Silently Mr. Larkins returned the letter, not knowing what to say.

"What does it all mean?" questioned the parson, looking keenly into his neighbour's face. "Am I only dreaming, or is it a joke?"

"Neither, father, dear," Nellie replied, taking a seat near his side, and tenderly clasping his hand, which was trembling with excitement. "It is all real, ah, too real! The people have been saying these things."

"What, girl! Do you mean to tell me that these things have been talked about ever since the night of the fire?" demanded the parson.

"Yes, father, some have been saying them."

"And you knew about these stories, Nellie?"

"Y--yes, some of them."

"And you never said a word to me! Never gave me a hint of warning, but let me remain in ignorance the whole of this time!"

"We thought it was for the best, father. Don't get angry with me. I suppose I should have told you, but I thought the gossip would soon cease."

"You thought so, did you! Girl, I didn't think you would deceive me--your father, in his old age! Have all my friends turned against me? Yes, yes, and even she, of my flesh and blood--the darling of my heart for whom I would die! G.o.d help me!"

"Father, father, dear! don't talk that way," pleaded Nellie. "You will break my heart. You don't know what I have suffered. Day and night the trouble has been with me. I loved you so much that I wished to spare you the worry. I thought it was for the best, but now I see I should have told you. You have friends, true and tried, who do not believe a word of these charges."

The parson who had been gazing straight before him, rested his eyes upon his daughter weeping by his side. His face softened, and the old look returned.

"Forgive me, darling," he said, placing his arm tenderly about her. "I have wronged you and all my dear friends. But, oh, the blow is so sudden!

I hardly know what to think. What can I do?"

For over an hour they sat there and discussed the matter. As Mr. Larkins at length rose to go, he looked into Parson John's face so drawn and white, and almost cursed the wretches who had brought such trouble upon that h.o.a.ry head.

Chapter XX

The Overseer

The service at the parish church Sunday morning was largely attended. Word had spread rapidly that the Bishop would arrive during the week, and it was confidently expected that the parson would touch on the question from the pulpit.

"Guess we'll git something to-day," one man remarked to another, near the church door.

"Y'bet," was the brief response.

"D'ye think the parson will say anything about old Billy?"

"Mebbe he will, an' mebbe he won't."

"But I think he will. The parson likes to hit from the pulpit when no one kin hit back."

"Is that what brought you to church to-day? You seldom darken the door."

"Sure! What else should I come fer? I'm not like you, Bill Flanders, wearin' out me shoes paddin' to church every Sunday. I kin be jist as good a Christian an' stay at home. I kin read me Bible an' say me prayers there."

"I'm not denying that, Bill, but the question is, Do ye? I reckon ye never open yer Bible or say yer prayers either fer that matter. If you were in the habit of doin' so you never would hev signed that pet.i.tion to the Bishop."

"Well, I'm not alone in that. There's Farrington, a church member an' a communicant, who headed the list, an' if he----"

"Hold, right there, Bill. Farrington never signed that paper."

"Yes, he did."

"But, I say, he didn't. He promised to do so, but jist after he sent it away he made a fuss an' said that he had fergotten to do it."

"Ye don't say so!" and Bill's eyes opened wide with surprise. "But are ye sure?"

"Sartin. I had it from Tom Fletcher himself, who feels rather sore about it. It is well known that Farrington wanted the parson removed on the plea of old age, but didn't want that clause in about Billy's death. The Fletchers insisted, however, an' in it went."

"The devil! Well, it's queer, I do declare."

Just then the bell rang out its last call, and they entered the church with others.

Parson John looked greyer than usual as he conducted the service and stood at the lectern to read the Lessons. But his voice was as sweet and musical as ever, though now a note of pathos could be detected. His step was slow and feeble as he mounted the pulpit, and a yearning look came into his face as he glanced over the rows of heads before him.

"Remember my bonds," was the text he took this morning, and without a note to guide him, he looked into the numerous faces, and delivered his brief message. A breathless silence pervaded the sanctuary as he proceeded to draw a picture of St. Paul, the great champion of the faith, in his old age enduring affliction, and appealing to his flock to remember his bonds.

The arm of the parson still in the sling, and the knowledge the people had of the reports circulated about him, added much to the intense impressiveness of the scene. For about fifteen minutes he spoke in a clear, steady voice. Then his right hand clutched the top of the pulpit, while his voice sank and faltered. "Brethren," he said, straightening himself up with an effort, "St. Paul had his bonds, which were hard for him to bear; the bond of suffering, the bond of loneliness, and the bond of old age. You, too, have bonds, and will have them. But how sweet to know that your friends and loved ones will remember your bonds, will understand your sufferings, peculiarities, and will sympathize with you, and be considerate. I, too, have bonds: the bond of unfitness for my great work, and the bond of old age. These two shackle and impede me in the Master's cause. But I ask you to think not so much of these as of another which binds me soul and body--it is the bond of love. I look into your faces this morning, and think of the many years I have laboured among you in evil report and good report. I have learned to love you, and now that love is my greatest bond, for it enwraps my very heart. When parents see their darling child turn against them, their love to him is the hardest bond to bear, because they cannot sever it. They remember him as a babe in arms, as a little, clinging, prattling child. They think of what they have done and suffered for his sake and how the cord of love has been silently woven through the years. My love to you is my greatest bond, and, though some may grow cold, some may scoff, and some repudiate, never let the lips of any say that your rector, your old grey-headed pastor, now in his fourth and last watch, ever ceased in his love to his little flock."

There was a diversity of opinion among the listeners to these pathetic words, which was quite noticeable as the congregation filed out of the church. The eyes of some were red, showing the intensity of their emotion, while others shone with a scornful light.

"The parson fairly upset me to-day!" blurted out one burly fellow. "I heven't been so moved sense the day I laid me old mother to rest in the graveyard over yonder."

"Upset, did ye say?" replied another, turning suddenly upon him. "What was there to upset ye in that?"

"Why, the way the parson spoke and looked."

"Umph! He was only acting his part. He was trying to work upon our feelings, that was all. Ah, he is a cute one, that. Did ye hear what he said about the bond of love? Ha, ha! That's a good joke."

There was one, however, who felt the words more deeply than all the others. This was Nellie, who sat straight upright in her pew, and watched her father's every movement. She did not shed a tear, but her hands were firmly clasped in her lap and her face was as pale as death. As soon as the service was over she hurried into the vestry, helped her father off with his robes, and then supported his feeble steps back to the Rectory.

She made no reference to the sermon, but endeavoured to divert her father's mind into a different channel. She set about preparing their light midday repast, talked and chatted at the table, and exhibited none of the heaviness which pressed upon her heart. Only after she had coaxed her father to lie down, and knew that he had pa.s.sed into a gentle sleep, did she give way to her pent-up feelings. How her heart did ache as she sat there alone in the room, and thought of her father standing in the pulpit uttering those pathetic words.

Thursday, the day of the investigation, dawned bright and clear. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. It was one of those balmy spring days when it is good to be out-of-doors drinking in freshness and strength.

The Bishop had arrived the night before, and had taken up his abode at the Rectory. About ten o'clock the following morning, he wended his way to the church, there to await the people of Glendow. Some time elapsed before any arrived, and not until the afternoon did most of them come. Tom Fletcher was among the first, and at once he made his way into the vestry, and confronted the Bishop.

The latter was a small-sized man, clean shaven, and with his head adorned with a ma.s.s of white, wavy hair. His face and ma.s.sive forehead bore the stamp of deep intellectuality. He was noted as a writer of no mean order, having produced several works dealing with church questions, full of valuable historic research. His every movement bespoke a man of great activity and devotion in his high office. His eyes were keen and searching, while his voice was sharp and piercing. "Sharp as a razor,"

said several of his careless clergy. Merciless and scathing in reference to all guile, sham and hypocrisy, he was also a man of intense feeling, sympathetic, warm-hearted, and a friend well worth having.

He was poring over certain church registers as Tom Fletcher entered, and, glancing quickly up, noted at once the man standing before him. He rose to his feet, reached out his hand to Fletcher and motioned him to a chair.

"Fletcher is your name, you say--Tom Fletcher," and the Bishop ran his eyes over several lists of names before him.