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.