The Fourth Watch

Chapter XXII. In the Deep of the Heart

It did not take long for the news of Parson John's intended departure to spread throughout Glendow.

Tongues were once more loosened and numerous conjectures made.

"Guess the Bishop found things pretty crooked," remarked one, "an' thinks it high time for the parson to get out."

"I've thought the same myself," replied another. "The parson's been dabblin' too much in furren affairs. As I was tellin' my missus last night, we never know what will happen next. When them as is leaders goes astray, what kin be expected of the sheep? I've given a bag of pertaters each year to support the church, but dang me if I do it any more!"

But while some saw only the dark side and believed the parson to be guilty, there were others who stood nobly by him in his time of trial. Various were the calls made, some people driving for miles to say good-bye, and to express their regrets at his departure.

Among the number was Mrs. Stickles. She was the first to arrive, and, bustling out of the old broken-down wagon, she seized the parson's hand in a mighty grip as he met her at the gate.

"God bless ye, sir!" she ejaculated. "I'm more'n delighted to see ye. I was on me knees scrubbin' the kitchen floor when Patsy Garlick dropped in an' told me the news. It so overcome me that I flopped right down an' bawled like a calf."

"Dear me! dear me!" replied the Rector. "What's wrong? did you receive bad news? I hope nothing's the matter with Tony."

"Oh, no. I don't mean 'im, sir, though I ain't heered from 'im fer months now. He's so shet up thar in the woods that it's hard to hear. But I feel he's all right, fer if he wasn't I'd soon know about it. No, it's not fer 'im I bawled, but fer you an' the darlin' lass. To think that ye are to leave us so soon!"

"Oh, I see," and the parson placed his hand to his forehead. "Thank you very much for your kindness, Mrs. Stickles, and for what you did concerning that petition. So you have come all the way to bid us good-bye. You must go into the house at once, and have a bite with us. I shall send Dan to give the horse some hay."

"Thank ye, sir. I didn't come expectin' to be taken in an' fed, but seein' as it'll be some time afore I hev sich a privilege agin, I don't mind if I do."

Spring had now come in real earnest. The days were balmy, the sun poured its bright rays upon hill and valley, and the snow disappeared as if by magic. Thousands of streams and rivulets rushed racing down to the river, sparkling and babbling, glad of their release from winter's stern grip. The early birds had returned, filling the air with their sweet music, and the trees, awakened from their long slumber, were putting forth their green buds. Everything spoke of freshness and peace.

But within the Rectory there was an unusual silence. A gloom pervaded the house, which even Nellie's sunny presence could not dispel. Dan had disappeared, and no trace of him could be found. He had departed in the night so silently that even Nellie's ever-watchful ear did not hear his footsteps upon the floor. They knew no reason why the lad should do such a thing, and anxiously they discussed the matter over the breakfast-table. Inquiries were made throughout the parish, which only served to set tongues wagging more than ever.

"I knew when the parson took him in," said one knowing person, "that something 'ud happen. Ye can never tell about sich waifs. They generally amount to nuthin' or worse."

Nellie missed Dan very much. She had come to love the lad with all his quaint ways and dreamy far-away look. He had always been so ready to do anything for her, and often she found him watching her with wondering eyes. In her heart she could not believe that the boy had run away because he was tired of living at the Rectory. She felt sure there must be some other reason, and often she puzzled her brain trying to solve the problem.

As the days passed preparations were made for their departure. There was much to do, for numerous things they must take with them. The parson took but little interest in what was going on. He seemed to be living in another world. So long had he lived at the Rectory that the building had become almost a part of himself. How many sacred associations were attached to each room! Here his children had been born; here he had watched them grow, and from that front door three times had loving hands borne forth three bodies,--two, oh, so young and tender--to their last earthly resting-place in the little churchyard. In youth it is not so hard to sever the bonds which unite us to a loved spot. They have not had time fully to mature, and new associations are easily made and the first soon forgotten. But in old age it is different. New connections are not easily formed, and the mind lives so much in the past, with those whom we have "loved long since and lost awhile."

It was hard for Nellie to watch her father as the days sped by. From room to room he wandered, standing for some time before a familiar object, now a picture and again a piece of furniture. Old chords of memory were awakened. They were simple, common household effects of little intrinsic value. But to him they were fragrant with precious associations, like old roses pressed between the pages of a book, recalling dear and far-off, half-forgotten days.

Nellie, too, felt keenly the thought of leaving the Rectory. It had been her only home. Here had she been born, and here, too, had she known so much happiness. Somehow she felt it would never again be the same; that the parting of the ways had at last arrived. Her mind turned often towards Stephen. She had seen him but little of late. Formerly he had been so much at the Rectory. Seldom a day had passed that she did not see him. But now it was so different. Sometimes for a whole week, and already it had been a fortnight since he had been there. She knew how busy he was bringing his logs down to the river. He had told her that stream driving would soon begin, when every hour would be precious to catch the water while it served. She knew this, and yet the separation was harder than she had expected. There was an ache in her heart which she could not describe. Often she chided herself at what she called her foolishness. But every evening while sitting in the room she would start at any footstep on the platform, and a deep flush would suffuse her face. She had come to realize during the time of waiting what Stephen really meant to her.

Thus while Nellie worked and thought in the Rectory, Stephen with his men was urging his drive of logs down the rough and crooked Pennack stream. How he did work! There was no time to be lost, for the water might suddenly fall off and leave the logs stranded far from the river. All day long he wrestled with the monsters of the forest. At night there was the brief rest, then up and on again in the morning. But ever as he handled the peevy there stood before him the vision of the sweet-faced woman at the Rectory. She it was who had moved him to action, and inspired him. through days of discouragement. His deep love for her was transforming him into a man. He longed to go to her, to comfort her in her time of trouble. But he must not leave his work now. Too much depended upon that drive coming out, and she would understand. So day by day he kept to his task, and not until the last log had shot safely into the boom in the creek below did he throw down his peevy. It was late in the evening as he sprang ashore and started up the road. His heart was happy. He had accomplished the undertaking he had set out to perform.

And while Stephen trudged homeward Nellie sat in the little sitting-room, her fingers busy with her needle. All things had been completed for their departure, which was to take place on the morrow. Parson John had retired early to rest, and Nellie was doing a little sewing which was needed. The fire burned in the grate as usual, for the evening was chill, and the light from the lamp flooded her face and hair with a soft, gentle radiance. Perfect type of womanhood was she, graceful in form, fair in feature, the outward visible signs of a pure and inward spiritual nobleness.

So did she seem to the man standing outside and looking upon her through the window with fond, loving eyes. His knock upon the door startled the quiet worker. She rose to her feet, moved forward, and then hesitated. Who could it be at such an hour? for it was almost eleven o'clock. Banishing her fear she threw open the door, and great was her surprise to behold the one of whom she had just been thinking standing there. For a brief space of time neither spoke, but stood looking into each other's eyes. Then, "Stephen," said Nellie, and her voice trembled, "I didn't expect to see you to-night. Is anything wrong?"

"No, not with me," Stephen replied as he entered. "But with you, Nellie, there is trouble, and I want to tell you how I feel for you. I wanted to come before; but you understand."

"Yes, I know, Stephen," and Nellie took a chair near the fire.

As Stephen looked down upon her as she sat there, how he longed to put his strong arm about her and comfort her. He had planned to say many things which he had thought out for days before. But nothing now would come to his lips. He stood as if stricken dumb.

"Nellie."

"Stephen."

Silence reigned in the room. Their hearts beat fast. Each realized what that silence meant, and yet neither spoke. With a great effort Stephen crushed back the longing to tell her all that was in his heart, and to claim her for his own. Would she refuse? He did not believe so. But he was not worthy of her love--no, not yet. He must prove himself a man first. He must redeem the homestead, and then he would speak. Sharp and fierce was the struggle raging in his breast. He had thought it would be a simple matter to come and talk to her on this night. He would bid her a conventional good-bye, and go back to his work, cheered and strengthened. But he little realized how his heart would be stirred by her presence as she sat there bowed in trouble.

"Nellie," he said at length, taking a seat near by. "I'm very sorry you're going away. What will the place be like without you?"

"Yes, I'm sorry to go, Stephen," was the low reply. "'Tis hard to go away from home, especially under--under a cloud."

"But, surely, Nellie, you don't think the people believe those stories?"

"No, not all. But some do, and it's so hard on father. He has had so much trouble lately with that mining property in British Columbia, and now this has come."

Stephen sat thinking for a while before he spoke. When at last he did he looked searchingly into Nellie's face.

"There is something which puzzles me very much, and partly for that reason I have come to see you to-night."

"Anything more in connection with father, Stephen?"

"Yes. Nora has been worse of late, and the doctor said that the only hope of curing her was to send her to New York to a specialist. Mother was very much depressed, for we have no means, and under the circumstances it is so hard to hire money. I had about made up my mind to get some money advanced on the logs. I would do anything for Nora's sake. The next day your father came to see her, and mother was telling him what the doctor said, and how much he thought it would cost. Two days later your father sent mother a cheque for the full amount, with a letter begging her to keep the matter as quiet as possible. I cannot understand it at all. I know your father is in great need of money, and yet he can spare that large sum. Do you know anything about it?"

Nellie listened to these words with fast beating heart. She knew her father had been over to bid Mrs. Frenelle and Nora good-bye, but he had said nothing to her about giving the money. The mystery was certainly deepening. Where had that money come from? A sudden thought stabbed her mind. She banished it instantly, however, while her face crimsoned to think that she should believe anything so unworthy of her father.

"Nellie," Stephen questioned, after he had waited some time for her to speak, "do you know anything about it?"

"No, Stephen; nothing. It is all a great puzzle. But it is honest money! Never doubt that! Father keeps silence for some purpose, I am sure. He will tell us some day. We must wait and be patient!"

She was standing erect now, her eyes glowing with the light of determination, and her small, shapely hands were clenched. She had thought of what people would say if they heard this. It would be like oil to fire. No, they must never know it.

"Stephen," she cried, "promise me before God that you will not tell anyone outside of your family about that money!"

"I promise, Nellie. Did you think I would tell? I know mother and Nora will not. Did you doubt me?"

"No, Stephen, I did not doubt you. But, oh, I do not know what to think these days! My mind is in such a whirl all the time, and my heart is so heavy over the puzzling things which have happened. I just long to lie down and rest, rest, forever."

"You're tired, Nellie," replied Stephen, as he straightened himself up in an effort to control his own feelings. "You must rest now, and you will be stronger to-morrow. Good-bye, Nellie, God bless you," and before she could say a word he had caught her hand in his, kissed it fervently, flung open the door, and disappeared into the night.