“And that,” she said, “that was where father—my father, your grandfather—stepped into the picture. He stepped between them and stopped Bill Joyner from going any further. Of course, father was a grown man at the time. ‘No,’ says father, ‘you mustn’t do that,’ he says, ‘You’re makin’ a mistake. You can’t punish him for not attendin’ church today.’ ‘Why, what’s the reason I can’t?’ Bill Joyner said. ‘Because,’ said father, ‘he was there. He’s been with us every minute of the time since we left home this morning. And he heard the sermon,’ father said, ‘He’s tellin’ you the truth—I’ll swear to that—because he was sit-tin’ next to me all the time.’
“And then, of course, the others all chimed in, mother and Sam, said, ‘Yes, he’s tellin’ you the truth, all right. He was right there with us all the time, and we’d have known if he left us.’ Then Bill was bitter against them all, of course, thinkin’ they had all joined against him in an effort to shield Rance in a lie. ‘To think,’ he said, ‘that children of mine would turn against me in this way! To think that you’d all join together in a lie in order to shield him. Why, you’re worse than he is,’ he said, ‘for you’re abettin’ him and leadin’ him on, and you’—he said to father—‘you are certainly old enough to know better,’ says, ‘Fate, I didn’t think it of you, I didn’t think you’d help him to lie like this.’ And father said, ‘No.’ He looked him in the eye, said, ‘No, father, no one is helpin’ him to lie. He’s not tellin’ you a lie. We’re all tellin’ the truth—and I can prove it.’—Why yes, didn’t it turn out then that the preacher and all the folks at church had seen him and were willin’ to testify that he was there?—‘Now I don’t know what it is you saw,’ said father, ‘but whatever it was, it wasn’t Rance. At least, it wasn’t the Rance you see here, for he’s been with us every moment.’ And then Bill looked at him and saw that he was tellin’ him the truth, and they say Bill Joyner’s face was a study.
“Well,’ he said, ‘this is a strange thing! God only knows what will come out of it! Rance has been Seen!”’
She paused; then turned to look straight and silent at George. In a moment she shook her head slightly, with boding premonition.
“And let me tell you something,” she whispered. “That wasn’t the only time, either!”
THERE WERE, IN fact, from this time on, an increasing number of such apparitions. The news of the first one had spread like wildfire through the whole community: the uncanny story of the boy’s discovery in the wool-box when his corporeal body was two miles distant at the church became instantly common property, and inflamed the wonder and imagination of all who heard it.
And, as seems to be almost the invariable practice in these cases, the public did not question at all the evidence which was dubious; they questioned only that which was indubitable, and, finding it to be confirmed beyond the shadow of a doubt, swallowed the whole, hook, line, and sinker! They took it instantly for granted that Bill Joyner had seen the boy, or “at least, seen something, now—that’s one thing sure.” But was Rance really present at the church that day? Had he been with the other members of his family from first to last? Had there been any opportunity for him to “slip away” and leave them without their knowing it? To all this there was only one answer—testified to by a hundred people. He had been present at the church from first to last; he had been seen, greeted, and remembered by minister, sexton, deacons, choir, and congregation, not only before, but also after services. Therefore, the fact was now established in their minds with an unshakable conviction. There was no longer any possible doubt about it—Rance had been Seen.
Then, about eight months after this, when the story of this ghostly apparition was still fresh in people’s minds, and made matter for awed conversation when they gathered, another extraordinary incident occurred!
One evening, towards the end of a harsh and ragged day in March, a neighbor of the Joyners’ was driving hard into the backwoods village of Blankenship, which stood about two miles distant from his home. Night was coming on fast; it was just the few minutes of brief, fading grey that end a Winter’s day, and the man, whose name was Roberts, was driving along the hard, clay-rutted road as fast as the rickety rig in which he sat, and the old grey horse he drove, could carry him. His wife had been seized suddenly by a cramp or colic, or so they called it, and now lay at home in bed in mortal pain until Roberts should reach town and fetch help back to her.