The Warder of the Night
After her father's departure, Nellie sat before the fire engaged upon some
needlework. Occasionally her hands rested in her lap, while she gazed
thoughtfully into the bright blaze. The soft light from the shaded lamp
fell athwart her wealth of dark-brown hair and fair face. Her long lashes
drooped as she leaned back in an easy-chair, and let her mind wander to
the days when she and Stephen played together as happy children. What
bright dreams were theirs, and how many fairy palaces they erected in the
far unknown future.
A movement in the cosy-corner roused her from her reverie. She glanced
quickly in that direction and saw Dan sitting bolt upright, gazing
intently upon her. Nellie smiled as she saw his look of wonder mingled
with embarrassment.
"Have you had a nice sleep?" she asked.
"Guess so," came the slow reply. "I dreamed that you and my father were
right by my side, but when I woke he was gone and only you are with me."
"I hope you will like it here," Nellie remarked, hardly knowing what to
say. "We want to make you happy, and love you just like our own little
boy."
"I'm almost a man now," and Dan straightened up his shoulders and proudly
threw back his head. "I can hunt and work. See how strong I am," and he
placed his right hand upon the muscle of his doubled-up left arm.
"Some day you will be as big as my father, won't you?" replied Nellie,
much amused at the sturdy lad.
"Was that your father who brought me here?"
"Yes."
"And what's his name?"
"Mr. Westmore. But most people call him 'Parson John.' You'll call him
that, too, won't you? He likes it better."
"Yes; if you want me to, I will. But, say, what's your name?"
"Oh, mine's just Nellie, Nellie Westmore. Not very pretty, is it?"
"I think it is. Do you know that was my mother's name--Nellie, I mean, not
the other one."
"And do you remember your mother, Dan?"
"Only a little. She was good and pretty, just like you."
"Tell me about her, will you? I should like to hear."
And there in the quietness of that room Dan's tongue was unloosed, and in
his own simple way he told about his mother, her death, and how he and his
father had lived together in the little log shanty. Half an hour passed in
this quiet talk, and when at length Dan ceased Nellie glanced at the
clock.
"Why, I didn't think it was so late! It is time you were in bed. You must
be tired. Come, I will show you where you are to sleep to-night, and
to-morrow we will fix up a room for your very own."
Going to the kitchen Nellie lighted a small lamp, and with this in her
hand she and Dan went up the small winding stairway.
"This is the place," and she opened a door leading to a room at the north
of the house. "The pipe from the hall stove comes up there, so it's always
quite warm. I do hope you will sleep well."
She went to the window to draw down the blind and as she did so a light
fell upon her eyes which gave her a distinct start. It was not from the
moon, for the night was dark, but from a burning building, a short
distance up the road. The flames were leaping and curling through the
roof, sending up blazing cinders in every direction.
Nellie's heart almost stopped beating as she gazed upon the scene. It was
Billy Fletcher's house! and what of her father? Was he amidst those
flames, or had he escaped?
"Dan, Dan!" she cried, turning to the lad, "Come, quick! I'm afraid that
something terrible has happened! Get on your coat and cap as quickly as
possible and let's make haste!"
It did not take them long to throw on their wraps, and to hurry forth into
the night.
To Nellie the distance seemed never-ending. Would they ever reach the
house? How the road had lengthened! and her breath came hard and fast as
she staggered forward, trying to keep pace with the more hardy lad. The
light of the fire illumined the road for some distance around, and guided
their steps. Drawing near they could discover no one about the place. What
did it all mean? Here Nellie paused and with wildly beating heart looked
at the seething mass before her, and listened to the roar of the flames as
they sent up their wild flamboyant tongues into the air. Had her father
been entrapped in that terrible furnace? She glanced towards a barn on her
right and as she did so her eyes fell upon a sight never to be forgotten.
Someone was there, kneeling in the snow with bent head gazing intently
upon some object before him. It was her father! and with a cry of joy
Nellie rushed forward. She found he was kneeling by Billy Fletcher's side,
supporting his head, and carefully wrapping around him his own great-coat.
He looked up and an expression of relief came into his face as he saw his
daughter standing there.
"I am so glad you have come," he exclaimed. "Poor Billy's in a bad way. We
need help. He must be taken to some house. I wish you would hurry up the
road for assistance. Dan will go with you. Get his nephew Tom as quickly
as possible."
Waiting to hear no more, Nellie, fatigued though she was, started at once
for assistance, Dan following close behind. They had gone only a short
distance, however, when they met Tom himself running along the road.
"What's wrong?" he gasped.
"Don't you see?" Nellie replied. "The house is burning down."
"And Uncle Billy; is he safe?"
"Yes, he's safe, but almost dead."
"And the box, what about it?"
"What box?"
"The money box; the iron one, where he keeps his papers and gold."
"I know nothing about the box," replied Nellie, while a feeling of great
repugnance welled up within her at the heartlessness of the man. He cared
little for his uncle, the feeble old body, but only for what he possessed.
By this time they had reached the place where the sick man was lying.
"Is he living?" shouted his nephew.
"Yes," replied the parson, "though I doubt if he can last long. We must
get him away to your house as soon as possible."
"But the box, Parson; did you save it?" questioned Tom.
"No, I never thought about it, and, besides, I did not know where it was."
At this Billy opened his faded eyes, and fixed them upon his nephew's
face. He tried to speak, but his voice was thick and his words were
unintelligible.
"Where's the box?" shouted Tom.
Again the old man endeavoured to say something. Failing in this he made an
effort to rise. The struggle was too much for him, and with a cry he sank
back upon the snow, dead.
By this time several neighbours had arrived, and stood near with a look of
awe upon their rugged faces. Nellie drew her father aside, knowing full
well that his care was needed no longer.
"Come," she said, "we had better go home, These men will do the rest. You
have done your part."
He followed her along the little path leading to the main road. Reaching
this she took him by the arm and supported his steps, which were now
over-feeble. Slowly and feelingly, he told the story of the night. He had
found the old man in a bad condition, and cold from the lack of a good
fire. Filling the stove with a liberal supply of wood, and making Billy as
comfortable as the circumstances would permit, he had sat down to watch
his charge. Ere long the sick man grew much worse. Then the chimney had
caught fire. The bricks must have been loose somewhere, which allowed the
flames to pour through into the dry woodwork overhead, which was soon
converted into a blazing mass. Seeing that nothing could be done to save
the building Mr. Westmore was forced to carry Billy, sick though he was,
out of the house. He tried to reach the barn, but his strength failed, so
he was forced to lay his burden upon the snow, and wrap his great-coat
around the helpless man.
"Poor Billy! poor Billy!" said the parson in conclusion. "He was careless
about higher things. I hope the good Lord will not judge him too harshly."
"But he was not always like that, father," Nellie remarked.
"No, no, thank God. He had a happy home when I first came to this parish,
long before you were born. I have often told you about the sweet,
God-fearing wife he had then. But after she was laid to rest a great
change took place in Billy's life. He became very rebellious and never
darkened the church door. He acquired a great passion for money, and grew
to be most miserly. As the years passed his harshness increased. He waxed
sullen and disagreeable. His neighbours shunned him and he looked upon
them all with a suspicious eye. His money he never placed in a bank, but
kept it in his house in gold coin, in a strong, iron box, so I have been
told, and would count it over and over again with feverish delight."
"But, father," remonstrated Nellie, "there must have been something good
in poor old Billy. You know how fond he was of Tony Stickles."
"True, very true, dear. I have often wondered about the affection between
the two. No one else could live with the old man, except Tony, and he
served him like a faithful dog. It is generally believed that Billy
confided many things to Tony. He is a peculiar lad, and people have tried
in vain to find out what he knew. He will certainly feel badly when he
comes out of the woods, where he is now working, and hears about Billy's
death. But here we are at home. Oh dear, the journey has greatly tired
me," and the parson panted heavily as he entered the house.
During the homeward walk Dan trudged along close by Nellie's side, busy
with his own thoughts. He longed for something to happen that he might
show her what a man he was. If a robber or a wolf, or some frightful
monster, would spring out from the roadside, he would meet it
single-handed, kill or drive it away. Then to behold the look of
gratitude and admiration upon the woman's face as she looked at him, what
bliss that would be! Little did the father and daughter realize, as they
slowly walked and conversed, what thoughts and feelings were thrilling
the little lad by their side, feelings which in all ages have electrified
clods of humanity into heroes, and illuminated life's dull commonplaces
with the golden romance of chivalry.