EMPTY HEARS SOMETHING
It was past mid-day, and Douglas was about to leave for home when Mrs.
Dempster detained him.
"Don't go yit, sir," she told him. "Stop an' have a bite with us.
Empty'll feel mighty pleased if ye will. We haven't much for dinner,
but ye'r welcome to what we have, an' we'll eat it right under the
shade of that big apple tree. We ginerally do that on bright Sundays,
fer dear knows we eat often enough in the house."
The widow was greatly pleased when Douglas consented to stay, and at
once roused her son to action.
"Hi, thar, Empty," she called, "wake up an' git a hustle on. I want a
pail of water, an' then ye kin carry out the dishes. I do believe that
boy'd sleep all the time," she grumbled. Nevertheless, she watched him
with motherly pride as he slowly rose from the ground, stretched
himself and looked around.
"Ain't dinner ready yit, ma?" he asked. "I'm most starved t' death."
"No, it ain't, an' it won't be to-day if ye don't hurry. We've special
company fer dinner an' I want ye to behave yerself. If ye do, I'll
give ye an extry piece of strawberry shortcake."
Douglas was greatly amused at the conversation and candour of the
mother and son. They understood each other perfectly, and were not the
least bit abashed at the presence of strangers. There was no polished
veneer about the widow's hospitality. She did not pretend to be what
she was not. She knew that she was poor and was not ashamed of it.
She was perfectly natural, and indulged in no high-flown airs.
But Mrs. Dempster was a good manager, a capable housekeeper and an
excellent cook. The table-cloth she spread upon the grass under the
tree was spotless.
"We used this on our weddin' day," she informed Douglas who was
watching her. "Dear old Parson Winstead married us in the church, an'
then he came over an' had dinner with us. Me an' John had the house
all fixed up, an' some of the neighbours helped with the dinner. My,
them was great days," and she gave a deep sigh as she stood for a
moment looking off across the field. "We was all equal then, jist like
one big, happy family, an' good Parson Winstead was to us like a
father. But, goodness me! if I keep gassin' this way, dinner'll never
be ready," and she hurried off to the kitchen.
When Mrs. Dempster brought Joe from the house he was a greatly changed
man. His step was elastic, his head erect and his eyes shone with a
new hope. He ate well, too, almost the first he had eaten in several
days, so he informed his companions.
It was a pleasant company which gathered under the shade of the old
apple tree. Empty had received his second piece of strawberry
shortcake, and was satisfied. When dinner was over, he once more
stretched himself out upon the ground and resumed the sleep which his
mother had disturbed.
During the meal Mrs. Dempster had been flitting to and fro between the
house and the apple tree. There was always something she had to attend
to, so she explained when Douglas remonstrated, telling her that she
should eat something herself, and never mind the rest. But she would
not listen, as she had to look after the fire, get a plateful of
doughnuts, and most important of all, to see how the invalid was making
out with her dinner.
"The poor dear has eaten more than she has any time since she's been
sick," she told them with pride, after one of her visits to the house.
"An' there's a little tinge of colour, too, in her white cheeks, an'
she really smiled an' thanked me when I took her in her dinner."
"That is encouraging, isn't it?" Douglas asked. Joe said nothing
though his eyes never left the widow's face, and he listened almost
breathlessly to her slightest word about Jean.
"It is a good sign," Mrs. Dempster replied, as she sat upon the ground
and poured for herself a cup of tea. "An' it's another good sign that
she wants to see you, sir."
"See me!" Douglas exclaimed in surprise. "Why is that a good sign?"
"'Cause she hasn't wanted to see any one since she's been sick."
"What does she want to see me for?"
"To thank ye for playin', most likely. She made me tell her who it
was, as she was most curious to know. She's takin' an interest in
things now, an' that's encouragin'."
When Mrs. Dempster had finished her dinner, she rose to her feet and
informed Douglas that she was ready to take him to see Jean.
"You jist make yerself comfortable, Joe, an' I'll be back in a jiffy.
Lean aginst that tree an' rest ye'r poor old back. It's always good to
have something to lean aginst. Since John died Empty's the only thing
I've got to lean aginst, though I must say he's mighty wobbly at times."
Douglas followed Mrs. Dempster into the little bedroom off the kitchen
where the invalid girl was lying. He was somewhat startled by the
marked contrast between Jean's white face and her jet-black hair which
was flowing over the pillow in rich confusion. She smiled as she
reached out her thin hand and welcomed the visitor.
"Ye'd better set right down here, sir," Mrs. Dempster advised, as she
drew up a chair. "I'm goin' to leave yez to have a nice little chat
while I clear up the dinner dishes. It'll do ye a heap of good, won't
it, dear?" and she stroked Jean's head. "But ye mustn't talk too much."
Douglas glanced around the little room. It was a cosy place, and the
partly-opened window let in the fresh air from the surrounding fields,
together with the sound of the twitter of birds and the hum of bees.
"This was my room," the widow explained, "until Jean took possession of
it. She wanted to stay right close to me an' wouldn't go to the
spare-room off the parlour. I haven't had time to fix it up, an' I've
asked Empty time an' time agin to git somethin' to put over that
stove-pipe hole in the wall, an' that one in the ceilin'. But my land!
ye might as well save ye'r breath as to ask that boy to do anything.
But, there now, I must be off."
The good woman's face was beaming as she left the house and went back
to the apple tree.
"Where's Empty?" she demanded of Joe, when she discovered that the lad
was nowhere to be seen.
"I don't know," was the reply. "He got up just after you left, but I
didn't notice where he went."
"That's jist like the boy. He's never around when he's wanted. He
does try my patience at times," and the widow gave a deep sigh as she
began to gather up the dishes.
In the meantime, Jean and Douglas were engaged in an earnest
conversation. It was somewhat constrained at first, but this feeling
shortly vanished.
"It was so good of you to play for me," Jean remarked. "I feel better
than I have for days. I guess the music has chased the clouds away."
"I am so thankful that I have been able to help you," Douglas replied.
"You have had a hard time of late."
"Indeed I have. It seems to me that I have had a terrible dream. Oh,
it was horrible."
"You must forget all about that now, and get well as soon as possible."
"Why should I get better? What have I to live for?"
"You must live for your parents' sake, if for nothing else. They have
been heart-broken over you."
"I know it, I know it," and Jean placed her hands to her face as if to
hide a vision which rose suddenly before her. "But you do not know my
past life. You have little idea how I have suffered, both mentally and
bodily."
"Perhaps I understand more than you imagine. Anyway, I know how you
looked the night I dragged you out of the water at Long Wharf."
Douglas never forgot the expression which, overspread Jean's face as he
uttered these words. Her large dark eyes grew wide with amazement and
a nameless terror. She clutched the bed-clothes with her tense hands,
and made a motion as if to rise.
"Please do not get excited, Miss Benton," he urged. "I would not
mention this now, only there is much at stake, and I want your
assistance."
"And it was you who saved me?" she gasped.
"Yes, with the help of an old tug-boatman. I saw Ben Stubbles push you
off the wharf into the harbour and then leave you to your fate."
"Oh!" It was all that Jean could say, as the terrible memory of that
night swept over her.
"Have you seen Ben lately?" Douglas asked.
"Not since the night of the dance at the hall."
"There is good reason why he doesn't come to see you, is there not?"
"Indeed there is," and Jean's eyes flashed with a sudden light of
anger. "Nell Strong has taken him from me; that's what she has done.
Oh, I'll get even with her yet."
"You are altogether mistaken. Ben is the one to blame. Miss Strong
has not wronged you. She dislikes the man, and has refused to have
anything more to do with him."
"But why did she meet him night after night by that old tree in front
of her home, tell me that?"
"She was afraid of the Stubbles, both father and son. Simon Stubbles
has a mortgage on the Strong place, and if she turned Ben away and
would not meet him, the little home would have been taken. Miss Strong
has done it now, however, and so I suppose the home will go."
"Are you sure of what you say?" Jean asked in a low voice.
"Yes, I am certain. Ben has been using every effort to win Miss
Strong, and he is very angry at me because he imagines that I have
turned her against him. The professor and his daughters have been very
kind to me, and on several occasions I have been at their house. Once,
on my way home, Ben had two men lying in wait for me with clubs.
Fortunately, I was able to defend myself, and so escaped serious
injury."
"Are you positive it was Ben who set them on!" Jean asked.
"Oh, yes, there is no doubt about it. I found a letter from him in the
pocket of the coat of one of the men who attacked me. I have the coat
now in my possession as well as the letter. The latter speaks for
itself."
"And so Ben did that!" Jean murmured to herself.
"But that is not all, Miss Benton. You have heard, I suppose, what he
did Friday night?"
"Yes, Mrs. Dempster has told me all about it. And you think Ben was
back of that, too?"
"Indeed he was. The two men we caught said so, and they are to swear
to it at the trial, and bring the other men who were with them."
"Will there be a trial?"
"It will be held to-morrow in the hall at the Corner. I am going to
put a stop to such attacks and bring the guilty ones to task, if it is
at all possible. It is a very strange thing for one family to rule a
community like this, persecute innocent men, and drive them from the
parish. It is a mystery to me that the people have permitted it for so
long."
"Who will conduct the trial?" Jean enquired.
"Squire Hawkins. He is the only Justice of the Peace here."
"But he won't dare do anything to Ben. He is frightened almost to
death of the Stubbles."
"I know he is, and for that reason I want your assistance."
"What can I do?" Jean asked in surprise.
"You can tell what Ben did to you at Long Wharf. That will prove what
a villain he really is. Why, he intended to drown you that night, and
he would have succeeded if I had not happened to be present. You can
make your sworn statement to Squire Hawkins who can come here, so it
will not be necessary for you to go to the trial."
Jean buried her face in her hands at these words and remained very
silent. Douglas watched her for a few minutes, and a deep pity for
this unfortunate woman came into his heart.
"Come," he urged, "won't you back me up? I have entered into this
fight and need all the assistance I can get. If I am defeated, no one
will dare to undertake such a thing again."
"I can't do it," Jean moaned. "Oh, I can't tell on Ben."
"Why not? He tried to drown you, and he cares for you no longer. He
is a menace to the whole community."
"I know it, I know it," the girl sobbed. "But I shall never tell on
Ben, no, never."
"But he has ruined your whole life, remember, and he may ruin others as
innocent as you were, if he is not stopped. Think of that."
"Haven't I thought of it day and night, until I have been about crazy?
But it is no use, I cannot tell on him."
"And are you willing to let him go free that he may do the same
villainous things in the future that he has done in the past? A word
from you will stir the parish to its very depths. If the people only
knew what Ben did to you at Long Wharf that night, they would rise and
drive him from the place. If I told what I know they would not believe
me. But if you confirm what I say, that will make all the difference."
"Please do not urge me," Jean pleaded. "I cannot do it."
"You must love him still."
"No, I do not love him now," and the girl's voice was low.
"What hinders you, then, from telling?"
"It is the love I had for him in the past. That is one of the sweet
memories of my life. Nothing can ever take it from me. No matter what
he has done, and no matter what may happen to me, it is something to
look back upon those days which are almost sacred to me now. But
there, it is no use for me to say anything more. It is difficult for
me to explain, and harder, perhaps, for you to understand."
With a deep sigh of weariness, Jean closed her eyes and turned her face
on the pillow. Knowing that nothing more could be accomplished, and
chiding himself that he had tired her, Douglas rose to go.
"Just a moment, please," Jean said, as she again opened her eyes. "Are
you sure that Nell does not care for Ben? Tell me once more."
"Miss Strong told me so herself," Douglas replied. Then in a few words
he related the scene that had taken place in front of the Jukes' house
on Friday afternoon. "Doesn't that prove the truth of what I have
said?" he asked in conclusion.
"Thank you very much," was the only reply that Jean made, as she again
closed her eyes and turned her face toward the wall.
It was about the middle of the afternoon when Empty came out of the
house and strolled over to where his mother was sitting alone under the
apple tree.
"Where in the world have you been?" she demanded as he approached.
"Asleep," and the boy gave a great yawn and stretched himself.
"Well, I declare! When will ye ever git enough sleep? Ye'll have
nuthin' but a sheep's head if ye keep on this way."
Empty made no reply as he sat down upon the ground by his mother's
side. He was too happy to take offence at anything she might say. He
had heard a great piece of news through the stove-pipe hole in the
ceiling of the little bedroom. Empty had a reputation to sustain, and
his conscience never troubled him as to how his news was obtained.