PRIDE AND IMPUDENCE
It was not easy for Douglas to get to sleep that night. He thought
much about the Bentons and their anxiety over their wayward daughter.
How sad it was that a young life should be so quickly and easily ruined
in the city. He knew that there were many such cases, of mere girls,
carefully reared, who were drawn to the city only to be singed or
ruined, as moths by the glaring flame. An angry feeling came into his
heart, as he recalled how little was being done to keep such girls from
destruction. He thought of Dr. Rannage, and his indifference to such
matters. Instead of talking, always talking, he could accomplish so
much by throwing the weight of his influence as rector of St.
Margaret's into the cause.
From the Bentons and their troubles, his mind drifted on to the
professor and his daughters. He became greatly puzzled over their
position. They had a comfortable home, and seemed to be doing well.
Why, then, was it necessary for the blind old man and Nan to beg on the
city streets? Did Nell know about it? he wondered. A vision of her
beauty and grace of manner rose before him. What strength of character
she seemed to possess, and how thoughtful she was of her father's
comfort. But what was the mystery surrounding the man she was in the
habit of meeting by the old tree on the shore? It was quite evident
that her father knew nothing about it. He longed to know more, and the
professor's antagonism to "parsons" and church "leaders in the parish."
He thought over these problems the next morning as he worked in the
field. Jake might know something, but he did not care to ask him. He
did not wish his employer to have any idea that he was interested in
the Strongs. Though he would not acknowledge it to himself, yet his
hesitation, in fact, was due to the feeling that in some way the real
secret of his heart might be revealed. He did not wish to let others
have the slightest hint of the deep impression Nell had already made
upon him.
Just as they had finished dinner, a neighbour, driving down the road,
left a message for Jake. It was from Si Stubbles, who wanted Jake to
help him that afternoon with his hay. He was short-handed at the mill
and could not spare a man for the field.
"That's jist like Si," Jake growled, as the neighbour drove away.
"He's always thinkin' of himself, an' can't seem to see that others
have hay to git in."
"But you don't have to go, do you?" Douglas asked. "It isn't fair to
ask you to leave your own hay."
"H'm, that's all very well in theory. But I guess ye don't know Si
yit. If I don't help him this afternoon, he'll never fergit it, an'
next winter, when I want a job with my team, he'll remember it. Si
wouldn't fergit, not on yer life."
"Suppose I go, then, in your place," Douglas suggested. "It will be
better for you to stay here as you know more about your own work."
"Would ye mind?" Jake asked, much relieved. "You will do jist as well
as me."
Douglas was only too glad to go. He did want to meet Si Stubbles of
whom he had heard so much, and this was too good an opportunity to
miss. He would, no doubt, see Stubbles, and thus be able to form an
opinion of the man without arousing any suspicion. He would be a
farm-hand and nothing more.
The Stubbles' house was an imposing one, situated but a short distance
from the main highway. A spacious verandah ran around the front and
sides, several feet from the ground. Everything about the place was in
excellent condition, the lawn well kept, and the hedges neatly trimmed.
To protect the grounds from trespassers, a strong wire fence had been
erected along the road, and the gate leading to the house was always
kept closed. A board fastened to the gate bore the imposing name of
"The Castle" in bright gilded letters.
As Douglas opened the gate and entered, a team had just rounded the
corner of the house on its way to the barn. As it came in front of the
house, Stubbles himself appeared upon the verandah, carrying a table
napkin in his hand, for he had not yet finished his dinner. He was in
no pleasant frame of mind, and was furiously berating the teamster.
"What do you mean by driving in front of the house?" he demanded.
"Don't you know any better?"
"I've got to git that hay down there in the corner," the teamster
surlily replied. "If I don't go in this way, how am I to git out, I'd
like to know? I can't turn down there."
"Carry the hay out, then, you lazy rascal."
"It'll take me all the afternoon to do it, an' then ye'll growl at me
if I don't git done before night."
"None of your impudence to me," Stubbles roared. "I'll make an example
of you if you dare to speak that way again."
He was livid with anger, and, forgetting where he was, he took a step
forward as if he would then and there chastise the man with his own
hands. As he did so, he stepped off the platform, and with a wild
shriek and a frantic effort to save himself, he went headfirst down the
steps to the ground below.
Douglas had been standing not far off listening with considerable
interest to the angry conversation between master and man. But when he
saw Stubbles take the wild plunge, he rushed forward and picked up the
injured man. The latter was groaning and cursing, contending that he
was killed, and that the teamster was to blame for the accident.
Lifting him in his arms, Douglas carried him up the steps just as Mrs.
Stubbles came from the house.
"Oh! what is the matter?" she cried. "What has happened to Simie?"
"He's had a bad fall," Douglas replied. "Hold the door open while I
carry him into the house. Show me where to lay him."
Into the sitting-room he carried the wounded man, and placed him upon a
large sofa near the window. Mrs. Stubbles followed, and stood over her
husband, wringing her hands in despair.
"Are you much hurt, Simie?" she asked. "Shall I send for the doctor?"
"Shut up your bawling!" her husband ordered. "I'm not killed, though I
thought I was at first. Get some warm water and bathe my bruises.
Confound that teamster! I'll discharge him at once. What business had
he to drive in front of the house and then talk back to me as he did?
When is Ben coming back?"
"He expected to get home this morning," Mrs. Stubbles replied.
"He expected to do so, did he? H'm, he's always expecting to do things
he never does. He should have been here to look after the haying.
I've got too many things on my mind already without having to bother
with that."
"Don't be too hard on the dear boy, Simie. He is to bring the girls,
you know. They must have delayed him."
"Yes, yes, that's just like you; always excusing Ben, the worthless
scamp. If he were as interested in business as he is in running around
in the car and spending so much time in the city, what a help he would
be to me. But hurry up with that water, can't you? My, I'm sore!"
"You won't need me any more now, I suppose," Douglas remarked when Mrs.
Stubbles had left the room. "I might as well get to work."
"Who are you, anyway?" the injured man asked, turning his little
squinting eyes upon Douglas' face. For the first time he seemed to
realise that it was a stranger who had assisted him.
"I am John Handyman, Jake Jukes' help," was the reply. "I have come to
give you a hand with the hay this afternoon."
"And isn't Jake coming?"
"No. He has hay of his own to get in, and so I offered to come in his
stead."
"Just like Jake," Stubbles growled, "always thinking of himself. He
knows very well what a fix I am in. I don't know what this place is
coming to, anyway. One can't get a neighbour to do a hand's turn, and
the men you hire these days are as impudent as the devil."
"Don't you worry about the hay," Douglas soothed. "We can get it in
all right this afternoon."
"Do you know anything about haying?"
"I was brought up on a farm, and should know something about it."
"You look big and strong enough," and Stubbles viewed him from head to
foot. "Say, are you the chap who beat Jake in a wrestling bout lately?"
"So you heard about that little encounter, did you?"
"Oh, yes, I naturally hear of such things sooner or later. But what
are you doing here, anyway? You don't look like a man who has been in
the habit of hiring out."
"I'm just trying to earn my daily bread, and farming suits me at the
present time."
"I suppose I'll have to put up with you," Stubbles growled. "Get to
work at once, and no fooling, mind."
Douglas found the teamster a pleasant working companion, who loaded the
hay on the wagon.
"How is Si feelin' now?" he enquired.
"Oh, I guess he's all right. He had a nasty fall and might have been
killed."
"H'm, that old cuss won't die that way. It would be too easy a death.
If he doesn't bust when he gits in one of them mad fits of his, he'll
be skinned alive by somebody one of these days. I'd like to be around
an' hear him squeal. It would make up fer a great deal of impudence
I've stood, to say nuthin' of his confounded pride, as well as the
whole darn family. But I kin put up with Si better than I kin with
Ben; he's the limit."
"What's the matter with him?"
"Well, Si knows a little about farmin', but Ben knows no more about it
than I do about harnessin' up a baby with pins, strings, ribbons, an'
all its other gear. Ben thinks he knows, an' that's where he makes a
fool of himself. He gives orders which no one in his right mind would
think of obeyin', an' then he gits as mad as blazes when ye don't do as
he says."
"Is Ben the only son?" Douglas asked.
"Thank goodness, yes. One is bad enough, dear knows, but if there were
more, ugh!"
"What does Ben do?"
"Do? Well, I wouldn't like to tell ye."
"Does he work at anything, I mean?"
"Not a tap. He depends upon his dad fer a livin'. See what he did
this mornin'. Instead of stayin' home an' lookin' after the hayin', he
went to the city. That's what he's always doin'; runnin' away when
there's work to be done."
"He was home yesterday, was he not?"
"Y'bet yer life he was, especially in the evenin'. He's ginerally
around about that time."
"Why?"
"Oh, he's struck on the old professor's daughter. Her father doesn't
like the Stubbles crowd, an' so Ben sneaks around there after he's in
bed."
"Isn't it strange that the professor's daughter would do such a thing?"
"Now ye've got me," and the teamster gave a savage thrust at a forkful
of hay Douglas had just handed up. "The whole thing is a mystery.
Nell's as fine a girl as ever wore shoe-leather, an' why she meets that
feller in the evenin' beats me."
Douglas made no reply to these words, but went on quietly with his
work. So it was Ben Stubbles who met Nell Strong every night by the
old tree! Surely she must know something about his life if what the
teamster had just told him were true. He could not understand it. She
did not seem like a woman who would have anything to do with such a
worthless character. And yet she was meeting him regularly, and at the
game time deceiving her blind old father.
The hay in the corner field had all been loaded, and the teamster was
stooping for the reins, when the raucous honk of an auto caused him to
pause and look toward the road.
"It's Ben an' the girls now," he exclaimed. "Ye'd better open the
gate."
"Oh, I guess they will get through all right," Douglas replied.
"No, ye'd better go," the teamster urged. "Ben'll be as mad as the
devil if ye don't. If ye won't, then I'll have to git down an' do it.
There, he's tootin' his horn agin. He's pretty mad, I can tell ye
that."
Carrying his fork over his shoulder, Douglas walked deliberately across
the field toward the gate. He did not wish to hurry, as he wanted to
see how angry Ben could become, and what he would do.
"Get a move on there, you lazy devil!" Ben shouted. "Didn't you hear
the horn?"
Douglas had almost reached the gate, when he suddenly stopped and
stared at the man in the car. He had seen that face before only for a
few seconds beneath the electric light at Long Wharf on the waterfront.
But he would have known it anywhere, for it had been indelibly
impressed upon his memory. So Ben Stubbles was the contemptible coward
who had pushed that woman into the water and left her to her fate! He
had often longed to come face to face with that man, and he had planned
what he would do when they met. But here he was before him, haughty
and impudent, Nell's lover, and the son of the autocrat of Rixton.
"What in h---- are you staring at?" Ben demanded. "Didn't you ever see
human beings before? Open the gate, and be damned quick about it, too."
The blood surged madly through Douglas' veins, and to relieve his
feelings he clutched the gate and tore it open. The occupants of the
car were greatly amused at his alacrity, and attributed it to fear.
"That stirred your stumps, all right, didn't it?" Ben sneered, as the
car lurched past and then sped up the drive-way.
Douglas closed the gate, fastened it, and hastened to the barn where
the teamster was awaiting him. He climbed into the loft and stowed
away the hay as it was handed up to him. At times he hardly knew what
he was doing, so greatly was his mind agitated. Why had he not given
that fellow the sound thrashing he deserved? And yet he was thankful
that he had controlled himself, as he might have spoiled all his plans
had he given way to hasty action. He worked with a feverish haste all
that afternoon, and talked but little. This change puzzled the
teamster, and he advised him to take his time.
"It's no use killin' yerself," he told him. "Si Stubbles won't thank
ye if ye work yer head off."
"I want to get through with this job," Douglas replied. "I'm not
working by the day as you are, and Jake needs me."
When the last of the hay had been unloaded, Douglas left the barn and
started for the road. He had not seen Ben since the encounter at the
gate, and he was hoping that he would not meet him again that
afternoon. He did not feel altogether sure of himself, and he needed
time and quietness to think carefully over what he had better do.
He was part way down to the road when he heard some one calling.
Stopping and looking back, he saw that it was Ben hurrying after him.
As he approached, Douglas saw that his manner was altogether changed,
and he seemed quite affable. He was dressed in a white tennis-suit,
and he looked cool and self-possessed.
"Say," he began, "I understand you play the fiddle."
"Well, what of it?" Douglas curtly questioned.
"You really do, then?"
"Yes, when I feel like it."
"Won't you feel like it to-night? You see, there's to be a dance in
the hall this evening, but the man who generally plays is sick."
"Can't you get any one else?"
"No one who can really play. There is a chap who tries to, but you
would think he was filing a saw instead of playing a fiddle."
"Perhaps I can't do any better."
"Oh, you'll be all right. Jake and his wife have heard you, and so has
Empty."
"And Empty spread the report, did he?"
"Yes. But, say, you'll play, won't you?"
Douglas did not reply at once. He wondered what Ben would say if he
told him what he knew about his contemptible act at Long Wharf. He did
not want to play at the dance, and yet he knew it would be too good an
opportunity to miss. He would see many of the young people of Rixton,
and learn things which might prove of great assistance.
"Where is the hall?" he at length asked.
"Down at Kane's corner, about a mile and a half from here."
"What time does the dance begin?"
"Oh, about nine o'clock. The crowd won't get there much before that."
"Very well, then, I will be there and do the best I can."