Coals of Fire
BARBARA'S new task as nurse and housekeeper at the parsonage was not an
easy one, but after the second day she had everything in good
order--everything except her patient. For him there was little
hope--Barbara knew, and Mr. Flint himself knew.
When the minister first saw her after he had been lying alone for hours
his only thought was that she had come to demand something. He had
publicly denounced her; she had been turned away from his door; what
could she have come for except revenge?
"I have come to take care of you, Mr. Flint," was all that she had said,
but it was enough to reassure him.
Barbara's work had taken her into all of the rooms in the house in
search of one thing or another. The first day she had opened the door of
_his_ room--Will's. She had only taken a step when she discovered whose
room it was, and knew that what she was looking for would not be found
there. She could not resist the temptation, however, to glance about the
room. There were his books, and his fishing-rods and tackle; his
shotgun stood in a corner, and near a window was an old-fashioned
writing-table. It was a boy's room--_his_ room. Barbara feasted her eyes
for a moment, and then, remembering her patient, stepped back into the
hall, and softly closed the door.
Hanging on the wall, opposite the foot of Mr. Flint's bed, in an oval
frame of black walnut, was a photograph of Will. The picture was a
likeness of a sturdy little chap of three, with large, staring eyes, fat
cheeks, and long curls. Barbara looked at it often; Mr. Flint, too,
often looked at the picture, but only when Barbara was not in the
room,--while she was there his eyes followed her constantly. There was
something about her, and what she was doing for him, that he, in his
condition, could not understand. They talked but little. Once Mr. Flint
began to speak of his notorious sermon, but Barbara quickly stopped him.
Sam Billings had been hired by the board of health to maintain
quarantine on the parsonage, though the fear of the people of Manville
made it almost unnecessary except for the sake of appearances. The
weather was mild, and when not engaged in a noisy conversation with some
one across the road, Sam sat on the steps, or paced the path to the
gate. Through Sam and Doctor Jones was the only means Barbara had of
communicating with the world, but just then she had little use for the
world or many in it. Sam afforded her some amusement, however, when she
went to the door for a breath of fresh air.
"I tell you, Miss Wallace," he said, one morning, "folks have changed
their minds about you."
"That is a right we all have," Barbara smilingly replied.
"They all think that you're a heroine now."
"I am sure of one good friend in you, Mr. Billings." The "Mr." pleased
Sam greatly--it was seldom used as a prefix to his name.
"You're jest right about that," Sam grinned. He liked Barbara and her
smile immensely. When she had gone in and closed the door he reflected
that, if he were younger, and knew more, and had a steady job, and Billy
Flint was not in love with her and she with him, why, he would put _his_
best foot forward.
"Has any word come from Will?" Mr. Flint asked, on the afternoon of the
second day.
"No," Barbara replied; "but I know that we shall hear to-day."
The sick man turned restlessly.
"I must see him," he moaned; "there is something that I must say to him,
and to you--Barbara." He hesitated before speaking her name--it was the
first time he had called her that.
"But, Mr. Flint," remonstrated Barbara, in alarm, "he cannot come here,
he must not put himself in danger; besides, there will be plenty of time
when you are well again."
"That time may not come. I must tell him before it is too late."
"But not at the risk of his life. Is not his life more to you--and to
me--than our own?"
"Yes," was the feeble reply, and then he muttered: "My miserable life."
"There," said Barbara, soothingly, "we have talked more than is for your
good." She started to leave the room, but he held out his hand
appealingly.
"Wait," he said. "If I cannot tell him I must say it to you. I have
guessed the secret, yours and Will's. It was that more than anything
else that made me preach as I did. From childhood to manhood I fear I
have wronged him. I was narrow--blind. I have wronged you, too, and yet
you came to save me. For Will's sake forgive me, Barbara, and if I
never see him again tell him that I lived to realize my sin, tell him
that I have suffered--" The minister stopped abruptly and listened.
There was a quick step in the hall below. Barbara turned quickly toward
the door, and Mr. Flint dropped his outstretched hand. Some one was
running up the stairs. Barbara half-guessed the truth and was transfixed
with horror.
"Will!" she screamed, as he appeared in the doorway. "Don't come in--go
quick--think of the danger!"
Mr. Flint had half-raised himself, and was staring at his son with a
look of agony on his face.
"In God's name, Will, go! Your life--"
Will calmly raised his hand as though to command silence.
"Danger, my life?" he said, and then smiled as he took Barbara's hands
in his own. "Your life is my life, Barbara."
"And mine," groaned the sick man.
"Yes, and yours, father," replied Will, as he went to the bed and looked
into his father's eyes. "I'm sorry to find you this way, but I have good
news of mother. She is better, except for worrying about you and wanting
to come." A sob from Barbara caused Will to turn quickly and clasp her
in his arms, and as he wiped away the tears and kissed her, he saw the
worry and work written on her face.
"I have come to help, Barbara," he said. She understood and blessed him
for it, but until all danger was passed she prayed unceasingly for his
safety.
That evening Sam Billings was dozing on the front steps when Will opened
the door without thinking that Sam was not aware of his presence in the
parsonage.
"Hello, Sam," he said.
Sam was so startled that he almost fell down the steps. When he had
recovered his balance he stood up, rubbed his eyes, and stared.
"Well, I'm blamed if it ain't Billy Flint!" he exclaimed. "How'd you get
in?"
"By the back door; I knew that you would make a fuss if I tried to get
in this way."
"Ain't you takin' big chances?"
"I'd be taking bigger ones if I stayed away."
Sam mentally concluded that Will knew what he was talking about, though
he could not understand it himself.
"What'll folks say?" he blurted.
Will's face grew dark with anger.
"What will they say?" he asked, quickly. "What do I care what they say?
What can they say that will be worse than what has been said?"
Sam backed down the steps. He had blundered, and feared Will's wrath.
"Of course, I didn't mean--" he stammered.
"Never mind," interrupted Will, "I have an errand for you to do. Go to
the town clerk, and get a blank application for a marriage license."
"A--a what?" gasped Sam.
"I'm not crazy, Sam," said Will, who was much amused by Sam's
astonishment. "Do as I've asked, and when there is any news worth
telling you shall hear it first."
Sam started off without another word, and Will returned to his father
and Barbara.
When Sam made his errand known to Mr. Wiggins, the town clerk, he was
laughed at.
"No foolin' now," said Sam, impatiently. "I want one of them
applications, and I want it quick."
"There you are," replied Mr. Wiggin, as he handed Sam the desired blank.
"Better fill it out right here, Sam, and then I can give you the license
without any delay."
"No; I guess I won't fill it out jest now," drawled Sam, with a grin.
"Perhaps you ain't quite sure of the lady's age."
"That's it, I ain't."
"I always thought that you'd get married sometime, Sam."
Sam had been joked so often about matrimony that it seldom annoyed him,
and now that his inquisitor was wholly on the wrong scent he was greatly
amused.
"Well," he replied, "most men do marry sooner or later."
"And in your case it's a good deal later," chuckled Mr. Wiggins.
"Yes; but you see I've seen so many blamed fools get married 'fore
they'd cut all their second teeth I've kinder hung off," Sam retorted.
"Miss Sawyer's a nice kind of woman," ventured Mr. Wiggins, as he
coughed, and looked at a picture on the wall. The grin on Sam's face
disappeared.
"Who said anything about her?" he demanded, indignantly.
"I said that she was a nice kind of a woman. No harm in that, is there?"
Mr. Wiggins mildly asked, as he turned his weak little eyes on Sam, who
did not dare to meet them with his own.
"No," grunted Sam, as he turned to go; "but I must be goin'."
"Good luck to you," called Mr. Wiggins, as Sam ran down the steps.
The town clerk and his wife had callers that evening, and Mr. Wiggins,
thinking that the joke was too good to keep, told them of Sam's errand,
not forgetting to say that during their conversation Miss Sawyer's name
had been mentioned.
News germs spread faster and farther than any other kind of bugs. The
next afternoon Miss Sawyer heard from reliable sources that she was to
be married to Mr. Samuel Billings a week from Thursday at seven o'clock
in the evening by the Rev. Thomas Morton, of Uphill Centre, who had
married her father and mother forty years before. She also heard that
her wedding-gown was to be of gray and white foulard silk, with lace
trimmings, and that her other things were just _lovely_. There was more,
but she fainted and missed it. Poor Lizzie, it was cruel, terribly
cruel.
When Sam returned to the parsonage Will was at the door waiting for him.
"The old fool thought it was for me," said Sam.
"Your turn may come next," Will replied. "Got a pencil?"
"Yes."
"Then read the questions, and write the answers as I give them." Sam
obeyed, though with difficulty, because his lantern flickered, and he
was not "much at writin' anyhow."
"Goin' to be married to-night, Billy?" asked Sam, when the application
had been filled out.
"Never mind; go and get the license," replied Will.
When Mr. Wiggins read the names on the blank which Sam brought on his
second visit, he dropped the paper and jumped back with horror. Sam
laughed outright as he picked it up and held it out to the fear-stricken
man.
"Don't be scared," he said; "nobody in the parsonage touched it. I wrote
it myself just as Billy Flint told me to."
Mr. Wiggins felt relieved and angry.
"Why didn't you tell me who it was for?" he demanded.
"'Cause you jumped at the answer without givin' me a chance," retorted
Sam.
Without another word the town clerk made out the license, and when it
was finished gave it to Sam, who started quickly for the door.
"Next time," said Mr. Wiggins, stiffly, "you'll save yourself trouble by
not being so close-mouthed."
"And next time," replied Sam, "you'd better not jump the creek till you
get to it."
When Sam returned Will picked up the paper that was placed on the top
step, thanked him, and turned to reënter the house.
"Say, Billy," said Sam, "what am I goin' to say to folks when they ask
me?"
"Tell them all that you know."
"And s'posin' they asked me if you was married?"
"Tell them that if they live long enough they'll know sometime," replied
Will, as he shut the door, and ran lightly up the stairs to the
sickroom. Barbara met him at the door with her finger on her lips
cautioning silence.
"He's asleep," she said.