Hitting Back
Farrington said very little after Nellie's departure. He even surprised
his wife by his coolness, for instead of raging, swearing and stamping
around the house he walked quietly out into the store. Here he busied
himself with various matters, and talking at times to the few customers
who straggled in. When no one was present he sat on a high stool by the
window and gazed out over the snow. He was not thinking of money now, nor
how much his eggs and butter would bring. His mind was dwelling upon that
scene which had just taken place. He thought nothing of the brave defence
Nellie had made on behalf of her father, but only of his own wounded
feelings. At times his hands would clinch, and a half-audible curse escape
his lips. He would get even, oh, yes! But how? He saw the danger of going
any further in connection with the Stickles' cow affair. He must let that
drop. There were other ways, he was sure of that; the difficulty was to
know just what to do.
The door opened, and a tall, lanky man entered, with a pair of skates
dangling over his left shoulder.
"Hello, Miles!" exclaimed Farrington, hurrying around to shake hands with
him. "Haven't seen you fer an age. What's the news at Craig's Corner? Set
down, you look about tuckered out."
"Should say I was," Miles drawled forth. "Never got into such a mess in
all my life. Skated down river Sunday evening and was caught in that
blasted snowstorm, and so am footing it back."
"Dear me, that's hard luck," and Farrington sat down upon a soap-box.
"Anyway, I'm mighty glad to see ye. Hope things are goin' well at the
Corner. Much election talk, eh?"
"Considerable. The air's been full of it lately, but I guess Sunday's
doings will give the folks a new subject for awhile. 'Twas certainly a
stunner!"
"Why, what do ye mean, Miles? Nobody killed, I hope."
"What! Haven't you heard anything?"
"No, how could I with the storm blockin' the roads."
"Sure. I never thought of that. But I supposed the parson let it out."
"The parson!" and Farrington's eyes opened wide with amazement. "What in
the devil has he to do with it? He was brought home night afore last with
his shoulder out of jint."
"Whew! You don't say so! Well, I declare!"
"Tell me what ye mean, man," exclaimed Farrington, moving impatiently on
his seat. "Let's have the yarn."
"Ha-ha! It was a corker! Just think of it; a funeral procession moving
slowly across the river, with Tim Fraser and Parson John racing by like a
whirlwind. I never saw anything like it, ha-ha!" and Miles leaning back
laughed loud and long at the recollection.
Farrington was all attention now. A gleam of delight shone in his eyes,
and a faint sigh of relief escaped his lips. He controlled his eagerness,
however, for he wished to draw Miles out, and learn the whole story.
"Ye don't mean to tell me," he remarked, "that the parson was racin' on
Sunday? Surely ye must be mistaken!"
"I'm a liar then," calmly replied the other, gazing thoughtfully down at
his boots. "Yes, I'm a liar, and a fool! Why, didn't I see the whole thing
with my own eyes? And didn't all the people of Craig's Corner see it, too?
Ask them, they'll tell you the same."
"I don't doubt yer word, Miles, but it's so unusual. The parson never did
anything like that before, did he?"
"Not to my knowledge. But he's mighty fond of a horse, and a fast one at
that, so I guess when Tim Fraser clipped up he couldn't resist the
temptation."
"Did he explain about it? Did he tell how it happened?"
"He didn't say much. I heard him tell some people that he never let the
devil get ahead of him, and he was bound he wouldn't do it that time."
"Ho-ho! That's what he said? Nothing more?"
"No, not that I heard. I came away after that, so nothing new has reached
me since, except what you tell me. Is he badly injured?"
"I don't know. Guess he'll come out all right; he generally does."
"He looked very well on Sunday. I'm really sorry he's met with this
accident."
"Mebbe it had something to do with the race," suggested Farrington.
"In what way?"
"Perhaps it's a punishment fer what he did on Sunday."
"Surely, you don't say--!" and Miles' mouth opened in surprise.
"Oh, I don't say anything fer certain. I only know that sich things
sometimes do happen. A man who will race on the Sacred Day of Rest must
expect almost anything to happen. I've known of several sich cases.
Something generally does happen."
"You don't say so! Well!"
"Now honestly," continued Farrington very deliberately, "do ye think sich
a man is fit to be the minister of the Gospel in Glendow? Do ye think a
man who stands in church on Sunday an' reads them solemn words about
keepin' the Sabbath Day holy, an' then goes out on the ice an' engages in
a horse-race--do ye think sich a man is fit to teach our people? What an
example to set our children! When we tell 'em to remember the Day an' keep
it holy, they will say, 'Oh, the parson raced his horse on Sunday!' Oh,
yes, that's what they'll say. So you see what a condition the parish will
be in."
"Well, I never thought of it that way," replied Miles, rising to his feet.
"But I must be off. I see the road is being broken."
When the man had left the store Farrington stood for some time with his
hands clasped behind his back. He was in deep thought, and occasionally
his lips curled with a pleased smile. He then walked to the window, and
watched the men breaking the roads. He saw his own hired man, Pete Davis,
among the rest. Most of the able-bodied men of the neighbourhood were
there with shovels and teams. It was an inspiring sight to see team after
team in a long procession plowing their way forward among the high drifts.
Where the snow was light the leading horses would plunge through, blowing,
snorting, struggling, and at times almost hidden from view. In places
shovels had to be used and then cuttings, narrow and deep, were made
through the banks, just wide enough for one team to move at a time. For
hours the work had been carried on, and at length the last drift had been
conquered, and communication, from place to place once again opened up.
Farrington watching the horses surging through was not thinking of the
fine appearance they presented. His mind was upon a far different matter.
He stood there, saw the teams swing around and finally disappear up the
road. It pleased him to see Miles riding upon one of the sleds. His ready
tongue was as good as a newspaper, and he would spread the story of the
Sunday race wherever he went.
Mrs. Farrington was surprised at her husband's jocular manner when he was
called to dinner. He joked and laughed more than he had done in many a
day. Not a word did he say about Nellie's visit; in fact he seemed to have
forgotten all about it.
"Ye must have done a good bizness this mornin', Si," his wife remarked. "I
haven't seen ye in sich fine spirits in a long time."
"Haven't sold as much as usual, my dear," was the reply. "Didn't expect to
anyway, as the roads have jist been broken."
"But ye seem very happy. Has anything remarkable occurred?"
"Simply an idea, my dear, simply an idea."
"Well, well, who'd a thought it. I didn't know that an idea 'ud make one
feel so good. Tell me about it, Si."
"No, not now. I haven't time. Besides, I want to see how it'll work, an'
then I'll surprise ye."
Farrington rose from the table, and going to the store went at once to the
small office. Here he spent some time writing, and at the end of a half
hour gave a chuckle of satisfaction, laid aside the pen, folded up the
paper and put it into his pocket. Next he went into the stable, and
ordered Pete to harness the horse and have it at the door in fifteen
minutes. At the end of that time he came from the house, wrapped in his
large fur coat, cap and mittens. Soon he was speeding over the road,
leaving Mrs. Farrington, Eudora and Dick watching him from the window, and
wondering what it all meant.
Farrington was forth upon important business, and he knew exactly at what
houses to stop. There were the Fletchers, he was sure of them; the
Marshalls, their kinsmen; the Burtons, and several families who owed
fair-sized bills at the store, and would be unable to pay for some time.
The sun was dipping big and red far westward when Farrington turned his
horse's head homeward. He was well pleased with his afternoon's work. No
one had refused to sign the petition he carried, and over twenty names had
been scrawled upon the paper.
As he moved along his eyes rested upon a little cottage away to the right,
nestling near a grove of large maple trees. Old Henry Burchill, the
wood-chopper, lived there. Farrington's brows knitted as he thought of
him. Would he sign the paper? He knew that Henry was once opposed to the
parson for introducing certain things into the church. But then that was
long ago, and he wondered how the old man felt now. Anyway there was that
unpaid bill at the store. It would have some weight, and it was no harm to
try.
Mrs. Burchill was at home, and was surprised to see the storekeeper enter
the house. She was a quiet, reserved woman, who mingled little with her
neighbours. The lines of care upon her face, the bent back and the
toil-worn hands told their own tale of a long, hard battle for life's bare
necessities. Her heart beat fast as she shook hands with her visitor, for
she, too, thought of that bill at the store, which she and her husband had
been bravely striving to pay.
"Is yer husband at home, Mrs. Burchill?" asked Farrington, seating himself
on a splint-bottomed chair.
"No, sir. He's in the woods chopping for Stephen. I'm afraid he won't be
home to-night."
"Dear me! that's too bad," and Farrington brought forth the paper from his
pocket. "I wanted 'im to do a little favour fer me--simply to put his name
to this pertition. But, if you'll do it, 'twill be jist the same," and he
handed over the paper.
Mrs. Burchill put on her glasses, and slowly and carefully read the words
written there. Farrington watched her closely and noted the colour
mounting to her faded cheeks, and the look of reproach in her eyes as she
at length turned them upon his face.
"And you expect me to put my name to this?" she demanded.
"An' why not?" smiled Farrington. "Have you read what the paper sez?"
"Yes, every word."
"An' don't ye think there's a reason why ye should sign it? Don't ye think
the Bishop should know what kind of a parson we have?"
"Mr. Farrington," and Mrs. Burchill spoke very deliberately, "if the Angel
Gabriel himself came with that paper for me to sign I should refuse. I'm
an old woman now, and why should I commit such a sin in my declining
years?"
"Sin! what sin would ye commit in simply signin' that paper?" Farrington
demanded.
Mrs. Burchill did not reply at once, but placing her hand upon a Bible
lying by her side she reverently opened it.
"Listen to these words," she said. "They are not mine, remember, but the
Lord's. 'Touch not mine anointed,' He says, 'and do my prophets no harm.'
Now Parson John is one of the Lord's anointed, set apart for a sacred
work, and it's a dangerous thing to strive against Him."
"Tut, tut, woman! That's all rubbish! Them things happened in olden days.
Besides, we have a just grievance. He is interferin' too much with the
affairs of others. He takes too much upon himself. Then, what about that
race on Sunday? Do ye think we should stand that?"
"Ah, sir, it's the same old story. Don't you remember how people said the
very same thing about Moses and Aaron, long, long ago. They said that
those two men were taking too much upon them, and a rebellion ensued. And
what was the result? The Lord punished the people, the earth opened and
swallowed them up. I often read that story to Henry in the evenings, and
it makes us feel very serious. Oh, yes, it's a dangerous thing to
interfere with the Lord's anointed. Something's bound to happen to the
ones who do it."
Farrington could stand this no longer. He had met with such success during
the afternoon that to hear this rebuke from Mrs. Burchill was most
annoying.
"Woman!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "I don't want to hear all this.
I didn't come here to be preached to about sich old-fashioned trash as the
'Lord's anointed!' I came here to git ye to sign that paper, an' not to be
preached to! Will ye sign it or will ye not?"
"No, I shall not sign it!" was the quiet response.
"Very well, then, that's all I want to know. But remember, Mrs. Burchill,
there's a little unpaid account on my books against your husband. Please
tell 'im to call and settle it at once. If not--oh, well you know the
result," and Farrington looked significantly around the room. "So,
good-day. I must be off."
Mrs. Burchill stood at the window and watched Farrington drive away. Then
a sigh escaped her lips. She went back to the chair where she had been
sitting, and kneeling down buried her face in her hands. For some time she
remained in prayer, but her earnest pleadings were not for herself or her
husband, but for the old grey-headed man--the Venerable Rector of Glendow.