Douglas was hoeing corn on a patch of ground near the road. It was a beautiful day, and the air was filled with teeming life of bird and insect. But the silent worker was in no mood to enjoy the fair morning. He was thinking deeply of what he had witnessed down by the river the evening before. As far as he could tell, Nell and Ben were on most friendly terms, for he knew nothing of the stormy scene which had taken place between them.
Across the road was the rectory, seeming more dilapidated than ever, so he thought. Only yesterday he had looked at it, and a picture had come into his mind of the building renewed, the house set to rights, and Nell crowning it all by her grace and beauty. He had imagined her in the garden, among the roses, sweet-peas and morning-glories, the fairest flower of them all. He knew just how she would look, and what a joy it would be to her to tend the various plants. And then what a welcome she would give him upon his return from some parish work. He had dreamed of it all out in the field, and it had made him very happy. What a success he would make of life with Nell's inspiration and helpfulness. But now his vision was shattered, and the future looked dark and lonely. Nell could never be his, and why should he think of her any more? She had given herself, no doubt, to Ben Stubbles, so that ended it.
It seemed to Douglas as if everything he undertook was a failure. He had not succeeded with his work at St. Margaret's, and he had become entangled in a quarrel in the very parish where he was shortly expected to come as rector, the solution of which he could not see. Instead of bringing peace to troubled Church waters, and harmony out of chaos, he had apparently made matters worse by his interference. Added to this, he was deeply in love with the one woman he could not hope to win.
As he moved slowly up and down the rows thinking of these things, Empty appeared suddenly before him. The lad was breathing hard and seemed greatly agitated.
"Hello, Empty! what's wrong?" Douglas enquired, pausing in his work.
"Go fer the doctor, quick," Empty panted. "Jean's sick, very sick, an' ma sent me fer you. She can't spare me a minute, so I must hustle back. Will ye go?"
"Certainly," Douglas replied. "But when did Jean become ill? She seemed all right last night."
"She took sick jist a little while ago. Oh, hurry! Don't waste time talkin'. An', say, ye might drop in an' tell her dad. Joe's very uneasy 'bout Jean."
Douglas wished to ask Empty a number of questions, but having delivered his message, the lad left him and sped like a deer by a short-cut across the field. The telephone was at the store and Douglas lost no time in getting there. Several people were standing before the counter as he entered the building, who listened with great interest as he asked the store-keeper for the use of the telephone. Then as he spoke to the doctor, requesting him to hurry at once to Mrs. Dempster's, the curiosity of the bystanders became intense. They would have something to discuss among themselves, and a choice bit of gossip would soon be in circulation throughout the parish.
When Douglas left the store, he made his way to the shoemaker's. He found Joe at his bench, half-soling a pair of shoes. He greeted his visitor cordially, and offered him a seat upon the only chair the room contained.
"I haven't time to sit down this morning," Douglas told him. "I have just called up the doctor, and dropped in to see you for a minute."
"Called up the doctor!" Joe repeated, while an anxious look came into his eyes. "Who's sick?"
"It is Jean. She is not very well."
"Ah, I was afraid of it," and the old man laid aside the shoe, and looked intently into his visitor's face. "Poor lassie, she must have caught cold out on the hills that night. Is she at Mrs. Dempster's yet?"
"Yes. Empty came for me this morning, and he had to go right back."
"I must go at once." Joe rose from the bench as he spoke and untied his leather apron. "Jean may need me now."
"Would it not be better for your wife to go?" Douglas asked. "A woman can generally do more in a sick room than a man."
Joe shook his head as he carefully folded the apron and laid it on the bench.
"No, she couldn't very well go. She hasn't been that far in a longtime. It's her foot, you see. It's been troubling her for years.Jean'll have to come home, and then she can look after her. Just wait,I'll be with you in a minute."
As the two walked along the road there was little said for a time. Joe seemed to be lost in thought, and occasionally he gave a deep sigh.
"I am thinking," he at length remarked, "that this sickness will be for Jean's good. It may be that the Lord has a hand in it, and He will lead her home through the valley of trouble. He did it in olden days, and I believe He does the same now."
"Have you any idea what is the matter with your daughter?" Douglas enquired. "What do you suppose has caused such a great change in her from what she was before she left home?"
"I have never heard," Joe slowly replied. "Jean would not tell me."
"But there must have been something, Mr. Benton. It is not natural for a girl who was brought up so carefully to change in such a short time."
Douglas knew the nature of Jean's illness, and he was anxious that Joe's mind might be somewhat prepared for the shock. He felt that he could do no more than give a hint.
"Jean has been working too hard," the old man replied. "She was always a great worker, and I think she is run down and her mind is somewhat affected. She will be all right as soon as she gets over this sickness."
"But what about the letter you received from the city?" Douglas persisted. "Didn't it show that there must have been something wrong there? She was sent home for repairs, was she not?"
"I have thought it all over, sir, night and day, and we have talked about it a great deal. Jean has done nothing wrong, mark my word. I thought at first that perhaps she had, but I know better now. Why, it's not in that child to do anything wrong. She's always been as innocent as a baby. She was led astray for a time, that's all."
Douglas had not the heart to say anything more.
He left Joe when they came to the corn patch, and picked up his hoe. He stood and watched the old man ambling along the road, and a feeling of deep pity came into his heart. Why should such a worthy man have to endure so much? he asked himself. He knew the cause of the trouble, and his thoughts turned to the cowardly cur who had brought such misery upon the humble home. It was not right that Ben should escape, and he felt that something should be done to expose the villain. But if he told what he knew, who would believe him? Ben would defy him to produce evidence of his dastardly deed, and most of the people in the place would side with him. They would say that Jake's hired man had trumped up a lie about Ben Stubbles out of mere spite.
Douglas brooded over this during the rest of the morning, and as he continued his work after dinner he was still thinking about it and wondering what he could do to bring about Ben's deserved punishment and humiliation. It was galling to him to see the fellow strutting about and lording it over everybody.
About the middle of the afternoon, happening to glance down the road, he was astonished to see Joe walking slowly along, swaying from side to side, as if he were dizzy or had been drinking. Douglas believed that something more than usual was the matter, and by the time the old man had reached the corn patch he was standing by the side of the road.
"What is wrong?" he asked. "Is Jean dead?"
"Worse than dead," was the low reply. "Oh, if she were only dead! God help my Jean, my darling Jean!"
Joe's face was drawn and haggard. His eyes were red as if they had been rubbed hard and long. His body trembled so violently that Douglas feared that he might collapse where he stood.
"Won't you sit down?" he asked. "You must be tired. Rest awhile."
"Sit down! Rest!" Joe slowly repeated, as if he did not fully comprehend the words. "How dare I think of rest with my poor child's troubles on my mind?"
He ceased and let his eyes roam across the fields toward the Dempster home. Then he straightened himself up and turning to his companion clutched him fiercely by the arm. His lips moved, though no word was uttered. But his eyes and face said all that was necessary. A heartbroken father was being torn by a wild passion, and what anger is more terrible than that caused by an injury to an offspring, whether of man or beast? Douglas made no effort to soothe the grief-stricken man. He realised that the storm must beat itself out, and that words of comfort or sympathy would be empty sounds falling on unheeding ears. He knew that silence is never more golden than in the presence of overmastering grief.
At first he thought that Joe's passion was that of anger alone for the one who had outraged his daughter. But presently, he intuitively divined that the struggle was deeper than that. He felt that it was a conflict between right and wrong; the desire of the savage beast thirsting for revenge, contending with the Christ-like spirit of forgiveness. Now he longed to speak, to utter some word that would decide the battle for the right. But never did he feel so helpless. He recalled several appropriate texts of Scripture, but he did not quote them. Why he did not do so he could not tell. He realised the importance of the moment, and felt like a coward for his helplessness. If the beast nature should win, no end of harm might be done. What should he do?
Presently an idea flashed into his mind. Why had he not thought of it before? he asked himself.
Taking Joe by the arm, he led him from the road to a large maple tree standing near the edge of the field.
"Sit down under the shade," he ordered, "and wait until I come back."
Joe at first refused, and declared that he did not want to rest. But under his companion's gentle yet firm urging he sank upon the grass and buried his face in his hands.
Leaving him there, Douglas hastened to the house. In a few minutes he returned, carrying his violin. Joe never looked up as he approached, but remained, huddled upon the ground, the very epitome of abject despair.
At once Douglas began to play strong, violent music, in keeping with Joe's feelings. Each note suggested a tempest, and as the playing continued, the old man lifted his head and Douglas noted the gleam in his eyes and the angry expression upon his face. At that moment he was ready for action, for revenge dire and swift.
But gradually the music changed. It became soft and low. It appealed to the better and higher nature. It was like the revivifying breath of spring after winter's sternness, and the sun's radiant smile following the raging tempest. It affected Joe. The light in his eyes changed, and his face softened. His body relaxed. Then the player knew that the victory was won. Gently he drifted off to the old, familiar hymns of "Nearer My God to Thee," and "Abide with Me."
As the last note died upon the air, Joe rose slowly from the ground. He said nothing, but reaching out he clasped Douglas by the hand. Then with head erect and a new light in his eyes, he turned and made his way slowly toward the road.
Joe had gone but a short distance up the road when Ben Stubbles met him in his car, and enveloped him in a cloud of dust. Ben was alone and he scowled as the old man stepped aside to let him pass. Douglas, who was watching, felt thankful that Joe was ignorant of the driver's part in Jean's ruin.
Seeing Douglas standing under the tree, Ben drew up his car and asked him what he was doing there.
"Attending to my own affairs," was the cool reply.
"Amusing the old man, eh? You must have a damn lot of work to do if you can afford to waste your time that way."
"That, too, is my own affair, and not yours. Have you anything more to say?"
"Sure I have. I want to know what you are doing here."
"Why shouldn't I be here?"
"But you received orders to leave."
"Who gave them?"
"Dad, of course."
"What right had he to order me away?"
"Oh, he rules here."
"Well, he doesn't rule me, and I shall leave when I get ready, and not before."
"You'll change your tune before long, though."
"I will, eh?"
"Sure. You'll find this place so damn hot for you that you'll be glad to get out."
"H'm," and Douglas gave a sarcastic laugh. "You have tried to make it hot for me already, so I believe. How did you succeed?"
"What do you mean?" Ben demanded.
"You know as well as I do. You set two men upon me the other night, as you were too much of a coward to face me yourself. Now you understand my meaning. If you want to make things hot for me, step right out here. Now is your chance."
"I wouldn't foul my hands fighting a thing like you," Ben snarled.
"No, simply because you know what would happen to you. You are too cowardly to face a man, but you have no hesitation about ruining an innocent girl, and leaving her to a miserable fate."
At these words Ben clutched the door of his car, threw it open and stepped quickly out upon the road. His face was livid with rage, and his body was trembling.
"Explain yourself!" he shouted. "How dare you make such a charge?"
Douglas at once stepped across to where Ben was standing, and looked him full in the eyes.
"Is it necessary for me to explain?" he asked. "Surely you have not forgotten what you did at Long Wharf in the city?"
"Do! What did I do?" Ben gasped, while his face turned a sickly hue.
"You pushed Jean Benton over the wharf into the harbour and left her to drown; that is what you did."
Douglas spoke slowly and impressively, and each word fell like a deadly blow upon the man before him. His face, pale a minute before, was now like death. He tried to speak but the words rattled in his throat. He grasped the side of the car for support, and then made an effort to recover his composure. The perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead, and his staring eyes never left the face of his accuser.
"I wish you could see yourself," the latter quietly remarked. "You'd certainly make a great picture. When you threatened to make this place too hot for me, you didn't expect to feel very uncomfortable that way yourself in such a short time, did you?"
"W-who in the devil's name are you?" Ben gasped.
"Oh, I don't pretend to be as intimate with the devil as you are, and appealing to me in his name doesn't do any good. It makes no difference who I am. You know that what I just said is true, and you can't deny it."
"But suppose I do deny it, what then?"
"H'm, you are talking nonsense now. It's no use for you to do any bluffing. The victim of your deviltry is lying sick unto death at Mrs. Dempster's. You had better go to her at once and make what amends you can before it is too late."
"Ah, I know," Ben replied, regaining somewhat his former composure. "Jean has been stuffing you with lies. She's a little vixen, and wants to get me into trouble."
"Look here," and Douglas' voice was stern as he spoke. "Don't you begin anything like that. I have never spoken a word to Jean Benton, and as far as I know she has never said anything about your cowardly deed to her. She is as true as steel in her love for you, and my advice is for you to act like a man, go to her, be true to her, and marry her as you promised you would that night you hurled her into the harbour."
"You are lying," Ben blustered. "If Jean didn't tell you this cock-and-bull yarn, how would you know anything about it?"
"I am not lying, Ben Stubbles. There were eyes watching your every action that night on Long Wharf; there were ears listening to what you said, and but for these hands of mine Jean Benton would be dead, and you would now be arrested for murdering her."
"You! You heard, and saw, and saved her!" Ben gasped, shrinking back from before the steady gaze of his pitiless accuser.
"I did," was the quiet reply.
"Were you alone?"
"Do you think I could have lifted her wet body from the water myself? No, I had help. But never mind that now. You go to Jean and make love to no one else."
The strain through which he had just passed was telling severely upon Ben. He mopped his face and forehead with his handkerchief. His sense of fear was passing and anger was taking its place. It annoyed him to think that he should be thus cornered and affected by Jake Jukes' hired man. Then his opponent's closing words roused the fire in his soul, and he turned angrily upon him.
"Ah, I see through your little game now," he cried. "You are jealous of me."
"Jealous of you! In what way?"
"You want Nell Strong, that's it. Ah, I understand it all. You want to take her away from me, don't you? I suppose you have told her this yarn about me, and that accounts for something that took place last night. You devil incarnate! I'll get even with you for what you have done!"
"If I were you I would be too ashamed to say anything more," Douglas calmly replied. "I have not told Miss Strong about your cowardly deed, though I think she should know of it. It would be an act of mercy if a word might save her from such a brute as you."
So intent were the two men upon what they were saying, that they did not notice Nell coming toward them down the road. She was only a few yards away as Douglas finished speaking. She heard the heated words, but could not understand their meaning. She was hoping that she might pass as quickly as possible, as she did not wish to have anything to say to Ben.
Douglas, standing facing the road, was the first to see her, and he at once lifted his hat. He thought she never looked so beautiful, clad as she was in a simple dress, and a plain sailor-hat on her head. She seemed like an angel of mercy sent to bring peace to their strife.
Ben, however, had no such thoughts. When he turned and saw who was approaching, he at once recalled the previous evening, and what Nell had said to him. He was glad, too, of any excuse to get away from his opponent who had given him such a galling time. And this was an opportunity, as well, to embarrass the woman who had repelled him. These thoughts flashed through his mind in the twinkling of an eye.
"Hello, Nell," he accosted. "Going down the road? Better get in and have a drive. I'm going that way myself."
"I prefer to walk, thank you," Nell quietly replied.
"Oh, nonsense. Get in and have a drive," Ben insisted.
Douglas noted that Nell's face became somewhat pale. Her clear eyes, filled with courage, never wavered. She had made up her mind and he knew that nothing could change her from her purpose. She did not at once reply to Ben's request.
"Get in," he ordered, "and don't be foolish."
"I tell you I prefer to walk," she repeated. "I am quite satisfied with my own company this afternoon."
With this parting thrust, Nell was about to resume her walk when Ben with a savage oath sprang toward her.
"No, you don't get away as easy as that," he roared. "I want to know the meaning of such actions."
Nell's anger was now aroused, and she turned swiftly upon the brute.
"You know very well why I will not ride with you. Have you forgotten last night? This is the King's highway, and I am at liberty to go as I please."
"To h—— with the King," Ben retorted, as he reached out and caught her fiercely by the arm.
At once a cry of pain broke from Nell's lips, and wildly she tore away the gripping fingers. Her face was distorted with pain, and her right hand pressed firmly her wounded arm.
Ben's oath concerning the King caused Douglas' face to darken and his eyes to blaze. He sprang quickly forward, and seized the wretch by the collar just as Nell forced his grip from her arm. He shook him as a terrier would shake a rat and left him at length sprawling in the middle of the road, his clothes all covered with dust.
"If you want some more, get up," Douglas remarked, as he stood viewing his prostrate victim. "How dare you insult the King, and lay your foul hands upon this woman? Get up, I tell you, and clear out of this at once."
As Ben made no effort to obey, but lay there with his face to the ground, Douglas reached down, caught him by the coat collar, and landed him on his feet.
"Take your car and get away from here," he ordered. "Don't open your mouth, or it won't be well for you."
With face livid with rage and with shaking limbs, Ben did as he was commanded. He was thoroughly cowed, and not once did he look back as he crawled into his car, started it, and sped down the road.
Douglas paid no more attention to Ben but turned immediately towardNell.
"I am sorry for what has happened," he apologised. "I hope you——"
He stopped suddenly, for he noticed a deep crimson stain on the white dress where Ben had clutched her arm.
"Did he do that?" he exclaimed, stepping quickly forward. "Oh, if I had only known sooner the extent of your injury, he would not have escaped so easily."
"He did not do it all," Nell replied with a slight smile. "There is a wound on my arm, and unfortunately Ben's fingers gripped me there. It will be all right when it is re-dressed."
For a few seconds Douglas stood looking at her without speaking. Her courage appealed to him, and her beauty made her almost irresistible. His brain was in a tumultuous riot of conflicting emotions. How he longed to comfort her, to take her in his arms, and tell her all that was in his heart. He was almost jubilant, for he knew now that she had cast off Ben forever, and there was hope for him.
Nell noted his ardent gaze and her eyes dropped, while a deep flush replaced the pallor of her face.
"I must go now," she quietly remarked, though it was evident she was not anxious to leave. "I was on my way to see Jean. I understand the poor girl is quite ill."
"But you must not go with your arm bleeding that way," Douglas protested. "You must come into the house and have it dressed. I know that Mrs. Jukes will gladly do it, that is, if you prefer to have her."
"I prefer that you should dress it," Nell replied. "I do not wish any one else to see the wound in my arm, and I know you will say nothing about it to any one. I feel that I can trust you."
Mrs. Jukes was greatly puzzled over all that had taken place out upon the road. She had been watching from a front window, and at times had been tempted to go for Jake that he might witness the interesting scene. But she was afraid that she might miss something if she left even for a few minutes. When she saw Nell and Douglas coming to the house, she was at the door ready to receive them.
"Well, I declare," she exclaimed, "if you folks haven't been having a time out on the road this afternoon. It was mighty lucky that no teams passed, or the horses would have run away with fright at your actions."
"I am afraid you will discharge me for neglecting my work," Douglas laughingly replied.
"I guess you needn't worry about that. It all depends on what caused you to neglect your work, and it was a mighty good one, if I'm any judge. My, I was glad to see you roll Ben Stubbles in the dust. What's he been up to, now?"
"You saw him clutch Miss Strong by the arm, didn't you?" Douglas asked.
"Indeed I did."
"Well, then, see," and he pointed to the stain on Nell's dress. "We need a little warm water and soft bandages, or something that will do for the present."
"My lands! did that brute do that?" Mrs. Jukes exclaimed. "It's no wonder you rolled him in the dust. Just come inside and I'll get what you want in a jiffy."
Very gently and with considerable skill Douglas washed and dressed the injured arm. He made no comment about the nature of the wound, though it was not hard for him to surmise in what way it had been inflicted. He saw where the knife had pierced the soft flesh, and his hands trembled slightly as he thought how serious must have been the attack, and how great the strain upon Nell's nerves.
"You are as good as a doctor," she laughingly told him. "No one could do any better than that."
"Oh, I took a course in First Aid at one time, and the knowledge I gained has served me in good stead on many occasions." Douglas was just on the point of saying that it was at college where he had learned such things, and that then he had been seriously thinking of becoming a medical missionary. It was the nearest he had come to giving himself away since he had been at Rixton, and he determined to be more cautious in the future.
Mrs. Jukes insisted that Nell should remain for supper.
"I would have had it ready now," she told her, "if I hadn't spent so much time at the window. But I guess it was worth it. I won't be long, anyway, and Jake has not come from the field yet."
Douglas was greatly pleased when Nell at last consented to stay. He went out to bring in Jake, and when he returned, he found Nell playing with the Jukes' children. Her face was bright and animated, and she seemed to have forgotten all about her recent troubles. The little ones were delighted at the stories she told them, as well as the games she knew, and they would not leave her when supper was ready, but insisted on sitting next to her at the table. Douglas sat opposite, and he was perfectly content to let the others talk. Nell was near; he could look upon her face, and listen to what she said, and he was satisfied.
Jake was in great spirits when he learned what had happened.
"Great punkins!" he exclaimed. "I wish I'd been there to have seen it."
"But what about the corn?" Douglas asked. "It didn't get much hoeing to-day."
"Never mind about the corn, John. Ye kin hoe it agin, but ye might never git another chance to roll Ben Stubbles in the dust. Ho, ho, that was a good one!"
When Nell left to return home, it was but natural that Douglas should accompany her. He asked permission to do so, and her acceptance brought a great joy to his heart.
The Jukes watched them as they walked toward the road.
"That's settled, all right," was Mrs. Jukes' comment.
"What?" Jake asked.
"Why, can't you see for yourself? They're deep in love with each other, that's what it is."
"Umph!" Jake grunted. "I never thought of it before. It takes a woman to see sich things. My, John'll git a prize if he hooks Nell. Strange that she takes to him, an' him only a hired man. Why, she's fit fer a parson's wife."
"I don't believe he's only a hired man," his wife replied.
"Woman, what d'ye mean?" Jake demanded in surprise.
"Oh, I don't exactly know. But he's the queerest hired man I ever saw. He's got a good education, and just think how he plays the fiddle. Why, he is wasting his time working as a hired man for small wages, when he might be earning big money somewhere else. That's what's been puzzling me for days."
"Mebbe he's a dook or a prince, Susie, in disguise. I've heered of sich things. But he's a prince all right, fer I don't know when I met a man I think as much of as him. An' as fer farm work, why he can't be beat. He knows it from A to Z, an' that's sayin' a good deal."
"I wonder what Ben will do now?" Mrs. Jukes mused. "He must be about wild. I saw him go up the road in his car just before supper, and he was driving like mad."
"He'll do something, mark my word," Jake replied. "He'll try to git even with John somehow. I should have given him warnin'. He shouldn't be out at night. It isn't safe."
"Oh, he can take care of himself, all right. I'm not anxious about him, though I am quite nervous concerning Nell. Ben and the rest of the Stubbles will do their best to make it hard for her."
Nell and Douglas did not go up the road, but walked slowly down across the field toward the river. It was a roundabout way, but that suited them both, as they would have more time together, and this latter was far more private. For the time being, they were happy, talking and laughing like two joyous children. Their faces were radiant, and their eyes were filled with animation when at length they reached the river and stopped by the old tree where Douglas had first seen Nell.
"This has been a wonderful day to me," he remarked, as he stood looking out over the water. "I little realised this morning that we would be standing here now. It was here that I first saw you, and heard you playing over by that tree."
"Don't mention that night," Nell pleaded. "I want to forget it, and everything that is past."
"And this afternoon, too?"
"Everything except your great kindness to me. I shall never forget that, and I don't want to, either."
"I am so glad that I was able to rescue you from that brute. My only regret is that I was not near to save you from harm last night. If I had been there, that would not have happened," and he motioned to her wounded arm.
Nell turned her face quickly to his and her eyes expressed a great wonder.
"Why, how did you learn about that?" she enquired. "Who told you?"
"No one. I am an amateur Sherlock Holmes, and have drawn my own conclusions from what I have seen and surmised. Jean is jealous of you, and 'that way madness lies.' Am I not right?"
"You certainly are," and a tremour shook Nell's body as she recalled the incident of the previous evening. "Oh, it was terrible! Jean is so jealous of me. She thinks that I have taken Ben from her, and she would not believe a word I told her. She would listen to nothing, but said I was lying."
"And you were not?" Douglas eagerly asked.
"No. I simply told her the truth, and that Ben is nothing to me, and that I never tried to take him from her. But she would not believe me."
A feeling of wonderful rapture came into Douglas' soul as he listened to this candid confession. So Ben was nothing to Nell. It was almost too good to be true. There was hope for him.
"But you often met Ben by the tree over there, did you not?" he at length questioned. "It was there I first saw you when you played such sweet music. I remember he joined you that evening."
For a while Nell remained silent with her eyes fixed thoughtfully upon the ground. Douglas was afraid that he had said too much, and had offended her. But when she lifted her face and he saw the expression upon it, he knew that he was wrong. Her cheeks were aglow with animation and her eyes beamed with eagerness.
"Do you mind if I tell you something?" she asked. "Part of it is known only to Nan and me. I feel that I can trust you."
"I shall be delighted to hear," Douglas replied, "and I am most grateful for your confidence in me."
"I am very much worried about what will happen to us and our little home," she began. "You see, when father was a professor at Passdale he bought this place for a summer residence, and my dear mother always loved it so much. When he became blind, we moved here, and lived very comfortably because he had a private income. But in a fatal moment he was induced to invest all he had in the Big Chief gold mine out west. Every one was talking about it and what a splendid investment it was. We were sure that in a few months we would be very rich. But you know what happened to that. There was bad management somewhere, the works shut down, and so many people were ruined."
"Indeed I know," Douglas emphatically replied. "I was bitten, too, and lost my all. It wasn't much, to be sure, but it meant a great deal to me."
"It was ruin to us," Nell continued. "For a while I thought father would go out of his mind, he felt so badly. Then, to add to our trouble, Nan became ill, and it took our last dollar to pay the doctor and other expenses. At length, we were forced to mortgage the place to Mr. Stubbles to pay our grocery bill which had grown so large. It is that which has been hanging over our home like a terrible cloud for several years now."
Nell paused and looked out over the water. The glow of evening touched her face and soft hair, and made her seem to the young man watching her as if she were not of this earth, so beautiful did she appear. What right had such a woman to be troubled? he asked himself. How he longed to do something to help her.
"So you came to the rescue, and started farming."
"There was nothing else to do," she smilingly replied. "I felt the responsibility, and had to do something. I didn't know much about gardening at first, and made many mistakes. But we have managed to live, pay the interest on the mortgage and part of the principal. But we are in danger of losing everything now," she added with a note of sadness in her voice.
"In what way?"
"You see, the mortgage was due the first of July, and it should have been paid then. But we did not have the money, not even enough to pay the interest. Our garden did not do very well last year, and the winter was a hard one. After we had paid father's life insurance, there was very little left. We did not know what to do and were greatly depressed. It was then that father went with Nan to the city and played on the streets. I knew nothing about it until they came home with the money they received through your kindness. We were thus enabled to pay the interest on the mortgage, as well as our grocery bill at the store. You little realise how grateful we are to you for what you did for us."
"I have never been so thankful for anything I ever did," Douglas earnestly replied. "Little did I realise that night when I stopped to watch your father play, what the outcome of my act would be. But now that the interest is paid, how is it that you are in danger of losing your home?"
"Simply because Mr. Stubbles wants the money. It is only a small amount now, and by another summer we could have it all paid."
"But surely Stubbles doesn't need the money. I understand that he is very rich."
"I am not so certain about that. There have been rumours abroad for some time now that he is not as rich as people imagine, and that he is having some difficulty in carrying on his business. Anyway, when I went to see him about the mortgage, he told me in no gentle way that he must have the money and at once. If not, he said he would foreclose and sell the place. But he has not done so yet."
"Why?" Douglas asked the question eagerly. He believed that he knew the reason now, and if his surmise were true it would explain something which had puzzled and worried him for days past.
"He has been waiting, that is all," Nell's voice was low as she spoke. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and a deep, rich flush was mantling her cheeks and brow. Then she lifted her head and spoke with considerable embarrassment. "Yes, he has been waiting," she repeated, "waiting for something to happen. It all depended upon that."
"I know. He has been waiting to see what answer you would give to Ben.Is that it?"
"Yes, that's it."
"And you have refused him?"
"Couldn't you tell that by what happened this afternoon?"
"Certainly. But I wished to hear it from your own lips. And so you think Stubbles will be very angry and will foreclose at once?"
"There is no doubt about it. I am sure that he will. Ben will see to that. I am afraid you do not know the Stubbles yet. They will stop at nothing, especially the men."
"I think I know something, more perhaps than you realise," and a slight smile flitted across Douglas' face. "And I believe I know now," he added, "why you met Ben by the old tree. There was so much at stake that you did not wish to offend him."
"You have guessed right. Oh, it was terrible! I felt like a hypocrite all the time, and yet I had not the courage to refuse meeting him for fear of what would happen."
"But you had the courage at last, though?"
"It was only when I could stand him no longer. I knew for some time that he was not a good man, but his actions of late have so disgusted me beyond all bounds of endurance that I refused to have anything more to do with him. There, I have told you all, and I feel greatly relieved."
"I suppose you hardly know what you will do if you lose your place. Is there not some one from whom you could borrow enough money to pay off the mortgage?"
"I am afraid not. We have no security to give, and, besides, I dread the thought of asking for help. Father will be almost heartbroken, and it will make him more bitter than ever."
"At what?"
"The Church and all connected with it. Mr. Stubbles has been a warden here for years, and the way he has acted has been partly the cause of father's bitter feelings. Now he will be worse than ever. I wonder what the new clergyman will be like."
"Perhaps he may be able to settle matters."
"I am afraid not. He will have to do as the Stubbles say or leave, just as the others did. If he should happen to be a very strong-minded man and will stand up for justice and right, he will have a most difficult time of it. In that case, father would be his firm friend, though I fear he could do but little to help him."
"His moral assistance would mean much, though, would it not?"
"Perhaps so," and Nell sighed. "But I think I must go home now. Father and Nan will be wondering what has kept me. Won't you come and see father? I know he wants to talk to you about his book. I am thankful he has something to occupy his mind."
When they reached the house, they found Nan up in arms. She scolded Nell for being away so long and leaving her to get supper and wash the dishes.
"I don't think it is fair," she pouted. "You go off and have a good time, while I must stay home and drudge like a slave."
"You do not look any the worse for it," Douglas laughingly told her."It seems to agree with you. I never saw you look better."
"H'm," and Nan tossed her head. "It may agree with my complexion but not with my temper. The only way you can make me good natured is to have a game of checkers with me. I am just dying for a game. No one here will play with me. It's too giddy, I suppose. I'm sure it's much nicer than Shakespeare—he's too dry. Why, I've been reading to daddy for the last hour, and I can't remember one word."
The professor was most anxious to discuss his book, but Nan insisted on checkers first.
"I have a right to my own way for once," she insisted. "You promised me long ago that I could have Mr. Handyman to myself the next time he came. But, no, it was Shakespeare and Church matters, and so I was pushed aside."
They all laughed heartily at her words and gestures, and the professor at last agreed that they should play two games. Then he had something important to say.
With Nan's animated face beaming over the board, and Nell sitting quietly sewing by the table, it was a most enjoyable evening to Douglas. But the professor was not so happy. The minutes dragged heavily, so when the players had won a game each, he gave a sigh of relief and claimed Douglas' special attention.
"I wish to discuss several points in the tragedy of Hamlet," he began. "I am not altogether sure in my own mind, and would like to have your opinion."
Though Douglas had studied Hamlet at college, yet he felt very diffident about discussing the "several points," which he felt sure would be difficult ones. But as the professor began to talk, he knew that his opinion would not be necessary. Once launched upon his subject, the old man seemed to imagine that he was once more in the class room. Several times he asked Nell to read certain extracts from his notes, and upon these he always enlarged. It was pathetic to observe his intense eagerness, and he was certain that his visitor was keenly interested in his subject.
It was well for him that he could not see into the hearts and minds of the others in the room. Nan was lost in a story book she had borrowed from a girl friend that very afternoon; while Nell's thoughts were not upon the wonders of Shakespeare, but upon the events of the day. Douglas tried to pay strict attention to what was being said, though his eyes would often wander to the young woman sewing just in front of him. He noted the varying expressions upon her face, and he intuitively surmised something of what she was thinking. How he longed to be talking with her and listening to her as it had been his privilege that afternoon. Could she ever care for him? he asked himself just at the very instant when the professor was waxing eloquent about Shakespeare as an artist. He tried to listen, but the force of the words of wisdom were lost upon him. The professor, however, was pleased, and as Douglas rose to go he told him how delightful had been their conversation, and that the several points which had been troubling him were quite clear.
Douglas' heart was happy and his step light and elastic as he left the house. He thought over what Nell had told him, and her confidence in him gave him great joy. He valued this far more than the explanation she had volunteered about her family affairs. She trusted him and turned to him for sympathy. Little wonder, then, that his face glowed and his eyes shone with rapture. It was all a new experience to him, and life seemed very pleasant.
He was roused from this reverie by the sound of angry voices. He stopped and listened intently. They were evidently men, quarrelling on the road ahead of him, though he could not distinguish what they were saying. The fact that they were talking so loudly made him feel that they were not there with any evil designs. Nevertheless, he felt that it was just as well to find out what was the trouble, and at the same time remain out of sight.
Along the road ran a hedge of thick bushes, and, keeping well within the dark fringe of these, Douglas slowly advanced. He could hear the talking more plainly now, and ere long he was able to tell that the men were under the influence of liquor. Their voices were maudlin, and they were wrangling with one another in a somewhat petulant and childish manner.
"I tell ye he is," he heard one say.
"He ain't," another retorted.
"Yes, he is, ye blame fool."
"He ain't."
"Shet up ye'r jawin'," a third ordered. "Ye'r both drunk. Sure he's there. Wasn't he seen goin' into the house?"
"Well, I'll be darned if I'm goin' to wait any longer," the first speaker whined. "I'm tired an' sleepy, an' want to go home. I wish to G— that Ben would do his own dirty work."
"Ye liked his whiskey well enough, didn't ye?" his companion asked.
"Oh, yes, that's all right, but there wasn't enough of it."
"Too much fer you, though. Why, it's gone to ye'r head, an' has made yer tongue like a mill-clapper. Ye'd better shet ye'r mouth or the guy'll hear ye an' take to his heels before we kin lay hands on him."
"I ain't talkin' any, am I? Watcher growlin' 'bout? I'm goin' home."
"No, ye ain't."
"Yes, I am."
A scuffle followed these words, and Douglas could dimly see the forms of the two men as they rolled and tumbled about on the ground. Then some one pulled them apart and administered a resounding cuff upon their ears.
"Stop fightin', ye fools," was the peremptory order. "De'ye want to spoil the whole show to-night?"
"Who's spoilin' the show?"
"You are."
"I ain't. I want to go home. I'm sick of this business."
"Ye'r not goin' till the guy comes, I tell ye."
"When's he comin'?"
"I don't know."
"He'll stay there till midnight. They always do. I never got home till mornin' when I was courtin', an' Sal wasn't half as sweet as the 'fessor's daughter. Gad, she's a peach!"
"Ye'r no judge of beauty, Tom Fleet," was the retort. "You'd kiss a cow when ye'r drunk, thinkin' she's beautiful."
"I ain't drunk, I tell ye."
"Ye are."
"I ain't; I'm only sleepy an' want to go home."
"Well, ye ain't goin' till the guy comes."
"Then I'm goin' to fetch him."
"Now, ye'r talkin'. That's the stuff, Tom. We'll take him from his lady love. Come on."
"Wait a minute," one of the bunch ordered. "How'll we do it?"
What their plan was Douglas could not tell, for their voices suddenly became low as they made their plans. But it did not matter. He knew that they were after him, and most likely would go to the house and do considerable harm. He must have assistance, and he at once thought of Jake. With him at his side, he felt that the men before him could be mastered, especially in their present condition.
Creeping through the bushes as quietly as possible, he reached the open field and across this he bounded like a greyhound. He knew that every minute was precious, and the thought of Nell facing those drunken men caused his feet fairly to spurn the grass. Reaching the main road, he tore through the dust, sprang over a ditch, leaped a fence, raced through the orchard and ran plumb into Jake and Empty standing at the back door.
"Great punkins!" Jake exclaimed, recovering from the impact. "What's wrong?"
"Quick, quick!" Douglas panted. "Come at once. Ben's men are after me. They think I'm at the professor's, and they are going to break into the house. Hurry."
"G-g-good Lord," Jake stuttered in amazement. "Let me git me gun!"
"No, no, never mind that; your fists will do. Come."
Without waiting for further parley, Douglas darted away, with Jake and Empty close at his heels. He did not go to the spot where he had left the men but kept off into the middle of the field, and ran down opposite the professor's house. Then turning sharply to the left, he hurried across to the garden and stopped before the row of bushes which ran almost to the shore.
The rescuers were not a moment too soon, for the attackers had already reached the house and were pounding loudly upon the back door. When it presently slowly opened, Douglas could hear Nell's voice anxiously enquiring what was the matter.
"Give us the guy who's here," one of the men demanded.
"Who?" Nell asked in surprise.
"Oh, you know, all right. The feller that's courtin' ye; Jake's man."
Douglas' hands clenched hard together as he listened to these words, and it was with difficulty that he restrained himself. It would not do to rush forth just then. He must wait for the men's next move. He could not see the features of Nell's face very plainly, but the words she uttered in reply to the impudent order told of her indignation.
"How dare you come here with such a request?" she demanded. "Leave this place at once or I shall have you all arrested. I am surprised at you, Tom Totten. What will your wife say? Go home at once, and leave me alone."
"No, we don't," was the surly reply. "We're under orders, an' we won't leave until we git our man. Ye've got him in the house, so hustle him out an' be quick about it."
"He is not here," Nell replied. "And even if he were, I wouldn't let you touch him. You have all been drinking, that is what's the matter with you. I am ashamed of you all. Go away at once before you make fools of yourselves."
"We won't go, I tell ye, before we git our man. We know he's in the house, an' we're goin' to git him."
Nell's only reply was to turn quickly and shut the door in their faces.Then a hubbub arose.
"Smash in the door," cried one.
"Break in the winder," ordered another.
Then a rush was made against the door, which gave way with a crash, and the men stumbled into the kitchen where Nell was standing.
As the door went through, Douglas and his companions sprang from their hiding place, bounded toward the house and fell upon the attackers like a whirlwind. Douglas' blood was up, and he delivered telling blows to right and left.
"Here I am," he cried, as he gave Tom Totten a punch under the ear, which sent him reeling across the room. "Why don't you take me? I am the man you want. Now is your chance."
Jake and Empty nobly supported him, and in a few minutes the room was cleared of all the attackers except two who were sprawling upon the floor. Their noses were bleeding and they were groaning most dolefully. The others had made good their escape, though not without serious injury, for their faces were cut and bleeding, and they limped as they hurried away from the scene of their defeat.
"Great punkins!" Jake exclaimed. "Is it all over? I was jist beginnin' when everything stopped. Hi, there, Tom Totten," he cried, as he tickled the defeated man's ribs with the toe of his boot, "so this is the way ye spend ye'r evenin's, eh? Why don't ye git up an' let us see what a purty face ye have? It never was much to look at, though I guess it's a sight fer sore eyes now. Ho, ho, this is the best lark I've had in years, hey, Empty?"
"Ye bet," and the lad smacked his lips. "Did ye see the way I landed one on Jim Parks' nose? It was a bruiser. I bet he's rubbin' it yit an' roarin' like a bull. My, it was great! I'm sorry it was over so soon."
But Nell had no such feelings of regret. She was standing in the door leading into the hallway. Her face was very white, and her body was trembling. By her side stood Nan, her face beaming and her eyes sparkling with animation.
"It's just like a story," she exclaimed, clasping her hands before her."It's far better than a picture show, for this is real, isn't it, Nell?"
So unexpected was this view of the situation, that they all laughed except the two men on the floor.
"Ye'r a brick, all right, Nell," Jake remarked. "I like ye'r pluck. Now, some gals would have yelled an' hollered an' tumbled down in a faint. But that's not the way with the gals of this house," and he cast a glance of admiration at Nell.
Douglas had now stepped to Tom's side and was bending over him.
"Get up," he ordered, "and explain the meaning of all this."
Tom slowly obeyed, crawled to his knees and then to his feet. His companion, Pete Rollins, did the same. They presented a sorry spectacle, and Douglas could scarcely repress a smile. But Nan laughed outright when she saw them.
"My, what beauties!" she exclaimed. "This isn't Hallowe'en, Tom. Did you think it was? You'll know better next time, won't you?"
"'Deed I will, miss," was the emphatic reply. "No more sich doin's fer me, I tell ye that."
Nell in the meantime had procured a basin of water, a wash-cloth and a towel. She now stood before the battered men.
"Sit down, both of you," she quietly ordered. "It won't do for you to go home looking that way."
Meekly they obeyed and sat very still while she washed the blood from their faces.
"It's good of ye, miss," Tom told her. "We don't deserve sich kindness after what we said an' done to you to-night. Some would have kicked us out of the house an' left us there half dead."
"You, fer instance, Nan, eh?" Empty grinned, as he looked toward the girl.
"No, I wouldn't," Nan stoutly protested. "That would have been too good for them. I would like to keep them and start a travelling show throughout the country. I would make my fortune in a short time. They deserve to be treated like that for disturbing my peaceful slumbers. And just look at that door, all broken down. Who's going to fix it, I'd like to know?"
"I'll fix it, miss," Pete eagerly replied. "I'll come to-morrow an' make it as good as new."
"No, you won't. You'll be in jail; that's where you'll be."
"Hush, hush, Nan," Nell ordered, though she found it hard not to smile at the frightened look which came into Pete's eyes. "Don't mind Nan, Pete. She isn't as terrible as she sounds."
"Yes, she is," Empty insisted. "She kin use her hands as well as her tongue. I know it, fer she's often boxed my ears."
"H'm!" and Nan tossed her head disdainfully. "If you'd been a man I would have done more than that; I would have blackened your eyes, and——"
"There, there, Nan, that will do," Nell interrupted, and from the tone of her voice Nan knew that she must obey. With a sigh of resignation she stood with her eyes fixed upon the floor and her hands clasped before her, unheeding Empty, who was grinning at her on the other side of the room.
"Guess we'd better go now," Tom remarked when Nell had finished her ablutions. "It must be purty late. But afore I go I wish to ask ye'r pardon, miss," and he turned to Nell as he spoke. "I wasn't jist meself to-night, an' I guess the rest were in the same fix."
"A moment, Tom," and Douglas laid his hand upon his shoulder. "I want you to tell us why you and your companions made this attack to-night."
"To git you, of course. Didn't ye know that?"
"Yes, indeed I did, but I wanted to hear you say so. Now, what did you want to get me for? What harm have I done to you or to the men who were with you?"
"None, none at all. But, ye see, we were under orders. We were told to come."
"Who told you?"
"Ben Stubbles."
"What did he tell you to do?"
"Lay fer ye by the road, an' give ye a thorough hidin'."
"Didn't you feel ashamed to undertake such a cowardly thing as that?"
"We did, an' we refused at first, an' told him that we didn't want to git into any trouble. But he promised that he would stand by an' take the hull blame. When we still refused, he threatened us, an' when that wouldn't work he produced the whiskey."
"Now, will you swear to all this?" Douglas asked.
"Swear! sure I will. I'll swear to them very words anywhere an' at any time. Won't ye, Pete?"
"Ay, ay," was the reply. "I'll swear any old time, an' I feel mighty like swearin' jist now, 'deed I do."
"But what will Ben say?" Douglas asked. "Won't he make it hot for you?"
"Let him make it hot, then," Pete declared. "I don't have to stay here an' work fer old Stubbles. I kin go somewhere else, an' mebbe it will be jist as well if I do."
"Who were the other men with you to-night besides Pete? It is important that we should have their names."
"D'ye mind if I don't tell ye now, sir?" and Tom lifted his eyes to Douglas' face. "They're all friends of mine, an' I'd hate to squeal on 'em."
"But you didn't mind telling on Ben, did you?"
"Oh, that's different. He ain't a friend of mine, an' never was. He's big feelin' an' mighty, an' has no use fer the likes of me, unless he's got some axe to grind. Oh, no, I don't mind squealin' on the likes of him."
"But we must have the names of the men who were with you to-night,"Douglas insisted. "I cannot help whether you like it or not."
"Look, sir, I'll tell ye this: Whenever ye want me an' Pete, we'll be there, an' we'll have the rest with us."
"But perhaps they won't come, what then?"
"Don't ye worry a mite about that. They'll come all right. But supposin' they buck an' won't come, then I'll tell ye their names. I'll give 'em fair warnin', an' if they don't come I'll squeal on 'em then, but not before. Will that do, sir?"
"Yes, I suppose so," Douglas assented. "But don't you fail to come when you're called. We have all these witnesses to what you have said to-night. You may go now."