned Mr. Westmore, becoming now much interested.
"For five years. It's hip disease, and she will never walk without a crutch, if she does then. Perhaps you would like to see her."
They were conducted into a small bedroom, and the sight which met their eyes moved them both. Lying on the bed was a girl of about fifteen years of age, with a sweet, fair face, large, expressive eyes, and a high forehead crowned by a wealth of jet-black hair, parted in the middle and combed back with considerable care. The room was as neat and clean as loving hands could make it. A bright smile illumined the girl's face, which Nellie thought the most beautiful she had ever looked upon.
"It's so good of you to come to see me," she said. "Very few come, and I do get lonely at times."
"You will be glad when your father comes home, will you not?" Nellie remarked, taking the girl's thin, white hand.
"Oh, it will be delightful! He has been away so long. Let me see," and she counted on her fingers. "He has not been home since Christmas."
"But he writes to you, though?"
"Yes, such lovely letters, all about his work. But the last one was so sad. I have cried over it many times. I have it right here. Would you like to read it? It's so interesting."
"Suppose you tell us about it, dear," said Mr. Westmore, taking a chair by the side of the bed. "That will be better."
The girl's face flushed a little, and she hesitated.
"I'm afraid I can't tell it half as well as father does in his letter. You know, the men were bringing the logs down Big Creek Brook, and they all got stuck in a nasty place called Giant Gorge. One big log in some way, I don't understand, stopped the rest, and it had to be cut out. It was a dangerous thing to do, and the men drew lots to see who would go down into that awful place. And just think, papa drew the paper with the mark upon it, which meant that he was to do it! I shudder and cry every time I think about it. Well, as dear papa was about to go, a young man, Tony Stickles, sprang forward and said he would go, because papa had six children and a wife who needed him. Wasn't that lovely of him? I should like to see him. And just think, before papa could stop him he sprang upon the logs, cut away the one which held the rest, and all rushed down right on top of him. Papa said he was sure Tony would be killed, but he jumped from one log to another, and when all thought he would get to the shore, the logs opened and he fell into the water. Then something wonderful happened, so papa said. As Tony was clinging there a boy suddenly came along, jumped upon the logs, ran over them, and pulled Tony out just in time. But a log hit the poor little boy, and Tony had to carry him ashore. Don't you think that's a lovely story, and weren't they both very brave, real heroes like you read about in books? Oh, I lie here hour by hour and think it all over!"
The girl's face was quite flushed now, for she had spoken hurriedly, and her eyes shone brighter than ever. She was living the scene she related.
"What a nice story you have told us," Nellie replied when Doris had finished. "I am glad to hear what a brave deed Tony did, for we both know him."
"What! you know him?" cried the girl.
"Yes, very well. Ever since he was a baby."
"How nice it must be to know a real hero!" sighed the girl. "Please tell me about him."
And there in the little room Nellie told about Tony, his mother, brothers and sisters, to which Doris listened most eagerly.
"We must go now," said Mr. Westmore rising to his feet and looking out of the window. "The storm has cleared and the sun is shining brightly."
"But you will both come again, won't you?" Doris inquired as she held out her hand.
"Yes, if you want us to do so," Nellie replied. "But we don't wish to tire you."
"You won't tire me. I long for someone to talk to, and you know so much."
Parson John had now left the room, and Nellie was holding the girl's hand. She glanced at the door to make sure that her father could not hear, then she bent over the bed.
"Did your father tell you the name of that boy who saved Tony's life?"
"No. He said he didn't know."
"Did he say what he was doing there?"
"No, only he had a funny little letter for Tony. It was in his pocket, and when they opened it a small rose fell out."
"And he didn't say what the letter was about?"
"No."
"Thank you, dear, I must go now," and as Nellie stooped down and gave the girl a kiss, Doris suddenly clasped her arms about her neck.
"I love you! I love you!" she murmured. "You are so beautiful and good! Come soon, will you?"
"Yes, dear, to-morrow, perhaps," and as Nellie left the room her eyes were moist with the tears she found impossible to restrain.
As she walked along the wet road by her father's side her mind was busy thinking over what she had just heard. Who was that boy? He must be a stranger to that place, and what was the letter about? Could it be Dan? How often had she and her father talked about the boy. They believed that he would come back some day. Suddenly there flashed into her mind the persistent efforts Dan had made to write a letter, and how he had time and time again asked her the way to spell certain words. She had thought little about it then, but now she remembered that one of the words was "Tony." Her father looked up in surprise as Nellie paused, and clutched his arm more firmly.
"What's the matter, dear?" he asked. "Are you tired? Perhaps we are walking too fast."
"No, father," and Nellie gave a little laugh. "I was Only thinking, and my thoughts run away with me sometimes. But I am glad we are almost home, for the walking is heavy and our shoes are covered with mud. See that beautiful rainbow, father!"
They both stood still for a few minutes, and looked upon the grand arch spanning the heavens and resting upon earth.
"The bow of promise, Nellie," said Mr. Westmore. "It appears to-day, the same as of old, to remind us all that 'His mercies still endure, ever faithful, ever sure.'"
"Perhaps it's a sign to us, father, that our storm has past, and the sun will break forth again." "It may be true, child. God grant it so," and Mr. Westmore sighed as he turned in at the gate leading to his brother's house.
Again the next day they both visited the invalid girl. Nellie read to her, while Parson John sat and listened. They were becoming firm friends now, and Doris chatted unreservedly.
"I shall tell papa all about you," she said. "I have a letter almost finished, and shall mail it to-night. How I wish you could see him."
All through the day Dan had been much in Nellie's mind. The idea which had come to her the evening before was growing stronger. She believed it was Dan and no other who had rescued Tony. It was just like him, and she thought of the afternoon he had saved her and her cousin on the river. Should she tell her father? That was the question which she debated with herself hour after hour, and when they returned from their visit to Doris, she had not yet decided.
That evening she strolled out of the house, and down the road leading to a little brook. The air was balmy and fresh, and this was her favourite walk. Trees lined the way, stern old oaks, beeches and maples--the grove on her uncle's farm, the place where people came for miles to hold picnics.
As Nellie walked along her thoughts turned often to Glendow. She wondered what Stephen was doing, and if his logs were rafted. She missed him greatly. They had been so much together, had grown up as children, but not until this separation had she fully realized what he meant to her. She thought of the night he had come to tell about Nora and to say good-bye. Her face flushed, and a sweet peace came into her heart as she dwelt upon Stephen's manner that night--his confusion--his stammering words--and the burning kiss upon her hand. She stood on the little bridge now, in the quiet dusk of even, leaning against the railing and looking pensively down into the shallow water below. Suddenly she raised her hand and pressed it again and again to her lips--the same hand which Stephen had kissed.
A step upon the bridge startled her, and her heart beat fast. Had anyone seen what she did? She thought she was alone, but somebody was coming. She turned away her flushed face, and gazed down into the water, leaning her arms upon the railing. The steps drew nearer. They were opposite her, and soon they would pass. Some neighbour, no doubt, going home. If he had seen her action he would tell others, and soon every person around would know. Presently the steps paused. The silence frightened her. It was dusk; no house in sight, and she was alone. Quickly she faced about, and there standing before her was Stephen. A cry of surprise escaped her, and the next instant she felt his strong arms about her and his lips fervently pressing her own.
"Stephen!" she cried, struggling to free Herself. "How dare you! When did you come?"
"Just from home, and was resting under that big tree," Stephen replied still holding her tenderly. "I dared much after I saw what you did a few minutes ago. Oh, Nellie, Nellie. I have been waiting long for this moment! Surely, surely you are mine at last!"
The flush had left Nellie's face now, leaving it very white, though in the deepening twilight this was not noticeable. Her heart was beating tumultuously, and a new feeling of peace and rest was stealing over her. How powerful seemed the man standing there. So long had she been called upon to be strong, always helping, ever taking such a responsible place in life, caring for her father, strengthening him in his work--and upon her he depended. But now to feel that she could give herself up to another, one who had passed through a stern fight in the strength of his sturdy young manhood, and had come forth as victor. Yet mingling with this new-found joy came the thought of the dark shadow hanging over her father's life. How could she be happy when he was in trouble? For his sake she had kept the brave spirit and presented only the bright sunny face, and cheery words of hope. The tension for weeks, nay months, had been a severe strain--and now this sudden joy! It unnerved her. Words would not come to Stephen's passionate pleading, but in their stead tears stole down her cheeks, while her form trembled with convulsive sobs.
Stephen started in surprise.
"Nellie! Nellie!" he cried. "What have I done! Forgive me! I did not mean to hurt you! I thought you would understand. If you only knew how I love you--if you only----"
"I know it, Stephen--I know it. I am very foolish. Please forgive me. I cannot explain these tears--they come unbidden."
"Then you're not unhappy, Nellie? You are not cross with me?"
"Cross, dear Stephen, no. I am so happy, very happy. But why should I be happy when my father is in trouble? How dare I! Is it right?"
"Then you love me, Nellie! Oh, speak the word--let me hear it from your own lips!"
"Yes, Stephen, I do love you, don't you know it? I am yours, your very own."
"Thank God! thank God!" he cried, drawing her closer to him, and kissing her again and again. She did not resist now, but allowed him to hold her there while he breathed into her ear his sweet words of love. They were no studied, well-rounded phrases, but such as leaped from a true, noble heart, and the woman listening knew their worth.
"Why didn't you write to me, Stephen?" Nellie whispered, "and tell me you were coming? I have been worried lately, and it would have been something to look forward to."
"I didn't know I was coming until this morning," came the reply.
"Didn't know?"
"No--I left in the night."
"This is more mysterious than ever."
"Yes, I left very early this morning, and should have been here by the middle of the afternoon, but Dexter threw a shoe about five miles back. I had to leave him at a farm, and walk the remainder of the way. I was resting by the bridge when you came along. I was quite put out to think I had to tramp that distance and be so late. But now I know it was for the best. Doesn't everything turn out right, Nellie?"
"Y-y--es, some things do," was the reluctant reply. "This has, anyway, and I try to believe that all things concerning my poor father will come out right, too. I think we had better go to him now and tell him of our happiness. It may brighten him up a bit."
Side by side they walked slowly along the road, and Stephen told the whole story of Tony's return, the hidden box, the political meeting, the discovery of the gold in the safe, and Farrington's ignominious punishment.
They had reached the house by the time he had finished, and stood for a moment on the doorstep before entering. In Nellie's heart was such a joy that words would not come to her lips. She felt she must be asleep, and would awake to find it only an unsubstantial dream. But Stephen's arm around her, and his strong presence near, assured her that it was a blessed reality.
They found Mr. Westmore sitting alone in his little room, reading by the shaded lamp. He glanced quickly up and was surprised to see Stephen standing by Nellie's side. He saw the look of rapture upon their faces, and read at once the meaning of it all, and into his own weary face came a light which Nellie had not seen in many a day. She tried to speak, but words failed, and moving quickly forward she threw her arms about her father's neck, and kissed him fervently.
"Oh, father, I am so happy!" she whispered. "Do you know? Can you understand?"
"Yes, darling," he replied. "I do understand. Come near, Stephen, my son," and as the young man approached, he joined their hands, and bade them to kneel before him. Then stretching out his hand over the bowed heads, and in a voice trembling with emotion, he gave them his benediction. "May the Lord bless you and keep you," he said. "May the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you, and keep you true to Him and to each other unto your lives' end."
Sitting by Mr. Westmore's side that evening, Stephen told the story he had recently related to Nellie. Parson John sat straight upright in his chair, and his eyes never once left Stephen's face.
"And do you tell me!" he cried, when the latter ceased, "that Dan is injured--lying unconscious?"
"He was when Tony left."
"Poor dear boy! and he did it all for me!" murmured the parson. "What a sacrifice to make of his bright young life I I must go to him, Nellie, at once! In the morning! Poor Dan! Poor Dan!"
Thus the three sat for some time talking of the accident and planning for the journey. Not once did Mr. Westmore speak about the recovery of the gold, but that night in the quietness of his own room he poured out his soul, in a great, fervent prayer of thankfulness to the Father above, and also he sought His aid on behalf of a little wounded lad lying on a bed of pain in a farm-house miles away.