The Fourth Watch Part 5

"'Well,' sez he.

"'An' ye recollect,' sez I, 'how one was loaded down with apples, while t'other had nuthin' but leaves?'

"I remember," sez he.

"'Well, then,' sez I, 'One was pelted with sticks an' stones all summer, an' even hed some of its branches broken, while t'other was not teched.

Why was that?

"'Cause it hed plenty of good fruit on it,' sez he.

"'Jist so,' sez I. 'Cause it hed good fruit. An' that's why so often the Lord's good people er pelted with vile words cause they're loaded down with good deeds. If they never did nuthin' the devil 'ud leave 'em alone, but jist 'cause they bear good fruit is the reason they're pelted.' John reckoned I was right, an' he's got a purty level head, if I do say it."

"I only hope most of the people in the parish will stand by the parson,"

replied Mrs. Larkins. "I know some will, but there are others who are easily led, and Tom Fletcher's got a sharp tongue."

"Why wouldn't they stan' by 'im, Mrs. Larkins? Wot hev they agin 'im? Tell me that."

Mrs. Larkins did not answer for a while, but sat gazing out of the window as if she did not hear the remark.

"I'm thinking of the parson's son, Philip," Mrs. Larkins at length replied. "You know about him, of course?"

"Sartin' I do. I've knowed Phillie sense he was a baby, an' held 'im in me arms, too. He was a sweet lamb, that's wot he was. I understan' he's a minin' ingineer out in British Columbia, an' doin' fine from the last account I heerd."

"That was some time ago, Mrs. Stickles, was it not?"

"I believe it was last summer."

"Well, it seems that Philip's in trouble."

"Lan' sake, ye don't tell me!" and Mrs. Stickles dropped her knitting and held up her hands in horror. "I was afeered of it, Mrs. Larkins. It's no place fer man or beast out thar. Hev the Injins hurt 'im, or the bears clawed 'im? I understan' they're thick as flies in summer."

"Oh, no, not that," replied Mrs. Larkins. "You see over a year ago Philip invested in some mining property out there, and the prospects looked so bright that he induced his father to join him in the enterprise. Though the parson's salary has always been small, with strict economy he had laid something by each year for his old age. The whole of this he gave to Philip to be invested. For a time things looked very bright and it seemed as if the mines would produce handsome profits. Unfortunately several claimants for the property suddenly turned up, with the result that the whole affair is now in litigation. The case is to be decided in a few months, and should it go against Philip he and his father will be ruined.

Philip manages the matter, and the parson advances what money he can sc.r.a.pe together. Just lately the whole affair has leaked out, and some people, knowing how the parson needs money, may not be slow to impute to him things of which he is entirely ignorant."

Mrs. Stickles was about to speak, when a jingle of bells sounded outside.

"Well, I declare!" she exclaimed, "Sammy's back already!" With that, she rose to her feet, and the conversation ended.

The church was crowded the day old Billy was buried, for a funeral in Glendow was always an important event. Parson John was clad in his simple robes of office and read the Burial Service in a resonant, well-modulated voice. Beholding such n.o.bleness, gentleness and dignity of his face and bearing, only the most suspicious could a.s.sociate him with any underhanded dealing. What connection had such a man with the base things of life?

Mounting the pulpit, he gave a short, impressive address. There was no sentiment, or flowery language. He glossed nothing over, but in a few words sketched Billy Fletcher's life, and pointed him out as a warning to those who become careless and indifferent to higher things.

"The parson talked mighty plain to-day," said one man in a low voice to another, as they wended their way to the graveyard. "He didn't put poor Billy in Heaven, that's certain, and perhaps he's right. I guess he hit the Fletchers pretty hard."

"Oh, yes," the other replied. "The parson got his say from the pulpit, hut the Fletchers will have theirs later."

"Why, what have they to say?"

"Oh, you'll see."

"About that box?"

"Yes."

"Tut, tut, man. Why, they haven't a leg to stand on in that matter."

"But they'll make legs. Surely you know Tom Fletcher by this time. He'll stop at nothing when once he gets started, and though he may not be able to do anything definitely, he'll do a lot of talking, and talk tells in Glendow, mark my word."

And this proved only too true. Talk did begin to tell both in the homes and at the stores. One man, who had met the parson on a hurried trip to the city, declared that he was driving like mad, and hardly spoke in pa.s.sing. Another related that when Tom Fletcher asked Billy about the box, the dying man pointed to the parson, and tried to speak. Though some of the more sensible scoffed at such stories as ridiculous, it made little difference, for they pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth, increasing in interest and importance according to the imagination of the narrator.

Although this slander with malignant breath was spreading through the parish, it did not for a time reach the Rectory. All unconscious of impending trouble, father and daughter lived their quiet life happy in each other's company.

Chapter VI

The Auction

The day of the auction of the Frenelle homestead dawned mild and clear.

"Don't give Dan too many lessons," laughed Parson John, as he kissed his daughter good-bye and tucked in the robes about his feet.

"No fear, father," was the laughing reply. "Perhaps he will turn the tables upon me. He knows so much about the woods, wild animals and birds that I like to learn from him."

Midnight strode along the road, glad of the run in the fresh air. The sleigh bells sent forth their sweet music, echoing and re-echoing from the neighbouring hills and forest. Everything spoke of peace, and in Parson John's heart dwelt a deeper peace, as he guided Midnight through the gateway and reined her up before the Frenelle door.

Though he was somewhat early, others were earlier still, and a group of men, hardy sons of toil, were standing near the house engaged in earnest conversation. They had come a long distance, for an auction such as this was a most unusual occurrence in Glendow. The Frenelle homestead had belonged to the family from the early Loyalist days, descending from father to son for several generations. Each had contributed something to the improvement of the land, but it remained for Peter Frenelle, Stephen's father, to bring it under an excellent state of cultivation. A clear-headed, hard-working man, he had brought his scientific knowledge, acquired by careful study, to bear upon the soil, until his broad, rich acres, free from stone, became the envy and admiration of the parish.

One quiet evening he was strolling around the farm with Parson John, his firm and faithful counsellor from childhood. Looking across the fields of waving grain, and down upon the long straight rows of corn, standing golden in the setting sun, he paused in his walk, and remained for some time in deep thought. "John," he at length remarked, placing his hand affectionately upon his companion's shoulder, "the Lord has been very good to me all of these years. He has blessed me in house and field; He has given me health and strength, and now in my latter days peace and light at eventide."

His companion was not surprised at these words, for often before had Mr.

Frenelle talked in this manner. But early the next morning when he was summoned to his friend's bedside, to receive his final message, and to hold the hand outstretched to him till it was still and cold, the solemn utterance of the previous evening came forcibly to his mind.

For several years after her husband's sudden death, Mrs. Frenelle managed the farm and exhibited remarkable skill in directing the various hired labourers.

But as Stephen, her only son, advanced to manhood she relinquished the responsibility and devoted her time almost entirely to her household affairs. This change was so gradual as to be almost imperceptible. Stephen disliked the drudgery of farm life and left the work to the hired men. So long as he could draw upon his father's careful savings to pay the wages and supply his own needs, he did not worry. The neighbours shook their heads and prophesied trouble as they saw the land producing less each year, and its acres, formerly rich with grain, covered with bushes. Parson John reasoned and remonstrated, though all in vain. Stephen always promised to do better, but in the end continued the same as before. At last the awakening came, sudden and terrible. The bank account had been overdrawn to a considerable extent, and payment was demanded. The only thing to do was to mortgage the farm, and with a heavy heart Mrs. Frenelle signed the pledge of death to the dear homestead. For a time Stephen tried to settle down to steady work, but the old habit of carelessness was too strong upon him, and ere long he drifted back to his former ways. The interest on the mortgage remained unpaid. Foreclosure was the inevitable result, and the farm was accordingly advertised for sale.

At last the day of doom had arrived.

Parson John found Mrs. Frenelle in the cosy sitting-room with her invalid daughter, Nora. The latter was endeavouring to comfort her mother. The girl's face, although worn with care and suffering, was sweet to look upon. She was not what one would call pretty, but it was impossible to be long in her presence without feeling the influence of her strong buoyant disposition. The angel of pain had purged away much of the dross of her nature, leaving the pure gold undimmed. She inherited, too, much of her father's strength of character which seemed to be lacking in her brother.

"What are we to do?" sobbed poor Mrs. Frenelle, as the parson entered the room. "We will be driven from our dear old home, where we have spent so many happy years! We will be penniless!"

"Hush, mother dear," remonstrated her daughter. "Don't get so discouraged.

The place may bring more than will cover the mortgage. We will have that to start with again, and in a few years we may be able to pay everything off. Stephen may settle down to hard, steady work and all will be well."

"Nora is right," replied the parson. "The purchaser, whoever he is, will no doubt let you remain here, and give you a fair chance to redeem the place. Our Glendow people, you know, have big hearts."

"Oh, I wish I could see it in that light," and Mrs. Frenelle glanced at the clergyman through her tears. "It is Mr. Farrington I fear. His mind is set upon having this place. He has looked upon it with greedy eyes for a number of years. He has only a little land in connection with his store, and his wife is always complaining that they have not enough room. She has said on several occasions that they would own this farm some day. Then, you see, Farrington is a candidate for the next Councillor election. He has large ambitions, and hopes eventually to run for the Local House. He thinks a place such as this with its fine, old-fas.h.i.+oned house will give him a certain standing which he now lacks. He wants to pose as a country gentleman, and his wife wishes to have the house in which to entertain her distinguished guests, who, as she imagines, will visit them. Oh, to think of Mrs. Farrington living here!" and the poor woman buried her face in her hands.