The Breath of Slander
"When a man dies he kicks the dust." Thus pithily wrote Henry Thoreau, the
quaint philosopher, in his little shack by the beautiful Walden pool. The
truth of this saying was certainly verified in old Billy Fletcher's death,
and the people of Glendow were destined to see the dust stirred by his
departure, rise in a dense cloud and centre around the venerable parson of
Glendow.
The day after the fire was clear and fine. Not a breath of wind stirred
the crisp air, and the sun-kissed snow lying smooth and white over all the
land sparkled like millions of diamonds.
Near the window in her little cottage, not far from the Rectory, sat Mrs.
Larkins, busily knitting. She was a woman of superior qualities and had
seen better days. Her toil-worn hands and care-marked face could not
disguise the gentle, refined spirit within, which expressed itself in her
every word and action. Two little graves in the Churchyard, lying side by
side, and marked by a small cross of white marble, told how the silent
messenger had entered that home. Often the husband and wife were seen
standing by those little mounds, while tears coursed down their rugged,
honest cheeks.
"No father could have been kinder than Parson John," she had frequently
remarked when speaking about their loss, "and no sister more sympathetic
than dear Nellie. They loved our little ones as if they were their very
own. On that bright summer day when we laid our lambs to rest the parson's
voice faltered as he read the Burial Service, and tears glistened in his
eyes."
Since then whatever happened of joy or sorrow at the Rectory was of the
deepest interest to the lonely two over the way. So on this bright
afternoon as Mrs. Larkins sat by the window her thoughts were busy with
the events of the past night.
A knock upon the door broke her reverie. Opening it, what was her surprise
to find there a woman, with an old-fashioned shawl about her shoulders,
and a bright, jolly face peering forth from a capacious grey hood.
"Mrs. Stickles!" she exclaimed. "Is it really you? Why, I haven't seen you
for such a long time! Come in at once, and lay off your wraps, while I
make you a cup of tea, for you must be chilled through and through."
"Indeed, I am," Mrs. Stickles replied, bustling into the room, and untying
her hood. "Sammy hed to bring the old mare to the blacksmith shop to git
shod, an' John, my man, sez to me, 'Mother,' sez he, 'ye jist put on yer
duds, an' go along, too. It'll do ye a world o' good.' I hated to leave
John, poor soul, he's so poorly. But I couldn't resist the temptation, an'
so I come. My, that's good tea!" she ejaculated, leaning back in a big,
cosy chair. "Ain't that tumble about old Billy Fletcher, an' him sich a
man!"
"You've heard about his death, then?" Mrs. Larkins replied.
"Should think I hed. We stopped fer a minute at the store. I wanted to git
some calicer fer the girls, an' while I was thar I heerd Tom Flinders an'
Pete Robie talkin' about it. Why, it was awful! An' to think the dear old
parson was thar all alone! When Pete told me that I jist held up me hands
in horror. 'Him thar with that dyin' man!' sez I. 'Jist think of it!'
"'I guess he didn't mind it,' sez Si Farrington, who was awaitin' upon me.
'He likes jobs of that nater.' I don't know what in the world he meant. I
s'pose ye've heerd all about it, Mrs. Larkins?"
"Yes," came the somewhat slow reply. "I've heard too much."
"Ye don't say so now!" and Mrs. Stickles laid down her cup, and brought
forth the knitting which she had with her. "Anything serious?"
"Well, you can judge for yourself. John helped to carry Billy to his
nephew's house, and then assisted the others in putting out the fire. But
search as they might they could not find the box."
"Ye don't say so! Well, I declare."
"No, they searched every portion of the rubbish, ashes and all, but could
find no trace of it. That's what's troubling me. I do hope they will find
it for the parson's sake."
"Indeed! Ye surprise me," and Mrs. Stickles laid down her knitting. "Wot
the parson has to do with that box is more'n I kin understand."
"No, perhaps you don't. But you see after the men had made a thorough
search and could not find the box, Tom Fletcher became much excited. He
swore like a trooper, declared that there had been foul play, and hinted
that the parson had something to do with it. You know that the Fletchers
have been waiting a long time for Billy to die in order to get his gold,
property and--"
"Yes, yes, I know Tom Fletcher," broke in Mrs. Stickles. "Don't I know
'im, an' wot a mean sneak he is. He's suspicious of everybody, an' is
always lookin' fer trouble. An' as to meanness, why he hasn't a heart as
big as the smallest chicken. Ye could take a thousand hearts sich as his'n
an' stick 'em all to the wall with one tiny pin, an' then they wouldn't be
half way up to the head. Mean! Why didn't he once put a twenty-five cent
piece inter the kerlection plate by mistake, an' come back the next day to
git it, an' gave a cent in its place. If that ain't mean I'd like to know
whar ye'd find it," and Mrs. Stickles sniffed contemptuously as her
needles whirled and rattled between her nimble fingers.
"Yes," Mrs. Larkins replied, "he carries his meanness into everything. If
he even imagines that it was the parson's fault that the house burned
down, and the will was destroyed, his anger will burn like fire. He's very
revengeful, too, and has an old grudge to pay back. The parson, you know,
was the means of making him close up his liquor business some years ago,
and he has been waiting ever since for a chance to hit back. I tell you
this, Mrs. Stickles, that a man who tries to do his duty is bound to stir
up opposition, and sometimes I wonder why such a good man should have to
bear with vindictive enemies. I suppose it's for some purpose."
"Indeed it is, Mrs. Larkins. Indeed it is," and Mrs. Stickles' needles
clicked faster than ever. "It was only last night I was talkin' to my man
John about this very thing. 'John,' sez I, 'd'ye remember them two apple
trees in the orchard down by the fence?'
"'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
scrape 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 nobleness, gentleness and dignity of his face and
bearing, only the most suspicious could associate 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
passing. 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 passed 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.