The Unknown Wrestler Part 28

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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 la.s.sie, 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 ap.r.o.n. "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 ap.r.o.n and laid it on the bench.

"No, she couldn't very well go. She hasn't been that far in a long time. 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! G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sion 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d to Thee," and "Abide with Me."

As the last note died upon the air, Joe rose slowly from the ground.